Diet Cuck (0% Sugar, No Cheating)

Almost every word she says seems to be taken from some amateur femdom movie, from captioned pics, or some story on the Literotica site.

I think, with pride, that my wife must have spent a lot of time exploring my folders on my pc: to think of all the time she must have spent setting up this recitation for my benefit makes me feel proud. I am so in love with her...

"If you don't lose at least two pounds a week, there will be some punishments.

If you gain weight, oh! ...

This is something I didn't even want to consider, but very kindly Patty pointed out to me that theoretically, it could also be possible: especially if a loser like you goes on a diet without having enough morality to avoid cheating.

As I have already said, this must be a «0% Sugar, No Cheating» Diet."

Ambra smiled wickedly.

"I was saying, if you gain weight, we will have to whip you. We will. The two of us: Patty and me.

Know that it hurts me, more than it hurts you. But I'm doing it for your sake.

Patty has generously offered to help me: using the whip or the riding crop may be exhausting for me, and even only twenty (!) or thirty (!!) lashes could hurt my weak arms.

Patty is taller than me, and stronger, and does not have toward you the guilt that unfortunately threatens to weaken my blows.

We will whip the two of us, alternating, in turn.

You will be hanging by the handcuffs from a hook on the ceiling or a door, I don't know, I haven't bought a hook yet, I have to see what I can find on the internet.

I have not yet decided whether we will whip you, or crop you, in a sexy outfit or not.

In favor of the sexy outfit, you would certainly be much more aroused, seeing two magnificent dominatrixes in black leather boots and elegant stockings with a garter belt framing just the bare pussy that you will not be allowed to penetrate.

But who cares about your arousal at the moment of punishment? Maybe the sexy outfit is just a make-believe from the sex tapes. The advice of the book's dominatrix is to administer the lashings in the worst old pajamas as if you were doing a minor household chore.

Trivial, banal, unimportant... like you ARE.

And perhaps I will adhere to that advice.

We will distinguish tease sessions and punishment sessions.

In the tease, I will be sexy and elegant.

In punishment, perhaps, I'll prefer to show up with messy and dirty hair, sweaty pajamas, and no treat for your eyes: neither the pussy you can't have, nor the nipples you like so much.

Just pajamas for losers: sexy outfits are reserved only for Alphas.

And yet even in this, I just INDULGE your fantasies... you keep stored in the pc thousands of files about CFNM, it's obvious that being all naked in front of two women in pajamas is part of your perversions.

Helpless and vulnerable, maybe we could just whip your back... like on a privateer ship, tied to the Main Mast with heavy black iron shackles.

But perhaps, considering the fact that you will be immobilized, we could decide to take off your cage, arouse you to an unnecessary erection with our two mouths together, and then whip your cock, stroking the shaft along its entire length, me from the right and Patty from the left... it would be like a two-handed handjob, only instead of two silk opera gloves, you would be touched only by two leather riding crops, who knows if you could cum that way too..."

A large drop of precum was forming at the top of my shiny knob, confirming that I would crave those lashes more than anything else in the world.

Shaking her head as if to chase away a bad idea, my wife continued, "Some advice sites for Femdom beginners provide tips on the technique of kicking balls, but I would not want to create permanent damage to you also because, after the diet, we will forever be husband and wife and I will be as obedient and loving as in the early years ... and so your balls will still serve me well in function, with all your sperm."

She looked smugly in my relief.

Then with the next sentence, she chilled me.

"I might even decide to hire a man to flog you.

A tennis player, for example, should have a strong enough arm.

Or a football Quarterback, or a nineteen-year-old baseball Pitcher.

If you were to get fat, I might hire a strong athlete to whip you, then fuck me before your eyes, and then make you swallow it all, what would you say cucky?"

I nodded. But the humiliation would have been too great. I could feel my heart shrinking as my cock continued to rise tenser and tenser. Could it be that the idea of being whipped by Patty, or even an unknown man, made me so aroused that I lost all dignity? I was shocked, but I nodded.

Patty spoke for the first time.

"See? I told you.

Your husband Henry wants to be whipped by a male.

Go ahead: I'm sure in a little while he will also beg you to order him to dress as a woman, and serve in a glory hole for strangers."

But my wife Ambra knew me too well.

