Three different authors, each linked by the common-denominator of a gift for the erotic cuckold fiction story, can now be found together in the first volume of Femdom Cave’s collection of Cuckold tales.
Xavier Couperin, author of the massively popular “One-Way-Marriage” kick-starts proceedings with his tale of a respected wife, librarian and mother in a middle-England village whose sex-drive suddenly kicks into gear… With dire results for the husband she now regards as beta and incapable of satisfying her needs.
Anise Pemberton, is up next with yet another popular work of cuckold fiction to be found on the Cave titled: “The Spiral She Led Me Down”; but there are no respectable wives to be found here, at least below the surface, as three formerly downtrodden wives turn their lives and relationships around with the help of a powerful black business man and his even more powerful wife and daughters.
Your collected stories of cuckold fiction take a more classical, if no less erotic, turn with one of Sandrine Bessancort’s wonderful re-imaginings of classical literature and a tale adapted from the master of the decadent and erotic himself, Guy de Maupassant, to show how an arrogant and self-absorbed French Comte is both cuckolded and utterly mastered by the wife he has neglected.
The Cuckold Collection
Three Cuckolding Tales in One Volume
“A Very English Cuckold”
To say it was difficult for him would be to deliver a massive understatement.
Wanting nothing more than for his own arousal and need to find fulfilment, the breathing of the woman he loved was becoming shallow in a way that heightened his own need for release and the stream of endearments leaving her lips in a raspy rush warned him her first orgasm of the evening was imminent.
She had transformed into a wholly sexual animal of late and what he had once described as lovemaking had become for her something primal and visceral in which love itself played no apparent part.
This was about the satisfying of lust and nothing else.
It was obvious to him that the satisfaction she sought was making its arrival with a rush and a familiar thought added itself to the confusion of emotions swirling inside his head.
If only it could have been him providing her with the release she sought.
Patrick Statham could see the sheen of perspiration forming on her forehead and looked on with a feeling of the deepest humiliation and a sense of equally powerful frustration as his body responded against his wishes to the sight of his wife being taken in front of him and the cock she now referred to as “Mr Tiny” attempted to grow in the metal cage she had insisted he wear since the… thing… had entered their home to take over those duties that were rightfully his and once had been.
Not for the first time in the previous two months, he was being forced to look on as his wife received the drilling of her life from the abomination of nature that had not just come into their lives but taken them over – his anyway – in the most demeaning and abject of ways. Worse, was the enjoyment his wife took from the subjugation of her own husband at the hands, feet and cock of the monster she was responsible for installing in their home. Pleasure at the treatment he was enduring that was detailed in the diary he had recently stumbled upon that she had started keeping shortly after the change in their marriage; entries he appraised himself of secretly, if not without much personal pain, when she and the monster were out of the house and he could take it from its hiding-place without fear of discovery.
Suddenly, without warning, she screamed and Patrick knew she was on the verge.
Desperate to go to her, that he might gain some small crumb of affection and knowing how pathetic such a reaction was under the circumstances and her treatment of him, he nonetheless remained kneeling in the corner that had been assigned as his spot and to which he had been directed upon entering; terrified to do anything else with the memory of the treatment he received at the hands – and cock – of the “Creature” the last time he disobeyed instructions.
“Terry!” she screamed, the name provoking the usual and, it seemed, ever-evolving revulsion and fear for the lover who controlled him so effortlessly
He had heard it said that the meaner the master the more fervently a dog abased itself before him or her, and now, as his eyes began to leak and his treacherous cock tried to defy the metal of the cage in which they had both taken such pleasure in confining him, he realised the master he had once loved as a wife and, incredibly, still did was ready to cum as she screamed out the hated name once again.
“The Spiral She Led Him Down”
Life had not always been so good.
So Corinne Beswick mused as she relaxed on the sofa lapped in indolence; her every reasonable and achievable desire catered to by the handsome older man on the carpet before her.
A handsome man whose attention was concentrated on the slender foot resting in his lap, its unblemished and smooth whiteness standing out starkly against the navy apron she insisted he wear when performing his chores. His eyes seldom rising above calf level as he squatted on his haunches and prepared to provide her with the kind of meticulous pedicure she insisted upon and he had been trained to deliver.
That she had “Trained” him at all something she could still be surprised by whenever she took time out to consider it –which, seeing as how it gave her so much pleasure- was often. Her domestication of him something she could still marvel at no matter how numerous the examples he provided of her success on a daily basis.
At just over six-feet tall, he was not only handsome but stood over a foot above her diminutive, if Junoesque, body.
At forty-four years of age, he was not only her husband but her senior by some ten years.
