sissy baby Jenny is a cuckold
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Obedient Sissy Cuckold free porn video
Obedient Sissy Cuckold by Throne
I was wearing a little-girl style dress with capped sleeves, short arms, a
wide cloth belt, and full skirt. It was yellow, with a design of green
leaves and red roses. Along with that I wore knee socks and Mary Jane
shoes. My wife Sylvie stood in front of me, checking everything. She
reached out and straightened my wig, which was a mass of golden curls that
fell to my shoulders. Then she stepped back for another look. With her
hands on her wide hips and a serious look on her mature face, she was an
imposing sight. I'm short and Sylvie is tall. I'm a few pounds
overweight but she is portly, with much of her weight distributed to full
curves. She usually wears her long black hair pulled back and put into a
tight bun. To anyone else she resembles a stern, middle-aged
businesswoman. To me see looks like what she is, the woman who rules my
life and keeps me in full sissy mode.
"Not bad," she offered. "Now let's give you just a touch of make-up."
That made me shudder. When she suggested she wasn't going to apply much,
that usually meant she was going to put on a lot. It was one of those
moments she set up when I could object, if I dared. I knew that she was
likely to prevail, and yet I often couldn't control my reaction. This was
one of those occasions.
"But dearest," I said in my usual wispy, high pitched voice, the one she
required me to use around the house. "I could just do that myself and..."
"Regina," she cut me off. Of course she didn't use my male name, which is
Reggie. "Do you think that would be wise? You know Mr. Overhand is
coming to visit me. And that he doesn't like there to be two male
presences in the house when he's here. So if you were to do a poor job of
making yourself look girly, well, you remember what happened last time."
I lowered my eyes and admitted, "I do."
"Why don't you say out loud what it was? That tends to reinforce the
lesson."
My cheeks grew warm and I knew I was blushing. "Barton, I mean Mr.
Overhand, had to put me across his lap, pull down my panties, and spank my
bottom." Sylvie was waiting for more so I went on. "He swatted my fanny
so hard that I started to cry. And then I couldn't stop." I bit my lower
lip. This part was difficult. "And when he stood me back up on my feet I
had a... a stiff wee wee."
"Yes. Your silly little dinky was all hard. From being spanked. By a
big strong man." She shook her head and sighed. "Now do you want that to
happen again tonight?"
"N... no, Momma." I sometimes fell automatically into addressing her that
way. It was one more demonstration of my role as a sissy girl.
She took me by the ear -- OW! -- and walked me across the room, to sit me
in the white scroll-back chair at her vanity. As my wife went to work on
my face, she kept up a running commentary.
"You really should appreciate everything I've done for you, Regina. When
I caught you wearing my panties last year I didn't divorce you. In fact,
I started letting you indulge your perversion all the time. So you had to
be a girl in bed, naturally, with sweet nighties and matching panties.
But that meant you couldn't have sex like a man any longer, the way you
were used to. That's why I thoughtfully made you my male lesbian lover.
Taught you how to eat pussy, even though you insisted you didn't like
doing it. And because male responsibilities were obviously a strain on
you, I generously decided to put all our assets into my name, so you
wouldn't have to fret about money, the house, the car, credit cards or
anything. All I did was sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice. And are you
grateful? Sometimes I honestly doubt it."
All I could do was sit there, wisely keeping quiet. She neglected to
include the fact that my fantasy went only as far as putting on panties,
stockings, and maybe a bra with stuffed cups. Everything else she dressed
me in was unwanted and calculated to humiliate. At the same time, while I
was thinking about how she had taken control of my life, I had to watch my
face being done over, my male identity being submerged even further. My
eyebrows are shaved off (besides which, all my body hair is permanently
removed) and she drew on high arched ones. Next she drew long lashes
above and below my eyes, right on the skin. Then came wide circles of
rouge on my cheeks. After that there was lipstick with liner around it,
which left my mouth resembling a big pucker. Sylvie put the tip of one
finger to her chin as she considered her handiwork.
"It needs something else. A finishing touch. What do you think that
should be, Regina?"
There were a few options. Sylvie had gotten me a pair of owl-eyed glasses
with thick lenses that distorted my vision. Or there were plastic inserts
I could cram into my mouth to give me bulging round cheeks. Heavy
removable braces for over my teeth. She even had some injectable fluid
(it wasn't considered important for me to know what it was) that would
temporarily give me puffy lips.
I was hoping for something less extreme, so I meekly suggested, "You could
give me freckles."
"Hmmm. Not a bad idea. And I just got this." She picked up a cosmetic
marker. "It's something new. Put it on and it lasts for an entire week."
