Peter Goes Gay Sub for Daddy Ch. 01

Peter Becomes a Gay Sissy Sub for Daddy

Part 1 Peter's new life after divorce

My wife and I had divorced after just a year and a half, and I found myself living in a "bachelor pad" apartment in Manhattan—a real "box in the sky" just north of the financial district. The building was adults only (mostly singles and a few couples), with amenities designed for single life: enclosed rooftop pool with a retractable roof and a bar, optional chef, maid, and laundry service, a small but well-appointed gym, and a full-service spa.

My marriage—if we could call it that—collapsed, after the sixth time I caught my wife, Marsha, cheating on me; the sixth time I caught her, but probably not the only times she cheated. The first time was, remarkably, on our honeymoon—yeah, I know... shudda been a clue, right? But Marsha had a way about her that made me accept the unimaginable as ordinary.

She had it all, a gorgeous body, a face to die for, and super rich, besides. She was 35 when we met—eight years older than me, but way out of my league. I still don't understand why she married me in the first place. I suspect she wasn't as in love with me as she claimed. My romantic history was scant, my sex life even scantier. At 27, I had gone out with a couple of women in college, but remained a virgin through graduation (not by choice); before Marsha, I had had intercourse with two women, once each, neither very successful.

Nearing thirty, the entirety of my sexual experience amounted to under an hour—generously timed. Women had never seen me as a viable sex partner. I can't blame them; I am 5'7", skinny and baby-faced; I still get carded at bars. Sensitive about my micropenis, I have always been timid and nervous around women. At the gym, I wait for the showers to empty before getting in. I had no confidence in myself and was always intimidated by real manly men.

With Marsha it was different; we had a whirlwind romance; she wined, dined, and showered me with gifts. We met when I interviewed to ghost-write a memoir of her billionaire father. We got along well; she even laughed at my corny jokes. She didn't hire me for the book, but we started hanging out. About a week later, we both got so drunk and wasted that I spent the night and... kinda... never left. She made me comfortable by taking the lead; I didn't have pursue her. more like she pursued me.

It was a wild ride of permanent jet-setting vacation. I couldn't help but want to keep it going. I had nothing I had to do and could do whatever all-day/every day. Our relationship was romantic-ish but less sexual; we'd cuddle, make-out, and I would eat her out. Penile penetration, however, was uncommon to nonexistent, with less than ten instances of genital contact in our nearly two years together. Yet, she did seem to enjoy my oral attentions.

Marsha proposed to me, while sitting on my face, with my tongue buried in her pussy, stoned off our asses on Moroccan hash in a Paris penthouse suite. I didn't even stop to consider; I said yes and went back to eating her out. I wasn't even sure she was serious, until we were at the Manhattan courthouse getting the license. I should point out that while immensely rich, Marsha was not well-known.

She had always guarded her privacy and had used her mother's (nearly anonymous Smith) maiden name, since her parents' divorce twenty years earlier. Even her close friends (not that she had many) only knew she was rich, but not exactly how much. Once I signed a ream of pre-nup papers, and we said "I do," things shifted. She stashed me in her luxury Manhattan apartment, where she would occasionally hang out with me and sleep.

Sometimes, she would let me eat her out, but even that became rare. I was mostly on my own. I too had few friends and lived a more-or-less reclusive life in the heart of the busiest city in the world. I'd try to write and look for writing gigs, but it wasn't a pressing concern.

The honeymoon adultery occurred at an exclusive Caribbean resort, four days after we exchanged vows. I had a case of diner stomach that kept me in our villa all morning. She went off to the beach, wearing a bathing suit so outrageous, it turned heads even at the nude beach; over this, she wore a neon yellow fishnet coverup, but it was see-thru.

An Imodium and an hour later, I felt better and went to join her. I made my way to the beach with some idea of where she might be; we scoped out an area on the first day, not too far from the bar to make ordering drinks easy, but not so close to be crowded or loud. I got to the edge of the sand and looked in that general direction. Not seeing her, I kept walking; until I spotted the bright yellow of her coverup in one of the secluded private canopy beds near the shore.

The plush white satin mattress cover, she lounged in, reflected the sun's rays, highlighting her beautiful sun-tanned skin and silhouetted her big firm breasts. I was too far to call out to her, as I watched a waiter finish the long trek with two cocktails, tray aloft. She sat up, and that's when I noticed the very large muscular gentleman, beside her, sit up and accept the drinks.

