I posted this story on another site, but I don't think here.
DISCLAIMER: The following fantasy contains elements of cuckoldry, intense humiliation, BDSM, chastity and polyamory. This is a diary that provides a glimpse into the daily life of Peter (pee-pee), who lives as a servant to his wife, her lover and their infant son. While the child is a central character in this story, he is NEVER involved in anything sexual; in fact, the characters repeatedly express their desire to avoid exposing the boy to anything inappropriate, as is the case with many real-world BDSM practitioners who hide the kinkier elements of their private lives from their kids. Sexual fantasies directly involving children don’t float my boat, and in fact, they disgust me — but the idea of a cuckold being forced to serve the child of his wife and her lover turns me on like crazy, and since that scenario is a central theme in many cuckold stories, I’m thinking I’m not alone. If this kind of fantasy isn’t your cup of tea, feel free to move along. For the rest of you … enjoy!
c.w. cobblestone
March 24, 3:25 a.m.
The baby finally went down, but 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 kid.
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 told Anna at the beginning of our marriage that I was submissive … that I needed her to be my mistress … that I needed her to take charge of my life.
I’m the one who wasn’t able to provide my wife with normal sex, causing her to seek out a boyfriend.
After she started dating her boss, I’m the one who agreed to every one of her ridiculous demands as their relationship progressed, starting with a weekly cleaning of Brent’s condo and culminating with him buying a McMansion for 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 that his name is Brent Junior would certainly give it away. Not that it matters; my wife and her lover are completely 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 quickly got over it. Now, they 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 don’t get invited to family functions anymore. I suppose I can’t blame my relatives if they don’t want my wife dragging me, her lover and their baby to Aunt Mildred’s 80th birthday party.
Oh, well. Alienating my family is just 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. That was exciting at first, when she agreed to cater to my fantasies. But through the years, her nastiness escalated to the point where I now wonder whether I created a monster. She says she was born to have a wimpy slave at her beck and call, and she enjoys seeing how far she can push me, physically and emotionally.
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 she’ll employ for punishment or amusement. Pure evil lurks 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 he’s not all bad, and 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.
Anna only waives my nightly punishment a few times a year when she’s in a good mood or if I’ve been particularly obedient and productive. I can run around all day serving them until my tongue hangs out … I can follow their orders to the letter … I can brown-nose, and bow, and scrape, and be perfectly respectful from morning to evening — and at 8 o’clock I’ll still get my ass whipped. It’s just not fair, but Anna is my mistress, and this is what she wants.
When Brent administers my “daily reminders,” there’s usually no maliciousness, and the 20 strokes are doled out methodically. Occasionally, he’ll even watch a ballgame while he whips me, which is incredibly humiliating, since he’s oblivious to the pain he’s causing me. Even though Brent sometimes just goes through the motions, don’t think his whippings don’t hurt. They always hurt. I always cry my eyes out. Anna loves it. She says it makes her horny to watch Brent whip the shit out of me until I’m bawling.
But she doesn’t stop there. She also loves humiliating me, so her rule is, after every whipping, I have to kneel in front of her boyfriend and ask: “May I thank you properly for my instruction, sir?” If he feels like it, I have to show my appreciation for my “instruction” by sucking his dick, usually while he relaxes and watches TV. Otherwise, he’ll wave me off, and I’ll scurry away, a beaten, frightened slave.
My burning ass cheeks never let me forget my lowly status, not even for a second, and I’m always mousy and submissive, fearful another beating is just around the corner — meaning my wife’s idea of a daily reminder works like a charm.
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 big), he will even let me have a beer, or pass his joint 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 theme, 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, kneeling at the foot of their bed — and, yes, Brent was right, my wife was screaming louder than usual, and it was all I could do 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. “Felt like it. How’d it taste?”
“Um, it was very delicious, sir, thank you so much.”
“Smooth or chunky?”
I blinked with humiliation. I hate when he makes me give him reports about how his sperm tastes, but refusing isn’t an option, so I swallowed hard and said, “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 after I pissed myself one time when Brent was flogging me. Since my name is Peter Paulson, I guess there’s logic to it, but 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 and unlock myself. I could probably make another seal to replace it, and they wouldn’t even know the difference. I could jack off 30 times a day until they get home.
Yeah, right. 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, and that’s that. 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, reason or fairness to it whatsoever. I get time added to my chastity periods 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 to the baby’s room 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 TV for one damned second while dusting, and she says in that snippy, bitchy tone of hers: “Out of the way, pee-pee. That’s another month.” And all I could do was hang my head and thank her.
Sigh. Chastity — yet another thing I have to deal with in this crazy “poly” relationship. They imposed that on me shortly after Brent and Anna started dating; he said he wanted a committed relationship, and needed to ensure I didn’t try to have sex with my wife. Yeah, right, like that was ever going to happen.
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 boyfriend 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. I had asked her to be cruel to me. So, now I keep quiet and try accept the party line being pushed by my wife and her lover: that 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 with a superior man like Brent, 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 don’t think you’re a wimp; I think you’re a strong person, because not many people have the courage to live out their fantasies. I actually envy you.” They usually tell me that just before handing me an empty glass and ordering me to fetch 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 beanbag 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.
***
Repost (from another site, anyway): intense cuckold humiliation story: pee-pee's diary
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cwcobblestone
- Virgin
- Posts: 38
- Joined: Sat Apr 25, 2020 9:58 am
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cwcobblestone
- Virgin
- Posts: 38
- Joined: Sat Apr 25, 2020 9:58 am
Re: Repost (from another site, anyway): intense cuckold humiliation story: pee-pee's diary
March 24, 8:23 p.m.
I was polishing my master’s shoes when Anna called to check on the baby. My heart leapt when I saw the phone light up with an international number, but by the time the call was finished, my spirits were right back in the cuckold slave dumps again.
My wife and her boyfriend left for the Bahamas almost 2 weeks ago, and they’ve been calling to check on their son every day. When they were originally planning the trip, they thought about bringing Junior and me along. (I was to be included because there was no way my lazy mistress and master were going to change diapers!) In the end, though, they decided they wanted it to be just a romantic trip for two.
I remember feeling so proud when my mistress and master informed me that I’d be staying home to watch Brent Junior, because it meant they trusted me — and then it hit me how pathetic I was for being glad that my wife and her boyfriend were dumping their kid off on me so they could go on a romantic getaway.
Anyway, I was joyful and nervous when the phone rang, and my hand literally trembled when I pressed the green button.
“H-hello?” The syllables caught in my throat.
Anna’s voice was clipped and cold, as it usually is when she talks to me: “What are you doing?” No hello, nothing.
“Um, I was just shining Master’s shoes; I finished all of yours earlier today, Mistress. I’ll be done in a minute—”
She cut me off: “Where’s the baby?”
“Um, he’s right here in the playpen, Mistress.”
“Put the phone up to his ear.”
I walked across the room and told Brent Junior in my best baby-talk: “Mommy’s on the phone; she loves you very much and wants to say hi.” I hoped my mistress would hear me, notice my enthusiasm, and think of me as a good nanny for her son — and then that familiar feeling of disgust washed over me when I realized I was trying to score brownie points with my wife by showing her what a great babysitter I was for her lover’s child.
I set aside my self-loathing and placed the phone next to Brent Junior’s ear as my mistress had instructed. Through the receiver, I could hear her making goo-goo noises, and couldn’t help but smile when the little one’s face lit up. He’s not such a bad baby, even if he does keep me up half the night with his crying. It’s not his fault his mother and father are so mean to me.
Well, I try to think that way, anyway, but to be honest, I can’t help but resent the little bastard sometimes. Every time I look at him, it’s just like looking at Brent. Even his name is Brent. He’s a constant reminder of my pathetic station in life. And my wife and her lover have already informed me their son will be giving me orders when he gets older. So, he’ll grow up thinking of me as nothing but a servant — which is exactly what I am, I suppose.
