Blowjob Mask Wife – The Case of Reiko Takahashi** **Subtitle: The Office Wife Who Learned to Open Her Mouth on Command**

**Blowjob Mask Wife – The Case of Reiko Takahashi**

Subtitle: The Office Wife Who Learned to Open Her Mouth on Command

Reiko Takahashi had always believed she was ordinary.

Short, neatly cut dark hair that framed a soft face. Large breasts that made tailored blouses a constant negotiation. A polite smile she had practiced for years. Six years of marriage to a quiet, reliable man who came home on time and never asked too many questions. At the company she was known as the dependable one—the woman who stayed late without complaint, who never gossiped, who kept her desk immaculate.

No one looked at her and saw a woman who would one day kneel on the floor of the President’s private meeting room with a thick rubber mask sealed across the lower half of her face, saliva running down her chin while a cock stretched the open hole of that mask to its limit.

It began, as these things often did, with overtime.

The President had asked her to stay behind after the others left. The request was ordinary. The smile he gave her was not. He closed the door, locked it, and placed a dark object on the polished desk between them.

The mask.

It was the same design she would later learn other wives had worn—thick black rubber, narrow eye slits, a rigid open circle where the mouth should be, heavy straps that buckled at the back of the head. The inner rim of the mouth hole was designed to press against the teeth and keep the jaw forced wide.

“Put it on,” he said.

Reiko stared at it. Her heart was already beating too fast. She told herself she should refuse. She told herself she should walk out. Instead her fingers rose, almost without her permission, and lifted the mask.

The rubber was cool against her skin. She settled the upper edge against her forehead, aligned the eye openings, and pulled the mouth section down. The inner ring forced her lips apart immediately. Her tongue touched the smooth interior and recoiled. She reached back with both hands and tightened the buckles one by one until the mask sealed with no give left.

Breathing became a conscious, restricted act. Air entered only through the narrow slits. Every inhale made a soft, needy sound. Every exhale fogged the inside of the rubber for a moment before fading.

The President watched her the entire time.

When the final buckle clicked he nodded once, satisfied.

“On your knees.”

She dropped.

The carpet was soft under her stockings. The mask made the simple act of lowering herself feel more deliberate, more exposed. Her open mouth faced him. She could already taste the air differently through the restricted opening.

He stepped closer, unzipped, and guided himself into the forced circle of her lips.

The first contact was overwhelming. The mask’s inner ring pressed against her teeth; there was no way to close her mouth around him the way a normal blowjob would allow. She could only accept, tongue working against the underside, saliva already gathering and slipping past the edges of the opening in thin, shiny strands.

He exhaled slowly.

“Deeper.”

She pushed forward. The head of him slid past her tongue and into her throat. The mask prevented any adjustment; it held her jaw locked in the open position. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes almost at once. She breathed carefully through the narrow slits, fighting the instinct to gag, and took him further.

His hand rested on the top of her head, not pushing, only anchoring. The wet sounds of her effort filled the quiet office—soft, rhythmic, obscene. Saliva ran down her chin and dripped onto the front of her blouse, darkening the fabric over her breasts. She could feel the heat building between her own legs with every movement of her tongue, every restricted breath.

He used her mouth for a long time.

When he finally pulled back, a thick string of saliva connected her open mouth to him for a moment before breaking. She gasped through the slits, chest rising and falling hard. Her lips felt swollen already, shaped permanently by the rubber.

“Good,” he said. “Again tomorrow.”

That was how it started.

Reiko returned home that night with the taste of him still thick on her tongue and the ghost of the mask pressed against her cheeks. Her husband was already in bed. He asked if work had been busy. She smiled the same soft smile she had always given him and said yes. When he reached for her she let him, but her body felt distant, as if it were waiting for something else.

The meetings became regular.

