Love in His Humility. Part 4.

She succeeded. I failed.

I was sitting at the kitchen table, the morning was gray, the coffee in the mug had long gone cold. She walked in, her long hair gathered in a messy bun, her full lips slightly smiling, but there was something new in her eyes—a firmness mixed with triumph. Her figure, still the same hourglass, was wrapped in a light robe, her size D breasts visible through the fabric. She sat down opposite me, looked straight at me, and said, as if in passing:

— I'm pregnant. One of them impregnated me.

Her words hit like a hammer. My chest tightened, my breath caught. The vasectomy I had years ago made me sterile—I knew

I could never give her offspring, but this… this was different. One of those black guys, whose bodies I had seen on her, whose scents I had smelled, whose semen I had swallowed at her command, had left life inside her. I didn't know which one, and she, it seemed, didn't either. That uncertainty cut even deeper. My mind raced: rage, shame, pain, but somewhere deep down smoldered a dark, sick excitement that I hated in myself. I looked at her, her face was calm, almost radiant. She wasn't asking for forgiveness, wasn't making excuses. She knew I wouldn't leave, that her power over me was stronger than my turmoil. I pictured her with a rounded belly, and that image tore me apart. I should have hated her, them, but instead I felt my place in her life shrinking to a point—I wasn't a husband, not a father, just a shadow that would serve her and their legacy.

— Are you happy for me? — her voice was soft.

I couldn't answer, my throat was dry. My thoughts were tangled: I wanted to scream, to leave, but her gaze held me. I knew I would stay, that I would take care of her, of her offspring that wasn't mine, because she wanted it. Humiliation choked me, but it also bound me to her tighter than love. I nodded, barely perceptibly, and her smile widened. She had won, and I knew it.

A few months later, I was sitting in the living room, the lamp light was dim, shadows crept along the walls. Papers lay on the table in front of me, their whiteness cutting into my eyes. She walked in, her long hair flowing over her shoulders, her robe clinging to her hourglass figure, accentuating her barely rounded belly. Her full lips curved slightly, her eyes were cold, commanding. She sat down opposite me, placed the documents down, and said:

— You will change your last name. To mine.

My heart plummeted into emptiness. My throat tightened, I wanted to say something, but the words stuck.

— Why? — I forced out, my voice hoarse, weak.

She leaned closer, her scent—perfume, skin, her power—hit my nose.

— Because you are mine. Our life—everything will be under my last name. You do want to be with us, right?

I felt my blood freeze. My last name was the last thing connecting me to my lineage, to my ancestors, to who I was. The vasectomy had cut off my future, her lovers had taken her body, and now she was taking my name. My line was ending, I was a dead end, and she wanted me to give everything: my strength, my time, my life—to the fruit of another man. Humiliation choked me like a noose, but her gaze held me, and somewhere deep down smoldered a treacherous heat that I hated.

— It's my name, — I tried to object, but my voice trembled, pathetic.

— Your name means nothing if I decide so. Sign it. You'll change your first name too, I never liked it. There was a lover in my life whom no one surpassed. And you will bear his name, as a reminder, and become at least somewhat manly.

Her fingers touched my hand, light but like shackles. I looked at her, my chest ached, I wanted to scream, to run, but her power was all I had left. Thoughts of my lineage, of being the last one, burned like hot iron. I was to raise another's child, bear her last name, his lover's first name, officially! Serve her until my name disappeared forever. I picked up the pen, my fingers trembled as if betraying me. I signed, each letter like a nail in my coffin. She took the papers, her smile cutting.

— Good boy, — she said, her hand stroked my cheek, as if I were a dog.

I sat, devastated, feeling my "self" drowning in her will. Humiliation squeezed my chest, but I couldn't turn away from her. My lineage was dead, my name erased, and all that remained for me was to serve her family, to another's child, which would become only her legacy, not mine.

She was happy, planning how she would be a mother, and her voice rang with pride.

— He will be strong, — she said, and I knew that "he" was from one of them.

Sometimes her lovers came. Different ones, not as often, but I knew that perhaps one of them was the father. They were tall, muscular, their skin dark, their movements confident. She greeted them with a smile, her eyes glowing, and I turned away when they went into the bedroom. The door wasn't closed tightly, and I heard everything. Her moans, their growls, the creak of the bed, the slap of their bodies. I sat in the living room, clenched my fists, every sound was like a knife in my chest. I imagined them taking her, how her rounded belly didn't hinder them, how she gave herself to them with the same passion as before. They left without looking at me, leaving behind the smell of sweat and sex. She called me, her voice lazy, satisfied:

— Clean up.

I went into the bedroom, the sheets were rumpled, damp spots, traces of passion. I gathered the laundry, washed the floor, wiped away the traces of their presence, and each time my hands touched what they had left behind, humiliation tightened my throat. She lay on the bed, stroking her belly, looking at me with a slight smile, and I knew this was her game. I wasn't a husband, not a father, I was a servant, cleaning up after those who owned her. My pain drowned in her joy, and I hated myself for still being here, still obeying. She locked me in a chastity cage.

I was sitting in the living room, the light was dim, shadows crept along the walls. She walked in, her rounded belly visible under a thin silk robe, her size D breasts swollen, her nipples darkening through the fabric. Her long hair flowed over her shoulders, her full lips curved into a commanding smile, her eyes burned with a cold fire. Behind her stood three of her lovers—tall, muscular, their dark skin gleaming, their gazes heavy,

— I have a surprise. I can't satisfy them anymore. In my condition. But it's time for you to thank them. On your knees, with your mouth and lips.

