The Ex Factor: How My Wife Turned My Home Into a Brothel and Me Into Her Locked Pet
Silence from my ex-wife, Sue, was always temporary. I knew, with the certainty of past trauma, that she’d reappear when she needed a favour. She was still in “the game,” sharing a cramped caravan with her gambling, alcoholic husband, Kevin—a miserable life, but she wasn’t an easy woman to live with either. Sure, the sex was marvellous, but her explosive temper made everyday life hell.
The call came on a Saturday morning. “Hello, knobhead,” was her greeting. My witty retort about missing her like a migraine was met with cold pragmatism: “We’ve got a problem. Kevin’s kicked me out.” The arrangement she demanded was staggering: she needed to move in for two weeks while she “got sorted.” Her price for this imposition? My enduring attraction to her and the promise of free sex. But Sue is nothing if not mercenary, and her conditions quickly escalated. She insisted on taking my main bedroom, forcing me into the tiny boxroom—or, as I correctly called it, a cupboard. The reason? “I have to have a decent size room to entertain my clients.” My house was to be her new brothel. When I protested, she simply shrugged off the hotel costs: “Times are hard, Dave. You’ll be helping me out and helping the community.” Against every rational fibre in my body, I agreed, the promise of two weeks of unrestrained access to her body blinding me to the humiliation.
Ten minutes later, her luggage arrived via a battered taxi. Out stepped a burly man, Mr. Foster, whose first words to me were a sneering, “Hello, cucky!” He was a client, booked for the following week, and he claimed Sue had told him I liked to listen while she made love to punters. He refused to carry her enormous stack of bags, deeming himself a “professional chauffeur, not a bleeding porter.” I hauled her possessions inside under his impatient gaze, then reluctantly paid his exorbitant fare and tip. His parting shot—”Sue told me you wear them, by the way”—left me seething.
The real trap, however, was already set. Eager to receive the “special gift” she promised for getting her room ready, I quickly sorted her clothes. Handling her vast collection of expensive, sexy lingerie, her “working uniform,” began to stir something deep inside me. That’s when I saw it: a pink drawstring bag embroidered with the words: “Dirty Undies.” The sheer sight, and the cloud of her scent that wafted out when I opened it, was enough to send me spiralling. Common sense evaporated. I was desperate. Pulling out a pair of expensive, lace-topped stockings, I drew them up my legs, revelling in the illicit sensation. I was furiously masturbating with the other stocking when the door flung open. “What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing, knobhead!” Sue screamed.
She had set a precise, perfect trap. Within minutes, I was on my knees, hands on my head, my frantic masturbation interrupted. She called her friend Kristina, the high-end lingerie shop owner who’d sold us matching sets, confirming her catch. Then, with a satisfied smile, she spread her legs, revealing her black panties, and commanded: “Wank and shoot your load! Keep looking at my knickers.” Humiliation and arousal reached a breaking point, and I ejaculated explosively onto her stockinged legs and high heels. She then gave me my next order: “Clean me up with your tongue.” As I reluctantly consumed my own semen, Kristina arrived. She handed Sue a small box containing my “gift”: a shiny steel chastity cage.
“You can’t be trusted with my clothes, Dave,” Sue stated, locking me in the device. When I asked for the key, she feigned innocence: “Sorry, not in there, but I’m sure it’ll turn up… one day.” Kristina, meanwhile, had another gift: a flimsy scarlet lingerie set with open-crotch panties, which she insisted on dressing me in. The final part of my initiation came quickly. As a “thank you” to Kristina, Sue had me lick her friend’s pussy until she climaxed, while Sue stood behind me, gently squeezing my balls, my erection pulsating agonisingly inside its cage.
The first few nights were torture, my trapped penis constantly trying to swell into non-existent space. Sue was unrepentant, revealing that Foster was paying double to see me caged. “After you’ve been caged for a few days,” she explained, “there’ll be a look of pitiful desperation in your eyes that you would find impossible to fake.”
The day of Foster’s appointment arrived. I was ordered to shave, put on the scarlet lingerie, and stand facing the wall for half an hour “to get you in a compliant mood.” When Foster entered, he erupted in laughter: “Oh, my God, it’s cucky, looking like a total pansy… and his crown jewels are on display!” Sue twirled a key on a gold chain around her neck, making it clear what I had to do for my freedom. Foster quickly dropped his trousers, and I knelt, taking his semi-erect member into my mouth. I worked enthusiastically, ignoring my disgust, until Sue called a halt: “Stop, Ted! Knobhead’s just the warm-up act. I want you inside me!” My reward for my service was an order: “Get in the wardrobe, knobhead.”
Trapped in the wardrobe, I listened to the sounds of my ex-wife and her client—the grunts, the squeaking bed, the yells of their simultaneous orgasm—my penis throbbing uncontrollably in its cage, a captive audience to my own deepest humiliation.
When the door was flung open, Foster stood naked and dripping. “You’re making a mess on my damn carpet!” Sue bawled. “You’d best clean him up, knobhead!” Staying on my knees, I licked the remnants of his ejaculation from his penis. Then, I wobbled over to the bed to clean the same juices from Sue. As I worked, Foster remarked, “I hope you’re going to keep him permanently locked up.” Sue smiled: “That’s the intention, Ted. The longer he’s locked up, the more attentive he becomes.”
After they left, Sue stood before me, the key hanging from her neck. Her face was solemn, then a wide grin broke out. “You were fucking fantastic, Dave,” she declared. “Let’s get you unlocked so you can bed me.” A minute later, I was free, my penis standing proudly to attention. A few days of sheer, excruciating torture had been worth it. Or so I thought.