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The Panties From Hell
#1
Just uploaded my second novel to Amazon and it's currently under review but here's the first chapter exclusively for members here.

[Image: 48485919406_5f04b0fd19_o.jpg]






The Panties From Hell


A novel by


Sandy Heath




© Sandy Heath 2017-2019






     The Panties From Hell is the second erotic novel by Sandy Heath and features themes of chastity and cross-dressing and descriptions of sexual acts which those of a sensitive nature may find not to their tastes. It is, therefore, not suitable for such readers nor for anyone considered a minor by the authorities in their country of residence.

Introduction






     Like The Wrong Panties, the following is also a work of fiction but, again, many of the scenarios have been tested for practicality, just for the sake of realism and authenticity of course. Several have been tested more than once, some have been tested several times and a few have been exhaustively tested over and over again – only for the sake of research you understand. (That’s still my story and I’m still sticking to it!) However, the same warning applies in that if you choose to indulge in any of the concepts, events or scenarios depicted herein, you do so entirely at your own risk and that of your reputation as a sane human being.

     This, my second novel, overlaps some of the events in The Wrong Panties and is written from the point of view of one of the female characters in that novel and relates her awakening into . . . well, you'll see.

     So:-

    Be careful what you wish for. -

You just might get it!

Prologue






     As I sit writing this it’s lovely and peaceful here in the house. There’s no raucous football on the telly even though it’s Saturday afternoon, just a nice soothing concert from the Royal Albert Hall uninterrupted by the crunching of noisy snacks and, despite there being two of us in the house, there’s no battle for the remote control, nor even any complaining that I have it safely ensconced by my side. I’m enjoying a very pleasant glass of gespritzer without it being spoiled by beer fumes and I can concentrate on what I’m doing in the secure knowledge that there is no chance whatsoever of being interrupted. The vacuuming has been done, lunch served, the debris cleared away and the dishwasher loaded . . . and I haven’t had to lift a finger all morning.

     As for last night: let’s just say it was ‘satisfying’. No, that’s not adequate. It was mind-blowingly satisfying!

     A month ago I wouldn’t have been able to say any of this, so why is life now, suddenly, so idyllic? It’s idyllic because the pecking order in this household has changed. It’s changed for the better as far as I’m concerned, although my darling husband may not agree . . . and I love it: I love it so much that there’s no way I’m ever going to allow it to revert to the old status quo. Changing things this way was far easier than I expected, so much so that I just cannot understand why I ever allowed things to go on as they were for so long. I’m a new woman and she’s definitely here to stay!

     How did I achieve all this? Well I would get my husband to tell you but he’s tied up at the moment – literally. He’s tied, spread-eagled, to the four corners of my bed, yes, my bed, wearing a cute pink baby-doll nightie and with a dildo gag strapped into his mouth wrapped in the skimpy, lacy, black nylon panties I was wearing yesterday. The panties are, of course, wrapped around the portion of the gag which is inside his mouth so he has no choice but to taste the results of how I felt about the erotic events of yesterday. If I feel the need for any ‘entertainment’, the protruding portion of the gag won’t let me down, unlike the appallingly unreliable part of his anatomy I used to have to rely on. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good man and in many ways an excellent husband but, in the bedroom department? Well, to be perfectly honest he’s actually pretty well endowed but, just a month ago, I’d have had to describe him as ‘boring’ at best and often well below par. Not now though!

     So, as he’s ‘unavailable for comment’ as they say on the news, I shall just have to tell you myself. Give me a couple of moments while I freshen my glass and then I’ll reveal for one and all how I managed to achieve this wonderfully blissful state of affairs.

Chapter 1






     I'll start with a few short words about my neighbour. She's an enigma. She’s somewhere around her late thirties, lives alone, looks after herself and is clearly a very attractive woman. She shouldn’t be short of male admirers but very few appeared to call and her girl-friends appear to be no more than that, just friends. Her routine appears to be . . . routine, there's no better word for it so, all-in-all, her life appears, to the casual observer, to be about as boring as mine although, one Sunday, I couldn’t help noticing that she hadn’t been home the previous Saturday night. That was unusual and I assumed that there was probably a perfectly innocent explanation but there we were having coffee at her house mid-week and my natural female curiosity got the better of me. We were good friends but not close enough that I could simply ask where she was that night and I’d have been far too embarrassed to bluntly ask her if her sex life had improved recently. Rather than come straight out with it and ask her about the men or, indeed, women in her life, I decided to lift the veil on the man in mine in the hope that doing so would make her feel comfortable enough to reveal at least as much about her love life as I was prepared to reveal about mine.

     Needless to say it didn’t go as planned, for, as I mulled over various opening gambits, she surprised me somewhat by breaking the awkward silence herself.

     “So how’s that lovely man of yours?” she suddenly asked.

     “Boring!” I blurted out, without stopping to think.

     “Boring?” she repeated. “Dark horse, you mean!”

     “No.” I shook my head just a little. “Just boring.”

     “Oh come on.” She leaned back in her chair. “He’s handsome, brings home the bacon, doesn’t run around . . . or does he?” she asked. “Oh I do hope that’s not the problem. It’s not, is it?”

     “No, no!” Well, I was pretty confident he didn’t but suddenly I doubted that confidence. “At least, there’s no evidence he does.”

     “Seven year itch?” she asked and suddenly I found myself counting the years. It was only five but the spark had definitely gone.

     “I think I just married the wrong man.” I offered, picking up another Garibaldi, then realised I still had a half-eaten one on my plate. My nerves were showing and this wasn’t going at all well. “But what about you?” A change of tack was needed. “No-one on the horizon?”

     “Nope!” she replied. “I guess I just don’t feel the need to settle down with one partner.”

     I started to relax a bit. “Still playing the field then!?”

     “I guess so,” she replied, “but not desperately.”

     “That wouldn’t explain Saturday then?” I asked, realising too late that I’d relaxed a tad too much.

     “Saturday?” she queried.

     “Yes. I’m sorry but I couldn’t help noticing that your car was missing overnight.”

     Thankfully, she laughed. “Ha! Yes. I was visiting my brother and his wife and . . . let’s just say we all had a bit too much to drink so I slept there.”

     “Oh. Sorry for being so nosy,” I said, picking up the half-eaten biscuit to hide my embarrassment.

     “That’s OK,” she said, smiling. “Now there’s a couple you certainly couldn’t call boring!”

     “Really?” I queried. “Tell me more,” I asked, thankful for the opportunity to listen rather than having to lead the conversation.

     “I’m not sure I should.” She paused and appeared to be gathering her thoughts. “Let’s just say it’s an interesting marriage,” she said, leaving me more than curious as to what on earth she meant by ‘interesting’. “But tell me more about your husband. Why do you say he’s ‘boring’?”

     So much for not having to lead the conversation. I took a deep breath, wondering how much I should say but, well, you know us girls. . . “It’s the sex,” I said, feeling myself blush slightly.

     Her eyes lit up. “It usually is!” she exclaimed with a laugh.

     I breathed a sigh of relief, suddenly feeling less uncomfortable about the way the conversation had turned back towards my experiences, or lack of, rather than hers and took a sip of my coffee. “Yes. Let’s just say he’s not the most adventurous person in the bedroom!”

     “And you are?” she enquired, with a gleam in her eye.

     “Well, no.” I was knocked a bit off my guard all of a sudden. “Almost certainly not but I think I’m more adventurous than he is. . . . or at least I’d like to be, given half the chance!”

     She reached to top up my coffee but the pot was empty. “Oh! Errrr. I can make some more or would you prefer a glass of wine if I join you?” she offered. “I’ve a lovely Petit Chablis if dry whites are your thing and it should be just right: I treated myself to one of those wine chiller cabinets last Christmas – does a marvellous job!”

