Slouch sockjob on his birthday... Just not for her cuck.

It was Steven's birthday, but the day didn't feel much like a celebration. Susan, his wife, stood in the kitchen, slipping on her favorite pair of slouch socks—soft, white, and slightly bunched around her ankles. She caught Steven staring at them, his eyes wide with that familiar mix of longing and frustration. She smirked, adjusting the tiny silver key that hung around her neck, the one that controlled the chastity cage he'd been locked in for weeks.

"I'm off to Pilates," she announced, her tone light but edged with authority. "You know what to do while I'm gone, birthday boy. All the chores—laundry, dishes, vacuuming. Get it done. Maybe, if you're good, I'll let you feel my slouch socks when I get back." She wiggled her toes in the socks, knowing full well how much they drove him wild.

Steven nodded eagerly, his voice trembling as he replied, "Yes, Susan. Please... can I have a sockjob later? With your slouch socks? I've been good, I swear."

Susan laughed, a sharp, teasing sound. "Oh, Steven, you're always begging for that, aren't you? Ever since I caught you jerking off into my socks instead of fucking me like a real man. That's why you're locked up now, isn't it? Little dick couldn't handle the real thing." She patted the key on her necklace and sauntered out the door, leaving him aching and desperate.

At Pilates, Susan's male instructor, Mark, greeted her with a knowing grin. He'd always had a thing for her slouch socks—something about the way they hugged her calves got him going. The class was small, and after the others filtered out, Susan lingered. She slipped off her sneakers, revealing the socks, and gave Mark a playful look.

"Ready for a little extra stretch?" she purred, sliding her socked foot up his leg. It didn't take long before she had him moaning, her slouch socks working him over in a slow, deliberate sockjob. When he finished, thick ropes of cum coated the once-pristine white fabric, soaking into the fibers. Susan admired the mess with a wicked smile, knowing exactly how she'd use it later.

Back home, Steven had finished the chores, his hands trembling with anticipation as he heard the front door open. Susan strutted in, kicking off her shoes and plopping onto the couch. She propped her feet up on the coffee table, the cum-stained slouch socks on full display.

"Look at this," she teased, wiggling her toes. "Mark couldn't help himself. You should've seen how much he loved my socks. Way more than you ever could, locked up in that tiny cage."

Steven's face flushed, his blue balls throbbing painfully as he stared at the evidence of her infidelity. "Please, Susan," he whimpered. "It's my birthday. Can you unlock me? Just for a little bit?"

Susan tilted her head, pretending to consider it. "Hmm... since it's your special day, I suppose I'll be generous." She pulled the key from her necklace and dangled it in front of him, then leaned forward to unlock the chastity device. His small, straining cock sprang free, already twitching with need.

"Kneel," she commanded, pointing to the floor in front of her. "You can jerk yourself off—right onto my socks. Go on, show me how pathetic you are."

Steven obeyed, his hand moving frantically as he stared at her cum-soaked slouch socks. It didn't take long—weeks of denial had him on edge, and within moments, he groaned, spilling his load across her feet, mixing his mess with Mark's.

Susan clapped slowly, mocking him. "Wow, such a big boy. But we're not done yet." She lifted one foot to his face. "Lick it up. All of it—yours and Mark's. Taste what a real man leaves behind."

Steven hesitated, but the look in her eyes told him resistance was pointless. He leaned in, his tongue dragging across the sticky, salty fabric, cleaning every inch as she watched with glee. When he finished, she locked the cage back on, snapping it shut with a satisfied click.

"Watching you jerk your little dick and lick up cum just reminds me why I lock you up and cheat on you," she said, laughing as she stood up. "I'm taking a nap. You can finish the laundry—start with these." She peeled off the slouch socks and tossed them at him, the damp fabric landing on his chest.

As Susan disappeared into the bedroom, Steven gathered the socks and shuffled to the laundry room, his mind a haze of *********** and unfulfilled desire. The washer hummed to life, cleaning away the evidence of his birthday "gift," while Susan slept soundly, dreaming of her next Pilates class.

