New Chapter: Blowjob Mask Wife – Another Claim** **The Tracksuit Wife & The Afternoon Call**

**New Chapter: Blowjob Mask Wife – Another Claim**

The Tracksuit Wife & The Afternoon Call

Extracted Text (Reading Order)

Page 1 (dark-haired woman, doggy)

“INSIDE YOUR PUSSY!!”

“I’M CUMMING INSIDE YOU!”

Page 2 (dark-haired woman in blue tracksuit)

“THE PRESIDENT’S COCK…”

“OUTSIDE? HONEY?”

“COME ON, HONEY…”

“THE PRESIDENT’S COCK IS…”

(Woman’s excited, pleading expression while bent over)

Page 3 (light-haired woman on phone / looking at photo)

“THE PRESIDENT…”

“HONEY…”

(Woman being fucked from behind while holding or looking at a framed photo of her husband; dialogue bubbles indicating she is speaking to him or about him while the act continues)

The apartment was quiet except for the wet, rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin.

She had come home early, still wearing the light blue tracksuit she used for her afternoon walks. The moment the door closed behind her the President’s associate had been waiting, just as the message on her phone had promised. No greeting. No negotiation. He simply turned her around, pushed her forward until her hands braced against the low table, and yanked the tracksuit pants down to her knees.

The first thrust forced a sharp cry from her throat.

“Inside your pussy—!”

He did not slow down. The thick length drove in to the root, stretching her open in one continuous slide. Her mouth fell open, tongue lolling, eyes already losing focus. The framed wedding photograph on the shelf watched them both.

“I’m cumming inside you!” he growled against her ear, hips slamming forward hard enough to make her breasts bounce heavily inside the zippered top.

She came first.

The orgasm ripped through her without warning, thighs shaking, a clear gush of fluid splashing onto the floor between her sneakers. Her voice broke into a high, broken moan that the neighbors would have heard if the windows had been open. He kept thrusting through it, using her spasming walls, until his own climax hit. Hot, heavy pulses flooded her. She felt every spurt, the heat spreading deep, the overflow immediately beginning to leak out around his shaft and down the inside of her thighs.

He pulled out slowly, watching the thick white trail run down her legs and drip onto the blue fabric bunched at her knees.

“Clean yourself up,” he said. “Your husband will be home in forty minutes.”

She nodded, still bent over, still dripping.

Forty minutes later the front door opened.

Her husband stepped inside carrying a convenience-store bag. She met him in the hallway wearing the same tracksuit, freshly wiped, the zipper of the top pulled up just high enough to look modest. The smile she gave him was the same soft one she had practiced for years.

“Welcome home, honey.”

He kissed her cheek, tired from work, and asked about her day. She told him she had gone for a walk, done some housework, nothing special. While she spoke she could still feel the slow leak of another man’s cum inside her, kept carefully from staining the fabric. The President’s associate had filled her deliberately so that she would carry it through the evening.

After dinner she sat on the sofa beside her husband while he watched the news. Her hand rested lightly on his thigh. Inside the tracksuit pants her bare pussy was still slick, still open from the afternoon’s use. Every small shift of her hips reminded her of the thickness that had been there, of the way it had forced her to cum while she stared at the wedding photograph.

Her phone buzzed once.

A single message from the private number:

Tomorrow. Same time. Wear the mask.

She locked the screen and leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Mm. Just the President’s office. Overtime again tomorrow.”

He made a sympathetic noise and went back to the television. She stayed against him, breathing quietly, already feeling the familiar low heat building between her legs at the thought of the dark rubber mask waiting in the bottom drawer of her dresser—the one her husband had never seen.

The next afternoon the mask was already on when the associate arrived.

She had put it on the moment she closed the door, the thick rubber sealing across the lower half of her face, forcing her mouth into the permanent open circle. The tracksuit was gone. She wore only the collar that matched the mask and a pair of plain white socks. When he stepped inside she was already on her knees in the entryway, hands behind her back, eyes soft above the rubber.

He did not speak.

He simply unzipped and fed his cock into the open hole of the mask. She took it with the practiced ease the training had given her, throat relaxing, saliva immediately running down her chin and onto her bare breasts. The wet, rhythmic sounds of her service filled the quiet apartment. Outside, the daytime neighborhood continued as if nothing were happening.

When he was hard enough he pulled free, lifted her by the arms, and bent her over the same low table. The first thrust into her pussy forced a muffled cry through the mask. He fucked her in long, deep strokes, one hand gripping the back of the collar, the other spreading her ass so he could watch the way her hole stretched around him. Every time he bottomed out she made the same soft, broken sound—half pleasure, half surrender.

“The President’s cock is bigger,” he told her casually, still thrusting. “You’ll get it again this weekend. He wants to see how well the mask has settled.”

She could only moan in answer, the rubber turning every word into wet, open-mouthed noise.

He came inside her again, just as he had the day before, holding himself deep while her walls fluttered around him. When he pulled out the overflow ran down her thighs in a thick white line. She stayed bent over the table, mask still sealed, breathing in short restricted pulls, waiting for the next instruction.

He checked his watch.

“Your husband gets home in thirty-five minutes. Clean up. And keep the mask on under a towel or something if you need to—he still doesn’t know, correct?”

She nodded.

“Good. The longer he stays ignorant, the smoother the eventual claim will go.”

He left her there, still dripping, still masked, the taste of him thick on her tongue.

