Charles the Cuck 2
Alda must face the fact that in order to help her husband, she must expose herself with lewd photos. With this humiliating practice, will she find herself ashamed... or aroused...?
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Alda’s life would never be the same. Everyone at the office looked at her with pity or suspicion. Was she a victim? Was she complicit in her husband’s crimes? No matter how much she would assure anyone, it was not enough to remove the lingering doubt from the gazes of her co-workers and employees.
“Take the time you need to figure things out,” says her boss. “You’re the best Project Manager we have here, and this is an unprecedented time for the company. And I’m sure for you.”
Unprecedented indeed. Now, Alda’s a prisoner in her own home, projects finished, with nothing to do. Nowhere is safe from the gossiping mouths and the judgmental eyes of the public, so she sits home, stir-crazy even though it hasn’t been long since the sentencing.
That’s when her phone buzzes—an unknown number messaged her, but the message she received makes her freeze.
“Dandelon: It’s me. I got a phone. Please let me know if you got this.”
Alda’s heart leaps in her chest when she reads those words. Only one person in the world calls her that. Quickly, she curls up on the couch, typing madly away.
“Charlie. What are you doing? You get a phone call already. This is dangerous!”
“I know, I know. But things are bad here. I have to do things to survive—make deals and form alliances.”
“Making deals got you targeted in the first place!”
“Well, I’m not happy about it either, but they’re very persuasive here and, well, I need your help.”
She sighs, wiping her mouth with her hand, blowing hot air as she contemplates things. “What kind of help?”
* * *
She can’t believe what she’s doing. Lying on her bed, naked, quivering. Alda takes a deep breath and holds the phone high in the air. She lies there with her hips twisted, her whole body shaking. With this picture, he won’t see her face, but he’ll see her tits resting upon her chest and the hint of the curve of her ass. With a click, the camera shutters, and the message is sent.
She brings her pillow up against her chest and watches the ellipses bounce on the screen. An eternity later, she gets a response.
“Damn, that’s fine. Charles was a fool to cheat on that.”
Her heart drops, tightening her grip on the pillow, a lump forming on her throat, her whole body shaking. Who is this man that he’d put them both through this…?
* * *
Charles’s shoulders slump, and he lowers his head and puts his hands on them. Tears well up in his eyes, but he knows better than to say anything or show weakness in front of these animals.
“Very good, very good,” James says, patting him on the back. “My man, Whitebread, he delivers!”
James’s lackeys snicker and chortle.
“It’s about damn time someone ‘round here knew to give me what I want. Whitebread, you’ll get to sit at our table, and no one, and I mean no one, will mess with ya.”
James places his hand on top of Charles’s skull, squeezing just so much to snap Charles out of his despair. “And you know why no one will mess with ya?”
Charles swallows, his eyes locking on James. “Wuh-why is that, Mr. James?”
“Shit, well, it’s because you’ve got the hookup for me, and as long as the hookup comes when I ask for it, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Charles tries to smile, but the words are so deliberate and threatening. He only nods and turns his head own, but when James urges him over to sit down on the bleachers, he moves with a haze, becoming a good-little-lackey, for the fear of the shiv is far too much.”
* * *
Meanwhile, at home, Alda lets the shower run over her body. Trembling breaths rush over her as she leans against the wall, clutching at her heart. Visions flash in her mind of a time in her life she thought was long gone. But perhaps she will never escape having to do whatever it takes to keep what she loves safe.
That’s what she has to keep in her mind. It’s to keep him safe. A little showing off her body is not so bad, is it?”
* * *
Charles lies in his bed, staring up at the bunk above him. There is only darkness in his vision and despair in his heart. Is this what it means to survive?
He slides his hand to his chest, sighing. It’s only for a little while, after all. And they can forget this bleak chapter of their lives once he's out of prison.
But it is only the first week of his incarceration. He’ll have no idea what’s coming for him later.
Later comes sooner than perhaps Charles had wanted, for only a few days had passed before his new boss called for him. This time, James is lifting iron, his body huge, his massive muscles grossly large, and the sweat off his body sending a wafting muskiness through the air. It’s enough to almost make Charles faint, but his cellmate, Nayson, as he came to know, was there to keep him standing up.
Between sets, James sits up, toweling himself off and whistling. “You know, Whitebread,” he begins, dabbing his forehead. “You got yourself a catch. I mean, you really got yourself a catch. Not only is that bitch of yours tasty, but she’s tasteful in how she poses herself.”
Charles keeps his eyes turned away and down to the floor. “Thank you, Mr. James,” he mutters, hoping that’s what his prison boss wanted. He takes his employee behavior from the playbook he saw from low-level interns and kids doing summer jobs running coffee.
“No, thank you,” James responds, taking a deep breath. “But there’s still a problem.”
Charles glances up, his heart sinking at the same time. “Wuh-what sort of problem, Mr. James?”
“I can’t get a good look at all the goods your wife’s got, man. You should know a man needs visuals to get off. The imagination can only go so far, after all.” He shrugs, looking around to his entourage. “I mean, really, if imagination’s all we need to jerk off, I’m sure all of us would be doin’ it all the time, am I right?”
The group around James chortles and cackles.
“So, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to message your wife again and get me some pictures, pronto.” He reaches into his pocket, producing his phone. “You hear me?”
Charles stares at the device momentarily, a chill forcing its way up his throat, but he nods and snags the phone. “Yes, boss.”
“That’s a good piece of White Bread,” the man says, returning to his set. “And you’d better make sure she sends me something now. Candid shit is much better than planned shots.”