The golden submission

The soft light of the living room bathes the room in a golden glow, filtered by the thick curtains masking the windows. Bernard, shirtless, stands before the hallway mirror, his trembling fingers brushing the collar of his half-open shirt. He has donned fitted black dress pants that hug his muscular thighs, but his movements betray an unusual nervousness. His broad shoulders, usually straight and confident, suddenly seem too heavy to carry. He breathes in deeply, his nostrils flaring, as if trying to chase away the apprehension tightening his throat.

You can do this. She gave you permission. She wants this.

The memory of his wife’s words, warm whispers against his ear the night before, burns in his mind. “I want to see you on your knees for another man, darling. I want you to discover what it feels like to be used, to no longer be in control. And after… we’ll talk about it.” Her voice was a mixture of sweetness and cruelty, a promise that had made him harden instantly. But now, faced with the reality, his stomach knots. He has never touched a man. Never been touched by one. And yet, his body is already reacting, his tight boxers betraying a budding erection, shameful and exciting all at once.

The doorbell rings.

A shiver runs down his spine. He adjusts his pants, runs a hand through his short hair—gray at the temples—then heads toward the door with a heavy step. His fingers close around the handle, hesitating. What if this was a mistake? What if he laughs at me? But the image of his wife, her eyes shining with desire as she spoke of this encounter, pushes him to open it.

Standing before him is Marc, a man in his fifties, his salt-and-pepper hair carefully styled, his beard closely trimmed. His three-piece suit, a deep navy blue, fits a still-athletic body, shoulders broad beneath the fabric. His eyes, a pale and piercing green, slide over Bernard with a calculated slowness, as if evaluating every detail. A smirk stretches his thin lips.

— “Bernard, I presume?” His voice is deep, slightly raspy, with a hint of amusement. “Your wife told me you were… receptive.”

Bernard swallows, feeling his mouth go dry. “Yes. Come in.” His own voice sounds foreign to him, higher pitched than usual.

Marc crosses the threshold without hurrying, his woody and spicy scent invading the space. He places a hand on Bernard’s shoulder as he passes, a firm, almost possessive pressure. “You’re tense. That’s normal.” His fingers brush Bernard’s nape, just enough to make the latter shiver. “But you’re going to relax. Very soon.”

The door closes with a click. Bernard turns around, his heart pounding wildly. Marc has already begun undoing the buttons of his jacket, revealing an impeccable white shirt that emphasizes his still-firm pectorals. “Your wife explained to me what you wanted. Or rather… what she wants for you.” He drops his jacket over the back of the sofa, then approaches, closing the space between them. “On your knees, Bernard. Now.”

The command cracks through the air like a whip. Bernard flinches, but his legs wobble before he can even protest. He kneels on the thick rug, knees spread, hands resting on his thighs. The position is humiliating, vulgar, and yet, his sex pulses against the fabric of his pants, hard as stone. Marc lets out a low, satisfied laugh.

— “Good boy.” He caresses Bernard’s cheek with his fingertips, then slides his hand toward the back of his head, gripping his hair with measured force. “You have a beautiful mouth. Open it.”

Bernard obeys, lips parted, saliva already pooling. Marc pulls his member from his pants, thick, veined, erect against his stomach. The size is impressive, much more than Bernard expected. A musky, masculine scent rises to his nostrils, making his stomach flip with a mix of disgust and desire. “Wider,” Marc grunts, tightening his grip on his hair. “And the tongue. I want to feel it.”

Bernard moves his head forward, hesitating, then lets his tongue peek out, trembling. The contact is electric: Marc’s warm, smooth glans brushes his tongue, salty, slightly damp. A muffled moan escapes him when Marc pushes further, forcing his way in. “Like that…” Marc whispers, his hips beginning a slow back-and-forth motion. “Sucking like a good little submissive husband, huh? Your wife must love watching you crawl for her.”

The words hit Bernard like blows, each syllable igniting his shame and his excitement. His hands clench on his thighs, nails digging into the fabric. He tries to breathe through his nose, but Marc’s cock fills his mouth, pressing against his palate, stretching his lips. “Deeper,” Marc orders, thrusting his hips. “Swallow. Everything.”

Bernard chokes, eyes watering, but he obeys, his throat contracting around the thick member. Marc grunts, fingers tightened in his hair, “Fuck, yes… like that. You were made for this, Bernard. To be used.” The words resonate in Bernard’s skull, breaking something inside him. His own cock, crushed against his pants, throbs painfully, demanding an attention he doesn't dare give himself.

Suddenly, the sound of a key in the lock.

Bernard freezes, eyes wide, mouth still full. Marc doesn't move, a predatory smile stretching his lips. “Don’t stop,” he whispers, “unless you want her to catch you disobeying.”

The door opens.

— “Oh.” Claire’s voice, crystalline and amused, cuts through the room like a blade. “I see you’ve started without me.”

