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Author’s Note: Followers may recognize the Randy character from my earlier story, Interview With The Bimbo. This story is completely standalone, sharing only the same narrator.
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When Mary texted me asking if I was free for a call, it was a bit strange. We had messaged on occasion, but I don’t think we had spoken once since meeting a few months ago at a party. At the time, I was happy to exchange numbers with her. She seemed interesting, even if any relationship we might build would likely be platonic. Not that she wasn’t attractive, but we weren’t exactly in the same place in terms of our interests. She struck me as a good Catholic girl who just never rebelled. And me, well… I had broken from conventional attitudes a long time ago. At any rate, I liked chatting with her, so I replied with a ‘how about now’?
Thirty seconds later my phone rang.
“Hey Mary, what’s up?” I answered.
“Hi Randy… I know this is going to sound weird, but I met someone last night I think you might be interested in talking to.”
This was indeed sounding weird. Was Mary trying to set me up with someone?
“Really?” I replied, sounding interested, even if for the wrong reason.
“Yeah, this guy is into the kind of stuff you write about, but I think he’s somewhat of a rare bird, from what I understand of the species.”
Now I was getting interested for her reason. I had told Mary I was a Literotica author, but I got the impression her awareness of… let’s say alternative lifestyles, wasn’t all that wide-ranging.
“What species are we talking about, Mary?”
“Cuckolds.”
She spoke the word in a muted voice, as if afraid someone would overhear her. I was dumbstruck for a beat, suddenly re-ordering my thing to the possibility that my assessment of Mary might have been off the mark.
“So, you’re saying this man you met is a cuckold?”
“Yes, he is. But that’s not the interesting part – I mean, the part that might be interesting to you. I remember you told me you like to write about people who are a little different, or unusual for some reason. I did a little research last night, and he seems different from most of the stereotypes I keep finding online.”
“Go on…” she had the hook firmly set and I wasn’t about to put up a fight.
“Well, aren’t… cuckolds… usually rather slight, ineffective men with an obsequious nature?”
“That is the stereotype, along with modestly endowed; but as with all stereotypes, there are exceptions. The world is, after all, a very big place, and it does take all kinds.”
“Okay, but what about a 6-foot 3-inch Adonis of lean sculpted muscle with a chiseled jawline, dreamy eyes and a captivating smile that projects confidence?”
“You got me.” I confessed. “That does sound like a rare bird. I’d like to hear more. Can we get together and talk soon… maybe grab lunch?”
I wasn’t convinced this cuckold would interest me enough to base a story on, but the chance to have a conversation with Mary about the subject was intriguing. We agreed on a diner midway between our workplaces and met up the following day.
After joining Mary in a corner booth and ordering, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I leaned across the table and with a conspiratorial half-whisper, said
“Alright, now tell me all about this guy, let’s start with his name.”
“His name is Eric” she said, and I noted a brief sparkle of something pleasant flitted across her face.
“Eric, okay. And how did you meet?” I asked.
“At a happy hour with some of my workmates. One of them invited him to join and we just started talking.”
“So, how does something like that come up in casual conversation. I’m guessing he didn’t just come out and volunteer that he was a cuckold.”
“Not exactly, but that’s actually pretty close.” she said, looking like the cat who ate the canary.
“Alright, sounds like you’ve got a story. Care to share it?” I prodded.
“Okay, so a group of us were talking for a while at the same table, and Eric and I just started talking to each other more than the others. People started leaving, and the two of us just found ourselves more-or-less alone, eventually. I guess I noticed it right around the time Eric did, because right out of the blue, he says,
‘I’m sorry, I probably should have said something sooner, but whenever I find myself in a situation like this, I’m required to tell you that I have a small penis.’
Well, you can imagine my surprise! Shock, really. For some reason, my first reaction was, what does that mean… ‘a situation like this’? A split second later, the reality of the second part hit me. I’m sure my mouth fell open, but that was all I could manage at first. When my brain caught up, I laughed out loud and said,
‘Really! Required? Who requires you to tell me that?’
And he says, ‘My wife.’