Oh no. If she did that I would have to go out with big cartoon spots on
my face. It was bad enough already, never knowing what sort of eyebrows
she would pencil in on any day. But Sylvie loved to take me shopping with
her. I got to wear male clothes, but they were always too bright and too
tight. I've put on a few pounds since I passed my prime and she takes
advantage of the fact that my bottom has gotten fuller and rounder. In a
pair of snug slacks, red or tan-bordering-on-flesh-tone, I'm quite a
sight. Walking through the mall alongside my taller wife, I always
attract curious stares and hushed comments. The freckles would only make
that worse. Downtown, when she takes me to the hip district, to stop into
a shop that sells scandalous lingerie and even fetish-wear, she has me
walk three steps behind her, which adds to my humiliation. Plus, it makes
me look longingly at her attractive protruding backside, that I'm never
allowed to stroke or fondle.
So there I sat as she put a half dozen spots on either side of my face.
Next she fluffed up my curls and securely pinned a tall, floppy pink bow
to the top of the wig.
Then she told me, "Mr. Overhand should be here in an hour or so. Why
don't you put yourself by the front door so you'll be ready to let him in?
Meanwhile, I'll make myself look the way Barton likes me. You know. For
when we're doing grown-up things together."
I cringed at the reminder that the handsome dignified man was her lover.
Sylvie had reasonably pointed out that because I no longer qualified to
have intercourse with her and she had natural needs, it was only logical
that she should have a real male in her life. My wife had emotionally
bullied me into agreeing. It's hard to fight back when you're wearing
girl's shorty pajamas and oversized fuzzy slippers, there's a pacifier in
your mouth (one on which the part you suck is a miniature penis), and
you're carrying a stuffed rainbow unicorn. So Mr. Overhand had come into
her life. She insisted that I wasn't mature enough to be left alone, so
they would have to spend most of their time together right there, in our
home. Correction -- her home. My name had been removed from the
paperwork. There were hints that they might go out at some point, if she
could find a proper sitter to mind me. I didn't like the sound of that.
She handed me my purse, a pink, heart-shaped one on a long strap. It's
only big enough to hold a few items, which usually include lip gloss that
I'm required to use frequently, phallic-shaped candy-on-a-stick she likes
to see me suck on, a few coins to remind me that I never have more than a
dollar to my name, and a decorative pill keeper with mints in it, so that
I can take some 'calm-down medicine' whenever she declares that I've let
myself get too upset. I put the strap over my shoulder, thanked her in a
nervous whisper, calling her Momma one more time, executed a deep curtsey,
and went to post myself by the door, where I didn't want to be, with
nothing to do but dread Mr. Overhand's arrival.
About three quarters of an hour later, Sylvie reappeared. She had her
dark hair down in a long ponytail. Her face was made-up to retain her
usual dignity while adding plenty of sensuality. I ached to have my old
sexual rights back, something I knew would never happen. She was wearing
a brief silk robe, decorated with curling Chinese dragons, red on a black
background. It was tied at the waist with a belt, but loosely enough that
her deep cleavage was shown off. In slow motion she undid the robe and
parted it. I got an eyeful of shiny pantyhose that were open at the
crotch. She turned on high-heeled slippers to raise her robe in the back
to let me see that the pantyhose were open there, too.
In an innocent voice she asked, "Do you think Barton will like me this
way?"
I felt like I had swallowed my tongue. With an effort I managed to choke
our, still using my weak femme voice, "I'm sure he will."
She added, "And this robe is so easy for me to get out of," accompanied by
a broad wink. "Now let me scoot into the kitchen and pour myself a glass
of wine. When Barton gets here I'll make him a nice mixed drink. The
kind real men like. And maybe you can have a juice box. We'll see."
Sylvie blew me a kiss and headed for the kitchen, her plump but shapely
legs looking fantastic in those sleek pantyhose. Because it had been a
while since she granted me sexual release, my balls throbbed. I stood
there shifting my feet around, aware that she had intentionally bought my
Mary Janes a size too small. While my wife was still in the kitchen I
heard the distinctive, throaty engine sound of Mr. Overhand's long, wide,
expensive car, one with all the extra features. He had made a fortune in
investments and was happy to show off his wealth. Moments later there was
a loud knock on the door and I shyly opened it. He stepped inside. His
custom-tailored suit didn't need any padding in the shoulders. He kept
himself in peak condition. His face had aged well, the years translated
into only slight lines and no signs of anything sagging. He closed the
door hard, yanking the knob out of my slender fingers.
"Look at you," he said with obvious amusement. "All dressed up for a
sissy tea party."
I belatedly remembered to give him a curtsey. That made him laugh out
loud. He grabbed at me and I squealed and stepped backward, almost losing
my balance. It had only been a feint, but I mistook it for the real thing
and embarrassed myself further with that reaction. He smirked at me and
turned away, just as Sylvie entered the room, a stemmed glass full of
white wine in her hand. She bent from the waist to set the drink
delicately on an end table and then the two lovers went to each other to
embrace. My wife tilted back her head and closed her eyes. He gave her
an unhurried kiss. His hands ran down her back to cup her well padded
buttocks. It was weirdly erotic to see them like that, with him fully
dressed and her close to naked, being so intimate.
