Mother In Law

By Sara Girl

"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.

"Susan!"

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.

Silence.

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.

"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."

If only.

***************************

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.

"Susan."

"Shhh, Mother," Susan scolded. "You make any noise and it will be like
she's here watching you do this to her daughter."

"Susan!"

"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?"

"Nothing, Susan."

"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.

"What?"

"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!

Watching me.

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.

"I   "

"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."

"WHAT?"

"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.

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?

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?"

"Good."

"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."

"Oh, really?"

"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."

"Hmmmm."

"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."

"Susan!"

"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."

"Yea, yea."

"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?"

"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."

"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.

I gulped.

"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."

"Um, thanks?"

"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.

"You're embarrassed."

"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?"

Sissy? Sissy?

"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?"

"No, Ma'am."

"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?"

"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."

"SUSAN!"

"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."

"Moi?"

"Packing these stockings for me to wear."

My hands trembled again as I typed. "U r wearing stockings today?"

" I told you I would."

"Susan :)"

"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."

"Baby :)"

"You can't imagine how sexy I feel! I wish you were here, M."

"Me, too."

"I   I think I've been wet half the day."

"OMG   SUSAN!"

"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."

"I do!"

"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?

"The guys?"

"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?"

"Okay?"

"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?

"Susan?"

"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!"

NO!

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.

"Something wrong?"

"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.

"Hmmmm."

"Black makes me feel...naughty."

"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.

"I do!"

"U want 2 serve me?"

" yes."

" 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.

"Tell me.

"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."

"Mine?"

"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?"

"Nnnoo."

"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."

"Yes, Susan!"

"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."

"Why?"

"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.

"I do."

"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?"

"What?"

"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?"

"YES!"

"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."

"SUSAN!"

"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."

"Susan, please!"

"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."

"FUCK, SUSAN!"

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!"

"What? Susan?"

"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.

"Susan!"

"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?"

"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."

"Okay, okay."

"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.

"Susan   "

"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.

Sissy.

"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.

Sissy.

Bitch.

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?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

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.

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.

Sissy. Bitch.

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?"

"I'd never..."

"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."

"She wouldn't!"

"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?"

"No!"

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?"

"No, no."

"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.

Plan.

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?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"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."

"Good night."

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.

Still out.

Right? Was she still out? I lay in the dark, mind racing. Sissy. Sissy.

Was she?

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.

Sissy.

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?

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"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."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, I know it's late."

"It's okay..."

"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.

"Susan!"

"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?"

"No, well..."

"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."

"That's great!"

"I know, lover, I know. The Atlanta people are glad to see us go. Most
of them, anyway."

"Most?"

"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."

"Eager?"

"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.

Pink.

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.

"Hmmm, oh...yes."

She looked down to her left, to the pile of clothes. "Oh, I see."

"What?"

"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?"

"Susan?"

"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."

"Yes."

"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."

"I know."

"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."

Panties. PANTIES!

"Susan..."

"It sounds foolish, doesn't it. That's what you think. I'm being
selfish, crazy, silly even."

"No, I..."

"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.

"Susan..."

"But that wouldn't work, would it? But..." She paused, thought. "But
that might..."

"What...what might?"

"What are you, Michael?"

"What?"

"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.

"Stand up." I did. She pulled the hosiery up my knees, my thighs, over
my hips, ass, my crotch, pulling the elastic up, tight. Susan reached
into the front of the control top, tugged, pushed, pulled my limp
penis, my balls, pushing my balls inside me, pulling my limp cock down
and back between my legs, pulled the hose tight, very tight.

"There, much better."

I looked down, winced. Everything was tight, constricted. There was no
way my penis was going to move a millimeter, no way it could ever get
hard.

"Hmmm, feel it, bitch? I told you, I don't want to see it or feel it."

How could she? I was held tight.

"Feel it? Get it?" Susan moved her fingers to my crotch, rubbed.
"Control top pantyhose work to hold everything a woman has in place.
Funny, works just the same for something like this. Something small and
tucked away."

She kept rubbing, gently, teasing. I felt, like yesterday with her
mother's stocking, blood rushing to me, trying to fill me, but with
nowhere to go. "I told you I felt naughty, didn't I? I told you, I
don't want you thinking like a husband today, I want you thinking like
a bitch...my bitch...in fact..."

Oh god, what, what?

"I'm disappointed; I can still see a tiny lump. I don't want to see
anything. Anything."

"Please Susan, just...just let me..." Lick you. I just wanted to lick
her. "Just let me...serve you   let me   "

"Small and hidden...I didn't use panties because I didn't want you
growing. I don't even want to see this little lump." She quickly stood,
went to her dresser, opened her lingerie drawer. As soon as she turned
around, I knew what was in her hand. A pink satin pj set that consisted
of loose tap panties, a satin top, part of a set I bought her last year
for her birthday.

"Susan, no, please, I can't...I don't want to..."

"You already said you'd wear panties to be my bitch...didn't you? These
would never have held you in place, but they will do the trick covering
things up. Put them on...they are boy shorts, after all, so what's
wrong with my little boy wearing them?" She smirked at her pun. She set
the top down on the dresser, held the panties towards me.

"Susan..." I couldn't. What was she possibly thinking? This wasn't just
naughty...this was...

"Michael," she said softening, "please, oh god, please. I...I know,
this is strange, but...I...I told you...I feel so...so naughty. I don't
know why, I don't know what it is, but please. I...I felt like this
since yesterday, please, I just want you to...to serve me, to...to
pleasure me...to please me...please...just...just...please. I...I can't
explain it, I just feel...

Her mother had forced me to wear panties to punish me. She was begging
me to wear panties to please her, to serve her.

"Naughty?"

"Yes, oh god, yes."

I took the panties from her, hands shaking, slipped my nylon-covered
legs into them, pulled them up, pulled them on, hiding my trapped penis
in pantyhose, in panties.

"Please, be my bitch, Michael."

Uneasy, even shaking, I lowered my head, lowered myself to my knees,
lower. I lowered myself to her feet, to her stocking covered feet,
slowly, kissed each one, slowly, acknowledging my submission to her.

Susan sat down on the edge of the bed. "Worship me, Michael."

"Yes, Susan," I moaned, licking her feet.

"Serve me, Michael," she ordered me.

"Yes, Ma'am," I groaned.

"Be my bitch, Michael. Start with my feet, lick me, kiss me, worship
every inch of my body."

"God, Susan."

"Start down there, Michael, take off my heels, be my bitch, worship my
naughty feet, bitch."

Hands trembling, I slowly removed one of Susan's heels, gently planting
kisses on her nylon-covered foot. I dropped her foot, switched to the
other, looked up at her, into her eyes, saw the lust, the hunger, the
passion on her face. I'd done no more than kiss her toes and already
her eyes were fluttering with pleasure.

Kneeling before her, one of her feet in my hands, mouth open, sucking
one of her toes, I gasped in my own pleasure.

"Hmmm," Susan giggled as I shook. The way I was kneeling, her other
foot in front of me, she simply had to move her other foot forward ever
so slightly and it came in direct contact with my crotch. Her foot,
nylon stocking, in direct contact with the pink satin of the tap
panties I was wearing, covering the pantyhose that so tightly held my
penis folded back, trapped against my body.

Her foot felt amazing, so soft, so sensual, so exciting.

"Keep licking and don't move," she ordered quietly.

Move? Why would I want to move? The feeling of her stocking covered
foot against my stocking covered limp organ was amazing, breathtaking.

"Don't move an inch," she said again, stroking me now through layers of
nylon and satin.

I looked up at her. "Never, Susan," I smiled with my eyes, my mouth
full of her toes.

I was swelling, swelling.

"Uugh," I grunted. In a few seconds, my swelling penis quickly
switched. In mere seconds, pleasure began to fade.

It was replaced by tightness. "Susan," I moaned.

"Don't move."

It dawned on me. I thought Susan was telling me not to move, as in, not
to press harder against her foot. It was just the opposite. She was
telling me, in advance, not to back away. As she rubbed, blood flooded
my penis, trying to make it swell. Bent back as it was, held tight by
her control top pantyhose, there was nowhere for me to grow.

"Susan," I gasped.

"I told you I felt naughty, didn't I, Michael? You begged just the
same." Her foot pressed into my bent shaft, daring it to grow, to swell
more than it could.

I sensed just enough of her mood that I should not only stay still,
pressed against her foot, but that I also should continue my kissing,
licking, worship of her other foot.

"Ironic."

I looked up at her, puzzled, her foot half in my mouth.

"You wanted me to wear something like this for so long, didn't you?
Dreamed about it, fantasized about it."

"Yes," I answered, continuing my tongue bath of her foot.

"Ironic, then."

"What," I grunted, the pain in my crotch increasing as she continued
her massage of my trapped penis.

"Ironic, lover," she grinned, obviously enjoying my mouth on the
sensitive skin of her foot. "Ironic," she pressed into my swollen
organ, "that you weren't there to see me the first time I wore this."

I moaned loudly as some unseen store of erotically charged energy tried
to flood into my trapped penis at the thought of her wearing this
lingerie in front of Tom. I caught Susan's eyes, a wry smile, a
twinkle. I waited for her to say something about Tom, to tell me, to
confess. But she just watched, rubbed, enjoyed my mouth on her foot.

"Ironic, because after all that fantasizing about seeing me dressed
like this, I would have thought you'd get an erection."

"I   I can't, Susan," I moaned, balls in pain, penis in pain.

"I know. Ironic. A man would get hard seeing me dressed like this,
Michael."

I just looked at her, eyes begging, hungry, needy.

"I want your tongue all over me, bitch," she growled, pulling back,
moving her foot away from my crotch, pulling herself back onto the bed.
"Serve me, Michael, serve me."

I attacked her. I wanted to fuck her like a wild animal, but I
couldn't. I couldn't even get hard. So instead I attacked her with my
mouth. Fine, if I couldn't do what I really wanted to do, I could at
least ravage her with my tongue, my lips. It was like every sexual
neuron redirected from my penis to my mouth.

My attack wasn't hard. It wasn't fast. It was quiet, it was stealth. It
was a release, really, a release from wanting to fuck her, to an
instant later, wanting to lick her. Everywhere.

Her calves, her thighs, her knees, her stomach. Her wrists, her ass,
her ankles. The inner skin of her legs. Her fingers. Her elbows.

Everywhere.

Everywhere but her pussy. I was saving that. I wanted to make her cum
as many times as I could before I got near there, before I gave her
that.

It was in kissing my way up her right arm that, looking back,
everything changed in our marriage. Well, everything might have already
changed, but that's when it really dawned on me, probably dawned on her
just the same. Maybe I pretend to know more than I do. I don't know.

But it was while I was kissing my way up her arm. I'd been licking and
kissing her everywhere for a half hour, an hour. I was kissing and
biting my way up her arm, to her neck. Her arm was under me when I felt
it, the dance of her fingers.

I realized my crotch was hovering over her hand. I'd purposely, for the
last hour, done everything I could to avoid letting my penis touch her,
for as turned on as I was, without the physical contact I was slightly,
but not uncomfortably swollen.

I felt her fingers lift up, tease me. I was kissing her neck, could
feel her hot breath in my ear. I started to move, but she licked my
ear. Her wet tongue froze me in place, froze me directly over her hand.
She teased me, danced her fingers over the satin panties while I
nuzzled her neck.

"You can't get hard, can you," she whispered in my ear.

I responded non-verbally. I bit her neck gently, lover to lover.

"It's ironic," she whispered in my ear. I felt her fingers back, where
the tip of my penis was trapped. Rubbing. Quickly. "You wanted to see
me dressed in lingerie like this so badly and you can't even get hard."

I bit her neck again, harder, nuzzling, attacking, feeling her shudder
in pleasure.

"It's ironic. You can't get hard. It's ironic. I thought you'd be so
excited seeing me wearing this you'd have an instant erection. Any real
man would. In fact, Tom didn't have any trouble getting hard when he
saw me wearing this."

I gasped, I moaned, I kissed her harder still. Tom. Tom! TOM! Her
words, the mention of his name, shot through me.

"Susan," I moaned, feeling the blood, the erotic energy that had been
dispersed all over my body suddenly rushing to my crotch.

"What, lover, what?"

I was quivering, moaning, humping her hand.

"You're jumping, lover, why?"

"Susan," I moaned again.

She said nothing for several minutes, just let me kiss her neck, nuzzle
her. She moved her hand away from my crotch, enjoyed my tongue on her.

I just kissed and kissed and kissed. She moaned, touched. I felt her
tongue, her wet tongue, in my ear, her breath, hot, blowing. Wet
matching my wet.

After several minutes in this position I felt her fingers ever so
lightly on my trapped penis, teasing, toying, so lightly.

"His cock was so hard, Michael," she whispered in my ear.

"Oh god," I choked. I don't know why that instant things changed. Why
that second I realized I was in bed with my wife, wearing pantyhose and
panties. Why right then I felt my trapped penis. Why that was when it
all flooded into my brain.

Why did she know his cock was hard? Why would she

Why?

WHY?

"Susan," I exclaimed, "how do you...

She seemed to be waiting for it, seemed to be reading my mind, seemed
to have anticipated.

"Shhhh, Michael, shhhh." She licked me, continued teasing my penis.

His cock was so hard. His cock was so hard!

How did she know? She didn't   didn't   my brain could barely think it.
She didn't fuck him???

"Susan," I said again, trying to sit up.

"Michael, shhhh, please, trust me   "

Trust her. Trust her. Why wouldn't I trust her? She was my wife, my
friend, my lover. Trust her. Trust her.

"But   "

She giggled. "Lick my breasts, Michael."

I looked down from her face, down towards her chest. Her breasts were
inside her beautiful black bra. I felt hungry.

"Serve me, Michael, serve me." She said this while continuing to rub
me, continuing to rub my soft, but throbbing penis through the panties
and pantyhose.

"Susan," I moaned.

"Lick my breasts, Michael."

I submitted, moved slightly so my head, my face, my mouth, were on the
top of her breasts, licking her, tasting her skin. Her hand was still
pressed against my crotch, but she was no longer moving it, just
letting it rest there.

I kissed her breasts, licked, touched. I listened to her moan as my
tongue would flick near, but not quite touch, her nipples.

I once again got lost in pleasing her, serving her, submitting to her.

I once again focused on Susan, her skin, her breasts, licking, kissing,
teasing, touching.

I once again forgot about my own pleasure. It was all about her. I
forgot about my own orgasm. It was about her. I forgot about my trapped
penis. It was about her.

I had her right breast mostly out of her bra as I kneaded it with my
fingers while teasing her nipple with my tongue, licked it.

I had a game I played, imagination; her breast was an ice cream cone. I
licked around her nipple, the swell of her breast, as I would a
dripping cone, licking off each imaginary drop of melted ice cream.
Slowly, circling, darting over her nipple as she moaned, closer and
closer to orgasm.

I had her nipple in my mouth, holding it gently in my teeth, flicking
her nipple with my tongue, as she shuddered, cumming.

"Oh, Michael," she moaned, shaking, "Michael   Michael   "

"Yes," I asked, as I flicked her nipple again, making her cum again.

"His cock was so hard, Michael." I moaned, suddenly aware, once again,
of her hand on my crotch. Her hand had not moved at all, but as soon as
she said those words, my penis felt tight, trapped again, sore.

"Susan," I moaned. Susan shook and shook and shook with her nipple
pinched in between my teeth, her hand pressed against my twitching
trapped cock.

"Susan," I gasped, "you   you   " I couldn't bring myself to say it, to
accuse her. She couldn't have, wouldn't have!

Before I could try to ask again, Susan used her free hand, the hand not
pressing against my penis, used the free hand to pull my head off her
nipple, towards her face, and plant her mouth directly on mine.

"Susan," I tried to say, but couldn't, not with her tongue deep inside
my mouth, probing, kissing, licking.

I felt her hand shift, her leg, her whole body move to one side.
Suddenly I was moving, as Susan, mouth still attached to mine, shifted,
flipped, our bodies traded position, and suddenly, Susan was on top of
me, still kissing me.

Immediately I realized her panty covered pussy was pressed directly
against   I shook   against my panty covered penis.

Oh god. The pain was all over me, sore, tight, pain. I was twitching,
folded, trapped in the pantyhose, desperate, but unable to fully swell,
to get hard. I wanted it so badly, couldn't have it, needed it, was
denied it.

I tried not to focus on it, tried to ignore it, tried to think of
anything else. Susan's legs were next to and touching mine. I kissed
her, moved to kiss deeper, felt my leg slip against hers. "Ohhh," I
groaned and heard her groan at the same time. Her legs were so soft,
mine, so soft, nylon against nylon.

"That feels so good, Michael," Susan said as she kissed me deeply, as
she rubbed her leg up and down mine. "So soft, Michael, so pretty."

We kissed for several tender minutes, our wet mouths pressed together
in passion, amazingly, our nylon-covered legs rubbing against one
another.

Slowly, seductively, Susan moved her legs upward so that she was
straddling my midsection, her pussy once again pressed right against
me, teasing me. "Do you trust me, Michael?"

"What," I asked, pulling my face away from hers. What kind of question
was that?

Susan had a spark in her eyes. She started grinding herself back and
forth across my penis, across the folded bump, across the spot that was
hitting her right on the top of her pussy.

Susan slowly rocked back and forth on top of me while she kissed me,
rocked back and forth pleasuring herself while doing nothing but
teasing me.

Then she spoke again, spoke in between kisses, spoke in a desperate,
hungry whisper. "Do you like the lingerie you bought me lover?"

"Oh my god, yes, Susan," I moaned, kissing her deeply to try to show
just how much seeing her beautiful body dressed like this turned me on.

The evil laugh returned, the dominant laugh, the naughty laugh.

"What?"

"Irony, Michael," she kissed me deeply, rubbing her crotch, her
panties, faster against mine. "It's ironic that..." She inhaled deeply.
"...your little penis is so soft...but his cock was so hard..."

I jerked upward right into her pelvis, my folded, trapped penis, right
into her clit. Susan stopped kissing me and simply took several quick,
short breaths.

"Susan." I could not take this! Why did she keep saying this? What did
she do? What had she done? "Susan, what..." I started to ask.

"Don't talk, Michael," she said. She commanded. Susan was moving as she
said this, moving her body upward, off my crotch, scooting up, up my
body. She tilted to one side, twisted, then the other. I realized as
she moved upward again, she had deftly removed her panties. Her panties
were in her right hand. I watched them closely as she moved her hands
to the sides of my head to give herself leverage to move up.

I realized this as she moved up and her scent hit me. The scent, the
deep musky smell of her pussy, her damp, wet, pussy. The scent was all
over her panties which were not even an inch from my face.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the smell, the sweet
sexual smell of her, of Susan, of my wife. Susan must have seen what I
was doing. I don't know for I could not, would not open my eyes. I just
inhaled. She must have seen for the panties that were close to my face
were now pressed against my face. I inhaled and inhaled and inhaled. I
felt so humiliated in this instant.

Humiliated for what I was wearing.

Humiliated for my soft penis.

Humiliated for what I'd done to her mother's panties.

Humiliated for submitting to Susan.

Humiliated for whatever she'd done...what had she done?

Humiliated for sniffing my wife's panties right in front of her.

Humiliated for being her bitch.

I was her bitch. I was Susan's bitch. I was my wife's bitch.

Susan moved the panties slightly to my right. My head followed the
movement so my nose never left the scent. "Open your mouth," she told
me as, eyes closed in shame, I continued to inhale the scent of her
sexual excitement. "Be my bitch."

I gulped and slowly opened my mouth. I expected Susan to take her
panties from my nose and put them into my mouth. Instead, I felt Susan,
wet, soaked, dripping, more than I'd ever felt her. Instead of her
panties, which were still on my nose, Susan herself, my wife's dripping
pussy, was pressed against and into my open mouth.

"Lick me," she said, commanded, ordered, insisted.

Immediately my tongue darted upward, guided on its own, easily finding
and quickly flicking her swollen clit, sending her into an immediate
and sudden orgasmic spasm. "Oh my god, Michael, that feels so..." She
tilted herself forward to push her clit into my mouth, knocking her
panties off my nose in the process.

I held her in my mouth, flicking and flicking, shocked how fast and how
violently she was cumming. "Oh god, Michael, oh god, oh god, yes, I
love that yes...oh god." Susan's hands were on my head, pulling me into
her pussy. This was so unlike her. Usually she wanted tender, gentle
licking, slowly, over time, to make her orgasm. Now she was violent,
harsh, demanding.

But even her orgasm was different, not the gentle washing of waves of
pleasure, but now, a storm, violent, harsh, powerful.

And then I felt warm liquid all over my face, even in my mouth.
Immediately I thought she was urinating on me! Oh, holy fuck, it was in
my mouth! Susan was shaking so hard, cumming so hard, she...

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she was crying out.

I started to gag, disgusted at the thought of pee, I started to thrash,
but she was too strong on my face, holding me to her.

Then it hit me. The smell, the taste. I thought I was going to vomit.
But part of my brain was functioning and realized...

Susan wasn't urinating!

The taste. The smell.

The same smell from her panties.

The same taste as minutes ago.

She wasn't urinating.

Cum.

Susan was cuming in my mouth. She was cumming so violently and so hard
that cum was quite literally pouring from her pussy.

It was not pee, it was cum. My wife was cumming so hard that the cum
was everywhere.

I fought back another gag and realized I had no choice but to take it,
to accept it...

To swallow it.

My wife was cumming in my mouth. It filled me. It dripped down my
cheeks. It soaked my face.

And I swallowed it. Like a woman must when her lover unexpectedly cums
in her mouth, when suddenly a cock explodes. I felt the way a woman
must swallowing cum. Swallowing my wife's cum. Gag or swallow.

I swallowed.

Susan was now lifting and lowering herself to my mouth. Lifting up,
taking the pressure off her pussy, her clit off my tongue. Then quickly
lowering for a second or two so she could have a quick burst of
pleasure, of orgasm.

Finally, Susan just shook. Without me touching her she just shook and
shuddered as she surrendered to the pleasure. Normally, if we were
fucking, I'd have my penis in her, shaking myself, but now, it was her,
just her. I wasn't even hard! She had cum so much it was all over me.

Susan lowered her body, but not to my mouth. She scooted back down me,
collapsed on top of me and burst out laughing. "Oh my fucking god,
Michael."

"Susan," I moaned, my own crotch was sore, trapped, strained.

"Oh, Michael," she giggled, "you...you have cum all over your face."
Yea. And in my mouth and down my throat.

"Susan, what the hell?"

"Michael," she giggled again. "Here." The panties had fallen right next
to my mouth. Susan took them in one hand and wiped her cum off my face.
They were soaked. I'd never, ever seen anything like that! Not from
her, not from anyone. She wiped up enough cum that the panties were
soaked.

"I'm so sorry sweetie," she laughed, "I...I should have said
something." I felt like our roles were reversed, that she was like a
man apologizing for cumming in a woman's mouth.

She was still wiping off my face so her scent was again pushed into my
nose, even my mouth. She moved off me, next to me, wiping my face,
doing little but spreading her cum all over me, finally leaving the
panties laying on one of my shoulders where I could see them, and more,
smell them.

"Michael, that was amazing," she sighed, her free hand now tracing
circles on my chest. "You're fucking amazing!"

It was humorous in a way. Susan was in an after sex mood, I suppose,
having had such an explosive, massive, overwhelming orgasm. She was
cuddling me like we'd just made love. I, on the other hand, was as
horny and excited as I could be. Disturbed, to certain, but horny just
the same. Disturbed in so many ways. Not the least of which, disturbed
by Susan's continued, but unexplained, teasing about Tom.

Susan's hand worked its way down my chest and stomach to the dual
waistband of the pantyhose and panties. Her fingers traced circles
around my stomach, right to the edge of the lingerie, dancing in a way
that made me jump with each approach lower.

Her hand moved lower, onto the panties, onto where, if not for the
pantyhose, my fully erect cock would be. Now, trapped as it was, my
soft penis wasn't there.

But she moved it lower, to my penis. "Hmmm, so soft," she cooed.

I was uncomfortable now. Confused. Humiliated. Hurt. I could still
smell her, now could I not, with the panties right by my face. I was
both hurt and, I realized, excited. A strange, unexpected combination.
"Susan, you   you   "

"Michael, nothing happened," she said, reading my mind.

"But   but you said   I thought   "

"I said his cock was so hard."

"Yes," I groaned. She was playing with my penis, now, the trapped lump,
the bent, trapped, sore lump.

"It was, Michael, it was   ironic, I said   his cock was so hard your
penis, so soft."

"But   " I didn't know what to say. I knew what I wanted to say. I
wanted to scream at her   how the fuck did she know he was hard???

"You know what's also ironic, Michael," she asked.

"No," I answered, actually afraid.

"Every time I said it, every time I told you his cock was so hard, your
soft little penis twitched. It was like," she almost blushed, "almost
like you were turned on hearing how hard Tom's cock was seeing me in
the lingerie you bought me."

Oh, fuck. Of fuck! I realized she was right. I must have turned red,
how could I not? She was right. Hearing my wife talk about how hard
some strange guy's cock was turned me on. It fucking turned me on!

"Susan, no, you   "

"His cock was so hard, Michael," she smiled. I felt it. She felt it.
Her hand was on me. I twitched. I know it. I felt it.

"You're so small, Michael   but his cock was so hard."

"Susan," I moaned, as I twitched again.

"You want to know how I know, don't you   how I know his cock was so
hard seeing me in the lingerie you bought   you want to know because it
excites my little bitch, doesn't it."

I didn't say anything. Not because I didn't know what to say. I said
nothing because I was afraid to talk, afraid to betray something afraid
to betray the excitement I felt.

Susan started rubbing just my penis now. "He came into my room when I
was on the phone with you, when I was wearing just this lingerie, this
black lingerie you wanted me to wear tonight, Michael. He saw me in it
before you did."

I couldn't help but quickly inhale, gasp.

"He thought I was seducing him. I don't blame him. I was on the phone
with you. He came up behind me, quietly. After I hung up with you, he
was right behind me, all of the sudden, his arms were around me, he
oh Michael, he was kissing my neck   it was so   so sudden."

I couldn't take it. If she had not been rubbing my sore, trapped penis,
I would have run from the room screaming. Or told her to fuck off, or
anything. As it was I just twitched. And twitched.

"I didn't know what to do at first, Michael. I mean, I'm a married
woman. Totally in love with my   husband   but here I was   and I   "
She swallowed. "Here I was, dressed like this   so sexy   and I'd felt
so horny all day   so naughty   and here was this   " She swallowed,
almost embarrassed.

"Here was this strong, handsome man, arms around me, kissing my neck
and   and   that's when I felt it, Michael, he was   he was pressed
against me   and his   his cock was   was. His cock was pressed against
the back of my leg, my ass   and it was   oh god, his   his cock was so
hard, Michael."

It was the rubbing. It had to be the rubbing. The rubbing she was doing
to my own penis.

"I   I   he turned me around, Michael, and he   he kissed me   and I "

I don't know how I paid attention to her words. I really don't. I don't
know how anything happened. How I was wearing lingerie. How my wife was
TELLING ME ABOUT A MAN'S COCK. And worse, how I kept twitching, kept
listening, how I was getting excited.

"I wasn't even going to tell you, Michael, but   it   it just slipped
out when I felt your   "

"What, Susan, my what?"

"No, Michael, it   it's mean."

"What?"

The words just came rushing out of her mouth. "His cock was so big,
Michael, so hard   I   you   I mean   compared to you   he   when I
felt it   I   I   for a minute I just wanted him to bend me over and "

I don't even know what she said. I assume she said fuck her. I didn't
hear it because I started to get dizzy, to pass out.

"Michael," I heard Susan, my loving wife whisper in my ear.

"Susan," I moaned.

"You   you   you like hearing it Michael." Her fingers circled my
penis, relentlessly, teasing me, toying with me.

No. No. I couldn't. Yuck. No. "Yes," I whispered. Yes.

"I wanted him to fuck me, Michael," she whispered in my ear. "I wanted
his   cock   I felt it, through his pants, pressed against the front of
my panties. I...I was so wet, and I felt his cock press against me,
I...I started to shake, Michael, I started to cum."

"Ohhhhhhhhh."

"I felt so naughty, Michael   I wanted a man's COCK."

I hurt. I actually hurt. I was so sore, so excited, so humiliated, so
turned on. I didn't realize Susan had moved until I heard her voice
from somewhere else.

"Michael," she said. She was down, now, her head, her mouth, directly
above me, above my pelvis, above the burning soreness of my trapped

"Michael," she teased me, "all I could think was how bad I wanted his
cock inside my pussy."

"Susan."

She took the waistband of the panties I was wearing as well as the
waistband of the pantyhose, quickly pulled them down, over my penis,
freeing it at last. It all happened so quickly, my penis was free, the
blood rushed into it, all while she looked at me, spoke directly to me.
"Bitch," she growled, "your penis is so small, but his COCK was so
hard."

She lowered her head, her mouth open, and took my entire penis into her
mouth. It was too much, the warmth, the wetness, the smell of her all
over me, the taste of her in my mouth, the word cock, over and over.

Susan moved her head up, off my penis, now incredibly swollen, looked
me right in the eyes. "I wanted his cock, Michael, I wanted it so
badly..." She lowered her head again, took my penis into her mouth
again, looked up again.

"I wanted him to fuck me, Michael." She lowered her head for a third
time. My penis had been in her mouth for two seconds, no more, but I
couldn't help it, couldn't stop if I wanted to.

I exploded, a return, her cum in my mouth, my cum in her mouth. I
exploded inside her mouth, the first time I'd ever had an orgasm like
this, the first time I'd ever cum in her mouth. She's warned me, I
wasn't going to fuck her today, but I honestly never expected this! The
feelings rushed through me as quickly as the cum rushed out of me.
Everything Susan had said, everything I had felt, the way I was
dressed, everything.

The instant I was done, the very second the last drop left me, Susan
moved her head, gently, but quickly, so my now spent penis dropped down
to my stomach. Susan immediately lifted the waistband of the pantyhose
and panties over my still twitching penis, trapping it once again under
the layers of nylon. As she did so, she slithered back up my body,
nuzzling me with her nose, running it up my skin, my stomach, my chest,
my neck, up to my mouth.

As soon as her mouth was over mine, I smelled it. Her own cum soaked
panties next to my face were suddenly overpowered by the smell of my
cum, the smell on her mouth, her lips. I knew exactly what she was
going to do.

She was going to kiss me.

Oh god. My pulse quickened.

She was going to kiss me!

I'd never cum in her mouth before. Never. Obviously I had inside her.
Never in my life in her mouth, though.

There had been many times we'd made love twice in a night. Those were
the only times we had sex that was not precluded by me going down on
her. Before the second time. She'd said something a couple of times. I
remember telling her that I loved licking her, but that, well, yuck, I
wasn't licking her after I'd cum inside her.

Her lips, wet, were suddenly pressed to mine.

CUM. I cringed.

Her eyes said everything. I was her bitch.

Her eyes said everything. She knew exactly what she was doing.

I was her bitch.

Bitch.

Bitch.

I opened my mouth; Susan matched my movement. Her mouth was open, the
taste, strong, bitter, immediate.

Cum.

Not the sweet, tender taste of Susan's cum.

No. Bitter, strong. Cum. Taste matching odor.

Then, suddenly, worse. Texture. Her tongue pushed into my mouth,
followed immediately by

Stringy, wet, liquid.

Cum.

CUM.

CUM!

My own CUM!

Susan's tongue moved around my mouth, spreading. Spreading my own cum
all over the inside of my mouth, my tongue, everywhere.

Susan had my own cum in her mouth, had held it, the strong tasting
disgusting   cum   held it and forced it into my mouth.

Cum.

My own cum.

I was her bitch.

I was Susan's bitch.

I tasted my own cum.

I was Susan's bitch.

********************************

After several minutes of kissing, Susan gently moved to my side to
cuddle. This was a tender gesture, almost out of place with the last
hour. Her head rested on my shoulder, her arm wrapped over my chest.
One of her legs lay on top of mine. After a minute Susan slowly moved
her leg up and down mine, massaging.

I sighed. The softness of her leg on mine sent a jolt through me.
Normally, her leg on mine, skin to skin, felt warm, reassuring. Now,
with two layers of nylon in between our skin, the feeling was
completely different. It was sensual, sexual.

"That feels good, doesn't it," she asked, speaking for the first time
in several minutes.

"Yes," I answered, voice shaking. If did feel good, but, beyond the
physical feeling of the immediate moment, I had an intense discomfort
in my stomach. Now, in the after glow of sex, or, really, semi sex, I
could not get a nagging feeling, a disturbed thought from my head.

Tom.

"Susan," I started to say, started to ask about this man, this man she
kept mentioning.

But she had her own thoughts. "I never realized it before, Michael, but
you really have such nice legs."

"Susan," I shifted towards her, to look at her. She was thinking about
my legs? All I could think about was a tall, muscular man, his cock
pressed into my wife's leg, his cock...