     “That’s very kind, I don’t mind if I do.” I leaned back in my chair and finished the remains of my coffee and the other Garibaldi while she went to get the wine and two glasses.

     Soon I was holding a nice cool tall glass of excellent white wine instead of a cup of lukewarm coffee and the mood had totally changed as my neighbour kicked off her heels and tucked her rather elegant long legs up on the sofa.

     “So tell me more and don’t leave anything out. I guarantee I’ll have heard far more ‘adventurous’ tales from my sister-in-law!” she said, laughing and piquing my curiosity once more.

    “Well it’s not very exciting: neither what’s to tell nor the sex and you certainly wouldn’t class that as ‘adventurous’. All I get now is just your normal, mechanical, everyday, straight sex. No variety: nothing. Come to that it’s not even every week, let alone every day!” I took a large gulp of the wine and sighed; rather embarrassed that I’d suddenly revealed so much.

     “And what have you done to liven things up?” she asked.

     “Liven things up?” I repeated. “How do you mean?”

     “Well, you know: sexy lingerie for a start. Men are so predictable: they can never resist something black and skimpy or shiny and slinky but it doesn’t have to be trashy, although they do rather go for that; no, it can be seductively glamorous if you feel uncomfortable with skimpy.”
I did. I felt distinctly uncomfortable with skimpy! “I haven’t bought anything like that since our wedding,” I confessed.

     “Then it’s about time you did!” she enthused. “Okay then. What about toys?”

     “Toys?” I repeated.

     “Yes. Toys. Sex toys. You know: vibrator, handcuffs, riding crop, spanking paddle, nipple clamps, that sort of thing. Errr . . . . you have at least got a vibrator I assume?”

     I was a bit stunned. My neighbour was talking totally openly about things I had only ever dared mention in hushed tones. “Well: no,” I admitted.

     “You haven’t!” she exclaimed. “Well how do you take care of yourself if he isn’t doing his duty?”

     “I don’t,” I confessed.

     “Oh my!” she exclaimed. “You poor girl.” I must have looked crestfallen. “So if he’s just looking after number one, you must be really missing your fair share. Won’t he even go down on you so you at least get your fun too?”

     “Oh my God, I’d love that!” I exclaimed, then realised that I must have sounded really desperate.

     “Do you ask him?”

     “No! . . . I couldn’t.”

     “Why on Earth not?” she asked.

     “I’d be far too embarrassed,” I explained.

     “Oh come on girl. This is the twenty-first century and it sounds to me like you’re still stuck in the first half of the twentieth. If a guy doesn’t automatically give me what I want then I have three choices. If he just isn’t the sort to put me first, then he gets the order of the boot. If he’s worth it and just needs a little persuasion, then I ask for it. If he responds to assertive women then I don’t just ask for it, I insist on it and I’m always ready to use a bit of bondage to leave him no choice if he likes that sort of thing: and most of them do by the way,” she added with a laugh. “It’s as simple as that!”

     She made it all sound so reasonable and even, dare I say it, normal but it just wasn’t the way I was brought up. My parents were not the sort to talk about sex, let alone oral sex which they’d probably have condemned as ‘deviant’ and as for handcuffs having a place in the bedroom: well they would have been horrified at the whole concept of sex toys, especially anything to do with bondage and I would have been sent to see the doctor or even the vicar if I’d so much as mentioned such things. I took another, even larger, mouthful of the rather nice Petit Chablis and my host did likewise, then immediately topped up our glasses.

     “I wish I had the guts to treat my husband like that!” I joked but, deep inside, I was unsure as to whether it actually qualified as a joke. Something within was telling me I did, in fact, really mean it and I had to stop myself as I suddenly realised I had started to squirm in my chair.

     “It’s easy!” she said, with amazing self assurance: self assurance at a level I was truly in awe of. “We just need to do some shopping, girl. Get you some confidence!” she offered. “But first of all, we need to drag your attitude to men into the twenty-first century and I believe I know just how to do it.”

     “Really?” I replied but the distinct quaver in my voice still gave away the fact that I wasn’t totally convinced that I could make such a change in myself, even with any offered help.

     “Yes.” she insisted. “My brother’s going to be coming over on Saturday to collect something rather important to him and I think you ought to come round and meet him after he’s arrived.”

     “After?” I queried, somewhat puzzled by the suggested order of events.

     “Yes,” she said. “He’s bound to find it embarrassing but that’s intentional. What we don’t want is him turning tail and running away which he might be tempted to do if he realises I’ve got company,” she explained. “He won’t be leaving straight away, I can make sure of that and I think it would be best if you arrive unannounced so I’ll let you know when would be a good time as soon as I know myself. I’ll warn you right now, you may find what you see and hear a bit surprising but, believe me, it’s far more common than you might think.”

     I was intrigued. “Can’t you tell me more?” I asked.

     “I’d rather not, just in case it doesn’t happen for some reason but I’m pretty sure it will. All I will say is: please try not to be shocked or at least not to show it. Just try to be relaxed and confident and go with the flow.”

     We spent the rest of the afternoon getting slightly giggly on the lovely wine and chatting about more inconsequential things but my curiosity had been well and truly piqued and I couldn’t wait for Saturday.
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#2
Chapter 2






    I’m not totally sure why but, when Saturday did finally arrive, I found myself making a rather special effort to look my best. I knew my neighbour’s brother was married but, after she had said ‘try not to be shocked’, I felt I needed some way to kill the butterflies or, at the very least, to keep them grounded; to boost my self confidence and to feel as though I was ready for anything and what does a girl do when she needs a boost to her self confidence? Yes: dress the part. Hmmm . . . . . but what was ‘the part’? The implication in our conversation earlier in the week was that this had a lot to do with changing my attitude to men and, in particular, to my husband, also with her more confident and assertive nature and, I suspected, with her brother’s ‘interesting’ marriage but I had to be careful not to make too many assumptions as, in my naïvety, I could possibly have ended up making a complete and utter fool of myself.

    My husband usually played golf on Saturdays, so I had the opportunity to make a special effort that morning without inviting any awkward questions or arousing his suspicions as to why I was dressing to kill when just popping next door and, after looking through my wardrobe at least four or five times, I eventually decided that a business-like look but with a slightly sexy edge ought to fit the bill without taking any undue risks.

    As you know; when a girl dresses to feel good it has to start next to the skin, even when no-one but she is going to know what lingerie she has on. Ignore what people say about always wearing clean knickers in case you get caught up in an accident; this is about feeling good about yourself and it starts with coordination even before comfort. Yes, comfort is important but your lingerie must match so, as soon as my husband had pulled away in his car, off came my plain, normal and somewhat boring practical Saturday style clothes and on went my nicest matching bra and panties set in midnight blue satin and black lace which I’d already put aside the previous evening. I toyed with the idea of adding the matching suspender belt but worried about both comfort and overkill and rejected the idea in favour of seamed tights . . . . until I found that my only pair had a ladder in them. Decisions . . . decisions! Reject the idea of seams and stick with plain tights or go for the stockings and suspenders? I hadn’t worn stockings for ages: in fact not since my husband’s company Christmas party and, now I remember it, that was at his suggestion. Hmmmm. . . . . Maybe what my neighbour had said about men never being able to resist sexy lingerie did apply to my husband after all. I smiled at my scantily clad reflection in the full-length bedroom mirror and imagined the woman in the mirror in the matching suspender belt and a pair of sheer black seamed stockings and the thought made me feel good. It was just the feeling I wanted: the decision was made and on went the matching suspender belt and a luscious pair of 15 denier black seamed stockings with reinforced heel and toe. I didn’t just feel good, I felt slightly decadent and it was making me tingle. Uncomfortable? Well, not as comfortable as the tights would have been but there is something about the pull of a taught suspender which reminds you of what you’re wearing and hence how you look in your lingerie and, if that image is a good one, as mine most certainly was, then that helps in keeping you feeling good as well.

