Sunday, April 1, 2012

Sunday, Sunday!

Hi Fellow Sissies!  Hope that you're all well on April Fools day!  Any of you dress up prettily for your girl friends then say "April Fool?"  Never had that kind of courage myself - but figure that some might.  Just checking.  Let me know, huh?

We live about 50 miles from San Diego and have a subscription to a theatre (YES!  The Theatuh Darling!) group and go to about eight or nine times a year.  Heading down there today for a musical- "Parade" I think it's called.  Seems to have decent reviews but I don't know a thing about it.

Well - here's the next part of my serial - with a few 'Bits' from Rosie.

Start of Part 5

I didn't know what she was talking about, but the ladies seemed to understand what she had said as there was a murmur of appreciative laughter from all around me.  "Milk him too?" I recognized Cynthia's voice.
"Definitely!" Samantha said.  "But through the back passage only.  If any of you ladies need training in that aspect?  I might give you that assignment as a reward."
Then, without warning, a sharp spank landed on my backside. Then another, then another!  Until she had applied about six blows.  Then she caressed me through the panty material, occasionally snapping the panty elastic against my legs or waist.  I was seriously crying by this time, but the gentle caresses were so soothing that I relaxed.  Then she started again.  Gave me another six

She stopped then and said something to the women, but I could not hear what she said because of the noise of my own crying.  Then I felt a leg of my panties being opened up, and the finger was back inside me again. – a lot deeper this time.  She found my prostate – then started to massage it.  It was a highly unpleasant feeling and I tried to buck again, but had absolutely no luck.

I sighed with relief when she stopped, but only for a second.  Again, the blows started landing on my backside.  This time with considerable force!  I was really crying in earnest now, breathing in with huge gulps, squealing, writhing, doing anything to escape the force of the hard hand landing on my rear end that only had  panties to protect it.   Finally, she stopped once more.  Again the soft caressing of my backside followed, her palm slowly circling the area that seconds ago it had been lambasting.

"Fatima?"  she asked.
"Y. Y. Yes   M.M.  Mistress"  I sobbed.
"You like this, don't you?"  And, once more, her finger was probing its way up my back passage.
"Yes Mistress!"  I said, striving for sincerity.
"Oh Yes!  It's lovely!" I enthused, tears starting to dry..
"You?  A gangster?  Over a 'BROAD's' knees?  Getting fingered by a woman? Almost as if YOU were a woman?  That's awfully hard to believe!  Can't stand people who LIE to me!"
And I was hit again – the hardest blow yet!

"Ow!  Ow! Ow!  Mistress?  Please don't.  Please?"  Then I had a stroke of genius. "Please put your finger in me again?  Please?"
"Fatima likes it?"
Fatima LOVES it mistress!  See?"   And I spread my legs invitingly.

Once again she was inside me, slowly working her finger in and out of me.  Having no intention of incurring her wrath again, I writhed and undulated, making happy sighs and moans.  Again, her finger found my prostate, but this time the contact was firmer, and she started to massage it in earnest. Weeping with shame and embarrassment I gradually realized that I WAS enjoying what she was doing.   Gradually, I felt a tension build up inside me then, undulating up and down, totally under the control of her finger – I felt myself explode inside the condom.  She must have felt my body relax, because this time  she gave me a chance to recuperate.

"Fatima?  Is your backside sore?  Tell the truth now.!"
I whimpered, than admitted tearfully that it was.
"It feels awfully hot.  Is it?"
"Yes." I snuffled, taken aback by the tone of sympathy in her voice.
"Oh, you poor dear!  Samantha is sorry!   Here? Maybe this might help?"  As she said this, she pulled my panties down again.

While I had been spanked, I'd heard what I took to be a drink getting brought to Samantha.  She hadn't taken any I thought, because she stretched and seemed to put it on a table close to her.  I had heard what sounded like the tinkle of ice cubes.  Now, suddenly, she was rubbing my backside with something icy cold - an ice cube!  I let out a surprised squeal, much to the merriment of the onlookers. 