"Almost...pretty." Her hand had moved down my chest to my stomach,
lower, even, to the top of the waist bands of the pantyhose and
panties.

I'm not sure if it was the confluence of the two frames of mind. I'm
not sure if that was really when things suddenly felt different. In
that instant, I was thinking about a man fucking my wife while my wife
was telling me how pretty I looked in pantyhose. Susan with a man
suddenly, to me, did not mean Susan with me. I don't know if Susan
understood what just happened, if she planned it, if she meant it. I
know it happened, regardless.

Susan's had touched the tip of my penis. At that very instant I was
about to ask her about Tom's cock. I realized something. She kept
talking about Tom's cock and my penis.

Tom's hard cock.

My soft penis.

No, no, no, I couldn't let this thought stay in my head. No. NO!

A man's cock.

A sissy's penis.

No, no, no, no, no, NO!

Susan never called me a sissy. No. NO! That was her mother, not her.
NO!

"Even your penis looks and feels so pretty," she said, touching me,
nuzzling my neck again.

Tom's hard cock. My pretty penis.

"Susan," I said again, mouth dry, "did...did you..." I could not finish
my question. I was afraid.

I couldn't see Susan's face, just the top of her head. She was looking
down my body, to my penis, to my legs, I presumed. Her hand, her
fingers, were still on top of my penis, tracing circles, lightly,
dancing.

After a minute of silence, after a minute of her fingers toying,
teasing me, Susan looked up at me. "No, Michael," she said, knowing
what I was trying to ask.

I exhaled a quick breath, took in, and let go two more short ones.
"But...but you...you said..." Again, I could not talk, could not
finish, could not form the words.

"That his cock was so hard?"

I inhaled again, troubled, shaking, but in the distance, still, I felt,
a jump, a twinge. Her fingers must have felt it too. At the word. Cock.
"Yes," I groaned.

She looked me in the eye. "You jump every time I said that, Michael.
Every time. You jumped and twitched. I felt your penis move every time.
His cock WAS so hard, Michael."

I twitched again. I could not help it! I looked away, unable to
continue to meet her gaze. I turned my head slightly, away, only, of
course, to see her cum soaked panties next to my face. The panties she
was wearing...oh my god, did...did his cock touch her panties?

"Michael, do you trust me?" Her eyes held real love in them. How could
I not trust her. She was my wife. I loved her. She loved me.

"Yes," I swallowed.

"I didn't sleep with him Michael."

"But, you...you kept saying..."

"I know. Michael..."

She told me what happened. She had indeed worn the black lingerie, the
garter belt, the bra and panties, the stockings, the very things she
was wearing right now. She wore them yesterday.

"They did make me feel naughty, Michael," she said. "Just like they did
today."

She wore them to her meeting, she said. Wore them, and, even though she
knew the men couldn't have known how she was dressed, she felt
powerful, naughty, horny. They all, Tom especially, were flirting with
her. They all, Tom especially, were undressing her with their eyes.

"I was supposed to go to dinner with Tom that night. I thought we were
going to meet in the hotel restaurant. So, when we were on the phone, I
was only wearing my lingerie. I thought it was the other woman I was
traveling with knocking at my door when we were talking. Michael, I was
shocked when Tom walked in."

Tom apparently got the wrong idea. I suppose I couldn't blame him,
could I? He walks into my wife's hotel room, sees her dressed just like
she was now, just assumed she was responding to his advances.

"I know this is wrong, Michael, believe me, but all of the sudden he
was behind me, kissing me. I couldn't very well scream at him, I mean,
what was he supposed to think. He misunderstood, he wasn't being a
creep. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, or, worse, come across like
a total bitch. So I tried to gently tell him that things were not as
they seemed. That I was a happily married woman."

"I was telling him this, Michael, and the whole time his cock...his
cock was pressed against me...and...and..."

"...it was so hard," I said for her.

She looked away, the guilt on her face was apparent. "I'm so sorry,
Michael," she whispered.

"But nothing happened," I asked. Well, except she was wet and started
to cum.

"No, Michael, no..."

I sensed something else in her. "But..."

"Michael, at...at dinner...I...all I could think about was...was...his
cock." I felt it. I twitched. Again.

"Susan..."

"No, Michael, let me finish, please. All I could think about was his
cock. How hard it had been, how it felt through his trousers pressed up
against my leg, against my..." Her voice cracked. "What it would feel
like," she swallowed, "inside me."

I realized I wasn't just stirring anymore. I was hard. My penis was
still in pantyhose, but no longer bent. It was trapped in the nylon,
but it was fully erect.

"All I could think about, Michael, was...if he had...if Tom
had...had...if his trouser had not been between us, if he had taken two
seconds to take off his pants...if he had done that, when he turned me
so he was pressed against my back, his cock, his hard cock would have
slipped right between my legs and would...would have been pressed right
against my panties, right against my pussy. Not through his pants, just
his naked cock, pressed against my panties, my pussy."

My eyes were closed now. Susan was rubbing my penis through the panties
and pantyhose. Her leg was still on mine and it only took a slight
shift of her body and the fingers of my hand were on her pussy. She was
soaking wet. I could feel her. Her panties were still pressed against
my face. I could smell her.

"All I could think about at dinner, Michael, was his cock." She let out
a low moan as my fingers rubbed her wetness.

"Susan."

"All I could think about at dinner, Michael, was his hard cock inside
me." Her eyes were closed now, enjoying her thoughts, my fingers.

"Susan," I moaned myself. What hell? What was going on? My wife was
talking about some guy's cock and she, no, both of us were rubbing each
other, moaning. What the fuck was going on? This was the same thing
that happened to me the other day. I was fantasizing about my wife
fucking another man.

"Oh, Michael, I wanted him to fuck me, as soon as I felt him pressed
against me, all I could think about the rest of the night was how badly
I wanted that hard cock inside me." As she said this she started
shaking all over, shaking as a powerful orgasm washed over her, crashed
over her. She lay there, pressed against my fingers for a good minute,
riding it, enjoying it, breathing heavily, shaking.

Finally, her fingers started toying with my erect penis again and she
spoke. "I'm sorry, Michael," she whispered.

I didn't say anything. I was still looking away from her. I was still
turned away, my face in her panties, inhaling, eyes closed, lost in
fantasy. Lost picturing my wife standing, her back to some strong,
naked man, his cock between her legs.

"You're not soft anymore, Michael."

"Uuuggg," I moaned.

"Every time I said it, you twitched, Michael."

For effect, uncontrolled by thought, I shook.

"That...that excites you, doesn't it," she asked me softly?

"Ummmm," I moaned.

"It excites you, hearing that his cock was sooooo hard, Michael."

"Yes," I whispered.

"That excites my," she licked my neck, "my pretty husband, doesn't it?"

I was breathing heavily again, smelling her. I felt her shift, move.
Her leg kept rubbing mine, her hand, teasing my penis.

"His cock was so hard, Michael. So hard, so much bigger." I felt
Susan's arm over the top of my head. I felt her other hand flicking my
penis. "So much bigger."

"Uhhnnmmm." I was moaning uncontrollably. Fuck. FUCK. My wife. Why? Why
was she doing this?

"I wanted it inside me, Michael, I wanted him to fuck my wet pussy."
Her arm was over my head in just the right position. She reached for,
touched, and pressed right against my nose her damp panties.

"I was so wet feeling his cock on my panties. All he had to do was undo
his pants, pull my panties aside and slide his hard cock inside me,
Michael."

I was humping upward, humping her hand, breathing. Fuck. FUCK!.

"I should stop, Michael, this is too naughty."

"No, no," I begged.

"Michael," she teased, "are you sure? I should stop." She did stop.
Stopped moving her hand. Stopped talking.

"Please, Susan," I begged again, wanting nothing more than to have her
keep talking, keep rubbing.

"You're naughty, too, my pretty." She started massaging my erection
again. "You know, Michael, he has no idea how weak I was the hotel
room. How horny I felt, how naughty, now his hungry longing for me all
day had effected me."

She was moving the panties with her left arm, moving them all around my
face and nose, pressing them to me, forcing me to inhale her scent.

"I was so weak, Michael. If he had taken off his pants, when he first
kissed me I would not have felt his cock through his pants. I would
have felt his bare cock pressed up against my pussy with only these
panties between my pussy and his cock."

"I was so weak, Michael, if that cock was pressed against my pussy, all
he had to do was gently pull my panties to one side."

"I wanted it so badly, Michael. One rub. I was so wet, dripping wet.
One rub. One rub backwards and his cock would have slid into me. I
would have let him, Michael. I wanted a...a real cock so badly."

Real cock. Hard cock. Big cock.

"If he had pressed, if he had pushed me, just a little, I don't know if
I would have, could have, stopped it."

"God, Susan!"

"Do you want him to fuck me, Michael?" She kept rubbing me, teasing me.

"Yes," I groaned, unbelieving the word came out of my mouth.

"Do you want his hard cock inside me?"

"Yesssss."

"Fucking me?"

It took me a minute to realize Susan's hand had stopped moving, stopped
massaging me. Her hand was gone from my crotch. Only her other hand was
still there, still holding her wet panties to my face.

"Then his cum would be all over my panties, too."

I just kept breathing, breathing in her scent, smelling, loving.

"His cock. His cum. Smell them."

I just lay there, breathing.

"Smell them, Michael. My cum. Smell them, where his cum would be."

A minute, two, three.

"Michael," she whispered.

"What?"

"Are...are you okay?"

"Yes," I answered, which was certainly a lie. No I wasn't fucking okay.
My wife just told me she wanted to fuck some guy. How the fuck could I
be okay? I just told her I wanted her to fuck him! I wasn't fucking
okay!

Worse, I wanted to cum. She stopped before I did a second time. I
wanted to cum. I was full of hormones, libido. I wanted to cum! An
image flashed in my mind, the mental picture of Tom with his cock
between my wife's legs, pressed to her pussy. I shook. It didn't shame
me, I was so excited, it just excited me even more!

"Are you sure?"

"No," I admitted.

"I'm sorry, Michael, I thought, well, you kept, I don't know, you
seemed excited. Every time I said his cock was hard, you seemed to get
more turned on."

I sucked in a quick breath. "I...I did, Susan, that's the problem, I
did."

She bit her lip. "I know."

"Know what?"

"You're embarrassed? It's my fault."

"Your fault? Why's it your fault?"

She continued to bite her lip. "It...it's something my mother said. The
other day, before I left. She said you were not much of a man, and,
well, Tom was so...masculine...when I felt his cock, I thought about
what she said and I just could not help but think of fucking a man and
I...I don't even know why I asked you to wear these stupid pantyhose
and panties and then talk to you like this..."

"Susan, stop," I said.

"I feel so guilty, Michael. I'm a happily married woman and there I was
dressed like this, with a man's cock pressed into me and instead of
thinking of my tender, loving husband, all I can think about was his
cock inside me."

I shuddered and inhaled. I was still dying to cum, dying to be inside
her.

"I feel so guilty, Michael, because it doesn't matter what size your
penis is, you're the most wonderful husband in the world. It doesn't
matter, because you make love to me like the most tender person in the
world."

"What's that supposed to mean? You don't like when I screw you?"

"Don't like? Honey, stop, of course I like it."

"I don't make you cum when I screw you."

"Michael, honey...you make me cum all the time when you lick me."

"But inside you?"

She didn't answer. "I love you, Michael."

**********************************

We both drifted to sleep for awhile. I woke up when Susan did, moving.
"I'm going to get something to drink, Michael, I'll be back in a
minute." Half asleep, I watched my amazingly attractive wife slip into
a robe, open the bedroom door and walk into the hallway.

Eyes slowly opening and closing, trying to wake up, I just stared. Wow.
What had happened?

Eyes closes.

Eyes open.

Open to see Mrs. Stanton standing in the doorway, arms crossed,
grinning at me.

I remembered. I was wearing lingerie. I froze. She took a step, then
another into the room. "Hmm," she said simply, turning and walking out.

Eyes shut. Open. She was gone.

***************************************'

The next morning Susan was out of bed and on her way to the office
before I even woke up. I knew she had to make a report on her trip at a
budget meeting at 7:30, but I was hoping to say something to her before
she left, to make sure she was okay, that I was okay.

I was in the kitchen making coffee when my mother-in-law walked in. I
immediately turned away from her, face reddening.

"Good morning, Michael," she said.

"Morning," I mumbled.

"Oh, is someone grumpy this morning?"

I turned, angrily, glared at her, but her return glare was stronger,
more humiliating than mine. I quickly broke gaze first.

"There is a pair of panties on your bed, Michael."

I sighed. "I have to go to the office, Mrs. Stanton, I don't have time
to..."

Her mouth tightened. "Not to wash, Michael. To wear."

I opened my mouth to complain. "But...Susan's back and..."

"She did not seem to have a problem last night, Michael."

I reddened, looked away from her.

"Oh, now stop. It will be good for the two of you. You'll be wearing
panties today, Michael. I suspect after Susan gets home tonight and
sees you in panties, again, you'll be wearing panties every day.
Besides, this will help her see things my way."

"Your way, what do you mean, your..."

"Do you know what a cuckold is, Michael," she asked, cutting me off.

"What?"

"A cuckold, Michael. Do you know what a cuckold is?"

"No." I'd never heard the word before.

She turned to walk out of the kitchen, then looked back at me. "A
cuckold, Michael, is a man whose wife has sex with other men."

My eyes widened.

I just stared at her. What did Susan tell her?

"To tell you the truth, Michael, I don't know if I should be disgusted
or relieved. Disgusted that my daughter's panty sniffing husband
fantasized about her fucking a man, or relieved that he might realize
that he is just a sissy."

"Mrs. Stanton, I...I never said..."

"Your panties are on your bed, sissy," she said, turning her back to me
and leaving.

**********************************************************

She was right. My panties were on the bed. Except they were not my
panties. Well, Mrs. Stanton set them out for me. I recognized them
immediately. They were not my mother-in-law's panties.

They were Susan's panties.

A pair of pink satin briefs.

I walked uneasily to the bed, hands trembling at the sight of Susan's
panties, picked them up.

"You're so small, Michael," Susan's words rushed into my head.

"Sissy," Mrs. Stanton's verbal slap.

"His cock was so hard."

"Cuckold   wife sleeps with other men."

"Sissy."

I could feel myself stirring, swelling, growing inside my pants. I was
growing, I was getting an erection.

Sissy. Cuckold.

No. I shook my head, no. I was neither. I wasn't a sissy. I wasn't a
cuckold. I was a man. I was Susan's husband.

But all I could think about was Susan, wearing black lingerie, a man
behind her, pressed against her.

I was shaking. I undid my pants, took them off, took of my boxer
shorts.

Susan told me now pretty my penis looked in panties. Was I pretty? I
wondered as I stepped into the panties. Pretty. Pretty?

I touched my swollen cock through the satin. Pretty.

"Fuck me, Tom," I pictured Susan telling a man as he rubbed his erect
cock against the outside of her pussy.

Stop. I had to stop. I was on the verge of masturbating to the image of
my wife fucking some man. Stop. I was on the verge of cuckolding myself
in my own mind. Stop. Stop.

*************************************

All day at work, I thought about Susan. I don't know how I got a thing
done. I thought about Susan. I thought about her fucking. I thought
about her screaming with pleasure.

Every step I took, I thought about Susan. Every time I moved, I felt
myself in her panties. I felt like she was touching me. I felt like she
was looking at me, now soft, my small penis. "So pretty."

The worst thing was it made me want rush home and fuck her silly.

The thought of her fucking made me want to fuck.

Later afternoon I got an email from Susan. "I have a conference call at
5, so won't be home till late. Can't wait to see you though."

Knowing Susan would not be home till late, I too worked late, leaving
the office after 7. I was still afraid what she'd think about the
panties. I thought about changing out of them when I got home. I wasn't
sure if I should be more afraid of Susan's reaction or her mother's.

Unfortunately, Susan was home when I got home. She was in the kitchen,
glass of wine in hand, waiting for me the minute I walked in the door
from the garage.

"Worked late too, huh, love?" She was at the table, still dressed in
work clothes, a light colored skirt suit.

"Yea, I had a project to finish. How did your conference call go?"

"Um," she looked down sheepishly, "it was fine, I'll tell you about it
later. Listen, why don't you grab a glass of wine and we can go
upstairs and relax. I'm still so tired from the trip." She said it in a
tone that said she was tired and not to expect sex.

I got myself some wine and followed Susan upstairs, her ass practically
in my face as I walked behind her. "You know, sweetie, you've got to
get me more garter belts and stockings. I can't believe I'm saying
this, but I hated wearing pantyhose today."

Like that didn't cause my penis to twitch, reminding me that I was
still wearing panties. I figured I had only to use the bathroom and I
could put on a pair of boxer shorts from the hamper.

When we got into the bedroom, Susan sat on the bed, crossed her pretty
legs. "Michael," she started, a playful look on her face.

"Just a sec, hon, let me use   " I pointed to the bathroom, turned.

"Michael, wait," she said again.

I turned back.

"I want to see."

I frowned. See? What was she talking about? She wanted to watch me pee?
What the

"I want to see."

"See what, Susan?"

She looked down, almost as if embarrassed. "Mother said   "

My eyes immediately widened.

"   said that you   that you asked her if, if you could wear a," she
looked up at me, determined, "a pair of my panties today."

I was dumbfounded. I did nothing of the sort. It was her mother! Her
mother!

"Susan, I   "

"Are you wearing my panties, Michael."

"Susan, your mother said   "

"Michael," she cut me off, "are you wearing my panties?"

I dawned on me that there was no way out of this. Her mother, by
telling her, had taken the decision out of my hands. There was no way
to sneak to the bathroom now. Nothing I could do. Nothing.

"Yes," I gulped.

"I want to see them, Michael. Please."

She said it in a voice so sweet, so tender, so needful, so loving.
"Susan, she   "

"Please, Michael."

I was shaking as my hands went to my belt, undid it.

"Wait, Michael, before you   um   take off your shirt and tie."

I did. And for the first time since I've known Susan, I was self-
conscious. I felt ashamed about my body. I was never big, never strong.
After yesterday, after her teasing me about Tom, I was self-conscious
that I was so small, so un-muscular. So un-masculine.

"Your shoes and socks, too, sweetie."

All that was left was my pants. This was so strange, in that just
yesterday I willing wore panties and pantyhose for her. Now, though, I
was shaking as I unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, lowered them,
exposed myself.

I heard her gasp. "Oh god, Michael."

"Susan, I'm trying to tell you, she   "

But she wasn't listening. "Michael, you look so pretty, so   so good."

I looked up. I didn't know what to say.

"Turn around Michael." I did. "Michael, I just never thought about I
mean, I never realized until I   I never realized how feminine a body
you have."

I should have been insulted. Perhaps I was, as I certainly felt
humiliated. My wife just called me feminine! But, she was only voicing
the very thoughts I had in my own mind.

"Susan, I   I don't know."

"I know, Michael, I don't know either. I'm confused, too. All I could
think about all day was seeing you in panties, Michael. Seeing you so
soft. Seeing you looking so pretty."

I was breathing heavily, shaking.

"Come here, Michael." I walked towards her. "After last night, Michael,
all I could think about today was seeing you wearing my pantyhose and
panties yesterday. Then, when mother called, I   wanted to see you so
badly." Her hand reached up, touched my swollen, but not erect, lump.

"All I could think about, Michael, was you in my panties." She was
rubbing the front of my penis through the panties. "I'm so happy you
asked her, Michael."

"Susan, please." I realized, that even not fully erect, I was on the
verge of cumming.

"All I could think about, Michael, was you as a..." She lowered her
hand. She must have sensed just how close I was. "My sissy."

"Ohhhh," I moaned, hips still moving to the air, to her hand that
wasn't there. "Susan," I begged, "don't   don't stop."

"Not tonight, Michael, not tonight."

"Oh, Susan, come on," I begged.

She actually giggled. "I know, Michael, I do, but I'm so tired, really.
Please, just cuddle me, just, let's go to bed, snuggle, fall asleep."

I sighed, deflated. "Fine," I pouted.

"Michael."

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too, Susan."

"Let's get ready for bed then," she said, standing, starting to
undress.

"Okay," I answered, and began to lower my panties.

"What are you doing," she asked, pausing.

"Um, getting undressed for bed," I answered, "why?"

She stuck out her lower lip. "Don't you want to dress pretty for bed?"

I gulped. Of course.

"You wanted to wear my panties today. I guess I was hoping you'd wear
them to bed, too."

I raised the panties back up over my hips; Susan grinned. "There's a
matching babydoll," she said with the smile that she used to get me to
do anything she wanted.

"Susan, I don't know."

"It's very pretty," she persisted. "I'll wear something pretty to bed,
too."

Sissy. Sissy. SISSY.

"Fine," I agreed.

Susan beamed, quickly walked to her dresser, opened a drawer, and took
out the pink matching babydoll. "Here, sweetie. You can figure out how
to put it on, it's nothing complicated, like the garter belts you got
for me. I'm going to go freshen up and get dressed for bed myself."

Putting on the babydoll for Susan was in many ways, much more difficult
than doing it for her mother. I loved Susan. I was her husband. I had
these role and gender ideas in my head. I was, in essence, giving up,
giving up my role as man, has husband, as provider, as protector.

I was submitting to her. How it was different than the past, I wasn't
sure. Just yesterday I submitted to her. Really, I'd been submitting to
her since I met her. But this was not subtle. This was overt.

I slipped the babydoll over my head, belatedly realized I'd bought this
for her. I was self conscious that I, unlike presumably, Tom, had a
figure that was actually flattered by my wife's lingerie. I certainly
did not look as good as she did in this very outfit, but my frame,
thin, delicate, was enhanced by the soft satin.

I looked, I felt   feminine.

Some minutes later, Susan opened the bathroom door and walked out. Talk
about feminine, my lovely bride, naturally, far overshadowed my
appearance. She was wearing a silver satin teddy I'd never seen before.
Her breasts were hardly contained by the satin and lace bodice. Her
legs looked impossibly long in the tap panty style, high cut leg
openings. She spun for me. Her ass was framed by the slippery satin.

"Susan," I shook.

"I'm not the only one who looks so pretty, sweetie."

"Susan," I grinned.

"I told you, lover, not tonight. I really am exhausted." She climbed
into bed. She had to be kidding. Exhausted? We were both dressed to
fuck, and she was too tired? I knew sometimes I could push things, but
other times, she'd get angry if I tried to initiate sex.

She positioned herself so I was spooning her, my arms wrapped around
her beautiful body, my limp, panty covered penis pressed into her own
panty covered ass.

We talked for a few minutes. I tried to kiss her neck, but she would
not surrender to my kisses. She asked me about my day. Idle chit chat.

"You know, I think it's so cute you asked mother if you could wear my
panties. I was afraid I was to pushy last night. To be honest, I was
afraid you might have found it too weird."

I just kissed her neck again, I didn't know what to say.

"Are you going to wear them again tomorrow?"

"I hadn't thought about it, Susan."

"I'd like you to, Michael. You do look so pretty in them, I'd like to
know you're walking around tomorrow wearing something so pretty."

I kissed her neck again.

"So soft."

Kiss.

"So feminine. You like that thought, don't you, Michael?"

"I   I don't know."

Susan moved her hips, rubbing her satin covered ass against my satin
covered penis. "Feels to me like you like it, lover."

"I   maybe."

She laughed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

"Nothing, really. You know, I thought you'd beat me home today."

"Well, you said you had a conference call, so I worked late."

"Yea," she said.

"How was the call? You didn't want to talk about it earlier."

"Just a wrap up to my trip, presented the report to corporate with the
natives on the phone."

"The natives?"

"The people from Atlanta."

I gulped. The natives were sure to include her friend from down there,
sure to include Tom.

"Did   did the locals include   "

"Tom? Yes."

I was suddenly self-conscious again. I actually backed away from her
every so slightly, trying to hide the twitch in my satin covered penis.

"Hhmm." A small moan escaped her lips. She felt it, felt me twitch. She
knew. She felt it.

"I actually thought the call would go longer, but we ended early
because there are some things corporate wants to talk to Atlanta about
in person."

Oh my god, I knew exactly what she was about to say. I knew it. I knew
it.

"So, they are having Tom fly up here to meet with us all next week."
Susan said this slowly, carefully, grinding her satin covered ass on my
satin covered penis.

"Uugh," I croaked. "Do   do you, um, do you have to meet with him?"

Susan said nothing for several seconds, said nothing, just breathed.
"I'm his local host/contact person."

I sucked in another breath.

Susan snorted a small laugh. "What?"

"Nothing, I was just thinking, it's nothing."

"What, Susan?"

"Nothing, really," she said in a tone that said, "something."

"Susan."

"You're swollen, Michael?"

"Yes."

"I can feel your penis on my ass."

"Yes," I sighed, rubbing.

"You're swollen," she giggled.

"What, Susan, what?"

"Sweetie."

"Susan, what? Why are you giggling?"

"That   that's exactly where Tom's cock was," she said, shaking.

"Susan!"

"I can't help it, Michael."

"You're thinking of him."

"Yes," she admitted.

"You wanted him," I managed to say.

"Yes, yes. He was so hard, Michael, so   .so big."

"Bigger than me?". "Oh god yes, Michael," she moaned, continuing to rub
my penis with her ass.

I reached around the front of her, intending to play with her pussy,
intending to unsnap the crotch of her teddy, intending to fuck her.

"No, Michael, no, don't. Don't. I don't want to, really, I'm sorry, I'm
just so tired, Michael, so tired."

"Susan," I begged, "please."

"Tomorrow, lover, tomorrow."

I wanted her so badly, right now, I wanted to fuck her so badly. It had
been at least a week since we'd had sex and, now, half humiliated, half
teased, my penis pressed against her ass, I wanted her so much. I
reached from behind her instead, flicked my fingers across the crotch
of her teddy, across her pussy.

"Michael, I'm tired," she complained.

"You felt his cock press against your ass, Susan," I growled in her
ear. I thought, maybe, if I could keep her hot, keep her turned on,
maybe she'd relent, maybe she'd get excited enough.

"Ohhhh," she moaned as I flicked her crotch again, "yes, yes."

"Right here," I said, pushing myself against her. "Right here, where my
my little penis is that's where his cock was."

"Hmmmm," she shook. I moved a finger against her satin covered pussy,
rubbed, teased.

"His cock was so hard, Susan, wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes!"

"So big, Susan?"

"Nothing like yours   sissy," she said, breathing heavily.

"Did you want him to fuck you?" As I said this I moved my panties to
one side, freeing my own penis, pulling it so it was between her legs,
replacing my finger

"Michael," she begged

"Did you want him to fuck you, Susan," I demanded, "did you want his
cock inside your pussy?"

"Ohhhhhh."

I kept rubbing against her, pushing forward, rubbing my penis on the
crotch of her teddy.

"Did you want him to fuck you, Susan," I asked again, moving my hips
backwards, away from her.

"Please, Michael," she begged.

"Answer me, Susan. Did you want Tom's cock inside your pussy?"

"Yes," she yelled, "yes."

I rewarded her by unsnapping the crotch of her teddy, by placing my own
penis on the outside of her pussy lips, rubbing, toying with her clit.

"Why didn't you, Susan? Why didn't you fuck him?" I thrust back and
forth on the outside of her wet lips. If I could not make her cum
inside her, I could sure do it this way.

"Because I'm   "

"Don't you want a cock," I challenged her, ready, any second, to thrust
into her.

"Yes, yes," she moaned.

"Why didn't you fuck him?"

"Because I'm married," she spat back at me. I felt her fingers on her
pussy, on my penis, rubbing herself, wet, rubbing me. I was so close,
so close to moving back and pushing into her. Almost, almost.

"What if I said yes," I whispered in her ear, "what if I said I wanted
you to fuck a   a real man. As I said this, I pulled back from her
clit, dragged my penis across her, shifted, knew it was on the edge of
her lips, ready to go in.

"Ahhhhh," she moaned, "oh, fuck, oh fuck." She started shaking,
breathing uncontrollably. She was cumming. Fuck, she was cumming so
hard again.

"I want you to fuck him, Susan. I want you to fuck a real man. I want
you to have a real cock."

I positioned my penis at the outside of her lips, was just about to
thrust into her, when she turned slightly, turned onto her back just
enough that I lost the angle. "No, Michael, no," she breathed, still
shaking in orgasm.

"Susan," I begged at the sudden loss of her pussy. I was so close, so
close to entering her. Suddenly, the power shifted, she was in control,
not me.

"No, Michael, no, I want cock. I want cock! You said I could have
cock."

"Susan, please, let me   "

"Cock, I want cock. I want a man's cock," she moaned. "I want Tom's
cock."

"Susan, please   "

"NO! You're mean, Michael. You were mean! You're teasing me just so you
can get what you want."

"Susan, I was just   "

"Just what? Just pretending? Just teasing me? So you could try to fuck
me? Fantasizing that I'm some slut, so you can get what you want?"

"No, Susan, no."

"Just acting like a naughty sissy?"

I recoiled at her accusation, at the word.

"Were you kidding or not, teasing or not?"

I didn't answer.

"Oh, then I can have cock? Tom will be here next week, Michael? I can
fuck him? Is that it? You were not kidding?"

"Susan." She was twisting my words. Or was she? No, she was. I was
teasing her.

"Were you teasing me?"

"Yes." What else could I say?

"Then why does your penis get so hard every time I mention his cock?
Why did you get so excited talking about me fucking him? Why do you get
so turned on thinking about being a cuckold?"

I involuntarily gasped at the word.

Cuckold.

She realized immediately.

"You've heard that word before, Michael? Cuckold," she said again?

"Yes," I quickly admitted.

"Cuckold," she whispered.

I yelped, driven by lust, but my own desire to fuck.

"You're just fantasizing, Michael, right?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Cuckold," she said again. "Sissy cuckold."

"Susan," I yelped, stunned at her words.

"Shhh, Michael, shhhh, I'm just teasing you, just teasing you."

I was shaking. Humiliation. Pleasure. Excitement. Shame. Teasing me?
She had me wearing lingerie. She kept calling me a cuckold. Teasing me?
Was that it? I just lay there quietly for a minute, trying to calm
down.

"Susan," I finally asked, "did   did you really want to fuck him?"

She looked at me deeply, started to say something, changed her mind.
She took a deep breath. "I'll answer, Michael, but I want you to tell
me something, too."

"Okay," I said.

"Yes, Michael. Yes. When I felt his cock press against my ass,
suddenly, I want him so badly, I wanted his cock inside me, I wanted
him to fuck me. I   I didn't, only because of you."

I was rapidly breathing, dizzy.

"My turn. What about you, Michael? Were you really fantasizing about me
fucking a man? Were you really fantasizing about a real cock inside
me?"

I grunted, just a little, hesitated. Did I really want a man to fuck my
wife? Who the fuck knows. Did I really fantasize about a man fucking
her? Yes, YES.

"Did you really fantasize about being cuckolded?" She turned, touched
my still erect penis.

"Yes," I moaned. I couldn't help, I was too turned on, too erect, too
dying to fuck, too dying to cum.

"Where you really fantasizing about Tom fucking me?"

"Yes!"

"Do you really want me to fuck him, Michael?"

"Yes," I gasped, "yes."

She turned back away from me, cuddled up against me, so my penis was
pressed right back into her ass. "Cuddle me, Michael, I'm tired and I
just want to fall asleep in your arms."

"Susan, I   can't we   "

"Tomorrow, Michael, tomorrow. Just hold me, please."

I sighed, still twitching, still erect, still needing to cum, thinking
only about Susan fucking a man.

**********************************

"Michael," I heard a voice. "Can I? Can I fuck him?"

"Hmmm," I groaned, in pain.

"Michael."

"Uugh, cock."

"Michael?"

"I'm going to fuck her, sissy."

"Isn't it so cute in panties? So pretty?" Susan was flicking my penis,
looking at him.

"Michael." Something moved me. Shook me. "Michael, wake up, you're
dreaming."

"Huh," I said groggily.

"Shhh, wake up, sweetie."

"Susan," I moaned. I was dreaming. Had been dreaming. What happened.
Cock? What was

"Have you been hard all night, lover," she asked me, gently toying with
me, touching me through the panties.

"What time is it?" It was light.

"Seven, honey, you need to get up."

"Okay," I said, still in a fog of sleep.

"Lover."

"Yes," I asked, eyes opening and closing slowly. Susan was standing
over me, dressed for work.

"I   I want to think of you today."

"Um, okay."

"You've been so good to me the last two days, I want to repay you."

I opened my eyes all the way at that. "You mean   "

"Yes."

I reached over to touch her leg, to see if she was wearing

"No, no, not now, Michael, later, tonight."

"Uugh," I half moaned.

"I want to think of you, god, I'm embarrassed. I want you to   to do
something for me. I want you to, um, to serve me today. I want you to
think of me all day."

"Fuck, Susan, you know I will."

"Michael, do you know how turned on I was last night, now, the night
before, seeing you look so   so pretty."

