A Change in Our Marriage - The Sissy Cuckold

by Sara Desmarais

I sat at home, in the den, stewing. ESPN was on again, some game to which I was paying no attention.

  At about 11:30 I heard Sara's car finally pull up. I was so damn angry, I wanted to jump up and confront her when she came it. But I wanted to play it cool, too. Fuck.

  She walked into the den, and though I feigned disinterest, I could not help but glance at her. Fuck. She was so damned sexy. Incredible, even.

  "Sara," I exploded, "where the hell have you been? What the fuck?"

  "Oh, baby, I'm soooo sorry, we had so much to do, I just lost track of the time, I did not mean to be out so late."

  "It's fucking 11:30," I hissed.

  "I know sweetie, I know, I was a bad wife this evening." Her tone was laced with double meaning.

  "What do you mean," I asked.

  "Let me make it up to you," she whispered, moving to kiss my mouth.

  I pushed her back, "what do you mean you were a bad wife?"

  "Shhhh," she kissed my neck.

  "Sara...did...did you..."

  "Did I want honey," she licked my neck.

  "Did...did you..." I could not finish my thoughts, I was terrified to voice them.

  "Did I fuck him, is that what you want to ask, but are afraid to?"

  "Sara, please..."

  She laughed, biting my neck, moaned. "Did I fuck him!"

  I was shaking. "Sara," I tried to push her away. I was trembling, I could feel my cock in my pants, I almost came just from her licking my neck, but I was terrified.

  "Did I take his big cock in my pussy, in your pussy?"

  "Ohhhhhh, Sara," I was getting dizzy.

  "John, John, slow down," she said, "let me answer your question. No," she moaned, licking my ear, whispering.

  "No, John, I only went to dinner." I felt my chest deflate.

  Her tongue probed my ear, wetting it. "Is that a disappointment to you, John? Did you want me to say yes, did you want me to tell you I fucked him? Did you imagine your wife, sexed up in lingerie and stockings, on her knees, sucking a real man's cock?" She moved her hand to my pants, and started rubbing me, not squeezing, but rubbing through my pants.

  "Did my sweetie want me to do that? Did you want me to confess that I fucked him? Did you want me to tell you I finally had a real cock in my pussy and it felt wonderful?" Her fingers kept moving, rubbing me through my thin pants. My head was thrown back, I was moaning.

  "Saarraaa."

  "Did you want your wife to FUCK? To get COCK. To get what you CAN'T give me?" She emphasized the words. "Is that what my sweetie wanted? To know that a REAL MAN had his hands all over me?"

  I whispered, "Yes," unsure if it really was, or if it was my libido talking.

  "You wanted me to fuck him," she challenged me, stopping the movements of her hand.

  "Sara, please, don't stop," I begged.

  "Did you want me to fuck him," she demanded, still not moving her hand?

  "Did my little woman want her wife to FUCK him?"

  "Yes," I whispered again.

  "Then say it, bitch," she ordered, moving her hand two quick strokes. "Say it."

  "I...I wanted you to fuck him," I groaned. She started moving her hand again.

  "I wanted my wife to FUCK another MAN," she demanded.

  "Yes, yes, wife fuck another man," she moaned, running her tongue into my ear again, rubbing me, "that's a good girl."

  Her words, her confusion of gender, her motions, were driving me insane.

  "I want my wife to fuck another man," she whispered, "say it again."

  "I want my wife to fuck a man," I groaned, and she responded by rubbing.

  "Again."

  "I want my wife to fuck a man."

  "Again!"

  "I want my wife to fuck a man."

  "Again," she moaned into my ear.

  "I want my wife to fuck a man."

  "I want my wife to fuck a man."

  "I want my wife to fuck a man."

  Her petting went into overdrive as I kept moaning her words again and again.

  "I want my wife to fuck a man."

  Finally, I could take it no longer. I explodes, wave after wave or orgasm washing over me, an orgasm at depths I never experienced before, cum exploding into my pants.

  "I want my wife to fuck a man," I whispered one more time.

  "Good girl," she cooed into my ear as I shuddered.

