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My Cuckold Bedroom! By Throne
🕑 Added 2020-04-22 04:56:04 +0000 UTCMy Cuckold Bedroom!
By Throne
© 2019-2020 QoS Comix All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to Devinwhitegurl@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
MY CUCKOLD BEDROOM
by Throne
I was upset when my wife Tressa cut me off from sex. And when she turned me into her pussy licking bedroom slave. Then the cheating started and I thought I'd die. It was even worse when she made me lavish sexual attention on her after she returned from dates. You can't imagine how disgusting it is to have to eat another man's spunk from your own wife's well used snatch. But everything got ten times worse when she brought her lover home -- and moved him in.
My wife is a voluptuous beauty. I mean, for some guys she would be too heavy. But to me her big boobs, plump tummy, wide hips, full thighs and large calves are like a visual aphrodisiac. And her ass, so wide and round and sticking out so far, is like some exotic drug that puts me under a spell. When we were first married I would take every opportunity to ogle it when she couldn't see me, even though I felt like a Peeping Tom in my own home. It never failed to get me aroused, and leave my dick so hard it hurt, my balls pulled up tight. The problem was that my dick was too small and my balls like a couple of pigeon eggs. To add to my problems, I always got so wildly aroused by seeing and touching my bride that whenever we got intimate, I came before I could even get my penis inside her. It was so embarrassing. And she loved to remind me of it.
"What's the matter, Joey? It's bad enough that your pecker is the size of a roll of nickels. But it always shoots off all over my lips down there, as soon as it touches them. You know, I've got to get my trigger pulled, too. So get your stupid face between my legs and give me some tongue-love. And clean up your mess at the same time. HA!"
The first time she brought Deshawn home I was totally shaken by his appearance and manner. He's over six feet tall, broad at the shoulders, muscular, and Black. That last revelation completely upset me. Of course I didn't say anything. He was too physically intimidating for that. The way he scowled down at me, his hair short on top and shaved down to almost nothing on the sides, and the neat mustache and goatee he sported, made me feel like I was confronting a devil.
"What's the matter, boy?" he growled. "Aren't you happy that your hot wife is getting some proper screwing?"
"Uh... um... yes, Sir. I am."
"Then how about if you thank me, worm?"
"I... err... yes. Thank you, Sir."
"For what?"
"For... oh no... please." I took a steadying breath. "Thank you for giving my wife such good sex. Which she deserves. And which I can't give her."
That was calculated to satisfy him, but he wanted more. I saw Tressa behind him, pushing back her long, dyed blond hair with the lighter streaks she'd had put in it. There was an expression of sadistic hunger on her features. Those bright green eyes seemed to glow. Her wide mouth was twisted into a crooked grin. Her high cheekbones appeared even more elevated.
She told me, "Why don't you get naked, Joey? Show Deshawn why you're not good for anything except pussy sucking in bed."
I started to say, "That's not really necessary. I'm sure he understands that..."
Which was where he cut me off with, "Yo, snowflake. My woman wants me to see you in the altogether. And I could use a good laugh before her and me hit the sheets. So let's see it all, Mr. Small."
Feeling worthless and unable to defend myself, I began to undress. First came the T-shirt Tressa had gotten me, with a picture of that Sponge Guy cartoon character on it. She loved to watch that show and said he reminded her of me. Then I got out of the baggy shorts she had bought me. They were plaid and in loud colors. I wasn't allowed to wear anything under them. She knew how much it bothered me to know that I had only one layer of clothing on below the waist. As I pulled them down, her lover burst into uncontrolled guffaws.
"Damn!" he exclaimed. "You really ain't got nothing where it counts. And almost no bush, neither. In fact, with a baby dick like that, you shouldn't have ANY pubic hair. So go give yourself a below-the-belt haircut. Use your shaver or whatever. But I want you back here in five minutes without even one strand of hair around your puny pecker. And do under your arms. Plus those three hairs trying to grow on your skinny chest. And anywhere else you got some. Get busy. NOW!"