    I’d chosen to wear separates, rather than a dress and the blouse I’d chosen was one of my all-time favourites in white silk with long sleeves buttoned at the cuffs with little pearl buttons and a high frilled collar with matching buttons at the back. It was semi-sheer so my next decision was whether to stick with the hint of my dark blue and black bra or to hide it beneath a chemise or a slip. Difficult, as I’m sure you’ll agree: after all, I wasn’t out to seduce my neighbour’s brother but I had already decided to aim for a hint of sexy. I’d intended to pair the white silk blouse with a black satin pencil skirt so it seemed to me that the dark blue satin of my bra wasn’t really right and I started to have doubts about my choice until I remembered a back taffeta full slip I hadn’t worn for ages. My only worry was whether it was too long for the skirt as I didn’t want to spoil how I felt by having to pin it up. Well, it didn’t take me too long to find it and, thankfully, the scalloped lacy hem just reached the bottom of the welts of my stockings whereas the skirt I intended to wear was just short of knee-length. Having slithered into the slip with a fabulously sibilant rustle as the taffeta slid down over the rest of my lingerie, I donned the silk blouse and then stepped into the black satin skirt, tucked the slip into it, pulled the skirt up to my waist, tucked the silk blouse in as well and did up the skirt’s short rear zip. It was a superb fit and showed off my curves far better than I had remembered. Not only that but the skirt was lined and, in sandwiching the taffeta slip between the nylon lining of the skirt and the suspenders holding my sheer nylon stockings taut, it created that marvellous slightly sexy hiss and rustle with every twist, turn and bend I made. I loved it. I may have had no intention of seducing my neighbours brother and no idea whether it would have had any effect on my husband but it was working for me and I have to admit that the idea of indulging in a little flirting did cross my mind. I was actually feeling slightly naughty and I hadn’t felt like that for years. It was a good start.

    I’m certain you all know the next essential: shoes of course. Once again, a difficult choice apart from the colour which just had to be black. A classic court shoe would be an easy choice but it was a warm day so I opted for a pair of black patent strappy sandals which I thought wouldn’t be too racy for a Saturday afternoon and just a four inch heel as I’m not exactly short at five feet nine or one metre seventy-five for those of you more used to metric.

    A simple silver chain with a diamanté heart and matching earrings and bracelet completed the look as I’d planned ahead slightly and painted my toe and fingernails a nice sparkly metallic silver just the evening before. My husband had noticed – well, let’s face it, the aroma of nail varnish is hardly discrete, is it!? I returned his glance with just an innocent shrug and thought to myself how exquisite it would be to have him paint them for me. Oh how I hoped this was going to result in my being able to engineer a complete change in our marital dynamic. I kept my make-up fairly plain with the merest hint of dusky blue eye shadow and dabbed just the slightest hint of my favourite perfume deep within my cleavage and I was ready.

    My nervousness and the swarm of butterflies in my stomach had played havoc with my appetite but I managed a couple of crisp-breads with a little cottage cheese for a light lunch when, just as I’d finished them, the ’phone rang.

    I picked up the handset rather nervously. “Hello?”

    “Hi!” came the thankfully familiar voice of my neighbour. “My sister-in-law’s just ’phoned and my brother’s on his way so I was just calling to make sure you were still up for a little bit of amusement helping me embarrass my brother this afternoon.”

    The butterflies immediately took off en masse. “Errr . .” I mumbled. “Yes. . . . Absolutely. When would you like me to come round?”

    “Well he left about three-quarters of an hour ago so he should be here any time within the next half an hour. I’ll give you another call when he arrives and we’ll take it from there.”

    She sounded so reassuring but I was still nervous and kept on checking myself in the mirror and looking out of the front window at my neighbour’s drive where I noticed that her car wasn’t parked in its usual place in front of the garage but, instead, was parked rather inconveniently for visitors, almost at the end of the drive.

    Eventually the ’phone rang and I grabbed the handset, taking it with me to the front window where I could sneak a quick look out of the window, hopefully without being seen and was just in time to see what must have been his car coming to a halt after backing into the drive.

    “Hello?”

    “He’s here,” came the reassuringly familiar voice of my neighbour. “He’s not expecting us to have company of course so give me ten minutes while I lull him into a false sense of security, then pop round.”

    I was still looking out of the window and was wondering why he would need to be lulled into any sense of security at all, let alone a false one, when the driver’s door opened and a tall woman with long blonde hair got out, wearing what appeared to be a rather short Alice-in-Wonderland fancy-dress outfit.

    “I think you’ve got another visitor,” I said as the woman struggled to control the hem of her somewhat flimsy, wayward skirt in the breeze.

    “No, that’s definitely his car.”

    “Well a rather tall woman in fancy dress has just got out of it.”

    “Yes, that’ll be my brother,” she reassured me although, in fact, I didn’t find it at all reassuring. “Now you do remember what I said about trying not to be shocked and just going with the flow?”

    “Yes. . . . But. . . .” I almost stammered.

    “Actually you do have a good point about other visitors so give me a quick ring before you come round, just so I know it’s you and I don’t have to hide him,” she said and then giggled.

    “Okay. About ten minutes then. ’Bye.”

    I hung up but couldn’t take my eyes off the figure who was now stood at the front door, ringing the bell with one hand while still struggling somewhat unsuccessfully to control the skirt, apron and petticoats of her . . . err . . . his, obviously very embarrassing outfit: an outfit which certainly was not designed for outdoor wear! My neighbour eventually answered the door but for some reason didn’t immediately let her visitor inside but, instead, kept ‘him’ in conversation on the doorstep, struggling all the time to maintain a modicum of decency while their conversation was obviously becoming more animated as the figure was very understandably keen to get out of sight with as little delay as possible. Eventually she relented and let ‘him’ in just as ‘he’ was looking around with increasing nervousness and I had to back away from my vantage point unsure as to whether I had been spotted.

    I have to admit, I was utterly fascinated by what I had just seen and I did wonder if she had kept him on the doorstep for my benefit because, if that really was my neighbour’s brother, then I’d just had a very good demonstration that she definitely had the upper hand and a fair indication of the nature of what she had described as an ‘interesting’ marriage.

    For some inexplicable reason I found myself growing more and more keen to be next door, not still at home on tenterhooks pacing the floor as ten extremely long minutes slowly passed. After what seemed more like half an hour they eventually did and I rang as suggested.

    “Hello?” came the welcome voice almost immediately.

    “Hi. Is it okay to come round now? I must admit, my curiosity really has got the better of me,” I admitted.

    “Yes, no problem. I’ve got him in the kitchen making coffee,” she said. “Now remember: just go with the flow. Hopefully having seen him you’ll have got over any initial shock!”

    “I’ll do my best,” I claimed, hoping I could live up to my promise. “I’ll be right round.”

    Slipping on the strappy sandals I’d chosen earlier, I then checked my make-up for the umpteenth time and, recalling how my neighbour’s visitor had suffered such embarrassment at the hands of the unpredictable breeze, made certain my hair was under control and waited in the porch for a quiet moment before setting out on what may only have been a short walk next door but felt more like the embarkation on a voyage of discovery. I rang the doorbell, waited a while and was just considering ringing it a second time when it was opened, rather hesitantly I have to say, by ‘Alice’, the vision in the flyaway costume.

