The Spare Room Part 3

Another day ends in the familiar silence of the spare room, the door locking behind me like a final period on my autonomy. My body tenses, adjusting to the loneliness, but my mind is restless, caught in the web of conflicting emotions. There’s the sharp sting of angst, remembering nights spent listening through the device my wife and her regular now call "my sex life." But arousal soon follows—after all, isn't the memory of my torment part of what fuels my desire?

Their voices filter through the listening device—not whispers of passion, but something more intimate in its own way. Just two lovers, discussing their days, their thoughts, and, occasionally, me. There’s no sex tonight, but the way they speak about me, their amusement and consideration, makes my skin prickle with awareness. I am the unspoken presence in their relationship, the audience to a play written without me in mind.

When the door finally unlocks, I slip into routine. My morning is spent stripping away any trace of masculinity—razor gliding over my skin, creams softening the surface, ensuring every inch of me is smooth and feminine. I deliberate over my choice of panties and sissy socks, knowing that this decision defines my presentation for the day. I carefully consider the textures, the colors, ensuring they complement each other perfectly. I want her to notice, to see the effort I put in. But when my wife finally glances up from her coffee, her response is absentminded, dismissive. "That'll do," she says, and the weight of those two simple words sinks in, deflating me.

At work, the distractions are constant. My mind drifts to earlier moments of shame and longing, my thighs brushing together, the whisper of fabric against my skin a reminder of my place. Each time I cross my legs, my socks peek out—does anyone notice? Does anyone suspect? The uncertainty is intoxicating.

Back home, the transition is immediate. Clothes are stripped away, leaving me in nothing but my assigned garments. There are other rituals—small degradations that reinforce my place, each one another thread binding me deeper into this life. Upon entering, I am required to kneel in front of my wife and kiss her feet, whispering my gratitude for being allowed back into her presence. After this, I must stand with my hands behind my back as she performs a quick inspection, running her fingers over my smooth skin to ensure I have maintained my feminine softness to her standards.

Cooking dinner is one of my duties. The scent of food fills the kitchen as I prepare a meal for the three of us, but when the plates are set, I retreat, eating alone as they dine together. Their laughter drifts in from the other room, a reminder that I serve, not partake. Occasionally, my wife calls me in, but not to join them—she gestures to a spot beside her chair, where I kneel while they continue to eat, listening to their casual conversation, feeling like an outsider in my own home. My wife's regular, with a smirk, might comment on how lucky I am to witness their connection, his words laced with amusement at my predicament. Sometimes, she reaches down absently, stroking my hair as she would a pet, a casual display of ownership that sends heat coursing through my body, even as my stomach knots with longing and jealousy. I am the third wheel, not just in their relationship but in my own home, an observer, never truly included.

After dinner, I clear the table, carefully gathering their plates, utensils, and glasses before carrying them to the sink. I scrub each dish meticulously, ensuring no trace of food remains, the hot water stinging my hands. Every detail matters—wiping down the counters, sweeping up any crumbs, and polishing the stove to a pristine shine. I ensure the kitchen is spotless, knowing my wife expects nothing less. As I work, I can still hear their voices drifting in from the other room, their laughter occasionally punctuated by murmured words I can’t quite make out. I pause for a moment, my fingers tightening around the sponge, before shaking off the feeling and finishing my task.

With the kitchen finally in perfect order, I hesitate for a brief moment, unsure of where to go. Instead of simply retreating to the background, I find myself lingering at the edge of the living room, waiting for some unspoken permission to sit. My wife glances at me and gestures toward the floor near the couch, wordlessly directing me to my designated place. I kneel by the couch, the hard wooden floor biting into my skin. They lounge in warmth, wrapped in soft blankets, close enough for whispered words and shared glances. Their bodies are entangled in a way that makes their connection undeniable, while I sit apart, cold and uncomfortable, my presence tolerated but never embraced. My wife might share an inside joke with her regular, something that makes them both laugh softly while I stare at the television, pretending not to notice the growing sense of exclusion pressing down on me. I am there, but not truly part of the moment, a third wheel in every sense.

At the end of the evening, I must prepare their bed, fluffing their pillows and ensuring everything is in place for their comfort. Only then am I permitted to retire to the spare room—"the cuckold's room," as they now call it. My wife guides me there, ensuring "my sex life" is turned on before she turns to leave. She pauses, eyes flicking downward, amusement curling her lips as she sees the damp outline on my panties. A flick to my tiny bulge makes me whimper, her giggle laced with condescension. "I hope you have a good night," she teases. "I know I plan to." And with that, the door closes, leaving me in the dark, arousal and emptiness intertwining until sleep finally claims me.

A collaboration between my mind and my Mysterious Trainer—pushing me further each day.