"Now ladies – especially you trainee girls?  Here is another tool for humiliating a customer.  You can come closer to see what I'm doing if you wish.  Just one thing that is very important?  Make sure that the ice is melted somewhat before doing this."  And, as she finished speaking, she inserted an ice cube up into my backside!  I shrieked with the shock, and tried again to get away from her – but was just as successful as I had been in the previous attempts. "See ladies?" she continued.  "So long as the ice isn't dry? There's no tissue damage.  Now let's load Fatima up, shall we?  She's such a hot little number!"

How many cubes she inserted in me, I don't know – but I had a frozen posterior before she had finished. "And girls?" she continued. "This is good if you have a customer where you feel that infantilism may be a viable training method? Ice cubes melt – and when he stands up?  Wetness of course.  Maybe time to put the little dear in nappies – or diapers – as our American friends call them."

I think I must have been disassociating myself from what was being done to me.  I don't truly know how long it was, but out of a mental fog of my own making, I heard her speak softly to me.  "Fatima?  Fatima?  You there?"
Sluggishly,  I felt my head rise.  "Yes Mistress?" I said.
"You want to be my little harem girl?  Dance for me?"
"Oh yes mistress.  Of course."
"But?  Don't you want to be pretty for me as well?  Be a pretty girl?  Just for me?"
"Yes mistress.  I want to be your pretty girl."
"Want to wear makeup?  Sexy undies?  Pretty clothes?  Nicer ones than this old plain skirt?"
"Yes mistress."

As if from a far distance, I heard her speak again.  "Gooooood  Fatima!   Thassagirl!  Now why don't you go off with  Rose.  I'm sure she'll be glad to help you get dressed properly and make you pretty.  And?  Cynthia and Melissa?  Why don't you give Rose a helping hand?"  As she was saying this, she pulled my panties back into position, then raised me up from over her  knees.  "There!  Now off with you!" she said, patting me on the ass.

"Oh!  Look at Fatima!" I heard someone say mockingly.  "She's so excited, she's wetting herself!"
"Well done Lori!"  Samantha said. "Do you younger ladies see how she added a touch of humiliation to the situation?  Never miss a chance to humiliate the poor little darlings!  They just LOVE it so!"
Dazed, I was led out of the room by my three new taskmasters: Rose, Cynthia, and Melissa, trickles of water running down both legs.

The ladies weren't unkind to me.  Just dexterous and efficient in what they were  doing.  All of my clothes were removed, then a depilatory spray was applied to my body.  My underarms were shaved, as was the area around my genitals.  Then I was told to shower. 

When I emerged, I was quickly dried and powdered, then led back into the bedroom.  I was given a bra and panties to put on. Then malleable breast forms were placed inside my bra and small marks were made around the periphery of the breasts.  Then the bra was removed and, using the marks that had just been made to position them, the forms were adhered to my chest – all the girls exclaiming  about what a perfect match the skin tones were.  Then I was allowed to put my bra on again.

I was getting quite cold, but was scared to complain, so gave Rose a shy smile of thanks when she handed me a floral silk wrap to wear while various wigs were tried on me.  Nothing blonde, all darker shades, they finally chose one that fell in soft waves about my face and down slightly past my shoulders.  Then they took my own hair and put it into a tight fitting nylon cap before adjusting the wig permanently.

Cynthia then surprised me.  Sat down and pulled me into her lap.  "Fatima?"
"Yes Cynthia?"
"We're going to dress you in your harem girl costume now.  Are you going to fuss.  Make a scene?"
"No Cynthia."
"You are NOT going to cry, are you?"
"Don't think so, Cynthia." I snuffled as I answered this question.
"Well if you are?  I'd suggest you do it now – before we put your makeup on.  Cry after that?  I'm gonna spank you and, trust me, it'll be a LOT worse than what Samantha gave you a little while ago. Understand?"
"Yes Cynthia."
"Gonna be a good girl then?"
"Yes Cynthia."

I was dressed in my costume very quickly.  Sheer pantaloons that cuffed tightly just above my ankles but ballooned out about my legs, then a short silk skirt – bright red in color -  that pulled up over the pants, but only came down to about the middle of my thighs.  A halter top, again diaphanous, clearly showing my bra and having bloused sleeves that  ballooned out over my arms and cuffed tightly at the wrists.  A sheer chiffon tunic that did little to conceal my otherwise bare midriff was next.

