A Husband's Regret
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Oneillfranko
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Re: A Husband's Regret
Just came across this story recently. Loving it and really well written. It has been quite the journey for Greg, Leslie and Mark. Looking forward to where it goes from here.
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Cuck_Steve
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Re: A Husband's Regret
Love it. Leslie’s love is Mark but still realises that Greg needs her, so letting him play a part in her life in some way.
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shadowtantra
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Re: A Husband's Regret
Echoing others - well written and erotically charged! I am feel like Leslie's jump is a bit of a stretch to where she is now encouraging Greg to clean her and fluff her lover. She goes from coldness to sultry without the reader understanding how that happened. I would be interested in learning more about her transformation. Keep up the great story line....
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cuckold writer
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Re: A Husband's Regret
Thanks for all of the feedback.
Leslie's sultry side quickly awakened with the realization of what she'd been missing out on with Greg all of those years! Greg is helping speed that up by settling into a submissive role to Mark and Leslie. Maybe that was his unconscious desire all along.....shadowtantra wrote: ↑Wed Jul 16, 2025 10:07 amI am feel like Leslie's jump is a bit of a stretch to where she is now encouraging Greg to clean her and fluff her lover.
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shadowtantra
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Re: A Husband's Regret
Let's see where it goes? I am looking forward to your next installment.cuckold writer wrote: ↑Thu Jul 17, 2025 1:20 pmThanks for all of the feedback.
Leslie's sultry side quickly awakened with the realization of what she'd been missing out on with Greg all of those years! Greg is helping speed that up by settling into a submissive role to Mark and Leslie. Maybe that was his unconscious desire all along.....shadowtantra wrote: ↑Wed Jul 16, 2025 10:07 amI am feel like Leslie's jump is a bit of a stretch to where she is now encouraging Greg to clean her and fluff her lover.
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cuckold writer
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Re: A Husband's Regret
Several months passed by. Greg’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know what the message said. Leslie’s text was always the same. Two words. “We’re done.” His stomach twisted, a familiar mix of humiliation and arousal bubbling up inside him. He hated this. He loved this. He hated himself for loving it.
He stared at the phone for a moment longer, his thumb hovering over the screen. The weight of what he was about to do pressed down on him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He never could. With a shaky breath, he slid off the stool and made his way toward the master bedroom, each step heavier than the last.
The door was slightly ajar, and Greg could hear the soft murmur of voices from inside. He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. What if he just walked away? The thought flickered through his mind, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room smelled like sex—musky, earthy, and heavy in the air. Leslie was sprawled on the bed, her naked body glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Her legs were still spread, and Greg’s eyes were drawn to the wetness between them, the evidence of what had just happened. Mark, her lover, was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt over his head. He glanced at Greg with a smirk, his confidence radiating like a physical force.
“Right on time,” Mark said, his voice dripping with amusement. He stood, towering over Greg.
He shuffled forward, his feet heavy on the carpet. His eyes dropped to Mark’s cock, still slick and glistening from Leslie’s body. It was thick and impressive, the kind of thing that made Greg feel instantly inadequate. But that was the point, wasn’t it?
Greg dropped to his knees and hesitated, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his lips parting as he took Mark into his mouth. The taste was overwhelming—salty and musky, tinged with the tang of Leslie’s arousal. It was a flavor he’d come to know well, a flavor that both disgusted and excited him.
Mark groaned, his hand tangling in Greg’s hair as he pushed him down further. “That’s it,” Mark muttered, his voice rough with pleasure. “Take it all.”
Greg gagged, his throat protesting the intrusion, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. He wanted this. Needed this. He moved his tongue, exploring every inch of Mark’s cock, savoring the way it throbbed against his lips.
Greg’s humiliation flared, but so did his arousal. He moaned around Mark’s cock, the vibrations making Mark groan louder.
When Mark finally pulled away, Greg stayed on his knees, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. He looked up at Leslie, his eyes wide and pleading.
Greg’s cheeks burned, but he couldn’t look away from Leslie. She was staring at him, her gaze sharp and demanding. Her lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t kind. It was dominant, and it sent a shiver down his spine.
“Well?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “What are you waiting for? You know what to do.”
Greg’s throat felt dry as he crossed the room, his heart pounding in his chest. He knelt at the edge of the bed, his knees sinking into the soft carpet. Leslie shifted slightly, spreading her legs wider, and the scent of her—mixed with the unmistakable tang of Mark’s cum—hit him like a punch. His cock twitched in his pants, and he hated himself for it.
“Go on,” Leslie urged, her voice soft but commanding. “Clean me.”
Greg leaned in, his breath hot against her skin. He could see the slickness coating her inner thighs, the creamy white streaks that belonged to another man. His stomach churned, but he couldn’t stop. He pressed his mouth to her, his tongue darting out to lap at her folds. The taste was overwhelming—bitter and salty, with the faintest hint of sweetness underneath. He gagged, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
Leslie let out a soft moan, her fingers tangling in his hair. “That’s it,” she murmured, her voice tinged with pleasure. “Good boy.”
The words sent a jolt of warmth through him, even as shame burned in his chest. He pressed his tongue deeper, licking and sucking at her until he couldn’t taste Mark anymore. Until she was clean. Until she was his.
Leslie’s grip on his hair tightened, her hips lifting off the bed as she ground herself against his face. “Oh, Greg,” she moaned, her voice breathless. “You’re so good at this.”
He wanted to pull away, to tell her no, but he couldn’t. He was trapped—by his own desires, by her power over him. He licked harder, his tongue swirling around her clit until she was trembling, her moans growing louder and more desperate.
“Yes, yes, just like that,” she gasped, her thighs clamping around his head. “Don’t stop, Greg. Please, don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He couldn’t. He worshiped her with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, until she was writhing beneath him, her body shuddering with release. Her cries echoed through the room, and Greg felt a sick sense of pride as he drank her in, his own arousal burning hotter and hotter with every second.
When Leslie finally pushed him away, he was breathless, his face wet with her juices. Leslie ran a hand through his hair, her touch almost gentle. “You’re such a good little cuck,” she murmured. “I’m lucky to have you.”
Her words twisted in his chest, a mix of pleasure and pain that he couldn’t untangle. He stayed on his knees, waiting for her next command, knowing that he’d do whatever she asked. He always would.
He stared at the phone for a moment longer, his thumb hovering over the screen. The weight of what he was about to do pressed down on him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He never could. With a shaky breath, he slid off the stool and made his way toward the master bedroom, each step heavier than the last.
The door was slightly ajar, and Greg could hear the soft murmur of voices from inside. He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. What if he just walked away? The thought flickered through his mind, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room smelled like sex—musky, earthy, and heavy in the air. Leslie was sprawled on the bed, her naked body glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Her legs were still spread, and Greg’s eyes were drawn to the wetness between them, the evidence of what had just happened. Mark, her lover, was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt over his head. He glanced at Greg with a smirk, his confidence radiating like a physical force.
“Right on time,” Mark said, his voice dripping with amusement. He stood, towering over Greg.
He shuffled forward, his feet heavy on the carpet. His eyes dropped to Mark’s cock, still slick and glistening from Leslie’s body. It was thick and impressive, the kind of thing that made Greg feel instantly inadequate. But that was the point, wasn’t it?
Greg dropped to his knees and hesitated, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his lips parting as he took Mark into his mouth. The taste was overwhelming—salty and musky, tinged with the tang of Leslie’s arousal. It was a flavor he’d come to know well, a flavor that both disgusted and excited him.
Mark groaned, his hand tangling in Greg’s hair as he pushed him down further. “That’s it,” Mark muttered, his voice rough with pleasure. “Take it all.”
