From Wife to Roommate

It was his idea. A weekend away. Just us and his best friend. Old college buddies. One of those "you'll love him, babe" kinds of trips.

I played the sweet wife. Kissed his cheek, packed cute pajamas, even offered to bring wine. But I knew the moment I saw Brent--the broad frame, that cocky grin, the subtle way his eyes devoured my body--I was going to fuck him.

Not just once. Not in secret. I was going to ruin my husband.

The first night, we played nice. Brent was charming, loud, charismatic. My husband lit up like a kid, watching us laugh together like he was proud to have us both in the same room.

But he didn't see the way Brent's hand brushed my thigh under the table. Or how my panties were already soaking through.

The second night, we kissed in the hallway. Quick. Dirty. My husband was brushing his teeth ten feet away. I moaned into Brent's mouth anyway.

The third night, Brent bent me over the kitchen counter while my husband snored in the guest room. He didn't pull out. He didn't ask permission. He just took.

And I let him. Gripping the counter, biting my lip, loving every brutal second.

By the fourth night, we stopped pretending. I straddled Brent on the living room couch, moaning his name while my husband stood in the doorway--paralyzed, horrified, hard.

"Come watch," I said, my voice breathless. "You wanted us to get along, right?"

I came. Loud. And when I looked at my husband afterward, I didn't say sorry.

I said, "I'm not going back home with you."

His lip trembled. "W-What?"

I smiled, still seated on Brent's cock. "You heard me. I'm staying here. With a real man."

And I meant it.

We moved his bags to the guest room. His new room. The one with the twin bed and no lock. Brent put me in the master. Because that's what I was now. His.

My husband became... background noise. We gave him chores. Made him do laundry. Dishes. Grocery runs. I made him knock before entering a room I was in.

And if he didn't? Brent made sure he regretted it.

Sometimes we fucked in the kitchen just because we knew he could hear us. Sometimes we left the door cracked open, let him peek.

But he never got more than that. No touching. No talking. Just watching.

Watching me get everything he never could give me.

I wore lingerie Brent bought me, heels my husband used to beg to see, perfume he used to say made me smell like heaven.

Now it made me smell like Brent's cock.

He walked in once while I was still licking cum off my lips. I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Oh, were you hoping for a turn?" Then I laughed. Hard.

Because we both knew: His turn was over.

He still pays our bills. Still folds our towels. Still leaves little notes outside the bedroom door like I'll ever sleep next to him again.

Brent reads them aloud. Then rips them up.

Sometimes, on game night, I'll sit on Brent's lap in front of all the guys. My husband walks around refilling drinks. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending this is normal.

"Damn, man," one of them laughed, "how'd you land her?"

Brent didn't even blink. "She was married," he said, stroking my thigh. "To him."

And the room roared.

My husband just stood there, holding an empty bottle, eyes downcast.

That night, Brent fucked me louder than ever. I came screaming his name--again. And my husband? He stood outside the door, fists clenched, eyes wet, cock caged.

That's right. We locked it. We own it.

Now he knocks before he speaks. Now he thanks Brent for letting him stay. Now he calls me "Ma'am."

He's not my husband anymore. He's a servant. A relic. A witness to his own downfall.

He brought me to Brent... And now the only thing he gets to hold--

--is the shame.

He tried to leave once. Packed a bag in the middle of the night like he still had choices. Brent caught him before he made it to the door.

"You leaving, little man?" he asked, towering behind him like a shadow.

My husband didn't answer. He just shook.

Brent took the bag and dumped it out right there in the foyer. Socks. A toothbrush. That pathetic little cage key.

Then he looked at me.

I didn't speak. I just tilted my head.

Brent picked up the key, pocketed it, and dragged my husband back to the guest room. That was the last time he touched it.

Now? It's ceremonial.

Every Sunday, Brent tosses him the key. "You know what to do."

And like clockwork, my husband kneels. Unlocks. Cleans. Shaves. Then locks himself back up and returns the key with both hands and a bowed head.

I make him do it in front of us.

Sometimes I film it. Sometimes I don't.

But I always laugh.

Because even his freedom is controlled now. Ritualized. Meaningless.

And I've never been wetter.

I let Brent fuck me right after. Loud. Messy. Spiteful.

While my husband lies in his twin bed down the hall, hands under the pillow, cock caged, heart broken.

He used to think he was my protector. My provider. My man.

Now he's a ghost in his own marriage. A silent witness to my pleasure. A reminder that I'm untouchable--and owned.

Brent owns the bed I sleep in. The moans I make. The heels I wear. The house, the rules, the future.

My husband?

He owns the silence.

And the ache.

And the cage.

Forever.