Another story:


The morning sun filtered through the curtains as Susan stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting her outfit with a sly smile. It was Steven's birthday, and she'd planned something special—just not for him. She slipped on her white slouch socks, the ones Steven adored, pulling them up over her calves. Her tight blue leggings hugged every curve, and she tied her hair back with a pink velvet scrunchie, completing the look. She knew she looked irresistible, and today, it wasn't for her husband.
For weeks, Steven had been locked in a plastic chastity cage—a punishment she'd devised after catching him masturbating with her slouch socks instead of being intimate with her. She'd had enough of his selfish habits, and the cage was her solution. His whining and pleading had only fueled her frustration, and lately, her mind had wandered elsewhere—to her Pilates instructor, Mark.
Mark had been flirting with her for months, his compliments growing bolder with every class. "You're so sexy in those socks," he'd say, his eyes lingering on her feet. "They look so soft." She'd blush, but secretly, she loved it. He was tall, muscular, and confident—everything Steven wasn't. And today, on Steven's birthday, she'd decided to act on the tension that had been building.
"Steven, come into the bedroom," she called, her voice sweet but edged with something darker. He shuffled in, his eyes lighting up with hope. It was his birthday, after all—surely she'd unlock him, give him the release he'd been begging for. "Strip," she ordered, and he eagerly complied, standing naked except for the little plastic cage that trapped his straining erection.
"Lie down," she said, grabbing a coil of rope from the dresser. His excitement grew as he obeyed, thinking this was part of some birthday game. She tied his wrists and ankles to the bedposts, his body spread out and helpless. "If you want to be released, you'll stay tied up," she said, smirking as he nodded eagerly.
Once he was secure, Susan sat beside him, dangling the necklace with the chastity key in front of his face. "How bad do you want this off?" she teased. "How bad do you want to fuck your own wife?" Steven's eyes widened, his voice trembling as he begged. She laughed, a sharp, cruel sound, and leaned closer. "You know, I'm going to Pilates today, dressed like this—for Mark. He's been flirting with me, and I've decided I'm going to fuck him. A real man. While you're tied up here, helpless."
"No, Susan, please," Steven whimpered. "It was just a fantasy—I didn't mean it!" She cut him off with another laugh. "Oh, please. All those times you chose my socks over me? Now I'm choosing someone else over you." With that, she stood, leaving him tied to the bed, his pleas echoing behind her as she grabbed her gym bag and left.
At the Pilates studio, Susan walked in with confidence, her slouch socks scrunching softly against her sneakers. Mark noticed her immediately, his eyes raking over her outfit. "Wow, you look incredible," he said, stepping closer. "Those socks—damn." She smiled, stretching in front of him, letting his gaze linger. The class passed in a blur of tension, and when it ended, she stayed behind, bending into a deep stretch as he approached.
"Need help?" he asked, his hands brushing her hips. She turned, and within moments, their lips met, hungry and urgent. Her hand slid down his pants, gasping as she felt the size of him—far bigger than Steven's pitiful endowment. They stumbled into a back room, and she dropped to her knees, struggling to take him in her mouth. He pulled her up, sliding her leggings down and fingering her until she came, trembling against him.
Still wearing her slouch socks, she climbed onto him, lowering herself onto his cock. The stretch was overwhelming, a sensation Steven could never dream of giving her. She rode him hard, her mind flashing to her husband tied up at home, his little caged dick useless on his birthday. The *********** fueled her, and she came again and again, moaning as Mark gripped her socked feet. Finally, he exploded inside her, and for the first time in years, she felt truly satisfied.
After, they dressed and went for lunch, laughing over sandwiches as she told him about Steven—tied up, locked away, waiting for her. Mark grinned, intrigued. "What a loser," he said, and she nodded, still buzzing from their encounter. In his car afterward, she found him hard again, and she marveled at his stamina—Steven could barely manage once. She peeled off her slouch socks, wrapping them around his cock and stroking until he came, soaking the fabric. Slipping the wet socks back on, she drove home, her body marked by another man.
When she returned, Steven was still tied to the bed, half-dozing in his restraints. He stirred as she entered, hope flickering in his eyes. She stripped off her leggings and panties but kept the cum-soaked socks on, climbing onto the bed. "Ready to cum?" she asked, straddling his face. He nodded eagerly, oblivious, as she ground her dripping pussy against his mouth. His tongue worked desperately as she toyed with his caged cock, slapping his balls until he squirmed.
Finally, she slid down beside him, unlocking the cage with the key from her necklace. His dick sprang free, all five inches of it, and she laughed. "I can't believe I ever thought this was enough. Mark's twice your size—I'll never fuck you again." She stroked him, mocking his size as she recounted her day—the sex, the sockjob she'd given Mark. Steven came pathetically, a weak dribble, and she scooped it up, smearing it across his lips before rubbing her soaked socks over his face.
Locking the cage back on, she kissed his cheek. "Happy birthday," she said, standing. "I'm going to relax by the pool. You stay here." She left him tied up, cum drying on his face, and floated in the water outside, savoring her new freedom.

