Chapter 9: The Guest Arrives
The shower ran cold for the last thirty seconds, a deliberate shock that cleared the fog from Logan's head and left him shivering, alert, every nerve ending singing. He dried himself with rough, efficient strokes and didn't bother with clothes. Samantha hadn't told him to get dressed. Samantha hadn't told him much of anything except to wash.
The plug was still in.
He'd cleaned around it carefully, soaping the flared base, feeling the weight of it shift with every movement. Now, standing naked in the bathroom with steam curling around his ankles, he reached back and pressed his fingers against it—just to feel it settle deeper. His caged cock twitched against his thigh. The pink metal was warm from the shower, snug and unyielding.
He walked out into the bedroom just as the doorbell rang.
Samantha was already moving. She'd changed into something else while he was in the bathroom—a deep green silk robe that stopped mid-thigh, the kind of thing she'd bought for an anniversary years ago and never worn because it felt too fancy for a Tuesday night. Her hair was down. Her feet were bare. She looked like a queen receiving tribute.
She paused at the bedroom door and looked back at him. "Stay here until I call you."
"But—"
"Trust me."
She disappeared down the hallway, and Logan stood alone in the bedroom, listening to the soft pad of her footsteps, the creak of the front door, the low murmur of voices.
His heart hammered.
The plug pressed against his prostate with every nervous shift of his weight, a constant, maddening reminder of what he was—what he'd become. He could feel the lace jockstrap, clean now but still damp from the shower, clinging to his hips. The cage was a familiar weight, almost comforting at this point. He'd worn it for two weeks straight. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have a free cock.
The voices grew louder. Laughter—Samantha's, warm and easy. Then another voice, deeper, with a slight rasp that sent a shiver down Logan's spine.
"Logan!" Samantha called. "Come out here."
He walked down the hallway on bare feet, the hardwood cool against his soles. The plug shifted with every step, a slow, steady pressure that kept him half-hard despite the cage.
The living room was lit by the floor lamp in the corner and the string lights Samantha had strung up over the bookshelf last Christmas and never taken down. It was a warm, comfortable space—the sectional couch they'd bought on sale, the coffee table with the water rings they kept meaning to refinish, the framed photos on the wall from their wedding and their honeymoon and a dozen ordinary days in between.
And in the middle of it all, sitting on the arm of the couch with a glass of wine in her hand, was Samantha.
And standing by the window, silhouetted against the dark glass, was Andre.
He was taller than Logan had expected. Not just tall—big. Broad shoulders under a fitted black t-shirt, thick arms, a chest that strained the fabric. His skin was a deep, rich brown, and his head was shaved clean, the lamplight catching the curve of his skull. He wore dark jeans and boots, and when he turned to face Logan, his smile was slow and knowing.
"Hey," Andre said. His voice was a low rumble, the kind of voice that made Logan think of jazz clubs and expensive cologne and things he'd never had the courage to want.
"Hi," Logan managed.
Samantha took a sip of wine. "Andre, this is my husband, Logan. Logan, this is Andre."
"We've heard a lot about you," Andre said.
Logan's face burned. "You have?"
"Your wife's been very...descriptive." Andre's eyes traveled down Logan's body, lingering on the cage, on the lace jockstrap, on the plug that Logan knew was visible if you looked closely enough. "I like what I see."
Samantha set down her wine glass and leaned back in the armchair, crossing her legs. The silk robe parted slightly, revealing a pale flash of thigh. "Logan, why don't you show Andre how grateful you are that he drove all the way out here to visit us?"
It wasn't a question.
Logan's knees hit the rug before he'd consciously decided to move. The rug was soft—the one his grandmother had left them, a faded Persian thing with dark reds and blues—and the fibers scratched against his bare knees. The plug drove deep at the angle, and he gasped, a soft, involuntary sound that made Andre's smile widen.
"Go on," Samantha said. "He won't bite. Unless you ask him to."
Andre unbuckled his belt. The leather slid through the loops with a whisper, and Logan watched, transfixed, as Andre unfastened his jeans and pushed them down over his hips. He wasn't wearing underwear. His cock was already half-hard, swinging thick and heavy between his thighs, and Logan's mouth flooded with saliva.
It was a beautiful cock. Long, thick, the skin a few shades darker than the rest of him. The head was fat and mushroomed, already gleaming with a bead of pre-cum.
"Like what you see?" Andre asked.
"Yes," Logan breathed. "God, yes."
"Then show me."
Logan leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the head of Andre's cock.
The taste hit him immediately—salt and musk, a little bitter, a little sweet. He'd done this before, on the street during that first terrible, wonderful transformation. He'd done it in a bathroom stall with a stranger whose name he never learned, and in an alley with two men at once, and on his knees in a hotel room while Samantha watched from the bed and told him what a good little cocksucker he was. He'd done it enough times now that it wasn't strange anymore.
It was just what he did.
