"Susan," I moaned, "you've got to be kidding. A month? A fucking month?" I looked at my wife, narrowing my eyes, a sure sign I was angry, as if my tone left any question that my swearing did not. "What the fuck, seriously?"
"Do you need to swear at me, Michael," my wife snapped back, eyes narrowing more than mine. "Do we really need to take it to that level?"
Great. In the span of two seconds our argument quickly changed. I went from having the high ground, to losing it, in that span of two seconds.
Two seconds. Susan just stood there, arms folded across her chest, tapping her high heeled foot against the hardwood floor, waiting.
"Susan," I said again to no avail. It was kind of a cardinal rule of our relationship. No swearing at one another. Even in an argument. Nothing stopped one faster. I didn't like to be cursed at, Susan even more so. She would not talk to me until I apologized.
I looked down at the ground, at her heel, continuing it's tapping, up slightly, at her legs.
"Susan," I tried one more time.
I sighed. "I'm sorry for swearing at you, Susan," I said.
Susan kept tapping for a few seconds, seemingly trying to decide if my apology was genuine. Nothing worse than a fake apology, I found out once. She would not sleep in our bedroom that night until I realized the error of my ways.
-- End of Part 1 --
"Apology accepted, Michael," she said, stopping her foot. "Now, as to mother, Michael...she's my mother. I'm supposed to tell her to get a hotel room? Honestly, Michael, sometimes I wonder about you."
"Susan, I..." I wasn't sure exactly what to say. She knew I did not like her mother. It wasn't so much any more than her mother really did not like me. Simple as that. I made every effort to be a good son-in- law, a good husband. But that woman would not accept me regardless of any efforts I made. "Susan."
"Michael, I know what you're going to say, and you're not entirely wrong about the way she treats you, but please, she's my mother. And if my mother is in town she is going to stay here as our guest."
"Susan, she's so mean to me." I sounded like a third grader, I realized, but I was an adult, I should not have to deal with something like that in my own home.
"Michael," Susan softened, finally unfolding her arms, coming up to me, putting them around me, "please." I could smell her perfume. I could feel her breasts pressed up against my chest. It really wasn't fair. Susan was not trying to play unfair, but the reality was that how could I say no?
"Susan, a month?"
"For me, Michael," Susan asked, honestly putting the choice to me, which left me no choice.
"Okay," I softened, "okay."
"And Michael, I know what you're thinking, but please, behave, okay? Just fetch her tea, put up with her, respect her, do whatever, for me, okay?"
"You make it sound like you want me to be her servant, Susan."
"No, Michael, I want you to avoid any fights with her, for me. I don't want you to be her servant, I just want you to avoid confrontation with her, okay? If that means you serve her now and then, so be it."
"Yes, Ma'am," I answered, mocking her.
"Try that with some seriousness, Michael, and maybe the month will go by quickly."
A week later, Hurricane Cynthia arrived at our house. Like all modern hurricanes, it arrived on schedule, with plenty of warning, started out slowly, but changed the lives of everyone who lived through it.
She arrived on our doorstep in all her blue blood glory. I opened the door and what awaited me was a tuxedo clad driver with my mother-in-law several feet back. "Mrs. Cynthia Stanton," the driver announced formally.
I almost laughed at the pretentiousness of her arrival. Announced by a driver. To her daughter's house. Oh, how like her.
"Thank you," I told the driver, "please, Mrs. Stanton, come in," I said to her. To him, I instructed him to bring her things to the guest suite.
"It's so nice to see you, Mrs. Stanton," I said as she walked into the foyer.
"Thank you Michael," she said, using my name in the way only she could, saying it as only she did.
She took off her overcoat, handed it and her gloves to me. I'll say this about Cynthia Stanton. Even if I give her credit for nothing else, she is a stunningly beautiful woman for a woman in her mid to late fifties. Impeccably dressed every time I saw her, she was today, of course. She was wearing a pink skirt suit, with black trim, pink or white nylons, sling back pink heels with large bows, oversized pearls, which all matched her demeanor of a blue blood society "I'm better than you and we both know it" attitude.
I took her coat, hung it in the closet, turned to find her already sitting in the living room. Actually, perched may be a better word, perched on the edge of a chair, back straight, sitting as if on a throne, as if she was the queen, as if she ruled my house.
"May I offer you coffee or tea?" I winced inside, less than a minute after arriving I was already waiting on her, acting as a servant.
"There, it wasn't too bad, now, was it," Susan asked when she got home from the office.
"Not too bad? I basically had to take a day away from work to wait on your mother hand and foot. How could that possibly be that bad? How could it possibly be that bad for a professional man to be treated like a servant by his mother-in-law?"
Susan's features softened. "Michael, come here." She was sitting on the bed still dressed in the skirt suit she'd worn to work. While not as "stuffy" as her mother, Susan too was always dressed impeccably, and unusual for women of our generation, would never wear pants to work on principal.
I stood my ground. Perhaps I was being petulant, but this was just the first day of a month of dealing with her mother.
"Michael, sweetie, I know your feelings, I know how she can be, I certainly know how she can come off."
"She treats me like a servant, Susan."
"My mother treats most people that way, hon, don't take it personal. Besides, you're not doing it for her, you're doing it for me."
I frowned at Susan. "For you, huh?"
"Yes, sweetie, just - I don't know - you're not serving her, Michael, when you're doing something for her, you're doing it for me, right? I mean, I know how you feel about her, you wouldn't do this if it wasn't important to me. You're doing it for me."
This sounded like some reverse psychology bullshit to me.
"Me, honey, you're serving me, not her, okay?"
"Hmmff," I snorted.
"What, you like to serve your wife, don't you?" Her tone said nothing. It was in her eyes. Her tone was flat, but there was something in her eyes.
"Susan," I said, actually blushing, quickly giving away what my thoughts were, even if hers did not match.
To be honest, I did love serving her. I loved bringing her coffee every morning. I loved jumping up to get something for her. I loved doting on her, treating her like a princess, like a queen. I loved giving her back rubs, foot rubs. I loved cooking for her. I just loved her so much, that doing things for her brought me joy.
"I could use a foot massage," she said, tilting her head, slipping her feet out of her heels. "Please."
I sighed, anger gone for now. "Okay." Susan took and let out a deep breath, leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes. Without thinking much of it or about it, I knelt down on the ground in front of her, at the head of the bed, took one of her nylon covered feet in my hands and began her massage.
I quickly became lost in my relatively simple task, I quickly became lost in massaging her feet, her ankles, her calves.
"You like serving your wife, don't you?" Her question floated through my mind. I did. I focused so much on her. I was happiest focusing on my wife. I found true happiness serving her, pampering her. If I could just think of her mother in that way. Serving my wife by serving her mother. I could put up with this for a month, I knew I could.
Susan raised her foot up slightly so it was level with my face, mere inches from my mouth, my nose. I moved my hands up with her foot, continuing to massage her soft feet, to work my hand over them, over the nylon, rubbing deep into her muscles.
But I knew what she wanted now, I knew what she was offering. I could smell her, the scent drifted to me, had, of course, just the effect she wanted. She wanted me to do it and I was more than happy to submit to her wishes.
For I wanted it as much as she. "You like serving your wife, don't you?" I did. She knew I'd want to take her foot into my mouth as much as she wanted me to. She knew the scent of her lovely foot, right in front of me, as I touched it, as I looked at it softly wrapped in nylon, made her irresistible.
I'd admitted to her on several occasions that I was a leg and foot man. That the sight of her legs immediately attracted my eye. That I was somewhat infatuated with her feet, with rubbing them, kissing them. That either, clad in nylons, drove me to instant sexual desire.
She knew it. She often used it, lovingly, to her advantage.
So I moved my head ever so slightly, opened my mouth every so carefully, took my wife's foot, her toes, nylon and all into my mouth.
"Oh, Michael," Susan moaned. Yes, she was getting just what she wanted, her husband, her eager husband, kneeling before her, gently sucking, lovingly kissing, tenderly licking her foot, and showering attention on her, for her.
"You like serving your wife, don't you," she asked me again, softly, moaning while speaking.
God, how I did. I loved it, loved pampering her, touching her, pleasing her. When we made love, I'd much rather lick her than be licked. I'd much rather touch her than be touched. I'd much rather make her cum than cum myself. The feeling was mutual, I knew. And that was a good thing. I wanted to serve and she wanted to be served.
For she'd much rather be licked than lick, be touched, than touch, be massaged, than massage. Whereas once in awhile, she'd go down on me, she wasn't ever that into it. And I didn't care. I'd much rather go down on her, I'd much rather lick her, I'd much rather spend two hours licking her pussy than get two seconds of her reciprocating to me.
It was a point of pride for her, how excited I'd get pleasuring her. It was almost a game, a test. I'd spend an hour, more, massaging her, licking her, bringing her to orgasm after orgasm. And she would not reciprocate. She'd moan, she'd touch me, she'd run her fingers through my hair, she'd tell me how good I was, how much she loved me.
She'd touch my skin, toy with me, but carefully, so carefully, avoid any contact with my penis. I'd be on top of her, making her thrash with orgasm after orgasm, my penis mere inches from her hands, right on top of her face, but she'd pretend it wasn't there. She'd ignore it, she'd ignore what was right before her, almost teasing me, making me more wild with desire, more desperate to please her.
I'd be dying, just dying for her touch, for her to blow on it, kiss it, touch it, lick it, but she wouldn't. And strangely enough, that would make me want to make her cum that much more, to lick her that much more, and to taste her that much more.
Until, finally, sometimes after hours, she'd touch me. Susan would finally touch my penis, so hungry for contact, she'd touch me, just brush against me, lightly, and I'd lick her so hard, so explosively.
Once when she did that, when she finally touched me, she said, "I love feeling you leak cum just from making me cum. I love feeling your penis drip." Well that was too much for me to hear. She loved that I'd get so hot, so excited, so turned on from pleasing her, from licking her, that I'd literally be dripping cum before I'd even been touched. That turned me on so much I immediately exploded in orgasm, making a terrible mess all over me, all over her, all over the bed.
Did I like serving my wife, did I like serving Susan? Yes, yes, over and over again, yes.
I loved it, needed it, craved it, wanted it.
I licked her ankle, her shin, her calf, licked each part of her leg, one then the other, left, then right, slowly kissing my way past soft nylon to softer skin, slowly following the path of her scent, of her perfume and of her more natural smell.
When I reached her thighs, Susan started moaning, started breathing heavily. Her fingers found my head, found my hair, rubbed as I licked, kissed, teased her inner thighs. I knew what she wanted.
I tilted my head up, blew a breath, a hot breath of air, onto her sweet spot, onto her triangle, onto her pussy. "Oh, Michael," she moaned louder, "yes, Michael, kiss me, kiss me."
I wanted her as much as she wanted me. I could smell her, her wetness, the musk, the excitement. The thin nylon of her pantyhose, the only thing between my mouth, my nose, and her pussy could not possibly contain the scent, the need, the animal urge.
I flicked out my tongue, quickly, running it along the seam of the pantyhose crotch covering her, tracing it, as it went over her lips. She orgasmed from that lick, that one lick. She shuddered, grabbed my head, pushed me back towards her wetness, "again, Michael, oh god, again."
I licked her again, again through the nylon, I tasted her, the juices flowing, her orgasm continued, the shuddering continued, as she pulled my head now, pulled my face into her, into her crotch. I wanted her. I wanted her now. I needed her. I couldn't stand it. Normally I'd lick her for hours.
But I needed her now. "You like serving your wife, don't you?" Her words were on my mind, encouraging me, pushing me. I needed her now!
While licking, not missing a lick, I reached up, grazed her pussy, her lips, her clit, licked, moved my hands to the waistband of her pantyhose. "Michael, wait," Susan said, her hands releasing their pressure on my head.
"What, hon," I said seductively, continuing my lapping at her pussy while continuing to tug at her pantyhose.
"Michael, I - ohhh -" she shuddered, gripping the sides of my head with her thighs as I lapped at her clit. "Michael, honey, I - we shouldn't my mother " She was breathing heavily, gasping.
"What, Susan, you don't want to?"
"I " she sucked in and out for air, "I do, but I not now, not she she's here, I "
"Please Susan," I begged now.
"Shhhh, baby, shhh," she said, still pushing herself against me, still shuddering in orgasm.
It was a weird place I wanted to get angry with her for letting me get so sexually charged and telling me no. For letting me lick her, get her off, and tell me to stop.
You like serving your wife, don't you? I do, I do. I was serving her, I was getting her off.
Serving my wife.
Susan was gently pushing my head away, gently pushing my face from her, gently coming down. "I love you, Michael."
I loved her, too, I loved her, too. I wanted her. I wanted to please her.
"Later, love, later."
We cleaned up a little, though Susan really had nothing to do save straighten her skirt and her hair. I washed up, washed her juices off my face and Susan and I took her mother to dinner.
At least at dinner Mrs. Stanton treated everyone the way she treated me. Entitlement. She was a true blue blood, better than everyone. Not in a mean way, not really, but there was certainly an air of superiority with her. Maybe I shouldn't take it personally.
Maybe that was just the way things were, my wife's mother was a devil in a dress.
"I'd like fresh linens in the bathroom if I could, Susan."
"Of course, mother," Susan said, looking over her shoulder to her mother who was sitting in the back seat of the car. "Michael, you'll take care of that," Susan asked, looking back towards me.
"Sure," I answered, gripping the steering wheel. It was my job in the division of household labor, to take care of the bathrooms, but hearing the request from Mrs. Stanton nevertheless steamed me.
I like serving my wife. Serving her mother was serving her. "I'd be happy to take care of that, Mrs. Stanton," I said, looking in the mirror at my mother-in-law.
"Thank you, Michael," she said with the same tone she thanked the waiter at the restaurant.
In bed later that night I immediately tried to finish what I was not allowed to finish earlier, spooning my wife, my quickly growing penis pressed into her back.
"Michael," Susan sighed, "I told you, not while Mother is here."
"Susan, you're kidding, right?"
"Michael, her room is right next to us, she'll here us, I I can't "
"Come on Susan," I whispered, "we can be quiet, can't we?"
"You know how I am," she giggled. She was right, she was a moaner, a talker.
"Susan, I can't go a month without screwing you," I begged, humping her back without shame.
"You don't have to go a month, sweetie, just, not when she's right in the next room."
"God, Susan, I'm so so horny," I growled. "You got off, today, several times. I didn't and, I I ache, please."
Susan, bless her soul, was insistent and headstrong, but she wasn't without mercy. She was responding to my humping by moving her hand behind her, taking me in her soft fingers and massaging me. "Maybe you're right, Michael," she said, "I suppose you did serve your wife this afternoon, didn't you?"
I shuddered, "Susan."
"You did tell me you liked serving me, it showed, you brought me to orgasm after orgasm with that mouth of yours, lover."
Susan moved my swollen organ between her thighs, directly into contact with her warm pussy, the pussy I so lovingly licked for her earlier.
"Shhh, Mother," Susan scolded. "You make any noise and it will be like she's here watching you do this to her daughter."
"Shhhh, there, there, lover, quiet, quiet, Mother." Susan moved with me, moved so I continued to rub against her, continued to feel the warmth of her pussy without entering her.
I tried to shift so I'd push into her, but she kept moving with me, not allowing me. "I told you I don't want to make love, Michael," she softly chastised me. "I don't want her to hear me, just let me get you off."
Frankly, I didn't care that much, I just wanted to get off. "I'll make a mess," I managed to meekly protest.
"Don't worry about that, lover," she whispered, "you just keep at it."
It didn't take long. It was a mess.
I heard Susan's alarm go off early on Saturday morning so she could get up and run. Susan was training for a marathon and did her long runs on Saturday mornings at a local park. "I'll be home around noon," Susan said quietly, kissing me on the cheek.
"K," I said groggily, not wanting to wake up.
"Remember, hon, serving her is serving me, okay."
"Okay," I sighed, drifting right back to sleep until around eight. I never could sleep in too late, though I did like more sleep than Susan. I got up, made a pot of coffee, and set out a place setting for my mother-in-law. I could do that much without any bitter feelings.
I heard her in the sitting room watching the news on television, thought about bringing her coffee, but remembered I had promised to provide Mrs. Stanton with fresh linens in the bathroom this morning and thought I'd do that now while she was not using her bathroom.