When their lips parted she said, "Sit down, sweetheart, while I get you a
drink. Your regular?" He nodded and she went to prepare it.
The confident man settled himself on the sofa and snapped his fingers at
me, then pointed to the center of the room. I went where he had indicated
and waited for more instructions. He held out his hand, index finger
pointed downward, and rotated it. I understood and revolved slowly in
front of him, arms held out and wrists limp, my shoes pinching. He nodded
his approval and patted the spot alongside him. With my nerves tingling I
put myself where he wanted me. His arm went across my narrow shoulders
and his powerful hand squeezed my laughably undeveloped bicep.
"Now, Regina," he said, "I'm glad you're looking like such a total pansy.
I didn't want you even imagining that you're still a man, and it appears
that you got my message. But now there's a new problem." He paused while
I worried what that might be. The seconds passed like minutes. At last
he continued, "You've turned yourself so feminine that your wife
generously made you her lesbian love toy. She tells me you've become a
devoted pussy licker, even though you hate doing it. So now I'm kind of
jealous that you're so good in bed with her. So I decided what we have to
do is balance the scales, so to speak. She and I talked about it and I'll
let her tell you what we decided."
Oh no. One more thing to agonize over. And I had to wait to learn the
details. Would it involve some new form of punishment? Or maybe just
more spanking?
Sylvie returned with his drink. She retrieved her glass on the way across
the room, passed his to him, and motioned for me to move away. I hurried
to put myself back in the center of the room. I'm not supposed to be at a
higher elevation than them, which meant I had to kneel down. She took my
spot and then they clinked their glasses together.
She said, "To our ongoing relationship... and the new role Regina will
play in it."
He told her, "I can't wait to get started on that second part."
They chuckled, sipped their drinks, and then turned their attention to me.
My wife explained, "We discussed what to do with you, now that you've
gotten so good at pleasing me with your mouth. It seemed unfair that you
were trying to worm your way back into my affections with how hard you've
been working at it. And frankly, Barton was a bit jealous of all the
personal attention I was getting. So we came up with a simple solution."
Those last words hung in the air while she took a mouthful of wine and
swirled it around, then let air pass over it to aid in getting the full
flavor. After a moment she said, "What we're going to do is let you keep
using your talented mouth on me, and at the same time you can begin taking
care of Barton that way too. Now we're planning to..."
"Wait." Even though I usually don't interject when they're speaking, I
couldn't stop myself. "You mean I have to... to... use my mouth... on
him? Sexually?"
I realized my breach of sissy etiquette. She flashed me a displeased
expression.
"As I was trying to tell you," she went on pointedly, "before I was so
rudely interrupted, is that's exactly what I was saying. And the rest of
it was that we're going to begin right away. I think Barton is being very
fair to give you an opportunity to even this out, and to show how much you
value his place in our lives. So why don't you just..." She waved me
forward. "... shuffle over to him on your knees and put yourself where
you'll need to be."
He stood up, undid his imported leather belt, and unashamedly dropped his
pants and lowered his shorts. Mr. Overhand certainly had nothing to be
ashamed of. Or to have to be modest about. Hanging between his solid
thighs was a long thick cock with a bulbous head. I went cold all over.
As if controlled by invisible hands, I moved toward him, inching along on
my knees, left-right-left. He sat, removed his handmade shoes, and got
his pants and shorts the rest of the way off. I was confronted by his
superior endowment, waiting to be attended to.
Sylvie reached over to get her fingers as far around it as they could
reach. She gave it a few strokes and it immediately began to erect. I
watched with sickened fascination as it grew and grew, until it was at
least nine inches, with thick veins standing out all along the shaft.
"There you go," she said to me. "All prepped and ready for your sissy
mouth."
My mind reeled. My thoughts went backward. All I had wanted was to
occasionally slip into panties. Perhaps a garter belt and stockings.
While Sylvie was out for an evening I would also step into a pair of her
heels and strut around. Sometimes I'd take one of her flowing silk
scarves, knot it around my slender neck, and hold onto it halfway down its
length, swinging it, as I paraded around the house. That was how I was
fancied up, along with a raspberry beret of hers perched on my head at a
saucy angle, so engrossed in my fantasy, with my undergrown cock in my
other hand, that I didn't hear her reenter the house earlier than
expected. Unfortunately, I wasn't near the bathroom or any other place
where I could possibly reverse my transformation and try to hide what I
was doing. No, she walked in on me in the kitchen, where I had opened the
fridge and was allowing the cool air to chill my exposed skin and
tantalize my nerve ends.
