Chapter 6: Bad decision
The morning light was a liar. It streamed through the large window, painting the cream-colored linens in a warm, forgiving gold that contradicted everything in the room. Luke had been awake for hours, trapped in the scent of her sleep and the memory of her taste. The cold, sharp silence of the night had dissolved into a low, throbbing need. The humiliation had fermented into a weird, docile arousal. His mind replayed the stretch of her on the screen, the size of the other man, her ecstatic cries, but now the images were overlaid with a twisted, submissive curiosity. What did it feel like for her? To be so completely overwhelmed?
He shifted, his erection straining against his boxers. Priscilla stirred beside him, stretching like a satisfied cat. Her eyes opened, meeting his. She saw the desperate want in his face before he could mask it. She smiled, slow and knowing.
“Morning, baby,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep. She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “You look… tense.”
Luke swallowed. His voice, when it came, was weak, thin. “I’m… horny.”
The smile bloomed into something radiant and wicked. She reached out and pulled him into a hug, her body soft and warm against his. He melted into it, a pathetic relief flooding him. This was affection. This was his wife.
“Aww, my good boy,” she cooed into his ear, her hand stroking his back. “My good, obedient boy. You had a big night. Learned so much.” She pulled back, cupping his face. Her eyes were bright with a conspiratorial gleam. “You deserve a treat. I’m gonna give you exactly what you deserve.”
A spark of hope, stupid and wild, ignited in his chest. His mind, desperate for any reinstatement of the old order, leaped to the thought of reclaiming her, of burying himself in her and pretending the last twelve hours were a fever dream. His hands moved to her shoulders, a faint pressure to guide her onto her back.
“Nuh-uh,” she said softly, the smile never leaving her lips. Her own hands came up, not pushing, but firmly stopping his. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He froze. “I… I thought…”
“You thought you were getting this?” she laughed, a light, tinkling sound. She patted her pubic mound through the silk of her shorts. “Oh, Luke. No. We learned something important last night.” She sat up fully, the sheets pooling around her waist. “We learned that you don’t need my pussy to cum. You got so hard, so incredibly hard, just from watching a real man fuck me. And then you came all over yourself like a teenager.” She shook her head, a mock-sad expression on her face. “That pretty little white dick of yours is easily satisfied. It doesn’t need the complicated stuff.”
The words were surgical. They severed the spark of hope and left the raw, submissive need exposed. He stared, his mouth dry.
“So,” she continued, her tone shifting to cheerful instruction. “I have a better treat. Something more… appropriate.” She swung her legs out of bed and stood up. She wasn’t wearing her shorts anymore. She must have taken them off in the night. She was naked, utterly confident, walking around to his side of the bed. The morning light gilded her skin, highlighting the curves another man had worshiped.
“Sit up,” she said, not unkindly.
He did, his back against the headboard. She climbed onto the bed, kneeling before him. For a dizzy second, he thought she might take him in her mouth. But she just smiled and lay back, rotating her body until her feet were in his lap. She wriggled her toes.
“There,” she said, plumping a pillow behind her head. “A much better treat for my good boy.”
Luke looked down. Her feet were clean, well-cared for, the nails painted a shell pink. They were just… feet. A hot cocktail of anger and revulsion and desperate, undeniable arousal churned in his gut. This was a line, even after all the other lines had been vaporized. This felt different. Deliberately demeaning.
“Priscilla…” he started, the ghost of resistance in his voice.
She lifted her head, her smile unwavering. “What’s wrong? You said you were horny. I’m offering to help.” She flexed her toes, brushing them against the tent in his boxers. The contact, so absurd, so insulting, sent a jolt of electricity straight to his core. He bit back a moan. “Unless,” she mused, “you don’t want my help? You’d rather just lay here, aching, thinking about Damon’s cock splitting me open? I can just roll over and go back to sleep.”
The threat of being left alone with his own torment was worse than the degradation. “No,” he whispered.
“No, what?”
“No… I want the treat.”
“Good boy,” she purred. “Now show me how thankful you are.”
His hands trembled as he reached for her right foot. He cradled it, feeling the delicate bones, the smooth skin. He looked at her face. She was watching him with an expression of serene anticipation, a queen awaiting tribute. He brought her foot to his mouth.
The first touch of his lips to her instep was hesitant, dry. He kissed it. She giggled. “Come on, Lukey. Really taste it. Suck.”
He opened his mouth. He took her big toe inside, the pad of it pressing against his tongue. He closed his lips around it and sucked, gently. The taste was clean, faintly salty, overwhelmingly intimate in a way that felt inverted and wrong.
“Mmm, yeah,” she encouraged, her voice dreamy. She let her head fall back, her eyes closing. “Just like that. Worship my feet. That’s all a cute little dick like yours deserves.”
Each word was a lash, each one made him suck harder, with more desperation. He swirled his tongue around her toe, licking between them, his other hand massaging the arch of her foot. His own need was a frantic, pounding drum. He was fully hard, leaking into his boxers, aroused beyond reason by the act of servility.
“You love it, don’t you?” she sighed. “You love being put in your place. Knowing your role.” She opened her eyes, looking at him down the length of her own body. Her gaze was cool, appraising. “Damon’s cock fills my pussy. Your mouth services my feet. It’s the natural order.”
she sighed, her voice languid with power.
She let him continue for another minute, his mouth working in a wet, obedient rhythm, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The clean taste of her skin was all he knew, the world narrowed to the pressure of his lips and the muffled sound of his own frantic heart. He was adrift in the sheer act of service, each suck a silent plea for her approval, a desperate attempt to locate his place in this terrifying new hierarchy.
“Okay, that’s enough, Lukey,” she said, her tone casually dismissive, as if calling off a dog.
