Complicatedly vers: mostly sub yet can get a dominant and sadistic streak with the right boy. I've developed a particular interst in cuckolding scenarios and have been lucky enough to have some real-life experience. None of the photos or videos are mine; let me know if you want me to remove your content. No minors, please!
While you're here, check out my long, multi-chapter stories. Here's the index. Shorter story captions are tagged #story.
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To celebrate 10k followers (more than 12.5k now!), I am also curating my favourite posts month by month. It's also a work in progress, but you'll find my selection under the hashtag #retrospective.
This blog contains fantasies that include lack of consent, potentially dangerous practices, and the use of homophobic slurs for the purposes of erotic humiliation. All of that is fantasy and not real life. I do not condone or encourage any of this in real life--never confuse the two!
All characters in stories and captions are adults.
Be safe, be sane, and respect people's limits!
This is the second installment of a longer story I'm working on. You can find the first chapter here. And, for all chapters, once I've written more, see this hashtag: #husband to houseboy
This is my second long, multipart story. The first one is here: #boy zoo story
Our path to turning me into a chaste cuckold houseboy started innocently enough. Oliver and I had been dating for a while when we first agreed to become exclusive. It felt romantic at that time. We had both had bad relationships before we met each other and the true, deep love we felt for each other was such an important and refreshing departure from our earlier experiences. That's what made us decide to stay committed to each other.
Yet, while our sex life was good, it was not perfect. Oliver is verse and I'm a strict bottom. He insisted I try topping him, but I could never stay hard trying to insert myself. I just didn't have it in me. Of course, when I bottomed, our sex was great. He could fuck me tender and lovingly, which I loved, but most importantly, he likes to fuck me rough and hard. It drove me crazy. Nothing gets me hotter than being treated like a piece of meat to be tenderized, or a fleshlight! Over time, we found each other's buttons: he'd choke me, slap my face and spit in it while he railed me like a rabid beast. I'd beg him to hurt me and treat me like a cheap whore. If people could see us, they'd probably think he hated me and our sex was a hate fuck. In reality, the way he treated me in bed was to me only more evidence of how much he loved me.
Whenever he was in a dominant mood, our sex life was pretty much perfect. He'd find new way to degrade me and make me feel used and small. I would moan like the pathetic bitch that I was and beg him to treat me ever more roughly. I bought restraints, gags, and spanking implements as gifts for him and he'd be so excited to try them out. We figured out quickly that we needed a safe word. I always made sure he'd come first--I told him that was because "your pleasure is always my first concern." He smirked when I told him that and I could see in his eyes that this made him think of a whole new set of ways to degrade and control me.
It didn't take long before he used my confession against me. The next time we had sex, and he had gotten off, I was about to get myself off as had now become my habit. He told me that I now need his permission to cum.
- "Wait? What?!"
- "Didn't you say my pleasure is your first concern?"
- "Yeah... but..."
- "Well, I came. You should be happy. It may seem a little selfish if you still want to cum yourself."
- "But, you already came. What difference does it make?"
- "Yeah, but I think I might find it more pleasurable if I'm the only one cumming tonight. You know, you enjoy something more when it's more exclusive."
I wasn't sure whether he was joking or really planning to forbid me from cumming. I knew that if he said no, I'd oblige, and he knew that as well.
- "Please, babe! I'm so horny. Didn't I serve well as your hole and bitch boy?!"
- "Oh, absolutely. But, I want more from you than just being my submissive hole. We've already established that you cannot be a top for me, but I want to know what else you can be for me."
- "What do you mean?"
- "I know you have dirty fantasies you haven't told me about. From now on, I want to hear about them and maybe we can find ways you can serve me better. So, confess one dirty fantasy to me and I might give you permission to cum--but only if I'm convinced that you told me the truth and not just a convenient lie so you could cum."
Of course, there was a reason that I had kept some fantasies to myself. They were embarrassing and I feared that he would judge me for them. My mind was even much dirtier than I admitted to even to my lover and best friend. Yet, I was so close to cumming and so frustrated at not being allowed that I had no choice but to confess. That night I confessed to him that I have fantasized about being pissed on and drinking his piss. He smiled and gave me permission to cum. I had been on the edge for so long that my orgasm was amazing!
As usual, after all the roughness of the sex, now with a wonderful side of humiliation, we had a wonderful, tender time together. He's really great at aftercare!
I would only realize later that by making me wait and edge before confessing dirty and humiliating fantasies that I came to associate the humiliation of being forced to confess such things, as well as the humiliating and degrading content of the fantasies themselves, with erotic pleasure. Only much later would I realize that this pattern of having to confess pushed me ever deeper into the dirtiest and most submissive corners of my mind.
