When it was Kila’s voice and not my wife’s that passed judgment on my work, something in my chest twisted, flickering between humiliation and the wild small hope that I’d done well enough to make her proud. Those two impulses were now the double helix of my life, entwined until I could no longer name which was the disease and which the cure.

Kila prowled the kitchen with her phone raised like a grading clipboard, reviewing every tile edge and sprayed-down surface. She dug fingernails under the drawer pulls. She peeled a knife from the drying rack and held it against the window’s last daylight, like a jeweler appraising a flawed diamond. She shook her head in practiced disappointment. “You see this, Mom?” she called, tapping the blade with her thumbnail and making me keenly aware of each water spot I’d missed. “You see the streaking here?”

My wife, who never once in twenty years had looked at my work through any lens sharper than gratitude, heaved a sigh made entirely of sorrow and let her hands drop to her lap. “I do,” she said. The words were heavy and thin as onion skin.

Kila slammed the knife to the counter and rounded on me. “Try again tomorrow, Daddy,” she said, the pet name no longer affectionate but lacquered in acid. “And if you fail again, I’ll take away whatever you have left to lose.” Her eyes glinted with predatory joy as she half-turned to my wife. “Let’s call this Strike One.”

“Thank you, Kila,” Bryn said in a voice so low I could barely hear it. A tired, nervous habit had her twisting her wedding ring as if it was a puzzle she could solve by brute force. “Do I have your permission to go up early?” She clearly intended it as a joke, but it withered on landing.

Kila grinned, savage and toothsome. “You have my blessing, Mom. I’ll be up later to review his schedule for tomorrow.”

My wife stood, not looking at me. I watched her walk up the stairs, the tight-formal posture of her back hiding whatever she felt. When Kila finally left me alone, I gathered the phone and the cleaning implements in a daze, gravitating to the room where failure was my only companion.

I lay on the living room floor, staring at the white slug of moonlight on the ceiling, unable to move. I hadn’t yet been told whether the day’s punishment was over, so I waited, as Kila had trained me to do. Sometimes I thought she had rewired me at a biological level, replaced my old instincts with the jittery, eager mutation of servitude and the thirst for approval. If that was true, it didn’t matter how much I hated it. Your chromosomes don’t ask permission.

Eventually, I heard footsteps descend the stairs, bare feet, padded and careful, and I knew instantly it was Bryn. The rhythm was uniquely hers, still and careful and anxious not to wake anyone. She found me in the dark. I could feel the question in her eyes. When I didn’t speak, she sat on the edge of the couch and pressed a hand to my back.

“You did your best,” she whispered, but the words sounded less like comfort than bone-deep confession. “You really tried, didn’t you?” Her fingers were cold where they grazed my neck. “I’m so sorry, Gar.” She left it there, not because she ran out of things to say, but because all the rest was rubble and ash.

I tried to answer, but my mouth and throat were clamped by the ache inside. Instead, I rolled onto my side so I could look up at her. She didn’t shrink from the sight of her husband soft with defeat, kneeling at her feet. Instead, she gathered me into her lap the way you rescue a child from a fall. My head pressed into her stomach, the inside of her shirt warm and scented with almond lotion and a little tang of commute sweat.

It was the first time we’d touched like this in years without sex on the table. Or, rather, without sex as the only table, the last bribe to keep us both playing the old game. I felt smaller than I’d ever felt in my own home, and somehow safer. Tears crowded my eyes until I couldn’t hold them back.

Her hand cupped the back of my skull. I could tell she was thinking through a hundred ways to explain any of this in terms that made sense. Maybe there was a version of Bryn that hated me, or hated Kila, or even the whole world for infecting her domestic life with something so sick and wild it could never be real again. But this Bryn, the one who stroked my hair as I lay crumpled and voiceless in the living room, was both less and more than all those other versions. She was just exactly the person I’d always needed, at the cost of knowing I was something she could no longer understand.

“You’re a good man,” she said, over and over, until I stopped hearing words at all and just let the shape of her kindness rock me toward sleep.

