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. "Diary of a Cuckold Houseboy"

Discussion in 'Cuckold Stories' started by c.w. cobblestone, May 13, 2018.

. "Diary of a Cuckold Houseboy" 4 5 1votes
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  1. c.w. cobblestone

    c.w. cobblestone Member Member

    Diary of a Cuckold Houseboy
    by c.w. cobblestone





    December 31, 2017, 11:32 p.m.



    Dear diary,


    Only 28 minutes until it’s 2018. Happy New Year, my ass.


    I’ll be ringing it in here, alone in my basement room. Just like last year and the year before. There’s nothing left to do but sit here and be miserable. The house is spotless. Amy’s shoes are shined. Conner’s tools have been polished and the garage scrubbed. Their laundry is ironed and folded. My chores had provided some distraction, but now I can only sit here and think of her … and him … and poor me, all alone, whining in my diary like the sap I am.


    She’s living it up with Conner and the other beautiful people at the Rapture New Year’s Eve blowout. This is the third year they’ve gone to the Rapture party. And when my wife is out with her lover, she sure as hell isn’t thinking about me. Even when she’s home, I hardly cross her mind unless she wants me to do something for her or Conner. I’ve accepted it. No, I haven’t. I’m just used to it, that’s all. No, I’m not. I’ll never get used to it. But I love her. What else can I do? I do as she says.


    As I look around my cramped, bare, subterranean cubby hole, my pathetic lot sinks in. Why do I put up with this? I’m the one trudging off to work every day and paying all the bills while they lounge around the house, partying, fucking, and making messes for me to clean up. I’m the one footing the credit card tab so they can golf and play racquetball at the country club, dine at the finest restaurants, and hang out in trendy bars like Rapture. Meanwhile, I stay broke because every penny of my earnings is direct deposited into Amy and Conner’s joint bank account. It’s so unfair. When I’m home, I wait on them hand and foot, bowing, scraping, brown-nosing. In return, they treat me like dog shit. And like the wimp I am, I just fake a smile and thank them for the abuse. I look in the mirror and see a pathetic toad; a short, fat loser wearing a housedress. I can’t imagine how I must appear to others.


    It’s a sad-sack’s life, so I might as well have a sad-sack’s room. The décor consists of a bare, flimsy mattress on the floor, a stack of three plastic milk crates for my clothes, a laptop (which she lets me use because I need a computer to earn her money), and the ironing board in the corner, where I worked my ass off earlier today getting her clothes ready for the party. She kept changing her mind, so I ended up ironing five different outfits. She finally settled on one of the many “little black dresses” in her closet. This one has taffeta trim, making it a pain to iron.


    The delicate job was made particularly tough because Conner kept interrupting me. I was halfway through Amy’s dress when I first heard him bellow from upstairs: “Smedley!”


    How I hate that nickname! I swallow a quart of bile every time I hear it. Amy came up with it, saying I remind her of Smedley the short, fat elephant from the old Cap’n Crunch commercials. Okay, so I’m 267 pounds and only 5’4. Do they have to constantly rub my nose in it?


    I carefully draped Amy’s dress over the ironing board so as not to wrinkle it and rushed up the stairs. Amy and Conner expect me to literally run to them when they call me — “just like Edith scurries around for Archie,” is the way Amy put it. She got the idea one night while watching an “All in the Family” rerun. They found a plus-size “Edith” housedress at a garage sale, and that became my everyday uniform. Sometimes they’ll call me “Dingbat,” but usually it’s the hated “Smedley.”


    I shuffled into the living room, where Conner was sprawled out on the couch, clicking through the TV channels. As I approached him, he drawled, “Pull the shade down, Smedley, the sun’s in my eyes.”


    “Yes, sir,” I bowed to him and swiftly carried out his order. Then I stood before the man who had stolen my wife and folded my hands in front of me, pressed against my Edith dress. I did a quick scan to see if he needed anything. His iced tea glass was full. Two fat joints and the lighter were in the ashtray. His cell phone was on the table in front of him. Master was all set. I cleared my throat. “Will there be anything else, sir? Mistress has me ironing her dress, and I’ve also got to polish her shoes before she gets out of the bathroom.”


