Husband to Cuckold… & Worse

Excerpt

The woman was in her mid-fifties, fleshy without being corpulent and authoritative without being too overpowering — though she was, certainly empowered.

At least to the abject creature currently kneeling before her with his head lowered.

That the man was kneeling in front of her, knees themselves complaining at having to rest upon the hard and highly polished wooden floors of a home he had once thought his, this as she sat cross-legged and completely at her ease on the comfortable couch above, did not appear to seem remarkable to her. On the contrary. It was almost as if a man at her feet were no more than routine and wholly explicable.

It was made all the more remarkable by the fact the fortysomething whose home this had once been was naked in all but one respect.

That small concession to his modesty, it must be said, not being of a kind to provide reassurance he remained a man in any way but conceding to him by its unwanted presence at least a modicum of privacy.

“Your penis looks comfortable in its cage,” the woman observed to his lowered head as his eyes — and in just the way she herself had insisted — remained fixed to the toes of her shoes, hands clasped together behind his back as he adopted the position of respect she had taught him for when they were alone together for one of their monthly… chats.

Outrage, as ever, boiled close to the surface of his thoughts and even now, after so many humiliations, he could only marvel that his manhood had been so far reduced he felt unable to give voice to the many indignities and injustices being heaped upon his head on a daily basis.

All of which, he now knew with hindsight, the woman sitting above him at her imperious ease had either suggested or introduced.

Though how she had come to know his “mummy” or gain such influence over her he had no idea.

Kneeling in front of her in such a way, naked and with his cock and balls restrained, being but one of them.

“Now I know it upsets you to not be able to play with the little fellow whenever the mood takes you, but it really is for the best. Good boys need all the motivation they can get from their betters if they are to stay that way and become even better boys.”

No matter how many times he listened in on himself being spoken to in such a fashion, the kneeling man felt a sense of wonder that his life could have been turned into such a proverbial pile of humiliating and emasculated shit.

And in such a dizzyingly short space of time.

“More importantly,” the woman who enjoyed emasculating him so much continued, “it provides pleasure and reassurance to not only your aunty but your mummy and her house-guest also. By being the best boy you can be for her and acknowledging your mummy has the right to own your little cockle in such a way you make her very proud.”

Reaching out, she stroked his crimson cheeks then took his chin in her hands and raised his head. This that she might better observe. Observe the utter shame and misery she knew was forever constant in both his eyes and his soul, that is.

“What’s this?” she clucked with mock maternalism at a man who was no more than half a decade her junior as his eyes took in her habitual and charcoal-grey two-piece costume of bolero jacket and skirt to the knee. “Not tears again, surely?”

As his eyes, the same eyes above a cock denied release since her last visit a month ago, took in the costume that so flattered her shape and increased the shameful desire he was coming to feel for this “monster” who had played such a huge part in reducing him to his current position, he felt the first pangs of discomfort his “cage” made unavoidable.

“Ooooh,” she cooed, noting his wince and enjoying the power she never tired of wielding over such a man; whether it be her own husband or the partner of another, “Is my good little boy getting all excited by his aunty?”

He closed his eyes to the shame reflected back at him from those belonging to his monstrous and unyielding tormentor, asking himself for the umpteenth time how he could possibly stay and be treated in such a fashion.

“No!”

Moist eyes, filled with desire as well as the most abject humiliation now, opened instantly at the negative serving as a rebuke.

“Bad boy,” she scolded, treating him exactly as if he truly were a recalcitrant and half-formed pre-pubescent in need of strict guidance.

Ridiculous and risible as her treatment of him was, he knew also that this was no game to her and that he would be best advised to do exactly as she asked.

Unless, that is, he wanted another session over her lap as she “beat some respect” into him via a naked and vulnerable arse with a hair-brush belonging to his own wife.

The birch she had threatened to use if there was a repeat of the behaviour leading to the punishment that had soon had him bawling and begging, as if he truly were the infant they were intent upon treating him as being, had not been suggested lightly and he knew without doubt that she would do exactly as she said if he gave her cause.

The fear he felt for the woman was almost — almost — the equal of the soul-destroying and mortifying shame he felt at allowing himself to be treated in such a way.

“You know better than to be so disrespectful to your aunty,” she was continuing. “If I give you permission to look up then that’s what you do and how you stay until allowed to do otherwise.”

Keeping his eyes upon her as directed, if with the usual and soul-cringing difficulty, the need that was a constant these days ensured he managed to flick lustful if anxious glances over and down her body as she spoke to drink in the full and matronly breasts that dominated his thoughts more and more these days.