    The dress was a blueish turquoise, mainly satin with a high elasticated neck and little puffed sleeves with short satin and lace frills around the elasticated cuffs. Around the neck was a deep frill of satin with white lace trim and, at the centre, a white satin bow with long tails. The top was short, ending in an elasticated waist from which fell a three tiered gathered skirt. The first tier was satin and about ten inches long while the second and third were each just about six inches of gathered organza with a delicate frill at the top of each one where it joined the tier above. The short length of the satin tier meant that the white lacy hems of a petticoat were clearly visible through the very top of the upper organza tier and that cute turquoise satin bows atop white stockings showed through the bottom tier. The fullness of the petticoat and the light, delicate material of the skirt meant that it stood out quite far, very much like an adult-sized version of a little girl’s party dress and it was now very obvious why ‘Alice’ had been such a victim of the light and flimsy material that even in the slightest gust of wind ‘she’ had found it almost totally uncontrollable, despite the white satin bib fronted apron worn over it which was in itself an extravagant confection with masses of extremely feminine organza frills. ‘Her’ shoes matched the dress perfectly: strappy turquoise satin sandals with what looked like about a three inch heel. ‘Her’ make-up was quite discreet and at a casual glance I could see why I had at first assumed that ‘Alice’ was female although the long platinum blonde hair, now I could see it close up, just had to be a wig and I couldn’t wait to find out what ‘Alice’ was doing driving around dressed as ‘she’ was and looking as ‘she’ did.

    Yes, the initial impression was almost convincing. . . . . . Almost . . . . until ‘Alice’ opened ‘her’ mouth and squeaked “Please come in,” in a ridiculously obvious falsetto. ‘Alice’ was definitely a bloke with no idea whatsoever as to how to disguise his voice and I have to admit I immediately burst out laughing before gathering my composure and striding past him into the living room trying not to give him so much as a second glance, although I did notice that he didn’t follow me far but, instead, made immediately for the kitchen.

    Alone with my host I found it difficult to contain my amusement and we both ended up sniggering like a couple of giddy school girls, only composing ourselves just in time as the vision in turquoise returned from the kitchen with an extra coffee cup and saucer and poured the coffee. After his initial total failure at attempting to emulate the female voice, he then kept totally silent and even proffered the milk and sugar without daring to utter a word. I sensed that he actually still thought he could pull off the ridiculously amateur deception! Well it was time to shatter his absurd dream.

    “So is this your brother!?”

    The look on his face was priceless and I guessed I had stunned him by letting it be known that I already not only knew that he was a male but that I also knew full well who he was.

    “Yes. Cute, isn’t he!?” said my neighbour with a broad grin. “Curtsey for our guest, maid.” she ordered.

    He immediately did as instructed and I couldn’t help it but my jaw dropped. I’d not even had time to get used to being in the presence of a bloke in an extremely short Alice-in-Wonderland dress and now I had to handle the fact that he was being addressed as ‘maid’ and was displaying unquestioning obedience. I couldn’t wait to find out what gave his sister such power over him.

    “And it was her . . . . errr . . . . . him I saw arriving earlier?” I asked.

    “Yes, that’s right,” she confirmed, much to his horror as he realised immediately that his attempts to preserve his modesty earlier had been witnessed.
However, while he had been pouring the coffee, my attention had been drawn to the back of his neck where, as his wig parted, I couldn’t help but notice the glint of metal. Yes, it was a padlock, a chrome plated padlock which, I have to say, did go rather well with the platinum blonde wig and the turquoise blue dress. I doubted very much that he had locked himself into such an obviously embarrassing costume so I made what I hoped was not an unreasonable assumption: that his wife also had considerable power over him and that it was she who must, surely, have had a hand in outfitting him and sending him on his way dressed as he was in such an embarrassing, if not humiliating, fashion.

    “I could never do that to my husband: send him out dressed like that!”

    “You don’t have to. This is just a demonstration of how far you can take it if you really want to.”

    I saw him cringe and, inwardly, so did I as I had inadvertently given my neighbour a way to bring up the subject of why I was there and not only had she immediately grasped that opportunity but had done so rather suddenly and in front of ‘the maid’. There was nothing for it now but to brazen it out.

    “But all I want is for him to . . . you know . . . . be more . . . you know . . . . less inhibited . . . . you know . . . . when we . . . errr . . . . you know, like I told you.”

    Yes, I’d just made a complete and utter mess of ‘brazening it out’!

    “You want him to go down on you.”

    My neighbour certainly knew when to cut to the chase and I doubt my subtle make-up made much of a job of hiding my blushes.

    “Don’t go getting all embarrassed. How do you think my brother feels? He thought he was just coming over here for the keys to his dress and certain underwear he’s wearing and he only discovered he’d be doing that earlier this afternoon. Now he finds himself exposed to a total stranger as a helpless sissy maid and I can guarantee he’s far more embarrassed than you and petrified as to what comes next.”

    He and I exchanged glances, no doubt both of us wondering who really was the more embarrassed, yet it very quickly became apparent that my level of embarrassment was nothing compared to his as he stood meekly there in such a ridiculously feminine costume. However, for him it was about to get far worse.

    “The only thing he knows is that what comes next isn’t going to be him. That’s right, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer but his gaze dropped to the floor. “Isn’t it? Maid!” she added, raising her voice with dramatically stern insistence.

    “Yes, Madam,” he replied rather quietly.

    My neighbour was well into her stride and had definitely taken control of the situation, thus confirming my position as superior to her brother in the pecking order. I felt my confidence returning as I witnessed any remaining traces of his own being so effectively demolished.

    “And he’ll do anything you tell him to?” I asked.

    “Obviously there are sensible limits but, within reason, yes.”

    “But how? Errr . . . Why?”

    “Sex of course. All you need to do is to take control of a bloke’s sex life and he’ll be putty in your hands.”

    “What . . . . like Lysistrata did?” I suggested, recalling that, as a teenager, I had found Aristophanes’s seminal work quite enthralling.

    “Well, sort of but all of his sex life, not just the obvious bit,” she explained, grinning.

    “Obvious bit?” I queried.

    “Yes. Not just the rumpy-pumpy, the horizontal jogging, call it what you will – the bit you get up to between the sheets.”

    “But that’s the bit I want him to be better at, not to deny him totally,” I explained.

    “You really don’t understand men, do you!?” She said, smiling, then leaning back in her chair. “As far as they’re concerned, well, most of them anyway, that’s only part of their sex life,” she added with a wink.

    “Oh he’s totally faithful. I can guarantee that.” I responded to what was, to me, the obvious implication.

    “You think so? He may not be being unfaithful in the usual meaning of the word, you know, with other women but if you just deny him in the bedroom, he’ll still be taking matters into his own hands, so to speak,” she explained, turning her head and fixing her gaze on our maid’s nether regions before lifting it to look straight into his eyes and raising her eyebrows quizzically.

    “You mean playing with his . . . . Oh he wouldn’t!”

    “Don’t you believe it! And it’s that that you have to take control of.”

    I could see that ‘Alice’ was feeling decidedly uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going.

    “Let me explain.” said my neighbour, taking a good mouthful of her coffee. “My sister-in-law was in much your position but was lucky enough to find some damaged undies and guessed, quite correctly, that my brother here was dressing up in them when she was out and playing with his naughty bits in them.” She turned to her brother who was now looking far more than just ‘decidedly uncomfortable’. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

    The turn of the conversation had obviously become extremely embarrassing for the poor ‘girl’, if not deeply humiliating but something deep within me was enjoying the way ‘Alice’ was squirming with the embarrassment he was being exposed to and forced to endure. I was finding myself really loving the power exchange which was taking place before me and have to confess that I was actually getting rather turned on by it all.

    “Yes, Madam,” he muttered.

    “Well, she’s an intelligent and worldly-wise woman and didn’t do the silly thing of throwing her arms up in horror and her husband into the street but went on the internet to find out more and discovered that it’s something most men do at some time in their lives. Not the messy bit, they all do that. I mean the cross-dressing.”

    “Really!?” I said, somewhat incredulously.

