The Spare Room

The lock clicked shut behind me, and I stood there in the dim light, swallowing hard. I didn't test the door. There was no point. It locked from the outside, and I already knew there would be no release until morning. That was the expectation—no, the rule.

The spare bedroom was barren, stripped down to the essentials. A twin-sized mattress lay on the floor, thin sheets, no pillows. A small nightstand with a single lamp, a bottle of water. Nothing soft, nothing comforting. A plain wooden chair sat against the far wall, its presence almost mocking. No distractions, no comforts—just a space to exist in while they occupied the Master bedroom.

I took a deep breath, my fingers brushing over the waistband of the soft, lacy panties hugging my hips. Pink, delicate, humiliating. The kind she liked me in. The kind he insisted I wear. Below them, my feet, adorned in cute, feminine ankle socks—a soft pastel, with little ruffles around the trim.

I walked to the bed and sat down, the springs creaking beneath me. The audio monitor on the nightstand was already on—its red light glowing, waiting. I could hear the distant murmur of their voices through the speaker, too muffled to make out the words yet, but soon, there would be no mistaking what was happening.

I exhaled, my stomach twisting. The anticipation was the worst part. Knowing. Imagining. Dreading.

A shiver ran through me as I slid onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My hands traced over my body, over the panties that barely concealed my little thing. My fingers pressed lightly against it, teasing, feeling the familiar, useless stirring beneath the fabric. It was already coming to life, already responding to the humiliation I had no power over.

Then, a sound crackled through the speaker. Her voice. A breathy moan, soft, sensual. His voice followed, deep, assured, in control.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The bed in the Master creaked. Sheets rustled. A soft gasp. A needy whimper. Her whimper.

My breathing hitched.

The fabric of my panties slid lower, inching down my thighs until they pooled at my ankles. My index finger traced the head of my little cock, slow, deliberate, teasing. It didn't take much—it never did. Just the smallest stimulation, the barest friction, and I was already so close.

A loud, unmistakable moan cut through the speaker. Her moan. His name on her lips.

My body clenched, my finger working in quick, tiny motions over the tip. It was humiliating. Pathetic. A man wouldn't touch himself like this. A real man wouldn't be here at all.

Through the speaker, the rhythm changed—faster, harder. The bedsprings groaned. She was lost in it now.

I whimpered. My thighs trembled. The shame coiled, hot and tight in my chest. It was too much. The tension, the need, the inevitability—

A sharp cry from her, a strangled moan from me—

And then it was over.

My body jerked as the pathetic little load spurted onto my stomach, barely more than a dribble. My cock twitched once, twice, and then softened instantly. My breathing was ragged, my limbs weak.

But through the speaker—

They weren't finished.

Not even close.

She gasped, begged him to stop—but they both knew she didn't mean it.

I turned my head, staring at the glowing red light of the audio monitor. My little cock was already spent, useless—but he wasn't.

The bed creaked, faster, rhythmic, his grunts growing deeper. Her moans sharper.

And I just lay there. Drained. Empty. Reduced to a listener, to an afterthought.

And yet—I had never felt more aware of my place in the world.

The Morning After The next day, I stood outside the spare bedroom, looking in. The crumpled sheets. The small stain drying on my stomach. The locked door, now ajar. Proof of what had happened.

I took a breath and pulled on a pair of sweats to cover the panties still on my hips. My wife and her man were still asleep, tangled in the sheets of our bed. Their bed.

I wandered into the kitchen, blinking at the bright morning sun streaming through the window. The house was silent now, save for the faintest echo of last night still burned into my mind.

I poured a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table, staring into the dark liquid. My stomach twisted again, but for a different reason.

Eventually, people would notice. Friends. Family. They'd ask why the spare room looked the way it did. Why it was so empty, so harsh—like a punishment.

And what would I say?

I knew I'd have to come up with something. Some excuse, some deflection.

But I also knew the truth.

And I knew they'd see it on my face.