I woke, much later, in the dark. My cheek was pillowed on a thigh, blanket thrown over my back. Bryn’s hand, unexpectedly strong, was wrapped around my forearm, like she could brace me in place against whatever bad current threatened to sweep me away. I lay there, shallow-breathing, and listened to her pulse tick through her legs. I wondered if she was awake.

“Are you asleep?” I whispered.

“No,” came the answer, immediate and clear. “I’m thinking about you.” She shifted a little, the clutch of her hand never breaking, then said, “I dreamed this would be the part where you’d lift me up and carry me to bed.” She smiled and it was both a joke and a memory, maybe from that first summer when every problem was solvable and every night ended with bodies tangled in sweat. “You remember when we used to?” she said.

I did. “Yes,” I said. My lips pressed an apology into her knee, something that was so private and small it could never be translated into words. She squeezed my wrist.

“I can live with this,” she said, surprising me. “Whatever this is. I can’t pretend I understand it, or that it doesn’t make me feel… insignificant, sometimes. But it’s real. Moreso that anything you and I have done or been in a very long time.” She was quiet for several moments, and I knew she was fighting to control emotion. “I wish it was me that was showing you who you are.”

I did, too. The force of that realization stole my breath. I closed my eyes and nuzzled against her leg. Nodded. There were no words, and if there were, I couldn’t have said them, anyway.

“I won’t allow you in my bed again,” she said, and this time I heard the catch in her breath. “You’ll have to get on your knees and beg for it. And if I put conditions on it, then you’ll do as I say. That’s how it will be, and we aren’t discussing it further.”

“Thank you, Bryn,” I whispered, not quite sure what exactly I was thankful for.

“Do you even want to fuck me anymore?”

The question stung. It stole my breath. My fingers tightened on her legs. “Yes,” I said, letting the truth of that one word come through loud and clear. “More than ever.”

“Because you have to?” I sat back on my heels. Blinking in the darkness, I wondered if somehow Bryn had figured out what Kila had done to me. What I’d said to my stepdaughter. “Well, silence is an answer, I guess.”

“No. No, it isn’t that.” I clutched at my wife’s hand. Kissed her fingers. “Bryn, there’s no one I want but you. I love you. From the first time we kissed, you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to be with.” I fumbled for words, forcing thoughts of Kila out of my head. “I wouldn’t even know how to start wanting someone else.”

Bryn caught my face between her hands. Her mouth was soft and sweet on mine. Her open lips pulled my tongue against hers and I lost myself in the most wonderful woman I’d ever seen.

“I want you,” I growled, my hands digging into my wife’s ass. I ground the cage on my throbbing cock against the sofa, trying to figure out how to slip out of it. “I want to fuck you, Bryn. I need to. I…” I leaned my forehead against hers. “God, I need to be inside you.”

“No.” Her voice was soft. Small. Like the point of a dagger puncturing my heart. “You’re going to finish what you started. That means you don’t get to be with me that way. No matter how much I want it.” Her hands balled up into fists on my shoulders, and I heard a hungry fierceness in her voice, “And I want it, Garrett. I want my husband to throw me on my back and fuck me until I’m ragged and sore and I feel his cum pulsing inside me. I want it. I fucking want it.” I felt her shake her head as if she were clearing a dream from it. “But I won’t give you that. You don’t deserve it.”

“Bryn…”

She waited. But I… had no words. How could I protest that? I hung my head, sighed, and nodded.

“You’re still my husband,” she whispered. “I’m going to bed. I think maybe Kila’s right. You need me to be tougher on you. So, you have the opportunity to get on your knees next to our bed - to my bed - and beg to worship between my legs. You can either beg for that tonight, or you can sleep on the couch until I decide I want to let you try again.” She stood up. Leaned over and kissed me. “Make your decision. We both have to live with it.”

For the first time in days, I had no thought of Kila whatsoever. I paced the living room in the dark for all of half a minute before I tiptoed upstairs. I made it past my stepdaughter’s bedroom, noting the sliver of light under the door. I closed the bedroom door and knelt beside my wife’s bed - no longer mine, but entirely hers.

“Bryn…”

“Beg. You fucking beg like our marriage depends on it, Garrett.”

