The Servant My Wife and I Chose Together

I’ve been married to Camila for six years, and I still can’t get used to how lucky I am. My name is Marcos, I’m over six feet tall, and I work in an architecture studio that makes me live in a dress shirt and slacks five days a week. At home, though, I’m another man. The gym left me with a body Camila likes to touch, especially my hairy chest, which she forbids me to shave.

Camila has waist-length hair, almost black, with a sheen that makes her look like she stepped out of an old postcard. Her eyes are honey-colored and light up when something really interests her. She has wide hips, big tits with dark nipples, and a mouth she bites without noticing when she’s thinking something she hasn’t decided to say yet. We’re both bisexual, open in bed and even more open in the conversations that come after.

One Sunday afternoon, the two of us sprawled on the sofa watching a series neither of us was following, and she turned off the screen and turned her body toward me.

“My love,” she said, resting her hand on my chest. “This is getting away from us.”

I understood immediately. We’d been living with dust in the corners for weeks, clothes piled on the chair in the bedroom, breakfast dishes still in the sink at six in the evening. Between both our jobs and our social commitments, the apartment had become a pending chore.

“The cleaning?” I asked.

“Yes. We need someone to come twice a week. A proper housekeeper. Otherwise we’re going to spend Sundays mopping instead of in bed.”

The idea was reasonable. And that’s where it should have ended, because my head is what it is, and my head went somewhere else.

“A housekeeper…” I repeated, drawing the word out until she raised an eyebrow. “What if instead of a housekeeper we look for something a little more entertaining? Imagine someone who cleans and, while he’s at it, helps us relax.”

Camila burst out laughing, her whole body shaking. She looked at me the way she does when she knows I’m saying something I shouldn’t, and yet it interests her.

“You’re a pig,” she said, stabbing her index finger into my chest. “But the idea isn’t bad. Do you have something in mind, or are you improvising?”

I sat up a little so I could look at her better. I brushed a lock of hair off her face.

“A submissive,” I said slowly, weighing her reaction. “A man. A real submissive. Not a weekend thing, not someone who comes over for two hours to play and then goes home to his partner. Someone who wants to serve.”

“Serve how?” she asked, her voice already a little rougher.

“Clean the house, cook if we tell him to, dress however we say, and be available to the two of us. Before I met you, I went out with several guys like that. I swear that fantasy is more common than it seems. There are whole forums, ads, communities. If we post something well written, we’ll have fifty candidates in a week.”

Camila bit her lower lip. I knew that signal well. It was the signal that the idea had fitted itself somewhere in her head and wasn’t coming back out.

“Keep going,” she said. “Tell me how we’d dress him.”

I lowered my voice, not because anyone was listening, but because I liked the way her face lit up when I lowered my voice.

“No ridiculous apron. A maid’s dress, but short, black lace, tight to the body. So short that when he bends down to mop the floor, nothing is left covered. Stockings, garters, everything. And he’d wear it from the moment he walked in the door until the moment he left.”

She was already breathing differently. She’d dropped one hand to my thigh and left it there, resting, as if the pressure alone were an answer. I felt her fingers start walking upward, searching for the bulge that had already grown inside my slacks.

“He’d have to be bisexual,” I went on, my voice a little tighter. “We don’t need someone who only wants me or only wants you. He has to desire both of us. But the rule is clear: his cock is decoration. It’s not touched, not used, not relieved. The only things of his we’re going to use are his mouth and his ass.”

Camila climbed on top of me and planted her knees at my sides. I felt her settle over the erection already trapped under my dress pants. She leaned down and spoke into my ear, her lips brushing my earlobe.

“I want one,” she whispered. “I want us to look for him. And I want to see you with him first. I want to see you open him up, prepare him, get him ready. Then it’s my turn.”

She straightened slowly, her hands on my chest, and started moving her hips over me. It wasn’t a disguised rub: it was an open sway, seeking the friction of the fly against her clit through the fabric of her dress. I watched her face change, eyes narrowing, mouth parting. I grabbed her ass with both hands beneath the skirt and sank my fingers into the flesh. She wasn’t wearing panties.

“Whore,” I told her in her ear, and she let out a husky laugh that broke into a gasp. “You’re soaking wet just thinking about him.”

“I’m soaking wet thinking about you fucking him,” she shot back, and she grabbed the back of my neck to smash my mouth against hers.

We kissed with our teeth. I yanked the dress over her head and she was left on the sofa above me, braless, her tits swinging at face level. I took one with my mouth and bit her nipple until it hardened and she let out a short moan. I switched to the other. Meanwhile she was fumbling for my belt with blind, clumsy fingers until she managed to unbuckle it, pull down my zipper, and slip a hand into my boxer briefs. When she got my cock out into the open, she gripped it firmly, weighed it in her hand, and looked at me smiling.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “Hard as a rock from talking about another guy.”

