I was as if numb—my cock, locked up, had dripped onto the chair, a sticky proof of my helplessness. He fetched the champagne—the ice melted, bubbles danced in the glass—poured two glasses. They drank, he let some dribble over her stomach—the cool liquid met her hot skin, ran into her navel—his tongue followed, lapping it up, tasting her sweetness mixed with champagne. He dipped his fingers into the glass, twisted her nipples—they hardened, glistened, he sucked on them until she whimpered, her hips twitching. They kissed again—a wet, greedy kiss—his hands kneaded her breasts, squeezed them roughly, her nipples rubbing against his palms. She stroked his balls—heavy, warm, her fingers trembling with greed—his mouth wandered to her neck, bit lightly, leaving red marks, then to her breasts—he sucked on her nipples, tugged with his teeth until she writhed in his arms, a soft scream escaping her. His cock rose again—thick, throbbing, a drop of lust glistening at the tip, ready minutes after his release.

Before she got too aroused, he paused—“I have something for you”—fetched a collar and handcuffs. She turned, offered him her neck—he fastened the collar, “SLUT” blazed in bold letters on it, a sinful seal on her skin. “Turn around, stretch out your arms.” The handcuffs clicked—cold, unyielding—he led her to the bed, had her lie on her back, bound her arms above her head—her breasts lifted, her slit glistened, her thighs trembled slightly. He grabbed a camera: “Photos for my collection.” He snapped her—her skin gleaming, sweat and lust dripping, her eyes veiled—then me, trapped, pitiful. He straddled her—his cock hovered over her face, half-erect but massive, a drop of cum glistening. She sucked again—her lips enveloped him, her tongue savored his salty essence, swirled over the tip, wet smacking sounds filled the room as she gagged. He photographed—later sent me pictures: Natascha, straight into the camera, her cheeks stretched, drool dripping, her eyes glowing with devotion.

He lifted her legs—his hands dug into her thighs, spreading them wide—laid his cock on her lap, rubbed it against her slit—her juices coated him, her lips quivered. He leaned forward, kneaded her breasts—his thumbs played with her nipples, pressed them until she moaned, a deep, raw sound that shot through my bones. While he squeezed her tits, he rubbed his cock against her—her wetness dripped, a sweet scent filled the air—twisted her nipples, pulled them until she screamed—her hips bucked, her slit pulsed. “Do you like that, my married slut?” he growled. She hesitated, he pulled harder—a red mark remained. “Yes, yes, I love it,” she gasped, her voice breaking. His hands slid downward—rough, possessive—stroked the insides of her thighs, massaged her labia with his thumbs—her slit opened, dripped, her hands tugged at the cuffs, a faint clinking sounded. “Your body’s screaming for more,” he growled. “Do you want me to give it to you?” “Please…” she whispered, her voice a plea. “I’ll fuck you until you scream my name and beg me to come inside you.” “Please…” she breathed, her hips rising to meet him. He rubbed his cock against her clit—her juices glistened, a wet sound rang out—she whimpered: “Please, fuck me.” Slowly, he pushed in—her slit parted, a deep gasp escaped her as his tip stretched her, her walls trembled. He thrust deeper—her screams grew louder, her arms yanked at the chains, sweat dripped from her forehead—he leaned over her, kissed her—her tongue met his, a greedy dance, saliva mingled. “Fuck me hard,” she whispered, her voice cracking with lust. He picked up a fast rhythm—his shaft slid in and out, his balls slapped against her ass, a wet, rhythmic smacking, his hands roughly kneaded her breasts—her nipples hardened, glistened. Sweat dripped from both—their bodies shone, a sweet, heavy scent filled the room. “Make me come, Master,” she begged—her voice a sweet scream, her slit pulsed around him. Her orgasm built—her hips pressed toward him, she came—a shudder, a cry—but he didn’t stop. He lifted her legs onto his shoulders—her thighs quaked—thrust deeper, his movements growing wilder—his cock gleamed with her juices, a wet smack with every thrust. Her breasts bounced—sweat dripped between them—her screams filled the room, her “please, please” turned into a moaned “Olu, Olu, Olu”—a mantra of surrender—as he lost control, his cock twitched, powerful spurts filled her—her walls milked him, she came again, a massive orgasm tore through her, her screams echoed, her body collapsed, sweat and lust dripping from her.

He whispered something to her—a dark secret—stood up, went to the bathroom. She came to me—her skin glowed, her scent—sex, sweat, his seed—enveloped me like a fog. She called me the best husband, her voice trembled, untied my restraints—her fingers brushed my skin, hot and sticky—the gag, her breath grazed my face. “We want to eat early,” she breathed, “come along.” She kissed my forehead—her lips hot—gathered her clothes—the collar and cuffs stayed on, a sinful banner.

At the Bar & Grill, she ordered me to take a separate table—“Not too far away”—her voice a command. I obeyed, watched—she laughed, flirted, her eyes glowed for him, a loving look I’d lost. He kneaded her breasts—his fingers pressed through the fabric—she rubbed his cock—her nails scratched over the jeans—“SLUT” blazed proudly on her collar, her cuffs clinked, a quiet song of submission. They ignored me until he dumped the bill on me—a silent mockery. I paid, trailed behind them. At the hotel, she sent me to the single room—“Breakfast at nine”—kissed my cheek, her scent clung to me as she vanished with him.

Alone in bed, the images tormented me—her moans, his cock in her—my cock pressed against the cage, dripped, but I was trapped. I slept fitfully, woke exhausted, didn’t find her at breakfast. At ten, I knocked on the suite—he opened naked, his cock swinging heavy, she lay in bed, cum glistened in her hair, champagne glass in hand, her lips shone. He kissed her neck—a red hickey remained—she presented her ass, he pulled out a plug—her hole wide, glistening, a sweet scent escaped. She thanked me—her voice shook—ordered me to strip, follow to the bathroom. There, she bound me in front of the shower—kneeling, immobile, the chains rattled. She stepped under the hot stream—steam rose—he followed, soaped her up—his hands glided over her curves, her skin reddened, she moaned as he reached between her legs, rubbed her slit. She washed his cock—her hands trembled, slid over the veins—until he hardened, pressed her ass against him—he slipped into her hole, her screams echoed, her breasts slapped against the door, sweat and water dripped. He came in her—a hot surge—she kissed him wildly, bit his lip, then freed me—her skin hot against mine—led me to the armchair.

“Now it’s your turn,” she breathed, gagged me—the taste bitter—bound me over the armrest. She took a strap-on—“Only as big as yours,” she mocked—rubbed lube into my ass—cold, sticky—thrust it in. I squirmed, screamed into the leather, but she fucked me hard—her lust rose, the dildo rubbed her, she came—shaking, gasping—he took her again on the sofa, aggressively—her screams filled the room, his hands choked her lightly, until both collapsed, exhausted.

He left us bound, took my keys—“Natascha decides next time,” he growled, and left. My life was shattered—her lust, his power, my powerlessness.