One of the hardest things I have to deal with is making sure my resentment doesn't turn into hatred for Junior. First of all, if that ever manifested itself in a way that was noticeable to his parents, I would definitely be thrown out of the house. Secondly, and most importantly, it’s just not right. So, I try to put my feelings of jealousy aside and be a good nanny for the boy. I keep telling myself none of this is his fault; he’s just an innocent baby, so I need to be responsible and treat him right. I also made a promise that I would serve my wife and her lover in the manner they best see fit, and they want me to be a good nanny for their son. So, I will do my very best — with a bitter taste in my mouth.
All these conflicting, confusing feelings ran through me as I held the phone up to Brent Junior’s ear so his mom could say hi. After several minutes, I heard his father’s deep voice replace my wife’s, and he repeated the goo-goo sounds for a while before I heard him bellow: “Pee-pee! Pick up!”
I pulled the phone from Junior’s ear. “Y-yes, Master?”
“Did the carburetor come yet?
Master had ordered a part for his classic 1969 Mustang, but it hadn’t arrived in the mail yet. I relayed the news and he wasn’t happy.
“Damn it. Call those assholes and find out what the fuck is taking so long.”
“Yes, Master, I’ll call them first thing Monday.”
“No, pee-pee, you’ll call today. Leave a message if they’re closed.”
“Yes, Master, I’ll call as soon as I hang up, sir.”
“Did you clean out the garage yet like I told you to?”
I blanched. “Um, uh, no, Master, I was planning to do that tomorrow.”
“Well, you ain’t gonna have time tomorrow,” he snapped. “Marc and Jenny are coming over tomorrow morning to pick you up; they’re gonna watch Junior while you till out their backyard; they said it’s an all-day job. So, figure it out. Why the hell isn’t the garage done yet?”
“I’m so sorry, Master. I had sort of a schedule worked out—”
“Well, I’m so sorry to impose on your schedule.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Oh, no, Master, I wasn’t complaining, sir! I’ll get the garage done, sir, I promise, and I won’t let you down, sir; I’ll do a real good job on Mister Marc and Miss Jenny’s backyard, sir, and make you proud of me. And I’ll have that garage spic and span, Master.” I was desperately kissing ass, praying he wouldn’t get mad.
He didn’t. Instead, he changed the subject and added yet another item to my growing chore list: “Whatever, pee-pee; listen, you need to take the bus to the auto parts store and pick up some carb cleaner. Go in the garage; the can is on the middle shelf by the toolbox. Get that brand. That goddamn carburetor had better be here by the time I get back, or it’s gonna be your ass. You got me?”
“Y-yes, Master.”
He hung up.
With most of my weekend chores done, I had hoped to relax tomorrow after cleaning the garage. I guess that’s off now. Just like that, I’m now going to be working at Jenny and Marc’s all damned day. And I’ll still have the garage to clean. On top of that, I’m facing an extra ass-whipping if the carburetor doesn’t get here by the time Brent and my wife get back, although I’m failing to see how that could possibly be my fault.
Fuck. More shit to deal with.
At least I got Brent’s shoes done; I knocked that out right after he hung up on me. I’m pretty much caught up on my housework, other than a few last-minute things I want to hold off on until right before they get home. So, I guess I’d better get all my relaxing done now, because the next few days are going to be a bitch.
I suppose I should count my blessings. I’ve been allowed to sleep on the beanbag every night since my masters have been gone — and I’ve avoided my daily reminders! I can’t remember the last time I spent this many consecutive days with a backside that wasn’t screaming with pain.
Oh, crap. It just dawned on me that maybe Brent told Marc and Jenny they could give me my daily reminder tomorrow. Nah, Brent wouldn’t do that — but Anna would. I wonder if she talked to Jenny at all … those two can cook up some evil shit for me. Damn, now I’m really starting to worry.
Ah, maybe there’s nothing to be concerned about. There probably won’t be too much time for anything bad, since Master said I’ll be working in their backyard all day. And by “all day,” Master usually means 13-14 hours.
Since Brent dropped this on me at the last minute, I’ve got to plan things out now. Let’s see … I’ll spend the day tomorrow at Marc and Jenny’s, and then Monday I’ve got a ton of errands to run for my masters — including now a trip to the auto parts store — and then, I guess I can clean out the garage after the errands are done, although I’ll be up half the night. I’ll have to use the baby monitor, because Junior would never get to sleep if I left the crib in the garage. Besides, it’s too cold. Then, they’re coming home Wednesday, so I’ll be spending all day Tuesday getting the house ready for them …
Goddamn it! There’s so much to do. Maybe I should go ahead and knock some of the chores out tonight, so I’m not under such pressure to get it all done.
Sigh. This may be my last diary entry for a few days, because it’s going to be fucking crazy. Bye for now.
***
March 25, 10:35 p.m.
Well, I’m completely wore out, but I’ve got to admit today wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Master had told me I’d be working at Marc and Jenny’s house all day, but I was actually done by about 4 in the afternoon.
Marc came by in his truck to get me a little after 9. There was just enough room for the child seat; the rest of the truck’s cabin was filled with gardening supplies.
“You’re gonna have to hop in the back, pee-pee,” Marc said, gesturing to the truck bed, which was also jammed with gardening gear.
Clutching Junior’s diaper bag, I found a spot next to a stack of bags of soil, and Marc took off. Every bump in the road threw me into the air, and my lower back was killing me before we’d gone a mile. Plus, it’s been really chilly for late March, so I shivered the entire trip across town.
When we arrived at Marc and Jenny’s house, she drifted outside to take Junior from me. Marc jerked his thumb toward his truck.
“Unpack all that shit and take it to the backyard. Come and get me when you’re done.”
After I’d unloaded the truck, I knocked on the back door. Through the window I could see Marc and Jenny in the living room; she was playing with the baby and he was chilling on the couch watching TV.
They never answered my knock, so I stood on the back porch and waited patiently. After about 20 minutes, Marc sauntered outside.
He suppressed a burp. “You know how to use a tiller, pee-pee?”
“Yes, sir; Master had me do his cousin’s yard last year.”
“Good.” He waved his hand at his expansive backyard. “I want all this dug up. The whole thing. We’re gonna plant the grass in a few weeks. Well, you’re gonna plant it; Brent says I can borrow you for the whole project.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Marc, sir, I’ll work real hard for you, sir.”
“Alright, pee-pee, enough brown-nosing. Get to work. I’ll be in the house watching TV if you need me.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
He turned and went inside, and I got started. Luckily, Marc had rented a top-of-the-line tiller, and it cut through the soil fairly easily.
I hadn’t been at it 10 minutes when Jenny called from inside: “pee-pee! Diaper!”
Sighing, I grabbed the garden hose and washed myself off, retrieved the diaper bag from Marc’s truck, and again tapped on the back door. I could hear Junior crying from outside. This time, my knock was immediately answered by Jenny. When I got inside, she handed the baby to me as if a bomb had gone off.
“Here, take him,” she said, her nose crinkled. “Put him in the guest bedroom and change him — and don’t be throwing that diaper away in the house either; use the garbage can at the end of the driveway.”
“Yes, Miss Jenny,” I said as I took the baby from her arms. Diaper bag slung over my shoulder, I carried him into the guest bedroom and set him on the bed. There was shit everywhere, and he wouldn’t stop crying.
As I was cleaning him, I noticed his tiny penis, and the cynical thought went through my head, “well, at least there’s one person in the world whose dick isn’t bigger than mine.” And then another, more morose concept flashed to the surface: “His penis is free, like a male’s penis is supposed to be. Yours is locked up in a plastic spiked cage. How pathetic is that?”
