Houseguest
A Fictional SPH Story by CuckedHubby222.
“Cousin!” he boomed, pulling Colin into a one-armed hug hard enough to crack a rib. Then he turned to Vivian, and his eyes did a slow, shameless walk down her body—the dip of her sundress, the long legs she’d crossed on the porch railing—and back up again. “Damn, Peewee. You didn’t tell me you married up this far.”
“Peewee?” Vivian laughed, offering her hand.
Trent took it and held it a beat too long, thumb tracing her knuckles. “Childhood nickname. I’ll let him explain it. Or maybe I will, later, when I’ve had a few beers.”
Colin felt his ears go hot. He knew exactly which memory Trent meant, and it had nothing to do with being short.
—
The first shower incident happened on night three. Colin came out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, and nearly walked into Trent in the hallway. Trent’s eyes dropped, and the towel chose that exact moment to slip.
There was a silence. Then Trent made a sound like a man trying not to laugh at a funeral.
“Peewee,” he said, with the slow, savoring discovery of someone finding money in an old coat. “Oh, that’s what it’s from. Holy shit. I thought that was just about your height, man.”
“Give it a rest,” Colin muttered, snatching the towel up.
“Hey, no judgment.” Trent raised both hands, palms out, grinning wide enough to show teeth. “I’m just saying. Now the name makes so* much more sense.”
He started using it constantly after that. Not just “Colin”—it was Peewee, pass the salt. Peewee, your wife makes a hell of a lasagna. Peewee, you want another beer, little guy? And he said it in front of Vivian, watching her over the rim of his glass to see if she’d caught it.
She caught it. She always caught it.
By day five, Trent had stopped pretending the flirtation was accidental. He’d come down to breakfast in nothing but boxers, the heavy outline of his morning wood impossible to miss, and lean against the counter while Vivian made coffee, chatting her up about her gym routine, her tan, whether Colin “kept up with her.”
“Be honest,” Trent said one evening, feet on the coffee table, third whiskey in hand. He looked at Vivian with lazy confidence. “Does little Peewee actually cut it in the bedroom? Because I’ve seen the equipment, sweetheart, and I’m looking at you, and the math doesn’t work.”
“Trent.” Colin’s voice came out thin.
“I’m asking a sincere question.” Trent spread his hands. “A woman like you has needs. I’m a concerned family member.”
Vivian took a slow sip of her wine. She didn’t say no. She didn’t say, “Of course he does.” She looked at the ceiling, and a small, terrible smile played at the corner of her mouth.
“He tries very hard,” she said.
Trent barked a laugh. “Tries. God, that’s brutal. Poor Peewee, up there humping away, trying his little heart out.”
Colin’s face burned. But under the shame, something else stirred—hot and shameful and stiff in a way his three inches had no right to be. He shifted on the couch and hoped neither of them noticed.
Trent noticed everything.
—
That night, in the dark of their bedroom, Vivian rolled toward Colin and put her mouth against his ear.
“You’re hard,” she whispered. “From that. From him making fun of you.”
“I’m not—”
“Colin.” Her hand slid under the waistband of his boxers and found him, all of him, two fingers and a thumb’s worth. She stroked him twice, and he was already leaking. “Baby. It’s okay. I think it’s kind of hot, honestly. Watching you go red like that.”
“He’s my cousin.”
“He’s an asshole with a big mouth and—” she paused, and the pause was a whole conversation, “—probably a big everything else. And he’s been walking around this house for a week making me crazy. And you’ve been sitting there getting harder every time he calls you Peewee.” She squeezed him gently, devastatingly. “So here’s my question. Do you want to watch?”
Colin’s throat closed. His heart was slamming. His tiny dick throbbed in her fingers like it was voting.
“Yes,” he whispered.
—
They didn’t even make it awkward. The next evening, Trent was on the couch watching the game when Vivian came down in the black lingerie she’d changed into upstairs, and Colin came down behind her in nothing but his underwear, because Vivian had told him to.
Trent took one look and muted the TV.
