by Bob Neils
From Cuckold to Collar: A Slave’s Journey
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2019 Bob Neils
Published by Bob Neils at Amazon
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Content Warning
This story is hardcore erotic fiction with explicit descriptions of sex acts. It is intended only for adult readers. It incorporates intense themes of cuckolding, female-led relationships (FLR), forced bisexuality, transsexual domination, chastity, explicit sexual acts between consenting adults, and the consumption of cum. Readers who are not comfortable with such material are encouraged to open their minds, but are strongly cautioned against proceeding any further.
This is a work of fiction intended for Adults (18+) only
Table of Contents
Introduction
From Cuckold to Collar: A Slave’s Journey
A Cuckolding Gone Too Far
Time to Make Waves
Dating a Dominatrix
A New Life Begins
About Bob Neils
Introduction
Cum. Semen. Jism. Sperm. Splooge. Jizz. Spunk. Chism.
Call it whatever you will, but I’ve always been obsessed with cum. It was, in fact, my first fetish . . . which is rather odd, when you consider that I was a comfortably straight young man.
How did it all begin? Well, let me set the stage for you. As a young teenager, my exposure to porn was severely limited. There really was no internet (just a collection of text-based bulletin board systems pages linked by dial-up modems), and censorship standards in Canada were much more extreme than they are today. Adult movies and magazines were required by law to edit out any genital contact or visible climaxes.
Yeah, it sucked.
Movies were the worst, with scenes that jumped around, skipping the illicit scenes, without any effort being made to re-sync the dialogue or music. One minute you’d be watching a man grunt and groan atop a woman, and the next thing you know they’re sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast. It was just as awkward and frustrating as you’re imagining, and you came to dread any sort of camera movement that you knew was going to lead to a brutal edit.
As for magazines, those big black dots were the very bane of my existence. Tits and ass were fine, and you could even show a cock or a pussy on their own - so long as nobody was touching them. If there was even the suggestion that a man was about to penetrate a woman with his cock, or that she was about to press her lips to its spongy head, a big black dot covered that up. You knew what was happening, and could clearly imagine the details, but there was no way to peer beneath those black dots.
Believe me, I tried everything to fade them, scrape them, or see through them.
What used to drive me absolutely mad, however, was the censorship of ejaculation. I can vividly remember all these pictures of hard cocks with big black dots covering their heads, and what was very clearly sperm shooting beyond the dot. It was okay to show the cum, you see, but not where it came from, and god forbid you should want to show it landing on a woman’s face!
It was sometime in the late 80s when the Supreme Court finally struck down such heavy-handed censorship, opening the floodgates for a new era of porn. Suddenly, just about everything was fair game.
It was wonderful.
It was amazing.
It was revolutionary.
My exposure to this new world started with magazines, where I became completely entranced by the image of a man’s cock exploding all over a woman’s face. I can’t tell you why that struck me so powerfully, but it burned itself into my brain. The models didn’t matter. Their bodies didn’t matter. Hell, their genders didn’t matter. I developed a tunnel vision for genitals that still defines me to this day.
The first time I saw an actual ejaculation on film, the first time I got to watch that cum fly, and that lucky woman stick out her tongue to catch it, I came in my pants.
It was glorious.
Despite that new freedom, it took a few years for porn to catch up, as production companies waited cautiously to see what would happen with all the legal challenges and new bills waiting to be debated. While movies and magazines no longer had to be edited or censored, the introduction of new, wilder, more explicit fetishes into the Canadian market was a few more years down the road.
Where my appreciation for the money shot first started to become a full-fledged fetish was with Michael Ninn’s Latex. Even though I knew they were fake, the almost violent explosions of torrential cum, with the resulting total body immersion in massive loads of hot, sticky, slimy semen, was the most exciting thing I had ever seen in my life. Again, I paid no attention to the actors, just the cocks, the cum, and the canvas they painted.
What forever burned the fetish into my soul, however, was a single scene in The Devil in Miss Jones 5, where Jeanna Fine collected a bowl full of cum from a gang of ejaculating studs and forced Juli Ashton to lap it up like a starving kitten. I remember dropping to my knees and crawling across the cheap carpet of my basement bedroom to try and somehow capture her point-of-view.
From that moment on, whenever I lay in bed at night, my hand wrapped around my cock, wet with my own saliva, my every fantasy ended with me being bathed in massive amounts of cum, and forced to eat load after hot, sticky load.
And that confused the fuck out of me.
I wasn’t gay. I had absolutely zero attraction to men. I wasn’t interested in their bodies, their muscles, their hairy chests, their faces, any of it. The idea of having a man hold me, kiss me, or caress me did absolutely nothing for me. It didn’t bother me. I wasn’t grossed out by it. It just did nothing to arouse me.
