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Dominating Devin Ch. 01

By: Cyanlot



[Note: Despite the category of this story, there is no male/male sex, or even foreshadowing of it, in this segment of the story.] 

*

It was a the tiniest piece of red foil—easy to miss. So easy that my wife clearly had. I could have, too. If I'd missed it, the cleaning lady certainly would have cleaned it up the next day, on her weekly visit and, then, things would have gone quite differently—for a lot of people.

I was taking a piss just before going to bed, not thinking of anything in particular and certainly not focusing on the surroundings of the toilet. I don't know why it caught my eye. Maybe the light glinted off of it. When I finished pissing, I knelt down and picked it up.

It was the tiniest bit of foil, but enough for any guy to recognize what it was: a piece of a condom wrapper!

My wife, Marcie, and I have been married for ten years. Neither of us wanted kids, so I got a vasectomy about five years ago. We hadn't used any kind of birth control since then, and certainly not condoms. But here is was—a fresh condom wrapper in our bathroom.

I'd like to say that I had sensed something wrong in our relationship—that this answered a question that had been nagging me. But it hadn't even occurred to me that Marcie might be having an affair. Of course, we didn't have sex as often, or as wildly, as we once did, but I thought we had a pretty good sex life. And Marcie had never said or done anything to make me suspect that she wasn't happy with it.

So, this was a shock to me, to say the least. 

I suppose lots of guys would have confronted here right then and there. Some would have done it violently. Not me. That's not my style. I can be decisive. (I wouldn't be a V.P. of Operations at my company if I couldn't.) But I was careful; I did my research and got my facts straight before I acted. And that's what I resolved to do now.

No more evidence of infidelity was necessary, of course. There was no innocent explanation for what I'd found. But I wanted to know more than that Marcie was having an affair. I wanted to know with whom, for how long, how often she'd seen him, and, if possible, when she'd seen him. I thought I had some ideas about how to sleuth that information out.

Slipping the piece of foil into my bathrobe pocket, I went back to the bedroom and climbed into bed with Marcie. She snuggled up to me as if to start something, rubbing her hands over my body. I turned away, prompting her to ask if something was wrong.

"No. I'm just really tired," I lied. It's not as if I had resolved not to touch her. I just couldn't bring myself to touch her right now.

My body wasn't particularly tired. The fatigue was really in my soul. I felt defeated and despondent. My mind, though, was revved up like a dragster waiting for the green light. There was no chance I would be getting to sleep soon, or maybe at all, that night.

I lay there plotting and worrying for about half an hour, till I was sure that Marcie was sound asleep. Then I went into the room she used as an office. Marcie's a very competent person, but she's not tech savvy. I was "tech support" for her computer and for her phone.

Never, in our ten year marriage, had I snooped into her stuff. I'd never looked at her email, her calendar, her phone log, or her diary. I didn't even know whether she kept a diary. I'd had no reason to want to ... until now.

I didn't know her passwords but it's easy enough to install a software keylogger and collect that information. After I'd done that, I checked her phone's call log and text history. Sure enough, there was a number that she called, and called her, repeatedly that wasn't associated with any name in her people folder. I tried, without luck, to get a name by doing a reverse look-up on the computer. For now, then, the identity of the caller—and almost certainly the owner of the condom I'd found evidence of—was beyond my reach. For now! But that was going to change.

Going through the text log didn't tell me much, except to move me from "almost certain" to "completely certain" that whoever owned that phone number was the same person shagging my wife. The text log was clearly incomplete. I found messages that made it obvious that some had been erased. Marcie had made some attempt to clean her text history but, like I said, she wasn't tech savvy and she didn't go about it methodically. 

What text messages I could find were, for the most part, innocent enough. But it was clear that meetings were arranged. I decided to connect her phone to my computer and dump everything into a folder there for future data mining but, at this point all I really learned from the text messages is that the guy sometimes signed his messages 'D'. Probably the initial of his first name, but it could be from his last name or a nickname. No telling ... for now.

I tried to go about my business without giving any outward sign of my mental turmoil. I couldn't bring myself to touch Marcie in bed and my goodbye kisses were perfunctory—something she probably noticed and wondered about. But I hid my feelings enough that I didn't provoke her to question me, at least for now.

One day! That's all it took to get the keys to Marcie's private life. The next night, again after she'd gone to sleep, I logged on to her computer, checked the keylogger file and ... BINGO! ... I had her passwords to accounts I didn't know she had.

In addition to her regular gmail account, she had one under the name 'SL060980' using the password 'MILF69'. The password needs no explanation; the '060980' was Marcie's birthday: June 9, 1980. I didn't know immediately what the 'SL' stood for. 

I guess Marcie had no concern about anyone hacking into her secret gmail account because, when I did, I found the entire history of her messages, incoming and outgoing there. These answered all my questions, except for "Why?"

The 'D' in the text messages was Devin Speaks. Devin and his wife, Kendra, were friends—not exceptionally close friends but people we'd include in backyard barbeque in the summer and other events like that.

Devin and Kendra were our age and, like us, they'd been married for about ten years. Kendra was hot. I'd fantasized about her lots of times. Kevin was good looking, too. I guess Marcie had had her own fantasies. But, unlike me, she'd decided to live them out.

I couldn't bring myself to go through the whole email record at once. It was devastating. There was nothing humiliating said about me. It wasn't as if Marcie was enjoying the idea of cheating on me—which is not to say that she wasn't enjoying the activity of cheating on me. She just didn't seem to be deriving any pleasure from the fact that she was cuckolding me.

