The Landlord's Terms Chapter 2 (fm:cuckold, 3948 words) [2/2] show all parts

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I walked out of my office and found Chloe in the living room, bathed in the afternoon sun, stretching on her yoga mat. She was in the middle of a graceful pose, one leg extended high, her body a perfect, elegant line. She looked so peaceful, so centered, completely unaware that our carefully constructed world was about to crumble.

"Hey," I said, my voice sounding hollow and strange in my own ears.

She flowed out of the pose and turned to me, her face breaking into a warm smile. "Done for the day?" But the smile faltered as she saw my expression. "Mark? What is it? What's wrong?"

I told her. I laid it all out—the cancelled project, the missing money, the impending rent deadline. As I spoke, I watched the light drain from her face, replaced by the same worry that was clawing at my own insides. I felt a fresh wave of shame. This was my fault. I was the one who was supposed to protect her from this kind of stress.

"I'll call my dad," I finished, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "I'll figure it out. We'll be okay."

Chloe was silent for a long moment, her brow furrowed in thought. She walked over to the window, looking down at the street below. I expected tears, or panic, or maybe even anger. I got none of it. When she finally turned back to me, her expression was calm, her green eyes clear and focused with an intensity that startled me.

"Don't call your parents," she said, her voice quiet but firm.

I stared at her, confused. "Chloe, what else are we going to do? We don't have the money."

"Let me handle it," she said. The words hung in the air between us, heavy with an unspoken meaning that made the hair on my arms stand up. "I'll... talk to Henderson. I'll ask him for a payment plan. An extension."

My heart stopped. A payment plan. An extension. We both knew those were just words. We both knew the kind of currency a man like Henderson dealt in. The fantasy, which had been a low, thrilling hum in the background of our lives for the past week, suddenly roared to the forefront of my mind.

My mind screamed 'no.' It was one thing for her to endure a few lewd comments, a misplaced hand. That was a line. This... this was a chasm. A point of no return. I should have forbidden it. I should have grabbed the phone and called my father, swallowed my pride, and protected my wife.

But I didn't.

Because as the wave of protective rage washed over me, it was followed by a powerful, dark undertow of pure lust. The thought of it, the raw, humiliating, transgressive idea of it, sent a jolt of heat straight to my groin. My stomach twisted with self-loathing, but my body was already betraying me. My cock was stirring, hardening with a shameful, insistent life of its own.

I looked at Chloe, at her calm, determined face. She knew what she was suggesting. And she knew, from the look in my eyes, that I wasn't going to stop her. I was surrendering. I was handing control over to her, to him. The thought was terrifying. And it was the hottest thing I had ever imagined.

"Okay," I whispered, the single word feeling like both a betrayal and a prayer. "Okay, Chloe. You handle it."

The plan was a masterpiece of self-deception. We spent the next hour constructing a plausible lie, not for Henderson, but for ourselves. It made the whole sordid affair feel less like what it was—a deliberate, terrifying step into a shared abyss—and more like a strategic maneuver.

"I'll go for a run," I said, the words feeling foreign and absurd. "A long one. To clear my head."

Chloe nodded, her expression serious, as if we were planning a corporate takeover instead of her submission. "Good. That gives me time to catch him before he settles in for the night. I'll tell him you're out, that you're too stressed to even talk about it." It was a perfect excuse, painting me as the weak, anxious husband, incapable of handling his own affairs. The thought was both humiliating and intensely arousing.

The real plan, the one that made my heart hammer against my ribs, was much simpler. I would leave the apartment, make a great show of jogging down the front steps, and then, once I was out of sight, I would circle the block. I would slip back into the building's side entrance, the one that led to the musty, dimly lit service hallway. And I would wait. I would stand in the shadows outside his apartment door, a silent, unseen sentinel, and I would just... listen.

The idea of not being able to see was a new, terrifying twist. My imagination, already a fertile ground for this kind of filth, would be forced to paint the picture based on sound alone. It felt more dangerous, more intimate, and infinitely more degrading.

As the time approached, Chloe began to prepare. This time, there was no discussion about what she would wear. She moved with a quiet purpose that unnerved me. She disappeared into the bedroom and emerged a few minutes later. She hadn't chosen the yoga outfit. Instead, she wore a simple, cream-colored V-neck sweater that clung to her full breasts, and a pair of dark, tight-fitting jeans that did incredible things for her ass. It was a deceptively casual outfit, the kind of thing she'd wear to meet a friend for coffee, but on her body, it was a weapon. It was the uniform of the approachable, beautiful girl-next-door, which somehow made what she was about to do feel even more profane.

She walked up to me where I stood by the door, my running shoes already on. She didn't say a word. She just reached up, her hands cupping my face, and pulled me down for a kiss. It was long and deep and desperate, a kiss that tasted of love and fear and a dark, shared excitement. It was a promise and a goodbye, all at once.