    “Yes. There’s research out there that’s found that around eighty percent of men have worn some of their wife’s, girl-friend’s, mother’s or sister’s clothes at some time, even if it’s just once out of curiosity. However, most of them find the sensation rather sexy and, having done it once, liked it and got away with it, they’re hooked and find it impossible to give up. You’ve only got to look at the way lingerie’s designed to see the attraction: If love is blind, why does lingerie look like that!?” She couldn’t suppress a giggle and nor could I: she had a very good point. “But it’s not just designed to please the eye. We know how lovely it feels to slip into something slinky . . . . and so do they! They love the feel of silk and satin on our bodies but there’s an awful lot of blokes who, having satisfied their curiosity, find it feels gorgeous on their own and, let’s face it, who can possibly blame them!?”

    “But doesn’t that just apply to gays?” I asked in moderate disbelief.

    “No way! Quite the reverse, apparently. It seems that more straight men cross-dress than gays do and not only that but cross-dressers are actually less likely to be gay than men who don’t. Think about it and it makes sense. They like femininity so why would they not prefer women?” I thought for a moment but had to admit that what she was saying did made complete and utter sense.

    “Anyway, she challenged him about it and he tried to deny it of course but she was too clever for him: got him tied helpless and wouldn’t release him until he’d given her access to his lap-top, then she interrogated him about all the naughty things she’d discovered that he’d been keeping secret, the silly sissy. Of course his poor little magic wand couldn’t help but tell her the truth and, to cut a long story short, she soon had his naughty bits under lock and key and some interesting video.”

    “What!!?” I was stunned, not to mention rather puzzled about the concept of the poor guy having his wedding tackle locked up but I couldn’t help giggling at her description of his manhood as his ‘poor little magic wand’.

    “Yes – and that’s how she controls all his sex life.” She reached over to the sideboard. “Here you are. Have a look at this. This is what she first locked him into.”

    My eyes must have been out on stalks as I leaned forward and took hold of the strange clear plastic device she had offered me and which consisted of what was very obviously a hollow replica of the flaccid male organ attached to largish ring, the two portions being locked together. Upon examining it carefully it didn’t take the genius of Sherlock Holmes to work out what went inside the hollow ‘tube’ and it then quickly became obvious where the ring went and I must admit that I was totally fascinated, not only by the device but also by the concept of having someone locked in it and having control over the keys. In fact, I rather surprised myself by my reaction and found myself shifting in my seat as I succumbed to involuntarily twitching my pelvic floor muscles.

    “So why’s he here for the keys if he isn’t locked into it now?” I asked, somewhat puzzled.

    “Ah! Some men can defeat those cages and still get their illicit pleasure and his wife didn’t want to take that chance so now she’s got him far more securely locked and in something that’s not only more effective but which we both think looks a whole lot better too. Would you like to see?”

    I didn’t believe this! “Really? Can I?” I enthused, my eyes open very wide.

    “Of course. Come here, maid,” she commanded rather imperiously.

    Our poor embarrassed victim, for that was clearly what our tame male maid had become, had very obviously been dreading this turn of events right from the start of the conversation and somewhat reluctantly shuffled forwards towards us.

    “Lift your apron, girl. . . . And the skirt. . . . And the petties,” ordered my neighbour. It was patently obvious that he had no choice but to comply with her instructions as she had already rather bluntly revealed that he was there to collect the keys to whatever was about to be exposed to my fascinated gaze. It was clear that total obedience, no matter how embarrassing or humiliating, was required if she was ever going to let him get his hands on the keys to his freedom. I was really starting to become very envious of that level of power.

    “Do you like her pretty panties?” she asked, stroking the front of the almost unbelievably feminine confection which I couldn’t actually imagine anyone of my own sex ever wearing. They were as ridiculous, to my mind, as the rest of his apparel: so excessively feminine with their luscious frills and extravagant lace trim that I couldn’t picture any woman wearing them, yet here they were, right before my very eyes, being worn by a man. Yes, a very sissified and extravagantly feminised man but still, nonetheless, a member of the male sex and his obvious embarrassment told me that no doubt there was also, deep inside, a real man who desperately wanted to be anywhere other than where he was, right then and in his current situation!

    “She absolutely loves them but there’s definitely no way she can make a mess in them any more: is there, girl?” she teased.

    “No, Madam,” replied our trembling model as I sniggered at the mention of ‘she’ being unable to ‘make a mess in them’.

    Upon removing her hand it became clearly obvious, thanks to the sheer material of the ridiculously frilly, lace trimmed panties, that they weren’t all he was wearing, as the glint of something more beneath them glistened through the flimsy material.

    She turned back to me and asked, “Why don’t you pull them down and take a good look and you’ll see why.”

    I was not only stunned by the suggestion but I must also admit that, fascinated as I was and as keen as I was to see clearly what was hidden by the thin veil of chiffon, I was somewhat reluctant to take hold of and pull down the panties of a complete stranger: especially a male one, even though he was rather ridiculously dressed in overtly feminine finery.

    “Go on,” urged his sister. “There’s absolutely nothing she can do about it,” she added; stating the obvious: that he was clearly in no position to complain regardless of what I did to him. This was very true and he stood stock still, allowing me, a complete and utter stranger whom he’d first met less than an hour before, to take hold of the sides of the waist-band of his panties and pull them slowly down to reveal the incredible stainless steel contraption beneath them.

    “My god!” I exclaimed, realising that what I was facing could only be nothing else but a chastity belt, something I had previously assumed had only ever been fitted to the female form in far less enlightened times. I pondered, rather naturally, whether its internal construction differed and in what ways and vowed to myself to investigate further on the internet as I dared, gingerly, to put my finger against what looked like an extremely secure lock. “That’s a work of art. It must have cost a fortune!”

    “I gather it wasn’t exactly cheap,” she confirmed, “but she says it’s worth every penny. Get your husband in something like that and he’ll soon be so frustrated he won’t just be giving you all the sex you want just the way you want it, he’ll be absolutely begging to go down on you. For the meantime, though, try that cage on him first,” she offered.

    The thought of having my poor, boring, unsuspecting husband locked up in the stainless steel contrivance which was staring me straight in the face and which I was finding incredibly difficult to take my hand away from, let alone my eyes off, was a thought which was having such an effect on me that the one thing I had become desperate to do at that moment was to plunge my other hand where it should only be plunged in private: into my privates! It had become obvious that there were aspects of my psyche and libido which, for some reason, I had heretofore been unaware of.

    “That’s all very well but how the Hell am I going to persuade him to put it on, let alone allow me to lock it and keep the key?” I asked after regaining a modicum of composure.

    “Oh come on! Even if he doesn’t wear your panties when you’re out, surely he must have some kinks you can use to your advantage? Just do what her mistress did and interrogate him while he’s tied up and helpless,” she suggested. “I’m sure he won’t be able to deny the truth when it’s staring you in the face and he has no way to hide it. Their poor little willies can’t lie you know!” she asserted with undeniable conviction. “Just get him to confess what he does to get his rocks off when you’re not around and then tell him you’re going to put an end to it. One bag of frozen peas later and you’ll soon have him all safely locked up in that cage. Then, once you’ve got his silly willy totally under your control . . . . well, the rest is up to you and your imagination and, if that needs any help, well: I’m here and the web is your friend.”

    Her logic was impeccable but I still couldn’t see myself bringing it off.

    “But I’ve never even tied him up. He might not let me.” I found myself making excuses in advance for any failure to take her advice.

    “Rubbish! You’re a woman. Just ask him if he’ll let you. Most men love the chance to have a woman take control for a change. You just have to get through that silly macho bit which won’t let some of them admit it so, if it’s a problem, just pout a bit and do the Lysistrata thing until he gives in. From that point on you can almost guarantee that the bit which can’t lie will be telling you how much he enjoys being helpless while you play the harlot.”

