Obedient Sissy Cuckold! By Throne (17 Pages) (Patreon)

Obedient Sissy Cuckold!

By Throne

© 2019-2020 QoS Comix All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to ​Devinwhitegurl@gmail.com 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

***DEVIN DICKIE NOTE***

All characters are OVER 18 years of AGE! This is a bullying fantasy and not real.  The acts in the following written work are only consensual  sexual choices and fantasy humiliation scenarios.

Bullying is NOT OKAY and If you or someone you know is being bullied, please alert the authorities. 

OBEDIENT SISSY CUCKOLD

by Throne

I was wearing a little-girl style dress with capped sleeves, short arms, a wide cloth belt, and full skirt.  It was yellow, with a design of green leaves and red roses.  Along with that I wore knee socks and Mary Jane shoes.  My wife Sylvie stood in front of me, checking everything.  She reached out and straightened my wig, which was a mass of golden curls that fell to my shoulders.  Then she stepped back for another look.  With her hands on her wide hips and a serious look on her mature face, she was an imposing sight.  I'm short and Sylvie is tall.  I'm a few pounds overweight but she is portly, with much of her weight distributed to full curves.  She usually wears her long black hair pulled back and put into a tight bun.  To anyone else she resembles a stern, middle-aged businesswoman.  To me see looks like what she is, the woman who rules my life and keeps me in full sissy mode.

"Not bad," she offered.  "Now let's give you just a touch of make-up."

That made me shudder.  When she suggested she wasn't going to apply much, that usually meant she was going to put on a lot.  It was one of those moments she set up when I could object, if I dared.  I knew that she was likely to prevail, and yet I often couldn't control my reaction.  This was one of those occasions.

"But dearest," I said in my usual wispy, high pitched voice, the one she required me to use around the house.  "I could just do that myself and..."

"Regina," she cut me off.  Of course she didn't use my male name, which is Reggie.  "Do you think that would be wise?  You know Mr. Overhand is coming to visit me.  And that he doesn't like there to be two male presences in the house when he's here.  So if you were to do a poor job of making yourself look girly, well, you remember what happened last time."

I lowered my eyes and admitted, "I do."

"Why don't you say out loud what it was?  That tends to reinforce the lesson."

My cheeks grew warm and I knew I was blushing.  "Barton, I mean Mr. Overhand, had to put me across his lap, pull down my panties, and spank my bottom."  Sylvie was waiting for more so I went on.  "He swatted my fanny so hard that I started to cry.  And then I couldn't stop."  I bit my lower lip.  This part was difficult.  "And when he stood me back up on my feet I had a... a stiff wee wee."

"Yes.  Your silly little dinky was all hard.  From being spanked.  By a big strong man."  She shook her head and sighed.  "Now do you want that to happen again tonight?"

"N... no, Momma."  I sometimes fell automatically into addressing her that way.  It was one more demonstration of my role as a sissy girl. 

She took me by the ear -- OW! -- and walked me across the room, to sit me in the white scroll-back chair at her vanity.  As my wife went to work on my face, she kept up a running commentary.

"You really should appreciate everything I've done for you, Regina.  When I caught you wearing my panties last year I didn't divorce you.  In fact, I started letting you indulge your perversion all the time.  So you had to be a girl in bed, naturally, with sweet nighties and matching panties.  But that meant you couldn't have sex like a man any longer, the way you were used to.  That's why I thoughtfully made you my male lesbian lover.  Taught you how to eat pussy, even though you insisted you didn't like doing it.  And because male responsibilities were obviously a strain on you, I generously decided to put all our assets into my name, so you wouldn't have to fret about money, the house, the car, credit cards or anything.  All I did was sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.  And are you grateful?  Sometimes I honestly doubt it."

