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Chuck the Cuck The most complicated diversions of our lives can begin with something simple. A wrong turn. A misdialed phone number. A car wreck up ahead by a total stranger. We are leaves in the wind. We are tumblers in a safe. We plot, and we plan, and we scheme. And in the end, it is simple chance that gets us. For instance, there was that might at Applebees, when my husband Charles and I met for drinks after work. If we had gone at another time, or to another restaurant, all of this might never have been avoided. As it is, this night started the chain reaction. Charles worked in a computer repair shop on the North Side of Cincinnati (the South Side is called "Kentucky") and I worked as a loan officer in a bank downtown. It was easy enough to meet at Applebee's, and our apartment wasn't very far away. Hi. I'm June Waldrop. Charles and I have been married for seven years -- seven-year itch time -- and I'd say our lives were pretty good. No kids, except for Charles on occasion (a go-to joke of mine). Charles looked around the bar, and he picked up a nacho.He was wearing a blue shirt and jeans. I had on a red dress. "New game," he said. "You get three Free Passes. Who are they?" "Excuse me?" I said. "You know," he said. "You get to pick three people to have sex with with no repercussions. Who do you choose?" "Which people?" I said. "Whoever," he said. "Celebrities. Living or dead." "Well, the dead ones probably aren't very good at sex anymore," I said, teasing. "But there are time when we're making love and I am tempted to check for a pulse." "June! Would you just play the game?" "I mean, who knows celebrities? What if I pick one and he's a shit? Cheats on his wife, nasty to his mom, lousy tipper, that sort of stuff." "Are you trying to drive me crazy?" Charles asked. "It seems to be working," I said. "Okay, forget it." I giggled. "I'm sorry," I said. "You go first. Who is the lucky babe?" "Scarlett Johansson," he said, quickly enough that I wondered how many times he had played this game with his buddies. "The Black Widow. She's terrific. Your turn." I thought about it. I didn't know as many celebrities as Charles. "Um, George Clooney?" I said. "Not bad." Chuck said, trying to encourage me to play his silly game. "I think he's a little old, but some women have a daddy fetish." "I'd like it if he puts me on his knee," I said. "Okay, for my second pick. I'll take Emma Stone." "Who is she?" "She's an actress." "That's perfect," I said. "She can act like you're a stud instead of a guy whose dick is nicknamed for Wee Willie Winkie." Charles laughed. "Who is your No. 2, smart ass?" "Who was the guy who starred in the Black Panther?" "Chadwick Boseman" Charles said. "You like black guys?" "He's just someone I thought of," I said. "But what's not to like? He's gorgeous." "Oh. Okay. I'll take Jennifer Lawrence. She's hot." "Damn," I said. "She was going to be my next choice, too." "Hey, I'd watch you two together," Charles said. "I bet you would," I said. "Guys like that shit, until they see real- life lesbians. They'd kick your ass. Seriously, my third choice would be...I don't know How about Benedict What's-his-name? The English guy who plays Sherlock Holmes?" " Cumberbatch," Charles said. "I'd watch that, too." "Perv," I said, laughing. A few minutes later, I had almost forgotten about the game. Charles had not. * * A few nights later, we were back at Applebees. Charles ordered the chicken wings for us to share. I only ate one. Wings go straight my ass. "What do you think of that guy?" Charles said, nodding toward a lanky blond guy. Thin. Good teeth. Good hair. "Not my type," I said. "He may have a boyfriend of his own." "And that one?" This time, Charles had picked out a guy who, frankly, looked like trouble. He had a stubble and a scar on his cheek. "Now, he's interesting," I said. "Someone should tame that bad boy." Charles laughed. "Give him a spanking?" "Oh, yeah. Send him to bed without supper." Charles took a sip of his beer. He looked at me for a long moment. "You know, June-Bug," he said, using his pet nickname for me. "Even if you did sleep with one of these guys, I'd love you." "Where is this coming from?" I said, taken aback. He shrugged. "I just think you're great," he said. "And if you had sex with someone else, it wouldn't bother me. I swear." "What are you saying?" I said. "Are you having an affair, Charles? Is that why you want me to have an affair? So you can justify your own? Is that what this is about?" He put up his hands in surrender. "No, June, I swear," he said. "I have never cheated on you. Never. I'm just saying extra-marital sex isn't the life-changer everyone else seems to think. It's just sex." "Well," I said, "if you have