Chapter 10: Kitchen Servitude
The video lived on Jake’s phone. He never sent it to us, but its existence was a third presence in the house, a ghost in the wiring. Cheyenne and I moved through the days in a state of suspended animation. We talked about baseboards and quarterly reports. We did not talk about the leather sofa, which now seemed to hum with a faint, shameful energy. We certainly did not talk about the camera, or where it had pointed, or what it had seen in my eyes.
The text came on a Thursday afternoon. Cheyenne was in Seattle for a two-day site visit with a client.
Jake: You home?
My heart stopped, then hammered against my ribs. He’d never texted me directly before. The phone felt like a live wire in my hand. I was in my home office, lines of code blurring on the monitor.
Me: Yes.
Jake: I’m nearby. Let me in.
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of intent. A command. A flash of heat, immediate and debilitating, shot through my groin. I typed out Cheyenne’s not here, but deleted it. He knew. Of course he knew. This was the point.
Me: Ok.
Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. I opened it. He filled the frame, just a grey t-shirt and jeans, a simple black gym bag in his hand. He looked past me, into the empty house. “Where is she?”
“Seattle. Until tomorrow night.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Good.” He stepped inside, brushing past me, his shoulder connecting with mine with a solid, purposeful weight. He carried the scent of concrete and autumn air. He walked into the living room, set his bag down, and turned to face me, his gaze appraising.
“You’ve been thinking about it,” he said. His voice was calm, certain.
I couldn’t lie. “Yes.”
“The video. What you saw. What you did.” He took a step closer. “You liked holding the camera. You liked being told what to do.”
I nodded, my throat tight.
“You like me.” It wasn’t a question this time. It was a dissection. He saw the truth I hadn’t even fully admitted to myself. The attraction wasn’t just to the scene, to the humiliation. It was to him. To his sheer physical dominance, the effortless way he commanded space, the brutal beauty of his body. I was mesmerized by him. His muscles, the thick cord of his neck, the powerful forearms revealed by his rolled sleeves. The memory of his cock, thick and veined in my wife’s grip, in her mouth, flashed in my mind, and a bolt of pure, undiluted want went through me.
“I…” The word died.
“You want to please me.” Another step. He was close enough now that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the cool, assessing grey of his eyes. “Because I please her. Because I give her what you can’t. And that turns you on more than anything.”
My breath hitched. It was the core of it, laid bare and ugly and true.
“You want to thank me,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that vibrated in my chest. “Don’t you, Callum?”
“Yes,” I whispered, the sound scraping out of me.
“How?”
I didn’t know. I just looked at him, helpless, consumed by a need I had no name for. A need to serve, to worship, to be of use to this man who had broken my world and rearranged the pieces into something darker, more electric.
Jake’s smile was a cruel, beautiful thing. He reached down and cupped himself through his jeans, a slow, deliberate stroke. “You know how. You’ve thought about it. Since that first night. Since you tasted her on me.”
The memory was a brand. The bitter-salty tang, the humiliation, the shocking, unwelcome thrill. My knees felt weak.
“I want to,” I heard myself say. The confession hung in the air, final and terrifying.
“Then do it.” He didn’t move. He just stood there, waiting, a king awaiting tribute.
My hands trembled as I reached for his belt. The leather was smooth, the buckle cold. I fumbled with it, my fingers clumsy. He didn’t help. He watched, his expression unreadable, as I undid the button, dragged the zipper down. I hooked my fingers in the waistband of his jeans and boxers and pushed them down over his hips.
He sprang free, already thick and heavy, nestling in a thatch of dark hair. It was different, seeing him like this, without Cheyenne as a buffer. This was for me. About me. The sheer size of him, the prominent veins, the ruddy, broad head—it was intimidating. It was magnificent. A wave of pure, submissive desire washed over me, so strong it drowned the last fragments of my pride.
I sank to my knees on the hardwood floor. The position felt shockingly natural, like a prayer I’d been meant to offer all along. From here, he was a giant. I could see the powerful cut of his quad muscles, the dusting of hair on his thighs. I could smell him—a clean, musky, purely male scent that made my head swim.
“Go on,” he said, his voice a low rumble above me.
I leaned forward, my heart pounding in my ears. I bypassed his cock, first pressing my face against the hard plane of his lower abdomen, nuzzling into the coarse hair. I inhaled deeply, committing his scent to memory. My lips brushed his skin, and I felt the muscle beneath twitch. A soft, involuntary sound escaped me—a whimper of devotion.
I kissed my way down, following the trail, until my face was level with his shaft. It lay against his stomach, a formidable weight. I hesitated, then leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe from the base to the tip. The taste was clean skin and a faint, primal musk. Saliva flooded my mouth.
“Use your mouth, Callum,” Jake instructed, his hand coming down to rest on the back of my head, not pushing, just claiming. “Take me in. Show me how grateful you are.”
I opened my mouth, guiding the head past my lips. It was wide, stretching me immediately. The taste was more intense now, salty and alive. I relaxed my jaw, letting him slide deeper, using my tongue to press against the throbbing vein on the underside. He was so big I had to fight my gag reflex, tears springing to my eyes as I took more of him.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his fingers threading through my hair. “Get it wet. Get it nice and slick for me.”
I worked my mouth on him, up and down, establishing a rhythm. My world narrowed to this single point of service: the weight on my tongue, the scent in my nostrils, the low sounds of approval from above. I worshipped him. I worshipped the power in his body, the confidence in his stance, the cock that had given my wife pleasures I could only film. I wanted to please him more than I had ever wanted anything. My own arousal was a distant, throbbing ache, trapped in my chinos, utterly irrelevant.
He began to move his hips, gently at first, then with more insistence, fucking my mouth in shallow thrusts. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? You’re a natural cocksucker, Callum. Bet you’ve been dreaming about this.”
I moaned around him, the vibration making him curse softly. The degradation was complete, and it felt like absolution. This was my purpose. To service the man who owned my wife’s pleasure.
His grip in my hair tightened, holding me still as he pushed deeper, until the head nudged the back of my throat. I choked, tears streaming down my face, but I didn’t pull away. I let him use me, my throat convulsing around his invading length.
“Fuck, your mouth is almost as tight as her pussy,” he breathed, his control starting to fray. His thrusts became harder, more erratic. “You’re gonna swallow every drop. You understand? You’re gonna taste what I give you.”
I couldn’t speak. I just clung to his thighs, my eyes squeezed shut, surrendering completely. The slap of his balls against my chin, the grunt of his breathing, the wet, obscene sounds of my mouth working on him—it was a symphony of my own surrender.
With a final, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt, he groaned, a raw, gut-deep sound. The first hot, bitter pulse hit the back of my throat. I swallowed instinctively, then again, and again, as he emptied himself into me, his body rigid above me. I took it all, every last spurt, the taste a brutal and intimate claim.
He held himself there for a long moment, then slowly pulled out. I stayed on my knees, breathless, his release slick on my lips and chin. I looked up at him, dazed, wrecked, utterly his.
He tucked himself back into his jeans, zipped up, looking down at me with an expression of pure, satiated possession. He reached down and wiped a thumb across my wet chin, then smeared it over my bottom lip.
“Good boy,” he said, the words a reward that burned deeper than any insult. “Now you know your place.”
His demeanour then changes and he becomes kind and caring. I climbed into bed with him and cuddled.