Only after I came did I realize that I was not really sure whether drinking piss was something I wanted to do. That's why it was just a fantasy--fantasies don't always have to be acted on. However, now that it's out there and associated with such a humiliating and exciting experience of confessing, it was bound to be something we'd try.
It was while trying to get permission to cum that I confessed so many more things: that I was interested in feet and armpits, that I might not mind if his ass is sweaty or just a little dirty when he makes me eat it and that I'd love to be choked out by his big ass on my face, that I might want to try giving a blumpkin, etc.. Eventually, we got into the more submissive and service-oriented fantasies: that I'd love being naked around the house and ordered to do chores, forced workouts, etc.
The problem was of course that I had to make a confession every time I was super-horny and desperate to cum. And, whenever he didn't believe that my confession was true, he'd prohibit me from cumming for 48h, regardless how often he'd cum in the meanwhile. That way, I'd be even more desperate and willing to dig deep for the dirtiest and most humiliating things that had ever crossed my perverted mind. Very soon, I was resorting to confessions that I wasn't so sure about--they had crossed my mind but I wasn't sure whether it would be something I would want to do. Things that seem hot in that moment might not be once you've cum. This included being gang banged and given golden showers by strangers, more intense pain and torture sessions, permanent power exchange scenarios, etc. Of course, these confessions didn't mean that he'd make me do all of this--I was confident that he'd always respect my limits and safe word--but having him know these things gave him ever more power over my sexuality.
There was one confession, however, that I was deliberately holding back. I knew once I confessed to this one that I'd permanently give him complete power. Was I ready for that?! It was that I fantasized about giving him control over my orgasms. Of course, he already had control, as I asked him permission. He had also forbidden me from masturbating without his permission to make sure that I'd always be properly desperate after he cums. Ultimately, however, he only had control as long as I was willing to give it to him. If I helped myself out, there would be nothing he could do to stop me, except for making me feel like a naughty boy! What I was not ready to give up was the physical control over my dick: a cage with a key. I knew once he had that, there was no limit to his control over me, beyond my safe word.
So, my submissive nature was more than satisfied in our relationship, and his dominant side had really come out and flourished. However, there was still the verse side to him that remained unfulfilled.
Though the immediate reason for us to get married was a set of practical concerns (health care, home ownership, etc.), in retrospect I also believe that it was an unconscious attempt to paper over that simmering inequality in our relationship: I got everything I could ever want sexually and while he gets a lot out of it, there's something very important I couldn't give him. I believe that subconsciously we hoped that getting married would ease that tension--much like straight couples who run into tensions get kids.
Of course, it did little to solve that issue long-term, but I do believe that making this public, long-term commitment strengthened our resolve to find a solution to this problem together rather than allowing ourselves to grow apart. On our wedding night, spooning after a passionate long night of hot and rough love-making, Oliver joked that I'm now his housewife and that we should take our cues from 1950s relationships: I should stay home and do all the chores, he has the final say and my job is mostly to look pretty. He also said that I should only ever wear an apron around the house. I wasn't sure to what extent he was joking, but it sounded pretty good to me. I love being naked around the house and I love doing chores--I already do most of them anyway. I even don't mind giving him the final say in most things, because I pretty much always agree with his decisions anyway. Thinking of myself as a submissive 1950s housewife somehow just felt right--even putting his pleasure first fits the picture: after all, no 1950s housewife would put her sexual needs before those of her husband.
That's when it struck me, as it felt just so right to be held by the man I loved and I couldn't help but think of him as the man of the house. Thinking of 1950s housewives, I could help but think of the quintessential 1950s man of the house for our generation: Don Draper from Mad Men. The solution for our problems was so obvious: Oliver should just cheat on me and find what I cannot give him with others. That's the prerogative of the man of the house!
I was so excited on that early morning of our wedding night: the first morning sun was cracking through the window, he was holding me, and we were drifting off asleep. I wasn't quite ready to tell him my wonderful plan yet, I had to think about how to convince him, but I fell asleep content knowing that there was a perfect solution to our problem!
One thing was certain, he had trained me to always confess my fantasies to him, and I was now bound to tell him that I want him to cheat on me while I remain at home, chaste, and committed to him alone! It was maybe the most romantic thought that had ever crossed my mind!
To be continued!
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From husband to cuckold houseboy: chapter two
This is the second installment of a longer story I'm working on. You can find the first chapter here. And, for all chapters, once I've written more, see this hashtag: #husband to houseboy
This is my second long, multipart story. The first one is here: #boy zoo story
To be continued!