Sophia leaned against the kitchen counter, glass of wine in hand, her lips curling into that sly grin she always wore when she wanted to push me. “Matt,” she said, her voice deliberate, soft but commanding, “Russ is coming over tonight. Go upstairs, slip into your cage, a pair of my panties and my pink nightie. I want you ready before he gets here.”
My heart did that thing where it clenched and fluttered all at once. A knot of dread and thrill twisted in my stomach. This was it—her favorite game, the one I both feared and craved. I looked at her for a moment, hoping for softness, for reassurance, but all I got was that grin. The grin that told me she knew exactly how much power she had over me—and she adored it.
“Yes, Sophia,” I said quietly, and she took a long, satisfied sip of her wine.
I padded up the stairs, every step heavy, almost ceremonial. Entering our bedroom, I went to her panty drawer, sliding it open slowly. The delicate lace and satin stared back at me, reminders of her femininity, her sexuality, her power. My fingers hovered, trembling, before selecting a pair— lace, soft, almost sheer. I grabbed her pink nightie from the second drawer.
I stripped down, pulled out my cold metal cock cage, and carefully locked myself in. The bite of the steel against my skin made me shiver. I always hated that first chill, but within seconds the pressure, the confinement, started to feel right. Natural. Like surrender.
I slid the lace panties over the cage, tugging them into place. Looking in the mirror, I almost laughed. Ridiculous. Humiliating. Cute. All at once. My cock was a lump of useless flesh trapped behind steel and lace. I slid the nightie over my head, thinking to myself – I am my wife’s pantyboy.
When I came back downstairs, Sophia didn’t even look at me at first. She set her glass down, walked slowly around me, inspecting me like a queen might inspect a servant. Then she smiled. “Good boy. Stand in the corner until Russ gets here.” I want you in the right headspace for his visit.
I obeyed, moving to the corner of the living room, hands behind my back, eyes lowered. I heard the ticking of the clock, the sound of Sophia’s wine glass setting against the counter, the faint hum of her contentment as she scrolled on her phone.
Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Russ’s voice filled the house when Sophia opened the door. Deeper than mine. Confident. Effortless. He didn’t have to try to command a room. He just did.
And then he saw me.
“Well, well,” Russ said, chuckling as he stepped into the living room. “How’s our pantyboy doing tonight?”
I swallowed, heat rushing to my face. “I’m well, sir.”
They both laughed, exchanging amused glances. “Aw, so cute,” Sophia said, shaking her head like I was a little pet doing tricks. My humiliation deepened, but underneath it all, that ache I could never quite explain, only grew.
Sophia snapped her fingers. “Cuck, go upstairs, prepare the bed and sit and wait for us.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I climbed the stairs, my panties rubbing against the cold steel cage, my cheeks burning with anticipation. In the bedroom, I turned down the comforter and sheets, smoothing them neatly. My chair waited in the corner, my throne of humiliation. I sat and waited, listening to the faint murmur of their voices below. Then the laughter. Then the unmistakable sound of kissing.
A few minutes later, footsteps on the stairs. Russ entered first, Sophia trailing, lips flushed, eyes bright with desire. She looked radiant, alive.
They didn’t waste time. Clothes fell to the floor, bodies tangled, mouths pressed together hungrily. Russ took her with the confidence of a man who had nothing to prove. His body was bigger, stronger, his cock hard and thick—so different from mine, especially trapped in steel.
I watched from the chair as Sophia moaned against him, as her nails dug into his back, as her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Each thrust of him inside her made her gasp, made her eyes roll back, made her grip him tighter.
Jealousy burned hot in my chest, but it wasn’t sharp, it was dull, steady, mingled with happiness. I wanted to be him. I wanted to be her. Both, at once. Sometimes I wanted his body, his cock, his confidence. Other times I wanted her ecstasy, her power, her freedom. I wanted to feel what it was like to be a real man but I also wanted to feel what it was like to receive a real man’s passion inside me.
I was drowning in that swirl of emotions when I heard Russ’s voice.
“Pantyboy. Come kneel.”
My body moved before my brain could catch up. I stood, trembling, and knelt beside the bed. From here, I could see everything. Sophia’s breasts bouncing with each thrust, Russ’s cock glistening as it disappeared into her again and again.
“Look at him,” Russ said between thrusts, smirking down at me. “All locked up while his wife gets fucked like a real woman deserves.”
Sophia moaned, tilting her head toward me, her grin wicked even in pleasure. “Poor baby. You’ll never fill me like this. That’s why I need Russ.”
Their words cut and healed at the same time. Each insult fed my humiliation but also my arousal. My cage tightened painfully as my cock strained uselessly against steel.
Russ reached down, gripping Sophia’s hips harder. “He’ll never be man enough, will he?”
“Never,” she gasped. “That’s why I love him this way.”
Minutes blurred. Sophia’s cries grew louder, Russ’s thrusts deeper, until finally he pulled out, cock throbbing, and aimed at me. Before I could think, hot ropes of cum splattered across my face. My cheeks, my lips, my nose—warm, sticky, humiliating.
“Good boy,” Sophia purred, running her fingers through my hair briefly before turning back to Russ. “Now back to your chair.”
I obeyed, cum dripping down my face and chest as I sat, eyes closed tight. I could feel it sliding down toward my stomach, drying against my skin.
“Open your eyes,” Russ commanded.
I hesitated, then obeyed. The sting came quick—cum in the corner of my right eye, burning, tearing. I flinched and raised a hand, but his voice stopped me.
“Hands at your sides.”
“Yes, sir.” I lowered my hand, blinking through the discomfort.
On the bed, Sophia and Russ lay together, touching, giggling, whispering the way lovers do. Their warmth filled the room while I sat cold, sticky, aching in my cage. They looked over at me, and I knew what they saw: a cuckold in panties, locked up, face covered in another man’s seed.
They giggled again, pointing, shaking their heads. “Perfect,” Sophia murmured, her voice soft with satisfaction.
And I realized—this was perfect. My humiliation, my jealousy, my ache—it was all part of it. The roleplay. The power. The truth beneath the act.
I had a safeword, sure. I could end it anytime. But deep down, I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay in the corner. Stay caged. Stay humiliated. Because that was where Sophia wanted me. And where Russ wanted me.
And most of all, where I wanted me.
Matt’s Silent Reflection
Humiliation wasn’t just a game for me; it was a mirror. Every time Russ teased me, every time Sophia told me I wasn’t enough, every time I felt the sting of being the pantyboy in the corner—it reminded me of something deeper. That I was enough for her love, even if not for her body. That my role wasn’t to compete with Russ, but to complete Sophia.
Sometimes I wished I was him. Sometimes I wished I was her. But mostly, I was me. Matt, the pantyboy. The husband who loved his wife enough to let her soar, even if it meant kneeling on the floor with cum drying on my cheeks.
And as I watched Sophia cuddle against Russ’s chest, laughing at some private joke, I realized that this wasn’t just roleplay. It was devotion. It was submission. It was love in its rawest, strangest form. Others might not understand but to me, to us. It was perfect.
