Beaten by a Pussy
A Fictional Story by Camwhore1.
The pickup in the driveway should have been the first clue. The sounds through the cracked bedroom window were the second. He should have turned around. Instead he crept to the gap in the curtains like the coward he was about to discover he was—and saw his wife’s legs in the air, and a stranger between them.
Not a man. A woman. A big woman. Six-one if she was an inch, flattop haircut, flannel shirt stripped off and thrown over Colin’s side of the bed, forearms like bridge cables gripping Camille’s hips. She had a harness buckled around her thick thighs, and jutting from it was a fat, veiny silicone cock that made Colin’s stomach drop through the floor—because it was twice his size, and it was sliding into his wife in long, unhurried strokes while Camille made sounds Colin had never once pulled out of her in six years of marriage.
“Oh god—fuck—Vic—” Camille’s head thrashed on the pillow. “Right there—there—god, don’t stop, don’t ever stop—”
Vic. Even her name was a punch. Victoria, probably. Built like a linebacker. Jaw like a cinderblock. And a smirk, when she looked up through the window gap and locked eyes with Colin—she saw him, mid-stroke, balls-deep in his wife—and she didn’t stop. Didn’t blink. She held his gaze, pulled out to the tip, and slammed back in so hard the headboard cracked the wall, and Camille screamed.
Vic winked at him. Then she went back to work, fucking his wife through two more shuddering, toe-curling orgasms while Colin stood in the hydrangeas with his four inches of shame leaking through his boxers, having cum in his pants without touching himself, like a teenager. Like a child.
He drove around the block twice before he could face going inside.
—
She cornered him four days later at the diner off Route 9, sliding into his booth uninvited, all denim and muscle and confidence, setting her coffee down like she owned the table.
“You watched,” Vic said. No hello. “Through the window. And here’s the funny part—you didn’t pound on the glass. Didn’t shout. Didn’t cry.” She leaned in, voice dropping. “You stood there and soaked your little panties. Didn’t you, Colin?”
His face went nuclear. His dicklette, traitorous thing, twitched against his thigh.
“Camille told me everything, you know. Three months of pillow talk.” She counted on thick fingers. “One inch soft. Four on your best day—and there haven’t been many best days lately, have there? Half the time you can’t get it up at all, and the other half you’re apologizing while you’re still getting hard, because you know it’s already over. She told me you cried once. Soft inside her, mid-attempt, crying.” Vic sipped her coffee, watching him with flat, amused eyes. “She told me all of it. And then she told me she needed someone who could actually finish the job. Someone with equipment. And I don’t even have equipment, Colin. I bought mine. Off a shelf. And I’m still out-fucking you so bad she forgot your anniversary.”
“Stop,” he whispered. His voice cracked. His nub was fully hard now, the full pathetic four inches, tenting his khakis in a public diner because degradation was apparently the only thing that woke it up anymore.
“There it is.” Vic glanced down at his lap and grinned like a wolf. “That’s what I thought. Look at you. Can’t get hard for your gorgeous wife, but a woman telling you you’re worthless? Rigid in seconds. You’re not impotent, Colin. You’re just broken in the right direction.”
She set down her cup.
“Here’s how it goes. You’ve got two choices. One: tell Camille you know, watch her pick me, and lose the only good thing your little life has. Two: keep your mouth shut, keep playing house, and take what I give you. The jokes. The looks. All of it. In public, in front of your little friends, whenever I feel like it. And in exchange, I let you keep pretending you’re a man in your own home.”
His heart hammered. His ears roared. “Why would you—why would I—”
“Because you soaked your pants on Tuesday and you’ve thought about it every night since. Say it. Say: my wife prefers a woman with no cock to mine.”
The diner hummed around them. His mouth was sandpaper.
“My wife,” he croaked, “prefers a woman with no cock… to mine.”
“There’s a good boy.” Vic stood, dropped a five on the table, and patted his tented lap once—delicately, with two fingers, like checking something for a pulse. “Saturday. You’re hosting a barbecue. I’m coming. Wear something loose. I don’t want you embarrassing yourself.”
—
The barbecue was where she went to work.