Greg gagged, his throat protesting the intrusion, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. He wanted this. Needed this. He moved his tongue, exploring every inch of Mark’s cock, savoring the way it throbbed against his lips.
Greg’s humiliation flared, but so did his arousal. He moaned around Mark’s cock, the vibrations making Mark groan louder.
When Mark finally pulled away, Greg stayed on his knees, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. He looked up at Leslie, his eyes wide and pleading.
Greg’s cheeks burned, but he couldn’t look away from Leslie. She was staring at him, her gaze sharp and demanding. Her lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t kind. It was dominant, and it sent a shiver down his spine.
“Well?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “What are you waiting for? You know what to do.”
Greg’s throat felt dry as he crossed the room, his heart pounding in his chest. He knelt at the edge of the bed, his knees sinking into the soft carpet. Leslie shifted slightly, spreading her legs wider, and the scent of her—mixed with the unmistakable tang of Mark’s cum—hit him like a punch. His cock twitched in his pants, and he hated himself for it.
“Go on,” Leslie urged, her voice soft but commanding. “Clean me.”
Greg leaned in, his breath hot against her skin. He could see the slickness coating her inner thighs, the creamy white streaks that belonged to another man. His stomach churned, but he couldn’t stop. He pressed his mouth to her, his tongue darting out to lap at her folds. The taste was overwhelming—bitter and salty, with the faintest hint of sweetness underneath. He gagged, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
Leslie let out a soft moan, her fingers tangling in his hair. “That’s it,” she murmured, her voice tinged with pleasure. “Good boy.”
The words sent a jolt of warmth through him, even as shame burned in his chest. He pressed his tongue deeper, licking and sucking at her until he couldn’t taste Mark anymore. Until she was clean. Until she was his.
Leslie’s grip on his hair tightened, her hips lifting off the bed as she ground herself against his face. “Oh, Greg,” she moaned, her voice breathless. “You’re so good at this.”
He wanted to pull away, to tell her no, but he couldn’t. He was trapped—by his own desires, by her power over him. He licked harder, his tongue swirling around her clit until she was trembling, her moans growing louder and more desperate.
“Yes, yes, just like that,” she gasped, her thighs clamping around his head. “Don’t stop, Greg. Please, don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He couldn’t. He worshiped her with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, until she was writhing beneath him, her body shuddering with release. Her cries echoed through the room, and Greg felt a sick sense of pride as he drank her in, his own arousal burning hotter and hotter with every second.
When Leslie finally pushed him away, he was breathless, his face wet with her juices. Leslie ran a hand through his hair, her touch almost gentle. “You’re such a good little cuck,” she murmured. “I’m lucky to have you.”
Her words twisted in his chest, a mix of pleasure and pain that he couldn’t untangle. He stayed on his knees, waiting for her next command, knowing that he’d do whatever she asked. He always would.
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Re: A Husband's Regret
In the early months after Mark moved in, there had been civility.
At least on the surface.
Greg did the dishes. He swept. He made coffee. Leslie thanked him at first. Mark offered polite nods, maybe a “cheers, man” as he picked up the plate Greg had just laid in front of him.
But civility, Greg learned, was fragile.
Politeness is easy when the lines are still blurry.
Once the roles hardened, things shifted.
Not overnight.
Not loudly.
Just in the way water carves stone.
It began with tone.
“Greg, can you clear this up?”
Mark’s voice wasn’t angry. But it was expectant.
Not a request. A prompt.
“Greg, wipe this down.”
“Greg, you missed a spot.”
“Greg, can you not stand there?”
Then came timing.
They stopped waiting for him to offer. They assumed.
Plates left in the sink. Shoes kicked off in the hallway. Dishes on the coffee table.
Greg would walk in, and before he could think, Leslie would say without looking up, “Oh, that’s a mess—can you grab it?”
If he didn’t move quickly, she repeated it. Sharper. As if he hadn’t heard.
The language changed too.
“You’re good at this kind of stuff,” Leslie would say when handing him her laundry.
“Come on, man, that’s not how you fold napkins,” Mark said once, snatching a stack off the counter and dropping it back in front of him.
When Greg bought the wrong kind of almond milk, Leslie rolled her eyes and said, “Seriously? We’ve only used one kind for the last year.”
He apologized.
No one said thank you.
In public, it was worse.
At a backyard BBQ with friends, Greg grilled while Mark and Leslie mingled.
“Greg’s always good at playing host,” Leslie said with a light laugh as she poured herself wine. “He likes keeping busy.”
Someone smirked. Someone else asked, “Wait, does he still live with you guys?”
“Yeah,” Mark said, biting into a burger. “He’s part of the furniture now.”
They laughed.
Greg heard it from across the lawn. He didn’t laugh.
He just flipped the burgers and kept his eyes down.
It wasn’t that they were overtly cruel.
They didn’t yell.
They didn’t insult him in ways you could point to.
But cruelty doesn’t always need volume.
Sometimes, it’s in the neglect.
In the way your name becomes a command.
In how silence grows where kindness used to live.
In how you disappear from your own home, one room at a time.
They stopped inviting him to dinner and started expecting him to serve it.
They stopped offering him a glass and started handing him bottles to uncork.
He no longer joined in conversations. He refilled drinks and picked up plates as they were emptied.
Mark would say, “Greg, napkins,” and snap his fingers without looking up from his phone.
Leslie once called from the living room, “Hey, can you run a load of whites? I left my yoga stuff in the basket.”
Not “Would you mind?”
Not “When you get a chance.”
Just: “Do it.”
And Greg did.
He did it all.
Without protest.
Without hesitation.
Something inside him—pride, maybe—had withered long ago.
All that remained was routine. And silence.
Once, late at night, Mark and Leslie were watching a movie in the master bedroom. Greg passed by and heard them laughing.
Then Mark said something low and amused:
“You know he even irons my socks now?”
Leslie giggled. “He doesn’t even realize how far he’s sunk.”
“He likes it,” Mark said. “Gives him purpose.”
More laughter.
Greg stood in the hallway, hand frozen on the banister.
He didn’t make a sound.
Didn’t speak the next morning.
Just ironed the socks.
There were times—brief, piercing seconds—when Greg imagined leaving.
He imagined a suitcase. A door closing. Air that didn’t taste of stale humiliation.
But those thoughts dissolved quickly.
Because where would he go?
And worse—who would he be?
He had built his identity inside their lives.
And now, even as they dismantled it piece by piece, he couldn’t let it go.
It was all he had left.
One evening, after serving dinner, Greg went to clear the table.
Mark stood, stretched, and handed him his plate like it was a tray at a restaurant.
“Make sure the dishwasher doesn’t smell like last time,” he said.
Leslie added, “And scrub the coffee pot too. It’s been tasting off.”
Greg nodded.
“Also,” Leslie said casually as she turned toward the living room, “when you're done, can you bring the vacuum upstairs?”
Greg paused.
Then said quietly, “Of course.”
That night, alone in his small room, he sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the same clothes from the morning. His back ached. His hands were dry from scrubbing.
He stared at the wall, blank and beige, and listened to the sound of their laughter drift down the hallway.
And in the dim light of a house that no longer saw him, he whispered to no one:
“I don’t know who I am anymore.”
The room didn’t answer.
The house never did.
At least on the surface.
Greg did the dishes. He swept. He made coffee. Leslie thanked him at first. Mark offered polite nods, maybe a “cheers, man” as he picked up the plate Greg had just laid in front of him.
But civility, Greg learned, was fragile.
Politeness is easy when the lines are still blurry.
Once the roles hardened, things shifted.
Not overnight.
Not loudly.
Just in the way water carves stone.
