I knew what I was getting into when I entered this lifestyle. I knew every implication and consequence of the decisions I was making. And of the decisions I made with my wife. I understood my life would never be the same again and that it was the biggest change my marriage had ever seen. I knew this and understood this.
Or at least, I thought I did.
The shock was huge but I wanted it; I embraced every change and longed for every last piece of humiliation and submission. Sure, I never expected the wild roller-coaster ride I was given a front seat on for a moment; it took some while to adjust to deal with the feelings of humiliation and jealousy over the months. To cope with the loss of a lover in one sense, but the gain of two more in another. I needed help and support to address my feelings and to be comfortable with my new status and role. But I got that, I got that from my wife’s lover.
I’d long been enchanted with the cuckold lifestyle: the sexual liberation of my wife would only be complete if she felt able to embrace new partners and new experiences with or without me. To fulfil her decadent desires irrespective of what I thought. I wanted my wife to cheat and play away, to use her feminine wiles to seduce and ensnare a dominant man or even dominant men to enjoy her. I longed for her to liberate herself from me. Some drunken fondling at a Christmas function set her imagination flowing, a nervous grope and blowjob at a swingers’ party stoked the thoughts much more.
She thought I’d leave her if she cheated. I signed my first submissive slave contract that day to renounce any claims of adultery. She met an acquaintance later that week, tied me to the chair to listen from another room as her anonymous lover fucked her wildly and noisily for what felt like hours. Her screams and cries, punctured by loud orgasms and desperate wails drove my imagination wild as my ears strained, anxious to hear every last detail from their tryst.
I needed to hear it. I wanted to see it. My erect cock was spewing pre-cum as she climaxed for the first time, and pumped cum into my underwear as she screamed his name in orgasmic ecstasy. I’d had a handsfree orgasm: my wife calling another man’s name at the height of her pleasure, while I was restrained in an adjacent room and forced to listen, was too much excitement for my cock to bear.
There would be many nights like that over the coming months, but in those early days she was scared of losing me. The globules of cum on my underpants and the giant wet spot was proof that her satisfaction was far more important to me than her upholding the vows of our marriage I never cared for in the first place.
I wanted her to be free, and she was suddenly glad of the freedom. That first man showed her what fun the hotwife could have, and barely a week went past when she was not being fucked by men other than me. In fact, I was barely getting any sex, as my wife lost weight, gained confidence and started dressing in risque outfits.
I adored her more and more, especially as some of her regular men – the bulls – wanted me to be present. They loved to see me tied to the chair to watch as they impaled their uncovered cocks into my wife, and then feel the satisfaction of my love as she groaned with every parting thrust. They filled her, and they moved their hips to a rhythmic sensual beat. It was sex but suave and powerful, not the frantic and frenetic intercourse I gave her.
The two intertwined lovers were at one with each other; rhythmically in tune, as his glistening prick glided in and out of my wife and my bride swooning with lust as the orgasmic rush of relief repeatedly swept through her. And then I’d watch as his cum leaked from her pussy, flowing onto the bedclothes as my exhausted lady cuddled her powerful bull.
Of course, the bull would want to hurt me; vicious words, slaps around the face. I’d be called weak and pathetic, small-cocked and all. Some even wanted to see me in womens’ panties or push their cum-covered prick in my mouth. It was part of the game, I had to accept it.
But the real change was when she met the experienced Aaron. He was a sales director, a few years our senior with slightly graying hair, but a muscular body with tonal definition. Unlike most of the men she had, I met him before they got down to business; he bought us a meal in the pub on his expenses and talked to us both. What did I want out of the games?
In truth, I had no idea; he made us think and we talked. I loved the submission from allowing my wife to play away while I finished housework or did my work. I adored her coming home from her trysts sated and exhausted, laughing as she collapsed into the bedroom and recounted tales of never ending debauchery.
It wasn’t enough; when Aaron played, he wanted both partners actively involved or else he wasn’t interested. The aggressive bulls was something I was never fond of: I liked my wife to be sexually satisfied, I didn’t mind submitting to her or him, but the slaps, the cross-dressing and the trash talk was too much for me.
He picked my wife up in his sports car and gave me a list of instructions as he left. My heart thumped as I opened the envelope, feelings I’d never experienced ran through me as my sexy wife wiggled into his convertible.
His instructions: enjoy your evening, don’t masturbate, we’ll be home at ten.
It felt anti-climatic because it was. I’d expected demands to have the bedroom dowsed in red rose petals or me to be waiting with iced champagne; just “enjoy myself” didn’t cut it as “normal” for a cuckold relationship.
