Strap On Love

You opened the door. Steam curled up. Inside: a tangle of soft things. Leggings, a sports bra, socks balled together, and these. These panties.

You touched them before you knew you were touching them, and then you were holding them, and then the sound of voices in the hallway sent your hand with the panties into your pocket.

And then you were standing there with your heart slamming against your ribs and the panties balled in your fist and the voices passing, and you were safe. You were safe. You had them.

Hnnngh. Your hand tightens. The lace crumples around your cock. You are hard, but not very. Hard enough to stroke, not hard enough to feel like a man.

The panties help. The panties make it feel like something is happening to you, something you can't control, something that has nothing to do with the fifty-seven-year-old divorced man on the bed and everything to do with the eighteen-year-old gymnast who wore them against her body an hour ago.

You imagine her. You imagine her pulling them down. You imagine her legs — long for her height, muscular, the kind of legs that come from years of training and clean living — and you imagine spreading them, and you imagine —

Nnnngh. You come.

It happens fast. It always happens fast. Three, four, five strokes and then you are spurting into the panties, a thin, warm flood that soaks through the lace and pools in the cotton lining, and you groan — Ohhhhh ffffuck — and your hips buck once, twice, and then go still.

The ceiling stares back at you. The room is quiet. The cottage is quiet. The other half, where the assistant chef lives, is silent. She's at dinner. Everyone is at dinner.

You lie there. Your hand is still wrapped around your cock, still holding the panties, and the panties are warm and wet with your mess, and the post-orgasm clarity hits you like a bucket of cold water.

You stole them. You stole a student's underwear. You took them from a dryer in a dormitory laundry room at a women's college where you are the only male employee, and you brought them home, and you masturbated into them, and if anyone finds out, you will lose your job. You will lose daughter's tuition. You will lose everything you came here to build.

You sit up. Your heart is still pounding, but the pounding has changed — it's fear now, not lust.

You carry the panties to the bathroom sink and run the water. Warm. A little soap. You wash them carefully, the way you imagine a woman would, the way you've never washed anything delicate in your life. The lace is fine. The cotton is fine. They look almost new.

You wring them out gently and drape them over the towel rack to dry, and you stand there looking at them — pale pink, small, absurdly small, the size of your hand — and you vow to return them in the morning. First thing. Before anyone is around. You'll slip them back into the dryer, or fold them on top of the machine, and no one will ever know.

You sleep badly.

---

The next morning, you're halfway to the laundry room when Tamara Porter appears at the end of the hallway.

"Good morning," she says. She smiles. It's the warm, professional smile of a woman who manages a dormitory full of eighteen-year-old women and has learned to make every smile feel personal.

She's in her early thirties. Hair pulled back. A cream blouse. Black skirt. She looks sexy and kind and like someone's competent older sister.

"Can you come with me for a minute? I need to talk to you about something."

Your stomach drops.

"Sure," you say.

You follow her into her office. It is a small room, warm and tidy, with a desk, two chairs, a bookshelf full of psychology texts, and a door at the far end that you assume leads to her private quarters.

She settles behind the desk. She gestures to the chair across from her. You sit.

She looks at you for a moment. Not unkindly. The way a doctor looks at a patient before delivering news.

"One of the girls reported that her wallet was stolen from the laundry room yesterday evening," she says.

Your mouth opens. The words come out before you can stop them. "I didn't — I didn't take any wallet. I was mopping. I was just mopping. I would never —"

She holds up a hand. It is a small hand, and the gesture is gentle, but it stops you like a wall.

"I know," she says. "You didn't take the wallet. It fell between two of the machines. One of the girls found it this morning. It's all resolved. No harm done."

The relief floods through you so hard you almost sag out of the chair. You exhale. You can feel your hands shaking in your lap.

"Oh. Oh, good. Good. That's— I'm glad. I'm glad it worked out."

"So am I," she says. And then she smiles, and the smile is different. Smaller. Knowing. "I have a confession to make, actually."

Your blood goes cold.

Her face is calm. Composed. Looking at you the way a woman looks at a child who has almost figured out that Christmas presents come from his parents, not from Santa.

"There are cameras in the laundry room," she says. "Discreet ones. We don't tell the girls — everyone at Foster Lawrence is on their honor, you understand, it keeps the atmosphere gentle — but we have them. For safety. For order."