“Well, well,” he said slowly, sitting forward. His eyes went from Vivian in lace to Colin’s crotch, where the little tent of his erection was doing him no favors. “Somebody’s been having a family meeting.”
“Peewee has something to tell you,” Vivian said. She settled onto the couch beside Trent, close, her thigh against his. “Go on, baby.”
Colin stood there, face on fire, dick straining. “You can,” he said, and his voice cracked. “You can sleep with her. I’m saying it’s okay. I want to watch.”
Trent grinned like a wolf that had just been handed the keys to the henhouse. “Say the nickname part. Tell him why they call you Peewee.”
“Trent—”
“Say it, or I walk upstairs, and we all pretend this never happened.”
Colin swallowed. “Because I have a small dick,” he said. “Three inches. That’s why they call me Peewee.”
Vivian made a soft sound—half gasp, half moan.
Trent stood, hooked his thumbs in his waistband, and pulled his boxers down.
His cock came out heavy and swinging, and even soft, it made Colin’s stomach drop through the floor. It was thick as Vivian’s wrist, veined, hanging over a pair of full balls, the kind of equipment that looked like it belonged to a different species. He wrapped a fist around it and started stroking, lazy, letting it grow in his hand while both of them watched.
“Eight and a half inches hard,” Trent said. “And I’ve never once had to try in my life. Come here, sweetheart. On your knees. Let’s give Peewee a live demonstration of what his wife’s mouth is for.”
Vivian was off the couch before he finished the sentence. She knelt in front of him, wrapped both hands around his shaft—and there was still cock left over, the head jutting past her fingers—and took him into her mouth. She could barely get her lips around the girth. Her jaw stretched. She worked the head with her tongue while her hands pumped, and Trent just stood there with his hands loose at his sides, watching her struggle, watching Colin watch.
“Look at her, Peewee. She’s drooling on it. You ever seen her this hungry?” He gathered her hair in one fist. “That’s what a real cock does to a woman. Yours, she has to find first.”
Colin sat down in the armchair because his legs weren’t going to hold him. His little erection was pulsing, untouched, leaking a damp spot through his underwear. He’d never been this turned on in his life.
Trent fucked her mouth for a while, patient and deep, until Vivian’s eyes watered and her mascara ran, then pulled out and told her to strip and get on the couch. She did it fast, peeling the lace off her tits, her nipples hard, her pussy already swollen and glistening when she lay back and spread her legs.
Trent climbed between them and dragged the fat head of his cock through her folds, up and down, teasing her clit with it, coating himself in her wetness.
“Ask me for it,” he said.
“Please,” Vivian breathed, hips lifting off the cushion, chasing him. “Please, I need it, I’ve never—”
“Never what?”
“I’ve never had anything this big. Please.”
Trent pushed in.
Vivian’s back arched off the couch, and a sound came out of her that Colin had never heard from her—not a polite moan, not the soft little sighs she made when he was on top of her. This was a raw, dragged-out cry, her fingers clawing into Trent’s shoulders as inch after inch of thick cock stretched her open.
“Oh my God—” Her head thrashed. “Oh my God, it’s so—fuck, it’s so big—”
“Halfway,” Trent said, smug, and rolled his hips.
“HALFWAY?” Her eyes went wide, wet, almost panicked. “There’s more?”
Trent laughed and gave her the rest in one slow, merciless stroke, burying himself to the root while she shook. He held there, grinding, letting her feel every ridge and vein, then pulled out until just the head was inside and slammed back in.
Vivian screamed.
Colin watched his wife get fucked—really fucked—for the first time in his life. Trent set a pace that was brutal and confident, the couch frame knocking the wall, her tits bouncing with every thrust, her voice breaking into a stream of filth she’d never said to Colin: fuck me, your cock is so fucking big, don’t stop, harder, I love it, I love your big cock—
“Peewee,” Trent called over his shoulder without breaking rhythm. “You seeing this? You seeing what her pussy looks like when it’s actually full? Take notes, little man. This is the shape she’s supposed to be in.”