She got down off the sofa and knelt on the rug between my legs. She finished pulling my pants down to my knees and took the base of my cock in both hands. Before taking it into her mouth, she looked up at me from below, her honey-colored eyes blazing, and stuck out her tongue to lick me from the balls to the tip in one long, slow pass. Her whole body trembled as she did it. She likes sucking it as much as I like having it sucked.

She took it all. The first time she shoved it down her throat, she had to grab my wrist so I wouldn’t grab her hair too fast. Then she started bobbing her head at a rhythm I know by heart, her tongue circling the glans every time she came back up. When she had me in the back of her throat, she’d stay there for a few seconds, letting the tip brush her throat, and breathe out through her nose until her eyes watered. I looked down at her with my open hand against her nape, not squeezing, just supporting her weight.

“Like that, my life, like that,” I told her. “Suck me the same way you’re going to make him suck you later.”

The mere idea of having another guy kneeling beside her, competing for the same cock, made her moan with my dick filling her mouth. I pulled out before she could make me come and hauled her up by the hair, not violently but firmly. I turned her around against the back of the sofa. I spread her legs with a gentle kick and ran two fingers through her cunt. She was dripping. They went in without resistance, all the way, and she let her head fall back against the sofa.

“Fuck me,” she begged. “Fuck me now, don’t make me wait.”

I stood behind her, grabbed her hips, and drove my cock into her in one thrust. The scream she let out must have reached the neighbor next door. I started moving hard, without pause, each slap of my pelvis against her ass sounding dry in the living room. I grabbed her hair with my left hand, twisted it around my fist, and pulled until her back arched. My other hand I pressed flat against her lower belly, feeling my own cock inside her every time I drove in.

“Tell me more,” I demanded, never stopping fucking her. “Tell me what you’re going to do to the submissive.”

She was panting in broken bursts between thrusts.

“I’m going to make him… I’m going to make him suck my cunt… while you fuck his ass… I want to see his face… I want to see his face while you come inside him…”

I bit her shoulder. I dropped one hand to her clit and started rubbing it in circles, without stopping the thrusts, until I felt her clenching all around my cock. She came with my name on her lips, her legs trembling and her hands dug into the back of the sofa. I held on a few seconds longer, turned her over again, threw her onto the cushions, and came over her tits in one long rush that streaked her from neck to navel. She ran her fingers through it, brought them to her mouth, and smiled at me with shiny lips.

“We post the ad tomorrow,” she told me.

***

The doorbell rang at ten on the dot, two weeks later.

We had posted the ad on a specialized forum and the responses came in like a river. Fifty-three emails in four days. We filtered out the ones who wrote without punctuation, the ones who sent retouched photos with filters, the ones who asked for short sessions or charged money instead of serving. Seven were left. After a couple of video calls with each one, he was the one left standing.

His name was Daniel. Twenty-five years old, thin, tousled brown hair, big brown eyes that had something fawnlike when he opened them all the way. On screen he looked nervous in a way Camila and I had liked: not fake humility, real nerves. We’d insisted on one single prior condition: that he come without a phone, without a camera, without a smartwatch. Whatever happened inside the apartment stayed there.

I opened the door and he honored the deal. Plain worn T-shirt, ripped jeans at one knee, old sneakers. No backpack, no bag, nothing. Just what he was wearing.

“Hi, I’m Daniel,” he said, and his voice came out a little lower than I remembered from the calls. His eyes moved from me to Camila, who had come up to the doorway with her arms crossed.

“Come in,” I said.

He came in the way someone walks into a church that isn’t theirs. He stood in the middle of the living room with his hands clasped in front of him, not knowing where to put them. Camila started walking around him, slowly, measuring him from head to toe.

“Thanks for coming, Daniel,” she said. “As we explained, we’re going to pay you the same hourly rate a professional housekeeper charges. That’s for the housework. The rest isn’t paid. It’s agreed.”

He swallowed and nodded.

“Yes. I understand perfectly.”

I walked over to the chair where we had laid out the clothes. The black lace dress, the stockings, the garter belt, all folded carefully. I pointed at them with my chin.

“That’s your work clothes. You’re putting them on now, here, in front of us.”

Daniel looked at the set, then at Camila, then at me. There was no doubt on his face, only a small tremor in his hands. He took a step toward the chair and, before touching the fabric, stopped.

“There’s one thing,” he said, and his voice cracked a little. “The cage. Please. No cage.”