Fetching a laundry basket, I filled it with fresh towels and went upstairs to the guest bath, which was a "Jack and Jill" bathroom that was between our second and third bedrooms, used by anyone using those rooms. Not wanting to actually go into the guest room Mrs. Stanton was using, I went into the other bedroom.
The door between the second guestroom and the bath was closed, though there was no light visible through the door cracks and I assumed Mrs. Stanton was still downstairs. I knocked softly, nevertheless, having no interest in disturbing my mother-in-law in the bathroom. Hearing no answer, I tried the handle, found it unlocked, and gently opened the door.
I turned on the light, saw some of her things spread out on the counter out of the corner of my eye, but focused on the pile of towels in the corner on the floor. I realized it was a good thing I brought a full replacement of towels and set about replacing the soiled linens.
As I was standing up with the armful of towels from the floor, I heard Mrs. Stanton enter her bedroom. "I'm in here Mrs. Stanton, replacing your linens," I called out right away, respecting her privacy.
"Oh, thank you for remembering, Michael," she answered, coming to the door between her room and the bathroom. "I have a couple of other things that you'll need to wash too," she said, pointing to the door I came through. Apparently I was not just replacing linens.
I closed and looked behind the door. Now, I do not know if my face actually turned seven different shades of red or if that is just an expression. I'm sure there were at least two or three different reds that flushed my cheeks.
I didn't say anything. I couldn't say anything. I should have. I should have refused. I should have told her to fuck off right then and there. I should have run from the room in terror. I would have if I'd known.
Lingerie. Hanging over the bar on the back of the door was lingerie. Foundation garments. Nothing incredibly sexy, not like things Susan wore in the bedroom, not even the sexy bra and panty sets she favored. Practical garments. Somewhat old fashioned, but practical. Nothing at all sexy. Yet given the situation, garments that produced immediate tension in my stomach.
"You'll need to hand wash those of course," she said without any more expression than if she'd told me to wash the towels in cold water.
I'd not turned to face her. I don't know if she saw my face, my cheeks. I stared at the garments. A plain white bra. Plain white brief panties. A garter belt. Stockings. White stockings.
It flashed through my stunned brain that it wasn't at all surprising that my mother-in-law would wear something like these, something old fashioned. It did not surprise me at all. I'd never thought of it, I'd never, not once in my life, ever contemplated what type of lingerie Mrs. Stanton wore. Never. Yet now, here I was, staring at her most intimate of garments.
"Please don't dawdle, Michael, I need to use the shower."
I didn't know what to do. I know I was shaking. I was almost frozen to the spot. I thought of Susan's words. Serving her mother was serving Susan. Serving Mrs. Stanton was serving my wife.
"You like serving your wife, don't you?" Okay, this was seriously fucked up, I knew it, I simply knew it. Yet
I carefully took the garments off the bar and put them on top of the towels in the clothes basket.
"Hand wash, Michael," my mother-in-law said again. I turned red again, awkwardly opened the door without turning around so as not to face her
I took the basket down to the laundry room, staring at my mother-in- law's foundation garments the entire way downstairs. How the hell was I supposed to do this? I'd already touched them once, albeit briefly, now I was supposed to handle them, run my hands over them, wash them? The garter belt and stockings were bad enough, but the bra, the panties? These had been I shuddered thinking of it. These had been touching her skin in the most intimate of places.
I walked into the laundry room, turned on the light, went to the laundry sink. I was serving my wife, I was serving my wife.
I think that's the only thought that allowed me to even touch the garments, to even will myself to move my hands to the basket.
I was serving my wife.
I ran a sink of water, poured in a cap of delicate detergent.
The bra was on top, the first thing I touched. The bra. I was holding Mrs. Stanton's bra. My mother-in-law's bra. Instantly I thought of her chest, her bosom, her breasts. I couldn't believe I WAS THINKING OF MY MOTHER-IN-LAW'S BREASTS!
Calm down Michael, calm down.
I rubbed it against itself, worked the detergent into the soft fabric of the large cups. Her breasts were much larger than my wife's. There I was again, thinking of her breasts. Touching the bra was like touching her breasts. I was shaking.
I hung the bra on a rack next to the sink, picked up the next garment, the garter belt.
Fighting back urges to cry, I washed and hung it next to the bra.
The stockings were not as bad, not until I hung them, had thoughts of Mrs. Stanton dressed in them, the garter belt, the bra. Thoughts of her dressed in lingerie.
Nothing thus far had prepared me for the panties. Nothing prepared me for the nauseous feeling I felt when I reached into the basket, felt the panties with my skin. The panties that my mother-in-law wore the day before, the panties that were against her skin
AGAINST HER PUSSY were in my touching my skin.
I was twitching, nervous twitches running through my body, jumping through my skin, my fingers, to her panties. The panties were inside out, the crotch, the cotton lined crotch, in between my fingers. I could see a whitish crust on the crotch; I could feel it on my fingers.
Discharge. I was touching discharge from my mother-in-law's pussy!
I prepared to plunge the panties into the warm, soapy water. My arms started to move. I wanted the crotch out of my sight, the juices out of my sight.
But my arms didn't move down towards the water. I don't know why. I wanted them to, I willed them to, I wanted to end this task immediately. They should have moved. But they didn't.
Instead, my arms moved up, upward, up, instead of lowering the panties to the water, I raised them up, raised Mrs. Stanton's panties, crotch first, raised them up towards me, towards my head, towards my face, towards my nose.
Without thinking, without wanting, I pushed my mother-in-law's panties, her soiled panties, her the soiled crotch of her panties to my nose, and took in a deep breath, took in a breath and inhaled the scent, the pungent scent of the discharge from her pussy, of her sweat, of her womanhood.
I inhaled the scent of my mother-in-law's pussy. I was smelling the scent of her pussy!
My brain was revolting against my own actions, but this was coming from somewhere else, I was doing this for some other primal reason. Reason told me it was wrong, even disgusting, but something else was driving this, something more primal. I felt it deeper, felt it felt it in my loins. Sniffing the crotch of her panties was sexual, driven by sexual urge.
Inhaling her scent, sniffing her panties, I felt the stirring in my crotch, my penis swelling. With one hand I reached for...
"Michael, are you down there?" Susan! My wife called down into the basement. Her voice, her words, woke me from my sexual trance, allowed my brain to reassert control.
I immediately removed Mrs. Stanton's panties from my face and plunged them into the water. Washing her lingerie was one thing, bad enough, humiliating enough, in front of Susan, but sniffing them!
"Yes," I croaked. I heard her come down the stairs. I kept scrubbing, rubbing the panties in my hands, trying to get out any scent, any crust, any reminder of my mother-in-law's pussy.
"What what are you doing, hon," she asked, walking into the laundry room. I started to turn to face her, but realized I couldn't or I shouldn't. If I did, she would see it. Not the panties, that didn't matter, for she could already see the bra, garter belt, and stockings on the line. No, if I turned she'd see the fucking bulge in my pants. She'd see that her fucking husband had a fucking erection from fucking washing her mother's intimates, her lingerie. I couldn't turn, I couldn't let her see that.
I pressed myself as hard as I could up against the sink. Tried to hide. "She she "
"Michael?" I couldn't turn to face her.
"She told me to wash to wash her things "
"Oh, Michael," Susan said with sympathy in her voice.
"She told me to to hand wash her lingerie," I said, almost sobbing.
"Oh, sweetie, you didn't have to do that."
"Susan, you you told me to to serve her that I was "
"Serving me by serving her, I know, honey, I know." Susan walked up behind me, wrapped her arms around my chest. "I love you so much, Michael," she said, squeezing, kissing my neck.
I could smell my wife, smell the sweat on her from her run. But I craved her, craved her touch.
"Susan, she "
"I know, Michael, I know. You didn't have to honey, I know. But don't you see," she said, squeezing again, "you didn't have to but you did, you did, not for her, but for me, don't you see, oh, Michael, you're so sweet. God, if I wasn't so sweaty and disgusting I'd do you right here."
"Susan," I gasped.
"I know, Michael, I can't believe she asked you to do this, she's such a bitch, such a dominant bitch, sometimes, but you did it, honey, did it for me, sweetie, that means so much to me." Susan relaxed her arms, started to spin me around to try to kiss me.
"Susan," I started to say but she already had me half around. I had to move my hands up, out of the water to turn to kiss her. I still had Mrs. Stanton's panties in my hand as I kissed my wife, in my hand as she pressed against me, against my still hard penis.
"Oh, Michael," Susan grinned. She thought I was getting an erection from her attention! Oh, god, that wasn't the case. I had an erection from the panties, from her mother's panties, from sniffing the crotch, smelling her pussy!
She finally stopped kissing me, looked to my hand that was held out, holding the dripping panties away from us. "Sweetie, why don't you finish up your washing and come upstairs and have coffee with me, okay?"
"Okay," I managed to meekly say.
Susan left me to my task, my humiliating task. I finished, hung the panties with the other garments and started to go upstairs.
I stopped on the stairs. The door to the kitchen was open, but I stopped as I realized my penis was still swollen. That pause allowed me to hear them, Susan and her mother, in the kitchen, talking. Talking about me.
"Really, Mother, your lingerie?"
"What of it, Susan?"
"You asked him to hand wash your lingerie?"
"I didn't ask him, Susan, I more told him."
"Told him, even worse. Was that really necessary, Mother, to humiliate him like that?"
"What's the matter, Susan, you object?"
I heard my wife chuckle. "No, no, I suppose not." I could envision her thinking the same thing I was thinking, serving her by serving her mother.
"Besides, Susan, it's really a sign of devotion, don't you think? Imagine, what kind of husband will do that? Hand wash his mother-in- law's panties? He may not be much of a man, but he's certainly a devoted husband."
"He is, Mother," my wife said, defending me.
"A man or a devoted husband? I presume you mean, a devoted husband, Susan. That, I know. You're surely not insisting he's much of a man."
"What do you mean by that," my wife asked? "He's a man!"
"He's a man, is he? And you think any of the men you've dated would be down in the laundry room hand washing my stockings? You think Paul Simpson would have done such a thing? Do you?" Paul Simpson was the man my wife dated before we met.
"Paul Simpson was a pig, Mother," my wife snorted. "Michael is twice the man Paul was."
"Paul Simpson was a pig because he cheated on you. That's my point. Paul Simpson was also twice the man your husband is. Paul was a pig, but you can't deny he was more of a man, more masculine, more rugged. A better lover, I'm sure. Michael is clearly more devoted to you, he's just not much of a man, that's all I'm saying."
"Hmmm," my wife sniffed, "he's man enough for me, Mother."
"That may be, Susan, I'm simply saying he's not much a man."
"He is," Susan insisted.
I felt my heart swell with love for Susan, defending my masculinity to her mother. I know I wasn't athletic or strong like Paul, but I know I loved my wife and know she loved me. I started to walk up the stairs, I wanted to hug her, kiss her, touch her.
"We'll see about that, Susan." I paused.
"What do you mean, Mother?"
"Mother, what are you planning?"
"Oh, nothing, Susan, nothing. We'll just see how manly he is, okay? Not very much, I suspect."
"Whatever, Mother, it doesn't matter to me, he's the man I want and love."
"That, Susan, is an entirely different matter. I'm not saying you don't love him, I'm simply saying you don't love him for being a man. A wonderful husband, yes, but a man, no."
"Michael, I have to go."
"Why, Susan, can't they have someone else take care of this? You can't leave me here with her!"
"Michael, stop. She's not that bad, you know it. Not that it matters, you know that, too. When they say be at the Atlanta office first thing Monday morning, I have to be on a plane on Sunday morning so I can meet with the team. It's only for a few days, sweetie."
Susan's office paged her early Sunday morning. Apparently there was some crisis at the Atlanta branch that someone from corporate had to take care of. That someone was Susan, and her team, who had to be in Atlanta for several days. There was no time to do anything but pack. This wasn't the first time this happened, so she, even we, were good at this, but the short notice caused all sorts of problems, the least of which was packing whatever clean clothes she had, the worst of which, this time, was LEAVING ME WITH HER MOTHER!
I suppose though, the immediate crisis was packing, which I was helping Susan with as I usually did. "So, you need things for ?"
"Sunday meeting, Monday, Tuesday, travel home Wednesday. So, what's that, four outfits?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Skirt suits," she told me when I went to her closet. "Atlanta can be a bit stuffy, old-fashioned, I shouldn't wear slacks."
I selected several suits and blouses for her, got her approval, packed them into a garment bag. "What else, Susan?"
"Um, bras and panties, let's see, three days, plus something to change into if I want to freshen up before dinner, why don't you pack six sets, just to be safe. And just as many pairs of pantyhose."
I went to her hosiery drawer first, rummaged around. "Hon, um, you may need to go to the store, you only have two pairs of clean pantyhose."
"Damn, I don't have time, Michael, I have to get to the airport if I'm going to catch my flight. Fuck. Just pack a few dirty pairs. I can wash a pair each night maybe I'll have time down in Atlanta to go to the store and " She paused, chuckled.
"Well, seeing you wash my mother's things just made me think. You're always bugging me about wearing pantyhose I know, stockings are so much sexier I suppose if my mother can put up with wearing them and if you want me to wear them so badly...maybe why don't you pack that stuff you got me for Valentine's Day I could always try that out "
My eyes widened. I'd found an on-line store, Secrets in Lace, that sold high class foundation garments, garter belts, girdles, stockings, and such, things women used to wear, not the tacky trash they sold at a certain lingerie store at the mall. I'd bought Susan several old- fashioned garter belts that would coordinate with bra and panty sets she had, plus a half dozen pairs of 100 percent nylon stockings (which, oddly, were very similar to those I'd held in my hands the day before after worn by Susan's mother.)
"You're serious," I exclaimed with a stupid smile on my face, delighted at the thought of my wife wearing the lingerie I'd bought her, finally.
"Sure, why not. I know you'd love it if I started wearing them every day, but don't smile quite so much, Michael, you know, you're not going to be there to see me wear them, so you'll have to use your imagination."
Stupid of me, of course. "You could wear them today, I mean so I could see."
"Hon, I'm happy to give them a try, but I'm not sure about wearing something like that on the plane. Maybe I'll change when I get to the hotel, or at least tomorrow and tell you all about it when we talk, hmm? I'm sure you'd like to hear how sexy I feel, wouldn't you? That is, if you think you can handle just hearing my voice until Wednesday."
If I could get her to start wearing stockings, I certainly could take her trying it even if I wasn't there! "Which one should I pack," I asked, voice shaking from excitement.
"I'm not sure which one I'll try, or when, so why don't you pack all three of the garter belts and all the stockings. That way I can keep my options open, okay? Just make sure that you pack bra and panty sets that match each one."
Oh my. I'd died and gone to heaven. I'd bought her three garter belts. White, black and pink. The white was plain satin, six straps, with metal garters (all had six straps and metal garters, apparently needed for everyday wear.) The black was also mostly satin, but had lace trim. The pink garter was white satin with pink lace overlay and pink ribbons on the garter straps, was wider, very pretty, and very feminine. She had two pairs of stockings each in black, nude, and white.
I picked incredibly feminine bra and panty sets. Practical, of course, not pure bedroom wear, but feminine, sexy, things I'd want to see her in and would fantasize about her wearing.
"Nightgowns? You want some cotton short and cami sets? What," I asked, seeing the smile on her face?
"Since you want me dressed so pretty during the day, wouldn't you like to imagine me sleeping in something sexy, too?"
I blushed. "Sure," I said, thinking I may be jerking off to my wife's voice, an image of her in sexy lingerie in my mind.
"Well, just surprise me then. Pack a few sexy nighties, and then I can pick one to wear each night and tell you about it when we talk."
At 10:30, the car service arrived to take Susan to the airport. Mrs. Stanton, wearing a nightgown and fancy slippers, and I, in slacks and a pullover, stood in the foyer to see her off. "I'll talk to you tonight," she said, kissing me goodbye, then whispered in my ear, "and I can't wait to see what you packed for me."
"Enjoy your trip, travel safe, darling," Mrs. Stanton told Susan.
"I will Mother. Keep an eye on Michael for me."