‘Wow.’ I said. ‘Why on earth would she want you to do that?’
And then he bursa escort launches into this whole diatribe. I can’t remember everything he said, but it went something like this…
‘Because she says it’s wrong to deceive people, trying to pass myself off as a man, like any other. She says when a woman is possessed of physical features that make her sexually undesirable, it’s readily apparent to everyone. She can de-emphasize, distract, but she can’t completely hide it, try as she might. My wife says it’s not fair that guys like me can get away with pretending to be something I’m not, and present myself to others that way. Since societal norms don’t allow guys to dress in a way that reveals their endowments, she says they should have to volunteer that information to anyone who takes an interest, to avoid wasting their time.’
I tell him ‘Well, that’s quite a perspective your wife has, but I’ll be the judge of whether I’m wasting my time.’
Then I had to ask about the other part.
‘So…’ I said, ‘how small is small?’
‘Disappointingly small. Embarrassingly small.’ he answered.
‘Oooo… now I wanna see it! Are you allowed to show me?’
He suddenly looked worried, and maybe a little embarrassed.
‘I don’t know.’ he said, ‘No one’s ever asked.’
‘Is your wife here?’
‘No.’ he says, and now he’s looking worried.
‘Call her and let me talk to her.’
At that point I had a brief but lovely conversation with Heather, Eric’s wife. I was able to obtain her permission to put her husband in touch with you. So, what do you think?”
“I think I’d love to interview Eric. But first, I want to know if you obtained any other permissions from Lady Heather… hmmm?”
Mary’s blush told me all I needed to know; she had at least asked the question, revealing an adventurous side I hadn’t expected.
“Well, I might have received certain assurances that Eric wouldn’t get in trouble if a strange woman ‘forced him’ to provide proof of his circumstance.”
“Mary O’Connell, I’m beginning to think I had you all wrong! Are you a naughty girl?”
Given our relationship to date, it was a preposterous thing for me to say to her, but my playful demeanor helped sell it. It’s tough to be mad at a guy who’s just trying to play. To my complete surprise though, she blushed so intensely it left no doubt she was genuine. She really was new at this, and she appeared to be pushing some sort of personal boundary.
As the blush drained from her face, she visibly gathered herself and adopted a neutral countenance. I had to accept that I had gone too far, although I knew she had gotten some enjoyment out of it. She just didn’t want to admit it that to me.
Mary gave me Eric’s contact info, and we enjoyed the rest of our lunch over more trivial conversation. I had no clue how Mary was feeling about what she just shared, but it had me mentally sidetracked enough to forget most of what was said afterward.
Over the next few days, Eric and I traded text messages and agreed to meet up and chat. I made it clear that my interest in him was strictly to obtain writing material. We met in a park I knew well, where there are normally plenty of empty benches scattered along a popular walking/jogging path. I like to choose meet places that are public, with plenty of people around. It’s safe and puts everyone at ease. A bench like this was ideal, since the people were all just passing by, and none remained in earshot for more than a few seconds.
After some small talk about the day and the beauty of the park, I launched into a brief explainer on the way I operate, with an emphasis on how my interview subjects retain control over the degree to which I use anything they tell me. There are no forms to sign, but I do what I can to ease any privacy concerns. I want them to feel relaxed enough to share intimate details of their life with a stranger. It takes longer with some than others. With Eric it was quick, so I moved straight to the meat of things.
“So, Eric… the way you revealed yourself to my friend Mary at the bar… is that something you’ve done before?”
“Yes, I’ve had to say that several times now to different women, and to one man.”
He was so matter-of-fact with his answer, I was skeptical whether he’d be able to open up with me to any meaningful degree.
“Hmmm. And how does that usually play out? I mean, are the reactions usually favorable?”
“They pretty much run the gamut. A couple women took offense, but frankly, most are at least curious. A few have given me their number; and one, my wife even invited to our house to play.”
“Is that the ultimate goal? Are you essentially out trolling on your own, looking for potential partners for threesomes?”
“I’m just doing what my wife requires of me. She doesn’t explain herself to me and it’s not my place to ask.”
