The following story is relayed in reverse-chronological order. Maybe it sounds ludicrously over-the-top at first, but it'll make more sense as we uncover the backstory.
**
Timmy had fallen into a stupor again. The rule was that he shouldn't spend more than about 10 seconds dusting at the same location, but I hadn't seen him move for at least a minute now. He was just absent-mindedly brushing the same trophy now, like he'd dissociated himself into a state of denial and semi-consciousness. And that wasn't allowed. It wasn't any fun for any of us if he wasn't painfully aware of his unfortunate predicament.
So I lolled my head over to look at David and got his attention by lightly nuzzling his neck. He pulled his attention away from the TV and I motioned towards the maid. He rolled his eyes, dutifully pulled his phone out, and started thumbing for the relevant app. I watched Timmy twitch and emit a muffled squeak through his feather duster gag as two mild electric shocks nipped the base of his balls and the top of his penis - a little wireless reminder that his only purpose in life was to amuse us.
He quickly shimmied over to the other side of the display, and stooped down to reach a framed photograph on the lowest shelf. I could just barely hear his shaky breathing through his nostrils, a frenzied combination of rage, shame, arousal, and panic. All of those emotions made sense, given that he was now watching a small reflection of himself gently cleaning a picture of his wife on a date with another man. We'd taken that photo especially for Timmy, making sure to smirk as devilishly as was appropriate, given that we'd asked the waitress to snap it for us.
We had three shelves worth of artefacts like that, covering one of the walls of the living room. Most of them were photographs of David and I, either on a date or engaged in depraved sexual acts. Others depicted Timmy in a variety of compromising situations that I'm sure he'd rather have forgotten by now. Custom-designed trophies and plaques filled in the gaps, engraved with a variety of dubious honours that reminded my husband of his new position in life. I thought those were a little cringy, but David thought they were hilarious. There was also one solitary photo of our wedding day, a merciful token of tenderness amid a museum of mortification. The maid spent a couple hours per night ceremonially dusting all of them while we relaxed.
I snuggled up next to my boyfriend and tried to focus on the tail-end of the show we were watching. Eventually the credits rolled and he switched it off. We smirked at each other. He whipped out his chastity app, dialled up the strength to 10 and set it to auto-pulse. The room filled with the sound of quiet whimpering as he and I kissed. Timmy got the message and scampered over to kneel before us, doing his best to keep quiet even as the pain raged in his imprisoned genitals.
David honked my breast and I broke away, giggling. He grinned widely at me and then pointedly turned to survey his prey. Our little maid was squirming and huffing, distraught. I rested my head on David's shoulder and gave my husband a sympathetic smile.
"Have you finished your chores, Timmy?" David asked. Timmy nodded hurriedly, his duster flapping fruitlessly. He was well used to answering to that name by now. We'd picked it specially - a thirty-five year-old man with a young boy's name was bound to feel particularly powerless and emasculated.
"You want the pain to stop?" Some more desperate bobbing affirmations. David switched it off and his cuckold visibly sagged in relief. He leaned forward and untied the gag from hubby's face, and threw it across the room.
"Thank you Daddy, thank you very much!" Timmy fitfully exclaimed, and immediately began appreciatively rubbing his face against the man's inner thigh, sending tiny sparkles of pleasure through his jeans. I chuckled in bemusement as I drank in the pathetic display. Steven - I mean, Timmy, really hadn't been the same for the last week and a half, ever since David's last "intervention". For most of the last few months we'd had to drag the coy sissy kicking and screaming into this sordid arrangement. But now at last, it seemed that he was finally willing to admit to himself and to the two of us how much he'd always enjoyed this horrendous treatment.
We kissed for a long time again and then shared a knowing look. We'd been talking for the last couple of days about how to administer one final psychological test on the cuck. After all, we wanted to be completely sure that he was actually into all this, and not just suffering immensely under some kind of internalized duress. The poor boy had been through hell and back, through devious mind games and crushing humiliations and outrageous injustices. He certainly wasn't the same person he was 5 months ago. Our hope was that he was happy with who he was now.
