Chapter 26: Couch Service
The whiskey in Derek’s glass had lost its bite, gone warm and flat. It was just brown water now, matching the sepia tones of the old movie flickering on the screen. Some forgettable noir. Shadows cut across faces. Everyone was hiding something.
Margot’s laugh was a soft puff of air. She was curled into Jake’s side, her legs tucked under her, a throw blanket over them both. Her hand rested on his thigh. It was an innocent placement, at first.
Derek watched from the armchair, a spectator in his own living room. He clutched his glass. The ice had melted hours ago.
On screen, a detective lit a cigarette. Jake’s hand, large and tanned, settled over Margot’s. He didn’t move it away. He guided it. Slowly, imperceptibly, her fingers slid an inch higher. Then another. The blanket hid the journey, but the intent was a live wire in the room.
Derek saw the subtle shift in the fabric of Jake’s gray lounge pants. A thickening. A defined shape.
Jake let out a low, comfortable sigh, his head rolling back against the couch cushion. His eyes were closed, a faint smile on his lips. “Keep going,” he murmured, so quiet it was almost part of the movie’s soundtrack.
Margot’s fingers curled, palming him through the soft cotton. She squeezed, a testing, possessive grip.
“Christ,” Jake breathed, his hips shifting upward into her hand.
Derek’s own body, traitorous and caged, throbbed in sympathetic agony. The plastic felt like it was grinding into his pelvis. He took a sip of the watery whiskey. It tasted like nothing.
“You know what I want,” Jake said. His voice was a low rumble, a statement, not a question. He opened his eyes and looked down at Margot. There was no heat in his gaze, just a calm expectation.
Margot met his look. A silent transaction passed between them. She untangled her legs from the blanket and slid off the couch onto the rug in one fluid, practiced motion. She didn’t look at Derek. Her world had narrowed to the space between Jake’s knees.
Her hands went to his waistband. Jake lifted his hips, a slight, helpful arch, and the gray pants were pushed down to mid-thigh. He was already fully hard, thick and flushed against the backdrop of his tanned stomach. The room’s amber light glossed his skin.
Margot didn’t hesitate. Glancing over at Derek, she gently held up Jake's cock and slowly sucked in his balls while she ran her hand gently up and down his shaft. Margot then looked Jake in the eye as she ran long loving licks up and down the underside of his cock. She swirled her tongue around the glans, then leaned forward and took him deep into her mouth.
The sound was obscenely wet, a soft, intimate pop of suction that cut through the film’s dialogue. Derek flinched. He couldn’t look away. He watched his wife’s head begin to bob, her auburn hair shifting with the rhythm. Her cheeks hollowed. A soft, guttural moan vibrated from her throat, a sound of deep, absorbed concentration.
Jake’s hand came down and speared through her hair, not guiding, just claiming. His fingers tightened. “Yeah,” he sighed, his other arm flung along the back of the couch. “Just like that. Look at you.”
Margot continued to go deeper and deeper, taking Jake all the way down until her lips were bouncing off his balls. Derek could see the outline of Jake's cock head in her throat and heard Margot gag and choke as she deep throated Jake in front of him.
Derek’s breath came in short, useless hitches. This was different from frantic, mechanical fucking. This was skilled, worshipful. This was something Margot wanted to do. He remembered, with a sudden, gut-punch clarity, the last time she’d done that for him. It had been his birthday, years ago. She’d been brisk, efficient. A duty. This was not a duty.
Jake’s breathing grew rougher. His abs tightened. The fingers in Margot’s hair clenched, pulling slightly. “Fuck, I’m close. Don’t stop.”
Margot doubled her pace, taking him deeper, her nose pressing into his skin. A wet, rhythmic slurping filled the air, drowning out the gunshot from the television.
Jake came with a choked, shuddering groan, his body bowing off the couch. Margot took it all, her throat working steadily. She held him there until he twitched and pushed her head gently away.
She pulled back with a final, wet sound. A strand of saliva connected her lips to him for a second before it broke. She swallowed, then licked a stray bead from the corner of her mouth. She looked up at Jake, her green eyes bright, her lips swollen.
