Cuckolding stories

Twin Towers

by aaron

08/21/2016 07:18 in interracial


Saturday, Sept. 8, 2001 - Brooklyn, NY

"Drop your panties," He commanded. "Now grip the burglar bars..."

The problem with this position, once our Dom has finished cuffing me to the bars, is that it leaves me facing the window. The west-facing view is great, what with the lights of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in the distance; but it means that in order for me to watch our Dom fuck my wife on our bed I have to crane my neck over my right shoulder. It gets tiresome, and leaves me with a kink.

Laura's wrists are tied to the bedposts, and she's blindfolded, but her slender legs are free. Free to lift up and wrap around our Dom's hairy back upon his command, as He guides his cock inside her.

"I wish He wouldn't tie me to the bed like that," Laura has complained in the past. "It'd be nice to change positions now and then. A half hour of getting pounded on my back can get boring."

"You don't sound bored," I counter.

"Some of that's acting. You know, acting? Like I acted for you the first seven years of our marriage?"

"Oh." Go ahead, rub it in some more...

With my wife's legs up in the air and locked in position our Dom is now free, while He's fucking her, to spank her ass. By the time He's done ("Take it, bitch! Take my big load!") the pale flesh of Laura's buttocks has turned a shade somewhere between dark pink and light crimson. For the next several days she will wear a slight wince everytime she sits in a chair. She is a fast healer, however.

Speaking of his violent orgasms...

Before agreeing to take us on as clients, our Dom made us commit to a verbal agreement that if pregnancy should occur (He made it clear He would not be using condoms), and if Laura decided to keep the baby, He would be absolved from any and all responsibilities as the father. Legal or otherwise. In other words, though He might be the biological father, I would become the surrogate father. To the outside world the baby would be mine and Laura's, end of story.

"It's not like He's black," Laura, a devout Catholic, observed, the night we discussed it. "He has dark hair, you have dark hair. Plus he's better looking than you-"

"Thanks."

"I'm just saying. Has a better body, bigger equipment-"

"That's important for a baby."

"No, but down the road it will be. Plus he seems to be very successful."

"Unlike me..."

"Didn't He say his office was on the ninetieth floor of the World Trade Center?"

"I didn't hear that particular boast."

Laura threw one of her knives. Into my ribs. "At any rate he's not a clerk in a photo lab."

"I'm not a clerk I'm a manager."

Laura expelled air, as if calling a cat. "Pssss!"

Whatever, we discussed this provision of his terms and reluctantly agreed to it. "It's not like it's likely to happen," Laura observed. "I AM on the pill afterall."

"I'm more concerned about the disease part."

"What disease?"

"Him not wearing a condom. We don't know where that thing's been."

"Up other submissive women I'm guessing. It's not like He's gay."

"I'd still like to see bloodwork," I protested.

"Fine. YOU ask him," Laura said in a symbolic washing of the hands.

I did. Made that "mistake" at our second meeting. His reply: "You want to see bloodwork? I'll show you bloodwork. Bend over!"

And He proceeded to whip me with his doubled-over, knotted strips of leather. Whipped me until He was huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. Whipped me until blood spurted.

"That's enough!" a witnessing Laura cried.

"Don't you EVER...tell me what to do, BITCH!"

As he—thankfully—turned His attention to my wife I slid to the floor in a whimpering fetal ball. Above me, meanwhile, our Dom was raising welts on my wife's protecting calves and thighs and forearms and breasts. Her defenses were useless. Then He pried her legs apart and fucked her, violently, for the first time. Despite my pain I got an erection, listening to them above.

It was our second meeting.

"That was...intense," Laura said afterwards, daubing antibiotic cream on my ass wounds. "But I think He's the guy for us, don't you?"

"I agree. Is He big?"

"You didn't see?"

"I was on the floor."

"Oh, that's right," my wife said somewhat derisively. "Yes. HUGE. Big balls, too. A very nice package..."

"Did He cum a lot?" I asked my nurse.

"You changed the sheets," she said.

"Oh, right." The wet spot had been roughly the diameter of a basketball, now that I thought about it.

"Long as you're OK about the daddy part," Laura said, returning to topic.

I pulled my panties up, rolled into the—painful—sitting position and kissed my wife on her soft right cheek. "I'll be daddy to any man's baby you have," I replied.

"You're so sweet." She was capping the ointment. "Even if he's black?"

I believe I must've blinked. My mouth hung open at any rate. Laura threw a gentle elbow at me. "Relax. Just kidding. Now be a good boy and go put the sheets in the washer."

After our Dom finishes with my wife He turns his attention back to me, still cuffed at the window. I'm always concerned our neighbors across the way will see me. I imagine someone getting out the binoculars and saying to his spouse: "Look, honey. Our neighbor across the street...He's cuffed to the window and he appears to be naked, from the waist-up at least...Wonder what the hell's going on over there. Think I should call the police?"

