A Most Private and Painful Pleasure

April 9, 2014 – 1:52 pm


It’s just a theory, but it seems to me that the connection between “cuckold” and “cuckoo” is too strong to ignore. One is a bird that lays its eggs in the nests of other birds. The other is the husband of an unfaithful wife. You can work the rest out for yourself.


In medieval times here in England, a deceived husband didn’t get much sympathy if his wife was caught in adultery. A pair of horns would be tied to his head and he would be paraded around the streets where, besides being soundly humiliated, he would often be showered with the contents of the then ubiquitous piss-pots.


The legend of the cuckold’s horns lives on. Everyone, goes the tradition, can see them but the poor mutt himself. Strange, then, that today so many men actually want to wear them. I know I did. And I know others who did. But only in recent years has the Internet revealed just how many willing cuckolds there are. Countless husbands all over the world now openly admit to watching – either in thought or deed – their wives having sex with another man.


I am one of those husbands. I am a man whose wife has looked for, and got, sex outside our marriage. I am a cuckold. There, said it! Wasn’t too painful at all. But then I’ve had more than twenty-five years to get used to the idea.


Another admission. I gave in without a fight. I was a willing cuckold. I attended the ceremony of the horns by choice, if not by invitation. And when my time came, I went quietly, just bowed my head in submission as I was awarded them. Moved over, in a manner of speaking, while another man took my place between my wife’s open thighs. Even though my heart was breaking.


On second thoughts, maybe I was more of a compliant cuckold, rather than a willing one. I didn’t long for it to happen, the way some men do. I didn’t plan it, or take months, even years, agonizing over it. In fact I only got about five minutes notice. So I didn’t spend ages trying to talk round a reluctant, suspicious spouse. Didn’t have to. My wife Jane leapt at the chance. I didn’t have to buy contact magazines or trawl newsgroups searching for a suitable partner for her, either. My best friend Danny volunteered like a shot.


Another thing. When it happened, I thought I was some sort of pervert, the way I got an intensely private, painful pleasure from it. I now realize just how huge the cuckold/wife- watching scene is. But before I “won my horns” at a New Year’s Eve party in the final few minutes of 1974, I promise you that if anyone had informed me that about 40% of all adult, bi-sexual men fantasize about their wife being unfaithful, I would have laughed into my beer. But by the time the chimes of midnight rang in the new year, I was crying into it. Literally.


Yes, I can tell you the precise day I became a cuckold. December 31st 1974. In fact, I could even have a reasonable stab at the time, 11.45pm as near as damn it. That would make my wife Jane and I twenty-seven years old. We met at school when we were fifteen, became engaged at eighteen and lost our cherries to each other shortly afterwards. About ten minutes shortly afterwards, as I recall. Anyway, on the first night Jane was unfaithful we had been happily married for seven years, had one child, plenty of friends and were very much in love.


I mention this because until then, neither of us had ever had sex with anyone else, which made Jane’s first and rather public lapse all the more poignant. As did her choice of partner, my best friend. Why do unfaithful wives never choose skinny runts with little dicks? Big Danny was a boisterous Irishman in his late twenties who was already a partner in his family’s heavy plant hire company. He was charismatic broth of a boy, built like a brick shit-house, fast with his fists and a lot bigger than me in every department except brains. I knew, I’d seen him under the showers at the swimming pool. There was a song by Judge Dredd out about this time in which the lead vocalist sang the praises of his “Big Eight” and I often joked with Danny that it had obviously been written with him in mind. Told the same joke to Jane, too, come to think of it. And of course, he was a lot more successful than I was. I remember I once asked him why he thought we were friends. A hand the size of a shovel gripped my shoulder hard. Because I was always good for a laugh, he told me. Took me a while to fully appreciate the bittersweet irony of that one.

But you want the meat, not the potatoes, right? Okay. Well, the party was great – loud, drunken, and packed with our friends, all up for a good time. Danny and his wife Carla were generous hosts and as midnight approached, drunken party-goers were spread over the entire ground floor and halfway up the stairs of their lovely chalet-style home.