"No, Patty, this thing Henry will never accept. First of all, he's too fat, and no real man would put his glorious cock in the mouth of a fat boy dressed like a French maid.

Not even if Henry were hidden behind a glory hole.

Next, he now weighs over a hundred pounds, so what store could I buy high heels that wouldn't break with every step? Heels are for thin and slender girls.

No, too complicated. I could make him wear my lace panties to humiliate him, but I'm thin and he's fat, risk ruining the fabric and elastic.

And I don't feel like buying granny panties the size of circus tents, considering that maybe in four or five months he might have lost a size or two... that would be money wasted (his money, but wasted).

Not to mention the discomfort of stallions. I am so ashamed of how ugly and fat he is that I can't go to the movies or the theater.

And especially I can't go into the restaurant, because the cooks would be afraid that he would eat everything they have in the food pantry! Ha, ha!"

They both laughed. They laughed heartily.

They almost pissed themselves laughing.

My wife trembled on her knees from laughing.

Patty hugged her, to keep her from falling to the floor. Their breasts met, first rubbing brown silk against green silk. A sparkle in her eyes. Nipples erect.

My wife threw me a dirty look as if to challenge me. Then she grabbed the nape of her friend's neck and held her still as she opened her own lips to give her a tongue kiss.

My wife held her friend still so that I could see everything, otherwise, their locks and manes would have hidden the tongue kiss from me.

My cock was even harder than before.

"You were right," murmured my wife, sullen and defeated.

"I told you so," said Patty, triumphant. "He has become a real loser, a Beta provider. Ugly fat boy, perverted, getting off on watching a Sapphic kiss... you disgust me, Henry."

"Enough!" my wife said, taking her friend by the hand, "Let's go to the kitchen! I'll make a cucumber centrifuge for the fat guy's diet, while the two of us can kiss and touch each other without seeing his fat belly, and toast the signing of the contract with a whole bottle of champagne.

You may read the situation, cucky?

Champagne and orgasms for us the ruling women, cucumber centrifuge, and denial for you.

What you see on your pc keyboard now, is the contract paper that you will sign, as soon as we get back. Enjoy the next few minutes... they will be the last minutes you will have an erection for many months, I think.

Oh, too bad your wrists are cuffed! You cannot jerk off, as your usual.

Oh! The keys.

You see, I can't leave your keys here, now, because I've already hung them both on my gold necklace... Now, unfortunately, they are MY keys, and you can't reach them... now and forever.

I will return with the metal cage: and I will also hook those keys of mine to my necklace.

From now on I will always wear the keys to the necklace: everywhere, at parties, in celebrations, even in church tomorrow morning. And to anyone who asks for explanations, men or women, friends or strangers, you will HAVE to declare that you are my fat caged slave and that until you have lost weight you will have your cock prevented from giving me orgasms.

This means that you will HAVE TO BEG whoever asks, to fuck me that very day, because it would not be fair that a punishment FOR YOU should also become a punishment AGAINST ME.

Ha, ha!

Poor hubby Beta loser, soon-to-be cuckold..."

They walked toward the liquor, hips and giggles, prancing and dancing, happy as two little schoolgirls holding hands by pinkies.

.

Capitolo 2. A pixie as the Ghost of Christmas Past.

.

I was immobile. But not because of the handcuffs (the ones I put on, and the ones she put on). I was paralyzed.

Part of my brain (and my cock) was happy and proud that my wife had spent so much time planning this situation, this contract, these promises. Even the threats were promises, and I honestly thought, too, that those fantasies would be a thrilling and exciting experience. Even though there would be whipping and humiliation.

But.

But a very small part of my brain was concerned and suggested caution. At least read that contract before you sign!

Right. Read. Contract. I tried to focus my attention on the printed form. But a light distracted me.

There were no Christmas decorations in that room. Heavy curtains prevented outside lights from illuminating the inside. Still, I saw without any doubt a faint light green light emanating from a rectangle on the desktop.

Uh! My wife had left her cell phone next to my PC.

Well, it was a mundane gesture.

I was handcuffed and defeated, she was joyful and about to celebrate together with her girlfriend, and after all, it was the house where she had lived for years, leaving the phone was a normal gesture devoid of extraordinariness.

The extraordinary thing was the faint green light. A very light green, with golden specks and a heavenly glow. A Christmas green, full of joy and goodness. A color of eyes I had seen many years before.

