The Cuckold
A Fictional SPH Story by Camwhore1.
Corinne came in first, tall and glowing, wearing a black dress that hugged her hips. She looked down at him with an expression half pity, half triumph. “Look at him, Andre. Already down there like a good little husband.”
Andre stepped in behind her, and the room seemed to shrink. He was well over six feet, broad-shouldered, with that calm, easy confidence that made Owen’s stomach tighten. Andre looked down at him and smiled like they were old friends. “What’s up, Owen? You ready for this?”
Owen’s mouth was dry. “Yes. I’ve been ready.”
Corinne walked past him, trailing her fingers through his hair as if he were a pet. “Andre’s been telling me all week what he’s going to do to me. You want to hear it again from him, baby? Since you can’t ever do it yourself.”
Owen nodded, his face burning with a shame that only made his dick twitch again. He loved this. He had asked for this. Months ago, he’d come to Corinne with his fantasy, stammering and red-faced, afraid she’d leave him. Instead, she had laughed, then kissed him, then told him if he really wanted to be humiliated, she knew just the man.
Andre sat on the couch, legs spread, the enormous outline of his cock already pressing against the front of his jeans. Corinne sat in the armchair across from him, crossing her legs slowly, giving Owen a long, deliberate view of her thighs.
“Come here, Owen,” Andre said, patting the floor in front of him. “Kneel right here. Look at me.”
Owen crawled over. His own dicklet bounced pitifully with every shuffle. Andre watched him come, then let out a low laugh.
“Damn, Corinne. You weren’t lying.” Andre pointed at Owen’s groin. “That’s it? That little nub right there? That’s what you’ve been married to?”
Corinne giggled, covering her mouth. “I told you. Four inches on a good day. Two when he’s nervous. Right now he looks about an inch and a half.”
“Shit, that’s generous.” Andre leaned forward, elbows on his knees, peering down at Owen’s shriveled little cock like it was some strange novelty. “How do you even fuck with that?”
“He doesn’t,” Corinne said flatly. “Not really. He humps for thirty seconds, apologizes, and then offers to go down on me. It’s honestly sad.”
Owen’s chest ached with a hot, prickling mixture of shame and arousal. He could feel his own pulse in his tiny cock, beating futilely. It was fully hard now, which only made it more embarrassing—a stiff, pink worm standing straight out from his body, completely exposed.
Andre shook his head slowly. “Can you even penetrate with that thing? Or does it just kind of rub against the outside?”
Owen swallowed. “Sometimes—if she’s very wet—I can get the tip in.”
“The tip,” Andre repeated, like it was hilarious. “The tip of your little baby dick. That’s your idea of sex.”
Corinne came over and stood next to Andre, looking down at her husband. “It’s not sex. It’s a joke. A bad one.” She reached down and flicked Owen’s cock with her finger, making it bounce. “This thing couldn’t make a woman feel anything if it tried. My vibrator is bigger than him.”
Andre grinned. “Show me.”
Corinne pulled a small bullet vibrator from her purse—pink, smooth, maybe five inches long. She held it next to Owen’s cock. It was longer and thicker. Owen’s erection wilted slightly under the comparison.
“See?” Corinne pressed the vibrator against Owen’s shaft, and he whimpered. “Even this thing does a better job than my husband.”
Andre stood up slowly, taking off his shirt. His body was carved—chest, arms, stomach all thick and defined. He unbuckled his belt, and Owen’s eyes went wide as Andre’s jeans dropped. Andre’s cock swung free, already half-hard, and even soft it was monstrous—thick as Owen’s wrist, long enough to hang halfway down his thigh.
Corinne breathed in sharply. She’d seen it before, but she still reacted as if it were brand new. Then she looked down at Owen. “You see that, baby? That’s a real man’s cock.”
Owen just stared. He couldn’t look away. Andre stroked himself a few times, already swelling, and the difference was so stark, so humiliating, that Owen felt tears prickle in his eyes.
“I want you to hold your little thing next to it,” Andre said. “And think about what your wife is going to be taking tonight.”
Owen shuffled closer, his own micro-cock jutting uselessly into the space between them. Andre’s cock hung beside it, heavy and dark and thick. Owen’s thing looked like a child’s finger next to a rolling pin.
