Cuckolded by a Lesbian on New Year's Day

Guys I have a new book out! Thought you might like a preview...

Eleven o’clock New Year’s Day. Tristan padded into the living room and hesitated, blinking in the daylight, the cool air shrinking his balls against his chastity device.

The party guests had long gone, and the river estuary beyond the picture windows was deserted except for a container ship sluggishly negotiating the drizzle. So, nobody could see him in his steel collar and the breathtakingly expensive Happy Happy Chaste Boi Purity Device(tm) clamped around — and inside! — his genitals. Even so, it felt… wrong to be “dressed” like this in daylight.

The rain rattled on the windows.

He shrugged.

That was the point. This was supposed to be a femdom adventure to start the New Year. It wasn’t like he had a choice anyway. Thanks to his time safe, he couldn’t remove either bondage device for 48 hours and his wife Hannah had only gone along with his kinky plans because he had promised to clear up after her friends.

It had been a good party, but now the minimalist modern interior was cluttered with party debris. Plastic cups and beer bottles littered every surface, the food trays had overflowed the long dining table, and dozens of dancing feet had ground crisps and pretzels into the patches of spilled wine. Worse, the smokers who’d gone out to huddle in the car park had trailed muddy footprints everywhere.

Tristan sighed and hoped the resulting Femdom would be worth it. He trudged into the kitchen to get a big black bag. The guests had also trashed the work surfaces and stainless steel splashbacks, or technically the exploding chili had. There was also a burned-out tray of nachos in the sink.

He yawned and wished he was back in bed next to his warm wife. The party had wound down at 3AM. However, it had taken him an hour to get into the imported Japanese chastity device — just putting on the base ring had gotten him too hard to install the mesh tube with its locking urethral plug. Then of course, he’d been too turned on to sleep, and when he had drifted off, Hannah’s wine-induced snoring had woken him.

“Fuck it,” he said aloud. “She’ll probably be too hung over to do anything anyway.”

But he was damned if he was going to lose the moral high ground.

After a heavy night, Hannah always liked to chill out on the couch, so he started on the living room first.

Painfully conscious of his taut balls bumping his thighs, he picked his way around the grimy floor, stooping to scoop up the debris, steeling himself to go near the picture window--

--which is why it took him half an hour to discover the pair of stockinged feet on the couch: Sleek feminine feet with slender legs, all wrapped in cosy knitted black woolen hosiery. The couch’s back hid the rest of the interloper, who sighed and mumbled something.

Tristan froze. Sweat broke out on his brow. He should sneak away back to the bedroom, tell Hannah to get rid of this uninvited overnight guest. However, he couldn’t seem to move.

The wind picked up. The sky grayed. Cold rain hissed on the windows.

The interloper yawned. She rolled onto her side, curling her legs. The woolen second skin made them seem unreal, as if Photoshopped to perfection.

Was these actually stockings? wondered Tristan. Hannah never wore stockings… except that one time on his birthday. His cock hardened and tried to erect itself. The Happy Chaste Boi Purity Device(tm) kept it pointing down, clamped down against his balls.

Tristan’s mouth went dry. What harm would there be in finding out?

He inched around the corner of the couch.

Now he had a clear view of her curled legs, the shallow curves pressed against each other like a playground for a caressing hand.

Tristan chewed his lip. He really shouldn’t be doing this.

A little further.

Yes!

The hem of the woman’s burgundy velvet dress tented around her thighs, exposing everything: the place where a strip of black lace marked the transition from soft woolen stockings to smooth olive skin; the hollow where thighs met buttocks, and the black G-string with wisps of brown hair escaping its skimpy little triangle of fabric.

Tristan shuddered. His cock heaved against its prison. This was so much better than surfing porn. He was going to wank himself senseless. He started to back away.

His cock twitched forlornly to remind him; no masturbation for two days.

Panic rose up from the pit of Tristan’s stomach and the strength drained from his limbs. He gasped for breath while his lost cock beat like a second heart and suddenly he couldn’t move.

The girl yawned and rolled to her feet. The burgundy fabric cloaked off her thighs. Shoulder-length hair fell into place, covering her neck. She took a pace toward the window, moving like a ballerina, one foot in front of the other, stockinged toes then heels—

And Tristan knew who she was.

Not a girl. A woman. Zarah, another provincial girl made good like Hannah. She was also Hannah’s BFF and the person with whom she’d shared a Lesbian kiss at a high school party something like twenty years ago. She’d always treated Tristan with an indulgent contempt; a phase Hannah was going through. Posh twat, she’d called him.

Despite — admit it; because of — all that, Tristan had always harbored a secret crush on her.

But now he was standing behind her, bollock naked except for a sex toy clamped to his privates and a shiny steel collar, neither of which he could remove. His cheeks burned. His chastity device tightened like a vise.

