Fella Mask Fujin – Second Fitting** **Subtitle: The Wife Who Learned to Smile Behind the Mask**

**Fella Mask Fujin – Second Fitting**

Subtitle: The Wife Who Learned to Smile Behind the Mask

The taste lingered.

It was not the taste of his skin or the salt of his release. It was the rubber. The faint chemical bitterness of the mask’s inner lining, mixed with the thicker, more intimate flavor that had coated her tongue for hours. She had brushed her teeth twice after returning home. She had rinsed with mouthwash until her gums stung. Still the ghost of it remained, a slick film at the back of her throat that refused to dissolve.

Her husband was already in bed when she stepped into the bedroom. The bedside lamp cast a soft yellow circle across the sheets. He looked up from his phone, smiled the same gentle smile he always gave her, and asked how the dinner had gone.

“Fine,” she said. The word came out smooth. Practiced. “Just work talk. Nothing interesting.”

He accepted it without question. He always did. She slid under the covers beside him, felt the familiar warmth of his body, and closed her eyes. In the dark she could still feel the shape of the mask against her face—the way the edges had pressed into her cheeks, the way the open mouth hole had forced her lips into a permanent, obscene circle. She pressed her thighs together under the blanket and felt a slow, guilty pulse between them.

Sleep did not come easily.

The next invitation arrived three days later.

It was a simple message on the private number he had given her. No greeting. No preamble.

Tonight. Same place. Wear nothing under your coat.

She stared at the screen for a long time while her husband moved around the kitchen making coffee. The ordinary sounds of their morning—the clink of ceramic, the soft scrape of a chair—felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else’s life. She typed a single word in reply.

Yes.

That evening she told her husband she had another work dinner. He nodded, kissed her cheek, and told her not to stay out too late. She smiled at him—the same soft, wifely smile she had perfected over years of marriage—and left the apartment with her coat buttoned all the way to the throat.

Underneath she wore only a thin blouse and a skirt. Nothing else. The cool air of the hallway brushed against her bare skin and made her shiver.

The older man opened the door himself. He looked the same as before: glasses, neat shirt, the quiet authority of someone who never needed to raise his voice. His eyes moved over her once, slowly, and something like satisfaction settled in his expression.

“Come in.”

She stepped inside. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.

He did not lead her to the living room. He did not offer her a drink. He simply held out the mask.

It was different from the first one.

The first mask had been dark, almost matte, with a simple oval opening for the mouth. This one was tighter, shinier, the rubber thicker. The mouth hole was smaller, more restrictive, edged with a thin inner ring that would press against her teeth and force her jaw wider. Two narrow slits sat where the nostrils should be—just enough to breathe, nothing more. The straps were heavier, designed to buckle at the back of the head and lock in place.

“Tonight,” he said, “you wear it from the moment you step inside.”

She stared at the object in his hand. Her pulse was already climbing. The memory of the first night rose in her throat like heat—the way the mask had stolen her voice, the way every sound she made had become wet and helpless, the way her body had responded without permission.

She took the mask.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted it to her face. The rubber smelled stronger this time, sharper. 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 cool, smooth interior and recoiled. She reached back, found the buckles, and tightened them one by one until the mask sealed against her skin with no give left.

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

He watched her the entire time.

When the final buckle clicked, he nodded once.

“Good. Now take off the coat.”

She obeyed. The coat slid from her shoulders and pooled on the floor. The blouse followed. The skirt. She stood naked in the entryway of his apartment, the mask the only thing covering any part of her. Her nipples were already tight. Between her legs she was slick, the evidence of her anticipation impossible to hide.

He did not touch her yet. He simply walked past her into the hallway that led deeper into the apartment and said, over his shoulder, “Follow.”

She followed.

The special room was the same as before: dim lighting, a low wide bed, a chair, a small table. The air smelled faintly of leather and something cleaner, sharper. He closed the door behind them and turned.

“On your knees.”

She dropped.

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

He stepped closer. His hand rested on the top of her head, fingers sliding into her hair above the mask’s edge. He did not force her. He simply guided her forward until her lips—forced open by the rubber—brushed the front of his trousers.

“You know what to do.”

She did.

Her hands rose. She unzipped him with careful fingers, freed him, and took him into the open circle of her mouth. The first contact was immediate and overwhelming. The mask’s inner ring pressed against her teeth; there was no way to close her lips around him the way she normally would. She could only accept, tongue working against the underside, saliva already gathering and slipping past the edges of the opening.

He exhaled slowly.

“Deeper.”

She pushed forward. The head of him slid past her tongue and into her throat. The mask prevented her from adjusting; 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 remained in her hair, not pushing, only anchoring. The wet sounds of her effort filled the quiet room—soft, rhythmic, obscene. Saliva ran down her chin in thin strands and dripped onto her bare breasts. She could feel the heat building between her own legs with every movement of her tongue, every restricted breath.

He let her work 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.

“On the bed,” he said. “All fours.”

