Archive for the 'cuckold' Category

In the Corner

rubylipsnailsIn the corner he stands.  Facing the wall, his hands to his sides.  Naked and appearing so vulnerable, so alone.  And you might, indeed, think him a lonely man.  A sad man.  Even maybe a pathetic man.  But let’s take a closer look before we go away with our own first impressions, shall we?

Look, when we try to peer into his eyes (because really, when it’s all said and done, that’s where one can quickly ascertain the truth of a person, isn’t it?), there’s something covering his face.  My, oh, my, is that what I think it is?  Yes, it is.  Panties!  Panties covering the dear boy’s face.  Now what did he do to merit that?

But, wait!  Look at how the crotch of those panties are placed strategically over his nose.   We must get in a little closer.  Let’s just cozy up next to him and see exactly what is going on here.   Goodness!  Looked at how soiled the panties are!  Even from here the scent is quite robust.  The scent of sex, I dare say.  The pungent scent of man-woman sex.  Intriguing.  Quite intriguing.

Now that we are so close, do you see what I see?  Look at that penis sticking out so straight and stiff from his groin.  Hmmm.  A rather small one, isn’t it?  Nonetheless, it’s quivering and bobbing just a bit.  Pity to the poor woman he might try to mount with that silly little thing.  How tedious and utterly boring it would be for her, don’t you think?

Do you hear that?  Coming from the wall of the corner our little mini-meat-man stands against?  It’s muffled, but still exuberant and loud.  What could it be?  Did you see that?  I do believe that puny appendage of his just twitched.  Why, he’s reacting to the moans and groan, the creak of bed springs, the slapping of flesh we are hearing from the other side of that eggshell white wall!  And look at that!  He just took a deep sniff of those panties.  Oh, he did it again.  And again.  Look at that tiny stone pencil of his actually quivering.

Wait.  Someone is saying something from behind the wall.  Let’s listen.

This is what you deserve, you sad excuse for a husband.  Do you hear me, Henry?  Are you smelling the fuck on my panties while I’m getting my next dose of real man cock?  You’re a loser, Henry.  And you’ll stand there in the corner like the sorry dick-wad you are while I fuck this stud.

Oh my!  I think we have our answers.  And, at this point, I do believe we should leave Henry to his moment of bliss.

don’t tell me

don’t tell me
that i can’t fuck around
maybe i don’t care if they’re not as smart, as slick-savvy as you
so what if they don’t have your big cock
or buy me diamonds and pearls and rubies
in platinum or eighteen karat gold

don’t tell me
that i shouldn’t stay out or turn off my phone
or take candy from strangers
because you just might not be around
when i change my mind

don’t tell me
that i just don’t care, that it doesn’t mean a thing
that i’m just a fucking cunt
a bitch from hell, a vicious harpy, a narcissistic wench
well … just because
we already know that,
don’t we?

don’t tell me
that i’m your perfect girl,
or call me babe, or honey, or sweetheart
for christ’s sake, get a grip
keep your sticky fingers to yourself
take your heart off your sleeve
and stick your dick back into your pants

don’t tell me
that it’s chemistry or destiny,
we’re written in the stars
get over your romantic self
and off me, out of my face

wipe off that drool
straighten your tie
stand up like a man
and don’t tell me.

Pussy Whipped Cuckold

“It’s what I want, Jeremy. You need to get used to this once and for all.”

You remember looking at her: This woman you’d adored for what seemed forever. You’d spread out your hands, reaching for her.  The gesture seemed desperate and you’d quickly  put them back to your sides.

“But you’re my girl, Courtney. You can’t do this. It just isn’t right.”

“I am going to do this whether you like it or not. If you want me to be ‘your girl,’ then you need to accept things the way they are. Maybe, if you just finally get over yourself, I might even let you have sex with me.   I’ll bet you would like that, wouldn’t you?”

Flipping a tress of hair behind her ear, Courtney had batted her lashes and smiled. Later you would wonder if that smile had really been a smirk.  That in your obsession with her, you’d read her beautiful, flawless countenance all wrong.  Of course, the possibility of finally being allowed to have sex with her probably had something to do with it; but at that moment she had you in the palm of her hand. You knew you would agree to anything.