She sets down her mug. "When the wallet came up missing, I pulled the footage. Just to see. And I want you to know, I was pleased. You were so careful with the mop handle. You didn't even see it happen."

She turns the laptop toward you.

And there you are. On the screen. Mop in hand. Swinging it around, knocking a wallet off a machine, never noticing, mopping on.

"Tamara," you say, and your voice is not steady anymore.

And then the camera shifts, and there you are again, closer, at the dryer. You watch yourself open it. You watch yourself freeze. You watch your hand go in. You watch your hand come out, and go to your pocket.

You stop breathing.

Tamara watches the screen with you. She doesn't look at you. She looks at the image of you stealing a girl's panties, and her expression is not angry. It is not disgusted. It is... interested. Curious. Like she's reading a case study.

"Tamara, I — I can explain — I was just — I was checking to see if —"

"Shhhh," she says. Not sharply. Softly. The way you shush a child who has woken from a nightmare. "Shhhh. It's okay. Take a breath."

You take a breath. It shudders. Hhhhnnn. Your hands are gripping the armrests of the chair.

"I understand," she says. "You were alone. It was quiet. The dryer was running. Her clothes were in there, and you… you couldn't help yourself."

She pauses.

"A boy like you can't help himself, can he?" she says, softly. To the screen. "The temptation was just too great."

You want to protest. You want to say I could have helped myself, I chose not to, that's different.

But the words won't come, because she is looking at you with such warmth, such understanding, such complete, unembarrassed certainty that the protest dies in your throat.

She leans back in her chair. Studies you.

"I've read your file. I know more about you than you probably know about yourself. I know you're divorced. I know you haven't been with a woman in—what, two years? Three? I know the Vice Dean asked you some personal questions during your interview, and I know you answered them honestly, and I know that's why you were hired."

She pauses. "And I know you went home last night and masturbated into those panties."

The room tilts. Your vision narrows. Oh God. Oh God, they have cameras in the cottage, they —

"No," she says, reading your face. "No, sweetie. Don't worry. No cameras in your home."

"Then how?" you say.

She smiles again.

"I know because I know what you are. And what you aren't. I know a real man doesn't steal panties from a dryer. A real man doesn't go home and masturbate into them. A real man wants the girl, not the girl's underwear. But you…" She smiles. It is a warm smile. A kind smile. "You wanted the panties. Didn't you?"

You are staring at the desk. At her hands, folded calmly on the surface. At the laptop, still showing the frozen image of you with the lace between your fingers.

"Yes," you whisper.

"Where are they now?"

Your hand goes to your pocket. The motion is automatic, involuntary, the way a child reaches for a stolen cookie when caught.

You pull them out. The panties unfold in your hand — pale pink, still slightly damp from your hand-washing, the lace intact, the cotton clean.

She looks at them. She reaches across the desk and takes them from your hand. Her fingers brush yours.

She holds them up, examining them the way a woman examines a blouse in a store — turning them, feeling the fabric, checking the size.

"You washed them," she says. "That's good. That was the right thing to do."

She folds them neatly. "These are cute. They're Heather's, aren't they? She wears a size small. I bet these would fit you. They might even be your style."

She looks at you. The warmth is still there. The certainty is still there. But there is something else now — a brightness in her eyes, an interest, the way a gardener looks at a seedling she has just identified.

"Why don't you model them for me?" she says.

The words don't register. They float past you like smoke.

"I — what?"

"Stand up," she says. "Take off your pants. Put the panties on. Let me see."

You are shaking your head before you know you're shaking it. "Tamara, I can't — I'm not going to — that's not —"

She tilts her head. The gesture is small, patient, maternal. "What are you going to do?" she says. "Say no? Walk out? Go back to mopping floors with Heather's panties in your pocket and hope I forget what I saw on that camera?"

The question is not a threat. It is a genuine question. She is asking you to consider your options, the way a mother asks a child who has drawn on the wall whether he'd like to clean it now or later.

The answer is obvious. The answer has always been obvious. She is simply letting you arrive at it.

You stand up. Your hands are trembling. You fumble with your belt. The buckle clinks. Your fingers are stupid, clumsy, the fingers of a man who has forgotten how to undress because a woman is watching him.

You push your pants down. You step out of them. You stand in her office in your work shirt and your socks and your plain white briefs, and you feel the air on your legs and the shame rising in your chest like nausea.

