You have viewed 1 out of 3 free articles this week.
Hi, I’m Jessica — a wife, a hotwife, and someone who has fully embraced the beautiful journey of a female-led, cuckold relationship. I’m in my late 30s and happily married to Martin, a devoted, self-aware man who has come to not only love but thrive in his role as a cuckold.
I’m so incredibly thankful for Emma and the thoughtful, empowering blogs she writes. Honestly, many of her articles feel like she’s narrating chapters of my own life. It’s rare to find a space that gets it — the complexity, the love, the surrender, the power, the fire — and Emma captures it all.
I’ve poured my heart (and some of my wildest nights) into my writing. Diary of a Cuckold is deeply personal — it’s erotic, raw, emotional, and very much based on my real experiences with Martin. If you’ve ever wondered what this dynamic feels like from the inside — from my side — I think you’ll find a lot to connect with.
And I’m thrilled to offer my book, Diary of a Cuckold, to the readers here. If you enjoy what you read, I’d love if you would check out this title and more of my work.
Just getting started with this series? Check out Part 1
March 4
It took me a few nights to get used to the penis cage. Nights when every involuntary nocturnal movement was a tangible reminder of my own powerlessness. Jessy bought me this matching belt that pulls the ring tight against my body – as if to say that I’m hers, even when I’m not with her. It’s a strange comfort that things were “better” with the belt, as if I had settled into this new reality.
She takes it off me to shower. These moments are almost tender, her fingers deft and yet so distant, as if she is not touching me but only the cage. “Hold still,” she then says, her voice soft but firm, and I comply because I don’t know what else to do.
And then, when she wants sex… In those moments, I swap the cage for a condom. It’s a trade that makes me feel deeply ashamed every time. “You know what to do, Martin,” she says, and I nod, because contradiction is not an option.
Even at work, my finely tailored suit is basically nothing more than an authoritarian façade, because I constantly feel the weight of the cage. A constant, oppressive proof of my subjugation. No one here suspects anything about it, no one would understand. Just imagining it – I can picture the horror on the faces of my colleagues. “Martin, what is that?” they would ask. What would I answer? “Everything’s fine”, with a forced smile? Or would I blush, stammer, give myself away?
Work is a stage, and I play my role with bravura. But inside me? There is a constant fluttering, a nervous trembling. I feel the cage with every step, every movement. It’s a constant dance on the tightrope between fear and excitement.
My wife, my mistress, knows exactly what she is doing. “You will wear it at work too,” she had determined, her voice firm and without room for argument. I had nodded, obedient, aroused and yet deeply unsettled. It feels right to give her this power, to let her decide over me. She is the mistress of my body, yes, and I trust her blindly.
When I get home, the mask drops, control changes hands. “How was your day, darling?” she asks, and I tell her about meetings and business strategies while she pins me with a look that says, “I know what you’re wearing. I know who you really are.”
In these moments, when I reveal myself to her, when I tell her how much I long for her to get the key and set me free, I feel complete. Then the excitement that has accompanied me throughout the day is many times more intense. Then I am no longer the manager, the decision-maker, the controller. I am Martin, your Martin, and that is all that matters.
And when she shakes her head and leaves me in the cage for another night, I’m the happiest husband in the world.
March 7
Yesterday, Jessy’s best friend Doro came to visit. Doro is a German and history teacher and I can well imagine that quite a few of the boys in her classes secretly dream about her under the comforter at night. Dark, curly hair, a captivating laugh and a charisma that conveys: ‘Now an adventure begins’.
I would have loved to have been her pupil.
Jessy and Doro talked and joked all afternoon. When I was in the room, Jessy would occasionally throw in double entendres that only I understood. Things like: “Yes, you should have a servant, haha” or “some things are better left locked up”. She winked at me and part of me wanted her to tell Doro about our trip. About our wild sex and… yes, also about the fact that I’m no longer even the master of my own penis.