It began with tone.
“Greg, can you clear this up?”
Mark’s voice wasn’t angry. But it was expectant.
Not a request. A prompt.
“Greg, wipe this down.”
“Greg, you missed a spot.”
“Greg, can you not stand there?”
Then came timing.
They stopped waiting for him to offer. They assumed.
Plates left in the sink. Shoes kicked off in the hallway. Dishes on the coffee table.
Greg would walk in, and before he could think, Leslie would say without looking up, “Oh, that’s a mess—can you grab it?”
If he didn’t move quickly, she repeated it. Sharper. As if he hadn’t heard.
The language changed too.
“You’re good at this kind of stuff,” Leslie would say when handing him her laundry.
“Come on, man, that’s not how you fold napkins,” Mark said once, snatching a stack off the counter and dropping it back in front of him.
When Greg bought the wrong kind of almond milk, Leslie rolled her eyes and said, “Seriously? We’ve only used one kind for the last year.”
He apologized.
No one said thank you.
In public, it was worse.
At a backyard BBQ with friends, Greg grilled while Mark and Leslie mingled.
“Greg’s always good at playing host,” Leslie said with a light laugh as she poured herself wine. “He likes keeping busy.”
Someone smirked. Someone else asked, “Wait, does he still live with you guys?”
“Yeah,” Mark said, biting into a burger. “He’s part of the furniture now.”
They laughed.
Greg heard it from across the lawn. He didn’t laugh.
He just flipped the burgers and kept his eyes down.
It wasn’t that they were overtly cruel.
They didn’t yell.
They didn’t insult him in ways you could point to.
But cruelty doesn’t always need volume.
Sometimes, it’s in the neglect.
In the way your name becomes a command.
In how silence grows where kindness used to live.
In how you disappear from your own home, one room at a time.
They stopped inviting him to dinner and started expecting him to serve it.
They stopped offering him a glass and started handing him bottles to uncork.
He no longer joined in conversations. He refilled drinks and picked up plates as they were emptied.
Mark would say, “Greg, napkins,” and snap his fingers without looking up from his phone.
Leslie once called from the living room, “Hey, can you run a load of whites? I left my yoga stuff in the basket.”
Not “Would you mind?”
Not “When you get a chance.”
Just: “Do it.”
And Greg did.
He did it all.
Without protest.
Without hesitation.
Something inside him—pride, maybe—had withered long ago.
All that remained was routine. And silence.
Once, late at night, Mark and Leslie were watching a movie in the master bedroom. Greg passed by and heard them laughing.
Then Mark said something low and amused:
“You know he even irons my socks now?”
Leslie giggled. “He doesn’t even realize how far he’s sunk.”
“He likes it,” Mark said. “Gives him purpose.”
More laughter.
Greg stood in the hallway, hand frozen on the banister.
He didn’t make a sound.
Didn’t speak the next morning.
Just ironed the socks.
There were times—brief, piercing seconds—when Greg imagined leaving.
He imagined a suitcase. A door closing. Air that didn’t taste of stale humiliation.
But those thoughts dissolved quickly.
Because where would he go?
And worse—who would he be?
He had built his identity inside their lives.
And now, even as they dismantled it piece by piece, he couldn’t let it go.
It was all he had left.
One evening, after serving dinner, Greg went to clear the table.
Mark stood, stretched, and handed him his plate like it was a tray at a restaurant.
“Make sure the dishwasher doesn’t smell like last time,” he said.
Leslie added, “And scrub the coffee pot too. It’s been tasting off.”
Greg nodded.
“Also,” Leslie said casually as she turned toward the living room, “when you're done, can you bring the vacuum upstairs?”
Greg paused.
Then said quietly, “Of course.”
That night, alone in his small room, he sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the same clothes from the morning. His back ached. His hands were dry from scrubbing.
He stared at the wall, blank and beige, and listened to the sound of their laughter drift down the hallway.
And in the dim light of a house that no longer saw him, he whispered to no one:
“I don’t know who I am anymore.”
The room didn’t answer.
The house never did.
Re: A Husband's Regret
So, this story is about slavery and cruelty, humiliation and betrayal, basically bullying good thing this is fiction because we would be seeing this on the 5 o'clock news.
Re: A Husband's Regret
It's interesting how he moved from a human being being to a favored pet: the "good boy" with a nice pat on the head. Now he is "part of the furniture."
IRL, this would lead to either murder, suicide or both.
Re: A Husband's Regret
I'm curious how she could go from falling in love with Greg to marrying him and staying with him for so long, to detesting him for not being good with sex or for not being born endowed, and in all fairness she never mentioned anything about sex, or never communicated any unhappiness during their entire marriage but open up the marriage and the first dick she gets beside her husbands and its all rainbows, not to mention how diluted are her senses that she clings to a guy who cheats with married women he will dump her at the first sight of something new and then where will she be hopefully Greg will begone by then.
Re: A Husband's Regret
This is one of the most erotic cuckold stories of all time. I can’t stop reading it. It hits me deep and hard. It strikes me that Mark and Leslie may eventually need to reinforce Greg’s submission by periodically punishing him. It will help Greg stay happy.
Re: A Husband's Regret
Please continue. I’m dying to know what happens to Greg next. Does he fight back? Does he get further degraded? Does his wife lose respect even more?
Re: A Husband's Regret
Please, continue
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Re: A Husband's Regret
The house felt eerily quiet without Leslie’s presence, her having left on a girls trip earlier in the day. Greg sat nervously on the edge of the couch, his hands fidgeting in his lap. The lingerie Mark had picked out for him clung uncomfortably to his skin—black lace panties that dug into his hips and a matching bralette that squeezed his chest in a way that made him feel both exposed and oddly vulnerable. The heels, red and impossibly high, pinched his feet, but he didn’t dare take them off. Not after the instructions Mark had given him earlier.
“You’ll wear these when I get home,” Mark had said, his voice low and assertive. “And you’ll be ready for me.”
Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry. The sound of the front door opening snapped him out of his thoughts. He heard Mark’s heavy footsteps in the hallway, the clink of keys being tossed onto the side table, and then the soft creak of the door closing. His heart raced as Mark stepped into the living room, his eyes immediately falling on Greg.
Mark smirked, leaning against the doorway with an air of dominance that made Greg’s stomach twist. “Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “All dressed up just for me.”
Greg felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but there was something else too—a flicker of arousal that he couldn’t ignore. He looked down, unable to meet Mark’s gaze.
“Don’t be shy now,” Mark said, stepping closer. He reached out, tilting Greg’s chin up with a firm finger. “You know why you’re wearing this, don’t you?”
Greg nodded shakily, his lips parting as he tried to find the words. “Y-yes,” he stammered. “I’m supposed to… to serve you.”
Mark’s smile widened, and he ran his thumb over Greg’s lower lip. “Good boy,” he purred. “Now, kneel.”
Greg hesitated for a moment, but the look in Mark’s eyes left no room for argument. He slid off the couch, feeling the cold floor beneath his knees as he knelt in front of Mark. The position felt unnatural, humiliating even, but he didn’t resist. He couldn’t.
Mark sat down on the couch, spreading his legs slightly as he leaned back. “Take it out,” he commanded, his voice calm but firm.
Greg’s hands trembled as he reached for Mark’s zipper. He fumbled with the button for a moment before finally pulling it down. The bulge in Mark’s pants was impossible to ignore, and Greg felt a sudden rush of heat between his own legs. He hesitated again, but Mark’s hand came down on the back of his head, guiding him forward.
“Go on,” Mark said, his voice a low growl. “You know what to do.”