She is looking at you. Not at your face. At the briefs. At the front of the briefs. At the small, soft shape beneath the white cotton that makes almost no tent at all — just a gentle, barely-there swell, the kind of outline a woman might not notice if she weren't already looking.

But Tamara is already looking.

"Hmm," she says. A small sound. Clinical. "He's very small," she says. Not as a question but a confirmation.

She holds the panties out to you. You take them. They are warm from her hand.

You turn and push your briefs down and pull the panties on. The lace slides up your legs. The waistband settles on your hips. They are tight — Heather is smaller than you, and the cotton stretches across you, the lace pulling at the seams — but they are on. You turn back to her.

You are standing in Tamara Porter's office in a pair of eighteen-year-old Heather Enright's pink lace panties, and your penis is small and soft inside them, a little bulge in the front that looks more like a fold than a swell.

She looks at you. She looks down. She looks at the panties and what is inside them.

"Oh," she says. And then, softly: "Oh, sweetie."

She is not laughing. She is not mocking. She is looking at you the way a woman looks at something small and unexpected and tender — a bird with a broken wing, a kitten in a box. She leans forward in her chair.

"Come here," she says. "Come closer."

You take a step. Your legs are shaking. You take another step.

You are standing in front of her desk, close enough that she can touch you, and she does.

She reaches out and touches the front of the panties with one finger, pressing gently against the little bulge, the way you might press a finger against a peach to test its ripeness.

"Hello, little guy," she says. She is talking to your penis. She is talking to it the way a woman talks to a puppy. "There you are. All tucked in. All safe."

Your face is burning. The heat is in your cheeks, your ears, your neck. You can feel your pulse in your throat.

"You're very pretty in these," she says. She looks up at you. Her eyes are warm. Her voice is warm. Everything about her is warm.

"The pink suits you. And look at him — he's so small. He fits right in. He doesn't need much room, does he?"

She is still touching you. One finger, resting on the lace. Your penis twitches — a small, helpless twitch, the kind of twitch that a puppy makes when it's dreaming — and she feels it, and she smiles.

"Oh, he likes that," she says. "He likes being in his little panties. He likes being all wrapped up and safe. Don't you, little guy?"

Another twitch. You close your eyes. Mmmnnn. A sound comes out of you — not a word, not a moan, something between the two, something small and involuntary.

"Tamara," you say, and your voice is barely audible, "am I — am I going to be fired?"

She withdraws her finger. She sits back in her chair. She looks at you — standing in her office in nothing but a work shirt and Heather's panties and your socks — and she considers the question the way a woman considers whether to have dessert.

"That depends," she says. She checks her watch. "I haven't decided. Right now, I have class in twenty minutes. But this conversation isn't over."

She stands. She gathers her things — a notebook, a pen, a textbook with a cover that reads Developmental Psychopathology. She moves around the desk, past you, toward the door.

"For now," she says, "you're going to keep those on. Under your work pants. All day. And when your shift is over, you're going to report back to this office. We'll talk about what happens next."

She opens the door. The hallway is empty. The sounds of the dorm — distant music, a laugh, the clatter of something in a kitchen — drift in.

"Get dressed," she says. "Get back to work. And sweetie?"

You look at her. She is standing in the doorway, the light from the hallway behind her, and she is smiling — really smiling now, warm and certain and completely unembarrassed.

"Thank you for washing them," she says. "That was good. You're a good boy."

The door closes. You are alone in her office. You look down. The panties are tight and pink and small, and your penis is twitching inside them, and your face is on fire.

You put your pants on. You tuck your shirt in. You walk out of the office and down the hallway and back to your mop and your bucket and your floors, and the panties are tight against you all day, lace and cotton and humiliation.

Your shift ends at six. At six-oh-one, you walk back across the quad to Robertson Hall. The sun is lower. The birds are still singing. Your heart is in your throat.

You knock on Tamara's door.

This is the first in a new series about a janitor, a dormitory coordinator, and the security camera that caught everything and will change his life.

"Oh, there he is," your wife says warmly, and the way she says it — there he is — makes you feel like a child who has been found.

She reaches you first and takes your hand, and Doris stops a polite distance away, her smile curious, appraising.

"Sweetie," your wife says, and she is still holding your hand, "you will not believe who I ran into."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

"I ran into your ex," she says, as though this is the most delightful coincidence in the world. "At the lingerie store. I recognized her from the photos you showed me. You have such a sweet photo of her at the lake house, I thought — that's her. That has to be her. And it was."