"Diane!"

I thought her name, but I could not speak, with my wife's used panties in my mouth. I heard a nonsensical moan. My voice was reduced to a grunt.

But the thought had been enough to summon some kind of ... elf? She was a three-dimensional figure, like Leia Organa in Star Wars, with the face of Diana my first love, but dressed like a Santa Claus elf. Or maybe like Thinker Bell from Peter Pan, because she wasn't wearing red and white horizontal banded socks.

There was something strange about the shape of her body: beyond her height, for she must have been about a foot tall. A pixie Diane?

She looked at me with her light green eyes. She recognized me and smiled: I did not look ugly or fat or naked or handcuffed, or maybe these details did not bother her.

I leaned my chin forward to show her that I could not speak. She opened her eyes wide in amazement. She put her two index fingers over her own mouth to form an "X". I couldn't tell if she was advising me to shut up, or if she understood that I would shut up anyway.

Then she took a long look at my seated body: she nodded as if she understood everything (yet, the handcuffs were behind).

In a cheerful voice, she said, "Follow me!" and dove inside my wife's cell phone screen. Don't ask me how, but I followed her: my soul was sucked in as if inside a dream. I was inside my wife's smartphone, led by the hand of a mini-pixie Diane.

####

As everything around faded into the fade, I heard Diane's voice the last time we kissed... she said, "you will always be my soulmate ... I swear I will always be there for you, even in your darkest hour."

After that day I never saw her again. And because I am not a stalker, I never looked for her again. But my wife's phone was chock full of Diane's photos as if she had been spying on her for years.

Diane's wedding photos.

Photo of the birth of a baby. Cute!!! So now Diane was a MILF!

Graduation photo. Uh. Maybe she had graduated after the baby was born? Um.

Photo of a pink ribbon. The baby was a daughter.

Photo from a funeral. No, oh no, Diane was a widow! Someone had photographed her giving the speech at her husband's funeral! I see a picture of him, wearing glasses. Oh, Diane, I didn't know about that!

Photo of a surgical operation. Captioned "A true Amazon, now for 10 years." I don't get it. Maybe she was a volunteer in some NGO in the Amazonas? I don't think so.

Oh! Oh no! OMG...they had removed one of her breasts! The left one near her heart! Oh no, Diane... I'm sorry...

Mini-Diane shrugged her shoulders. "See?" she opened the green Christmas elf bodice and showed me a thin scar on her chest. I knew she did not like silicone implants or plastic surgery in general: when we were in a relationship, she always talked about how she did not tolerate certain lies. She did not dye her hair, even the white hair in the middle of her natural blond mane. Never nail polish on her nails. Light makeup or nothing at all. "I am the way I am," she said. It was logical that she would reject any suggestion of silicone implants under her skin.

Diane looked into my eyes and communicated something in a strange, different voice. Or maybe it was a form of telepathy. I heard a baritone sound, coming from the pixie mouth of my beloved Diane.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. Many years ago you broke someone's heart on Christmas Eve, but she swore that she would forever be your soulmate, and that is why you see me now with the face and body of Diane, your girlfriend when you were 19-20 years old.

We could say that she is the one who summoned me. You will be visited by two other Ghosts. I only deal with the past. Diane was the best thing in your past, that's all."

I nodded.

"Why are you nodding, man? If the most beautiful relationship in your past was with Diane, why are you married to Ambra?"

Ouch.

The Ghost had no fists, but he could hit hard in other ways. %%%

Buried memories. I can hardly remember what happened. I had bought a gift for Diane, but she had come to me to tell me she wanted to leave me, and it was right on Christmas Eve (which is also my birthday). Why did she leave me?

"Good question," replied the Ghost, "look what had happened."

We had held a group party at Mr. McDowell's farm (I remember it well) and I was intent on practicing my magician tricks and sleights of hand.

Diane was walking carefree toward the hall with the musicians. She met a girl crying on the shoulder of another girl who was consoling her. Diane was too good and kind not to stop. She asks what is going on. The crying one says she is pregnant. The other girl says she needs to stay calm and everything will be all right. Diane approaches and offers to comfort her. Patty shooes her away: leave my friend alone. Ambra raises her tear-filled eyes and tells her, full of hate, that her boyfriend had been fucking her for weeks, cheating her.