All I could do was sit there, wisely keeping quiet.  She neglected to include the fact that my fantasy went only as far as putting on panties, stockings, and maybe a bra with stuffed cups.  Everything else she dressed me in was unwanted and calculated to humiliate.  At the same time, while I was thinking about how she had taken control of my life, I had to watch my face being done over, my male identity being submerged even further.  My eyebrows are shaved off  (besides which, all my body hair is permanently removed) and she drew on high arched ones.  Next she drew long lashes above and below my eyes, right on the skin.  Then came wide circles of rouge on my cheeks.  After that there was lipstick with liner around it, which left my mouth resembling a big pucker.  Sylvie put the tip of one finger to her chin as she considered her handiwork.

"It needs something else.  A finishing touch.  What do you think that should be, Regina?"

There were a few options.  Sylvie had gotten me a pair of owl-eyed glasses with thick lenses that distorted my vision.  Or there were plastic inserts I could cram into my mouth to give me bulging round cheeks.  Heavy removable braces for over my teeth.  She even had some injectable fluid (it wasn't considered important for me to know what it was) that would temporarily give me puffy lips. 

I was hoping for something less extreme, so I meekly suggested, "You could give me freckles."

"Hmmm.  Not a bad idea.  And I just got this."  She picked up a cosmetic marker.  "It's something new.  Put it on and it lasts for an entire week."

Oh no.  If she did that I would have to go out with big cartoon spots on my face.  It was bad enough already, never knowing what sort of eyebrows she would pencil in on any day.  But Sylvie loved to take me shopping with her.  I got to wear male clothes, but they were always too bright and too tight.  I've put on a few pounds since I passed my prime and she takes advantage of the fact that my bottom has gotten fuller and rounder.   In a pair of snug slacks, red or tan-bordering-on-flesh-tone, I'm quite a sight.  Walking through the mall alongside my taller wife, I always attract curious stares and hushed comments.  The freckles would only make that worse.  Downtown, when she takes me to the hip district, to stop into a shop that sells scandalous lingerie and even fetish-wear, she has me walk three steps behind her, which adds to my humiliation.  Plus, it makes me look longingly at her attractive protruding backside, that I'm never allowed to stroke or fondle. 

So there I sat as she put a half dozen spots on either side of my face.  Next she fluffed up my curls and securely pinned a tall, floppy pink bow to the top of the wig. 

Then she told me, "Mr. Overhand should be here in an hour or so.  Why don't you put yourself by the front door so you'll be ready to let him in?  Meanwhile, I'll make myself look the way Barton likes me.  You know.  For when we're doing grown-up things together."

I cringed at the reminder that the handsome dignified man was her lover.  Sylvie had reasonably pointed out that because I no longer qualified to have intercourse with her and she had natural needs, it was only logical that she should have a real male in her life.  My wife had emotionally bullied me into agreeing.  It's hard to fight back when you're wearing girl's shorty pajamas and oversized fuzzy slippers, there's a pacifier in your mouth (one on which the part you suck is a miniature penis), and you're carrying a stuffed rainbow unicorn.  So Mr. Overhand had come into her life.  She insisted that I wasn't mature enough to be left alone, so they would have to spend most of their time together right there, in our home.  Correction -- her home.  My name had been removed from the paperwork.  There were hints that they might go out at some point, if she could find a proper sitter to mind me.  I didn't like the sound of that. 

She handed me my purse, a pink, heart-shaped one on a long strap.  It's only big enough to hold a few items, which usually include lip gloss that I'm required to use frequently, phallic-shaped candy-on-a-stick she likes to see me suck on, a few coins to remind me that I never have more than a dollar to my name, and a decorative pill keeper with mints in it, so that I can take some 'calm-down medicine' whenever she declares that I've let myself get too upset.  I put the strap over my shoulder, thanked her in a nervous whisper, calling her Momma one more time, executed a deep curtsey, and went to post myself by the door, where I didn't want to be, with nothing to do but dread Mr. Overhand's arrival.