I moaned, already horny. "Yes."

"I want you to be pretty for me. I want you to think of me all day, I
want you to be pretty for me all day. I want to think of you all day. I
want you to serve me, Michael."

"Susan?"

"Serve me, Michael."

I just looked at her.

"I   I want you to wear panties again, Michael," she finally blurt out.

"Yes Ma'am," I answered immediately.

We both looked at one another, at the same time, both looked away.

"Um, which   which ones should I   "

"Ask her."

"What?" I started to look back at Susan, but couldn't. Instead I looked
at her dresser, at the floor, at the walls.

"Ask her, Michael."

"Susan, you don't mean for me to   "

"You asked her yesterday, Michael. Ask her to pick them out for you.
Ask her like you did yesterday."

She thought I actually did ask her mother yesterday. Of course. She
assumed. She had no idea. No idea!

"Susan, why...why do I have to ask her?"

"You asked her yesterday. You asked her to wear them and to help you
pick out what to wear."

"But Susan..." That was the thing. I didn't ask her!

"To tell you the truth, Michael, I got kind of excited hearing about
you asking her."

"What do you mean? Excited?"

"Serving me, Michael." She looked away, almost embarrassed by her
feelings.

"Serving?"

"Mother said you were so cute, so sheepish. It made
me...well...thinking of you doing that for me. Wanting to wear panties
for me is cute enough, but to ask mother to help you? That's so...so
romantic, Michael."

"Romantic?" How the irony. I didn't ask! This was all her mother's
idea. Her mother! This was all a mistake. This wasn't right. I looked
at the lingerie I was wearing. This was not right! I was a man. I was
her husband.

"Yes, Michael. I'll let you wear panties for me again, but I want you
to ask mother again."

"Let..." I bit my lip so hard I almost drew blood. Let me? Let me? How
was she letting me? She asked me to do this. Her mother asked me to do
this. No one was "letting me" do this, they were making me do this. If
anything, I was the one doing the "letting" of this. Not them. Didn't
she just tell me not five minutes ago she wanted me to wear panties?
She wanted me to be pretty for her? I NEVER asked her or her mother
anything of the sort!

"Yes, I'll let you, but you have to ask mother. Don't worry, honey. I
know it's kind of humiliating, but again, it's serving me. It really
does make me, well, excited. I didn't realize it. The other night, yes,
it was amazing, I know I felt naughty, I was just teasing, playing. But
then, when mother told me you asked her and how ashamed you were,
I...I...I got so excited...I don't know, Michael. I...I never imagined
my husband was a," she swallowed and looked at me. "A sissy."

"Susan, I'm..."

"Ask her Michael. All you need to do is ask her." She leaned over,
kissed me. "Just ask her, Michael. Ask her."

"Susan, I don't know."

"Shhh, you did it once already, Michael. Ask her. I can't wait to see
you tonight." She walked to her dresser, picked up her keys. "She'll
let me know if you asked, so I'll know, Michael. I'll know and I'll
think about it all day."

She walked to the doorway. She was playing with me. Teasing me. What
did she want? Did she know what she was doing to me?

She put her hand on the door, about to open it, back to me. "Ask her
Michael, ask her," she turned to look at me, "ask her and when I talk
to Tom in Atlanta this afternoon, all I'll be able to think about is my
pretty husband wearing lingerie, waiting to serve me."

I inhaled loudly, loudly enough for her to hear it, to realize the
excitement that just shot through my body.

"That's what you want, isn't it, Michael? If you do, ask her." She
opened the door. "Ask her. Ask her."

Her pretty husband. Wearing lingerie. Serving her.

Cock.

Serving her, fantasizing about her serving another.

Cock.

My penis, pretty, trapped in lingerie.

Cock.

Her back to a man, his cock pressed against her.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I didn't want to do this. I had to do this!

****************************************************

The first problem was the practical. Okay, I had to do this. The first
problem was practical, though. I got out bed, still in the babydoll and
panties I wore to bed. I didn't know what to wear. I probably had to go
to my mother-in-law's room, but I had to wear something. Panties? A
robe? Sweats?

I had to go ask her to wear panties but oddly, I did not want to do it
wearing panties. So I took off the panties and the babydoll. I didn't
know what to wear. I felt if I wore boxers and a tee shirt my mother-
in-law would get pissed at me. The last thing I wanted was to piss her
off.

The only alternative was a bathrobe, so I grabbed on of mine, wrapped
it around me, tied it, and left the room.

I assumed from a lack of noise in the house that she was still in her
room. Well, maybe in bed. Maybe sleeping. I padded down the hall to her
door, but me ear close to it, listened for any sound that she was
awake. I thought I heard sounds, maybe the television, maybe the phone.
I wasn't sure, but I thought she was awake. Maybe not. Maybe I should
not do this. Maybe I should wait.

I took a step back, but what was that going to accomplish? I had to go
to the office this morning. So, I had to get dressed. I had to talk to
her. Or not, and let Susan be disappointed.

There was no easy way to do this, was there? Not that there was any
reason to even do this.

Susan wanted me to do this. Serve Susan. This is crazy.

I reached out and softly knocked on the door. Nothing. She was asleep.
I felt relieved, actually. Okay, okay, decision made for me. She was
asleep.

I started to back slowly down the hall. Then her door opened. My
mother-in-law was suddenly standing in the doorway right in front of
me. Mrs. Stanton, wearing pink satin pajamas of the very color of the
lingerie I wore to bed, was standing there, looking at me.

"Yes, Michael," she said.

"I'm sorry, I..." I took another step back. This was wrong. This was a
mistake. I couldn't do this. Seriously what was I doing?

"Michael," she snapped, her tone commanding me to stop. "What do you
want?"

"Mrs. Stanton...I...I...want..."

"You want what, Michael," she asked, leaning against the door frame,
folding her arms in front of her.

I looked down. I couldn't say this and face her. I had to say it, but I
couldn't look her in the eye.

"I...I want to wear panties," I whispered.

"I'm up here, Michael. Look at me when you speak."

I looked up at her, at her smirk. She was enjoying this. Fuck, she
liked this. She knew, whatever I was asking for, I was humiliated. She
heard me. She had to have heard me. She wanted to humiliate me.

"I want to wear," I looked down, "panties."

"At me, Michael."

I looked up again. I asked again. "I want to wear panties today," I
said, exhaling sharply.

She shifted, tilted her head. "You want to wear panties today? But
Michael, you're not a woman, are you?"

"Nnnnoooo."

"You're not a woman but you want to wear panties? Now, now, why would
that be, Michael?"

"I...I don't know," I mumbled.

"You don't know? Hmmm, I find that hard to believe. Let's see if we can
figure this out. Women wear panties, don't they?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"You're not a woman, are you?"

"No!"

"Certainly men don't wear panties, Michael, do they?"

"I...no, but..."

"Do you think any of the men you work with wear panties?"

"No, of course not."

"Think any of the men Susan works with wear panties, Michael?"

She knew what she was doing. She knew how to take my humiliation and
push it and push it and push it.

"You ask me if you can wear panties, but you're not a woman. And men
don't wear panties. See my confusion, Michael."

"I..."

"Why do you want to wear panties, Michael?"

She was a bitch. "Susan said..."

"Susan said? Susan isn't here, Michael. Why do you want to wear
panties. You're not a woman. Men don't wear panties. Why, Michael,
why?"

"Please, Mrs. Stanton."

"Why do you want to wear panties, Michael?"

"Because..."

"Because you're a sissy, Michael." She was standing with her arms
crossed, smirking at the verbal slap.

"Mrs. Stanton, I'm not..."

"Are you a woman?"

"No!"

"Do you want to wear panties?"

I wanted to say no. No, no, I didn't want to wear panties. But Susan.
Susan wanted me to. What could I say? "Yes," I admitted.

"Then admit you're a sissy, Michael."

"I...I can't," I almost cried. "Please, I'm not..."

"NO!" She interrupted me with a forceful voice.

"What?"

"No, Michael. You may not wear panties."

That was not a good thing. Susan asked me to. Told me to ask her
mother. I had to. I had to get permission. Twisted as it sounded, I had
to get her permission to wear panties.

"Please, Mrs. Stanton."

"For someone who won't admit he's a sissy, you're awfully insistent in
wearing panties. Admit it then, Michael."

"But I'm not!"

"What did you wear in bed two nights ago?"

"Panties," I gulped.

"What did you wear yesterday, Michael?"

"Panties." I was blushing now.

"Are you a woman?"

"Nnno."

"Do men wear panties?"

"No, no."

"What are you, Michael? What are you then?"

"But I'm not," I begged.

"I told you before, Michael. Deny it if you wish. Pretend you're not.
But MEN DON'T WEAR PANTIES."

"But   " I couldn't. I wasn't. No. No.

"What did you wear to bed last night, Michael?"

"Panties," I whispered.

"What did you ask me to wear today, Michael?"

"Panties, panties, panties," I spat out.

"Who wears panties, Michael?" She glared at me, smirked, almost
laughed.

"Women!"

"And?"

"Sissies," I said so quiet I'm surprised she could hear me.

"Sissies. And you want to wear panties, Michael?"

"Yes," I said, "Yes."

"And that makes you   "

"Please." I couldn't bear to say it. I wasn't a sissy. I never thought
of myself as a sissy. Never. Never.

"Men don't wear panties, Michael. Men NEVER wear panties. Women and
sissies. I don't care if you like this conclusion or not, but the
conclusion remains the same."

She was wrong. I never wanted to wear panties. She made me. Susan made
me. I never wanted to. I told her this, I yelled this. "I'm not a
sissy."

She laughed. A deep, cynical laugh. "Not a sissy? I told you, whether
you're a sissy or not is certainly not an open question. The question
is whether or not you admit it and whether or not you accept it. You're
a panty wearing sissy. Do you want to wear panties today?"

Susan. Serving Susan. I was serving Susan. "Yes."

"What are you? What are you? You're not a woman, Michael, what are
you?"

"I   I'm   " I couldn't. No, I wasn't.

"Say it, Michael. Say it."

"I'm a sissy," I finally said, exhaling, deflated.

"What are you," she asked again, staring at me, challenging me.

She said it was hard to admit? How could I admit it? How could I admit
I was a sissy? Women wear panties, men do not. That was certainly the
truth. Men don't wear panties. Men don't wear panties.

"I'm a sissy," I said for the second time.

"Yes, Michael, yes. Of course you're a sissy. Of course. Say it again.
Tell me again."

"I'm a sissy."

"How many times have you worn panties in the past week, Michael? Men DO
NOT wear panties. Do you want to wear panties, Michael? Isn't that what
you asked? You want to wear panties?"

"Yes," I mumbled.

"Why?"

"Because I'm a sissy," I said again.

"Yes, Michael, yes. Take off your robe," she told me, motioning with
her hands.

I hesitated, still ashamed to be naked in front of my mother-in-law.

"Take it off, Michael."

I did, let the robe fall to the floor, standing naked in front of her.

"What are you, Michael?"

Suddenly it just got much worse. Standing in front of her naked,
ashamed. I felt weak, humiliated. I felt emasculated. I was
emasculated. I was naked, in front of my wife's mother, admitting I was
a sissy.

"I'm a sissy," I said quietly.

"But your hands behind your back, Michael," she ordered me. "Good, hold
them there."

Mrs. Stanton had been standing against the door frame. She now stood up
straight, took a step towards me. I don't know how I managed not to
flinch. "Of course you're a sissy, Michael. Look at you." She reached
out towards me, her hand, her fingers, reached for me, towards my naked
chest.

I started breathing heavily. Terrified. Humiliated.

"Of course you're a sissy, Michael. Look at your body." She touched my
chest and I shivered. "Your hairless, soft skin," she said, fingers
lightly teasing me. "So pretty. So pretty."

A small moan escaped my lips.

She looked down. I was afraid she was going to touch me, grab me. She
just looked. "Such a small penis, so pretty. Of course you're a sissy,
Michael."

Her fingers just danced on my smooth chest, electric, her touch so soft
it was almost painful.

"You're not a man, Michael. I've known that from the moment Susan
introduced you to me. I immediately thought, my god, my daughter is
dating a sissy."

"No, I..." How could she think something like that?

"Yes, Michael. You just didn't know it yet. You just didn't know. But I
knew, I could tell. I saw you and knew immediately, that you were a
sissy. Do you want me to let you wear panties today, Michael?"

"Yes," I gasped.

"You've always been a sissy, Michael, you just didn't know it. You're a
sissy, always."

"But..."

"Always, Michael, always."

I looked up at her. "Always, Michael. You may not want to admit, but I
know, deep inside, you feel it. You felt it every time you've worn
panties the last few days. It brings up deep thoughts. You think on
your life, you think of men you were friends with. You were never one
of them, Michael. Friends, but never one of them."

"I..." I thought of my friends, then, now. I had men friends. I did.
She was right, though, I wasn't one of them.

"You are a sissy, Michael. You didn't even know it, but that's why."

She turned, towards her room. "Come with me, Michael." I followed her
into the cave, into her room, into what felt like a dungeon.

"You fantasized about it, Michael, didn't you?"

"What?"

"Being a pretty girl?"

"No...no!"

"A woman's lingerie...I know it always fascinated you, Michael. You beg
Susan to wear pretty lingerie, why?"

"Because she's so beautiful."

"Because you secretly want to wear it, Michael. You didn't even know
it, did you?"

"I...I want her to wear it because she is pretty."

"You want to be pretty like her. You want to wear panties, Michael?"

"Yes," I mumbled, not sure if I was agreeing for Susan's sake or my
own.

"You know you're not a man, don't you," she asked, sitting on the edge
of her bed.

Involuntarily, standing before her, I looked down at my crotch.

"Oh, please, Michael," she chuckled, seeing me look at my penis. "What
do men have between their legs?"

"Er..."

"Cocks, Michael, they have cocks. Do you...have you ever, honestly
thought of that as a cock? Do you call it your cock?"

"No," I blushed. She was right. It was my penis. It wasn't my cock.

"You know it, Michael. Susan knows it too."

My eyes went wide. "That's not..."

"Why do you think she got so excited feeling her co-workers cock
pressed against her?"

My penis jumped. She was looking right at it, saw it, watched it jump.
"And you can't admit you're a sissy. You get excited, too. Imagining
your wife with a man. That's because YOU'RE A SISSY."

I was almost hyperventilating.

"She got so excited by a man, Michael, because she knows she's married
to a sissy."

"Mrs. Stanton," I moaned, "please, she..."

"Do you want to wear panties, Michael," she asked, cutting me off.

"Yes," I gasped.

"Do you want to look pretty for Susan, again?"

"Yes, yes."

"Fine. You may wear them, then." She stood up, walked to her dresser. I
watched as she opened it, took out something and turned back to me.
"Let's get you dressed, then."

I looked at her confused. She was holding her lingerie from her
dresser. Not just panties, either, but a small stack of garments. Her
garments. "That's...that's your lingerie," I stammered.

"Yes," she answered, a pleased look on her face.

"But I meant, I mean, I thought that..."

"I know what you thought, sissy. You thought you'd wear Susan's
panties. You thought you'd please her by showing her how cute you
looked in her panties."

My face gave me away. The hopeful look on my face.

"She expects to come home and find you in her panties, doesn't she?"

"Yes," I whispered. Of course she did. She expected to find me later,
wearing a pair of her pretty panties.

"Sissy, sissy, sissy, she's going to come home tonight and find you
dressed in lingerie, not just panties. She's going to come home and
find you in MY lingerie."

Oh fuck. OH FUCK. She was such a bitch. Such a complete bitch. It
flashed by me quickly. "Please, Mrs. Stanton, I can't wear..."

"You could handle panties, couldn't you? You got yourself mentally
prepared for panties. You thought I'd let you pretend to be a man
wearing panties. I've got news for you, Michael. You're not a man." She
lowered her voice, almost to a whisper. "You're a sissy, Michael.
You're a sissy. She's going to see you as a sissy, not a man in
panties."

"Why," I moaned, "why?"

"What are you," she asked.

"A...a sissy," I said, shaking, voice cracking. My god, I was on the
verge of tears. "But she's going to hate me," I said.

"Shhhh, no she won't Michael, no she won't. You're making a poor
assumption, Michael. You're assuming she sees you as a man, now. Ask
yourself, honestly. Do you really think she sees you as a man?"

I looked at her, eyes swelling.

"Do you question if she loves you, Michael?"

"No."

"She dressed you in panties, Michael. Do you think she sees you as a
man?"

"I don't know, I don't know!"

"I know, Michael. I know. You're struggling to admit to yourself what
you are. I know. You don't have to, Michael. Turn around. Leave my
room. Go ahead. Go put on underwear for a man. Go ahead. Pretend.
Pretend you're a man."

I stood there unmoving. I though of Susan telling me over and over how
hard Tom's cock was. I thought of my penis. Cock. Penis. Man. Sissy.

"If I'm wrong, Michael, go...go now. Go pretend to be a man."

I lowered my head. I could not look at her. She was making me face
something I felt somewhere inside me, but never knew what it was. I
wasn't a sissy, was I? Was I? I didn't move. I didn't leave. I just
stood there.

"Put your arms up, Michael," she said. I looked up. She'd set the pile
of lingerie down on her bed except for a garter belt that she held up
towards me. It was silver. Satin. There was black lace trim on the
front and back, beautiful lace trim, so pretty. The straps were black
with sliver ribbon on the tabs.

She walked towards me, gently now, walked behind me, wrapped it around
my waist, carefully fastened it around my waist. "Panties are not
enough, Michael. You need to feel pretty all over. You need to look
pretty all over. And there is nothing more feminine than a garter belt
and stockings."

My eyes were closed; a moan escaped my lips. I felt her lean into me,
felt her breath near my ear. I felt her breasts push against my back
through the satin of her pajama top.

"What are you Michael," she whispered in my ear.

"I'm a sissy," I exhaled.

"Yes, Michael, yes." She backed up, placed her hand on my back, on my
bare skin. It felt electric, dangerous. She pushed me gently. "Sit
down, Michael," she said, pushing me towards the bed.

"You know how to do this, don't you," she asked me, picking up a pair
of dark tan stockings from the bed and handing one of them to me?

I took the stocking from her. "Yes, Ma'am," I answered. I carefully
gathered up the delicate nylon in my hands, lifted my right leg up to
the bed, pointed my toes, and slipped one of the nylons up my leg.

"Stand up, now," she told me. She instructed me on attaching the
garters to my stocking, assisting me with all three. Sexual tension
suddenly surrounded me. It was so strong, so powerful, that Mrs.
Stanton couldn't help but take notice of it as she clasped the three
garter straps to my right stockings.

"You see what pretty lingerie does? This feeling? This is how a woman
feels, too, Michael. Do you see why you're a sissy? Do you see why even
if it is hard to comprehend, hard to admit, that it's true? No man,
even if he would put on a stocking, would ever feel this way."

I wasn't. Or, I never thought I was. It never occurred to me. I'd never
believe it. Maybe I was. Maybe I really was a sissy.

She watched me put on the second stocking myself, watched me clip the
garters to the stocking top. "Very good, you're a natural," she
commented. I saw her look down, look at my legs. I looked down too. "I
don't mean this to be flippant, Michael, but you really do have very
nice, very shapely legs, very feminine legs."

"Thank you," I forced myself to say.

"Although," she frowned, "while you're not naturally, um, hairy, you're
really going to need to start shaving your legs or else you're going to
get too many runs in your stockings."

That was what I was afraid of. No, not runs in my stockings. Afraid of
her implication. That this was not something that was happening once.
That she had bigger plans. This was not right. No, no, I needed to
stop. I opened my mouth to speak. As the words were about to come out,
as I was about to say no, as I was about to say stop, as I was about to
rip off the garter belt and the stockings, Mrs. Stanton picked up
something from the bed and held them out.

Panties.

Not just any panties, either.

The most beautiful pair of panties I'd ever laid eyes on.

Silver. Satin. Liquid. Black. I quivered. My heart raced.

"These are tap panties, Michael," she said, watching me stare at the
panties she held before me.

They were silver. An exact match to the garter belt. The black lace
trim matched the garter belt too. Whereas the lace on the front and
back of the garter belt overlapped the silver satin, on the panties,
the black lace that trimmed the leg openings began where the satin
ended, leaving the lace semi-transparent. In a word, the panties were
beautiful.

"Do you want to leave, Michael? Or do you want the panties?"

I gulped. I wanted the panties. Oh, god, I wanted the panties. I didn't
want to want them, but I wanted them just the same. I wanted the
panties.

"Here, Michael, let me help you." She sat down on the bed, turned the
panties around in her hands, held them open. "Step into them Michael,
let me help you."

Shaking, I took one step forward towards her, lifted one of my legs up,
and placed my delicate, nylon covered foot into the opening. My mother-
in-law slowly, sensuously, carefully, deliberately, began to slide the
panties up my legs. As she did so, her fingers brushed me, her fingers
rose slowly up my nylon covered skin, so hot, so dangerous.

"And you question whether or not you're a sissy, Michael? There's no
question, no question at all," she told me as she pulled the panties
over my hips, as she slowly pulled them over my front, over my penis.

"Look down, Michael," she told me. "You see? Do you see?"

"What? What," I sighed.

She reached out with three fingers, reached out, touched me, touched
the front of my panties. "Such a pretty little mound. If I man wore
panties, his cock would be obscene, disgusting, out of place in the
soft satin. All you'd see is a big cock sticking out of a pair of
woman's panties. It doesn't look right.

"But you see? You see how it is for a woman...or a sissy? Look," she
told me, gently touching my penis.

"See, just a soft mound. So inviting. The hidden treasure. A cock is so
obscene. Sticking out, thrusting out. A cock would look so out of place
in panties. A woman's beautiful pussy covered in satin. It is hidden.
That's what lingerie does for a woman. The illusion. The softness. The
mystery. You know something is under there, but you can't see it. A
woman's treasure is hidden. Teased. The same for a sissy. A sissy's
pretty penis in satin folds. Soft and gentle." She continued to ever so
lightly touch me, toy with me. "Do you see, Michael? Do you see it?"

"Yes," I moaned,

"A man's cock in panties would be obscene, harsh, thrust outward. A
woman's folds are hidden. A sissy's penis is hidden, small,
undiscovered. You're a sissy, don't you see? A woman's pussy is
something soft and tender and seductive. Just like a sissy's penis.
Just like your penis. Soft, tender, seductive. So pretty in panties, so
small, so pretty. So soft, so pretty."

I don't know why her words were so powerful. Why they were so
seductive. I was a sissy. I was a sissy. Small. Pretty. Soft. Sissy.
Sissy.

"What are you, Michael?"

"I'm a sissy," I answered immediately. "I'm a sissy."

"Yes, yes. My sissy. Susan's sissy." She dropped her hand, looked up,
smiled at me. "We're almost done, my pretty." Mrs. Stanton reached
behind her on the bed and picked up one more silver and black satin
garment, unfolded it and held it up. "Just the matching camisole," she
said.

It matched the panties perfectly. Silver satin with silver spaghetti
straps. Transparent black lace around the top edges and all down the
front held together with silver satin buttons. She stood up. "Lift your
arms, Michael."

I froze. Wait a minute. I had to go to the office today. I could do
some things from home, but I had to go in for a meeting at 11:00. I
couldn't wear that. "Mrs. Stanton, I...I have to work today, I...I have
to go to the office."

"I know, Michael, Susan told me. That's why just the camisole and not
the bra, too."

My mouth was dry. "Bra? There's a bra?"

"I know, I'd prefer you wear the bra, too, but you're small chested,
Michael, you can get away with just a camisole and not be indecent."

I tried to talk, my mouth was too dry. I licked my lips, trying to find
some moisture, something to allow me to stop this, to stop her. "Arms
up, Michael. Arms up," she repeated when I did not move. She put the
camisole over my arms, my head and I felt it shimmer into place. "Stop
worrying, Michael. Wear a tee shirt, it will hide your pretty camisole
till you get home. We'll save the bra for then."

She stepped back, walked towards the dresser again. "You really are
beautiful, Michael. You're lucky, you know. With little effort, with
your hair done, a little makeup, you'd pass as a woman, a very pretty
woman, in fact."

Hearing her said that shocked me. It seemed a slap in my face. "A
woman?"

"You're not a man, Michael. That's my point. I've known all along,
Michael. I've told Susan all along. It's so obvious, so obvious."

"What do you want from me," I demanded, shaken by her accusation.

She stared at me impassively. "In good time, sissy, in good time. Now,
you're going to the office today?"

I glared. I was angry at her. What was she doing to me? "Yes," I
answered.

"You're wearing a suit?"

"Um, yes, why?"

"What color?"

I furrowed my brow. "Blue, why?"

She didn't answer, instead opened a dresser drawer. "Here," she said
handing me something dark blue, balled up.

"What's this?"

"A pair of my trouser socks. While you're wearing stockings and there
is no reason to wear socks, I recognize you can't very well have your
legs showing like that, so you may wear these."

I looked at the ball in my hand. Dark nylon. These were women's socks.
Wait, Susan had socks like this.

"Don't worry, Michael, they are opaque, close enough to a thin pair of
men's socks. But that's the point. I don't want you thinking like a
man. You can wear a suit and tie, but you don't think like a man.

"In fact, there is a little exercise I want you to do at work today.
Remember something. When a woman wears pretty lingerie, no one knows
she's wearing it but her. It is her secret, how pretty she looks. That
makes her feel so feminine, so pretty. Remember. So pretty. So
feminine. That's what I want you to think, all day, how pretty, how
feminine you are."

"Go get dressed, Michael. But remember, you're not a man. You're
pretty. You're feminine. Sissy."

**************************************************

I dressed for work. I spent a good twenty minutes staring at myself in
the mirror, looking at myself from every angle. Could anyone see
anything? Lace? Satin? Anything through my shirt? A camisole strap?
More lace?

I only had to get through one meeting. One meeting. No more than an
hour.

Riding up the elevator to my office, I did not know how I'd do it. All
I could think about was the lingerie I was wearing. Every step made me
think about it. With every step my stockings tugged at my garter
straps. With every step my panties swirled around my penis. With ever
step I could feel the camisole on my nipples.

Every step. Ever step reminded me I was wearing lingerie. Reminded me
my mother-in-law thought I was a sissy. Reminded me I wasn't a man.

"Hey, Mike," Paul Baron, one of my co-workers walked up to me as I
wandered down the hall to my office.

"Paul," I managed to say, feeling the garter straps with ever step. All
I could think about was I wasn't a man. Paul was a man. I was a sissy.

"Catch the game last night?"

"Um, no, Susan and I just spent a night together."

"Nice," he said, raising an eyebrow in the way a man would, making that
unspoken comment he understood...a night of fucking my wife. Oh, god.
No. No.

I realized. Fuck, I wasn't one of them. I was walking down the hall
with "one of the guys" except one of us, me, was dressed head to toe in
lingerie!

Paul walked into my office with me. "You have that stuff ready for the
meeting?"

"Um, yea."

"What's wrong, Mike, you okay?"

I looked up at Paul, standing a few feet in front of my desk. I
couldn't help thinking. He was a man. My god, he was a man. He was a
man much like Tom, the man my wife met in Atlanta, was a man. Paul was
tall, handsome, strong. He was a man. Involuntarily I looked down at
his crotch. Paul had a cock. A cock!

Much like the cock that just days earlier was pressed against my wife's
ass. The hard cock.

"You sure you're okay, buddy?" He laughed. "Up too late with that hot
wife of yours?"

Instantly I realized, that of course, Paul wanted to fuck my wife. Paul
was a man and wanted to fuck my wife. Not that he was in love with her,
infatuated with her, or anything inappropriate. Just that he was a man,
found her attractive, and if not for being my co-worker and friend,
would fuck my wife.

"Yea, that's it," I mumbled. The image shot into my brain, hurled
there, violently. Susan. Susan.

The image in my brain.

Susan.

Over my desk. Susan bent over my desk.

Susan, my wife.

Susan, bent over my desk, wearing just her black lingerie.

Susan, my wife.

Susan, looking me in the eye. Susan, my wife.

And Paul. Paul standing behind my wife, naked.

Susan and Paul both looking at me. Susan, whispering, "his cock is so
hard, Michael."

All I could picture as Susan, bent over my desk, and Paul, my friend,
my co-worker, naked, fucking my wife. Fucking her. Fucking her hard.
"His cock is so hard, Michael. And it feels so good, so good."

All I could picture was my friend Paul fucking my wife. Oh god, oh god.

"You'll bring the stuff to the meeting," Paul asked me.

"His cock is so hard, Michael."

"Yea," I mumbled. I realized that my penis was hard. I felt it in my
panties. It was hard. My penis was hard picturing Paul fuck my wife.

Hard. My penis was hard as I fantasized about Paul's hard cock.

Hard.

Cock.

Oh, god.

Oh, dear.

I was a sissy.

I was a cuckold.

I was a sissy cuckold.

*****************************

I sat at one end of the conference room table during the meeting with
the head of the product group and some of his support staff. I was not
the main presenter, so there were times my mind could wander.

During one of those, when a question was asked of me, I barely heard
it, though was able to answer appropriately, even though all eyes were
turned my way. Just after answering that question, I thought of Susan,
sitting in a room much like this one in Atlanta, all eyes on her. All
eyes looking at her. Her thoughts of being naughty. Of sitting at the
end of a table, secretly aware of the beautiful lingerie she was
wearing.

I thought of it because that was just how I felt at that instant.

I was sitting in a room with several other men. Only I didn't think of
myself as a man. I was the only sissy. I was the only one wearing
lingerie. I was the only one who was pretty. I was the only one who
wasn't a man!

My BlackBerry vibrated. I glanced at it. Susan. "You talk to mother."

Normally I would not answer an email or a text in a meeting, but the
attention was again elsewhere.

"Yes," I responded.

"Hmmmm. Proud of you."

A minute went by. "She say yes?"

I frowned. This was actually humiliating. "Yes, she said yes."

She responded. "I'm dying to ask you which pair of my panties she said
you could wear but I want to save it for tonight."

If she only knew the half of it.

"Do you feel pretty, sweetie?"

Again, she didn't know the half of it! "Yes, I guess."

"Love you."

"Love u too, Susan."

"Get sushi for dinner?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I responded.

**********************************************

I ended up at the office until late afternoon working on a few minor
details from the meeting. I probably could have gotten finished earlier
if not for the constant thoughts of my lingerie, of Susan. She expected
to come home to me in a pair of her panties. Hers. Not a full set of
her mother's lingerie! I thought perhaps I'd talk to her mother, maybe
she would change her mind, maybe I could just put on panties.

That thought was basically dashed when I got home and Susan was already
there. I walked into the kitchen with our sushi and a bottle of wine
and Susan was waiting for me. For the looks of things I'd only missed
getting home first by minutes.

"Hey...ran late at the office?"

I explained about finishing up some things. I left out the distractions
I kept having thinking of her fucking Paul. "You want to eat now?"

"Eat? Are you kidding me? I've been thinking of...well you know what
I've been thinking of, Michael. Put that stuff in the fridge, I want to
see now, I can't wait any more."

I put the food away and let Susan drag me upstairs. I felt like I was
being taken to a death chamber. "I've been picturing you in different
pairs of my panties all day Michael, I can't take the anticipation
anymore. I've got to see which pair of them you're wearing."

In the bedroom, I took off my coat and tie, but then just stood in
front of Susan, looking at her. "You're nervous, Michael?"

"Yes, of course," I said, in more ways than she knew.

"I thought you might be, so I have a little surprise for you. I've got
something to show you. Maybe I should go first." Susan reached down to
the hem of her skirt. "I really loved wearing the garter belts you
bought you...you've no idea how sensual they feel all say...so I
thought maybe I'd get a few more."

Susan lifted the hem of her skirt slowly up her legs, up her things,
showing more and more nylon covered leg. More until she reached her
upper thighs and the nude nylon turned darker. She was wearing
stockings! The dark fabric was the welt.

"Are you going to show me which pair of my panties you're wearing? Or
should I show a little more, first?"

Susan lifted the hem of her skirt higher, to the tops of her stockings,
slightly higher, revealing gold ribbon garter tabs, black garter straps
and the milky skin of her bare upper thighs.

"Oh, god, Susan."

"More, lover? I could just do this?" She dropped the hem of her skirt,
reached behind herself, moved and suddenly dropped the skirt to the
floor revealing a black with mocha trim garter belt holding up her nude
stocking, under which she wore sheer black panties.

"Your turn, lover. If you want to see the rest, I want to see which
pair of panties you're wearing. Undo your pants, Michael, show me, show
me how pretty your little penis looks in my panties. Show me."

"Susan...I...I don't know."

"You're wearing panties?"

"Yes." I answered, leaving out the full answer. That I was wearing
more. That they were not hers.

"Show me, Michael, god, I want to see them, please, show me. Show me."

I undid my belt, the button to my pants, the zipper, spread my pants
open slowly, exposing the silver satin of the tap panties I was
wearing.

