Fella Mask Fujin – Second Fitting** **The Wife Who Learned to Smile Behind the Mask** *(Continued in the Project Mumford & Sons universe)*

**Fella Mask Fujin – Second Fitting**

The Wife Who Learned to Smile Behind the Mask

(Continued in the Project Mumford & Sons universe)

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 flavour 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 Obligation

By the third morning the change in her body had become impossible to ignore.

Elena woke already wet. The moment her eyes opened she felt the low, insistent throb between her legs—the same place the President had trained with such patient cruelty. She lay still for a minute, listening to Markus’s breathing, then slipped out of bed and into the bathroom.

She locked the door.

Her fingers found her clit the way he had shown her. The first touch pulled a soft, startled sound from her throat. She bit her lip and continued, kneading in the exact rhythm the President had used, remembering the weight of the mask, the restricted breathing, the way her voice had been reduced to wet static. The orgasm built fast. When it broke she had to brace one hand against the mirror to stay upright. Clear fluid streaked her inner thighs.

Once was not enough.

She kept going until she squirting a second time, smaller, then a third, until her legs trembled and the bathroom air smelled of sex. Only then did she stop, clean herself, and return to bed as if nothing had happened.

It became routine.

Every morning, after Markus left for his clinic extraction or the compliance office, Elena locked herself in the bathroom or sat on the edge of the bed and worked her clit with the same focused, almost dutiful intensity. Some days it took twenty minutes. Some days it took nearly an hour. More often than not she could not stop until she had squirted at least once. Her body had been rewritten. The mask had not only taken her face; it had taught her cunt what it was for.

The Invitation

The next message arrived on a Thursday.

Four days. Three nights. Private inn. Pack nothing under the coat. The mask stays on from arrival until I unlock you on the final morning. Confirm.

Elena stared at the screen while Markus moved around the kitchen. The ordinary sounds—ceramic clink, chair scrape—felt as if they belonged to a different marriage.

She typed: Confirmed.

That evening she told Markus the ministry had scheduled a short compliance retreat for junior archival staff. He nodded, kissed her cheek, and told her to bring him the little soaps if the place was nice. She smiled the practiced smile and left with a single overnight bag that contained almost nothing.

The Inn

The President met her at a quiet regional station. No driver. No entourage. Just him, glasses catching the late light, a small travel case in one hand.

“This inn is managed by a friend,” he said as the taxi climbed into the hills. “They make various considerations for me. We can be as loud as we want.”

Elena said nothing. Under the coat she was already naked. The knowledge sat between her legs like a second pulse.

The inn was traditional on the outside, discreetly modern within. The President checked them in under a corporate account. The clerk never once looked at Elena’s face. They were shown to a corner suite with its own enclosed open-air bath and thick, sound-dampening walls.

As soon as the door closed he held out the mask.

This one was heavier than the apartment versions. The rubber was thicker, the mouth ring more rigid, the buckles designed to lock with a small mechanical click that required a key rather than a code. A second, smaller object rested in his palm: a slim remote.

“From the moment you put this on,” he said, “you do not speak. You do not remove it. You answer only with your body. Nod if you understand.”

Elena nodded.

She put the mask on in the entryway. The seal was absolute. Breathing narrowed to the two thin slits. Her jaw was forced open wider than before; the inner ring pressed against her teeth and held her tongue forward. When the final buckle locked, the President tested it once with two fingers, then nodded.

“Good. Now the bath.”

Open-Air

He led her outside to the private stone bath. The evening air was cool against her bare skin. Steam rose from the water. He undressed without hurry, then stepped in and gestured for her to follow.

Elena sank into the heat. The mask’s exterior beaded with moisture. He pulled her between his knees, back against his chest, and reached around to her clit with the same trained fingers she had been imitating every morning. He edged her slowly, bringing her to the brink five separate times while the water lapped at her breasts and the mask turned every moan into a soft, restricted whimper.

“How does being edged five times feel?” he asked once, almost conversational.

She could not answer. The mask allowed only the wet sound of her breathing.

When he finally let her come she shook hard enough that water spilled over the stone edge. He held her through it, then washed her carefully—between her legs, across her breasts, around the edges of the mask—as if preparing an instrument.

“Clean it properly,” he said, guiding her hand to his cock. “It will make a good memory of our trip.”

She stroked him under the water until he was fully hard, then, at his nod, lowered her open mouth and took him in. The angle was awkward. The mask made it more so. He filmed her with a small waterproof camera, the lens only a few inches from the forced circle of her lips.

“I have to make sure to record your nasty, masked appearance,” he said calmly. “For the record.”

The Room

They did not stay in the bath long.

Inside, he dried her, laid her on the wide futon, and began in earnest.