I pushed those thoughts out of my head and changed Junior, then walked in circles around the room bouncing him until he calmed down. Then I brought him back to Jenny, who took him from me with a wry smirk.
“Thanks, pee-pee,” she said. “He’s adorable, but I’m sorry — I don’t change shitty diapers.”
“Of course, ma’am.” I put on my fake smile.
Of course, ma’am. Miss Princess doesn’t change shitty diapers. Oh, no. That’s pee-pee’s job. Just hand him off to pee-pee. He’s happy to change the diapers of another man’s baby.
My pity party was interrupted when Jenny waved her hand under my nose. “Okay, pee-pee, back to work.”
I was called to change diapers three more times, but other than that, Marc and Jenny ignored me. They left the house for a few hours; Marc told me they were going out for lunch. For a fleeting second, I had hoped he might ask me if I wanted anything to eat, but who was I kidding? I busted my ass for nearly 7 hours, and it never occurred to them that I might want to eat. The only break I got was when they let me get a drink from the hose and take a piss behind one of the oak trees at the outer edge of their backyard.
Because Marc had rented a professional-grade tiller, and because I wasn’t allowed any breaks, I got the job done a lot quicker than anyone thought. I felt a surge of pride when Marc expressed surprise at how fast I’d finished.
I sat on the back porch for nearly an hour before Marc was ready to drive us home. Jenny cooed her good-byes to Junior, and I strapped him back in the car seat. Although I had unloaded all the garden supplies from the truck earlier, and there would have been plenty of room for me to ride inside the cabin, Marc stopped me when I started to slide into the front seat next to him.
“What the hell are you doing? You’re filthy, pee-pee. You ride in the back.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
And, so, I huddled in the truck bed for the ride home, cold, hungry and exhausted.
Well, I’m gonna hit the hay early tonight. I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow.
***
March 27, 11:42 p.m.
Junior just went down, thank goodness. He’s been worse than usual lately, making my life miserable.
I don’t think I’ve gotten 6 hours of sleep the last two nights combined, but I’m wired as hell right now. My mistress and master are coming home tomorrow. I’m beyond excited, but also weighed down by resentment, anger, guilt and self-loathing — familiar emotions for a cuckold slave.
I was way too busy to make a diary entry yesterday. After spending the day on the bus running Anna and Brent’s errands, I returned home at about 7:30 and immediately got started on the garage. I kept getting interrupted by the baby monitor blasting screams from Junior’s room, and I’d have to rush into the house and go change or comfort him. He was cranky from me dragging him around from store to store and bus stop to bus stop all day, and he kept waking up and wailing. So, I didn’t finish cleaning the garage until 8 this morning.
I flopped on the beanbag in the upstairs hallway, and got about 2 hours of sleep before being awakened by the doorbell. I opened the door and Anna’s friend Tammy stood in the doorway. Her car idled at the curb.
She smirked. “Hey, pee-pee. There’s four bags of me and Jimmy’s laundry in the trunk.”
I hate it when Anna or Brent’s friends come to the house and dump work on me like that with no warning. But all I could do was say, “yes, Miss Tammy, thank you,” and act like the opportunity to do her and her boyfriend’s laundry was the biggest privilege in the world.
Yes, Miss Tammy. I’d be happy to wash the shit stains out of your dickhead boyfriend’s Fruit of the Looms, Miss Tammy. I’d be happy to add another chore to my fucking plate, Miss Tammy.
As soon as I removed the bags from the trunk and slammed it shut, Tammy put the car in drive and it started to crawl away.
“I’ll be back in about 3 hours; have it all done by then,” she called out the window before accelerating and cruising out of sight, leaving me standing curbside surrounded by four overflowing bags of dirty clothes.
Anna and Brent like pimping me out to their friends for laundry, housecleaning and other odd jobs, because it allows them to flaunt their power over me, while at the same time improving their social standing — because who wouldn’t want to hang out with a couple that provides friends with free slave service?
The extra laundry Anna’s friend dumped on me made my day more difficult than it should have been, and I had to scramble around to get all my chores done. But do you think my wife gives a shit? Hell, no. And I got yet another reminder of that when she called earlier today.
I was finishing the last of the housework when the phone rang. As always, she was abrupt: “Where’s Brent Junior?”
“He’s sleeping, Mistress. I finally got him down. He’s been really bad for the last few days; he was up the whole night last night, and the night before, too.”
There was a pause. “Is he sick? Does he have a fever?”
“No, Mistress, I don’t think there’s anything wrong. There’s no fever or anything — he’s just being cranky as usual.”
“What do you mean, ‘as usual?’” I could hear the venom in my wife’s voice, so I immediately started blubbering my apology:
“Uh, um, eh, sorry, Mistress, please, Mistress, I didn’t mean that how it sounded, Mistress. I just meant … I just meant … well, I’m sorry, I just haven’t been getting any sleep lately, and I don’t know what to do; I just can’t keep him quiet, Mistress.”
My wife huffed. “Did I call to hear you whine about not getting sleep?”
The phone went dead.
I don’t know why her hanging up on me like that upset me so much. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But I cried my eyes out. I stamped my foot. Then, overwhelmed by resentment and bitterness, I did something stupid.
After I stood there bawling with the phone in my hand for probably a half-hour, my bloodshot eyes for some reason gravitated toward the couch, with its luxurious, downy cushions. It looked so comfortable … and I was so fed up with all my hard work being taken for granted … fed up with being treated like a second-class citizen … fed up with not being even allowed to sit on the goddamn furniture in my own goddamn house.
And then, I did it. I actually sat on the couch. For the first time since we entered into this ridiculous “poly” relationship, I defied one of my mistress and master’s core rules.
Well, actually, my ass only hit the cushion for a split-second before I jumped up, scared to death Anna and Brent might suddenly walk through the door. I knew that was ridiculous — their flight home didn’t even leave for several hours — but logic didn’t melt the ice in my stomach.
And then, as always, I got to reflecting on what a pathetic fucking wimp I am for being afraid I might get caught sitting on the couch. I’m still feeling funny about it. I know it doesn’t make any sense. There’s no way they’ll ever know unless I tell them.
Will I?
Good question. I don’t know the answer. Or maybe I do. Maybe that’s why I feel this sense of dread — deep down, I know I can’t keep secrets from them.
No, fuck that. I’m not going to say anything. Why should I be loyal to her after everything she’s done to me? She’s betrayed me hundreds of times. Thousands of times.
Anna never has a kind word to say to me anymore. What did I do to make her like that? Why does she hate me so much? It wasn’t always like this. Even after Brent came into the picture, things weren’t so bad at first. There were times when we’d all hang out together, kind of like friends. Of course, I was always in the subservient role, and there was never any question about my status, but my wife would sometimes joke with me, or the three of us would have conversations about various subjects.
Now? The only time Anna talks to me is if she’s barking an order or humiliating me, which she loves to do, especially in front of company.
Brent is different. Don’t get me wrong, he loves nothing more than embarrassing me, but he’s nice to me sometimes, too. I’ve come to view him kind of like a bully older brother. He can be really nasty, but not always.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter how Anna treats me. It doesn’t matter if she never says another kind word to me for as long as we live — I’m still in love with her, and I’ll always be her fool. And she knows it.
I’m starting to get that helium feeling in my belly again, thinking about my beautiful Anna coming home tomorrow. I doubt I’ll get a wink of sleep, but I should probably try.
***
March 28, 9:17 a.m.
Got a text from Mistress; they’re laying over in Miami and are scheduled to land at Municipal Airport at 1. Flight #485. I’ll need to hurry if I want to get there in time, so I’ll just make this a quick entry. I’m glad I get to drive to the airport; taking the bus can get tiresome.