I heard her gasp. Susan knew right away. I froze. "Those...those aren't
my panties," she exclaimed. "Where are those..." She started breathing
heavily. "Oh, Michael, oh god, Michael, are you..."

We locked eyes.

"Are you wearing my mother's panties?"

I couldn't answer. I was terrified.

"Are you wearing my mother's panties," Susan asked again.

"Susan, she..."

"Are you wearing her panties, Michael," she asked impatiently.

"Yes," I whispered, looking up at her.

"Take of your pants, now," she said, furrowing her brow.

"Susan," I protested, "you told me to ask her if I could..."

"Now, Michael," she repeated.

I took a deep breath, dropped my trousers to my ankles, exposing the
panties, the garter straps extending underneath and the stockings, too.

Susan gasped again at the sight of me. After staring for a minute,
looking me up and down, ankles to waist, she reached down, pulled up
her own skirt and re-fastened it around her waist.

"Susan, please," I begged.

"Don't you move," she snapped, walking to the bedroom door and opening
it. "Mother," she called out into the hallway.

"Susan!"

She turned at me, eyes alone silencing me.

"Yes, darling," I heard Mrs. Stanton say, coming closer to the bedroom,
appearing in the doorway.

"Oh," Mrs. Stanton smiled. "You've seen. Tell him to take off his
shirt, too."

My wife looked at me. I turned away, unbuttoned my shirt, removed it,
the tee shirt, revealing the matching camisole. "Your pants and my
trouser socks, too, Michael," Mrs. Stanton said.

Now, finally, I was standing before both of them wearing only the
lingerie, only the clothes my mother-in-law had dressed me in.

"Mother, he's wearing..."

"He's a sissy, Susan."

"But he's..."

"I told you, Susan, didn't I?"

"But I..."

"You've always known, Susan. I told you. I told you he wasn't much a
man, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"Well here you have it. Do you want him to change? Do you want me to
take back my things? Or do you want me to go get the bra that goes with
that set and leave you two alone?"

Susan didn't answer. She just started. She just stared at me.

"I'll be right back, Susan," her mother said, leaving. We just stared.
I stared at the floor. She stared at me.

Walking back into the room, bra in hand, her mother walked towards me,
speaking to Susan. "He doesn't really need a bra, of course, for
support, but it is an important psychological tool. This one is a
little padded to give the illusion of breasts, but you'd need silicone
breastforms for the feel and weight. We'll talk about that later, of
course."

She helped me remove the camisole, put on the bra, then back on with
the camisole. "He's got lovely legs, I think, though they'd be much
more shapely in heels. Would you like me to get a pair?"

"No, Mother, this will do. For now."

She stood next to my wife. "I told you, Susan. I told you. Michael,"
she looked at me. "Tell her what you are."

I looked down. "Tell her, Michael. She already knows, but you need to
tell her."

"I'm a sissy," I whispered. "I'm a sissy."

"We'll talk later, Susan." Mrs. Stanton turned, left the room, closing
the door quietly behind her.

We were alone. I was standing in front of my wife wearing incredibly
pretty lingerie. Her mother's lingerie. I was mortified and humiliated.
Susan was going to leave me, I knew it.

"Susan, she told me..."

"Enough, Michael, enough." Susan'd started undressing again. Starting
with her skirt, she undressed, her blouse too. She was also wearing a
sheer black bra, sheer enough that the outline of her breasts and her
nipples were visible. Still in heels, she was dark and powerful.
Naughty, nasty, scary.

Susan took a step, then another, towards me. She was menacing. "Susan,
please," I said.

She took the last step to me. Her eyes were burning a hole through my
skin. She moved a hand up towards my face; I thought she was going to
strike me. I would have moved backward, but I was up against the edge
of the bed already. But instead of hitting me, she put her hand behind
my head and roughly pulled my face towards her.

"You're my sissy," she growled like a giant cat as she opened her mouth
and roughly kissed me. "You're my bitch," she snarled, breaking the
kiss, pushing me backwards so I fell on the bed.

"Susan," I cried out.

Susan climbed on top of my body. "You're my sissy, Michael, my sissy."

"Yes," I admitted, "yes."

Susan's crotch was pressed into mine, our mounds, our panty covered
mounds, touched.

"You're not a man, Michael."

"No."

She started rubbing her pussy against my penis. "Panties, Michael."

I was quickly swelling. "Panties, Michael, your little penis feels so
pretty in satin panties. It feels so...so pretty in my mother's satin
panties."

I groaned and moaned. "You like that, don't you?"

"Yes, Susan, yes."

"Wearing panties?"

"Yes."

"Feeling pretty?"

"Oh god, yes, yes!"

"Wearing my mother's panties, like a sissy," she asked, raising her eye
brows.

"Yes," I gulped.

"Having such a little penis?"

"God, Susan, yes!"

"That turns you on, doesn't it sissy? Having a small, sissy penis,
trapped in satin."

"Ohhhhhhh," I moaned, from her words, the friction of her pussy.

She found my buttons, found them, pushed them, twisted them.

"You're so small, you know, Michael, so small."

"Hmmmmm," I groaned as she rubbed her pussy on me.

"That's why Tom's cock felt so good, Michael."

"Oh, Susan, Susan."

"That's why all I can think about is a real man, Michael, a real man in
me, you in panties."

"Susan, Susan!"

Susan leaned over, kissed me again, deeply, roughly. "I want you in
panties, Michael."

"Yes, yes."

"Always, Michael, always."

"Ohhhh."

"You're never wearing men's underwear again, Michael. Why? Why?"

"Because I'm a sissy, Susan," I moaned.

"You're my sissy, Michael."

I was Susan's sissy. Susan's sissy!

"Ohhhhh, Susan," I almost yelled. I was about to lose it. This was
entirely too much. The room was spinning, it was hot and cold at the
same time. I was shaking. And then she stopped.

"You're not cumming, Michael," Susan snapped at me, "I am. You're my
bitch, serve me."

Susan rolled us over and I attacked her immediately. My mouth and hands
and tongue attacked her like I'd never been with her in my life. I
ravaged her. I licked her everywhere, anywhere, all the while she
touched me. My skin, both bare and through my lingerie. Her fingers
were everywhere as I licked and kissed. On my nylon covered legs. On my
satin covered stomach, ass, penis. Everywhere.

Everywhere as I licked her pussy, starving. Everywhere.

Finally, after twenty, thirty minutes of licking her pussy, her soaking
wet pussy, she moaned to me. "I need to be fucked, Michael."

I almost came right then, just hearing those words. "Oh, Susan," I
moaned. Finally, finally.

"I need to be fucked," she growled.

I licked my way up her stomach, over her garter belt, towards her bra.
"Yes, Susan, yes."

"I need cock," she growled again.

My tongue on her bra, I paused. I had one hand down on my own panties,
pulling them aside.

"Susan, I..."

"I need cock inside me, Michael," she growled, "I need to be fucked."

I had my panties over my penis, my erection out, pointed towards her.

She looked down her body, then back up at me. "What are you doing?"

"I...I was going to..." I felt a rush of guilt. Like I'd done something
wrong. I just wanted to make love to my wife. I started to say I was
going to fuck her, but that did not sound right, somehow, dressed as I
was. "I...I was going...going...to make love to you."

"I want to be fucked, Michael. I don't want to make love. I need a
cock, Michael, I don't want your small, sissy penis."

"But..."

Susan shifted her body so I rolled off to her side. She was playing
with herself, rubbing herself. "I want cock, Michael, I need cock."

We just looked at one another. She looked at me, stared into my eyes as
she masturbated herself. "I need cock, Michael. I want to be fucked. I
need cock inside me, sissy, I don't need my bitch, I don't need that
little thing." She knew she was humiliating me. She knew, but also knew
how excited she was making me.

I didn't know what to do. What to say. I was...a sissy! I begged.
"Susan, please, I...let me make love to you."

"I don't want to make love, Michael. I want to be fucked."

"What do you want me to do, Susan," I begged?

"Go to my dresser. To my lingerie drawer," she gasped, making herself
cum.

I stood up. "Hurry, Michael. On the left, all the way in the back,
behind my bras."

I opened her drawer and was quickly overwhelmed. I would have
recognized most of her bra and panty sets, pretty, but nothing
incredibly fancy. Not like what she was wearing right now. Opening her
drawer, I recognized nothing. The drawer was full of things I'd never
seen before. Bras. Panties. Garter belts. Satin. Silk. Pretty things.
Not her basic lingerie, all fancy, all frilly, all wonderful.

"Quickly, Michael, quickly."

She'd completely redone her lingerie wardrobe to match every fantasy
I'd ever had. Her lingerie was every thing I'd ever wanted to see her
in. I was weak at the knees.

"Michael!"

I snapped out of my trance, put my hand into the drawer, felt the back,
behind the bras and found...what...I didn't understand...part of my
mind knew exactly what I'd found. I wasn't a prude. I wasn't naive. But
part of me was confused, in part of my mind, it didn't make sense.
Then, I suppose it made total sense. Completely.

I pulled it out and stared at it.

A cock.

No other way to describe it.

A cock.

Long, thick, hard, lifelike.

"Susan," I started to ask.

"Hurry, Michael, hurry, please."

Susan wanted to get fucked. She wanted cock. She wanted me. She wanted
me to fuck her. But not with my penis. She wanted me to fuck her with a
cock. This cock.

"Michael," she begged, "Michael."

I climbed back onto the bed, the life like dildo in my hand.

"I need it, Michael. I need cock. Ever since I felt Tom's cock, I've
needed it."

"You...you want this cock, Susan," I asked tentatively.

"Yes Michael, yes."

It dawned on me what she wanted. I suddenly understood what she really
wanted. I was afraid to ask it, though. Where was the line between
fantasy and reality? Where was she? Did I want to know? I did, in fact,
I had to know.

"Did you want Tom's cock, Susan?" As I asked this I touched the tip of
the cock I was holding to the back of her fingers as she played with
herself. I knew the answer. I knew what she'd say. She knew, too. But
she said nothing, just rubbed her clit with two fingers, her other
three stroking the cock I pressed against her.

I had to ask again, I had to hear her say it. I don't know why, but
that seemed the most important thing in the world. So I pulled the cock
back from her fingers, up, so she could not touch the cock and her
pussy at the same time.

"Do you want Tom's cock," I asked, changing the question from whether
she wanted it several days ago to whether she wanted it now.

"Yes," she moaned, "yes."

I admit that without the lingerie I was wearing, without the sexual
frustration, pent up, built up, without seeing Susan playing with
herself, without seeing her in lingerie, without her verbal and
physical teasing, I'd never have done this. Any of this.

"Do you want his cock, Susan," I asked again.

"Yes, please, yes. Please Michael, please." She stopped touching
herself, moved her hands away, so her bare pussy was staring me in the
face, so there was nothing between her, between it, and the cock I was
holding, hovering over her. "Please Michael. I want a cock...I want...I
want his cock. I want Tom's cock, please Michael, I...I need it."

Susan's eyes were closed, her head tilted back, her mouth slightly
open. I lowered the cock to her pussy, lightly, gently touched it to
her, grazed her, then moved away.

"Ohhh," she gasped. I wanted to shove it inside her. I wanted to slam
it into her. Part of me was angry at her teasing. Part of me was
furious at her, at her mother. Part of me wanted to fuck her with the
cock in anger.

But more of me wanted to see her squirm. Not in pain. I loved her.
Squirm in pleasure.

I wanted to make her cum. I wanted to make her wet. I wanted to make
her cum.

I lowered the cock back to her pussy, longer this time. I let it linger
on her. I used it to rub her, to tease her. I used it to make her want
it.

She was so wet. Rubbing the cock over the outside of her pussy again
and again made the cock wetter and wetter. It teased her and played
with her and made her wetness completely cover the cock. She was all
over it, now. It was shiny, wet, sticky, full of her.

Part of me wanted so much to throw the cock aside and fuck her silly.
To slam fuck her.

But she wanted cock. She didn't want me. She wanted cock.

"Do you want him, Susan," I asked her, "Do you want Tom to fuck you?"

"Yes. Yes."

"Do you want him inside you."

"Yes, oh god, yes. Please. I want him to fuck me, please. Please..."

I rubbed her slowly.

"Please Michael, please. Please let him fuck me. Please." She found her
own way to rub me. Her stocking covered foot found the front of my
panties, rubbed slowly, carefully, against my penis. Not enough, not
near enough to make me even approach orgasm, but enough, just teasing
enough, to drive me insane.

She wanted cock. My wife wanted cock. She wanted a man. She wanted
cock. She didn't want me. She wanted him. Tom!

I was her sissy. Her husband. But her sissy. And she wanted a man.

I put the head of the cock against the outside of her pussy lips.
Soaked. She was literally soaked. "Do you want to fuck him, Susan?"

"Yes," she moaned, "yes, please, let him, Michael, help him. I want his
cock."

I pushed the head of the cock into her, just the head, just an inch,
maybe two, into her.

"Ohhhhhhhh," she groaned, shaking in orgasm. Her arms were drawn up now
to her body, squeezing her breasts as she shook. She wasn't just
playing. She wasn't just horny. She was suddenly drowning in an orgasm.

I'd seen her cum before, naturally. I'd seen her cum often. She'd cum
so hard, her thighs wrapped around my face. She'd cum so hard with my
fingers dancing on her. What I'd never seen was her cum like this. I'd
never seen her cum like this from my own penis slowly slipping inside
her. I'd never, ever made her cum like this, fucking her.

"Do you want him to fuck you, Susan," I demanded.

"Yes, Tom, yes, please, yes, fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me!"

I didn't though, not yet. I pulled the cock back, instead of pushing
forward. I pulled it back and pushed it up, the wet bulb of the head up
against her clit as the orgasm continued to wash over her, then, just
the bulb, the large bulbous head, into her wetness.

"Ohhhhh," Susan moaned, eyes still closed, mouth open, gasping in
pleasure, sucking in oxygen.

Seeing Susan's mouth open, feeling her nyloned foot touch me, I shook.
I knew what to do. My own fantasies were exploding inside my head. Some
known and fantasized about for ages, some new, fresh, barely touched.
The thought of a man fucking my wife, the thought of being cuckolded
was new, so new, not yet comfortable in my mind.

But the old rushed in, too. I loved seeing Susan masturbate. I loved
seeing my wife touch herself. I loved the taste of Susan, I loved
having my mouth, my tongue, my face, covered in her juices.

I always tried to get Susan to share that, to taste herself. I loved
seeing her masturbate because I fantasized about her reaching up,
touching her lips, tasting her own cum. She was never that interested.
She rarely sucked my penis, but she certainly never did after it had
been inside her. She kissed me after I went down on her, but only on
rare, very rare, occasions, would she seem to really enjoy it. I wanted
her to taste herself. I wanted her to suck her self.

I looked at the head of the cock in her pussy, wet. Wet with her
juices. She was all over the head. She was all over the shaft from my
rubbing it on the outside of her. She was so wet and it was everywhere.
All over her. All over the fake cock.

I looked at the cock covered with her. I looked at her mouth. I felt
her foot gently grazing my penis.

I slowly pulled the cock back out of her pussy. "Ohhh, you're teasing
me Mic..." She caught her word. "Tom."

"You want Tom's cock, Susan?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Tell him," I said softly.

She turned her head from side to side eyes still closed, mouth still
open.

I moved up her body slightly, carefully, trying not to touch her with
my penis, but instead, dragged my satin covered hip over her pussy
lips, as I moved slightly to one side.

"Tell him," I whispered again, this time into her ear.

"Please," she begged.

I bent my leg, so my nylon covered thigh was now pressed against her
pussy, her drenched pussy.

"Tell him what you want, Susan."

Susan was shaking as I rubbed against her. "I...I want your cock, Tom,"
she whispered.

I brought the glistening cock up towards her face. It was covered with
her. Covered with Susan. Covered with her wetness. Covered with her
cum.

"Tell him, Susan."

"I want your cock, Tom," she moaned again.

"Open your mouth, Susan," I said, shaking, voice almost cracking. I
wanted to see this so badly right now. I wanted to see her mouth open.
I wanted to see cock in her mouth. I wanted to see her sucking a man.
Tom. I wanted to see her tasting herself. Sucking her pussy juice off
cock. I was DESPERATE to see it.

Susan didn't open her mouth. Instead she opened her eyes. She looked at
the cock hovering inches from her face. Then she looked at me. Her eyes
were so hungry. She looked back at the cock, Tom's imaginary cock. I
could tell from the look in her eyes she saw it. She saw what I was
doing. She saw herself all over it. She saw that the cock, Tom's cock,
was covered with her pussy juices, her wetness.

She looked back at me. For several seconds I expected her to push me
away. To tell me to fuck off. To tell me I was a pervert. A creep.

And then she closed her eyes again...

She said, "I want your cock, Tom..."

...and opened her mouth!

I shook, then moved the cock right there, right to her mouth, right
there. I watched as my wife started sucking, licking, TASTING!


She wasn't just doing it, she was relishing it. She was sucking the
head of the cock, more, sucking herself, tasting everything, licking
everything. I held the cock for her as she licked and sucked, I held
the cock for my wife as she whored herself out for cock. Licked and
licked herself off it, tasted herself.

Finally, she let it slip out of her mouth, opened her eyes, and looked
at me.

"Now fuck me, Tom, fuck me. I want cock. I want his cock, I want your
cock. I want Tom's cock. Fuck me. Fuck me."

I wasted no time. I needed this as much as she did. I wasted no time. I
took the cock, "Tom's cock", down, to her, to her pussy, to her wet
lips, and in one, slow, steady motion, pushed it into her, deeper and
deeper into her. Deeper than I'd ever been inside her.

"Oh, fuck, Tom," she moaned as it went in, filling her wider and deeper
than I'd ever done.

For ten minutes I fucked her. Susan and I made love when we were
intimate. Right now, I was fucking her. Fucking her for the first time
in my life. Fucking her with a cock for the first time. Fucking her.
And my own organ was still trapped under my own panties. Cock. She had
cock inside her, not me.

And for the first time ever, Susan had orgasms unlike those I'd ever
seen before. Powerful, shaking, orgasms.

She had her legs up and I was pushing it straight down into her. Her
eyes were wide open, she was biting her lip, sucking in air. "Oh, fuck,
OH FUCK, oh god, oh fuck!"

I was hitting her in a spot I'd never, ever hit her before. Deep inside
her. Her eyes suddenly rolled back into her head and I was actually
concerned I hurt her, I started to pull it out.

"No...NO!" She grabbed my hands and pushed them into her, holding the
cock in her. "There, Tom, there, there," she moaned just holding for
minute after minute. "Ohhhhhh, fuck, ohhhhh."

"Susan," I whispered.

"Shhh," she said.

I was so turned on. Oh, fuck. "Susan." I started to pull it out from
her.

"No, wait. NO. It feels, oh god, it feels so good to have a cock inside
me."

I just held it for several minutes. Waiting.

"Lick me."

"What?"

"Lick me while he fucks me, lick me, lick me."

"Susan..."

"Lick me. I want your mouth on me while his cock is inside me."

"Susan," I said again, shocked at her language, her tone.

"Lick me, bitch," she sneered.

I tried to bend down, almost fell on top of her, till she held me.
"Here, let me," she said, moving my hands away from the cock. "I'll
guide Tom, you just lick, sissy, lick."

I got closer, eying the cock as I did so, got closer, tentatively,
opened my mouth, touched my tongue to her, humiliated, scared, excited.
Even though she was only fucking herself with a dildo, even though it
wasn't a "real" cock, it was real enough, close enough.

"Ohhhhh," Susan groaned, moaned, pushing the cock in and out, lifting
her pelvis, pushing herself onto my mouth, my tongue. "Ohhhh, Tom, oh
god..." Susan fucked herself, I licked her, to an orgasm, then another,
until she was shaking, laying on the bed shaking, the cock pressed deep
into her, held there, like a man would cumming in her.

Finally, I stopped licking, she stopped shaking, just lay there,
breathing. She slowly moved her hands, she slowly guided the cock out
of her pussy, moaning in post orgasmic bliss the entire time it was
coming out of her.

"Oh, god Michael, that...that was amazing. That was the most
amazing..." My mouth was still hovering on her clit and I shook,
jolted, when I felt the cock touch the underside of my jaw as is popped
out of her.

"Susan," I moaned, experiencing the wonder of her pleasure, but
needing, dying for, wanting my own. "Can I," I looked up at her, my
eyes begging to fuck her.

"No, Michael," she said gently, "you're not going to fuck me. I told
you that earlier. Besides, Tom took care of me," she smiled, moving the
cock from under my chin, around my head, placing it on top of her, just
at the top of her pussy, as if it was she that had a cock.

I just stared at it, could not help it, stared at the cock, obscenely
sticking out from my wife's skin.

I saw her, saw her eyes looking at me, burning into my own, saw a
harshness, a resolve. "Open your mouth, Michael," she said, an order,
not a request.

Open my mouth? Why would I open my mouth? I looked at her, scrunched my
eye brows. Open my mouth? That seemed...no...no...no, she didn't
mean...she wasn't telling me to...she didn't think I'd...

My eye brows went up, shocked.

"You made me taste myself, Michael, you made me. Did you think I
wouldn't do the same for you...bitch?"

"Please, Susan," I begged, eyeing the cock again, "you...you're a
woman...you..."

"And you're a sissy, Michael...open your mouth and lick it, before I
shove his cock down your throat."

I swallowed hard, swallowed, closed my eyes, tentatively stuck my
tongue out, blindly, until it touched the shaft of the cock. "That's a
good girl, Michael, that's it, lick it, taste me, lick me off of it.

For a minute, licking it was easy...I just tried to forget what it was,
forget, focus on Susan's taste, not the plastic cock. She sensed, she
must have sensed.

"Lick, Michael, lick, taste me, taste my pussy on his cock."

Again, cock, again, my eyes went wide.

"That's right, sissy, cock, you're licking cock."

I gasped, humiliated, desperate to stop, afraid to stop.

"Lick the cock that fucked me, Michael. Taste it, Michael, taste me on
his cock."

I was dizzy, I felt the room spin. Cock. Cock. "Ohhhh," I groaned as I
licked, realizing that my penis was on her, resting, trapped against
her nylon covered foot. She could obviously tell I was hard, throbbing,
jumping. She knew, knew her humiliating words were exciting me as they
tormented me.

"Cock, Michael, taste his cock. Open your mouth, Michael, open," she
said, "open."

I couldn't help it, not with her taste, not with the smell, not with
her all over it.

"Taste his cock, Michael," she said, "taste his cock." She shifted,
bent herself, bent the cock, so the head of it was on my lips, on my
tongue, on the opening of my mouth. "Taste it, Michael, taste his cock,
taste...suck...suck it, Michael, suck his cock," she hissed, pushing
her hips upward, pushing the head of the cock into my mouth. "Suck it,
Michael, suck his cock. Suck cock, Michael, suck cock."

I opened my mouth, allowed it into me, allowed the head of the cock
into my mouth.

"Suck his cock, Michael, suck his cock."

For minute after minute, I was lost in a haze, most, tasting Susan, the
cock filling my mouth. "Be my cock sucker," Susan was encouraging me,
"be my cock sucker," she said, over and over, thrusting the cock into
my mouth, gently rubbing my own penis with her leg.

"Hmmmmmm," I groaned as pressure built up in me.

"Cock sucker, cock sucker, cock sucker," she said until I finally
started to hump her leg.

"Get off me, Michael, turn over," she said quickly, pushing me moments
before I exploded. I was breathing heavily. I wanted her. I needed her.

"Susan, please," I begged to no avail as she turned me on my back while
she climbed onto of me, sat on my thighs.

The cock was still in her hands. For leverage, to adjust herself, she
put her hand on my hips, cock in one hand, twisted herself on me. The
cock came to rest just to the right of my crotch, just to the right of
my penis.

We both looked down at it. "That looks strange, doesn't it?"

"What," I asked moaned, twitching, trying to hump the air even as she
was holding me down.

"Seeing a cock down there. When you're used to a pretty little penis."

I don't know how many shades of red I blushed. "Susan!"

"What, lover," she laughed in a post-coital laugh, a light mood, one
not shred by me. "I'm just saying, I don't expect to look down at you
and see a cock staring back at me." She kept the cock in one hand,
touched my penis through my panties with the other. "Don't worry,
lover, you've got exactly what I want, a soft, pretty little penis.
Don't worry, leave the cock to real men."

"Oh, Susan," I moaned at her touch.

"See, lover, that's it, just relax, enjoy having such a pretty little
penis. Don't worry about cock. Just relax, be a sissy, don't worry,
don't worry." All the while she was rubbing me with two fingers though
the satin tap panties. "That's it, relax, let me touch you like a girl,
just relax, breathe, be my girl, be my sissy, be my girl."

"So much less pressure than being a man, sweetie. Let the man worry
about fucking me, you just worry about other things, more feminine
things."

Susan leaned towards me, dropped the cock to side of my head, kissed
me. "Forget about the cock, sissy, take of your panties, let's play
with you," she said.

She helped me. We wasted not time peeling the satin off me. She was
back on top of me, sitting on me, letting her wet pussy touch me all
over, rubbing on me, up and down me.

"God, I'm so wet, lover, so wet," she cooed, kissing. "Tom...Tom made
me so wet. So excited. I got so wet when I felt his cock, honey, so
wet."

I jumped, shook at both her words, at being touched by her. She was
rubbing her wetness all over me, everywhere, all over my penis, talking
at the same time. Whereas I was teasing her before, it was her turn
now, to tease me, to torment me.

"He made me so wet, Michael. Touching him felt so good." She licked me,
neck to ear, lifting herself off my penis. "I got so wet feeling a real
cock after all these years of this little penis." Back down on me,
sliding on me.

"You're so excited, I can tell, Michael. Does it excite you knowing
your wife fucked a man?"

"Yes," I moaned as much from her pussy on my penis as her words.

"Does it excite you to be cuckolded, Michael."

I couldn't answer, verbally, though physically, there was no doubt as
to the answer to the question.

"A man's cock inside me, Michael."

"Hhhh, hmmm," I moaned again.

Susan put her lips to my ear. "Do you want him to fuck me, Michael? Do
you want Tom to really fuck me?"

"Yes." The word escaped my lips before I could hold it down. Her wet
pussy rubbing along my shaft froze my brain, froze it so that I
couldn't stop the words from coming out.

"Do you want his cock inside me, Michael?"

"Yes, yes!"

"He's coming here next week, Michael, do you want me to fuck him?"

I hesitated, the image in my mind, burning. "Yes," I whimpered.

"His cock wet, so wet with my pussy juice?" She lifted herself off me
yet again. I was dying for her touch, her warmth.

"Please, Susan, yes, please."

In response, she rubbed me again, stopped again.

"Do you want him to cum inside me, Michael? Do you want Tom to fuck me
and cum inside me?"

It was my turn to buck in tremendous pleasure. She had stopped moving
so I was on the verge of entering her. My penis was pressed against her
lips. I shifted my hips forward, trying to enter her but she matched my
movement, moved her own hips forward so I could not.

"Answer my question, sissy. Do you want him to cum inside me?"

"Yes," I whimpered quietly, shaking. She shifted again, shifted, so the
head of my penis was on her lips, surrounded by them.

"You want him inside your wife? Fucking, cuming?"

"Yes, Susan, yes!" She lowered herself slightly again, so the head of
my penis was inside her, warm, wet.

"You want Tom's cock in my pussy, my pussy filled with his cum?"

"Ohhhhhh," I moaned.

"His cock is covered with my juices, Michael. My juices and his cum."
She lowered more, allowing more of me inside her.

"Hmmmmmmm," I whimpered.

"Do you want to lick it, Michael, lick him clean? Are you a cock
sucker, Michael?"

In and out, in and out I breathed, heavily, shaking. Susan bent down,
all of my penis was inside her, but she did not move, just allowed me
to bask in the warmth of her, the wetness, while taunting me.

"I want Tom's cock, sissy, I want his cock inside me. I...I want it so
badly," she moaned, confessed.

Suddenly, without warning, without her moving, without anything, I
shook violently, more violently than I'd ever felt. I shook and just
exploded into her. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," I moaned through the cock
filling my mouth. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

"Cum in my, Michael, cum in me just like Tom will."

"Ohmmmmmmmmm," I moaned and moaned.

For a minute, two, finally, three, we lay there. My penis inside her
quivering, Susan whispering. Cock sucker. Sissy.

"Susan," I started to say.

"Shhh, don't talk, Michael."

"Susan, please."

"Shhh, just relax, Michael, just relax."

"But Susan..." I was scared about what just happened. Terrified,
actually.

"Michael, just relax. Not yet. Just relax. Not yet."

I knew what she was trying to say. Having just cum, my libido was
destroyed. I felt guilty, hurt, confused. My sexual frustrations were
gone, shot inside her. I was scared. Confused.

We drifted off to sleep. At least I did. Maybe only for a few minutes,
I don't know. I fell asleep, inside her.

I woke feeling the same warmth, the wet warmth, I fell asleep to. It
was darker. Hard to see. I opened my eyes. Couldn't see. Later. I felt
the wet warmth. Then I realized something was different. The weight.
Susan's weight wasn't on me. But I was still inside her.

I realized it. I was inside her. I wasn't inside her pussy. I was
inside her, just not her pussy. No weight because she wasn't on me.

I couldn't see, just sense. Susan was on her side, next to me. I felt
her warmth, not of her pussy, but of her mouth. Susan was laying on her
side, next to me, sucking me. I wasn't even hard, but she was laying on
her side, my limp penis in her mouth.

"Susan," I moaned in pleasure. I wasn't hard. I couldn't get hard. Not
this soon, not ever soon after.

"Oh god," I moaned again as I realized what she was doing. My wife, who
would never give me a real blow job, who would never taste herself, was
on her side sucking my limp penis. Sucking it, covered as it was with
her cum, with my cum.

"Hmmm," Susan moaned, running her tongue all over me. "It's so soft,
Michael," she whispered. "So limp, so soft. I like it this way, I like
the way it feels, soft, feminine, pretty. The opposite of a man's cock.


It was the oddest feeling. My wife, licking my limp penis, telling me
how much she liked it soft, was exciting me like crazy, but I couldn't
get hard.

"It's like a pussy, Michael. Soft, wet. It even tastes like a pussy."
Susan shifted her body again so she was straddling my face in a sixty-
nine position. "Share, Michael, try it with me."

I opened my mouth a few seconds before my brain caught up to the
consequences of my action. I opened my mouth and started licking her,
so excited was I by what she was doing to me, licking her cum and my
cum, that I forgot that I was about to do the same.

It dawned on me that I was licking cum, too. Licking my cum, too. It
dawned on me but I kept licking just the same. Slowly, enjoying,
feeling the sexual energy fill my body slightly.

Slowly, too, we stopped until we just lay there, until finally, Susan
climbed off, turned, and lay next to me.

"I love you, Michael," she said, kissing me. "I love you so much."

We lay there for several minutes, just cuddling, our bodies entwined.
The most erotic part was our legs, our nylon covered legs gently
gliding and rubbing against each other. It felt so soft, so sensual, so
feminine. "That feels so nice, Michael."

"Hmmm." My mind understood it did, though was drifting, confused.

"What," Susan asked.

I wasn't sure how to ask, how to phrase. Even if I should say
something.

Finally, I worked up the nerve. "Susan, were...were you serious...do
you...do you really want to, er, fuck," I swallowed, "fuck Tom?"

Through the pale light of evening coming though the sheer curtains, I
could see her face, saw her bite her lip, look at me. She opened her
mouth to respond, but didn't answer. For several minutes, she just
looked at me.

"Susan?"

"Michael," she finally spoke. "Were YOU serious? Do YOU really want ME
to fuck Tom?"

I opened my mouth to tell her no, but no words came out. As with her, I
just stared at her. Finally, I started to speak. "Susan..." No more
words formed.

"Say no, Michael, and I'll never think of it again. Say no, tell me you
don't really want me to fuck a man. Tell me no. Tell me you don't want
me to cuckold you and I swear, I'll never think of cuckolding you
again."

"Susan...I..."

"Say no, Michael, and I'll be happy with you forever, with your little
penis forever. Say no."

I swallowed hard, but said nothing. My brain was screaming. No. NO. NO!
But no words would form. No words would come out of my mouth. Of course
no. She was my wife! Of course no. No. No. NO.

But that part was too small. I couldn't form the words. Cuckold.
Cuckold. That word was all I could think of. I wanted to say no, but
that word was trapped by the other word. Cuckold.

"Susan," I started again and stopped.

"Say no, Michael. If it's no, say no."

I said nothing. As much as I wanted to say no, I couldn't form the
word. Nothing came out of my mouth.

"Say no, if you don't want this, Michael, say no."

I closed my eyes, swallowed, remained silent.

Susan said nothing in return. She lay her head back on my shoulder,
nuzzled me, kissed me.

After a few more minutes, Susan moved over towards the side of the bed,
turned on the light. "I'm hungry, you?"