"Oh, I will, Susan, I will," Mrs. Stanton said with a slightly unnerving tone, kissing Susan goodbye.
As Susan left, Mrs. Stanton turned to me. "I could use some coffee, dear," she said in a way that really said, get me some coffee. Now.
"Yes, Ma'am," I answered reflexively, unable to look her in the eye without thinking of her panties pressed to my nose.
I brought her coffee into the study where she was sitting, reading the paper. She didn't seem in the mood for conversation, and I hovered awkwardly until she said, "that will be all for now, Michael," dismissing me as she would a servant.
Okay, serving her was serving Susan. But I thought of her words. I was devoted but not much of a man. Devoted, but not much of a man.
I was standing in the kitchen, drinking my own cup, daydreaming about Susan in a garter belt, panties, bra and stockings, when Mrs. Stanton's voice called out. "Michael," she called, saying my name in a manner that almost sounded as if she was calling 'Michelle.'
"Coming, Mrs. Stanton," I called back, walking into the hallway, towards the study. She was no longer in the study, though, she was halfway up the stairs.
"Can you help me with something, Michael," she asked, continuing up, without looking back to see if I was following.
"Um, sure." I followed her nervously.
She walked to the top of the stairs, towards the door to her room without responding. "Excellent," she said when she finally got to the door to her room. "I have today's things for you to wash."
Somehow I knew this was coming, knew this is what she wanted, knew this is what she was going to ask me to do. I knew she was doing this to humiliate me. I didn't know why, but she was just the same.
I stood in the doorway to her dimly lit room while she went into the bathroom. "I just need to take some of them off, just a second," she called out, walking into the bathroom. "Here you go. Hand wash, of course," she said, walking out of the bathroom in a robe, handing me several garments. The appeared to be the same type of lingerie, bra, panties, garter, stockings. I say appear because I couldn't focus on their looks. Too much was by feel.
The stockings were cool, but other garments were warm. It dawned on my relatively quickly that I was holding a bra and pair of panties she'd just taken off. They were warm from her skin. The panties had just been in contact with her pussy!
"That's all," she said again, dismissing me.
"Yes, Ma'am," I answered. Serving her was serving my wife. Serving my wife.
Serving my wife.
I was serving my wife.
My hands burned, literally burned, the whole way to the basement laundry room. Mrs. Stanton's panties and bra felt so warm, so hot, so naughty. Why was she doing this to me? Humiliating me? She must know how degrading this was. Could she have known how hot it was, too?
She had to have known.
This time in the laundry room I didn't even start the water. I couldn't, not yet. I saw Mrs. Stanton's lingerie hanging, now dry, her garter belt, her stockings, her bra and panties that I'd washed before. I felt the same in my hand, still warm from her body, her pussy, her breasts, her skin.
I put the lingerie down on the counter. I wanted to start the water, to start washing. But I couldn't.
I couldn't help it. I really did not want to do it. It was disgusting, I knew it. Of course I knew it. But I couldn't help it, I really couldn't.
I took her panties in my hands. Beige satin panties, full cut. My wife wore things much skimpier, her mother, something that covered all of her, her ass, especially her pussy.
She just took these off. They were just pressed against her pussy!
I couldn't help it. No, I couldn't help it.
I turned them inside out, found the cotton crotch, lifted it to my nose and inhaled. I inhaled deeply, inhaled her pussy juices again, her scent, fresh, so fresh. Immediately I felt my penis stir. More than stir. It grew, quickly, fully erect.
I was so ashamed, ashamed of my erection, ashamed of my actions. My wife told me to serve her mother, I was doing so, washing her lingerie, but doing so much more, being so naughty.
One hand pressed against my face, holding the folds of her panties to my nose, I reached the other down to my pants, felt the front, rubbed.
I inhaled deeply, inhaled the crotch of her warm panties, inhaled as I touched my erection, massaged myself.
I don't know what alerted me. I certainly heard nothing, no footsteps, no breathing, no sounds, nothing.
I turned slightly, panties still pressed to my nose, hand on my crotch. She was standing here.
Mrs. Stanton was standing in the doorway to the laundry room!
She was standing in the doorway, in her satin robe, mule slippers, arms crossed beneath her bosom, a look of disgust on her face.
My erection shrunk in the two seconds I stared at her, caught, panties pressed to my nose.
"I neglected to tell you to make sure you brought my clean things upstairs when you were done," she sneered.
"Get my panties away from your face," she spit out.
I immediately lowered my hand. I was terrified. My mother-in-law caught me sniffing her panties, rubbing my crotch. What the hell was my wife going to say?
"Mrs. Stanton," I started to say.
She narrowed her eyes, silencing me. "Finish what I ASKED YOU TO DO and bring me my things, Michael." She turned and left the room before I could say anything else.
I stood outside Mrs. Stanton's room, her clean bra, panties, garter belt, and stockings neatly folded in a small laundry basket. I knocked softly on the door.
"Come in," she called out.
I carefully turned the door handle, opened her bedroom door, and walked in. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the same satin robe.
"A basket, Michael? Don't want to touch them now," she said sarcastically. I gulped. "Take them out of the basket and set them there," she said, pointing to the top of her dresser.
"Yes, Ma'am," I whispered. This time her lingerie burned not because it was warm from her body, but rather because of my shame.
I set the things down, started for the door.
"I didn't dismiss you, Michael." Her tone froze me. Not that I was in any position to question or argue with her.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am," I said, stopping, turning towards her.
She had a stocking in her hands, was gathering it up in her fingers.
"I'm not sure what to say, other than that was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen."
"Mrs. Stanton, I "
"I don't recall asking you a question nor giving you permission to speak."
"I'm sorry Ma'am."
She rose her right foot to the bed, pointed her toes, slipped the stocking over the top of her foot, stopped, looked up at me. "Disgusting," she repeated, before pushing her foot forward and pulling the stocking up her leg.
She stood, holding the top of the stockings. "Disgusting." The folds of her robe parted, exposing something I'd not seen since I was a child looking at lingerie ads in a Sears catalog. The bottom of a girdle, garter straps hanging down. A girdle like a skirt, an open bottom girdle.
In what was by far the most disturbingly erotic thing I'd ever witnessed, I watched, horrified, humiliated, as my mother-in-law carefully attached her stocking to three garters on the right side of her girdle.
She sat back on the bed, the folds of her robe parting so that her nylon-covered leg was left uncovered, picked up the other stocking. "I've got half a mind to call Susan right now, if she wasn't on a plane and if I thought she'd believe that I caught her husband sniffing my panties.
"Simply disgusting," she said yet again, standing to attach the other stocking to the garters of her girdle.
I felt the flush in my face, the warmth of the humiliation reddening my cheeks.
Mrs. Stanton sat, crossed her nylon covered legs. The folds of her robe parted up to her garter straps, leaving her legs in plain view. "Susan is going to be devastated."
"Please, you you can't tell her, please," I begged.
"Can't tell her? You're joking. I find my son-in-law sniffing my soiled panties while abusing himself and I'm not to tell my daughter."
"Please, Ma'am "
"Disgusting. Objectifying women like that. Treating women like nothing more than mere sex objects is bad enough, doing it to your wife's mother, however, is perverse."
I could no longer look her in the eye, lowered my gaze, which fell, unfortunately, right to her legs.
"You should be ashamed, Michael, that was perverted!"
"It's bad enough society expects women to beautify themselves for the benefit of men. We wear lingerie to conform to society's expectations of beauty. Not that a woman can't feel good by looking good, but how is a woman supposed to feel that way, supposed to reclaim her beauty, reclaim her femininity by wearing something pretty if someone like you acts in such a disgusting manner."
"I I don't know," I stammered.
"You don't know. All you know is that you had a chance to treat a woman's most intimate things like your personal sex toy. You think that's what lingerie is? A mere sex object and not a woman's efforts to conform to society's expectations? All a woman wants is a chance to look pretty, to feel good about herself. You think Susan is any different? Do you defile her intimates in this way? Is that is, you wait for her to leave the house so you can treat her like this?"
"No, no, I I never "
"No, you never," she cut me off. "Worse, you treat HER MOTHER THIS WAY. She's going to to "
"Please, you can't, you can't "
She glared at me. "Yes, I can. I will."
I spoke the fateful words. "Please, Mrs. Stanton, it will crush Susan. Please, not for me, for her, please I'll do anything "
"Your sudden concern for my daughter is touching, if not late. Perhaps that's something you should have thought about before you acted like such a pig."
"Please, Mrs. Stanton."
I don't know if anything was deliberate, if she played me, toyed with me, teased me, set about this course of action on purpose. Later, I thought about her comments that I was devote if not masculine husband. I suspect I had walked into a trap. If so, she sprung it shut.
Regarding me for a minute, she finally spoke. "I should call Susan this instant and tell her what you've done. I really could care less what it does to you, I've no use for someone who would objectify a woman like that, no use. It disgusts me. But I'm concerned about Susan. Misguided as she may be, I suspect she really does love you. However, I will not condone you're disgusting actions."
"Please, Mrs. Stanton," I begged again, "please don't tell her."
"Undress," she said without emotion.
"What," I said, startled.
"You heard me, undress. Now."
"Mrs. Stanton!" Undress? In front of her? What the fuck was she talking about. She thought I was disgusting!
"Anything. I believe you said anything, no? You'd do anything? You prefer I don't tell Susan? If so, you're going to learn a lesson. A lesson that should make sure you don't treat women like sexual objects, that you don't do such disgusting things."
I gulped. Undress. Undress? I couldn't have her tell Susan, but
"Undress, now, this instant. Everything. Naked. Now. I'm not telling you again."
With great reluctance, uncertainty, trepidation, and outright humiliation, I removed my clothing, save for my boxer shorts.
"Naked," she said crossing her eyes. I gulped again, pulled down and removed my boxers, stood there, exposed.
My mother-in-law looked me up and down, settled her eyes on my crotch and grunted a small laugh. Given my humiliation, my terror, the coolness of the room, the shock of standing naked in front of her, it was only natural. I felt it instinctively, felt it with my hands, realized why she laughed. I was as shrunken as a man could get. Tiny. Withdrawn. And she had to notice, even laugh at me.
"Hands at your side," she said. I moved my hands. "Getting some sense of what a woman feels like when she's objectified by a man? When a man stares at her breasts? Or her lingerie? Not pleasant, is it?"
"No no, Ma'am," I admitted, blushing. "Not at all."
"Not pleasant to have a woman looking at you like this, is it?" she chuckled, "Though, you don't have much for a woman to look at, so I doubt you've encountered many women staring at that, have you?"
My face flushed even deeper. I thought of Susan. Endure this for Susan. Serve Susan by serving her mother. Protect Susan. She could not know, could not find out. I took a deep breath. I could suffer this for her sake.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am," I blurted.
This seemed to surprise her. "Sorry? Sorry for what, Michael? Sorry for treating a woman like an object? Sorry for defiling my lingerie? Or sorry for that," she pointed. "Sorry for that pathetic excuse for an organ?"
I wanted to run out of the room, was afraid I couldn't, both that my legs would not move and worse, that she would follow through on her threat to tell Susan. So I asked. "May may I go," I asked as respectfully as I could.
"Go? Go? You think you that you've been humiliated, now can go?"
I looked at her with pleading eyes.
"You objectified women. You defiled me, my intimate things. You treated me like an object. You treated my things like objects, sexual objects. You don't want me to tell Susan I caught you sniffing my panties and abusing yourself?"
"No, no," I immediately said.
Mrs. Stanton picked up the clean, folded panties next to her on the bed, held them out to me. "Put them on."
"Put them on. Now."
Was she out of her fucking mind! "Mrs. Stanton!" There was no fucking way in the world. Put on her panties? She was fucking kidding me. Testing me. Put on her panties? That was disgusting!
"You disgust me," she sneered at me. "You treated me, me, your wife's mother, like a sex object. YOU WERE SNIFFING MY PANTIES, you disgusting pervert, sniffing my panties while touching that little penis! You don't want me to tell your precious Susan? Women wear lingerie to feel pretty, to feel good about themselves, to feel feminine, not to be treated like objects. You don't want Susan to know what a disgusting pervert you are? Well, then you're going to learn why a woman wears things like these. Men. Pigs. You don't want to explain to Susan what you did to my lingerie? You're going to learn why women dress like we do. It's not for you pigs, it's for us."
"Please, Mrs. Stanton."
My begging didn't help. If anything, she warmed to the idea. "You don't want Susan to know? You're going to learn why what you did was so disgusting. You need to learn why women dress, you're going to feel that pretty feeling yourself, Michael, and maybe you won't be so quick to act like such a disgusting worm."
I stood there. She held the panties out farther to me. "Put them on," she ordered, "or I pick up the phone and call Susan."
I had no choice. None. Susan. I had to protect Susan. I took the panties from her hand. They burned my fingers. I had an odd thought. I was shaped much like Susan's mother. Or she was shaped like me. She was curvier, of course, busty, but her stockiness as compared to Susan's lithe frame, as compared to my male frame, Mrs. Stanton and I were much the same.
I stepped into the panties, shaking, nauseous, dizzy. I pulled them up my legs, around my waist, over my limp penis. They were tight, constricting, pushed my stomach in, felt strange on my behind.
"Tight? Those are girdle panties. Another thing women do to feel pretty. They conform their bodies to what men think they should be. Create flat lines, no bulges." She smiled at herself. "But you don't worry about that, do you? Bulges in your panties? No one is going to think THAT is a man's bulge."
How I could blush any deeper, I did not know, but blush deeper I did.
"Oh, stop, Michael, not every male can be a perfect example of masculinity, not every male is well endowed. Frankly, some males are, well, a bit more, feminine, as it were."
What did she think of me? I knew, didn't I? I knew based on the conversation I overheard with Susan. Less than masculine. Is that what she really thought?
"This next, sweetie," she said, picking up the bra, standing up, holding it out towards me.
I recoiled. "I I can't," I told her desperately, "please, Mrs. Stanton."
"Of course you can, Michael. You're wearing women's panties, my panties. You're going to wear a ladies garter belt; you're going to wear stockings. You will wear the bra."
She leaned towards me, grabbed my wrists. She challenged me with her eyes as she slipped the bra straps over my wrists and arms. "Hold it to your chest," she ordered me, gripping my shoulders and turning me around.
I cringed and held onto the bra. She wrapped it around my chest and then drawn tight at my back. I closed his eyes as Mrs. Stanton fumbled with the hooks. Then it was on. I swallowed hard; I could feel its straps pressing on my bare shoulders.
I could feel its sidebands gripping tight around my chest. I could feel the soft smooth padding of the bra cups on my skin. I looked down, saw the twin jutting and lace-covered mounds! I glanced up at my mother-in- law and still the bra cups were in my line of vision. I allowed my eyes to drift sideways, I could still see them!
"It looks fine," she told me. "Pretty, even."
She went back to the bed, picked up the garter belt, and fastened it around my waist. I was terrified. More so now, than before. Her touch was disturbingly erotic.
"Sit on the bed, Michael." I couldn't refuse her now. Serving her was serving Susan.
Mrs. Stanton went to the dresser, opened a drawer, took something out. She unraveled them. A pair of stockings. As she promised, or threatened. No, threatened.
"You saw me put on stockings, so you know what to do, but I'll help you this first time," she said.
This first time?
Serving Susan, serving Susan, serving Susan.
I was in a trance as she pulled the stockings up one of my legs, then the other, attached them to the garter straps.
"Stand up." I did, slowly, carefully. I felt the garter straps tug at the stockings, tug to hold them in place, felt the belt grip my waist, tightly, held, holding all, my waist, the stockings.
Mrs. Stanton took a step back, looked me over. "Very nice, very pretty, very feminine."
I looked in the mirror that dominated the dresser. I looked at myself, at the lingerie, the bra, the panties, everything.
"Don't," she said sharply. "Don't look at yourself. You're looking for a woman, but you won't see it. I don't care what you see, I want you to feel it. I want you to feel what a woman feels, I want you to understand the feminine feeling. I want you to understand how lingerie makes a woman feel feminine. Remember, she can't see it during the day, it's covered with her clothes. It's the feel of it, not the look. The feel of the stockings, the feel of the tug of the garter straps, the tightness of the bra, the construction of a girdle. Close your eyes, close them."