Sometimes the President only made her wear the mask and suck him under the desk while he took phone calls, one hand resting casually on the back of her head. Sometimes he bent her over the expensive leather sofa, flipped her skirt up, and fucked her from behind while the mask turned every moan into a muffled, animal sound. He liked watching her eyes above the rubber—first ashamed, then glassy, then completely lost.

Reiko started putting the mask on herself in the elevator before she even reached his floor.

Her body changed faster than her mind could follow.

The moment the rubber sealed across her face, her pussy grew wet. The restricted breathing, the forced open mouth, the knowledge that she could no longer speak or hide her expression—each element triggered an immediate, shameful response. She began masturbating at home in the bathroom with the mask on, fingers working between her legs while she stared at her own reflection, the open hole of the rubber dripping saliva onto her bare breasts. She came harder than she ever had with her husband.

One evening the President locked the door, set a camera on a tripod, and turned it on.

“Today we record,” he said simply.

Reiko’s stomach fluttered with fear and something darker. She put the mask on without being told. The red recording light glowed in the corner of her vision as he guided her onto the meeting-room table.

He started with her mouth again, fucking her throat slowly while the camera captured every wet sound, every tear that slipped down into the rubber. Then he spread her legs, pushed her panties aside, and entered her in one long thrust. The stretch forced a sharp, muffled cry from the open hole of the mask. He did not give her time to adjust.

His hips snapped forward again and again, the rhythm hard and relentless. Each impact drove her across the polished wood; each withdrawal left her empty and aching. The mask bounced slightly against her face with every thrust. Saliva continued to drip from the open mouth hole onto her blouse and the table beneath.

She came the first time with almost no warning.

The orgasm ripped through her in violent waves, her walls clenching hard around him, her voice breaking into a long, muffled wail. He did not slow down. He fucked her through it, forcing the pleasure higher until it bordered on pain, until her arms gave out and the back of her head pressed against the table. The rubber of the mask squeaked softly against the wood.

When the first climax finally released her she was shaking.

He pulled out, turned her onto her stomach, and entered her again from behind. The new angle let him drive even deeper. She stared at the camera through the eye slits of the mask, vision slightly blurred by tears, and watched the red light while he used her.

“Look at the lens,” he ordered.

She did.

“Tell your husband what you are now.”

Reiko’s voice came out thick and ruined through the open hole.

“I’m… the President’s blowjob mask wife… I can’t go back…”

He smiled, still buried inside her, and continued.

He made her repeat the words every time she came. He made her look into the camera and confess that her husband’s cock no longer satisfied her, that the mask made her feel more like herself than anything else, that she belonged to the man currently fucking her on the company table. Every orgasm was recorded. Every broken admission was captured.

When he finally finished, he buried himself to the hilt and flooded her with thick, hot pulses. She felt every one. The excess spilled out around his cock and ran down onto the table in slow, sticky trails. He kept the camera running while she lay there trembling, the mask still sealed, cum leaking from her used pussy.

Only then did he unbuckle the straps.

The sudden rush of free air made her dizzy. Her jaw ached fiercely as it closed for the first time in hours. The lower half of her face felt marked, the skin slightly reddened where the rubber had pressed. He handed her a cloth. She cleaned herself in silence while the camera continued to record.

“Send a copy to your husband tonight,” he said.

Reiko’s eyes widened.

“I… I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice was calm, final. “And you will.”

She did.

That night, after her husband had fallen asleep beside her, Reiko slipped out of bed, opened her laptop, and attached the file. Her hands trembled as she typed a single sentence in the message body.

I’m sorry.

She hit send before she could change her mind.

The following days passed in a strange double life.

By daylight she was still the reliable office wife—polite smile, neat bob, professional blouses. She answered emails. She brought coffee. She sat through meetings and nodded at the appropriate times. But underneath the ordinary surface, her body remembered. Every time she crossed her legs she felt the ghost of the previous night’s use. Every time she swallowed she remembered the taste of the mask’s interior mixed with him.