sex with someone else, I'll have your nuts over my rear-view mirror. Everyone will ask why I have gnat-nuts on my mirror." "Be serious, Junie," he said. "Have you ever cheated? Ever thought about cheating?" "Yeah, I'm fucking the Bengals," I said. "The whole team. I was trying to figure out how to tell you. No, Charles. I never have cheated. Frankly, I'm a little surprised that you would even bring it up." "I just wondered," he said. "A lot of people sleep around." "They do," I agreed. "But not at our house." Charles looked as if he was going to say something else, but he didn't. * * The next week,, we skipped the drinks at Applebees. Instead, we ended up at Riverside, a small drink-and-dance bar on the South End of town. It was a dark place, a little sleazy but not bad. If you want to buy drugs -- we didn't -- I would think it's a good place to start. We took a seat in the corner. Charles had a beer. I had a glass of wine that tasted as if it had been filtered through a horse's kidneys. We fell into our usual banter. Other couples were dancing, but Charles isn't much of a dancer. Not even at weddings. So I sat and listened to the music and tapped my foot in time with the beat. My head was swaying from side to side, and I guess I projected the image of a woman who wanted to boogie. At least, that's what a short guy with glasses said as he approached our table. As threats went, he looked fairly benign. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Charles. "But your wife seems to want to dance. Do you mind if she dances with me?" Charles looked up. I was expecting him to break down and offer to dance with me himself, but he simply shrugged. "If she wants to dance, she doesn't need my permission," he said. "Just don't keep her out late. It's a school night." "I'm Wes," he said, extending his hand to me. I took it. We went out on the dance floor, and we danced, and it was nice. Wes was a little short for my tastes, but he was sweet and not forward at all. I look over and saw Charles watching us, and I have to admit, I put a little juice in the caboose (I shook my ass) in his direction. We danced for 3-4 numbers, and I was having fun. Then a very big black man came over, and asked if he could cut in. Wed faced away, The music slowed, and he took me in his arms like I was a kewpie doll. "I'm Mose," he whispered in my ear. "June," I answered. "You here by yourself, June? Pretty little girl like you?" he said. "No," I said. "My husband is over there." Mose looked at Charles and grinned. He waved. Clearly, he wasn't worried about Charles. "Man don't dance with his woman, someone's gonna borrow her," he said. I felt his hands run across my back. I shivered. "Oh, he just isn't much of a dancer," I said. "I bet he's not much of a lover, either," Mose said. HIs face was near mine. I could smell his breath as his lips were an inch from my face. "He's fine," I said, Indignantly. He grinned. He spun me. Mose could dance. He brought me back to his body, and I felt his hard penis against my stomach. "Baby, you want to get out of here?" he whispered. He kissed my neck. "You won't even remember your husband's name by this time tomorrow. I promise." I moved back, away from him. "I think you might have gotten the wrong message," I said. "I'm just here to dance." "Keep telling yourself that, girlie," Mose said. "But I bet you're turned on. Look at the way your husband is watching you move. You'll be back. I'm here most nights." I broke away and mumbled thanks for the dance. Flushed, I and went back to the table. I sat down. Charlies looked at me. "What?" I said. "Nothing," he said. "You just seemed to be having a good time with ... your friend. You two look good together." "You're drunk," I said."We weren't together. Don't be silly." "Are you going to see him again?" "What?" I said. "Of course not. Why would I see him again?" Charles shrugged. "I know you like black guys," he said. "It's okay." "Jesus, Charles," I said. "Give it a rest." But that night, in bed, our sex was amazing. Moses was in my head, and it was easy to imagine him in my pussy. I kept thinking about the way his shoulders felt in my arms, the way his cock felt against me, how close his lips were. I closed my eyes, and I imagined the contrasts of our skins, and of our sizes. I imagined his dick being long and hard, and sliding deep into me. I came hard, and fortunately, I didn't call out his name. Who knew that Charles was having the very same thoughts? * * In the coming weeks, Charles seemed to broach the subject of other men often. We would see a movie, and he'd say something like "Wow, he's good looking." Or "I bet he'd keep a woman up all night." We'd watch a basketball game together, and he'd point out a player's shoulders. It was never about