“You’re not even in the same species,” Corinne said softly. She knelt behind Owen, wrapping her arms around his chest, pressing her lips to his ear. “Tell me you understand. Tell me why we’re doing this.”
Owen’s voice shook. “Because I can’t please you. Because my cock is tiny and pathetic. And because I want you to have what I can’t give you. I want to watch a real man make you feel good.”
“That’s right,” Corinne whispered. “Now turn around and watch.”
Andre swept Corinne into his arms, kissing her hard, and carried her to the couch. In seconds her dress was on the floor, and Andre’s mouth was on her breasts. Owen stayed on his knees, untouched, watching as Andre positioned himself between his wife’s legs.
“Look at him, Corinne.” Andre’s voice was low and rough. “He’s already leaking from his little nub.”
Owen looked down. A thin thread of pre-cum dripped from his tiny cock onto the carpet. He was so aroused it hurt.
Corinne looked over at him, her eyes half-closed with pleasure. “Do you want to see Andre’s cock go inside me, baby? Do you want to see what a real fucking looks like?”
“Yes,” Owen whispered.
Andre pushed the thick, blunt head of his cock against Corinne’s wet entrance. She moaned just at the touch of it. Owen’s own cock twitched at the sound.
“Here it comes, little man,” Andre said. And then he buried every inch inside her.
Corinne cried out—a deep, shaking sound that Owen had never heard from her before. It was a sound of genuine pleasure, not the patient little hums she gave him out of kindness. Andre started a slow, deep rhythm, his cock disappearing into her again and again, stretching her in ways Owen never could.
“You feel that, baby?” Corinne gasped, looking at Owen. “That’s what a real cock feels like. Andre is filling me up. He’s deeper inside me in one stroke than you’ve ever been in ten years.”
Owen couldn’t speak. His own pitiful dicklet was throbbing, dripping, untouched. He wanted to touch it but knew better. He wasn’t allowed unless Corinne said so.
Andre picked up the pace, slamming into her now, the wet sounds filling the room. Corinne’s moans turned to screams. Owen watched the way her body moved, the way her legs clamped around Andre’s waist, the way Andre’s thick shaft glistened every time he pulled out. It was the most humiliating, arousing thing he’d ever witnessed.
“She’s getting close, little man,” Andre grunted, pounding harder. “Your wife is about to come on this big cock. You ever make her come with your tiny pecker?”
“Never,” Owen admitted. “Not once.”
“Then watch how it’s done.”
Corinne came hard, her whole body shaking, her fingers digging into Andre’s back. She screamed Andre’s name, then reached out blindly for Owen’s hand. Owen crawled closer, holding her sweaty fingers as another orgasm crashed through her. He was inches from the action, so close he could smell the sex, could see every detail of Andre’s massive cock driving into his wife’s body.
Andre pulled out abruptly, slick and glistening, and finished with deep, guttural growls as he came across Corinne’s stomach. Ropes of thick, white cum splashed over her skin. Owen stared at the sheer volume—far more than he had ever produced.
Corinne lay panting, painted in Andre’s seed. She looked over at Owen and smiled, genuinely affectionate. “Come here, baby. Clean me up.”
Owen crawled forward, pressing his lips to her skin, lapping up Andre’s cum. It was salty and warm, and the taste of it made his little cock leak even more to the point of no return.
After, when Andre was gone and the house was quiet, Corinne let Owen touch himself. It took four quick, pitiful strokes before he came into his own hand, moaning like a wounded animal.
“That’s all it took?” Corinne asked, laughing softly as she sprawled across the bed. “Andre went down on me for a solid forty-five minutes before he got me off. Ten years, and this is still the best you can do?”
Owen blushed and nodded, cuddling against her, pressing his face to her shoulder, his little cock already soft and squeamish. “I love watching you with him.”
“I know you do, baby.” She rubbed his back. “Andre’s coming back next weekend. Maybe this time I’ll let you help stretch me out for him.”
Owen shivered with gratitude. “Thank you.”
“You’re such a sweet little cuck,” Corinne murmured. “And you know you always will be.”
—
Owen spent the rest of the week in a fog of anticipation. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Andre’s massive cock splitting his wife open, heard her screams, tasted the salt of another man’s cum on his tongue. His little nublet leaked through his underwear daily, and Corinne caught him more than once pressing his palm against it, humping his own hand like an animal.
