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Subject: {ASSM} A Most Private and Painful Pleasure {David Cook} (cuckold slutwife)
Date: Sat, 21 Dec 2002 09:10:03 -0500
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"A Most Private and Painful Pleasure" 
     by David Cook


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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