There was no, "let's make fun of that poor sap of a husband," talk. But every cute, flirtatious exchange—the ones that no doubt brought excited smiles to Marcie and Devin—tore at my heart.

I could stand reading the messages for only so long. Long enough to learn that the 'SL' in her username stood for 'Secret Love'. And Long enough to learn that the relationship had been going on for nearly seven months and they were seeing each other once or twice a week, sometimes more. 

I tortured myself by trying to recall the times that Marcie and I had shared especially intimate, intense moments during that time. The moments that had seemed so real to me then, now seemed like a lie. When she had held me passionately, screamed out with pleasure while I licked her or fucked her, or when she'd sucked my cock so marvelously, had she been thinking of Devin? Had she been comparing us? Wishing she were with him, instead of me? Fantasizing that she was with him, instead of me?

That way lay madness, I realized. So I downloaded the entire record to my computer and resolved to look it over a little at a time, when I felt I could stand it.

As it turned out, I went back to the record regularly—almost every night after Marcie had gone to sleep. I'd pour myself a whiskey, go to my computer, and open the log of her email exchanges and begin reading, sometimes holding in my hand the tiny piece of foil whose discovery had started me down this path.

I would feed myself a little dose of the poison in those emails, taking a perverse pleasure in the pain I was feeling. Maybe I needed reinforce my feeling of being an innocent victim in all of this (which I was, of course) in order to rationalize what I had done—by breaching Marcie's privacy—and what I was going to do—the details of which were gelling in my mind.

I created in Excel a timeline of Marcie and Devin's exchanges. (Okay, I confess to being anal-retentive.) Between the log of the phone calls, the text files, and the extensive emails, I could pretty much identify every time they'd been together, often where they'd met, and sometimes even what they'd done.

What they'd done was, mostly, fuck. They'd had a couple of dinners together. (Maybe that made both of them feel as if this wasn't quite as tawdry as it might otherwise feel.) But mostly, they'd met at hotels and motels for afternoon delights or, when they could both get free for an evening, fucking after their dinners out.

It was clear, though, that they'd also been together in our house—not just the time I found the condom wrapper, but frequently. That disgusted me. While I was at work, Marcie would take an afternoon off and entertain Devin in my house, in my bed. How often had I gone to sleep on sheets still infused with the scent of their illicit sex. I hadn't noticed anything, but it strained credulity to think that Marcie had washed the sheets after every tryst with Devin.

It made me sick to think about it. Maybe they'd taken a bath in our jacuzzi tub—probably they had. Why not? What could be better after screwing a man's wife than to relax in their tub with her, probably sipping a glass of his wine. 

Maybe he'd worn my bathrobe after they'd had sex in our marital bed. And then my thoughts spread to the entire house. Had he fucked her on the couch? Over the back of the couch? On the kitchen counter? The kitchen floor? Had she met him in the entry way, naked or only in lingerie and dropped to her knees to suck him off the moment he came in the door?

And then there was Marcie. I wasn't getting any better at faking normalcy when we talked or touched. We hadn't had sex since before I'd found out about her infidelity. I'm sure she suspected something was wrong. I dreaded the moment when she would press me on this because I wasn't sure I could lie convincingly and I didn't want to tell her the truth.

Looking at Marcie was most difficult when she came out of the bathroom, naked, to get into bed. I used to love looking at her then and it often led to fucking, sucking, licking, or at least passionate groping when we were too tired to do more. Now, all I could think of was his hands on her beautiful breasts; his tongue teasing her erect little clitoris till she erupted in an orgasm; his cock between her sweet lips, maybe filling her mouth with his cum; his cock buried deep in her wet cunt or stretching her asshole and depositing his spunk in her beautiful body. (I realized when I thought about it, that the initial evidence of Marcie's affair suggested that Devin didn't deposit his sperm directly in her but, for some reason, when I visualized them in action, I never imagined the condom there.)

It was driving me crazy. I was feeling more aggrieved by the moment, with each new doubt—each new fear. I was going to get revenge. I had to in order to reclaim my self-esteem. I felt justified in doing anything I wanted to in order to get back at them.

My plan for revenge required me to bide my time and collect more evidence—not in order to prove that I was correct. There was no need for that. But I had a plan to confront Devin, and I wanted it to be, shall we say, impactful.

And, to bide my time I needed to allay Marcie's concerns, at least a little bit. I'd told her how stressful work was and that I was anxious and tired all the time. That helped. In order to forestall the "discussion" I was fearing further, I proposed to her that we go out to dinner that weekend. We hadn't been out very often recently and she saw this as an attempt to mend the breach that had developed between us, for reasons she didn't understand.

Masochist that I am, I made the dinner reservations at one of the restaurants that I knew she had gone to with Devin. Just another way to provoke pain—sort of like a kid playing with a loose tooth, but much more intense.

Dinner was okay, though I wondered from time to time whether we were sitting at the same table she and Devin had, being served by the same waiter, ordering the same dishes, or wine. Did the waiter remember her and wonder why a woman wearing a wedding ring was here with two different men on different occasions having what was obviously intimate dinners with each?

When we got home and got into bed, Marcie took the aggressor's role. She was all over me. I considered playing the "too tired" card again but she got me aroused enough that I didn't want to. I'd let her do her thing.

