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Luckless Cuckold! By Throne (15 Pages)
🕑 Added 2020-04-22 04:39:13 +0000 UTCLuckless Cuckold!
By Throne
© 2019-2020 QoS Comix All Rights Reserved
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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.
LUCKLESS CUCKOLD by Throne
I never should have married Darla. With my fat paycheck I could have done better. Even though I'm short and slender, I'm not a bad looking guy. And sure my penis is smaller than average, but size shouldn't be so important. What went wrong? I was enraptured by Darla's huge bust, broad hips, full thighs and large calves. Most of all, I was taken by her wide protruding ass. It's so big and round. What can I say? I fell for her body more than anything else. In fact, I ignored that fact that her face was less than ideal. She has small, deep-set eyes, a fleshy nose, and overly plump lips. Her blond hair is never fully cleaned or thoroughly brushed. Even so, I began to date her. The more sex we had, the more I wanted. I loved having my hands all over her supersized curves. I didn't care that her personal hygiene was lacking or that she had fits of bad temper. She didn't complain about my small dick or that I finished too quickly. After a mere three months, while my obsession was at its peak, I proposed and she accepted. A week later we were married.
That was when matters went downhill. Darla insisted that I use my mouth on her unwashed pussy. When I tried to reason with her she slapped my face. Soon she was denying me intercourse, suddenly dissatisfied with my equipment and performance. Besides, she told me, if I was horny I would eat her snatch better. Telling myself that this was just a period of adjustment, I unhappily went along with it. Every night I had my face against her smelly slit, the rippled lips on my skin, as she demanded longer and longer sessions of me pleasuring her. Then she began sitting on my face, nearly smothering me under her considerable weight. Sometimes she would lean forward to toy with my member, but even that started to include twisting it and squeezing my balls.
I was a wreck. When I came home from work she would be in a short nightie that showed off her extreme contours. That would weaken my resolve to try to change things. Darla insisted that I get naked as soon as I arrived. Then she would grab my ear or pinch the soft tissue of my arm and, maintaining her grip, march me to wherever she wanted to be pampered. Sometimes she would sit in the easy chair in front of the TV and press my head between her massive thighs. I might be kept that way for hours, while she watched TV and ate snacks between being given orgasms. If she allowed me to get up on my haunches and suck her nipples, I considered it a treat, even though it made my sore balls ache worse. On the other hand, if she was displeased or just in a bad mood, Darla would have me stand, reach between my legs, and roughly handle my balls until I l was whimpering from the pain.
We were living in a small house with no close neighbors. I had bought the place as an investment, with the intention of selling it and moving into a bigger home after I was wed. But my wife liked it and refused to budge. My one consolation was that there was no one next door or behind us who might hear her yelling at me, or me howling when she abused my testicles. And we hadn't had any visitors, which was also a relief. But then one day I came home and found a car parked out front. As I entered the house I heard my bride talking and a male voice answering. When I entered the living room I got the shock of my life. There she was, sitting on the couch in one of her brief nighties, and next to her was Marlon Jones. He was a tall and muscular Black man who I had gone to school with. All through high school he had taunted and bullied me.
"Hey, Wimpy," he said, using the name he had most often insulted me with. "How come you don't have any beer in the fridge? Go get me some. And a bottle of whiskey."
"But..." I was stunned. "What are you doing here?"
"Your sexy wife called me. She dug out your yearbook, saw what I wrote to you, and found my business on-line."
Even though I hadn't wanted him to, Marlon had signed my book after graduation, writing, "You are a pathetic wimp". Since then, as I later found out, he had started a small home repair and renovation company that had grown to have a fleet of trucks and provided him with an impressive income. At that moment, however, all I saw was a threat to my marriage. I walked toward him and raised my hands, about to suggest that he leave. Marlon sprang to his feet and grabbed me by my necktie. He swung me around and swept my feet out from under me with a sideways kick. I landed hard on my ribs. The tie was pulled chokingly tight.
He glared down at me and barked, "I said I want beer and booze. Do you understand me, boy?"
I managed to say, in a strained voice, "I'll call the cops."