Diane hesitates, but believes her. Youthful mistakes. She turns away, weeps. I want to follow her, but the Spirit stops me. "You already know where Diane is going: you were there. She is running to tell you that she can no longer stay with you, but that she will always be your soulmate. Now, instead, I advise you to stay here: this is where you need to listen."

Ambra said, "Do you think she believed it?"

Patty "Of course! She's a stupid little girl from the country village!"

Ambra "Now it's a matter of making my future husband believe it too."

"Oh! That will be much easier! I've already fooled three blokes with that lie! Either they give you money or they marry you -- in your case, that would be better, because he's rich and very studious."

I wanted to say something but the Ghost grabbed my wrist and dragged me along.

I remembered that just that week, after Diane had dumped me, Ambra asked me on a date. I remembered that from the very first night she wanted to give me everything, first, second and third base, and she kept telling me that she didn't used to do that but that she was so much in love with me ... and I remembered that she said she was allergic to latex in condoms but that it was in the pills so she could ride without protection. After a few weeks of unrestrained sex without precautions, Ambra told me she was pregnant... but it seemed impossible. Was my saint Ambra trying to get me to adopt someone else's child?

###

The Ghost snapped her fingers.

We were now in a mountain cabin: first winter vacation as a couple. I had gone shopping for last-minute gifts, and Ambra was on the phone, with Patty. "No, not yet. I think he's going to ask me tonight, or maybe New Year's Eve. Anyway, he's boiled by now. In February, when I told him I had lost the baby to miscarriage, he cried like a calf--he didn't even ask me what week I was, how naive! Instead it was all made up...OMG, Patty, you really are an evil genius."

What! The biggest pain of my life, it was one lie added to a second lie to form a lie squared?! And I cried for months thinking about a child invented by a girl who wasn't even pregnant?!

The Ghost's hand was dragging me. The past is huge and we had to hurry.

Next Christmas. "No sex with your Ambra, I'm still drunk from yesterday."

Next Christmas, already married: "Ambra is tired, she has a headache, not today, tomorrow..."

Next Christmas "OMG, honey, I forgot to buy you a present...is it okay if I give you something of mine? I give you...this kiss on the forehead...."

Next Christmas "How are you in town, honey? Patty and I are eating here alone at her lake house...she is so sad because of her second divorce...yes, I love you, that's for sure, honey. Merry Christmas!" Then Ambra turns to an unfamiliar man and says to him, "Start pistoning me again, Chad! That was just my cuckold of a husband, such an idiot, who didn't even realize that the four of us came here to celebrate in our own way."

No! No, no...

Next Christmas. Elephant safari in Kenya, alone, her and Patty. I pay for their trips, I pay for the excursion with two muscular ethnographic guides, I pay for the boat trip to see Zanzibar (with bare tits, of course), I pay for two cooks to prepare local specialties for them on the boat.

They had come back saying he had never seen so many trunks, and they were laughing uncontrollably.

Now that the Ghost was showing me the three-dimensional situation, I understood that the right verb was not "see" but "swallow" trunks.

"You're right, Patty. I'm going to tell him to work more overtime, sacrifice his free time, stop walking so he can devote more time to work. I want him to make an effort to earn more money, so the two of us can take another trip to Africa, and maybe even the Middle East, and buy new shoes and bags. What is a man's life for anyway, if not to spoil his queen? And it is to your credit that she is so obedient: you were so right, the «Treat Them Mean, Keep Them Keen» strategy works."

Patty said, "We should send a postcard of those old-fashioned, stamped paper ones with «100% Sugar, Daddy!» on it and then correct the comma in pen in red ink so that the sentence becomes «100% Sugar Daddy!» don't you think?"

My wife shook her head. "No, Patty, you exaggerate. He thinks I'm a saint who puts up with him with infinite patience. He doesn't know what we are plotting. If I write him an insult like that on a postcard, he will understand that I am not the saintly woman he thinks I am."

Patty insisted. "Can we at least call him One Hundred? For laughs, we'll always know what it means, even if he doesn't!"

"Well, yes, we'll tell him he seems like he weighs a hundred pounds, even if he doesn't, so the nickname won't seem like a sexually exploitative insult." I thought to myself that the only nickname I would want for myself was «zero percent Sugar»: and that I would never be anyone's «Daddy», not even the son I never had.