Maybe she sensed that something was deeply wrong—maybe she even wondered whether I'd somehow found out her secret. Whatever. She was trying her best to excite and arouse me. She was trying to be every man's dream bedmate.

And it was working. As she moved down kissing my chest and stomach, my cock was at full attention. When her lips met my cock, my whole body twitched with excitement. It was clear that she was bent on giving me a great blowjob. She knew that once I came, that was it for me for the night. I'd fall into a stupor and, then, fast asleep. But she wasn't looking for reciprocity tonight. It was all about her making me feel good and, she hoped, mending whatever needed to be mended.

I decided that I deserved it and I was going to enjoy it. I tried to put thoughts of her and Devin out of my mind and just focus on the marvelous sensations. But I couldn't. Thoughts, and images, of them kept creeping back into my consciousness. 

And then I realized that this was actually exciting me. No, I wasn't getting off on thinking of her with Devin—at least not in the way that cuckolds do in the stories you read on the Internet. I wasn't titillated by the humiliation of being cuckolded. I was angry. I was furious. And the anger drove me to hold Marcie's head tight and thrust hard into her mouth.

I'm sure this felt strange to Marcie. When she gave me a blowjob, I usually let her control everything. That always worked out great for me, too. Now, though, it was as if I was angry-fucking her mouth. And it was exciting. 

When I came, it was explosive. I forced Marcie's head down so that my cock was deep in her throat and, ignoring her attempts to push away, pumped my load deep in her throat. She coughed and gagged; I didn't relent.

When I finally let go of her head and lay there limp, I was surprised that Marcie didn't complain about how I'd treated her. She didn't, though. She just said, "Wow! I guess you really needed that!" She was right; I did.

The next day, I left work after just an hour, complaining of a splitting headache. I knew that Marcie wouldn't be coming home until late in the evening. She had a company meeting that would keep her occupied all day.

After a stop at a local spy store—well it billed itself as an electronics store, but most of its merchandise was designed for spying on a spouse, a business associate, or whomever—I went home to install the equipment I'd bought. 

I was amazed by the quality of the equipment you could buy now and how easy it was to install. Soon, I had high-definition, motion-activated wireless cameras installed in each of the bedrooms, the kitchen, and the living room.

After Marcie had fallen asleep that night, I checked the recordings of our activities. Everything was working flawlessly. I was set to get the materials I'd need for my "impactful" confrontation with Devin.

It would be natural to think me crazy now. Why set up a trap to record Marcie and Devin together? Why give them another chance to cheat on me? Why not just confront Marcie, or both of them separately, and force them to stop?

Well, I had more in mind than just stopping their little get-togethers. And I didn't want to reveal to Marcie that I'd hacked her private accounts. I had a plan about how to end this without Marcie knowing a thing, and in a way that humiliated Devin.

My plan, which I'd hatched over several sleepless nights, revolved around something that Marcie and I had learned from Devin and Kendra one night when they'd been over at the house and we'd all been drinking a little too much. 

Somehow we'd gotten on the subject of infidelity. I have no idea what triggered that conversation—probably some celebrity who had been caught in flagrante delicto. It was long before Marcie and Devin began their activities, so it wasn't a case of one of them toying with Kendra and me by raising the topic.

Kendra announced, kind of smugly, that she had no worries about Devin being unfaithful to her. And she left it there, with just a smirk, until Marcie pressed her to explain. As it turns out, most of the money they have comes from a trust fund for her, from her father. And, because her father worried about "his little girl," he wrote the trust so that all of their property, the house, cars—everything—was held in the trust. If she were ever to divorce her husband for infidelity, he would get nothing. And, as Kendra told the story, Devin barely made enough to support himself at a subsistence level.

This was all told in a lighthearted way. Kendra seemed to think that Devin's fidelity was guaranteed by his love and respect for her and she found this just a humorous arrangement that reflected her father's paranoia.

I was banking on the fact that Kendra would be furious at Devin for cheating on her, or at least that Devin would fear that she would. And I was banking on his being terrified of being cut off, not only from her, but from her money. As it turned out, I was banking well.

It took over a week for my trap to catch its prey—a week during which I was up every night, after Marcie had gone to sleep, scanning the recordings for the sort of movement I was looking for. Night after night, I watched recordings that showed only Marcie and me doing thoroughly mundane things. But, on the tenth night ... BINGO!

I could track the entire encounter, from one camera to the next as they moved from room to room. Marcie met Devin at the door and the shared a very passionate kiss, accompanied by groping that would put horny teenagers to shame. It was hard to watch. I wondered when Marcie had shown the same passion for me. For that matter, I didn't know when I'd shown that passion for her.

They wasted no time. No "let's sit on the couch and talk," or "let's have a glass of wine first." No, it was straight to the bedroom—our bedroom—and onto the bed. Devin picked Marcie up and tossed her onto the bed. She giggled and got back up to sit on the side of the bed. Devin was standing in front of her so that his crotch was right in front of her face.

Marcie reached up and began unzipping Devin's pants. It was painful to watch her fish out his cock and, with obvious relish, take it into her mouth. While she used her mouth to such his cock to a rigid state, her hands were busy wrestling down his pants and underpants. Devin was taking off his shirt at the same time and soon he was naked, standing next to my bed, with his hard dick filling my wife's eager mouth.