  Before I could calm down, while the wave was still overwhelming me, she stood up, and started walking out of the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood. "I'll see you in bed, love," she smiled.

  I was left there, my face wet from her tongue, my pants wet from my cum, and my ego bruised, damaged, on fire, enraged, engaged, hyped up, charged and totally whipped.

  Setting Things in Order

  By the time I got upstairs, Sara was already in bed, sleeping, and again, I was left to crawl next to my incredible wife and ponder what had happened. I had a fitful night's sleep, tossing and turning, dreaming and remembering what we had done earlier. "I want my wife to fuck a man." That thought kept going through my head as I tossed around. And her "girl" comment. "Good girl," she had said. What did she mean?

  I woke up the next morning to the smell of fresh brewed coffee, and to Sara, my lovely Sara, bringing me coffee, juice, toast, and some fruit, all on a tray. I actually blushed, feeling guilty at her efforts to please me. She was too much.

  "Sara, about last night," I started.

  "Shh, sweetie, drink some coffee, eat, then we can talk."

  I ate, and she was right, the food felt good in my stomach.

  "Sara, you...the things I said...you said...last night."

  "Wait, John, let me ask you this. Did you enjoy yesterday?"

  "Well, last night was," I started. She cut me off.

  "No, John, not last night, or at least not only last night. Did you enjoy yesterday," she emphasized.

  I thought of yesterday. Her dressing in lingerie, going off to work, flirting, I suppose, teasing me, and last night, making me say things, saying things herself.

  "Yes."

  "All of it, John, I need to know this? All of it, all day, not just the climax, so to speak, in the evening?"

  "Yes," I blushed.

  "Watching me dress, what did you think?"

  "Well, I wondered what you were doing, I thought maybe all your pantyhose were dirty," I said.

  "Dammit, John, please don't lie to me. This won't work, this is," she sighed, "We have to be honest with one another, John, no matter what."

  "I...I wondered why you were dressing like that," I said.

  "And," she said slowly, moving her hands, motioning for me to continue.

  "And, I...I wondered wh...who you were dressing for," I admitted.

  "And you called me so many times during the day because..."

  "Because...because I was worried you were spending time with that guy from out of town."

  "John, of course I was spending time with him, he is my boss, but why...why were you calling?"

  "Because...Sara...because I thought you were going to sleep with him," I admitted.

  "Ahhh, and that made you feel?"

  "Angry," I answered quickly.

  "Angry. Angry? You felt anger? John, please, I hope you are just answering without thinking, because if you felt anger, than I have seriously misjudged things."

  "No, Sara, you're right, it wasn't anger. I guess it was..." dare I say it, "excitement."

  "And when I told you I only went to dinner, what?"

  This was easy and hard. "I felt...disappointed," I blushed.

  "Hmmm, disappointed because..."

  I blushed, remembering her words, my words. "Because I want my wife to fuck a man."

  "Yes," she smiled.

  But I was not through with her. "Sara, why did you call me a girl? You did that several times."

  "Are you a man," she asked, a gleam in her eyes.

  "Yes," I answered quickly.

  "You are," she asked, surprised. "Why did you say the
n, 'I want my wife to fuck a man.' You didn't say another man, you said, a man? Think about it, John. I told you to say you wanted your wife to fuck another man, but when you repeated it back, you said a man, you changed it from another to a."

  "But I didn't mean anything by that," I protested.

  "John, John, my sweet husband, you meant everything by it."

  "Don't you see, John, you don't see yourself as a man because you can't please me as a man."

  "Yes, but..."

  "No buts. Because you can't fuck me to an orgasm, you think you are less than a man. Don't you get it? You don't think of yourself in that way."

  "You are confusing me, Sara," I said, truly mixed up.

  "If you really thought of yourself as a man, you would have said you want another man to fuck me. Because you don't think of yourself as a man, you said just that, "a man."

  "But...I...what do you think of me as," I asked.

  "My lover," she answered, avoiding an answer. "But, Sara, you avoided my question. You said we had to be honest with each other. Do you see me as a man?"

