Abandoned and submissive

Three weeks of constant humiliation have passed, watching your wife completely surrender to the life of a submissive slut with the older man, feeling yourself being reduced more and more each day. The atmosphere at home has long since ceased to be yours. Everything smells of him, of alien sex, and of defeat.

Until one afternoon, after a particularly harsh session of insults and submission, your wife calls you into the bedroom. Her words change everything, and she tells you without anesthesia, broken but firm:

"I've made a decision. I'm leaving with him."

There's no discussion. She looks at you with compassion, with a strange glint, packs four things, and leaves, while you stay in the living room, the chastity belt biting into your flesh, your head a mess, unable to breathe.

The hours pass, the whiskey becomes water, the television spews out images you don't even see. You delete messages for her that you'll never send. That night, you fall asleep drunk on the couch, the cage about to hurt you from so much rubbing.

Notifications sound on your phone. It's the disgusting, fat friend with whom the older man destroyed you not long ago. Against all odds, he seems concerned:

"Dude, I found out. What a bitch that woman is to you... I'm sorry, really."

You send him drunk emojis, and he insists:

"You shouldn't stay alone. Come and let's have a drink, distract yourself, forget everything."

You have a mix of resentment, a desire to get lost, and a sick desire to keep sinking. You accept, so you don't sleep alone and to fill the void. You agree on an address, and without expecting anything good, you show up still wearing the chastity belt, wrinkled clothes, and a lost gaze.

The place: a dark, 80s-style venue with a clearly gay atmosphere. It smells of sweat and cheap toilet paper. The disgusting friend receives you at the door with a twisted smile, gives you a hug, and runs his hand over your back.

"Come on, let's go to the back, where troubles are less painful with company."

You don't sit at the bar; he goes straight to a separate area with old sofas upholstered in cracked leather. Before you can say anything, he puts a giant glass in your hand. Drinking helps, and when you start to feel your head numb, he takes it up a notch. He pulls out a bag of meth, spills it on the table, and hands you a rolled-up bill.

"Tonight, there are no rules, right, cuckold?"

You snort the line, and the heat, the rush, the rapid disinhibition cover everything. You see him pull out his enormous cock, spread his legs, and grab your neck.

"On your knees. Your job is simple: open mouth and non-stop."

You kneel, pull down your pants to your knees, the chastity belt shining under the dim lights. The scene doesn't go unnoticed: several guys stare, one approaches and laughs.

The disgusting friend pushes your head, shoves his cock into yo...