Doris laughs, a low, warm sound. "I couldn't believe it either. I was just browsing, and she walks up and says — you have to hear this, she says — 'You're Doris, aren't you? I'm his wife.'"

She says his wife the way you might refer to someone else's car or their lawn. As a possession. As a fact.

"And we got to talking," your wife says, squeezing your hand, "and Doris was so sweet, she couldn't believe I was buying panties for you. She said — tell him what you said, Doris."

Doris tilts her head, still smiling at you. "I said, I didn't even know they made panties for men. And she said —"

Your wife's smile widens. "— I said, well, he's in an FLR now. And Doris said — and this is the best part — Doris said, 'Oh... thank God, I always knew he needed a firm hand.'"

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck.

"Did you really say that?" you manage.

"I really did," Doris says. "I'm not going to pretend I understood you, sweetheart. I loved you. I just never knew what to do with you."

Sweetheart. Doris has never called you sweetheart in her life. It sounds strange in her mouth, borrowed, like a word she picked up from your wife.

Your wife lets go of your hand and steps in closer to Doris, and for a moment you are standing outside their little circle, watching them, the way you watched your mother and her friends talk over your head at the kitchen table.

"He blushes," your wife tells Doris, nodding at you. "Isn't that adorable? He's been like that since we started. His whole body gets pink, right down to his little guy."

Doris laughs. "He was like that when we were married. I used to think he was embarrassed about something. I never could figure out what."

"He was embarrassed about his..." your wife's voice trails off. And it takes you a moment to understand what his means.

"He's got a little guy, Doris. I'm sure you remember. Small and quick. And he spent his whole life trying to pretend that didn't matter, trying to be something he isn't. It made him — oh, what's the word — it made him noisy."

"Nosy?" Doris says.

"Noisy," your wife repeats, and she says it with the patience of a teacher explaining something to a bright but inexperienced student.

"That's what I call it. He's got a little guy, and his little guy is always talking to him. Telling him he's a man. Telling him he should be in charge. Telling him he should do this, do that, assert himself."

She waves a hand. "It's like he has a yappy little dog in his head, barking all day long. It confuses him. Makes him think he's something he's not."

Doris is listening with rapt attention, and you are standing there, holding a bag of dishtowels, feeling your face burn.

"So I put him in chastity," your wife says. "It quiets his little guy right down. You'd be amazed."

Doris's eyebrows go up. "Chastity. Like a — a cage?"

"Like a little cage, yes. It's called a nub, actually, because that's what it holds. He's got a nub, and the ring is small and snug, and once he's locked up, his little guy goes quiet. And once his little guy goes quiet —" your wife pauses, and her smile takes on a particular quality, a fondness, a pride, "— Doris, you should have seen it. He discovered he had a pussy."

There is a beat of silence. Doris blinks. "He had a —"

"A pussy," your wife says. "Of his own. Right here." She gestures vaguely at your backside.

"A man like our boy here, he spends his whole life listening to his penis. That's all he knows. That's all anyone ever tells him. You're a man, you've got a cock, go fuck something. But once his little guy is all nice and snug, once the noise quiets down, he starts to feel other things. And he realized — he realized his real center was back there. His real pussy. The place where his pleasure actually lives."

You are frozen. You can't move. You can't speak. You are a child in the grownups' kitchen, and the grownups are discussing you as though you are not there, and your face is so hot you're certain it must be visible from space.

"Wow," Doris says softly.

"Wow is right," your wife says. "So we trained it. We got him a nice little plug to wear during the day, and once a week or so we have a training day, and I teach his pussy what it's for. He loves it. He loves it so much, Doris. You should see him when I'm done with him. He's like a different person. Calm. Happy. Settled."

Doris looks at you then, and there is something in her eyes you haven't seen before — not pity, not contempt, but something like wonder. Something like oh, that's what he was. That's what he always was.

"And that's why you were buying him panties," Doris says.

"Exactly," your wife says. "He needs to feel pretty. He needs to feel like the sweet little thing he is. It gets him in the right headspace for training. Aroused and open and — oh, you know, ready."

There is a silence. You are aware that people are walking past you, that the mall is humming around you, that somewhere a fountain is burbling, and none of it seems real.

The only real things are the two women, standing close together, and the fact that they are both looking at you with the same warm, appraising expression.

"Would you like to see?" your wife asks.