“Pathetic,” she said on Thursday night, catching him rutting against the edge of the mattress. “Save it for the weekend, you needy little thing.”
So Owen held it together, barely, until Saturday evening.
Andre arrived at eight, and this time Corinne answered the door barefoot in a tiny bathrobe that barely covered anything. Owen was already on his knees in the entryway, naked except for the humiliation collar she’d bought him—a cheap black strip of vinyl with a silver ring on the front. He’d been wearing it since noon, already hard and dripping.
“There he is.” Andre stepped inside, grinning down at Owen. “The living doormat. How’s your little pecker doing?”
“Hard,” Owen admitted, voice cracking. “It’s been hard all day.”
Andre laughed. “All that effort for what? Maybe two inches?” He dropped his gym bag by the door and then, casually, deliberately, planted his bare foot directly on Owen’s thigh, letting the sole rest against that tiny, twitching cock.
Owen gasped. “Andre—”
“Quiet.” Andre pressed slightly, smothering the tiny erection under the warm arch of his foot. Owen’s whole body shuddered. The pressure was so dull and broad and overwhelming, nothing like the tight slot of Corinne’s hand when she occasionally granted him a miserable little handjob. Andre’s foot was huge—size thirteen at least—and Owen’s cocklet barely poked out from under the ball of it.
“You like that, don’t you?” Corinne’s voice came from above. “I told you he would, Andre. He jerks off thinking about my feet all the time. Didn’t you, baby? Tell Andre what you do with my feet.”
Owen’s face burned. “I—I ask to kiss them. To worship them. Before bed sometimes.”
“Kiss them?” Andre scoffed, grinding his heel lightly against Owen’s crotch. Owen whimpered and bucked up into the weight, his tiny cock completely hidden now. “You mean you beg for her feet because this little nub can’t reach her pussy?”
“Yes,” Owen whispered.
Andre pulled his foot back and crouched down, forcing eye contact. “Tonight, little man, you stay under our feet. You’ll be our footstool while we get comfortable. You’ll kiss your wife’s toes while I fill her up. And if you’re a good little cuck stool, maybe I’ll let you clean off my foot with your tongue. Understand?”
Owen nodded frantically. “Yes, Andre. Thank you.”
Andre stood and walked toward the couch, stepping over Owen like he wasn’t even there. “Get over here. On your back.”
Owen crawled after him, watching the movements of Andre’s bare feet—the thick calves, the long soles, the way each step seemed to shake the floor. He positioned himself between the couch and the coffee table as instructed, lying flat on his back, his useless little spike pointing helplessly at the ceiling.
Corinne settled onto the couch, stretching her legs out and resting her smooth, warm feet directly on Owen’s chest. Andre sat next to her, then propped one heavy foot on Owen’s face, the sole covering his lips and nose. Owen inhaled deeply, his vision filled with warm brown skin and the faint earthy scent of the man who’d been inside his wife. His tongue darted out automatically, licking the arch.
“Look at that,” Andre chuckled, flexing his toes against Owen’s mouth. “He doesn’t even need to be told. Hungry little footboy.”
Corinne laughed and pressed her toes against Owen’s sternum, wiggling them slowly. “He’s been like this since our first date. I wore heels, and he didn’t say a word the whole night because he was staring at my feet under the table.” She leaned over and kissed Andre’s shoulder. “Want me to put my foot down there?”
Andre raised an eyebrow. “On his little pecker?”
“Mhm. He loves the pressure. Watch.”
Corinne slid one foot down Owen’s trembling belly until her toes found his tiny erection. She rested the ball of her foot firmly on it, and Owen let out a strangled, desperate sound.
“That’s all it takes?” Andre shook his head in mock disbelief. “You’ve got a foot on his quarter-inch cock, and he’s already about to bust?”
“It won’t take much,” Corinne admitted, curling her toes lightly around the slippery little thing. “Last time I did this, he came in four seconds. Made a mess on my ankle.”
Owen couldn’t respond. He was too busy licking Andre’s foot like it was his sole purpose in life, while Corinne’s foot ground slowly—so slowly—against his agonized cocklet. It was slippery with his own pre-cum, and every slight curl of her toes sent electric jolts through his belly.
“Don’t let him come yet,” Andre said, stretching his other leg out across Owen’s throat, pinning him in place. “He doesn’t get to finish until we’re done.”