Melissa was the makeup expert I guess, because she sat me down, removed my wig and then proceeded to apply the cosmetics.   "You'll need your eyebrows plucked, but not at the moment.  Remind me later and I'll do them for you tonight when I pierce your ears. Okay?"
"Pierce my ears?" I asked nervously.
"Of course!  After dinner, come up to my room.  Don't forget!"
"I won't forget, Melissa." I said meekly.
"Good!  Now shut up and quit moving about!" she said sharply.  "I'll do your nails and give you a pedicure then as well, so don't be worrying about them."

My nails had been the least of my worries to that point I thought, but made no answer as she busied herself at making me over.  She seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time working on my eyes I thought but, as I'd never been made up like that before, didn't say anything.  She finally finished there then, spent a fair amount of time in doing my lips.  As I was faced away from the mirror, I didn't see the results of her handiwork until she had replaced my wig, then carefully – very carefully – attached a flowing veil she stretched across my face, right under my eyes and attached to my hair close to my ears.  Then a lightweight cap type of thing  - something like a snood - was placed over my head and draped down my back.  It had little coin-like things attached that hung down over my brow.

She stepped back to survey the final results, and Rose let out a "Whew!  Wow!  Samantha's going to be quite taken with this one, I think!"

As Melissa put little silk anklets on my feet, prior to a pair of low-heeled scarlet slippers, I finally got to see what I looked like in the mirror.

I was so different in appearance that I didn't react for a second.  It was by no means a 'pretty' woman who stared back from the mirror, but she WAS a woman! .  Her eyes were dark, smoky, and sultry, peering out from over her veil and scarlet wet looking lips pouted seductively underneath it.  She turned her head, a disbelieving expression on her face, and I not only felt the coins move across my brow, I heard a slight 'tinkle' as they did so. It was that more than anything else that made me realize that the woman staring back from the mirror was ME!

My body shape was decidedly feminine as well.  What appeared to be swelling breasts nestled comfortably in a lacy bra, visible under the opaque material that covered them. The fullness of the sleeves of the halter top and legs of the pantaloons gave the impression of fullness of upper and lower segments of my body – emphasizing my 'waist' configuration.  The transparency of the sleeves of my top disclosed soft, white, feminine arms.

I started to take another look, but Cynthia took hold of my upper arm. "C'mon Fatima.  Samantha will want to see this!"  And herded between the three women, I was taken back to the room we'd left not that long before.

Samantha was engaged in a conversation with Angela as we entered, but the hush from the other women when they took in my appearance, got her attention.  As soon as she saw me, she beamed.  "TOLD you!" she said to nobody in particular, and advanced to stand right in front of me, examining me most closely.
"Yes!  Yes!  Yes!" she said happily.  "This is more like it!  Come with me darling!"  With that, she pulled me into her bathroom and closed the door behind us.

Crooning a happy little song, she searched out a small black leather case and opened it up.  Carefully, removed a ovoid shaped object.  I couldn't see it too clearly but it seemed to be about three inches long and about an inch and a half at its widest circumference.  She then got a jar and took the lid off.  took it with her as she went and sat on the toilet seat.  "Here Fatima!  Come and see what mistress Samantha  has for you!"

Warily, I approached her, but all my caution did me little good.  Reluctant as I was, I couldn't help but get within her reach.  Smiling confidently, she took a hold of my arm and pulled me gently into her, then laid me slowly over her knees.  She pulled my harem pants and panties down.  Gently lubricated me.  "Relax dear.  Don't fight it.  Just relax.  It'll be fine.  Trust me." she said, and I felt her inserting something inside me.

I squirmed and made little protesting noises and fought it for a second, but mindful of her soft insistent commands, I relaxed – and SWALLOWED something with my backside!  It felt SO big for one second – then totally ingested the next!

She patted me gently on the buttocks and pulled my clothes back up into position. "There's a girl!" she said softly.  "Now dear?  Will you just stand up for mommy?"
I nodded and stood.  She reached into the same small leather bag and found a small black plastic thing with a couple of buttons on it.  Smiled at me, placed her thumb over one of the buttons.  Smiled a little more.  Pressed the button.  And my insides turned to quivering JELLO!

