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 next morning felt like a slow descent back into reality. I stood outside the spare bedroom, staring at 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.
Another evening arrived, another dinner, another layer of humiliation. The restaurant was louder than I would have liked. Silverware clinked against plates, voices layered over one another, and somewhere in the background, an espresso machine hissed. But all of that was just a dull hum beneath the pounding in my ears.
I shifted in my seat, feeling the lace of my panties brush against my little penis, a constant, humiliating reminder of how small and insignificant I was compared to him. Compared to him and my wife, sitting right across from me, smiling at each other over their menus. My stomach churned with nausea, my pulse racing, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, to escape this unbearable torment—but there was nowhere to go.
The night had already been difficult, and we hadn’t even ordered yet. It started when my sister dropped by earlier in the afternoon, unannounced as usual.
“So, where’s your friend?” she asked casually, stepping inside, eyes scanning the living room.
I hesitated. “Uh, he’s out.”
She turned toward the hallway, where the door to the spare bedroom stood slightly ajar. “You guys didn’t really decorate in there, did you?” she said, peeking inside.
My heart pounded. That room—the room I had once thought of as a guest room, or maybe an office—now felt like his space. The place where I spent my nights, locked in the room, alone, trapped in my own shame and frustration while they slept together in my bed. Last night had been especially difficult—it was my anniversary. The reason my parents were in town. And yet, instead of celebrating with my wife, I had spent the night locked away in the spare room, wearing nothing but my panties and sissy feminine socks, listening to the sounds of their laughter and whispered conversations through the listening device. I had clutched my pillow, forcing myself not to cry, trying to ignore the overwhelming mix of loneliness and humiliation that wrapped around me like a vice.
And yet, even with all of that angst, I still found myself diddling my little penis. I couldn’t help it—the feeling of the lace, the heat of the shame—it all built up until I was rutting desperately against the mattress, my fingers barely grazing the tip as I tried to hold back. But I couldn’t. It was inevitable. The orgasm came pathetically fast, weak spurts barely staining the fabric, my body shuddering in a pitiful, whimpering release.
And then, the post-nut clarity hit. Hard. The moment the pleasure faded, the full weight of my situation came crashing down on me. My stomach twisted in disgust. My breath hitched, my heart hammering against my ribcage as the realization set in. I had just pleasured myself to the very thing that was destroying me. I was pathetic. Useless. Weak. The wet stain on my panties was just another reminder of what I had become.
I had wiped myself off with shaking hands, trying not to cry, but the shame wouldn’t let go. It clung to me, wrapping around my throat like a noose, tightening as the night stretched on. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling hollow. Listening to them. Knowing that while I was here, wallowing in my own self-loathing, they were together. Happy. Connected.
I had never felt so alone.
And now, here we were, sitting at dinner with our parents, my sister, my wife, and him. My wife and him sat next to each other, their shoulders nearly touching, while I sat directly across from them. It felt intentional, a positioning that emphasized how separate I was from them, how much I didn’t belong in the dynamic forming right before my eyes. My wife looked radiant, effortlessly beautiful, laughing at some joke he had made. My throat tightened as I watched her lean in, a small touch to his arm, her lips curling in a way I hadn’t seen in so long—not for me. It was for him. Nobody else seemed to notice the way he leaned in just a little too much when he spoke to her. Nobody noticed the way her eyes lingered on him, the way her hand brushed against his forearm when she reached for her wine glass. But I did. I noticed everything, and it was unbearable.
I swallowed hard, staring down at my menu, though the words blurred together, my hands trembling as I gripped the edges of the paper, trying to ground myself. My entire body felt like it was burning from the inside out, shame coiling in my gut, twisting tighter with every glance, every laugh, every second that passed in this suffocating nightmare.
“So,” my sister’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, sharp and probing. “How long are you planning to stay?”
I felt my stomach tighten, a fresh wave of panic crashing over me.
He smiled easily, as if he belonged here, as if this was just a normal dinner between family and friends. “Oh, no set timeline. It’s been great so far, so we’ll see.”
“Oh, that’s great,” my mother chimed in. “It must be nice having a place to stay while you figure things out. What do you do for work?”
He leaned back slightly, as if he was perfectly at ease. “I do consulting work, mostly remote. It gives me a lot of flexibility.”
“Oh, that must be wonderful,” my mother said, genuinely interested. “And what kind of consulting?”
“Business strategy, operations, things like that,” he replied smoothly. “I work with a lot of different industries, which keeps things interesting.”
My father nodded. “That sounds like a good field to be in. Keeps you on your toes, I bet.”
“Exactly,” he agreed, flashing an easy smile. “It’s rewarding, too. I like seeing companies thrive.”
My sister, still watching closely, tilted her head. “And you just decided to move in with my brother and his wife while doing all this?”
He chuckled. “Well, they were kind enough to offer. It’s been great. I really appreciate the hospitality.”
My wife smiled at him. “It’s been nice having him around,” she said softly.
