The Landlord's Terms chapter 3 (fm:cuckold, 3952 words) [3/4] show all parts

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My stomach tightened. I knew our plumbing was old, but this felt... convenient. Too convenient.

"A leak?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even. "We haven't noticed anything."

"Yeah, well, these old pipes, you know," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "They can have slow leaks. Can't see 'em 'til the damage is done. I gotta come in, do a full maintenance inspection. Check all the plumbing."

The words hung in the air, heavy and loaded. A full inspection. My mind immediately went to the places the pipes ran: the kitchen, the bathroom... and our bedroom. He wanted inside. Not just in our apartment, but in our most private spaces.

"When were you thinking?" I asked, already dreading the answer.

He took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, his piggy eyes fixed on me over the glowing tip. "This weekend's best for me. Saturday morning. Need you both here," he added, his gaze flicking to Chloe. "In case I need a hand holding something steady."

The innuendo was so thick I could have choked on it. He wanted an audience. He wanted to parade his power in front of both of us, to invade our weekend, our sanctuary. My first instinct was to refuse, to tell him to schedule it with the building's super like a normal landlord. My jaw was tight, the protest already forming on my lips.

But then Chloe squeezed my hand again, harder this time. I looked at her. Her face was a mask of placid neutrality, but I saw the challenge in her eyes. It was a dare. A silent communication that passed between us in a heartbeat. Let him, her eyes said. Let's see what happens.

She was the one who answered, her voice as smooth and calm as a still lake. "Of course, Mr. Henderson. Saturday morning is perfect. We'll be here."

The smug, triumphant grin that spread across his face was almost unbearable. He had won. He had set the terms, and we had just agreed to them. He nodded once, a curt, dismissive gesture, and sauntered down the hall, his wheezing cough echoing behind him.

We stood there in silence for a moment after he was gone. The smell of his cheap cigarette smoke still hung in the air, a foul reminder of his presence.

"Are you sure about this, Chloe?" I finally asked, my voice low.

She turned to me, and for the first time, I saw the full extent of the change in her. The fear and hesitation were gone, replaced by a cool, unnerving confidence. A dangerous, thrilling light danced in her green eyes.

"He wants to play a game, Mark," she said, her lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. "Let's play."

Saturday morning arrived with a sense of quiet, humming dread. The air in our apartment was thick with anticipation. Chloe was a study in contrasts. She moved around the kitchen making coffee, her body relaxed and fluid in a pair of soft, loose-fitting lounge shorts and one of my old t-shirts. But her eyes held that new, sharp glint, a look of focused intent that made my stomach flutter.

Henderson knocked at precisely ten o'clock. He was dressed for the part of a handyman in the same way a child dresses for Halloween—a stained work shirt, jeans that had seen better days, and a rusty toolbox that looked like it had been salvaged from a shipwreck. It was all a performance, and we were his captive audience.

"Alright, let's see this leak," he grunted, brushing past me without making eye contact. His gaze immediately found Chloe.

He started in the kitchen, making a great show of poking around under the sink, his grunts and sighs echoing in the small space. He made us both stand there, watching him, a power play so obvious it was almost laughable. He didn't find anything, of course.

Then he moved to the bathroom. The mood shifted instantly. The space was small, intimate, our toothbrushes in a cup on the counter, Chloe's scented soaps on the shelf. His presence in here felt like a gross violation.

"Gonna need more light," he rasped, gesturing toward the small vanity cabinet. "Hand me that little flashlight, will ya, sweetheart?"

He positioned himself by the toilet, forcing Chloe to squeeze past him in the narrow space to get the light. I stood in the doorway, my arms crossed, a helpless spectator. I watched as she leaned over to hand it to him, her t-shirt riding up slightly in the back, exposing the pale, smooth skin of her lower back and the hint of her underwear band. His eyes darted to the exposed skin, a quick, hungry glance.

"Hold it right there," he commanded, pointing to a spot on the wall behind the toilet. "Need to check this fitting."

She did as he asked, her arm extended, her body just inches from his. He fiddled with a pipe for a minute, his movements clumsy and slow. I saw his arm brush against her ass, a lingering, "accidental" touch. She didn't flinch. She just held the light steady, her expression unreadable.

"Thanks, doll," he finally grunted, pulling back. He looked at me, a smug smirk playing on his lips. "Nothing here. Must be in the bedroom."

He led the way, his heavy footsteps thudding on the floor. Our bedroom, our sanctuary, felt instantly smaller, dirtier, with him in it. The unmade bed, the pile of Chloe's clothes on a chair—all of our intimate, daily mess was on display for him.

He walked over to the window, the one that overlooked the building's dreary air shaft. "Yeah, sometimes the main stack runs behind this wall here," he said, tapping the plaster with a grimy knuckle. "Gotta check the baseboard."

He knelt down, his bulk straining the seams of his jeans. He made Chloe stand beside him, a silent assistant. He was deliberately drawing it out, milking the tension, making us wait. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was a predator playing with his food, and we were trapped in the cage with him.