Wide eyed, I turned to her, an erection fully visible underneath my flimsy pantaloons, my knees almost buckling.  "What!   What was THAT???" I managed hoarsely.
She laughed. "Ah the romance of modern technology!  Isn't this great?"  And, with that, she raised her eyebrow and pressed the button again!

This time, forewarned, I was able to lock my knees, but the vibration seemed to be touching my prostate and, though it was highly uncomfortable, it was also charged sexually.  "Please don't Sama – mistress?"  I said softly.

She inhaled noisily through her nostrils and slid the control unit into her pocket.  Looked at me coldly.
"I don't like you."  She said. "You little traitor.  You belong to me now, body and soul.  Until I say so?  You will never know the joy of sex without my permission.  I know that you look down on Josephine, but you'll be measured this morning for a few items – amongst which will be maids uniforms.  So?  When I'm in the mood for a harem girl?  That'll be you.  When I want a junior maid?  That'll be you as well.  Now go back into the room.  Ask Lori if she can start giving you dancing lessons.  Get out of my sight!"

Totally subjugated and ashamed by her scorn and dislike I did as I was told and started my new life.

One indignity after another was heaped on me.  The measuring took place even before my first dancing lesson.  There was a great deal more measuring, especially around my hips and genitals, than I'd ever have thought necessary for the simple expedient of making dresses to fit me.  As always, my assumptions were disproved quickly.

Yes, I was supplied with uniforms – dresses, underclothes, caps, aprons – all the appurtenances of maidenly employment – but I was also given a metal, awful, chastity belt.  It was lightweight and, oddly comfortable enough, but it had a peculiar structure at the front. A sort of sheath took my penis, and it didn't take me long to discover that it was impossible for me to get an erection while wearing the device.

It also had a kind of 'pouch' at the front, that hung loosely down over my genital area.  I thought at first that it had to do with needing urination, but discovered fairly quickly that it wasn't, because I could urinate – but had to sit down to do so because of the belt construction.  The night I wore it for the first time, I was made to demonstrate my new dancing prowess in front of the ladies in the lounge. 

I really was pretty bad, but everyone applauded loudly, commenting how much better a dancer I was than my predecessor (Mr. One).  Then, Samantha said  "Ice cream anyone?" and everyone paused for a second, then burst out laughing.  "Come here Fatima.  Milking time." She continued, crooking her finger at me and grinning. 

When I got to just in front of her, she undid the waistband of my pantaloons and gently pulled them down to about my knees. To my surprise, she fitted a condom over the top of the sheath. I didn't have much time to ponder on this because she then opened up the strange pouch at my front.  There was a medium sized bowl sitting on a table beside her.  It was covered, but she took the top off to reveal that the bowl was filled with crushed ice.  Beside the bowl was a small ladle.  This she dipped into the bowl, got some ice – and ladled it into the pouch!

The girls were giggling away, but frankly I couldn't see much sense in what she was doing.  Sure, it was humiliating, but it didn't hurt and at the beginning I could barely feel the cold coming through the bag material.  This changed as she filled the pouch though, and it did start to get uncomfortable.  It wasn't until she'd finished putting the ice into the pouch, then sealed the top that I started to get an inkling of what the next step was.

There were two leather laces at the bottom of the pouch.  These were run between my legs, then used to pull the pouch up hard against my genitals, then tied to the back of the chastity belt, to keep the pouch in place.  I started to feel rather numb in the groin. Again, it wasn't pleasant, but certainly not painful.  She pulled my waistband up again and proceeded to fasten it about me again.

"Is that pouch cold on you Fatima?" mistress asked.
"Yes ma'am" I said, grateful for her concern.
"I think – maybe you should dance a little more for us?  Might just keep you warm?"  she added.  "Dorothy?  Put Fatima's music on, would you dear?"

Totally confused, I started weaving and gliding to the music as Lori had been teaching me.  Then I saw that mistress had the remote control in her hand.  Saw her press the button!  And very little happened! Then, she pressed the button again.  For a longer period this time.  And I felt 'something' stir inside me.  I couldn't help myself.  Stopped all motion, trying to figure what was happening.  She smiled – and held the button down for an appreciably longer time.