Charles and what he thought of the women we would see in the movies or on the street. It was always about me. "Ever hear from that big black guy you danced with the other night?" Charles would say for example. "What was his name? George Clooney? Mose" I replied shortly. I didn't want to discuss him at all. "Biggest cock you ever felt pressed against you?" Matter of fact, it was. But I didn't want to give Charles the satisfaction of hearing me say so. So I said nothing. He persisted. "You press back against him?" Matter of fact, I had. And I'd danced a few steps that way, feeling chemistry take over. Charles must have seen. I said nothing, just looked away. And realized that just looking away told Charles everything. There was the evening when Charles turned to me and asked if I had ever thought about being an exhibitionist. If I'd ever want to make love while some else watched. I told him I hadn't thought about it. "I'd bet you'd be great to see," he said. "You're very expressive when you make love." I stared at him. "Well, you are," he said. "Your face gets all scrunched up and your mouth stays open." One night, Charles and I were meeting for dinner -- Applebee's again. But when I showed up, Charles was with a co-worker of his, a game named Michael Crown. I was a little surprised to see Michael; I always thought he was a bit of a player. But we had a nice time, dinner and conversation. Michael was a gentleman, charming and funny. Charles kept talking Michael up -- how accomplished he was, what a good basketball player he was. It was almost as if Charles had some sort of crush on man-crush himself. I wanted to excuse myself to leave them alone. Instead, I found myself alone with Michael. Charles said he had gotten a phone call from work, and had to skip out. Burt Michael and I could have dinner, and he could drop me off at home later. "Take your time," Charles said. "There's no rush." Michael and I sat there, and we had drinks and food, and we talked about college, about movies, about art. He knew quite a bit about art, it turns out. Art was my major at Ohio State, so we got into a nice discussion about where Dali was a guy who saw things differently that the rest of us or, if the end, he was painting weird paintings because he was expected to paint weird paintings. "People should always do what they're expected to do if it pleases them," he commented. "You and Charles both." I looked at him. Oddly, he was coming on to me. I found myself enjoying the night, flirting and joking. Hey, I'm human. I liked the attention. Right up to the point where Michael put his hand over mine. "I like you," he said. "Oh. I ... like you too," I said. "I mean, I really like you. I think you're beautiful. Your eyes are amazing. I've love to be with you, June. We should get coffee sometimes. Maybe dinner. We could go dancing. Charles said you like to dance" I looked at him as if he had a third eye. "Michael, Charles and I are married, okay?" Michael shrugged. "That's only a problem if you let it be," he said. He stroked my arm. "Michael...don't," I said. "No one's here to break up your marriage," Michael said. "I'm just talking about sex. Just a little fun. You'd like that, wouldn't you. You need that." My throat was dry. The room was spinning, and it would not be still. The truth is that I found Michael extremely attractive. But I wasn't going to cheat on Charles. "Michael, you're a good guy. I won't say anything to Charles about this. But I think we should call it an evening." Michael frowned. "You don't think Michael knows? Of course Michael knows. This was his idea. I'm sorry if I pushed too hard, but Charles said you'd be okay with it." I was confused. Charles knew? What the hell was he thinking? That I'd let Michael screw me? Did he think I was that desperate? That horny? "Michael, I'm flattered," I finally said. "I really am. But I have a husband. I don't need a headache. So I'm going to say goodnight. Okay.? He nodded. He stood. He leaned over and kissed me on the lips. Hw sighed. Then without another word, he drove me home. And as I started to get out of his car, he kissed me again. Passionately! I was offended....and excited. I was indignant, but I was a little turned on. I was angry, and I was wet. There, between the two states of mind, I sat and tried to straighten out my thoughts.. Embarrassed, I went home. I went straight to the kitchen for a glass of water. And there was Charles, sitting by himself at the table. "Oh, there you are," I said. He looked at me, and his eyes were soft and a little wet. "You didn't have to tell him goodnight," Charles said. "He could have stayed." "What?" I said. "What do you mean..." And it dawned on me. What an idiot I was. For weeks now, Charles had been pushing me toward other