I stood in the doorway of our bedroom, a silent, useless sentry. Henderson was still kneeling by the window, his back to me, making a show of examining the baseboard. Chloe stood beside him, patient and still. The air was so thick with tension I could taste it, a metallic tang on my tongue.

"Gonna need a better look at this lock," Henderson grunted, pushing himself to his feet with a wheeze. He walked over to our bedroom door, the one I was leaning against, and I had to step back into the hallway to give him room.

He fiddled with the old brass knob, turning it back and forth. The lock on our bedroom door was original to the building, a finicky, temperamental thing we rarely used. He jiggled it, pushed it, and then, with a loud, definitive CLICK, the bolt shot home.

He rattled the knob again, this time with theatrical helplessness. "Well, damn," he announced, his voice booming in the quiet hallway. "Thing's stuck. Old building. Guess I'll have to fix this, too. Gonna take some time."

He turned and looked at Chloe, who was still inside the room. A slow, triumphant, and utterly vile smirk spread across his fleshy face. The trap was sprung.

I was on one side of the door. They were on the other.

I heard his footsteps move away from the door, deeper into the room. His voice dropped to a low, menacing murmur, the words muffled but the intent perfectly clear. I pressed my ear against the cool wood of the door, my heart a frantic, panicked bird beating against my ribs.

"Well, Chloe," I heard his gravelly voice, now stripped of all pretense. "Looks like we're stuck. And you know, my extra time... it isn't free."

There was a pause. I held my breath, straining to hear her response. I heard a soft, resigned sigh, a sound that was both a surrender and a signal.

Then I heard a sound that made my blood freeze and my cock stir with a jolt of pure, shameful electricity. It was the soft, whispering slide of fabric against skin. The sound of her t-shirt being pulled over her head.

My mind, a willing traitor, began to paint the picture. I saw her standing there in our bedroom, the soft morning light from the window tracing the lines of her body. I saw him, Henderson, his eyes crawling over her, devouring her.

"That's a good start," his voice rumbled, thick with lust. "But I want to see everything. Take it all off. Down to your underwear. I want to see what my best tenant is working with. A little... private inspection."

I squeezed my eyes shut, but it was useless. The images were already burning behind my eyelids. I heard the faint rasp of a zipper, the soft rustle of her lounge shorts sliding down her long, toned legs and pooling at her ankles. My beautiful wife was standing in her underwear for this disgusting, worthless man. In our bedroom. While I stood just feet away, listening.

"Perfect," he breathed. I could hear the wetness in his voice. "Just fucking perfect. Those tits... and that ass... a work of art."

I heard a soft gasp from Chloe, a small, involuntary sound of shock or perhaps... something else. My own breath hitched in my throat.

"So wet for me already," Henderson's voice was a low growl now, predatory and triumphant. "You wanted this, didn't you? You've been waiting for this."

I didn't hear her reply. I didn't need to. The sounds that followed told me everything.

It started with a wet, slick, sliding sound. A sound so intimate, so private, it felt like a physical violation to hear it. It was the sound of his thick, clumsy fingers moving against her. My mind supplied the rest: his grimy hand on her smooth skin, his fingers finding their way under the waistband of her panties, finding her already damp and ready.

"Oh," Chloe breathed. It wasn't a word, just a soft exhalation of air, a sound of pure, unadulterated sensation.

The wet sounds grew more insistent, more rhythmic. I could hear the soft friction of his fingers against her, the slick, sliding cadence of his exploration. He was touching her. He was inside her. In our room. On our bed? No, they were still standing. I pictured her backed against the wall, his hand between her legs, her head thrown back.

Then came her moan.

It started low in her throat, a soft, mewling whimper that was nothing like the sounds she made with me. This was different. This was the sound of someone losing control, of her body betraying her will. The moan grew in pitch and volume, a rising wave of pure, helpless pleasure.

"That's it," Henderson grunted, his own breathing becoming harsh and ragged. "Let your husband hear you. Let him hear how much you like it."

Her moans became more frantic, punctuated by sharp, gasping breaths. I was pressed against the door, my forehead cool against the wood, my knuckles white as I gripped the frame. I was trapped, a prisoner forced to listen to the auditory evidence of my wife's submission. My jealousy was a roaring fire, but the arousal was a tidal wave, drowning everything else. My cock was a painful, throbbing ache in my pants, straining against the fabric.

I heard the bedsprings creak as he pushed her down. The sounds became louder, wetter, more desperate. He was fucking her with his fingers, his hand a relentless engine of pleasure, and she was coming apart for him.

Her final cry was a raw, guttural scream, muffled by the door but still powerful enough to make my entire body jolt. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated orgasm, a sound of complete and total surrender. It went on and on, a shattering, primal wail that was the most agonizing and erotic thing I had ever heard.

The silence that followed was absolute. All I could hear was the frantic pounding of my own heart and the sound of Chloe's ragged, shuddering breaths from the other side of the door.

I stood frozen in the hallway, my body trembling with the aftershocks of what I had just heard. The silence from behind the door was a heavy, suffocating blanket. My mind was a chaotic mess, replaying her scream, the wet sounds, Henderson's triumphant grunts.

Then, the sound I was dreading. The sharp, metallic click of the lock being turned.