"Yea," I answered, realizing my stomach was grumbling. "You want to go
down and eat?"

"I'd rather eat in bed, why don't you go down to the kitchen and get
the sushi and a bottle of wine."

I looked down at myself, the uncomfortable look obviously was apparent
on my face. I had to change clothes.

"No, Michael, take a breath," she said, knowing what I was thinking.
"Get up, put your panties back on to start with."

I looked at the panties sitting on the edge of the bed with some
trepidation.

"Michael, I know what you're thinking. This is important to me.
Especially now, after sex. Not before, after. I don't want you wearing
men's underwear again."

I continued to stare at the panties, unmoving.

"Put your panties on, Michael, go ahead."

I took the panties in my hands, stood, gingerly slid them up my legs.

"There you go. Better. Now, even though mother dressed you, it's still
not very lady like to walk around the house dressed just like that. Why
don't you...um...at least put a chemise or a slip on. Here," she got
out of bed, went to her dresser, opened a different drawer than
contained her bra and panty sets, took out something. "Here, this will
do," she said, handing me something black and satin.

I opened up what she handed me. A black satin slip. Black satin with
lace edging, similar to the other lingerie I was wearing. "Put that on,
sweetie," she encouraged me, "it will cover you up a little and it
coordinates with your other lingerie."

I hesitated.

"Michael," Susan said softly, "it's okay. Really. I want to see you in
it, I really, I do. Please."

I inhaled, lifted the slip over my head and pulled it down over my
frame, over the other lingerie.

"You're so pretty, Michael," Susan said, "it's really amazing."

I actually felt myself blush.

"I'm serious, Michael, you're really very pretty, I mean it."

We just looked at one another.

"One more thing. I don't want you snagging your nylons on the floor,
you should put on some slippers." Susan went to her closet and brought
back a pair of heeled mules. Slippers, I suppose, but certainly not
like my men's corduroy slippers. "Here, slip these on, they should fit.
There, perfect. Now run along and get me my dinner, bitch," she said,
tilting her head with a playful smile.

I went down to the kitchen quietly, hoping, praying, I did not run into
Susan's mother, but the house was quiet. She was either in her room or
out enjoying her Friday evening.

I got out dinner and arranged the sushi, wine, wine glasses, plates and
everything we needed onto a tray. Walking in heels, especially carrying
something, was difficult, to say the least, though I managed to make it
back upstairs. Slowly. But I did it without spilling.

I almost spilled, though. I almost spilled when I dropped the whole
tray walking into the master bedroom and found Susan not alone, but
sitting on the bed with her mother, talking about something. I almost
spilled the tray because between them was the silicone cock that had so
recently been inside Susan's pussy, inside my mouth.

They stopped talking when I walked into the room as if what ever
conspiracy they were engaged in was not for my ears.

Mrs. Stanton looked at me carrying the tray, her eyes conveying some
degree of pleasure in seeing me this way, in seeing me serving Susan.
She looked down on the bed, at the cock, finally stood. "I'll leave you
two alone."

"Mother," my wife said.

"Of course, Susan." She started for the door, paused, looked at me. "Of
course I will."

"She will what, Susan?"

"Um, nothing, Michael, nothing," Susan said, looking away from me.

I crossed my brows but let it go. We enjoyed dinner, enjoyed the
relaxation, enjoyed the bottle of wine. We did not speak during the
meal of the evening activities, of her mother, of Tom, of anything. We
just enjoyed.

After I cleaned up, we both realized that the sex, the meal, and the
wine, even the week, had tired us out. Susan, of course, insisted I
sleep in lingerie, and asked me to simply take off the garter belt,
stockings, and bra, leaving me to sleep in the tap panties and
camisole.

"I think you look just adorable in mother's lingerie," she told me
watching me get ready for bed.

I looked down, somewhat crestfallen.

"Michael, it's okay, really."

I was a sissy. I was a sissy. I was having trouble admitting it. But I
was, without a doubt, a sissy.

In bed, cuddling, she started rubbing my stomach, my chest, my nipples,
through the satin camisole. "Are you okay, Michael," she asked me.

"I guess."

"I love you Michael."

"I know, its just that, I don't know how to say it."

"What? Say what?"

"I'm your husband, Susan!"

"And I love you totally, sweetie."

"But...I'm your husband and...I'm wearing...

"And a husband should be a man and men don't wear lingerie?"

"YES!"

"Michael, mother was right, she was right all along, don't you see? It
doesn't matter. Don't worry about trying to be a man, just worry about
being what you are."

"But you...you want a man!"

"Sweetie, sweetie. I love you. I want to be married to you. Michael.
You."

"You want to fuck a man."

"So? That's different. I don't want a man. I don't want to fall in love
with a man. I'm not ever going to leave you for a man. I want you. I
want you."

"But you still want to fuck a man. You still want to fuck Tom," I
accused her.

"And you still want me to fuck him, Michael. Tell me no, tell me you
don't. You didn't say no before, Michael. Are you saying no now?"

I didn't answer. I still kept hearing her voice tell me how hard his
cock was. I could feel it, the silicone cock. In my hands. In her. In
my mouth.

Susan leaned over and kissed me, deeply. "You didn't say no, Michael.
Remember, you didn't say no."

We lay together for a few more minutes, all the while she kept toying
with my chest. "Michael?"

"Yes?"

"I...um, tomorrow...I wasn't just playing, I really don't want you
wearing men's underwear. Tomorrow. Sunday. Ever."

"Okay," I said softly. "But I...do I have to ask you mother again?"

"I wanted to talk to you about that before we went to sleep."

"Tomorrow when I go into the office, I want..."

"You're going in tomorrow?" She didn't usually work on Saturdays.

"I know, I don't really want to, but, well, Tom's flying in Sunday
night and I need to get some things ready."

"Oh," I said, with a mixture of both disappointment and some
excitement.

"We'll talk about that tomorrow. My point was that when I'm at work,
mother wants to talk to you about a few things."

"What kind of things," I warily asked.

"Things. I...I don't know, really. I...I admit I don't know everything
about...well...as it may be obvious to you, she has some experience
with...things, and, well, there are some things she wants to...talk
about."

"What kind of things, Susan?"

"Honestly, Michael, she said she'd rather discuss them with you, okay?"

"I suppose."

"Trust me, Michael...trust me."

************************************************

The next morning Susan was ready to go to the office by eight. "Mother
said to bring her coffee at 9:00."

I looked away from Susan, face blushing already. "What am I supposed to
wear?"

"Well, I wondered the same thing, Michael, so I asked her, she said
just this is fine." The camisole and tap panty set.

"Okay."

"Coffee, and she also said to bring a zip lock bag of ice, of all
things."

"Ice? Why?"

"I don't know

"It's okay, trust me, sweetie," she said, kissing me. "Listen, I'll be
home by 1. I want to go to the mall this afternoon, so we can eat when
I get home, then go, okay?"

"Sure," I said, not really paying much attention to the mall plan, just
the "mother-in-law" plan.

At nine, I was standing in front of Mrs. Stanton's door, wearing the
camisole and tap panty set, coffee in one hand, a bag of ice in the
other, knocking, shaking, trying not to spill.

My mother-in-law opened the door, reached out, took the coffee, thanked
me, and told me to come in. "Just put the ice there," she said,
pointing to a towel on the night stand. "Thank you."

I set the ice down on the towel. There was already something there that
caught my eye. Some pink plastic thing I did not recognize. But it was
on the towel. And clearly had something to do with the ice.

"It's a chastity cage, Michael," Mrs. Stanton said, obviously watching
me stare at what ever it was.

My brow creased. What was...

She laughed. "A chastity cage. I take it you're familiar with neither
the term nor the concept."

"Um, no," I said.

"Not surprising, but no matter. After we get it in place, I'll explain
it to you. I want you to remove your panties and lie down on the bed
there, next to the table."

Hesitantly, I did as ordered. For it was an order. I had no doubt that
now, if ever, should I question my mother-in-law. On the bed, I watched
her walk over to me, pick up the ice and the pink contraption, sit down
next to me, facing away from me.

"What are you going to do," I asked.

"Just hold still, this will be a little cold." She took the bag of ice,
placed it against my penis.

"Ohhh," I yelped.

"Hold still Michael, this will only take a minute." She held the bag of
ice on me tightly, finally removed it. "There, much better." I sensed
that she had my penis in her hands, but could just barely feel it given
the ice, couldn't really see it given the way she was sitting. I felt
her manipulate my penis and my balls.

"Mrs. Stanton?"

"One second sweetie." I heard a small click. "There, all done," she
said standing up. "You can put your panties back on for now until we
get you dressed."

I immediately looked down at my crotch. The pink plastic device that
had been sitting on the table was now wrapped around me. There was a
ring around the back of my ball sack and a small pink cage encasing my
penis. I furrowed my brow. What was this? The click I'd heard could
only have come from one thing, the small brass padlock on the front of
whatever this was.

I looked up at my mother-in-law. Without explanation from her, it
dawned on me what a chastity cage must be, for she'd locked this small
pink plastic cage around my penis. I emphasize small, for the plastic
surrounding my shrunken penis could have been no more than two or three
inches.

It was small, almost too small to...oh my god, I thought. Chastity.
Cage. The lock. It was too small for me to swell, too small to get an
erection. It was so small that I couldn't...and it locked!

"Mrs. Stanton," I suddenly exclaimed, quite nervous about what just
happened.

"Yes, as you're surmising, Michael, a chastity cage is a simple little
device that prevents a male, or in this case, a sissy, from getting an
erection, from achieving an orgasm."

"Wait a minute, I can't..."

"No, Michael, not unless you're unlocked."

"But you...how can I...

"Michael. Please get up and put your panties back on, then we'll
discuss this."

I did as she asked. Not because I wanted panties back on, but because I
wanted to know what the fuck she was doing.

"Why are...why did Susan...how are Susan and I..." Words and questions
tumbled out jumbled together.

"Michael, slow down, please," she said, holding up her hand. "Sit down,
please," she pointed to the bed.

I sat.

"Now, take a breath. There. Okay. Now, first things first. Susan does
not know about this."

My eyes went wide.

"Yet, obviously, Michael. She doesn't know about it yet. Not that she's
going to have much problem with you in chastity, given what you two
have been discussing."

I was surprised again. But then, Susan had told me she told her mother
things. Most things.

"Yes, Michael, I know what you and my daughter have been talking about.
That's not my concern, though that may surprise you. What Susan does is
her business. My concern is that she's happy and, just as important,
that her marriage is happy. I've been unhappily married and I don't and
wouldn't wish that on anyone. Anyone at all."

"But what's that got to do with," I looked down, "with this?"

"Everything, Michael, everything. I don't know if you really appreciate
yourself yet, Michael. You're a sissy. Moreover, you're a submissive. I
realize I've been slightly harsh with you, Michael," she said, reaching
over and touching my hand, "but it's nothing to do with my thoughts
about you. I like you, Michael. If for no other reason than you make
Susan happy and you dote on her. You treat my baby like a princess and
make her happy. I don't care if you're a sissy or not. But you are. And
I'm trying to help you and Susan understand what that means so you can
be happy with one another."

"But she wants a man," I looked down, feeling hope slipping. "She wants
a man. She doesn't want me."

"No, Michael, that's where you're wrong. She doesn't want a man. She
wants you. She wants Michael. She loves you."

"But she said she wants to...to..."

"To fuck a man?"

"Yes!"

"Which is completely different than what she wants and feels for you."

"But she want to..."

"Michael," she said sharply, "YOU want the SAME THING."

I looked up at her.

"You want the same thing, don't you? You, Michael, YOU want her to fuck
a man, don't you? You practically begged her, didn't you?"

"Yes," I whispered, starting to shake.

"Michael, there is nothing wrong with that, nothing. As long as you and
Susan are honest with each other, communicate, talk, there is NOTHING
wrong with that."

"But I...I'm her husband."

"Yes. Her sissy husband who gets sexually excited serving her, pleasing
her, even thinking of her getting fucked."

I blushed, looked away. God, she was right. She was right.

"Michael, you devote yourself to Susan. I know. She tells me. You
submit yourself to her. You want to, don't you, that makes you happy?"

"Yes."

"That's what's so beautiful about cuckolding, Michael. You're doing it
to please her. She's doing it to please you. Please trust me when I
tell you that you're feelings are okay."

"But it's not normal."

"Not normal? What's normal? Who cares? What's important is that you two
are happy. Let me ask you something, how is your sex life? Is it
normal?"

I didn't know what to say to that.

"Michael, Susan thinks you're the most tender and wonderful lover a
woman could have. Do you know why? Because you devote yourself to her
and her pleasure. It works so well because she NEEDS to be pampered and
you NEED to pamper. Not every woman would be happy married to a sissy,
but for a woman like Susan, nothing could make her happier."

"What's any of this have to do with this," I asked, pointing to my
panties, to my locked penis.

"Chastity, Michael, reminds you to serve Susan. This is about Susan.
This is not about you fantasizing about Susan and masturbating
yourself."

I blushed. "I don't do that."

"Michael, please, you don't insult me. I know more about sissies than
you do. Of course you do that, and will do that. Part of the reason you
need to be locked up is to prevent that. I know you want to serve
Susan. I know you need to serve Susan. This," she pointed to me, "will
make sure that you remember that. You serve Susan."

"But how I supposed to, you know..."

"Fuck her?"

I looked away again, suddenly embarrassed and humiliated to talk to my
wife's mother about this, despite everything.

"That's what you're asking, right? How do you fuck your wife?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"You don't, Michael. That's kind of the point, you're not going to. Not
on a regular basis, anyway. That's the other half of the reason for
chastity. You can neither masturbate without permission, nor fuck
whenever you want. You're a sissy, Michael, you need permission to
cum."

"Permission? I have to ask her permission to cum."

Mrs. Stanton laughed. "Well, you can ask Susan for permission, too, if
you'd like, but what you really need to do is to need to ask the
keyholder's permission to cum."

"Keyholder?"

"Keyholder, Michael, the one who holds the key to that lock." She held
up a small key.

I looked at her hands, the key. I opened my eyes, literally and
figuratively.

"A keyholder is usually the wife, but that doesn't have to be the case.
A wife can give the key, give that power to someone else. Her mother,
for instance, or maybe her father. Or maybe her lover. Obviously, Susan
is going to get the key, eventually, but for now, for now, at least, I
will be holding on to this, so I'll be the one granting, or more likely
denying, permission to cum."

I threw my head back, let out a groan, "why? Why?"

"Michael, you may think me cruel, I understand, but I'm not, I'm really
not. I'm doing this FOR YOU, FOR HER."

"You're making me a sissy for her?"

"Michael, please, don't. I'm not making you a sissy. That's the
point...YOU ARE A SISSY. All I'm making this easier for you to accept
that and easier for her to understand that. Do you really think I am
making you a sissy? Do you really think that?"

I frowned. No. No she wasn't. "No."

"Of course not, Michael, you are a sissy. You know that. I know it is
hard to ACCEPT, but you are and you know you are. And like most
sissies, you're also submissive. That's okay. That's good, actually.
Especially if, well, if a sissy and his wife are thinking about
cuckolding."

I looked away again. That word. That word just tore at me.

"It's okay, Michael. The chastity cage is going to help with that, too.
It's going to add some clarity to things. You can't cum, thus you can't
have a sexual letdown. That is going to help you focus. Do you really
want Susan to fuck a man? I think you do. I think you couldn't tell
Susan no because you do, you really want her to. But Michael, again,
that's OKAY. You're a submissive sissy, you want to submit to Susan.
You need to submit to Susan. Cuckolding is the ultimate submission, if
both partners want that. For many men, especially for sissies,
cuckolding is the ultimate submission. You're admitting to your partner
that you're not a man. That you can't satisfy her the way a man can.
There is NOTHING wrong with that, not when you satisfy her in so many
other ways.

"Sometimes it is liberating, Michael. It is hard for you to admit to
yourself that you're a sissy because you're trying to be a man. Don't
try, Michael. Don't be her man. You can't anyway. Let a man be her man,
you be her sissy.

"Do you want to be Susan's sissy, Michael?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Do you want to be her man?"

I just looked down at the ground.

"Michael, do you want to be her man?"

"No. No."

"This is important. Please tell me, Michael, honestly. Do you want her
to fuck a man."

I looked up at my mother-in-law. "Yes...yes," I gasped, "but I don't
want to lose her!"

"That's why I'm here for both of you, Michael. You're not going to lose
her. If anything, you're going to be even closer to her, closer."

I almost cried. I really almost cried. I didn't want to lose Susan. I
loved her. I loved her more than any woman in the world. As my friend,
my wife, my lover. I loved her.

"Michael, trying to be her man isn't going to make you closer, it is
only going to drive a wedge between you. You can't be her man. You know
it. She knows it. She especially knows it now that a man, a real man,
has caught her eye. If you keep trying to be her man, you're only going
to further show her the difference between you and him. The only thing
you can do, the only thing, to stay close to her, to grow closer, is to
be the complete opposite. Be her sissy. Be that, Michael, be her sissy,
accept it. You want to, I know you want to, don't you."

"Yes."

"You want to be her sissy."

"Yes," I whispered.

"Not her man, Michael. You have to accept that you can't be her man.
You can be a male, sometimes, but you can't be her man."

"Yes."

"Then be her sissy, Michael, be that for her."

"What do you want me to do," I asked.

"You're very pretty, you have a cute body, and, while it is important
for a sissy to remember that she's still a male, though not a man,
there are some things you can do to de-emphasize some of your male
traits. I told you the other day, Michael, while you're not naturally
hairy, you need to get rid of what little body hair you have. You'll
feel, and Susan will see you as much more feminine if you're smooth all
over."

"You want me to shave my legs?"

She chuckled. "Well, yes and no. First, you can't shave...you don't
know how to shave your legs, all you'll do is cut them to ribbons. I
want you to take a shower," she looked towards her bathroom, "and use
the hair removal cream I've set in there. Next, not just your legs,
Michael. Your legs, yes, but, trim your pubic hair, under your arms, in
between, well, your bottom. Look at it this way...where does Susan trim
or shave? All those places." "Hairless? All my hair?" This seemed a bit
extreme, over the top. All my hair? "Of course, Michael. You're a
sissy. I'll keep saying it, but you're a sissy. You have no need for
masculine things. You're not a man. Why confuse Susan? Or yourself?
Remove what's holding you back, those things that confuse you, that
make you think you're a man. I'm not telling you anything that's
secretive, really, but I'm going to deprive you of masculinity,
Michael, to help you accept being a sissy. I'm going to strip away
anything and everything that you could use to cling onto the thought
that you're a man." I swallowed. Her words, her intentions, were a
slap. "Michael, you're a sissy. Remind yourself of that constantly.
You're a sissy. Now, please, the shower."

I stood, walked to the bathroom, followed by Mrs. Stanton who walked
right in with me.

"Um..."

"Modesty, now? I think not, Michael. Get undressed." She started and
warmed the shower water and after undressing I got in.

"Wash first, then the cream. It takes about two minutes. Rinse it off,
then wash again."

The only thing to wash with was the Sensual Amber body wash from Bath &
Body Works. The smell, which floated to my nose as I lathered the wash
over my body was purely feminine, purely womanly, purely erotic. After
washing and rinsing, I applied the hair removing lotion carefully over
my legs, parts of my pubes around the chastity cage, the crack of my
ass, and under my arms. The lotion tingled at first, then stung
slightly. I counted to 120 in my head, waited, then move the shower
head to rinse off.

I watched, wistfully, as what little body hair I had slid off my body,
slid down into the tub, towards the drain. I watched, seemingly, as
what little masculinity I had, was washed from me, as what little
maleness I had gathered around the drain.

Washing the second time, was, if possible, more sensual than the first.
More erotic. I was smooth. I felt my skin, closer to a woman's skin
than a man's skin. I felt pretty. I smelled pretty. Honestly, I was
pretty. It was disturbing to me, as I still thought of myself as a
male, but I was pretty. As a sissy, I was pretty. I was prettier as a
girl than I was handsome as a man.

Pretty.

A pretty sissy.

The thought struck me again. In comparison, I was a prettier girl than
I was handsome as a man.

When I finished showering, I turned off the water, opened the shower
door to see Mrs. Stanton standing, waiting, holding a towel, which she
handed to me.

"There, that's so much better, Michael."

After I dried, she handed me a bottle of scented lotion. "Rub this onto
your skin, Michael. It will help alleviate any irritation from the hair
removal cream. Taking care of your skin is important for a woman...or a
sissy."

I took the lotion from her. It too was from Bath and Body Works, the
same Sensual Amber I washed off with in the shower. Following her
directions, I rubbed a bit of lotion all over me, all over my skin. The
feeling was strange, not just physically, but mentally. The act was one
of submission. Each inch of my smooth skin I touched with the lotion
felt electric, alive. But mentally, each inch of my skin I touched
felt...feminine. I was rubbing femininity into my skin, into me, into
my mind, all over me. The lotion represented something feminine. The
smoothness, the smell. I smelled feminine. I felt feminine. I was
feminine.

"Very nice, Michael, very nice. Now I want to ask you something. Just
answer, don't think about it, just answer. How do you feel?"

"Feminine," I quickly answered.

"Yes, that's good. Do you feel masculine at all?"

"No."

"At all? Even a little bit?"

"No." How could I possibly feel masculine. I was basically hairless, my
skin was so smooth. I smelled like a woman. I felt like a woman. I
probably looked a little like a woman, save for my penis, though that
was small and caged, and my lack of breasts.

"Good, that's good, excellent really. Okay, now I want to test that.
Because it's important for you to feel feminine, to reject any
masculine feelings. You don't want to confuse Susan. Or yourself.
Please put those on," she pointed to a small pile of satin lilac
lingerie on the counter, "and then come into the bedroom."

I picked up the lingerie, similar to what I'd already been wearing, a
satin camisole and tap panty set. Oddly, it almost seemed normal.

It was not nearly so normal when I walked into the bedroom. There, Mrs.
Stanton was sitting on the bed with several items next to her. The
first that caught my eye, that my eye was drawn to, had to look at, was
the very cock Susan and I had in bed last night.

The cock.

The long, hard cock.

Sitting there, next to Susan's mother, who acted as if this was a
normal and every day event.

Next to the cock were...well...how to describe? Breasts. Two mounds
that looked exactly like female breasts. Obviously fake, not being
attached to a woman, but breasts just the same in color, shape, even
texture.

Cock.

Breasts.

My eyes went back to the cock.

"What is that, Michael," she asked me.

I gulped.

"Now, now, it's okay. Normally, I'd do this a bit differently, but
given your, um, activities last night, this may be the best way."

I looked up at her. Normally? What did she mean by that. Normally? What
was normal about any of this?

"Michael, first, please answer my question. What is this," she asked
again.

"A...a cock," I answered, almost chocking on the word.

"A cock, Michael, yes, of course, no mystery there. And who has cocks,
Michael?"

"Men," I answered tentatively.

"Of course," she smiled as if teaching a slow child. "And you, do you
have a cock?"

I looked down at my crotch, at the slight bump caused by the chastity
cage in my panties. "No, no I don't."

"No, of course not. Sissies don't have cock, do they?"

"No."

"What do they have?"

"Um, a...a penis?"

"Well, some may call it a penis. That's the correct anatomical term,
certainly, but there's another term that a sissy can use to refer to
it. Do you know what that is?"

I looked down. It wasn't a cock. Not a penis. A dick? That didn't seem
right. Too harsh. I looked up at her again, questioning.

"What is a woman's sexual organ called, Michael, not her pussy or
vagina, but the part of a woman that swells?"

"A...a clit?"

"Exactly, a clit. Excellent. Now, a sissy could call her little thing a
penis, but there's a much better term, one that pays homage to the
feminine, Michael. So, a man has a cock. A woman has a clit. A sissy
has..."

I leaned forward, almost anxious.

"...a clitty, Michael. A sissy...you...have a clitty. I want you to
think of yours that way, think of that little thing locked up in that
cage as a clitty. Not a cock, obviously, no longer a penis, but a
clitty. Say it, clitty."

"Clitty," I obediently repeated.

"Good, good, again, say I have..."

"I have a clitty," I said.

"There you go, Michael. A pretty little clitty. And like a clit, it can
swell and grow when you're excited, it can be fun to rub together with
a woman's clit, some women even like to lick them, but remember, it's
not a cock, it's not a penis, Michael. It's not for fucking. Cocks,"
she held up the dildo, "cocks are for fucking and sucking. A clitty is
for rubbing and licking."

I just stared at the cock in her hands. Stared.

"You've never seen a cock up close before last night, have you?" Her
voice had a note of sympathy, understanding.

"Just my" I stopped myself from saying, 'mine' as she glared at me.
"No," I said, staring at her hands, at the organ.

"I'm sure it must have surprised you? How much pleasure a woman can
feel with a cock."

I gulped, thinking of Susan's explosive orgasm.

"I'm sure you saw Susan experience something you've never seen her
experience before.

"I want you to understand something, Michael. That's okay. What you
feel is normal. But, remember, you're a sissy. You're not supposed to
please a woman the same way a man does. What's important is that you
please a woman, you please Susan, the way you can, in ways a man never
can. Please, understand, just because you can't fuck Susan doesn't mean
you can't please her. You can, you can please her in ways a man never
could. You just can't please her in the ways a man can."

"But I..."

"Michael, please, I know you may feel that I'm being mean, even harsh
with you, but I'm not. I'm here to help you, and more importantly, to
help Susan. Trust me, Michael. Susan loves you very much. Seeing you as
a sissy, not a man, is good for both of you. It really is. It's good
for you to understand and accept who you are. It's good for Susan to
understand the same, so she's not conflicted either. More sissies are
in unhappy marriages because one or both of them don't accept that,
don't accept the sissy. It is easier for both of you, it will make you
closer, the more you both accept what you are and what she wants and
needs. Trust me, Susan could no more be happy married to a man than you
could continuing to pretend you're a man."

"But she says that she wants to, you know, to..."

"Yes, Michael, but you say the same thing. You both seem to want that.
But that has nothing to do with your love for one another.
Cuckolding...yes, that word that seems to affect you so much,
cuckolding is about love and submission. And trust. If one of you ever
thinks something is going too far, you must communicate that feeling
and slow things down."

"I suppose."

"Michael, she asked you. I'm asking you. Do you want Susan to fuck a
man? Yes or no? Because if it is no, she shouldn't. She won't. You can
say no. You can't change the fact that you're a sissy. Or that you must
submit to your wife. Those things are hard wired into your brain. But
you can say no to this."

I bit my lip. I could say no. I knew I could. I knew Susan wouldn't do
anything I was absolutely uncomfortable with. But I didn't say no. I
didn't want to. I wanted to, but I didn't want to.

"Michael."

"Yes?" I looked at her.

"Michael, this is your choice too."

We just looked at one another. I looked at her, then the cock, then her
again. Finally, Mrs. Stanton put the cock on the bed next to the
breasts, which I'd really forgotten were even there. "Michael, there is
something else that makes a woman different from a man."

I looked at them closer. Breasts. I tilted my head slightly. I wasn't
sure what she was going to say, but somewhere, I sensed what she wanted
to do.

"Yes, Michael, breasts. A woman has breasts. Obviously, a man doesn't.
Nor does a sissy."

"Those are fake breasts."

"Breastforms. They are for a woman who has had a mastectomy and want to
have her femininity back, who wants her curves, her breasts, to make
her feel feminine. It's ironic, really, many women who have had a
mastectomy feel like they are not feminine without a breast or breasts.
Breastforms make a woman feel like a woman again."

"But what's that have to do with me?"

"The same as it does with any sissy, Michael. Breasts make you feel
feminine. Breasts reinforce the idea that you're not a man. That you're
more woman, than you ever were man."

"I...you want me to have breasts," I asked her incredulously, as I
looked at them again. Breasts. Breasts. I'd worn a bra yesterday, but
this was different. Those were, well, breasts!

"Michael, I don't want you to have anything. I want you to accept what
you are and what flows naturally from that. You're a sissy, Michael.
You're not a man. Obviously, you're a male, you're not a woman, but I
suspect, when presented with what you can have, such as breasts, you'll
want to have them, to experience them."

"I can't walk around with breasts," I protested.

"Well, the issue is the practical, then, not the concept?"

I frowned.

"You're not telling me you don't want to have breasts, Michael, you're
telling me you're concerned about hiding your breasts. I agree, at this
stage, you can't walk around the mall with Susan with lovely breasts,
even if you wanted to. But that doesn't mean you can't experience
breasts. Michael, I have a lovely bra that matches that lingerie. In
fact, there is an entire set, bra and garter belt, too. You're right,
you can't have breasts now. In fact I won't let you. I don't want to
ruin the experience for you. I just want you to know what I can do for
you."

I felt oddly disappointed. There was no way I wanted breasts. Yet, I
felt disappointed that I couldn't have them.

"Michael, we've talked about a lot this morning. Susan is going to be
home soon and I understand she wants to go shopping with you this
afternoon. Why don't you go get dressed and we'll have another lesson
later."

************************************

After lunch, after Susan got home, I was dressed in slacks, a loose
shirt, so as to hide my camisole, and ready to go shopping. Susan
wanted to go to an upscale mall.

"Are you looking for anything in particular," I asked her in car
driving.

"A few things. There is a sale at Banana and I wanted to see if they
had any sweaters on sale. I'm looking for a dress, too. I need
something nice to wear tomorrow."

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, barely noticing that there
was another tightening starting. "Tomorrow," I asked as calmly as I
could.

"I told you Tom's flying in this week from Atlanta. I wanted something
nice to wear to dinner tomorrow night." There was the other tightening.
The one in my satin tap panties. The tightening, the swelling, I was
feeling in the chastity cage. Merely hearing Susan talk about Tom, say
the name, was causing me to swell.

"You're having dinner tomorrow, then?"

"Yes, hon. I told you, I was assigned to chaperone him. It's kind of
expected that I'd take him to dinner, you know that." To some extent, I
did. She was right, when clients or employees of regional branches came
to down, they did get assigned someone local to help take care of them,
and she'd done that on a number of occasions. Of course, none of those
were with men who wanted to fuck her.

None were with men she wanted to fuck.

None were with men who'd seen her practically naked.

We started looking for sweaters, then wandered down to a dress shop.
There, Susan told the saleswoman she was looking for a little black
dress, pretty, but not too fancy.

"Are you looking for something for a specific event, or just in
general?"

"A special dinner," Susan told her, looking over and smiling at me.

The saleswoman looked at me, smiled back, imaging I'm sure, a romantic
dinner for Susan and I. Based on the assumption, left uncorrected by
Susan or I, she showed her several sexy, yet conservative dresses.
Romantic, but not slutty. Susan tried several on, rejecting as wrong
two strapless dresses and two with full sleeves.

After some time of trying on a number of selections, she seemed to find
happiness with black v-neck sleeveless dress that ended above her
knees, though not so short as to be improper for a business meeting.
"What do you think, Michael? Pretty, but not too over the top?"

She was trying it on without her hair done, without hose or proper
heels, but still, the dress, cut in at her waist, flattered both her
bust and her body without overtly exposing her. She looked sexy. She'd
look more so made up. She was amazing.

"Um, it...you look very nice."

"I think we'll take it," Susan told the smiling saleswoman.

"Excellent."

Completing the transaction, the saleswoman made small talk with Susan.
"When is your special dinner?"

"Tomorrow evening," Susan answered.

"He's very lucky," she said, smiling my way.

Susan looked towards me. "You've no idea how lucky he is, does she?"

I almost shook. Susan was talking about Tom, how lucky he was, but also
about me, how lucky I was to be her sissy.

We left the store. "Home now?"

"No, I want to stop at one more place."

"What else do you need?"

"Hmm, I want to go down to Sophie's," she said. Sophie's was an upscale
lingerie boutique outside the mall.

"What do you need there," I asked foolishly.

"Something pretty to wear under my dress, silly," she said, picking up
her pace, leaving me behind to digest her obvious meaning.

At Sophie's I allowed Susan to drag me into the store. I almost just
sat in the car, but part of me wanted to go inside. It was humiliating,
to be sure, but I felt the tightening again, inside my cage. I couldn't
deny the sexual frustration, the excitement.

Susan casually looked at a few things, fingered this and that. She
touched the hem of a satin cream chemise with lace trim. "Pretty, no? I
wonder if they have it in your size?"

"May I help you find that in your size," a pretty young woman asked
Susan walking up to us. "You're a small?"

"I am," Susan answered. "But I was looking for it in a large. A gift."

The saleswoman looked at me. She couldn't possibly understand, could
she? "Of course. Here we go," she said, handing it to Susan.

Susan in turned handed it to me. "Do you mind, Michael," she asked,
grinning as I took the satin garment in my hands. "Can you help me find
something else?"

"Of course. What are you looking for? Seductive, sexy, flirty?"

"Well, I have a special, um, dinner tomorrow and I'd like something,
um, pretty, I guess, to wear under my dress."

"What kind of dress are you wearing on your date?"