Vic arrived in a white tank that showed off both sleeves of tattoos, shook Camille’s hand with a wink that made his wife blush like a schoolgirl, then spent the next two hours dismantling Colin in front of six of their neighbors, one surgical cut at a time.
“Colin—grab me a beer, would you? Twist-off. I know you don’t own anything that requires grip strength.” Laughter from the patio. “What? I’m kidding. Mostly. Camille, does he open your jars or do you bring them to the gym?”
“Vic!” Camille laughed, swatting her arm, glowing, glowing in a way Colin hadn’t seen in years. “Leave him alone, he’s sensitive.”
“Oh, I bet.” Vic’s eyes flicked to Colin, and there it was—the private smirk, the shared secret. “I bet he’s very sensitive. Quick to react. Am I right, Camille?”
“You have no idea,” his wife said, and the whole table laughed, and only two people at it knew what that meant.
They played cornhole. Vic annihilated him, of course, then handed him the bags with a slow once-over of his crotch. “Your form’s all anticipation and no follow-through, Colin. All buildup, over in seconds. You should work on your stamina.” She said the last word looking directly at his fly, and his stub throbbed so hard he had to stand behind the cooler for ten minutes.
When she passed him a plate at the grill, she “stumbled,” and the back of her hand flicked across his crotch. “Oh—sorry,” she announced to the patio, loud enough for everyone. “Didn’t feel anything there. My mistake.”
The neighbors howled. Camille covered her mouth, giggling, tipsy on rosé, completely blind. Colin stood there with his little prick straining against his zipper, a dark wet spot blooming on his shorts, and Vic saw it. She always saw it. She raised her beer to him from across the yard in a silent toast: to the man who just leaked for me in front of his own guests.
He excused himself to the bathroom and made it in eleven seconds. Eleven. He sat on the toilet lid staring at the thin dribble in his palm, thirty-two years old, humiliated past the point of arousal into something worse—gratitude—and when he came back out, Vic was telling a story with his wife’s hand resting on her bicep, and both of them looked at him at the exact same moment, and only one of them knew why.
—
Saturday, three weeks later, she escalated.
“Blindfold night,” Camille had announced, giddy, heading up the stairs. “Vic’s idea. She says it’s her favorite thing.”
What Camille didn’t know was that Vic had texted Colin an hour earlier: Closet. Naked. Door cracked. Don’t make a sound unless you want to explain why you’re home.
So Colin sat naked on the closet floor, his four inches standing rigid and useless in the dark, watching through the slats as his wife—blindfolded, spread, gorgeous—got railed within arm’s reach of him.
Vic was a showoff about it. She’d pull out slow, let Camille whine and beg, then glance at the closet, at the sliver of Colin’s face between the slats, and grin before plunging back in.
“Look at her,” Vic mouthed silently over Camille’s shoulder, gripping his wife’s hair, driving that shelf-bought cock into her while Colin’s own equipment sat dry and defeated three feet away. “Look what fucking looks like. Ever seen her make that face? No. You never will. Four inches and a hair trigger, that’s all you ever were to her.”
Camille wailed through her third orgasm. Vic never broke rhythm, never stopped whispering to the closet between his wife’s screams.
“Two fingers, Colin. Jerk it with two fingers. That’s all it needs.”
He did. God help him, he did—thumb and forefinger around his aching little nub, hips bucking off the closet floor, and he lasted forty seconds watching his wife’s back arch for another woman. He caught it in his palm, thin and pathetic, and Vic saw the whole thing, saw his eyes roll back, saw his whole body convulse over a few watery drops.
“Clean your hand,” she mouthed. “No DNA evidence, cuckold.”
He licked his own failure off his palm while his wife, blindfolded and oblivious, screamed “I love your cock, Vic, I love it, I love you—”
Afterward, when Camille lay snoring sweetly, Vic pulled off the harness, walked to the closet naked, and opened the door. She looked down at him—flushed, spent, shriveled back down to his one soft inch, the happiest and lowest he’d ever been.
“Even a woman with no dick,” she said softly, “is more man than you’ll ever be. Think about that the next time you shake my hand at a party.”
—
She fucked him a month later, in the marriage bed, while Camille was at her sister’s baby shower.