No, it was all about cock. More than that, it was all about cum.
For a long time, I thought cuckolding was the fantasy that would deliver me into my fetish. If you’ve read my Cuckold Chooses Cleanup (a fantasy scenario with moments of truth) or Cuckold's Glory: The Hole Story (the true story of my first cuckolding relationship), then you may already understand something of that phase of my life, and the complexities of being infatuated with cocks and cum, yet completely disinterested in men.
I had intended my next story to be a different introduction, the true story of my first BDSM relationship, but life took a sharp left-turn during the writing of that story. The events of this summer set me back. They made me question a lot of my fetishes and challenged a lot of my fantasies. However, they also forced me to take a good, hard
look at my life, and finally make a choice between loves and lovers.
Even then, as a writer, I had to wait until I could once again appreciate the scenes that used to excite me, a relationship that used to arouse me, before I could honestly write about how I came to transition from one lifestyle to another. With this story, I am excited to be writing again, and even more excited to be doing so with the direction and approval of my Mistress. There is no fantasy to this, no hiding, and no excuses for my behavior . . . just the facts of how I came to be the live-in cuckold of a shemale Dominatrix, and what our relationship has taught me about my own sexuality.
From Cuckold to Collar: A Slave’s Journey
A Cuckolding Gone Too Far
“Tom! Where the fuck’s your stuff, man?” Jeff shouldered his way past me the moment I opened the door. A blond-haired tank of a man, what he lacked in manners he made up for in . . . well, alcohol tolerance, I guess.
“We have got to get this shit on the road.” Following close on his heels was Alexander, a gaunt-looking man who perpetually smelled of the skunkiest strains of marijuana. Just the thought of him being in my house was enough to make me nauseous.
“Guys, guys.” Bringing up the rear was Chris, the level-headed member of our old school foursome. And by level-headed, I mean quiet, polite, and completely boring. “Give the poor man a chance. I told you we were early.”
“Yeah, well, you were the one who was so fucking anal about Labor Day traffic.” Jeff just about knocked President Boredom off his feet with a punch to the shoulder.
The four of us stood there, nearly filling what little space there was in my bachelor’s kitchen, and I felt the guilt begin to wash over me. We’d been friends for the better part of twenty years, beating the odds by not just remaining in touch after high school, but remaining close friends. We didn’t get together as often as we once did, but we always spent one summer weekend at the lake, and another weekend in the winter at a hunting cabin up north. Not that any of us owned a slingshot, much less a rifle.
Jeff had missed one winter get together with a very good excuse – he’d been arrested for breaking probation on another charge of drunk-and-disorderly. Alexander, somehow, had managed to control his chronic paranoia enough that he’d never missed a weekend. Chris . . . well, Chris had missed one of each, a summer and a winter weekend, the first while going through his second divorce, and the other while finalizing his fourth. As far as I knew, five was as far as he’d gone, but I couldn’t say for sure what the last six months might have brought about.
He wasn’t exactly one to talk about his feelings, unless they were angry, violent ones.
As for me, my record was spotless, but that was about to come to an end.
“Look, guys.” I shuffled sideways, putting the kitchen island between Jeff and myself. Better safe than sorry. He was the only one I was worried about. Having that physical barrier between us didn’t make me feel any less guilty, but it did make me feel safe. “I’m sorry, but this is my year to blow it.”
“No fucking way.” Jeff leaned across the counter. Except it was less of a lean and more of a loom. “I’ll drag your ass out and stuff it in the trunk if I have to.” His lips were smiling, but his eyes flashed with anger.
“Chill, man.” Alex stepped around to my side. “I’m sure he’s got a good excuse.”
I appreciated the show of support, but I still stepped away from his stink.
“I know it’s short notice, and mock me all you like, but Tricia dropped an ultimatum.” I smiled, and realized it was genuine. I wanted this to work out, to take our relationship to the next level. “This could be my last weekend as a free-swinging bachelor.”
“Run. Run, my friend.” By the look on Chris’ face, another divorce was behind him. “Fuckin’ good for nothing bitches ain’t never worth it.” And apparently it was a rough one.
“I feel bad, guys, but I have to see if we can make this work.” While I talked, I stacked the two cases of beer and three sleeves of frozen hamburger patties on the counter. As much a bribe as a token of my guilt, I was hoping it would get them moving. “It’s been a year-and-a-half, and this is the first time she’s suggested we make permanent. I’ve got to try.”
The guys knew a little about Tricia, although they had never met. At least, not as far as I knew. The one risk of being an anonymous cuckold was that I never really knew whose seed I was cleaning out of Tricia’s warm, moist pussy, or whose cock we had shared at the gloryhole.