I did. I felt her next to me, close enough to smell her, to feel her heat. I felt her breath in my ear. I felt her touch, tug a garter strap.
"Feel it, feel what a woman feels. Feel the pull of a stocking, feel it." I groaned, ashamed, yet, slightly...excited.
Her hand moved down the strap, to my thigh. "Feel the nylon on your legs. A man wants a woman to wear a garter belt and stockings so he can look at her, she, however, wears them to feel pretty." I thought of Susan. Was she going to wear them tonight? Tomorrow? What would she feel? Pretty?
She must. No man was going to see her wearing them. No one would see them but her. Not me, her husband. She would be wearing them for herself, for the feel, the feminine feeling.
"Feel the bra," she whispered, moving her hands to the bra straps, toying, snapping one.
"You're a disgusting pig," she said, "sniffing my panties. Now feel them on you, on your rear, lifting, separating your ass. Understand why a woman wears panties, to feel feminine, pretty."
"Ohh," I gasped.
"That's it, feel it, feel feminine, feel pretty, feel so pretty, feel so pretty, feel like such a pretty girl. You're a pretty girl, feel it, you're a pretty girl, feel it, feel it. Feel what a woman feels. This is why a woman wears lingerie, not so a pig like you can sniff her panties; she wears lingerie to feel like this, to feel pretty.
"Now, I'm meeting some friends for lunch. You're going to stay dressed like this for the afternoon, feeling pretty all afternoon."
"Mrs. Stanton," I started to complain.
"All afternoon unless you'd rather we discuss with Susan your prurient activities of earlier?"
Feel them. Feel pretty, all afternoon.
I spent the afternoon dressed in my mother-in-law's lingerie. Pretty? Did I feel pretty? I couldn't help it. Pretty thoughts, pretty thoughts.
Serving my wife. I liked to serve my wife. I liked to serve Susan.
Mrs. Stanton came home in the late afternoon. I was sitting uncomfortably in the den, reading a book. Not physically uncomfortable, mentally uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because I did feel pretty. Pretty.
"There's my pretty girl," my mother-in-law sang, walking into the den. "And how was our afternoon?"
"Fine," I gulped.
"Couldn't get it off your mind, could you? That pretty feeling, that feminine feeling?"
"No, Ma'am," I answered honestly.
"That's why a woman wears lingerie, to have that feeling. Tell me, do you feel like talking off your panties and sniffing them? Like you did to mine?"
"N no," I gasped.
"Of course not, silly, of course not. You'd much rather wear them, wouldn't you? You'd much rather be the pretty girl, wouldn't you?"
I looked away from her.
"Don't be shy, Michael," she teased, "it's okay. Really. Some men are more comfortable being feminized, feeling like a girl, than they are being masculine. There's nothing wrong with being a sissy, really."
I crossed my eyes at her.
"Really, Michael, you've spent the afternoon dressed so nice, feeling so feminine, there's nothing wrong at all being comfortable with your feminine side, really. There's nothing wrong with being sissified, with being a sissy."
"I I'm not a sissy," I said.
"Hmmm, well, I wouldn't be too sure about that. But don't worry you poor sweetie, I think you've learned your lesson. For today, anyway. I assume you'll not be sniffing any more of my panties, will you?"
"No. No, Ma'am."
"Good, good. Why don't you go get changed back into male clothes, wash those out, and we can have a nice dinner together, okay?"
Later that evening I was laying in bed, waiting for Susan to call. Sissy? Sissy? I wasn't a sissy. Sissy were wimps. Effeminate. I was a man, wasn't I?
But Mrs. Stanton was right, I did feel so pretty wearing her lingerie. That didn't matter, did it? That didn't make me a sissy, did it?
My cell phone rang. Susan.
"Hello," I answered.
"Hey, sweetie, how are you?"
"Are you behaving?"
"Behaving," I asked, blood suddenly chilling. Had her mother talked to her?
"Yes, are you being nice to mother?"
"You you haven't talked to her?"
"No, I just got back to my room from dinner, why? Did something happen," she asked, voice suddenly getting serious. "What did you do?"
"Do? No, no," I quickly answered. "I I know you're close, I just wondered if you'd talked to her, that's all. Nothing happened. We she, er went out with some friends, we ate dinner, not much."
"Oh, good. You know, I'm still worried leaving you two alone. Be nice, okay, listen to her? Remember," she teased, "serving her is serving me."
"I know, hon, I know."
"Hmmm, you're such a good boy," she laughed. "Say, guess what I have on?"
"What," I asked her?
"Something someone has been trying to get me to wear for the longest time."
"Susan," I laughed.
"Something old-fashioned, something soft, something sexy."
"Hmmm, we had to meet the Atlanta team for dinner, so I thought, why not give it a try, it would only be for a couple of hours if I didn't like it."
"So, sweetie, I got to the hotel, took a shower, and decided to see if I really do feel pretty dressed in bridal white."
Suddenly my penis began to swell. "Susan," I giggled. "Bridal white?."
"I can't believe how nice it felt I should have given in a long time ago, sweetie. You wouldn't believe how feminine, how pretty I felt all night."
Now I gulped. "What do you mean," I asked.
"Every time I took a step I felt the garter belt, the straps, tug at my stockings. Every time I crossed my legs, I felt the smooth nylon brushing against nylon. You wouldn't believe how pretty that made me feel. I don't think a man could understand how feminine lingerie makes a women feel."
"Really," I croaked. I wouldn't believe it? HOLY FUCK IF I WOULDN'T BELIEVE IT! Maybe her mother was right? A man might not understand, but would a sissy?
"Every time I sat down, the garters tugged at my stockings, reminded me how pretty I was under my suit. Oh, how I wish you were here to see it, Michael."
"Me me too," I practically moaned.
"If guys only knew how wonderful it was to wear lingerie," she giggled.
I realized I was completely erect.
"I'm still wearing it, lover. I haven't changed yet. I wish you were here, you'd just love it, I'm sure."
"Susan, I "
"You'd love seeing how pretty I look. I bet you'd be on your knees begging me to worship my legs."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Slowly kissing your way up my stockings."
"Oh, Susan," I gasped. I'd moved my free hand down to my pants, was for the second time that day masturbating.
"They feel so pretty, Michael, so sexy. I'm wearing them again tomorrow, lover. Black. Naughtier," she chuckled. "If these Atlanta guys only knew."
"What what do you mean?"
"Oh, the branch manager, Tom something, fancies himself quite the lady's man. You know the type, cocky, confident, rugged. Picture your typical college frat boy."
"Was, was he coming on to you," I gulped.
"No, no, not really. Guys like that are always coming on to women. They think they are God's gift. He was just being, you know, that kind of guy."
There was a moment of silence. I could picture that kind of guy hitting on my wife. My insecurity was made worse by the thought of how I spent the afternoon. Being the complete opposite of that kind of guy!
"You know, I have an early start tomorrow, hon, I don't get to work from home like some of us."
"I think I'm turning in. I won't have a chance to talk during the day, why don't I call you at dinner time, k?"
"Love you, hun."
"Love you too."
"I'm wearing something sexy for you tonight, remember."
"I sighed. Hmmm. Bye, sweetie."
"Have sweet dreams of me, love. Bye," she said. We hung up.
I did dream of her that night. But not sweet dreams. I had naughty dreams. Dirty dreams. I dreamed of "Tom," some unknown man, some unknown quantity, looking at my wife's legs at dinner. I dreamed of "Tom" seeing her in stockings, something I'd never seen. I dreamed of "Tom" hitting on my wife, coming onto my wife. I dreamed of "Tom" seeing my wife in a sexy nightgown.
I dreamed of Tom, leaning over, whispering in my wife's ear. "He's a sissy." I felt an erection. In my dream. In my bed.
Tom, whispered in her ear. "He's a sissy, don't you want a real man."
"He's a sissy," Susan asked?
"He's a sissy," Tom said. "Wake up, he's a sissy."
"Wake, up, a sissy. Wake up, sissy."
"Wake up, sissy," Mrs. Stanton told me, suddenly in my dream.
"Wake up, sissy," she repeated. I suddenly opened my eyes.
"Wake up, sissy," she said, again. Mrs. Stanton wasn't in my dream. I opened my eyes. Dressed in satin pink pajamas, my mother-in-law was standing right over me. "Wake up, sissy."
"Mrs. Stanton," I said, groggily.
"It's time to wake up, sissy," she said.
"What what time is it?" I didn't protest her calling me a sissy.
"Seven? Christ, I don't have to get up until nine." No wonder I never heard my alarm. I closed my eyes.
"No, you need to get up now, we have things to do before you start work. You have some more lessons."
Lessons? I opened my eyes. "What kind of lessons," I asked her.
"Hmmm," she chuckled. "You'll find out. Come on now, up, out of bed. I want you showered and ready in fifteen minutes." She turned to and started to walk out of my room.
"Mrs. Stanton "
"I'm going to get dressed, Michael. Fifteen minutes," she repeated.
I got out of bed, shaved, showered, all in a haze. Fifteen minutes.
Somewhat more awake, though admittedly still a bit dazed, having not had coffee, I was toweling off as I walked from the master bath into my bedroom. Sitting on my bed was my mother-in-law. Dressed? Not quite. Somewhat, at least, but not only was her sitting there a shock and surprise, it was more so to see her less than fully dressed.
She wasn't naked. All her "private" parts were covered by a white slip, but that's about all. She had on hose, stockings, I assumed, heels, obviously a bra, for I could see both the outline of it and the bra straps, the slip. To my mind, though, she might as well have been naked. Seeing my mother-in-law in nothing more than foundation garments and a simple slip was a devastatingly humiliating blow.
Worse, still, much worse, was what was in her hand. Panties. Not just any panties, but girdle panties. Old fashioned girdle panties. She was holding them out between her hands, in full view, so I could see them. I knew what they were, again, the subject of my masturbatory childhood fantasies. From old Sears catalog ads I knew they had garter straps hidden in the leg and even that they had a "convenient split crotch."
I also knew they were meant for me. There was no doubt they were meant for me.
"Please, Mrs. Stanton," I said.
"Put them on, Michael." She left unsaid the veiled threat. Put them on or she'd tell Susan.
I reluctantly took the panties from her hands, stepped into them, worked them up over my hips. They panties had a hook and eye and zipper closer on my left side which I fastened without direction.
"Very good, Michael, you're learning already. Now, do you remember how to do the stockings?" She'd picked up stockings from the bed next to her. "Sit down here next to me, I'll talk you through it."
She did, directing me how to gather a stocking, point my toe carefully, and gently slide a stocking up my leg. "Stand up, let me help you with the garter tabs," she said, reaching for my leg, rolling up the leg of the girdle and taking the top of the stocking into her hands.
I winced. Not in pain, no, much worse. By moving to hold and attach my stocking to the front garter tab of the girdle, her hand was was pressed directly against the front of the panties, my panties, right on the front of, right against my penis.
I couldn't help but think of panties. Of her. Of sniffing her panties. Of her pussy. Not with her hand against the front of me, touching me. Attaching the garter, she rubbed against my crotch. Not heavily and not for long. But just long enough. Just long enough for me to swell. She couldn't see it yet, she'd moved to the rear garter tap, but there was no doubt about the swelling.
Which was humiliating. So humiliating. Which made me swell even more.
She turned me back around. "Mrs. Stanton," I gasped. I didn't want her to see what was happening. But she just ignored me, ignored the swelling in the girdle. "Here, let's get that other stocking on you."
The process was repeated with my left leg. The repetition included my mother-in-law again rubbing up against the front of the panties. While she may not have realized I was growing the first time, there was no doubt in my mind she knew this time.
"I think you're already coming to appreciate how a woman feels," she teased, pausing with her hand on my swollen crotch, "how pretty lingerie can make a girl feel so special, so feminine. Here, now let's get you into the bra, shall we."
As with the girdle, she directed me how to do it myself, how to fasten the matching bra around my chest, backwards, attach the hook and eye clasps, spin it around and put my arms through the straps.
I looked down at the bra. "This bra is padded, but we're going to have to fill out those cups," she said to herself.
"Slip next, to hide all the bumps and lines of your bra and panties." She picked up something from the bed, unfurled it; a slip, much like hers. "Over your head, here, arms up. There," she pulled it down over my chest, waist, "like that."
She stepped back, looked at me. "Oh, I almost forgot, I'll be right back." She left the room, left me standing there, standing in lingerie, standing in women's garments, feeling them, the tightness of the panties, the tug of the stockings on the garter, the bra.
"Here," she said, coming back into the room, carrying a pair of heels.
"Heels," I exclaimed. How was I supposed to
"Of course, heels. You're supposed to feel what a woman feels, Michael. You're not going to stomp around the house like a man, you're going to walk gracefully, like a woman. Women wear heels when they want to feel pretty. They improve posture and make her walk and glide as a woman should. Now sit down on the bed, I'll help you into them."
She knelt down in front of me, took one of my feet, slipped it into the open toed white heel. The shoe had a bow on the front, a strap that went around my heel, which my mother-in-law fastened snugly. Taking my other foot and helping it into the heel, she looked up at me. "You know you really do have pretty feet, Michael, nice legs, really, too. I suppose I didn't notice you don't have much hair on them. I think with a pedicure and some polish on your toe nails one would never think you were not a woman."
"Now stand up, let me take a look at you. Yes, very pretty, indeed," she said as I got to my feet, stood in front of her.
I felt strange standing in heels. Not that simply wearing lingerie wasn't strange enough. But the heels did something more. Tightened my legs, made me stand differently, straighter, somehow.
"Do you feel pretty, Michael," she asked.
"I I don't know," I hesitated.
"You don't know? Hmmm, I felt otherwise when I was putting on your stockings."
I looked down, ashamed.
"Of course I am," I admitted. "I'm wearing lingerie and feel pretty. That...that's not normal."
"Not normal for a man," she responded. "But I told you, didn't I? Women like feeling pretty, for themselves."
"But that's the point, Mrs. Stanton, I'm not a woman," I snapped.
I suppose I thought my indignation might stop this, stop her. This was too much, this was absurd, really. But she pushed right back. Harder. "But that's the point, you're certainly not a man," she said softly.
It was a slap to the face, a verbal slap, one I recoiled from, physically. Surprising, I know, given exactly what was happening.
"Oh, you disagree? Beyond that you're standing here dressed like that, that's bad enough, isn't it, but it excites you. You're not just wearing women's lingerie, my dear, oh no, you're excited by it." Her eyes drifted down to my midsection, to my crotch. "You're excited by it. Men, my dear, do not get excited wearing lingerie."
"I don't want to wear this stuff," I snapped back.
"What you want to do is not the issue, Michael, how you respond to it is the issue. You may not "want" to wear it, but you certainly respond to wearing it, respond as a woman...or a sissy...would."
I reached for the hem of the slip, started to pull it off. Her words stung, I don't know what they meant, but they stung. "This is enough," I said.
Mrs. Stanton moved. Faster than I could pull the slip over my head. In an instant, she took a step towards me. If I'd had any practice wearing lingerie, maybe I'd have moved quicker. But as it were, I hadn't any. She moved too fast. I never saw it. I never saw her hand, I was too busy fiddling with the slip.
So the slap stung me, hard. It was unexpected, a shock really. Her hand slapped my face without any mercy. "I did not say you could take that off, sissy," she sneered.
"What," I yelped, in shame, pain.
"I said, I did not give you permission to take that off. Sissy."
Not a man. Not a man. Sissy. Sissy.
"You look surprised. What do you think little boys who get excited wearing lingerie are? They are not men, are they?"
"Now, Michael, I'd suggest, unless you'd like Susan to find out that her husband is a panty sniffing sissy, I'd suggest you watch your mouth and your manners."
Susan. I took a breath. Serve Susan. Protect Susan. Serve my wife by serving her mother. Get through this. Protect Susan.
"Good, now, Michael, come with me, please, you're going to do a task you should have done properly before."
I followed my mother-in-law to her bedroom. She walked into the bathroom and came out holding both lingerie both she and I wore yesterday.
"Now, Michael, I want you to go downstairs to the laundry room and hand wash these. This time, I'd expect you to have a little more respect for these. I'd expect you to treat these like a woman should treat her lingerie. I'd expect you to focus on feeling pretty yourself, not abusing yourself. Do you have any questions?"