The President called her in more frequently.

Sometimes the sessions were short—just the mask and her mouth under the desk while he worked. Sometimes they lasted hours. He began inviting one of his close associates to watch. Reiko was made to suck one man while the other fucked her from behind, the mask turning her into a single purpose: open, wet, obedient holes. The camera was almost always present.

She stopped resisting the words he wanted.

“I’m the President’s blowjob mask wife.”

“My husband’s cock isn’t enough anymore.”

“Please cum inside me.”

“I belong to you.”

Each confession made the next one easier. Each orgasm under the mask rewired her a little further.

At home her husband became quieter. He no longer reached for her at night. He no longer asked about overtime. He simply watched her with an expression she could not quite read—something between grief and resignation. Reiko found she did not mind. The soft, wifely smile she gave him each morning felt more and more like a performance she no longer needed to perfect.

One evening the President took her to a private hotel suite instead of the office.

The mask was already on when they entered. He had dressed her in a tight black dress that barely contained her breasts, the hem riding high on her thighs. The moment the door closed he pushed her to her knees and used her mouth until her jaw trembled. Then he bent her over the edge of the bed, pushed the dress up, and fucked her with long, deep strokes while the camera on the tripod recorded everything.

He made her look into the lens the entire time.

“Tell him,” he ordered as he approached his climax. “Tell your husband exactly what is happening.”

Reiko’s voice was broken, wet, desperate.

“Honey… he’s inside me right now… the mask is on… he’s going to cum in your wife’s pussy… I want it… I need it… I’m his… I’m the President’s blowjob mask wife—”

He flooded her while she was still speaking.

The overflow ran down her thighs in thick white trails. He kept the camera running while she remained bent over, mask still sealed, body shaking through the aftershocks.

Later, when he finally removed the rubber, Reiko looked at her reflection in the hotel mirror. The lower half of her face was flushed and marked. Her eyes were soft, almost peaceful. She touched her lips, still shaped by the memory of the open hole, and felt no urge to reclaim the ordinary smile she had worn for years.

That night she sent the new recording to her husband without a message.

She no longer felt the need to apologize.

Days later, Reiko stood in the President’s office after hours, the mask already sealed across her face, waiting on her knees as she had been told. The red recording light glowed. The door opened. He entered with another man—one of the senior directors.

Reiko did not hesitate.

She crawled forward, the open hole of the mask ready, and took the first cock into her throat while the second man watched. The wet, rhythmic sounds filled the room. When they positioned her on the sofa—one in her mouth, one in her pussy—she offered no resistance. The mask made resistance impossible. It also made resistance unnecessary.

She came hard around the cock buried inside her, the muffled cry vibrating through the rubber. They used her until both had finished, one down her throat, one deep in her cunt. When they finally stepped back she remained on the sofa, mask still on, cum leaking from both ends, eyes soft above the dark rubber.

The President stroked her hair almost gently.

“Good girl,” he said. “Tomorrow we start training you for longer sessions.”

Reiko nodded, the movement small and obedient.

On the way home she sat on the late train with the mask hidden in her bag and the evidence of the evening still slick between her thighs. Her phone vibrated. A message from her husband.

I watched it.

She stared at the words for a long time. Then she typed a reply with steady fingers.

I know.

She did not add anything else.

When she stepped into their apartment the lights were on. Her husband sat on the sofa, the same place he had been the night she sent the first video. He looked up. Reiko met his eyes and gave him the smile she had always given him—the soft, practiced curve of lips that no longer meant anything.

Inside, behind that smile, the mask was already waiting for the next time she would be allowed to put it on.

Reiko Takahashi, the reliable office wife, the woman with the neat bob and the polite manners, had learned the truth the rubber had been trying to teach her from the first night.

The face she showed the world was the disguise.

The open, forced, obedient hole of the mask was the only face that felt real.

And she no longer intended to take it off for anyone who did not understand that.