  "No, John, I don't."

  A tear ran down my cheek, I could not help it. Fantasy was one thing, the dream. But hearing it from her, that my wife did not think of me as a man stung.

  "John, please don't cry," she said, tender, an honest concern in her voice.

  "What am I to you then," I asked in agony.

  "It's hard to explain, John, I guess I always saw you as...as slightly feminine."

  "Feminine? What the fuck does that mean," I said, feeling her words hit me in my gut.

  "John, don't be angry. How many times do I have to try to explain it, I love you completely the way you are, every aspect of you. You complete me, you make me whole, totally," she said, her words as honest as could be.

  "But feminine?"

  "Listen John, you are asking me about things I haven't really thought about. I mean, inside, I always adored your softness and tenderness. You know that. Remember, I picked you instead of some stud because I wanted you."

  It was strange. Her explanation was comforting and unsettling at the same time. She loved me, but picked me instead of a stud.

  "You mean, you picked me, you fell in love with me, instead of a...a man?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Sara, what does that mean?"

  "It...it means I love you for who you are, because you are...feminine. Because you are tender, in the bedroom, and out. Because you," she was forming words in her mouth as they jumped into her mind, almost free associating, "because you are like a woman, I guess."

  "Is that how you see me," I asked, stunned.

  "In a way, yes," she confessed, her head lowered, almost ashamed.

  "But...I...I'm not..."

  "A woman," she completed my thought, "of course not, but John, let me put it this way. If masculinity and femininity were on the opposite ends of a line, a pure man was a "1" and a pure woman was a "100", the pro wrestler, The Rock, would be a "1" and Julia Roberts would be a "100."

  "Okay," I said, following her.

  "Well, I am not a "100" because, for example, I love sports, I might be a "90" instead. All woman, with a slight tinge of masculinity," she explained.

  "Yes, and..."

  "Well, John, my college stud, the one who fucked me like a horse, he was a "1" all the way," she smiled. "And...okay, here is where the example applies to you. John, I think of you as a "60" at least."

  "A 60? What?"

  "Yes, you are a man, biologically, who has more feminine qualities than masculine qualities. That is why I love you."

  "But...why then, why did you marry me?"

  "Because I love you and what you are. If you were even a fifty, let alone a ten or a one, I would never have loved you as much."

  The obvious question burned in my mind. "But, Sara, if you love me because I am a "60" instead of a "10", would you love me more if I was a "70?"

  "Yes," she whispered. Suddenly, it was there, out in the open. She would love me more if I moved down this line, lost more of whatever manhood I had. I did not know how to even think about this startling revelation.

  "I don't get it," I said, even though I think I did.

  "Yes, John, I would. I would love you more if you were more...more feminine," she admitted.

  "But Sara, you said you fantasized about...men," saying that, setting men as different from me hurt, but I continued, "men, even though you love me. How can you say you love me, but still lust for...," I was having trouble finishing.

  "Still lust for a real man," she smiled?

  "Yes," I whispered, blushing, feeling slightly humiliated.

  "Because, I suppose as much as you satisfy me, making love to you, is different. It's emotion, tenderness, love, sweetness, and every feminine feeling a woman can have. But still, from a raw sexual desire, a woman, yes me, loves cock, and sometimes loves being taken in the rawest, powerful way a man can. A way you can't. Sometimes I fantasize about actually being fucked. Sometimes I miss having a cock inside me."

  Her words stung, and she knew it. The meaning was clear. She missed having a cock inside her because I was not doing that for her.

  "What do you want from me, Sara," I asked, shaking.

  A Change for the Better

  "To be honest John, since reading all that vile porn you had, about cuckolding, about wimpy husbands, about subservient men, serving their wives, I have been thinking about that all the time."

  "You want a divorce, don't you." I asked, on the verge of crying.

  "A divorce? A divorce! John, are you listening to me, to yourself? I told you I love you more than words could ever describe. Listen to me, no matter what, no matter what ever happens, I NEVER want to lose you. Never. Never."

  "But you want a man, don't you," I said, hurt.

  "Yes, John, a man," she smiled.