Camila came closer. She lifted his chin with one finger and made him look at her.

“And why not, sweetheart? Afraid of a little metal?”

He shook his head, cheeks flushed.

“It’s not fear. It’s just that… it hurts me. And I know I’m going to be hard the whole time with the two of you. The pressure inside the cage leaves bruises. It’s real. It’s not a whim.”

There was a silence. Camila and I exchanged a look over his head. The idea of having him caged had appealed to both of us over those two weeks; the idea of seeing him endure an erection hour after hour with nothing he could do about it was the other side of the coin and, in some ways, it worked for us too.

“All right,” I said. “No cage. But your cock doesn’t belong to you. If it gets hard, you endure it. You don’t touch it, you don’t relieve yourself, you don’t go off to the bathroom for a minute to take care of it. It’s our decoration. Understood?”

“Yes,” he answered at once, almost with relief. “I accept. All of it.”

“Get changed,” Camila ordered, stepping back for a better view.

His hands were still trembling, but he used them. He took off his T-shirt, then his jeans, then his briefs. His skin was pale, hairless, unmarked. By the time he was naked, his cock was already halfway up, throbbing in the living room air, living proof that the cage wasn’t an exaggeration. Camila looked at it openly, assessed it the way someone assesses a piece of furniture before buying it, and gave it a little push with two fingers underneath, forcing it to lift and slap against the lower belly. Daniel clenched his teeth.

“Nice,” she said calmly. “Too bad you’re not going to use it here.”

He put on the stockings awkwardly, then the garter belt, and finally pulled the dress over his head. The fabric fell over him and tightened to his body. His nipples showed through the lace. The skirt barely covered the start of his ass and trapped his cock against his stomach, outlined under the black lace as if the fabric were embracing it.

He stood in front of us with his hands clasped again, waiting. Twenty-five years old, dressed as a maid, with a taut erection under a skirt that didn’t cover a thing, ready to clean our apartment.

***

Camila came closer again and circled him once all the way around. When she reached his back, she lifted the skirt two fingers with the tip of her own, exposing the pale curve of his ass. Daniel held his breath. She smiled and ran her open palm over one cheek, slowly, testing the firmness. Then she slipped her middle finger between the two cheeks and let it rest against his asshole for a second, not pressing, just marking ownership. Daniel let out a tiny gasp that he tried to swallow.

“I like it,” she said. “Fits well. And this ass is going to be mine before the day is over.”

She stepped away and crossed her arms again.

“Start with the kitchen. I want the dishes washed, the counter gleaming, and the floor spotless. When you’re done, come get us so we can give you the next task.”

She paused and added the rule we had defined the night before.

“One more thing, Daniel. Every time you go into a room to clean, lower the blind. We don’t want spectators outside. Here inside we do whatever the hell we want.”

“Yes, mistress. Thank you for the instructions,” he said, with a submission that sounded like relief.

He turned and walked toward the kitchen. The skirt swayed with each step, and with each step you could see his firm white ass, contrasting with the black garter straps. He was a walking invitation, and we watched him from the sofa without saying a word, like two spectators at a play that had only just begun.

When he reached the kitchen doorway, he stopped. He stretched his arm to the blind cord and pulled, slowly. The fabric came down with a whisper and the kitchen fell into dimness. A second later, we heard the tap turn on and, right after that, the clatter of dishes in the sink.

Camila settled against me on the sofa, laid her head on my shoulder, and slipped her hand beneath my shirt. Her fingers went straight to my nipple and pinched it slowly until I hardened. Then she went down, unhurried, to the fly of my pants, opened it, and slipped her hand inside.

“You’re hard again already,” she murmured against my neck.

“I’ve been hard since he took his briefs off,” I answered.

She smiled and started stroking me slowly, her hand tight, rotating her wrist when she reached the glans. From the other side of the door came the noise of a twenty-five-year-old boy scrubbing in a black lace dress, breathing in short bursts, holding back an erection he couldn’t tend to. Every so often, the clatter of a dish in the sink was cut off by a short gasp he tried to hide. The two of us listened in silence, and with each gasp of his Camila tightened her hand a little more around my cock.

“Listen to him,” she whispered. “He’s about to burst and we still haven’t touched a hair on him.”

I took her wrist and brought her hand to her mouth. She understood, licked her palm, and lowered it again, now with saliva. The friction changed, became slicker, and I sank a little deeper into the sofa, letting her manage the rhythm. With my free hand I reached for her cunt beneath the short pants she was wearing and found her, as always, without panties. She was soaked. I slid two fingers into her and she dropped her head against my shoulder, mouth open.

“This is only the beginning,” she murmured, her voice trembling with pleasure.

And she was right.