"Be safe," I whispered against her lips when we finally broke apart.

"I will," she said, her green eyes holding mine. "Don't worry."

Then she turned and walked away. I watched her go, my gaze fixed on the gentle sway of her hips, the perfect curve of her ass in those jeans. She knocked on his door, a firm, confident sound that echoed in the quiet hallway. I heard his gravelly voice from the other side, then the click of the lock. The door opened, and she disappeared inside.

The moment the door closed, leaving me alone in our apartment, the reality of what I had done crashed down on me. I had just sent my wife, the love of my life, into the lair of a man I despised, to trade her body for our security. I was a pimp. A coward. A monster.

And I had never been more ready for a run in my life.

The hallway was dark, smelling of dust and old plumbing. The only light came from the grimy, wire-caged bulb at the far end, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to writhe and twist in the periphery. I pressed myself into a shallow alcove by the stairwell, my back against the cold plaster, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I could hear the low murmur of the television from behind Henderson's door, the tinny sound of a game show host's manufactured excitement.

My ear was inches from the cheap wood of his door. I held my breath, straining to listen.

"...and Mark's just so stressed about it," I heard Chloe's voice, soft and steady. She was playing her part perfectly, the concerned wife trying to smooth things over.

A low, gravelly chuckle answered her. It was a sound I knew well, a sound that always made the hairs on my neck stand up. "Cash is tight for everyone, sweetheart," Henderson's voice rumbled, closer to the door now. "But maybe we can work out... an alternative payment."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing I had ever heard. It stretched for an eternity. My mind was screaming. Get out of there, Chloe. Just leave. We'll figure something else out. But I knew she wouldn't. We had come too far. This was the precipice, and we were about to jump.

"...Okay," she finally whispered. The word was so quiet, so hesitant, it was almost swallowed by the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears. But I heard it. And in that single, devastating syllable, everything changed.

My body went rigid. I heard a faint rustling sound, the soft friction of denim against a rough surface. My mind, a traitorous projectionist, started to run the film. I pictured her, my beautiful Chloe, kneeling on the threadbare carpet of his squalid living room.

Then came the unmistakable, metallic rasp of a zipper being undone.

My stomach dropped. This was it. This was real. This wasn't a dream or a story in a journal. This was happening, just a few inches of wood and plaster away from me.

And then the sounds started.

At first, it was just a soft, wet sound, tentative and uncertain. But it grew in confidence, becoming a rhythmic, liquid cadence that was horrifying. My mind, no longer needing to invent, simply filled in the blanks. I could see it all as if I were in the room with them. Henderson, slouched on his couch, a smug, triumphant look on his fleshy face. And Chloe... my Chloe... her head bent, her honey-blonde hair falling forward to obscure her face, her soft, beautiful lips wrapped around him.

Slurp...

The sound was obscene, intimate. It echoed in the dead air of the hallway, a direct broadcast of my deepest shame. Each wet, sucking noise was a nail being hammered into my coffin. I could picture her mouth, the same mouth that kissed me with such tenderness, now working on him. I imagined her tongue, tasting the salt and musk of his skin.

Gag.

A soft, involuntary sound of her choking. My hand flew to my own mouth, a reflexive gesture of horror. He was too big for her. He was forcing her. But the wet sounds continued, growing more frantic, more desperate. She was trying to please him. She was doing her job.

Henderson let out a low, guttural groan. It was a sound of pure, animalistic pleasure. A sound of ownership. He was taking something from me, from us, and he was reveling in it.

The jealousy was a physical entity, a hot, coiling serpent in my gut. But fighting it, warring with it, was that other, darker feeling. The arousal was so intense it was dizzying. My cock was a rod of steel in my pants, throbbing in time with the wet, rhythmic sounds coming from behind the door. I was disgusted with myself, with my body's wretched, primal response. I was a spectator at my own execution, and I was getting hard.

The sounds became more intense, faster. I heard Chloe make a small, whimpering noise, a sound of submission. He was close. I could hear his breathing become ragged, harsh.

"That's it," he grunted, his voice a low growl. "Use that pretty mouth."

Slurp... slurp... SUCK...

The final sounds were desperate, frantic, a crescendo of degradation. Then came his final, guttural roar of release, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.

It was followed by a profound, ringing silence.

A moment later, I heard Chloe cough, a small, wet sound. Then the muffled sound of Henderson's voice, smug and satisfied. "The rent's covered for this month, sweetheart."

My knees felt weak. I stumbled back into the deeper shadows of the stairwell just as I heard the deadbolt click. The door swung open, and I watched from the darkness as Chloe stepped out into the hallway, her silhouette framed for a moment in the cheap light from his apartment before his door slammed shut, plunging the hallway back into near-blackness.

She stood in the hallway for a moment, a statue carved from shadow. I couldn't see her face, but I could feel the tremor that ran through her body. I watched as she took a deep, shaky breath, her shoulders rising and falling in the gloom. When she finally turned, she saw me. I saw the faint glint of her eyes widening in the darkness of the stairwell.