Susan adjusted her slouch socks as she stepped into the Pilates studio, the soft, loose fabric bunching perfectly around her ankles. She loved the way they felt—casual yet oddly sensual—and today, they'd prove to be more than just a fashion statement. Halfway through class, she caught the eye of a guy stretching nearby. His gaze lingered on her socks a little too long, and after the session ended, he approached her, his voice low and hesitant.
"Hey, uh, I couldn't help but notice your slouch socks. I've got a thing for them. Ever heard of a slouch sock job?" His cheeks flushed, but his eyes were hungry.
Susan smirked, intrigued by his boldness. "You're a weird one, huh? Alright, let's see what you've got." She led him to a quiet corner of the studio after everyone else had filtered out. Sitting on a bench, she slipped off her sneakers and pressed her socked feet against his growing bulge. His breath hitched as she worked the soft fabric against him, teasing and rubbing until he couldn't hold back. With a stifled groan, he came, soaking her slouch socks with warm, sticky spurts. Susan grinned, feeling a rush of power as she slid the damp socks back on, the sensation of his cum squishing between her toes oddly thrilling. "Thanks for the fun," she said with a wink, leaving him dazed as she grabbed her bag and headed home.
Back at the house, her husband Steven greeted her at the door. He'd been busy all day, ticking off the chore list she'd left him: dishes, laundry, scrubbing the floors. His eyes flicked to her socks, a familiar glimmer of obsession in them, but he didn't dare say a word. Steven's slouch sock fetish had spiraled out of control long ago, leading him to jerk off with her socks instead of touching her. As punishment, Susan had locked his pathetic little dick in chastity months ago, rarely letting him out—never for sock jobs. Today, though, was his birthday, and she decided to throw him a twisted bone.
"Look at you, all domesticated," she teased, kicking off her sneakers. Steven's gaze locked onto her socks, still damp and slightly disheveled. She pulled the chastity key from the necklace she wore, dangling it in front of him. "Since it's your special day, I've got a surprise. I met a guy at Pilates with a sock fetish like yours. He begged for a slouch sock job, and I made him cum all over these. They're still wet—feel." She tossed the key onto the counter and unlocked his cage, his tiny cock springing free, already twitching with anticipation.
Steven's eyes widened, a mix of *********** and excitement washing over him. "Go on," Susan ordered, tossing him the socks. "Use them. It's been over a year since you felt a slouch sock on that sad little thing." He fumbled with the damp fabric, wrapping it around himself, the scent of another man's cum mingling with his own desperation. Within a minute, he shuddered and exploded, his load mixing with the stranger's, soaking the socks even more.
Susan laughed, crossing her arms. "Pathetic. Now lick them clean." Steven hesitated, but her glare made him comply. He brought the soggy socks to his mouth, tongue darting out to lap up the mess—his cum, the Pilates guy's cum—all while Susan watched with cruel amusement. "Seeing you jerk off with a cummy sock and then lick up another man's load just reminds me why I'll never fuck you again. You're a disgusting, little-dicked loser."
She snatched the socks away once he'd finished, grabbing the chastity cage and snapping it back onto his now-limp cock. "Happy birthday," she sneered, locking it tight. "Now go clean the back patio. I'm taking a nap." With that, she turned and sauntered off, leaving Steven humiliated, locked, and oddly satisfied as he shuffled outside to obey her command.