Doris's eyes go wide. "See?"

"See how far he's come along. Today is a training day — that's why I was at the store. I like to saddle him up and ride him, and I'd love to have someone to show off to. He's come so far, Doris. You'd be amazed. And you knew him before, so you'd really appreciate it."

Doris looks at you. You look at the floor. You are acutely aware of the cage beneath your jeans, the way it holds you, the way it has been holding you all afternoon, keeping you quiet, keeping you good.

"I don't know," Doris says, but she is smiling, and her voice has gone soft. "I wouldn't want to — I mean, is he —"

"He'll be fine," your wife says. "He likes being shown off. Don't you, sweetie?"

You can feel both of them looking at you. You can feel the weight of the question, the soft close of it, the way there is no emotionally viable answer except yes.

"Yes," you hear yourself say. Your voice sounds small. It sounds like a boy's voice.

"See?" your wife says, beaming at Doris. "He said yes. We'll meet you there. I'll give you the address."

She does. You stand there holding the dishtowels while she writes on Doris's phone, while they hug goodbye like old friends, while Doris waves at you — waves at you, the way you wave at a neighbor's dog — and walks off down the corridor.

Your wife turns to you. She is smiling her warm, certain smile. "Well," she says. "Wasn't that lucky?"

"Lucky," you echo.

"She's lovely," your wife says, taking your hand again. "I can see why you married her. She's got good instincts. She just didn't know what to do with you." She squeezes. "But I do."

---

The house is quiet when you get home. Your wife sends you to the bedroom to change and prepare yourself — go put on the new panties, sweetie, the pink ones, freshen up your pussy, and wait for us — and you go, because going is easier than not going, because her voice makes you want to go, because the cage has been humming against you all the way home and you need the release of being seen.

You go to the washroom first. Clean yourself out. Freshen yourself.

You change in front of the mirror. The panties are pink, delicate, lacy at the hips.

The cage is a small plastic nub nestled in the fabric, and when you look at yourself you see — you see a boy. A pretty boy. A boy who has been good and is about to be rewarded for it.

You hear the doorbell. You hear voices in the hall, warm and laughing, and then your wife's voice, carrying up the stairs: "He's just in the bedroom. Go on up, he'll be ready."

You hear footsteps on the stairs. The door opens.

Doris is standing in the doorway, and behind her, your wife. Doris is wearing a strap-on — a sleek black thing, curved, realistic — and your wife is wearing another one, slightly larger, and they are both smiling at you the way women smile at something sweet.

"Look at you," Doris breathes. "Oh, honey. Look at you."

Your wife comes in and hands Doris a bottle of lube. "He's got a routine," she says, settling onto the edge of the bed. "We'll let him show you. Go on, sweetie. Show Doris how you open yourself up for us."

Your hands are shaking as you reach for the bottle. You know the routine. You've done it a hundred times.

You lie back on the bed, pull your knees up, and reach between your legs, and you are aware of them watching you, two women, one who loves you and one who once loved you, both of them watching you prepare yourself like a good little thing.

"That's it," your wife coos. "Slow. Nice and slow. He likes to take his time, Doris. He gets all — oh, you can see it on his face. He's already going soft and dreamy. Look at his eyes."

Doris leans in. You can feel her gaze on your face, warm and curious, the way someone might study a painting. "His eyes are glazing over," she says softly.

"That's his little guy going quiet," your wife says. "Watch. When he opens himself up like this, the noise just — drains out of him. Like pulling a stopper from a sink. All that yappy little-dog energy just flows right out."

You press a finger inside your asshole. Then two. The lube is warm, slippery. Your asshole knows this routine. Your asshole has been trained to welcome it.

You feel your hole soften, yield, open the way a flower opens — not because it chooses to, but because that is what it was made to do.

"Hnnnh," you breathe. A small, helpless sound.

"There he goes," your wife says. "Hear that, Doris? That's the sound he makes when he starts to find his center. That little hnnnh. That's his pussy waking up."

His pussy. Doris has known you for years. She was married to you. She saw you naked a thousand times, and never once did she use that word for any part of you.

And now here she is, standing in your bedroom, wearing a strap-on, listening to your wife talk about your pussy as calmly as if she were describing the weather.

"He's ready," your wife says. "Look at him. He's open. He's soft. He's waiting." She turns to Doris. "Do you want to mount him first, or should I?"