“I’m—I’m seeing,” Colin managed. His hand was in his underwear now, two fingers stroking his little dick, and he was already close, embarrassingly close, from watching alone.
“Look at him,” Trent told Vivian, nodding at the armchair. “Two-fingering his little peanut while a real man does your job. Say hi to your husband, sweetheart.”
Vivian turned her head, eyes glazed, lips parted, and looked right at Colin while another woman’s—no, while Trent’s cock drove into her. “I’m sorry, baby,” she panted, and her face said she wasn’t sorry at all. “I’m so sorry, it’s just so good—he’s so much bigger—”
“Tell him what you told me last night,” Trent said. “Tell him what you think about when he’s humping you.”
Vivian’s face flushed deep red, and she came the moment the words left her mouth—came so hard her whole body locked up, thighs clamping around Trent’s waist, pussy gushing around his shaft, her orgasm ripped out of her by the sheer size of him.
“I think about this!” she wailed, cumming, shaking. “I think about a big cock, I always have, I always—oh fuck, I’m cumming again—”
Trent laughed and fucked her straight through it, then through the next one, and the one after that, her orgasms stacking up like car crashes. Colin had made her cum maybe a dozen times in their whole marriage, and Trent had tripled that count in ten minutes. She’d stopped forming words. She was just a shaking, squirting mess on the couch, her pussy creaming white rings around the base of Trent’s cock, her belly taking the deep bulge of him on every thrust.
“Peewee,” Trent grunted, sweat rolling down his chest, pace turning savage, “get over here. You’re going to watch up close when I fill your wife. You’re going to see what a creampie looks like when it’s not a teaspoon.”
Colin was off the chair before he could think. He knelt beside the couch, face a foot from where his wife’s stretched, ruined pussy was swallowing the biggest cock he’d ever seen, and Trent grabbed his head and held him there.
“Good boy. Eyes open.”
Trent slammed into the hilt and roared, and his cock pulsed, and Colin watched his wife’s pussy milk every last drop out of it, her legs wrapped around Trent’s back, her heels digging in, pulling him deeper, her voice a broken whisper of yes, yes, cum in me, fill me up, give me all of it.
When Trent pulled out, it was obscene. Her pussy stayed open, gaping, a thick river of cum running down to her ass. She was still trembling, still catching her breath, her hand drifting lazily over her own clit through the mess.
“Clean her up, Peewee,” Trent said, dropping onto the couch, catching his breath with a satisfied grin. “That’s about the only thing in this house you’re equipped for.”
Colin leaned in. Vivian’s hand came down and gently, lovingly pushed his head the rest of the way.
—
Trent’s two weeks turned into three. Nobody mentioned him finding a hotel.
At breakfast, Vivian sat on Trent’s lap in her robe, feeding him strawberries. At night, Colin knelt beside the bed, or sat in the corner chair, or lay at the foot of the mattress like a dog while the headboard knocked the wall in a rhythm he could never match.
And every morning, Trent would slap him on the shoulder on his way to the kitchen and say the same thing:
“Morning, Peewee. Your wife says hi. She says it from about eight and a half inches deep.”
Colin would blush, and smile, and go make the coffee.
—
The morning Trent finally mentioned leaving, the kitchen went quiet.
“Got a flight Thursday,” he said, pouring coffee as if it were any other day. “Business calls. Can’t freeload off Peewee forever.”
Vivian’s spoon clinked against her bowl. She’d been eating breakfast from his lap all week—today she sat in her own chair, which felt like a demotion.
“Thursday,” she repeated.
“Three more days.” Trent grinned at Colin. “Don’t look so broken up about it, Peewee. You get your house back. Your wife. Your little spot at the head of the table.”
Colin’s face warmed. He’d gotten used to the nickname and gotten used to a lot of things.
—
They made the most of those three days.
Tuesday night, Trent bent Vivian over the kitchen table while Colin held her hands and watched her face contort. Wednesday morning, she woke them both up with her mouth, taking turns until Trent threw her onto the mattress and fucked her until she forgot her own name.