My voice stuck in my throat, overwhelmed by the weird perfection of the script she’d handed me. I gritted my teeth and exhaled, forcing out words scarred by tears: “Please, Bryn. I need you. I want to be yours again, even if I’m a disappointment. I’ll prove it. I swear.” I pressed my cheek against the mattress, cowed by the weight of her silence. “Let me please you. Let me try to be a good husband. Let me taste you. Please, Bryn. I beg you.”

The sheets rustled. For a moment, nothing happened. Then her hand drifted down, landing heavy on the back of my head, combing through my hair as if she could smooth away the jagged edges inside me. My chest ached with longing; every muscle trembled with the need to be accepted.

“How did we get here?” my wife whispered. “When did everything change?” I had no idea how to answer those questions. A moment later, she gave the only answer that mattered. “We’re still here, though, right? It’s still us.” Her lips touched mine. “I love you, Garrett.” Her soft sigh was warm on my lips, and her voice was even softer. “Beg for me. Beg like you’re inferior.”

“Please, my love. Please.” My voice was so soft I barely heard it myself, but all the need I’d ever felt in my life was pulsing in it. This woman was my life. My everything. “Please, Bryne. I don’t deserve your pleasure, but I’m begging you to use me. Just let me go down on you. Please. Let me be something other than worthless for you.”

“God, I’m so fucking wet,” Bryn murmured. She grabbed one of my hands and pushed my fingers flatly against her pussy. Slick heat pulsed. “That’s what you’re giving up, Garrett. You could be all the way inside me right now.” She rubbed her pussy against my palm. “But you’re inferior, aren’t you?” A silky laugh bubbled from her throat. “That’s why you have to beg to taste my pussy. Go on, Garrett. Beg like the inferior man I know you are.”

That word rolled off of Bryn’s lips easily, but it staked my heart. A sob blossomed in my chest. How could I do anything but give this woman everything I was? How could I risk what I had with her? There was a certainty in her voice. She wasn’t questioning if I was inferior. Not even accepting it. It was a judgment she’d made and convicted me of. Pure fact.

“Say it, Garrett,” she whispered. “I know you need me to hear it. Tell me you’re inferior. Tell me you know you don’t deserve me.”

“I’m inferior,” I whispered, and it felt holy and profane at the same time. “I don’t deserve you, Bryn. I never did.”

Bryn pressed her lips to my cheek and let her hand settle over my heart, her wedding ring cool against my bare skin. “I know,” she whispered. “But I want you anyway.” Her fingers ran lightly through my hair. “Tomorrow I want everything perfect,” she murmured into my hair. “No more mistakes.” She took a breath. “I’m going to tell Kila to be ruthless if she has to be my executioner again.” I felt her shiver. “I don’t like that, Garrett, but I saw your eyes. You need it. That threat of cruelty. The… punishment.”

“I won’t let you down,” I said, and this time I almost believed it.

Bryn shifted, sitting up to drape her legs over my shoulders. The hot, musky scent of her pussy was familiar and addictive. One of her hands held a handful of my hair, allowing me close enough to fill my senses with her, but not enough to touch her.

“Please, Bryn,” I begged, “I need you. Please, let me.”

“Quiet,” she said. There was no hint of pity in it. “Quiet, or you don’t get to touch me at all.” Then, gently, “My daughter doesn’t need to know everything about our sex life.”

I stayed silent, shivering with gratitude when I felt her hand in my hair, twisting, anchoring me. She’d shed her nightgown; the heat of her body poured into my cheek as she guided my mouth to her dripping pussy. Her cunt was liquid-slick and searing-hot. The taste was violent, copper, salt, like the inside of a cheek bitten until it bled. I’d never seen her this wet, this awake. She pressed me there, used my tongue as a tool, not a gift, and I felt the shift in her hip as she found a rhythm against my jaw and began fucking my face.

Inferior - the truth of my life now - I gave myself over to Bryn’s pleasure. My tongue flattened and lapped, drawing slick arcs from clit to hole, and every time I trembled or tried to breathe she’d shove my head in firmer with a warning pulse of her hand. Her thighs locked behind my skull. She didn’t say a word, not even when she shuddered and twisted her fingers hard in my hair so the roots stung and snapped at my scalp.