Leaving my clothes on the floor, I scampered through our small house to the bathroom and did what he told me. When I returned, denuded of body hair, with a few razor burns on my crotch, they were in the living room. The two of them were sitting on the sofa, very close together, and had their shoes off. They each had a can of the cheap beer that my wife favors. I stood there, an object of ridicule, while they snickered and snorted.
"So here's the deal," Deshawn said. "I'm going to be sharing the bedroom with Tressa. Only me. You got any problems with that?"
Lying next to my wife in our bed was still a delight to me. Even if our sex life was one-sided and I had to perform the repugnant job of cleaning up my premature ejaculations from her slit. The thought of being banned from our marital bed made me have to blink back tears.
But of course I told him, "No, Sir. I have no problem with that. Of course not. You're the kind of man she needs. And deserves."
"Truth," he agreed. "And I've got a home remodel business, so I got the skills to make you a new bedroom."
"Well," I began, there's the guest room, so I could just..."
Again he cut me off. "Did I ask for your advice, shit-for-brains? No I did not. So shut your pussy-lapping mouth and listen. I'm going to convert that walk-in closet space next door into a real nice room for you. End of story. My crew can handle the jobs we got right now, so I'm taking tomorrow off and, in between when I'm slamming your wife's tight box, giving it a real workout with my big Black cock, I'll make you like a bedroom/mancave. Or maybe it'll be a loser-cave. Okay?"
My stomach was twisted up from stress, but I meekly answered, "Absolutely, Sir. Whatever you think I need."
"Right. Now how about you lay down in front of us, on your back, so we have someplace to put our feet and keep them warm."
I assumed that position and he dropped his big feet heavily onto my face. Tressa set hers on my crotch, so that my dick instantly got stiff. She pointed out to Deshawn how small it was even when erect. He made a derisive sound.
"That's not to worry about no more," he assured her. "Because from now on that shrimp-size thing ain't allowed nowhere near your business. No more of what you told me about, how he barely touches you and then shoots his shot. Your VG is for only me, girl."
"Yes, SIR," she told him with a smile.
Her toes toyed with my penis and I couldn't suppress a moan of frustrated need. He ground his heel against my mouth and then his sweat-smelling toes all over my nose. After that they settled into kissing each other deep and long, while letting their hands roam freely. He pushed up her thin top and I got to see her lovely breasts, except that his big dark hands were pawing them and playing with her fat nipples. Eventually they moved to the bedroom, requiring me to follow them. I had to roll onto my stomach and wriggle along behind them like a snake. When I got there they were undressing each other. Once my bride's queenly bottom was exposed, I couldn't stop gawking at it. So enticing, but no longer for me. Well, almost not for me. Deshawn made me get up on my knees and kiss it all over while he faced her and they ground their groins together. Then I had to bury my face in the deep, humid, musky valley between her buttocks, to lap the floor of her crack and kiss her rosebud. Then I had to rim her and, finally, to my revulsion, penetrate her tightness with my tongue and stay like that while they shared several more minutes of vertical foreplay.
At last I was allowed to crawl away and position myself in the corner, looking at them. They permitted me to masturbate but forbade me to finish. I had to witness their unrestrained lovemaking. His cock was huge, about a foot long and thick even for its length, with a bulging knob. He fully satisfied her several times while I whimpered and sniffled and lost whatever self-confidence I had managed to hold onto until then. By the time they were done I was a quivering wreck.
That didn't stop Deshawn from making me get on the foot on the bed, squirm forward, and bury my face in the V of Tressa's smooth legs. For the first of many times, I had to suck his spunk from her body and swallow it. By the time I was allowed to stop, I was reduced to tears. They mocked me for crying and made me return to the corner, this time with my features in the juncture of the walls, still having to play with myself, and definitely still not permitted to finish.
The next day, when I returned from work, they were in the kitchen, having just finished some delivery pizza. Deshawn toasted me with his beer and said my new bedroom was finished. I had to strip down before I was allowed to see it. Tressa explained that, until further notice, I was to always be naked when in the house. My wallet, phone, keys and such would go into a cardboard box near the back door. The three of us went to the converted closet. I was dismayed to see that all the cardboard boxes stored there were still present. A beat up army cot with a threadbare blanket was between them. On top of one box was an old dial telephone. That seemed like a small consolation until I noticed that it had no cord. They were just tormenting me by leaving the useless item there.