My instincts screamed at me to run, to hide, to not have to face him. But I was rooted to the spot. The door swung open, and Henderson filled the frame. He was flushed, his face slick with a sheen of sweat. He looked at me, and his lips curled into that familiar, disgusting smirk, but this time it was different. It was the smile of a conqueror. It was filled with a smug, proprietary satisfaction that made my stomach clench.

"All fixed," he rasped, his voice thick with post-coital laziness. He had the audacity to pat me on the shoulder as he squeezed past me in the narrow hall. "She's a real handful, your wife."

I didn't watch him leave. I couldn't take my eyes off the open doorway to my bedroom. I took a hesitant step forward, then another, my feet feeling like lead. I pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside.

The air was thick with the scent of sex. It was a raw, musky odor, the smell of her arousal and his sweat, a smell that had no business being in our room. And there she was.

She was sitting on the edge of our bed, the one we shared every night. She was wearing only her bra and panties, the simple cotton set looking shockingly vulnerable on her now. Her honey-blonde hair was a mess, her face was flushed, and her full lips were slightly swollen. Her body was still trembling, the faint, residual tremors of the powerful orgasm he had just given her. She had her arms wrapped around her waist, as if holding herself together.

She didn't look at me. She just stared at the floor, her shoulders slumped. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of her ragged breathing.

I walked over and sat down beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping with my weight. I didn't touch her. I didn't know how. What do you say to the woman you love after you've just listened to another man make her scream with pleasure?

"Chloe," I finally managed, my voice a hoarse whisper.

She finally looked up at me, and her green eyes were swimming with a complex storm of emotions. Shame, defiance, arousal, and a deep, unnerving sadness.

I didn't ask what happened. I didn't have to. I told her what I heard.

"I heard you," I said, my voice low and steady, belying the chaos raging inside me. "I heard everything."

A single tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. "I'm sorry, Mark..."

"Don't be," I cut her off, my own voice surprising me with its intensity. I reached out and gently wiped the tear away with my thumb. "Tell me."

She looked at me, confused. "Tell you what? You heard it."

"No," I said, my heart starting to pound with a dark, insistent rhythm. "I heard the sounds. I want to hear it from you. I want you to tell me what he did. What he... felt like."

Her eyes widened. She saw the look on my face, the raw hunger, the desperate need. She understood. This wasn't about comfort or forgiveness. This was about the fantasy. This was the next step.

She took a deep breath, and the story began to spill out of her, her voice a low whisper. She described the feeling of his grimy hand on her skin, the way he pushed her against the wall. She told me how he'd ripped her t-shirt when he pulled it off.

"His fingers were so thick, Mark," she whispered, her gaze locked with mine. "And rough. Not like yours. He just... he knew where to touch. He didn't even ask. He just found it, and he started..."

My cock was fully hard now, a painful, throbbing ache against my zipper. I reached out and took her hand, lacing my fingers with hers.

"Did you like it?" I asked, the question feeling like a betrayal on my tongue. "Did it feel good?"

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I didn't want to," she breathed. "I tried to think of you, of anything else. But my body... it just... it wouldn't listen. It felt... so good. I couldn't stop it."

The confession was a lit match on gasoline. The image of her body betraying her, of her coming apart for him while her mind fought against it, was the most intensely erotic thing I had ever imagined.

"Show me," I whispered, my voice thick with a lust so profound it scared me. "Show me where he touched you."

Her breath hitched. Slowly, her free hand moved. She guided my hand from hers, down her flat stomach, her fingers trembling slightly. She led my hand lower, past the waistband of her panties, until my fingers found the damp, tangled curls of her pubic hair. She pressed my hand against herself, and I could feel the heat of her, the slick wetness left behind by his touch.

"Right there," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut. "He just kept rubbing, right there."

I moved my fingers, mimicking the motion she described, the motion I had heard through the door. She let out a sharp, shuddering gasp, her hips instinctively bucking against my hand.

"And then?" I pressed, my voice a low growl.

"And then he pushed inside," she moaned, her head falling back. "He was so rough..."

I replaced my fingers with my mouth, my tongue finding her, tasting her. She tasted of her own unique, sweet musk, but underneath it, I could taste the faint, salty tang of him. The taste of another man on my wife. The thought was so vile, so humiliating, it almost made me gag. And my cock had never been harder.

I pushed her back onto the bed, our bed, the same bed where she had just been violated and pleasured. I was on top of her, inside her, my movements frantic, desperate. Our lovemaking wasn't just sex; it was a confession, a punishment, and a celebration all at once. As I fucked her, I made her tell me everything. I made her describe the look in his eyes, the feel of his breath on her skin, the sound of her own moans. Each dirty detail she fed me was another log on the fire, pushing us both higher and higher, until we were consumed by it.

As I came inside her, screaming her name, I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that we had crossed a line from which we could never return. And the most fucked up part? I didn't want to.

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Merlin writes Mon 7 Jul 2025 08:38:

Don't stop. Wonderful progression.

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Merlin (guest) writes Sun 6 Jul 2025 19:47:

Most excellent. please don't stop.

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