The whole afternoon got me incredibly excited and in the evening Jessy and I had great sex. But I’m too tired to write about it today.
March 10
It’s almost midnight and I can’t stop pacing back and forth in our apartment. My mind is a wild place, filled with images that I don’t want to see and yet conjure up with relish. Jessy and Doro have gone out: A so-called girls’ night out.
I can still see them getting ready in front of the large mirror in the hallway. Their laughter light and carefree, their eyes sparkling with excitement. Doro, in her tight-fitting red dress that emphasized her curves, and Jessy, my Jessy, in this black, silky something that promised more than it concealed. They looked like they were in their early twenties again, ready to conquer the night, to steal men’s hearts.
I remember Jessy’s words as she walked out the door. Her kiss was stormy, passionate, almost as if she wanted to give me one last taste of what I could possibly lose. “I don’t wear underwear,” she breathed into my ear, and the phrase burned itself into my brain. “You have one evening now to feel exactly what that knowledge does to you.” Her voice was a sweet poison that flowed through my veins and paralyzed me.
Since then, I’ve been wandering around, my head replaying scenes that tear me apart. I see Jessy and Doro in a bar, surrounded by men eyeing them, imagining what’s under their clothes. I hear the whispered compliments, the laughter that seems too intimate. I feel my jealousy consuming me, dragging me into an abyss of insecurity. Agonizing lust. Lustful agony.
I see strange hands grazing her legs, her bottom. Fingers wandering along her thighs and pausing in surprise when they don’t hit fabric. But only briefly… then they move on. Feeling her heat. Her wetness. Her lust.
I know what Jessy told me to do: We’re both looking for our limits and tonight I’m supposed to feel out whether the idea of my own wife going out without underwear reaches those limits.
Does she do that? I don’t know. I’m restless right now.
March 11
It’s late, or rather early in the morning, and the house is quiet except for the quiet ticking of the old clock in the living room.
Jessy came home an hour ago. I pretended to be asleep, but in reality I was lying there with my eyes open, staring into the darkness and listening to every sound. When the door opened, I could hear my breathing getting faster and shallower.
“Martin? Are you awake?” she called softly as she came into the bedroom. Her perfume mingled with the smell of smoke and alcohol, and it was as if I was standing next to her in a bar, surrounded by fleeting touches and flickering glances.
“Mhm,” I mumbled, pretending to wake up from a light sleep. “How was your evening?”
“Danced a lot, laughed a lot,” she replied with a heavy tongue and I felt her lie down next to me in bed. Her skin felt warm, as if it was still enveloped in the heat of the night.
Scenes played out in my head that I would never say out loud. I imagined how she let herself go, how she danced, laughed, how she snuggled up close to other men.
“Did someone make a pass at you?” I asked, my voice light with effort, but I couldn’t quite hide my excitement.
“Oh, you know how it is. Men in bars,” she said sleepily.
I wanted to ask more, I wanted to know everything. I wanted to taste if her lips tasted like someone else. I would never have admitted it to her, but I even imagined another man’s sperm flowing out from between her legs and dripping onto our mattress now that she was lying motionless next to me.
But I said nothing. My body was trapped, not only in my own fantasies, but also in the little cage I was wearing. How I would have loved to satisfy myself now, to caress myself to the idea that another, foreign cock had conquered my own wife just a few hours before and squirted his seed into her. Painfully and futilely, my penis pressed against the cage, I felt a wet drop of pleasure – but I was incapable of anything more. Unable to put an end to my lust, I was constantly aroused.
I turned to Jessy, touched her cheek and tried to banish the images from my mind. “I love you, Jessy,” I said.
“Me too,” she replied, almost asleep. I tasted the foreign alcohol on her lips and it was as if I had taken a sip myself.
But I now knew the answer to her question: the limit had not yet been reached. I wanted more. I wanted her to flirt, let herself be conquered and then come back to me.
I wanted more!