Tonight there was nothing of approval, just her, hips grinding, my jaw forced to its full hinge, my nose buried in the wild hair of her crotch. Every muscle in her body was taut with the effort of extracting something more from me than I even thought I had. My face was soaked, the tip of my nose raw where she rubbed it up against her clit.

She went off like a gunshot. Her knees clamped so tight I thought my head would pop. The scream of her orgasm was muffled by a pillow she clamped tightly over her face, but the sound vibrated down through her belly and into my mouth. She shook, then, and kept shaking, her hand knotted in my hair like she’d decided to keep some of me with her forever. I ate and ate, even when my jaw ached and my tongue went rubber-numb. Even when I felt the thick, hot overflow of her spill down my chin and seam the corners of my mouth.

“Don’t move,” she whispered, panting. I knelt between her thighs, inhaling the thick scent of her musk. Her fingers twisted in my hair. “Beg for more. Quietly. Tell me you can’t get enough of me.”

“Please, Bryn,” I said, as close to silent as breath could make it. My hands shook in the carpet. “I want you to drown me in you.”

“That’s better,” she whispered. Her inner thighs were trembling, hair bunched wild and sticky with sweat, her hands brutally beautiful in their command of my head. She rolled her hips up, splaying herself open, and sank my mouth again into the heat and salt of her. “You don’t get to stop until I tell you.”

I licked and sucked, burying my nose in the dense, dark crease of her, letting every passing second erase another wrong, another small death in me that she alone could revive. I didn’t keep count of her orgasms because I lost myself in the wavery, seawater blur of her pleasure, my consciousness flickering on and off in the heat and wetness of her thighs. She held my head as if it were a lifeline and a weapon both: when she wanted me to stay, she gripped hard and forced my face in, and when she wanted to tease herself, she loosened, let me draw back just enough to beg with my tongue and lips for a return to her. The entire world was the sticky, wild heat of her, the animal pulse in her gut that said I might someday be forgiven.

There was a shock in the way she came, as if each orgasm was a wound erupting in her, a violence that needed a body to contain it. Her hips rocked forward and up, her thighs squeezing at my ears, and sometimes she shivered so hard it felt like a storm rolling through her bones. I learned all the languages of her pleasure: the shallow, trembling gasp when I circled her clit with the tip of my tongue, the guttural moan when I sealed my lips and sucked gently, the sharp, broken yelp when I dipped my tongue inside her and pressed in as far as I could reach. Sometimes she rasped out my name as a curse, sometimes only a raw animal noise, scraping out from the pit of her chest. Each sound hollowed me out, made me lighter, until I was nothing but a vessel open for her need.

When Bryn wanted a break, she’d shove my head away and hold me there, nose flattened to her mound but denied even the motion of a lick, her hand heavy on my crown. I’d wait, forced to breathe the air made thick by her, and I’d beg with my eyes for another taste. Sometimes she’d laugh, a low, fractured sound that let me know she was still in control, even when her body was shaking, even when her thighs spasmed around my ears. Then she’d pull me in again, harder than before, and grind her clit into my mouth as if punishing herself for letting go at all. I loved her then, in the way murdererers love their executioners: with terror, awe, and an absolute belief in their own worthlessness.

Every so often I’d choke on her, tears running from my eyelids into the tangle of her pubes, but I never tried to pull away. I learned to breathe around her, to time my gasps between the waves of her thrusting hips, to let my body become a machine built for a single purpose. Her heat smeared my chin, my cheeks, my upper lip. She’d clench so tight my jaw ached and then, abruptly, she’d go slack, as if the force of her orgasm had emptied her out and left her hollow. Those moments when she softened and patted my head, told me quietly I was a good boy, those were the ones that nearly undid me. I lived for them, even as I lived for the next time she’d shove me back down and use me.

Time stopped meaning anything. My neck hurt, my knees went numb, my tongue started to lose sensation, but still I kept licking, slow and worshipful or fast and frantic whenever she commanded it. I wanted her to lose herself, to become an animal, to forget she was ever married to someone who failed so many times. I wanted to wipe the memory of Kila from the house, from her, from myself. If it took hours, days, I would keep going.

