The Experiment

I had been married eight years when my wife discovered I'd been watching gay porn. After we'd tried everything to have children without success (turns out my guys didn't swim so well), we had drifted apart. I'd turned to compulsively watching and jerking off to porn and eventually had grown bored with every available category of straight video and migrated toward anything that felt transgressive. Ultimately it wasn't that I found men sexually attractive. But, once I got that far down the rabbit hole, the images of men being taken and dominated by other men had seemed to spark something. Or at least they got me off. It doesn't matter now.

I came home from my job as low-paid government lawyer to find Denise standing, stone-faced, in the kitchen. My laptop was open on the counter. I knew immediately I was in trouble. She tapped the keyboard and a video started playing — one I'd watched late the night before — in which a young man was getting fucked in the ass and grimacing in pain, grunting like an animal. Her eyes bore into mine as she let it play for an uncomfortably long time, the slapping and masculine moaning filling the silence of the heart of our shared domicile. Then she tapped again and it paused.

I stared at the floor for a moment and then attempted my defense.

"Look, let's talk about this—"

"I'm not ready to talk," she cut me off. "I'll let you know when I am." She looked both furious and hurt. I couldn't blame her. I was appropriately mortified. She walked out of the room, leaving the laptop open with the screen frozen on a closeup of a huge cock buried halfway in a stretched asshole. I slammed the screen shut.

Agonizing days went by. We went through our usual routines, but without speaking. She went to work and came home, and so did I. We slept in the same bed, though it seemed we were separated by a wall. I figured I owed her the time and space she'd demanded, but it was torture waiting for her to engage and say something — anything. A screaming tirade would have been better than the seemingly indifferent silence.

And then she broke her silence.

She was waiting for me in the living room when I got home late one night from work, sitting on the couch, a blessedly calm expression on her face; a brown paper bag and a short stack of legal papers lay on the table. That last detail made me uneasy — while I'd chosen to serve the public after law school, Denise had become a divorce lawyer of fearsome reputation.

"Sit," she said, pointing at a chair across the table from her. I sat.

"Things between us haven't been good for a long time," she began reasonably. "And there's no point in trying to assign blame for that. It is what it is, and we are where we are." I relaxed slightly. She seemed to be taking the high road.

"But after all we've been through," she continued, "you couldn't have the decency to tell me that the reason you don't touch me anymore is because you're gay?"

"I'm *not* gay," I objected.

"Maybe not," she cut me off. "It's kind of hard to tell from your browser history. I mean, 'interracial MILF gang bangs' and 'stepdaughter seduction' — that's some unusual taste, but not gay. And yet..." She picked up the sheaf of papers and began to read: "Huge cock destroys straight boy. Muscle daddy pounds twink. Unsuspecting dude bound and fucked by gang." She looked up at me with an arched eyebrow. "What the fuck am I supposed to make of that?"

I knew her well enough to know the question was rhetorical. I waited.

She sighed.

"We're at a crossroads, Kevin," she said. "I've been giving this a lot of thought. And we're going to find out if this marriage is worth saving." My heart leapt. Worth saving? My goodness, she was going to give me another chance. I could swear off the porn. We could get counseling, rekindle the romance —

"I've prepared a choice for you," she said, interrupting my internal celebration. I cocked my head, wary, still saying nothing.

"Option One," she began, "is that we can call it quits. I've drafted the divorce complaint, and I can file it as soon as the court opens tomorrow. But if that's the road you choose, you should take a look at the complaint. It is explicit and detailed in laying out my grounds for divorce."

I picked up the document and skimmed it. Holy shit, she had literally pasted a complete list of my web searches and urls of the videos I watched into a document that would be publicly filed. Being outed as gay (if I were gay, which I wasn't) certainly wouldn't get me fired, but (A) I didn't want people to wrongly think I was gay, and (B) some of the searches and video titles suggested an appetite for content that could at least raise ... uncomfortable questions about my character. I jerked my head up.

"You *know* this would all be stricken by a judge," I protested. "You don't get to use court pleadings to humiliate people." She just smiled.