Looking back, I suppose I had it coming. Jane was a beautiful, graceful woman in the prime of life and that night she was wearing her hair up and a black velvet choker around her long, elegant neck. She looked absolutely stunning. Floor-length, halter-necked dresses with no back to them were all the rage and Jane had bought one especially for the party, a thin black silk number that clung like a second skin. Only her breasts and a simple knot of the straps behind her neck kept it up. There was no room for a bra and all she was wearing under it was a tiny pair of silk briefs and a some black hold-up stockings. Her entire outfit couldn’t have weighed more than four ounces and she had needed a lot of coaching and a couple of stiff drinks before she’d dared walk into the party, her jiggling, pointed breasts obviously naked under the thin, trembling silk.

Small wonder, then, that she attracted a lot of attention. Particularly from Danny. Yet for some reason I pointedly ignored her all night in favour of Danny’s wife. But hell, it was a party! Carla and me were only dancing. A little too often, maybe. And a lot too close. But this was the seventies, the decade when the free love of the sixties had spread out to the suburbs as wife-swapping. It was all the rage in England, long before the Americans re-invented it as the more politically correct “swinging.” Some our friends, people who were actually at the party, were rumoured to be doing it. Even the four of us had talked about it. Me and Jane swapping with Danny and Carla for a night of no-strings passion.

Like any other husband in this situation, I had very mixed feelings indeed about exchanging wives, even for a few hours. Jane was a petite, delicate English rose while Carla was a big Irish-Italian beauty, with great soft pillows for tits and an arse that in a few years time would the size of a barn door. There was just so much of everything. But the pleasure of bedding this fiery, delectable woman would have to be paid for. And though I lost a lot of sleep thinking about burying my bone in all that soft, perfumed flesh, I also lost plenty thinking about what my wife would be doing with Big Danny in our bed while Carla and I were testing the springs on theirs.

Some nights were worse than others. Some nights I’d get these really weird feelings that I didn’t want to explore. I loved Jane deeply. I was a loyal and protective husband, though she sometimes saw it as over-bearing and possessive. And yet I was actually considering swapping her for a night. Why, for Christ’s sake? Why not try and pull Carla on the quiet, without having to hand over the woman I loved in return?

Don’t ask. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now.

I do know that the thought of my innocent little Jane underneath Big Danny stirred up a whole nest of snakes inside me. The cold green serpents of jealousy. Restless, hungry little bastards that shifted and slithered in my bowels, twisted themselves around my scrotum, squeezed the life out of my nuts and shrivelled my penis to a waterspout. The thought of another man leaving his semen in my wife was both repellent and alluring. It unmanned me completely. It appalled yet aroused me. And yet some nights, I could think of little else.

Looking back, I think that deep down, it had already occurred to me that Jane and Danny would probably have sex whether we swapped or not. I couldn’t blame them really. Once a thought has been born, it can’t be unborn. During these sleepless nights I felt as if my fate had already been discussed and decided and now I was simply being drawn gently, irresistibly towards it. And as I gradually accepted the idea, the will to resist such thoughts would weaken, and some nights I would let the images of Jane and Danny wash over me.

There was my faithful wife, as yet unsullied by another man, now romping shamelessly in our bed with one, lubricating extravagantly at the thought of the Big Eight, spreading herself like a slut, knowing she was in for a stretching. There she was again, letting him mount her, guiding him into her, urging him to do his stuff, clawing at him, shouting, screaming, as Big Danny plowed her with the power of one of his bulldozers, drilled her deeply and seeded her thoroughly, like one of his farm machines.

These weren’t silent pictures, either. I could hear my wife sobbing in her orgasm as her cervix drank deeply from his living, squirming pool, hear her womb suck in his wriggling spawn. I could sense him ordering his teeming hordes to search and plunder, to find and fertilize my wife’s precious eggs. I could see a new, no-longer-faithful Jane, coming home slack and stretched and contented, the smell of her new man still on her. A tainted Jane, freshly, copiously inseminated and bright with guilt. A confident, different Jane, with a sly smile on her face and a cream pie in her pants. No wonder I was having castration fantasies.