“Since you’re the bitch in this house,” Vic said, buckling on the same harness that had been inside his wife a hundred times by then, “I’m going to treat you like one. Face down. In the wet spot.”
He lasted through the first thrust. The second made his limp little worm flop against his belly, dead and useless, not even awake for its own defilement—and the third made him spill, untouched, a sad dribble onto the sheets while Vic laughed and laughed and kept right on going.
“You just came from a piece of rubber,” she said, “and your dick didn’t even show up for it. You know what that makes you, Colin? The only man in this city who’s been out-fucked by a woman with no cock twice in one month.”
When she left, she paused at the door. “Camille stays at my place this weekend. You’ll drive her. You’ll carry her bag to my door. And when you hand it to me, you’ll say thank you—because I’m doing for her what your little worm never could.”
On Sunday, Colin carried his wife’s overnight bag up Vic’s front steps, handed it over, and said, “Thank you.”
His wife kissed his cheek and told him he was sweet. Vic smirked over her shoulder, one arm already around Camille’s waist.
And driving home alone, Colin had to admit the sickest truth of his life: his wife had left him for a woman with no cock at all—and his useless, impotent, two-pump dicklette had never been harder in his life.
—
Fall came, and with it, Vic’s favorite season: wedding season.
Camille’s younger sister was getting married in early October, which meant rehearsal dinners, dress fittings, and a steady parade of events where Colin had to stand beside his glowing wife and pretend he wasn’t sporting a half-chub every time her phone buzzed with Vic’s name.
“You’re coming to the rehearsal dinner, right?” Camille had asked Vic over breakfast, feet tucked under her on the couch, phone pressed to her ear. “Colin, is that okay? She says she doesn’t want to crash.”
“Of course,” Colin said, staring at his coffee. “The more the merrier.”
Vic’s voice crackled through the speaker, smug and knowing. “Hear that, Camille? Your husband wants me there. What a good sport.”
The rehearsal dinner was at a country club Colin couldn’t afford, surrounded by Camille’s family—people who’d always looked at him like he was a placeholder, a temporary fix until their daughter found someone with actual prospects. He’d spent six years trying to win them over. Vic undid it in twenty minutes.
She arrived in a black suit that fit her like armor, hair freshly buzzed on the sides, looking like she’d walked off a magazine cover for “Butch Weekly.” Camille’s mother actually clutched her pearls. Her father’s handshake lasted exactly one second before he pulled away and wiped his palm on his slacks.
But Camille? Camille lit up like Christmas morning.
“You made it!” She threw her arms around Vic’s neck, and Vic’s hands settled on his wife’s lower back—lower than friendly, fingertips brushing the top of her ass. Colin watched from the bar, nursing a gin and tonic, his dicklette twitching.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Vic said, and caught Colin’s eye across the room. Raised an eyebrow. Watch this.
She stayed glued to Camille’s side all night. Got her drinks. Made her laugh. Touched her arm, her shoulder, the small of her back—always appropriate, always deniable, always claiming. And every time Camille turned away, Vic’s eyes found Colin.
During the toasts, Vic leaned over and whispered something in Camille’s ear that made his wife blush scarlet and fan herself. Camille’s mother noticed. Her father noticed. Everyone noticed.
And then Vic stood up, glass raised, and the room went quiet.
“I haven’t known Camille long,” she announced, voice carrying, “but I’ve known her well. And I can tell you this—she deserves someone who shows up. Someone who performs. Someone who doesn’t quit halfway through the job.”
Scattered laughter. Camille’s hand found Vic’s forearm, squeezed.
“Here’s to the happy couple,” Vic continued, eyes sliding to Colin. “And here’s to knowing your place. Some of us are built for the main event. And some of us…” She paused, smiled, let the silence stretch. “Some of us are just happy to be invited.”
She sat down to polite applause. Camille kissed her cheek. And Colin sat there with his four inches straining against his dress pants, so hard it hurt, because everyone in that room had just heard Vic call him inadequate and he was leaking through his underwear.
—
The wedding itself was worse.
Vic caught him in the men’s room during the reception, mid-piss at the urinal. She didn’t knock, didn’t announce herself—just pushed through the door and leaned against the sink, arms crossed, watching him fumble with his zipper.
