With my wife I’ve been exploring the cuckold fantasy for some time. She’s already had some bulls, and I’ve even shared parts of those stories here before — though I deleted them, preferring not to leave a trace. I have other kinks too, but right now I’ve been pushing her to be more humiliating with me. I even started wearing a cock cage, because she is my goddess.
This story begins while I was on a trip visiting my uncle in another city. One afternoon, she sent me a message:
“Tonight I’m inviting my bull home. Be careful who you’re with, because I’ll be sending you some things.”
She didn’t say what. She just left me with that.
The whole day I could barely focus. My cock was already swollen in the cage she’d locked me in before I left. I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to cum the entire trip. That night at my uncle’s house, I tried to prepare myself — lying on the sofa in the living room, earbuds ready, blanket pulled high. I stayed as far from everyone as possible, terrified someone might walk in.
Then her first picture arrived.
She was standing in our kitchen wearing nothing but a cooking apron, the sides of her body bare, her smile playful. It was my ultimate fantasy: the perfect wife, welcoming me home like that, ready to serve me.
But it wasn’t for me.
The caption underneath twisted the knife:
“Getting ready for him. I want him to feel at home. I love you. Hope you don’t mind that he’s going to stay.”
My chest tightened. My cock throbbed painfully against the cage. It was the first time this would happen in our house.
Later came a photo of the dinner she’d prepared. She’d opened my favorite bottle of wine. The caption read:
“Hope he likes it.”
She never did that for me. I felt like she didn’t care, so I sent her a message saying I was worried.
Minutes later came her reply:
“Don’t worry, baby. I love you. But tonight… I want to give him everything.”
That tenderness was almost worse than cruelty.
I want to see her as a slut for me. I love her because she is a slut. That’s why we do this. So what else should I expect when I marry a slut?
I thought that was it for the night. But then the first video arrived.
I was stunned — she’s never let me record her naked before. It had been taken by her bull. She was under the dinner table, like she’d served the meal and then immediately slid under to serve him. I saw his cock grow hard in her mouth. She looked at the camera and said,
“You’re so much bigger than my husband,”
before licking his balls.
And then the video ended. Gone after one view. He’d sent it like that. The pain was unbearable — I wanted to see her again, but I was denied.
Then another video appeared.
She was in our bed, bent over in front of the mirror in doggy. He was behind her, slamming into her. She angled the phone so I could see the reflection — his cock vanishing into her, so deep her whole body shook.
And then she gasped, eyes locked on the mirror:
“I could never do this with you… you’re just too short.”
What destroyed me wasn’t just her words — it was the background. Above the headboard hung our wedding photo. The photo where we swore forever, now silently watching her get ruined by another man.
Minutes later came the third video.
A selfie this time. Her face close to the lens, mascara streaked, hair wild, moaning as he pounded her from behind. Every thrust jolted her voice.
She looked straight at me through the camera, breathless:
“Do you hear that, baby? That’s what real cock sounds like. That’s what makes me scream. Not you.”
Then softer, almost loving:
“I know this hurts you. But it makes me love you even more, knowing you take it for me.”
And finally, cruel again:
“Stay caged. Stay useless. That’s all you’re good for.”
Gone. One view only.
Later, she sent the last photo.
She was sprawled across our bed, hair messy, chest glistening with thick streaks of his cum. She smiled lazily at the camera, holding the necklace so the tiny brass key dangled above her sticky breasts. And on my pillow, beside her, was a used condom. Left there for me to see.
The caption read:
“He left me full. You never did. Sleep well, my cuck.”
I stayed awake the entire night on my uncle’s sofa, earbuds still in, the cage biting into me, terrified someone might walk past. My head full of her kitchen picture, the wedding photo above the bed, the condom on my pillow. My body broken by the glimpses she allowed me — and desperate for more.
?
Reflection:
I’ve asked her for humiliation, and she gives it to me. Sometimes cruel, sometimes gentle. She’ll tell me I’m useless, then remind me she loves me. That discontinuity between love and humiliation wrecks me more than either side alone.
But she’s going further now. It’s no longer just for me. She’s living it — using our bed, our wedding photo, even the fantasy of being the perfect wife, but giving it to him instead of me.
It feels like devotion and betrayal at the same time. Brutal. Addictive. And I can’t stop craving it.
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