Cuckolding for Beginners Ch. 12

Chapter XII

Entertainment

We saw Jason a few more times after that evening; he openly admitted he had dozens of hotwives over Cheshire and he loved little more than screwing the wife and humiliating the husband.

He was, just for the record, an unbelievably nice, genuine guy. He helped do some maintenance on the house one day, plastering our kitchen ceiling and tiling the walls, while he stripped to just his boxer shorts on the warm summers' day. His payment, if you could call it that, was a blowjob from me at lunchtime and a firm fuck against the garden fence at the end of the day from my wife.

I really liked him, in and out of the bedroom; his cock was lovely and textured, sliding into my willing mouth as easily as it slipped into my adulteress's cunt. Not a session was missed when I didn't prepare him for sex, didn't watch or even clean up after him.

And we loved every minute of it. Every second of every encounter as his balls slapped against my face or my lips encircled his cock. He became important to our sex life, and my wife and I were both disappointed when he was offered a job in Leeds.

However, Christina and Erin were not ladies who wanted to do without sex for long. Their wanton lust with kinky overtones was never too far away.

They threw a party; Christina and Erin organised a small get together for "selected guests." I knew little of the arrangement but expected the attendees to have cocks that looked like they had come from Grand National winners, but as I answered the door with every ring of the doorbell, I was greeting women.

And only women.

Christina greeted them warmly, the almost naked doorman an irrelevance to their generous salutations and familiarity.

One woman giggled at my bowties: one fastened around my neck, the other encircling my cock and balls. Bryn and I served wine and nibbles; they chatted about dungeon equipment and techniques, the weather and the traffic.

Eight dominatrices conversing freely as two slightly scared, and worried, submissive men looked on and attended to their needs.

But they'd all met Bryn before; he was teased relentlessly in his pink bowties; the women reminded him of torments past and he shuddered as their fingernails dug into his skin. I watched, saying nothing: the wine stopped, the bawdy chatter continued.

Until my wife left the group, taking Bryn and myself to the cellar underneath their house. Or as Erin called it, The Dungeon.

I shivered in the cold, stone room; she flicked on the heaters and the lights, illuminating a 15m long room of debauchery and pain. Whips, floggers and paddles were hanging on the wall. Ropes were curled up in a box. Benches and stools littered the cobbled floor.

She smiled, running her hands over my chest. "I'm going to have some fun tonight." Her fingers were cold, her words were chilling. She slapped Bryn's arse with a smirk.

He smiled; we both did when faced with a little warming slap on our bare buttocks. It was homely and lovely, delightfully intimate and playful.

It is easy when recalling these adventures to skip the negotiation and discussion: the essential dialogue before any scene. My wife and I did lots of talking, addressing complex emotional forces with care and love, and that night was no different. She reminded me of our safewords and she asked if I was feeling OK. She knew my limits and I knew hers, but she asked over my psychophysical status before unleashing powerful forces upon my body.

She promised that she would try some of our fantasies: acts we had discussed and thought we could try but had not done so yet. It sent a chill down my spine as my mind was transported to the dozens of conversations we'd had over the months. It was quite a menu she could choose from.

Bryn muttered answers to her questions, as he listened for the firm thud of boots on the steps above. We focused through the underpowered light on the women entering the dungeon; one grabbed Bryn by the hair, dragging the millionaire towards a white box. She lifted the lid, and gestured for the submissive husband to put his head in the wooden box and then fastened his arms to the side.

The women hollered; I knew not what was happening until she settled on the seat, lifted her skirt to her waist and I heard the tinkling of pee against my friend.

I knew watersports was one of his kinks and every woman doused his tongue, mouth and face with their piss, freeing their bladder into their host's husband.

Bryn had played with these women before: they knew his kinks and Christina marshalled them as they unleashed their abuse on her partner. They washed him in cold water, they smashed his body with rolled up towels and they tied him to the St Andrew's Cross to beat his body with the toys Christina had provided.

And I watched; Erin wanted me to see and take in the punishment Bryn took. To see every last piece of degradation and humiliation that my friend was enduring, and enjoying.

Before too long my wife tired of ogling and pinned me to the bench, exposing my backside to the sadistic toys available. The first smack of the wooden paddle had me screaming, the second felt as if my backside had been set ablaze.

She cackled; a couple of women joined Erin and she stood me up, fastening my hands above my head to allow the mistresses to take turns in subjecting my body to a powerful slaughtering of my unreddened skin. Barely an inch of my body wasn't hit by something; whips against my upper back and chest, paddles against my thighs, vampire gloves against my arms and then they took aim at my crotch.

A kick into my delicate balls and defenceless cock. I screamed, crying as pain swallowed me and I tried to bend double as I writhed away from them.

But I couldn't escape; my wife came behind me, listening to my cries of mercy and held me still as another woman aimed at my crotch and kicked me.

They weren't dangerously hard blows, and if they had been anywhere else on my body they would have been uncomfortable not painful, but into my crotch they were excruciating; subjecting the poor husband into unspeakable agony.

I begged, pleaded and beseeched them to stop. Asking and crying as my wife held my thighs open and waited. I closed my eyes, unable to watch as the third woman brought her foot into my soft, sensitive and painful balls.

Tears streaked down my face as my body slumped against my bindings and I squealed for mercy. Desperate for them to stop kicking my balls.

And they did; attaching clamps to my nipples and an electrotorture unit to my cock. And they laughed as I danced in pain, hopping from one leg to another as the three woman brought me to tears. Again.

Erin and I cuddled for ages afterwards; she held me tight, gripping me as I came down from the flood of hormones swirling about my body.

We said goodbye to the guests and walked across the drive in the cold night air. I shivered; but it was nothing compared to the discomfort in my aching, abused body. My wife and I snuggled ourselves to sleep, kissing as we drifted into slumber.

My backside hurt for a few days after the shenanigans in Christina's dungeon and my work took me to client sites. I fidgeted as the rough fabrics and harsh garments rubbed against my skin and painfully reminded me of the torment I had received.

But the pain was part of the pleasure; the recall of the fun reminded me every moment of every day that I had a loving and fantastic wife. She was with me and my thoughts for every waking second that I experienced discomfort from the lashes and welts on my bruised bum.

She never stopped sending teasing messages; barely a day would pass when I didn't receive something: a text message that read "my pussy is sore now" or "just been fucked" or occasionally a picture message of her extra-marital liaisons.

It was a powerful aphrodisiac and served to remind me what I was not getting. Intercourse with Erin was a lot rarer: no more than three or four times a month, although much of this had been replaced by the body of my neighbour.

He was uncompromisingly bisexual: he loved playing with me and I loved playing with him, and my bisexual side was set to flourish.