Cucky Footbitch Gets A Clip

"Aahh? ..... Mmm...ohhhhh..."

That was it. Two seconds of audio, time-stamped on my phone at 10:41 PM. When I first saw it appear on my phone and hit "play," I couldn't make it out. I had to go get my earbuds, and play it again.

And again, and again.

"Aahh? ..... Mmm...ohhhhh..."

Just two seconds of audio, but so much packed into it, for my tortured imagination to process.

It was Ms. Morrigan, of course; although the pitch of her voice surprised me. She often affects a huskier, more seductive tone when speaking to me; only when she's relaxed -- or distracted -- does the higher, sweeter, almost innocent tone come out. Although there was nothing innocent, I knew, about what was going on right now.

"Aahh? ..... Mmm...ohhhhh..."

I played it again.

I knew she was on a date. It was a date that I had paid for; or at least, much of it. It was a date that I had helped her prepare for. Of course, her bathroom was full of lotions and shampoos and conditioners which she had had me purchase over the previous months, since long before she started taunting me about how much other men enjoyed them. Tonight, she had let me paint her toenails ... an intriguing shade of coral, a striking complement to the seafoam green of the form-fitting ruched dress that she had had me buy for this occasion ... an amazing presentation of her delicious figure, like Venus rising in a Botticelli painting.

I had been her submissive for over a year now, washing her dishes and cleaning her home and rubbing her feet; often naked, with or without a chastity device, depending on what would amuse her on a given evening. I had not been wearing the cage the night she made casual reference to the idea of having me pay for a date with another man. And she had certainly noticed how I reacted; how my semi-erect penis had jumped to attention and slapped me in the belly in two seconds flat.

Two seconds.

And now I was not just her service sub; I was her cuckold.

Two seconds, I thought, and hit play again. "Aahh? ..... Mmm...ohhhhh..."

Only two seconds. And yet so much detail in it.

"Aahh?" A single syllable, no consonants; a gasp, her voice rising at the end as if in surprise.

Then, "..."

How can a pause last so long, contain so much anticipation, when it's just the middle verse of a two-second song?

"Mmm...ohhhh..."

A hum of satisfaction, turning into an exhalation, a moan of pleasure, in the course of a second.

I could only imagine what was happening when that two-second recording was made. And I knew it wasn't just my imagination. I hadn't just paid for the dress and for the dinner for this date. I had paid for a hotel room. This wasn't a date that was going to end with a chaste good-night kiss on the front porch.

Still, my mind was reeling as I considered how this little recording had come to be. Had Ms. Morrigan merely flicked the record button on and off at some random point in their activities, to fulfill her promise to herself to give me a tortuous little thrill, then tossed the phone aside to give her date her undivided attention?

Or had she had the presence of mind to hold on to the device, to record the actual moment of her first orgasm? "Aahh? ..... Mmm...ohhhhh..." I could certainly hear it ... the sharp intake of breath like the moment before a sneeze ... the pause, teetering on the brink, then the release as she let her pleasure cascade over her body ...

Then it occurred to me ... perhaps she hadn't been the one handling the phone at the critical moment. Of course. Her date knew about me; or knew that someone like me existed. She had to have explained why she was picking up the check at dinner. Ms. Morrigan wouldn't have gone out with a man who didn't insist on paying. Unless of course he understood and liked cuckolding the man who was paying.

My stomach tightened at the thought. Yes, the kind of guy who would enjoy cuckolding another man, smirkingly accept an evening's entertainment at that man's expense, relish taking the woman that that man adored -- that's the kind of guy who could both cause and measure the mounting arousal of the woman underneath him, and take a moment in the midst of lovemaking to pick up a phone and record the instant of her petit mort. Consciously and gleefully sticking a knife into my soul, and then dismissing me as casually as he tossed the phone aside, forgetting I existed, concentrating now on taking his own pleasure.

"Aahh? ..... Mmm...ohhhhh...

I could picture them together, all too vividly. I had never met her friend, but she had described him to me. The kind of long hair she loved; except his was jet black, not salt-and-pepper like mine. Younger than me. Virile. Surprisingly, shorter than me ... although, under the circumstances, that gave me no comfort. Bantam rooster, I thought. "A bit of an arrogant bastard," she had conceded.

And he was with her now. In fact, by now, the deed was done, I thought with chagrin. She would have waited until after their first round was over, until after his victorious orgasm, to have retrieved the phone and attached the file to my number and hit "send." He was reclining against the headboard now, basking in the afterglow. And all I had was a reminder, the evidence of what had already happened ... and the dull throbbing discomfort in my chest and between my legs.

I thought back to the last minutes before she left. Her phone had chimed and she had said, "He's just pulling up now. Walk me to the door."

I had been surprised by that. I had been dreading the moment when she sent me to the door to open it for the man who was taking her out on the town, and later to bed. I could imagine meeting him, face to face ... meeting his gaze, then breaking off eye contact first. I had been relieved that he wasn't coming in. And oddly disappointed.

"Key, please," she had said as I helped her put on her lightweight coat. I had handed it to her, feeling my cock swell in its cage with the realization that my last chance for release was walking out the door.

"Hmmm," she had considered. "Perhaps I should invite my date in and have you give the key to him?"

"I ... um ... is that what you want?"

"You're not ready for that yet," she had said with a laugh. I had laughed too, weakly. She knows these things better than I do.

She had put her hand on my chest. "I guess you shouldn't wait up for me," she had said, softly. As if she was coming home tonight at all. As if I hadn't already paid for the hotel room where she would be sleeping in tangled sheets and tangled limbs with another man.

We were in uncharted territory, though. "Should I ... can I ... sleep on your couch?" I had asked.

"Hmmm. And be here tomorrow to welcome me home and bring me coffee and butter my toast? Rub my feet and hear all about my evening?"

I had nodded, eyes wide. It was more than I could hope for.

"I suppose we could do something like that," she had said, reaching up to stroke my cheek. "Or ..."

Or?

"Or, you know, you could go home to your lonely apartment and sit and think about what I'm doing, all night. And maybe I'll send you an update."

I gulped. She cupped the side of my face in her small, soft hand.

"Now, be honest," she had continued. "Which one do you think would give me more pleasure?"

So here I am, sitting in my lonely apartment, aching in my cage. Listening to two seconds of audio. For the two hundredth time.

"Aahh? ..... Mmm...ohhhhh..."