50 Points to Total Cuckold Ruin

Diana Deepthroat

Copyright

Copyright ©2026 by Diana Deepthroat

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

First Roll – The Living Room Setup

The living room stank of cheap cedar candle and stale wine. Lara had dumped a velvet pouch on the coffee table, scattering six black dice with red letters across the glass. Each word on the dice was filthier than the last, and Mario’s balls tightened just reading them.

Lara sat on the rug, legs spread, silk robe gaping open so the side of her tit was on display every time she leaned forward. Her hair was yanked back in a ponytail, the way she wore it when she wanted to be in charge. She looked up at Mario, green eyes locked on him, and gave him that smirk that always made his balls crawl up inside him.

“Ready?” she asked.

Mario sat on the edge of the couch, knees almost touching hers, palms flat on his thighs to keep them from shaking. He wore the same gray button-down and jeans he’d come home in; the collar felt suddenly too tight. “I still don’t know if this is a good idea,” he said, but his voice came out quieter than he intended, almost swallowed by the low hum of the air conditioner.

Lara tilted her head. “You were hard the second I showed you the rules on my phone last week. Don’t pretend you weren’t.”

He swallowed. She was right. When she’d read him that filthy forum post—Humiliation Dice Dungeon, a game for cucks and sluts—he’d been so hard he’d nearly ripped through his boxers. She’d jerked him off while whispering about gangbangs, and he’d shot his load in her hand like a desperate teenager. The shame then was nothing compared to now, with her staring straight at him.

“Okay,” he managed. “One game. Just to see.”

Lara grinned wider. She grabbed the first die, rolled it in her fingers, and tossed it onto the table.

Home bedroom.

She snorted, satisfied. "Safe start." She picked up the next die, shook it, and let it drop.

Anonymous alpha.

Mario’s cock twitched in his jeans. Lara stared right at his crotch, smirked, and looked back up at him.

“Last one for tonight,” she murmured, and rolled the action die.

Blowjob only.

She leaned back, letting her robe fall open so her tits nearly spilled out, nipples poking through the black lace. "Perfect. We start easy," she said, voice low.

Mario’s mouth was dry. “What now?”

"Now I narrate." She dragged her nail down his jeans, stopping just before his hard-on. "You listen. If you want to stop me, you roll your little white die. Odds are shit. One in six, you win. Every time you lose, you get more shame."

He nodded, throat clicking.

Lara’s voice dropped. "Picture it. Our bed. Door locked. Lights low. He walks in. Big. Built. The kind of guy who doesn’t ask, just takes. No name. Just a cock."

Mario’s breathing shallowed.

“I’m already on my knees,” she continued, “because that’s where I belong when a real man walks in. I look up at him—green eyes wide, lips parted—and I don’t say a word. I just open my mouth.”

She licked her lower lip, slow and dirty.

"He doesn’t wait. Grabs my ponytail—right here." She yanked her own hair, making her tits bounce. "Shoves his cock down my throat, no warning, no gentle. Nose in his pubes, gagging on him."

Mario’s hands clenched on his thighs. He could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"I’m drooling already," Lara kept going. "Messy. Sloppy. The way you wish you could make me, but you never do. Spit all over my chin, tits soaked. He fucks my face like a pussy, hard and deep. Calls me his cocksleeve. Tells me I look better choking on his cock than I ever do with your little dick in my mouth."

Mario flinched. His cock throbbed, leaking through his briefs, even as the words stung.

"You’re in the corner," she said, staring him down. "Naked. Hands behind your back. No touching. Just watching your wife choke on another man’s cock while you drip like a pathetic loser."

She paused, letting the silence stretch. Then, softer: “Roll defense, baby. Try to stop me.”

Mario’s fingers shook as he picked up the small white die. He rolled. It skittered, landed on blank.

Failure.

Lara grinned, mean and sweet at the same time. "Two shame points. Take something off."

He hesitated, then fumbled with his shirt, dropping it behind him. The cold air made his nipples stand out.

"Good boy." She rolled again. Another fail. Three more shame. Jeans next. He stood, shoved them down, his cock popping out, red and leaking. He sat back down, bare ass on the cold leather, face burning.

Lara kept going, not letting up. She described the bull slapping her face with his cock, her begging for more, begging to be called a married slut while he used her throat like a toy. Mario kept rolling and failing, losing his socks, his briefs, forced to repeat after her: "My wife deserves bigger cocks." "I’m just here to watch." "Thank you for letting me see."

By twelve shame points, Lara’s robe was gone. She knelt between his legs in just a black thong and thigh-highs, tits swinging as she leaned in, never letting him touch.

"Look at you," she whispered, her breath hot on his cock. "So hard it must hurt. And I haven’t even let you taste my mouth yet."

Mario groaned, hips jerking involuntarily.

She grabbed her phone, aimed it so his leaking cock and her smirking face were both in the shot. "Smile for Steve," she said, snapping the picture. Steve—just some name she’d made up to humiliate him. Steve’s slut.

Mario’s gut twisted. "You didn’t really send that."

"Already sent." She tossed the phone down, screen still lit up. "Twelve points. Next time, I wear just the thong and thigh-highs. No top. No robe. Nothing else."

She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “And next time we roll, the location won’t be our bedroom.”

Mario’s cock twitched, a fat drop of pre-cum sliding down. Lara stared at it, then looked him in the eye.

“Think you can handle that, baby?”

He couldn’t speak. Only nodded.

Lara stood, ponytail swinging, thong soaked and clinging to her pussy. She strutted out, hips swaying, leaving him naked and desperate on the couch.

“Clean up,” she called over her shoulder. “We play again tomorrow.”

The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.

Mario stared at the dice on the table, caught his own reflection in the black TV—red-faced, hard, alone—and felt a cold knot of dread twist in his gut.