Was that really only a month ago?

Because here you are now in what seems like a third rate porn video, a low-grade director’s fantasy on celluloid.

Courtney rented the hotel room, made all the plans, even drove both of you the ninety miles it took to get here.

She is face-down on the hotel bed while a man you just met not even an hour ago licks up the crack of her ass while pumping two fingers in and out of her pussy. Two other men stand naked on the other side of the bed, pumping their pricks and watching. The dirty blonde one looks over at you. “Can you handle this, man? You’re looking kind of pale. Are you going to be okay?”

Courtney takes her face out of the pillow she’s been moaning into and looks at you. “Get you’re clothes off. Don’t you dare fuck this up for me.” Before you can even respond she’s moved up onto her hands and knees and is telling the guy in bed with her, “I need it. I need your cock. Fuck me. Give it to me now.”

The guy with the goatee moves over to the head of the bed, bending his right knee across a rumpled pillow. He pushes his pelvis forward so that his cock is pushing into the side of her cheek. “Open your mouth, you fucking cock slut,” he grunts, “grab this prick of mine and eat it.” Then he looks over at you and sneers. “Is she a good little cocksucker?”

“I don’t know.”

You hear the words, wondering who said them, then realize they’ve come out of your very own mouth. Courtney has grabbed his cock and is smearing the pre-cum up and down the shaft as she licks and sucks the bulbous head.   She stops and looks at you.

“Tell them why you don’t know.”

“I, er….”

Just then the guy behind her starts shoving his cock between the triangle of her spread thighs. You see her back arch and hear the quick intake of her breath.

“Tell them.”

You feel the heat of humiliation coloring your face as you watch Courtney begin to rhythmically meet the thrusts of the cock shoving in and out of her.

“Tell them, you son-of-a-bitch.”

And then she purposely twists from the waist, pulling goatee’s cock up to the edge of her red mouth. She wants you to see. She stares defiantly into your eyes as she begins lowering her lips to the oozing, bubbling head.  “I like cock,” she says, and begins moving her mouth down the shaft until the entire root has disappeared and her mouth looks obscenely bloated.  Still staring and you, she begins sucking.

“Courtney doesn’t suck my cock.”

Again you can’t believe the words have come from your mouth. You don’t know why, but you start taking off your clothes. As the dirty blonde crawls up on the bed, you hear yourself again.

“Courtney used to fuck me.  She never, ever would suck my cock, but she did fuck me.  Not a lot.  But she did fuck me sometimes.”

You are down to your jeans and are unzipping them.  Your dick is throbbing.  You are ashamed and turned-on.  It is a sick, dirty feeling.   And you like it.

“Courtney stopped fucking me a year ago. But I’m so pussy-whipped, I don’t care.”

The bodies on the bed have rearranged themselves. Courtney is riding dirty blonde’s dick, while the guy who’d been fucking her pussy is now pushing in and out of her ass from behind.  Mr. Goatee is standing on the bed, his hands clasping her long hair, forcing her mouth down on his dick. You can hear her gagging and see her throat actually expanding as his pelvis smashes full into her face.

You are naked now and realize that you’ve started playing with yourself. You ramble on.

“I’ve never been able to satisfy Courtney. She’s cheated on my from the beginning. I always knew. I just pretended I didn’t. Because it doesn’t matter as long as she gets what she needs.”

You move to the bed, mesmerized by the tangle of flesh, with your beloved Courtney at the center of it all. And then you are whispering.

First to Courtney: “You get all the cock you need, baby girl. You get yourself all the dick you can take. I understand. You can’t help it. You deserve it.”

Then to the men: “You give it to her, guys. Fuck her good. Give her some nice, dirty, hard fucking. In all her holes. Fill her up with your gizz. Make her cum hard.”

The entire time you are stroking yourself.

You are realizing that this is the way it will always be. And you are realizing you don’t care. Your baby girl is getting her fix the only way she can. And you will always be there helping her get it.  Doing anything she wants.  You can’t escape when you’re pussy whipped.  You’re officially a cuckold now.  A pussy-whipped cuckold.  And you don’t care.