"Of course. And I'm sure you could get a judge to throw out most of this stuff, but not before the complaint was on the public docket for weeks before you could get your motion heard." I stiffened. She was right. "And in any case," she continued, "I would take everything from you in a divorce. Everything." She might have been overstating that a bit, but I knew to a certainty that a contested divorce would mean she would leave me financially and reputationally destroyed.

I took a deep breath and exhaled.

"Okay," I said. "What's Option Two?"

She smirked. "Option Two is we do an experiment. We might just find out if you're gay."

"Look, Honey, I'm not—"

"Stop," she snapped. "I don't want to hear it. I've made up my mind, and this is how it's going to be. Option Two is your only alternative to Option One, and it's an experiment. Your role in the experiment is to do exactly what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, without protest or questions. If you successfully complete the experiment, then we'll decide, together, whether we want to save our marriage. And at that point if one or both of us decide not to, then we'll handle the divorce confidentially and fairly by mutual agreement — no public shaming.

"But that's *only* if you complete the experiment," she continued. "If you fail, or if you refuse to follow any of my instructions, then we're right back to Option One, and I file that complaint immediately."

I was actually stunned speechless. She paused and waited for my reaction. I wanted to ask if she was serious, but I knew that would be a mistake. Denise was as serious as a heart attack. As much as I loved her (or had loved her), she could be a real cold bitch. Right now she was in real-cold-bitch mode. And I was in panic mode.

"May I ask a question," I ventured cautiously. She considered a moment.

"Yes you may."

"What will this 'experiment' consist of?" She frowned.

"I already told you that. It consists of you following my instructions to the letter. Beyond that, you'll find out what you need to know when you need to know it." Another pause.

"May I ask another question?" I was probably pushing my luck, but I was drowning in uncertainty.

"One more question, and then you'll make your choice."

"How long will this experiment last?" She hesitated. Whether she was working out the answer to my question or simply deciding *whether* to answer it, I couldn't tell.

"Fair question," she finally said. "If you're successful, then the experiment will end sometime this weekend." Oh wow. It was Tuesday. I'd feared she had concocted some sort of months-long ordeal for me. Four or five days? That seemed eminently doable, whatever she had in mind.

"Make your choice, Kevin," she insisted. I took a deep breath. She had me over a barrel. She could completely ruin me, and we both knew it.

"Okay," I said, exhaling. "Option Two, I guess." Denise smiled.

"I knew you would listen to reason," she crowed. "Stand up." I did, cautiously. "Do you have to use the bathroom," she asked. I shook my head. "Good. Take off your clothes." I don't know if that should have surprised me or not, but it did. With a quick glance to make sure the blinds were closed (they were), I warily complied. "Good boy," she said, looking at me appraisingly for a moment. Then she leaned forward and reached into the paper bag and produced a bottle of what appeared to be lube and something else that I recognized from my prolific porn habit as a modestly sized butt plug. She held them out to me.

"Lubricate this and insert it," she instructed. I didn't have to ask where. Haltingly, I accepted the firm, rubber phallus, which was tapered near the base with a small flange. Standing naked in front of my wife was hardly embarrassing, but this was something else altogether. I didn't dare object, though. I knew the stakes. I flipped open the cap on the bottle and squeezed a generous amount of the slick lubricant into my hand and coated the plug. Then I reached behind and pressed the tip to my asshole, carefully avoiding eye contact with Denise.

For all the times I'd masturbated to gay videos, I'd never experimented with any kind of ass play. My hole was virgin-tight, and I hadn't even inserted the plug an inch before the pain became too much. I looked at Denise apologetically.

"Sorry, just, uh, just gimme a minute," I stammered sheepishly. She sat silently, even patiently. I added some more lube to the tip and then, trying a different strategy, I bent over and put one bare knee on the sofa. I reached back and pushed the plug against my hole again, relaxing my muscles and grimacing as it stretched a bit wider. The plug itself wasn't particularly large, and once I had the tip past my entrance I was able to slide it further inside without too much trouble. Finally, the tapered base reached my ring, which snapped tautly into place around the narrow nub, securing the object firmly inside me. I was breathing heavily, flushed with the effort.