    She kept on making it sound so easy and all the evidence that was needed to prove it was possible was still standing before me holding his skirt and petticoats up and with his sheer, frilly, lace trimmed panties round his ankles revealing that all access to his ‘naughty bits’ had been denied him by just such a woman who had successfully locked him into what appeared to be a totally inescapable stainless steel chastity belt.

    “Wow. Where did you learn all this stuff?”

    “Didn’t you have a brother?”

    “Ah!”

    We both looked at our pet maid and giggled.

    “Not a brother like yours!!”
Don't knock it if you haven't tried it.
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#3
Chapter 3






     A couple of hours later I was back at home examining my new plastic toy carefully and debating with my inner wimp whether I dared try to put it to use, when the ’phone rang. I wasn’t expecting a call but assumed it would be my husband making some excuse or other for staying longer at the nineteenth hole.

     “Hello?” I said, probably sounding all too ready to be irritable. However the voice on the other end of the line was female and sounded a little reticent.

     “Errr . . . . Hi,” it said, rather cautiously. “I hope I’ve got the right number but please forgive me if I haven’t. . . . . Ummm. . . . Did you visit your next-door neighbour this afternoon and enjoy some unusual entertainment by any chance?” she asked.

     “Oh!” I said, very surprised to be suddenly asked by a complete stranger about my experience that afternoon. “Errrr. . . . . Yes!”

     “Oh good, I do have the right number,” she said, obviously rather relieved. “Your entertainment was my husband, believe it or not.”

     “Oh!” I said, again, not knowing quite what the correct response was to such a revelation from the wife of a male French maid in a chastity belt. After all, it wasn’t the sort of beginning to a ’phone conversation which happened every day and I doubt it was covered by the rules of etiquette.

     “Dare I ask you what you thought?”

     “Errr. . . . Yes. . . . No problem. Um. . . Amazing!” I admitted. “I was stunned, to be honest. How on Earth did you ever get to be able to do all that to him? I mean, I assume you make him dress like that for a start.”

     “Do you mean all the girlie clothes, or the rather special undies?” she asked.

     “Well, both really. Your sister-in-law has explained to me all about the dressing up but that dress! - It was just so cute and as for the chastity belt: I have to say it was just incredible. I mean, I never even knew such things existed and I have to thank-you so much for letting your sister-in-law lend me the plastic one.”

     “Oh not at all: you’re very welcome and if it gets used then so much the better. Another man with his little willy under lock and key is another woman getting the best sex she could possibly have and getting it the way she wants it. I hope she told you you can always call me to chat about keeping him locked up but, as for taking control of him, well, actually it was all very easy as far as the dressing up is concerned, as his sister’s already explained to you but, when I found out he liked being dominated and tied up as well, then getting him into that plastic cage was as easy as pie too. Well: as long as you’ve got some ice or a bag of frozen peas handy!” She laughed and I have to admit I giggled too because, having now had time to examine the device, I realised exactly what she was referring to.

     “The trouble is, though,” I explained, “my husband’s just too boring for that kind of stuff. Oh if only he were more adventurous, like yours: then I wouldn’t worry about feeling like I’m a freak for wanting to do that to him.”

     “Oh don’t you believe it!” she exclaimed. “There’s no such thing as a man without a fetish: all you have to do is to find out what it is and then use that weakness to your advantage.”

     “But how? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t raid my knicker drawer and we haven’t played tie up games for years.”

     “Ah!” she exclaimed. “So you have played with bondage. Who did the tying up?” she asked.

     “Well, he did, actually.

     “Pity,” she exclaimed.

     “Someone gave us some handcuffs as a wedding present, nice pink furry ones too and it just seemed right that I should be the one wearing them, not him.”

     “And did you like it?” she asked.

     “Well yes: I have to admit that I did actually but mostly because all the time I was secretly fantasising about him being in my situation.”

     “So why did you stop?

     “Well it ended up being all about him. Once he’d, well, you know . . .” I hesitated.

     “Come?” she prompted.

     “Yes.”

     “You are shy, aren’t you!?”

     “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

     “Well don’t be. Just say it.”

     “Okay. . . . . Errrr.” I paused and took a deep breath. “Once he’d . . . come, then he’d lose interest and I was left high and dry. Well, not exactly dry of course but high and damned frustrated!”

     “Ah. . . . Basic mistake,” she explained. “You put him first and you let him take what he wanted without making him work for it.” She was absolutely right. “But if you were fantasising about having him in the handcuffs, why did you never turn the tables on him and do it? That way you could have made sure you weren’t left ‘high and dry’ as you put it.”

     “Well it was just a fantasy and I felt so guilty about even imagining taking control but, now you mention it, I have to admit that I did once when we were a bit drunk, although I told your sister-in-law that I hadn’t.

     “And was it obvious he enjoyed it, if you know what I mean?”

     “Oh yes. He certainly rose to the occasion, as you might say!”

     “Well at least you know that deep inside he did enjoy being the helpless victim and there’s your kink. All you have to do now is to put it to good use.”

     “Yes, your sister-in-law did rather embarrass your husband by explaining how you did that and, actually, I’m pretty sure we still have the handcuffs: I’d forgotten all about them.”

     “Well there you go then. Get yourself all dolled up and then, after he’s had a few drinks, dangle the furry handcuffs in front of him and I can just about guarantee that he’ll think his birthdays have all come at once and you’ll have him helpless in no time. Then comes the bit he won’t be expecting: the ‘interesting conversation’ when the bit of him which can’t lie will reveal all his other fetishes and fantasies . . . . . and you can guarantee he’ll have plenty: they all do.”

     “But what about the cage?” I asked.

     “Well if you’re really lucky, the idea of chastity will be one of them but that doesn’t really matter because you’ve got to get his ‘play station’, if you know what I mean, in that cage and under lock and key.”

     I sniggered. Yes, I actually sniggered at what she’d just said.

     “Yes, it really is that important. Deny him the use of his joy toy and the rest will follow, including rekindling his interest in you.”

     “Well I definitely want that. I just have to pluck up the courage.” I said, wondering if I could.

     “But you don’t have to pluck up courage. To start with, it sounds like you’ll just be giving him exactly what he enjoyed that one time and has probably been too boringly conventional to have the guts to ask for since: so what’s so difficult about that!?” She made it sound so easy. “Anyway, I have a maid to play with. Just go for it, girl, get him in that cage and you can keep it and, believe me, you will never regret it. Like I said, just call me any time. ’Bye?”

     “Okay, I’ll try. I promise I’ll try. ’Bye.”

     I simply had to do something about this to keep my courage up so went off to search for the furry handcuffs. They were only cheap but, thankfully, weren’t the type with the little easy release lever on the side. Not only did I find them, at the back of the top shelf of the wardrobe but, thankfully, I also found the key and a couple of dressing gown waist ties I could use to tie my husband’s ankles to the foot of the bed. After all, it was quite likely he was not going to be that cooperative when confronted with my new plastic toy and I doubted whether just cuffing his hands to the centre of the headboard while leaving the rest of him free to thrash around would be adequate, to say the least.

     Wow: I suddenly realised that messages from my own ‘pleasure centre’ were letting me know I was really getting into this!

     As for getting myself ‘all dolled up’, well, as what I was wearing was still making me feel good inside, I decided that there was no need to change and that it would be interesting to see my husband’s reaction and I was just standing in front of the mirror, practising being sophisticatedly sultry while dangling a pair of furry handcuffs from my index finger, when I heard the sound of his car in the drive. Immediately, an entire squadron of butterflies took off in my stomach but I took a deep breath and muttered to myself, “I will remain calm and in control. I will remain calm and in control. I will remain calm and in control,” as I stuffed the handcuffs and the makeshift ropes in my knicker drawer ready for later. The plastic cage? Needless to say that it, too, ought to be concealed somewhere handy but where? It had to be somewhere he was unlikely to delve so, remembering the possibility that my lingerie could well be of interest to him when alone in the house, I hastily pushed it right to the back of my make-up drawer in the dressing table where he was far less likely to come across it, then made my way to the top of the stairs, poised, ready to descend them at just the right moment to give my husband an eyeful of my legs in the black 15 denier seamed stockings: something else that would help maintain my self-confidence.