Bench Warmer

You’ve come to ask me why I am sitting here for well over an hour now and if there is anything you can do for me. You are so young. What, eighteen? Nineteen? And yet you are so kind.

Dear beautiful girl, there is nothing anyone can do for me. And I cannot leave this bench, because Diana expects that I stay here until she is done. Diana is my wife, you see; and I must never disobey her. Even when she is doing what I know she is doing in the hotel behind me, I do what she tells me to do.

Ahh. I see that you understand what is going on up there–that she is betraying me even as I sit here talking with you. Don’t look so shocked; or is that sadness I see? If so, there is no need to pity me. Sit here beside me and I will tell you more. Go ahead, I don’t bite. Hell, I don’t even bark. Although sometimes I whimper. That is what my Diana would tell you and she would be right.

Sit with me and I will share this bread with you, so that we can both feed the birds gathered at our feet. They know me now, and are here every Thursday. Every Thursday it’s the same: Me on this bench, the birds at my feet, and my wife in room 418.

Dear girl, even though you are too young to know of such things yet, your sweetness is appreciated. And so I will tell you. Diana would tell you that I am “pussy whipped.” She tells me so every day–every single day. She is right, of course. I was struck dumb by her beauty the first time I saw her and have been her captive ever since.

After three months of dating, I begged her to marry me. She was blunt. You cannot satisfy me. That is what she said. I told her that I loved her, that I would learn, that she could show me. Because, quite honestly, I knew she was none too pleased with our intimacies. She smiled then, gently taking my hand and looking deep into my eyes. I am fond of you and could easily love you. And I will marry you. But only if you agree to my terms.

Can you guess her terms? Surely your young mind has not yet comprehended such things, and so I will tell you. My beautiful Diana revealed to me that she’d been regularly seeing and having sexual relations with a variety of men throughout the three months we’d dated. You see, she told me, there are stud men and then there are husbands. If I agree to this marriage, you will be a husband. I will get my sex from my stud men. Because, quite frankly, I do not care to have intercourse with you ever again. Of course I was devastated. Like any man would, I told her those terms were unacceptable. She just smiled and kissed me on the cheek.

We continued seeing each other, but the dynamics had changed. No longer was I permitted to have sex with her. Needless to say, I was perpetually aroused, totally obsessed with her. It wasn’t long before she began freely admitting to her various ongoing dalliances. On more than one occasion–when we were at dinner or a movie–she’d point to a man she’d slept with the night before or recently.

While much of what then transpired from that point on is quite embarrassing, I promised to tell you. And so I will.

My obsession became everything. She was Laura to my Franceso. At first I followed her, needing to know who these men were, jealous that she would give to them what she would not give to me. But then I had to know what they were doing with her. I began hiding in the bushes, watching through Diana’s bedroom window as they took their pleasure with her beautiful, perfect body.

Of course, it was agony. But there was also a new kind of hunger–a voracious appetite that I could no longer deny. Because I was becoming aroused watching these men molest her body, taking her roughly, spilling their seed into her womb. There came a night when, disgusted with myself–but unable to stop–I unzipped my fly and grabbed my stiff member.

I see that you are blushing. Have I said too much? Do you want me to continue?

Ah, then, I will. Thank you. They say that confession is good for the soul; perhaps that is why I feel this deep need to tell you our story. Here, have some more bread. If you hold a piece down here–like this–some of the birds will come right up to your fingers. There you go.

As I was saying, I grabbed my own erect penis, right there outside of her window as I watched Diana on her on hands and knees with this man–this brute–pummeling her from behind. I watched the biggest penis I’d ever seen sliding in and out of her; and Diana loved it. She was screaming at him to do it even harder and deeper. Her flesh had taken on a pink glow, and a mist of sweat covered her bouncing breasts. Then her eyes rolled up, and she began grunting and screaming. Her body twitched and jerked. That she was having an orgasm with that huge organ inside of her small orifice drove me wild. Quite frankly, I’d never been so turned on.

