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The Best of Cuckold Stories - Julie 4

  

  

 

 

“Julie” Part 4

by c.w. cobblestone

 

 

I was on my hands and knees polishing the tile kitchen baseboards when I heard my wife’s bratty voice: “Waaaaalllllter!”

 

I set down my rag, struggled wearily to my feet, and made a beeline for the living room, where I found Julie relaxing on the couch flipping through a fashion magazine.

 

“Um…you called, Mistress?”

 

“Yeah, whatever you’re doing, stop. Diana and Roy are coming over to watch the Bears game, so plan on having dinner ready by 3. You can barbecue up some burgers and whatever. But hurry up.”

 

“Yes, Mistress.” I politely smiled and said, “Um, what would you like me to fix, Mistress?”

 

“I just told you, idiot, I want hamburgers,” she snapped. “But you better go see what Kevin wants, too.” With that, she turned her attention back to her magazine.

 

Shit! It was after 1:30 p.m. already – how was I supposed to have everything ready by 3 o’clock?

 

It was an unfair request by any reasonable standards, but that’s nothing new. Julie and Kevin just keep piling more work on me. I can’t tell you how often I stay up until all hours of the night taking care of some mundane little chore one of them has assigned me.

 

Julie came up with a new one last week, after she saw a news story about the dust mites and bacteria people breathe in from the heating vents in their homes and cars. She now wants me to take Q-Tips and meticulously clean each slat in the vents, in both of their cars and in all the vents in the house. And, she said, she wants it done twice a week.

 

I did it for the first time on Wednesday and it took three hours to clean every vent. That put me way behind on my housework, and I had to stay up late to get all the laundry washed and ironed. But do you think Julie gave a shit? Hell no; Miss Princess slept like a baby snuggled up to her man in her comfy bed while I was busy in the cold, lonely basement laundry room (which doubles as my bedroom), diligently ironing her boyfriend’s shirts at 3 in the morning.

 

Now, she wanted me to prepare a barbecue on less than two hours’ notice. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself as I trudged down to the basement to see what Kevin wanted me to make. I prayed he wouldn’t say he wanted ribs for the barbecue, because they take so long to prepare.

 

I descended the stairs and entered Kevin’s “man cave,” where he lay sprawled out on the large L-shaped couch watching the early football game, pitting the Colts against the Patriots.

 

As soon as he saw me, he said, “Oh, good, Waldo, I was just gonna call you.” He wiggled his empty beer bottle at me and I scurried to retrieve it.

 

“Um…sir?”

 

“Yeah, Waldo, what?”

 

“Um…Mistress Julie said she wants hamburgers for the barbecue. What would you like me to fix for you, sir?”

 

Kevin thought about it for a second.

 

“Hamburgers are fine, but throw some hot dogs on, too.” Then he chuckled. “And I bet you’ll remember what Roy likes on his hot dogs this time, won’t you, Waldo?”

 

“Y-yes, sir.” I blanched at the memory: Last time they visited, Roy made me shove a hot dog up my ass because I’d mistakenly put mustard on it instead of ketchup.

 

Roy is an out-and-out bully. Come to think of it, so is Diana. I hate it when they come over. And Julie and Kevin just egg them on; they enjoy showing off for their friends, flaunting the fact that they have a wimp slave who will do anything he’s told. And Roy and Diana keep pushing the envelope to see how far they can go. Usually when Roy and Diana visit, there’s a lot of alcohol involved, which makes it even worse. The drunker they get, the more they enjoy hurting me.

 

Kevin interrupted my bitter trip down memory lane: “You can bring me that cold beer any day now, numb-nuts,” he snarled.

 

“Yes, sir, right away, sir!” I turned on my heel and scurried toward the staircase. As I was halfway up the stairs, he called after me, “Hey, Waldo, why don’tcha throw some ribs on the grill, too?”

