Chapter 3: Cuckold Exploration Begins at Home
We spent the next few nights curled up on the bed with the baby monitor nearby, the glow of Ria’s tablet casting flickers of light across the room. It started innocently—clicking through the link Mira had shared. Articles, interviews, podcast snippets. But soon, the spiral began.
First came the blogs. Real couples, their journeys laid bare—some gentle, others raw and wild. Women glowing in their sexuality, men writing with aching pride about their wives being adored by others. Some husbands detailed the nights they watched from the corner of the room, locked in chastity, trembling with arousal and helpless joy.
Then came the porn—not just clips, but entire subcultures. High-definition hotel room confessions. Amateur videos with shaky cameras capturing whispered moans and creaking beds. In most of them, the husbands weren’t just bystanders—they were present. Holding their wives’ hands, kissing their foreheads, or kneeling obediently nearby.
What shocked me wasn’t just the act.
It was the pleasure etched across the cuck’s face.
His denial wasn’t pain—it was fuel. His humiliation wasn’t despair—it was devotion.
I glanced at Ria, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide. She was transfixed by the scenes. The way a strong man gripped a woman’s thighs. The way she cried out in shock and ecstasy. The contrast between the powerful bull and the submissive husband waiting at the edge.
“That one’s you,” she whispered, biting her lip as she watched a man lick his wife clean after a massive black bull finished inside her.
I gulped, my arousal hard as stone. I wanted to protest. But I couldn’t. My hand trembled.
“You’re my jealous little cucky, aren’t you?” she said suddenly, her voice velvety, teasing, wicked. “He’ll stretch me open like you never could. Doesn’t that make you ache?”
I should’ve said no.
But I nodded.
Ria kissed me softly. “I’ll lead,” she said. “You’ll obey. I promise not to leave you behind.”
We didn’t sleep that night.
The next day, we explored forums. Places with usernames like SubHub88, HotwifeHearts, QueenInHeels. Advice threads. Photos. Confessions. Bull reviews. Event invites. Secret meetups. Ria joined under a profile name—“MilkQueenRia”—with a picture of her lips and neck. Just a tease.
Within minutes, messages flooded in.
Black men. Married men. Experienced bulls. Curious flirts. Some crude. Some respectful. Ria laughed, flushed with energy, replying selectively.
But then she started asking me to leave the room during certain chats. “Just for ten minutes,” she’d say. “Let me feel like I’m really on my own.”
At first, I stood in the hallway, heart racing, listening faintly to her giggle, gasp, moan under her breath.
When she let me back in, her eyes sparkled with power.
“I talked to one guy,” she whispered, crawling onto my lap. “He’s big. Black. In town this month. I told him… maybe.”
“Maybe what?” I asked.
She pressed her lips to my ear. “Maybe he’ll be my first.”
Then she pulled back, smiling.
“But you’ll wait, won’t you? You’re my good cucky.”
I was trembling.
And she knew it.
She kept her phone close now. It had become her secret window—a glowing portal she stared into late at night, when the baby had dozed off and the world had quieted. His name was saved as “Mr. M.” And she never let me see their chats anymore.
The first time she locked the screen after a message popped up, my stomach dropped. She smiled and said, “Privacy helps me feel independent.” I nodded. What else could I do?
But the ache grew.
Every evening, around the same time, the phone would buzz. A message. Then a second. Her eyes would light up, lips curling in a smile. Sometimes she giggled—a real, soft laugh I hadn’t heard in weeks.
“I’ll just go talk for a bit,” she said one night, slipping into our bedroom.
I was left on the sofa with the baby nestled on my chest, his slow breaths warming my neck. The door clicked shut. Then the lock turned.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Forty.
An hour.
When she returned, her cheeks were flushed. Her nipples poked through her cotton tee, dark with fresh milk. Her skin glowed. She looked fed—not tired, not drained like most new mothers. Her steps were light, her hips swayed with a rhythm that hadn’t been there in months.
She kissed the baby, then me, lightly on the forehead.
“Thanks for holding him, my sweet man,” she whispered.
That night, during sex, I tried harder than ever—soft kisses down her belly, my tongue between her thighs. She moaned deeper than usual, her back arching off the bed. I thought I had done something right—until the moment came.
She gripped the sheets, eyes shut tight, body trembling, and cried out, “Mmmm… Malik!”
A name that wasn’t mine.
Silence.
Her eyes flew open, terror flashing across her face. “I… I didn’t mean…”
I froze. My heart pounded, my erection softening instantly. She reached for me, kissed me fast, held my face.
“You’re my husband. My heart. My love. That was just a slip. I swear.”
I nodded.
I didn’t protest. Didn’t speak. Just kissed her hand and whispered, “I know. I’ll be a good cuck.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s why I love you.”
In the days that followed, her connection with him grew. I’d catch her softly humming while cooking, sending voice notes from the bathroom, locking her phone the moment I stepped in. The more she gave to him, the more alive she became. Her breasts swelled again with milk—so much that she leaked through two layers of cloth.
She laughed louder now. Danced in the kitchen. Wore tighter clothes again, just at home, just for herself. I realized—
My wife wasn’t just recovering from childbirth.
She was blossoming.
Becoming a mother had made her whole.
Becoming a hotwife was making her radiant.
And I—silent, obedient, aching—was becoming a cuck.
I rocked our baby to sleep one evening, watching her slip into the bedroom again. The door shut. The lock turned.
My heart beat fast.
My hand slid down.
I knew I wouldn’t be part of what she was about to do.
And I knew…
That was exactly what turned me on.
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