Zarah took another step closer to the window and leaned forward, peering out.

Tristan finally managed to start moving. Limbs shaking so he had to concentrate on not bumping into furniture, he slowly backed away.

Hannah’s voice boomed from behind him. “Tristan? I’m right knackered. Get us a cuppa will you?” Evidently the hangover had brought out her regional working-class accent.

Zara turned, “Happy New Year, pet! It’s be a belta of a--” Her dark eyes focused on Tristan. Even after a night of partying her makeup was flawless: vampy eye liner, smooth foundation, and deep red lipstick that made her mouth seem promisingly wider than it was.

Only now did Tristan think to put his hands over his shamefully caged crotch.

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” exclaimed Zarah, pronouncing it “fooking”. “Will you look at that?”

Tristan’s cheeks burned in shame. He was also in his thirties, but the the two down-to-earth women made him feel young and pathetic — a middle class boy who’d somehow never quite grown up.

Right now, he thought, would be a good moment for the world to end.

You can get the rest of the book on Amazon!

 

Thanks! I probably work too quickly at the moment for an editor to be able to help... however, I have a none fiction project in the pipeline to do with being a submissive. I would love to have a beta reader for that!

 

Glad you liked the excerpt! You can get the rest of the book on Amazon...

 

New episode is out on Amazon US (others to follow). Here's another preview, you might find it... uplifting.

Tristan woke to darkness. A hard floor pressed into his face. Something solid encircled his throat.

His heart hammered. His lungs heaved. He sprang onto his hands and knees.

Metal rattled. A weight pulled down on his neck. Cold chain links brushed his arm. His genitals swung forward. Taut testicles bumped his naked thighs. Something constricted his cock.

He remembered.

He was chained by the neck in his cell. That thought set his cock twitching in its Happy Happy Chaste Boi Purity Device(tm).

Yes, the architect’s plans said “WC”. But he’d spent two whole days locked and chained in the little six by six cubicle tucked away off the laundry room. This was long enough that it really did feel like a cell.

Even so, this was no kinky sex game. His wife merely wanted him out of the way for a few days.

He stared at the door. The gap at the bottom had been enough to slide a key through, but no light leaked through it from the laundry room. It must be before dawn.

Tristan rolled back to kneel up. He listened. Being trapped in the dark somehow made his hearing more acute.

Traffic grumbled in the distance. An ambulance wailed. Much nearer, just beyond his cell door, rain rattled on the laundry room window.

He shivered and was glad not to be outside on this wintry morning.

Was that what had woken him?

Footsteps clacked in the kitchen. A chair scraped. A tap hissed.

He frowned. Hannah was up and about early this morning.

Of course, it was Monday. The Christmas holidays were over. His wife was off to work.

She’d left him locked up for two days and three whole nights!

Not only locked, but also totally ignored. No teasing. No check in.

It was outrageous, but it was exactly what she had promised. Imprisoning him was just an easy way for her to get some time alone in the flat: No hotel bills to pay for, no need to explain to his parents why he was visiting on his own.

Hannah wasn’t doing this for kinky reasons, but if he didn’t go along with it what little femdom they did do would go away. He was trapped in and by his own kink.

Tristan’s cock went off like an airbag. It hardened and tried to unbend into what would have been a massive boner. However, the Happy Happy Chaste Boi Purity Device(tm) kept it small and safely bent over. There would be no proper erection until he took a cutting tool to the expensive Japanese cage.

Off in the kitchen, the news came on, then pop music. Hannah was going through her morning routine, listening to Radio 2 as she breakfasted. Had she forgotten her husband?

Tristan’s penis now beat like a second heart. He jiggled on the spot, hips twitching, buttocks clenching. He’d never been this turned on first thing in the morning.

There was no chance of pulling out the back and getting off. The fiendish device had a urethral insert that unfurled like a parachute and anchored inside his penis. He’d smiled wryly. He’d had more than seventy two hours of languishing in the dark having the most intense kinky experience of his life, and not been able to wank.

Hannah clip-clopped around the kitchen. The footsteps seemed to come closer to the laundry room.

Tristan’s heart lurched. He hadn’t brushed his teeth or shaved yet. Should he start doing that or kneel and wait?

A cupboard door banged and the footsteps receded.

“Bitch!” he said. The word came out as a whisper but it opened up the possibility of speaking louder. Should he raise his voice and shout his safe word?

But that would mean no more femdom, ever.

If he waited, surely she’d release him before starting her commute. His corporate executive wife might have had lesbian sex with her best friend while he watched. However, she had become far too boring and sensible to keep him chained up during the working week.

The chair scraped again. Dishes clattered. The radio fell silent. Shoes clumped. The kitchen door closed.

Tristan strained his ears, trying to hear beyond his racing heartbeat.

His wife moved around the apartment.

