Hello, Horny Readers! Everything W/e desire or dread seems to slow time to a crawl. Have you noticed that? Cuckie noticed. As he bid goodnight to his friends and neighbors at the front door, a shaky smile twitched on his face. He tried not to rush them to the degree that it would strain decorum. Meanwhile, everything in him strained toward the back yard, and what he both desired and dreaded to find there. Thoughts ran like a chyron across the pre-departure chatter: For all I know, he said to himself, they’ll just be having a drink and conversation. But he didn’t believe that. And neither do you, do you, dear reader? What’s more, you know cuckold jealousy wanted that to be true, but cuckold desire did not.

The door closed behind the last guest, and Cuckie pivoted sharply on his heel. The chyron read that he ought to summon some kind of righteous indignation, and that a heavy, outraged tread might carry over into his feelings. A real man, upon finding what he both hoped and dreaded to find, would boil over with angry recriminations, maybe throw a punch or two. But between steps one and four of the twenty it would take him to cross the house, he faux-rationalized that if he were going to give the two of them a piece of his mind . . . he should probably be sure he had plenty of visual evidence . . . that they were guilty . . .

His authoritative stomp quickly turned to a creep, so as not to be detected.

P.I., or voyeur?

He managed to noiselessly ease open the sliding glass door and continue his creep into the night.

He heard them before he saw them. The soft, bass mutter of Dean’s voice, the light, baffled moans of Mrs. Cuckie . . .

And an utterly vulgar, wet, rhythmic slurping.

For once, Cuckie didn’t begrudge his wife the purchase of all the foliage with which she’d lined the patio, turning it into a virtual jungle of tropical potted trees and plants of different varieties he had to haul inside every Autumn. They gave him a relatively obscured vantage point from which to indulge his sickly voyeurism. He was thankful also for the privacy fence he’d had installed. Because there they were, mere feet away at the corner of the house, illuminated by the moon and the edge of the glow of patio lights.

Mrs. Cuckie’s dress was red, and made of a form-fitting, stretchy material. It was short, barely mid-thigh, and the bodice was a halter that, when worn properly, tied behind her neck, a panel mostly covering each perky, double-D breast.

But it wasn’t being worn properly.

The two panels had been bunched together in the middle, one of Dean’s large hands alternately crumpling one of those large tits, lightly slapping it, and pulling on the nipple. She had pulled the hem up over her lower back as she squatted in front of him, and her bare, round ass shone for all the world to see.

Cuckold jealousy burns . . .

One of her hands rested somewhere around Dean’s hip, for balance, on the far side.  His jeans were down around his ankles, and his other hand had gathered up every lock of her lush mane into a sort of handle at the crown of her head. His muscular hips pulsed lightly as Mrs. Cuckie’s mouth chased her other hand up and down the shaft of the largest penis Cuckie had ever seen in the flesh.

The cuckold jealousy burned in Cuckie’s face and chest. His heart thumped. His breath was short. Any minute now, he would burst forth and make some declaration.

Any minute now.

But his feet felt as if they were rooted in concrete. The heat raced through his veins and made him lightheaded. He willed himself to control his breathing, to deepen it as his eyes strained to capture every detail.

“Thas’ right gul. Suck it. Move yer ‘and. I wan’ that t’roat.”

Cuckie watched in horror and awe as Mrs. Cuckie gave a submissive little moan, moved her hand from what had to be almost a foot of throbbing black meat, and proceeded to slowly ooze it into her face to the root.

“Good gul. Take itall. Just like ya been trained.”

And so does cuckold desire.

Cuckie felt something explode in his mind as the heat that had been coursing through him rushed from all points straight to his groin. A sharp exhalation escaped his lips along with a slight sound he hoped was not heard by the two lovers. No! the ticker-tape voice of what was left of his manhood hissed. No!

But he could not stop the hand fumbling at his belt, his button, the zipper. It seemed to have a mind of its own as it fumbled on, into his fly, and yanked his little cock free. It was pumping furiously almost before the dicklet reached freedom.

Cuckold jealousy, desire, and sexual humiliation. The cuckold cocktail I’ve described to you so many times. You know it well because you’ve felt it, haven’t you? Either in reality or by proxy. You may have even asked yourself more about the jealousy portion. Of whom is the cuckold jealous? Is he jealous of the cock on which his wife lavishes such feverish devotion?

Or is it his wife he’s jealous of, and the feel of, the taste of, her position as the source of pleasure for such pure, unadulterated Alpha manhood? Even as the last of his own drains away?

Both, dear reader. You know the answer is both, to one degree or another. Some cuckolds succeed in stuffing the latter down so deep, that they’re never forced to acknowledge it.

But Cuckie wasn’t that lucky.

Cuckold jealousy to cuckold cock slut

As Mrs. Cuckie’s mouth worked at breakneck pace up and down Dean’s shaft, their eyes were locked together. Mrs. Cuckie’s submissive gaze never broke, even when he stuffed all of that cock home, and held it there. During one such period, by which Cuckie was mesmerized, Dean’s voice threaded in between Mrs. Cuckie’s wet little gags.

“Tell yer batty boy ‘usband come lick me bahls.”

It was panic, at last, that stilled Cuckie’s stroking hand. He couldn’t have heard what he thought he did, could he? Maybe if he stayed absolutely still, absolutely silent . . .

Mrs. Cuckie slowly withdrew Deans cock from the depths of her throat, accompanied by dainty little coughs and copious strings of spit that shimmered in the moonlight as they dripped onto her breasts. Her head turned toward Cuckie’s hiding place, and their eyes met through the screen of leaves.

“Come out, Cuckie!”

“Run for the house! Lock yourself in! They can’t make you –” the chyron screamed across the screen of his mind. But the concrete that had encased his feet began to give, and to carry him out from among the trees in the opposite direction from what the chyron advised. He only realized that his pathetic erection was still hanging out of his fly when Dean’s eyes glanced down at it, and he smirked. Mrs. Cuckie’s giggle hit Cuckie in the ears like a handful of thumbtacks, and momentarily the heat was once again shared by his upper and lower body. Still, his feet carried him forward, across the grass, one hand vainly trying to hide his shame.

Now, dear reader, press play below to hear the conclusion of the tale!


Miss Rachel, Cuckold Coach and Confidante