men in our conversations. On the dance floor. In our own apartment, in restaurants. It wasn't just okay with him if I slept with someone else; he wanted me to sleep with someone else. It was somehow important to him. "Charles," I said cautiously. "Do you want me to fuck another guy?" Charles looked at the floor, at the walls, anywhere but in my eyes. "Maybe," he said softly. "Sometimes...I think about it. Sometimes, I can't think of anything else but watching you." "Baby, why would you want to see me to another man?" "I don't know," he said. "It's exciting. It's erotic. It feels ... right. I get. hard thinking about it. I guess I don't think I'm enough for you, and you deserve better. If you get dick from someone else, well, maybe you'll be satisfied with the rest of me." "Isn't there a word for that" "Cuckold," he said. "The word is cuckold. I think it comes from the cuckoo bird, who would lose its eggs. But in this case, it's a husband who can't keep track of his wife. Baby, I've thought about this day and night. I would love to watch you with another man, moving and squirming and making love That look on your face that you get. His hands on you. June-Bug, it wouldn't hurt anybody. It would just be a kink to see." Was this Charles without his mask? Was this who he was? Some creepy guy looking through the keyhole? Drooling while his wife fucks someone else? It seemed cheap. It seem sleazy. I wanted to shower just from talking about it. "Charles, we don't have to screw around to love each other," I said. "My vagina is yours. Do you really want to watch another man undress me, touch me, fuck me?" "No....yes," he said. "I think it would be so hot. I've called up the websites, Junie. I've read the stories. Listen, I wouldn't have to sleep with anyone else. I just want you to try it/ I trust you. It doesn't have to affect what we are." Me? An adultress? A cheater? I couldn't do that. Could I? It wasn't lost on me that he was offering me hedonistic pleasure. Another man -- other men, even -- to satisfy this masochistic streak. And what happens afterward? Does he take me home? Do we sleep in the same bed? Do I fall in love with the other guy? Did I want to think of Charles as not being man enough to handle his wife? Did I want to think of other men as a menu? Does Charles want to be replaced? Does he want to replace me? Hell, I wasn't naive. I had friends who had slept around on their spouses. Marci, a friend of mine from work, had slept with half of the office and had eyes for the other half. So I knew it didn't always destroy marriages. But a marriage has to be strong enough to withstand the jealousies and insecurities. Right? I walked into our bedroom. Charles followed me. I undressed and put on a nightgown, shielding my body from his sight lines. I imaged Michael's hands on my breasts, on my ass. I imagined Charles looking on. My nipples were hard, and my pussy was wet. Stiil, It felt as if something precious was about to be lost.in the name of passion. "I'll always love you," Charles said, quietly. But for the life of me, I could not answer. * * It was in the open now, this proposed cuckoldry. Charles thought it was a fine idea for me to let another man have me. I thought he was insane. Still, as humans, we joke about it. We think about it. We see a rock star cavort on the stage, or we see an actor with his shirt off, and we get a vicarious thrill. But this was beyond that. This was a step closer than fantasy. For a week, we didn't discuss cheating. It was the elephant in the room. We talked about bills and politics, and we didn't touch each other in bed. Finally, one night, we were at the mall, walking through the food court, when a handsome man with brown hair walked in front of us. Before I could stop myself, I looked at Charles and said "I wonder how many dicks he has?" Charles eyes widened. Then he snorted, and then he laughed louder. I laughed along.It was your nicest moment we had had in days. After that, it became a common topic of convention. How about this guy? Does that one do anything for you? Do you think he's tiny? Do you think he's thick. Would he cry in bed? Not once did we talk about Charles sleeping around. Just me. Frankly, I was starting to warm to the idea. I had lunch with Marci. We started talking about men, and about sex, and about other partners. We talked about toys, and about fetishes, and how naive we both were growing up. Finally, I asked her about the subject of cuckolding. "Charles wants to lend you out, huh?" she said, seeing right through me. "Lucky girl." "We've, um, talked about expanding our vows," I said. "You mean, you've talked about you fucking linebackers?" she said. "Marci! Shhh." She laughed, and it was a raw, lusty sound. "Look, I grew up thinking that