"A black v-neck sleeveless dress that ends a little above my knees,"
Susan answered, not bothering to correct the saleswoman's assumption
that she had a date.

"Classic, then," the saleswoman said, "so you'll want classic lingerie,
too, something practical for the evening, but sexy for later?" The
saleswoman looked at me again.

"Yes," Susan answered, blushing slightly. "I suppose."

Lowering her voice, the saleswoman asked Susan, "Are you sure you want
him to see now instead of later as a surprise?"

Susan looked over at me, spoke in a normal voice. "No, no, I don't mind
if he sees now, I think the anticipation is kind of a turn-on, if you
know what I mean." She tilted her head, spoke more to me, than the
saleswoman. "He can just imagine it during the whole evening."

The saleswoman chuckled. "Of course. Well, if you're wearing a classic
dress and want both practical and sexy, I might suggest a light corset
with garters, or a garter belt, matching panties, and stockings. Have
you worn stockings before? They really make a woman feel incredibly
sexy."

"Actually, yes, I just started recently."

"Well then, you know what I mean. I've actually got something really
special that's new, maybe instead of a corset. It's a bit retro, and,
well, let me show you. Normally I'd recommend black under a black
dress, but this set is something special that really works too."

She led Susan and I towards a wall display that contained a number of
things.

"Here, this is what I wanted to show you." She stopped in front of a
table covered in pink. "As I said, it is very retro." She held up a
pink bra with black strap and some black edging. "This is a bullet bra,
I'm sure you remember women wearing these years ago. The fit is really
amazing and gives the bust an exciting look. I know, pink under a black
dress, but that's the beauty of the black bra straps."

"Wow, it's gorgeous," Susan said.

"Just wait. Take a look at the matching panties and the garter belt."
She picked up the garter belt first. "See, the six garter straps are
also black, so compliment the bra. The panties are full cut, so again,
a bit old fashioned, but they are sheer nylon, so incredibly sexy,
too."

"No, no, I love them," Susan exclaimed.

"I thought you might. What size? 36C? Small panties?"

Susan nodded and the saleswoman picked out the appropriate sizes of
lingerie. "Trust me," she looked quickly at me, "he's going to be
thinking about this set all during your date."

"Hmmm, I'm counting on it," Susan giggled.

"Can I suggest one more thing? This may be a bit extravagant, but we
have some magnificent silk stockings. You'd never want them for
everyday, but for a special evening, they are perfect."

"Please, that would be very nice," Susan agreed, "I know he's got quite
a thing for my legs."

*********************************************

In the car on the way home, Susan reached over to me, put her hand on
my thigh. "Honey, I didn't mean to make you upset."

"Upset?"

"Well, letting that saleswoman think my dinner tomorrow night was a
date."

"Um, okay."

"I mean, I suppose it feels like a date and all, buying a new dress,
pretty lingerie, but..." She laughed.

"What?"

"Actually, it's funny, to Tom, I suppose it is like a date. Dinner
somewhere nice, wondering if he's going to get lucky."

"Is he?" I felt my penis swelling in the cage.

"Is he what?"

"Going to get lucky," I asked, relieved I had to focus on driving and
not looking at her.

"I don't know," she giggled with more levity than she probably wanted.
"I mean, Michael, I..."

I looked over at her. She was blushing. She was blushing thinking about
whether or not she was going to fuck him. On her date.

"Michael, can we just talk about this later."

Was she having second thoughts? About all of this? I certainly was. Did
I really want my wife doing this? I mean, for goodness sake, she was
going on a date!

Her hand was still on my thigh, started moving slightly, upward.
"Susan," I said, shifting in my seat. I didn't want her touching me
like that for she was making me swell more, and worse, was coming close
to touching the cage. I wasn't sure, but I didn't want her finding it
now, here, in the car.

"Sorry, you're right, focus on driving."

************************************

That was a short lived hope, for when we got home Susan's mother was
waiting for us.

"How was the shopping?"

"Wonderful, mother, I found a nice dress and some very sexy lingerie to
wear on my date...I mean, to dinner tomorrow."

"That's nice Susan. Michael and I have another surprise for you."

"You do? Michael, didn't mention anything," she said, smiling, touching
my arm, sending shivers through my skin.

"I'm sure he wasn't too keen on sharing this with you."

"What is it, what is it?"

"I think we'd best go upstairs to your room so we can show you.
Michael," she said pointing the way.

"Um, Mrs. Stanton, can't we..."

"Upstairs, Michael," she insisted.

When we got to the top of the stairs, Mrs. Stanton turned to me. "You
go into your room and get undressed...well, undressed down to your
pretty things, anyway. I want to show Susan a couple of things, we'll
be right in."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Actually, remove your panties, too."

Several minutes later I sat on my bed, nervous, almost shaking, a
pillow covering my midsection. I was so nervous, of what Susan would
think of her hairless husband, penis firmly trapped in some strange
pink chastity device. They walked in and immediately Mrs. Stanton
frowned.

"Stand up, Michael, and put that pillow back on the bed."

"Mrs. Stanton," I started to complain, "I'm not sure about..."

She raised an eyebrow. "Now, Michael," she said rather sharply. She
turned to Susan as I stood. "You see where it might be necessary?"

"Yes, Mother," Susan said somewhat shyly.

"It will do some good, really," her mother replied, cryptically.

"Mother, what is that," Susan asked, turning back to me, now standing
before them, feeling about two feet tall, humiliated, ashamed, even
hurt.

"Hmmm, the surprise."

"He's...I mean...what's that...is that a lock?"

"It is, Susan. That, dear, is a chastity cage."

"I almost hate to ask, Mother, but what's a chastity cage?"

"Oh, I'm sure you have figured out what it is. Look at it. When a man,
or in this case, a sissy, is wearing a device like that, an erection is
impossible. An orgasm as a male is impossible. No matter how much a
sissy plays with her trapped little clitty," she smirked at her use of
the word.

"But, how can we..."

"Like you always do, Susan. He must forget that he ever had a free
penis that he penetrated you with and focus on making love to you in
other ways."

"Other ways?" Susan took a few steps towards me, looked at me closer,
tilted her head. "Something's different."

"He's smooth, Susan."

"Other ways?"

"As we discussed, Susan. If you don't want your husband pretending to
be a man, you focus him elsewhere. He's a sissy, Susan. You focus his
attentions that way, to pleasing you in other ways. Susan, I know it's
strange, but as we discussed, he's all confused trying to please you
the way a man would. He knows he can't, yet he struggles to do so
anyway, ruining things for both of you. Take away his utter ability to
stick his little clitty inside you and both of you will focus on what
matters. He needs to think like a sissy. Being a sissy, being a sissy
for you. Locked up, all he can do is please you in the only way he
really can, as a sissy, as a woman, really."

"He can't try to fuck me?"

"No, Susan, he can't, not locked up."

"And he can't have an orgasm."

"Well, that's complicated, but for now, the simple answer is no, again,
locked up."

"Complicated how?"

"That's for later, Susan. For now, unless he's unlocked, he can't have
an orgasm."

"Unlocked?"

"Yes. But, this is important. When using a chastity device for the
first time on a sissy, you must not be tempted to unlock him. You're
going to want to train him to pamper you, serve you, make love to you
as a woman would. A sissy's orgasm is to be earned, not expected."

"How should he earn them? How should I decide?"

"Decide? Well, for now, you might not know or really understand how, so
I might suggest letting me hold the key. You'll want to have it,
eventually, but for now, it may be best that I hold it. If you want to
reward him, you can ask me to unlock him. Kind of a safe way not to
surrender in the spur of the moment, as it were. You don't want to
confuse either of you, Susan. He's not a man. He's not going to become
a man. Ever."

I wanted to yell at them. I was fucking standing right there. They were
talking as if I didn't exist, as if I couldn't hear them.

Susan looked at me, then her mother.

"Susan, I know this isn't easy for you, either. He's a sissy. He always
has been and always will. Deny it and you'll have problems, I guarantee
it. Accept it, let me teach him, teach you, embrace it, and you'll find
happiness."

"I suppose," my wife said.

"You suppose. Susan, you told me the other day, the only pleasure you
found in your sex life with him was from foreplay."

"Yes."

"Have you ever, even once, ever had an orgasm from him fucking you?"

Susan looked down, obviously embarrassed to discuss something so
intimate with her mother in front of me. "No," she said softy.

"Never?"

"Never," she whispered.

"And you never will, Susan, never. You know that. Why else would you
even contemplate going on a date? Why else would you fantasize about
fucking a man?"

"It's just that..."

"I know exactly what it is, Susan. Look up...look at your husband. He's
a sissy. You're married to a sissy. You know it. Look at him. Look at
his body, his smooth skin, his features, his figure, even his small
penis, or, clitty, as it should be called. He's not a man, will never
be a man, never. You know it. You've always known it. What makes it
special, Susan, is that you accept it, more, you love him. You love
Michael. You love your sissy. Embrace it. Embrace it."

"I...I know."

"Yes, Susan. Embrace making love to him like a woman. That's almost
what he is. And if you want more, if you want a man from time to time,
embrace that, too. He'll let you, Susan. He wants you to. You know
that, don't you? You want to fuck a man. He wants you to do the same."

Susan and I just looked at one another. I was afraid to say anything,
but with my eyes, I said it all. I love you. I love you.

And she looked back at me with the same look in her eyes.

******************************

Mrs. Stanton left Susan and I alone. It was strange. Susan just stared
at me. Stared at my penis, locked in the cage. Reflexively, I started
to cover myself again, ashamed.

"Don't," Susan said. "Move your hands away."

I dropped my hands back to my side and she continued to stare. "Susan,
can't we..."

"Shhh." She walked to me, turned me around by my shoulders so I was
facing the bed, and sat down, now eye level with the cage.

Again, I started to move my hands in front of me, so ashamed at myself.

"I said don't Michael," she chastised me again, "or must I tie your
hands behind you?

I gulped. Tied? Bound? My penis jumped. She saw. "Hmmm, you'd like
that, wouldn't you? Hold them behind you anyway."

I put my hands behind me. My penis was left, to her, unprotected. I
felt vulnerable. Small. Shy. Afraid. Susan reached out, touched the
cage with two of her fingers. "I like you this way, Michael. Small,
shrunken, trapped."

"Uugh, Susan" I exhaled, my penis...my clitty, jumping.

"I could get used to this. I like it. Little, not at all masculine,
quite feminine."

I started swelling. There was no room, of course, but I swelled to the
confines of the cage.

"I never believed her, Michael, every time she said something, every
time she insisted, but she was right, she was right all along. You're a
sissy. She's right. She's right, isn't she?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Michael, do you want me to go on a date tomorrow? Not just dinner, but
on a date? Do you?"

"Yes," I said, almost moved to tears.

"A date, Michael, a date. With a man? Do you want me to go on a date
with him?"

"Yes," I whispered, "yes."

"I love you, Michael."

"I love you, too, Susan."

Love. Love.

************************************

We lay in bed that night. Susan was naked, I wearing a satin chemise. I
lay in Susan's arms, our roles reversed. I was the pretty one, the
woman, dressed in lingerie, the submissive one. Susan was naked,
dominant, cuddling me, running her fingers over my stomach, up to my
chest, over my nipples.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"Mother...mother told me she has something to give you some shape up
here."

"Yes, she showed me."

"I...I want you to wear them, I want to see you with them...with...with
breasts, okay?"

"Okay," I answered, feeling her hold me tighter as I agreed to allow
her mother to change me more.

"Are you okay, Michael?"

"Yes. Are you?" I was worried about her, not just myself. I loved
Susan. Was she okay? Her world was as much turned upside down as mine.

She didn't say anything for a minute. "Susan?"

"I'm fine Michael, it's you I'm worried about."

"I think I'm okay, really, I do," I told her, mostly sure of myself.

"Michael, if anything I do, you do, mother does, if anything is too
much, tell me, you'll promise to tell me?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Anything, Michael. Even tomorrow."

"Yes," I said again, thinking briefly of her tomorrow, out, with Tom,
thinking of her in Atlanta, mostly naked, his cock pressing against
her.

I felt Susan's hand touch my penis, or rather, the cage. "It's too
bad...or maybe a good thing, mother has the key."

"Susan," I groaned, "you're teasing me."

"Yes," she giggled, letting go of me, "I can stop...but I really think
I'd try to fuck you if I had that key."

"No," I begged, dying for her touch, even if through the cage.

"Bend your leg up," she said, moving her hand off my side, reaching
around my leg, to touch the cage from under me, then, taking my balls,
which were not confined inside the cage, into her hand.

"Ohhhh," I moaned.

"Hmmm, you like that, don't you?"

"Yes, yes," I groaned, feeling the tightening of my organ in the cage.

"It's too bad your little clitty is locked up in that cage, lover," she
whispered to me, massaging my balls, emphasizing the word 'little.'

"Uuugh," I moaned again, jerking.

"Does that really excite you, Michael? Hearing me tell you how little
you are? Isn't that humiliating?" She sounded genuinely interested.

I didn't say anything, ashamed that I was excited. I was glad she
couldn't see me, that my back was to her, as my eyes were closed,
rolled back in my head. She took that for assent.

"It's so small, Michael, so small," she whispered.

"Ohhh, Susan," I moaned again.

She moved her fingers lower, was running them back and forth, from the
base of my balls downward, towards my ass, lightly, teasing, gently.

"You like the humiliation, don't you," she whispered in my ear. "You
like hearing it. It's true, you know, it's true that it's sooo small,
sissy, so small, isn't it?" She kept rubbing my ball, running her
fingers from my balls towards my ass.

"Answer me, Michael. You like the humiliation?"

"Yes," I groaned, both from her touch and her words.

"You like hearing how small you are, don't you"?

"Yes, Susan, yes." I was starting to shake, to get dizzy.

"You know, sissy, you've never made me cum when you've been inside me."

"Ohhhh," I gurgled.

"But how could you, with that tiny little thing of yours, that little
clit of yours. How could you ever make me cum like a man would."

I was breathing heavily, breathing in and out. I felt her fingers move
lower and lower, move from my balls, down towards my ass. She ran her
fingers around it, over the edge, lightly teasing me. She said nothing
for a minute, two, three, just used her fingers to gently rub me.

"You know I mean it, Michael," she whispered, "you make me cum with
your mouth every time you lick me, but you've never made me cum when
you tried to fuck me. Ever."

"Yes," I said, pressing into her fingers as they rubbed me.

"That's why I want a cock, Michael, a man's cock." Her fingers still
circled my ass. "That's why I want a cock inside me, filling me." She
had a finger on the very outside of my ass, just touching the pucker.
"That's why I can think of nothing else, Michael. A cock, Tom's cock,
touching the outside of my pussy as I silently beg him to push it into
me."

I was shaking as she spoke and touched me.

"Can you imagine it, Michael, cock, pressed up against my opening." She
was talking about herself, clearly, about Tom's cock, her pussy, her
opening. But...but...

"Oh god, Susan."

"Yes, that's it, lover, that's it. Imagine it, pretty girl. Cock.
Imagine a man's cock," she stopped moving her fingers, left one just on
the outside of me. "Imagine a man's cock touching the outside of my
pussy, rubbing on me. Do you know how badly I'd want it inside me?"

"Ohhh," I moaned, thinking of it, thinking of cock touching her,
touching her pussy.

"Cock, Michael, think of cock pressed up against the opening."

"Can you imagine it, Michael? Think of cock, think of a man's cock,
ready to push inside."

Her fingers pressed on me, touching me. I thought of cock. I thought of
cock pressing against Susan, but as she kept slight pressure with her
finger, I also thought of cock pressing against me.

"Yes," I moaned, pushing slightly against her finger.

"Hungry for cock. Needing cock. Can you imagine it? Needing cock so
badly? Can you possibly imagine needing cock so much?"

I was breathing heavily, my trapped penis in pain, but my skin alive,
the spot where Susan touched me, electric.

Her finger was a slight pressure against me, against my ass. It
terrified me. Cock. I was thinking of cock. "That moment, that pause,
waiting for it, waiting for a man's cock to push into me." Susan
pressed her finger just slightly forward. "Imagine it, sissy, that
moment, waiting for cock to press into you."

YOU? Oh, god, oh GOD! You? She meant me. ME! "Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm," I
moaned.

"You're thinking about it, I know it, just like me," she whispered in
my ear. "You're thinking about cock, Michael, cock, sissy. Cock." She
pressed her finger slightly into me, slightly, ever so slightly. "I
know what you want, Michael, I know what you want."

"No, Susan, please," I said, mouth dry. This was wrong. Cock? I was
thinking about cock. I was thinking about cock, a man's cock, pressed
against me. This was so wrong.

Slowly she moved her fingers away from my ass. I was shaking,
uncontrollably.

"I know what you want, Michael," she said again, pushing her finger
back to me, at the opening, flicking, teasing, "the same thing I want.
Cock. I know you're imaging it, a man's cock."

"Ohhhhhh," I groaned, basically confirming her accusation to my horror.
I wanted to scream, to yell, to deny. I tried to form the words, but my
mouth would not speak them.

"Shhhh, it's okay, Michael, you're secret is safe with me," Susan
assured me, pressing her finger just slightly deeper into me.

"Susan," I protested, shaking.

"Shhhh, I won't tell anyone you want cock, too...besides Mother."

"Susan!"

Susan giggled. Was she serious? Her mother? She wouldn't. Right? "I'm
tired Michael," she said, shifting, cuddling me again.

I dreamt that night. I remembered little about my dreams, the details,
anything, except for one thing:

Cock.

Cock!

COCK!

***************************************************

Susan decided to go on her long run late Sunday morning so from about
11 till 1 or 2 just her mother and I would be home. I dreaded it. I was
terrified of it. Of her mother. Of myself. Of everything.

"Susan, please, don't leave me home with her," I begged my wife.

"Oh, stop, Michael," she dismissed me. "It's fine. Remember, serving
her is serving me, right? Besides she said she wanted to help you with
something."

"Help me with what," I asked, feeling even more dread creep into me.

"Don't know," she shrugged her shoulders.

"Susan."

"Michael," she looked right back at me. "Don't you like being pretty?
Honestly?"

"Yes," I blushed.

"Then quit worrying and go see her, she's in her room. I'm going
running, I'll see you later...and behave."

"Yes, Ma'am," I mustered an answer.

**************************************************

I found Mrs. Stanton in her room, entered with some trepidation.

"Ahhh, Michael," Mrs. Stanton said, opening her door, motioning me into
her chamber.  "So, your darling wife has a date tonight, I understand."

"She, she has a meeting, a dinner meeting, for work," I said meekly, a
weak attempt at downplaying what I both feared and fantasized about.

"A meeting," she tsked.  "Of course, for work.  Perfectly natural for a
married woman to meet a colleague at a hotel, happens all the time."

I blushed, of course, knowing that very fact, terrified of that very
fact, so excited by just the fantasy of that very fact.

"Perfectly natural, really, perfectly natural.  Just generally, that's
called a date, not a business meeting.  After all, most business
meetings don't end with a good fucking.  But you know that, don't you
sissy?  You know she isn't going on just a business meeting, you know
she's going on a date, you know your pretty wife is looking forward to
an evening with a man...don't you," she asked softly.

"Yes," I said looking at the floor.

"Of course you do, and that's what you want, you don't need to deny it
to me or to yourself.  I know you love Susan, sissy, and like any
husband you want her to be happy, satisfied, in many ways.  Including
sexually.  And since you can't do that, naturally you want Susan to
find someone who can.  Believe me, sissy, I know, I know, you CAN deny
it, but I know how badly you want to be cuckolded."


I said nothing.  What, was I supposed to tell her that she was wrong?
That I did not dream of my wife fucking a man?  That the fantasy was so
powerful that it was present in my mind at every waking moment, that it
invaded every dream?

But it was wrong.  I could not deny it, but how could I admit it. It
was wrong, so fucking wrong.  It was perverted for god's sake. Dreaming
and fantasizing about my wife FUCKING A MAN!


Worse, actually wanting it!  I was her husband, her lover, her
confidant, her friend.  We took vows, for crying out loud.  Vows to
forsake all others and not only did I not get mad at her for dreaming
of fucking Tom, I actually got excited by it?


"You know what you're going to do later today, sissy?"  She actually
laughed.  "You're going to help her get ready for her date!"


"I'm what," I asked?


"Oh, sissy, it's what every little cuckold dreams about, helping
mistress prepare for a date with a real man.  I know Susan is a wreck,
all guilt ridden, that poor thing.  All she wants is a good fuck and
she's worried about what you.  What better way to reassure her that she
is doing nothing wrong than to participate.  Now go shower, my little
sissy, so we can get you dressed in something proper."


I showered, again using scented products, feeling more feminine,
softer, more like a sissy, the feelings of inadequacy reinforced,
serving only to heighten my awareness of Susan's potential infidelity,
to increase my desire, even need for just that.

"Here," Mrs. Stanton said, handing me a white bra, "start with the
basics, like I've shown you."  I took bra from her, wrapped it around
my chest, fasteners in front, hooked it closed, slid it around my
chest, put my arms through the straps.


"Excellent," she encouraged me, "like you've been doing it for years.
And to think, you ever wondered whether or not you were feminine.
You're a natural, it's hard for me to believe you ever thought you were
masculine!"


She picked another garment up off her bed, held it out to me, a garter
belt in the same style as the bra.  "Something else to wrap around you,
my pretty," she winked, watching me gently take the garter belt from
her hand and wrap it around my trim waist.

"Here, a pair of nude stockings, a bit plain, I know, but you're
working this afternoon, not a time to show off."  I took the stockings
from her, sat on the edge of the bed, pulled them on, clipped them to
the garter straps, then stood.


"I want you to lie back on the bed," she said, gently pushing me
backwards.  "It's easier to correctly fit the breastforms if you are on
your back."

I shook just slightly sitting back down on the bed, scooting backwards.
Breasts.  I don't know if I had actual breast envy, but the image,
thought, fantasy of having breasts was stirring.  Breasts.


Why not?  My penis locked up, dressed in lingerie, why not?  What was
more natural?  What could be more appropriate?  Breasts.  Breasts to
fill my bra, to give me shape, to remind me that I, Michael, was most
definitely, not a man.


I just lay there, allowed Mrs. Stanton to carefully, one side at a
time, insert the forms into my bra, fit them into place, adjust them,
then push them carefully, firmly, against my chest, to 'make them
stick.'


"Okay, that should do it," she pulled me up, reached down, picked up
and tossed a pair of panties to me.  "Not really needed to keep things
in place, what with the cage, but what kind of sissy would you be
without panties?"

As I stepped into the tight, high-waisted panties, Mrs. Stanton got out
a large case, opened it, started pulling out various types of makeup
and set them at the desk in her room.  "Yes, of course for you," she
said barely looking up at me.  "No sense having my daughter have a half
made up sissy helping her get ready for her date, only the best, my
dear, only the best."


She sat me down, opened some things, got out some brushes, began
applying a light foundation to my face.  "It doesn't take much, smooth
out your skin, a little help around the eyes, the lashes, lips.  You're
just a natural, Michael, it isn't turning a man into a woman, it's
simply enhancing the woman inside you."

I watched in the mirror, each stroke of a brush, each fluff of a lash.
Each movement took away a little bit of self-awareness I had as a man,
a bit of what little masculinity I had, replaced it with ten times as
much feminine.


"You're going to have to grow your hair out, nails, too.  We'll use a
wig now, for the time being, but there is no reason, other than
personality change, that you shouldn't have your own natural, feminine
hair."


I wanted to protest.  Feminine hair?  I was not a woman; the thought,
any inkling of saying something, all words, died on my lips as she
lowered a shoulder length wig onto my head.  The image, the reflection
in the mirror.


There was not a hint, not a glimpse, of a man staring back at me. It
was a woman.  Not a sissy.  Not a transvestite.  Not a boy dressing,
playing a part.  It was a woman.  As if my soul, my life, my essence,
everything, all I ever knew, was not the same.  I was a woman?  Not a
man?  All of it, upside down, changed, different.


"I can see it in your eyes, Michael, you realize, don't you?"


"What," I pretended.

"She'll never see you as a man again.  She never did, of course, but
she won't even try anymore.  You're a sissy, you're a girl, you're
something soft, something feminine.  She will never, ever, look at you
and see anything but something feminine."

"But she..."


"Never, Michael."


"I want to..."


"Ever, Michael."


"How can..."


"You see it, too, sissy, you see it, too.  Now stand up, let's finish
dressing you."

That afternoon, when Susan came home, I was standing in the living
room, waiting patiently for Susan.  I was dressed in a mint green
dress, very fifties, very homemaker.  The dress had crinoline under the
skirt, making it flow as I walked, strange to sit when I could. The
dress was very June Cleaver, very Betty Draper.  With it, the lingerie,
the heels, the wig, the makeup, I was a housewife, domesticated.


With the simple white apron wrapped around my waist, the image was even
more stark, more reinforced.


I was an object.


And I was standing, because that's all I could do.  An object, made to
be just so.


I was standing because Susan's mother would not allow me to sit. She
made sure before we left her room, taking a thin leather strap, a
leash, it was apparent, and clipping one end to my chastity cage.

The leash was short; Mrs. Stanton took the other end and led me from
the room. It wasn't until Susan was about fifteen minutes from coming
home that Mrs. Stanton found me, took the leash in hand again, and led
me to the living room. There she led me to a corner of the room, ran
the leash between my legs, took it from behind and clipped it to
something in the wall.

"A housewife must learn to wait patiently, quietly, don't you agree
Michelle?"  She feminized my name.  Michelle, not Michael.

"Yes, Ma'am, I suppose," I groaned, immediately aware that the leash
tugged gently, but solidly, at my aching, sore penis and balls.

Finally, after fifteen minutes that felt like hours, I heard the garage
door, knew Susan was home. After a minute, I heard Susan's voice call
out. "Michael? Mother?" Susan walked into the living room, saw me
standing quietly in the corner.

"Oh," she said, surprise on her face. "I'm sorry, I'm looking for my
husband or my..." A look came over her face, at first confusion, then
recognition. She clearly did not recognize me at first, realized that
the "woman" she was looking at was her husband.

"I see you've found Michelle," Mrs. Stanton said, coming up from behind
her.

"Michelle," Susan repeated.

"Yes, darling. You're got a big night tonight, dear, I though you'd
appreciate someone to help you dress for your date."

"Oh," Susan said, quickly adapting to the odd, but, given the time her
mother had been here, not completely out of the ordinary scene before
her. "That's very kind of you, Mother, I suppose I could use the
pampering; I'm a little nervous, maybe this will calm me."

"Nervous? Whatever are you nervous about, Susan?"

"Well," she started looking around, then lowered her voice. "Where is
Michael," she asked, then looked at me.  "Michael is my husband," she
explained.  "He thinks I'm having dinner with a work colleague, which I
am, but, well, he is a colleague, but he doesn't know it's really more
a date."

Her mother snorted. "Susan, you've got a date with a man tonight, I
hardly think you need to have your husband around. Don't worry, I've
taken care of him, he won't be back until after you leave."

"Well, that's just it, Mother," Susan said, her voice normal again. "I
haven't been on a date with a man in years, I'm nervous about how to
act, what to do..."

"You've met him before, haven't you, your date?"

"Yes?"

"And he was pleasant? Nice? Handsome? All that?"

"Yes, Mother, and he was, it's just that, well, he was quite forward."

"Imagine, a man that wanted to sleep with you," Mrs. Stanton said in a
mocking tone.  "Whatever has the world come to when a handsome man
wants to bed a pretty woman?"

"I know, Mother, I know, but...I'm a married woman and I...I don't know
if..."

"He was attractive?"

"Yes," Susan blushed, glancing quickly at me, which, unknown to her, I
was sure, immediately caused my locked penis to swell.

"Susan, I know you love your husband, but as you said, you've not been
with a man for years, there is nothing unusual about being attracted to
him."

"But mother, I think he wants to...to..."

"Well of course he does, Susan, that's what men always want. I'm not
telling you that you should ever leave Michael, whatever I think of
such a mouse, I know you adore him and he you."

"What are you saying, Mother?"

Mrs. Stanton looked around the room, me, directly in the eye. "Since
he's not here, and since Michelle would never betray your confidence,
trust me, I suppose I can speak freely. If you have a nice time this
evening, if the mood is right, go with it. I understand how you feel
about Michael, but," she looked around again, "sometimes a woman needs
a nice hard cock and a good fucking!"

"Mother," Susan said, laughing.

"Well?"

"We'll see, Mother, we'll see."

"Just keep an open mind, Susan, nothing more. I'm sure Michael would
understand. Wouldn't he, Michelle," she asked, turn back to me.

"How would she know," Susan asked, looking to me.

Mrs. Stanton chuckled. "Oh, I suppose I did neglect to mention, didn't
I? I'm sorry, Susan. Michelle here isn't quite a lady herself."

"What do you mean, Mother," Susan asked, wondering, I'm sure, as I did,
what her mother was thinking or implying.  "She seems nice."

"Well, Susan, much like that mousy husband of yours, Michelle is a
budding sissy."

"Mother, you now I don't like..."

Mrs. Stanton held up her hand to quiet her daughter. "Susan, you need
not like the label, but that doesn't change the fact that your husband
is a sissy."

Susan crossed her arms. "Fine."

"It isn't like you are opposed, are you?"

"To sissies? No," she said, looking at me.

"And to Michael being one?"

"No, no."

"I suspect you rather prefer it, don't you?"

"Yes," Susan sighed softly.

"I know it was quite a surprise, Susan, but that does not change the
fact that Michael is a sissy, nor that you much prefer him that way."

"No," Susan admitted.

"Nor does it change that you've been fantasizing about a man," her
mother said, grinning, "and that brings us to Michelle. I only thought
it fitting that you have a sissy help you get ready for your big night.
I thought it might be reassuring."

"I suppose."

"Let me show you. Michelle, you're a sissy?"

"Yes Ma'am," I said softly, both their attention now turned to me. It
was clear Mrs. Stanton wanted me to play a role, to be Michelle, not
Michael, and I thought I'd try, as best I could.

"And I understand you're married?"

"Yes," I said, feeling the stress, the strain, in my crotch, my penis
swollen to the sides of the cage, pulled backwards, tugged, by the
leash, unseen, under my dress, connected to the wall.

"Susan seems to be conflicted, even ashamed at what she's been thinking
about, fantasizing about a man. I've been trying to tell her that there
is nothing unusual about that, not odd about a woman married to a sissy
going on a date with a man now and then, even contemplating, wanting,
er, an intimate evening. Michelle, does your wife fantasize about, um,
no sense being too polite about it, fucking a man?"

I groaned. I groaned from excitement. I groaned from pain.

"No need to be embarrassed, Michelle, she's not here."

"Yes," I whispered.

"Does that bother you, Michelle? You're a sissy, does it bother you
that she craves a man?  Craves a cock, to be blunt about it?"

"No," I answered, even softer.

"In fact, Michelle, if you're like most sissies, you get rather excited
by it, don't you?"

I was red faced, silent.

"Michelle?"

"Yes!"

"It excites you right now, doesn't it? Talking to me about your wife
fucking a man. Hearing Susan as she thinks aloud about it?  Knowing she
craves a man, craves a cock."

"Yes Ma'am, yes."

"What would you tell Susan, sissy? If she were you're wife? What would
you tell my daughter? Would you tell her to fuck him? Would you even
beg her to?  Would you beg your wife to fuck a man?"

"Yes," I breathed heavily, looking downward, at Susan's feet. I sensed
her watching me, finally, I looked up, met her gaze.

"You see, Susan," Mrs. Stanton said, clapping her hands. "Michael would
tell you the same."

"Maybe you're right, Mother, maybe you're right."

"I am right, dear, mothers are always right. Now," she looked at her
watch, "you'd best start getting ready, no?"

"Yes, I suppose I should."

"Come now, Michelle."

I just stood there, a helpless look on my face.

"Oh, silly me, I forgot. You see, Susan, Michelle, like your sissy
husband, wears a chastity cage. I told you, sissies are not in control
of their orgasm. Anyway, Michelle did not have anything to do until you
got home, so she's been tied to the wall with a little leash connected
to her cage."

"Mother," Susan said.

"Don't 'Mother' me, Susan. Sissies must be dealt with differently than
men.  It isn't cruel at all, it's much securing a horse on a hitching
post, I'd say. You may love a horse, but you'd still restrain a horse
to keep it from getting in trouble."

"Mother, you're impossible."

"Maybe, Susan, but you'll thank me when you know how to train and treat
your sissy."

Mrs. Stanton walked over to me, unclipped the leash from the wall, held
it up towards Susan.

"Fine, Mother, lead her upstairs, but I don't think I'll need it for
now."

Mrs. Stanton tugged at me, pulling me away from the wall by my trapped,
swollen penis.

Upstairs we went, Susan first, her mother next, me, third, led by the
leash.

In the bedroom, Susan's mother gestured to the leash again. "Are you
sure, Susan? I could just un-clip it and leave it here."

"I suppose that's fine, Mother."

