Master of the Cuck Chair

He opens the door and greets the man who knocked. You can’t see them. You are lying on your stomach on the bed facing the small chair in the dim corner of the room. The metal from your new cock cage is warm inside your tattered jockstrap. You wriggle into position, pressing your chest into the mattress and curving your lower back to emphasize your ass.

He enters the room and takes a seat in the small chair. He is shirtless, wearing a pair of linen pants sheer enough to be nearly transparent. He crosses one leg over the other.

“You have fifteen minutes,” he tells the guest.

He sets timer and raises an eyebrow, “you may begin.”

You feel big hands, strong hands, rough hands, grip at your cheeks and spread you apart. A thumb rubs gently at your hole. It pushes a little inside, rubs more, and pulls out. You feel a tongue replace the finger and it gently caress you, pushes inside of you while hints of a beard tickle the sides of your cheeks.

You were given one rule: keep your eyes on him. Don’t look around, don’t close your eyes longer than you need, keep your eyes staring into his eyes.

You can’t read him. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t frown. He stares back. He never breaks his concentration as he watches you.

In your periphery you can see his pants bulge, but he never makes a move to touch himself. He just watches you.

You hear the guest suck back and…

“Ptoo,” you feel the wad of spit hit its target.

He braces your hips and pulls you higher, like a ragdoll, then presses a cock against your hole. You can’t see it, but the head feels larger than you were expecting. You feel your hole tense as the head of the cock pushes inside and then “pop,” it’s in. His first couple thrusts are slow, he’s getting his feel of you.

You moan gently.

“You like that,” the guest says more than asks.

“Don’t talk to him,” he tells the guest, but maintains eye contact with you.

The guest complies and begins to buck his hips harder. You lose a little balance, but he pulls you right back up. He grinds his hips into you. He hits your prostate. Your eyebrows twitch and you grit your teeth just to hold back your moans.

He uncrosses his legs. His bulge is wet. He keeps his eye contact. You keep yours.

Sweat drips onto your back. You feel the guest’s pubic hair push into the thick of your ass. His balls bounce with each long stroke he pushes into you. More sweat drips as his own groans grow. He mumbles things to himself about how tight you are, how you are just a flesh sleeve to be used, how much he is going to fill you up.

And him? He never breaks eye contact. Not once.

Not even when the guest stops and pushes himself into you with all his strength. He holds himself there, at the tip of your prostate. He lunges forward, gripping the band of your jockstrap tight and pushing you flat into the mattress, you can feel his sparse chest hair and smell the stale cigarettes on his breath as he unloads into you. His balls squeezing and draining as rushes of cum fill you up with each jerk of his pulsing cock.

A timer goes off.

He tosses a black marker to the guest.

“Make your mark and send in the next guy,” he tells the guest.

You have a long night ahead.