Not to mention her legs.

It only taking the merest fraction of a sighting for those “lustful if anxious” to be assured they looked as sexy as ever, knowing as he did that if — “if” — she gave him permission to take a longer and more considered look; and actually would if she found him… pleasing… enough; that the heels of her black courts that did so much to emphasise the somewhat muscular and still sculpted calf muscles would be waiting to greet his lips as he thanked her for the privilege. Her legs would, and as ever he knew, be clad in the sheerest of black pantyhose that felt so sensational against his penis on those occasions when she took him from his cage and allowed him to hump her leg after the fashion of the canine she insisted his desires made him. A crisp white-cotton shirt, he knew, and short but well-coiffed snowy grey hair would complete the monochrome effect and give her the appearance of a somewhat implacable, if erotic, educator or Prison Warden.

The above impression not being contradicted by the black-framed spectacles shielding cobalt blue eyes and resting upon the chiselled nose of a face with full and plump lips but only slightly running to fat.

A slight plumpness that did nothing to contradict the impression of officiousness and authority.

“That’s better,” she cooed, his breath leaving his emasculated body with a whoosh as she reached down to cup his ringed scrotum in her hands and evaluate the fullness of his balls as if he were no more than a useful beast of the field who may require milking.

“My,” there’s a little boy not too far from here who really needs my attention, isn’t there?”

Only too aware of his humiliation and her delight in it — how could he not be — it was only with an effort of will that he kept his eyes fixed upon hers in the way he knew she required; an effort of will supplement in the main by desperation and sheer need. Her presence her was an indicator another month had passed. And he needed to cum more than he had ever felt the need before.

“Isn’t there?” she repeated, when no reply to what he thought had been a rhetorical question was unforthcoming, voice taking on an edge that, he was long past denying, frightened him.

“Y-Yes… aunty,” the levels of his sexual need forcing the humiliating and quite nonsensical honorific past his lips despite levels of shame that would be made more excruciating once that need had been met.

“That’s better,” she cooed, leaning forward to place a patronising kiss on his forehead as those matronly breasts jiggled beneath his necessarily lowered gaze and exacerbated both the pain of his erecting penis against the metal bars restraining it and the need propelling it to do so. “You really can be a good boy for aunty when you put your mind to it.”

He cringed, even as his pain intensified; his penis obviously not as outraged by her treatment of him as his male — what was left of them anyway — sensibilities.

“Your mummy tells me your behaviour is improving all the time and that she really is proud of the way her boy is adapting.”

Hearing his younger wife described in such a way in relation to him did nothing to soothe those outraged sensibilities.

Or lessen his desire.

“And she’s so pleased at how you’ve put aside all those silly feelings of anger and closet racism to treat her house-guest with respect a servant should show to someone staying in his owner’s house.”

This mention of that “house-guest” did what the woman’s other demeaning comments and actions couldn’t do and actually stopped the flow of blood to his restricted cock.

At least for a few moments.

“You do respect mummy’s house-guest, don’t you?” his tormentor asked, eyes blazing into his to inform him that this was not a multiple-choice question and but one answer would suffice.”

“Y-Yes… aunty.”

The smile that greeted a concession the woman had not doubted for a second was beatific in a way that befitted such an evil angel and her hand came out to stroke the scalp she herself had denuded of the hair he had once taken such pride in displaying.

Another act she had insisted to his wife was necessary if he were to be made to feel less… adult.

“Manly,” you will have gathered by now, being a status of which he had been stripped over the past year.

“Well, as you’re being so obedient and respectful — and you know how aunty always rewards obedient and respectful boys — I’m going to give you a nice reward.”

Despite his self-revulsion, his spirits — or, to be more exact, his lust — soared.

“That’s right. Aunty has some texting to do but, if you’re a good boy and rub her feet the way she likes while she’s doing it, she’s going to take your little winkle out of its cage afterwards and let you have a little cummy against the sole of her foot.”

Breath did not leave his throat in a rush this time but simply refused to budge as he asked the oft asked question:

“Why am I so excited?”

So excited, in fact, his “aunty” had not removed he mobile phone from her handbag before his feverish hands were removing the shoes from her feet.

Her laughter was a mix of genuine amusement and equally genuine cruelty at his eagerness and at how successful she had been in helping to reduce him to his current and abject status in a home he had once considered his.

As she closed her eyes to the glorious sensation of having an adult and subservient male run his hands over her nyloned foot, she congratulated herself for having helped lower him so far.

And in so short a space of time…