“Good girl,” Jake said, his voice ragged with satisfaction. He stroked her hair, petting her. Then his gaze, lazy and satiated, drifted across the room and landed on Derek. The smirk was slow, inevitable. “Did you enjoy watching your wife service me like a whore, cuck? I bet she never did that for you. You may now kiss your bride.” Jake said with a little chuckle.
The command hung in the air. Derek’s legs moved before his mind could fully protest, a conditioned response. He set the empty glass on the side table with a faint clink and walked the three miles across the living room carpet. He knelt before Margot.
She turned her face up to his, smirking at him. She opened her mouth slightly, just enough for him to see the lingering, pearlescent proof on her tongue.
“Go on,” Jake prompted from the couch, already pulling his pants back up. “She's waiting for you.”
Derek leaned in. He kissed his wife. Her lips were warm, slick. The taste was overpowering—bitter, salty, profoundly alien, layered with the familiar scent of her lip balm. It was the taste of his replacement, offered directly from the source. His stomach convulsed, but he kept going, his tongue sweeping against hers, cleaning the residue until it was gone.
When he pulled back, his eyes were watering.
Margot studied him, then gave a small, closed-lipped smile. She reached up and patted his cheek, twice. The condescension was worse than a slap. “Not bad,” she said, echoing Jake’s earlier praise but twisting it into something hollow. “For a cuck.”
The word, spoken aloud in her calm, designer’s voice, landed with the weight of a final verdict. It wasn’t a slur thrown in anger. It was a classification.
Derek didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The taste in his mouth was his identity now. He pushed himself to his feet, his joints aching, and shuffled back to his armchair. He sat down heavily, his cock aching in it's cage.
On the television, the movie was credits rolling, a silent scroll of names against a black screen. Jake chuckled, a low, contented sound. He grabbed the remote and flipped to a sports highlight show. The raucous, meaningless cheer of a stadium crowd flooded the room.
Margot looked over at Derek, her eyes traveling down to his swollen balls and cock pushing against the steel bars of his cock cage.
'Aww, Poor baby's horny." She replied with a smirk. "Go fuck yourself. I want you to do it right here in front of the TV."
Her words weren’t a question. They were a deployment. Derek stared at the blank television screen, his reflection a pale ghost superimposed over the sports highlights. The taste of Jake was still a film on his tongue.
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the tinny roar from the TV. Jake’s hand rested on the back of Margot’s neck, his thumb stroking her vertebrae.
“You heard her,” Jake said, not even looking at him. “Go get your toy.”
Derek stood. The room seemed to tilt. He walked past them, down the hall toward the closet. His footsteps were silent on the carpet. Each step was a countdown.
The hall closet smelled of mothballs and cleaning supplies. The vacuum, the broom, the machine. It sat there on the floor, gray and impersonal. He lifted it. The weight was familiar, a cold anchor. He carried it back to the living room, the cord trailing behind him like a leash.
Margot and Jake watched his return. They had shifted. Margot was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the couch between Jake’s legs. Jake had his arms draped over the cushions, a king observing proceedings. They looked like an audience settling in for a peculiar show.
“Plug it in,” Margot directed, pointing to the outlet near the television stand.
Derek knelt. He fumbled with the plug, his fingers numb. The click of connection was loud. The small green power light glowed like a malevolent eye in the semi-darkness.
“You remember how it works, right?” Jake asked, his tone mock-concerned. “From your solo practice sessions?”
Derek didn’t answer. He peeled off his sweatpants and underwear in one stiff motion. The cage was a black, ugly contrast against his skin. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on his thighs.
“Lube’s in the side table,” Margot said, nodding toward it. “Hurry up. This is boring already.”
He retrieved the bottle. The silicone liquid was cold and viscous as he squeezed a generous amount onto the attachment already fitted—the ridged one. It dripped onto the rug. He didn’t care.