"Good," Denise said approvingly. "Now go upstairs and lay down on the bed." I wiped the remnants of lube from my hand onto my discarded t-shirt and headed for the stairs. Denise got up and followed.

When I entered our bedroom I was taken aback to see two black nylon ropes attached to the headboard on my side of the bed, and two more extending up from the foot of the bed, each with a cuff of some sort at the end. I knew better than to ask questions. I walked over and lay down on my back, with my head on the pillow, and waited.

Denise entered and approached me. She took my left arm and guided it up so that my hand was about level with my chest, then she wrapped one cuff around my wrist and secured it with what sounded like heavy duty Velcro. Then she reached across and did the same to my right arm. When she turned her attention to my feet, I discretely tested my bonds and found that they were absolutely secure. They gave my arms a fair bit of range above my midsection, but they prevented me from moving my hands any lower than my abdomen. Once she secured the matching cuffs around my ankles, my legs were splayed straight with my feet about shoulder width apart.

Denise was turning on the TV. She looked over at me, assessed my predicament and found it satisfactory.

"You're going to watch a movie before bed," she said. She clicked a button on the remote, and a DVD began to play. The screen lit up with a scene of several tough-looking bikers intimidating a younger man. Denise smirked and said, "Enjoy!" Then she left the room.

Before long the bikers on the screen were forcing the young man to suck their cocks. I felt my own cock respond, beginning to harden. Almost instinctively my right hand moved to stroke it but came up short as the nylon rope pulled taut. I groaned in frustration, but my eyes were riveted to the scene.

Soon the young man was naked and the bikers were taking turns fucking his mouth and ass. As I watched the huge, pornstar-sized cocks push their way into him, I became acutely ware of the sensation of fullness in my own rectum. Even if I'd wanted to I couldn't have avoided connecting the visual spectacle with the sensation of my own violation. Fuck, I wanted to jerk off. It was impossible. My hands found their way to my nipples, though, and at least that was a way I could stimulate myself. I rubbed them and pulled on them as I watched one, and then another, of the huge, beefy men shoot their loads onto the young man's face and into his open mouth. It was hot. I was getting pretty keyed up. I really needed to cum. But there was no relief in sight.

The scene ended, and then another one began. More men. More fucking and sucking and grinding and pounding and cumming. And more frustration. And no relief.

I don't know how long the movie lasted. I couldn't see my clock. It had to be well over an hour. My cock had been rock-hard the entire time, twitching occasionally, begging for attention — for release. Precum had seeped out and formed a little string stretching down to my stomach. My balls ached.

A moment after the screen went dark, Denise walked into the room and approached the bed. I was shimmering with arousal. Desperate. I silently prayed that she would put me out of my misery and let me finish. She reached hand toward my groin. Oh god yes. Please please please please. Do it. Do it now. She extended her middle finger and gently — oh so gently — brushed the tip of my cock head, wiping away the dollop of precum. My cock jerked at the sensation. She smiled — an expression of cruel satisfaction — and wiped the discharge on my cheek. I was about to open my mouth to beg her to let me cum, but she preempted me.

"Before you ask, the answer is no. You will not cum until I decide to let you. It might be tomorrow. It might not." I think I groaned. She seemed pleased with herself. "Goodnight, Kevin," she said. "I'll be sleeping in the guest room for now. See you in the morning." And she turned off the light and left me there.

It was a long night. My arousal and my bonds conspired to make it impossible to sleep save for a few feverish interludes haunted by dreams that only fueled my frustration.

I must have been dozing when Denise came back because before I realized it she had already removed the leg cuffs and one handcuff and was unfastening the other. I immediately began stretching all of the stiff muscles in my arms and legs. She sat down on the bed next to me.

"Good morning," she said. Sure enough dawn was beginning to creep through the curtains. I was exhausted. "So far so good with our little experiment," she continued. "Now let me tell you how today's going to go." I braced myself for bad news, though I continued to nurture the hope that she would let me cum. Oh how my balls hurt. They must have gone into semen-production overtime during my extended state of arousal.