I made the mistake of pointing this possibility out to our Dom and He, in addition to adding another Acco clip to my saggy, weighted ball sac, said: "I WANT them to see your sorry sissy-ass. I wish this whole wall was one giant picture window. So the whole neighborhood could watch me fuck your tight-cunt wife while you stand here helpless, chained to the bars. We could charge admission..."

Whack!

Phase three of our Dom/sub "relationship" has begun. Phase two is Him fucking Laura. Phase one is the preliminaries: a glass or two of Spanish bubbly; Him necking with Laura in front of me, tearing her clothes off, feeling her, fingering her, necking some more...telling me to strip to my panties (Laura's panties, actually—we take the same size); then leading us both to the bedroom where he ties Laura up and then cuffs me to the burglar bars...

(At this point my heart is beating so fast and hard I sometimes fear it will explode through my ribcage, like the inchoate monster in Alien.)

With Laura still tied to the bedposts but her blindfold removed and His cum leaking from her sore vagina (Laura has discussed with me having her vagina surgically enlarged, to better accommodate him...) our naked Dom now approaches me with his leather riding crop. As He whips me with it on alternating buttocks he calls me names: "Faggot!" "Bitch!" "Sissy!" "Pantywaist!" My theory is that he's compensating, psychologically, for the sudden depressive drain of testosterone, not to mention semen...

"Let another man fuck your wife faggot?" Whack! "Shoot my load in her?" Whack! "What kind of man gets a hard-on watching his wife get fucked? Hunh, faggot?" Whack! "Pussy! Pantywaist!" Whack! "You hear her scream when I fuck her, faggot?" Whack! "She tells me you never satisfied her ONCE in eight years of marriage!" Whack! "You're...useless! Your own wife thinks you're useless! Don't you ever, ever stick your useless cock in her again!" Whack! "That sweet pussy is MINE now! I OWN it!" Whack! "Understand?" Whack!

With each blow I cry out ("Shut up, faggot!"). I can't help myself. The pain is excruciating, delicious. Delirious. As for fucking my wife, that ship has passed. She's all HIS. I haven't fucked Laura in months. But now I REALLY wonder what the neighbors with their theoretical binoculars must think. Two men are in frame now. The face of one, the guy at the rear bristling with anger; meanwhile the nearer one, the one cuffed to the bars...his head arches back every second or so and he appears to be crying out in pain. Should I call the police?

"Faggot!"

That wet sensation. Is that blood dripping down the back of my thigh again?

He's out of breath. It's not the sex with my wife that has worn him out but my weekly whipping. From a pain standpoint—MY pain—it's fine as long as he alternates buttocks. The real torture, however, is when he hits the same spot twice, on consecutive swings of the crop. We have a safe-word but I've never used it. I've come close but...

Our safe-word, or words I should say, is: Twin Towers.

"Million-dollar view," He says, taking in the lights, as he at last uncuffs me. "Now pull your panties up, faggot, and go untie your bitch wife. I'm gonna take a shower."

"Yessir," I say, glad to feel the thousand-fold tingle of blood returning to my arms. I clumsily close the shutters. Show over!

"You're getting blood on my panties!" Laura protests, as I kneel on the bed attempting to untie His sailor knots.

"What can I say?" I say. "We'll buy more."

Our silk panty and antibiotic cream costs have skyrocketed since we agreed to terms with this Dom.

"And change the sheets," Laura says, rubbing her wrists. "After He leaves."

"Yes, dear."

"What a nice night," my wife said. We had taken the "lawn" chairs up on the roof of the brownstone directly above our fourth-floor apartment and were stretched out on its black surface. Laura in bra and panties, me just in panties. We'd brought thin blankets just in case, along with more Spanish bubbly. We were alone.

"The million-dollar view, he called it," I said.

"Who?"

"Our Dom."

"He fucked the SHIT out of me tonight," Laura declared.

"He whipped the shit out of me..."

"Are you sore?"

"It'll heal," I shrugged, trying to sound, despite the lacey silk I was adorned in, masculine. "Are you?"

"The antenna on top of Tower One looks like a rocket ship," Laura said, in nonsequitor.

I looked at the blinking red light, miles away. "Remember the night we were up there? Tower Two? Alone?"

"We put a quarter in the whatchumacallit and could see our apartment from up there."

"I THINK it was our apartment."

"It was. I'm sure."

I fantasized about me, cuffed to the burglar bars, visible to the whole world, including tourists atop the Twin Towers...

Laura reached across and took my hand in hers, spanning the two chairs. "Listen," she said. "I've been meaning to tell you..."