And yet the strange thing was, once I’d accepted my fate as a cuckold, I began to look forward to receiving my horns. I actually began to enjoy these lurid half-dreams. As the images of Jane and Danny played like some blue movie on the insides of my eyelids, one by one the snakes in my bowels would stop turning and sleep. My pain would turn slowly into pleasure. And as it did, my manhood would return, fill with blood until it stood up proud and throbbing. And yes, I did masturbate silently some nights, watching the slut- wife in my mind while the real Jane slept innocently on besides me. And yes, my orgasm always happened with theirs; my own sperm spilled out onto my belly at the precise moment Danny’s burst inside my wife.

We talked a lot about swapping that summer, the four of us. The girls were reluctant at first, of course, as propriety demanded. The intensity of our love-making later, however, left me in no doubt that Jane found the thought as disturbing as I did. But in the end, we talked ourselves out of it. Too risky, we sensibly concluded. Too much to lose. In a sense, though, Jane’s innocence had already been lost. The thought of her in bed with another man might still be uncomfortable, but it was no longer unthinkable.

But this all had happened months before the party. Like rational adults, we had discussed swapping partners and in the end had decided against it. We had a deal. But on New Year’s Eve 1974 it was a deal that Jane and Danny seemed to have forgotten all about. I caught a glimpse of them slipping upstairs just after eleven thirty. Not together of course. There was a decent interval, ten seconds or so, for the sake of appearances.

It was a complete fluke that I saw them, though at the time I put it down to fate. The stairs were only visible from one corner of the lounge and that’s where I happened to be dancing with Carla, my nose buried firmly in her neck. I came up for air and saw Jane picking her way through the people sitting on the stairs. But I thought nothing of it. After all, there was a queue for the downstairs toilet and the main bathroom was upstairs. So I buried myself in Carla’s neck again, only to be warned that people were looking and we should cool it for a while. That was when I looked up again and saw Danny making his way up the stairs. Even though I’d been drinking hard all night, I instantly made the connection. There was something about the way the pair of them were walking, an air of suppressed intent they couldn’t disguise. Everyone else was a drunk as skunks but suddenly the two of them seemed very sober indeed.

It must have been about a minute before I could disengage myself from Carla and follow them. I checked the bathroom on the landing. It was locked. A neighbour of ours wandered out of the master bedroom in an alcoholic daze and told me there was an en- suite toilet in there I could use. I took a peek. The light was on and the bedroom was empty. Just then, the door to the bathroom on the landing opened and another guest who was worse for wear came out. But it wasn’t Jane and it wasn’t Danny.

That left three more bedrooms. Jane and I were godparents to the youngest of Danny and Carla’s two daughters and I was familiar enough with the house to know that the smallest bedroom was used as a junk room. The girls slept in the other two. Except that tonight they were sleeping over at their grandparents. Both doors were shut and no light was visible from under either of them. The cold green serpents were turning in my bowels again, and I could feel my scrotum tighten, my penis shrink to nothing. My mouth was as dry as sand, even though I’d hardly stopped drinking all evening.

I forced myself to concentrate, tried to will the alcohol out of my bloodstream. Which one would I use, if I’d brought Carla up here? The bedroom opposite the bathroom was the biggest, I could remember that much. But it was also the most obvious. It was not a door that two married people could slip in and out of unnoticed. The other, smaller bedroom was along an unlit corridor, opposite the junk room and out of sight of the landing. That was where he’d taken her. That’s where I’d have taken his wife, given half a chance. There was still time. Two or three short, sharp taps would do it. There’d be no need to say anything. Which was just as well, as I don’t think I could have trusted myself to speak.

Funny, the things you can remember when you put your mind to it. I know I raised my hand and curled my knuckles into a fist, ready to knock on the door. I’m pretty sure the stereo downstairs was playing Jeff Beck’s “Hi, Ho Silver Lining” and everyone was singing along to it. And I definitely remember the way the cold snakes down below started turning into soft, familiar threads of pure, perverse pleasure.