He ran his tongue along the shaft, root to tip, tracing the thick vein that ran up the underside. Andre groaned above him, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through Logan's chest. The man's hand came down on the back of Logan's head, not pushing, just resting there—a warm, heavy weight that made Logan feel grounded.
"Fuck," Andre murmured. "He's good at that."
"He's had practice," Samantha said. She'd picked her wine back up, and she was watching them with the calm, satisfied expression of a woman who'd planned a perfect evening. "Open your throat, Logan. Show him what you can do."
Logan obeyed.
He took Andre deeper, relaxing his jaw, breathing through his nose. The head pressed against the back of his throat, and he held it there, swallowing around it, until Andre let out a shaky laugh and pulled him back by the hair.
"Shit," Andre said. "You weren't kidding about the throat thing."
"I never kid about blowjobs," Samantha said.
Logan pulled back just enough to catch his breath, then went back in. He bobbed his head slowly, deliberately, taking Andre to the root and holding him there until he had to pull back. His eyes watered. Saliva dripped down his chin. The plug shifted inside him with every movement, a constant, steady thrum of pleasure that kept him on edge.
Andre's hand tightened in his hair. "I'm gonna fuck your face now. That okay?"
Logan nodded as best he could with a cock in his mouth.
Andre started to move. Slow at first, shallow thrusts that let Logan adjust, then faster, harder. Logan opened his throat and let him in, let him use him, and the only sounds in the room were the wet, obscene noises of his throat being fucked and Samantha's quiet hum of approval from the armchair.
"That's it," Samantha said. "Take all of it. Don't you dare pull off."
Logan didn't.
The angle was tough—kneeling on the floor, his neck craned back, Andre's cock hitting the back of his throat again and again—but he'd learned to do difficult things. He'd learned to hold still while his body was used. He'd learned to find a kind of peace in the submission, a quiet, humming satisfaction that had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with the plug pressing against his prostate and the cage tight around his cock.
Andre pulled him off suddenly.
Logan gasped, his mouth open, his throat raw. A thin line of saliva and pre-cum stretched between his lips and the head of Andre's cock.
"Get on the couch," Andre said. "I want to see that ass."
Logan looked at Samantha.
She nodded.
He rose on shaking legs and walked to the sectional. The plug shifted with every step, and he knew Andre was watching it—watching the way the flared base pushed against his cheeks, watching the way his hole clenched around it. The knowledge sent a fresh wave of heat through his body.
"On your back," Andre said. "Legs up."
Logan lay back on the cushions. The couch was soft, familiar—he'd napped here on lazy Sundays, watched movies here with Samantha curled against his side. Now he was spreading his legs for a stranger, his caged cock exposed, the black lace jockstrap pulled tight across his hips.
Andre knelt on the couch between his legs. His cock was still wet from Logan's mouth, still hard, and he stroked it slowly as he looked down at Logan's body.
"That's a pretty cage," he said. "Does it hurt?"
"No," Logan said. "It's... it's good."
"Yeah?" Andre reached down and ran a finger along the edge of the cage. The touch was light, teasing, and Logan's whole body shuddered. "What about this?" He tapped the base of the plug. "Does this feel good?"
"Yes. God, yes."
"You want me to take it out?"
"Please."
Andre gripped the base and pulled.
The plug came out with a wet, filthy pop, and Logan moaned—not from pain, but from the sudden, devastating emptiness. His hole gaped, clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
Andre tossed the plug aside. It landed on the rug with a soft thud.
"Fucking look at that," Andre said. "Your hole's just opening for me. Like it knows what's coming."
"Please," Logan whispered. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me. I need it. I need you inside me."
Andre leaned down and kissed him—a rough, claiming kiss that tasted like his own cock. Logan kissed back, desperate, needy, his hands fisting in Andre's shirt.
"Condom?" Andre asked against his mouth.
"Under the sink in the bathroom," Samantha said. "I put them there this morning."
Andre pulled back and grinned at her. "You planned this."
She raised her glass. "I plan everything."
Andre stood up and walked to the bathroom. Logan lay on the couch, his legs still spread, his hole still gaping, his caged cock leaking steadily into the lace of his jockstrap. He could hear Samantha moving behind him, could feel the weight of her gaze on his body.
"You're doing so well," she said softly. "I'm proud of you."
Logan's eyes stung. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She came around the couch and looked down at him, her hand reaching out to stroke his hair. "You're being so good for him. So obedient. That's what I wanted to see."
Andre returned with a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube. He set them on the coffee table and knelt back on the couch, tearing one of the condoms open with his teeth. Logan watching him roll it on—the way the latex stretched over the thick head, the way Andre's hand moved with practiced efficiency—felt like a religious experience.
"Ready?" Andre asked.
"Yes. Yes, please, God, yes—"
Andre slicked up his fingers and pressed them against Logan's hole. Two at once, pushing in, spreading the lube around. Logan arched his back and moaned.
"Fuck, you're loose," Andre said. "That plug really opened you up."
