Charles Not Chuck

Cuckold stories fill me with a visceral contempt. I don't intend to kink-shame, but deriving sexual satisfaction through being humiliated is loathsome.

I have come to believe that the vast majority of the people who write and enjoy such stories are not doing so because they imagine themselves as the cuckold, but rather as the bull or the cheating wife. I see such stories as excuses to engage in wish fulfillment, the wish being to pour cruelty and disrespect on a better person. I think that the people reading and writing these stories are more likely bullies than oppressed. From what I've seen in these stories, the cuckold generally is the better man, though he is inexplicably willing to go along with the horror being perpetrated upon him.

You really won't find characters like that in my stories. You might find the "bulls" or the cheating wives, but my characters don't comply to poor treatment like that. If there is sharing involved, it is true sharing. Swapping, hotwifing, multiple lovers at once, all these are fair game. But not open disrespect going unanswered.

But that's just my take. If you don't like my style, there are many others to read.

But for me? I don't like bullies. They are just abusive assholes.

Charles stood in the doorway, the image before him searing into his mind. Debbie, his wife, was riding someone on their bed. She didn't pause when Charles appeared, she continued riding her lover. If anything, she increased her efforts and then sneered at her husband of twelve years.

"We saved you a chair, Chuck the cuck," Debbie sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. Calling him Chuck had been a recent development. For more than a decade she had no problem with calling him Charles or Charlie. But about six months ago it turned into Chuck. He didn't like to be called Chuck, and he had told her as much.

The last six months had been a challenge. It seemed every day that Debbie was increasingly indifferent to the man who had loved and supported her all these years. Debbie had grown increasingly distant and disrespectful, brushing off his concerns, his attempts at conversation. She had laughed at him, dismissed him. He had tried. God, had he tried. But, nothing had worked. Now he understood why.

She didn't want him to fix things. She wanted this.

His eyes flickered to the chair she was pointing at, just a few feet away from the bed. It was almost comical, a cheap wooden chair, brought to the bedroom and placed just for him to sit and watch. The young man, some twenty-something punk, all muscles and arrogance, looked up at Charles from under Debbie with a smirk, clearly enjoying the power play.

Charles's fingers curled into tight fists at his sides. For a brief, hot second, he imagined grabbing his shotgun from the closet and letting his rage consume him. But the fantasy quickly passed. He realized that these two weren't worth the consequences that would ensue.

Debbie thought she knew him, she expected obedience. That was what this was about, control. She had some notion that she had control over him.

"You're quiet," Debbie said, watching him. Her smile widened as she rode her lover with exaggerated pleasure, like she was putting on a show. "Guess you're finally learning your place."

Something inside Charles shifted. It was subtle at first, like a veil lifting from his mind. He saw her more clearly than he ever had before, Debbie, the woman he had loved, the woman he had sacrificed for, worked himself into the ground for. She wasn't the woman he married, not now, not anymore.

But Debbie had miscalculated. Badly.

Charles stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, and Debbie's eyes lit, thinking that she had won. She thought he was giving in, that he was surrendering to her new reality The young man beneath her snickered. This punk thought that he mattered. He was just a prop to her, just like Charles had been.

Charles stopped just short of the chair. His the rage had cooled, replaced by something sharp, cold. He locked eyes with his soon to be ex-wife, and for the first time, he saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes..

"You really think I'm going to sit there?" Charles's voice was low, steady.

Debbie's smile faltered for the first time, and she stopped moving on her boy-toy. She tilted her head, and said, "You've always done what I said, Chuck. I thought we had an understanding."

"An understanding?" Charles let out a bitter laugh. "No, Debbie. You had a delusion. You thought that you could push me around and I'd just take it. You were wrong."

The atmosphere in the room changed. Her lover looked confused, glancing between Charles and Debbie like something was happening that he hadn't signed up for.

"Chuck," Debbie started, her tone changing, a hint of panic creeping in. "This is supposed to turn you on. Aren't you excited by this?"

Charles shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Excited? By this? You think I wanted you to humiliate me, to make me feel small and worthless? Is that how you see me?"

Her mouth opened, then closed. This wasn't the reaction she had expected. Sheila had said he would comply, that he would be excited to be her cuckold. Sheila had been so sure that Charles would love becoming Chuck the Cuck.

She didn't know what to do with this version of him, this man who wasn't backing down.

Charles stepped back, shaking his head. "You can keep your games, Debbie. I'm done."

He turned and walked toward the door. "By the way, it's Charles, not Chuck." As he walked out the door.