"What, darling?"

"I missed my period last week."Saturday, Sept. 8, 2001 - Brooklyn, NY

"Drop your panties," He commanded. "Now grip the burglar bars..."

The problem with this position, once our Dom has finished cuffing me to the bars, is that it leaves me facing the window. The west-facing view is great, what with the lights of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in the distance; but it means that in order for me to watch our Dom fuck my wife on our bed I have to crane my neck over my right shoulder. It gets tiresome, and leaves me with a kink.

Laura's wrists are tied to the bedposts, and she's blindfolded, but her slender legs are free. Free to lift up and wrap around our Dom's hairy back upon his command, as He guides his cock inside her.

"I wish He wouldn't tie me to the bed like that," Laura has complained in the past. "It'd be nice to change positions now and then. A half hour of getting pounded on my back can get boring."

"You don't sound bored," I counter.

"Some of that's acting. You know, acting? Like I acted for you the first seven years of our marriage?"

"Oh." Go ahead, rub it in some more...

With my wife's legs up in the air and locked in position our Dom is now free, while He's fucking her, to spank her ass. By the time He's done ("Take it, bitch! Take my big load!") the pale flesh of Laura's buttocks has turned a shade somewhere between dark pink and light crimson. For the next several days she will wear a slight wince everytime she sits in a chair. She is a fast healer, however.

Speaking of his violent orgasms...

Before agreeing to take us on as clients, our Dom made us commit to a verbal agreement that if pregnancy should occur (He made it clear He would not be using condoms), and if Laura decided to keep the baby, He would be absolved from any and all responsibilities as the father. Legal or otherwise. In other words, though He might be the biological father, I would become the surrogate father. To the outside world the baby would be mine and Laura's, end of story.

"It's not like He's black," Laura, a devout Catholic, observed, the night we discussed it. "He has dark hair, you have dark hair. Plus he's better looking than you-"

"Thanks."

"I'm just saying. Has a better body, bigger equipment-"

"That's important for a baby."

"No, but down the road it will be. Plus he seems to be very successful."

"Unlike me..."

"Didn't He say his office was on the ninetieth floor of the World Trade Center?"

"I didn't hear that particular boast."

Laura threw one of her knives. Into my ribs. "At any rate he's not a clerk in a photo lab."

"I'm not a clerk I'm a manager."

Laura expelled air, as if calling a cat. "Pssss!"

Whatever, we discussed this provision of his terms and reluctantly agreed to it. "It's not like it's likely to happen," Laura observed. "I AM on the pill afterall."

"I'm more concerned about the disease part."

"What disease?"

"Him not wearing a condom. We don't know where that thing's been."

"Up other submissive women I'm guessing. It's not like He's gay."

"I'd still like to see bloodwork," I protested.

"Fine. YOU ask him," Laura said in a symbolic washing of the hands.

I did. Made that "mistake" at our second meeting. His reply: "You want to see bloodwork? I'll show you bloodwork. Bend over!"

And He proceeded to whip me with his doubled-over, knotted strips of leather. Whipped me until He was huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. Whipped me until blood spurted.

"That's enough!" a witnessing Laura cried.

"Don't you EVER...tell me what to do, BITCH!"

As he—thankfully—turned His attention to my wife I slid to the floor in a whimpering fetal ball. Above me, meanwhile, our Dom was raising welts on my wife's protecting calves and thighs and forearms and breasts. Her defenses were useless. Then He pried her legs apart and fucked her, violently, for the first time. Despite my pain I got an erection, listening to them above.

It was our second meeting.

"That was...intense," Laura said afterwards, daubing antibiotic cream on my ass wounds. "But I think He's the guy for us, don't you?"

"I agree. Is He big?"

"You didn't see?"

"I was on the floor."

"Oh, that's right," my wife said somewhat derisively. "Yes. HUGE. Big balls, too. A very nice package..."

"Did He cum a lot?" I asked my nurse.

"You changed the sheets," she said.

"Oh, right." The wet spot had been roughly the diameter of a basketball, now that I thought about it.

"Long as you're OK about the daddy part," Laura said, returning to topic.

I pulled my panties up, rolled into the—painful—sitting position and kissed my wife on her soft right cheek. "I'll be daddy to any man's baby you have," I replied.

"You're so sweet." She was capping the ointment. "Even if he's black?"

I believe I must've blinked. My mouth hung open at any rate. Laura threw a gentle elbow at me. "Relax. Just kidding. Now be a good boy and go put the sheets in the washer."

After our Dom finishes with my wife He turns his attention back to me, still cuffed at the window. I'm always concerned our neighbors across the way will see me. I imagine someone getting out the binoculars and saying to his spouse: "Look, honey. Our neighbor across the street...He's cuffed to the window and he appears to be naked, from the waist-up at least...Wonder what the hell's going on over there. Think I should call the police?"