She must have done some rapid mental calculations at that moment. Instead
of losing her temper and lambasting me, she remained calm, but it was a
deadly calm. Sylvie showed enough sympathy to put me into her debt. She
laid out a plan whereby I could avoid exposure and save our marriage. She
cleverly took several pictures of me cowering there, holding onto the
fridge door, to give herself more leverage. In the end I agreed that she
would let me play dress-up but only under her strict supervision. What
else could I do? She even put it in such a way that I was grateful for
her generosity, and believed she had been lenient. You understand by now
that, as time passed, she went much further than I expected, and in
directions I did not wish to go.
So there I was, on my knees, facing Mr. Overhand's rampant pole, my wife
angling it to give me better access. She snickered at me.
"Come on, Regina," Sylvie cooed. "I got it all ready for action. Just
start with a kiss. Right on the tip. It's leaking a tiny bit, so you can
get your first feel of it and your first taste of what comes out, both at
the same time."
I closed my eyes but she told me to keep them opened. Sylvie got her hand
under my jaw and coaxed me forward until my widely parted lips surrounded
but didn't make contact with that impressive knob. I experimentally
touched the underside with my tongue.
Mr. Overhand took a deep breath and said, "That's it, Regina. Use your
tongue."
"And," my wife instructed, "kiss the end. Then close your lips tight
around his meat."
Trying not to gag, I gave a lick to the lower surface of the head, kissed
the very end, followed by sealing my lips around the first inch of the
shaft. My bride ordered me to suck, so I did that. Everything turned
hazy for several seconds. Suddenly, as if it had mind of its own, my
tongue began to swirl and slide over anything it could reach. My wife's
bed partner moaned with pleasure and my fingers, on his outer thighs, felt
muscles tense. Sylvie put her free hand on the back of my head to urge me
forward. I took in as much of his rod as I could before my gag reflex was
set off. After that she allowed me to concentrate on just the head, which
Mr. Overhand didn't seem to mind, probably because she was gently stroking
his saliva-slicked tool. What was happening to me? I told myself that I
was simply trying to avoid a repeat of my unpleasant spanking experience.
Or that I just felt helpless to do anything else. Then I recalled my
arousal after having my sitter swatted. That had been a harbinger. The
truth, I feared, was that months of being kept in sissy status had
weakened my will until some unwanted personality, nurtured by my wife
conditioning me, had broken free and taken over. It was as if, at least
for those moments, Reggie had been absorbed by Regina and she, or a
runaway slut version of her, had taken over. I couldn't help myself. I
lavished my oral attentions on him as if my continued existence depended
on success.
"Come on, Freckle Face," my wife urged, "make him shoot. Get yourself a
mouthful. I'll keep helping. Together we can do it."
She pumped him faster. I sucked harder. Bobbed my head. The double
helping of stimulation was too much for him to resist, no matter how much
he wanted to prolong what was happening . He exploded inside my mouth,
against the roof, cum getting all over my moving tongue, even accumulating
under it, and inevitably sliding down my throat. I almost choked but
managed not to. Instead I gulped his heavy load. Greedily. I used my
mouth to carry him through a long post-climax descent. When I turned my
eyes up my wife was passionately kissing him. Her hand left his cock.
The extended kiss ended. She gingerly extracted him from between my
clinging lips. I took a deep breath. Got a better taste of his thick
salty spunk.
That was when a tsunami of shame hit me. I hadn't meant to let myself get
so involved in what I was made to do. It wasn't as if I wanted to do it
in the first place. Or did I? My mind was a writhing chaos of
conflicting emotions, confused desires, unasked-for sensations.
All I could think of to say was, "May I please go and rinse my mouth?"
"Of course," my wife said, "NOT. You sissies love that flavor. Lick your
lips. Smile. And thank Barton for feeding you."
Whatever fight I had left in me drained away. My shoulders sagged. I
cooperatively ran my tongue around the outside of my mouth, gathering and
taking in more cum that I hadn't even known was there. I forced a grin.
Than I said, "Thank you so much, Mr. Overhand. For letting me suck your
gorgeous, enviable cock. I wish I had one like that. But I don't. I'm
so jealous. And I like to wear panties and stockings. A lot. That's why
my lovely wife had to make me a sissy. Had to..." I amended, "... help me
be the wimpy fairy I was always meant to be. So thank you for taking care
of her needs like I can't. And for making me your sissy cocksucker. And
especially for feeding me... your... delicious... cream."
Where had all that come from? Why did I say so much more than was
required? And why had I made it sound like I was happy -- even proud --
to be an obedient sissy cuckold? I didn't know. But it was obvious that
they would give me plenty more to think about, and many hours to dwell on
it all.
*********
(I also have stories on the free Deviant Art site, under the name
Subthrone. Hope you'll take a look and maybe leave a comment there.
That's where I mainly cover themes that don't fit here, so be aware that
not all of them are to everyone's taste. And have fun.)
Becky
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