New cuck humiliation story: "Dear Cuckold Diary" by c.w. cobblestone

[cwcobblestone]

“Dear Cuckold Diary”
by c.w. cobblestone

March 24, 3:25 a.m.

I finally got the baby down and now I can’t get back to sleep, even though I’m absolutely exhausted. Little Brent has been colicky lately, and I can’t remember the last time I got a good night’s rest. I’m feeling pretty damned colicky myself right now. I have good reason for my shitty mood; Anna and Brent are off cavorting in the Bahamas while I’m stuck at home taking care of their baby.

What kind of a fucking marriage is this?

They call it a “poly” relationship, but it’s more like two people in love and another guy, me, getting fucked over on a daily basis. I’m sorry, I’m just venting. I signed up for this, so I shouldn’t be bitching. I’m to blame for everything that’s happened to me.

I’m the one who in the beginning of our marriage told Anna I was submissive, and that I needed her to take charge of my life as my mistress.

I’m the one who because of my twisted proclivities wasn’t able to provide her with normal sex, causing her to seek out a boyfriend.

I’m the one who agreed to every one of her ridiculous demands along the way, starting with a weekly cleaning of Brent’s apartment and culminating with him moving in with us, taking over as man of the house, and getting my wife pregnant.

Everyone knows it’s not mine. If the baby’s features didn’t disclose who the father was, the fact his name is Brent Junior would certainly give it away. My wife and her lover are open about our “poly” relationship, which makes them heroes to the people in their crowd who think it’s cool and trendy. I wish we could be more discrete, but I don’t get a vote.

When we first “came out,” Anna and Brent’s friends seemed to view me with a sympathetic eye, since I’m clearly in the subordinate role, and always serve as the butt of the joke and gofer boy. But they eventually got over it, and now get a kick out of having a servant around, and have no problem barking out orders and making fun of me.

My family handled the news differently. They insist Anna is exploiting me, and spent the first few years of our marriage trying to convince me to divorce her. Now, they’ve pretty much given up, and while they never formally disowned me, Anna and I never get invited to family functions anymore. I suppose I can’t blame my relatives if they don’t want my wife flaunting her “poly” relationship, and dragging me, her lover and their baby to Aunt Mildred’s 80th birthday party.

Oh, well. Alienating my family is just one part of what I have to put up with in this marriage. But I deal with it, because I love Anna so much. Well, I love and fear her at the same time. She can be so cruel. She once told me she was afraid she might go too far and kill me someday — that’s how much she adores seeing me in pain.

Anna is the one who came up with the rule that I have to kneel before her lover at 8 p.m. every evening and beg him to blister my ass with 20 strokes from their wicked fiberglass cane; she calls it my “daily reminder,” which she says keeps me in my place. Anna’s sick imagination cooked up the concept of the “Hot Pocket” — a huge butt plug coated with Ben Gay, shoved deep up my ass, which they’ll employ for punishment or amusement. There’s pure evil lurking behind my beautiful wife’s cat eyes, but I love her so much, and the more she hurts me the more I’m drawn to her.

Brent? I simply fear him; there’s no love there. The guy scares the living shit out of me, in large part because his nightly beatings are so brutal. But I suppose you could say I have developed some feelings for my master in the two years he’s lived with us. I admire him, sure, while at the same time fearing and resenting him for what he’s taken from me, and for what he does to me. Every night, he whips the shit out of me until I’m a blubbering mess. It doesn’t matter how good I’ve been; whether I have a cold, a headache, whatever. Every night. My wife insists on it.

There’s usually no maliciousness to my “daily reminders;” Brent just methodically doles out the 20 strokes, sometimes watching a sporting event as he does so, before tossing the cane onto the floor. But even though Brent sometimes just goes through the motions, don’t think that means it doesn’t hurt. It always hurts, and I always cry my eyes out.

Our rule is, after every whipping, I have to kneel in front of my master and ask: “May I thank you properly for my instruction, sir?” If he feels like it, that means I have to thank him for whipping me by sucking his dick, usually while he relaxes and watches TV. Otherwise, he’ll wave me off, and I’ll scurry away, a beaten slave. My burning ass cheeks never let me forget my lowly status, not even for a second — so my wife’s idea of a daily reminder certainly works.

Brent isn’t always bad, though. Sure, he can be a total bully, and I walk on eggshells whenever I’m around him, but there are times when my master is nice to me. I’m not allowed to sit on the furniture at home, but if I’m caught up on my housework, he’ll sometimes let me sit on the living room floor and watch sports with him. Of course, he gets to lounge on the comfortable couch, and the TV is always tuned to the game he wants to watch. And, obviously, I’m the one who has to hop up and fetch him cold beers. But we do bond like that sometimes. Every once in a while, when he’s in a good mood (usually when his team is winning), he will even let me have a beer, or pass his joints to me.

Sometimes when we’re sitting around chilling like that, Brent will tease me good-naturedly about his sex life with Anna. For instance, a few nights before they left for vacation, I was giving him a foot massage while he watched the Lakers game. During a commercial that featured an overt sexual innuendo, Brent chuckled and said, “Boy, Anna was going crazy last night, wasn’t she?”

I nodded and said, “yes, sir, she was going nuts, sir.” I had witnessed it from my usual vantage point on my knees at the foot of their bed; my wife was indeed screaming louder than usual, and it was all I could to prevent my dicklette from getting hard and jamming against the spikes of my chastity cage.

Brent shifted his foot in my hand, wordlessly indicating that I should put more pressure on his heel. He smirked. “I gave you quite a load to eat, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes, sir, you came a whole lot, sir.”

He chortled. “Yeah, it felt like it. How’d it taste?”

“Um, it was very delicious, sir, thank you so much.”

“Smooth or chunky?”