Twice her footsteps seemed to approach the kitchen and he knelt up expectantly. Twice they turned away again.

Then the front door clunked.

Now Tristan did break his silence. “Red!” he shouted. “Red!”

But the moment had passed. His wife of ten years had gone to work, leaving him naked, chaste, and chained in the darkness of his cell.

Tristan broke into tears. He hunched over, sobbing out his safe word again and again. The worst of it was, his penis heaved against its permanent prison, traitorously happy at his plight.

“Enough,” he said.

He stood up and felt for where his chain looped around the towel rail. His fingers found the padlock. There was a chance…

No, it was properly closed.

But it would be easy to pull the rail off the wall, then break open the door and find his keys. Their apartment might be an “executive dwelling” but it was close to a retail park. A short walk to the tool store and he’d have one of those rotary cutting tools. When Hannah got home at seven, she’d find him freed of all bondage gear and everything back to normal. They could pretend it never happened.

His erection subsided enough that he was able to pee. He manoeuvred to the toilet and carefully relieved himself.

Head cleared, he realised the problem with his plan. The damage to the towel rail and door would be a reminder, and the house proud Hannah would be furious with him—

—which was rich, when you considered how she’d humiliated him in front of another woman, with whom she had cuckolded him before they both savagely beat him.

His abortive erection returned.

Clearly, he was powerless to do anything about this until Hannah returned from work. In the mean time, he might as well get on with his routine.

He ate a light healthy breakfast. He cleaned his teeth. He sponge bathed, then shaved by touch. He did his stretches then sat in the dark mentally replaying the New Year’s Day adventure, squirming and clutching his cage-neutered groin.

Once his food had settled, he alternated yoga and brooding about his marriage and life choices until the sudden rise in traffic sounds told him it was lunchtime.

After that it was back to sensual daydreaming and yoga until he discovered he could kneel with his eyes closed, erotic hallucinations twining through his mind while his penis heaved and pulsed in the waves of arousal.

The rush hour roar brought him back to himself. He ate, washed, brushed his teeth, refreshed his shave… made himself perfect for his wife.

The minutes stretched out into hours… or did they? He had no way of knowing the time.

Then, suddenly, Hannah was back and the apartment filled with the sound of her.

His heart leapt. He grinned. Any moment now…

But she came and went through the kitchen without so much as opening the laundry room door.

The TV boomed.

The back wall of Tristan’s little cell adjoined the living room.

He put his ear to it.

He couldn’t make out the words, but he recognised the damned talent show she insisted on watching. Normally, he would make his excuses and flee to the home office to surf femdom porn. Now, he would give anything just to be in the room with her, perhaps rubbing her feet.

If he slapped the wall, used his safe word, would she hear him?

But then what? He’d still be stuck in the chastity cage… not that there’d be any action on a Monday night anyway.

He flushed.

What was he thinking?

Monday night, first day back at work? Of course she wouldn’t want to deal with their relationship, or what had happened. That was the whole point of him being locked out of the way.

Hannah needed space to process it all. Clearly the lesbian encounter with Zarah had been a one-off, otherwise why had he heard the women weep as she collected her clothing from the laundry room? Give Hannah the time she needed, and they’d be back to normal but with more kink. Zarah would be safely in the past and out of their lives and New Year’s day something he would recall and masturbate over.

Tristan’s penis awoke in its cage. He lay back down in the dark and wiled away the evening by playing with his nipples while slowly humping the air. He did not hear Hannah go to bed.

Tuesday morning held no surprises. Hannah would hardly choose just before work as the moment to face up to the mess they’d gotten into!

Feeling virtuous, Tristan waited in the gloom, alternating exercise and languid, masturbation-free fantasies while the dim light from under the door waxed and waned

Rush hour arrived, and still no Hannah.

His wife arrived home hours later. She made herself tea in the kitchen, stomped around the apartment — each bump and clatter making Tristan flinch — then clumped off to bed.

Tristan sat cross legged, shoulders hunched, chain draped over his chest. Just how long was this going to take?

His penis hardened until it prickled. He prodded the unyielding cage and frowned. He really did need an orgasm. It was one thing to be trapped in his fantasy, another to become it.

On Wednesday, Hannah went through her morning routine as usual, but — judging from the buzz of the entry phone — had a Chinese meal delivered.

Water rushed in the pipes. The boiler hummed.

His wife must be soaking in the en suite bath. Perhaps she was prepping to release him.

Tristan fell asleep on his knees, woke on his side.

It was still dark under the door and the street was silent.

“Bitch!” he cried. Then laughed at the frustration of it. His penis tried to rear in its cage and he realised it was like the first time they were involved. Even back then, he’d never been able to refuse her, and she’d always had a callous streak — that’s what had attracted him to her in the first place.

His mind returned to that first time, when her hair was a fashionable bright red and her make up much heavier…

(You can get the rest on Amazon)