And then it changed. She started to cry, not like before but real, racking sobs that twisted up from her belly to her mouth, leaking out with every breath. She held my head but not to use me, only to ground herself as she came again, this time with a kind of sorrow that soaked me through. Her legs trembled, her hands shook, and she clung to me with a desperation that made me afraid for her. I slowed, I gentled, I murmured her name into the thick wetness of her, and she shivered but she did not push me away.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. The house was silent except for her breathing, the distant click of the air conditioner, the faint tick of the clock in the hallway. When Bryn finally pulled my head up, her eyes were red, her lips swollen. She didn’t look at me, but her hand lingered in my hair, twisting a strand around her finger in a gesture I remembered from our earliest days together. She held me like that, suspended between mercy and punishment, and for the first time I thought I might actually belong to her, not as a husband but as a thing remade by her hands.

“Good boy,” she whispered, drunk with pleasure. Blissed out like a teenager after her first love. “Congratulations, Garrett. I’m going to let you sleep on the floor next to me. That way, if I want to come in the middle of the night, my inferior pussy-whipped husband will be ready to beg for it. Won’t you?”

“Always,” I whispered. Her juices cooled on my face. “Anything you want, Bryn. Anything. Just… please, don’t hate me for this.”

Her hand touched my cheek. She gave a soft huff of amusement as she untangled from my body and stretched out on her side, facing me. When she pulled, I leaned in for her kiss.

“You’re so stupid sometimes, Garrett,” she whispered. “I love you so much.” After a moment, she added, “It feels right. Using you. Making you beg.” She giggled. “I think you’re going to do this every night.”

“As long as you wish,” I whispered. “It’s more than I deserve.”

She was silent so long that I thought she’d gone to sleep. Then she pulled me to her and parted my lips with hers. Bryn’s tongue slithered against mine, hot and wet and demanding. I leaned towards her, the cage on my cock resting against the side of the bed.

“Tell me the truth,” she whispered, fingers running through my hair. “Does this feel like us? Like… this is how it should have been from the first?”

“I don’t know if I could have accepted this back then,” I said, my lips sucking at her for reassurance. “But if it had been, I think we’d be in a better place.”

Silence cursed me for my clumsy words. But my wife’s hands remained sweet and gentle. Her kisses loving and tender.

“Garrett, this feels like you to me,” she said. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. But it’s just… I don’t know. It’s you. Right now, you on your knees, needing my permission to even go down on me or come to bed…” She gave a soft chuckle and kissed me. “This is who you are, my love. And I wish I’d known it all those years ago, because I would have kept you this way.” After a quiet moment, she added, “We aren’t in a bad place, Garrett. It’s just a place we took too long to find.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

I couldn’t answer. How could I say anything and not break her heart with what I’d done with and for her daughter? And since I couldn’t say anything without putting Kila’s name in it, I just apologized again.

“You’re inferior, right?” Bryn laughed softly and kissed me. “Don’t apologize for that. Just… let’s stop acting like it isn’t our truth, okay?”

“I love you, Bryn,” I whispered. “I feel so lost without you.”

“I’m here, sweetheart,” my wife assured me. “You’ve never been without me.” She took a deep breath and released it. “Now, my dear, inferior husband, you are going to sleep on the floor and prove to me this is what we really are.” She kissed me. “Last chance to be a pussy…”

She laughed. I pulled the covers up around her and kissed her good night. I remained there on my knees as Bryn drifted to sleep. An odd mixture of emotions settled into my brain and in my heart. I had truly satisfied my wife. At least, I had given her all the pussy worship she could take. Something had shifted in Bryn, between Kila’s lectures and my whispered pleas. What happened between my wife and I was pure and honest, and it held the seeds of a life together that could be even more than the two of us had ever dreamed of being.

Yet… Kila. If I were told to do so tomorrow, I would beg for her pussy as thoroughly, as shamelessly, as I had for Bryn’s. As much as I wanted to say otherwise, when I was alone with Kila, Bryn just wasn’t a consideration. There was only Kila’s demands, and my need to meet them.