Greg took a deep breath before pulling Mark’s boxers down, exposing his already hardening cock. The sight of it made Greg’s mouth water, and he couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of shame and desire. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against the tip as he took it into his mouth.
Mark let out a soft moan, his hand tightening in Greg’s hair. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that.”
Greg closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the sensation. The taste of Mark on his tongue, the weight of him in his mouth—it was overwhelming, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he began to move, bobbing his head slowly as he worked to take more of Mark in.
“Fuck,” Mark groaned, his hips shifting forward slightly. “You’re so good at this.”
The praise sent a jolt of pleasure through Greg, and he found himself wanting more. He quickened his pace, his tongue swirling around the shaft as he sucked harder. His own arousal was growing now, the tightness in his panties becoming almost unbearable.
Mark’s grip on his hair tightened, pulling him even closer. “Open your eyes,” he commanded.
Greg obeyed, looking up at Mark through half-lidded eyes. The sight of Mark watching him with such intensity sent a shiver down his spine, and he moaned softly around the cock in his mouth.
“You like this, don’t you?” Mark asked, his voice dark and teasing. “You like being on your knees for me.”
Greg whimpered, unable to deny it. He did like it—he hated himself for it, but he did. The humiliation, the submission, the sheer powerlessness of it all—it was intoxicating.
Mark chuckled lowly, thrusting his hips up slightly to meet Greg’s mouth. “Such a slut,” he muttered. “I bet you’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?”
Greg couldn’t respond; his mouth was too full. But the sound that escaped him was answer enough. He was completely at Mark’s mercy, and he loved every second of it.
Mark’s breathing grew heavier as Greg continued to suck and lick, his movements becoming more frantic. “I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained.
Greg didn’t stop. He wanted it—wanted to feel Mark come in his mouth, wanted to swallow every last drop. And when Mark finally did, his hips jerking forward as he groaned loudly, Greg took it all, swallowing eagerly as he felt the hot release flood his mouth.
Mark slumped back against the couch, breathing heavily as he looked down at Greg with a satisfied smirk. “Good boy,” he said again, petting Greg’s hair gently.
Greg stayed on his knees, still trembling from the intensity of it all. He felt used, degraded—but he couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through him as well.
The sound of the doorbell echoed through the house, jolting Greg out of his post-session haze. He was still kneeling on the floor, the silk lingerie clinging to his body, the high heels pinching his feet. Mark had left him there, telling him to stay in position while he went to grab something from the other room. Greg’s heart raced as he heard the doorbell again. Who could that be? he thought, panic bubbling up in his chest. Mark hadn’t mentioned anyone coming over.
“Answer it,” Mark’s voice called from down the hall, casual and commanding all at once.
Greg hesitated, his legs trembling as he pushed himself up from the floor. The heels clicked loudly against the hardwood as he made his way to the door, every step reminding him of how exposed he was. He reached for the doorknob, his hand shaking slightly, and opened the door.
Three men stood on the doorstep—friends of Mark’s, judging by their confident smirks and casual familiarity. They took in Greg’s appearance with obvious amusement, their eyes lingering on the lace lingerie and strappy heels. Greg felt his cheeks burn with humiliation, but he couldn’t bring himself to close the door or run back inside. Mark told me to answer it, he thought, trying to suppress the wave of shame crashing over him.
“Well, well, well,” one of them said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. The other two followed suit, their laughter low and knowing. “Looks like Mark wasn’t kidding.”
Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry as he closed the door behind them. He could feel their eyes on him, appraising him, and he wished desperately that he could disappear. But instead, he forced himself to move, making his way to the kitchen to grab beers for them as they settled into the living room.
The sound of their voices carried through the house, teasing and suggestive, and Greg’s hands shook as he pulled the bottles from the fridge. He could hear Mark joining them, his deep laugh mingling with theirs, and he knew there was no escape. He carried the beers back to the living room, his steps faltering as he approached the group.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” one of the men said, taking a beer from Greg’s trembling hands. His gaze lingered on Greg’s body, his smirk widening. “You’re quite the hostess.”
Greg didn’t know what to say. His mind was a whirlwind of humiliation and arousal, the conflicting emotions making it hard to think straight. He looked at Mark, silently pleading for some kind of guidance, but Mark just leaned back against the couch, watching Greg with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful?” Mark suggested, his tone light but laced with command. His words sent a shiver down Greg’s spine. “Show our guests how accommodating you can be.”
Greg’s breath hitched. He knew what Mark meant, and the thought of it made his stomach churn—and yet, there was a part of him that throbbed with anticipation. He dropped to his knees hesitantly, the cold floor biting into his skin through the thin fabric of the lingerie. The room fell silent except for the low hum of tension as Greg crawled toward one of the men, his heart pounding in his chest.
The man spread his legs slightly, his expression turning smug as Greg positioned himself between them. Greg hesitated for a moment, his hands trembling as he reached for the man’s zipper. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, their attention making his skin crawl—and yet, he couldn’t deny the thrill of it. He pulled the man’s hardness out, swallowing hard before leaning forward and taking him into his mouth.
The man groaned softly, his hand coming to rest on Greg’s head as if to guide him. Greg closed his eyes, focusing on the sensations as he moved his lips and tongue, trying to block out the laughter and taunts from the others. The taste and scent of the man filled his senses, and he felt a strange mix of disgust and arousal twisting inside him.
“Damn,” one of the other men muttered, clearly impressed. “Mark wasn’t kidding about how good he is.”
Greg’s cheeks burned hotter, but he didn’t stop. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—the humiliation of being watched, the thrill of being used, the ache of his own arousal pressing against the tight confines of the lingerie. He moved faster, taking the man deeper into his mouth, wanting to get it over with—and yet, finding himself strangely lost in the act.
The man’s grip on Greg’s head tightened as he neared his release, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Greg braced himself, knowing what was coming, and when the man finally came, Greg swallowed obediently, trying not to gag on the bitterness flooding his mouth.
“Good job,” Mark said, his voice dripping with approval. “Now who’s next?”
Greg looked up, his lips still wet with saliva and cum, and saw one of the other men moving closer, already unzipping his pants.
“You’ll wear these when I get home,” Mark had said, his voice low and assertive. “And you’ll be ready for me.”
Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry. The sound of the front door opening snapped him out of his thoughts. He heard Mark’s heavy footsteps in the hallway, the clink of keys being tossed onto the side table, and then the soft creak of the door closing. His heart raced as Mark stepped into the living room, his eyes immediately falling on Greg.
Mark smirked, leaning against the doorway with an air of dominance that made Greg’s stomach twist. “Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “All dressed up just for me.”
Greg felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but there was something else too—a flicker of arousal that he couldn’t ignore. He looked down, unable to meet Mark’s gaze.
“Don’t be shy now,” Mark said, stepping closer. He reached out, tilting Greg’s chin up with a firm finger. “You know why you’re wearing this, don’t you?”
Greg nodded shakily, his lips parting as he tried to find the words. “Y-yes,” he stammered. “I’m supposed to… to serve you.”
Mark’s smile widened, and he ran his thumb over Greg’s lower lip. “Good boy,” he purred. “Now, kneel.”
Greg hesitated for a moment, but the look in Mark’s eyes left no room for argument. He slid off the couch, feeling the cold floor beneath his knees as he knelt in front of Mark. The position felt unnatural, humiliating even, but he didn’t resist. He couldn’t.
Mark sat down on the couch, spreading his legs slightly as he leaned back. “Take it out,” he commanded, his voice calm but firm.
Greg’s hands trembled as he reached for Mark’s zipper. He fumbled with the button for a moment before finally pulling it down. The bulge in Mark’s pants was impossible to ignore, and Greg felt a sudden rush of heat between his own legs. He hesitated again, but Mark’s hand came down on the back of his head, guiding him forward.
