Wife's Secret Office Torment

Wesley was twenty-eight, and he lost the last trick with his pulse in his throat. Sabine, his wife, was twenty-nine, and the card game on their kitchen table had been a shared want from the shuffle. They had agreed out loud, both sober and eager: the loser would go to the office dressed exactly as the winner chose, every piece hidden under an ordinary suit, and would obey every text until the day ended. Wesley had meant to throw the game. He had lost it for real. Sabine's mouth curved, fond and filthy.

In the bedroom she made him strip. The corset was black satin, boned, and she laced it until his waist narrowed and each breath had to be earned. She smoothed her palms over the cinch and kissed the small of his back. Sheer stockings rolled up his legs, and she clipped them to a garter belt whose straps tugged when he shifted. The electro chastity cage locked on with a small click he felt in his teeth: steel ring behind his balls, short tube holding his cock down so any swell became pressure against the bars. She slicked the vibrating plug, pressed it to his hole, and worked it in until his rim swallowed the neck and the base sat deep. Lace panties, pale gray, went up over the cage. Shirt, tie, jacket, belt, pants. From the outside he was a man leaving for work. Under the cloth he was corseted, caged, plugged, and already desperate.

At the door she pocketed the remotes. "Five other men in that little room. Look ordinary. Feel me." His phone buzzed before the sidewalk. Thighs together. Clench when you sit. Do not adjust yourself where they can see. Every step on the way in made the stockings whisper and the plug nudge.

The office was one bright room and six desks. Nathaniel nodded from the corner. Owen, Hugh, Patrick, and Colin were already in, men in their thirties with coffee and open laptops, none of them watching how carefully Wesley sat. He kept his face blank and his thighs pressed tight. The plug shifted. His hole fluttered. He opened his inbox and waited.

Sabine did not give him a quiet hour. Halfway through the first report the plug woke in a low pulse, and a text followed. Clench and hold. Ten seconds. Do not shift. He obeyed, stockings pulling at the garter clips, corset refusing a full breath, lace panties snug over the cage. Colin laughed at something on his screen. Wesley stared at a column of figures and felt the hold start to shake.

The first shock was a bright bite through the steel. His cock jumped against the bars and ached where it could not rise. He coughed into his fist. Nathaniel glanced over. "You all right?" "Dry air," Wesley said. The lie tasted hot. Another text: Good. Again soon. Type like a man who is not plugged.

She kept that rhythm until lunch. Buzz, clench, shock, and filth that burned his ears. I can picture that lace while you pretend to earn a paycheck. By the time the others mentioned sandwiches, his ass was clenching on its own and a damp spot had formed inside the cage.

Her midday order was worse. Leave now. Lingerie shop two blocks over. Buy a bra. Fitting room. Put it on. Text me when it is hooked. Both remotes go to full while you stand there in it.

He told Nathaniel he had an errand and left before anyone offered to come. The woman at the counter looked about forty, brisk and unbothered when he asked for a bra that might fit a man his size. She measured him over the shirt and handed him a nude balconette. Behind the curtain he shed jacket and shirt, worked the bra on over the corset, and texted that it was hooked. Cups sat strange and pretty over the satin. Lace panties, steel, and garter straps were all he could see in the mirror.

Both devices hit full at once. The plug roared, a thick thrum he bit off against his wrist. The cage sparked, mean and quick, until his cock wept into the tube and his knees threatened the mirror. He stayed upright because she had not said he could kneel. When it eased he dressed, bra left on, a secret band under the shirt.

The walk back was the task she had saved. He kept his jacket closed with one hand and his eyes ahead. Belt loose, pants sagged low, the lacy tops of the panties and the garter straps flashing above the waistband for anyone who looked down and paid attention. A courier glanced, frowned, looked again at the pale lace, and kept walking. Wesley's face burned. His hole pulsed around the plug the whole way, greedy and ashamed. By the time he badged in, fear and denial had braided into one hot wire under his suit.

The afternoon stayed quiet for twenty minutes, long enough for two emails and a false hope. Then Sabine's texts stacked up and his cock pressed helplessly into steel.

Supply room. Now. Door shut. Pants and panties to your knees. Bend over the boxes. Ride the plug. Stroke the outside of the cage until you ruin inside it. Do not unlock it. Stay silent. If one of them walks in, you stay bent until I say otherwise. I want you desperate and obedient and ruined. Go.