    He didn’t look away from the TV. “No, go, and make sure my shoes are shined, too.”


    “Yes, sir. They’re already shined and ready for the party, sir.”


    “Oh. Good. Go.”


    “Thank you, sir.” I turned on my heel and headed downstairs.


    I continued ironing Amy’s dress, gently touching the tip of the iron to the wispy material. Then I heard Conner’s voice again: “Smedley, get your fat ass up here, NOW.”


    Uh oh. This time he sounded pissed. I set the dress and iron down as fast as I could. Within seconds I again stood before the man of the house, twiddling my fingers and shifting my weight from foot to foot.


    He rattled the ice of his otherwise empty glass. “Is there some new rule I wasn’t made aware of? Do I have to get my own drinks around here now?”


    “N-no, sir, of course not, sir.”


    “Well, then, Dingbat, I’ve got a little problem. See, I go to take a drink and I get … this.” He jingled the ice again. “Nothing to drink. Empty glass. Whose job is it to get me refills, Smedley?”


    I blinked. “I’m so sorry, sir, of course it’s my job, please—“


    “Shut the fuck up and get your fat ass over here.”



    I gulped and inched toward him. This was no fair. I had checked his glass when I served him only a few minutes earlier and it was full. And, just in case, I made sure to ask him if he needed anything, and he said he didn’t. I realize it’s my job to check on their drinks, but there’s no way I can always get to it with the impossible workload they heap on me, especially if one of them takes huge gulps and finishes quickly. No matter. There’s no such thing as fair for me. My role around here is to be a fat, ugly Dingbat of a Smedley, the ATM and whipping boy for whatever annoys them. So I swallowed hard and waited for what I knew was coming.


    He pointed. “Head down.” I lowered myself to the designated spot, so he could bitch-slap me without having to move from his lounging position on the couch.


    BWWWAAAAP! He rang my bell. I doubled over and the tears flowed.


    “When you see my glass is getting low, you refill it, shit-for-brains,” he said. “That’s the only reason we keep your sorry ass around, remember?”


    “Yes sir.” I remembered all right. Four years ago, Amy was going to leave me for Conner, but when I literally got on my knees and begged her to stay, she agreed — but only under her conditions. She wanted her lover to move in and take over as man of the house, while I served as their houseboy. I was out of my mind for my beloved Amy, so I agreed to this ridiculous one-sided arrangement. My deal with the devil was sealed.


    Conner interrupted my pity party by kicking me in the thigh, causing an immediate, severe charley horse. “Quit your whining, wimp, and get me a refill, now. Haul ass, Dingbat, I got cotton-mouth.”


    I gently took the empty glass from his grasp, trying to sniff back the tears. “I’m very sorry, sir, coming up on the double.”


    I hightailed it to the kitchen, made his drink in record time, rushed back to the living room “just like Edith” and served the king his tea. He took a long swig and handed me the half-empty glass. Nothing needed to be said; I retraced my steps to the kitchen for yet another refill, which I served with a fake smile.


    “Will there be anything else, sir?”


    “No, fag, go.”


    “Thank you, sir.”


    Again, I trekked downstairs. No sooner had I picked up the iron, when my master’s voice rang out a third time: “Smedley!” I huffed and stamped my foot. At least this time he didn’t sound mad. I hurried to respond nonetheless.


    “Yes, sir?”


    “Chips.”


    “Oh, yes, sir.”


    I shuffled off to the kitchen, Dingbat style, and my wife’s lover got his chips served with a submissive smile.


    I was almost finished with Amy’s dress when I was again interrupted, this time by my adored wife’s voice: “Smedley. Get up here.” Instead of being annoyed, my heart leapt.


    As always, I melted the second I saw her. She had just gotten out of the shower and had a towel wrapped around her head like a turban. In her satin robe and headdress, my wife looked like a queen, relaxed on the couch next to Conner, who had finally sat his lazy ass up.


    I stood before them. “Yes, Mistress, you called?”


    “What are you doing?”


    “Um, ironing your dress, Mistress.”