About three quarters of an hour later, Sylvie reappeared.  She had her dark hair down in a long ponytail.  Her face was made-up to retain her usual dignity while adding plenty of sensuality.   I ached to have my old sexual rights back, something I knew would never happen.  She was wearing a brief silk robe, decorated with curling Chinese dragons, red on a black background.  It was tied at the waist with a belt, but loosely enough that her deep cleavage was shown off.  In slow motion she undid the robe and parted it.  I got an eyeful of shiny pantyhose that were open at the crotch.  She turned on high-heeled slippers to raise her robe in the back to let me see that the pantyhose were open there, too. 

In an innocent voice she asked, "Do you think Barton will like me this way?"

I felt like I had swallowed my tongue.  With an effort I managed to choke our, still using my weak femme voice, "I'm sure he will."

She added, "And this robe is so easy for me to get out of," accompanied by a broad wink.  "Now let me scoot into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine.  When Barton gets here I'll make him a nice mixed drink.  The kind real men like.  And maybe you can have a juice box.  We'll see." 

Sylvie blew me a kiss and headed for the kitchen, her plump but shapely legs looking fantastic in those sleek pantyhose.  Because it had been a while since she granted me sexual release, my balls throbbed.  I stood there shifting my feet around, aware that she had intentionally bought my Mary Janes a size too small.  While my wife was still in the kitchen I heard the distinctive, throaty engine sound of Mr. Overhand's long, wide, expensive car, one with all the extra features.  He had made a fortune in investments and was happy to show off his wealth.  Moments later there was a loud knock on the door and I shyly opened it.  He stepped inside.  His custom-tailored suit didn't need any padding in the shoulders.  He kept himself in peak condition.  His face had aged well, the years translated into only slight lines and no signs of anything sagging.  He closed the door hard, yanking the knob out of my slender fingers. 

"Look at you," he said with obvious amusement.  "All dressed up for a sissy tea party."

I belatedly remembered to give him a curtsey.  That made him laugh out loud.  He grabbed at me and I squealed and stepped backward, almost losing my balance.  It had only been a feint, but I mistook it for the real thing and embarrassed myself further with that reaction.  He smirked at me and turned away, just as Sylvie entered the room, a stemmed glass full of white wine in her hand.  She bent from the waist to set the drink delicately on an end table and then the two lovers went to each other to embrace.   My wife tilted back her head and closed her eyes.  He gave her an unhurried kiss.  His hands ran down her back to cup her well padded buttocks.  It was weirdly erotic to see them like that, with him fully dressed and her close to naked, being so intimate. 

When their lips parted she said, "Sit down, sweetheart, while I get you a drink.  Your regular?"  He nodded and she went to prepare it. 

The confident man settled himself on the sofa and snapped his fingers at me, then pointed to the center of the room.  I went where he had indicated and waited for more instructions.  He held out his hand, index finger pointed downward, and rotated it.  I understood and revolved slowly in front of him, arms held out and wrists limp, my shoes pinching.  He nodded his approval and patted the spot alongside him.  With my nerves tingling I put myself where he wanted me.  His arm went across my narrow shoulders and his powerful hand squeezed my laughably undeveloped bicep.

"Now, Regina," he said, "I'm glad you're looking like such a total pansy.  I didn't want you even imagining that you're still a man, and it appears that you got my message.  But now there's a new problem."  He paused while I worried what that might be.  The seconds passed like minutes.  At last he continued, "You've turned yourself so feminine that your wife generously made you her lesbian love toy.  She tells me you've become a devoted pussy licker, even though you hate doing it.  So now I'm kind of jealous that you're so good in bed with her.  So I decided what we have to do is balance the scales, so to speak.  She and I talked about it and I'll let her tell you what we decided."

Oh no.  One more thing to agonize over.  And I had to wait to learn the details.  Would it involve some new form of punishment?  Or maybe just more spanking?

Sylvie returned with his drink.  She retrieved her glass on the way across the room, passed his to him, and motioned for me to move away.  I hurried to put myself back in the center of the room.  I'm not supposed to be at a higher elevation than them, which meant I had to kneel down.  She took my spot and then they clinked their glasses together. 