Corinne lifted her foot away, and Owen whined at the loss. “Shh,” she said, pressing her toes to his lips. “Open up, baby. Taste me while Andre takes what’s his.”
Owen opened his mouth and took her toes inside, sucking them reverently, his tongue sliding between each digit. He worshipped her feet—the pale arch, the delicate ankle, the faint hint of pink nail polish. Meanwhile, Andre was on top of Corinne now, and the couch creaked under the force of their bodies. Owen lay beneath them, literally under their feet, as the sound of wet, deep thrusts filled the air above his face.
“You like being my footrest while a real man fucks your wife?” Andre grunted, each word punctuated by a deep stroke.
Owen moaned around Corinne’s toes. He was so hard it hurt, his little cock twitching untouched against his belly, desperately leaking a small puddle onto his own stomach. This was perfection.
“He’s drooling,” Corinne sighed, pulling her toes from his mouth and smearing the spit across his cheek. “Pathetic. Look at him, Andre. Flat on his back with his little nub sticking up like a baby’s toy, licking our feet while you ruin me.”
Andre looked down at Owen without missing a stroke, sweat sheening on his brow. “Tell your wife how tiny your cock is while I’m stretching her out.”
“It’s small,” Owen babbled, his voice wet and thick with shame. “It’s so small, Corinne. Smaller than a finger. Smaller than a lipstick. It can’t satisfy you. It can’t even fit all the way—”
“She knows,” Andre cut him off with a laugh. “Trust me, little man. She knows.”
Corinne moaned loudly and reached down, tangling her fingers in Owen’s hair, using him as an anchor while Andre drove into her. He felt her nails dig into his scalp, her foot press harder against his ribs, and then she was coming—shuddering, crying out, her muscles tightening around the thick cock that Owen could never hope to compare with his own.
Andre rode her through it, then pulled out and, without a word, planted both feet on Owen’s chest like Owen was a step stool, using him for leverage while he pumped his huge cock over Corinne’s heaving stomach. Thick ropes of cum splattered across her skin, and Owen watched from below, inches away, his own cocklet jumping in sync with every pulse of Andre’s release.
As Andre stepped down, his big toe nudged Owen’s chin. “Clean it,” he ordered quietly. “Then you can thank me properly—and if you’re lucky, your wife might let you finish against her foot.”
Owen scrambled upright, his little erection bouncing with every movement. He crouched over Corinne’s body and lapped up every strand of cum from her skin, then turned to Andre’s foot and ran his tongue along the underside, from heel to toe, collecting the faint traces of sweat and salt. It was degrading in a way that made his head spin.
“Good boy,” Corinne murmured, watching with dark, satisfied eyes. “Now, you want to hump my foot?”
“Yes, please, yes—”
She raised one leg, pointing her toes down, and pressed the top of her foot against his twitching little cock. “Go on then. Show Andre how a real cuck finishes.”
Owen grabbed her ankle with both hands and rutted against the smooth, warm skin of her foot. It took exactly three desperate, jerky thrusts before his back arched and a thin, clear dribble leaked out of him—hardly more than a few drops, nothing like the thick, heavy load Andre had painted across his wife.
Andre burst out laughing. “That’s it? That’s the big finish? Looks like a couple drops of sweat, little man.”
Owen blushed, chest heaving, his cock already wilting as the last pitiful droplets dripped onto Corinne’s ankle. “Thank you,” he whispered, slumping forward to press a kiss to her toe.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Corinne said sweetly, wiping his tiny dribble off with a tissue and tossing it toward him. “We haven’t discussed next weekend.” She looked at Andre, then back at Owen, a slow, wicked smile crossing her lips. “I think Andre should start calling you Footrest. What do you think, baby?”
Owen’s spent little cock twitched one final time, and he buried his face against her foot in answer.
—
Owen woke the next morning with the taste of sweat and cum still on his lips. He lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his small body tangled in the sheets while the memory of last night played behind his eyes. His tiny cocklet, as always, was already stiff—a useless little twitch against his thigh that did nothing but remind him of what he was.
Beside him, Corinne stretched luxuriously, her naked body still carrying the faint marks of Andre’s hands on her hips. She yawned, rolled onto her side, and studied Owen with the lazy satisfaction of a woman who had been thoroughly, properly fucked.