Susan stood in front of the bedroom mirror, meticulously applying her makeup—smoky eyeshadow, a bold red lip—while Steven trudged through the door, exhausted from a grueling overtime shift. His eyes lit up as he caught sight of her rolling sheer black stockings up her legs, clipping them to a garter belt. She wore a tight black dress that hugged her curves, paired with towering heels—details she'd never bothered with for him, despite his pleas. His cock twitched in his pants, hopeful for a rare, sexy night. "Wow, you look incredible," he stammered, stepping closer.
"Thanks, hon," Susan replied, barely glancing at him as she teased her hair into loose waves. "I'm going out with the girls tonight. Made you a chore list—kitchen, laundry, vacuum the living room. Should keep you busy." She gestured to a scribbled note on the dresser.
Steven's face fell, confusion creeping in. "Stockings and garters... for the girls?" he asked, eyeing the sultry outfit.
She waved him off with a laugh. "Don't worry about it. Just feeling fancy." He didn't notice the crotchless black panties she'd slipped on earlier—hard to explain those for a girls' night. Before he could press further, her Uber pulled up. She grabbed her clutch and strutted out, leaving Steven deflated but determined to win her favor.
While Susan was gone, Steven threw himself into the chores—scrubbing counters, folding clothes, even polishing the coffee table unprompted. It had been over a month since they'd had sex, a fleeting 30-second encounter that left her cold. She'd caught him months ago jerking off into her slouch socks while watching porn, and since then, she'd rationed intimacy like a punishment. No blowjobs, no touching—just the occasional pity fuck. Tonight, he clung to the hope that a spotless house might earn him a reward.
Susan, meanwhile, wasn't sipping wine with girlfriends. At a downtown bar, she'd gotten tipsy fast, her laughter catching the eye of a rugged stranger. One ***** turned into flirting, then a stumble into a hotel room. Her dress hit the floor, stockings still on as he fucked her hard, filling her with a thick load she didn't bother cleaning up. Savoring the power of it, her garters digging into her thighs as she knelt. By 4 a.m., disheveled and buzzing, she climbed into another Uber, her panties still crotchless and damp.
Back home, Steven lay in bed, fighting *****. His dick throbbed, but he resisted temptation—no point in ruining his shot. He'd raided the hamper earlier, wrapping her sweaty white Nike sock around his cock, stroking gently, then switching to her lacy gym panties. The textures drove him wild, but he stopped short of cumming, dreaming of her return.
When Susan stumbled in, hair mussed and lipstick smeared, Steven's heart raced. "Hey, baby," she slurred, kicking off her heels. "Let's have some fun." His cock sprang up as she climbed onto the bed, her hand wrapping around it. "God, it's so small," she giggled, stroking lazily. "I thought it was bigger than this." He didn't care—he was in heaven.
She shifted, straddling his face, her pussy hovering over his mouth as she faced his erection. Steven dove in, licking eagerly, oblivious to the faint salty tang of another man's cum still inside her. Susan moaned, grinding against his tongue, her hand pumping his cock faster. "That's it," she purred, lost in her own pleasure. Within moments, he erupted, a modest spurt coating her fingers and his stomach. She laughed again. "Such a tiny load, too."
Scooping up his cum, she smeared it across his lips and rubbed the rest into her pussy, grinding harder as he lapped at her. She watched his dick soften, shrinking back to its pitiful size, then rolled off him. "Good enough, I guess," she muttered, heading for the shower. Steven lay there, dazed and satisfied, none the wiser about her hotel escapade. She'd given him a release—tainted, sure, but he'd take it. As the water ran, he smiled to himself, clueless but content.