"Well, then, sissy," she said, tilting her head with a smile, "get to it."
"I want an honest answer, Michael, did you misbehave?" She asked me when I cam back upstairs from the laundry room.
"No, Ma'am." I was being honest.
"No sniffing my panties?"
"No, Mrs. Stanton, no." As if I'd do that again!
"Good. You need to do some work now, I assume?"
"Yes, I really do," I said. I had some proposals to work on and email this morning. "May may I go change?"
"Er, into into," I gulped, "my clothes?"
"You mean the men's clothes you've been wearing around while I've been here? I'm sorry, did I not explain earlier? You're staying dressed up all day, Michael. You're going to be feminine all day. You're going to stay all pretty while you work. Really, that's part of the lesson, learning to do everyday tasks while being as feminine as you can."
"It seems well, extreme."
"Extreme? Michael, extreme is sniffing your mother-in-law's panties. That's extreme, disgusting and extreme. As I told you yesterday, I should tell Susan what I caught you doing, that's what you deserve. Instead, I'm willing to simply teach you a lesson to make sure you don't do that again, to make sure you have proper respect for women, for my daughter, for me."
I suppose what she said made some sense.
"So you'll spend the day being feminine, acting feminine. Sit like a woman, cross your legs like a woman, think like a woman, act like a woman. You'll come to appreciate a little more what a woman feels like, and how violating you were."
"Yes yes, Ma'am."
I spent an hour at the computer putting together a proposal, sulking. I hunched over, I spread my legs apart, I frowned, I did everything I could to NOT act like a woman.
Then, I went back to what Susan had said. Serve her by serving her mother.
Reluctantly, I sat up straight. Ironically, the panty girdle, which had been digging into my stomach, felt better. Maybe not so ironic? A woman's foundation garment was more comfortable sitting like a woman.
I crossed my legs, felt the softness of nylon on nylon. Okay, this wasn't too bad.
I thought of Susan's legs, how much I wanted to see her in stockings. I thought of kneeling in front of Susan, massaging her legs, licking them, kissing them, running my tongue on her stockings. For a minute I fantasized about doing this now, dressed as I was now.
I felt a stirring. I felt my penis swell. Oh god, I was getting an erection fantasizing about serving Susan WHILE I WAS DRESSED AS A WOMAN!
I immediately stopped my thoughts, my fantasy, went back to work, uncomfortable with the thought, uncomfortable that I was getting excited imagining myself as a woman, serving my wife.
After lunch I got an email from Susan. "I'm so bored."
I wondered what she was doing. "Don't you have meetings?"
A couple of minutes later. "Yes. I'm sitting in a room full of unimportant people who think they are important, talking about why they are important. Typical branch management types. Big fish in a small pond, trying to impress me cause I'm from corporate. Not much. I'm taking notes on a laptop, though nothing they say will change what corporate does."
Then, "Sign into IM?"
I went to my Google email account, signed into gmail chat.
"Hey, sweetie :), you should be working!!!"
"Yea. You too."
"I'm doing some proposals, just ate lunch."
"You behaving for mother ;)?"
I looked down at myself. The slip barely covering the tops of my stockings. My stockings. Shoes. Behaving?
"Yes, love :)"
"Good boy! I meant it lover, serve me by serving her. Seriously. I don't want to come home and here her complain, k?"
"Yes, dear ."
"Mock me if you want, Michael, but it, well, I miss you and, you know how much I love having you at my beck and call, I guess, I get kind of, well excited it's stupid to say, but it kind of turns me on."
"LOL...it makes me a little wet."
I was starting to tremble. "You're naughty," I wrote back.
"I know, I know, I can't help it."
"I like naughty!"
"Hmmm, bet you do, since you did this to me."
"Packing these stockings for me to wear."
My hands trembled again as I typed. "U r wearing stockings today?"
" I told you I would."
"I told u, u can't imagine how sexy they make a woman feel."
I was starting to shake. "No?"
"Hint every step I take, I feel the garter straps tugging at my stockings and it reminds me what I'm wearing."
"Hmmmm." Oh, fuck, oh, fuck the swelling I felt before was coming back. I knew exactly what she meant. I would not have a few days ago. Now I know exactly what she meant.
"Every time I cross and uncross my legs, the nylons make a swooshing sound."
"You can't imagine how sexy I feel! I wish you were here, M."
"I I think I've been wet half the day."
"I can't help it "
"Between thinking of what I'd make you do and these guys here, I'm just a bit giggle horny."
"What do you mean...the guys here?" What did she mean by that?
"I'm sitting at the end of a conference table by myself and the men just stare at me. I know they're undressing me with their eyes, imagining seducing me. Every time I get bored, I day dream about you. I keep thinking how hot it would be if you were under the table, where no one could see "
"Susan, you're making me get excited!" I didn't tell her that I was getting excited because I was getting an erection in the panty girdle her mother was making me wear.
"Fair's fair, my pretty..."
"Susan!" That was a phrase she used from time to time, I suppose a reference to The Wizard of Oz, but given my current attire, it was, well, a pun indeed.
"After all, you made me excited making me wear this lingerie."
"laugh so "
"So, my pretty, get excited about this I'm dreaming you're under the table, kissing your way up my legs, discovering my stockings for the first time, massaging, kissing them."
"Susan, you don't know how much I'd like to do that!!!!!!"
"Oh, but I do I do. I know you love serving me, sweetie, and it makes me so hot."
"Yes. That's why I'm getting so hot thinking about it with all these guys here."
There she was again with that phrase. What did she mean?
"I don't know if it is just my mind playing tricks on me because of how I'm dressed, I told you wearing lingerie like this makes me feel so, special? pretty? sexy?"
"I know, I'm babbling. The guys they can't possibly know what I'm wearing, but they look at me like they know what I'm wearing. Especially that guy Tom I told you about."
"oh my," I managed to type.
"Well, there you are, in my mind, under the table licking me, and all these men are looking at me like they want to fuck me and all I can think about is how..."
I waited. How...how...how...
And waited. How what?
"Mtg ended, call u later!" With that, she was offline.
Oh, fuck, how what??? What the hell? All these men looking at her and she can think about what???
How she's happily married??
How they are p?
How much she's happy she has someone like me?
How much she wants to fuck me?
I looked down at myself dressed as a woman, wearing lingerie like a woman, acting like a woman?
I would never have thought not dressed normally
But I could feel my erection against the satin of the panty girdle, feel the stockings, the bra around my chest
I couldn't grab my erection, the panty girdle held it too tightly to my stomach. But I had to touch
I moved a hand down to my swollen penis. I touched the tip with two fingers, pressed, rubbed.
Despite my erection I did not feel like a man right now. No, her mother had seen to that. I felt like a woman! How could I fuck her feeling like a woman, erection or not? How could she want that???
I was rubbing my erection just like Susan rubbed her clit.
Mrs. Stanton told me to act like a woman and I WAS! I was masturbating like a woman!
That had to be why I thought it
" all I can think about is how "
My mind heard her speak the words she'd typed I was under the table, dressed like a woman, kissing her stocking covered legs
All I can think about is how
badly I want a real man to fuck me!
No, no, no, no, no!
I tried to get that thought out of my head. I did, for seconds. I thought of her mother. "He's not much a man "
Sissy, sissy, sissy.
"I want a real man to fuck me." That's not what she said! She didn't complete her thought. She was going to say something else!
" much I miss you and wish you were here!"
Yes, yes, that's what she'd have said.
"All I can think about is how badly I want a real man to fuck me!"
I had to stop rubbing myself, NOW!
I forced myself to put my hands behind my back, to protect myself, to stop myself from having anymore of these thoughts. It was that simple. Stop touching myself through these panties and get that disturbing thought out of my mind.
Work work focus on work. I could do that, I could sit up, stop thinking like pervert, sit up, sit lady like, be feminine, focus on work.
Focus on work.
For the rest of the afternoon, that's what I did. Work. I focused on the proposals, the emails I had to get out, anything but what I was thinking about this afternoon.
Anything to try to forget everything. Susan. Her mother. The lingerie. Everything.
"Michael," I heard Mrs. Stanton call from behind me, walking into the study?
"Yes," I winced, looking back at her.
"I'm going out for a bit, I just wanted to check on how things were going, how your feminine feelings were?
"Okay, I guess." Okay, except for that stupid IM exchange with Susan.
"Excellent, I thought you'd be a good little sissy."
I visibly winced.
"I...I'm not a sissy," I said frowning.
"Oh," she raised an eyebrow. "You're not?"
"No, I "
"Because masculine men all dress up in pretty lingerie?"
"Mrs. Stanton! You you made me "
"Honey, the reason isn't important, the fact is. A sissy is a male espousing feminine characteristics such as wearing lingerie dressing as a woman feeling like a woman acting like a woman."
"Because you made me "
"Again, the reason is of less importance than the action, though the prototypical definition of a sissy is one who dresses as such when ordered to. I'll acknowledge you may not LIKE being a sissy, but that doesn't mean that you ARE NOT a sissy. In fact, you may be a sissy simply because you don't want Susan to learn you were sniffing my panties, fine, but that doesn't change anything."
"When can I get out of these things?"
"Well now, that depends. I'd have said about now, but to tell you the truth, I don't think you've yet learned your lesson, so I suppose a bit longer is in order."
My brow twisted. She turned to leave. "Oh, and before you claim to dislike this, before you deny being like being a sissy, remind me, was that an erection you had in your panties earlier today?"
I looked down, blushing.
"I only ask for that seems a strange thing to happen to someone who claims to dislike being feminized. Sissy." She left the room, chuckling to herself.
Later that evening, I was laying in my bed, reading, still wearing the lingerie. Mrs. Stanton would not let me change, forced me to eat dinner so dressed, made me stay dressed after dinner.
I was laying in bed, reading, when my phone buzzed. Text message. "I love my black lingerie, Michael." Text from Susan.
"Do u? Why?"
"Black makes me feel powerful," she texted back.
"Black makes me feel...naughty."
"Naughty, like I want my little boy serving me."
"I love serving you!" I was fully erect once again, penis trapped as it was by the panty girdle. Little boy...her unintentional phrase, mocking to me, excited me. Little boy. Little boy.
"This is hard to type and touch at same time!"
"THAT'S NAUGHTY," I emphasized. I was picturing Susan in my mind, relaxing on a hotel bed, clad only in her black lingerie, looking severe, dominant, needing.
"I know u love when I touch myself."
She was right. It was an immense turn on for me to watch her masturbate herself. She never just laid back and did it, but after we'd play for awhile, after I'd spend time licking her, her hand would often drift downward to join my mouth in bringing her to orgasm.
"U want 2 serve me?"
" Do u want 2 b my bitch, sweetie."
I wanted to play along, I had to play along.
"OMG, Susan, yes."
"Tell me you're making me so horny!"
I imagined her rubbing herself, fingering herself, teasing herself. "I want 2 b your bitch, Susan."
"OMG, Michael, that makes me so wet reading that. I want to hear it. Call me, bitch! Call me so I can hear you say it."
I put my Bluetooth headset in my ear, speed dialed Susan.
"Tell me," she said answering her phone on its first ring.
"Susan, I " I gulped. This was suddenly more difficult on the phone than it was via text.
"Susan, I I want to be your..." I hesitated.
"Tell me, Michael, tell me what you want to be," she sneered, commanding me.
I gulped, felt my face redden. "I want to be your bitch, Susan."
"Oh, god, Michael that makes me so wet!"
"Fuck, Susan," I blurted out.
"This is your fault, my pretty."
"I told you, this lingerie has made me horny all day."
"That that's what you said before."
"It does. The colors are amazing the white, yesterday, made me feel pretty, in an innocent way, but black, my god, no wonder dominant women wear black."
"Dominant," I gulped.
"I told you I want you to be my bitch, didn't I," she teased. "That's dominant, isn't it?" She had almost a playful, innocent tone. Innocent, ironic, considering.
"You're scaring me, Susan," I tried to play cool.
"Am I? You wanted to be my bitch, didn't you? Backing out?"
"I could get someone else to serve me..."
There was something about the way she said that something about what she said earlier about the guys in the conference room staring at her, something unresolved.
" which would be a shame, because I know how much you love serving me, lover."
"Being my bitch has its privileges, you know. Serving me. Kneeling in front of me, licking your way up my stockings. Tasting me."
"Yes," I groaned.
"I'm getting so excited, you know, just thinking about having my own little bitch to serve me."
"I I bet." I was nervous, unsure how I was to respond to her verbal teasing.
"You like exciting me, don't you?"
"Yes, damn, Susan, you know I do."
"God, I miss you, Michael."
"Me too. I I'm getting kind of horny too, Susan. I wish I could see you in your stockings."
"You wouldn't be disappointed," she promised me.
"You are naughty!"
"You really can't imagine how naughty I really feel right now, sweetie, how dominant, how in control."
"I wish I was there."
"To be my bitch?"
"Hmmm," I laughed, "yes, to be your bitch."
"I mentioned how naughty I felt, didn't I? You sure you're up to it, to serving me?"
By now I was once again masturbating heavily through the panty girdle. "Yes!"
"Up to serving me when I feel naughty? You might be disappointed."
"Because I want a bitch and I feel kind of mean."
Well, two could play at that game, I decided, egged on by my erection, and, I hated to think, by my outfit. "Oh, really, and you'd do what, spank me?"
"Oh, someone else is feeling naughty, too? That's a wonderful idea, but I was thinking about something, er more difficult for you."
"More difficult?" What could she mean by that? A spanking wasn't difficult?
"I'd want you to prove you want to be my bitch." She was breathing heavily.
"Tell me again."
"I want to be your bitch."
"You would be my bitch. You'd have to prove it, of course," she said in a domineering tone.
"Prove it? How," I asked, afraid to hear her answer.
"I'd make you lick me...all over over and over."
"Wow, pure torture, that's not too hard," I laughed.
"I'm feeling so naughty bitch it would be for you that's all you'd do to prove it. You'd lick me all over, that's it. You know what I mean...bitch."
Her tempting game reflected something I'd often told her. Her orgasm was more important than mine. On occasion, she wouldn't be in the mood for sex, so I'd play this game, I'd lick her, to orgasm, again and again. And that's it. We wouldn't screw. I'd lick her till she couldn't stand it anymore, then nothing, we'd cuddle, go to sleep. She wouldn't reciprocate, she wouldn't touch me, she wouldn't lick me, she certainly wouldn't screw me. I'd go to sleep, horny, but somehow satisfied. I'd lick her to orgasm after orgasm, but I'd get nothing.
That's what she meant by making me prove I was her bitch. Sex without satisfaction. Sex without orgasm.
"Cat got your tongue bitch? Horny, too?"
My penis had been erect, soft, erect, soft, erect again. I was rubbing the tip, again, and realized I was not only horny, but sore. "Yes."
"Know what I'm doing, lover?"
"I'm thinking of you, lover, thinking of my bitch, under the table, again know what I'm doing?"
"What, Susan," I groaned.
"Hmmm, you'd like to see I'm rubbing I'm rubbing myself through my panties, are you, too?"
I froze. I stopped touching myself, stopped breathing, stopped moving. Did her mother tell her? Oh, my god, that bitch, that fucking bitch! I didn't know what to say. It was her mother, not me! Her mother made me! Lie. Lie! LIE!
"Susan, I I'm not wearing panties," I stammered.
"Silly," she laughed, "I mean are you rubbing yourself too? Not are you wearing panties, too?"
Oh, fuck, she didn't mean what I thought she meant! "Oh, er, I yes."
"You thought I was asking you if you are rubbing yourself through your panties now wouldn't that be an interesting way to prove you were my bitch wearing panties."
"What," I managed to say, not entirely pleased with my stupid mistake.
Susan giggled, "I like it. My bitch wouldn't need a cock anyway, just a tongue, maybe you could show that by wearing a pretty pair of panties to cover yourself up. Kind of symbolic."
"Susan," my voice cracked. Panties. Wearing panties for her? Fuck, I WAS wearing panties!
"I think you're even naughtier than I am bitch I just want you licking but I like the way you think. Panties."
Think? I wasn't thinking like that!
"Uugh," I moaned.