“Need help with that?” She nodded at his crotch. “Looks like a two-person job.”
“Get out.”
“Make me.” She pushed off the sink, stepped close, and he could smell her—leather and cedar and something underneath that made his balls tighten. “You’ve been hard all day, Colin. I’ve seen you adjusting yourself. That little nub’s been straining since I walked in, hasn’t it?”
He said nothing. His hands shook.
“Camille’s family hates me,” Vic continued, almost conversational. “They think I’m ruining their daughter’s marriage. Corrupting her. Turning her against her husband.” She reached out, one finger, and traced the outline of his erection through his pants. He jumped like he’d been shocked. “But here’s the thing—they’re not wrong. I am taking her from you. Every night she’s at my place, every time she moans my name, every orgasm I pull out of her that you never could—I’m taking her. And you’re standing here with a hard-on the size of my thumb, letting me do it.”
“Please,” he whispered. He didn’t know what he was begging for.
“Please what? Please stop? Please let you keep pretending?” She laughed, low and mean. “Or please continue? Please tell me more about how your wife screams for my rubber cock while yours sits soft and useless in your pants?”
His hips jerked forward, into her touch, and she pulled her hand away like she’d touched a stove.
“God, you’re pathetic. You’re going to cum in your pants at your sister-in-law’s wedding, in the men’s room, while I tell you you’re worthless.” She checked her watch. “You have thirty seconds. I’ll stand guard.”
He didn’t need thirty. He needed twelve—twelve seconds of her eyes on him, her smirk, her voice in his ear saying even a woman with no dick—and then he was spurting into his underwear, thin and hot, his little dicklette pulsing through the most shameful orgasm of his life.
“Good boy.” She patted his cheek, almost gentle. “Now clean up and get back to your wife. She’s looking for you. And when she asks where you’ve been, tell her you had to take care of something.”
—
November brought Thanksgiving, and Vic brought herself to dinner.
Colin’s house. His table. His wife’s cooking. And Vic at the head of the table like she owned the place, carving the turkey with more confidence than he’d ever mustered in six years of marriage.
“Colin, pass the cranberry,” she said, not looking up.
He passed it.
“More gravy, Camille?”
“Please.” His wife held out her plate, and Vic served her personally, spooning extra onto her potatoes, fingers brushing Camille’s wrist.
They ate. They drank. And Vic told stories—stories about her and Camille, carefully edited for family consumption, but loaded with subtext Colin could read like a neon sign. Hiking trips where they’d “shared a tent.” Late nights “watching movies.” A “girls’ weekend” that Colin now knew had been spent in Vic’s bed.
“You two are so close,” Camille’s aunt gushed. “It’s wonderful she has such a good friend.”
“The best,” Vic agreed, and her foot found Colin’s under the table.
He froze. She pressed harder, her boot sliding up his calf, his thigh, settling against his crotch where his traitorous nub was already stirring.
“Colin’s been so supportive,” Camille said, smiling at him across the table. “He’s barely complained about how much time I’ve been spending with Vic. Have you, honey?”
“No,” he managed. Vic’s boot ground against his hardening dicklette. “Never.”
“He’s a saint,” Vic said, and pushed her foot harder. “A real martyr. Taking everything I give him without a word.”
The conversation moved on. Colin sat in silence, Vic’s boot massaging his erection through his pants, his wife beaming at him from across the table, and when dessert came, he’d already soaked through his boxers—another silent, shuddering orgasm while his mother-in-law asked Vic about her “workout routine.”
—
December. Camille’s birthday.
Vic threw the party at her place. Colin helped set up.
“Blow up the balloons,” Vic ordered, tossing him a bag. “You’re good with things that start small and end up full of hot air.”
He blew up balloons for an hour while Vic prepared the bedroom—her bedroom, where she’d been fucking his wife for eight months now. Camille arrived at seven, glowing, tipsy on champagne before the guests even showed up.
“Best birthday ever,” she declared, throwing her arms around Vic. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Open your present later,” Vic murmured against her hair. “In private.”
Colin heard. His dicklette heard. It swelled in his pants.
