Cuck Chairs - My Experience

Have you ever noticed that in almost every hotel room there’s a Bible in the drawer… and a cuck chair tucked away in the corner? It’s one of those things you don’t see until you see it — and then you can’t stop noticing.

Over the last few months, I’ve come to realise just how much I love the quiet thrill of watching. Lifestyle events, parties, chance encounters — I’ve found myself leaning back, drink in hand, letting the theatre of other people’s bodies wash over me.

There’s something electric about it. When you catch a sly smile from someone who knows you’re watching them, it shifts from being a private moment to a performance. They arch a little higher, hold the moan a beat longer, spread themselves wider just for you. That’s the kink in voyeurism most people don’t understand — it’s not passive. It’s a triangle of energy. Performer, partner, and you: the audience. Recently, I had one of those encounters I’ll never forget.

We had a couple staying at our place for two nights. From the moment they arrived, I knew they weren’t just any guests. During the usual tour — lights, sound system, little quirks of the apartment — they dropped hints. They were flying through to Bali, had chosen to stop over in Perth just to stay here, and even told me they were fans of my podcast. Flattering, sure, but also a clue: they were in the lifestyle. They’d picked my place for a reason.

The next morning, I had a message if I could drop off a phone charger, as I did, she wanted to chat, so polite chit-chat turned into confession. Their first night had been amazing, but they’d tried to arrange a third and been stood up. It happens more often than people admit — too many fakes online. We laughed about it, and I joked about the leather chairs in the apartment being perfect cuck chairs. I confessed I’d enjoyed a beer or two in those chairs myself, just watching, letting the show unfold. She had seen photos of it and that was her plan for the trip. To paint a picture of this couple - He was a professional sportsman — fit, broad-shouldered, with that quiet self-assurance that comes from being used to winning. She was his match, a model with curves that could stop traffic and eyes that seemed to see straight through you. They were the kind of couple you might assume were fake online — too perfect, too glossy. But here they were, real and grinning.

That night, at 7pm, my phone buzzed. Another no-show. Another disappointment. The text wasn’t just a message — it was a plea: “Would you come watch us?”

At first, I brushed it off. I don’t usually cross the line with guests. But by 9pm, after a few more messages — their tone equal parts frustration and desire — I gave in. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was ego. Maybe it was the simple truth that I wanted to watch. I lit a joint on the walk over, grabbed two beers from the fridge, and told myself I’d stay for as long as those bottles lasted. No more.

I sank into the leather chair, my so-called cuck throne, and cracked open a beer.

As the joint took hold, the room shifted. Shadows deepened, bodies gleamed in the low light, and suddenly every movement felt cinematic. They started slowly, almost tenderly, but soon the rhythm grew more urgent. What struck me wasn’t just the way they moved together — it was the way she never looked away from me. No matter what position they tried, her gaze stayed locked on mine. She wasn’t just fucking her husband — she was performing for me.

At one point she stretched herself across the spanking bench, back arched, arms reaching out toward me. Without thinking, I held her hands, bracing her as she pushed back into him. She wanted the connection. Wanted to tether me into their scene.

Later, as he neared climax, she pulled him to sit opposite me. She dropped to her knees, spreading herself so I could see every detail. Her feet rested against mine, as if we were locked into the same current. One hand gripped him, gagging herself deep; the other spread herself open for me. She wanted to make sure I didn’t miss a single second.

When he told her he was close, she took it all. Not a drop spilled. She held it, savoured it. This brief moment was the only time she was not looking at me, but instead the view I had was very appetizing to say the least.

When he left to shower, she didn’t break the spell. She folded into child’s pose, breathing for 3-4 deep breaths before she rolled onto her back, slowly her feet resting casually on my knees. So, in the moment - guys, what would you do? I widen my legs instinctively, she smirked, knowing I’d given her the stage. She touched herself slowly, deliberately, dragging out the moment until she shuddered and sighed, her body arching like a bow pulled taut. As I watched her orgasm my jaw dropped. I knew I was not given any permission to touch but I wanted to.

It felt like an hour, but what was more likely to be 30 seconds, we had eye contact that was intense before she asked me to help her get up. When she reached out for my hands, I thought she just wanted to stand. Instead, she pushed me back into the chair and slid onto my lap. The grinding was unrelenting, teasing, dangerous. Her lips brushed my ear as she whispered, “I know you want to cum inside me?

I told her yes. She reached down, bold, sliding her hand into my pants. She teased out the pre-cum on my tip, brought it to her lips, and sucked it off her fingers with a wicked smile.

“I’d love you to fuck me,” she whispered, “but he doesn’t share me like that. Watching is our compromise.”

Her husband reappeared then, towel around his waist, offering me another beer. I declined, said I’d better head home. She didn’t move. She kept grinding, defiant and playful, until he gently told her to let me go.

But she wasn’t finished. She asked him for a tissue, and as he disappeared again, she grabbed my hand. Without hesitation, she guided my fingers inside her, wet and hot, holding them there for a beat before pulling them out and bringing them to my lips.

I wish I could remember the words she whispered, but I was on another planet by this stage

whatever she said, it was the closing of the performance.

Watching wasn’t passive anymore. It was active. It was connection. And in that moment, I knew exactly why the cuck chair exists.

This blog post was written by me; I did share it with the guest in question for their approval so again thank you and I hope this story did your story justice.