 

I bit my lip. “Yes, sir,” I answered in my most polite tone. I wanted to cuss instead. Damn it! Son of a bitch! Fuck! I thought I’d gotten away with not having to make the ribs, which are such a pain in the ass. I should’ve known better. Fuck.

 

I served Kevin’s cold beer, then I darted around the kitchen in a near-panic. I still had to thaw out the meat, marinate the ribs, prepare the veggies and dip, fire up the grill – how was I supposed to have everything ready on time?

 

I had just started taking the meat out of the freezer when I was interrupted by a call from my wife in that edgy, spoiled whine she uses when summoning me: “Waalllllllterrrr!”

 

I hurried into the living room. “Where’s the remote, Walter?” she asked crankily.

 

How the hell was I supposed to know? I glanced quickly under the couch; on the table; no dice. It wasn’t on the carpet. It wasn’t under the table.

 

Chafing at the interruption, I continued scanning the room: It wasn’t on the arm of the couch; it wasn’t buried in the cushion – and then, thankfully, I spied the remote, tucked under her leg on the couch.

 

“Um….it’s by your leg, Mistress.”

 

She looked down. “Oh.” Without another word she grabbed it started flipping through the channels.

 

“Um, will there be anything else, Mistress?”

 

“No, go,” she intoned.

 

I darted back into the kitchen.

 

Not two minutes later, Julie called me again: “Wal-Ter! I need a refill!”

 

I stamped my foot in frustration. But I put on a happy, submissive mask, fetched her drink, and then got back to fixing lunch.

 

I was chopping up the veggies when I was summoned yet again, this time by Kevin.

 

“Yo, Waaaaldo!” he bellowed. I set down the knife and wiped away the tears that were forming in the corners of my eyes.

 

When I got downstairs I saw him reading a form for what looked to be a football pool.

 

“Get me a pen, Waldo,” he said absent-mindedly, not taking his eyes from the form.

 

There was a pen sitting on the goddamn coffee table right in front of him! I fumed as I retrieved it and handed it over.

 

Kevin must have sensed my mood, because he snatched the pen from my hand and glared at me.

 

“Is there some kind of problem, fag?” he snarled.

 

“N-no, sir, there’s no problem at all, sir,” I stammered, my mood melting into a wave of submissive fear.

 

“I didn’t think so,” he said.

 

I stood there for a minute. He hadn’t dismissed me.

 

“Um, sir, did you need anything else?”

 

“No, faggot, I don’t need anything else. Beat it.”

 

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Diana and Roy arrived just after 2, looking every bit like the attractive mid-20s “football couple” they were. Diana had on a tight-fitting jogging suit that bore a Bears logo, with a Bears ballcap; while Roy wore jeans and a Bears jersey. They were both rabid Chicago fans and they had season’s tickets to Soldier Field. The game they were planning to watch with Julie and Kevin, though, was in San Diego.

 

They all relaxed in the living room as I bustled around serving everyone’s usual drinks: An Amaretto Rose for my mistress, and a cold bottle of Samuel Adams for Kevin; for Diana, it was a Bacardi Martini, while Roy is a Jack and Coke man.

 

“Well, hey there, fat-ass, how’s it shakin’?” Roy asked as I handed him his drink.

 

“H-hello, sir.” I croaked. It was obvious I was afraid of him, which amused him to no end.

 

“What’s for lunch?” Diana asked as I served her Martini.

 

“Um, I’m making hamburgers, hot dogs and ribs, ma’am,” I said politely.

 

Diana ignored me, and said to Julie, “well, I hope lunch is going to be served soon, girlfriend, because I am STARVING.”

 

Roy chimed in, “Me, too. Me and Diana worked up a bit of an appetite this morning, if you know what I mean!”

 

Diana playfully hit her boyfriend in the arm; Julie just rolled her eyes and said, “men!” while Kevin shared a masculine chuckle with his buddy. Meanwhile, I stood there like an idiot – which didn’t escape the attention of my wife.