I began stroking myself. One…two…three… And that is as far as I got. I began ejaculating into the bushes just as the man pulled out his penis–slimy and dripping with the evidence of my beloved’s orgasm–and began shooting his discharge all over her exquisite heart-shaped buttocks.

I was crouched behind the bush, catching my breath and wondering how I could creep away without being discovered, when Diana’s “stud man” quite abruptly emerged through the front door, tucking in his shirt. As I watched him getting into his car, he stopped and–looking back at the house–yelled an obsenity. I sent him away and he’s not too happy. It was Diana’s voice right above my head. I looked up to see her smiling down at me from the window.

Of course, I was mortified. It turned you on, didn’t it? I was so embarrassed, so confused–my sickened heart thudding against my chest–all I could do was stutter. Diana told me to come inside. Shaking, not knowing what was going to happen next, I went around to the front of the house. The door was still ajar from her lover’s quick departure, so I let myself in, going straight to Diana’s bedroom where I found her still naked, the overwhelming and pungent smell of sex filling the room.

So, you get one more chance to ask me to marry you. Just one more. And let me warn you, before you ask for my hand. Oh her smile was so confident when she said that. It will be just like tonight. And the other nights you were outside my window. I will have lovers, many lovers. You may watch or listen or wait. But you, yourself, will not have sex with me. The only thing that will be different is that you won’t have to hide behind a bush.

The rest of the story is obvious, my dear. I married her, agreeing to her harsh terms. It’s been seven years now. And while I sleep in the same bed with Diana every night–watching the rise and fall of her breasts, smelling the perfume of her shampooed hair, seeing the flair of her blanketed hips–I am never permitted to have intercourse with her. I cannot even count the number of men who’ve had sex with Diana.

Sometimes Diana and her “stud man” will let me stand with my face to the corner, listening and masturbating. Other times they might have me help them in the actual act–by positioning her or holding her open for him. Sometimes I must stay behind the closet door or under the bed.

But this is Thursday, Bench Warming Day, as Diana calls it. It’s been going on now for about three months. Look up there where the blind in the window is half open. That is room 418, and that is my cue. It tells me that they have had their fill. Five men have had sex with my wife. Five men have abused her body and used it for their pleasure. They have used and filled every opening.

So I must be going. Diana needs me. She will be depleted and tired. I will tenderly bathe her, and then dress her. Then carry her to the car. I will take her home and tuck her into bed. Because I love her. I love her so very much.

She Never Knew

She never knew. You wanted her to. At least sometimes you thought you did.

You were her friend, her buddy, her “best buddy,” she always said. And you always agreed. Grinned your simple grin and kept your secrets.

You liked it when she called you that. Best buddy, bosom buddy. The buddy left alone when she was out with Karl or Jacob or Michael, or one of so many others. It’s not that you ever loved her; she never broke your heart after all. You knew even then that you can’t break a heart that doesn’t love. It was always that simple and that fucked up.

You never fooled yourself, not even at first. Because it was never love–not even lust or reverence. It was deification. Yes, you fantasized about her, masturbated thinking about her. Thinking about her with them–all of them. You thought about her face, her dewy flesh, her gray-green eyes, her auburn hair–long and always freshly shampooed. But it wasn’t her beauty that caught you’re imagination. It was her cunt. It was the thought of her cunt that got you crazy-hot. You wanted to worship the cunt that all of that beauty implied. To be the rutting pig, the filthy whore-boy, the degenerate cunt-slut. To be a slave to the magnificent snatch that the Karls and Jacobs and Michaels–loved and ate and fingered and fucked.

Even now you don’t remember the first time. The first time you had to have more. The first time you stole her panties, sniffed them, jerked off in them. And finally wore them: Her cum and their cum, all those men’s cum, wet against your cock, spunk-soaked satin and lace. A dirty betrayal. A profane gesture. You knew it, but you did it anyway, time and again–even your guilt a twisted aphrodisiac that you fed upon.

That was long ago, back then, back there. You both moved on. She–to three states, two marriages and, now, two divorces. You–just to a different apartment, one town over. Always single, always remembering.