marriage was one-man, one-woman," she said. "But those rules were invented when couples lived in caves and died at age 27. Life is a lot more of a snarl these days. And if both partners are okay with sleeping around, what's the harm? I mean, Charles is okay with it, right?" I nodded. "It was his idea," I said. "Well, there you go. You have a get-out-of-jail-free card. You'll get all the sex you want, and he'll satisfy that little kink of his, and everyone will be happy as long as the dick is big enough. Let me ask you this: Why wouldn't you have sex? Because the Puritans said you shouldn't. If one of these guys came onto you and you were single, would you sleep with him." "Yes," I said. "Of course I would." "Well, why let a bunch of words said by a stranger in a church you don't go to anymore affect what makes you happy?" Marci had a point. We have one life. Shouldn't we enjoy it? Was anyone ever buried and had someone at the funeral say "Well, she had too much sex..." * * We started looking around a little more seriously after that. We found a lot of wife-swapper clubs, and a lot of bisexuals. We didn't find a lot of men who were willing to fuck me in front of my husband without knowing if he owned a gun. We were careful. We didn't want just anyone. One day, however, Charles came home. He went straight to our liquor shelf, and he had a whiskey, then he looked at me. "I may have found him," he said. A new guy had started work alongside Charles that day. DeSean Lincoln, his name was. He was a 6-4, muscular black man who had had a tryout with the Bengals. He didn't make the team, but that didn't change how big he was. Charles had invited DeSean over for beer and watch a basketball game on Saturday night. I was still having doubts, to tell you the truth. I knew that once we did this, there was no going back. I would always be the woman who slept with someone else. Sure, it was tempting. My body is the same as every other woman's. But mentally, could I handle it? Or did I just need that first guy to open the gates? When I was young girl, we. used to play a game. The other girls would gather round, and you would guess how many children we would have, and how many new cars, and how many pets. One day, someone asked how many lovers we would have. I guessed four. It seemed like a small enough enough number to still be a good girl, but big enough so I wouldn't be naive. Now, I was 29 years old, and I was still at two lovers. Charles and Trent, a boy in college. "I think we need this," Charles said. "I think it will be good for both of us." I looked at Charles. "Are you sure?" I said. "I'm sure," he said. "Then why don't we invite him over?" On Saturday, DeSean came over to watch the game. He and Charles parked themselves on the couch and began to watch the game. I squeezed in between the two of them and sipped wine while they acted like amateur referees. When DeSean would make a joke, I would touch his arm as I laughed. He looked at me for a minute as if he was trying to figure something out. Charles got up and excused himself to go the bathroom, just as he had done when Michael came over. But I didn't move over. I sat close to DeSean, who made another joke. I touched his arm again and laughed. He touched my arm, and he didn't move his hand. "Are we going to be a thing?" DeSean asked me. "You and me?" "We could be," I said. I had made up my mind this was going to happen. He leaned over then, and he kissed me softly. His lips were terrific. I kissed him back. I felt his hand snake under my skirt toward the wetness of my vagina. I rubbed against his cock. We were teenagers in heat. We were newlyweds lost in each other. Neither of us paid attention to Charles, although we could see him watch us through the doorway. DeSean stood up. "How does this work, little girl?" he asked. "Is it all three of us, or is it just you and me?" "You and me," I said. "But, if you don't mind, Charles could watch." "Yeah. Let him see a real man's dick," DeSean said. "Let him see what I can do with it." We walked toward the bedroom and Charles fell into step behind us. "Your wife is amazing," DeSean said. "I'm going to like fucking her. Charles didn't say anything. He kept his eyes on the floor and kept following us. When we reached the bedroom, DeSean kissed me again. He ran his hands up my sides slowly. He walked over to my bureau and took out a nightgown. He tossed it to me. "Put on something pretty," he said. Then he looked at Charles and he said "You, too." In the world of cuckoldry, I would later discover, there is such a thing as a "sissy cuck." The bull often doesn't want his manhood challenged, so he dresses the husband in panties and bras and high heels to further emasculate him. After all, how threatening can a man in a nightie