"Great, well, I'll leave you alone now."

"Um, Mother, what does Michelle do?"

"Do? Oh, silly me, you've never had someone like her before, have you?
Well, it's quite simple, really," she started.

In a way, I was glad for the "tutorial" as I too had no idea what to
do. All I knew was that I was dressed up like a housewife, I was named
Michelle, and I was to help my wife, who was not my wife, get ready for
a date. My brain was so clouded with emotions, sexual and otherwise, I
was on the verge of collapse.

"A sissy like Michelle, or your own sissy if Michael was here, should
do most of the work on preparing her Mistress. For example, if you
shower, Michelle would dry you. She'll help dress you, fetch things for
you, give suggestions if asked. Even be a confidant, if need be.  Kind
of like when a bridesmaid helps a bride get ready for her wedding, or
if a sorority sister was there helping you get ready for a date.
Everything else, Michelle will help you with."

"Oh, and dear, I know it may be strange undressing and getting dressed
in front of Michelle, but remember, she's a sissy, just like Michael.
Harmless. Do this in front of a man, he's likely to thrown you down and
fuck you. A sissy, though, gives you nothing to worry about. Besides,
she's in chastity, she couldn't do anything even if she wanted, not
that any woman would want her little clitty, even if unlocked."

"Thank you Mother," Susan said earnestly.

"I'd suggest Michelle start by drawing you a bath, to relax you, and
I'll leave you alone to get ready." Mrs. Stanton smiled at Susan,
grinned at me, set the leash on the bed and took her leave.

I took Mrs. Stanton's suggestion and went to the bathroom while she was
exiting and started a bath for Susan. I tried to think of myself as a
girlfriend, as Susan's helper, not her husband. I tried to think, what
would she want, what would help someone like her, in this situation.
Unfortunately, for me at least, those thoughts did more than put me in
a frame of mind to help her. They cause me to continue to swell, to
continue to throb. The thoughts caused sexual feelings, excitement,
frustration, to flow through my body, through every fiber of my skin
covered by satin, nylon, lace.

Shuffling around, from the bedroom to the bathroom, focused my mind on
the attire I was dressed in. Heels were not easy to walk in. A dress,
with petticoats, was much more bulky than anything a man ever would
wear. On top of that, I had breasts. Gloriously, large, bouncing, heavy
breasts. While not overly big, their bulk was there, a reminder, that I
was not a man, that I was something different, something feminine,
soft, delicate.

I thought of this while running the bath water. I thought of this while
pouring scented oil into the tub. I thought of my feminine wife. I
looked at my feminine self.

"You're really beautiful...Michelle," Susan said from behind me,
pausing at my feminine name.

I jumped; she'd startling me. "Thank you, Ma'am," I whispered, turning
towards her standing in the doorway wearing a satin robe.

"I mean that, Michelle, I guess I never really thought how pretty
someone like you could be."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Your wife is very lucky to be married to such a pretty thing. I
imagine she's quite pleased with you."

"Thank you, Ma'am," I said, almost choking up.

"Really, Michelle. I don't know if my mother told you, but she's been
feminizing my husband. I think he's still ashamed, afraid what I'll
think, but I wish he knew how happy it would make me to see him a
pretty as you."

"Sus...Ma'am," I stammered, trying to stay in character.

"Is the water ready," she asked, ignoring my implication, my gasp.

"Yes, yes, Ma'am."

"Well then," she said, reaching for the tie to her robe, pausing. "I'm
sorry, you're a...a housewife, married, one of the girls.  I'm sure
seeing a woman naked is par for the course for you. Besides, you're a
sissy, it's not like I'm getting naked in front of a man."

Slowly, she undid her robe, slowly, she let it drop to the ground. I
could not help but gawk. I could not help but drink in her beauty. It
was as if I'd never seen her this way before, as if I'd not spent
countless hours seeing her naked.

"I'm sure I'm not as pretty as your wife, am I?"

"You...you're the most beautiful woman I've even seen," I managed to
say.

Susan looked away shyly as she walked to and stepped into the tub and
let the water overtake her.

I stood, watching her relax in the water, watching every bit of tension
wash away from her face, from her body. I stood, staring at her trim
body, her soft skin, her every curve. I looked at my wife's body,
wanted it, desired it. Yet, I knew she was going out tonight. I knew
she was going out with Tom. I knew, I realized, that it was possible
that in mere hours, Tom would be looking at her, Tom would be
fantasizing over her, Tom would be touching her.

She knew. She had to know what her husband, what her sissy was thinking
of, fantasizing of.

"Michelle, can I ask you a question," Susan said, eyes closed,
breathing slowly in the scented water.

"Ma'am?"

"It really doesn't bother you that your wife fantasizes about fucking a
man? It really excites you?"

"Yes," I said so quietly, so softly.

"I fantasize about it, too, I'm just so...so unsure."

"Why, " I asked.

"I...I don't know. I love my husband, I really do, with all my heart.
I would never cheat on him, I don't want him to think that I'd...do
anything he...he wasn't okay with."

"Should I think about it? Should I fuck him, Michelle?"

"It...it's not my place to...to say," I said, trying to keep my
composure, "you...you're not my wife."

"I suppose not, Michelle, but, let me ask you this way. If it was your
wife, going on a date tonight, if some other sissy was helping her get
ready, if she was fantasizing about fucking a man, would...would you
get excited thinking about it?  Would it make your clitty swell?"

"Yes," I answered.

"That makes you swell in your little cage thing, doesn't it?"

"Yes," I said, a mild groan, feeling the pain, the soreness from the
swelling.

"Would you want her to fuck him, Michelle, to actually do it?"

"Yes," I admitted freely now.

"Would you want her to fuck him?  You'd want your wife to have a real
cock inside her?"

"Yes, yes, Ma'am, yes."

"Should I fuck him, Michelle? Should I just surrender to what I want?
Should I fuck him?  I want it so badly, Michelle, I want a cock inside
me."

"I...I don't know, Ma'am," I stammered.

"I want to, Michelle. I know you're not supposed to tell anyone, that's
what mother said, so don't tell my husband if you happen to see him,
but I want to. God, how I want to.  I...I need it.  I've been dreaming
about it, I...I need it."

Susan finished bathing herself while I stood there, mouth open,
shaking, hard as the chastity cage would allow. She couldn't could she?
Would she? Did she really want to so badly? Did I really want her, want
my wife, to do that?

"Towel?"

"What," I asked, mind snapping back to the here and now.

"I'm done, Michelle, I need a towel."

"I'm sorry," I said, reaching for a fresh white bath towel, handing it
out to her.

"No, no, I doubt that's what you've been taught. I'll admit I'm a
little hesitant to allow you, a little shy, too, but given this
evening, why not?  So, you may dry me, Michelle," she said, regally
standing and stepping out of the tub.

It was almost too much for me, spreading the towel open, gently,
carefully, patting my wife dry. Only she did not feel completely like
my wife. Though she was. I was serving her, her sissy, almost her maid,
serving her by drying her, tenderly, serving her, doing this, as she
prepared for a date with a man she admitted she wanted to fuck.

I hesitated when I touched her breasts through the towel, hesitated,
left my hands on them for a moment, two, three, longer than needed.

"Michelle," she said gently.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," I answered immediately removing my hands.

Almost as if to torment me further, my wife wrapped the towel around
her. Unlike she normally would, she wrapped it around her waist, rather
than up under her arms. Wrapped as such, her breasts were bare, the
towel only covering her from her trim waist to her knees. She looked
heavenly, divine, Venus, a goddess.

She sat this way in the bedroom as she did her hair and makeup at her
dressing table. Sat this way, occasionally looking to me in the mirror,
knowing I could not pull my eyes away from my body, knowing her beauty
was captivating, tormenting.

"Michelle, there is a bag over there in the closet, please get it."

"Ma'am," I said, going to the closet, realizing as soon as I saw the
bag that it was the lingerie she'd bought to wear on her date, the pink
and black lingerie, the garter belt, bra, panties, stockings. My
goddess. She was to be my goddess in pink. I was shaking again, shaking
as I reached for and picked up the bag of lingerie. I had been the one
to encourage my wife to wear stockings. I had begged her, over and
over. I had pictured myself kissing her stocking covered legs, touching
them, feeling the soft nylon. I had fantasized about the sight, the
vision of beauty she would be, fantasized about how turned on I would
be, how excited. Maybe I was selfish, begging her to dress this way,
begging her, knowing it was for me, my fantasy.

Yet, now, somehow, all was turned around, distorted. I was going to see
her dressed in the most exquisite lingerie. I was going to see her
wrapped like the best, most adult present a husband could ask for. I
was excited, so terribly excited, to see her dressed this way.

I was going to touch her, caress her.

But none, none in the way I had envisioned.

No, not at all.

I was wearing lingerie.

I was in chastity.

I was not going to kiss her.

I was not going to lick her.

I was most certainly not going to fuck her.

Worse, far worse, someone else was.

Tom.

Tom was going to see her wearing lingerie.

Again.

Tom was going to touch her?

Tom was going to kiss her?

Tom was going to fuck her?

Tom...the thought of him, the thought of Tom, his hands, on my wife,
touching her body.

Tom...the thought of his...his cock, out, hard, dripping.

Tom...the thought of his excited glances, gazes, AT MY WIFE.

Tom...his cock hard, wanting her...

I held the bag in my hand, shaking, all these thoughts racing through
my head.

And it hurt. Mentally. But physically, too. In my stomach.

And...in my groin.

It hurt because I was as swollen as I could possibly be in the chastity
cage.

Swollen because all those thoughts did more than just same me, make me
jealous, they made me excited. Fucking sexually excited.

I wanted none of this, yet, how could I possibly deny the one thing no
male could every deny, the betrayal of the penis.

All these thoughts, of Susan, in lingerie, fucking Tom, excited me as I
had never, ever been excited before.

"Michelle," Susan's voice interrupted my drifting thoughts. "I need to
get dressed sometime this afternoon..."

I snapped back, my thoughts as her husband, her lover, her friend,
mixed once again with Michelle, a woman, a sissy. "Ma'am," I said
softly, turning back to her, with the lingerie. She was standing, now
naked, the towel on the bed, face flush, appearing to me as conflicted
as I was, nervous, yet excited.

Our eyes me, held, watched one another. "I want this," she said softly,
tenderly, to me, her husband, not to Michelle. "But only, only, if you
do to."

Why was she asking me, now?  Why now?  Wasn't it too late?  Her date
was set, the die was cast.  Wasn't it?  No, no, I had to tell her it
was okay.  Of course, of course I did.  It was us, our marriage, our
love, our lives.  Yes or no, she made her decision, now it was up to
me.

I started to speak, but found no voice, instead, broke the gaze and
walked to the bed. "May I have the honor of dressing you, Ma'am," I
asked, my response, as Michelle, the best I could do right now as her
husband.

She accepted it as so. "Yes, I'd like that," she said, softly again.

I set the bag on the bed, carefully, reverently, removed the contents
one at a time, laying the bra, panties, garter belt, and stockings on
the bed, picking the bra back up, the first garment I would dress my
lovely wife in.

"What do you think, Michelle? Something a man would like?"

I looked at her, her face, her body, back to the bra, the lingerie.
Both were beautiful. Her, naked, the bra, the lingerie.

"Yes," I said, meaning both, holding up the bra so she could slip her
arms into the straps. The act was erotic, more so as Susan stood still,
let me, had me, do everything.

Slide the straps up her arms.

Fasten the clasp.

Arrange it properly, so her breasts fit just so, pushed up ever so
slightly, full, inviting.

"It's wonderful, isn't it, having breasts," she asked, looking at my
chest, swelling with each breath, under the dress I was wearing.

"Yes," I answered, letting my mind drift for an instant to the weight
of the breastforms, the sway, the movement.

Susan chuckled.

"What?"

"I'm not sure how your wife keeps her hands off you, if she does," she
said. "If my husband had breasts, even forms, I'd have to struggle to
keep from attacking them with my hands and mouth at all hours of the
day.  God, how I fantasize about him as a woman, him with breasts."

I blushed. Michelle. Her husband. Michelle's breasts. The breasts she
was telling me she wanted me to have. The breasts I wanted.

"It makes no sense, does it? Here I am getting dressed to go on a date
with a man, fantasizing about my feminized husband, unsure which is
more of a turn on, a man's cock, my sissy's breasts."

I swallowed, finished with the bra, picked up the panties.

"No, no, Michelle, panties over, not under the garter belt. Easier to
take off, if the mood strikes."

I grimaced, the chastity cage, pinching me, at the thought. Susan, in
lingerie. Tom, naked. Erect, watching, as she took off her panties.

"I know, Michelle, I have a feeling I may need to take them off
quickly," she giggled.

I set the panties down, picked up the garter belt, wrapped it around
her trim waist, fastened it, eyes glued to the garter straps dangling
loosely on her legs.

Susan sat on her vanity chair, started talking. "You know, it's ironic,
my husband had always begged me to wear stockings, finally I did, yet
it was Tom, the man I'm seeing tonight, that first saw me in
stockings."

I was kneeling, stocking in hand, helping her glide her foot into the
soft nylon, her words paused me ever so slightly.

"It's true. If it wasn't for Michael begging me to wear stockings, I
wouldn't have, would not have felt so sexy, so...naughty. Tom would
never have seen me wearing them, wouldn't have tried to fuck me, I'd
never have thought about fucking him.  Ironic, no?  It's all his
fault," she laughed.

I had stopped, the stocking just over her knee.

"And now, all I can think about, all I can fantasize about, Michelle,
is cuckolding my sissy husband."

I felt a tap against the skirt of my dress. It was her foot, the foot
that now encased with the stocking that was half up her leg. Her foot,
bouncing at the knees, every so gently, slightly, tapping against the
folds of my dress, against my trapped, swollen penis.

"All I can think about are total opposites. My husband, completely
feminized, a woman, a sissy and Tom, a man, taking me, fucking me."

I caught myself, finally, snapped, once again, back to Michelle, back
to her servant. Somehow, I was able to finish the stocking, connect the
garter straps, do the same with her other leg.

"I'm sorry, Michelle, all this talk of mine must make you
uncomfortable."

"Not really, Ma'am," I lied, mind back to the swelling, the pain, the
uncomfortableness in my groin, the unease in my stomach.

"No, I suppose you're used to it, being feminized, being cuckolded."

"Well," I gulped, "my wife's never actually...actually been with a man.
At least, at least not since we were married."

"Oh," she said, raising an eyebrow as I helped her step into her
panties. "I thought she had. You want her to, don't you? I mean, that's
something you're okay with?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"More than okay with? You want her to cuckold you, yes?"

"Yes." I was telling her, admitting again, yes, that yes, yes, yes.

She smiled. "I'm still nervous, though, still not sure if I should."
She pointed to the closet. "My shoes and dress are in there, Michelle,
start with the shoes, I want to see what I look like half naked, I want
to see what he'll see, to make sure I look good."

I went to the closet, got out a pair of black strappy sandals, knelt
down, gently, reverently, helped my wife slip her dainty feet into her
heels, carefully buckled the straps around her ankles.

"Well," she asked as I stood, took a step back. "Do you think Tom will
like?"

She was so pretty, so fucking amazing, so beautiful, so sexy, I almost
had trouble looking at her body. I hurt, in my stomach. It hurt, in my
chastity cage. I don't think I ever wanted her as much as I did at that
moment, staring at her, looking at her. I never wanted her more, yet I
could not have her. I was locked in chastity. She was leaving to go on
a date with a man. I wanted her; I could not have her.

"I take that as a yes, sissy?"

I nodded.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she smiled.

"Ma'am?"

"Perfume, silly. Over there, by the makeup. Yes, that one, the tall
one," she pointed to a bottle of perfume I'd gotten her as a gift. "My
husband got that for me; it drives him crazy.  It works on a sissy; I'm
curious what it does to a man."

I picked up the bottle, the scent racing through my brain, the memory
of it, handed it to her.

"No, sweetie, you do that for me. Here," she pointed to her wrists,
"just a light spray."

"Now here," she pointed to her neck.

"And here," she pointed to the back of her knees.

I stood, thinking that was all.

"One more spot, Michelle, here," she instructed me, pulling the waist
band of her panties away from her stomach, a sparkle in her eyes, her
mouth pulled into a tight grin.


****************************

After I helped her into her dress, we walked down stairs, found her
mother waiting for her, or us, in the foyer.

"My goodness, Susan, you look absolutely divine."

"Thank you, Mother."

"And Michelle, you should be proud, helping her look so beautiful for
her date tonight...he should thank you for the feast his eyes...maybe
more...will enjoy later."

I blushed, feeling again, the rush of apprehension in my stomach, the
rush of anticipation in my groin. Susan was going on a date.

My wife was going on a date.

The duality. The fear. The excitement.

My wife was going on a date.

I looked at her, realized she was staring back at me, thinking, I
presumed, the same thing.

She was going on a date.

Her body shook, ever so slightly, a nervous anticipation? I felt mine
do the same, at the same time.

She was going on a date.

"Where are you meeting Tom," her mother asked, cutting through, though
somehow increasing the tension.

"He's staying at the Hyatt."

"Oh, meeting him at the bar," her mother looked towards me, "or picking
him up in his room?"

"The bar, I suppose," Susan said softly, looking down, as if
embarrassed.

"Hmmfff," Mrs. Stanton chuckled. "A drink before dinner?  Before he
takes you upstairs?"

I saw Susan's face color. "Mother, I don't know that I'm..."

"Of course you do," she cut her off. "And there's nothing wrong with
that, Susan, you deserve it."

We stood, awkwardly, the sounds of my quickened breath the only noise
in the hallway.

"Well, you best get going, darling. Michelle here is going to help me
pack my things for my flight while I have her here, but she'll be gone
before you get home."

I opened my mouth to speak, thought better of it. She was leaving?
Wait, where was I going?

"Mother," Susan asked for me.

"Michelle must get back to her mistress, Susan. I know you must have
enjoyed the pampering, not to worry. Michael will be home soon. And
don't worry, his feminization is coming along nicely, just as I told
you it would when you called me and asked me to come for a visit."

"I..." I gasped, unable to form any thought. When she asked her to come
out here? What the hell was she talking about. Asked her? I felt dizzy,
suddenly, almost ill.

"Mother," Susan exclaimed, "you...you said..."

"...that I wouldn't say anything to Michael. I know, Susan, and I
didn't. Honestly. Michelle isn't going to say anything to Michael,
she'll be gone before he gets back, and would no better anyway, isn't
that right, Michelle."

"I...I don't know..."

"Oh, don't worry about it Michelle. Susan's just worried that I'd break
my promise and tell her dear husband that she asked me to come visit
and that she asked me to feminize her husband."

"Mother!"

"Oh, Susan, not that he'll find out, but so what if he does? What's it
matter whether it was you or I that wanted to feminize him? He's
femmed, just the same."

She turned to me. "It's a shame you won't meet her husband, Michelle,
you'd see, he's really quite the sissy, as pretty as you, I'd guess.

"She wanted..."

"Of course she did, Michelle. What woman wouldn't? Married to such a
mouse, of course Susan wanted her husband feminized. Remember, Susan?
You should have heard her, calling me, begging me to come out here. She
knew he was a sissy, of course, a wife always knows, even if he didn't,
but she wanted help, Michelle, help making her husband realize what a
sissy he was, making him the girl of her dreams, the feminized husband
she always wanted."

"I thought..."

"Well, it doesn't matter, Michelle, does it? Who cares if he knows it
was her idea, right? The thing remains the same, he was a sissy, he is
a sissy, and they will both be happier. But enough talk, Susan, you've
got a date to keep, and Michelle, you need to help me pack before you
leave."

"Michael," Susan spoke.

"He'll be here when you get back, Susan, femmed, waiting for you. Trust
me, he'll be waiting."

Of course, what difference was there between Michelle and Michael? It
was a fiction, I was both. No, more, Michael was Michelle. Michael, me,
was a sissy, was feminized, was in chastity, was subservient, was
waiting to be cuckolded.

Susan's mother was right about one thing. What did it matter if it was
her or Susan that wanted me femmed? The result was the same; I was
femmed. I was a sissy, regardless. I was what I was, brought on by
Susan or her mother. It made no difference in the world.

I looked at Susan, eye to eye, found her there, her, Susan, in the
beauty of the creature in front of me. "She's right, Ma'am," I said
softly, "you should go, you'll be late."

"But I..."

"It's okay, Ma'am," I reassured her again, Michelle telling her, more
so, Michael telling her.

***********************

The evening went on and on. Minute after minute, hour after hour, I
waited for Susan.

Mrs. Stanton would see me pacing, chuckle. "She won't be home for
hours, sissy," she'd tell me. "She hasn't been with a man for years,
I'm sure she wants to savor every minute of it, every inch of his cock
inside her."

I was in her room, Michelle, the good little wife, helping her pack.
The handmaiden, a last charge, an end, but a beginning, too.

She had made me over once again, no longer a perfect little housewife,
now a lady, a nymph, a lingerie clad waif, waiting, on edge, thinking
of the life of a sissy, thinking of the life of a cuckold.

She watched me dress in a lingerie set, a light purple, an eggplant
color. A garter belt to hold up nude stockings. A bra to match, holding
the breastforms to my body, warming them, making them real. Covering
both were a matching satin camisole and tap panty set trimmed in
delicate lace. Heels, of course, giving my legs shape.

There was nothing masculine about me. How could there be? I was a
sissy. That was reinforced over and over by Mrs. Stanton, Susan, too.

Sissy.

I expected Susan's mother to taunt me, but she said very little, save
for the first comment, and directions on how to help her back.

Sissy, do this.

Sissy, do that.

And I did as I was told, all the while, thinking of Susan, thinking of
Tom, thinking of my wife, thinking of her potential lover, pacing,
twisting, turning.

"Okay, that's enough of that," she said.

"Mrs. Stanton?" I realized I was standing over a suitcase, open, a
garment in my hand, not moving, doing nothing.

"I can tell I'm going to get no more help from you, mind wandering off
into whatever hotel room you're wife is in, whatever she's doing. Come
with me, sissy, if that's what you'd rather do, fantasize about Susan
on her date, I've got a much better way to facilitate that."

She walked out of the guestroom, went down the hall to Susan and my
room. I followed, our heels both clacking on the hardwood floor of the
hallway, the master bedroom.

"Stand there, sissy," she said, pointing to the corner of the four
poster bed that dominated the center of the bedroom.

I swallowed, walked to the bed.

"Turn around, face me," she ordered, a sharp tone in her voice.

"Yes, Ma'am," I said quietly, eyes downcast.

"Don't move," she said, leaving the room, her heels again sounding
ominous on the floor.

I obeyed, standing still, eyes still lowered. She said she had a better
way for me to fantasize about Susan on her date, and my mind
immediately did just that, immediately went to Susan, to Tom, the image
of my incredibly beautiful wife, her unseen lover.

I was surprised minutes later when Mrs. Stanton walked back in. My mind
had wandered sufficiently that I did not hear her at first. "Oh, I'm
not done with you yet, sissy," she chuckled, walking by me. She had
something in her hand; I knew better than to turn to look to see what
she carried, not that I had to wait to understand the implications, the
purpose.

"Clasp your hands behind you, sissy," she ordered me, fastening
something around my wrists, attaching them together behind the bed
post, immobilizing me in place. "Obviously you're not going anywhere,
sweetie," she laughed.

Next was the blindfold. I had no time to react, other than to be
startled, as she quickly reached around the front of my face, set it
over my eyes, began to wrap around my face. The blindfold was black,
soft, dark, enveloping. Fastened behind my head, I could see nothing.
No light. No shapes. No detail. Nothing. Nothing but dark, black.
Nothing.

"This will focus your mind...nothing to distract you...you can just let
your mind wander," she said. Then I felt her close to me, her warm
breath next to my ear. She whispered. "You can think about Susan
feeling the touch of a man, sissy, a man, filling her."

"Ohhh," I groaned, "She..."

"Yes, we'll take care of that, help you remember that, silence you,
focus you at the same time."

I did not know what she meant, not that I would not wait long for that
answer.

Again, her breath, quite, sinister, in my ear. "You see...well, you
can't see, but, anyway, what separates you from the man she is with,
what she wants, what you can't give her, is cock. Not with this little
thing," she said, tapping my encased penis. "Small, useless."

I felt her grab me, tug backwards, between my legs. I knew what she was
doing as she did it, as she somehow fastened my chastity cage between
my legs, as before, tightened it, connected it to the bedpost. I was
now awkwardly connected, bound, by my wrists, by my penis, to the bed.
I felt the bedpost against my backside, forced as I was at a strange
angle by the chastity bondage.

"Imagine this, sissy," she whispered again, "how Susan will be, Tom,
behind her, pressing his body into her." She planted the seed, the
mental image in my brain, the bedpost, Tom, me, Susan, the mental
image, reinforced from before, from Susan's description of Tom's cock
touching her ass, behind her, wanting her.

"Please, Mrs. Stanton," I begged, trying to shift on my heels, her
words making me swell just slightly more in the tight cage.

"Interesting you should beg, for that's the last thing I'll take care
of. You can't move. You can't see. You can't think of anything without
a reminder of your chastity. I don't want you talking, either, sissy."

I sighed, realizing she meant to gag me. She laughed at my
understanding. "Of course I'm going to gag you, Michael, you understand
that, don't you. Open your mouth, sissy."

I did, feeling every part like the baby bird, mouth open, waiting.

And waiting.

The gag did not come, not right away. "It is his cock, sissy, the thing
he has that you don't have. That's what Susan want. To touch. To feel.
To taste. On her. In her. Cock. That's what I want you to think about.
Cock. Tom's cock. Hard. In her. Her mouth. Her pussy. How much she
wants it. Cock."

I felt the gag being pushed into my open mouth. I expected what I had
seen in bondage movies, pictures, a ball gag of some sort, fit around
my gloss colored lips.

Instead of a ball, though, which would only have spread my lips, the
gag went deeper, into my mouth, filling it, deeper as if it were...

I started to shake.

"Yes, sissy, yes, it's called a cock gag," Mrs. Stanton teased me. "A
cock gag, meant to simulate a cock inside one's mouth, a cock to keep
you quiet, a cock to taste, a cock to suck. That's what you're going to
have in your mouth tonight while you think of Susan. Think of the cock
she'll be enjoying, think of it while your mouth is filled with this
gag. Filled with cock. Just like Susan."

"Mmggfff," I moaned, shaking at the thought of cock in Susan, shaking
worse at the thought of cock inside my own mouth.

"Cock, sissy, think of cock. Pressed against Susan, touching her, in
her. Cock, sissy, think of cock."

With that I heard Mrs. Stanton leave the room. She left me with that
singular thought on my mind.

Cock.

Touching Susan.

Cock.

Inside Susan.

Cock.

In my mouth!

The worst combination of events was taking place in the bedroom.

I thought of Susan, how beautiful she looked before she left for her
date and I'd swell in the chastity cage.

I would press backwards against the bedpost to ease the discomfort in
my groin, only to feel the bedpost press against the panties covering
my ass.

Which made me think of Tom, standing behind my wife, pressing his cock
against her.

Which made me think of cock.

Which made me think of the cock gag in my mouth.

Which made me think of Susan sucking Tom's cock.

Which made me breath quicker, horrified that there was a cock in my
mouth.

Which made me breath quicker.

Which made me drool, serving only to actually suck the cock in my
mouth.

Which made me fantasize about sucking Tom's cock, dripping wet from
being inside Susan.

Which made me swell even more in the cage.

Which made me press backwards against the bedpost.

And over.

And over.

And over.

And over.

Some time later, after this cycle had repeated itself dozens of times,
I heard Mrs. Stanton's heels clicking into the room, approach me. "I
just wanted to see how my little sissy was doing," she said, touching
my chest, my stomach, my swollen, trapped, penis. "Enjoying cock as
much as Susan?"

"Nnnnmnmffff." I shook my head.

"Jealous then?"

I nodded. Of course I was jealous!

"Oh, honey," she said softly, touching the side of my head, "there's no
reason to be jealous. I'm sure if Susan asks him really, really nicely,
after tonight, he'd think about letting you suck his cock, too."

I shook again, that's not what I mean! I did not want to suck Tom's
cock, anyone's cock, for that matter.

"Don't worry, dear, I'll be sure to tell Susan that we talked about
this. Maybe she'll ask Tom if he wouldn't mind a pretty little sissy
licking his cock."

No. NO!

That's not what I meant. I did not, had not, the desire to suck cock!

I shook my head no, at the same time, sucking, as she walked out of the
room again.

Over.

And over.

And over.

And over.

The heels, again, the click clack of Mrs. Stanton's heels as she
approached me later, the same as I was, bound, tortured, trussed,
teased, thinking of Susan, thinking of cock.

She was behind me, tugging at whatever connected my penis to the
bedpost, making me breath, hence suck, faster. "Do you know what they
call a cuckolded sissy like you who wants to suck cock, Michael," she
asked softly.

"Hmmmmfff," I groaned, aching.

"Faggot," she whispered in my ear. "Is that what we should tell Susan
you are? A sissy? A cuckolded sissy? A sissy faggot?"

"Nnfffff," I moaned through the cock gag.

"Sissy faggot," she sang leaving the room, "sissy faggot. Cock sucking
sissy faggot."

I could not help it.

Over and over.

All I could think about was Susan, my wife, sucking a cock.

Susan, my wife, getting fucked.

Moaning in pleasure.

Begging.

All while I stood there, legs getting sore, jaw getting sore, sucking.

*****************************************

Some time later, I heard the heels again, approaching me, stopping, as
if looking at me.

After a minute, she reached out, touched my sore groin, then my gag,
grunted in laughter.

"Mffffggghhh."

I sensed Mrs. Stanton move closer to me, felt her hand reach back down
to my groin, this time, taking my swollen balls into her hand, felt
shamed by the pleasure that rushed through me by the contact.

And then I smelled it.

The perfume.

Susan's perfume.

Under the blindfold my eyes flew open, to nothing but blackness, of
course.

"Look what I found," Susan's voice sang out.

"GGGGFMMMM."

"Mother told me I'd find you in here, lover," she said, joy in her
voice. "Look at you, patiently waiting up for me."

"Mfffffff!"

"Oh, you poor thing, but you look so adorable all tied up waiting for
me to come home from my date."

I was shaking, the tremors of sexual energy were making every inch of
my skin come alive, making the stockings, the lingerie, the breasts,
everything, excite me more and more.

"Well, I'm home love, I suppose I'll go wash up and get to bed," she
said, starting to walk away from me.

"SMMMFFFNN," I yelled into the gag.

"What, love? Did you need something?"

I struggled with bondage.

"You want me to release you?"

I nodded my head violently.

"I suppose I could stay up for a few...what do you want to do, sweetie?
I suppose you're dying to know about my evening, no?"

Fuck no! I wanted to know nothing about it. Like I wanted to know if my
wife fucked a man. What the fuck? But I felt myself nodding my head,
yes, yes, yes.

"Hmmmm, I've been thinking about that the entire time I drove home,
sissy. I knew you'd want to hear everything."

Suddenly, the tension was released from my crotch. Not the chastity
cage itself, but the bond to the bedpost. My midsection lurched, free,
if only partially.

"I don't have the key for that," she said, almost sad, "she wouldn't
give that to me. I'm going to undo your hands now, for a second,
anyway. I don't want you attached to the bed, but I don't want you free
yet, either."

Susan released my hands, released me from the bedpost, but true to her
word, immediately bound my hands back together, behind my back, making
my release limited.

"Don't move yet," she ordered me, "not yet." I felt her fingers
touching me lightly, my skin where exposed, through my stockings,
through the lingerie everywhere else.

I trembled with every touch, every movement. Every time her fingers,
even lightly, touched me, flames shot through me, shaking me.

"You want to know what happen, don't you," she asked seductively.

I shook my head, mumbled through the gag.

"Whether your wife was naughty," she flicked my swollen, sore balls
causing me to yelp, "or nice," she finished, gently touching them.

I felt her trace her fingers upward, over my stomach. "Most husband
would want to hear one thing, one thing only, that NOTHING happened."

I was breathing quickly, panting, feeling drool leak out of my mouth.

"But then most husbands don't have breasts," she said, raising her
hands to my chest, "don't wear pretty lingerie, and don't spend all
evening sucking on cock, do they?"

"Ggggmmmmfff," I slurped.

"Don't worry, sissy. She told me, sissy, she told me what you've got in
your mouth and I love it." She lowered her voice, whispered in my ear.
"I love it because I can tell you something, something to do. Every
time I say his name, every time sissy, think of what's in your mouth.
Think about it. Cock. Hmmmmm, cock. Tom's cock."

"Ghhhhhhhhhhh," I groaned.

"I know, I know, sweetie, it gets you so excited hearing me talk like
that," she says, rubbing me, my waist, my ass. "It's so ironic, too. I
think I should be a little mad at you."

"Hmmmm?"

"Yes, mad. Husbands are supposed to look out for their wives' chastity,
not fantasize about them getting fucked by a strange man."