    “What? You haven’t even started on my shoes? What the hell have you been doing down there; playing with that little dick of yours?”


    I dared not tell her I hadn’t finished because Conner kept interrupting me. “I’m so sorry, Mistress, I’m almost done with the dress, and it shouldn’t take long to touch up your shoes, Mistress.”


    “Well, hurry up, Smedley, you need to do my toes.”


    “Oh, yes, Mistress.” My spirit soared. Giving pedicures was one of the few times Conner allows me to have physical contact with my wife, other than sucking his cum from her divine pussy.


    I finished the dress and shoes posthaste, rushed back to the living room — making damn sure Conner’s iced tea glass was full, along with Amy’s lime water — and then sat at my beautiful wife’s feet, cotton balls in hand.


    “Mistress, what color would you like?”


    Amy was kicked back next to her lover, who had just passed her a joint. Before answering me, she took a long hit, blew the smoke up in the air, had another toke, and with the smoke still in her lungs, croaked, “Passion Red.”


    When you’re hardly allowed to touch your own wife, you’d be amazed how thrilling it is to do something as mundane as swabbing off her old toenail polish with polish remover. Far above me, in the land of gods, Amy shared the doobie with her boyfriend. Her robe was hiked up and I could see her magnificent pussy, although I only caught furtive glances, afraid to gawk lest Conner slap the shit out of me or worse. Amy made no effort to conceal herself, spooning with her lover with her foot extended while I toiled on her toenails, unnoticed. I removed the polish from all her toes and began applying Passion Red without either of them glancing my way.


    After they finished the joint they started making out. I gulped and tried to concentrate on my wife’s toes, but she was making it difficult, moving her foot to and fro in rhythm with Conner’s caresses. Finally, they broke their embrace. “We can’t fool around,” she said. “We’ve got to get ready; it’s getting on 7:30.”


    Conner glanced at his watch. “Damn, it is getting late.” He turned to me. “Hey, Smedley, when you’re done with Amy’s toes, make sure my shoes are shined up real nice.”


    He hadn’t been listening earlier when I told him that I’d shined his shoes, so I cheerfully told him again: “Your shoes are already shined up, sir, tops and bottoms.”


    “Oh,” he said. “Well, listen, when we’re gone I want all my tools polished and put away, and give that garage a good cleaning; I was working on the Mustang today.”


    “Yes, sir.” I faked a smile. “Thank you, sir.” That was a three-hour job.


    Amy added: “I want you to shine up all my shoes tonight. I’m meeting the girls for lunch Tuesday and I’m not sure which ones I want to wear. So get ‘em all ready, Smedley.”


    “Yes, mistress, thank you, mistress.” Three more hours of work.


    Amy ignored me and continued watching TV, her pussy still on full display. She looked so blasé, so mystically, femininely arrogant. It was nigh impossible to concentrate on keeping the polish on her toenails instead of her toes, but I finished like a champ. I don’t get many excuses to feel good about myself these days, so I pathetically take satisfaction in completing menial tasks that probably never cross either of their minds.


    When I announced, “your toes are done, Mistress,” she glanced at her feet and nodded her approval. “Go lay out my dress on the bed, and lay out Conner’s things.”


    “Yes, Mistress, thank you.”


    Before leaving, I looked at their glasses and saw that both were about half-full. I hurried to the kitchen and made fresh drinks. They didn’t even glance up from the television when I shuffled up like Edith and refilled their glasses. They’re so spoiled it isn’t funny. They just expect their glasses to be full when they go to take a drink, and if they aren’t they get pissed at me, and I get yelled at or slapped.


    I served my masters and then laid out their clothes. They dressed and paraded out the door hand in hand without so much as a grunt my way. When the door closed, I sighed and started my chores.


    Well, diary, while I was writing this entry, I completely missed the New Year. How pathetic. My wife and her lover are out in the world living the glamorous life while I’m sitting here pissing and moaning in my journal about my pitiful existence.


    Sigh. I chose this life just to be near her. Yet I pine from afar. It’s like an Aesop’s fable.


    I have no idea when they’ll be home. I’m going to sign off now and go upstairs. I pray the scent of her perfume still lingers …
     
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