Facts, when she considered them, which did nothing to diminish her sense of achievement and when he did, she was certain, nothing to lessen his shame and outrage.
The clock above the fireplace facing her was saying almost seven-thirty and, with some satisfaction, she realised her day until then had been filled with nothing but pleasure.
A far cry from the deadly dull round of routine and mundane tasks it had been not too long before.
Waking naturally at ten and served breakfast by that same husband whose eyes were currently fixated upon a bottle of flaming red nail varnish and the perfectly shaped nails of her foot to which he was about to apply it; she had taken a leisurely shower before meeting her friends at the Bluewater Mall and spending the next few hours shopping, drinking coffee and gossiping.
After that, it had been back home for a nap before being gently roused from her slumbers by her attentive spouse, this time bearing a tray with a light snack which she picked at before sauntering downstairs for a little TV and some catch-up phone calls.
Her pleasure, she acknowledged to herself, undiminished by the satisfaction she took in having mapped out such a day of humiliating and unmanly drudgery for her husband.
“Have you finished all your chores?” she asked the top of his head as he applied the brush to her big toe with painstaking delicacy, preferring the sightless digits of her foot to the twenty/twenty and the constant mockery he knew awaited him above them.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.
Though his eyes did not move from the foot in his lap and his tone was deferential, she was not fooled in the least; aware as she was that he hated her with a fire raging beyond uncomplicated passion that would burn as long as he had a memory to recall the level to which she had reduced him.
In fact, it was his inability to extricate himself from the hell she had fashioned for him that ensured his hatred remained at a white-hot intensity; while giving her ample opportunities to twist the knife in the wound she herself had opened.
An ongoing process that kept him firmly in his place and provided her with much entertainment as she implemented it.
His suffering something from which she knew she would never tire.
“You are no longer a man I know or wish to know and I tell you once more, that I will never have anything to do with you in… that… way again.”
The words intended to break his silence had barely reached his throat when she underlined her intent:
Though she had indeed sworn as much to him, the Comte, whose upbringing could not be said to have made him mindful of such intentions on the part of others – especially those less exalted in either rank or class; just as she had been until raised by marriage to him – was decidedly puzzled. As well as more than a little angry. He had, after all, convinced himself that no more than a warm disposition towards her on his part and some few words of less than sincere contrition would be all that were required to close the distance between them.
Until such time, of course, that he was of a mind to widen it once again.
The elements of bafflement and temper, when mixed, ensuring his violent nature would gain the upper hand.
“What do you mean by that?” he exclaimed in a tone that betrayed more of the brutal master with whom the servants had become familiar than the lover once similarly well-known to her.
She replied in a low but no less dangerous voice; low that the servants might not hear amid the deafening noise of the wheels but loud enough that he could not mistake her intent:
“What do I mean by that? You, of all people ask a question that would appear obvious to the most simple of dullards?”
He bit back on anger only his restored passion for his wife held in check.
“But of course,” she mocked, “now I recognize you again! You are the husband who grew tired of me and ensured I sought my… pleasures… elsewhere.”
This took a few moments to sink in – the Comte, as we have said, being somewhat unobservant and, in common with most people for whom life has not just been presented on a plate but prepared by the most diligent of cooks, slow on the uptake in regard of the feelings and the words with which they were expressed of others.
This time, however, what had been said, and one word in particular, did penetrate.
“What?” he exploded, eyes taking in both footman and driver to make sure their words were not being overheard and only trusting himself to reply when he assured himself their conversation was made secret by the sound of wheels over earth and the usual and competing noises of a Victoria in motion.
His voice when he spoke next was equally as low as that of his wife and equally, if not more, dangerous:
“What exactly, Madame, do you mean by: ‘pleasures’?
His manner, dangerous or otherwise, seemed not to concern her in the slightest.
“Do you want me to tell everything?” she asked, eyes scornful of his attempt to intimidate.
“Unless you wish it wrung from your faithless little neck,” he assured her.
Nothing could have underlined her lack of fear for the man next to her more than the tinkling and musical little laugh with which she derided his threat.
“But surely you do not wish to hear of my… adventures,” she chided him. “A man of your position? It must be obvious, even to you, that the best kept secrets are those trusted to the fewest confidantes. Think of the face you would lose were it to somehow become common knowledge and that society you keep and hold so dear were to discover the society kept and enjoyed by your wife.”
Again that musical and mocking laugh made common cause with the clatter of the Victoria to add a more… infuriating… sound to those already reverberating against his eardrums.
A din that could not prevent him from hearing the blood as it started to boil in his veins.