Devin pushed Marcie back down on the bed, climbed on top of her, and began tearing off her clothes. 'Tearing' isn't quite the right word; no fabric appeared to be ripped and she was more than helpful in getting her clothes off. But the speed at which they'd managed to strip all of their clothes off would have put horny teenagers to shame.


Dominating Devin Ch. 01



When Devin kissed his way down Marcie's abdomen, she rolled her head back and closed her eyes. More importantly for Devin's purposes, she spread her legs giving him full access to her, no doubt, steamy cunt.

Devin ate Marcie out with great enthusiasm, though it paled in comparison to the enthusiasm with which Marcie responded. She had one, quite unmistakable, obviously intense, and quite protracted orgasm and, I'm guessing knowing Marcie, several "aftershock" orgasms.

When Marcie was limp from exhaustion, Devin clambered up and kissed her deeply on the mouth. Marcie tried to reciprocate but there was an clear energy disparity between them: Marcie was sated; Devin was in a frenzy.

Regardless of how exhausted Marcie was, Devin wasn't going to delay for long. He pressed her legs apart, lined his cock up with Marcie's quim, and entered her with a hard, determined thrust. The suddenness brought Marcie back to life and she screamed out with pleasure.

"Fuck me!" she cried. "Oh, God! ... Oh God! ... Fuck me hard!"

Devin complied. 

I couldn't watch the whole thing. I'd seen enough—more than enough. I was disgusted and sure that this would put me off sex with Marcie for a long time. When I fucked her again—if I fucked her again—it would make our last sex look like a sweet gentle encounter. When I thought about fucking her now, I thought about hurting her. I knew I wouldn't really hurt her. I'm not a violent guy. But a guy can fantasize, and I did.

The plotting and evidence-gathering phases of my plan were complete. I had what I needed now. Sure, my plan had meant that I had to allow another illicit tryst between Marcie and Devin. Painful as it had been to allow that—and to watch it—I was sure that this would lead to me being able to end this with the upper hand.

I wanted to regain my dignity--my self-esteem. But even more, I wanted to Devin to know his place. And he would.



Dominating Devin Ch. 02



I imagine that Devin thought it was a little strange when I invited him over to watch a movie together. It wasn't "bizarre strange." We'd talked before about the fact that we both liked bloody action films but often missed them because our wives weren't interested and it just wasn't the same sitting alone to watch a movie.

I'd engineered it so that Marcie and Kendra would be out together. That was easy. There was a "chick flick" they'd both expressed an interest in seeing and, of course, Devin and I had as little interest in that as they would have in watching a Die Hard film with us. So, the whole plan kind of made sense: they could go see whatever the modern equivalent of Waiting to Inhale was and Devin and I could see our "boy stuff," as the girls called it.

It all made sense, but it's not like Devin and I had spent any time together alone. Maybe it would feel really strange to him to do something with me now that he'd been shagging Marcie for so long. Still, the whole arrangement made so much sense to everyone else that I suspect he thought not accepting would just raise questions. 

Saturday night, around 7, a while after the girls had gone ('cause they were having dinner before their movie), Devin knocked at the door. He'd walked over to our house because Kendra had driven Marcie to the theater. I invited him into the family room and got us each a beer.

We settled in with our beer and munchies to watch our movie. It was a strange experience for me because throughout the movie, all I could think about was the revenge that I would get with the screening of the "second feature." I felt like Montressor, about to spring his trap on Fortunato. My trap didn't involve a cellar or Amontillado but, if it worked, Devin would be as surely entombed as Fortunato, even if only metaphorically.

The "thousand injuries" I had borne from Devin would be redressed. I remembered Montressor's words: "A wrong is unredressed when ... the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong." I was savoring the thought of making myself felt as an avenger to Devin.

The movie ended about 9—plenty of time for my plan. The girls' film didn't even start until 8:45 and it was showing on the other side of town. They wouldn't be back until nearly midnight.

Devin was making motions as if he were ready to leave. That wasn't going to happen—not yet.

"Oh, wait," I said, innocently, but insistently. "I have another film I want to show you." 

"I don't know. ... I should get going." He had nothing he had to do; he just wanted to get out of there. 

"It's a short," I reassured him, "won't be more than 10 or 15 minutes and I think you'll find it riveting."

Devin sat back in his seat, unhappy. I switched the input on the TV and started the video. I wasn't looking at the TV. For me, the show was going to be on Devin's face. The recording began with just a shot of the inside of our front door. I'm not sure Devin recognized it. But, when he saw Marcie bounce to the door to answer the doorbell, his eyes widened with recognition. I could see in his face the exact moment when he saw his image on the TV, stepping inside and kissing Marcie passionately. His jaw dropped and the blood drained from his face.

"Oh, God!" was all he could manage to utter at first. After a moment: "Oh, God, man. Oh, God, I'm really sorry." 

I'll bet he was ... *now*. He was probably panicked. What would I do? He had no way of knowing. Maybe I was going to kill him. Maybe I was going to bludgeon him to a pulp. He was scared.

"I'm really sorry," he repeated, not having anything cleverer to say. "I didn't mean to ..." And then when he realized how ridiculous that was, "I mean, I never planned ... I wasn't trying to ..." There he sputtered to a stop. He realized that nothing he could say to exonerate or exculpate himself made any sense.

The recording was running all this time. 

"Shut it off!" he said, apparently pleased to have something to say.

"What's the matter? Is this a painful memory? It doesn't look like you were in pain."

Devin couldn't look at the video, or at me. He was staring down at the floor.