I froze, my blood turned to ice.

— What? — I forced out, my voice trembling.

— I realized what you thought, — she laughed, — good idea. I wanted you to kiss their hands, but now you'll also give each one a blowjob.

She stepped closer, her hand rested on my chin, forcing me to look into her eyes.

— You've already been a cum dump, — she said, her words hitting like a hammer. — Licked me after them, swallowed their semen. This is the simplest thing you can do. Right now, they're just cocks to you, ordinary after everything you've done… you should be grateful to them.

My chest tightened, humiliation choked me, but her gaze left no choice. I nodded, barely perceptibly, and she smiled, victoriously.

— Get undressed. On your knees, — she ordered.

I took off my clothes, naked, knelt down, the tiles chilled my skin, the chastity cage no longer pinched. I took each one's hand, kissed it, looking into their eyes and saying thank you for impregnating my wife. It was an act of obedience and gratitude. The first one approached, his balls, heavy, covered in coarse hair, were in front of my face. I leaned in, my tongue touched them, the salty taste hit my nose. I licked, slowly, tracing every curve with my tongue, feeling their warmth, their weight. She watched, stroking her belly, her smile cutting. He grabbed my hair, his voice low:

— Now suck.

I opened my mouth, his cock, hard, massive, filled me. He moved roughly, driving it into my throat, I choked, but he didn't stop. He came, hot semen flooded my mouth, I swallowed, gagging, shame burning my face. The second one replaced him, I licked his smooth balls, my tongue slid over them, then his cock entered my mouth, his thrusts were harsh, semen flowed down my chin, I couldn't swallow fast enough. The third was the last, his balls were large, I licked them, plunging my tongue into the folds, then his cock, the biggest, fucked my throat until tears streamed, and his thick semen filled me.

— Now their anuses, — she said, her voice like a blow. But after everything, this wasn't a scary task for me.

The first one turned around, his hand pressed on the back of my head, forcing my face against his anus. My tongue touched warm, slightly rough skin, I licked, tracing the edges, penetrating deeper until he began to growl. The second was next, his anus was tight, I pressed my tongue in, feeling him tense until he moaned. The third pressed my face against his anus, the smell was sharp, I licked, plunging my tongue in until he began to move his hips, spreading them wide to get my tongue deeper.

— Feet, — she ordered. — Kiss and lick each of their toes.

I was broken, my hands trembled, but I obeyed. The first one extended his foot, I leaned down, my lips touched his sole, firm, warm. I kissed each toe, licked them, my tongue slid over the skin, between the toes, the taste of sweat and dust filled my mouth. The second made me lick his heel, then each toe, his nails were rough, I traced them with my tongue until he smirked. The third pushed my head into his foot, I kissed, licked, my tongue worked until he pushed me away.

They grabbed my arms, dragged me to the bathroom. I knelt, the tiles were cold, their shadows loomed over me. She followed, her voice icy:

— Open your mouth.

I obeyed, my mouth was open, their cocks were in front of me. The first one started, a warm stream of urine hit my mouth, I swallowed, its sharp taste mixing with the semen still on my tongue. The second joined, his urine poured over my face, into my mouth, I gagged but swallowed, humiliation tightening my throat. The third finished, his stream was strong, I swallowed, urine flowed down my chin, down my chest. She watched, her hand stroking her belly, her smile cruel.

In the evening, three more came. I was on my knees again, naked, licking their balls, sucking their cocks, swallowing semen, licking anuses, kissing feet, licking toes. In the bathroom, they urinated on me, I swallowed, choked. After a few days, I lost count—ten, fifteen, twenty men? Every evening new faces, new cocks, new semen, new urine. My pain drowned in her joy, and I hated myself for obeying, but I couldn't stop.

Five years have passed. I'm sitting in the same living room, but now everything seems duller, as if the light has faded along with my existence. My lineage has ended—the vasectomy I had years ago made me sterile, the last in my line. This realization, like a rusty nail driven into my soul, reminds me every day. I am not a continuer, not a father, not a man—I am a shadow, locked in her world, where her power is absolute.

The cold metal of the chastity cage has been squeezing my cock all this time, denying it freedom. She said it was for my own good, so I "wouldn't dare cheat," though the thought of cheating was laughable—I belong to her, completely, without a trace. My balls are always swollen, heavy, throbbing with unsatisfied desire. She allows me to come once a month, but not like a man—she presses a vibrator to my balls, and I, writhing in humiliation, spill like a girl under her mocking gaze. "Look how well it suits you," she says, and her laughter cuts deeper than a knife. I hate it, but my body betrays me, submitting to her game every time.

She continues to cheat, her lovers come as before—tall, muscular, their dark skin gleaming, their cocks filling our home. She announced she wants to conceive another, and I know it won't be from me. I hear her moans from the bedroom, see her smile when they leave, and my heart clenches, but I stay silent. In the evenings, I work—I toil at two jobs during the day to support her family, a living reminder and a joke to the neighbors. I'm used to the ritual: I stand on my knees, naked, the chastity cage chilling my skin, and warm up her partners with a blowjob. Their cocks, different in size and taste, enter my mouth, I suck, swallow their semen, lick it off their bodies, off her body, off the sheets. She doesn't do it herself anymore, jokes that I've tried more flavors than she has: "You're an expert now, dear." Her laughter, light and cruel, digs into me, and I feel my worthlessness like never before. Now I understand how easy it is to lose count of sexual partners when I've lost count myself.