“Well, she certainly has you well trained. May I ask if she has you in chastity?”
“You may. I have been instructed to cooperate fully with bursa eskort you, so long as I only talk about myself and use common sense about what I divulge.”
I found it refreshing to meet a cuckold who retained the ability to fend for himself in social situations, while being so completely submissive to his wife, both inside and outside the bedroom. I was also impressed with a wife who let her cuckold off-leash so confidently, when he was so obviously attractive. He delivered his answer without a trace of embarrassment.
“I am not wearing a cage, and I have only been required to on rare occasions, as punishment.”
Since his wife had essentially given me free reign, I tossed aside all diplomacy and asked,
“Are you allowed to masturbate whenever you want?”
He glanced quickly over at me, and I wondered if he was about to get shy on me, when I was distracted by an attractive jogger passing by for her second lap of the long, looping path. I had become increasingly aware of the reactions of the women who passed us while we talked on the bench. Each would look at Eric at least once, and all had a favorable reaction. Of course, those who walked by had the most time to stare, and many of the walkers were up in years. These older women tended to look upon Eric with a wistful appreciation, usually culminating in a smile they might or might not try to hide. The joggers tended to be younger, but their brisk passage didn’t preclude the opportunity to glance and register whatever it was that he was projecting. These fit young women displayed varying degrees of positive interest, ranging from approval to downright hunger.
My first impression of Eric had been that he was handsome; inarguably an attractive human being, regardless of one’s sexual preference. But there was clearly something about him that I had missed at first glance. He finally overcame the emotions that my highly personal inquiry had stirred up, and delivered his well-considered answer.
“I am only allowed to masturbate in front of my wife, with her permission. She would be highly disappointed with me if I failed her in that regard, so I will not.”
It was a simple statement of fact delivered as such, and I didn’t doubt it for a moment. In fact, I admired the degree of will-power.
“I notice you never refer to your wife by name, even though you are aware I know her name. Why is that?”
“I would never use that name. Names are for equals, and I’m not her equal, I’m inferior. She doesn’t often treat me like one, but I know that’s what I am.”
“So, what do you call her when you two are alone together?”
He shot another glance at me, and for a moment I became afraid, suddenly aware that this man had 3 inches and 40 pounds on me, not to mention 15 to 20 years.
“I don’t feel comfortable talking about my… wife… like that with you.”
He had caught himself just before revealing something, and it seemed to close him right up. I needed to get his guard back down, so I asked him about his success with women, noting the obvious attraction I had witnessed on those passing by. Once the topic became strictly him again, he immediately relaxed and launched into a story.
“It started when I was in high school. I went through the worst of puberty over a single summer, so the girls in my grade didn’t see me at my most awkward, when my voice was cracking and my face hosted more pimples than I could keep up with. The following fall, I felt like an exchange student in my own school. Sure, everyone still knew who I was, but they all regarded me differently. The few guys I was friends with were still cool, but all the others either regarded me with jealousy or aggression. The girls though, they were all the same. Some were more shy than others, but they all seemed unusually happy to be around me, inviting me to accompany them wherever they went and just generally spend time together. It couldn’t help but build my confidence, which in turn made me even more attractive to the girls. After I graduated there were lots of women, and they all seemed to enjoy being with me, even if they all eventually left for… greener pastures. That is, until I met my wife.”
I knew that was the end of that story, at least under his current constraints, so I decided to ask about his pre-pubescent years.
“With all that success with women, what made you become a cuckold? Do you think there was anything in the way you were raised that made you want to be submissive with your wife?”
Now the look I got was vulnerable, almost if he were saying, please don’t make me talk about that. I held my tongue, letting the silence work on him. I wasn’t making him tell, his wife was.
“I was the youngest child of a single mother, who already had three girls. Mom was used to raising girls, so she treated me the same as them. If it would have been just her, I may have ended up being some kind of sissy, I don’t know. But growing up with three older sisters made it tough. Kids can be mean, you know? They were bigger than me, stronger. They did things to me…”
He was deep into his memories now, and I didn’t wnat to intrude with questions. I just waited until he was ready.