Only when he returned, my wife was frantically kissing him, his hands running underneath her dress as they scandalously flirted in full view of our neighbours. I saw curtains twitching, foresaw gossiping for days, months or years. I saw the public branding of my wife as a trollop or our house as a place of disrepute. I saw … my wife smiling, and laughing. Pulling Aaron into our hallway with an enjoyment not born out of uncontrolled lust but excited anticipation. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said, as much as a demand as a suggestion.
I was powerless not to follow as he seduced my wife into our master bedroom, pulling at her clothes as they energetically undressed each other. It was hot; she was insatiable as their tongues twisted and their clothes were tossed aside. “Tell him,” he whispered into her ear.
Her eyes twinkled as she looked at me, licking her lips as my lingerie-clad wife beckoned me into the room. “Get undressed, little boy!” Her voice hovered over the word “little,” emphasising my lack of size: in fact I wasn’t that “small” but we had always played the role that I was tragically poorly endowed and she needed to go outside the relationship for bigger partners. It was part of our game. Aaron rolled his eyes and looked away as I mumbled a response, before I frantically scattered my clothing to the side of the room. Was I getting sex too?
She commanded me underneath her, her voice barely breaking as I lay on the bed, with my lady positioned on top of me. She groaned appreciatively as my tongue swirled against her clit, my hands exploring her body as I waited for her lips to clamp around my cock; was this a 69?
It wasn’t. She put a pillow over my crotch and lay her head on it, twisting her body with every flick on her button.
I wanted to feel her lips sliding down my cock, the suck on my tip and the brush of her hands against my balls. I wanted to feel her do anything but just rest her head on a pillow, pushing against my prick. Rejecting me.
A pinch of my nipples had me squealing, digging her nails into the skin had my legs thrashing. “Do it property,” she demanded; I wasn’t used to the dominant wife. My tongue kissed and caressed her pearl with firmer movements, sliding over her slickness as Aaron towered over us, pushing his cock along her crack and against my lips.
“Kiss it,” he barked as I shied away from his manhood; a further dig of her nails flooded my nerves with pain and I gave his erect cock the merest of pecks. I saw the veins throb angrily as he lined himself against my wife and pushed gently forward, coating his erection in her slick wetness.
She was wet; grunting with every thrust of his cock to fill her, my tongue swirling against her as his balls brushed over my face.
I saw every hair, blemish and droplet on his dick as he rammed it into her, making her legs quiver and her hands grab at my skin, squeezing tightly as her pussy quivered to the rhythm of his powerful thrusts.
My cock was painfully erect, but my wife was tripping on repeated orgasms, her body trembling with every poke of his tumescent prick. My tongue traced a message to my lover, crying and groaning as pleasure consumed every pore of her body.
But Aaron wasn’t wearing a condom; his balls vibrated and several streaks of cum landed in my wife’s pussy. I saw it leak out from within, running down her cunt as he withdrew. “Eat it,” he demanded. “’Cos there is plenty more where that came from.”
I screwed up my face as his cum rolled against my lips, determined not to let his spunk into my mouth. A quick squeeze of my nipples changed my mind as I sucked the musky semen from my wife.
He seemed satisfied, watching as I cleaned up his mess. I had surrendered the last shred of dignity to him; I had consumed another man’s spunk directly from my wife’s quivering cunt. I felt two inches tall yet swimming with lust and desperate for orgasm.
My wife rolled the cushion from underneath me and made some gentle strokes with her hands, sliding my cock between her fingers.
I stared into her cunt as my mind swam with her delicate touch. I grunted and my cock twitched, desperately thrusting my hips into her waiting hands.
She withdrew them as I tripped past the point of no return. She pinned my hands to the bed as I twisted to get free, my orgasm slipping away as cum dribbled from the end of my cock.
I was horny and spent, unsatisfied and unsated. They laughed, cackling sadistically at my torturous ruined orgasm. But Aaron made us sit down and talk through what we wanted: did I want the bull and my hotwife to dominate me? Did I want chastity play, cross-dressing, small penis humiliation or what? For the first time, I talked to my wife about our sex life in a detached, dispassionate way with Aaron’s parting advice to ignore what other people do and just agree what we wanted to do. Our limits, our games. No-one, but me and my wife, could decide the right way to surrender my wife to other men.
The ruined orgasm was truly awful as was eating his creampie from my wife, but I found them sexily arousing. I wanted her sadism to play with my masochism and what I needed was my wife to be uncompromisingly selfish in her pursuit of her twisted desires and her satisfaction.
My chastity cage arrived a few days later: a twisted nightmare of cold steel to encase my flaccid cock into. I protested, my brattish self objecting to her prohibition of my masturbation. She crossed her arms, counted to three, and when I still hadn’t relented, grabbed me by the hair and flung me over her knee.