Just thinking about it was giving me an erection.
More reason to remain behind the island.
All they knew was that we had a good, casual sort of thing going on. Well, mostly. Alex knew about my gloryhole fetish, but I wasn’t sure how much he remembered of that one awkward night we bumped into each other at the sex shop. I couldn’t even begin to explain to them what this weekend might mean.
Jeff began tossing sleeves of hamburgers at Chris, laughing as he fumbled them. “We all get one, that’s what we agreed, muchacho. Hope you’re not wasting it laboring over some dirty cunt.” He laughed at himself, proud of his holiday pun, then grabbed both cases of beer with a grunt. “See you in December.”
Forty-five minutes later, still feeling guilty about the guys, I made the long walk from where Tricia had instructed me to park my car. All these months, all these dates, all these public cleanups after equally public cuckolding, and not once had I been to her home. Hell, until now I didn’t even know if she had a home, slept with the bull of the night, or . . .
Well, to be honest, there were moments if I wondered whether she might be married. I’ll be honest. I wondered whether she wasn’t so much interested in feeding my fetish as in cleverly cleaning the evidence before coming home to unsuspecting hubby. It wasn’t that far-fetched. I’d heard worse from people in the community.
As for her house, it wasn’t at all what I expected. It was a rundown little townhouse with a front yard of more dirt than weeds. The front steps were crumbling on one side, and the railing was leaning against an already crooked mailbox. Two of the three windows in the front door were covered with plywood, and the doorjamb showed signs of multiple forced entries.
If I’d known she was living like this, I would have invited me to move in with me long ago.
I hesitated with my foot on the bottom step. Was this the right address? Maybe I’d made a mistake, or maybe she was screwing with me, testing my commitment. I started to fish out my phone, but then the door swung open with a bang.
“You made it!” Clearly bra-less, Tricia’s ample breasts jiggled wildly as she bounced on her heels. “I was worried the boys might have talked you out of it.”
“They tried.” I stepped in close and took her in my arms. I wasn’t used to her smelling so clean and so fresh. Most of our embraces came after she was sweaty, soiled, and dripping with cum. I kissed her anyway. “But,” I told her, “this was too important to miss.”
“Good.” She smiled as she pulled me inside. The door didn’t quite close behind us, but she hardly seemed concerned. “I have big plans for you.” Her gorgeous waves of blonde hair bounced as she continued pulling me down the hall, stumbling over takeout boxes and empty beer cases along the way. We ducked through a crooked doorway that sagged in the center, and I immediately felt my feet scrape through what used to be shag carpeting.
It felt more like the fake plastic grass of a rundown mini-putt course now.
Tricia pushed me down onto a well-worn couch, and then plopped herself down atop me.
I tried my best not to gasp or groan, but it was clear she knew exactly what she was doing.
“Now, Tom. I could beat around the bush, make small talk, and waste the afternoon away, but the truth is we’re going to be having company very soon, and I want to make things clear.” She adjusted herself in my lap until she was crushing my balls beneath the weight of her carefully placed thigh. “We’ve been playing the cuckold game for a good, long time now, and I think you understand that I ho
ld all the power here.”
“Of course.”
“Shh.” She slapped my face – and not gently. “When I want you to talk, I’ll let you know.” Tricia leaned further into me, her breasts pinning me to the couch. “Right now, you are going to take off your clothes and get into my closet. It’s not huge, but I think you’ll fit.”
I started to open my mouth, to ask her a question, but she raised her hand to slap me again. This was a side of her I hadn’t seen before. Under different circumstances, it might have excited me, but something struck me as odd about the whole situation. There was a vibe here that rubbed me the wrong way, and it wasn’t the state of her home. After all, our first date had been at a filthy gloryhole, and we’d shared more than one public bathroom during our time together. Hell, I’d even cleaned out her pussy in the shadows of a sewer tunnel after she’d gotten fucked by some guy under a highway overpass.
It was part of the thrill, part of the fantasy.
No, it was something about her, something about her body language, her tone of voice, her behavior. Something felt wrong, but I owed it to us, to our future together, to play along.
I’d no sooner gotten comfortable in the closet – as comfortable as I could, given the tight space – when I heard the front door slam open. Tricia started to say something but, from the sound of it, was cut off by a kiss.
I didn’t like this. This was not what I’d signed up for. Our relationship was built on the concept of blind cuckolding. She met with her bulls in private, where I neither had to see nor hear what happened between them. Tall or short? Black or white? Young or old? I didn’t have to know. Had she slept with friends? The guys at work? The gang at the bar? I didn’t know, they didn’t know, and that was how I liked it.