It was as if something had imploded inside me.  Not painful.  Not pleasurable.  Not anything.  But whatever it was?  It left me with a feeling of loss.  As if something had been extracted from me.  I was standing stock still by this time.  Strangely enough, my audience weren't yelling at me to do anything.  Just gazing at me, a sort of curious expectancy on their faces.
"I think she's done,"  somebody said, turning off the music.
"Fatima? That condom I put on you?" Samantha said. "Go into the bathroom and check it please.  Take it off and dispose of it if you've used it.  Empty the pouch of ice while you're at it."

This made absolutely no sense to me and I almost remonstrated that surely I would know if I'd ejaculated, but thought better of it.  In the bathroom, however, I discovered that the condom reservoir DID have discharge in it.  Shocked, I took the slimy thing off and flushed it down the toilet.  I then reached behind me and undid the laces that held the pouch in place.  I then emptied the ice out of it.

Over the next few weeks I discovered what was on Samantha's mind.  She was determined that I was to have no sexual enjoyment whatsoever, and I was put through the 'milking' every day – sometimes twice.  After just a few days, I wept – pleaded with her not to do this horrible thing to me, but she was adamant.

End of Part 5

Now for Rosie!

The doors opened and an elegantly dressed lady came in, a young man followed reluctantly behind her.
“Bill, please, you promised you’d go through this,” she pleaded.
“Oh, come mom, this counseling business is bullshit and you know it,” he arrogantly replied.
“May I help you?” I said from my desk.
“We’re here to see Mrs. Ripley,” the lady said.
“If you’ll be so kind to wait a minute,” I said, rising from my desk, “I’ll go and announce you.”
“Sure,” the lady replied.
Even though my taffeta skirt rustled quite loudly as I got off the chair, the snigger Bill made was still audible to my ears.
“Whoo-wee!” he laughed, looking at me.
“Bill!” the lady hissed.
His comments were understandable, to some extent at least. Joanna had me wearing a very full gold taffeta skirt that came to mid thigh, a crisp black silk blouse with wide, billowy sleeves and ridiculously wide cuffs and collar. I also had to wear four inch heels to match my skirt. Normally, I was allowed more modest outfits, but today, as Joanna put it, I was dressed for demonstrational effect.
“Mrs. Kitman’s here,” I said to Joanna, “Should I let them in?”
“Sure,” Joanna replied.
I walked out of her office back to the reception area.
“Mrs. Ripley will se you now,” I announced.

“Well, Mrs. Kitman?” Joanna said as the pair sat down in her office, “Is this the young boy we had talked about? Made your decision yet?”
“To tell you the truth, I have doubts you’ll have any success with him,” Mrs. Kitman said, “I do realize you have had success with petticoat punishment, but I simply don’t see how you will get him in girls’ clothes to begin with.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bill yelled, “You said we were here for counseling!”
“Bill!” Joanna hissed, “Shut up this instant!”
The tone she used was enough to turn my blood to ice, even though I knew it wasn’t me that was in trouble. It had the same effect on Bill as well. By Mrs. Kitman’s expression I could see that she was impressed.
“Leave that to me,” Joanna said, “Now if you still have further doubts…”
She turned to me, “Melissa, won’t you be so kind and introduce yourself to Mrs. Kitman?”
Nervously, I cleared my throat.
“My name is Melissa Priscilla Ripley,” I said in the most masculine voice I could still muster, “Though before that my name used to be Mark Peter Bernard. I changed my name when I married Mrs. Ripley.”
“You’re… her husband?” Mrs. Kitman asked.
“Oh, he, I mean, she’s not anyone’s husband,” Joanna replied, “She’s my wife and secretary, plain and simple.”
Mrs. Kitman opened her purse and took out her checkbook.
“When can you start?” she asked, already writing the check.


I slid the pale blue soft wool pants over my hips and zipped them up at the back.
“See how much better they fit you than yours?” Sherry said.
“Look, I said I was sorry,” I pleaded, “I’ll take the corset back, I’ll never ask you to wear anything again, just please stop this.”
“A-a, sweetie,” she said, “A deal’s a deal.”