She climbed onto the mattress. The position forced her hips up, her chest down. The mask made even this simple posture feel more vulnerable; she could not turn her face away or hide her expression. Everything was framed by the black rubber and the forced open mouth.

He moved behind her. She felt his hands on her hips, then lower, spreading her. Two fingers slid into her without resistance. She was soaked. The wet sound of it was unmistakable.

“Already,” he murmured. “Your body remembers.”

He worked her open with slow, deliberate strokes, curling his fingers until her thighs trembled. She tried to stay quiet, but the mask turned every breath into a soft, broken sound. When he added a third finger she moaned—a low, helpless noise that the rubber distorted into something even more needy.

He withdrew his hand. A moment later she felt the blunt pressure of him at her entrance. He pushed in with one steady thrust, filling her completely. The stretch forced a sharp cry from her open mouth. Her fingers curled into the sheets.

He did not give her time to adjust.

His hips snapped forward again and again, the rhythm hard and relentless from the start. Each impact drove her forward on the bed; each withdrawal left her empty and aching for the next. The mask bounced slightly against her face with every thrust. Saliva continued to drip from the open mouth hole onto the sheets below.

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 her cheek pressed against the mattress. The rubber of the mask squeaked softly against the fabric.

When the first climax finally released her, she was shaking.

He pulled out, turned her onto her back, and pushed her knees up toward her chest. The new angle let him drive even deeper. She stared up at him through the eye slits of the mask, vision slightly blurred by tears, and watched the controlled intensity on his face as he used her.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low. “Mouth open. Body open. You don’t even try to hide it anymore.”

She could not answer. The mask stole every word and left only wet, broken sounds.

He reached down and rubbed her clit with his thumb in tight, practiced circles while he continued to thrust. The dual stimulation was too much. A second orgasm built fast and crashed over her harder than the first. Her back arched. Her open mouth formed a silent scream. Fluids spilled around his cock and soaked the sheets beneath her.

He kept going.

By the time he finally finished, her body was a trembling, oversensitive wreck. He buried himself deep and came with a low groan, pulsing inside her in thick, hot spurts. She felt every one. When he withdrew, the excess spilled out of her in a slow, sticky trickle.

He did not remove the mask.

Instead he sat on the edge of the bed and guided her head back between his legs. She cleaned him with her tongue, the rubber still locking her jaw open, the taste of their mixed fluids coating the inside of the mask. He stroked her hair while she worked, almost gently.

“Good girl.”

Those two words settled somewhere deep in her chest and stayed there.

He allowed her a short rest. She lay on her side, breathing carefully through the slits, the mask still sealed tight. Her jaw ached. Her throat felt raw. Between her legs she throbbed with a dull, satisfied heat. The sheets under her were ruined.

After a while he stood and retrieved something from the small table. A bottle of water. He held it to the open mouth of the mask and let her drink in careful sips. Some of it spilled down her chin and onto her breasts. He watched the droplets trail across her skin without comment.

Then he told her to get on her knees again.

The second round was slower, more deliberate. He made her take him deep into her throat and hold there while he counted under his breath. When she started to struggle he pulled back just enough for her to gasp through the slits, then pushed in again. Tears ran freely down her cheeks and collected in the lower edge of the mask. Saliva soaked the front of her chest.

He came a second time across her tongue and the inner surface of the rubber. She swallowed what she could. The rest coated the inside of the mask, turning every subsequent breath into a reminder of him.

He still did not take it off.

Instead he had her lie on her back once more. He spread her legs and used his mouth on her, tongue working slowly over her swollen clit while two fingers moved inside her. The contrast was almost cruel—after the rough use of his cock, the careful attention of his tongue felt devastatingly intimate. She came again with a broken, muffled sob, thighs clamping around his head, the mask turning her cries into wet, animal sounds.

When he finally lifted his head, his mouth and chin were glistening.

“One more,” he said.

She did not have the strength to protest. She did not want to.

He turned her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, and entered her from behind once more. This time the pace was deep and grinding, each thrust angled to drag against the place inside her that made her vision white out. His hand reached around and found her clit again. The dual pressure built steadily, inexorably.

She came a final time with her face pressed into the mattress, the mask squeaking against the fabric, her entire body locked in a long, shuddering climax that left her limp and gasping. He followed soon after, flooding her again, holding himself deep until the last pulse faded.

Only then did he unbuckle the mask.

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. Saliva and other fluids had dried in thin tracks down her chin and neck.

He handed her a warm cloth. She cleaned herself in silence while he watched. When she was finished he nodded toward the pile of her clothes.

“Get dressed. Your husband will be waiting.”

The words landed with quiet precision.

She dressed slowly. The blouse stuck slightly to her still-damp skin. The skirt settled over thighs that felt weak. She pulled the coat on and buttoned it. In the mirror by the door she saw her own face—flushed, eyes slightly glassy, mouth soft and used. She practiced the smile once, then again, until it looked natural.

He walked her to the apartment door.

“Same time next week,” he said. Not a question.

She nodded.