There were a pair of unwelcome modifications. A mirror had been mounted on the ceiling over the cot, so that if I lay on my back I would see my reflection. And the old door had been replaced by a Dutch one, with the top and bottom halves opening independently. The masterful Black man closed and locked the top one, so that I would have to bend way over to enter or leave.
"Pretty nice," Deshawn commented, gesturing around the inadequate space. "Right?"
"Yes, Sir. It's perfect. Exactly what I... should have."
"And it's next to the bedroom," he went on. "The one that you used to get to be in. So you'll be able to hear us when we get it on. Ain't that good?"
"It's VERY good, Sir. I appreciate that." I was getting better at telling him what he wanted to hear.
Tressa contributed, "And I'll be sure to get real loud. Yell Deshawn's name when he puts me over the top, the way you never could with your midget dick."
As if all that wasn't bad enough, since then they've come up with two more ways to make me miserable. First, Tressa had me go and buy several packs of condoms, making sure I got the magnum size. They used one every several days during sex. Then I had to take it, still warm, and paperclip it to a clothesline Deshawn installed directly above my uncomfortable cot. The rubbers hung down, a constant reminder of my wife's cheating. Their size made it impossible for me to forget how much larger his cock was than my pitiable dick. And because the mouth of each condom was open, the scent of old semen permeated the air in that small space. Sometimes my wife would make me kiss each dangling cum receptacle on its reservoir tip while she chuckled and made crude remarks.
The other cruel innovation was that Deshawn pushed aside a few of the cardboard boxes to install a small window in the wall between the bedroom and the repurposed closet. It must have been an old model, a smaller version of the real thing, used in a showroom. I had to crouch in front of it whenever they had sex, which was often. Sometimes it was curtained from their side and I could only listen. Other times I was allowed to push aside the curtain and peer though, the edges of my face pressed against the frame. I had a worm's eye view of their vigorous couplings. That always tore at my heart and further destroyed my ego, but because it was so intensely sexual, and because I always had to -- as my bride took to saying, 'commit self abuse', at those times -- I started to find it exciting, even though I was forbidden to finish. And then began to crave watching them. And finally, with it as the center of my controlled sex life, found myself addicted to being at that window, hunched up, naked, staring at what I was not capable of doing, or permitted to even consider, personally.
On the rare occasions when I am allowed to jerk off all the way, they are always specific about where my semen ends up. Sometimes I have to aim it at the end of my cot where my head rests, so that I wind up sleeping with the side of my face in the puddle. Or I have to squirt into a worn pair of my wife's panties, right on the crotch, and then go to bed with them over my head, the messy area against my lower face. The most awful way that they make me finish myself, is lying on my back with my legs thrown up and over, so my knees are alongside my head and my little dick is aimed at my face.
They tell me, "Keep your mouth open, Jerk Off Joey."
And, "Make sure you squirt it between your lips, dumbass."
Plus, "The drops at the end you can shake off, so they get on your dopey face."
They like to do it like that, while they stand at the fully opened Dutch door, after I'm already on my narrow cot at bedtime. That way I have to sleep with the taste of my discharge on my tongue, and some on my lips and cheeks and maybe even up my nose. Anything to demean and humiliate me. And control me. Then Deshawn closes and locks the upper half of the door. Sometimes they leave my light turned on. My wife's lover put the switch outside the cramped room, so I have no ability to turn it off. So I have to lie there and stare at the dangling condoms, along with my sad face in the mirror.
The two of them like to drop hints that they're thinking up other and more extreme ways to run and ruin my life. I try not to imagine what those might be. They've also said that, if I do have any nightmarish thoughts about how they could add to my plight, I am required to share them. So I make an effort to not think of what might occur in my worst dreams. But I know that I'll eventually come up with something truly terrible. And be obligated to admit what it is. And that they will delight in doing whatever I confess. And laugh while they're doing it.
How much deeper can I sink?