I could let it happen. I could become a cuckold. This was no unplanned impulse on Jane and Danny’s part or sudden whimsy on mine. This was our destiny. They wanted it to happen. I wanted it to happen. If they didn’t do it here and now they would only do it somewhere else – and soon. Jane was on the pill. It would do her good to have a fling, to get it off her chest. It would do me good, too – get the deed over and done with instead of just thinking about it all the time. Yes, I could do nothing. I could – I should – just let it happen.

But that was monstrous! My Jane had never been with anyone else, never wanted anyone but me. She was mine. Why was I even thinking about this? And yet, I wanted it to happen. Not for the pleasure, but for the pain. Not for Jane’s sake but for mine. I could scarcely believe it, but I was actually contemplating letting my best friend fuck my wife.

And that, gentlemen, is exactly what I did.

Being cuckolded is a most private, painful pleasure; one that it is best not to question or probe too deeply. But oh, the exquisite agony and torment of those next few minutes! The unbearable uncertainty of not knowing what was happening behind that door! Never before or since have I experienced such an elemental, raging maelstrom of emotions. I wanted to smash down the door and tear this imposter off my wife, rip off his big cock and stick it up his arse. Instead, I let him have her.

I remember a brief pause in the music, while some drunk downstairs tried to change records. And I remember twisting my head and pushing it up against the door, until my ear was flat against the panel. And in that precious quiet spell, I remember hearing the muffled but unmistakable sounds of passion in the room. Close, personal, intimate sounds. Sighs and whispers as open, hungry mouths sought each other in the dark, as trembling fingers untied knots, fumbled with buckles and belts and undid buttons. Soft endearments as straps dropped away, zips opened and clips parted. Low baritone groans as thin black silk gave up its secrets and hands like shovels scooped up jiggling, pointed breasts. Lighter, softer cries of pleasure when other, smaller hands gripped straining cotton and suddenly filled with solid unfamiliar flesh. Creaking joints from a little girl’s bed as her father and god-mother prepared to lock burning bodies in sweet conspiracy. A shoe hit the floor. Then another.

I remember checking my watch, one of those early LED models that glowed in the dark. Eleven forty something. Was this the moment that Jane’s slim legs parted in sweet submission, brazenly offering the forbidden treasures above to eager hands? Was it now that my treacherous surrogate first found the creamy skin above her stocking-tops? Had his fingers yet reached the smooth curves of her mound, the plump prize that so swelled and stretched the taut silk of her panties? Had he found how moist, how ready she was for him under the thin material? Had the damp elastic yielded to his fingers, had he felt the hot wet curls within? Were they already slick with the thick fragrant cream of her longing? I will never know. The music started up again and the softer sounds were lost.

But when the moment came, I heard it, I’m sure of that. Jane always gave a deep, drawn-out sigh of contentment when she was entered. It was practically her trademark. But that night it was almost as if she knew I was listening at the door and when it came, it seemed more like a long wail of pleasure made for my benefit. I wasn’t as surprised as she obviously was. I’d seen Danny in the showers, remember, knew what she had coming. Eight seconds, that sound must have lasted. An inch a second, by my reckoning. Big Danny was obviously being considerate to the small, delicate woman beneath him, giving her the full length slowly, but forcing every ounce of breath out her as he did so. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck bristled in horror as the awful significance of that noise sank in. It was too late to knock now. One inch or eight inches, it was all the same. The deed had been done.

I wish I could say I enjoyed receiving my cuckold’s horns, but the fact is, I didn’t. My head instantly bowed under their weight. It’s tempting to lie, to tell you how my manhood magically returned, but there was no erection; if anything my penis became even smaller. So there was no question of timing my orgasm to match theirs. Oh yes, I’m sure they had one. The truth is that I simply couldn’t bear listening at the door any longer. It was just too agonizing. I had discovered the cuckold’s dilemma, that – as every wannabe wife-watcher will discover for themselves – there’s a disappointing and usually painful gap between fantasy and reality. And the reality that night was that suddenly I felt weak and sick. Instead of listening to Jane and Danny taking their pleasures, I slunk away from the door, threaded my way downstairs, rushed outside and threw up in the flower-beds.