I made the mistake of buying my wife a corset. I had always bought her lingerie and though it was not always as much to her tastes as mine, she’d wear it gratefully, without complaints. However, when I bought her a corset, she reacted in a completely different manner.
“You think it’s fun to wear something like this?” she exploded, waving the satin foundation garment at my face, “What am I, some kind of a plaything to you?”
I apologized and explained that I just thought she’d look sexy in the corset, nothing else. I hadn’t meant to demean her. But my apologies and explanations would not satisfy her. She made me a deal: she’d wear the corset in the evening only if I wore it though the day.
“That way you’ll know what you’re asking me to go through,” she said, “You wouldn’t want me to put up with anything you’d find uncomfortable, would you?”
Of course I had pointed out that the corset was designed for the female body, with female proportions in mind.
“The corset is designed to shape the body,” she hissed in my ear as she was lacing it up at my back, “Male or female!”
I gasped for air as she squeezed my waist. I wanted to ask her to reconsider the tightness but her angry glances told me to better accept my fate. After she was done and I had accustomed to taking shallower and more frequent breaths, things weren’t so bad as they had seemed. After all, my shirt and jacked would completely cover the feminine garment and apart for my slightly stiffer posture, it wouldn’t be apparent at all. How wrong I was.
“You can’t wear these,” she said as I reached for my shorts, “I mean, how would you like it if I wore your jockeys with the corset?”
“But Sherry,” I said, then shut up instantly as she glared at me again. With the corset strapped across my belly, I somehow found myself unable to go against her demands. She rummaged through her lingerie drawer and handed me a pair of her black satin panties that matched the corset. Wordlessly, I put them on. Granted, putting on lacy women’s panties in front of my wife was a blow to my ego, though again, the same reasoning applied as it did to the corset – no one would know.
“I don’t think these are a good idea either,” she said when I started putting on my pants.
“What do you mean?” I asked, “The deal was just the corset.”
“Sure,” she said, “But did you happen to notice what the corset has done with your waist? Think your pants will stay up at all?”
They didn’t, either. Even before the corseting, I used to buckle my belt at one of the last holes. Now, with my waist cinched, even at the last hole my pants kept sliding down to my hips, revealing my black satin lingerie as they did so.
“Do you have any belts I could borrow?” I asked desperately.
“How about this one?” she said, showing me a wide pink belt with a glass bead encrusted buckle.
“Sherry, please,” I said.
“Maybe you should try my pants instead,” she said, “The way your body is now shaped, my stuff will fit you better than yours.”

Of course along with the pants, I had to wear the matching tailored jacket with a flared bottom part that not only didn’t do anything to hide my feminized silhouette but even pronounced it! I could have worn the jacket unbuttoned, were it not for the gauzy floral blouse she had me put on.
“These pants are kinda long, aren’t they?” she said.
A glimmer of hope sparked in me.
“Yeah, now that you mention it, I guess they are,” I said, hoping she’d let me take them off, take off everything I had on and put on my own clothes.
She gave me a pair of her black court shoes with a two inch heel, and a pair of tan nylon knee highs.
“These should give you the extra height,” she said.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I burst to tears, blubbered, begged her to stop, but still obeying her, putting on the nylons and the shoes.
“Please, Sherry, I can’t go to work like this,” I cried as I paced around the room for her to see how I handled the heels.
“Then don’t,” she said.
“Really?” I sniffled.
“Sure,” she said.
“Oh thank you,” I burst into tears again, then started to undo my jacket.
“Hold on, what do you think you’re doing?” she said sternly.
“But I thought you said…” I began.
“I said you didn’t have to go to work if you’re shy about being seen wearing my clothes,” she said, “I didn’t say you could take them off.”
I stared her in horror.
“If you don’t want to go to the office, just don’t,” she continued, “But let me make this clear, either you go to work today or you don’t go anymore at all.”
As if hit by a bullet, I dropped down on the bed. We had had this conversation many times before, when Sherry pressed me to leave my job and that way free up more time for housework. So far we had both shared the chores but Sherry wasn’t satisfied by that anymore.
“Your call,” she said.