Susan hadn't felt truly satisfied in months. Steven's small cock and inability to stay hard left her aching for more, and she was tired of it. Lately, she'd been hitting Pilates class, dressing sexier—tight blue leggings, white slouch socks, a pink velvet scrunchie—hoping to reignite his spark. Steven adored slouch socks; they'd always been his fetish. But he barely noticed her efforts, too busy sneaking off to cum in her used gym socks. She'd found them crusty and stiff in the hamper, evidence of his secret sockjob obsession. Fed up with his selfishness and her own frustration, Susan scoured the internet and discovered chastity cages—perfect for locking him up and keeping her socks clean. She ordered one instantly, a wicked plan forming in her mind.
The cage arrived a week later, two weeks before Steven's birthday. She didn't intend to gift it to him then; she had something spicier planned. On the day of her next Pilates class, she dressed in his ultimate fantasy: tight leggings hugging her ass, slouch socks scrunched around her ankles, and that pink scrunchie in her hair. Steven lounged on the couch, clueless, when she sauntered over and rubbed her socked feet against his crotch. His dick stiffened instantly. She slipped off the scrunchie, tied it tight around his balls, and peeled off one warm slouch sock, wrapping it around his shaft. She stroked slowly, teasing him until he begged, "Please, more!"
"Go lie on the bed if you want it," she purred. He bolted to the bedroom, only to find handcuffs and ropes rigged to the frame. "Get in," she commanded. He obeyed, rock-hard and helpless as she cuffed his wrists and tied his legs, the scrunchie still cutting into his balls. She resumed stroking with the sock, agonizingly slow, and confronted him. "How often do you jerk off into my socks? I'm sick of it, Steven. I need to get fucked—properly. Since you can't do it, I'll find someone who can."
"No, please!" he whimpered, but she smirked, unmoved.
"Sorry, it's happening." She pulled the soaked sock off his cock and shoved it against his mouth, ******* him to taste his own precum. Then, for the first time in months, she gripped his dick with her bare hand. "I'm getting a real man with a real cock. You're too small to stop me." She stroked faster, his tip glistening. "Ready to cum?" she taunted.
"Yes!" he screamed through the sock, muffled and desperate.
"Good. If I let you cum, it means you're okay with me cheating." She sped up, and as he chanted "Yes, yes, yes!" through the fabric, his cock pulsed—then she stopped. Cum dribbled out in a pathetic, ruined orgasm, and she cackled. "You came! You want me to fuck someone else!" Scooping up the meager load, she smeared it into his mouth, holding the sock there until he swallowed, gagging on his own shame. His half-orgasm left him dazed, still tied up, begging to be freed.
Susan swapped her cummy sock for a fresh pair, grinning. "Off to Pilates, but first—a surprise." She revealed the chastity cage, locking his softening dick inside with a click. The key dangled from her necklace as she laughed. "This stays on until I fuck another cock. You brought this on yourself, jerking off instead of fucking me." She squeezed his trapped balls, winked, and strutted out, leaving him tied to the bed, horny but caged, his mind racing. Was she serious? Would she really do it?
Hours later, Susan returned, glowing with satisfaction. She sat beside Steven, still bound. "Learned your lesson?" she asked.
"Yes! I'll never touch your socks again. Let me fuck you, please!" he pleaded.
She laughed. "No chance. The next cock in me won't be yours. The cage stays until I'm satisfied elsewhere. You're not in charge anymore." She untied him, smirking at his plastic prison. "Pathetic, huh? Locked up by your own wife. Don't worry, the neighbor and a guy from Pilates are already interested. Won't take long."
Weeks passed. Steven's cage stayed on, his horniness mounting. Susan made him lick her to orgasm nightly, dangling the promise of release, but never delivering. He obeyed, desperate, his tongue working tirelessly while his cock strained uselessly against the bars.
One day, Susan breezed in from Pilates, wearing his favorite slouch socks, a devilish grin on her face. Steven's heart sank and soared—she'd done it. She ordered him to strip and lie on the bed. He complied, and she secured him with cuffs, ropes, a blindfold, and duct tape over his mouth. "Met a guy at Pilates," she began, voice dripping with glee. "We've been flirting. I've jerked him off, sucked him, let him finger me—but no sex, so no release for you. Until today. I went to his place, and he fucked me good. Filled me up. Time to free you."
She unlocked the cage with the key from her necklace. His cock sprang up, aching after a month of confinement. "Look at this tiny thing," she mocked, lubing it up and stroking fast. Steven writhed, moaning through the tape, on the edge—then a beep sounded. She stopped, grabbed ice, and shrank his erection, locking the cage back on. "The deal was, I get fucked, you get released. I gave you a minute to cum, and you failed," she said, laughing. "We'll try again next time I get fucked."
She left him tied up, helpless, his mind spinning. Susan had all the power now, and he'd never touch himself—or her—until she decided otherwise.