Bernard tries to pull back, but Marc maintains his grip, preventing him from breaking free. “Sorry, Claire,” Marc says without a shred of remorse, “but your husband has such a soft mouth. I couldn't resist.”

Claire closes the door behind her, placing her handbag on the console with disconcerting calm. She wears a tight, blood-red dress that hugs her generous curves, her brown hair pulled up into a strict bun. Her hazel, shining eyes devour the scene with barely contained greed. “Continue,” she orders, approaching, heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “I want to see him suck you like the little slut you’re turning him into.”

Bernard moans around Marc’s cock, his cheeks on fire. His wife… sees him. Sees him on his knees, mouth wide open, eyes watering, used like a toy. The shame is crushing, but beneath it, a darker, more intoxicating heat grows. “You like that, huh?” Claire whispers, crouching beside him, a hand sliding under his chin to wipe away a stray tear. “You like being a little whore for a real man.”

Marc laughs, hips still moving. “He loves it. Look at him tremble.” He pulls out abruptly, leaving Bernard panting, saliva trailing down his chin. “Get up,” Claire orders, standing back up. “And strip. I want to see you naked. Completely naked.”

Bernard stands up, legs wobbly, fingers clumsy on the buttons of his shirt. Marc and Claire watch him, like two predators savoring their prey. When he is finally naked, his cock erect, red and glistening, twitches under their gaze. “Turn around,” Claire says, her voice soft but final.

He obeys, presenting his back, his muscular glutes. “Spread your legs.” He complies, feeling the cool air on his exposed skin. “More,” she insists.

A finger slid between his cheeks makes him jump. “You’re already all wet here,” Claire whispers, “like a little bitch in heat.” She presses, a finger circling his hole, still tight but already soaked with sweat and something more viscous. “Marc,” she says, straightening up, “I think he’s ready for you. But not like that. On all fours, Bernard. Like a female.”

The floor is hard beneath his knees, the rug scratching his sensitive skin. He gets into position, forehead against the floor, buttocks offered, heart beating so hard it hurts his ribs. “Look at him,” Claire says to Marc, “look at how beautiful he is, submissive, ready to take your cock like the little woman you’re going to make of him.”

Behind him, Marc kneels, his rough hands spreading his cheeks. “You’re going to cry,” he whispers, “but you’re going to love it.”

Bernard grits his teeth when the pressure begins, thick, relentless. “Relax,” Marc grunts, “or I’ll tear you.”

He tries. He tries. But when the head forces entry, burning like fire, a cry escapes him, muffled against the rug. “That’s it,” Claire whispers, caressing his shoulders, “take it. Take all of his cock like the good little female you are.”

The pain is sharp, tearing, but beneath it, something else grows—a dull heat, a pressure stretching inside him, filling him, possessing him. “More,” he moans without realizing it, “give me more.”

Marc laughs, low and triumphant, before thrusting deep in one swift motion, all the way to the hilt. “Fuck,” he pants, “you’re tight as a virgin.” His hips slap against Bernard’s buttocks, each thrust sending waves of mingled pain and pleasure through his body.

Claire leans in, her lips brushing his ear. “You’re mine,” she whispers, “but tonight, you’re his whore. His little bitch. Say it.”

“I… I’m his whore,” Bernard gasps, fingers clenched in the rug. “His little bitch.”

Marc grunts, the thrusts becoming more brutal, deeper. “You’re going to come like that, huh?” He snickers. “Without even touching your cock. Just by taking my dick in your faggot ass.”

“Yes!” Bernard cries, hips lifting despite himself, seeking every blow, every intrusion. “I’m going to come… please…”

“Then do it,” Claire orders, nibbling his shoulder. “Come for us. Show us how much you love being a female.”

His orgasm hits him like a train, violent and unexpected. His member pulses, projecting ropes of semen onto the rug without a hand touching it, his entire body wracked with spasms. “Holy shit,” Marc grunts, “you’re squirting like a fountain.” His own thrusts become erratic, then he drives in deep, a roar escaping his throat as he fills Bernard with his burning seed.

Bernard collapses, face against the floor, panting, body trembling. Claire caresses his hair, tender now. “Bravo, darling,” she whispers. “You were perfect.”

Marc withdraws slowly, a trickle of semen following his movement. “Next time,” he says, wiping himself on Bernard’s thigh, “I’ll teach you to lick clean. Like a real female.”

Bernard shivers, but he nods, eyes half-closed. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, Sir.”

Claire laughs, a clear and satisfied sound. “I knew you’d like it.” She stands up, smoothing her dress. “Now, clean the rug. On your knees.”

Bernard obeys without hesitation, picking up a tissue to wipe the traces of his orgasm, his heart still racing. He has never felt anything so humiliating. So perfect.

When he finally looks up, Claire and Marc are watching him with the same expression—proud, possessive. “Welcome to your new life,” Claire says, reaching out a hand to help him up. “From now on, you are our little female.”

And Bernard, legs still trembling, smiles. Because for the first time, he finally feels where he belongs.