Where did that leave me? Naked, stretched out on the floor beside my wife’s bed. Down the hall, Kila was expecting me. I couldn’t go to her, though. Not tonight. Not after… well, not after I’d made Bryn so happy. I didn’t think my wife would wake up and want more, but if she did, I wanted to be there. Of all the things I’d let her down by doing and not doing, this was something that simply could not be added to that list.

Chapter 22

I woke suddenly, cold and stiff against the floor. Morning light filtered through the oak tree to illuminate our bedroom… or was it only Bryn’s now? I tried to scurry to my feet, knees and shoulders creaking and popping, to find my wife had already abandon the bed. A moment later I heard the water turn on in the shower.

Stumbling into the hallway, I heard Kila singing from the kitchen. For a second, I was transported back to her high school years when she was convinced she would be the next Spice Girl. The smile on my face froze as I walked down the stairs. Kila was no innocent girl. She was a powerful woman and a force to be reckoned with. She stopped singing as I stepped into the kitchen.

“Well, what have we here?” Kila stalked towards me, breasts swinging freely under a cutoff half-tee. Yoga pants clung to her hips. My cock throbbed in its cage as she slid her hands over my shoulders and went on her toes to kiss the corner of my mouth. “Someone smells like pussy,” she observed. She laughed. “If I didn’t have you caged, I’d have to ask if you fucked my mom.” She stared up at me. “You missed your visit. Am I to believe it was because my mother had her legs wrapped around your head?”

“Something like that,” I said. My hands found her hips without any decision on my part. Kila pressed her tits into my chest and guided my hands down her ass. She wasn’t wearing panties under her yoga pants. “Kila…”

“Say it.” Her eyes refused any discussion. “Say it, Daddy.”

“I want to fuck you,” I whimpered. When I bent to kiss her mouth, she gave me her throat instead. “Kila, you make me fucking crazy.”

“Poor horny daddy,” she laughed. With a laugh, she stepped back and turned away. Her butt swayed seductively as she walked across the kitchen. “Caught you looking,” she said, over her shoulder. She leaned over the kitchen table, feet spread, back arched. Her eyes caught mine. “Do I need to make you hump me to remind you how fucking pathetic you are?”

“No,” I said, shame overflowing the confines of my soul. “I know what I am, Kila. I’m inferior.”

“Then come snuggle that face agaisnt my ass,” she laughed, wiggling her hips. “Come on, Daddy, or I’ll make you do something you really hate yourself for.”

I hesitated, of course. It was never not humiliating to just crawl over and mash my face in her ass through two-micron-thick yoga pants. But lately, some resistant gene in me had gone recessive, or maybe Kila had bred it out of me entirely, and so I shuffled forward, all hesitation reduced to the performative. Kila let me kneel behind her, her pale hips the world’s most beautiful anchor point, and she reached back to grab my head with both hands, guiding my nose into the warm, salted swell of her ass.

“Breathe,” she ordered, as if I might have forgotten how.

I took in even, ragged lungfuls of her skin, her sweat, the deep everything of Kila that had become the landscape of my obsession. My tongue licked up from the seam under her tailbone to the faint crescent of cotton at her waistband, and she exhaled a little hum of pleasure, not that I needed encouragement.

“Let’s recap the terms of your existence,” Kila said, her words soft but designed for maximum penetration. “First principle?”

This was our catechism. “All life begins as female. Men are only differentiated by chromosomal error.”

She rocked up on her toes, rolling my face deeper into the divide. “Second principle?”

“Men exist to serve women. For their pleasure and genetic improvement.” I knew the third was coming; it was always the kicker.

“And the third?”

“Men are happiest when owned. It is a woman’s right and duty to break and train them for obedience.”

“Good boy.” She patted my head as if I were a compliant terrier. “Now, do you want your treat now or after breakfast? Should I paddle your ass until you beg to be my little bitch?”

“I want my treat,” I whispered, and even though my lips barely moved from the groove of her leggings, the words came out a tremor.

She snapped her fingers. “Coffee first. Then you lick me while I drink it.”