Doris's eyes are wide. "You first," she whispers. "I want to watch. I want to see how you do it."

"Sweetie," your wife says, turning to you. "On your hands and knees for me. Show Doris how a good boy presents his pussy."

You roll over. You get your knees under you, your hands flat on the mattress. The pink panties are pulled down to your thighs, the cage nestled against the sheets, cool and snug.

You feel the air touch your open hole, and you feel — you feel available. That is the only word for it. Available the way a shelf is available, the way a cup is available. Made to hold something.

"Look at that," Doris breathes. "Oh my God. He's — he's open."

"He's presenting," your wife says, climbing onto the bed behind you. You feel the mattress dip. You feel her hands on your hips, warm and sure.

"This is what he's for, Doris. This is what he was always for. He just didn't know it." She nudges the tip of her strap-on against your asshole. Cool. Slick. Pressing. "And now he does."

She pushes in.

"Ahh — hhhhh —" The sound comes out of you before you can stop it, a long, low exhale, a sound that is not quite pain and not quite pleasure but something else, something deeper, something that lives in the root of you.

"There," your wife says. "There's my good boy. Take it. Take it all."

She sinks in slowly. Inch by inch. You feel your hole stretching, opening, yielding around the silicone. Your asshole accepts it the way wood accepts a nail — parting, yielding, submitting.

"Oh, Doris," your wife says, her voice warm with wonder. "You should feel this. He just — he opens up. Like he was made for it. Because he was."

Doris moves around to the side of the bed. You can see her out of the corner of your eye, her dark hair loose, her face flushed, her strap-on jutting from her hips.

Your ex-wife is watching your wife fuck you, and her mouth is slightly open, and there is that look in her eyes again — wonder. And now hunger.

"Does it hurt?" Doris asks.

"Not anymore," your wife says. "It used to, the first few times. But we trained him. His pussy learned what it was for."

She pulls back. Thrusts in. Slow. Steady. "Now it just feels like — oh, what do you call it, sweetie? Tell Doris what it feels like to have my cock in your pussy."

You can't speak. Your mouth is open. Your eyes are half-closed. The dildo is pressing against something inside you, something deep and electric, and every time it presses, a jolt runs through your whole body, up your spine, into your skull.

"Hnnngh — fffuh — it feels —" Your voice is a thread. A whisper. A boy's voice.

"Use your words, sweetie," your wife says. "Doris is here to learn."

"It feels — nnnnh — it feels like — it feels like I was made to take it. Like coming home."

Your wife laughs, delighted. "Hear that, Doris? Coming home. That's his pussy talking. That's his button. I call it his button — that little spot inside him, right there, that makes him go all soft and sweet when I press it."

She angles her hips. The cock shifts. Presses.

"Mmmmnnngh — oh —" Your whole body shudders.

"There it is," your wife says. "Found it. See how he reacted? That's his button. That's the place his real pleasure lives. Not in his little guy. Not in that nub. Right here, inside his pussy."

She starts to fuck you. Properly now. A steady, rolling rhythm. In and out. In and out. Each thrust presses your button, and each press sends a cascade of sensation through you — warm, electric, dissolving.

"UunnnGH — uunnnGH — uunnnGH —" The sounds come out of you in time with her thrusts. You can't stop them. You don't want to stop them. They are the truest sounds you have ever made.

"Look at his little guy," your wife says to Doris. "Look at it."

Doris looks. You feel her gaze. Your caged cock is hanging between your legs, the plastic nub snug and secure, and inside it, your penis is straining — small, hard, desperate, leaking a thin clear thread onto the sheets.

"He's hard," Doris says. "Even in the cage, he's hard."

"He's hard because his pussy is being fucked," your wife says. "That's the thing about a boy like him. His little guy gets excited because he's being penetrated. Not because he wants to penetrate. Because he knows — his body knows — that he's where he's supposed to be. On his knees. Being ridden. Being used."

She thrusts deeper. You cry out.

"AAH — hhhh — please —"

"Please? Do you want me to stop fucking your pussy, sweetie?"

"Please — nnnnh — please don't stop."

"That's right," your wife says. "I never stop until you're finished. Until your pussy has had its fill." She turns to Doris. "Do you want to try him now?"

Doris nods. Her face is flushed. Her breathing is quick.

Your wife pulls out. You whimper at the emptiness — a small, lost sound, mmmmph — and then Doris is behind you, her hands on your hips, her strap-on pressing against your open, slick, aching hole.