Darla stood herself next to him. She sneered at me and said, "If you do, I'll tell them you hit me and Marlon came to my rescue. Your soft ass will land in jail. So go get him what he wants and pick up some rum and vodka, too. None of that cheap stuff. Top shelf -- Wimpy."
Getting unsteadily to my feet, I loosened the tie so I could breath. Then I said, "I'll do it but..." I wanted to salvage what remained of my pride. "... we'll talk about this later."
She came at me like an avenging fury, pinched both my cheeks hard, and twisted violently. I screamed and tried to make her stop. But Marlon was behind me in a flash, pinning both my arms back, pulling on them so hard that my shoulders blazed with agony. Darla kept twisting. She screamed at me to open my mouth. Not knowing why she wanted that, but suffering too much to hesitate, I spread my jaws wide. She hacked up a gob of saliva and, holding my face steady by the tortured flesh of my cheeks, spit into my mouth. She let go. Marlon wrenched my arms once more, delivering punishing pain. He turned me, let go, and pushed me toward the front door.
"Get a move on, shit-for-brains. And don't worry about your wife. I'll be real good company for her."
Looking back over my shoulder, I saw Darla sitting again. My old tormentor put himself next to her and she reached toward his crotch, where there was an unmistakable and enviably large bulge. She rubbed his inner thigh and then put her pudgy hand decisively over the swollen area. I stared in disbelief. Was she intending to have some sort of physical relationship with that thuggish guy? I left the house in a daze and rushed to the liquor store. Because I don't drink anything beyond an occasional glass of white wine, I wasn't conversant with what I was looking for. It took me a while, and the entire time my mind was filled with images of the two of them kissing, and maybe doing more than that. Would he be fondling those breasts I loved so much? Pawing her cushiony bottom? Maybe even getting his hand under her nightie to touch her bosom on the bare? When I checked out the clerk stared at me. I realized after a moment that he was looking at the blotches of red on my cheeks.
By the time I returned I was a bundle of frayed nerves. Going through the front door with a heavy burden of alcoholic beverages, I didn't see them where they had been before. At first I told myself that was a good sign. Maybe they were sitting in the kitchen. She might be making him a snack. Sure. Everything was going to be okay. That was when I heard them in the bedroom. He said something I couldn't make out, except for the word 'Wimpy'. She laughed at whatever it had been.
Marlon hollered, "That you, loser? Get in here right now."
I quickly deposited the beverages on the kitchen table and rushed to see what he wanted. To my horror, the two of them were in bed, side by side, atop the covers. She had her legs spread and the nightie had ridden up to the tops of her thighs. I could glimpse her hairy mound peeking out. He was in just his boxer shorts, his impressive physique shown off.
Darla said, "Looks like I'm going to get a real cock for a change."
Marlon snapped, "Let's have two cold beers for starters. And then I've got a little job for you."
My bride snickered. She must have known what he was planning to have me do. With my knees threatening to give out, I went to the kitchen. Putting the two six-packs into the fridge, I pulled free a pair of cans and walked them back to the bedroom, where I found Darla and Marlon kissing passionately. They broke away from each other long enough to snatch the cans from me. The two of them popped the pull tabs and took long swallows. Then they tapped their cans together in a wordless toast and set them on the night tables. I saw that the few items I'd had on my side had been swept onto the floor.
The Black man gave me a crooked smile. He said, "Now get your wife undressed for me. She doesn't want to wait any more before she has a real man. Step lively, Wimpy."
Darla sat up and raised her arms. With my mind in a haze, cheeks still sore from the way they'd been mistreated, I went to her and eased the garment up over her head and off her arms. My wife's big tits gave a wobble as they were freed. She turned her upper body toward Marlon, put her hands under those heavy breasts, and hefted them up at him. He grinned, reached out, and kneaded them. Played with her nipples. Sucked on them.
"You are so in control," she complimented him. "Not like what I'm used to from Mister Wuss there." To me she said sharply, "Get Marlon's shorts off him. NOW."