I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see my mistress again!
Oh, and there’s one less thing to worry about: Brent’s carburetor came in the mail today. Thank goodness.
11:29 p.m.
Whew! Homecoming day was hectic, to put it nicely! I’m finally getting a chance to decompress after a whirlwind of chores, humiliation and pain.
No, I didn’t tell them I sat on the couch. I don’t know why I’m making such a huge deal about it, but it nagged me all day. There were a few times where I almost broke down and confessed, but thankfully I was able to keep my mouth shut. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stay quiet, though. What if they ask me? I couldn’t lie to them.
Ah, that’s stupid. Why would they even ask me? I don’t know, maybe I look guilty. I must. I sure as hell feel guilty.
This is ridiculous. After the day I had, busting my ass to make them feel comfortable upon their return home, unpacking all their clothes and doing mountains of laundry, and then listening like a sap while they gushed about how much fun they had on their romantic getaway without me — only to get the shit beat out of me for no reason during my 8 o’clock daily reminder — and now I’m feeling guilty because my ass touched the damn couch for half a second while they were gone?
How pathetic. How utterly, fucking pathetic.
Ugh, I’ve got to clear my mind. It’s been a day.
I arrived at the airport just after noon, pushing Junior in his stroller. Have you ever gone through an airport X-Ray scanner wearing a chastity device? It’s nerve-wracking to say the least. My cage is made of plastic, so there’s no concern about setting off a metal detector, but I know the TSA has scanners that can see what’s going on underneath people’s clothes, and I’m afraid a photo of me and my little cage may end up circulating among the federal agents as a joke.
After clearing security, I maneuvered the baby carriage through the crowd and made my way to the baggage area with 20 minutes to spare. I stood there eyeing the rows of empty seats, wondering if my masters would get mad if they caught me sitting down. Usually when I accompany them to a bar or restaurant they’ll make me wait outside, but when I’m invited in they allow me to sit on furniture, since sitting on the floor, or even standing near the table would likely cause a scene. So, it’s not like I’m never allowed to sit on furniture in public.
But with last night’s couch infraction still weighing heavily on my mind, I decided to play it safe and keep standing. The last thing I wanted was to upset Anna the minute she walked off the airplane.
It’s funny the things I worry about. Is there another man on earth who’s afraid to sit on a fucking chair because it might piss off his wife?
My masters’ plane arrived and I stood in the terminal lobby holding their son, watching the parade of faces as they emerged from the tunnel. I spotted Anna, gorgeous even after her long trip, and seeing her for the first time in 2 weeks literally sent a shiver up my spine. Brent came into view next, gripping a leather carry-on bag. I held up Junior’s hand and helped him wave to his parents.
They both smiled when they saw their son, and Anna rushed forward to take him from me. She never glanced my way.
Brent handed me his bag. “We’re gonna take Junior to the restaurant and relax, pee-pee,” he said. “Wait for the luggage. When it gets here, bring it up and wait outside the restaurant.”
“Yes, sir,” I said in a hushed voice, hoping nobody nearby would overhear me. I watched the family I serve stroll toward the escalator and up toward the airport eatery.
It took about a half-hour for the bags to reach the carousel. Anna and Brent each had a huge suitcase, and my wife had another bag, too large to carry on the plane. They had left the stroller with me, so I had to plan out how I was going to carry everything; I strapped their bags on each shoulder, put a suitcase in each hand, and sort of nudged the stroller forward with my knee as I walked. It would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if I could’ve set one or even both of the suitcases on the stroller and pushed it, but I was afraid my wife would bitch at me if I did that.
That sums up my life perfectly: Afraid to do the most mundane things. Afraid to use the stroller to help tote their suitcases. Afraid to sit on a stupid airport chair.
I made it up to the restaurant and stood close enough to the entrance to be able see them leave, but far enough away so I wouldn’t attract the staff’s attention. I’ve learned the hard way that people get suspicious when they see a guy standing near their front door for 2 hours; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to cool my heels outside a restaurant while my superiors enjoyed a leisurely meal, and all it took was one or two valet parkers to ask me what the hell I was doing to learn not to loiter too close to the entranceway.
I ended up standing there for about a half-hour before they came out. I hurried toward them, and Anna handed me a Styrofoam container.
“Put it in the fridge when we get home,” she said. I was starving, and for a split-second I’d hoped she might allow me to eat her leftovers. No dice.
I repeated the process of hefting the bags onto my shoulders and positioning the stroller while Anna and Brent watched me, never once offering to help. I’m sure the thought never even entered their minds. Instead, when I’d finally gotten myself situated, they turned and started walking through the airport, Brent holding my wife’s hand and carrying their son in the crook of his other arm. I tagged along behind them, struggling to keep up with my heavy, unwieldy load.
At one point, Anna’s huge bag started slipping off my shoulder, and when I tried to adjust my weight it caused the stroller to tip over, and I dropped both the suitcases. My wife and her boyfriend turned to see what the noise was, and upon noticing my dilemma, they both stopped and cocked their heads.
Anna folded her arms. “Jeez, hurry up, would you?”
Brent just chuckled and shook his head.
I was finally able to get everything in position again and continued following my superiors through the terminal. When we finally got outside, I set the bags near the curb and they kept an eye on them while I fetched the car. Upon my return, once again my wife and her lover stood by and watched while I did all the work. Once the bags were loaded, Brent took the keys and drove; Anna sat in the front passenger seat, and I shared the backseat with the baby. During the entire drive, they talked about the vacation they’d just had, never once saying a word to me.
When we got home, it was again my responsibility to carry all the bags in the house while Anna and Brent went inside to chill. I emptied the suitcases and carried their contents to the laundry room. I sighed when I took inventory of the piles of dirty clothes that I’d be washing for the next several hours.
I spent the rest of the day running around the house, trying to put a dent in the dozens of chores on my list. Like always, I kept getting interrupted to refill drinks and change diapers. Even though I’ve grown accustomed to this unequal way of life, it still fills me with bitterness watching my wife and her lover laying around on their asses all day while I’m killing myself to try to get everything done.
My mood didn’t improve when I was carrying a clothesbasket through the living room and became instantly filled with guilt when I saw Brent’s ass plop onto the couch. I still can’t get my infraction out of my mind. I betrayed our relationship. I mean, it’s not exactly like I picked up a prostitute and took her to a hotel room, but I’ve been feeling that way. We entered into this triad with set rules, and I purposely violated one of those rules. Even if it’s just sitting on a couch, it’s the principle; they’ve got to be able to trust me. I’m trying to forgive myself, but I keep feeling like that can never happen unless I confess to my crime and accept the punishment, whatever that may be.
Then, whenever I get to thinking like this, I’ll take a step back and think: What the hell is wrong with me? Has my wife brainwashed me to the point where I’m honestly feeling guilty about sitting on a goddamn couch? And then, the self-loathing and guilt kick in.
That’s where my head was at as I puttered around the house doing my chores, but as 8 o’clock approached, fear became my main emotion. I had just put Junior down and was folding Mistress’s panties when I glanced at the clock. 7:51. I gulped. I had been pain-free for 2 weeks, but that was about to end.
When the witching hour arrived, I shuffled into the living room, fiberglass cane in hand, feeling like a doomed man walking to the electric chair. Brent was lounging on the couch with Anna’s head in his lap.
I knelt before them and looked at Brent. “Sir, may I please have my daily reminder, sir?”
He glanced at his watch and smirked. “Yeah, looks like it’s about that time. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, pee-pee?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir, it has. Thank you, sir.” I had no idea why I was thanking him, but brown-nosing like that is always a safe bet, even if I knew it wouldn’t help me avoid getting an ass-blistering.