She said, "To our ongoing relationship... and the new role Regina will play in it."

He told her, "I can't wait to get started on that second part."

They chuckled, sipped their drinks, and then turned their attention to me.

My wife explained, "We discussed what to do with you, now that you've gotten so good at pleasing me with your mouth.  It seemed unfair that you were trying to worm your way back into my affections with how hard you've been working at it.  And frankly, Barton was a bit jealous of all the personal attention I was getting.  So we came up with a simple solution."  Those last words hung in the air while she took a mouthful of wine and swirled it around, then let air pass over it to aid in getting the full flavor.  After a moment she said, "What we're going to do is let you keep using your talented mouth on me, and at the same time you can begin taking care of Barton that way too.  Now we're planning to..."

"Wait."  Even though I usually don't interject when they're speaking, I couldn't stop myself.  "You mean I have to... to... use my mouth... on him?  Sexually?"

I realized my breach of sissy etiquette.  She flashed me a displeased expression. 

"As I was trying to tell you," she went on pointedly, "before I was so rudely interrupted, is that's exactly what I was saying.  And the rest of it was that we're going to begin right away.  I think Barton is being very fair to give you an opportunity to even this out, and to show how much you value his place in our lives.  So why don't you just..."  She waved me forward.  "... shuffle over to him on your knees and put yourself where you'll need to be."

He stood up, undid his imported leather belt, and unashamedly dropped his pants and lowered his shorts.  Mr. Overhand certainly had nothing to be ashamed of.  Or to have to be modest about.  Hanging between his solid thighs was a long thick cock with a bulbous head.  I went cold all over.  As if controlled by invisible hands, I moved toward him, inching along on my knees, left-right-left.  He sat, removed his handmade shoes, and got his pants and shorts the rest of the way off.  I was confronted by his superior endowment, waiting to be attended to.

Sylvie reached over to get her fingers as far around it as they could reach.  She gave it a few strokes and it immediately began to erect.  I watched with sickened fascination as it grew and grew, until it was at least nine inches, with thick veins standing out all along the shaft. 

"There you go," she said to me.  "All prepped and ready for your sissy mouth." 

My mind reeled.  My thoughts went backward.  All I had wanted was to occasionally slip into panties.  Perhaps a garter belt and stockings.  While Sylvie was out for an evening I would also step into a pair of her heels and strut around.   Sometimes I'd take one of her flowing silk scarves, knot it around my slender neck, and hold onto it halfway down its length, swinging it, as I paraded around the house.  That was how I was fancied up, along with a raspberry beret of hers perched on my head at a saucy angle, so engrossed in my fantasy, with my undergrown cock in my other hand, that I didn't hear her reenter the house earlier than expected.  Unfortunately, I wasn't near the bathroom or any other place where I could possibly reverse my transformation and try to hide what I was doing.  No, she walked in on me in the kitchen, where I had opened the fridge and was allowing the cool air to chill my exposed skin and tantalize my nerve ends.

She must have done some rapid mental calculations at that moment.  Instead of losing her temper and lambasting me, she remained calm, but it was a deadly calm.  Sylvie showed enough sympathy to put me into her debt.  She laid out a plan whereby I could avoid exposure and save our marriage.  She cleverly took several pictures of me cowering there, holding onto the fridge door, to give herself more leverage.  In the end I agreed that she would let me play dress-up but only under her strict supervision.  What else could I do?  She even put it in such a way that I was grateful for her generosity, and believed she had been lenient.  You understand by now that, as time passed, she went much further than I expected, and in directions I did not wish to go. 

So there I was, on my knees, facing Mr. Overhand's rampant pole, my wife angling it to give me better access.  She snickered at me.