That night she sat beside her husband on the sofa once more. The mask was hidden in the bedroom. The cum had been carefully wiped away. She laughed at the variety show he put on and brought him a second beer when he asked. Inside, her body still hummed with the memory of the afternoon’s use—the stretch, the forced open mouth, the heavy heat of being filled while the wedding photograph watched.

Her phone stayed silent until after he had fallen asleep.

Then a second message arrived.

Weekend schedule confirmed. Two-day intensive. Husband will receive the first video Monday morning. Prepare him.

She stared at the screen for a long time in the dark.

Then she set the phone face-down on the nightstand, curled against her husband’s back, and closed her eyes.

The system had already decided the next step.

All that remained was for her body—and eventually her husband’s eyes—to catch up.

Weekend – The Two-Day Intensive

The private room at the usual hotel was already prepared when she arrived Friday evening. The President himself was present this time, along with two associates. The dark mouth-mask was waiting on the low table beside a new, heavier collar and a set of restraints.

She undressed without being told, folded the tracksuit neatly, and knelt.

The President lifted the mask and sealed it across her face himself, tightening the straps until the rubber pressed firmly against her cheeks and the open hole forced her jaw wide. The moment the final buckle clicked, something inside her settled. The restricted breathing, the permanent exposure of her tongue and throat, the knowledge that she could no longer speak normally—each element dropped her into the familiar, eager headspace the training had carved out.

“Good,” he said simply. “Two days. By Monday your husband will understand exactly what you are now.”

They began immediately.

She was bent over the edge of the bed first, mask facing the mirrored wall so she could watch her own open mouth while the President’s thick cock pushed into her from behind. The stretch was deeper than the associate’s. She came within minutes, a helpless, muffled cry escaping the rubber as her pussy clamped down and a clear spray of fluid soaked the sheets. He fucked her through it without slowing, then pulled out and fed the wet shaft into the open hole of the mask so she could taste herself.

The associates took turns after that.

One in her pussy, one in her throat. Then both of them switching. Then the President again, slower, deeper, making her look at the camera while he spoke.

“Tell your husband what you’re doing this weekend.”

Her voice came out thick and ruined through the rubber.

“I’m… being used by the President… the mask is on… he’s inside me… he’s going to fill me…”

“Again. Clearer.”

“I’m the President’s mask wife this weekend. My pussy belongs to him right now. My mouth is just a hole for his cock. I’m going to take everything he gives me and carry it home.”

He rewarded her with a long, heavy creampie, holding himself deep while she shook through another orgasm.

They did not stop for hours.

By midnight she was a trembling, cum-filled mess on the bed, mask still sealed, collar locked, both holes leaking steadily onto the sheets. The President checked the recordings, nodded once, and told the associates to continue the overnight schedule. She was to be kept full, kept open, and kept masked until Sunday evening.

Saturday blurred into a continuous cycle of use.

She was woken with a cock already pushing into the open hole of the mask. She was fucked on her back, on her knees, on her side, against the window, in the shower. Every load was deposited either in her pussy or down her throat. When she needed to drink, the mask was loosened only long enough for water, then sealed again. Meals were given the same way—small amounts, carefully, so the rubber never stayed off long.

At one point the President had her sit on the edge of the bed facing the camera and spread her legs so the lens could capture the slow, steady drip of cum from her used hole while she spoke the scripted lines again.

“Honey… this is what your wife looks like after a day of real use. The mask stays on. The cock stays in. I’m not coming home until I’m properly full.”

She came while saying it, thighs shaking, adding a fresh spray of clear fluid to the mess already coating her skin.

Sunday evening the final session was recorded in one long, continuous take.

She was placed on her back, legs held wide by the associates, while the President fucked her in deep, measured strokes. The camera captured every detail—the way her masked face contorted, the wet sounds of her pussy, the moment his cock throbbed and began to pump the last heavy load of the weekend deep into her womb. She came hard around him, voice breaking into a long, muffled wail, hands gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles went white.

When he finally pulled out, a thick river of cum followed, running down over her asshole and pooling on the sheets beneath her.

The President looked at the camera.

“Monday morning delivery. Make sure the husband watches the entire file.”

Then he removed the mask himself.

The sudden rush of free air made her dizzy. Her jaw ached. The lower half of her face was marked with the pressure of the rubber. She looked up at him with wet, grateful eyes and whispered the only words that still felt true.

“Thank you.”

Monday Morning

Her husband opened the email on his commute.

The subject line was blank. The attachment was a single video file nearly four hours long.

He watched the first thirty seconds on the train, volume off, and felt the blood drain from his face. By the time he reached the office he had already called in sick. He returned home, locked the door, and played the file from the beginning on the living-room television.

He saw everything.

His wife in the blue tracksuit being bent over their own low table.

His wife in the mask, throat bulging, saliva running down her bare breasts.

His wife on her back in the hotel room, legs spread, the President’s cock disappearing into her while she looked at the camera and spoke directly to him.

His wife cumming, squirting, being filled, thanking them, asking for more.

The wedding photograph on the shelf sat in the same place it always had.

When the video ended he sat in silence for a long time.

His phone buzzed.

A new message from the private number her phone had received all weekend:

The claim has been filed. Continuity office will contact you this afternoon regarding reclassification and chastity arrangements. Your wife will return this evening. She already knows.

He stared at the screen until it went dark.

Outside, the city continued under the Dibs Laws.

Inside the quiet apartment, another husband finally understood that the woman who wore his ring had already been rewritten, and that the open rubber hole waiting in the bedroom drawer was no longer a secret.

It was simply the new shape of their marriage.

And the system, as always, had already moved on to the next claim.