My master sat up and took the cane from my hands. “Drop ‘em and grab your ankles, pee-pee,” he said.
I did as I was told.
The assault began:
WHAP!!
“One, thank you, sir.”
THWACK!!
“Two, thank you, sir.”
The pain, as always, was excruciating.
When we got to “20, thank you, sir,” Brent dropped the cane on the carpet near my head and sat back onto the couch next to his girlfriend. Blinking back the tears and humiliation, I struggled upright and again knelt before the couch, my hands clasped in front of me, begging.
“Thank you, sir. May I thank you properly for my instruction, sir?”
Brent sneered and glanced at my wife, who shrugged. He rubbed his crotch. “Sure, pee-pee, why not?” He shifted his hips, allowing me access to his zipper. “Go for it.”
I can’t describe how utterly humiliating it is to be kneeling in front of your wife’s lover and slowly, humbly sucking his dick to thank him for whipping your ass, while she sits next to him on the couch fiddling with her iPhone, oblivious to your disgrace. It’s even worse when she’s sneering down at you, telling you what a faggot you are.
When I’m thanking my master for my daily beatings, I never know if he’ll want me to suck him to completion, or if he’ll want to save his load for my wife. I guess tonight they must’ve both been tired, because after about 10 minutes of thanking him, Master tapped me on my ear and said, “that’s enough, pee-pee, I’m about ready for bed. Go get the bedroom ready.”
I slipped his penis back into his pants, zipped him back up, and thanked him — verbally this time — before darting upstairs to the master bedroom to turn down the bed, set out Anna’s nightgown and place a cold glass of ice water on each nightstand. They drifted into the bedroom as I was switching on the lamp.
Anna threw her robe onto the floor for me to pick up and fell onto the mattress naked. “Man, it’s good to be back in my own bed again. Pee-pee, get me my nightgown.”
I obeyed, and then knelt at the foot of their bed.
“Um, Master … Mistress … uh, is it okay if I sleep on my beanbag tonight?”
Brent looked at Anna, who waved her hand. “I don’t care,” she said.
My master smiled down at me. “Sweet dreams, pee-pee,” he said. “Listen, you need to get up early and get your chores out of the way, because you’re going to the dock with me tomorrow to help me work on the boat.”
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, Mistress.”
Neither of them answered me, but I didn’t mind. I crept out of the bedroom, dug my diary out of the milk carton in the hall closet where I keep my paltry collection of personal effects, and made this entry.
Now, I’m gonna call it a day, drag my little beanbag out of the closet and put it in the normal spot in the corridor outside the master bedroom door. That way, I’m right there if they should get up in the middle of the night and need me for anything.
As Master said to me earlier: Sweet dreams!
I was polishing my master’s shoes when Anna called to check on the baby. My heart leapt when I saw the phone light up with an international number, but by the time the call was finished, my spirits were right back in the cuckold slave dumps again.
My wife and her boyfriend left for the Bahamas almost 2 weeks ago, and they’ve been calling to check on their son every day. When they were originally planning the trip, they thought about bringing Junior and me along. (I was to be included because there was no way my lazy mistress and master were going to change diapers!) In the end, though, they decided they wanted it to be just a romantic trip for two.
I remember feeling so proud when my mistress and master informed me that I’d be staying home to watch Brent Junior, because it meant they trusted me — and then it hit me how pathetic I was for being glad that my wife and her boyfriend were dumping their kid off on me so they could go on a romantic getaway.
Anyway, I was joyful and nervous when the phone rang, and my hand literally trembled when I pressed the green button.
“H-hello?” The syllables caught in my throat.
Anna’s voice was clipped and cold, as it usually is when she talks to me: “What are you doing?” No hello, nothing.
“Um, I was just shining Master’s shoes; I finished all of yours earlier today, Mistress. I’ll be done in a minute—”
She cut me off: “Where’s the baby?”
“Um, he’s right here in the playpen, Mistress.”
“Put the phone up to his ear.”
I walked across the room and told Brent Junior in my best baby-talk: “Mommy’s on the phone; she loves you very much and wants to say hi.” I hoped my mistress would hear me, notice my enthusiasm, and think of me as a good nanny for her son — and then that familiar feeling of disgust washed over me when I realized I was trying to score brownie points with my wife by showing her what a great babysitter I was for her lover’s child.
I set aside my self-loathing and placed the phone next to Brent Junior’s ear as my mistress had instructed. Through the receiver, I could hear her making goo-goo noises, and couldn’t help but smile when the little one’s face lit up. He’s not such a bad baby, even if he does keep me up half the night with his crying. It’s not his fault his mother and father are so mean to me.
Well, I try to think that way, anyway, but to be honest, I can’t help but resent the little bastard sometimes. Every time I look at him, it’s just like looking at Brent. Even his name is Brent. He’s a constant reminder of my pathetic station in life. And my wife and her lover have already informed me their son will be giving me orders when he gets older. So, he’ll grow up thinking of me as nothing but a servant — which is exactly what I am, I suppose.
One of the hardest things I have to deal with is making sure my resentment doesn't turn into hatred for Junior. First of all, if that ever manifested itself in a way that was noticeable to his parents, I would definitely be thrown out of the house. Secondly, and most importantly, it’s just not right. So, I try to put my feelings of jealousy aside and be a good nanny for the boy. I keep telling myself none of this is his fault; he’s just an innocent baby, so I need to be responsible and treat him right. I also made a promise that I would serve my wife and her lover in the manner they best see fit, and they want me to be a good nanny for their son. So, I will do my very best — with a bitter taste in my mouth.
All these conflicting, confusing feelings ran through me as I held the phone up to Brent Junior’s ear so his mom could say hi. After several minutes, I heard his father’s deep voice replace my wife’s, and he repeated the goo-goo sounds for a while before I heard him bellow: “Pee-pee! Pick up!”
I pulled the phone from Junior’s ear. “Y-yes, Master?”
“Did the carburetor come yet?
Master had ordered a part for his classic 1969 Mustang, but it hadn’t arrived in the mail yet. I relayed the news and he wasn’t happy.
“Damn it. Call those assholes and find out what the fuck is taking so long.”
“Yes, Master, I’ll call them first thing Monday.”
“No, pee-pee, you’ll call today. Leave a message if they’re closed.”
“Yes, Master, I’ll call as soon as I hang up, sir.”
“Did you clean out the garage yet like I told you to?”
I blanched. “Um, uh, no, Master, I was planning to do that tomorrow.”
“Well, you ain’t gonna have time tomorrow,” he snapped. “Marc and Jenny are coming over tomorrow morning to pick you up; they’re gonna watch Junior while you till out their backyard; they said it’s an all-day job. So, figure it out. Why the hell isn’t the garage done yet?”
“I’m so sorry, Master. I had sort of a schedule worked out—”
“Well, I’m so sorry to impose on your schedule.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Oh, no, Master, I wasn’t complaining, sir! I’ll get the garage done, sir, I promise, and I won’t let you down, sir; I’ll do a real good job on Mister Marc and Miss Jenny’s backyard, sir, and make you proud of me. And I’ll have that garage spic and span, Master.” I was desperately kissing ass, praying he wouldn’t get mad.
He didn’t. Instead, he changed the subject and added yet another item to my growing chore list: “Whatever, pee-pee; listen, you need to take the bus to the auto parts store and pick up some carb cleaner. Go in the garage; the can is on the middle shelf by the toolbox. Get that brand. That goddamn carburetor had better be here by the time I get back, or it’s gonna be your ass. You got me?”
“Y-yes, Master.”
He hung up.
With most of my weekend chores done, I had hoped to relax tomorrow after cleaning the garage. I guess that’s off now. Just like that, I’m now going to be working at Jenny and Marc’s all damned day. And I’ll still have the garage to clean. On top of that, I’m facing an extra ass-whipping if the carburetor doesn’t get here by the time Brent and my wife get back, although I’m failing to see how that could possibly be my fault.