I had been hurrying toward her, but now, hung back, not sure what to do. I stood about twenty yards away, and watched as the big man placed the tray of drinks on a side table, signed the bill, then, with his skimpy banana hammock accentuating his large penis, he moved around the outside untying and unfurling the privacy curtains. I could no longer see them, but with the bright late morning sun, I could just make out the shadows of proceedings.

The resort was adults only and the canopies were arranged for privacy, far enough apart and away from the bar, the pool, and other amenities. Technically, sex on the beach was "not encouraged," but they were clearly sending a mixed message. The three canopies were arranged kitty corner from each other, along the shoreline a rocky end of the beach, where beachcombers were rare. No server or guest would dare approach, the fastened curtains.

I watched standing stock still a while, but found myself drifting closer without volition—"shock-walking." As I got closer, I saw her shadow on all fours and his kneeling before her. I could make out her head bobbing back and forth. I had wandered within feet of the canopy. I thought myself invisible to them, but he must have sensed me. He undid a slit in the curtain. His large handsome head emerged with a gnarled grimace on his face. He was large older man with shock of white hair.

"What the fuck?! you some kinda fuckin' perve? Scram, fuckhead!"

"Uhmm, uurgh." The slit opened further; I could see my wife, having just taken the cock out of her mouth, lean way forward to see.

"Oh, fuck... uhm... tch-tch... shit, sorry Oscar...; it's my tiny-dicked husband, I was telling y..." She said in a gravelly somnolent voice before turning to me. "I'm sorry, honey. This is Oscar, we just met." She made a melodramatic sad face, but then her tongue circled her puffy fellatio lips, showing her true feelings.

My lack of sexual experience, had accustomed me to follow her commands. I couldn't have expressed it this way at the time, but I was submissive to her. She waved me into the canopy, and I entered passively, as if in a trance. She apologized profusely, but still held his rather large cock in her hand. She swore it wouldn't happen again. She said it was just sex, one last fling before settling into wedded bliss, NBD.

"Give us just twenty minutes, Petey honey. Just... erm... kneel over there 'til I finish with... uhm... Oscar? I promise... I swear... last time..." She made the "sad" face again as she wiggled her finger toward the corner of the bed.

Before I kneel-walked over, she kissed me deeply. Thinking about it now, it was my first taste of cock, as she had just been blowing Oscar. I scooched on my knees to where she had pointed on the king-sized bed. Everything felt wrong; I should be furious, seething, even violent, but I just listened and obeyed, stunned into a kind of stupor. I felt betrayed and sad, not angry; confused, but also... extremely aroused.

At this point in our relationship, Marsha had only let me poke my tiny peenie into her one time (three days earlier). Mostly, she had given me handjobs—more like fingerjobs; she made a point of holding my tiny penis with just her thumb and two fingers as if they were tweezers; she'd give it a little jerk and let me come on her tits a few times. At these times, I would cum, but my penis would never get quite erect, nothing like I experienced watching her with Oscar.

She went back to sucking his cock, except now she made histrionic moaning, groaning and humming noises onto his big cock. I am, obviously, no Don Juan, but I still thought of myself as straight. I was attracted to women, though they did not return the attraction. As I submissively watched my new wife blowing a stranger on the beach, I wondered why I wasn't more upset or why my focus was on the big penis plowing my wife's mouth, making me so hard.

He was now face-fucking her and leaning in to grope her hot ass and finger her holes. Her moaning was incredibly sensual; I felt my little pecker, stiffer than it had ever been. I kneeled there with my skinny ass on my heels, pulled down my trunks, and started to stroke my stiff little guy, but when I looked up, her eyes were glaring at me with disapproval. She pulled the fat cock out of her mouth and shook her head slowly.

"Aww, tsk, tsk. Little Petey, NO!" Like she was correcting a bad puppy. "Wait 'til I'm finished, sweetie... It's just a little while, honey. C'mon, hands behind your back, Petey." She stage-whispered, but with pressing urgency and deep assertiveness and motioned with her hand.

I mutely obeyed, while he grabbed a fist-full of her hair and pulled her back onto his cock. He face-fucked her callously, then laid on his back and mounted her onto his cock straddling his hips, reverse cowgirl style. She was looking right at me, as she squatted his cock into her pussy making a grimace that turned to pure lust. She was soon bouncing up and down on his cock and spreading her inner thighs to show me the massive cock impaling her.