I rushed to comply, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. As I gingerly lowered his shorts I got my first look at his cock. It was enormous, long and thick, with a bulbous head. In spite of myself I gasped. Darla put her hand on his superior endowment and soon had it standing up, a full ten inches.
"Now," Marlon said to me, his voice level but with a hint of danger behind it, "you are going to get your wife's pussy nice and wet for me, little man. She tells me you've got some real skills when it comes to using your tongue down there. And she needs to be plenty wet to take everything I'm going to give her. So unless you want your balls twisted around until they feel like they're being ripped off, I suggest you get naked and then get busy."
My wife gave me a challenging look. I was trembling and couldn't stop. Without conscious thought I shucked off my jacket and looked around for a place to set it. She ordered me to just toss it on the floor. Next came the tie, shirt, shoes and pants. I stood there in only my jockey shorts and argyle socks. My lack of body hair had always been the subject of jeers in the locker room, back in school, and Marlon had jeered the loudest. Now I felt my already reddened cheeks blush as I lowered and stepped out of my underwear. The pair on the bed laughed.
Marlon said, "His pee wee is even smaller than I remember it. And he still hasn't got hardly any hair down there."
"I know," my bride agreed. "He's really a joke in bed. If it wasn't for his tongue, he'd be worthless."
"Well, he'd better get that tongue working right now."
Numbly I got onto the foot of the bed on my knees and inched forward. Marlon pulled her hem up onto her round tummy. She moved her feet further apart. I got my mouth within inches of the center of her womanhood. With every breath I inhaled her powerful musk.
In a meek voice I said, "Darla. Sweetheart. Please don't make me do this."
"Shut up!" Her words slashed at me. "You've done it enough before. Now do a good job and maybe we'll let you watch us."
My eyes went to Marlon, unrealistically hoping that he might take pity on me. Instead, I saw him tilt up his beer and take another drink. Blinking back tears of fear and disgrace, I poked out my tongue, tasted Darla's familiar, less than pleasant flavor, and began to lick up and down. My conditioned instincts took over, powered by my lack of sexual release and desperate need to keep her happy. I dug in, probing and lapping, even giving her clitoris a few sucks. She purred and, while I was still getting her prepped for the Black man, he locked lips with her and massaged one pillow-tit. I labored to get my wife ready to accept another man into her body. By the time she was squirming with eagerness, I was crying. Marlon grabbed me by my hair and pulled me up and over, so that that I tumbled off the bed and landed in a heap. By the time I got onto my knees he was poised over her. With mesmerized fascination I shuffled around to the side of the bed without rising. My face was at the perfect elevation to see the rounded end of his tool touching her glistening labia.
In a voice thick with arousal, she said, "Do it, lover. Jam that monster cock into me and slam me like I'm some cheap whore."
He gave a laugh and pushed himself into her, inch after inch, until he was buried to his heavy balls. She moaned loudly and clutched his muscular arms. He began to pump her steadily, in no hurry. Darla writhed and hissed and told him how terrific he was. She also made sure to add how inferior I was, in so many ways. They kept at it for nearly an hour. She had two climaxes and was approaching a third. He held back until she was ready to orgasm again. Then the two of them finished together, loudly, while the odors of sweat and sex hung heavily in the air. I was close to swooning.
After they had enjoyed a long afterglow, Marlon got up on one elbow to retrieve his beer. He glanced at me and snorted with derision.
"Hey, Darla," he said. "Get a load of your shrimp of a husband. He liked the show we put on so much that his puny peter got stiff."
Disbelievingly, I turned my eyes down and saw it was true. How could I have gotten an erection from witnessing my bride as she gave herself to my old bully. Fresh hot tears streamed down my cheeks. It was like I was having a breakdown.
Darla told me, "You are a total freak, Wimpy. Look at your baby pecker, all hard from seeing me get some proper screwing. That is just sick. But I'm nice so I'll let you watch all the time. That'll be funny, since you're sad excuse for a cock will never be inside me again, ever, no way and no how."
Marlon gave me a lopsided grin and demanded, "Bring us two more beers, junior. That was some thirsty work."
