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.