“Go on,” Mark said, his voice a low growl. “You know what to do.”
Greg took a deep breath before pulling Mark’s boxers down, exposing his already hardening cock. The sight of it made Greg’s mouth water, and he couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of shame and desire. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against the tip as he took it into his mouth.
Mark let out a soft moan, his hand tightening in Greg’s hair. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that.”
Greg closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the sensation. The taste of Mark on his tongue, the weight of him in his mouth—it was overwhelming, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he began to move, bobbing his head slowly as he worked to take more of Mark in.
“Fuck,” Mark groaned, his hips shifting forward slightly. “You’re so good at this.”
The praise sent a jolt of pleasure through Greg, and he found himself wanting more. He quickened his pace, his tongue swirling around the shaft as he sucked harder. His own arousal was growing now, the tightness in his panties becoming almost unbearable.
Mark’s grip on his hair tightened, pulling him even closer. “Open your eyes,” he commanded.
Greg obeyed, looking up at Mark through half-lidded eyes. The sight of Mark watching him with such intensity sent a shiver down his spine, and he moaned softly around the cock in his mouth.
“You like this, don’t you?” Mark asked, his voice dark and teasing. “You like being on your knees for me.”
Greg whimpered, unable to deny it. He did like it—he hated himself for it, but he did. The humiliation, the submission, the sheer powerlessness of it all—it was intoxicating.
Mark chuckled lowly, thrusting his hips up slightly to meet Greg’s mouth. “Such a slut,” he muttered. “I bet you’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?”
Greg couldn’t respond; his mouth was too full. But the sound that escaped him was answer enough. He was completely at Mark’s mercy, and he loved every second of it.
Mark’s breathing grew heavier as Greg continued to suck and lick, his movements becoming more frantic. “I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained.
Greg didn’t stop. He wanted it—wanted to feel Mark come in his mouth, wanted to swallow every last drop. And when Mark finally did, his hips jerking forward as he groaned loudly, Greg took it all, swallowing eagerly as he felt the hot release flood his mouth.
Mark slumped back against the couch, breathing heavily as he looked down at Greg with a satisfied smirk. “Good boy,” he said again, petting Greg’s hair gently.
Greg stayed on his knees, still trembling from the intensity of it all. He felt used, degraded—but he couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through him as well.
The sound of the doorbell echoed through the house, jolting Greg out of his post-session haze. He was still kneeling on the floor, the silk lingerie clinging to his body, the high heels pinching his feet. Mark had left him there, telling him to stay in position while he went to grab something from the other room. Greg’s heart raced as he heard the doorbell again. Who could that be? he thought, panic bubbling up in his chest. Mark hadn’t mentioned anyone coming over.
“Answer it,” Mark’s voice called from down the hall, casual and commanding all at once.
Greg hesitated, his legs trembling as he pushed himself up from the floor. The heels clicked loudly against the hardwood as he made his way to the door, every step reminding him of how exposed he was. He reached for the doorknob, his hand shaking slightly, and opened the door.
Three men stood on the doorstep—friends of Mark’s, judging by their confident smirks and casual familiarity. They took in Greg’s appearance with obvious amusement, their eyes lingering on the lace lingerie and strappy heels. Greg felt his cheeks burn with humiliation, but he couldn’t bring himself to close the door or run back inside. Mark told me to answer it, he thought, trying to suppress the wave of shame crashing over him.
“Well, well, well,” one of them said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. The other two followed suit, their laughter low and knowing. “Looks like Mark wasn’t kidding.”
Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry as he closed the door behind them. He could feel their eyes on him, appraising him, and he wished desperately that he could disappear. But instead, he forced himself to move, making his way to the kitchen to grab beers for them as they settled into the living room.
The sound of their voices carried through the house, teasing and suggestive, and Greg’s hands shook as he pulled the bottles from the fridge. He could hear Mark joining them, his deep laugh mingling with theirs, and he knew there was no escape. He carried the beers back to the living room, his steps faltering as he approached the group.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” one of the men said, taking a beer from Greg’s trembling hands. His gaze lingered on Greg’s body, his smirk widening. “You’re quite the hostess.”
Greg didn’t know what to say. His mind was a whirlwind of humiliation and arousal, the conflicting emotions making it hard to think straight. He looked at Mark, silently pleading for some kind of guidance, but Mark just leaned back against the couch, watching Greg with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful?” Mark suggested, his tone light but laced with command. His words sent a shiver down Greg’s spine. “Show our guests how accommodating you can be.”
Greg’s breath hitched. He knew what Mark meant, and the thought of it made his stomach churn—and yet, there was a part of him that throbbed with anticipation. He dropped to his knees hesitantly, the cold floor biting into his skin through the thin fabric of the lingerie. The room fell silent except for the low hum of tension as Greg crawled toward one of the men, his heart pounding in his chest.
The man spread his legs slightly, his expression turning smug as Greg positioned himself between them. Greg hesitated for a moment, his hands trembling as he reached for the man’s zipper. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, their attention making his skin crawl—and yet, he couldn’t deny the thrill of it. He pulled the man’s hardness out, swallowing hard before leaning forward and taking him into his mouth.
The man groaned softly, his hand coming to rest on Greg’s head as if to guide him. Greg closed his eyes, focusing on the sensations as he moved his lips and tongue, trying to block out the laughter and taunts from the others. The taste and scent of the man filled his senses, and he felt a strange mix of disgust and arousal twisting inside him.
“Damn,” one of the other men muttered, clearly impressed. “Mark wasn’t kidding about how good he is.”
Greg’s cheeks burned hotter, but he didn’t stop. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—the humiliation of being watched, the thrill of being used, the ache of his own arousal pressing against the tight confines of the lingerie. He moved faster, taking the man deeper into his mouth, wanting to get it over with—and yet, finding himself strangely lost in the act.
The man’s grip on Greg’s head tightened as he neared his release, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Greg braced himself, knowing what was coming, and when the man finally came, Greg swallowed obediently, trying not to gag on the bitterness flooding his mouth.
“Good job,” Mark said, his voice dripping with approval. “Now who’s next?”
Greg looked up, his lips still wet with saliva and cum, and saw one of the other men moving closer, already unzipping his pants.
Re: A Husband's Regret
Greg’s stomach is going to be filled with a cocktail of semen. Hope he’s able to keep it down and not vomit.
I wish his wife was there watching!
Please continue.
I wish his wife was there watching!
Please continue.
Re: A Husband's Regret
NOW I get it Greg was gay and that's why is marriage failed, well shit now he can come out of the closet.
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t41lgunner
- Prepubescent
- Posts: 7
- Joined: Fri Sep 18, 2015 3:52 am
Re: A Husband's Regret
Great story, cuckold writer. 
I know you use an AI engine, yet this does not diminish my enjoyment, or your merit. I tried my hand with AI myself and I know it's still hard work.
Can you disclose what particular engine you're working with?
I know you use an AI engine, yet this does not diminish my enjoyment, or your merit. I tried my hand with AI myself and I know it's still hard work.Can you disclose what particular engine you're working with?
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t41lgunner
- Prepubescent
- Posts: 7
- Joined: Fri Sep 18, 2015 3:52 am
Re: A Husband's Regret
Great story, cuckold writer. I know you use an AI engine, yet this does not diminish my enjoyment, or your merit. I tried my hand with AI myself and I know it's still hard work.
Can you disclose what particular engine you're working with?
I know you use an AI engine, yet this does not diminish my enjoyment, or your merit. I tried my hand with AI myself and I know it's still hard work.Can you disclose what particular engine you're working with?