I blinked with humiliation. “Um, it was chunky, sir; real thick. There were whole globs of it coming out of Mistress’s pussy, sir. Thank you for letting me eat it, sir.”

He propped his hands behind his head. “No problem, pee-pee. Now, quiet, the game’s back on. Work the toes.”

I hate the nickname “pee-pee.” My wife came up with it when I pissed myself one time when Brent was flogging me. Whenever someone calls me that, I get a burning anger in my stomach — and a stirring in my masochistic loins.

Even as I write this, remembering the events of last week, and thinking about the nickname “pee-pee,” I’m feeling things start to heat up “down there.” I’ve got to quickly think of something else or I’ll start to get hard, and the spikes that line my chastity cage will do their dastardly job.

I keep thinking I should just break the wax seal and get the damned emergency key out of their closet. I could probably gin up another seal to replace it, and they wouldn’t even know the difference. Who am I fooling? That’ll never happen. I can’t lie to them.

It’s been almost three months since my last orgasm, and I’m not even allowed to ask for relief. Anna says it’s selfish for me to think of myself like that. They decide when I’m allowed to cum. There’s no set timetable or anything; I’ve gone up to 8 months without cumming, and there have been months where I was allowed two or three orgasms. It’s all according to their whims, and there’s no rhyme or reason, no fairness to it whatsoever. I get time added to my chastity sentence for the slightest infractions. I once got an extra month for walking in front of the TV during one of my wife’s favorite shows.

It’s an example of the unfair shit I have to deal with all the time. All I was doing was busting my ass trying to get the living room cleaned so I could then run upstairs to make sure Anna’s son was okay in the playpen before rushing into the kitchen to check on dinner. I was killing myself to serve her, juggling an impossible workload, and I stepped in front of the goddamn TV for one second while dusting, and she says in that snippy, bitchy tone of hers: “Out of the way, asshole. That’s another month.” And all I could do was hang my head.

Sigh. Chastity — yet another thing I have to deal with in this “poly” relationship. I’m looking down at my caged dick, and I’ve got to tell you, right now I’m not feeling like this is a healthy way to live. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about seeing a psychologist. It’s not normal for a man to not be allowed to touch his own penis. It’s not normal for a man to be stuck at home babysitting the love child of his wife and her lover, while they’re off on a romantic getaway. THIS ISN’T NORMAL. All I wanted in the beginning was for my wife to fulfill my submissive fantasies, and somehow, some way, it’s turned into all this.

But my wife doesn’t want to hear my whining, so I’ve learned to bite my lip and confine my bitching to this diary. Whenever I would complain to her in the past, she was quick to remind me that I had asked her to take over my life. So, now I keep quiet and try accept the party line being pushed by my wife and her lover: we’re “pioneers” who are part of a social movement that’s paving the way for acceptance of the poly lifestyle, the way gay people did 40-50 years ago.

When I ran around serving drinks at Anna’s baby shower, I had to be brave and not let anyone see the crushing sadness and horror I was feeling inside. It was service with a smile, and I even had to make a toast. I had to compose it and recite it from memory, and I’ll never forget it as long as I live: “I just want to say that I’m grateful to the poly lifestyle that allows my wife to be able to conceive a baby with a superior member of the male species like Brett, and I will work hard to provide devoted service to them and their wonderful baby.” Delivering that speech absolutely destroyed me, but I somehow got through it without crying. Then, it was back to serving drinks and finger food, a fake smile plastered on my face.

I guess I’ve had a lot of practice at hiding my pain and humiliation, and pretending to be happy about the fact that I am “pee-pee,” everyone’s favorite eager-to-please, submissive little mascot.

When Anna and Brent’s friends come to visit our home, I’m supposed to pretend I’m not embarrassed when my wife’s lover uses me as a footstool, or makes me kneel next to his chair holding his beer bottle.

I’m not supposed to feel resentment when I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing the bathroom floor while my wife and her boyfriend relax in the living room playing with their son, and I hear Anna call out in that sarcastic, sing-song voice: “Oh, pee-pee! Diiiia-per duuuu-ty!” and I have to drop the scrub brush, wash my hands and come running to change their baby’s shitty diaper.

I have to pretend I believe what Anna and Brent’s friends say to me in that patronizing tone — “I actually think you’re a strong person for living the way you do, because not many people have the courage to make their desires come true. I envy you.” They usually tell me that just before handing me their empty glass and ordering me to fetch them a refill.

Right now, I’m not feeling very courageous. I’m not feeling like someone who is worthy of envy. To be honest, I feel like a fucking loser; a sexual deviant who has let his life spiral completely out of control. I’m not a pioneer for some lifestyle; I’m a fucking joke. Everyone laughs at me.

Well, I guess all this self-pity is finally making me tired, so I’m going to drag my sorry ass to bed. Luckily, Anna and Brent gave me permission to sleep on the bean bag every night while they’re gone; otherwise, it would’ve been the cold, hard floor for me.

Fuck! Junior is crying again. Damn it! I guess I won’t be going to sleep anytime soon.

Sigh. Talk to you later, diary.

[lookingiansa]

Damn this is pretty extreme cuckold stuff. I'm not a cuck myself I'm here to learn more and get into the cuckolds mind so I can be a better BF Alpha man to the Hotwife and cuck man in married couple.

But I couldn't ever see anyone telling me when I can cum. I wouldnt take a beating daily it would stop after first time or 2. I would of kicked Brett's ass even if I couldn't do it fairly I'd beat the shit out of him when he's sleeping just to get even.

I would break the lock even if caged say fuck you I'm not playing this game anymore. What could they do what they are doing borders on assuslt abuse etcetera.

Please share more if you could I gotta hear more how you got out of it ?

Mr. Lookingiansa