Fuck. More shit to deal with.
At least I got Brent’s shoes done; I knocked that out right after he hung up on me. I’m pretty much caught up on my housework, other than a few last-minute things I want to hold off on until right before they get home. So, I guess I’d better get all my relaxing done now, because the next few days are going to be a bitch.
I suppose I should count my blessings. I’ve been allowed to sleep on the beanbag every night since my masters have been gone — and I’ve avoided my daily reminders! I can’t remember the last time I spent this many consecutive days with a backside that wasn’t screaming with pain.
Oh, crap. It just dawned on me that maybe Brent told Marc and Jenny they could give me my daily reminder tomorrow. Nah, Brent wouldn’t do that — but Anna would. I wonder if she talked to Jenny at all … those two can cook up some evil shit for me. Damn, now I’m really starting to worry.
Ah, maybe there’s nothing to be concerned about. There probably won’t be too much time for anything bad, since Master said I’ll be working in their backyard all day. And by “all day,” Master usually means 13-14 hours.
Since Brent dropped this on me at the last minute, I’ve got to plan things out now. Let’s see … I’ll spend the day tomorrow at Marc and Jenny’s, and then Monday I’ve got a ton of errands to run for my masters — including now a trip to the auto parts store — and then, I guess I can clean out the garage after the errands are done, although I’ll be up half the night. I’ll have to use the baby monitor, because Junior would never get to sleep if I left the crib in the garage. Besides, it’s too cold. Then, they’re coming home Wednesday, so I’ll be spending all day Tuesday getting the house ready for them …
Goddamn it! There’s so much to do. Maybe I should go ahead and knock some of the chores out tonight, so I’m not under such pressure to get it all done.
Sigh. This may be my last diary entry for a few days, because it’s going to be fucking crazy. Bye for now.
***
March 25, 10:35 p.m.
Well, I’m completely wore out, but I’ve got to admit today wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Master had told me I’d be working at Marc and Jenny’s house all day, but I was actually done by about 4 in the afternoon.
Marc came by in his truck to get me a little after 9. There was just enough room for the child seat; the rest of the truck’s cabin was filled with gardening supplies.
“You’re gonna have to hop in the back, pee-pee,” Marc said, gesturing to the truck bed, which was also jammed with gardening gear.
Clutching Junior’s diaper bag, I found a spot next to a stack of bags of soil, and Marc took off. Every bump in the road threw me into the air, and my lower back was killing me before we’d gone a mile. Plus, it’s been really chilly for late March, so I shivered the entire trip across town.
When we arrived at Marc and Jenny’s house, she drifted outside to take Junior from me. Marc jerked his thumb toward his truck.
“Unpack all that shit and take it to the backyard. Come and get me when you’re done.”
After I’d unloaded the truck, I knocked on the back door. Through the window I could see Marc and Jenny in the living room; she was playing with the baby and he was chilling on the couch watching TV.
They never answered my knock, so I stood on the back porch and waited patiently. After about 20 minutes, Marc sauntered outside.
He suppressed a burp. “You know how to use a tiller, pee-pee?”
“Yes, sir; Master had me do his cousin’s yard last year.”
“Good.” He waved his hand at his expansive backyard. “I want all this dug up. The whole thing. We’re gonna plant the grass in a few weeks. Well, you’re gonna plant it; Brent says I can borrow you for the whole project.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Marc, sir, I’ll work real hard for you, sir.”
“Alright, pee-pee, enough brown-nosing. Get to work. I’ll be in the house watching TV if you need me.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
He turned and went inside, and I got started. Luckily, Marc had rented a top-of-the-line tiller, and it cut through the soil fairly easily.
I hadn’t been at it 10 minutes when Jenny called from inside: “pee-pee! Diaper!”
Sighing, I grabbed the garden hose and washed myself off, retrieved the diaper bag from Marc’s truck, and again tapped on the back door. I could hear Junior crying from outside. This time, my knock was immediately answered by Jenny. When I got inside, she handed the baby to me as if a bomb had gone off.
“Here, take him,” she said, her nose crinkled. “Put him in the guest bedroom and change him — and don’t be throwing that diaper away in the house either; use the garbage can at the end of the driveway.”
“Yes, Miss Jenny,” I said as I took the baby from her arms. Diaper bag slung over my shoulder, I carried him into the guest bedroom and set him on the bed. There was shit everywhere, and he wouldn’t stop crying.
As I was cleaning him, I noticed his tiny penis, and the cynical thought went through my head, “well, at least there’s one person in the world whose dick isn’t bigger than mine.” And then another, more morose concept flashed to the surface: “His penis is free, like a male’s penis is supposed to be. Yours is locked up in a plastic spiked cage. How pathetic is that?”
I pushed those thoughts out of my head and changed Junior, then walked in circles around the room bouncing him until he calmed down. Then I brought him back to Jenny, who took him from me with a wry smirk.
“Thanks, pee-pee,” she said. “He’s adorable, but I’m sorry — I don’t change shitty diapers.”
“Of course, ma’am.” I put on my fake smile.
Of course, ma’am. Miss Princess doesn’t change shitty diapers. Oh, no. That’s pee-pee’s job. Just hand him off to pee-pee. He’s happy to change the diapers of another man’s baby.
My pity party was interrupted when Jenny waved her hand under my nose. “Okay, pee-pee, back to work.”
I was called to change diapers three more times, but other than that, Marc and Jenny ignored me. They left the house for a few hours; Marc told me they were going out for lunch. For a fleeting second, I had hoped he might ask me if I wanted anything to eat, but who was I kidding? I busted my ass for nearly 7 hours, and it never occurred to them that I might want to eat. The only break I got was when they let me get a drink from the hose and take a piss behind one of the oak trees at the outer edge of their backyard.
Because Marc had rented a professional-grade tiller, and because I wasn’t allowed any breaks, I got the job done a lot quicker than anyone thought. I felt a surge of pride when Marc expressed surprise at how fast I’d finished.
I sat on the back porch for nearly an hour before Marc was ready to drive us home. Jenny cooed her good-byes to Junior, and I strapped him back in the car seat. Although I had unloaded all the garden supplies from the truck earlier, and there would have been plenty of room for me to ride inside the cabin, Marc stopped me when I started to slide into the front seat next to him.
“What the hell are you doing? You’re filthy, pee-pee. You ride in the back.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
And, so, I huddled in the truck bed for the ride home, cold, hungry and exhausted.
Well, I’m gonna hit the hay early tonight. I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow.
***
March 27, 11:42 p.m.
Junior just went down, thank goodness. He’s been worse than usual lately, making my life miserable.
I don’t think I’ve gotten 6 hours of sleep the last two nights combined, but I’m wired as hell right now. My mistress and master are coming home tomorrow. I’m beyond excited, but also weighed down by resentment, anger, guilt and self-loathing — familiar emotions for a cuckold slave.
I was way too busy to make a diary entry yesterday. After spending the day on the bus running Anna and Brent’s errands, I returned home at about 7:30 and immediately got started on the garage. I kept getting interrupted by the baby monitor blasting screams from Junior’s room, and I’d have to rush into the house and go change or comfort him. He was cranky from me dragging him around from store to store and bus stop to bus stop all day, and he kept waking up and wailing. So, I didn’t finish cleaning the garage until 8 this morning.
I flopped on the beanbag in the upstairs hallway, and got about 2 hours of sleep before being awakened by the doorbell. I opened the door and Anna’s friend Tammy stood in the doorway. Her car idled at the curb.
She smirked. “Hey, pee-pee. There’s four bags of me and Jimmy’s laundry in the trunk.”