Re: A Husband's Regret
Cuckold_writer, any updates?
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cuckold writer
- Virgin
- Posts: 39
- Joined: Mon Feb 10, 2025 1:40 am
Re: A Husband's Regret
The key turned in the lock, a sound that usually signaled comfort, the end of a long day. Today, it sounded like a judge’s gavel. Greg’s stomach, already a tightly wound knot of anxiety and something else he refused to name, clenched painfully. He froze in the archway between the living room and kitchen, a silver tray laden with a half-eaten sandwich and an empty beer bottle trembling in his hands.
He heard her suitcase wheels roll across the hardwood, then stop.
The air in the room shifted, grew thick and heavy with a silence so profound he could hear the hum of the refrigerator. He didn’t dare turn around. He focused on the black satin of his camisole, the way it stretched taut across his chest, the delicate lace trim that felt both absurd and thrilling against his skin. The five-inch heels made his calves ache, but they also forced a posture he’d never had—back arched, ass out.
"Well, well." Mark’s voice was a low, amused purr from the leather armchair. He didn’t get up. He never did. "Look what the cat dragged in a day early. Our little homemaker has a welcoming committee, Leslie."
Greg finally forced himself to turn.
Leslie stood just inside the doorway, her travel coat still on, her keys dangling from her fingers. Her eyes, wide with jet-lagged confusion, scanned the scene: Mark, lounging like a king. Her husband, dressed in a midnight-blue lingerie set and sheer stockings, holding a tray.
Her gaze traveled from the ridiculous heels, up the length of his nylon-clad legs, over the swell of his hips where the garter straps bit gently into his flesh, across the satin barely containing him, and finally to his face, which he knew was flushed a deep, humiliated red.
A breath hitched in her throat. Not one of anger. Not one of disgust.
It was… interest.
Mark saw it too. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "He’s been so good, Leslie. Keeping the house spotless. Catering to my… every need." He let the pause hang in the air, charged and filthy. "Haven’t you, Greg?"
Greg’s mouth was desert-dry. He managed a jerky nod, his eyes locked on his wife’s. See me, he begged silently. See what he’s made me. See what I’ve become for you.
"Come here," Leslie said, her voice softer than he expected, but with a new, steely undertone. She dropped her keys on the entry table with a definitive clink and shrugged off her coat.
Greg obeyed, the click-clack of his heels on the floor the only sound. He stopped a few feet from her, the tray still an absurd shield in front of him. She walked a slow circle around him, her eyes missing nothing. He felt her gaze like a physical touch, hotter than the satin, more intimate than the stockings.
She stopped behind him. He could feel her breath on the back of his neck. Her hands, cool from the outside air, came to rest on his hips. He jumped at the contact, a jolt of pure electricity shooting through him.
"Look at you," she whispered, her voice laced with a wonder that made his knees weak. Her thumbs stroked the satin, tracing the line where it met his skin. "All this… for him?"
"F-for the house," Greg stammered, the lie pathetic and transparent.
Leslie’s hands slid from his hips, around to his stomach, pulling him back against her. He could feel the soft wool of her sweater, the hard buttons of her jeans. His traitorous body responded immediately, a thick, undeniable hardness pressing against the flimsy confines of the satin panties.
She can feel that. Oh god, she can feel that.
She did. A low, hummed sound of approval vibrated against his back. One of her hands drifted lower, palm flattening against the front of the panties, cupping his full, aching length. Greg’s head fell back against her shoulder with a choked gasp.
"All for me?" she murmured into his ear, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. Her fingers applied a gentle, torturous pressure.
"Y-yes," he breathed, the admission shattering the last of his pretense. "All for you. Always for you."
Mark stood up now, moving behind Leslie. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands covering hers where they held Greg captive. He was orchestrating them both, a conductor of their decadence.
"See how pretty he is for us?" Mark said, his lips against Leslie’s temple. "Our little doll. He’s been so desperate for you to see."
Leslie turned her head, capturing Mark’s mouth in a deep, passionate kiss over Greg’s shoulder. Greg watched, mesmerized and burning with a jealous arousal so intense it bordered on pain. He was the spectacle, the object they were discussing, the thing that was fueling their desire for each other.
When they broke apart, Leslie’s eyes were dark with lust. "Take this off," she commanded Greg, plucking at the strap of his camisole.
His fingers, clumsy with excitement, fumbled with the thin straps. He let the camisole fall to the floor, followed by the panties, pushed down his trembling legs. He stood before them then, completely exposed, heels still on, his arousal jutting out, blatant and needy.
Leslie’s gaze was ravenous. She reached out, not with her hand, but with the tips of her fingers, tracing the length of him from base to tip. A shudder wracked his entire body.
"On your knees," Mark commanded softly. "Serve your wife. She’s had a long trip."
The command was for Greg, but his eyes were on Leslie, seeking her approval. She gave it with a single, sharp nod, her lips slightly parted.
Greg sank down, the cool air of the room a shock against his heated skin. The posture was awkward in the heels, submissive and lewd. He looked up at her, at the powerful, intoxicating blend of his wife and her lover looming over him.
Leslie’s hands went to the button of her jeans. "You heard him," she said, her voice trembling now not with uncertainty, but with pure, unadulterated want. "Welcome me home properly."
Mark’s voice took on a formal, commanding tone that made Greg visibly shiver. “From now on, this is your home uniform, Greg. The silk. The lace. The heels. You are to wear them whenever you are in this house. You are our beautiful thing to admire. Our lovely attendant. Do you understand?”
A tremor ran through Greg’s powerful legs, making the high heels wobble for a second before he steadied himself. His eyes, wide with a mix of shame and raw, unadulterated need, flicked from Mark’s intense gaze to Leslie’s flushed, expectant face. He saw her arousal, saw the way her lips were parted and her chest heaved. His approval, her pleasure—it was the oxygen he suddenly realized he’d been starved of for years. This was the intimacy, the intense focus, he’d secretly craved.
“Yes, Mark,” Greg whispered, his voice husky. “I understand.”
“Good boy,” Mark said, the praise landing on Greg like a physical touch, making him shudder. “Now, come closer. Your mistress wants to see you.”
Greg took a shaky step forward, the click of the stiletto heel on the hardwood floor echoing like a gunshot in the tense room. Another step. Each movement was a study in contrast—the masculine strength of his thighs and calves sheathed in sheer black stocking, the feminine sway forced by the height of the heels. He stopped just a few feet from the couch, his hands clasped demurely in front of him, a stark contrast to the virile erection threatening to tear through his delicate confines.
Leslie’s gaze was a physical weight on him, hot and assessing. She drank in the sight: the way the satin straps of the teddy cut across the hard planes of his shoulders, the defined muscles of his abdomen visible through the semi-sheer lace, the sheer, shocking contrast of it all. A low, guttural sound escaped her. “God, look at you.”
“So,” Mark said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “What should we have our pretty little maid do next?
Mark’s smile was a predator’s grin, slow and knowing. His intense eyes gleamed as he looked from Leslie’s sated form to Greg’s trembling posture.
“I have an idea,” Mark murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the sex-heavy air. He didn’t look at Greg. He kept his gaze locked on Leslie, including her in his cruel game. “Leslie, darling. I believe you left your cell phone in your car earlier.”
Leslie, her head resting on his chest, gave a lazy, contented nod. “Mmm, I think I did.”
“Greg,” Mark said, the name a sharp command. Greg flinched, his shoulders tightening under the thin straps of the black lace babydoll. “Be a dear and go fetch it for her. It’s in the driveway.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Greg’s eyes widened, a flash of pure terror breaking through his submissive mask. The driveway. Outside. The world. The cool night air on his exposed skin, the rough concrete under the delicate heels, the chance of a neighbor’s curtain twitching… it was a violation of an entirely new order.