"I just ... I mean it just happened. I shouldn't have let it happen and I should have cut it off. But I didn't. I'm sorry ... I'm sorry." He was trying his best now. I believed him that he was truly repentant. Of course, it was the repentance of a caught man. There was no indication that he'd felt any remorse or guilt until this moment.

"I believe you're sorry," I said and I saw him almost relax. Maybe I wasn't going to kill him, he was concluding. I'd have none of this lowering of fear and anxiety. I decided to play my trump card.

"It's not just me you owe an apology, you know." I paused. "What's Kendra going to do when she finds out?"

Devin's expression made it clear that he knew exactly what Kendra would do. His face was even more ashen than before. I could see panic in his eyes. Maybe the thought that I would kill him would be a relief at this moment. At least he wouldn't have to live with the consequences of what he'd done.

"No ... oh my God, no! ... You can't tell her. She can't know about this." Now words were coming a mile a minute—anything to try to deflect the train wreck he saw coming. "No, don't tell her. Jesus! Don't tell her. I'll break it off with Marcie." 

And then when he realized how ridiculous it sounded to suggest that this was some sort bargaining chip or even an appropriate penance, he went on. "I mean ... of course I'll break it off with Marcie. That should never have happened. But don't tell Kendra. I'll do anything you want. I mean it ... anything. You just can't tell Kendra."

Then he was out of words. He'd made is plea as passionately as possible. He knew that his fate was in my hands. This was the moment I'd hoped for—the moment anticipation of which I'd savored in my imagination. And I had plans for what to do with his fate. Showing the video to Kendra was one option, of course, but once I'd done that, everything was out of my control.

I'd formulated a different plan—one that involved continued domination over Devin. I was going to make him hurt, to humiliate him. And I had ideas about how to fuck up his relationship with Kendra, not to the point where she would dump him. I wanted ongoing control over him so that I could determine when and how much he suffered. Somehow asserting my ongoing dominance seemed the only way to re-establish my self-esteem.

So, I had a plan—well, really, lots of them. Because isn't one of the wonders of the imagination that you're not limited to one scenario? Did my plans contradict each other? Very well. I am large; I contain multitudes. I had savored, and drawn succor from, lots of thoughts of dominating Devin. But what I did next, though it was clearly dominating Devin, was something I'd never thought of before, at least not consciously.

Devin's pleading did not provoke in me any sympathy. These were the self-interested pleas of a man sorry to have been caught. The feelings they evoked from me were disdain, contempt. His groveling disgusted me and, at the same time, gave me a sense of arrogant power.

It was, no doubt, the hackneyed "I'll do anything" plea that set my mind on the course it took. Once the sails were set, the destination was clear.

"Anything?!" I said with the ominous tone that the hackneyed plea demanded.

"What do you mean?" Devin asked. I couldn't tell if his ignorance was genuine or feigned. It didn't matter.

"Come here," I said, pointing to the floor between my feet. Devin didn't move. I prompted, "I thought you said you'd do anything for me not to show the tape to Kendra. Did you mean that?"

Now, Devin started to move. Ironically perhaps, on the tape, he was just starting to fuck Marcie. There he was on the tape, the dominant alpha male, cuckolding an unsuspecting husband, pounding his hard cock into the man's wife's eager wet cunt. And here he was, in real life, kneeling down before that man to service him as instructed.

I felt an incredible rush of excitement. It had nothing to do with gay sex. It was all about power and domination—not power and domination of just anyone, power and domination of the man who had violated my marriage and hurt me so badly.

For me, this was all unfolding in slow motion now. I was betting the same was true for Devin. 

He was hesitating.

"I can give you step-by-step instructions, if that's what you want," I said, "if you want to hear everything described for you." I was betting he didn't. "Or, you can just get on with doing what you know you're going to do."

I watched as Devin reached up to unfasten my pants. As he was struggling, probably internally more than externally, to get my cock out, I took a few seconds to grab the remote and rewind the video to the part where Marcie was pulling out his cock and sucking it. I was sure I would feel more pleasure watching that tape now.

I was right. It's not that it didn't still tear me up and piss me off. It did. But as I watched, I grabbed Devin's head and face-fucked him. He was choking and gagging. I didn't care. I'm sure he could have gotten away if he'd tried. But what would the point have been. I'd still have the same leverage over him. No, he had to do what I wanted, hate it or not.

This was intense for me—no doubt for Devin, too, though in a decidedly different way. My orgasm was building quickly. I felt no desire to hold off on filling Devin's mouth with my spunk. I could have humiliated him longer if I delayed but, really, there was no point. I knew that this was just the first of many opportunities to dominate and humiliate Devin. He was mine now, to use as I pleased.

I passed the point of inevitability as I felt my cum ready to spew. Holding Devin's head tightly, I erupted violently and loudly, filling his throat and mouth with my seed. I continued to fuck his mouth until my cock became so sensitive that it was no longer comfortable.

"Swallow," I said as I gently eased my cock out of his mouth. That was an inevitable command; I'm sure Devin expected it. I could see him gag in disgust as he choked down my spunk.

He practically lunged for his beer and chugged what was left in the bottle, trying to wash my taste from his mouth. I was betting that he wasn't completely successful. Beer could wash away the physical remains, but not the memories. I suspected that far into the future, every time he thought about what he'd just done, the taste would return to his mouth. "Good," I thought.