"I've been thinking about it all day, you being my bitch, I was getting so horny this afternoon emailing you I couldn't stop thinking about you under the table in the conference room my bitch licking me. Now I'm thinking about you in panties, too. You are naughty, too, Michael."
I had to ask. I didn't want to, but I still could not get her email out of my mind, the email about the guys looking at her like they wanted to fuck her.
"In in front of those men," I asked, almost whispering.
Susan let out a small gasp. "Yes," she almost moaned. "In panties, hiding under the table, licking me. I told you I felt naughty, didn't I? I told you this black lingerie made me feel like a vixen."
"You had to go before you told me what you meant."
"About what, lover?"
"About about the men."
"Men, what men?"
"Susan," I said, exasperated. She was clearly teasing me, tormenting me. Making me her bitch. "The men in the meeting."
"I mentioned them?"
"You said, you emailed me, you said that, that, er, something like, there I was, in your mind, under the table, licking you, and all those men were looking at you like they want to fuck you and and all you can think about is how "
"How what, my little bitch," she cooed. "What did I say?"
"You didn't," I burst, "you never said!"
"Honey, I have to get going here," Susan said, snark in her voice.
"Susan," I pleaded.
"I'm sorry, I do, I'm supposed to meet Tom in the lobby for dinner in a few.
"Susan, please," I begged.
"Hmmm," she laughed, "my little bitch is begging me?"
"What is it we were talking about?"
"The the men the men that wanted to...to fuck you," I managed to blurt out.
"Oh, that's right, you were under the table licking me wearing panties, now I believe, being my bitch."
"Hmmm, my little bitch it's okay to wear my panties, but oh, the men the men "
"Yes." Mother fuckers, what was my wife doing to me? I had no idea, but I knew that whatever it was it was making me insanely horny, certainly given the way I was furiously rubbing my erect penis through my panty girdle, through the panties I was wearing!
"Hon, I really need to finish getting dressed and get downstairs to meet Tom."
"Susan," I begged again.
"Michael, he's going to be waiting for me."
"You you don't want to know, lover "
"How, what, Susan? All you could think about is how what? What were you going to say?"
"Michael," she whispered, "I don't know if you..."
"How what?! Susan, how what?"
Her voice lowered to a whisper, barley audible. "How, Michael, how all," she gulped, "how all I could think about, thinking about my bitch licking me, was how long it had been since a MAN fucked me."
She didn't say anything at first. "Michael, I...I want you to lick me so badly."
Not fuck her, lick her. I noticed. Not fuck, lick. NOT FUCK, LICK.
"Susan, please, I..."
"Michael, I I have to oh, fuck!"
"The door, someone's knocking, sorry, hang on a sec, it's probably Margaret," she said, obvious disappointment in her voice. Margaret was in her department at work, usually on business trips with her. "Hang on," I heard her walk to the door, I assumed using her headset, like me.
"Margaret, I though we were going to " I heard the door open. "Oh Oh, Tom, I oh I "
"Whoa, fuck, Susan, wow!" I heard some guy, presumably Tom, exclaim.
Two things happened at once. First, I thought, oh, fuck, she's standing there in her bra, panties, garter belt, stockings and heels! Tom, whoever the fuck he was, was seeing my wife dressed in her amazingly hot lingerie before I saw her in it!
The second thing? My erection throbbed harder and faster than I'd ever felt it. It HURT, it was so full, so engorged.
My fucking wife was standing in front of some guy half naked in lingerie I bought for her to wear for ME! Yet, I was sitting here masturbating in lingerie her mother was making me wear and I was fucking jerking off and harder than I'd ever been in my life.
"Seriously, I thought we were going out for dinner," I heard the man say. "But if you want to stay in," he trailed off in a seductive voice.
"Tom, stop," my wife giggled like a caught schoolgirl, "I I need to get dressed."
"Susan," I moaned softly.
"You look good to me, Susie," Tom said, clearly enjoying the sight of my wife!
I could hear every word. "You're sweet, Tom, but seriously, let let me get dressed and we can go eat."
"Sweetie," Susan whispered. I realized she was talking to me.
"Sweetie, I have to go, I'm sorry."
"We could order in and I'm sure there's something here for dessert "
"Tom," Susan giggled.
"Susan," I said again.
"I'll call you later, okay."
"Susan," I moaned.
"Oh, and one more thing sweetie," she said quietly.
"What I said about being my bitch you'd better not play with yourself," her voice dropped, "I want you wanting me when I get back, you're going to prove it then."
"Susan," I exclaimed, suddenly embarrassed. She was telling me not to masturbate? Was she kidding? It was bad enough to acknowledge that I did masturbate, let alone for her to tell me not to.
"I'm serious, Michael. Don't think I don't know that you do that you'd better not."
"Tom, stop," I heard Susan say with a repressed laugh.
"You're on the phone? With who?" His voice was close to her.
"It's nobody, Tom, just...Tom," she laughed.
"Seriously, Susan, we can order in if you want...and..."
I heard her breath gasp, suck in quickly. A little moan. "Tom," she cooed, "I...I need to...I need to get dressed," she finally giggled, "go wait out there."
A few seconds later...
"I'll call you after dinner be a good little bitch." She had a tone half serious, half playful, enough that I fell for her, felt her love over the phone.
"Susan...did he..." Oh god, oh god. Did he touch her? What was he doing?
"Later, lover, later."
After I got off the phone with Susan, breathed heavily for a few minutes, tried to calm down. I had to get up, do something.
I went downstairs, made myself a cup of tea, sat down in the living room, conscious to cross my legs, sit upright, and simply continue to act feminine. Sipping the warm liquid, I tried to take my mind off my conversation with Susan.
Actually, it wasn't Susan that I was trying to take my mind off of, or rather, it wasn't just Susan. It was the presence of Tom. Some random man from Atlanta, who, due to some quirk of fate, luck, or timing, happened to be feasting his eyes on my wife, worse, on my wife in what I was sure was incredibly feminine, pretty, and sophisticated lingerie.
Tom, who obviously thought of himself as a player, did not merely catch a glimpse of Susan in the black lingerie I'd purchased for her, but was standing in her hotel room, flirting with her, hitting on her, ogling Susan, maybe even touching her, who herself felt naughty and erotic.
I felt cheated on, though of course nothing like that was the case, since Susan had no part in Tom's actions. My current state of dress did nothing to diminish the feeling. Of course, I knew I myself was not completely innocent. I'd bought her the lingerie, even eagerly encouraged her to wear it. Worse still were my own actions over the past two days, both in what I'd done with my fucking mother-in-law's panties, to my allowing her to dress me like this.
"Sissy." The word slipped into my brain. Mrs. Stanton called me a sissy. What was a sissy? I'd always thought of a sissy as a man that was, well, not much of a man. A man that was, effeminate. Weak. Not masculine.
I looked down at myself, sitting on the edge of a sofa. My legs crossed like a woman. The stockings covering my skin, the heeled shoes. I felt the bra and the panty girdle constricting me. I let my fingers dance over the satin slip.
Not masculine. Who did that describe? Me?
I wasn't a sissy!
Sure, and explain the lingerie.
And the erection.
"I want to be your bitch." That's what I told Susan. That's what she wanted.
Sissy was bad enough, but bitch? I wanted to be her bitch? What was that? Weak? Dominated? Sexually?
In my mind, I jumped to Susan's lunchtime fantasy. I was her bitch, kneeling under the table, licking her, worshiping her, as several men looked at her.
Tracing my fingers over the satin slip, around my nipples, I pictured myself licking her. They could not see me. They knew nothing. The men just looked at Susan like they wanted to fuck her, having no idea her husband was under the table.
I couldn't help it, couldn't help moving my fingers lower, down my stomach, over the satin, down towards the panty girdle, where once again I was swelling, growing. Once again, I moved my fingers to the lump in my panties, put my head back, and rubbed, the tips of two fingers pressed against myself as I'd watched Susan do. Two fingers masturbating myself like she did.
My mind drifted. I was in Susan's hotel room, sitting on a chair, watching her play with herself. "You want to be my bitch, don't you sissy?"
I continued to fantasize. There was a knock at the door, which Susan got up to answer. "That must be Tom." She opened the door, in walked her work colleague, but a man, Tom.
"Oh, Tom," she said, standing in front of a tall, masculine man.
I lay back on the couch, gasping as I fingered myself. Stop. Part of my brain yelled. Screamed. Stop. Stop.
I couldn't, I kept rubbing. Susan had told me not to, but I couldn't stop. I wanted to. Guilt was building up inside me. Stop.
Disgusting. Disgusting! This was disgusting. I was the naughty one, the dirty one.
But I kept rubbing, kept fantasizing.
"Oh, you're not alone, I'm sorry," the man told my wife.
"What? Oh, him? That's nobody, just my husband, don't worry, he's just my bitch. My sissy bitch. Don't worry, Tom, you're the only man here tonight."
Rub, rub, rub.
"You look so beautiful, Susan."
Rub, rub, rub.
"You're sweet, Tom. You know, you're the first," my fantasy Susan glanced over at me, dressed in lingerie, "man," she emphasized, "to see me wearing this."
"Can I be the first man to touch you in this," he asked, reaching his hands out to my wife.
My eyes were closed, my breathing heavy as I rubbed, feeling every bit the woman, nothing the man.
My fantasy Susan opened her mouth to answer, . . .
"Well at least you're doing it like a woman," I heard Susan say. But it wasn't Susan's voice, though, it was her mother's voice. It was Mrs. Stanton.
My eyes popped open to see Mrs. Stanton standing in the entryway to the living room, coat wrapped around her shoulders, arms crossed, glaring at me. "Mrs. Stanton," I yelped, immediately moving my hand away from my swollen penis, though back again, realizing my erection was obviously showing through my panty girdle and slip.
An evil smile began on her face. "I told you to act like a woman, so I suppose I should be pleased, though I'd ask that you kindly refrain from such behavior when I'm home."
I blushed as deep as I've ever blushed. "I...I'm sorry, Mrs. Stanton, I..."
"Hmmm," she said, taking several steps into the room. "I'm curious, though, how womanly are you right now? Fantasizing about your wife or perhaps you've embraced femininity and you're imagining a strong, masculine man having his way with you."
"Mrs. Stanton!" I sat up straighter, shocked, almost disgusted.
"Come now, Michael, you think you'd be the first sissy to think of such things?"
"It could be our little secret...amongst others...I wouldn't tell Susan."
I turned away from her, crossed my arms, my face hardened.
"I'm just teasing you, Michael, don't be so sensitive. I think it's cute. Come now, I think you've learned your lesson...for the time being...come upstairs and I'll let you take those things off."
I followed her, head hung in shame. I wasn't fantasizing about a man having his way with me, which was bad, but instead, I was fantasizing about a man having his way with Susan. Following Mrs. Stanton, it dawned on me, the reality, of where my fantasy was going. I was about to masturbate to the thought of a man fucking my wife!
"Come on," my mother-in-law encouraged me as we reached the top of the stairs and she turned towards her room, "in here." I reluctantly followed her once again into what I considered the forbidden, her room. She stopped at the dresser in the room, opened a drawer, removed something small.
"Go on, I told you that you may undress." She noticed my hesitation. "Oh, now don't be shy, Michael," she chuckled, "I've already seen everything already, there isn't that much down there to be modest about...unless it's shame."
I reddened, looked down.
"To which there is nothing to be shameful for, Michael. Most sissies are on the small size, surprising it is not."
"I...I'm sorry," I apologized, not knowing what else may be appropriate, needing to respond somehow.
"Michael, look at me." I looked up at her, finding some comfort in her eyes. "You need not apologize to me, in fact, it leaves me quite satisfied...Susan on the other hand, may not necessarily find something so small satisfying, so she tells me ..."
I froze, slip over my head, looking at her.
"Come, Michael, you think a mother and her daughter never talk about something like that?"
"What...she wouldn't talk about..."
"About sex? To her mother? For she's too modest or I'm too prudish?" She crossed her legs, her nylons making the same sound mine did all day, started bouncing one of her feet.
"I don't think..."
"I can answer both questions at once, Michael, as to my modesty and what your wife would discuss with her mother." She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, again making the rustling sound of nylon on nylon.
"You see, Michael, Susan tells me most satisfying to her is when her loving husband is on his knees, using his mouth and his tongue to worship her body. And judging from your blushing and my lack thereof, I'd say you're the more prudish of you and I."
She was right, my face felt flush, hers, no more or less color than always.
"And as to your apology, Susan tells me that to the same extent she is enamored with your oral skills, your somewhat lacking in the ability to, please her otherwise," she looked me right in the eye, "small and quick are not a desirable combination in a lover."
"How did she word it last time? I may be paraphrasing, but I believe she said, 'Mother, it's not that I don't like sex with Michael, he's a dove, he'll spend hours lapping at my pussy like a puppy, but when we get down to "it," to the actual sex, he's so small and so quick, I never get to enjoy "it.'"
I just looked down realized the words were true. They had to be true. Susan's mother was either psychic or speaking the truth.
"Now, Michael, don't be too concerned, many women get neither, what you provide her or the other thing. Now, if you'll please, finish undressing so I can finish."
I looked at her. So she can finish? Unsure, I did as told, un-clipping and rolling off my stockings, carefully pulling down the panty girdle, and taking of the bra.
"Come here, Michael," she said, with a tone that I should not question her. "As pleased as I was to see you acting as a girl would when I got home, you are in this situation because you lacked self control. I don't have something to do this with properly, but this will do for now." She opened her hand, taking what was in it, a stocking, rolling it out, then gathering it together as if she was going to put it on.
"Closer," she insisted, making me step forward until I was touching her, my naked legs pressed slightly up against her hosed legs. "I don't bite."
My mother-in-law reached up with the stocking open and stretched between her hands and quickly and firmly pulled it over my now flaccid penis and balls, gathering them into a small sack inside the stocking. "One nice thing about old fashioned stockings is that they are 100% nylon and don't stretch so they stay in place when properly held up with a garter belt. Because it won't stretch," she began, quickly twisting the stocking on itself below my balls, "it will hold in place anything inside it."
I looked down horrified that my mother-in-law was holding my penis and balls in her hands. "There," she said, rubbing for a minute in between her hands, "a crude, but effective chastity device. One you'd better leave in place."
"Yes, Ma'am," I said, shaking.
"And I'd suggest you keep your thought, ah, clean, so you don't find out how confining simple nylon can be. Of course, if you don't, you my rub to your hearts content, as you were before, you just won't be finishing anything, that's all."
"Yes, Ma'am," I gulped.
"Good. Now, if you'll please, take what you've worn today and wash them. When you're done with that, be a dear and brew some tea, which I'll take in the living room.
I'm not sure why I asked, but, "may...may I get dressed first?" I think standing in front of her naked was worse than lingerie. Maybe not, maybe the lingerie was worse, but either way, something would be better, anything. She looked at me, "back in lingerie?"
My mother-in-law crossed her eyes. "I'm honestly concerned that you're so eager to wear male clothing already. I'd have hoped you'd have taken some of today's lesson to heart."
"It, it's not that," I stammered. Well, it certainly was a little, I'll admit. I looked down, "I...
"Oh," Mrs. O'Conner looked amused, "you're a little...bad choice of words...you're embarrassed?"
"Yes," I gulped.
"I told you that your size is nothing to be ashamed of. If anything, it is desirable in a sissy, in the long run, anyway, Susan may not understand yet, but, to be honest, I'm not sure letting you dress as a man is such a good idea right now."
"Please, Mrs. Stanton," I begged, reddening again. Yes, in a moment of clarity I realized I was begging my mother-in-law to dress in my own clothes. I was begging my wife's mother to allow me to wear something to cover up my constrained penis. In a second of clarity I wondered how the hell this happened to me.
"You'd rather not wear lingerie again right now?"
"And I don't want you wearing men's clothes."
I looked down.
"And you're too ashamed to walk around like that?"
Still staring at the floor, I nodded.
"Why don't we compromise, Michael. I'm not willing to let you wear men's clothing, but I suppose I will let you at least cover yourself, for modesty's sake if for no other reason."
"Thank you," I blurted out.
She tilted her head. "I suppose, if you're going to be doing laundry and brewing tea, we could find you something appropriate for the occasion. I suppose I'd be willing to let you wear an apron, it's not much, but it would cover you."