A Birthday Game of Revenge
Susan stood before the mirror, smoothing her tight black leggings, the cuffs tucked neatly under white slouch socks that bunched perfectly over her ankles. She slipped on her Crocs, a quirky choice for Steven's birthday, but deliberate—she knew John, the neighbor, had a thing for her socks, and tonight's game night was her chance to play. Her mind wasn't just on John, though; it was on Caroline, John's wife, and the photos Susan had found on Steven's phone weeks ago. Caroline's smiling face, her lithe body stretching in a Pilates studio, had burned into Susan's memory. She'd confronted Steven, his guilty stammer confirming her worst fear: he was jerking off to those images, fantasizing about Caroline while Susan slept beside him. The betrayal fueled her, a cold fire driving her to punish them both—Steven with control, Caroline with conquest.
In the bedroom, Steven waited, clueless about her plan. "C'mere," Susan called, her voice honeyed but sharp. He shuffled in, wearing only pink panties and the chastity cage she'd locked on after the Caroline discovery. Dangling the key, she teased, "It's your birthday, Steven. Play along, and maybe I'll set you free tonight." His eyes lit up, his sock fetish making him vulnerable to her promises, though suspicion lingered.
"What's the game?" he asked warily.
"Just trust me," she purred, coaxing him onto the bed. She tied his wrists and ankles to the posts with soft ropes, his body exposed, the cage glinting. "Be good," she whispered, "and I'll make it worth it." It was a lie—she wanted him trapped while she targeted Caroline's husband, John, to settle the score.
Susan grabbed her phone and headed to the neighbors', her pulse quickening. She'd chosen John deliberately—not just for his flirtatious glances or his comment about her socks last game night, but because screwing him would hit Caroline where it hurt, a mirror to Steven's betrayal. But when she stepped into the warm glow of the neighbors' living room, her heart sank. Caroline was there, laughing, her presence a taunt. John, though, caught Susan's eye, his gaze dropping to her slouch socks with a flicker of hunger. Susan pointed subtly at her feet, winking, and his smile widened.
She sat across from John at the Monopoly table, Caroline to his right, oblivious. Susan's revenge burned hotter now, Caroline's proximity stoking her resolve. Under the table, she stretched her leg, her socked foot brushing John's shin. His eyes flicked to hers, surprised but game. Emboldened, she slid higher, the soft fabric teasing his crotch. John tensed, his breath catching, but he didn't stop her. The sock rubbed slowly, hidden by the tablecloth, while Caroline prattled on about Boardwalk. Susan savored the risk, her foot working John into a quiet frenzy, knowing each stroke was a jab at Caroline's perfect life.
An hour in, John's shorts showed a damp spot where Susan's sock had hit its mark. "Damn," he muttered, standing. "Spilled my beer. Gotta check the dogs." He kissed Caroline's cheek, avoiding Susan's smirk. Caroline's eyes lingered on the stain, suspicion flaring, but she stayed silent.
Susan saw her opening. "I should check our dog too," she said, hopping up a minute later. Outside, she spotted John ambling down the street. "John!" she called, catching him. She laughed, nodding at his shorts. "Caroline buy the beer story?"
He grinned, sheepish. "Fingers crossed. What's up?"
"Come to my place," Susan said, voice low. "Quick detour." John hesitated, then followed, drawn by her boldness. At her door, Susan's heart raced—not just for John, but for the trap she'd set for Steven. She led John to the bedroom, pausing. "Look at this," she whispered, opening the door.