But he didn’t stop. His mouth, moving on its own, sucked harder, his tongue desperately laving the ball of her foot. He was in a daze, lost in the shameful current of his own submission. A soft, needy whimper vibrated against her skin.
“Hey. Hey.” Her voice sharpened. She tried to slide her foot out, but his grip—both hands and mouth—was surprisingly strong. “Luke, I said enough.”
When he still didn’t release her, she planted her other foot against his shoulder and shoved, yanking her captured foot free with a wet, final pop. She stared at him, her eyebrows raised. “Geez,” she breathed, a flicker of genuine astonishment in her eyes. She saw the complete vacancy in his expression, the total surrender. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. “Look at you. You’re utterly gone, aren’t you?”
He blinked, coming back to himself slightly, a flush of embarrassment warming his cheeks. But the dominant signal in his aching groin didn't care. It just throbbed, merciless and impatient.
Seamlessly, she slid her feet down his body. The smooth, cool soles of her feet found the hot, twitching length of him trapped in his boxers. She pressed down, a gentle but firm squish of her arch against the head of his cock. The fabric was instantly damp with pre-cum.
“Ohhhh,” Luke moaned. The sound was high, broken, utterly stripped of masculinity. It was a girl’s sigh of helpless pleasure.
Priscilla’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my God,” she giggled, delighting in the sound. “That is so cute. Do it again.” She increased the pressure, dragging her sole along his shaft down to the base and back up in a slow, smearing stroke.
“Ah! F-fuck,” he gasped, another one of those breathy, feminine sounds escaping him. His hips bucked into the friction of her foot.
“There it is,” she cooed, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Such cute little noises from my husband with the cute little dick.” She worked him with both feet now, the practiced motion almost professional. She used her soles to rub him, her toes to pinch and tease the fabric over his tip, the arch of her foot to apply perfect pressure along his shaft. It was degrading, intimate, and overwhelmingly effective. His body bowed off the bed, his fingers twisting in the sheets.
“I’m gonna… Pris, I’m gonna cum,” he choked out, his voice tight and strained. The pressure built in a white-hot coil, a promise of obliterating release.
Just as his muscles clenched, on the very precipice, she lifted her feet away. They hovered, a tantalizing inch from his weeping cockhead. The sudden loss of contact was a physical agony. He cried out, a raw sound of frustration.
“Now, now, Lukey,” she said, her voice a honeyed trap. She wiggled her toes above his dick, letting one barely brush the slick tip. He jerked violently. “Don’t you want to watch again?”
“No!” he shouted immediately, the word ripped from him by pure, reflexive shame. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the need away, to find some scrap of the man he was yesterday.
“Alright,” she said softly, falsely agreeable. Her foot descended again, but not to give him relief. She wrapped her sole around him and began a slow, agonizing stroke. It was just enough pressure to keep him on the edge, a torturous plateau where release was a ghost he could never catch. Pre-cum slicked her skin, making a soft, sticky sound with each pass. “We don’t have to watch. We can just… remember.”
She leaned back, her free hand drifting to her own breast, pinching her nipple. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s the burning stretch first, you know? That first second when the head, which is so much wider than you, starts to force me open. It’s a sharp, bright pain that melts instantly into this… this overwhelming fullness.” She squeezed his cock with her foot in time with her words. Luke whimpered.
“Then,” she continued, her breath hitching as if she were feeling it right now, “when he sinks all the way in, balls deep, I can feel it in my spine. It pushes the air right out of my lungs. My pussy just grips him, trying to accommodate it all, and all I can think is ‘This is what I was made for.’” She was talking faster now, her own arousal evident in the flush on her chest, the slight sheen on her skin. Her foot moved a little faster. “The sound… God, the sound of my cunt getting demolished by that big black cock. That wet, slapping smack with every thrust. It’s so loud. So animal.”
“Stop,” Luke begged, but it was a whisper, his body arching into her foot, betraying him completely.
“You liked that sound,” she hissed, her control slipping into something more hungry, more visceral. “You got rock hard to it. Your little white dick jumped when you heard how wet he made me. Admit it. You want to hear it again. You want to see him wreck me.” She changed her technique, using her toes to rub furiously over his sensitive head.
Luke’s resistance was a sandcastle against a tide. Everything he was—his pride, his hurt, his marriage—was dissolving under the twin assaults of her words and her feet. The images flooded back, vivid and technicolor: the stretch, the sweat, her blissful surrender.
“Say it, Luke,” she demanded, her voice low and commanding. “Say you want to see me take a big black cock.”
He fought it. He gritted his teeth, a strangled groan escaping his lips. Tears of frustration and ecstasy welled in his eyes. He held on, a doomed sailor in a storm.
“Say it,” she repeated, her foot becoming relentless, “and you can cum. I’ll let this cute little thing explode. Just say the words.”
The dam broke. A sob tore from his throat. “I want to see it!” he shouted, the confession a violent expulsion. “I want to see you take big black cock! Please, just let me cum, please!”
“Good boy,” she purred, her expression one of vicious triumph.
In that instant, she clenched her feet together around his shaft, creating a tight, squeezing tunnel of soft skin and pressure. It was too much. With a shattered cry, Luke erupted. Hot stripes of cum shot up, landing on his stomach, her ankles, the cream-colored sheets. The pulses were violent, wracking his entire body, a release that felt more like a defeat than a pleasure.
Priscilla worked him through it, milking him with her feet until he was spent and shuddering. She finally released him, bringing her glistening, cum-smeared foot up to her face. She studied it, a wild, horny light in her eyes. She softly giggled, the sound rich with possession and excitement.
She looked from her soiled feet to his broken, panting form, her smile wide and wicked.