"Ssssnnnn."

"Well that's what you fantasize about, isn't it? A man, a big, strong,
masculine man, an alpha man, taking me, fucking me? Isn't that what
you've fantasized about all night?"

I shake my head no, deny it, deny the very thoughts that have run
through my brain, over and over and over.

"No? Well, maybe I should just go shower then, change out of my
lingerie, wash up, freshen up. Maybe you're right, maybe I should just
get ready for bed."

I kept quite, struggled not to move, grunt, shake. For the most part, I
stood still, stood, not betraying how I really felt.

For the most part.

"You're twitching, sissy," she giggled.

"Nnnnn," I slurped again, sucking my own spit, the cock gag.

"It's funny, maybe you worried for nothing, my dear husband. On the way
over there, Tom texted me.

-Meet me in the hotel bar where we can get something to eat.

I sighed, an audible relief, an audible gasp of disappointment. And
thought of Tom. Of cock. I sucked. Tom. Cock.

"I know, love, I know. That's how I felt, too. Here I was fantasizing
for weeks, thinking about it, struggling with it, and what, even after
the last time I saw him, that's it? Just dinner? Like any other company
guy I have to entertain?"

"Well, that's it, I suppose. Disappointed? I'm sure. So, I might as
well tell you, I valet parked, walked into the hotel bar and looked for
Tom. No where to be found, unfortunately. So, the bar tender asks me if
he can help me. I told him I was meeting someone, a hotel guest. You
should have seen it, love. He looked me up and down like I was...a
hooker!"

I pictured Susan's outfit. The sheer hose. The heels. The dress.
Discrete, maybe, high class, but yes, under the right circumstances,
she could easily be mistaken for a hooker, easily.

"Tom Sampson he asked me. I told him yes. Well, he told me that Mr.
Sampson was running late and asked if I could pick him up in his room,
room 518, that our dinner table would be ready shortly."

Did nothing happen? I don't know if this made me feel relieved or
disappointed. Fuck, was I disappointed that my wife did not fuck
someone?

"So I go upstairs, lover, to tell you the truth, feeling a little hurt
that he's rejecting me, even though I'm not sure I want to do anything
anyway. I knocked on his door.

-Come in.

"I walked in, nervously; he was in the bathroom."

-I'll be right out, Susan. There is a bottle of wine there, pour us
each a glass before we go to dinner.

It figured, well, this was it, it was just dinner. I know, lover, I
know, you're disappointed."

"Nnnnn," I shook my head, not sure if I was or not. Had I really wanted
this? Really? Had I really wanted my wife to fuck a man? What the hell,
that was crazy!

"So I found and poured the wine, disappointed, just like you, lover, a
little relieved, too, to tell you the truth." She had my balls in her
hand, gently, almost absent minded, massaging them. "You know you're
twitching. Your little balls are twitching, sweetie. Like you wanted
more. Like you were anticipating what happened and wanted more."

I realized she was right. Not just my balls, my incredibly sore balls,
but everything, all over, I was twitching.

"Well, not much more to tell, I'm sorry to say," she said, continuing
to rub. "Tom..." She paused, must have heard me suck the cock in my
mouth, suck the gag. "Yes, Tom," she said again, squeezing slightly.
"He came out of the bathroom, while I was pouring. I guess he startled
me. I guess I was staring. He was behind me; I saw him in the mirror.
He was drying his hair with a towel. But that isn't what caught my eye.
What caught my eye, lover, what caught my wandering eye, my needy eye,
was that he was standing there, behind me, toweling his hair dry,
wearing only boxer shorts."

"Ohhhhhggggddddd," I gaggled into the cock gag in my mouth.

"Oh god was right, lover. He looked as much a man as you do a sissy.
Tan. Strong. Beautiful. Masculine. I have no idea how I managed to hold
onto the wine glass in my hand. I don't mean to offend you, lover, but
I've never seen a hotter man in my life."

-I just need to get dressed, then we can go downstairs.

"He came up behind me, taking a glass of wine from my hand.

-Unless you'd rather just stay in, Susan.


"He was just like this, sissy, right behind me." Susan had me turned
around; she was close, close. I felt the heat from her body, close, but
not touching me.

-I'm married, Tom.

-Yes.

"He moved , so close, I felt him brush my back." Susan mimicked what he
must have done, moved closer yet to me, brushed my back. It felt like
she was wearing just her lingerie, like me, had disrobed, like him.

-I love my husband very much, Tom.

"I told him. I told him, lover, I told him I was married."

I exhaled, loudly, felt drool fall from my mouth. I felt suddenly
relieved, yet suddenly deflated.

"I thought you'd be proud of me, sweetie, right? I mean, fending off
the advances of a man?"

I felt my head hang, mixed emotions running through me. Nothing. The
anticipation for nothing. Relief, yes, but all that fantasizing, all
that thinking, the mental preparation, agreeing, nothing.

"I know he wanted to fuck me, lover. But I told him I was married."

I was panting now, shaking, suffering.

"I know, he said, I know," Susan whispered in my ear. "He tossed the
towel on the bed, but a hand on my hip, the other, on my other hip,
lower, my outer thigh."

Susan duplicated the actions she described, duplicated, one hand on my
right hip, the other on my left thigh.

"I was shaking, Michael, just like you are right now. The sexual
tension was so thick, just like right now.

-I love my husband, Tom.

"My eyes closed. I wanted him to move his hands, to step back, to get
dressed. He didn't. He moved closer still, his chest pushed up against
my back, his hands started to massage me."

Susan moved, her breasts pressed into me. She massaged my right hip, my
left thigh.

-I'm sure you do love him Susan. But you're in a hotel room with me for
the second time when one of us is half dressed.

"He said this, love, said this slowly, seductively, lifting the hem of
my dress."

-You're in my room, Susan, wearing a garter belt, stockings. It doesn't
matter if you are married. It doesn't matter if you love him. It
doesn't matter. I know what you want, I know why you're here.

Susan kept massaging me, kept rubbing her breasts into my back through
the satin camisole. I was on fire now, burning, heat, pain, in my
crotch, heat, pain, in my stomach.

-Tell me to stop, Susan.

"He whispered in my ear," she said, whispering in my ear.

-Tell me to stop. Now. Because if you don't I'm going to take your
dress off. I'm going to pick up where we left off last time. Tell me to
stop, because if you don't now, right now, this instant, I'm not
stopping, I won't stop. I won't stop.

I knew what she was doing. She was telling me what he said, his command
to her; she was giving me the same command. Telling me to tell her to
stop just the same as he told her to tell him to stop.

And I couldn't.

I could not tell her to stop.

I wanted more. I wanted to hear more.

I desperately wanted more.

I was too far gone, too far sissified, too far into fantasy.

I wanted more.

"He reached up and unzipped my dress, honey. I tried to tell him to
stop. I tried. But I could not. The words, they, they would not come
out. I was screaming them in my head, but no sounds came out. Nothing.
He dropped my dress to the floor, let it glide between us, then..."

She said nothing. I felt her breath, felt her heat, felt her shaking.

Then I felt her pelvis move forward, touch my rear, felt her press
upward, her panties, her mound, pressed up into my pantied ass.

"I felt him, Michael, I felt him closer, I felt him press against me.
Him. I felt Tom. I felt his...his...I felt his cock press up against
me, against my ass, for the second time. Through his boxers, I felt it.
And all I could think about was I wanted it. I wanted to feel it. Not
just against me through clothes, like before, I wanted to feel it out,
naked, hard, hot, touching me. I couldn't tell him to stop because I
wanted him, Michael, I wanted him so badly. And he bit my ear, then
spoke..."

She paused, ground gently into me, simulating a man, simulating a cock,
touching me. I was so swollen, so engorged, I thought my penis would
burst the chastity cage open.

-If you don't say no, now, right now, you know what I'm going to do to
you Susan, don't you? I'm going to fuck you, Susan. I don't care that
you're married, I don't care that you're in love. I'm going to fuck
you, do you understand? I'm going to fuck you like you've never been
fucked before, Susan.

"Gggfmmfff," I moaned as Susan pressed into me, as I pictured her, like
this, a man, Tom, pressed against her.

"He took a step back, for not more than a second or two, then he
pressed against me harder. He was naked now, his cock, erect, free, was
pressed against my ass, twitching, throbbing, touching me."

-Do you understand, Susan?

Susan was breathing heavier, matching me, matching my level of stress,
of excitement.

-Tom, please.

-Do you understand me?

"He was pressing against me, harder."

-Tom, please.

"I begged."

-I'm going to fuck you, Susan. Tell me to stop, now, or I'm going to
fuck you. Do you understand?

"Ssssnnn!"

-Yes.

"I whispered it, so quietly, I knew he could not hear, but I could not
bring myself to say it louder, to admit."

-What?

-Yes.

-Louder.

-Yes, Tom, yes!

-Do you want me to stop, Susan?

It hit me, I was about to find out, if my wife fucked a man. I was
about to find out if I was cuckolded. If my wife, with my full
knowledge, cuckolded me. Fucked a man while I was home, feminized,
womanized.

"No," Susan whispered in my ear. "No, I...I told him no, Michael, I
told him no. I wanted him, I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted it so
badly, I needed it. I wasn't sure up until that minute, but feeling
him, his cock, hard, thick, pressed into me, a man's cock, I wanted it,
I wanted him so badly."

-No, Tom, no, please, no, don't stop, please.

"He moved backwards, ever so slightly, backwards, then forward,
quickly, and suddenly it was between my legs, touching me, sticking
out. His height made it push upwards, pressured upwards, up against me.
He moved his hips back and forth, Michael, the friction, the heat, the
hardness."

As Susan said this, I felt her hand come between us, first on my ass,
then lower, between my legs. Her hand, a surrogate for his cock, she
was him, I was her. Her hand between my legs like his cock was between
her legs. A man's cock, between my wife's legs, touching her.

-Are you wet, Susan?

"He asked me. Wet, Michael? Was I wet? I barely knew him, this man, and
he had his cock, his naked cock, between my legs, asking me if I was
wet. I'm married, Michael, I'm married, and a man was touching me,
asking me if I was wet. Wet? Was I wet?"

Was she? How the fuck could she not be wet? If she wasn't excited, if
she did not want this, maybe, but like this?

"I felt a sharp pain on my ass, sissy, suddenly, a snap, pain. He had
slapped my ass. Not too hard, but hard enough."

-I asked you if you're wet?

"His voice was firm, but not...not meanly. I answered, softly."

-Yes.

"Fuck, of course I was wet. I was fucking soaked, Michael, soaking wet.
A fucking man's cock was fucking rubbing on my panties, rubbing on my
pussy. Of course I was fucking wet."

"And then he stepped back, his cock pulled from between my legs. I
didn't mean to, but I groaned. I didn't mean to show him how excited I
was. I felt him peel my panties down, slightly, over my ass, not all
the way down, though. And then, his cock, his cock, he pushed it back
between my legs, and...and right up against me, against my pussy,
lover, touching me, rubbing me, wet now, like me."

Susan's hand was between my legs, rubbing, my ass, touching my balls,
flicking my trapped penis. His cock on her, her hands on me. I was
breathing so heavy, breathing and sucking, sucking and swallowing, his
cock, the cock gag. Cock.

Cock.

Susan's other hand was moving now, on my chest, my stomach, my crotch.
"His hands were everywhere, his mouth was biting my neck, my ear. I
felt him reach lower, down my stomach, then...he touched me, Michael,
he touched me, sissy, his fingers found my pussy."

I was breathing so heavily, I thought I was going to pass out from too
much oxygen. I pictured him, behind my wife, naked, his cock touching
her, his fingers touching her.

"He was moving his hips back and forth, rubbing me with his cock. I was
fucking moaning, delirious, dizzy. And then, oh god, Michael, then..."

"Snnnn," I started to moan into the gag, "Susan," I blurted out,
realizing she had undone the gag, pulled it from my mouth, pulled the
cock out, "oh Susan!"

"Wait, lover, wait," she said, unbuckling my hands, removing my
blindfold, spinning me around to face her. "Then," she said, stopping,
pulling me to her, kissing me, hard, deep, wet, insistent.

"I felt it, felt it like I've never, ever felt it before. I was wet,
soaked, like...like you'd been licking me for hours. His cock, just his
cock rubbing me, got me wetter than I've ever been. I felt it, press
against me. The head of his cock, his large bulb. He pushed, ever so
gently, ever so slightly. It was like a ball, a hammer, so thick. My
legs got weak, I almost fell, but he held me."

I looked at her, standing right against me, wearing just her lingerie,
her body, her soft skin, pressed against me, against my lingerie. I
looked into my wife's eyes, looked at her as she told me about a man,
about a cock, inside her, touching her.

I was listening to my wife tell me about a man's cock inside her!

-Are you on the pill, Susan?

"He asked me, just standing there, the head of his cock inside me. I
was confused."

-What? The pill?

-Are you on the pill?

"He asked me again, pushing an inch deeper into me. I moaned. Oh, fuck,
Michael, fuck, oh fuck."

His cock was inside her? Tom's cock. A man's cock. Inside her, inside
my wife! Fucking her. And he wanted to know if she was on the pill? Why
would that matter? He wasn't planning on...on...fuck, oh fuck!

-Tom...fuck...ohhh...yes, but, Tom, I...

Susan kissed me again, kissed me, pushed me backwards, right onto the
bed.

"He pushed, Michael, slowly, steadily, pushed, and it went deeper, and
deeper, and deeper. Oh, god, Michael, I...I never felt...never felt
anything like that inside me before. I...I never knew a cock fit inside
a woman like that, filling her, filling me, everywhere, touching,
everything; I was on fire, I was shaking, I was so...I started cumming
right away, I started cumming and I didn't stop, every second he was in
me, every second, every stroke, I came and came and came."

I was so swollen, I might as well have been erect. If not for the cage,
I would have exploded just with Susan's body touching mine. MY WIFE WAS
GETTING FUCKED BY A MAN!

"Oh god, honey, there was a man inside me. I had a man's cock inside
me. His bare cock! I started to say something."

-Tom, you need to wear...

"But he cut me off. He pushed his cock inside me and cut me off."

-The results of my STD test are over there on the night stand. You're
on the pill, Susan. I'm going to fuck you, just like this. No condom.

"I just moaned, Michael, I just moaned and moaned and moaned every time
his cock pushed into me, split me open. I didn't care. I didn't care
about anything but his cock, inside me. I didn't care, I just wanted
him to fuck me."

On the bed, Susan was now next to me, squeezing, kneading my balls. It
didn't matter that I could not get fully erect, her words, her touch,
her lingerie, my lingerie, everything, pushed me so far into a zone of
sexual excitement, nothing mattered, nothing.

"And Michael, honey, I wanted him to cum inside me."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, fuck."

"You're thinking of his cock, sissy," she said, a statement more than a
question.

I just shook, her words true, reading the image in my mind, his cock,
entering her, sliding in, sliding out, pushing, wet, thick, throbbing.

"I know, sissy, I know. A man's cock, Tom's cock, inside me, inside
your wife, a cock inside me for the first time in so long."

"Oh, Susan," I moaned, trying to bite my lip, trying to keep it
together, trying not to betray what I was feeling.

She licked the side of my neck, up to my ear, blew softly, whispered.
"Just like the sissy you are, just like a woman, getting excited
thinking of cock. Getting excited thinking of your wife getting fucked
by a man. Getting excited by getting emasculated. Mother told me, she
was right, how excited you'd get, how you really are a sissy, how
hearing that a man can do something to me that you never could would
make you feel. I want you to cum, sissy, I want you to cum. I want to
see that it's true, that you like it, that you like being a sissy, that
you like being a cuckold."

"I can't Susan, I can't," I groaned, cursing the cage, cursing her
mother, cursing everything.

Susan kissed me, full on, mouth, all over mine, her tongue, deep inside
me, wet, like everything, passionate, hard, long. "Have you ever tasted
cock, sissy?"

"What," I asked, stunned. No, no! Of course not.

She kissed me again, just as hard, just as passionate, longer still.

"Have you ever tasted cock?"

"No!"

She kissed me again. "He pushed deep into me, deeper, the deepest yet,
held it. Oh fuck, I was shaking so hard, he was touching me, deep
inside me, touching me somewhere you've never touched me. God, sissy,
never have you done that inside me. He held it, then pulled back, back,
and out. I was moving my ass, my pussy, searching for him. Tom, I
groaned, begging. He laughed. Tom, I begged again.

-Get on the bed, Susan.

-Tom, fuck, please!

-On the bed and I'll make you feel like that again. On the bed, on your
hands and knees.

"I turned around, took my hands off the wall where I'd been holding
myself, felt my knees start to buckle."

-That's what a man does to a woman, Susan. I'm guessing the husband you
love so much never made you feel like that, did he?.

"I lowered my head, blushed."

-Did he, Susan?  Answer me.

-No.

"I turned, stopped, stared, Michael, I just stared."

I knew what she was talking about even before she said it. I felt it,
saw it too, felt it in my mind, my insides, all over.

"His cock, Michael, oh fuck his cock." Susan said this, her eyes
closed, rolling into her head. "Thick, hard, wet, glistening, that
thing, that thing that was inside me, filling me, touching me."

-Susan.

-What, Tom?

-Is it polite to stare?

-I...

-I know, Susan. You love your husband, but he doesn't have a cock, does
he?

-No.

Susan squeezed my balls, hard, when she said this, reminding me that I
did not have a cock. A not so subtle jab, telling me, that I was not a
man, that I was a sissy.

-I don't want you on your hands and knees, yes.  Sit, Susan, sit on the
edge of the bed.

"I knew right away what he wanted, sissy. I wanted his cock in my
pussy, fucking me. He had other ideas. I was still staring at him, at
his cock. I knew what he wanted, but paused. He was covered with...with
me, with my juices."

Susan had a thing. She did not like kissing me after I went down on
her, and certainly did not like licking her juices off me.

"I sat, but looked up at him, made a face, gross."

-You're...covered with...

"He walked towards me, looked down at me."

-Open your mouth, Susan.

-I don't like to taste myself, Tom.

-I didn't ask what you liked, Susan.

I NEVER spoke to Susan that way. NEVER. EVER.

"Susan..."

She kissed me again. "I opened my mouth..."

She kissed me again.

"And tasted him."

Another kiss.

"His cock, myself."

Kiss.

"Just like you are, right now, sissy."

Cock. Cock. Cock.

I kissed back, deeper than her, hungrier than her, disgusted, unable to
stop, deep desire, tasting her, moving that aside in my brain, finding
it, him, tasting, wanting, needing.

"I tasted him, tasted his cock.  Just. Like. You. Are."

I kissed her again, deeper still.

-More, Susan, that's it, suck, Susan, suck my cock.

"More, Sissy, that's it, suck, sissy, taste his cock."

"Ohhhhhhhhhh," I moaned.

"Yes, sissy, cock, cock."

-Now, on your hands and knees, Susan.

"I did as he said, as he ordered. I scooted back on the bed, turned
over, offered myself to him, to Tom, to his cock. I felt...a longing,
Michael, I wanted him, back in me. But I felt vulnerable, too. I was
willingly offering myself to him, willingly, begging to be fucked. Part
of me felt like an animal, a dog."

"Oh god, Susan, Susan," I whimpered.

"Turn over, sissy, on your hands and knees like I was, offer yourself,
sissy, like I did. Offer yourself to a man, to his cock.."

I turned over, dizzy with sexual desire, the image of Susan in my mind,
Susan, half naked, begging a man to fuck her, Susan, my wife, needing,
wanting, a man. I pictured a man, Tom, behind me, behind us, Susan
begging to be fucked, me begging to be fucked.

"I was an animal, rubbing myself, offering myself.  I wanted to be
mounted. I was in heat, Michael, and all I wanted was to be taken, by a
man, by the strongest, the biggest, the toughest man, the alpha man.  I
wanted him to take me.

I was panting, an animal myself, the beta, the loser, the submissive.

"He knew, too, Michael, he knew he was taking me, he wanted me to know,
you to know, Michael. He wanted us both to know that I was his. Married
or not, I was his.

-You love your husband, Susan?

-Yes, yes!

"I felt him get on the bed, felt his warm body near mine."

-He makes love to you, tenderly, softly?

-Yes, Tom, please.

-I'm not going to make love to you, Susan.

-Tom, please, I need it.

Cock, she needed his cock.

"I was begging, Michael. I was begging him to fuck me. Begging him to
mount me. I was in heat, Michael, in heat."

-I'm not going to make love to you, Susan.

"I felt the head of his cock, wet from me, from my mouth, touch my
lips, soaked. I begged him. I was afraid he was going to stop, that he
was teasing me."

-Susan?

-What, please, please, Tom, please.

"He stopped, right on the edge.  I tried to push back, but he pulled
back to match me, keeping his cock head on my lips, not allowing it
inside me.

-Susan?

-Tom, please.

-I'm not going to make love to you Susan.

"Please Tom, fuck, please, please, I want you.

"Oh Michael, Michael, it was so...forceful, oh fuck."

-I'm not going to make love to you, Susan, like your pussy husband. I'm
a man, Susan, I'm going to fuck you!

"He was inside me, so quickly, so violently, so totally." Susan had
moved around, was on her side, her back to me, her mouth near my
stomach. She looked back up towards me. "In me a way I've never, ever
felt before, sissy, ever."

"Susan, Susan."

-Tom, tom!

"Turn back over, lover, I want to show you something."

I did, on my back again.  Susan turned her head back to my stomach,
licked, wet. "Do you know how two women make love, Michael? Do you know
how a woman and a sissy make love? The same. Soft, touching, licking."

She licked my stomach again. "You make love to me like a woman,
Michael. So soft, so tender, so gentle. And I love it so much. So
unlike Tom. He fucked me, Michael. Hard. Deep. Like an animal, and I
loved it soooo much!"

Susan climbed on top of me, her ass facing me, licking my legs, my
stockings, her breasts, covered by her bra, resting on my thighs.

"I was like this, Michael, on my hands and knees, I'm doing for you the
same thing I did for him. I'm on my hands and knees for you, Michael,
but you're making love to me like a woman.  He was fucking me!"

"Oh, fuck, Susan," shook as I felt her licking my balls.

-Oh, fuck, Tom.

"His balls were slapping against my pussy every time he pushed into me,
seemingly deeper each time. When I offered myself to him like this, all
I wanted was his cock. Deep. In me. All I wanted was cock. All I want
from you is your tongue, sissy, your tongue, your mouth, your fingers.
I want what a woman has from you, all that you have to offer."

She turned her head back towards me. "Are you my sissy?"

"Oh, fuck, Susan," I shook again, moaning louder.

She took my balls in her hand. They were heavy, sore, full. She
massaged them; it hurt; it felt wonderful.

"Are you my sissy," she asked again, looking me right in the eye.

"Yes, Susan, yes," I answered, my mind collapsing into her, into her
body, into her slave, into her pet. "Yes, I'm your sissy!"

"I offered Tom this and he took it, took me, fucked me, like a man. I'm
offering you that and you're just accepting, sissy."

She looked back down; her head bobbed as she kissed the plastic
chastity cage, licked my swollen shaft through the sides. She slid
back, her panty covered ass moved towards my face, the satin crotch
covering her pussy.

"He was fucking me harder, Michael, harder. I can't believe the
feeling, I was getting so dizzy."

Her pussy was slowly moving back towards my face, slowly. I smelled
her; she was clearly wet, soaked, remembering it. I could see, her
panties were damp, moist. She was excited, charged. But the scent was
stronger than she usually was, strong, musk.

"He was pushing, deeper, holding, pushing, holding, shaking. It hit me,
Michael, he was getting close to...

Her pussy was right over me now, just out of reach of my nose, my
tongue.

I wanted her.

I wanted her!

No, the scent. No.

"He wasn't wearing a condom, sissy," she said softly, gently brushing
my face with her satin covered pussy.

-Fuck me, Tom, fuck me.

-Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Susan's fingers were on the outside of her panties, touching herself,
touching my mouth. Fingers dancing over the satin, the moist spot, the
dampness, over her clit, over my lips, over my tongue. Skin. Satin.

-Tom, Tom!

Susan lifted her hips up, her fingers moved her panties to the side,
exposing her swollen pussy, red, wet, musky, beautiful.

No, no, no, no, no. My brain was screaming. No. No. NO. NO! NOOOOOO! I
knew what was there, what she was telling me, what she wanted me to
know, what she wanted to shove in my face, literally, figuratively.

-Cum in me Tom!

"Cum, sissy."

-CUM IN ME TOM!

"CUM, SISSY."

-Yes, Susan, yes!

"No, Susan, no!" I shifted, lifted my legs up, my knees into the air,
my feet firmly on the bed, as if to scoot away from Susan's pussy.

Two things happened at the same time, both terrifying me, revolting me,
sending me to a place of pleasure I'd never been.

As soon as my legs moved up, I felt Susan's hand, fingers, wet, leave
my balls, run downward. At the same time, Susan lowered her hips,
lowered herself to my mouth, open, yelling, protesting. Her pussy
spread open by her one hand dropped right onto my mouth, my tongue
forced into her. While part of me screamed inside, another part,
involuntarily, opened my mouth wider, opened at the touch of her
softness, wetness.

At the same time, her other fingers, the other wet fingers, found
something, me, something new, an opening, circled, touched, pressed.

I knew the smell, Susan, intimately. I knew the other smell, the musk,
without being told. Cum.

I knew the taste, Susan, lovingly. The other taste, deeper, stronger.
Cum.

Cum.

I was tasting cum. She was feeding it to me, forcing it into me, the
substance, the image, Tom, fucking her, cumming inside her.

Susan's fingers pressed, opened, pressed into me. I was not sure which
to push away from. Moving from her fingers pushed my open mouth deeper
into her pussy, my tongue deeper, touching, tasting, her, him, the
wetness, her, his cum. Moving away from her pussy pushed me deeper onto
her fingers, pressing into me, fucking me.

Tom's cum.

Susan's fingers

Both horrible.

I wanted to run from both, but could not, physically or mentally. I
wanted to run from the cum, run from her fingers. All I could think
about was cock, now. Tom's cock. Inside my wife, inside me.

I licked, heard her moaning, immediately a wave of orgasm making her
spasm. She jerked, her fingers pushed into me, found the spot, a spot
somehow connected to my penis, a spot inside me.

I started shaking, no, a spasm, just like her. I'd never felt this
before, ever. The feeling built up, higher, higher, the pressure of her
fingers, the taste of him, of her.

I felt her ride the wave of orgasm, what she did, a surfer, on the
ocean, going, the power, under, around, all over. I felt her, felt the
same thing, a wave, not an explosion, an unending wave.

I felt a wetness along with the wave, a dribbling. Oh, fuck, I was
cumming, too. There was no explosion, just a wave, along a wave,
cresting, then continuing as she fingered me, continuing as I licked.

"That's it, be a woman, be a woman!"

Everything finally receded, the wave washed away, my orgasm, hers. I
felt her licking me, licking up what had dribbled out, the wetness, cum
that has fallen, rather than exploded, out of me. She licked it up as
she continued to move her pussy on my face, as I continued to lick her,
the cum from her, the cum that Tom had pushed into her.

I drifted back to earth some time later. Minutes, maybe hours, time
lost meaning to me. Femininity danced over my skin, inside me,
throughout me.

"You can't go back."

"Ugh."

"You can't go back, Michael."

Another wave, subtle, small, an aftershock. "Susan," I gasped.

"You can't go back, Michael," she whispered in my ear again.

"Susan, I..."

"She was right, Michael, she was right."

"Who," I asked, knowing who, not knowing what.

"Mother, sweetie."

"What do you mean," I asked, eyes heavy, lazily looking over at Susan,
who was next to me, gently rubbing her fingers over my stomach, my
breasts.

"Oh, nothing, nothing."

"Susan," I asked again, opening my eyes, focusing.

"She said if she did this for me, I'd better be sure, that I'd never be
able to go back to the way things were."

"Did this for you? I'm confused. Did what for you?"

"Feminized you, silly."

My brain was seizing onto something, wait, was she seriously,
yesterday, but I could not grasp it, did not want to grasp it. "For
you?"

She looked at me, just stared at me.

"You knew?"

Her lips twitched.

"You knew."

"I knew, Michael. I knew you were a sissy. Even if you didn't know. I
knew. She knew. She's been telling me, she was right, it was obvious."

"You knew," I repeated again, feeling betrayed.

"She was right, Michael."

"You asked her."

"No, she asked, I acquiesced. No, that's not quite right. I wanted it,
too. I allowed it because I wanted it. But that's not all, Michael."

She sat up on her elbows.

"I allowed it because she was right, she was right that you wanted it;
that it would make YOU happy."

"I wanted it," I repeated, again, a stab of betrayal.

As if dealing with a child, patiently, she looked me in the eye, spoke
sincerely.

"You're a sissy, my dear husband. A sissy. Look at you, in bed with me,
wearing lingerie, with breasts. You're a sissy. No man I know would
ever do this just to do it."

Tom's name flashed in my mind.

"No man does this just because. You allowed it to happen because of
what you are, your nature. You may not have known it, but you're a
sissy, you can't change that. Mother simply opened a door. You embraced
it."

"But I didn't..."

"Are you a sissy," she interrupted me, looking me right in the eyes.

"Susan," I blushed.

"Answer me."

"Yes," I sighed, feeling a wave of relief wash over me, relief that
overcame the betrayal, overcame the anger, the self doubt.

"Yes," she agreed.

"But Tom..."

"I love you Michael," she said, kissing me.

"But," I said, tried to say.

"Only you, Michael, only you."

**********************************

The next morning, Susan's mother stood in the foyer, bags gathered
around her, a uniformed driver at the door, waiting to carry her things
to the car, carry her to the airport, to home.

Susan was, like I, was still wearing the lingerie she wore out last
night, to bed with me, a satin robe covering her, giving her a modest
amount of modesty in front of the driver.

Susan hugged her mother. "Thank you, Mother," she said simply, softly,
"thank you."

Her mother was not her normal frozen self, was more relaxed, emotional.
"No, thank you, Susan, this is best, for both of you."

She stepped back from the embrace, looked to me. "You understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I said, conscious that the driver was staring at me,
saying nothing, speaking volumes with his eyes.

"Good. I mean that, I do." She reached out to me, ran her gloved hand
over my face, almost tenderly. "Shall we," she broke off, to her
driver.

"Um, Mother?"

"Yes," she said, turning back to Susan.

"I...um," Susan stuttered, almost blushed. "The key?"

I felt my pelvis lurch. The key!

"The key, Susan?"

Yes, the fucking key!

"The key, the key for..."

Mrs. Stanton laughed. "One moment, driver," she said, turning to the
door where the driver set down the bags, stood, watching the entire
interaction.

"I know dear. I'm sorry, you're still a little nervous, I know. We
didn't discuss that, did we. A plan, anyway. See, that's the thing
about a new mistress, she can be a bit lax in dealing with her new
sissy, giving into the inevitable begging for release. That would put
you in an awkward situation, a situation I'd rather you not worry about
just yet."

Oh, fuck, she wasn't going to!

"Mother, I don't think..."

"I know you don't Susan, I know. But then what's it matter. You're not
going to, nor should you, for a least the first month or two. So why
tempt fate? Why let him hold any illusion, any hope? No, for now I'll
hold onto the key," she said, patting her neck where the key hung on a
gold chain.

Susan sighed. "When?"

Mrs. Stanton laughed. "That's the ironic thing, dear. In a month, maybe
two, it won't matter. When he accepts his status, accepts being a
sissy. Because when he does, he will have been broken of any desire to
use it anyway."

"But Mother, I..."

"Of course, Susan, of course. I left the dildo...and there is always
Tom, if the mood strikes."

I looked to Susan.  Tom?  If the mood strikes? Again?

"Look at your sissy, Susan, quickly. That look on her face is
priceless. Of course, Tom, sissy, of course. She isn't going to fuck
you, well, except to milk you like she did last night."

I blushed, how could I not, knowing she knew.

"Oh, sissy, don't you realize? See, Susan, why I'm holding the key.
Sissy, the only way you're going to orgasm is when she milks you.
That's the only kind of orgasm you can have with the cage on. That's
the beauty, sissy, you'll beg her to do it, and she will, won't you
Susan? Every time you fuck Tom, every time, you're going to fuck your
sissy, like a girl, and make him dribble and moan."

Mrs. Stanton came closer to me, touched my face. "Every time, sissy,
every time she comes home full of a man's cum, you can look forward to
cleaning up the mess and to a sweet, feminine orgasm.  Every time,
sissy, every time."

With that, she left, taking her wild-eyed driver, leaving me, Susan,
us, much different than when she arrived.

When the door closed, Susan turned, looked to me.

"You want to do it again, Susan," I blurted out.

"Yes," she said softly, looking away.

"I love you, Susan," I said, thinking again of Tom, the taste of his
cum still in my mouth, the feeling of being milked still in my mind.

"I love you, sissy, I love you more than you can ever know."