It could have ended there. And it would have—not the domination itself—that was going to continue for a long time. But the sexual domination of Devin on this particular night could have ended then. It would have but for something Devin couldn't resist saying.

"You know," he said with contempt as he was getting up, "what Marcie and I did was wrong. But what you did is disgusting!"

Lots of people have "trigger words"—words that inevitably provoke a strong emotional response. I have a cousin who goes berserk if someone suggests that he's "cheap." And it's really the word. If you say he's "frugal," he's fine with that. But tell him he's "cheap" and it sets him off. He either argues incessantly that he's not or he immediately tries to prove—sometimes quite inappropriately—that he's not "cheap." Once he bought a round of drinks for an entire bar of strangers to "prove" to everyone that he wasn't "cheap," as someone had alleged.

For me, "disgusting" is a trigger word. I don't know why. Maybe I had some bad experience that I've now repressed. You can call me "ugly" and I won't get more offended than the next guy would. But call me "disgusting" and, well, I sort of go berserk.

I felt my face flush with rage and my energy, so recently drained, surged.

"Don't even think about going anywhere now, Devin," I said commandingly. "You're not through."

"What?! Jesus Christ! I sucked your cock and swallowed your disgusting cum. I'd say I'm finished. You got what you wanted."

And there was that word again—"disgusting." Devin was walking in a mine field and he didn't even know (yet) that he was already stepping on the mines and they were blowing him to pieces.

"Just stand there." I got up and pulled my pants back on. The video had ended some time ago—I was too busy cuming in Devin's mouth to notice exactly when. I restarted it, paused it, and settled in for an impromptu humiliation of Devin.

"Okay, now, Devin. I'm going to give you a treat. You're never going to see Marcie's body again. You have one last time to look at her—at least of a video of her. I want you to enjoy it. In fact, I'm going to make sure that you do."

"Don't move. I'll be right back." I had to get something from the bedroom. When I got back, I was pleased to see that Devin was right where I'd left him. He may have tried to assert himself by calling me "disgusting," but he knew who held the cards here and he was properly submissive.

"Drop your pants." Devin was startled and hesitated. I didn't have to repeat the order, though; I saw him start to comply. "Don't take them all the way off, just push them down to your ankles." He did that but I needed to clarify further that I meant his underpants, too.

"Now pull your shirt up around your chest." Devin now looked silly. With his pants around his ankles, he wouldn't be able to walk; the best he'd be able to manage would be an undignified waddle. His dick was limp and shriveled. He looked pathetic; but I didn't feel any sympathy, or mercy, for him.

I sat down on the chair, across from the couch where we'd been sitting. I wanted to position myself, and more importantly, Devin carefully. The cameras were rolling, after all, and I wanted a good shot of what was to come (so to speak). 

"Kneel down on this," I said, throwing him a pillow from my chair. "Now, you have one last time to cum with Marcie." And I started the video. Devin did nothing. It must have been terribly humiliating for Devin. To be forced to strip and stroke yourself in front of your tormenter might even be worse than being forced to suck his cock. One can only hope.

"It's not an option; it's an order. Start stroking your cock, and I want to see you do it with enthusiasm."

Devin began tentatively and I had to encourage/bully him more before he really got into it. Soon, though, his cock was hard and he was stroking in earnest. I left briefly to get him some lubricating oil from our night stand.

"Here, you've probably used this before." Devin didn't make a move to use the lubricant. "I mean it. Slather that shit on your cock and get stroking."

Devin was looking away from both me and the TV. "Look at Marcie. You like her, right? You think she's the sexiest woman you've ever seen. That's what you told her in your email. I want you to have fun. It will be your last chance. You'll never touch her again; you'll never see her naked. I'm betting you won't be able even to fantasize about her without feeling turmoil—without thinking about how your pleasure with Marcie led to you sucking my cock and swallowing my "disgusting" cum. Maybe thoughts of your times with Marcie will inevitably provoke memories of the feeling of my cock in your mouth and the taste of my cum."

Reluctantly, Devin got on with it. I could tell as he was getting close to his orgasm. He was pumping furiously now and his breathing was heavy and uneven. 

He closed his eyes and I decide to let him do so for now, as he built to his climax. But, just when he started to spurt his sperm on the glass top of the coffee table, I ordered him to open his eyes and look at the TV, to watch as he was fucking Marcie on the tape.

Devin opened his eyes as he exploded onto the table. This might have been a horribly humiliating experience for Devin, but that apparently didn't prevent it from being sexually intense. Maybe it enhanced the intensity.

I let him relax a bit, rocked back on his heels now. And then I brought down the hammer again.

"Now, lick it all up ... every last bit of it. And make it look like you enjoy it." I figured it wasn't the first time he'd tasted his own cum. Most guys have at least tested the taste. I wondered whether he found the taste of his own cum "disgusting."

He was reluctant. It struck me as a little strange where the lines of reluctance were drawn. But it didn't really matter. I had the power and I could blast through whatever lines he drew. 

"I mean it. I want you to lick it up like you crave the taste and texture—like you can't bear the thought of wasting a single drop."

The look on Devin's face was equal parts hatred, humiliation, and resignation. He leaned forward and brought his mouth to one of the thick strings of slimy semen on the glass table top. I watched, fascinated and revolted, as he lapped up his spunk. 

When he'd finished, there was nothing more than a smear of saliva on the table. "Can I go now?" he pleaded.