"You're going to work today, as usual," Denise continued. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. "But first you're going to go into the bathroom. Leave the door open so I can see you — we can't have you getting tempted to do anything naughty." She smirked. "Remove the plug and clean it thoroughly. Use the toilet, and take a shower.

I did as she instructed. And she watched me the whole time — even while I was taking a shit. It was dehumanizing and maybe even unnecessary, but if I'm being honest I may have given in to temptation to try and rub one out if she hadn't been monitoring me. When I was clean and dry, she presented me with the lube bottle and another butt plug, this one somewhat larger — longer and wider — than the one I'd slept in. At her prompting, I coated it liberally, planted one foot on the toilet seat, and forced it inside me. It hurt again, given the larger size, and it took a couple of tries, but I finally managed to take it all.

"And now," she said, "we need to make sure you behave yourself at work. I have to be in court, and unfortunately I just can't trust you to fight your urges." With that she produced a small, clear plastic sheath with a downward curve and a hole at the tip. It was about the length of my flaccid member with a small chamber at the bottom for my testicles. She slipped it over my cock and balls and secured it at the base with a small key, giving the whole assembly a gentle pat.

"That will ensure you aren't able to do anything you're not supposed to. You'll probably want to use a stall to pee — not that I'd care if your co-workers caught sight of it, but it could be a messy situation standing at a urinal." I stared down at the contraption, a pit forming in my stomach. "And I suggest you eat lightly," she continued. "That plug is staying in until I give you permission to remove it."

Wednesday went by in an uncomfortable haze. It was uncomfortable to sit with the plug buried in my ass. It was uncomfortable to walk with the cage on my dick. It was awkward to pee through the hole in the device. I was depleted from lack of sleep. Worst of all, I was still so keyed up from the night before, with the constant pressure inside my ass, that I couldn't keep my mind from drifting to visions of cocks. And when I started to get aroused, I found that the interior of the cage was lined with small plastic bristles that dug into my flesh and ruined my erection before it could fill the plastic chamber. And in a cruel irony, that reality, too — painful as it was — only further excited me. It became a vicious cycle. And I had who knows what to look forward to when I got home.

I was very surprised, then, when I walked into the house and found an elegant, candle-lit dinner laid out in the dining room. Denise greeted me in a tight black dress and heels. We may have drifted apart, but she'd never stopped being a very attractive woman, and she looked it right then and there. She handed me a drink and gestured for me to sit at the table, then she sat down across from me and smiled pleasantly. I raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I thought it would be nice to celebrate a successful first day of our experiment," she said, and raised her glass. I was suspicious but raised my own glass, accepting the toast. We ate mostly in silence; her demeanor remained pleasant. She said nothing about the plug still inside my ass or the cage still confining my manhood. And I was simply afraid of what would happen if I attempted small talk. When we finished eating, she told me to leave the dishes and follow her upstairs. I did. My heart was racing. Hope was beginning to form. She was going to reward me for obeying her, I knew it.

When we reached the bedroom, she turned to me, leaned in and kissed me deeply. She was wearing my favorite of her perfumes and I swooned a bit. I was so desperate for this — for her touch (for anyone's touch). My hands found her waist, her ass. She pressed her body against mine as her tongue explored my mouth. It was the most attracted I'd been to her in years. She pulled back, slightly out of breath, a hungry look in her eyes.

"Strip," she demanded. I couldn't do so fast enough. Shaking fingers flew to buttons and zippers and cast articles of clothing haphazardly at my feet until all I wore were a cage and a plug. "Lay down on the bed," she commanded in a husky voice, "and don't move." I marched over and did so. "Hands above your head." Oh ... the cuffs again. Not what I'd hoped for but however she wanted to do this was fine with me in my fevered state.

She attached the cuffs to my wrists and ankles and then leaned over and kissed me again. Her fingertips caressed my bare chest. My breathing was shallow and frantic. After my day of deprivation, her touch was electric. She broke off our kiss and sat on the bed next to me, idly tracing patterns on my lower abdomen with the lightest scrape of the tips of her fingernails. I felt my cock stiffen and was immediately, painfully, reminded of the cage's presence. I winced involuntarily and looked down at it. She followed my gaze and regarded my conundrum.