     As the door opened I started my descent, narrowed my eyes and greeted him with “Hello, dear,” in what I hoped was a voice worthy of a Hollywood vamp. “Nice game?”

     He looked up at me and his eyes went immediately to my legs, which, even if I do say so myself, are one of my best features. Needless to say his gaze very quickly wandered onwards, higher up my legs as it was clear he could see far enough up them and up my black satin pencil skirt to see the lacy hem of my black taffeta slip. I wondered to myself as I descended the stairs slowly to the sibilant accompaniment of rustling taffeta whether he could also tell I was wearing stockings. No matter: whether he could or not, he would certainly find out later.

     “Errr . . . Yes, dear. . . . . Errrr . . . You’re looking very nice this evening? Are we going out?” he asked.

     ‘Nice’ I pondered the word. ‘Nice’!!? I was convinced I was looking far better than just ‘nice’. I was looking ravishing and I knew it. The new, confident and decidedly ravishing (in my opinion) me immediately made a mental note that he was going to pay for describing how I looked as merely ‘nice’.

     “No, I just thought I’d make an effort for my man, that’s all.”

     I pressed myself against him and gave him just a peck on the cheek so as hopefully to keep him wanting more and I was convinced I felt a certain reaction in the trouser department which I could only put down to my mode of dress and my new more confident attitude. Maybe the girls were right: being more assertive could well work for me.

     “I didn’t know what time you would be back so I’ve made coq au vin. I know it’s one of your favourites.” I paused. “Would you like to choose a nice bottle of something and set the table while I put the potatoes on to steam?” Normally I would have been the dutiful mousy wife and set the table myself but I wanted to gauge his reaction to being asked to help for once and I wasn’t disappointed. When I returned from the kitchen he’d actually gone and got out the best cutlery and two lovely Bohemian crystal glasses and was in the process of uncorking a decent bottle of Beaujolais. I was astounded: not only by the trouble he’d taken but also at myself for finding that I was picturing him in my mind’s eye in a French maid’s uniform and I found it extremely difficult to suppress a giggle. I must admit, though, that I also realised that part of the blame for the way our marriage had taken a turn for the mundane was mine: I had stopped making an effort. Well that was about to change. Yes, I was definitely determined that I was going to go ahead with my plans for the evening but I was going to do it with someone I still loved and who, it would appear, could still respond to me in the right, caring, way. The difference was that I now intended to do my utmost to make sure my husband was going to enjoy the adventure which, unknown to him, lay in wait.

     Conversation over dinner was so much better than usual. I made a real effort to take an interest in his day on the golf links and, in return, he made a genuine enquiry as to how my day had been. Needless to say there was no way I could possibly reveal the events of that afternoon but, oh, if only he knew!

     “Well, I spent most of the afternoon next door,” I began to explain. “Her brother came over: a fascinating character.”

     “Oh . . . really?”

     “Yes. Not sure how to explain. Seems he and his wife are into all sorts of . . . things.”

     “Sounds interesting. . . . . What sort of ‘things’?”

     “I think you’d better ask them really. Maybe I’ll see if I can set up a dinner date some time.”

     I realise I was taking a risk but I got away with it and then I was stunned when my husband actually offered to help clear the table while I got a nice, simple tarte tatin and some double cream out of the fridge. That irresistible mental image of him in a French maid’s uniform had forced its way back into my mind but I managed again to suppress the giggle which almost escaped both then and yet again when he produced two brandy balloons to match the wine glasses and a bottle of Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge: one of my favourite tipples and a lovely way to top up my Dutch courage.

     Things were going well as we relaxed on the sofa with our glasses of Grand Marnier and I could tell that my husband was in a frisky mood and hoping for more than just tarte tatin for dessert so I took the opportunity, when putting the coffee on, to dash upstairs and retrieve the furry handcuffs from their new hiding place amongst my panties and I barely managed to transfer them to the sofa, hiding them beneath a cushion, while my husband was refreshing our glasses. I then served the coffee, along with the remains of the double cream and some dark chocolate orange thins which I thought complemented the Grand Marnier to perfection . . . . . and waited for my moment.

     Actually, as you girls will all know, I didn’t have to wait for my moment – I engineered it of course. Letting the black satin pencil skirt I was wearing ride up slightly more than usual over the taffeta slip as I sat down, the sibilant hiss drew his attention and I ‘accidentally’ made it very obvious that I definitely was wearing stockings, not tights. Well, of course, it didn’t take my rather predictable dear husband’s hand long to find its way onto the gap between my knee and the lacy hem of my slip and start to gently stroke my thigh. It soon became all too obvious that each upward stroke was, oh so slightly, just fractionally, just that teensy weensy bit, longer than each downwards stroke. He was hooked so I let his wandering hand reach the lace of my slip and then decided it was time to strike.

     “Ooooo,” I cooed. “who’s feeling naughty then?” I asked.

     “Well. . . . I thought. . . . .” he mumbled.

     I had him off guard and it was time to reel him in so I quickly reached under the cushion, caught the cuffs with my index finger and whisked them out to dangle them in front of his rapidly widening gaze.

     “Remember these?” I asked. “Naughty boys need their wandering hands controlling: don’t you think?” I said, hoping to make certain that the idea of putting me in the cuffs wouldn’t occur to him.

     “Wow!” he exclaimed. “We haven’t played with those for . . . . . well: for far too long,” he said with an obviously hopeful gleam in his eyes and a rapidly growing bulge in the gentleman’s area. The poor chap didn’t even stop to ask himself why I had a pair of pink furry handcuffs hidden, conveniently to hand, under a cushion on the sofa! No; his downstairs brain was not only rising to the occasion but had also taken over thinking duties and they didn’t include logic. The girls were right: this was looking far easier than I had anticipated and I wondered why I ever doubted my ability as a woman. However, this was just the beginning: I had a lot more to achieve before the evening was out.

     “Well if you’d like to play with them now, you go and have a shower while I put the coffee things away.”

     My word: you should have seen how quickly he was on his feet and headed for the stairs!

     “And behave yourself in there,” I called after him. “We wouldn’t want you spoiling things for later, would we!?”

     Little did he know that, if the rest of the evening went as successfully, for me of course, as it had so far, then playing with himself in the shower would be the last chance he would get to ‘misbehave’, if you see what I mean, for quite some time!

     I cleared away the remaining evidence of what I was determined would be our ‘last supper’ as macho husband and dutiful wife, started the dishwasher for what I mused could well be the last time if that recurring fantasy of my own personal French maid could be turned into reality, topped up both glasses of Grand Marnier, tucked the pink furry cuffs into the waistband of my black satin skirt where they made quite a contrast . . . and made my way upstairs. The shower was still running but I guessed it wouldn’t be for long judging by the haste my poor unsuspecting husband had shown when climbing the stairs two-by-two, so I quickly tossed the cuffs into the centre of the duvet and debated what, if anything, I should remove. Eventually I decided that the effect my black satin pencil skirt and semi-sheer white silk blouse were already having, both on my husband and on my own confidence to be able to take this to the conclusion I intended, was precisely what I desired and, instead, sat at the dressing table and refreshed my make-up, adding a little touch of drama with heavier eye-shadow and some lip-gloss as I did so. Oh the weaponry at a devious woman’s disposal!