"Go slow at first," your wife says. "Let him feel you. Let his pussy adjust."

Doris pushes in.

"Oh — oh —" Your voice breaks. She is different from your wife. A different angle.

A different rhythm. A different woman inside you, and your body trembles with the strangeness of it, the newness, the wrongness that is also so, so right.

"Good boy," your wife murmurs. She moves to the head of the bed. She kneels in front of you. Her strap-on is in front of your face — the one that was just inside you, glistening with lube. "Now, sweetie. Open your mouth for me."

You open your mouth.

She slides in.

You taste yourself. You taste the lube. You taste submission. Your wife's cock fills your mouth, and your ex-wife's cock fills your pussy, and you are — you are full. Full at both ends. Full the way you were always meant to be full.

"Mmmmph — mmmmph — mmmmph —" The sounds are muffled now, garbled, your wife's cock sliding in and out of your mouth in time with Doris's cock sliding in and out of your ass.

"There we go," your wife says. "There's my good boy. That's the double tap, Doris. Mouth and pussy. Both ends. This is what he needs. This is what he was made for."

Doris is fucking you faster now, finding her rhythm, her confidence growing. "He's so — oh — he's so yielding," she breathes. "He's taking it so well."

"Of course he is," your wife says. "He's a good boy. Aren't you, sweetie?"

"Mmmmph — mmmmph — yyythh —" You try to say yes. The word is garbled around her cock. It doesn't matter. They both know what you mean.

"His button is right there," your wife says. "Angle up a little. You'll feel it — a little bump, a little ridge."

Doris adjusts. Thrusts.

"AAAMMMPPHH —" The sound rips out of you, muffled but explosive, and your whole body convulses between them.

"There it is," your wife says, laughing softly. "Found it."

Doris starts to hammer it. Steady, sure strokes, each one pressing your button, each one sending a cascade of white-hot pleasure through your core.

Your wife fucks your mouth in time. The rhythm syncs. In, in. Out, out. Two women using you. Two cocks inside you. Your body is an instrument, and they are playing it together.

"He's close," your wife says. "I can feel it in his mouth. He gets so sucky when he's close. Like a baby. Like a little baby nursing."

You are sucking. You are sucking her cock desperately, hungrily, your eyes closed, your body trembling, your caged penis leaking steadily onto the sheets.

You are a baby. You are a good boy. You are a thing being used, and it is the most loved you have ever felt.

"Cum for us, sweetie," your wife says. "Cum for Doris. Show her what a well-trained pussy can do."

Doris thrusts deep. Hits your button. Holds.

The orgasm breaks over you like a wave.

"MMMMMMMPPPPHHHH —" The sound is long, muffled, shattering.

Your body convulses. Your ass clenches around Doris's cock. Your caged penis spasms, and thin, weak cum dribbles from the slit of the nub, pooling on the sheets beneath you. Your whole body shakes, trembles, goes rigid, then melts.

Doris gasps. "Oh my God — he's — I can feel his — his pussy — clenching —"

"That's his pussy cumming," your wife says. "That's what it looks like when a boy cums from his pussy. Isn't it beautiful?"

Doris slows. Stops. Your wife pulls out of your mouth. You collapse forward onto the bed, gasping, trembling, tears on your cheeks, cum on the sheets, your hole still open and clenching around nothing.

"Good boy," your wife whispers. "Good, good boy."

Doris withdraws slowly. She sits back on her heels. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright. "That was —" she starts.

"I know," your wife says. She strokes your back.

"Thank you," Doris says softly. And then, to your wife: "I never — I never knew he could be like this. I never knew how to —"

"Now you do," your wife says. "And you're welcome to come train with us anytime. He's got a lot more to learn. And I think he'd like having you here."

Doris looks down at you. Her eyes are soft, and there is something in them that might be love, a different kind of love than the one you failed to earn from her years ago.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Doris says.

"Yes," you whisper. "Yes, please."

"See?" your wife says, and she kisses the top of your head. "That's settled then."

And you lie there, in your wife's arms, a small warm thing, exactly where you belong, listening to her and your ex-wife plan your future over your head like the grownups at the kitchen table, and you have never felt so safe, so seen, so known, in your entire life.

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, a bag of dishtowels, an ex-wife's wondering eyes, and the training day that showed them both what his body was always for.