“You’re awake,” she said, voice still husky from sleep. “I figured you’d be up early. Couldn’t stop replaying it, could you? Licking Andre’s foot while he finished inside me? God, you were shaking.”
Owen swallowed, his face warming. “I—yes. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“Obviously.” Corinne’s gaze dropped to the tiny tent in the sheets, and she laughed softly. “Look at you. It’s barely morning, and your little nub is already trying to be relevant.”
Before Owen could respond, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Corinne picked it up, scanned the screen, and a slow, wicked smile spread across her face.
“Andre says he had a great time,” she announced. “He’s asking when we want him back.”
Owen’s heart jumped, a hot mix of dread and arousal flooding through his small frame. “What did you tell him?”
Corinne typed back quickly, her smile widening. Then she set the phone down and turned back to him, propping herself up on one elbow.
“I told him next Friday. And I said he should invite a friend.”
Owen blinked, certain he’d misheard. “A friend?”
“That’s right, baby.” Corinne trailed a finger down his chest, light and teasing. “He mentioned his friend Devon. Taller than Andre, if you can believe it. Built like a linebacker and, from what he says, carrying even more between his legs.” Her finger found his hip bone, circling lazily. “I told him to bring him along. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Another real man to serve while you clean up the mess?”
Owen could barely breathe. His tiny cocklet twitched violently against his stomach, leaking a thin stream of pre-cum onto his own skin. “Two of them?”
“Two of them.” Corinne’s smile was almost kind, the way one might smile at a puppy learning a new trick. “Andre will take me first, like always. Devon can have my mouth, or maybe he’ll want to watch you lick my feet while I moan around him.” She tilted her head, enjoying the way Owen’s eyes went wide. “Actually, Andre had another idea. He thought it would be fun if you spent the whole evening under the coffee table. Just lying there in the dark, listening, while they pass me back and forth above you.”
Owen’s breath hitched. The image was so vivid it made his head spin—his wife’s feet dangling just above his face, her ankles brushing his hair as two huge men took turns using her body.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Corinne. I want that.”
“I know you do.” She sat up fully, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “And because you were such a good little footstool last night, I’ll give you a preview.”
She planted her bare foot squarely on his chest, right over where his heart was pounding. Her toes were painted a soft, pale pink, and they curled slightly against his heated skin. Owen gasped, straining his neck to look down at her foot, that perfect foot, pressing him back into the mattress.
“Look at you,” Corinne murmured. “Getting hard from this. From being the doormat that big men wipe their feet on.” She slid her foot down his stomach, deliberately avoiding his twitching cocklet. “You don’t even want a real sex life anymore, do you, baby? You just want to live down there. Under the table. Under our feet. Under everything.”
Owen couldn’t form words. His little cock jumped every time the tip of her big toe passed near it. She was toying with him, tracing the line of his pubic bone but never quite touching.
“That’s the deal then,” she said, matter-of-fact. “From now on, this is how it goes. Every weekend, one, two, or three real men come over and use me however I want them to. You kneel wherever we put you—under the table, next to the bed, by the door—and you wait. You worship my feet, you taste what they leave behind, and if you’re a very, very good little footrest, maybe one of us will let you rub that sad little pecker against our toes when we’re done.”
She pressed the ball of her foot against his mouth, and Owen kissed it before he even thought to ask.
“Yes,” he breathed against her warm skin, kissing again, then licking. “Yes, Corinne. I’ll be your footstool. Forever, if you want.”
“Forever is a long time for a man who cums in three seconds,” she teased, letting him nuzzle her arch. “But we’ll start with Friday. Six o’clock. And Owen?” She pulled her foot back and looked down at him, eyes bright and unyielding. “I want the house clean. Floor polished. My good heels by the door. And a bottle of water on each nightstand for them. You can wait on your knees, in the hall, with your little useless thing out where everyone can see it.”
“Yes, Corinne.”
She smiled, then swung her legs off the bed and stood, padding toward the bathroom without a backward glance. Owen watched her go, still flat on his back, his tiny cock bobbing against his belly, already dreaming of Friday.
Two men now. Maybe three the week after. A whole world of humiliation opening up beneath his wife’s painted toes. And Owen—small, inadequate, desperate Owen—would be at the center of it, exactly where he belonged.
At their feet.
The End.
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