be? DeSean let it be known right away that he expected Charles to assume the feminine role. Charles looked taken aback, but he slowly walked to the closet ad began to change. He pulled an ivory-colored nightgown out of a drawer. He pulled on panties. A little lipstick and he sat on a chair at the bottom of the bed. He didn't look like a woman. But, compared to DeSean, he looked small, feminine, non-threatening. He wasn't quite a girl, and he no longer was a man. What do they call it? A sissy? My husband was a sissy. DeSean led me to the bed, and he pulled me down on top him I looked over at Charles. He was docile in his feminine clothes and that hollow look in his eyes. He was finally going to get what he wanted, and all it had cost him had been his dignity and his place in his own bed. But for me, he had made this possible. And make no mistake, I wanted it. He peered from the foot of the bed, non-blinking, his eyes absorbing our lust. DeSean reached down and pulled my legs apart, roughly. He rubbed my breasts. He trailed his penis on my pussy lips. Charles watched his dark hands play with my breasts. He saw him kiss me. Then, without announcing it, DeSean entered me. Deeply, forcefully. He lifted my ass to get deeper. It wasn't gentle. It was rough and wild, and I loved it. It was as if DeSean was attacking me. He pumped so hard, and so fast, that my vision blurred. Now, this was sex, I thought. Primal, brutal, basic. He threw me around as if I was a rag doll, as if I was on a carnival ride was just trying to hold on. I ran my hands over his chest. His shoulders. His ass. I knew I had broken my vows, but it didn't feel like cheating. It felt intimate, the three of us in that room with the sounds and the smells. It was an eternity before DeSean came, but he overflowed. His face kept contorting as he shot another stream into me. I was unleashed. I scratched and clawed and, at one point, I screamed. Charles was breathing hard now, and his eyes were glazed. He loved what he was seeing; I loved what I was feeling. DeSean fell back onto the bed. His hand fell onto my right breast. "That was good," he said. "It was, DeSeah" I said. "Daddy," he said. "Call me Daddy." DeSean sat up. He looked at Charles. "Boy," he said. "Clean us." I was incredulous. Certainly,Charles wouldn't do that. Would he? It was one thing to be passive and watch your wife have sex, but it was another be active and lick up sperm. But Charles climbed onto the bed, still in his feminine clothing, and he began to kiss up my thighs. He drank from the swamp in my pussy, licking at all the mixture of vaginal juice and sperm he could see. Then he licked Into the darkness. He licked until I asked him to stop. I needed relief. "Now me," DeSean said. And, my hand to God, Charles did. He barely hesitated before he was taking DeSean's dick into his mouth. He licked the public hair, and the testicles, and those valleys that run up your legs. DeSean lifted himself off the bed, and I watched as Charles' tongue licked his asshole. It was so hot. It was a large beast conquering a small one. It was beautiful. It was erotic. It was orgasmic. DeSean later told me that it was accepted. Sissies cleaned their superiors. Charles liked this, DeSean said. He like the humiliation. Forgive me, but I liked it too. * * Later, after DeSean had gone home, Charles and I lay together. Neither of us had much to say. We were both sorting through our thoughts of what we had done, and what we had seen. Finally, Charles stirred. He looked down at me. "Are we okay?" he asked. "We will be," I said. "Tell me, Charles. Do you want to forget what you've seen?" He chuckled. "I never want to forget it. I don't think I could forget it." I put my hand on his chest. "I love you," I said. "God, that was embarrassing," Charles said. "I was in a nightgown sucking another man's dick." I smiled. "You were beautiful, baby. The gay part of it doesn't bother me. You submitted for me. That's what matters." "I was a sissy," he said. "Yeah," I said. "My sissy." He looked at me. "What did you think when he put his dick into my mouth? Honestly?" "I thought it was a Picasso. I thought it was a Chagall. You were so wonderfully submissive in your nightgown and your lipstick. I felt like I was the voyeur." "You were breathtaking," he said. "I mean, I've watched a lot of porn. I'd 100 times rather see you. You were so sweet, so sensual. His skin was wonderful against your skin. His dick was wonderful as it slid inside of you." I smiled. "You're the one I love, though. Thank you for tonight." "Thank you," he said. He kissed down my body. To my neck. To my breasts. To my stomach. To my vagina. He looked at it, puffy and red as it was. He lightly kissed it. He ran his tongue over the crack. Then he