     As predicted, I wasn’t alone for long but I certainly wasn’t prepared for the sight which greeted me over my shoulder in the mirror as my husband emerged from our en-suite shower room. The silly fool was actually wearing pyjamas! The sight was very un-erotic, unlike the fantasy image which flashed in front of my mind’s eye as I contemplated the possibility that the only pyjamas he would be wearing from then on could well be wonderfully frivolous and somewhat embarrassing, for him, baby-doll pyjamas!

     Where was I getting all these images from of my husband decked out in ultra-feminine finery? It was a scenario I had never contemplated in my wildest dreams before meeting my neighbour’s brother but now, for some inexplicable reason, the concept of treating my husband in pretty much the same way as his wife had treated him was spontaneously creating these images: images I just couldn’t get out of my mind: images I would have previously dismissed as just plain weird. Now, I was actually finding those images quite attractive, in fact more than attractive; I was finding them quite erotic although I couldn’t for the life of me work out why.

     Anyway, back to the pyjamas:- What was he thinking!? This was sleep-wear, not bedroom-fun-wear and, although it reminded me of how my own bedtime wardrobe was somewhat lacking in that area, it did give me the opportunity to issue my first clear order of he evening.

     “What on Earth do you think you’re wearing?” I demanded, rising from the dressing table seat and turning to face him. Immediately his jaw dropped open but before he could even begin to mumble, I pressed home my advantage and issued that first order; the first of what I intended to be many. “Get those awful things off immediately!” I commanded.

     Well his reaction was amazing, as I became well aware while he was removing the pyjama jacket. Casting my eyes downwards as he did so it became all too clear to even the most casual observer that he was enjoying this. Somewhat more amusing though was his reaction upon seeing where my gaze was fixed as he suddenly became aware of his own rather obvious arousal and actually turned his back to me to hide it before removing his pyjama trousers.

     “Feeling shy, are we?” I asked . . . . . and then it occurred to me: another golden opportunity had just presented itself. “Let me see if I can find you something less mundane to wear, shall I?”

     “Errr. . . . Yes please,” he replied, neither realising the implication inherent in what I had said nor what I had in mind. This was priceless: absolutely priceless. My poor unsuspecting ‘victim’ had just asked me to pick out something ‘less mundane’ for him to wear for his last few fleeting moments of freedom before allowing me, as I hoped and prayed he still would, to render him helpless by cuffing his wrists to the headboard of our bed. Yes, not being strong enough to overcome his resistance if he didn’t cooperate, I still had to rely on his acquiescence so I had to balance his obvious desire for some captive fun with the danger of frightening him off by taking things too far before I had him completely and utterly helpless and at my mercy. All this ran through my head while he stood, embarrassed by his own excited state, while I rummaged through my lingerie to find something to add to that embarrassment by, hopefully, adding to his excitement.

     Oh, if only I’d been more patient and allowed time for that shopping trip my neighbour had suggested but I just had to do this while I felt brave enough. Anyway, there it was: a nice, plain, midnight blue, nylon slip with just a hint of lace round the hem. Indeed, it could almost have been a simple nightie. Now, how was I going to get him to actually wear it? I figured that giving him orders was working well for me so far, so why not continue? I saw him looking round to see what I was up to and thought he might have caught a glimpse of the slip but, no matter: if he wanted his fun, then I wasn’t going to give him a choice: he was going to wear it.

     “Who said you could turn round?” I asked. “Face the wall and raise your hands but not too high,” I instructed. To my great relief, he was such a dear and obeyed instantly. Maybe he was expecting the cuffs but I wasn’t ready for that yet and I bunched up the silky material of the slip as I approached him from behind, then dropped it over his hands being careful, of course, to get the thin spaghetti straps over his shoulders. I quickly shook it down over his already trembling body then gave him a big hug from behind and a kiss on the back of his neck to reassure him whilst teasing his left nipple with one hand and slowly letting the other drift gradually lower to gauge his reaction to the silky nylon now enveloping his nervously quivering form.

     I wasn’t disappointed!

     “Hmmmm. . . . . . .” I purred, gently stroking the unusual prominence disturbing the usual, more natural, line of the slip. “Someone’s enjoying this. . . . . Aren’t they!?” I paused but the only answer I got was a noticeable increase in his breathing. “Don’t worry, there’s no need to say it. I’ve got all the answer I need, haven’t I?” I asked, taking a firm grip and giving the nylon encased contents of my fist a firm squeeze.

     I could have kept that firm grip and led him to the bed by what I was holding so tightly but I still wanted him to consent to his own captivity.

     “Bed?” I suggested.

     “But you’re still dressed,” he pointed out, although I couldn’t understand why that should concern him at that particular moment.

     “That’s irrelevant while there’s still one item you’re not wearing,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed and picking up the pink furry handcuffs from the middle of the duvet. “Playtime?” I asked, fluttering my eyelashes.

     Well he didn’t need asking twice and almost before I knew it he was lying in the middle of the bed tugging the black lace hem of the midnight blue slip down to cover the still obvious evidence of his excitement at how things had gone so far. I handed him the cuffs and he very quickly encircled his left wrist with one half and ratcheted it shut then put his hands on the pillow either side of his head and looked at me. Clearly he wanted me to finish the job but I didn’t want to play the dominatrix and force him into this, not that I could have forced him anyway so it would have felt rather silly to be honest. No: I had other ideas and was still determined that it would be he who would be responsible for the inescapable situation he was inexorably heading towards.

     It would have been very easy for me to feed the other cuff through the ornate wrought iron of the headboard and close it around his right wrist which lay there, tempting me as it enjoyed it’s last few minutes or even seconds of freedom and, yes, it would have required his cooperation so he would have been consenting to his resulting helpless situation. I could have ordered him to cuff himself and, from the evidence of how obedient he had been all evening, he would almost certainly have complied. However, he would still have been able to refuse if he really felt like it so, again, he would have been consenting - but I wanted more than consent: I wanted his submission. I wanted him to offer me his helplessness totally voluntarily.

     “No,” I said. “You do it. Think of it as a present. Offer yourself as a gift to me. That way I’ll know this is still what you really want.”

     It was quite clear from the renewed stirrings beneath the hem of the slip that it was, indeed, still what he really wanted: that he quite liked the idea too and that the only internal conflict he had was with that inner macho male which was still trying to tell him that he should be in charge. However, sure enough, his lower brain was winning the battle and it only took him a few seconds to pass the second cuff around the central upright of the wrought iron headboard, although it did still take him quite a few more to take that final step into the unknown and ratchet it shut around his own right wrist.

     Obviously the macho male within him had put up a final struggle and he had had second thoughts but, finally, the messages from “downstairs” had overcome them and ensured that he was mine. . . . Completely, utterly, totally, helplessly, inescapably, mine . . . . and I suddenly realised that my panties were, not to put too fine a point on it, sopping wet and what I was desperate to do right then didn’t involve him at all. Only I knew how I needed to be touched: he still needed to be taught - and he’d just enrolled for a lengthy course in how to please me.

     However, it was time to be selfish but I needed to deal somehow with my shyness which was still preventing me from shamelessly satisfying my immediate needs right there and then in front of him. Yes, it was a fabulous opportunity to show him exactly how I needed to be touched, caressed and brought slowly to exquisite ecstasy but I wasn’t ready to be so brazen, even in front of my own totally helpless husband. Should I leave him alone in that self-imposed helplessness and take care of my arousal in the bathroom or was there another solution? Then it occurred to me: we had a blindfold like a sleep mask which came with the furry cuffs. I soon found it and it took less than a minute to deny him the sight of my performance yet still torment him with the accompanying soundtrack - and torment him I did as I took myself slowly but inexorably to the nirvana I craved so desperately.
Don't knock it if you haven't tried it.
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