Steven lay bound, pink panties stark against the chastity cage, his face a mix of dread and ***********. John's jaw dropped. "What the hell, Susan?"
She didn't explain. Instead, she yanked John's shorts down, her hand stroking him fast, eyes blazing with purpose. "Just watch," she said. John's shock gave way to arousal, his breaths ragged. Susan pushed him to the couch in the corner, glancing at Steven, whose partial view fed his torment. She knew he'd been jerking off to Caroline's photos, and this—her with John—was his punishment.
"Lie down," she told John. He complied, eyes wide as she slipped off one slouch sock, still warm. Steven's sock fetish was her weapon, and she wielded it cruelly. Wrapping the sock around John's length, she pumped deliberately, his gasps music to her ears. Within moments, he shuddered, soaking the sock. Susan's triumph was complete—John's pleasure was her revenge on Caroline, and Steven's witness was his penance.
She crossed to Steven, the cum-drenched sock in hand. "Open up," she taunted, smearing it across his lips. He thrashed, but the ropes held, the wet fabric marking his face. John, pulling up his shorts, laughed nervously. "Wild night," he muttered, then fled, mumbling about his dogs.
Susan slipped on a fresh sock and strutted back to game night, sliding into her seat like nothing had happened. Caroline's glance was sharp, but the games rolled on. Hours later, buzzed on wine and victory, Susan returned home at 3 a.m. Steven was still tied, half-asleep, dried cum flaking on his cheeks. She smirked, peeling off her leggings and straddling his face, her thighs clamping tight.
"Miss me?" she teased, grinding, demanding release. "I fucked with Caroline's world tonight, just like you did with mine. Bet you saw enough to know what you'll never have." She recounted John's sockjob, knowing Steven's fetish made it agony. Her hands teased his caged cock, drawing muffled groans. For thirty minutes, she rode his face, chasing orgasm after orgasm, each one a claim over him.
Sated, she leaned back. "Your birthday's over," she said, "but I'm generous. How about a sockjob, like you've begged for?" Steven's eyes lit up, desperate despite his plight. Susan unlocked the cage, easing it off but leaving the base ring—a reminder of her power. From the drawer, she grabbed a condom, rolling it onto him with a wicked grin.
Straddling his face again, she slipped off her other sock, wrapping it around his condom-covered length. Steven tensed, realizing he'd feel nothing—no warmth, no softness, just latex. Susan stroked, slow and cruel, whispering about John's sockjob, how he'd felt the real thing. "You'll never get that again," she mocked, pumping faster as she ********* him. Steven's muffled breaths grew frantic, and soon he filled the condom, his body shaking with hollow release.
Susan laughed, peeling off the condom carefully. She tilted his head, squeezing the contents into his mouth. "A real man wouldn't swallow," she taunted, watching him *****. She tossed the other sock onto his chest. "Enjoy your freedom while I shower. When I'm back, the cage goes on."
After her shower, she returned, the lock clicking shut. Steven lay spent, the weight of her revenge crushing him. Susan had struck at Caroline through John, punished Steven for his secret obsession, and reclaimed her power. For her, the night was a triumph. For Steven, it was a birthday etched in ***********, a reminder of desires he'd never touch again.

So horrible. So hot.