She had been gone for quite a while before I stopped crying. I cried for many reasons, the humiliation my wife had put me through, the loss of my status of an equivalent partner in our marriage, the loss of my financial independence. But the worst of all was the ease at which I had let this happen, how little of a fight I had put up. Angry with myself, I felt as if I deserved to be treated the way I was.
I got off the bed, rinsed my face with cool water, then phoned in my resignation.

I was tired and my feet were sore by the time Sherry came back. I hadn’t been lazing around but it was a big house and it took me the better part of the day just to do the vacuuming.
“Hello, sweetie,” she said, “Feels more appropriate, doesn’t it?”
Not responding to her question, I silently took her jacket and handbag.
“I said ‘Doesn’t it feel more appropriate?’” she hissed.
“Well, no, actually,” I said, albeit quietly, fearfully.
“Really?” she said, mocking compassion, “What doesn’t feel proper, then?”
”The clothes, for a start,” I said.
“You’ve got a point there,” she said, “To tell you the truth, I don’t find them right for you any more.”
Thank heavens, I though, at least she’ll let me dress normally, now that the new power balance had been established.
I helped her carry the shopping bags to the bedroom, then, as she instructed, emptied them onto the bed. There were blouses, skirts, dresses, three pairs of ladies shoes, all high heeled, couple of lingerie sets, a heap of nylon stockings and to top it all, three corsets.
“I don’t understand,” I said, “I thought you said you’d brought something for me.”
“Silly,” she laughed, “All of this is for you.”
“But… but…” I began, fighting tears again, “But I thought you said…”
I broke to tears, again.
“That you weren’t properly dressed?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Of course, honey,” she explained, “When I gave you this pantsuit this morning, I thought you were going to the office. It’s just too formal and unpractical to wear when you’re cleaning the house. Honestly, I thought you’d change into something else when you decided to stay at home.”
“You said I couldn’t take the clothes off,” I sniffled.
“Oh, right, I did, didn’t I?” she laughed softly, “Well, you can take them off now if you want to. In fact, why don’t I help you take them off? Run you a nice bath? Then put on some proper clothes on you?”

An hour later I was back in our living room, scented, hairless and smooth allover my body, wearing one of my new dresses over my buttercup yellow lingerie and the unavoidable corset.
“Is this really necessary, Sherry,” I asked, plucking at the skirts of my dress.
“Oh, this is just my way of expressing my gratitude for choosing to be my housewife,” she said, “If you’re a good girl, I’ll buy you many more pretty clothes like these.”
“Girl?” I weakly repeated.
“Though I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” she said, seemingly ignoring my question, “You can still borrow my clothes if you want.”
“I… I don’t understand…”
“What’s there not to understand, Melissa?” she said.
“I don’t think Jack is a name fit for a housewife, is it?” she replied.
“Okay, stop!” I said, “This has gone far enough. Even though I left my job because you wanted me to, that doesn’t mean I’m not your husband anymore. Enough with the dresses and the corsets and calling me Melissa.”
Her face darkened and I immediately knew I was in trouble, though I still stood behind what I’d said.
“Alright, come here,” she said, leading me to a mirror in the hallway.
“Does this look like a husband to you?” she said, pointing at my reflection, “Do husbands wear pretty dresses? High heels?”
I felt my resolve starting to crumble.
“Think husbands wear lipstick?” she pressed on, “Think husbands let their wives put them in corsets and pretty panties? Think husbands let their wives make them stay at home and do the housework?”
She led me back to the living room. I was crying again.
“I’m the breadwinner, you’re the housewife, Melissa,” she said, “The sooner you get this through, the better.”
“Don’t you owe me at least some explanation?” I asked through my tears.
“Owe?” she said, “Here’s what I owe you!”
She sat down and smoothed her black and white print chiffon skirt over her thighs.
“Over my knees, Melissa!” she hissed.
“No!” I cried, though at the same time placing myself across her lap.
I felt her raise my skirts. As her hand started smacking my panty clad behind, the first lesson of my new life began to sink in.


Anonymous said...

Great story; very well written.

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