gently widened it with his hands, and he started to lick. It was that moment that I fell in love with cuckolding. Not because of the sex with a stranger, but because of the sex with my love afterward. I didn't care that he had been feminized. I didn't care that he had sucked cock. He was mine, and he was okay with it if I wanted to be someone else's. * * For the next few days, DeSean was at our apartment constantly. The three of us were animals. We fucked in the living room, on the kitchen table, in the bathroom. He took me vaginally, anally, orally, physically, mentally. It wasn't love. It was lust. Pure, wild passion. My pussy had never been more important to me. A man's dick never has been, either. Charles wasn't always there when we fucked. And it was sweet to see his face when I told him about it. But nothing beat Charles looking at us as we did it. DeSean touched part of me Charles never had. He took me on dates, just and I. He took me to his mother's house and introduced me to his relatives. He took me to Charles' Country Club, where everyone there knew we were married. But here I was, holding hands with this new man, boldly, shamelessly. I was his, for all the world to see. Charles had been right; I did like black men. I especially liked their dicks. He talked about forced prostitution. Me, and sometimes Charles. He talked about matching black-owned tattoos. I kept calling him Daddy, which seemed to really sting Charles. Sight was one thing; sound was another. I have to admit. I became something of an actress. I loved with DeSean would run his hands over my pale ass. I loved aiming my vagina in Charles' direction, and then having DeSean enter me as he watched. I loved him coming on my face, the old money shot, because Charles could get a great view. I liked to masturbate DeSean, my fingernail polish sliding up and down his impressive cock. I would masturbate myself with a dildo, locking eyes with him as I did. One night, DeSean brought his cousins Rashad over, and I let them both fuck me while Charles watched. Charles loved it all, of course. I was his own private porn star, and he loved seeing me in action. My lips sliding up and down DeSean's cock, my ass exposed so he could take me, my tongue in his ass. He loved it all. He would moan and touch himself, a true voyeur. Afterward, we would cuddle and compare notes. On the other hand, when DeSean wasn't marking me as his territory, DeSean was degrading Charlie. He kept him in women's clothing, in heels and makeup. He screwed him in the ass. And Charlie went along with it. It was as if the willingness to be a cuckold and the submission into being a sissy were fruit from the same tree. "Hey, Peeper," DeSean would say. "Why don't you pull down your panties for me. Charles did. "That's a dick?" DeSean said. "I think that's a baby's pinky. I think it's a butt pimple A golf tee." "Whatever you say," Charlie would say. DeSean would snort. "God, you're a pussy." "DeSean, we love the same woman. We've slept with the same woman. We aren't so different." "Well, I don't wear dresses. I don't have a cock cage. I don't have a butt plug. I've never had a dick in my mouth. I'd say we're completely different." It went on that way. Sperm competition, I think they call it. But when Charles was with me, he was sweet as honey. I would touch his shoulder, tell him that I loved him. And he would give me that lopsided grin of his. "I don't mind being a sissy," he said. "Not as long as you're with me. I kind of like it. I love the humiliation." Over the next few weeks, DeSean bought Charles maid's dresses because, as DeSean said they were "fruitier" than other women's clothing. He bought him a collar and a leash and would walk him around the neighborhood, again in front of people who had lived near us for years. DeSean had him wear large breast forms. His heels were high. His makeup was flawless. Every day, he became a bigger sissy. There was the night that Charles was in my yellow dress, with full makeup, and DeSean was fondling me. DeSean looked at Charles and said. "Come here, girl." Charles approached him, and DeSean leaned against the. headboard. "Get me ready," he said, pointing toward his cock."I need to be hard." So Charles, his eyes lowered, climbed up on the bed and began to kiss Charles' penis. Charles took him in his mouth, and his head was Bobbing up and down. It was extremely hot. Every time Charles would rise, and his lips would drag across DeSean's cock, I would say "yes." We built a nice rhythm that way, with me voicing approval as Charles sucked him deeply. From time to time, as DeSean got more and more demanding, I would protest. But DeSean would just laugh. "Trust me," he'd say. "Charles is having a good time. Sissies love this surrender. Do you