But she’s found you in the here and now.

Sitting on your sofa, drinking single malt whiskey instead of iced tea, wearing stilettos instead of sandals, smoking a cigarette instead of chewing gum–she is staring at you. Silence. Taking a drag off of her cigarette, exhaling slowly, never losing eye contact. Finally she butts the cigarette on the dish you’ve brought her in lieu of an ashtray.

“It’s going to be different this time.”


“You know what. You know exactly what I mean. And this time you’re going to do it my way.”

She slowly uncrosses her long, silky legs and lights another cigarette. You attempt the silly grin, your old standby. But you’re out of practice. Nervous. Your lips tremble. And you don’t quite pull it off; know you look timid, stupid, probably even frightened. Because that is exactly how you feel.

She takes another drag of the cigarette, this time a long, deep one. Stands up. Begins walking toward you, her heels digging into the drab, grey linoleum. Standing in front of you she lets the cigarette hang from the corner of her over-glossed lips and starts slowly pulling up the sides of her dress.

“I was a busy girl before I got here tonight. You remember those days, the old days?  When I was a busy girl? A very busy girl all the time?” Her dress is sliding over the tops of her stockings. You push your back into your chair, gripping its arms.

“Funny thing is…I never had to clean a pair of panties. No matter how many men, how many cocks, how many fucks. No panties to wash. In fact, no panties–period. No panties at all. All of those nasty, dirty panties–gone, poof, nowhere to be found.”

Her dress is at her waist now, and she is reaching out with one hand, pulling you by the neck, pulling your face between her legs. With her other hand she runs her fingers through your hair, enamel nails lightly scratching your scalp.

“We’re going to get it right this time,” she says, pushing your cheeks against the inside of her thighs. The hem of her skirt catches at your brow as she presses your face against her crotch. Inhaling the scent, remembering the scent, you open your mouth and press your tongue into the soaked, pungent, satiny crevices. As she starts to grind her pelvis, you hear her murmuring above you.

“I knew. I always knew.”

Don’t Go in There

“What in the hell is going on, Sarah? Why are you acting so funny? Where’s Monica?

“Jason, I…”

Sarah turns to the window, brow knitted, trying to think of how to tell him. Damn her, she thinks, why did she have to do this today while I’m here?


“Sarah, what’s is wrong? Just tell me where Monica is.”

“Ok, remember New Year’s Eve? Remember when you and Monica had that fight?”

Jason hesitates, grabs hold of the edge of the table. It was just a spat. They were both drunk, him stupid and drunk. Monica had said things, crazy things, but she was drunk, for god’s sake.

“Where in the hell is my wife?”

“You don’t have to yell.”

Sarah turns away, biting her lip, looking toward the kitchen wall, staring at it. She looks back at Jason. Then he hears it. Very low, hardly noticible. Living in an apartment complex, you get used to ignoring the sounds of all those lives going on around you. But this is coming from inside the apartment; this is coming from the bedroom.

Jason walks over to the wall, reaching out, touching it. He looks back at Sarah.

“Who’s in there Sarah?”

“Jason, you told her you wanted her to do it.”

“I was drunk, Sarah. I was shit-faced drunk.”

But he remembers. Remembers showing the guys all the porn on his computer. How they all laughed, telling him he was a pervert. How Monica was standing there with her arms folded over her chest. How he laughed while Barry explained to Monica what cuckolding was. How pissed she was. How, when he kept laughing, she’d told him he might just get what he wanted. How the guys had joked and said they’d help out anytime. It was all so funny then. What had he said to her? Do it and make me happy for once. Something like that.

Jason starts toward the hall. The noise seems so much louder now. Does he hear moaning? Is that Monica moaning? The bedroom door looms, white and huge. He has to see, has to know.

“Don’t go in there.”

His hand on the doorknob, Jason barely hears Sarah. But he hears Monica now.

“Give it to me. Fuck me like a whore. Harder.”

He turns the knob.

“Jason, don’t go in there.”

He pushes the door open.

And there is Monica, there is his wife. And Brad.

FireStats icon Powered by FireStats