We didn't say a word. There were no words for what had just happened. The air between us was thick with it, a tangible, humming entity. She started walking towards our apartment, and I fell into step behind her. The short walk down the hall felt like a mile. With each step, the wet, sucking sounds from behind that door echoed in my head, a vile, relentless soundtrack.

She fumbled with the keys, her hands shaking slightly. The click of our own lock felt deafening. We stepped inside, and the warmth and familiarity of our home felt like a slap in the face. It was our sanctuary, and we had just invited the monster in.

She walked to the center of the living room and stopped, her back to me. I closed and locked the door, the deadbolt sounding like a final, definitive seal on our fate.

When she finally turned to face me, her face was pale, her lips slightly swollen. But her eyes... her eyes held that same wild, electric fire I had seen before, only this time it was burning brighter, hotter. It was the look of someone who had walked through hell and come out the other side, scorched but alive.

"He's... paid," she whispered, the words hanging in the air.

I couldn't speak. I just nodded, my throat tight. I wanted to hold her, to comfort her, to wash the filth of that experience off of her. But I was frozen, trapped between the man who loved her and the pervert who was getting exactly what he wanted.

She must have seen the conflict on my face, the war raging in my eyes. A strange, small smile touched her lips. It wasn't a happy smile. It was something else—knowing, powerful.

"You heard, didn't you?" she asked, her voice low.

I nodded again, unable to form words.

"Good," she said. And then she walked towards me, her movements slow, deliberate. She stopped right in front of me, so close I could smell the faint, sour scent of his apartment still clinging to her clothes. "Then you know what he did. But you don't know everything."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Chloe..."

"Sit down, Mark," she commanded, her voice no longer hesitant, but firm, resonant with a new authority. I was so stunned by her tone that I just obeyed, sinking onto the edge of our couch.

She knelt before me, just as I had imagined her kneeling before him. But this was different. Her gaze was level with mine, her green eyes burning with an intensity that pinned me in place.

"He made me get on my knees on that disgusting, stained carpet," she began, her voice a low murmur. And she told me everything. She painted the picture my mind had only been able to sketch. She described the look on his face, the smug, triumphant curl of his lips. She described the smell of stale smoke on his breath as he leaned over her. She described the feel of his thick, calloused thumb pressing into her chin, tilting her head up.

And then she described him. His cock. The way it looked, the texture of his skin, the way it felt in her hand before she took him in her mouth.

"He tasted like... old pennies and sweat," she whispered, her eyes never leaving mine. "And he was so rough, Mark. He held the back of my head, and he... he just used me."

With every disgusting, humiliating detail she recounted, a hot, shameful fire was building in my veins. My jealousy was a physical pain, a twisting knife in my gut. But the arousal... it was a tidal wave, overwhelming, undeniable. My cock was straining against my jeans, a thick, throbbing monument to my own depravity. I was getting hard listening to my wife describe being used by another man.

She saw it. Her gaze dropped from my eyes to the bulge in my pants, and that strange, powerful smile returned to her lips. She knew the effect she was having on me. She knew she held all the power in this room.

"I did that for you, Mark," she said, her voice dropping even lower, becoming a sultry, intimate whisper. "I took all of his filth, all of his ugliness, so you wouldn't have to. So you could feel this."

She reached out, her hand closing over my erection through the rough denim. I let out a sharp, ragged gasp. Her touch was electric.

"But now," she said, her eyes glittering with a new, dangerous light, "it's your turn."

She leaned forward, her lips brushing against mine. "I learned some things in there," she whispered. "Things he liked. I want to see if you like them, too."

Before I could even process her words, she moved. She pushed me back against the couch cushions, her hands unbuckling my belt, her fingers fumbling with the button of my jeans. I was in a daze, completely under her spell. This wasn't my sweet, gentle Chloe. This was someone new, someone powerful and dominant and terrifyingly sexy.

She pulled my hard cock from my pants, its head already slick with precum. She looked at it for a long moment, then looked back up at me, a wicked, triumphant grin spreading across her beautiful face.

And then, for the first time in our entire relationship, my wife lowered her head and took me into her mouth.

The sensation was blinding. It was everything I had ever fantasized about, but a thousand times more intense, more real. She used the skills she had just been forced to learn, her mouth and tongue working on me with a practiced, devastating expertise. She was reclaiming the act, purifying it, making it ours. She was taking the most humiliating moment of my life and transforming it into the most intensely erotic experience I had ever known.

I was completely lost, overwhelmed by her sudden, shocking dominance. The chapter wasn't ending with me comforting her. It was ending with me on the verge of screaming her name, completely, utterly, and gratefully at her mercy.

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Merlin writes Mon 30 Jun 2025 20:45:

Loved it. I hope he can watch next time. Can't wait to read more.

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