"Not yet. We've got more to do tonight." The truth is, while the whole sexual domination idea had sprung to consciousness just tonight, I'd been improvising quickly and I had additional plans about how to redress the many wrongs Devin had done me.

"You can sit on the couch, though." When he got up to comply, he began to pull up his pants. "Leave them right where they are. It's not as if this is the first time you've been exposed in this room. You should be comfortable enough."

He sat, pants still wrapped around his ankles and shirt tucked up around his chest, perhaps doing the grown-up equivalent of pouting.

"What now?" he asked. Well, now, as I explained to him, we'd just wait a while. I needed some time to recover and, besides, my now solidified plan called for some pretty accurate timing.

"Can I at least have another beer?" I imaging he wanted to get the taste of cum out of his mouth. I had no particular desire to be merciful to Devin, but I decided to get him a beer. I thought of it as a "palate cleanser"—something to freshen is taste buds for the next course.

After I got us both another beer, I put on a porn movie I was rather partial to. Interestingly, it was about a wife who pressured her cuckold husband into servicing her bull in front of her. I was a cuckold husband, of course, but I was pretty sure that Devin wouldn't be feeling like a bull now. The scenes of one guy being pressured to suck off another should invoke recent memories for Devin.

In the slow parts of the movie—that is, any place where the director had made a sophomoric attempt at plot or, worse, character development—I took some time to check the run time of the film Marcie and Kendra were seeing. I was pretty sure they weren't going to go out after the film for a drink. That would make it a long night. So I could make a very good guess about when they would return. Working backward, I made a decision about when to start the "more" that Devin would be doing tonight.

I had to get our next real-life scene rolling before our porn film had ended, but Devin had gotten to watch the initial cuckold scene where the husband was pressured into sucking off the bull. That should be enough to fill his mind with images as he goes down on me for the second time tonight.

It's not typical for me to repeat so quickly, but I was pumped. I'd never really thought of myself as being into the domination thing but I guess I was, at least when it's spiced with a healthy dose of righteous revenge. I was eager for another go at Devin's mouth, both because of how it would feel to me and because of how it would feel to him.

Leaning back on the couch and pushing the coffee table away with my feet, I told Devin to "come here." He knew what he was being asked—well, commanded—to do. For just a second, it looked as if he was going to protest, but he gave up that thought. 

Apparently it's surprisingly difficult to get down off the couch and onto your knees when your pants and underpants are wrapped around your ankles. Devin looked awkward and ungainly as he clambered down onto his knees and shuffled toward me.




Dominating Devin Ch. 02



"Now, I'm going to give you instructions only once, and you'd better follow them not just precisely, but enthusiastically, if you want this night to end well." I took a drag on my beer allowing the silence to underscore my message. Devin nodded with trepidation. 

"You're going to ask me nicely if I'll let you suck my cock. You might have to plead with me. But you'll do it because you want so much to suck my cock and swallow my cum. Do you understand?" He gave a sickened look, but nodded again.

"If, and when, I allow you to, you're going to unzip my pants and gently, lovingly, pull out my cock. You're going to stroke it and tell me how beautiful it is and how you've wanted to suck my cock for a long time." He was still with me. He wasn't nodding anymore, but he wasn't protesting.

"And, then, you're going to make love to my cock with your mouth—not just suck me off—make love to my cock. Do you understand?" This got a weak nod from him. "And you're going to pause only to beg me to please cum in your mouth—to fill your mouth with my sweet seed that you've wanted for so long."

"When I've given in to your pleas to fill your mouth with my cum—when I've finally given you what you crave—you're going to look up at me and swallow every drop of my cum and then smile and thank me. Okay?" Devin muttered a quiet, resigned, "okay."

"Then you're done for the night. You can go home and have sweet dreams about tonight."

When he didn't make a move, I realized that, while I'd given him the script, I hadn't yet cued him. "Okay. Get going ... and make it good. Your fate with Kendra depends on your performance." I saw a wince flash across Devin's face when I said that, but then he began playing his role.

Giving Devin his instructions had actually felt kind of goofy to me. I mean, I liked the obvious discomfort it was causing him, but it sounded sort of silly. When his acting gig began, though, he was pretty convincing and, to tell the truth, I liked the scene I'd designed.

I made him ask several times if he could suck my cock. It's got to be humiliating to ask to suck a guy off and have him say, "I don't think so; I'm not into that sort of thing," knowing that you'll have to plead even more convincingly.

On his third try, I consented to let him take out my cock and suck it, "if it meant that much to him." For the second time in just a few hours, Devin was unzipping my pants in anticipation of sucking my cock. But this time, it would look to anyone watching (now or later, on the recording) as if he was pleading to suck my cock and I reluctantly allowed him to do it.

My cock was hard as Devin fished it out of my pants. It hardened more in his hand.

"Your cock is beautiful," he managed to say, somewhat convincingly. He stroked it several times and then leaned in to suck it. This prompted my only interjection in his patter. 

"I'll bet you've wanted to suck my cock for a long time," I reminded him.

"Oh, yes ... I've been thinking about it for a very long time." When he sensed that this wasn't quite enough, he fumbled on. "I've wanted to suck your cock from the first time I met you. And now it's finally going to happen." 

"Very good," I thought, but I didn't say anything. I just let him resume bringing his lips to my cock.

Devin followed the script well, complete with moans and enthusiastic stroking and sucking. He was bringing me up the incline toward an orgasm when he pulled off. For a moment, I was startled and disappointed. It wasn't until he began to speak that I remembered that I had scripted this, now unwelcome, interruption.