  I caught her meaning. I made the distinction again, between a man and another man. In those words, I again did not refer to myself as a man.

  "I mean..."

  "No, you said it right."

  "A man," I whispered. "If I'm not...a...what do you want from me."

  "At least an 85, maybe a little more."

  "You want me to be a woman, you want me to have a sex change," I asked, shocked.

  "Silly, no, no, I don't want you to have a sex change, please. I want a marriage to you, not a partnership with a biological woman."

  "What then, what do you want from me?"

  "I want you to develop more, to stop being conflicted about who you are, to embrace you feminine side by letting go, by stop thinking about how you can be more masculine, and worry about how you can be more feminine."

  "More feminine," I asked, shocked.

  "Yes, more feminine. I want you to consciously accept your femininity. I want you to embrace it, to desire it."

  "But, how...I don't know what you want."

  She smiled. What was that about?

  "That's an interesting answer, sweetie. Do you know that? You asked me 'how' to become more feminine. You didn't say no, you didn't protest. All you asked is 'how' to do it."

  It's true. My inner conscious was already accepting what she wanted, even if my brain was slow to catch up.

  "Honey, how do you know a woman is more feminine? How do you know a woman is a tom-boy? How can you tell a '90' from a '60', using my scale?"

  "I'm not sure I follow," I said, confused.

  "Okay, John, answer this, what's the difference between a normal woman, a feminine, glamorous, heterosexual woman, and a butch lesbian? How do you know a butch when you see her?"

  "Cause she looks like a butch," I answered.

  "Yes, she looks like a butch, obviously, but why?"

  "Because she doesn't look feminine?"

  "What does she look like?"

  "Um, hard, uhh, butch..." I tried to describe, "I guess, masculine. She looks like a man," I said, picturing a stout woman, hair cropped short, a flannel shirt, jeans, work boots, almost dirty,
like a line backer, not an ice skater.

  "Yes. Where do you think she shops? Victoria's Secret or Wal-Mart."

  I laughed. "Probably Home Depot. Do they sell work clothes there?"

  Smiling, Sara walked over to her hamper and picked up a pair of panties. The black satin panties she wore yesterday. "Think she wears these, that butch?"

  I laughed again, "No, I don't think so, probably men's flannel boxers."

  "Why those?"

  "Well," I thought, "I suppose to feel tough, um...butch."

  "Masculine," she asked.

  "Sure."

  "And why did I wear these yesterday," she asked me, walking closer to me, holding the panties out from her body. "Why did I wear these?"

  "Well, you said you wanted to feel sexy," I answered.

  "Sexy? Is that what I said? I wore them to feel sexy?"

  I thought back to yesterday morning. I was half asleep then, and I did not catch all her words.

  "No, John, not sexy. I am sure I looked sexy in them," she grinned, knowing she did, "but no one saw them. Why would I wear sexy lingerie if no one was going to see it?"

  "I...I don't get it, Sara."

  "Femininity. I wore them to feel feminine. The butch wears men's boxers to feel masculine. I wore satin panties to feel feminine."

  I gulped as the meaning of her words dawned on me. "Put these on, sweetie," she smiled, holding the panties out to me. Her tone was not that of a request. It was a quiet command. Put them on.

  I took the panties from her hand, my own fingers trembling. What is scary? I didn't even think to protest or to refuse. Her tone left no room for question. I slowly stepped into the panties, slid them up my legs, over my hips, over my little cock, which, I was shamed to see, was quickly growing.

  Sara smiled. "John, you have such a cute ass," she giggled. I turned, stood on my toes, and looked over my shoulder in the mirror to see.

  She laughed out loud. "What," I asked, her laugh stinging me.

  "Oh, no, nothing John, but I see I'm right about femininity. You stood on your toes and looked over your shoulder in the mirror. That was a most feminine move, something a man would not do. See, the panties have an effect. And John, even if you don't realize it yet, you feel sexy in them, you just don't know how to admit it. But you do. I know...because something gives it away."

  She pointed to my crotch, where my erection was neatly framed in the satin of the panties.