Wednesday evening, they didn’t have sex at all. They sat on the couch with drinks, Vivian sandwiched between them, her head on Trent’s chest while her fingers played with Colin’s hair.
“You’re not as pathetic as I thought, Peewee,” Trent said, almost thoughtful. “Most guys would’ve kicked my ass by now. Or cried. You just… rolled with it.”
“He liked it,” Vivian murmured. “Watching.”
“Yeah.” Trent took a long pull of his beer. “I noticed. Kinky little bastard, isn’t he?”
Colin didn’t argue. His little dick twitched in his pants at the word little, and that was answer enough.
—
Thursday came too fast.
Trent packed his duffel in the foyer while Vivian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts. Colin hovered by the stairs, feeling like a ghost in his own house.
“Alright.” Trent shouldered the bag and looked at both of them. “This has been… educational.”
“Come back,” Vivian said quietly.
Trent smiled, slow and confident. He crossed to her, cupped her jaw in one big hand, and kissed her deep—the kind of kiss that said mine even when it wasn’t anymore. When he pulled back, her lips were swollen, and her eyes were wet.
“Maybe,” he said. “If Peewee here sends me enough pictures.”
He turned to Colin, and for a second something almost like respect flickered in his expression.
“You’re a good sport, cousin. Weird as hell. But good.” He reached out and gripped Colin’s shoulder, firm. “Take care of her. Do what you can with what you’ve got. And hey—” he lowered his voice, just between them, “—next time I’m in town, maybe I’ll bring a friend. You know, really give her something to remember.”
Colin’s stomach dropped and filled with heat at the same time. His throat worked.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Trent laughed, loud and genuine, and clapped him on the back hard enough to stagger him. Then he was out the door, duffel swinging, whistling something off-key as he loaded himself into the rental car.
Vivian watched from the doorway until the taillights disappeared around the corner.
—
The house was quiet.
Colin stood behind his wife and put his hands on her hips. She leaned back into him, but there was a restlessness in her body now—a hum that hadn’t been there before Trent arrived.
“Three inches,” she said, almost to herself.
“What?”
“That’s what I had before.” She turned in his arms, looked down at the tent in his pants—small, eager, pathetic compared to what she’d been taking for weeks. “And now I know what eight and a half feels like.”
Colin swallowed. His dick throbbed.
“Are you… are you going to leave me?”
Vivian laughed, soft and surprised. “No, baby. I’m not going anywhere.” She reached down and cupped him through his underwear, all of him, her fingers gentle and knowing. “You let me have that. You wanted me to have it. Most husbands would never.”
“I loved watching you cum.”
“I know you did.” She smiled, something sharp in it. “And now you’re going to spend the rest of your life knowing I need more than you can give. Knowing that every time we fuck, I’ll be thinking about him. About how full I was. About how many times I came on a real cock.”
Colin shuddered. A wet spot bloomed on his underwear.
“That’s it,” she whispered, stroking him through the fabric. “Get hard for me, Peewee. Show me how much you love being reminded.”
He did. He always would.
—
They fucked that night—Colin on top, moving inside her, feeling how loose she still was, how wet, how stretched. She made the polite sounds she’d always made, and he knew they were fake, and he came harder than he ever had in his life.
After, she lay with her head on his chest and her phone in her hand.
“Look,” she said.
A text from Trent. A photo—him in an airport bathroom, shirtless, that heavy cock hanging between his thighs, the caption: Missing you already, sweetheart. Peewee better be taking good care of my pussy.
Vivian typed back: He’s trying. It’s cute.
Then she showed Colin the screen, let him read it, watched his little dick twitch against her thigh.
“See?” she murmured, kissing his jaw. “You’re still my husband. You’re just… something else now too.”
“What?”
“My cleanup boy,” she said, sweet as poison. “My cuckold. My little Peewee, who knows exactly where he belongs.”
Colin closed his eyes and held her tight, his three inches soft and spent against her leg, his heart full of a strange, shameful peace.
Trent was gone.
But in a way, he’d never leave.
The End.
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