“Mark, I…” Greg’s voice was a dry croak, the first protest he’d dared voice all evening.
Mark’s head tilted. “Is there a problem?” The question was soft, but it carried the weight of a threat. It wasn’t a question at all.
Leslie watched, her own breath catching. She saw the conflict warring on her husband’s face—the deep-seated need to obey warring with a lifetime of ingrained public propriety. The sight of his struggle, the sheer vulnerability, sent a fresh, unexpected jolt of heat straight to her core. She shifted slightly, her thigh brushing against Mark’s. He’s really going to do it, she thought, a thrill coursing through her.
“No,” Greg whispered, the word a surrender. “No problem.”
He moved like a man in a dream, each step in the four-inch heels a delicate, precarious negotiation. The click-clack of the stilettos on the hardwood floor echoed in the silent room as he walked toward the front door. He could feel their eyes on his back, on the satin-covered curve of his ass, on the way the lingerie clung to his athletic frame. The humiliation was a live wire, shocking and hot, but beneath it, a treacherous undercurrent of excitement hummed. They’re watching me. She’s watching me.
He unlocked the door and pulled it open. A swell of cool night air washed over him, raising goosebumps on his arms and legs. It felt shockingly real against the artificial, heated tension of the living room. He hesitated on the threshold, the safe, dim interior at his back, the vast, exposing night before him.
“Don’t dawdle,” Mark’s voice floated out, smooth as silk and just as cold.
Greg stepped out.
The heels made a different sound out here, a sharper, more fragile tap against the paved driveway. Every light in the neighborhood seemed impossibly bright, every shadow a potential hiding spot for prying eyes. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic and adrenaline. He focused on the car, a dark shape at the end of the drive. Just get the phone. Just get the phone.
His senses were hyper-aware. The slick slide of satin against his hardening nipples with each hurried step. The punishing arch of his feet, muscles straining to maintain balance. The chill breeze that whispered under the hem of the short chemise, teasing the most intimate part of him. He was completely exposed, a secret put on public display, and the terror of it was momentarily eclipsed by a dizzying, powerful rush of freedom. For this brief, terrifying walk, he wasn’t Greg, the husband. He was simply an object of desire, fulfilling a purpose.
He fumbled with the car door handle, his fingers clumsy. He lunged across the passenger seat, the leather cool against his stomach, his ass pointed toward the house—toward his audience. He found the phone, clutched it like a lifeline, and backed out of the car.
The walk back was worse. He felt their gaze like a physical touch, and he knew he was putting on a show. He slowed his pace slightly, the swing of his hips becoming less of a wobble and more of a conscious, feminine sway. A part of him, the part that craved this approval, wanted them to see. Look at me. See what I’ll do for you. For her.
He recrossed the threshold, closing the door behind him and shutting out the world. He stood there, chest heaving, the cool night air still clinging to his skin. He held out the phone to Leslie, unable to meet her eyes. She took it, her fingers brushing his. Her touch was electric.
Mark stood up, a monument of power. He came to stand behind Leslie, “On your knees. Present your mistress with her phone properly.”
Greg sank down, the movement awkward in the heels until his knees hit the polished floor. He kept his back straight, his head bowed, and held the phone up in both hands like an offering to a queen. The lace of the lingerie strained across his broad back.
Leslie took the phone again, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, forcing his head up. Her eyes were dark with a desire he hadn’t seen in years. It was for him. For this version of him.
“Look at him, Leslie,” Mark commanded, his own arousal evident as he pressed against her. “Look at your husband. So pretty in his lace. So eager to please.” His fingers worked her with a practiced rhythm, and her breath hitched.
He heard her suitcase wheels roll across the hardwood, then stop.
The air in the room shifted, grew thick and heavy with a silence so profound he could hear the hum of the refrigerator. He didn’t dare turn around. He focused on the black satin of his camisole, the way it stretched taut across his chest, the delicate lace trim that felt both absurd and thrilling against his skin. The five-inch heels made his calves ache, but they also forced a posture he’d never had—back arched, ass out.
"Well, well." Mark’s voice was a low, amused purr from the leather armchair. He didn’t get up. He never did. "Look what the cat dragged in a day early. Our little homemaker has a welcoming committee, Leslie."
Greg finally forced himself to turn.
Leslie stood just inside the doorway, her travel coat still on, her keys dangling from her fingers. Her eyes, wide with jet-lagged confusion, scanned the scene: Mark, lounging like a king. Her husband, dressed in a midnight-blue lingerie set and sheer stockings, holding a tray.
Her gaze traveled from the ridiculous heels, up the length of his nylon-clad legs, over the swell of his hips where the garter straps bit gently into his flesh, across the satin barely containing him, and finally to his face, which he knew was flushed a deep, humiliated red.
A breath hitched in her throat. Not one of anger. Not one of disgust.
It was… interest.
Mark saw it too. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "He’s been so good, Leslie. Keeping the house spotless. Catering to my… every need." He let the pause hang in the air, charged and filthy. "Haven’t you, Greg?"
Greg’s mouth was desert-dry. He managed a jerky nod, his eyes locked on his wife’s. See me, he begged silently. See what he’s made me. See what I’ve become for you.
"Come here," Leslie said, her voice softer than he expected, but with a new, steely undertone. She dropped her keys on the entry table with a definitive clink and shrugged off her coat.
Greg obeyed, the click-clack of his heels on the floor the only sound. He stopped a few feet from her, the tray still an absurd shield in front of him. She walked a slow circle around him, her eyes missing nothing. He felt her gaze like a physical touch, hotter than the satin, more intimate than the stockings.
She stopped behind him. He could feel her breath on the back of his neck. Her hands, cool from the outside air, came to rest on his hips. He jumped at the contact, a jolt of pure electricity shooting through him.
"Look at you," she whispered, her voice laced with a wonder that made his knees weak. Her thumbs stroked the satin, tracing the line where it met his skin. "All this… for him?"
"F-for the house," Greg stammered, the lie pathetic and transparent.
Leslie’s hands slid from his hips, around to his stomach, pulling him back against her. He could feel the soft wool of her sweater, the hard buttons of her jeans. His traitorous body responded immediately, a thick, undeniable hardness pressing against the flimsy confines of the satin panties.
She can feel that. Oh god, she can feel that.
She did. A low, hummed sound of approval vibrated against his back. One of her hands drifted lower, palm flattening against the front of the panties, cupping his full, aching length. Greg’s head fell back against her shoulder with a choked gasp.
"All for me?" she murmured into his ear, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. Her fingers applied a gentle, torturous pressure.
"Y-yes," he breathed, the admission shattering the last of his pretense. "All for you. Always for you."
Mark stood up now, moving behind Leslie. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands covering hers where they held Greg captive. He was orchestrating them both, a conductor of their decadence.
"See how pretty he is for us?" Mark said, his lips against Leslie’s temple. "Our little doll. He’s been so desperate for you to see."
Leslie turned her head, capturing Mark’s mouth in a deep, passionate kiss over Greg’s shoulder. Greg watched, mesmerized and burning with a jealous arousal so intense it bordered on pain. He was the spectacle, the object they were discussing, the thing that was fueling their desire for each other.
When they broke apart, Leslie’s eyes were dark with lust. "Take this off," she commanded Greg, plucking at the strap of his camisole.
His fingers, clumsy with excitement, fumbled with the thin straps. He let the camisole fall to the floor, followed by the panties, pushed down his trembling legs. He stood before them then, completely exposed, heels still on, his arousal jutting out, blatant and needy.
