What Will it Be?

Claire came first. She always did.

It wasn’t some unspoken rule in our marriage—it was absolutely spoken, declared, owned. She’d trained me to focus on her pleasure, to worship her orgasm like it was the climax of the entire evening. Because for her, it was. For me? Well… that part was complicated.

Tonight had been intense. Her legs had been wrapped tight around my waist, her hips rising in those perfect rhythmic surges she knew would tease me to the edge and hold me there like a dog straining at a leash. I was breathing hard, soaking in the heat of her skin, the small gasps in her throat, the scent of her climax already blooming in the air. I could feel her nails in my back, the curve of her neck arching as her orgasm took her. That high-pitched breathless sound she makes when she’s really letting go—it hit me like a drug every time.

Then she went still. Her muscles relaxed. A warm sigh spilled from her lips. She gave me a single, knowing smile.

And just like that, she slid me out of her and pushed against my chest.

“That’s enough, baby,” she murmured, her voice still husky with release. “I got mine.”

I blinked, still inside the hazy fog of denied lust. I was hard, throbbing, desperate to move, to finish what I thought we were both building toward. But Claire wasn’t like that. She played a different game. A game where she always finished, and I got the… privilege… of a choice.

She rolled onto her side, legs glistening with her own arousal, then looked over her shoulder with a smirk. “Now… it’s your turn. If you want it.”

My throat tightened. I knew that tone. I knew what “my turn” meant when Claire said it.

She tilted her head toward the nightstand.

“Go ahead, baby. Open the drawer. Bottom right corner.”

I swallowed. My cock throbbed against my stomach as I got up and moved, naked and flushed, to her nightstand. The drawer creaked as I pulled it open. Inside was her usual stash of toys, lube, a few neatly folded scarves she used to blindfold me. But I saw what she meant immediately. The box of assorted condoms.

She caught the hesitation in my posture.

“Yes,” she said, her voice light but firm. “The gold ones. The ones that would never fit your little penis. Go ahead, take one.”

My fingers trembled slightly as I picked it up. I could feel my face burn. These weren’t for me. They never were. Claire had them in the drawer for a reason—and that reason didn’t include me wearing them.

“They’re the ones Marcus uses when he comes over, aren’t they?” I asked quietly, though I already knew the answer.

She didn’t respond right away. I turned my head to look at her and saw that devilish glint in her eye. Playful. Powerful.

“I mean,” she purred, “they are a little big for you, aren’t they.”

My heart started pounding harder.

“You want to cum tonight?” she asked, stretching lazily across the bed like a satisfied queen. “Then that’s what you’ll use. Unroll it. Lube up. Put it on. Stroke yourself into that latex symbol of everything you’re not.”

Her words twisted inside me like a blade made of heat. I looked down at the gold foil, still unopened in my hand. The idea of wrapping my pathetic penis inside something not only meant for another man—but her other man—was a humiliation I could barely wrap my mind around. But my cock twitched, traitorous and needy.

“Once you’re done,” she added, her voice dipping low, “you’re going to take it off carefully… and empty it in your mouth.”

She smiled wider now, watching my reaction like a cat toying with a mouse. “Of course, that’s only if you want to cum. If not, you can put it back and put your cage back on. Completely up to you.”

The silence between us grew thick with the weight of the choice. My body was screaming yes. My ego, my pride, what little I had left, was begging me to say no. To preserve a sliver of masculine dignity. But Claire had been molding that masculinity for years now. With her words. Her rules.

“What will it be?” she asked again, raising an eyebrow. “Would you like to cum tonight, baby?”

I stood there for a long moment, frozen in indecision. My hand tightened around the condom. My eyes dropped to her bare legs, to the soft folds between her thighs still glistening with satisfaction. She looked like a goddess lounging in the aftermath of worship.

I was already lost.

I unwrapped the condom.

Claire made a soft, approving sound as I sat at the edge of the bed and reached for the lube. My hands were trembling. The condom was warm from my grip as I stretched it open and slipped myself inside. It was loose. Embarrassingly so. But that was her point, wasn’t it?

The cool slickness of the lube, the absurd tightness of my arousal fighting against the oversized sheath, made everything feel heightened, exposed. I stroked myself slowly, eyes fluttering shut, cheeks burning. I could feel Claire watching me. I could hear the faint rustle of her sheets as she shifted to prop herself up on her elbows.

She was looking at me with a smile, I could tell she found this humorous. “You look so cute like that,” she said. “Trying to fill him up. But keep going. Show me how much your little guy wants it.”

I was already panting. The blend of humiliation and arousal had my nerves shot. My mind was spinning. Every pump of my hand drove the humiliation deeper—this wasn’t for my pleasure. This was obedience. Worship. A very specific ritual of degradation. And it worked. God, it worked.

I teetered closer to the edge, my balls tightening, heart racing.

“You’re going to give me those cute little cummies?” Claire asked sweetly. “In Marcus’ condom? Like a good little husband?”

I moaned out loud. I couldn’t stop it. The words pushed me right to the brink.

And when I came, it was with a strangled gasp of relief and regret. The condom filled slowly as I watched my embarrassingly small erection fill the little latex bag, sagging slightly in my hand. The moment the orgasm passed, the post-orgasm shame settled in. I sat there, blinking, breathless, heart still pounding.

“Now,” Claire said softly, sitting up and reaching over to take the condom from my hand, “you know what comes next.”

She held it up, watching the light catch the fluid inside. Then she dangled it just in front of my lips.

“Open.”

I hesitated. Every part of me screamed no. Had I needed to cum so bad that I would endure this humiliation? Every instinct revolted. But I opened my mouth.

Claire tilted it gently, pouring the contents into my mouth like a slow, sticky, shameful baptism of my tonsils. It coated my tongue, my throat, my pride. I swallowed it.

I closed my eyes.

There was nothing left to hide.

“Good boy,” she whispered, kissing my forehead. “You made the right choice.”