___
You writhed on the bed, tugging uselessly against your restraints as Mona propped herself on her hind legs. She twittered--a high-pitched, keening sound--as she ground her pussy against your face. You made a noise of disapproval, but it only seemed to make her laugh harder as she anchored herself on your mouth, your nose bumping against her engorged clit as she forced you to swallow your complaints. A mix of juices drooled out of her, and you could taste it. Her cum. Your husband's semen.
"Oh sweetie," she murmured, with a hand wrapped in your hair. "Be a good girl."
She tweaked a nipple, clasping it tautly as she released her grip on your head--only to send a stinging slap to your inner thigh.
A warning.
"You don't want to be a bad girl, do you?" She spread her lower lips and clapped her cunt over your face. "You've always been a good girl. Don't fight it."
You felt like you were suffocating, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you breathed in short pants, taking involuntary huffs of her clammy pussy. Dimly, you could see the outline of a man sitting in a chair in the corner; the juxtaposition of him freely stroking himself while you were forced--bound and contorted--to be her seat, and his spectacle. Your face; her cushion, your torment; his pleasure.
You'd cry out--wail in indignation, humiliation, heartbreak--if only the gag in your mouth didn't press your lips apart, the circular opening allowing only your tongue to roam free, flapping aimlessly and more often than not collecting rivulets of her cunt-drizzle onto its surface. It was musky, tangy, sickly sweet. Not even the muffled pleas for air were heard over the sounds of her cumming.
Or, probably, she just didn't care.
Why would she? Why would she pretend to be your friend--answer your midnight calls, come over for corner store ice-cream runs as you recounted the woes of your long-suffering marriage--if she didn't enjoy listening to it? You'd thought--mistakenly--that it'd been concern for you. She was your oldest friend; your best confidante. Your maid of honour at your wedding.
Tears brimmed your eyes as they started to glaze over.
How could you have missed it? The lingering glances? Side-eyes? Not-so-secret shared smirks between them as you glided up the aisle and pivoted before the priest? You could see the glare of the wedding band reflecting on his finger--the white gold blurry as he stroked his thick cock in tandem with her vicious pace.
'Maybe,' she'd suggested one night, rubbing your shoulder consolingly as you rested your head against the crook of her neck. 'You need to try something new. I don't know? To reignite the spark?'
Visits to kink shops in the murkier part of town, subsequent purchases of ropes, cuffs, gags--other things that made you flush to even think about--had been made, all while she held your hand and dragged you back to her house to try it on.
You'd thought nothing of it at the time. You'd exited the ensuite of her bedroom shyly, the near-translucent material of the scanty lingerie clinging closely to your form as she cooed in approval, hovering over you and then lightly pushing you in the direction of the bed. A selection of everything you'd bought had been arranged neatly on the satin covers. 'You look so cute!' She'd said eagerly. 'Why not try on the cuffs? Get a feel of what it's like once everything's on?'
Initially you'd baulked at her, cheeks turning red as you adamantly refused--but, with coaxing and equally adamant reassurances that 'It was fine!' and that you were 'Overreacting!' you'd let her have her way. She'd hastily fastened your hands to the bedposts. The ease in which she'd done it was worrying, to say the least. But she'd promised to let you out, and besides, it was only the cuffs? ...Right?
Wrong.
'Y'know, I've always been kind of curious about these.' She'd dangled a blind fold and what you'd later learn to be a spider-gag in front of you. And again you fell into your usual dynamic. Refusal, coaxing, convincing, inevitably giving in...
It was because you'd trusted her. Really, you did. She was, quite literally, your oldest friend.
Five years your senior, established career and virtually no relationship problems--at least ones you ever heard of. She was gorgeous, too; tall, fiery red hair, soft features and gleaming green eyes, a shapely body and ample bust. And yet, as she finished securing the gag in place, she'd called you a doll. With the blind fold obscuring your vision you'd had no way to know what events would follow next.
You'd heard her leave the room, the distant chatter of a phone-call made in the hallway, the DING-DONG of the doorbell and then footsteps retreating back up the stairs. Only--you strained your ears, shifting uncomfortably where you were on the bed--there wasn't one pair of feet approaching the door, there were two. And the shrill feminine pitch you were expecting to hear was brassy and distinctly masculine. You started as you felt a hand cup--grope--your breast, and all-at-once felt exposed. You heard a tut-tut-tut, and knew instantly it was your husband.
'Isn't she too cute?' You heard from across the room as--presumably your husband--continued to grope your tits. 'I--well, we thought it'd be a nice surprise.'