"Fuck..., bitch! You've got one nasty slut here, little Petey!!" Oscar grunted.

"Oh, fuck, Oscar! Fuck me with that big beautiful cock, yes! Yessss! Ooooh, fuck Petey, honey, look at how big this fuckin' real man cock is; it feels so fuckin' good in my cunt, honey!"

This was so humiliating, but she said it in a genial cooing tone.

"Show Oscar your little dicklet, sweetie! Look at this little nibblet, Ooooscar! Oooooh..."

He pushed up hard into her, as he leaned up and to the side to get a look my micropenis. I pushed out my hips obediently to demonstrate the shame of my tiny rock-hard peenie to this intimidating he-man.

"Fuuuck, dude, no wonder this slut's fucking strangers on the beach. That's pathetic! Hahaha. I was born with a bigger dick than that. Haha!"

His humiliation was way more cutting and painful. He said it in jocular tone; I was already overawed by him. I began to sob quietly to myself, but my penis stayed stiff.

"Shhhh, don't laugh at my Petey's little peepee." She chided, but joined in laughing with his cruel chuckle.

"Ooooph, fuck, sorry sweetie, last time... I promise... ooommmph!"

Her face went through multiple phases as if she had multiple personality disorder. She made the sad face, then moaned, whimpered, and ground her ass hard on his cock.

"Ooh fuck, ooooh fuuuucckk! I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna fuckin' cum, fuck me hard, Oscar!"

I watched her have an orgasm unlike any she had ever had with me. She violently threw herself onto his cock then ground down so hard; I felt she might be hurting him. My teenie peenie was stiffly and embarrassingly pointing right at them. When she finished shuddering and grunting from her orgasm, he threw her forward on all fours. Her face now a foot or so from me, as he mounted her from behind.

"Oh, oh, oh, fuck! Petey, honey, he's forcing that fat cock up my tight ass, honey. Ooooh, aah, fuck yeah, oooh! Oscar, fuck my fucking ass with that big real man cock!"

She leaned her head toward me, and instinctively I leaned in too.

"Urrghh! Fuuuck, kiss me, Petey! that big dick in my ass hurts so fucking good. Uhmmm!"

She kissed me, the now recognizable taste of cock filling my mouth. She was moaning and grunting into my mouth as he ravaged her asshole from behind. She stopped kissing me to put her head down and arch her back; to afford him greater access, then reached back and opened her ass cheeks to the assault. He was grunting and breathing hard like he was about to pass out, fucking her asshole mercilessly, her head now down by my knees.

"Bitch, I'm gonna fuckin' cum."

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, fuck! Come deep in my ass, Oscar! Fill my guts with your nasty fuckin' scum!"

He pushed in deep one last time, pulling on her arms for leverage; his whole body spasmed as he burst deep inside my new bride. Spent, they tipped over on their sides; he held himself inside her for a moment. But once he pulled out, she waved him away, like an annoying fly. He pulled up his shorts, and slapping her ass, and grabbing one of the cocktails, opened a slit on the curtain and was gone.

Once he was out, she got back on all fours and curled her index at me to come to her. She positioned me on my back under her, then half squatted on my face. She caressed my face sweetly as she rode her pussy over my chin and lips. She was soaking wet and boiling hot. I tasted her pungent pussy and traces of the real man who had just fucked all her holes.

"I'm so sorry, Petey, my love! I was sooo bad; I just needed one last big cock, ooph. But I don't want any trace of him left on me. Lick him off me, Petey, pleeaseee. I hate myself for doing this to you, sweetie. When you're done, I'll let you come on my big tits, yes? Forgive me, sweetie?"

She smirked down at me, without really waiting for an answer, as I lapped at her pussy, tasting him on her. Then she shifted so her gaping asshole was in mouth, as his cum dribbled out of her. She pushed with her ass muscles; suddenly, a jet of spunk landed in my mouth and almost choked me going down my throat. I had no choice but to swallow it down.

When I had dug out as much of his cum as I could with my tongue, she got on her back and guided me to straddle her chest. She gave my painfully erect little dickie just a few pumps between her index finger and thumb, and my trivial wad landed on her glorious tits.

"Aww! Thank you for cleaning that filthy cum off me. Come, lick up your teeny load, honey! I'm sorry, baby. That's nice, sweetheart."