My oldest sister, Becky, was the strongest, and she loved to wrestle me. She’d get me in a humiliating position, force me to surrender. It wasn’t long before crying ‘uncle’ wasn’t enough. She’d put me in a headlock and make me do things like smell her armpit, or her stinky shoes. My middle sister, Linda, would tickle me mercilessly. She was relentless, my stomach muscles would often be sore from laughing. But it was my little sister who was the most aggressive. One of her favorite things was to pin me down flat on my back and hover her face over mine, then slowly drool spit onto me, coating my tightly closed lips. Eventually she figured out that if she could make me scream or laugh, she could force my lips to part. Later, after my older sisters went away to college, I was alone with her. She was still older than me by enough to physically dominate me, but by then, I don’t think I even resisted her that much. She got me to do things like foot worship. It was all very innocent on her part — never anything sexual. Still, when I think back to those times, it now seems like there were undertones to it all.”
I got the distinct impression there was more to that story, but suspecting there may also be landmines, I backed off. His story was rich, but I was feeling blocked; and most of it was due to the tight grip Heather had on his balls. I wanted to get to know her, maybe learn how she saw into him when no one else did. Plus, I thought, a woman who could engender such devotion in an acolyte must be extraordinary.
I decided to go for broke and push for a joint interview with the two of them. Eric was completely non-committal in reply, promising only to convey my request to his wife.
By the time she agreed and we were able to synch our schedules, I had freed up my brain’s short-term memory via keyboard download to my writing/ideas file. With my best accounting of what I’d been told now documented, I was confident that at least a few snippets would eventually find their way into one of my stories. I spent the remainder of the time anticipating the emotional riches waiting to be mined.
It was Heather’s stated preference to meet at their place, or as she put it, “her place”. It suited me perfectly, once again with an eye toward putting my subjects at ease. When Eric let me in, it felt very normal, like a couple entertaining a new acquaintance. I had mentally prepared myself for anything, up to and including a naked Eric answering the doorbell. I was shown to the living room, where Heather awaited me, comfortably seated. She beckoned me to join her, and we all took our places in a cozy conversation pit that looked perfect for the occasion.
Even though Eric had already heard my basic assurances, I felt the need to go over it again for Heather.
“As you know, I write erotic short stories, and I’m talking with you in the hopes of obtaining material. Let me start by explaining a little about how I work, and how I might use your story. I like to get people to tell me their stories. I find that immersing myself in the mindset of my characters helps me identify with them. Very rarely do I write these stories exactly the way they are told to me, and sometimes I alter events radically, or use separate scenes across multiple stories. Names and descriptions are commonly changed. Sometimes I’ll embellish activities to the point where the original participants don’t even recognize the scenes. What I do preserve are the emotions. That’s what I’m really after — the way you felt about things and why, why you did the things you did, how you coped. Those are the things that I want to capture and understand. Does that make sense?”
They both nodded and murmured their understanding. When no questions followed, I proceeded.
“Alright Eric,” I opened, “how about we begin with the story of how you became a cuckold.”
Eric looked at Heather, who gave the subtlest of nods, which was all he needed to launch into the story. A story which, oddly, he started telling to her.
“I remember that moment well. In fact, I replayed it in my head so many times I memorized it. It happened after a night of hard partying. I had made a beer run at one point, and when I returned, you were acting all weird, and I couldn’t figure out why. I was sure you wanted to tell me something, yet I couldn’t get it out of you. It was like you were brimming over with news, but couldn’t speak. It wasn’t until the next morning that I found out why. We were at the breakfast table when you finally got the courage to tell me. You said,
‘I need to tell you something. When you left me alone yesterday with your friend, he showed me his cock.’
‘What!’
I was floored. I didn’t know what to say.
‘I’m sorry, baby.’
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything with him, did you?”
‘No.’
‘Alright, then he’s the one I’m upset with, not you. Why are you sorry?’
‘Because he made me tell you. He said, ‘if you want it that bad, I’ll give it to you. But you have to tell your husband first. Tell him everything you just told me.”
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