Leslie’s gaze was ravenous. She reached out, not with her hand, but with the tips of her fingers, tracing the length of him from base to tip. A shudder wracked his entire body.
"On your knees," Mark commanded softly. "Serve your wife. She’s had a long trip."
The command was for Greg, but his eyes were on Leslie, seeking her approval. She gave it with a single, sharp nod, her lips slightly parted.
Greg sank down, the cool air of the room a shock against his heated skin. The posture was awkward in the heels, submissive and lewd. He looked up at her, at the powerful, intoxicating blend of his wife and her lover looming over him.
Leslie’s hands went to the button of her jeans. "You heard him," she said, her voice trembling now not with uncertainty, but with pure, unadulterated want. "Welcome me home properly."
Mark’s voice took on a formal, commanding tone that made Greg visibly shiver. “From now on, this is your home uniform, Greg. The silk. The lace. The heels. You are to wear them whenever you are in this house. You are our beautiful thing to admire. Our lovely attendant. Do you understand?”
A tremor ran through Greg’s powerful legs, making the high heels wobble for a second before he steadied himself. His eyes, wide with a mix of shame and raw, unadulterated need, flicked from Mark’s intense gaze to Leslie’s flushed, expectant face. He saw her arousal, saw the way her lips were parted and her chest heaved. His approval, her pleasure—it was the oxygen he suddenly realized he’d been starved of for years. This was the intimacy, the intense focus, he’d secretly craved.
“Yes, Mark,” Greg whispered, his voice husky. “I understand.”
“Good boy,” Mark said, the praise landing on Greg like a physical touch, making him shudder. “Now, come closer. Your mistress wants to see you.”
Greg took a shaky step forward, the click of the stiletto heel on the hardwood floor echoing like a gunshot in the tense room. Another step. Each movement was a study in contrast—the masculine strength of his thighs and calves sheathed in sheer black stocking, the feminine sway forced by the height of the heels. He stopped just a few feet from the couch, his hands clasped demurely in front of him, a stark contrast to the virile erection threatening to tear through his delicate confines.
Leslie’s gaze was a physical weight on him, hot and assessing. She drank in the sight: the way the satin straps of the teddy cut across the hard planes of his shoulders, the defined muscles of his abdomen visible through the semi-sheer lace, the sheer, shocking contrast of it all. A low, guttural sound escaped her. “God, look at you.”
“So,” Mark said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “What should we have our pretty little maid do next?
Mark’s smile was a predator’s grin, slow and knowing. His intense eyes gleamed as he looked from Leslie’s sated form to Greg’s trembling posture.
“I have an idea,” Mark murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the sex-heavy air. He didn’t look at Greg. He kept his gaze locked on Leslie, including her in his cruel game. “Leslie, darling. I believe you left your cell phone in your car earlier.”
Leslie, her head resting on his chest, gave a lazy, contented nod. “Mmm, I think I did.”
“Greg,” Mark said, the name a sharp command. Greg flinched, his shoulders tightening under the thin straps of the black lace babydoll. “Be a dear and go fetch it for her. It’s in the driveway.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Greg’s eyes widened, a flash of pure terror breaking through his submissive mask. The driveway. Outside. The world. The cool night air on his exposed skin, the rough concrete under the delicate heels, the chance of a neighbor’s curtain twitching… it was a violation of an entirely new order.
“Mark, I…” Greg’s voice was a dry croak, the first protest he’d dared voice all evening.
Mark’s head tilted. “Is there a problem?” The question was soft, but it carried the weight of a threat. It wasn’t a question at all.
Leslie watched, her own breath catching. She saw the conflict warring on her husband’s face—the deep-seated need to obey warring with a lifetime of ingrained public propriety. The sight of his struggle, the sheer vulnerability, sent a fresh, unexpected jolt of heat straight to her core. She shifted slightly, her thigh brushing against Mark’s. He’s really going to do it, she thought, a thrill coursing through her.
“No,” Greg whispered, the word a surrender. “No problem.”
He moved like a man in a dream, each step in the four-inch heels a delicate, precarious negotiation. The click-clack of the stilettos on the hardwood floor echoed in the silent room as he walked toward the front door. He could feel their eyes on his back, on the satin-covered curve of his ass, on the way the lingerie clung to his athletic frame. The humiliation was a live wire, shocking and hot, but beneath it, a treacherous undercurrent of excitement hummed. They’re watching me. She’s watching me.
He unlocked the door and pulled it open. A swell of cool night air washed over him, raising goosebumps on his arms and legs. It felt shockingly real against the artificial, heated tension of the living room. He hesitated on the threshold, the safe, dim interior at his back, the vast, exposing night before him.
“Don’t dawdle,” Mark’s voice floated out, smooth as silk and just as cold.
Greg stepped out.
The heels made a different sound out here, a sharper, more fragile tap against the paved driveway. Every light in the neighborhood seemed impossibly bright, every shadow a potential hiding spot for prying eyes. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic and adrenaline. He focused on the car, a dark shape at the end of the drive. Just get the phone. Just get the phone.
His senses were hyper-aware. The slick slide of satin against his hardening nipples with each hurried step. The punishing arch of his feet, muscles straining to maintain balance. The chill breeze that whispered under the hem of the short chemise, teasing the most intimate part of him. He was completely exposed, a secret put on public display, and the terror of it was momentarily eclipsed by a dizzying, powerful rush of freedom. For this brief, terrifying walk, he wasn’t Greg, the husband. He was simply an object of desire, fulfilling a purpose.
He fumbled with the car door handle, his fingers clumsy. He lunged across the passenger seat, the leather cool against his stomach, his ass pointed toward the house—toward his audience. He found the phone, clutched it like a lifeline, and backed out of the car.
The walk back was worse. He felt their gaze like a physical touch, and he knew he was putting on a show. He slowed his pace slightly, the swing of his hips becoming less of a wobble and more of a conscious, feminine sway. A part of him, the part that craved this approval, wanted them to see. Look at me. See what I’ll do for you. For her.
He recrossed the threshold, closing the door behind him and shutting out the world. He stood there, chest heaving, the cool night air still clinging to his skin. He held out the phone to Leslie, unable to meet her eyes. She took it, her fingers brushing his. Her touch was electric.
Mark stood up, a monument of power. He came to stand behind Leslie, “On your knees. Present your mistress with her phone properly.”
Greg sank down, the movement awkward in the heels until his knees hit the polished floor. He kept his back straight, his head bowed, and held the phone up in both hands like an offering to a queen. The lace of the lingerie strained across his broad back.
Leslie took the phone again, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, forcing his head up. Her eyes were dark with a desire he hadn’t seen in years. It was for him. For this version of him.
“Look at him, Leslie,” Mark commanded, his own arousal evident as he pressed against her. “Look at your husband. So pretty in his lace. So eager to please.” His fingers worked her with a practiced rhythm, and her breath hitched.
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Cuck_Steve
- Player
- Posts: 476
- Joined: Sat Jan 13, 2018 11:08 pm
Re: A Husband's Regret
I always hoped the wife would have some love left for husband but that appears to have gone completely. He’s a slave and nothing more.
It’s actually well written and it’s been a great read for most part. Just wish there was still some signs that their marriage was still there.
It’s actually well written and it’s been a great read for most part. Just wish there was still some signs that their marriage was still there.
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Breakerhymen
- Player
- Posts: 484
- Joined: Mon Mar 27, 2017 7:14 am
Re: A Husband's Regret
How is this erotic.....Hes abused and made into a caricature. Anyone aroused by this has issues! Judgmental? Ummm yeah!!!! Thats not how you treat someone you love.....,