Wesley stood too fast. Hugh looked up. "Copier?" "Supply closet. Toner." His voice came out thin. Nobody followed him down the short hall. The room was windowless, stacked with paper boxes and a broken chair. He shut the door. The lock barely caught. He stood under the buzzing light with her orders bright on the screen and his heart in his throat.

He opened his belt. The pants sagged and dropped, pooling over his shoes, garter straps still clipped, stockings whispering as he set his feet apart as far as the fabric allowed. The panties came down next, lace catching on the cage, pale gray bunched at his knees so the steel and his trapped cock were bare. Cool air touched the damp tip of the tube where he had already leaked. The plug's base nudged between his cheeks. He bent over the nearest stack of boxes, forearms on cardboard, ass tipped up. The corset cinched so hard his breath went short and high. Under the shirt he had not fully removed, the new bra band dug across his ribs and made the posture feel more exposed, not less. His thighs trembled inside the stockings.

The vibration slammed on, vigorous and deep, a relentless buzz that made his rim clutch and flutter and try to ride without permission. He obeyed the rest. One hand reached between his thighs and found the cage, stroking the smooth exterior, thumb rubbing where his swollen head pressed the bars, palm working steel as if friction could turn it to skin. It could not. Precum slicked the tip of the tube and made his fingers slip. Each stroke sent frustrated pleasure up his spine with nowhere clean to go. His hips began to move, small, then needier, fucking back onto the plug while his hand flew over the cage. The stockings rasped. The garter clips clicked, soft and obscene. Every thrust made the corset's boning bite, a bright edge under the pleasure. He bit his lip until his mouth stung, killing the sound that wanted out. Sweat gathered under the corset and at the small of his back. The bra cups shifted against his chest each time he rocked, a soft wrongness that made his face burn hotter than the plug. He could smell his own arousal, sharp in the dusty room, and the lace at his knees tickled his calves whenever his legs shook.

Beyond the door the office went on: a chair rolling, Patrick's low voice on a call, a brief laugh. Any of the five men could stand up for paper. Any of them could try the handle. The risk should have shriveled him. It did the opposite. His hole clenched greedily around the buzzing plug, and his cock throbbed uselessly in its lock, leaking, aching, owned. A sharper electro bite hit the cage under his hand. He jolted. A grunt died against his wrist. His hips bucked hard enough to rock the boxes. Another bite, then another, timed to the moment his ass seated deepest. Sabine was playing him without needing to see the arch of his back. He stroked faster, frantic, bars digging into swollen flesh that could not escape. The plug hammered a sweet cruel spot until his thighs shook and the stocking tops pulled tight.

He was close in the only way the cage allowed, a denied edge, pressure with no clean crest, pleasure forced to spill wrong. He rode harder, ass working the plug in short desperate circles, hand blurring over the steel, eyes wet, silent except for his breathing and the creak of cardboard. He wanted to stop. He wanted to be caught and still not allowed to stop. He wanted her. He came anyway, ruined, a helpless clenching orgasm that pulsed inside the locked device. Cum leaked in weak pulses through the tube and over his fingers while his hole spasmed around the plug and his hips jerked and would not quit. The corset crushed a sob into a hiss. The stockings whispered against his shaking thighs. He stayed bent, stroking through the mess, biting his lip to stay silent, until the thrum dropped to a mean aftershock and his knees threatened to fold. He hung there afterward, lace at his knees, cage smeared, plug still deep, listening for footsteps that never came. His phone buzzed once. Good.

He cleaned himself with paper towels from the shelf, wiped the cage, eased the panties up over damp steel, and pulled his pants into place. The belt went tight enough that no lace showed. He walked back to his desk flushed and spent, sat carefully, and opened his laptop as if he had only been hunting toner. Nathaniel did not look up. The other four kept working. Wesley's hands still trembled on the keys.

His phone lit. Keep every feminine thing on until you are home, sweetheart. Corset, panties, garters, stockings, bra, cage, plug. I will fuck you properly tonight with the remote in my hand and that suit on the floor. I love how good you were. Answer me.

He typed with unsteady thumbs. Yes. Please.

Under the flush he was already scheming the next time. Friday's cards. How obviously he would lose. What he would beg her to add, a tighter cage, a longer walk, another shop, another room. The workday dragged. He did not want it over so much as he wanted the night, and the game after, already planned in the heat still throbbing under his clothes. He could already feel her planning it too, and the thought made the plug seem heavier, sweeter, not done with him at all.