I hate it when Anna or Brent’s friends come to the house and dump work on me like that with no warning. But all I could do was say, “yes, Miss Tammy, thank you,” and act like the opportunity to do her and her boyfriend’s laundry was the biggest privilege in the world.
Yes, Miss Tammy. I’d be happy to wash the shit stains out of your dickhead boyfriend’s Fruit of the Looms, Miss Tammy. I’d be happy to add another chore to my fucking plate, Miss Tammy.
As soon as I removed the bags from the trunk and slammed it shut, Tammy put the car in drive and it started to crawl away.
“I’ll be back in about 3 hours; have it all done by then,” she called out the window before accelerating and cruising out of sight, leaving me standing curbside surrounded by four overflowing bags of dirty clothes.
Anna and Brent like pimping me out to their friends for laundry, housecleaning and other odd jobs, because it allows them to flaunt their power over me, while at the same time improving their social standing — because who wouldn’t want to hang out with a couple that provides friends with free slave service?
The extra laundry Anna’s friend dumped on me made my day more difficult than it should have been, and I had to scramble around to get all my chores done. But do you think my wife gives a shit? Hell, no. And I got yet another reminder of that when she called earlier today.
I was finishing the last of the housework when the phone rang. As always, she was abrupt: “Where’s Brent Junior?”
“He’s sleeping, Mistress. I finally got him down. He’s been really bad for the last few days; he was up the whole night last night, and the night before, too.”
There was a pause. “Is he sick? Does he have a fever?”
“No, Mistress, I don’t think there’s anything wrong. There’s no fever or anything — he’s just being cranky as usual.”
“What do you mean, ‘as usual?’” I could hear the venom in my wife’s voice, so I immediately started blubbering my apology:
“Uh, um, eh, sorry, Mistress, please, Mistress, I didn’t mean that how it sounded, Mistress. I just meant … I just meant … well, I’m sorry, I just haven’t been getting any sleep lately, and I don’t know what to do; I just can’t keep him quiet, Mistress.”
My wife huffed. “Did I call to hear you whine about not getting sleep?”
The phone went dead.
I don’t know why her hanging up on me like that upset me so much. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But I cried my eyes out. I stamped my foot. Then, overwhelmed by resentment and bitterness, I did something stupid.
After I stood there bawling with the phone in my hand for probably a half-hour, my bloodshot eyes for some reason gravitated toward the couch, with its luxurious, downy cushions. It looked so comfortable … and I was so fed up with all my hard work being taken for granted … fed up with being treated like a second-class citizen … fed up with not being even allowed to sit on the goddamn furniture in my own goddamn house.
And then, I did it. I actually sat on the couch. For the first time since we entered into this ridiculous “poly” relationship, I defied one of my mistress and master’s core rules.
Well, actually, my ass only hit the cushion for a split-second before I jumped up, scared to death Anna and Brent might suddenly walk through the door. I knew that was ridiculous — their flight home didn’t even leave for several hours — but logic didn’t melt the ice in my stomach.
And then, as always, I got to reflecting on what a pathetic fucking wimp I am for being afraid I might get caught sitting on the couch. I’m still feeling funny about it. I know it doesn’t make any sense. There’s no way they’ll ever know unless I tell them.
Will I?
Good question. I don’t know the answer. Or maybe I do. Maybe that’s why I feel this sense of dread — deep down, I know I can’t keep secrets from them.
No, fuck that. I’m not going to say anything. Why should I be loyal to her after everything she’s done to me? She’s betrayed me hundreds of times. Thousands of times.
Anna never has a kind word to say to me anymore. What did I do to make her like that? Why does she hate me so much? It wasn’t always like this. Even after Brent came into the picture, things weren’t so bad at first. There were times when we’d all hang out together, kind of like friends. Of course, I was always in the subservient role, and there was never any question about my status, but my wife would sometimes joke with me, or the three of us would have conversations about various subjects.
Now? The only time Anna talks to me is if she’s barking an order or humiliating me, which she loves to do, especially in front of company.
Brent is different. Don’t get me wrong, he loves nothing more than embarrassing me, but he’s nice to me sometimes, too. I’ve come to view him kind of like a bully older brother. He can be really nasty, but not always.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter how Anna treats me. It doesn’t matter if she never says another kind word to me for as long as we live — I’m still in love with her, and I’ll always be her fool. And she knows it.
I’m starting to get that helium feeling in my belly again, thinking about my beautiful Anna coming home tomorrow. I doubt I’ll get a wink of sleep, but I should probably try.
***
March 28, 9:17 a.m.
Got a text from Mistress; they’re laying over in Miami and are scheduled to land at Municipal Airport at 1. Flight #485. I’ll need to hurry if I want to get there in time, so I’ll just make this a quick entry. I’m glad I get to drive to the airport; taking the bus can get tiresome.
I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see my mistress again!
Oh, and there’s one less thing to worry about: Brent’s carburetor came in the mail today. Thank goodness.
11:29 p.m.
Whew! Homecoming day was hectic, to put it nicely! I’m finally getting a chance to decompress after a whirlwind of chores, humiliation and pain.
No, I didn’t tell them I sat on the couch. I don’t know why I’m making such a huge deal about it, but it nagged me all day. There were a few times where I almost broke down and confessed, but thankfully I was able to keep my mouth shut. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stay quiet, though. What if they ask me? I couldn’t lie to them.
Ah, that’s stupid. Why would they even ask me? I don’t know, maybe I look guilty. I must. I sure as hell feel guilty.
This is ridiculous. After the day I had, busting my ass to make them feel comfortable upon their return home, unpacking all their clothes and doing mountains of laundry, and then listening like a sap while they gushed about how much fun they had on their romantic getaway without me — only to get the shit beat out of me for no reason during my 8 o’clock daily reminder — and now I’m feeling guilty because my ass touched the damn couch for half a second while they were gone?
How pathetic. How utterly, fucking pathetic.
Ugh, I’ve got to clear my mind. It’s been a day.
I arrived at the airport just after noon, pushing Junior in his stroller. Have you ever gone through an airport X-Ray scanner wearing a chastity device? It’s nerve-wracking to say the least. My cage is made of plastic, so there’s no concern about setting off a metal detector, but I know the TSA has scanners that can see what’s going on underneath people’s clothes, and I’m afraid a photo of me and my little cage may end up circulating among the federal agents as a joke.
After clearing security, I maneuvered the baby carriage through the crowd and made my way to the baggage area with 20 minutes to spare. I stood there eyeing the rows of empty seats, wondering if my masters would get mad if they caught me sitting down. Usually when I accompany them to a bar or restaurant they’ll make me wait outside, but when I’m invited in they allow me to sit on furniture, since sitting on the floor, or even standing near the table would likely cause a scene. So, it’s not like I’m never allowed to sit on furniture in public.
But with last night’s couch infraction still weighing heavily on my mind, I decided to play it safe and keep standing. The last thing I wanted was to upset Anna the minute she walked off the airplane.
It’s funny the things I worry about. Is there another man on earth who’s afraid to sit on a fucking chair because it might piss off his wife?
My masters’ plane arrived and I stood in the terminal lobby holding their son, watching the parade of faces as they emerged from the tunnel. I spotted Anna, gorgeous even after her long trip, and seeing her for the first time in 2 weeks literally sent a shiver up my spine. Brent came into view next, gripping a leather carry-on bag. I held up Junior’s hand and helped him wave to his parents.
They both smiled when they saw their son, and Anna rushed forward to take him from me. She never glanced my way.
Brent handed me his bag. “We’re gonna take Junior to the restaurant and relax, pee-pee,” he said. “Wait for the luggage. When it gets here, bring it up and wait outside the restaurant.”