"Will you please cum in my mouth," Devin intoned. The panting in his breath was no doubt caused only by the fact that he hadn't been able to catch a proper breath with my shaft blocking his airway. But, whatever the cause, it made him sound desperate for my cum. "Please, I need to taste your sweet cum."

Well, this was a better performance than I'd anticipated. How could I deny Devin what he so plainly craved? I put my hand on the back of his head and gently gestured for him to go ahead. This time, I wasn't going to control his motions. This was all about him yearning to suck my cock dry of every bit of its cum. He had to earn his reward.

And earn it he did. When his lips surrounded my cock again, he went at it his task with vigor. With his hand gripping the base of my cock tightly and jerking it energetically, and his tongue playing across the sensitive underside of my throbbing cock, I wasn't going to hold out long. And I didn't.

I erupted in Devin's mouth. It was an incredibly intense orgasm and I made no effort to hold back the roar that exploded from my mouth in concert with the explosion from my cock. One ... two ... three ... four—I think there were at least five distinct ejaculations of cum spewing into Devin's mouth. To his credit, he didn't let any dribble back on my cock.

When I'd finished, I watched him closely. He pulled off my cock gently and smiled (to script) and then swallowed the last of my semen.

"Thank you for letting m--" Devin cut off in mid syllable. His head jerked up in shock. I'd been so lost in my ecstasy that I hadn't heard what Devin had, but I knew what it was: a car door slamming. The girls had just driven up and gotten out of the car.

"Shit!" Devin exclaimed, scrambling up to his feet. "Shit! ... Oh, my God!" He was madly trying to pull up his underpants and pants, get his shirt tucked in, and fasten up before the girls got into the house. "Shit!"

I just had to switch the TV to ESPN, tuck my now soft cock back in my pants and zip up. I did that in a slow, measured way, as if to say to Devin, "Getting caught doesn't mean nearly as much to me as it does to you."

Of course, I didn't want the girls to catch us. This was going to be just between Devin and me—at least for the time being. But I didn't mind if Devin thought I was being casual about it.

When the front door closed behind Kendra and Marcie, Devin was still madly trying to straighten up his shirt. He grabbed for his beer and, finding it empty, looked around for something to drink. There was nothing—exactly as I'd hoped. My plan was to send him home with Kendra with his mouth still reeking of my cum.

Giving up on finding anything to clear the taste from his mouth, Devin flopped back on the couch just as the girls rounded the corner into the family room.

"How was the movie?" I asked casually.

"Great!" they said in unison, then laughed.

"How was yours?" Marcie asked.

"I loved it," I said enthusiastically. "I don't think that Devin was as into it as I was, at least not at first."

"Really?" Kendra questioned Devin. "What was wrong with it?"

"Nothing." Devin sounded irritated and then, realizing that this would only provoke more questions he tried to soften things. "I mean, it was okay. It just wasn't very realistic."

"Oh, come one," Kendra said. "When has that ruined a movie for you? As long as there's lots of action, some nudity, and some sex, you've always been happy."

"Well, there was that," I chimed in. "So, Devin should have liked it. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he liked it as much as I did." I'm sure my smirk wasn't picked up by the girls and just as certain that it was by Devin.

"Can we go?" Devin again sounded irritated and tried to backfill. "I mean ... I'm sorry. I'm really tired and my head hurts." He rubbed his temples but I'm certain that it was his jaw that was aching. "I'd like to go now if that's okay."

Marcie and I walked them to the door to say our goodbyes. As I gave Kendra the conventional light hug, I watched as Devin gave Marcie a particularly awkward hug. Then the girls hugged the way girls do and I stuck out my hand for Devin to shake. He could hardly ignore it. 

When he grabbed my hand, I pulled him toward me, saying, "Heyyyy," in guy-speak for "we can give a manly hug." If Devin's hug of Marcie was awkward, this one set a new record. I didn't draw it out, of course. This was just one of those quick guy hugs with a slap on the back.

"Hey," I said as we moved apart. "Tonight was fun. We should do it again."

Devin couldn't bring himself to answer. He opened the door and they stepped out into the cold of the night. I suspected that Kendra would be quizzing Devin all the way home about why he was acting so antisocial when they were leaving. I was hoping he would have trouble making up a good story as his attention was focused on the taste of my cum lingering in his mouth.

As Marcie and I turned off the lights and headed for the bedroom, I said, "Devin's a pretty nice guy. Don't you think?"

"I guess so," she said in a tone that would have sounded disinterested if I hadn't known better.

We did the bedtime routine and crawled into bed, naked as usual. Marcie ran her foot up and down my calf—a, now familiar, unspoken sign that she's up for some action if I am. Of course, I wasn't. I rolled away from her slightly, not as if I was rejecting her for any serious reason—just trying to communicate a "not right now; I'm really tired" signal.

"You know," I said, as if giving a last thought before going to sleep, "Devin's really pretty interesting when you get to know him. I'd never spent any time alone with him before. It was nice to just get some man-to-man time alone with him."

"I'm glad you had a good time."

"I did." 

I realized that Marcie was feeling uncomfortable about me apparently taking a special liking to Devin. It probably made her infidelity seem worse to her. That was fine with me. I'd figured out how to make Devin suffer for wronging me. I still had work to do on a plan for Marcie. But, I was sure I was going to be up for the task.