How an apron sounded so wonderful was a sign of the perverseness of this day. "Thank you," I actually smiled, thinking of the "I love to BBQ" apron Susan had gotten my last year. Heavy cotton, down to my knees, around my chest, even the back. A serious apron. It would be kind of "dress like" but better than this. I started for the door.
"Michael," Mrs. Stanton, folded her arms, "where are you going?"
"I have an apron that I wear when I cook out that Susan..."
"Michael," she said louder, stopping me in my tracks.
"Yes," I whispered, turning to face her.
"Right there." She walked back to the dresser. I had the impression of a trap being sprung. I had the feeling of the rabbit, realizing that a loop was closing around his neck. I realized, perhaps, I'd been set up from the beginning. Maybe not, maybe it was just something strange, a voice yelling at me, telling me to stop, that enough was enough.
My mother-in-law opened a drawer again, pulled out something white, unfurled it. White. Satin. Small. Dainty. Frilly. "I have an apron right here, Michael."
"But but, Mrs. Stanton, I have a..."
"Right here." She held the apron open. Trap. Trap.
The apron reminded me something a prototypical French maid would wear. My BBQ apron was functional. This was in no way functional. If anything, it was one thing. Sexual.
It was no more than a small rounded rectangle, with frilly edges, long satin ties off the top. The apron, if one could call it that, would cover nothing more than my nylon-encased penis, maybe a small portion of my thighs. It would do nothing to hide my shame, my embarrassment, my humiliation. It would enhance it, if anything.
"Turn around, Michael," she instructed me. "We don't need a big man's apron to hide that, this frilly one will do just fine."
"Please, Mrs. Stanton," I begged her.
She chuckled, walked up behind me, wrapped the apron around my waist, pulled the apron strings tightly behind me, tied them just as tight.
Why did she have this? Did she mean to do this all along? From the moment she arrived? Why else? What did Susan ask her? Accuse her of? Planning something? She had planned this, hadn't she? I was trapped in some trap of my mother-in-law's making. Did Susan have a part in this? Was this something she knew about? No, no, she would not.
But Mrs. Stanton clearly would.
Why? What was she up to? What was her goal? I felt like a pawn, with good reason, I was a pawn. I didn't know why though, and worse, in what game. It's not comfortable being a pawn, it's intolerable when you don't even know what game is being played.
"There, now that takes care of things, doesn't it," Mrs. Stanton asked with a wicked grin on her face. Toying with me. I knew she was toying with me. I was not sure why, nor, what to do about it. "Now, please go wash your things."
I looked down, ashamed at how foolish I looked. I was never muscular to begin with. I was never full of hair, on my chest, legs, or otherwise. I suppose it did not really dawn on me earlier, wearing the lingerie, the effect. Now, it did. My penis, constrained by the twisted stocking, the small satin apron tied tightly around my waist, I realized how un- masculine I looked. Dressed in lingerie, the feminine feeling overcame the thoughts. Now, I just looked-emasculated. Dressed, I felt feminine. Now, I felt slightly different, what manhood I had was gone.
I felt humiliated. This was in some way worse than being feminized. Somehow that seemed like a game. This seemed worse. Without being feminized, she'd taken away my masculinity. I'm sure a large part was the humiliation of standing in front of her, standing in front of my mother-in-law mostly naked while she remained impeccably dressed. Her clothing overemphasized my near nakedness, my feelings of inadequacy.
I felt small. I felt submissive. I felt weak. I felt timid. I wanted to complain, but felt too weak to do so. I wanted to tell her that enough was enough, I wanted to act like a man. But how could I? I felt like the stereotypical hundred pound weakling.
Granted, there was a part of my brain that realized what was going on. How it came to pass so quickly was confusing, but I realized, in some ways, what had happened.
Mrs. Stanton was subjecting me to humiliation after humiliation, breaking me, bit by bit.
She was verbally humiliating me, calling me a sissy, degrading my manhood.
She was humiliating me by scorning my penis.
She was humiliating me by questioning my sexual adequacy.
She was humiliating me by making me wear lingerie. Now, this apron.
She was humiliating me little by little and I could not stop. I didn't know if I wanted to stop.
Woven into this stupid game was Susan's absence, her admonishment to serve her by serving her mother. And now, whatever was happening with Tom.
I looked down again, my chest, hairless and naked, my loins covered by a dainty, frilly, satin apron, my legs, and wanted to shrink away.
She had emasculated me.
It went without saying I must obey. The continued threat remained unspoken. Obey or she would tell Susan. Obey. Obey.
I bent down to pick up the lingerie off the floor and had the sudden awareness that in addition to everything else, my ass was covered by not a thing. My ass was naked as a baby
"Tea in the living room when you're done, please."
"Yes, Ma'am," I responded, walking out of the room with little, if any, dignity remaining.
Hand washing the lingerie was at it's most humiliating today.
Making tea for Mrs. Stanton even worse. I felt like a servant. I felt like a wimp. I felt like a maid.
I carried the tea to her on a tray, into the living room where she was sitting in a leather chair, my chair, reading the paper.
My chair, my house, my paper.
"Set it here, dear," she instructed pointing to the table next to the chair.
"Yes, Ma'am," I answered, placing the tea next to her.
"Thank you. That will be all for this evening."
I held back the smile, sensing that would be a miscalculation. "I...may I...um..."
She sighed. "Yes, you may get dressed as you wish. Though the stocking stays on, of course."
"Yes, Ma'am, thank you, Ma'am," I practically cried out, then realized something. "Um, Mrs. Stanton, what if I, well, need to, to, use the facilities."
She looked up from her paper. "You may before bed," she said, looking back down at the paper.
I hesitated. "Um..."
"Yes," she sighed, looking at me again.
"Should I, take it...take it off?"
"You most certainly shall not. I will come to your room at 10:30 to do that."
I practically ran out of the living room, upstairs, and to the master bedroom. As soon as I was safely behind my closed bedroom door, I reached behind me to untie the apron and get it off me.
I grabbed a pair of boxer shorts, flannel pajama pants, and a plain white T-shirt, happy to finally have masculine clothing on me again.
For the next several hours I sat on my bed watching television, though hardly paying attention to what was on.
I was too preoccupied. What was Susan doing? What was my wife doing? Why was my mother-in-law doing this to me? Why was I letting it happen?
I was riddled with self-doubt. Yesterday morning I was just a normal husband, a normal man. In the span of 36 hours all that was of debate. The humiliation was overpowering. She'd done everything she could to attack my manhood. Every attack was successful.
I always kind of knew I was a bit submissive, especially in my marriage. I always knew I loved serving my wife, that I found great pleasure in her pleasure. But I never thought that that made me anything more than a good husband. I never thought serving her made me less of a man. Now I did not know.
Now, I began to question if I was a wimp, if I was a...a sissy.
I began to question if I was man enough for her, if I could satisfy my wife.
I just didn't know.
Why did Susan have to be gone now?
Why did Susan have to pick now, of all time, to go out of town?
Why did she have to go to dinner with a man?
Why did I care?
I called Susan's cell phone. No answer.
I realized I was mindlessly rubbing my trapped penis.
I was thinking of Susan sitting at dinner.
I was thinking of Susan, wearing lingerie, modeling it for Tom.
I quickly moved my hand out of my shorts and behind my head, trying to focus on the television. I wish Susan would call.
Sometime later, as I continued to rub my small, trapped, shrunken penis, there was a knock at the door. "Yes," I called out, quickly moving my hand away.
My mother-in-law opened and walked into the bedroom. "Before I got ready for bed, I wanted to see if you needed to use the facilities."
I looked at the clock on the night table. 10:35. I stood up. "Yes, I do." I just stood there, unsure what to do.
She sensed my hesitation. "Get undressed so I can undo the stocking."
I gulped. Of course. More nakedness in front of her. More shame. More humiliation.
I stood before her, naked, save for the stocking wrapped tightly around my cock and balls.
She motioned me closer with a finger gesture. I took a step closer, shaking, breathing heavily. She moved one hand down to my organ, gripped it gently. Her other hand went to my chest, her fingers gently glided downward, towards my crotch. "You know you have such pretty skin, so soft" -- both her hands were now holding my flaccid organ. "So feminine."
I swallowed hard again.
"I told you not to be ashamed, I told you there is nothing wrong with it, there is nothing wrong with a pretty boy." She was twisting my penis, untwisting the stocking.
"There," she said, "go ahead."
I walked towards the master bath. "Feminine thoughts, Michael."
I looked back at her, my face wrinkled in question.
She grinned. "Men stand, women don't."
"Yes, Ma'am." I sat down, relieved myself, which took a minute given that it had been several hours.
When I walked back into the bedroom, Mrs. Stanton was too walking back in from the hall, holding something pink and flowing in her hands. "Done? Good. Let's get you tucked back up and dressed for bed." Yes, the something pink and flowing was meant for me.
"I don't usually wear anything to bed," I said.
"Hmmm," she said, ignoring me, setting down what was in her hands and picking up the stocking. "Come now, let's get this back on you."
"Mrs. Stanton, is this really necessary?"
"Necessary? I know little boys get erections at night and have nocturnal discharge, of course it is necessary."
"I'm not a little boy," I said, standing up straighter, folding my arms, trying to use my spine. Honestly, this was just about enough.
"Hmmm, no? Already thinking of yourself as a little girl, then? Perhaps you're learning quicker than I thought."
I just glared, picking the fight. I had to pick the fight. This was, really, too much.
She was prepared, I'll give her that, for she retorted hard and fast. She looked right at my soft penis, stared at it. "Because you're certainly not going to tell me you're a man, are you? I know otherwise from your wife. Who, by the way, would be most interested, would she not, to learn that her dear husband was such a disgusting panty sniffing pervert."
I dropped my arms, looked down. Susan. Serve Susan. Serve her mother. Serve Susan.
"I told you, Michael, you are going to be taught a lesson, taught what it is like to be a woman. Otherwise, you can explain yourself to Susan."
"Fine," I sighed.
She sat on the edge of the bed, stocking gathered again, held outward. "Step closer, there you go." Again she twisted the stocking over my soft penis, gathering it so it was taut over me, leaving me nowhere to move or grow.
"You may think me cruel, Michael, but before you do, consider, you were the one sniffing my panties. You were the one abusing yourself. You were the one disrespecting me, Susan and all women. You. Not me. Not Susan. Not any other woman. You. I will not sit here while my daughter's husband acts like this. I'm of a mind to simply tell her and let her deal with you, but I do not want to break her heart. You may not like my methods for dealing with a misbehaving little boy, but that's something you should have considered yesterday. Are we clear, Michael?"
"Excellent. Now, you're wearing that all night as I'm not going to have you spending the night thinking with that little thing. As for what you're wearing to bed, you may sleep naked, but a woman does not. A woman covers herself, both to look pretty for her husband and for modesty's sake. It's a habit you may want to familiarize yourself with."
She picked up the pink garments from the bed. "This is a peignoir set. Appropriate for wearing to bed, for feeling feminine for a man, yet, modest enough that a woman could answer the door if need be."
She held out to me a pair of pink panties. "These first, dear." I took the panties, stepped into them. She held out the top. It was soft, semi-sheer, layered, made of the same material as the panties.
"I'm sure your Susan sleeps in something a bit more modern, but this is what women my age wore to bed when I was younger." She handed the top to me, watched me pull it over my arms and head. The soft layers dropped over my hips, over the panties, down to my legs, to just above mid thigh. "Very pretty," she commented.
Dressed, I stood in front of her, feelings of femininity washing over me again, feelings of inadequacy, feelings of emasculation.
"Many a husband in the fifties and sixties would look forward to seeing his wife dressed in something so pretty at the end of a day. Of course, there was a wife or two who'd similarly look forward to seeing her effeminate husband dressed just like this, looking so soft, so pretty."
"Mrs. Stanton, I...I don't like this."
"You don't have to like it, Michael. That really doesn't matter to me. You need only appreciate it. Don't try to deny how pretty you look. Even pretty boys have their uses, don't be ashamed of it."
Though ashamed I was, I could not help feeling it, all over me.
"Why don't you get to bed, Michael, you've had a long day, you must be tired."
I didn't want to tell her I was waiting for Susan to call. Something seemed wrong with that, probably my hesitation to explain to her mother why she had not called as late as it was. Instead I walked to my side of the bed, pulled back the covers. Mrs. Stanton walked to the door.
"Are you working from home again tomorrow?"
"No, I need to go to the office, why?" Which was true enough, though I was eager just to be away from her.
"Oh, no reason. Good night, Michael."
I got under the covers, the soft folds of the nightgown flowed over me, held me, touched me. I wanted to talk to Susan. I needed to talk to Susan. I tried her cell phone. Voice mail.
I sighed. She must still be out. It was approaching eleven at night and she was still out. My wife was still out. Still out at dinner, or who knew what, with a guy. One who obviously wanted her.
Right? Was she still out? I lay in the dark, mind racing. Sissy. Sissy.
Her mother told me I didn't satisfy her. Was that true? Was I too small, to quick?
I reached down my front, let my hands run across my chest, over the soft fabric. It did feel pretty. I didn't want to admit it, but I felt pretty. The soft fabric of the peignoir felt so sexy, so pretty.
My hand went lower, to my crotch. The nightie had ridden up just enough to leave my panties exposed to my hand. I felt the lump, my shrunken penis, trapped in panties, wrapped in a stocking. I was small. I knew it, I couldn't help it, though. I was just small.
"Don't be ashamed," Mrs. Stanton told me. But I was ashamed.
Was Susan ashamed of it, too? Did she want more? Where was she? Where was she?
Was she out? Or wasn't she? Was she back in her hotel? Was she back, not answering, because she wasn't alone? Was she in her hotel room with Tom?
Did he bring her home?
I started rubbing myself through the panties, through the stocking. I couldn't get erect, I realized that immediately. I kept rubbing, just with my finger tips again. Rubbing myself like a woman.
Did Susan invite Tom back into her hotel room?
I was rubbing. Despite not being able to get an erection, it felt good. Very good. I rubbed. I thought of Susan.
He wanted her. Tom wanted her. Wanted my wife, my Susan.
She felt naughty. How naughty? How erotic?
I moved one of my hands up my stomach, touching myself through the nightie. To my chest, rubbing.
Was she just talking to a co-worker? Or was she flirting? He'd already seen her in her lingerie. My lingerie. Was he seducing her?
I was rubbing my nipple, rubbing my shrunken...organ...I was a girl. I was a sissy.
Was my wife a slut? Was she thinking of me? Was she thinking of her loving husband? Was she thinking of unsatisfying sex? Too small and too quick?
Was she fucking him???
I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. I fell asleep rubbing, thinking of Susan.
Something startled me awake. What? Where was I?
Oh, in bed, in bed wearing, oh...oh yes.
Again. What was...
The phone. My cell phone.
I sleepily grabbed it. "Hello," I mumbled.
What time was it? Dark, very dark.
"Sweetie." Susan. Susan calling.
I looked at the bedside table, squinted. "12:40"
"Susan," I mumbled, still not quite processing. 12:40?
"Did I wake you?"
"No, I...I mean...yes...sorry? Sorry for what?" What did she do? Suddenly my mind was alert, very alert. Was she confessing? Was my wife sorry for cheating on me?
"I'm sorry I called so late."
"Oh." That was it. But wait, it was late. Why was it so late? "What...why..."
"We were out late, I am sorry, I just lost track of time."
"Susan, it is after midnight."
"I know honey, one thing led to another, you know..."
I know? I did not know. What is another?
"Where...where are you?"
"Oh...back in my room."
I swallowed. The tone was strange. So was my question. "Alone," I gulped?
"Alone? Of course, silly..."
"Oh, I..." We talked over one another.
"Tom just left."
I couldn't help it, help the thoughts. I didn't want to think them, but couldn't help them. He just left her hotel room? He was in her room, again? He just left because he just finished. They just finished. They just finished fucking.
"Oh," I mumbled. Angry. Excited. I felt my penis, swell, what little it could, in the stocking. I was touching myself again through the panties.
"Again, I'm sorry for calling so late. We had a terrible time getting a cab. Not easy to do in downtown Atlanta on a weeknight, I guess."
"Oh, you...you just got back to the hotel, he didn't..."