As I handed them two more cold brews, the Black man said, "Now get back into position, snowflake, and slurp up that cream I left inside your wife."
My bride said, "That is too funny." To me she added, "You heard the man, Wimpy. And I do mean 'Man'."
Unable to stem the flow of tears, my stomach rolling over at the thought of what I was about to do, I retook my familiar spot, lowered my face, and delved once more into the breach with my tongue. While they watched and hooted encouragement, I scooped up his plentiful spunk, took it between my lips, and gulped it down like the helpless coward I am. It made me gag several times but I kept on until she was quite clean. Darla got internally wet from excitement and I had to swallow those juices, too. When I raised my upper body, Marlon slammed the sole of his foot against my undeveloped midsection and sent me onto the floor yet again. I landed on my shoulder, which was still throbbing from being jerked earlier, and that made it even worse.
"All right," Darla said unsympathetically. "You can stand in the corner, Wimpy. And since your miniature pecker is up, I'll let you play with it. But you're not allowed to make yourself squirt. From now on that will only be when and where I say. And how I say. Like with your thumb stuck up your butt." She drained her beer. "I'm going to take a nap."
"Me too," Marlon seconded.
"And," my wife went on, "I want you to keep count of how many times you tug your twig. Right? Maybe you can start a jerk-off diary, about your adventures with your dick and your hand. We'll see. Have fun while we're relaxing."
I went to the corner and, like a disobedient schoolboy, faced the juncture of the walls, even pressing my nose against the spot where they met. I didn't want to risk provoking the wrath of either of the two people who now were running my life. I couldn't believe how much had changed in such a short time although, in retrospect, everything since our wedding had been leading in this direction. I sighed quietly and got a thumb and two fingers on my miniature penis to stroke it. When I tried to think of myself with Darla, enjoying her body, all I could envision was Marlon on top of her, driving his killer cock in and out endlessly, while she murmured words of appreciation.
It has been six months since that day. Marlon is a regular visitor to our home. Well, it's Darla's home since she had me sign over the deed, car title, bank account access, and almost everything else into her name solely. I am permitted one credit card, but that's only so I can make small household purchases and pick up whatever food and drinks they want. I am very careful not to get out of line. Anything that could be taken for bad behavior gets me quick and definite punishments. I have been put over both their laps and spanked hard, many times. My wife found that a big wooden kitchen spoon used on my backside saves wear and tear on her hands. They often pinch me, wherever they please, hard enough to make me yelp and whimper. There is plenty of slapping. Sometimes when Darla loses her temper and has shoes on, she kicks me. Their most powerful method of making me toe the line is to take my balls and twist or compress them. It is sure to bring me to blubbering submission.
I'm kept naked and have to have my scarce body hair shaved off at all times. I address both of them with utmost respect, and accept their constant insults wordlessly. When my bride grants me sexual relief, it always comes at a price. I've had to bend myself double in the jackknife position, on my back with my knees on either side of my head, and my dick pointing at my face. Then I have to jerk off to a barrage of mocking, until I ejaculate and, depending on their whims, spurt into my mouth or all over my face. Other times I have to take a discarded cardboard roll from toilet paper and slip it over my penis, and then act like it's a vagina. Darla decided to call that a 'paper pussy'. It is supremely humiliating to have to relieve my sexual needs that way.
Most recently she hit on the idea of her lying in bed on her belly, naked, with me kneeling between her wide-spread legs. I have to masturbate until I shoot into the crack of her ass, letting my cum run all the way down into the valley of her bottom. Then I have to clean up the mess I've made, burying my face between the twin hemispheres of her ass, with my nose in the humid, sweaty, earthy-smelling depths. I am required to do a prolonged job of swabbing up my cream, and even though we all know it isn't necessary, I am expected to do extensive internal cleaning. After it's done I am not allowed to rinse and spit, brush my teeth, use mouthwash, or even eat a mint. I have to endure the taste of my discharge and her salty, loamy, sometimes swampy flavors.
Darla says that by our fifth anniversary she will have me completely broken, ruined as a man, and incapable of ever returning to a normal life. I believe her.