“Yes, sir,” I said in a hushed voice, hoping nobody nearby would overhear me. I watched the family I serve stroll toward the escalator and up toward the airport eatery.
It took about a half-hour for the bags to reach the carousel. Anna and Brent each had a huge suitcase, and my wife had another bag, too large to carry on the plane. They had left the stroller with me, so I had to plan out how I was going to carry everything; I strapped their bags on each shoulder, put a suitcase in each hand, and sort of nudged the stroller forward with my knee as I walked. It would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if I could’ve set one or even both of the suitcases on the stroller and pushed it, but I was afraid my wife would bitch at me if I did that.
That sums up my life perfectly: Afraid to do the most mundane things. Afraid to use the stroller to help tote their suitcases. Afraid to sit on a stupid airport chair.
I made it up to the restaurant and stood close enough to the entrance to be able see them leave, but far enough away so I wouldn’t attract the staff’s attention. I’ve learned the hard way that people get suspicious when they see a guy standing near their front door for 2 hours; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to cool my heels outside a restaurant while my superiors enjoyed a leisurely meal, and all it took was one or two valet parkers to ask me what the hell I was doing to learn not to loiter too close to the entranceway.
I ended up standing there for about a half-hour before they came out. I hurried toward them, and Anna handed me a Styrofoam container.
“Put it in the fridge when we get home,” she said. I was starving, and for a split-second I’d hoped she might allow me to eat her leftovers. No dice.
I repeated the process of hefting the bags onto my shoulders and positioning the stroller while Anna and Brent watched me, never once offering to help. I’m sure the thought never even entered their minds. Instead, when I’d finally gotten myself situated, they turned and started walking through the airport, Brent holding my wife’s hand and carrying their son in the crook of his other arm. I tagged along behind them, struggling to keep up with my heavy, unwieldy load.
At one point, Anna’s huge bag started slipping off my shoulder, and when I tried to adjust my weight it caused the stroller to tip over, and I dropped both the suitcases. My wife and her boyfriend turned to see what the noise was, and upon noticing my dilemma, they both stopped and cocked their heads.
Anna folded her arms. “Jeez, hurry up, would you?”
Brent just chuckled and shook his head.
I was finally able to get everything in position again and continued following my superiors through the terminal. When we finally got outside, I set the bags near the curb and they kept an eye on them while I fetched the car. Upon my return, once again my wife and her lover stood by and watched while I did all the work. Once the bags were loaded, Brent took the keys and drove; Anna sat in the front passenger seat, and I shared the backseat with the baby. During the entire drive, they talked about the vacation they’d just had, never once saying a word to me.
When we got home, it was again my responsibility to carry all the bags in the house while Anna and Brent went inside to chill. I emptied the suitcases and carried their contents to the laundry room. I sighed when I took inventory of the piles of dirty clothes that I’d be washing for the next several hours.
I spent the rest of the day running around the house, trying to put a dent in the dozens of chores on my list. Like always, I kept getting interrupted to refill drinks and change diapers. Even though I’ve grown accustomed to this unequal way of life, it still fills me with bitterness watching my wife and her lover laying around on their asses all day while I’m killing myself to try to get everything done.
My mood didn’t improve when I was carrying a clothesbasket through the living room and became instantly filled with guilt when I saw Brent’s ass plop onto the couch. I still can’t get my infraction out of my mind. I betrayed our relationship. I mean, it’s not exactly like I picked up a prostitute and took her to a hotel room, but I’ve been feeling that way. We entered into this triad with set rules, and I purposely violated one of those rules. Even if it’s just sitting on a couch, it’s the principle; they’ve got to be able to trust me. I’m trying to forgive myself, but I keep feeling like that can never happen unless I confess to my crime and accept the punishment, whatever that may be.
Then, whenever I get to thinking like this, I’ll take a step back and think: What the hell is wrong with me? Has my wife brainwashed me to the point where I’m honestly feeling guilty about sitting on a goddamn couch? And then, the self-loathing and guilt kick in.
That’s where my head was at as I puttered around the house doing my chores, but as 8 o’clock approached, fear became my main emotion. I had just put Junior down and was folding Mistress’s panties when I glanced at the clock. 7:51. I gulped. I had been pain-free for 2 weeks, but that was about to end.
When the witching hour arrived, I shuffled into the living room, fiberglass cane in hand, feeling like a doomed man walking to the electric chair. Brent was lounging on the couch with Anna’s head in his lap.
I knelt before them and looked at Brent. “Sir, may I please have my daily reminder, sir?”
He glanced at his watch and smirked. “Yeah, looks like it’s about that time. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, pee-pee?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir, it has. Thank you, sir.” I had no idea why I was thanking him, but brown-nosing like that is always a safe bet, even if I knew it wouldn’t help me avoid getting an ass-blistering.
My master sat up and took the cane from my hands. “Drop ‘em and grab your ankles, pee-pee,” he said.
I did as I was told.
The assault began:
WHAP!!
“One, thank you, sir.”
THWACK!!
“Two, thank you, sir.”
The pain, as always, was excruciating.
When we got to “20, thank you, sir,” Brent dropped the cane on the carpet near my head and sat back onto the couch next to his girlfriend. Blinking back the tears and humiliation, I struggled upright and again knelt before the couch, my hands clasped in front of me, begging.
“Thank you, sir. May I thank you properly for my instruction, sir?”
Brent sneered and glanced at my wife, who shrugged. He rubbed his crotch. “Sure, pee-pee, why not?” He shifted his hips, allowing me access to his zipper. “Go for it.”
I can’t describe how utterly humiliating it is to be kneeling in front of your wife’s lover and slowly, humbly sucking his dick to thank him for whipping your ass, while she sits next to him on the couch fiddling with her iPhone, oblivious to your disgrace. It’s even worse when she’s sneering down at you, telling you what a faggot you are.
When I’m thanking my master for my daily beatings, I never know if he’ll want me to suck him to completion, or if he’ll want to save his load for my wife. I guess tonight they must’ve both been tired, because after about 10 minutes of thanking him, Master tapped me on my ear and said, “that’s enough, pee-pee, I’m about ready for bed. Go get the bedroom ready.”
I slipped his penis back into his pants, zipped him back up, and thanked him — verbally this time — before darting upstairs to the master bedroom to turn down the bed, set out Anna’s nightgown and place a cold glass of ice water on each nightstand. They drifted into the bedroom as I was switching on the lamp.
Anna threw her robe onto the floor for me to pick up and fell onto the mattress naked. “Man, it’s good to be back in my own bed again. Pee-pee, get me my nightgown.”
I obeyed, and then knelt at the foot of their bed.
“Um, Master … Mistress … uh, is it okay if I sleep on my beanbag tonight?”
Brent looked at Anna, who waved her hand. “I don’t care,” she said.
My master smiled down at me. “Sweet dreams, pee-pee,” he said. “Listen, you need to get up early and get your chores out of the way, because you’re going to the dock with me tomorrow to help me work on the boat.”
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, Mistress.”
Neither of them answered me, but I didn’t mind. I crept out of the bedroom, dug my diary out of the milk carton in the hall closet where I keep my paltry collection of personal effects, and made this entry.
Now, I’m gonna call it a day, drag my little beanbag out of the closet and put it in the normal spot in the corridor outside the master bedroom door. That way, I’m right there if they should get up in the middle of the night and need me for anything.
As Master said to me earlier: Sweet dreams!
Re: Repost (from another site, anyway): intense cuckold humiliation story: pee-pee's diary
Wow. Well written but too extreme and one sided. A human being cannot live like that. Even for masochist cuckolds, there has to be some balance.
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foot_slave
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Re: Repost (from another site, anyway): intense cuckold humiliation story: pee-pee's diary
Welcome to the forum foot_slave.