"Come on, Regina," Sylvie cooed.  "I got it all ready for action.  Just start with a kiss.   Right on the tip.  It's leaking a tiny bit, so you can get your first feel of it and your first taste of what comes out, both at the same time."

I closed my eyes but she told me to keep them opened.  Sylvie got her hand under my jaw and coaxed me forward until my widely parted lips surrounded but didn't make contact with that impressive knob.  I experimentally touched the underside with my tongue.

Mr. Overhand took a deep breath and said, "That's it, Regina.  Use your tongue."

"And," my wife instructed, "kiss the end.  Then close your lips tight around his meat."

Trying not to gag, I gave a lick to the lower surface of the head, kissed the very end, followed by sealing my lips around the first inch of the shaft.  My bride ordered me to suck, so I did that.   Everything turned hazy for several seconds.  Suddenly, as if it had mind of its own,  my tongue began to swirl and slide over anything it could reach.  My wife's bed partner moaned with pleasure and my fingers, on his outer thighs, felt muscles tense.  Sylvie put her free hand on the back of my head to urge me forward.  I took in as much of his rod as I could before my gag reflex was set off.  After that she allowed me to concentrate on just the head, which Mr. Overhand didn't seem to mind, probably because she was gently stroking his saliva-slicked tool.  What was happening to me?  I told myself that I was simply trying to avoid a repeat of my unpleasant spanking experience.  Or that I just felt helpless to do anything else.   Then I recalled my arousal after having my sitter swatted.  That had been a harbinger.   The truth, I feared, was that months of being kept in sissy status had weakened my will until some unwanted personality, nurtured by my wife conditioning me,  had broken free and taken over.  It was as if, at least for those moments, Reggie had been absorbed by Regina and she, or a runaway slut version of her, had taken over.  I couldn't help myself.  I lavished my oral attentions on him as if my  continued existence depended on success.

"Come on, Freckle Face," my wife urged, "make him shoot.    Get yourself a mouthful.   I'll keep helping.  Together we can do it."

She pumped him faster.  I sucked harder.  Bobbed my head.  The double helping of stimulation was too much for him to resist, no matter how much he wanted to prolong what was happening .   He exploded inside my mouth, against the roof, cum getting all over my moving tongue, even accumulating under it, and inevitably sliding down my throat.  I almost choked but managed not to.  Instead I gulped his heavy load.  Greedily.  I used my mouth to carry him through a long post-climax descent.  When I turned my eyes up my wife was passionately kissing him.  Her hand left his cock.  The extended kiss ended.  She gingerly extracted him from between my clinging lips.  I took a deep breath.  Got a better taste of his thick salty spunk. 

That was when a tsunami of shame hit me.  I hadn't meant to let myself get so involved in what I was made to do.  It wasn't as if I wanted to do it in the first place.  Or did I?  My mind was a writhing chaos of conflicting emotions, confused desires, unasked-for sensations. 

All I could think of to say was, "May I please go and rinse my mouth?"

"Of course," my wife said, "NOT.  You sissies love that flavor.  Lick your lips.  Smile.  And thank Barton for feeding you."

Whatever fight I had left in me drained away.  My shoulders sagged.  I cooperatively ran my tongue around the outside of my mouth, gathering and taking in more cum that I hadn't even known was there.  I forced a grin. 

Than I said, "Thank you so much, Mr. Overhand.   For letting me suck your gorgeous, enviable cock.  I wish I had one like that.  But I don't.  I'm so jealous.  And I like to wear panties and stockings.  A lot.  That's why my lovely wife had to make me a sissy.  Had to..." I amended, "... help me be the wimpy fairy I was always meant to be.  So thank you for taking care of her needs like I can't.  And for making me your sissy cocksucker.  And especially for feeding me... your... delicious... cream."

Where had all that come from?  Why did I say so much more than was required?  And why had I made it sound like I was happy -- even proud -- to be an obedient sissy cuckold?  I didn't know.  But it was obvious that they would give me plenty more to think about, and many hours to dwell on it all.