hear him complaining?mHe just keeps staring at my dick and your pussy." Finally, when we were alone, I asked Charles if he was indeed enjoying it. "Most of the time," he said. "Wearing women's clothing is a thrill. Sucking cock was the ultimate submission. And I love watching you." "Why?" I said. ""You're beautiful," he said. "Your whole body lights up when you have sex. There's a little shame, yes, but it's deeply erotic. It's watching someone you love completely selflessly. It's like being in a porn move, but instead of being an actor, you're the director." I laughed softly. "Baby, you have given me so much," I said. "I still don't always understand it. But I know you love me. That's what's important." "Thank you," I said. "Do you think you'll stay a sissy if I find another bull?" "Oh, certainly," he said. "I didn't put on the dress just because of you. I did it because, at heart, I'm a sissy cuckold. I like it when DeSean takes control. I like submitting." Charles was wearing a butt plug. He was now shackled to the chair at the base of the bed. His hair was now long enough to style, but still short enough to be embarrassed over when DeSean took him out in public. Then one day Charlie showed up with a tube and a bit of metal -- it was a chastity belt, and it may be the most feminizing thing in the world. DeSean handed me a key and told me it was for special occasions only. The look in Charlie's eyes was desperate then, hungry. Still, he said nothing. But, yes, Charles had sex with men. How can a sissy not have sex with guys? DeSean loved the way it felt when he sucked cock. I suspect others did, too. It started with him sucking DeSean. Then there was Larry and T.J. and Brick. He had a lot more sex with guys than he did with me. Still, he was there at night when DeSean would mount me. I paid him back. I pegged him one night. We were laying around the apartment, and Charles needed sex, and DeSean didn't want to put his cock into a guy. So I took his place. I guided my strap-on into his asshole, and I did to him what he had done to me for years. The truth of it is that I liked it. Charles did too. Things were getting worse and worse for Charles. One day, DeSean looked at him and said "You ain't no Charles, You need a new name." "How about Charlene" I suggested. "Charlotte?" "Nah," DeSean said. "I want everyone to know that my sissy is really a guy. He don't get a girl's name. We're going to call him Chuck." "Chuck?" Charles said. "Yep. I'm going to get you a t-shirt. It's going to say 'What luck! I'm Chuck the Cuck, and if you want, I'll suck.'" He threw back his head and laughed loudly. I hate to admit it, but I giggled, too. I 'm not very proud of who I was in those days. I could have been there more for Chuck and his transition, but it was all about the sex for me. It was new and naughty and satisfying. I figured Charles was following his heart (and other organs) and it would all work out. I ignored his pain and wrote it off as his pleasure. Then one day, DeSean got mad at Chuck for not finishing his laundry, and he pulled his belt off, and he started whipping Chuck across the butt and legs with it. I was shocked. I tried to get between the two of them, and I felt the belt sting as it hit my arm. I lost it. I had been fooled into thinking that Chuck wasn't being abused, that he was just a cuckold. But no one deserved this abuse. This wasn't love. This was bullying. This was bullshit. I screamed at DeSean to get out of my house, and out of my life. He was an asshole. How he could hurt a beautiful sissy like Chuck baffled me. DeSean left, called me a bitch. I threw a lamp at him. I walked to Chuck, and I kissed him on his forehead. "Such a sweet sissy," I said. "My sissy. I'm so sorry." Chuck was crying. I cradled him in my arms. We could endure this. I asked Chuck if he wanted to go back to it just being me and him. But cuckolding was part of us both by now. We decided to continue it. Over the next few months, our sex lives continued to open up.. I continued to play. There was Ronnie, who worked in a Kentucky bar. There was Jeff, who drove a truck. There was Jessica, who opened my eyes to lesbian sex (kissing a vagina in the morning is a nice way to wake up). There was Hank, who loved screwing my ass. But always, in the background, watching from afar, there was Chuck, the loyal, loving sissy who had opened my eyes to the cuckold lifestyle. He never did give up the dresses. Or the shoes. Or the men. But he lived at the bottom of the bed, ever watching. Still, I loved my little cuck. I loved to pose for him with other men. I loved to have sex as he watched. It was like being in a play, and I was the star. I was the girl on the other side of the peephole, and I loved it. (c) Copyright, Cassandra Morgan