So how come I’m so sure that not only was the deed done, but that it was taken to its full conclusion? Simple. Carla saw my obvious distress and despite the cold, followed me into the garden. She was great. She helped me while I vomited, held me when I cried, asked me time and again what was wrong. And stormed upstairs the moment I told her.

I don’t need to fantasize about the sight that met her eyes when she burst in on Jane and Danny, because Carla gave me a graphic account of it. In fact, she gave the whole party one. My misery was not yet over. My cuckolding might have been completed, but my humiliation was just beginning.

Carla was half Italian and had a passionate, volatile nature at the best of times. It was one of her main attractions. But she also had a truly spectacular temper, which wasn’t. Discovering that her husband had just screwed her best friend in his own daughter’s bed brought out what you might call the Latin side of her. Add half a bottle of vodka to the equation and you can imagine the scene.

The dirty, cheating no-good bastard’s just got off the fucking whore! she informed the entire party at a hundred decibels. Their faces said it all, she screamed. But since the guests had missed the moment, Carla gave them the details anyway.

I learned, along with about fifty or sixty friends, that my wife had been discovered on her god-daughter’s bed, stark naked apart from her hold-up stockings and a black velvet choker. Oh and a black silk belt around her waist which subsequently turned out to be her new party dress. When the light had snapped on, the fucking whore had, by all accounts, been found with spread her legs wide enough to give birth to a London bus, while she attempted to extract, with the help of Danny’s handkerchief, the damning evidence of her obviously lavish insemination. He, ever the gentleman, had been discovered wiping his wilting cock on her tiny silk briefs.

This high-decibel and extraordinarily explicit account of the facts, together with the subsequent lively exchange of views it inspired, provided the guests, indeed the whole neighborhood, with an unusual and highly entertaining end to 1974. At last, to a chorus of drunken cheers and a not ungenerous round of applause, my blushing wife came downstairs with as much dignity as she could muster. Which, given the circumstances, was not a lot. I grabbed our coats and we fled the party to a spirited rendition of Auld Lang Syne. Jane still minus her panties and me sporting a brand new and highly visible pair of horns.

Strangely enough, Jane and I didn’t just survive as a couple, we went on to thrive as one, though we left the area soon after, much to the relief of our friends. There was, as you might imagine, some repair work to do, but gradually, then with growing enthusiasm, we explored the pain and pleasures of that night and eventually became serial adulterers, Jane honestly and openly for my benefit, me rather less so for hers.

These days, our two children have grown up and have partners of their own. I can only hope and pray that when they break their wedding vows, as they surely will, they will do so a little less publicly than their mother did. Jane, by the way, has aged amazingly well. She looks a lot nearer to thirty five than fifty three. Must be all the protein she’s swallowed since that night, I’ve often thought.

And despite a few ups and downs, we’re still very happily married. In fact, in a month’s time we shall be celebrating our thirty-third wedding anniversary. Jane’s present will be another silk dress for her collection whilst I will probably get another pair of horns for mine. These days, however, we tend not to use loud, packed, drunken parties to explore the darker side of our desires, preferring instead a quiet dinner for two in a discreet hotel many miles from home.

On such occasions, if the mood takes us, it’s not unknown for Jane to strike up a conversation with a lone, lucky man at the bar, while I make a phone call. When I return we might even invite him to join us at our table for a drink. After all, hotels are full of hopefuls in midweek. And if the man of our choice seems suitable, well, the invitation will almost certainly be extended to a trip back to our room. And if, as it has on many occasions, human nature takes it’s course and I end up receiving a brand new pair of horns while Jane loses yet another pair of tiny silk briefs to a stranger, you can be sure that I will most definitely not be outside listening at the door. Or that every little detail will be broadcast to our friends.

Even private, painful pleasures should be shared. But three’s quite enough, thank you.

the end


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