 

“Is there a particular reason you’re standing there like a fat slob listening in on our conversations?” she berated. “Get out of here – I want lunch served in 15 minutes.”

 

Kevin chimed in, “Yeah, Waldo, we’re hungry, so get the lead out of your fat ass! Hubba hubba.”

 

“I-I’m sorry,” I said, turning on my heel and scurrying toward the patio with the echoes of laughter burning in my ears.

 

It was cold on the patio, but the grill helped keep me warm. I put the finishing touches on the burgers, which I stacked onto a large platter. The ribs were piled high on another platter, as were the hot dogs. The veggies were neatly cut, and arranged on a veggie tray, accompanied by my famous sour cream and onion dip. I’d killed myself, but I somehow managed to get lunch done on time. Not that I expected any thanks for my back-breaking efforts.

 

I had to make several trips into the living room to bring in all the platters of food. Because they were watching the early game, which was in the fourth quarter, I made sure to drop to my knees before I approached them; as I got closer to the table, I ducked my head down so as not to block their view of the TV. I carefully placed each platter on the table before shuffling backward on my knees, bent over uncomfortably.

 

They didn’t even notice me; they were too engrossed in the football game, which was a tight match between the Colts and Pats.

 

As they ate and watched the game, I knelt on the floor near the couch with my head bowed – my usual mealtime position. After a few minutes, Kevin said, “Waldo, another beer!”

 

Roy drained his glass and rattled the ice at me. “I’m ready for another one, too.”

 

I served the guys their drinks, and as I turned to leave Roy said, “those ribs were good, but I’m still hungry.” He scanned the three platters on the table in front of him, which each were still piled high with food. “Fix me a hot dog, Waldo.”

 

Everyone in the room remembered what had happened during their last visit, and they all shared a chuckle. I took one of the hot dogs from the platter and set it onto his plate. My hands shook as I stood off to the side of Roy’s chair like a butler, carefully applying a line of ketchup to his hot dog.

 

“Ah, I see you remembered – ketchup!” Roy sneered. He scooped up the frank and took a big bite. “That’s a good boy,” he said with his mouth full, “now you won’t have to shove a hot dog up your ass.” He washed down his bite with a swig of his drink. “Ain’t I nice?”

 

“Yes, sir, t-thank you, sir,” I said, unable to look him in the eye as I resumed my kneeling position.

 

They ate and drank like kings and queens, and they kept me hopping fetching refills. By the time the first game was finishing up, they were all pretty hammered.

 

The game had come down to a field goal attempt by the Patriots with only three seconds left in regulation and the Pats trailing by a point. As the kicker prepared to make his attempt, the opposing coach called time out.

 

“I’ll betcha he misses,” Roy slurred to his buddy.

 

“What’choo wanna bet?” Kevin shot back.

 

Roy thought about it for a minute.

 

“If he misses, you have to give us Waldo for a whole weekend so he can clean our house and garage,” Roy said.

 

“Okay, what if he makes it?” Kevin asked.

 

Diana drunkenly interrupted: “If he makes it, then Waldo has to shove a rib bone up his ass!”

 

Everyone busted up laughing, and when Kevin caught his breath, he roared, “Okay, you’re on!”

 

Julie shook her head in mock disgust. “What is it with you guys, anyway?” she said to her friends. “You’ve got a thing for making poor Waldo shove things up his butt!”

 

The game came back on, so her light-hearted question never was answered. I was petrified as I watched the kicker line up behind the ball. Although the prospect of being Roy and Diana’s slave for an entire weekend was beyond distasteful, I prayed the kick would be no good so I wouldn’t have to debase myself with a rib bone.

 

The teams got set. The center hiked the ball. The holder spun the football into position. The kicker drew back his right foot, and the ball shot upward..

 

  

  

  

part 5

  

The Best of Cuckold Stories

  

  

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