"I've been wearing it all day," Logan managed. "Every day. All week."
"Yeah?" Andre crooked his fingers, finding Logan's prostate, pressing down. "And you liked it, didn't you? You liked walking around your office with a plug in your ass, wondering if anyone could tell."
"I—fuck—yes, I liked it, I loved it, please—"
Andre pulled his fingers out and positioned himself at Logan's entrance. The head of his cock pressed against the loosened ring of muscle, not pushing yet, just resting there.
"Tell me what you want," Andre said.
"I want your cock." Logan's voice was wrecked. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to put that big fucking cock in my ass and fuck me until I can't think straight."
Andre pushed in.
Logan's back arched off the couch. The stretch was intense—thick and unyielding, filling him in a way the plug never could. He gasped, his hands clawing at the cushions, his whole body trembling.
"Fuck," Andre groaned. "Fuck, you're tight."
"Keep going," Logan panted. "Please. All of it."
Andre pushed in inch by inch, slowly, deliberately. Logan felt every centimeter, every throb of the thick vein on the underside of Andre's cock, every shift of pressure against his prostate. When Andre was fully seated, their bodies flush, his balls resting against Logan's ass, Logan let out a sob.
"Good?" Andre asked.
"So good. So fucking good. Move. Please move."
Andre moved.
The first thrust knocked the breath out of Logan's lungs. The second made his eyes roll back. By the third, he was moaning steadily, a low, keening sound that he couldn't control. Andre set a punishing rhythm—deep, hard strokes that hit Logan's prostate every time.
"Look at him," Samantha said. She was standing over the couch now, her robe open, her hand between her legs. "Look at him taking it. My husband. My sweet, quiet husband, getting his ass pounded on our living room sofa."
Logan moaned.
"Does he feel good, Andre?"
"He feels incredible," Andre grunted. "Best piece of ass I've had in a long time."
"You hear that, Logan? You're the best piece of ass he's had in a long time. What do you say?"
"Thank you," Logan gasped. "Thank you for fucking me. Thank you for using my ass."
Andre picked up the pace. The couch creaked beneath them, the cushions shifting. Logan's body was slick with sweat, his caged cock leaking so much pre-cum that the front of his jockstrap was soaked through.
"I'm close," Andre said. "Where do you want it?"
"Inside. Fucking come inside me. Fill me up."
Andre shuddered. "Fuck—"
He drove in deep and came with a low, guttural groan. Logan felt the condom swell inside him, the heat of it, the steady pulse of Andre's release. His own body clenched down, milking every drop, and he came too—or tried to. The cage stopped him. The orgasm built and crested and broke against the bars of the pink metal, leaving him shaking and desperate and somehow, impossibly, satisfied.
Andre pulled out slowly. The used condom came away with a wet sound, and he tied it off and dropped it on the coffee table.
Logan lay there, boneless, his legs still spread, his hole gaping. He could feel Andre's come cooling inside him, trapped by the condom but still present, still real.
"Clean him up," Samantha said.
Logan blinked. "What?"
"His cock. Clean it. You know what to do."
Andre was still kneeling on the couch, his cock half-hard and slick with lube and his own sweat. Logan crawled toward him, one hand on Andre's thigh to steady himself, and took the softening cock into his mouth.
It tasted like latex and salt and sex. He ran his tongue over the shaft, cleaning every trace of lube, every drop of sweat. He could feel his own heartbeat in his throat. He could feel Samantha watching.
"That's it," Samantha said. "Good boy. Get it all."
Logan sucked gently at the head, and Andre groaned, his hand coming down to cup the back of Logan's neck.
"Shit," Andre said. "You're really something, you know that?"
Logan pulled back, his lips still wet. "Thank you."
Andre looked at Samantha. "You two are the real deal, huh?"
Samantha smiled. She had a funny look on her face—proud and possessive and softer than Logan had seen her in weeks. "Yeah," she said. "We are."
She stepped forward and reached down, helping Logan to his feet. He swayed, his legs unsteady, his hole still gaping, and she caught him, her arm around his waist.
"Go get cleaned up," she said. "Andre and I are going to talk about setting this up on a regular basis."
Logan blinked. "A regular basis?"
"I think we need a third," she said. "Someone who can give you what I can't. Someone who can fuck you the way you need to be fucked while I watch." She looked at Andre. "If you're interested."
Andre grinned. "I'm definitely interested."
Logan stood there in the living room, naked and sweaty and still shaking, and felt something settle inside him. Something that felt almost like peace.
"Go," Samantha said, swatting his ass. "Shower. And take your plug with you—you're wearing it to bed tonight. I want to feel it move when you squirm."
Logan bent down and picked up the plug from where Andre had tossed it. It was still slick with lube, still warm from being inside him, and when he straightened up, both Samantha and Andre were watching him.
He walked to the bathroom on unsteady legs, the plug held loosely in his hand, and didn't look back.
But he could feel their eyes on him the whole way.