Later that night, locked in the spare room once again, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The audio listening device, placed by my wife and her lover to torment me, ensured I didn’t miss a thing—my wife’s soft moans, the rhythmic sound of bodies coming together. Each gasp, each whisper, each muffled groan sent a fresh wave of humiliation coursing through me. My little penis twitched in my panties, aching with need, but I refused to touch myself. I bit my lip, my breath coming in short, desperate pants as I listened, knowing deep down that this was just the beginning. Things were only going to get more intense. More sexual. More real. And I wouldn’t change a thing. Because deep down, this was exactly what I craved. The torment, the helplessness, the undeniable humiliation—it was all part of something greater. The contrast between the agony and the arousal, the way my body betrayed me even in my deepest despair, made every moment more intoxicating. This was the life I was meant to live. To be reduced, to be owned, to exist solely within this dynamic where my suffering was as necessary as my devotion. Because in that suffering, I found my place. My purpose. And nothing else had ever felt more right.
Another day ends in the familiar silence of the spare room, the door locking behind me like a final period on my autonomy. My body tenses, adjusting to the loneliness, but my mind is restless, caught in the web of conflicting emotions. There’s the sharp sting of angst, remembering nights spent listening through the device my wife and her regular now call "my sex life." But arousal soon follows—after all, isn't the memory of my torment part of what fuels my desire?
Their voices filter through the listening device—not whispers of passion, but something more intimate in its own way. Just two lovers, discussing their days, their thoughts, and, occasionally, me. There’s no sex tonight, but the way they speak about me, their amusement and consideration, makes my skin prickle with awareness. I am the unspoken presence in their relationship, the audience to a play written without me in mind.
When the door finally unlocks, I slip into routine. My morning is spent stripping away any trace of masculinity—razor gliding over my skin, creams softening the surface, ensuring every inch of me is smooth and feminine. I deliberate over my choice of panties and sissy socks, knowing that this decision defines my presentation for the day. I carefully consider the textures, the colors, ensuring they complement each other perfectly. I want her to notice, to see the effort I put in. But when my wife finally glances up from her coffee, her response is absentminded, dismissive. "That'll do," she says, and the weight of those two simple words sinks in, deflating me.
At work, the distractions are constant. My mind drifts to earlier moments of shame and longing, my thighs brushing together, the whisper of fabric against my skin a reminder of my place. Each time I cross my legs, my socks peek out—does anyone notice? Does anyone suspect? The uncertainty is intoxicating.
Back home, the transition is immediate. Clothes are stripped away, leaving me in nothing but my assigned garments. There are other rituals—small degradations that reinforce my place, each one another thread binding me deeper into this life. Upon entering, I am required to kneel in front of my wife and kiss her feet, whispering my gratitude for being allowed back into her presence. After this, I must stand with my hands behind my back as she performs a quick inspection, running her fingers over my smooth skin to ensure I have maintained my feminine softness to her standards.
Cooking dinner is one of my duties. The scent of food fills the kitchen as I prepare a meal for the three of us, but when the plates are set, I retreat, eating alone as they dine together. Their laughter drifts in from the other room, a reminder that I serve, not partake. Occasionally, my wife calls me in, but not to join them—she gestures to a spot beside her chair, where I kneel while they continue to eat, listening to their casual conversation, feeling like an outsider in my own home. My wife's regular, with a smirk, might comment on how lucky I am to witness their connection, his words laced with amusement at my predicament. Sometimes, she reaches down absently, stroking my hair as she would a pet, a casual display of ownership that sends heat coursing through my body, even as my stomach knots with longing and jealousy. I am the third wheel, not just in their relationship but in my own home, an observer, never truly included.
After dinner, I clear the table, carefully gathering their plates, utensils, and glasses before carrying them to the sink. I scrub each dish meticulously, ensuring no trace of food remains, the hot water stinging my hands. Every detail matters—wiping down the counters, sweeping up any crumbs, and polishing the stove to a pristine shine. I ensure the kitchen is spotless, knowing my wife expects nothing less. As I work, I can still hear their voices drifting in from the other room, their laughter occasionally punctuated by murmured words I can’t quite make out. I pause for a moment, my fingers tightening around the sponge, before shaking off the feeling and finishing my task.
With the kitchen finally in perfect order, I hesitate for a brief moment, unsure of where to go. Instead of simply retreating to the background, I find myself lingering at the edge of the living room, waiting for some unspoken permission to sit. My wife glances at me and gestures toward the floor near the couch, wordlessly directing me to my designated place. I kneel by the couch, the hard wooden floor biting into my skin. They lounge in warmth, wrapped in soft blankets, close enough for whispered words and shared glances. Their bodies are entangled in a way that makes their connection undeniable, while I sit apart, cold and uncomfortable, my presence tolerated but never embraced. My wife might share an inside joke with her regular, something that makes them both laugh softly while I stare at the television, pretending not to notice the growing sense of exclusion pressing down on me. I am there, but not truly part of the moment, a third wheel in every sense.
At the end of the evening, I must prepare their bed, fluffing their pillows and ensuring everything is in place for their comfort. Only then am I permitted to retire to the spare room—"the cuckold's room," as they now call it. My wife guides me there, ensuring "my sex life" is turned on before she turns to leave. She pauses, eyes flicking downward, amusement curling her lips as she sees the damp outline on my panties. A flick to my tiny bulge makes me whimper, her giggle laced with condescension. "I hope you have a good night," she teases. "I know I plan to." And with that, the door closes, leaving me in the dark, arousal and emptiness intertwining until sleep finally claims me.