I made the mistake of pointing this possibility out to our Dom and He, in addition to adding another Acco clip to my saggy, weighted ball sac, said: "I WANT them to see your sorry sissy-ass. I wish this whole wall was one giant picture window. So the whole neighborhood could watch me fuck your tight-cunt wife while you stand here helpless, chained to the bars. We could charge admission..."

Whack!

Phase three of our Dom/sub "relationship" has begun. Phase two is Him fucking Laura. Phase one is the preliminaries: a glass or two of Spanish bubbly; Him necking with Laura in front of me, tearing her clothes off, feeling her, fingering her, necking some more...telling me to strip to my panties (Laura's panties, actually—we take the same size); then leading us both to the bedroom where he ties Laura up and then cuffs me to the burglar bars...

(At this point my heart is beating so fast and hard I sometimes fear it will explode through my ribcage, like the inchoate monster in Alien.)

With Laura still tied to the bedposts but her blindfold removed and His cum leaking from her sore vagina (Laura has discussed with me having her vagina surgically enlarged, to better accommodate him...) our naked Dom now approaches me with his leather riding crop. As He whips me with it on alternating buttocks he calls me names: "Faggot!" "Bitch!" "Sissy!" "Pantywaist!" My theory is that he's compensating, psychologically, for the sudden depressive drain of testosterone, not to mention semen...

"Let another man fuck your wife faggot?" Whack! "Shoot my load in her?" Whack! "What kind of man gets a hard-on watching his wife get fucked? Hunh, faggot?" Whack! "Pussy! Pantywaist!" Whack! "You hear her scream when I fuck her, faggot?" Whack! "She tells me you never satisfied her ONCE in eight years of marriage!" Whack! "You're...useless! Your own wife thinks you're useless! Don't you ever, ever stick your useless cock in her again!" Whack! "That sweet pussy is MINE now! I OWN it!" Whack! "Understand?" Whack!

With each blow I cry out ("Shut up, faggot!"). I can't help myself. The pain is excruciating, delicious. Delirious. As for fucking my wife, that ship has passed. She's all HIS. I haven't fucked Laura in months. But now I REALLY wonder what the neighbors with their theoretical binoculars must think. Two men are in frame now. The face of one, the guy at the rear bristling with anger; meanwhile the nearer one, the one cuffed to the bars...his head arches back every second or so and he appears to be crying out in pain. Should I call the police?

"Faggot!"

That wet sensation. Is that blood dripping down the back of my thigh again?

He's out of breath. It's not the sex with my wife that has worn him out but my weekly whipping. From a pain standpoint—MY pain—it's fine as long as he alternates buttocks. The real torture, however, is when he hits the same spot twice, on consecutive swings of the crop. We have a safe-word but I've never used it. I've come close but...

Our safe-word, or words I should say, is: Twin Towers.

"Million-dollar view," He says, taking in the lights, as he at last uncuffs me. "Now pull your panties up, faggot, and go untie your bitch wife. I'm gonna take a shower."

"Yessir," I say, glad to feel the thousand-fold tingle of blood returning to my arms. I clumsily close the shutters. Show over!

"You're getting blood on my panties!" Laura protests, as I kneel on the bed attempting to untie His sailor knots.

"What can I say?" I say. "We'll buy more."

Our silk panty and antibiotic cream costs have skyrocketed since we agreed to terms with this Dom.

"And change the sheets," Laura says, rubbing her wrists. "After He leaves."

"Yes, dear."

"What a nice night," my wife said. We had taken the "lawn" chairs up on the roof of the brownstone directly above our fourth-floor apartment and were stretched out on its black surface. Laura in bra and panties, me just in panties. We'd brought thin blankets just in case, along with more Spanish bubbly. We were alone.

"The million-dollar view, he called it," I said.

"Who?"

"Our Dom."

"He fucked the SHIT out of me tonight," Laura declared.

"He whipped the shit out of me..."

"Are you sore?"

"It'll heal," I shrugged, trying to sound, despite the lacey silk I was adorned in, masculine. "Are you?"

"The antenna on top of Tower One looks like a rocket ship," Laura said, in nonsequitor.

I looked at the blinking red light, miles away. "Remember the night we were up there? Tower Two? Alone?"

"We put a quarter in the whatchumacallit and could see our apartment from up there."

"I THINK it was our apartment."

"It was. I'm sure."

I fantasized about me, cuffed to the burglar bars, visible to the whole world, including tourists atop the Twin Towers...

Laura reached across and took my hand in hers, spanning the two chairs. "Listen," she said. "I've been meaning to tell you..."

"What, darling?"

"I missed my period last week."


t shirt marin twin towers