Marcus Watches His Wife Bred on the Throne

I never should have bought the throne.

The moment the delivery men wrestled that massive, ornately carved oak monstrosity through our front door, I felt the shift in power. Seven feet tall, deep crimson velvet cushions, gilded lion heads on the armrests — it looked like something a medieval king would sit on while deciding who lives and who dies. I told Megan it was meant to be a conversation piece for our living room. She just smiled that wicked little smile she’d been wearing more and more lately and said, “Perfect. A king needs a throne.”

That was six months ago. Before Marcus.

Now the throne sits in the exact center of the room like a dark altar, and I’m the one who dusts it every Saturday morning while my wife is usually still leaking another man’s cum from the night before.

I’m on my knees wiping the velvet when Megan walks in wearing nothing but one of my old dress shirts, unbuttoned. At twenty-eight she looks better than the day I married her — fuller tits, wider hips, an ass that jiggles just right when she walks. Her dark hair is messy, lips still puffy from last night’s use. She stops in front of the throne and runs her fingers along the carved wood like she’s petting a lover.

“Marcus wants to breed me on it,” she says casually.

My cloth freezes on the seat cushion. “What?”

“You heard me.” She turns, leans back against the throne, and spreads her legs just enough for me to see the faint bruise marks on her inner thighs. “He’s tired of fucking me in our bed. Says that’s your territory, even if you don’t get to use it anymore. He wants to put a black baby in me right here. On your precious throne. While you watch from the floor like the pathetic little cuck you are.”

My cock tries to harden in its cage. The tiny metal prison she locked me in three months ago bites into my swelling flesh.

“Megan… please.”

“Please what?” She steps forward, plants one bare foot on my shoulder, and pushes me down until I’m sitting on my heels. Then she climbs into my lap, straddling me, grinding her bare, freshly fucked pussy against the front of my pants. I can feel how wet she still is. How open.

“Tell me again how much bigger he is,” she whispers, rolling her hips in slow, filthy circles. “No. Beg me to tell you.”

I swallow hard. “Please… tell me how much better his cock feels than mine.”

Megan laughs softly, the sound dripping with contempt. She reaches between us and flicks the steel bars of my cage through my pants.

“His cock is thicker than my wrist, baby. When he first pushed inside me I thought he was going to split me in half. You remember that little pink thing between your legs? The one that used to make you cum in ninety seconds? Marcus laughs about it. He calls it your ‘clitty.’ Says it belongs in a cage, just like I do.”

She grinds harder, letting her slick folds drag along the metal prison. Her voice drops into that husky tone she only uses when she’s really worked up.