Her hands barely stopped slapping against my bare buttocks as I squealed in pain, trying to free myself from her humiliating torment. But the strikes rained down on my abused skin, tears falling down my cheeks as my insides burnt from the embarrassment of receiving a spanking as a grown adult.
She rang Aaron a few moments later; he arrived as I sulked in our bedroom, sitting down to offer a few words of wisdom; chastity wear was my choice, but it would be a gift to my wife to relinquish control of all my orgasms to her and show that I was committed to her dominance. Show that I cared not about my pleasure. Showed that I trusted her.
The cage was on within a few minutes, imprisoning my cock. I complained about it rubbing, but she said once I got used to it, it would be fine. And it was.
That was two years ago, and I had been allowed out of my cage just four times in those 24 months. I changed jobs to work from home mostly; I’ve moved into the “granny flat” we had built that consists of my office, a bedroom and a small kitchenette-cum-lounge. That was my choice so I had somewhere to go when Aaron and my wife wanted to be alone: they didn’t always want me around when he was satisfying her. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t.
Every step of the way we had Aaron; he was much more than my wife’s bull; he became my confidant and best friend. He ensured the relationship my wife and I had flourished, yet also arranged dozens of gangbangs and orgies with my role as host, fluffer and waiter giving me the best views. He held my hand as I watched my wife taken, and feel satisfied that everyone in the room had orgasms, except me. He made me comfortable with my sexuality and into a happy cuckold.
I also had my clothes locked away by her; I have to ask to wear clothes when I need to go out of the house, and spend most of my time naked except for my steel chastity wear. I submit to my wife and her bull, and am all the happier for it. Canes, whips and paddles are kept in every room, but it is the mental punishment, the emotional endurance, that is a greater evil.
But she is still my wife: we celebrated our anniversary and Valentine’s Day without Aaron, and I was released from my chastity cage for the evening. She is still the woman I love, with a sex-life that suits us.
Which brings me to yesterday. It was my wife’s fortieth birthday and Aaron had decided we should come out of the closet: it made no sense to pretend that he wasn’t an important fixture in our lives and he wanted to meet our remaining friends and work colleagues as my wife’s well-hung lover.
My wife agreed, and they spoke to me after they had finished videoing their explicit webcam recording. I agreed, although I had no idea what they were going to do. Submissives like me didn’t need answers to questions like that; I trusted my dominants.
But I knew what I was getting myself into.
With the fancy-dress party in full swing, Aaron had a little announcement. He rose to his feet and got everyone’s attention. And then proceeded to tell the world who he was, why he was part of our relationship and that my wife needed him to get any sexual satisfaction in the bedroom.
Titters and giggles engulfed the room as I stood motionless, my cheeks blushing with humiliation. I stammered and muttered, not sure what to say.
“And my darling husband hasn’t had an orgasm for almost six months,” my wife cried from behind me and unbuttoned my cloak that made my “V for Vendetta” costume. “Because he wears a chastity cage!”
The drunk laughter roared around the room, as my cock strained to escape from the cage. Never had I been so aroused as I stood naked on the dancefloor of the small room, shifting my balance from one foot to another as my wife beamed incessantly, revelling in my degradation.
Everyone knew. Everyone knew that my wife sought sexual gratification from the arms of another, and that I was a slave to their whims and demands. Everyone knew that I had given more blowjobs in the last two years than I had received in thirty-eight years of my life. Everyone knew that I was denied pleasure and lived from one day of humiliation to another, yet had never had a more fulfilling sex life.
Yet I was both ashamed and relieved, liberated to be free of the secret and yet desperately embarrassed by the truth. I saw fingers point towards my encased cock as my wife curled my cloak on the table; I wanted it back, but there was little point.
As I walked towards her, there was a commotion to my right. My sister-in-law talking to my wife, ripped the front from her husband’s outfit and showed the world his tiny, pink chastity case; he swore and writhed as she ordered him to behave. He squealed, his cheeks redder than mine.
“Looks like we are both attracted to weak men,” the sister-in-law joked.
“No!” Aaron interrupted. “It takes real strength to submit. They’re not weak men, just kinky.” He glanced at me shuffling in the warm air. “And good men everywhere, but not in the bedroom. That’s why me and my kind get to fuck his wife every night and he gets to dream of his cock being free and a nice new frilly apron!”
My cheeks burnt even more, as my brother-in-law murmured complaints. But he was just like me; exposed, humiliated and … not objecting in the slightest. We truly were, cuckolds.
Image taken from Flickr and used under a CC-license.
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