Greeting

The doorbell rang, surprising you; he wasn't supposed to pick your wife up for another fifteen minutes and she wasn't finished dressing yet-you still had to help her with a garter belt and stockings. 

You wife slipped into heels-she knew he liked them-went to answer the door with you a few steps behind her. You hated seeing her walk into the foyer like this, half dressed, but what could you say?

"Hey, baby," she said, letting him in, kissing him passionately. "Sorry, we were still getting me dressed and I have to finish," she said.

He took her, spun her around, kissed her neck. "I hope that includes stockings," he said, looking at you as picking lingerie for her to wear when she was with him was your responsibility.

You swallowed, intimidated by him as always. "Y...yes, Sir," you said.

"That's a good boy," he smiled, looking between your legs, "seems like you're learning."

You blushed. It had been two months since he insisted on the cage. "Your role is to support her," he said, "your pleasure comes from her pleasure, not mindlessly jerking off."

You were skeptical, reluctant, but as the weeks went by, as your last orgasm faded, you found yourself in a state of constant arousal with your only sexual outlet found by pleasing your wife-massages, kissing, hugs, oral. The more you did these things, the more aroused you got so the more you wanted to do them.

To your wife, nothing delineated your role versus his than the different ways you both approached her. His was confident, sexual, masculine, a lion taking his lioness, raw, passionate. Yours was submissive, service oriented. You pampered her, pleasured her, and given your state of constant arousal, did so like her pleasure was the only thing in the world.

Because it was.