That was all she ever said about it. We spent another five days at the resort; she was lovey-dovey the whole time. Thankfully, we didn't run into Oscar again, and she even let me put my peenie into her twice. Actually, except for the cheating and the resulting humiliation, she was never anything but kind to me. I was pretty sure she didn't cheat again the rest of the trip only because we weren't apart long enough. We went home, and I assumed she meant what she said about it being the last time.

It's hard even now, to fathom why I reacted so meekly to this betrayal. It was hard to complain, though. I lived in the lap of luxury in a penthouse apartment in the greatest city in the world. She made no demands of me, gave me a credit card without mention of a limit. I spent days trying to write, going to the gym, hanging out at a coffee shop, or on the couch watching tv or playing video games. If I got tired of the city, I'd go out to the Hampton mansion for a few days.

I was never really interested in the money, though the comfort the money bought was amazing. It was a combination of this and her authoritative nature. She would show me how to respond, and I would half-consciously accept her word.

Almost two months passed before I "caught" her again. Whenever I did, it seemed intentional. She again would "sincerely" plead forgiveness, like it was important to keep up the charade. Despite the seeming transactional nature of our marriage, it still hurt every time. I knew intellectually that nights not spent with me, would probably be spent with other men, but those remained abstract, faceless, massless "men," who had only theoretically cuckolded me.

When face-to-face with the carnal act as it happened, it was visceral, like watching the play as opposed to hearing about the movie. She would never actually stop the sex act, but hold up a hand or finger to speak, then apologize, while moaning to orgasm. Only when they were through, would she get off him, or vice versa. She would rush me or call me over, still dripping cum from whatever orifice, and promise this was truly the last time.

I would be there, dumbstruck; frozen in place. She would take my hand and bring it to her dripping hole. It was usually gushy and hot. She'd scoop her wetness mixed with his cum and then suck on my fingers before kissing me. Her mouth gave me a taste of her familiar flavors mixed with other men's spunk. She would make the guy get dressed and leave, gesturing them away manically as she had done with Oscar.

This part of the ritual seemed the only genuine feature. She really wanted them gone! disappeared would be better. If she could press a button and have them dematerialize on the spot, she would have. Her interest in them ended the nanosecond they came, and then she wanted all evidence gone. Once we were alone, she'd nudge my head to her holes and make me clean her up— "clean him off her!"

"Clean his filthy cum off me, honey. I hate myself for doing that to my sweet little Petey. Awww." Sometimes she would sob loudly and tremblingly. "I'm so sorry, dear; I promise, I swear, no more, but clean me good of that nasty cum; I'll let you fuck my pussy."

I'm amazed, how I had been conditioned. In these moments, weepy, broken-hearted, confused, she would somehow get me to acquiesce. Her pleading wasn't even convincing, but I chose to accept it. The part where I would get to "fuck her pussy," would be more of an afterthought, once I had eaten her out clean—swallowed the evidence—and made her come on my face. Only then, would I get to poke my tiny pecker in her gaping hole, barely grazing the walls.

But after the emotional and sexual build-up, even this would be too much. I would cum after a few strokes, and she would make me eat that too. Sometimes I would come before I could get it in. "Aww" she would shuck, and tell me how it didn't matter: "I can't feel that tiny thing after getting fucked by a real man."

After these incidents, she would stick around a few days, maybe a week or more. She would be sweet as pie, we'd go out to restaurants, Broadway shows, museums, et cetera. Never a cross word, always ready to have fun, very supportive of my writing.

But eventually, she would go back "to work," in California, or Frankfurt, or Hong Kong, or New Jersey; always vague. And my "wife" became a few texts a day and the occasional video call, for sometimes a month at a time. She'd sometimes estimate when she would be back, but it would always take longer. She'd say, "I'm going to Tokyo for a week on business," but she wouldn't come back for three. The nature of the business would vaguely have to do with contracts or vendors, but if she made a product or delivered services, I couldn't say.

The pattern repeated itself, with some variation. I was in a muddled state, hating the feeling of betrayal and humiliation, but these were some of the few times she would let me have actual sex with her, and the orgasms were most satisfying. Otherwise, I would eat her out, and she'd let me cum on her pussy or tits, as long as I ate it afterward, never as intense. She bought strap-on for me to wear, to fuck her; it was most humiliating, but after I used it on her, she would only let me finish alone in the bathroom.