"We were going to have a drink, but the bar downstairs was closed, so we came up to my room for a quick drink and he just left."
I was relieved. Nothing happened. I think I was relieved. Yet I was still rubbing. Nothing happened, right?
"What...what did you do?"
"Hmmm? Oh, just ate dinner, stopped by a club next to the restaurant, not much. Danced a little. Talked. You know how it is, entertaining clients or co-workers."
"I'm sorry, I know it's late."
"Are you behaving?"
"Yes, yes," I answered quickly.
"Hmmm, serving mother?"
"Yes." If she only knew.
"And, did you, um, behave on the other thing?"
"The...the other thing?"
"What did I tell you not to do," she asked seductively.
"Yes, my pet?"
"Nothing, I...nothing." She was quickly reverting back to the mood she was in earlier.
"What did I tell you not to do," she asked again.
"Not...not to masturbate," I answered, closing my eyes in embarrassment.
"And have you?"
"What, Michael, well what?"
"I...I touched myself...but I didn't cum," I quickly explained.
"Well, I suppose that's okay. Good boy. I told you, I want you to be my bitch when I get home tomorrow."
"Tomorrow! I...I thought you were going to be gone till..."
"Wednesday. I know. We finished early. The problem wasn't as bad as we thought."
"I know, lover, I know. The Atlanta people are glad to see us go. Most of them, anyway."
"Sure. They don't like corporate nosing around. I think they are all glad to see us leave. Well, maybe not Tom," she chuckled.
"What time will you be home?"
"I think my plane lands at four, so no later than five. Miss me?"
"God, yes, Susan."
"To see you? Yes."
"Hmmm, I meant, eager to be my bitch," she purred.
"Yes, Susan, yes."
"Tell me, Michael, tell me again before I let you go back to sleep."
"I...I want to be your bitch."
"You're going to Michael, you're going to!"
"You're such a tease, Susan."
"I'm not teasing, lover. I miss you and I can't wait to see you."
We said our goodbyes and I fell back asleep, dreaming of Susan, of serving, of submitting, and thinking of Tom. And Susan.
I slept okay. I wasn't awake all night, but I had the conscious sense ever time I turned over of the lingerie, of my trapped penis, of feminization, of submission.
When I woke, I wasn't sure what do to. Was I allowed to dress? Could I take off the lingerie? The stocking around my penis. I assumed that Mrs. Stanton would make me wait, so I did. I remained afraid to cross her, afraid she'd tell Susan. Especially with Susan coming home today.
I didn't have to wait long after turning on the bedroom light. My mother-in-law came in shortly after, without knocking. "Ah, my pretty son-in-law is up."
"Yes." I looked at the floor. Pretty. The word was enough to humble me.
"Tell me, sissy, have you learned your lesson."
I opened my mouth to challenge her...I was not a sissy! But I thought better of it. Susan was coming home today, perhaps it was better to just play along, to go along, to keep things calm. This seemed like a way out of this mess. I was afraid to tell her I had, but also afraid to tell her I wasn't a sissy. To be honest, part of me was afraid I just might be a sissy.
"Yes, Ma'am," I finally answered.
"Well I'm not so certain, to be honest, but...I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt...for now. You may dress in your own things, but..."
"Thank you," I sighed with relief.
"But," she said, talking over me, "but, don't you doubt for a single second that I'm watching you. If you disappoint me in the least, trust me, your lessons thus far will pale in comparison. Are we clear on that...sissy?"
"Yes, Ma'am," I answered, looking at the floor. Sissy. Again with that word.
"And if EVER you do something so disgusting with my lingerie again..."
"Yes, Ma'am, I understand."
Mrs. Stanton held out her hand. "Give me those things."
I quickly undressed, shedding the lingerie she'd forced on me. Shedding the feminine garments, the feminine feeling. Shedding the disgust at what I'd allowed to happen. Shedding all of it.
"Never again," she said, turning and walking out of the room, "never again."
Work sucked. I didn't have a great day at the office with any of the projects I was working on, any of the people I was dealing with, or any of the various emails or phone calls responded to.
I knew Susan was on the way home and missed her terribly, though I realized I also had some underlying apprehension about her return. I was concerned that Mrs. Stanton would say something to Susan about what had happened. I was also struggling to understand my feelings about Susan's colleague, Tom.
Susan sent me a text when her plane took off but other than that, I had did not hear from her at all during the day.
When I got home from work late in the afternoon, my mother-in-law was out. Oddly, I felt a pull towards her room, towards her things, towards her lingerie. Something I had to resist. Disgusting.
I heard her voice. Disgusting.
Susan sent me another text when her plane landed. "Just landed. B home in an hour or so."
I thought about making dinner, but didn't know if she'd eaten on the plane, would want to eat when she got home, or just relax. I was certain what I wanted to do when she got home. I put a couple of bottles of wine to chill, hoping that she'd want that, if nothing else.
At six, I heard the garage door open. Was it Susan or her mother. Either way, either one, my heart raced a bit quicker.
"Michael?" Susan. It was Susan.
"In here, Susan," I practically yelled, heart quickening even more.
Susan walked quickly from the garage to the den, luggage trailing behind her. "God I'm glad to be home," she said.
I stood up to meet her, kiss her, but she took a step back. "Michael, believe me, I want a hug as much as you, but I'm just, yuck, from the plane and the airports. Let me take my things upstairs and take a shower first, okay?"
I frowned, though not for the reason she thought. "Ten minutes, that's all hon, then I'm yours for the night. Why don't you get us something to drink and come up in ten minutes, okay?"
I'd frowned only in small part because I wanted a hug. More disappointing was what I'd hoped to do. I was already fantasizing about undressing her, slowly peeling away her clothes to discovery the lingerie she was wearing, to see her, my beautiful wife, in the garter belt and stockings I knew she had to be wearing.
"Okay," I openly frowned.
"Ten minutes lover, just let me shower," she smiled, heading towards the stairs. "Ten minutes."
I frowned even more as she left the room, frowned as I watched her walk away, frowned as I admired her legs, looked at nylons, imagined her in stockings.
Ten minutes later I walked upstairs into our bedroom carrying a bottle of white wine and two wine glasses. Susan's suitcase was on the bed, still closed. I sat on the bed, looked towards the bathroom, heard the shower still running. There was a pile of clothes just outside the bathroom door where Susan must have undressed. I looked at the pile of clothes, her skirt suit, blouse, but more important, saw a smile pile behind the skirt suit, a small pile of lingerie.
Susan had worn her pink bra, panties, and garter belt, nude stockings. I felt a stirring in my crotch. I felt a stirring from imagining her in them, yet, disappointment that I'd not seen it.
"Michael," I heard Susan snap. I looked up from the pile of clothes. Susan was standing in the bathroom doorway, towel wrapped around her, another drying her hair. "Welcome back." She must have called my name several times.
She looked down to her left, to the pile of clothes. "Oh, I see."
"I'm sorry, hon. You wanted to see me wearing something you bought me, didn't you?"
"Yes," I admitted, frowning slightly.
"I'm sorry, sweetie."
I looked away shyly. "You could...get dressed again?"
"Michael, I smelled like airplane and sweat and the fat guy sitting next to me, yuck."
I looked towards her suitcase, rather desperately said, "what...what about one of the other ones."
"Well, they're soiled too, though I suppose at least they don't smell like airplane. Or fat man. I suppose I could dress in one of them...the black set or the white set?"
"Yes," I said, trying not to sound too pathetic. "I...I bet you looked very nice in both of them."
"I don't know, Michael. I wore the white set on Monday, it's at the bottom of my dirty bag, underneath my running stuff. I'm not sure running sweat is any better than airplane sweat."
"You could wear the black one," I suggested, voice quivering.
"But I wore that last night to..." She didn't say anything else, she just left her words hanging.
I looked up at her, my eyes speaking for me, the words only through thought.
"You want me to be naughty, don't you, Michael?
I looked down again, blushing. Immediately I thought of her standing in her black lingerie in front of her co-worker. I thought of Tom staring at her, wanting to fuck her. Touching her.
"I told you how naughty I felt wearing that."
"Yes, Susan." I still would not look at her. Naughty. Naughty.
"Michael, why...why don't we just..."
"Please, Susan," I said, licking my lips.
Something clicked in both our minds. I was begging her, begging her to be naughty. She seemed to want to, but was holding back. She stopped rubbing her hair. "Michael," she whispered, "I..."
"Please Susan, I," I took a deep breath, shaking, spoke the words I was afraid to say. "I...I want to be your bitch."
Susan's eyes hardened. Click.
"How are you going to pour us wine, Michael?"
I frowned. "What?"
"You don't have a cork screw."
I realized she was right. Wine. Glasses. Nothing to open with. "I forgot," I actually blushed, "I was thinking..."
"Michael," she stopped me.
I looked at her.
"Michael, why don't you go back downstairs, open the bottle, and bring me a glass of wine." Me. Before she said bring us some wine. Now, bring her wine.
Serve her. Serve Susan. Serve my wife.
I served her. I served her mother. Serve. Serve.
I left the room, watching her as she watched me. Serve. Serve.
Opening the wine I felt my hands shaking. What was I doing? The fucking black outfit? Why? Why? She wore that to dinner with Tom. That was disgusting.
What was wrong with me?
She wore that to dinner with Tom. That disgusted me. That excited me.
I stayed downstairs for several minutes before opening the wine as I thought my wife would need time to change, to get dressed, to get naughty.
I poured Susan a glass of wine, left the second glass, my glass, on the counter. Serve her.
I brought the single glass of wine and the bottle upstairs, back into our bedroom.
I gasped when I walked into the room. Susan was standing in front of her dresser mirror, brushing her hair. She heard me come into the room, saw me in the mirror, but said nothing as she kept brushing.
She was wearing the black lingerie. The bra, panties, and garter belt. The black stockings. She'd put on black strappy heels, too. The effect was...amazing.
Seeing my wife dressed like this was everything I'd ever imagined, ever fantasized about. Susan had long, shapely legs, the kind of legs stockings were made for.
"Thank you," she finally said, looking at me in the mirror, seeing me holding the single glass of wine. For her. "Set it down there," she pointed to the night stand next to her side of the bed.
I put the wine down, never taking my eyes off her.
"Are you sure, Michael?"
"Sure you want this? Really?"
"Yes," I said quietly, drinking in her body.
"I don't know if you understand what you're asking for, Michael," she said, turning to face me.
I looked at her with a puzzled look.
"I don't know if you understand what I mean when I say how naughty I feel dressed like this, Michael. If you know how I feel about you right now. I don't know if you can because I hardly understand it myself."
"I I want to serve you, Susan."
"I know, Michael. And I want you to serve me. I want you to pamper me. I want you to," she looked at me, looked me in the eyes. "I want you to be my bitch, Michael. That's how I feel dressed like this. I want you to to forget about you, I want you to focus on me. Me."
"I know, Susan."
"Do you? Do you really?"
I looked down again.
"Do you know, really? Michael, look at me."
I did, I looked up.
Susan looked at me, gave me a final warning. "You wanted black, Michael, just remember. You wanted naughty. Remember that, Michael. You wanted it.
"Yes," I answered, not fully realizing what she meant.
"You wanted to be my bitch."
"I just wanted to make that clear."
"I know, Susan."
"Good. Remember on the phone, remember I told you black made me feel this way. Made me want you to serve me, to be my bitch?"
"Yes, Susan, yes," I said, somewhat annoyed. "I get it."
She chuckled. "You say you get it, but you don't get it. You're standing there, dressed, like you're my equal. A man standing dressed like that, in front of a woman dressed like I am...he's saying by his body language that he's an equal, if not a superior. Looking at me like you're a customer and I'm a stripper or a prostitute, or even your mistress."
"You, um, you want me to get undressed," I asked, smiling. Serving her wasn't that bad, was it? I'd gladly get naked.
"I do, Michael. But, and this is the part you won't like, but then, you're my bitch, so, well, it doesn't matter."
"What part?" What wasn't to like about getting naked with my wife?
"This is about me, remember, serving me."
"Yes," I grinned. I knew that, I liked that.
"I want you naked. But you forgot, didn't you. I want you naked, I want my...bitch...naked. But this is about me. I want you naked, Michael. I want you...I want your hands all over me. I want your mouth all over me. But it's about me. I want you pleasuring me. I want you naked because you're serving me and naked makes you more vulnerable. I want you naked, but it's about me." She looked me over from head to toe. "I want you naked, but, well, this is about me, I don't want you thinking with your penis. I don't want you thinking, two more minutes of licking and then I'm sticking. I want you serving me, not thinking about your own pleasure. This is about me, not you."
"I know, Susan, I...you know I want to serve you."
"Yes, Michael, but boys are boys. I want you naked but I don't want you thinking with your penis. In fact, I want you naked but I don't want to see, I don't even want to feel, your penis. You're my bitch, not my husband right now, my bitch."
"But see, you don't know. I can already see what you're thinking. Whatever she wants. I'll agree to whatever she wants...because at the end, you think you're getting off, you think you're fucking me."
I looked at her. Duh? Of course.
"That's what you don't get, Michael. I'm naughty. I feel naughty. I'm going to be naughty. You're my bitch. You're serving me. That's what you don't get yet, Michael...you're not getting off. You're not going to fuck me, Michael."
"But I...we can..."
"You're not getting off. You're my bitch tonight. You're serving me. You're only pleasure is in pleasing me. I want you naked, Michael, NOW," she emphasized, "but I have no interest in your penis. None. I told you the other day, I'd just as soon hide that, hide your penis in a pair of my panties than anything else. I don't want to see it, I don't want you thinking about it, I don't want you using it. At all."
"It sounds foolish, doesn't it. That's what you think. I'm being selfish, crazy, silly even."
"It doesn't matter, Michael. You're going to be my bitch. In fact, I have a better idea, Michael. I don't want to see or feel your penis. I don't want you thinking about it, either. Get undressed, Michael, get naked, now."
I started undressing, still thinking she wasn't serious. Still thinking I was going to lick her and kiss her and fuck her. I didn't care how naughty she was, how she felt. I wanted to drop to my knees and lick her for hours, but I wanted her, I wanted to feel her, to be inside her.
I finished undressing, looked up at Susan.
"What," I asked her. She was staring at my midsection, at my semi-erect penis.
"I don't want to see that," she said with tone of disgust.
"Susan," I protested. Her tone, for some reason, hurt. It wasn't sensual. It wasn't seductive. She continued to stare. I felt some humiliation creeping into my blood. Susan crossed her arms, staring.
"I want you to serve me, Michael. I don't want to see that. I don't want to feel that. I don't want to think about it."
"Susan, what do you want me to do." Her continued stare continued to humiliate me. The feeling reversed whatever sexual excitement I'd felt when I first saw her dressed like she was. I was quickly going from semi-erect so semi-soft, from semi-soft, to soft, to limp.
"What do I want you to do? I told you before, I should put you into a pair of my panties. I told you before, I don't want you thinking with that, even small like that."
Small? Her words were like a slap...to my face...to my flaccid penis.
"But that wouldn't work, would it? But..." She paused, thought. "But that might..."
"What are you, Michael?"
"What are you," she asked again, forcefully.
I knew what she meant. "I'm your bitch, Susan."
"Sit down, on the bed."
I sat. Susan went to her suitcase, still on the bed, opened it, took something out.
"Susan, what are you doing," I asked her, looking at what she was holding in her hands.
"Control top pantyhose, Michael. I don't think I'm going to need them anymore."
My mouth felt like cotton, dry, sticky. She didn't mean...
I felt dizzy. This wasn't happening. She didn't really mean for me to...
She cackled. "I was going to make you wear a pair of my panties, just to show me you were my bitch, to show me you were not going to think with...that. But that was just for symbolism sake. It dawned on me that I can combine functionality with the symbolism."
"You...you don't really expect me to...to..."
"Wear these? Hmmm, but you're my bitch, Michael, why not?"
"Pantyhose are for girls," I complained.
"That's the point...bitch...you're not my man tonight." She knelt down in front of me while gathering up one of the legs of the nude pantyhose. "You're my bitch. You're not my man. I don't want you to think that you are." She put the pantyhose on one of my feet, gathered up the other leg, onto my other foot, started pulling them up my legs.