The hallway outside felt colder than before. She rode the elevator down in silence, the ghost of the mask still pressed against her cheeks, the taste of rubber and him still coating her tongue. On the street she checked her phone. One message from her husband.

Home soon?

She typed back.

On my way. Missed you.

The lie came easily.

When she stepped into their apartment the lights were still on. Her husband looked up from the couch, smiled, and opened his arms. She walked into them without hesitation. He kissed her temple, then her mouth. She returned the kiss carefully, keeping her lips soft, her tongue restrained. He did not notice the faint chemical bitterness that still lingered beneath the mint of her toothpaste.

“How was dinner?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said, and gave him the smile she had practiced in the mirror. The same soft, wifely curve of lips she had worn for years. “Just work talk. Nothing interesting.”

He believed her.

Later, in the dark of their bedroom, she lay beside him and listened to his steady breathing. Between her legs she still felt the slow leak of what the other man had left inside her. The ache in her jaw was a private, secret pulse. When she closed her eyes she did not see her husband’s face.

She saw the black rubber. The forced open mouth. The way her own eyes had looked through the slits—glazed, needy, completely unguarded.

The mask was no longer something forced onto her.

It was the only face that felt true.

She smiled into the darkness, the same practiced smile, and waited for the next invitation.

The following days passed in a strange double rhythm.

By daylight she was the same wife she had always been. She cooked breakfast. She kissed her husband goodbye. She answered work emails and smiled at colleagues and bought groceries on the way home. The ordinary motions of her life continued without visible fracture.

But underneath, something had shifted permanently.

Every time she felt the cool air of the subway against her bare legs she remembered kneeling on the carpet. Every time she sipped water she remembered the restricted breathing through the narrow slits. At night, when her husband reached for her, she let him. She even came, once, with his mouth between her legs—but the orgasm was quieter, smaller, and afterward she lay awake staring at the ceiling while the memory of the mask’s tighter seal burned behind her eyes.

She began to prepare for the next meeting without being asked.

Two days before the agreed night she went to a quiet shop in a different district and bought a second pair of the same plain black coat. She chose underwear that could be removed in a single motion. She practiced putting the (imagined) mask on in the bathroom mirror when her husband was at work, holding an old scarf across the lower half of her face and forcing her mouth open until her jaw trembled. She timed how long she could keep the expression without blinking.

The message arrived on schedule.

Tonight.

She told her husband another dinner. He smiled and told her to enjoy herself. The ease of the lie no longer startled her. It felt efficient.

This time she arrived already wet.

He opened the door, looked her over once, and held out the mask without a word. She took it, stepped inside, and put it on in the entryway while he watched. The tighter seal felt almost comforting now. The moment the final buckle clicked, the rest of the world narrowed to the limited vision of the eye slits and the forced circle of her open mouth.

He did not make her wait.

He pushed her against the wall of the hallway, lifted one of her legs, and entered her while she was still half-dressed. The coat hung open. The skirt was rucked up around her waist. The mask’s open mouth pressed against his shoulder as he thrust into her hard and fast, the wet sound of it echoing in the narrow space. She came quickly, muffling the cry against his shirt, thighs shaking around his hips.

He pulled out, turned her, and pushed her to her knees right there on the hallway floor. She took him into her throat while the taste of herself was still on him. He held her head and used her mouth with the same steady rhythm until he finished across her tongue and the inner surface of the rubber.

Only then did he lead her to the special room.

The rest of the night unfolded in long, deliberate stages.

He had her straddle his face while wearing the mask, grinding down against his mouth until she came twice in succession, fluids running down his chin. He bent her over the edge of the bed and fucked her from behind while pulling the straps of the mask just tight enough to restrict her breathing further. He made her hold a vibrator against her own clit while she sucked him, the dual stimulation driving her into a third, shaking climax that left her drooling helplessly through the mouth opening.

Between rounds he let her rest with the mask still on. He gave her water through the open circle. He wiped the tears and saliva from the lower edge of the rubber with a cloth. He spoke very little. The silence made every wet sound she produced feel louder, more exposed.

Near the end he sat in the chair and had her ride him slowly, facing outward, the mask turned toward the mirror on the opposite wall. She watched herself—naked, masked, hips rolling, mouth forced open—while he reached around and played with her clit. The visual was almost too much. She came watching her own reflection, the black rubber framing the broken, needy expression she could never show her husband.

He finished inside her one last time, holding her hips down so she felt every pulse.

When he finally unbuckled the mask, her face felt marked in a way that went deeper than skin. She cleaned herself, dressed, and practiced the smile in the hallway mirror while he watched.

“Next week,” he said.

She nodded.

The ride home was quiet. The ghost of the rubber still pressed against her cheeks. Between her legs she carried him with every step.

Her husband was awake when she returned. He smiled, asked about the dinner, and accepted her soft answer without suspicion. In bed he kissed her goodnight. She returned the kiss with the same careful tenderness as always.

After he fell asleep she lay awake and touched her own mouth in the dark, tracing the shape the mask had forced it into. The ache