Positioning himself was awkward, clumsy. He turned his back to them, to the machine, presenting himself. He guided the cold, slick tip to his body. His hands were shaking.
“Wait,” Jake said.
Derek froze.
“Turn around. Do it facing us. I want to see your face.”
A new threshold. Derek’s breath hitched. Slowly, he pivoted on his knees, dragging the machine with him. Now he was facing them, fully exposed, the machine’s arm aimed behind him like a grotesque tail. Their faces were in shadow, but he could see their eyes, bright with anticipation.
“Good boy,” Margot said softly.
He pressed the button on the remote. The whirr was immediate, a hungry, mechanical sound. He pushed back.
The intrusion was just as shocking as the first time. A sharp, unforgiving stretch that forced a ragged gasp from his throat. His eyes flew wide open.
Jake let out a short, delighted laugh. “Look at that. He’s a natural.”
The machine established its rhythm. Whirr-thump. Whirr-thump. Derek’s body jolted forward with each thrust. He braced his hands on the floor behind him, his arms trembling, keeping himself upright. He couldn’t close his eyes. Their gazes were pins holding him in place.
“Faster,” Margot said, her voice cool.
His thumb found the control. The pitch of the whirr climbed. The thumps came quicker, a violent, jackhammer cadence that rattled his teeth. A strangled moan escaped him.
“Oh, listen to him,” Jake chuckled, squeezing Margot’s shoulder. “He’s getting into it.”
He wasn’t. It was a violent, dislocating sensation. But his trapped, caged cock was leaking a pathetic string of clear fluid onto the rug beneath him. His body’s blind betrayal was the worst part.
“Look at his little cage bounce,” Margot observed, pointing. A designer’s critique. “It’s almost cute. Like a bell on a cat.”
Jake’s laughter was louder now, a genuine, booming sound that drowned out the machine for a second. “A fucking cat. That’s perfect.”
Tears blurred Derek’s vision. The room swam—the lamplight, their smiling faces, the blur of the television. The machine pounded him, each impact shaking a shattered sound from his lungs. The heat built again, a filthy tide rising against his will.
“He’s gonna come,” Jake announced, as if calling a play. “Look at his face. He’s totally gonna come in that little chastity thing.”
“Do it,” Margot whispered, leaning forward, her green eyes locked on his. “Come for us, Derek. Come like the good, useless cuck you are.”
The permission, the mocking command, was the final trigger. The climax detonated in his core, a seismic shock of shame that had nothing to do with pleasure. He cried out, a raw, animal sound, as his body convulsed, spilling into the plastic prison. The machine didn’t stop. It kept hammering into his oversensitive flesh, prolonging the agony until his cries dissolved into wet, hiccupping sobs.
Jake was grinning, shaking his head in amused disbelief. Margot’s smirk was a razor cut.
Finally, Derek’s shaking hand found the remote and stabbed the button. The whirring died. The silence that followed was absolute, save for his ragged breathing. He slumped forward onto his hands and knees, spent, hollowed out, strings of saliva and sweat dripping onto the wool.
“Clean the lube off the attachment,” Margot said after a moment, her voice returning to its normal, practical register. “And the mess you made on the floor. Then put it away.”
Derek didn’t move. He couldn’t.
“Now,” Jake said, the single word dropping into the room with the weight of a stone.
With a shuddering inhale, Derek obeyed. He wiped the silicone clean with his discarded shirt. He bent his head and lapped at the small, glossy puddle on the rug until the wool was just damp. The taste of silicone and his own humiliation was bitter on his tongue.
He unplugged the machine. The green light winked out. He gathered his clothes and the device and stood on unsteady legs.
As he shuffled back toward the hall closet, he heard Jake speak low to Margot. “You were right. The face was the best part.”
Derek placed the machine back in the dark. He closed the closet door. In the stillness of the hallway, he leaned his forehead against the cool wood. From the living room, the sound of the television returned, and with it, their soft, mingling laughter. It followed him down the hall, into the bathroom, where he stood over the sink, staring at the stranger in the mirror, and wondering how he had totally lost his wife.