No protest offered. She let me kiss the back of her thighs before strutting to the coffee maker, pouring herself a generous mug, and perching on the edge of the breakfast nook. She padded the seat next to her with one hand, beckoning me to kneel. The cold vinyl shocked my knees. My subcutaneous nerves recorded the event for later, then replaced it entirely with the anticipation of her thighs smothering my face.

She splayed her legs. There was a raw red line at the crotch; behind it, her bare pussy glistened through the black polyester weave. “You want this, don’t you?” Kila said, her hand cupped under the mug as she sipped at the steam. The other hand ran soft fingers against her pussy, teasing it open for me. She clucked her tongue. “What would Mom think if she found you here slobbering over my pussy so soon after pulling your face from between her legs?”

“Kila,” I whispered. “Please. I need you to let me go. I need to belong to your mother.”

“Fat chance.” She sipped her coffee. “Fucking with your head is fun, Daddy. And it’s easy. So fucking easy.” She pointed at a spot to one side. “Over here. You aren’t going to break Mom’s heart today. But… you are going to obey me.” She watched me settle into position. “In front of Mom.” She ran her hand across the table’s edge, the sharp click of her nails punctuating each word. “I don’t care how much it fucks with your head. You’re going to be living proof for my mother than you need to be under a woman’s thumb one hundred percent of the time.”

I nodded. The fear in me wasn’t for myself: it was for the hurt in my wife’s eyes, the way disappointment went all the way through her. “As you wish,” I whispered.

“As I wish?” Kila laughed. “Daddy, you sound like you don’t want this. No lie - if you could openly serve us both, complete with pussy worship on demand, you’d love it. You’d jump at the chance, Daddy, even if it meant never getting your worthless little dick out of lock-up.” Her eyes held mine. “Say it’s true.”

Unable to look away, I nodded. When she raised an eyebrow and lifted one hand to her ear, I admitted it, “It’s true. I’d love to serve you both.”

“Good boy,” Kila said, and pressed a quick peck to my cheek. She slid the bowl of oatmeal towards me. “Eat it. You’ll need the energy.”

Bryne barely looked twice at me when she sat down at the table. The breakfast sandwich Kila had prepared for her was sitting next to her coffee. I watched my wife, smiling at the after-sex glow that lit her face. Proud that I was the one who put it there.

“I told Daddy he is forbidden from using furniture without permission,” Kila informed her mother. “Don’t you think he looks happy and domestic there on his knees.”

“He’s very good on his knees,” Bryne said, giving me a sexy wink. There was zero chance Kila didn’t understand what she meant. She sipped her coffee and watched me carefully. “How far do we take this?”

“I hope you’re asking me, and not him, because he should have no input in that discussion,” Kila said. Bryn gave a noncommittal shrug. “There’s no reason not to go all the way with it, right? Every way that Daddy can demonstrate his inferiority needs to be implemented. He should be expected to find new ways to demonstrate it.”

“Like what?” Bryn sat down her coffee. Her eyes passed from her daughter to me. “Like what?” she asked again.

“I have to obey Kila the same way I obey you,” I offered. “That way I’m constantly under feminine authority.”

“That’s an odd way to put that,” Bryn said, but shrugged. “Fine. I think you two are halfway there anyway.”

“He should wear a chastity cage,” Kila said. “Not that he’s going to have a chance to play with himself, but it will help remind him that he is officially owned.”

Silence filled our house. My face burned with shame. I felt Bryn’s eyes on me.

“If I ask him, you’ll tell me it should be my decision,” Bryn said. “And if I say now, you’ll say I’m too soft on him. Seems like I have no say in it.” She laughed. “This is insane. I’m talking to my daughter about putting my husband in chastity.” The laughter bubbled out until she had her head thrown back and was howling. A look from Kila kept me from joining in, but I couldn’t help grinning. “Okay, I’m good,” Bryn said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Yeah, sure. Why not? But I have no idea where to get one of those things.”

“I do,” Kila said, and honestly it would not only have been a lie but a surprise if she said anything else. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll get Daddy’s naughty little dick locked up ...