The party was a blur of faces he didn’t know, people from Camille’s work, from Vic’s gym, from a life he wasn’t part of. He stood in the corner, nursing a beer, watching his wife laugh at something Vic whispered in her ear.
“Having fun?”
He turned. Vic’s friend—a tiny thing with pink hair and a nose ring—stood beside him, smirking.
“I’m fine.”
“Vic told me about you.” The friend looked him up and down, gaze lingering on his crotch. “Said you’re… supportive. That the word she used? Supportive?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t.” The friend patted his arm and wandered off, laughing.
At midnight, Vic disappeared with Camille. The guests filtered out. Colin stayed, cleaning up cups and plates, because he didn’t know what else to do.
An hour later, the bedroom door opened. Camille emerged first, flushed and disheveled, buttoning her blouse with trembling fingers.
“Oh!” She startled when she saw him. “Colin, I thought you’d gone home.”
“Cleaning up,” he said, voice hollow.
“That’s… that’s sweet.” She looked guilty for exactly half a second before Vic appeared behind her, shirtless, harness still buckled around her hips.
“Camille, baby, come back to bed.” Vic’s arms wrapped around his wife’s waist, chin hooking over her shoulder. “Oh. Colin. Still here?”
“He was cleaning,” Camille said, like that explained anything.
“Of course he was.” Vic’s eyes met his, and there it was—that look, that claiming. “He knows his place. Don’t you, Colin?”
He nodded. His dicklette, exhausted and spent, still managed a weak twitch.
“Go home, Colin.” Vic kissed Camille’s neck, never breaking eye contact. “We’ll be busy for a while. I’ll bring her home tomorrow. Maybe.”
Colin drove home to an empty house, sat on his bed—the bed where he used to try and fail to satisfy his wife—and jerked his little nub with two fingers until he came, thinking about the sounds he’d heard through Vic’s bedroom door.
—
January. New Year’s Eve.
They were at a party at Vic’s friend’s house, all three of them, and everyone there knew. Colin could feel it in the way they looked at him—the sideways glances, the smothered laughs, the knowing. Vic had told everyone. Of course she had.
At midnight, Vic kissed Camille on the mouth, in front of everyone, and Colin stood three feet away, holding both their drinks.
“Happy New Year,” Vic said against his wife’s lips.
“Happy New Year,” Camille breathed back.
Colin said nothing. He just watched, his little dicklette hard in his pants, and thought: this is my life now. My wife belongs to a woman with no cock, and I’ve never been more aroused in my life.
Later, in the bathroom, Vic cornered him again.
“Twelve months,” she said, pushing him against the sink. “Twelve months since you watched me fuck your wife through the window. Twelve months of being out-fucked by a piece of silicone. Twelve months of being the smallest, weakest, most pathetic man in every room you enter.” She grabbed his crotch, squeezed. “And this is still all you have to show for it.”
“Please,” he gasped.
“Please what? Please humiliate you? Please make you cum in your pants again? Please remind you that your wife chose a woman over your useless little dicklette?” She laughed. “You don’t need me for that, Colin. You do it to yourself every time you look in the mirror.”
She released him. Stepped back.
“New Year’s resolution for you: accept what you are. A cuckold. A small-dicked, premature, impotent little cuckold who gets hard from being reminded he’s worthless.” She smiled, almost kindly. “Once you accept it, you might actually enjoy it.”
She left him there, shaking, his four inches straining against his zipper, and he thought: maybe she’s right.
Maybe this was what he was meant to be all along.
—
February. Valentine’s Day.
Colin bought Camille chocolates. Vic bought her a new harness—bigger, thicker, purple—and made sure Colin saw the receipt.
“Which one do you think she’ll like more?” Vic asked, holding up both gifts.
Colin looked at the chocolates. Looked at the harness. Thought about his wife’s face when she unwrapped each one.
“The harness,” he said quietly.
“Good boy.” Vic tucked it back in the bag. “Now wrap the chocolates. She’ll need something to eat while I fuck her brains out.”
He wrapped the chocolates. He wrote the card. And on Valentine’s Day night, he sat in his living room alone, listening to his wife scream another woman’s name through the bedroom wall, and thought: happy Valentine’s Day to me.
Because in the sickest, most twisted way, it was.
The End.
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