I should have known the second you came home with that look in your eyes—the one that says the nice guy act is over and the man I married is about to remind me exactly why I picked him.
You didn't say much at dinner. Just watched me pick at my salad, your thumb tracing the rim of your beer bottle like you were already planning every second of what came next. I tried to play it cool, crossing my legs under the table, but you caught the shift. You always catch it.
"Upstairs," you said. Not a question. Not a request.
And because I'm a good girl with a trust fund and a weakness for men who look at me like that, I went.
Now I'm naked on our bed, wrists cuffed to the headboard, and you're standing over me with that black garter in your hands. It's not for stockings. I learned that the first time you used it on me. This one holds the wand—the one that buzzes so hard I can't think straight—right against my clit.
"You're going to ride that dildo like a good little wife," you say, voice low and steady as you strap the wand into place. "And you're not going to come until I say so."
The silicone cock is already slick with lube, standing upright on the mattress between my spread legs. You position me over it, hands firm on my hips, and I sink down slowly, feeling every inch stretch me open. The wand hums against my clit on high, and I gasp, my whole body jerking.
"That's it. Ride it."
I do. I rock my hips, grinding down, my thighs shaking as the vibrations blur my vision. You watch me with that smug, hungry look, then reach for the gag—the one with the red ball that fills my mouth and makes drool run down my chin.
You fasten it behind my head, and I can't close my lips. Spit slides over my chin and drips onto my tits, making my nipples glisten. You smear it around with your thumb, then pinch one hard enough to make me whimper.
"Messy little thing, aren't you?"
Then you're on the bed, kneeling in front of me, and you pull your cock out. It's thick and hard, and you don't ask permission. You grab the back of my head and push your dick between my lips, past the gag, straight into my throat.
I can't move. My hands are cuffed, my hips are impaled on the dildo, and the wand is relentless. All I can do is take it while you fuck my mouth hard, balls slapping my chin, spit running everywhere.
"Good girl," you grunt, driving deeper. "That's my good fucking girl."
You don't last long. I can tell by the way your grip tightens in my hair, the way your thrusts turn brutal. Then you're coming, hot and thick down my throat, and I swallow around you because there's no other choice.
You pull out, wipe your cock on my cheek, and grin.
"Stay."
You leave me there. Cuffed. Gagged. The wand still buzzing on high, the dildo still buried inside me. I moan around the gag, desperate, my hips moving on their own.
"Please," I try to say, but it comes out garbled.
You're in the bathroom, taking your time. I hear the shower run, then the towel, and you take ages to dry off. I'm writhing on the bed, tears streaking my mascara, my pussy clenching around the fake cock, so close to coming I could scream.
"Ben, please fuck me!" I beg through the gag.
You laugh from the doorway. "No."
You finally uncuff me, but only to flip me over and attach a spreader bar between my ankles. Then you cuff my wrists behind my back, between my spread legs, so my ass is in the air and my face is pushed into the mattress. I'm completely open to you, exposed and helpless.
Your hand comes down hard on my ass, leaving a stinging handprint. I cry out, but the sound is muffled by the bed.
Then I feel your tongue.
You lick my asshole slowly, deliberately, while your fingers find my clit and rub in tight circles. I moan into the sheets, my whole body trembling. The combination is too much—the humiliation, the sensation, the way you know exactly how to touch me.
I come hard, my thighs shaking, my pussy gushing around nothing.
"Already?" you murmur against my skin. "We're just getting started."
You rub your cock over my wet pussy, coating yourself in my slick, then press the tip against my ass. You don't push in. You just hold it there, letting me feel the pressure, the promise.
Then you pull back. And do it again. And again. Teasing me until I'm sobbing.
"Please," I beg, my voice ragged. "Please fuck my tight little ass, daddy. I want your cock in there so badly."
You lean over me, your chest against my back, your mouth at my ear.
"Say it again."
"Please, daddy. Fuck my ass. I need it."
You push in slowly, just the tip, and I gasp at the stretch. You hold there, letting me adjust, then pull out and push back in, a little deeper each time. I'm panting, drooling onto the sheets, my fingers clenching and unclenching in the cuffs.
Then you stop teasing.
You slam into me hard, and I scream. You fuck my ass with everything you have, your hips slapping against my reddened cheeks, your grip bruising on my hips. The bed slams against the wall, and I'm babbling, begging, crying out your name.
I squirt—hard—soaking your cock and thighs as you keep pounding into me from behind. The wet sound of it fills the room, and you groan, driving deeper.
"Fuck, Nadja. That's it. Soak me."
You don't stop. You fuck me through it, relentless, until I'm a shaking, dripping mess beneath you.
And then you lean close, your breath hot against my neck.
"Where do you want me to finish?"
I can barely form words, but I know exactly what I want.
"I want you to finish in my ass."
You laugh—low and dark—and slam into me one last time, holding deep as you come, filling me completely.
Afterward, you pull out slowly, and I feel your cum leak out of me, warm and slick. You uncuff me, toss the spreader bar aside, and pull me into your arms.
"Still think you're the boss?" you murmur, kissing my sweaty hair.
I just smile, too wrecked to argue.
For now.