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Wednesday - September 03, 2003
PayPal, The Cuckold Nest, and Doing Battle


When last we left our phone slut, she was doing battle with the evil wizard who sought to...

Oh. Wait. No. That's not where we were.

Much has been going on here in the world of slutdom. Unfortunately its nothing much that you could write an entry about. Or maybe you can write a long honkinentry. Lets see&shall we?

First of all, if you have had your PayPal account suspended even though you are no longer using it for adult purposes, you can ask to have it re-instated by writing to: [email protected]. Explain to them that you are in compliance with the new regulations and that your suspension is a mistake. You'd like to have your now PERSONAL account re-instated. They are totally helter skelter with this shutting people off for no reason stuff, but if you have stopped using your PayPal for (obvious) phone sex purposes and you'd like to have it for ebay and the like, its worth giving them an email to see if you can get re-instated. I'm going to re-iterate here that the best bang for your buck is going to be joining an affiliate program like Hot Lips Cash. I'm going to keep re-iterating this because a) Hot Lips is my friend and an ethical business woman and b) because I keep getting people writing me telling me they've lost their billing, cant get a merchant account and don't know what to do. So, you know. There's that.

I know I promised to talk about Barn Girl and the Stranded Hitchhiker, but I'm feeling not with that just now. Actually, I wrote a sample article for an associate that is planning an adult publication of sorts and I thought Id repost it here as it is basically little more than a journal entry. And so&for your phone sex voyeuristic enjoyment, may I present:



One Flew Over The Cuckold Nest

By: Doxy Wringer

One of the caller types that always fascinates my phone slut sensibilities is the cuckold mindset. A great number of my clients are married men, and the methods they've devised for their wives to morph into unfaithful little tramps are legion. There is something lurid in the image of the all-American housewife transforming into a sweat-drenched whore. It sheds a whole new type of luminosity onto the sexual revolution that feminists never counted on.

One of my long-time regulars is a truck driver (or at least he claims to be) who spends many a lonely night on the road in cheap hotels and sweltering truck stops. The isolation of his occupation, and his own vivid imagination often make him suspect that his wife is cheating on him. It is, I believe, a case where the wish is sire to the suspicion. In other words my boy has fantasized so long and lavishly over the idea of coming home one night ahead of schedule and finding his wife in flagrante delicto (and engaged in no end of torrid activities) that he has actually started to consider it a possibility. This escalated level of anxiety feeds the perceived tension of the situation and has the added bonus of sprinkling a dash of reality into the stew of his seedy daydreams.

Complex psychology aside, it's the details that make his fantasies so gripping. He doesn't just pull up to the house in his rig -- its been left at the shop for repairs (presumably so no one will hear him arrive). Feeling romantic, he's stopped off and purchased tokens of affection like roses and chocolates, or other presents for his sweet bride. After all, he's been away a long spell, and he's hoping scratch a manly itch or two in the course of the evening. 

In the fantasy, he is completely unsuspecting, and this is a somewhat vital element in scores of hardcore cuckold illusions -- the humiliation of the unsuspecting and adoring male. It's dirtier that way, and the wife is that much more wicked.

Upon arriving to his castle, arms laden with romantic gifts, our hero suddenly begins to feel uneasy. There are unfamiliar cars (or, quirkily enough, motorcycles) in the driveway and loud voices coming from within the house. At least, to the casual listener they're probably voices. Shadows and silhouettes play off the shade-drawn windows. His wife doesn't work, and sometimes when she's bored she goes down to the local bar for a drink or two and he thinks to himself -- surely she must have brought home some friends for company.

And, bubba, that assumption ain't just whistlin' Dixie.

All the details have led up to a potently emasculating confrontation. Upon opening the door, lover boy comes face to face with a roomful of men all taking turns at his no longer blushing bride. She is soaking in bodily fluids that belong to her and others. Often painted white with semen. Every orifice of her body is full of the fingers, tongues, or sexual organs of virtual strangers. 

And she is loving it.

At this stage, the fantasy stems in different directions, based largely on the submissive tendencies of the male and how deeply his desire to be humiliated is. 

In our hero's case, he attempts to disrupt the fray of sexual activity -- somehow convinced that his sweet wife has run afoul of deviants and scoundrels. Generally he is overpowered (customarily by members of the motorcycle gang that his bride is servicing). He is taunted as the presents he's brought home are unceremoniously destroyed or strewn about the room. Then the outsiders tie him to a chair (or bind him on the couch) and force him to watch the acts of sexual perversion they perform upon her. 

As this stage it is driven home to our boy that his wife is joyously reveling in her role as Queen Whore. She confesses that she's never allowed her husband to engage in anal intercourse, even as one of the burly gang begins to insinuate himself within that particular cavity. Often she makes unflattering comparisons regarding the length and girth of male equipment she has encountered. This intellectually-vacant banter regarding the age-old debate over whether or not size matters, eventually draws attention to lover boys *ahem* own tool, which is -- shockingly -- erect. 

We are now teetering on the tantalizing brink of restrained arousal and the denial of marital privilege. Rock-hard and disgraced, he is the unwitting spectator to his wife's flagrant infidelity and spectacular feats of libido Olympics. He gazes in horror-struck awe while she presents oral 10.0 performances and flawlessly dismounts from various apparatus-enhanced appendages. The choreography of acrobatics is fascinating, as are the vivid descriptions of juicy noises. A cacophony of lip-slapping, fluid-squirting, flesh-flapping overload our cuckold hubby's sensual acuities. 

The palpitating tangle of limbs and organs builds to an inevitable culmination as the entire room bursts into spontaneous ejaculation -- except for you-know-who, who hasn't had so much as a stiff wind to aid his sexual release. 

As suddenly as the torrid pantomime began, it is over.

The grunting and bestial noises die off. The strangers zip up their flies, recover their clothing, and depart the scene of the sin. The wife, ever the hostess, waves them off in exhausted glee. At some point, our beleaguered boy is unbound, having been deemed too ineffectual to cause any sort of post-orgy ruckus, and even he is not surprised to realize his attitude (as well as his body) has been rendered flaccid and docile. 

Generally, his wife now saunters off to shower and siesta, leaving him gaping in the center of his own living room. He stares at the bric-a-brac and is assaulted by the smells and stains of what has just transpired, and the reality of his own impotence in both the interval and the aftermath.

A raunchy and deviously nasty footnote is that sometimes, if the little woman hasn't rushed off to the shower, she might force her lesser half to clean her himself by licking the biker gangs sperm from her body, from under her sweaty tits, and from within her well-fucked puss. 

Of course, with either ending there is the realization that this is going to happen again. Perhaps every time he leaves on a run. Perhaps now that he knows the kind of woman she really is, she won't even bother to hide her alter-ego. Nymphomaniacal and shameless she might very well flaunt her future infidelities in front of him like a runway model showing off new shoes.

Or, at least, so he hopes.




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