Chad Watches His Wife Submit

I never thought I'd be spilling my guts like this, confessing the most humiliating night of my life from the shadows of our own bedroom, but here I am, Mark, the timid little husband with a penis so pathetically small it barely registers as a cock. My wife Lisa is a goddess—long raven hair cascading down her toned back, full D-cup breasts that strain against her sports bras, and an ass sculpted from endless squats that turns heads everywhere we go. She's 28, I'm 30, and we've been married three years, but lately, her frustration has been boiling over. My four-inch nub just doesn't cut it; I cum too fast, I can't fill her, and she tells me nightly how she's faking every orgasm. It all came to a head at the gym last week during our couples' workout session with Chad, our ripped buddy who's been spotting us for months.

Chad's this towering alpha, 6'4" of pure muscle, with a chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and veins popping on biceps bigger than my thighs. He's 29, single, and hangs around our sessions like he owns the place. Lisa's been flirting shamelessly—giggling at his jokes, brushing her hand on his arm during stretches, arching her back extra when she bends over for deadlifts. That day, she wore her tightest leggings, the ones that hug her cameltoe and make her cheeks jiggle just right. I watched from the bench press, my heart pounding as Chad helped her with squats, his hands gripping her hips steady, pulling her ass right back into his crotch. She looked up at him with those big green eyes, biting her lip. "God, Chad, you're so strong. Mark tries, but he just... can't keep up."

I felt my face burn, my tiny dick twitching uselessly in my shorts. Chad grinned, flexing as he racked the weights. "Yeah? Bet I could show you what real power feels like, Lisa. Something tells me your hubby's packing light." She laughed, loud and throaty, glancing at me with a wicked sparkle. The tension was electric; other gym-goers were staring, whispering. I wanted to protest, but my voice caught in my throat. That's when Chad pulled a sleek black choker necklace from his gym bag—a velvet band with a silver ring at the front, like a collar. "Wear this for me, Lisa. Symbolizes submission. If I prove superior to your little man here—in every way—you put it on and admit it. Deal?"

My stomach dropped. Lisa didn't even hesitate. She took the choker, dangling it teasingly. "Superior how? You mean... size? Stamina?" Chad smirked, nodding. "Everything. Prove it tonight?" She looked at me, helpless on the bench, my shorts tented with shameful arousal. "What do you think, Mark? Should I see if Chad's the real deal?" I stammered, "B-babe, maybe not..." but she just winked. "It's just a choker. Harmless fun." The flirting hung in the air like sweat, and as we left the gym, her hand in Chad's arm instead of mine, I knew I was fucked—helplessly watching my stunning wife agree to wear that symbol if he outmatched me.