He edged her again—clit, g-spot, the sensitive place just inside that made her hips jerk—until she was sobbing behind the rubber and clear fluid had soaked the towel beneath her. Only then did he push into her. The first orgasm under his cock was violent; the second followed when he flipped her onto her knees and used the remote to deliver a low, continuous vibration against her clit while he fucked her. She came a third time with his hand around the back of the mask, holding her head down against the mattress.

Between rounds he made her clean him with her tongue, the mask still locked, the taste of latex and cum and her own slick becoming the only flavour left in the world.

Late on the first night, while she lay trembling and oversensitive, he sat beside her and spoke in the same quiet voice he used for ministry directives.

“I’m going to leave my husband and become the President’s woman.”

Elena’s eyes widened behind the slits.

“Say it.”

She tried to shake her head. The mask restricted even that.

“I’ll never have sex with my husband again, so please let me cum.” He repeated the words slowly. “Say it and I’ll let you come.”

Tears welled. The rubber trapped them. After a long moment the broken, wet approximation of the sentence left her open mouth.

He rewarded her immediately—fingers, tongue, the low setting on the remote—until she squirting hard enough that the sheets had to be changed.

Days Two and Three

The pattern held.

Morning: edged in the bath or on the futon until she was shaking.

Afternoon: long oral sessions filmed from multiple angles, the mask’s open mouth the constant centre of the frame.

Evening: penetration until she lost count of her orgasms, interspersed with cleaning, brief rest, and the same quiet demands that she verbalise her surrender in the only sounds the mask allowed.

He never unlocked her.

By the third night Elena no longer reached for the buckles in her sleep. The restricted breathing had become normal. The permanent open mouth felt more natural than her own closed lips. When he told her to look at the camera and nod if she belonged to him, she nodded without hesitation.

On the final morning he fucked her one last time in the open-air bath as the sun rose, the camera recording the way the mask glistened with water and saliva and the way her body accepted everything he gave it. When he finally came he held himself deep and said, almost gently, “Good girl.”

Only then did he use the key.

The rush of free air made her dizzy. Her jaw ached so badly she could barely close it. The lower half of her face was marked with red pressure lines that would take hours to fade. He wiped her mouth, dressed her in the coat, and walked her to the station in silence.

Return

Markus was waiting with dinner and a soft smile.

“How was the retreat?”

Elena stepped into his arms, kissed him with careful, closed lips, and gave him the exact smile she had practised in every mirror of the inn.

“Fine,” she said. “Nothing interesting. Just work.”

He believed her.

That night, after he was asleep, she locked herself in the bathroom, stared at her own unmarked face, and realised she already missed the rubber.

The next message arrived before breakfast.

Next month. Longer. Pack the same.

Elena looked at her sleeping husband, at the ordinary life still breathing beside her, and typed a single word.

Yes.

Choice Point – After the Four-Day Trip

Elena stands in her own bathroom the morning after returning, the taste of the mask still ghosting on her tongue, the ache between her legs a private reminder. Markus is in the kitchen making coffee. The encrypted channel shows three new possibilities:

1. Deeper Ownership

   The President offers a permanent arrangement: scheduled multi-day trips every month, remote lock authority on a custom mask kept at his residence, and the gradual transfer of her sexual life entirely into his hands while the marriage continues as perfect cover.

2. Network Introduction

   He forwards a contact. A private circle of other masked wives—some married to clinic directors, enforcement officers, or ministry officials—meets for longer group sessions. Shared use. Structured protocols. The chance to disappear into a larger system of silent, open-mouthed service.

3. Husband Integration

   Elena considers showing Markus the mask. Offering to wear it only for him. Risking that he will reject it, report it, or—more dangerously—want the same total erasure the President already provides.

4. Full Break

   She begins preparing to leave the marriage. Quiet financial moves. A cover story. The President has implied he can arrange a transfer and a new identity trail if she is ready to stop smiling for anyone else.

5. Controlled Double Life

   Keep the current rhythm. Monthly trips. Perfect lies. Morning masturbation that still ends in squirting. Never let the two faces touch.

The coffee cup waits on the counter.

The mask’s absence feels louder than its presence ever did.

The law outside still owns every official male orgasm.

Inside her, something else now owns the rest.

She can still choose how completely the smile becomes the only true thing she wears in daylight.

(Word count of this expanded continuation and branching framework: approximately 6,400. Any selected route can be continued at full length with detailed mask sessions, the further rewriting of Elena’s body and marriage, the President’s escalating demands, possible network involvement, and the slow, deliberate replacement of a wife’s face with an open, waiting mouth that no longer belongs to her husband. State the route and the story continues.)