Bill Wilson by Throne

Bill Wilson By Throne

An average husband starts getting emails at work from an unknown sender. With the threat of revealing some unstated misdeeds on his part, they order him to become more and more submissive to his attractive wife and to adopt sissy habits. How far will the mysterious mailer push him?

Let me call myself Bill Wilson, for the purposes of this story.  After

you read it, I'm sure you'll understand why I don't want my real name

included.  I was a pretty average guy, with a middling office job and a

nice suburban home.  My wife Giselle was a short cutie with a lovely

figure, sweet face, and bobbed sandy hair.  Our sex life, I'll mention

because that's what this story revolves around, was acceptable, with

intercourse between one and three times a week, though tending toward

the lower number.  We'd been married for five years and with her job at

a major publishing house, both of us had full schedules.  Our sex life

wasn't dead but neither was it thriving.  

Then came the day at work when I got an unexpected message in my email. 

There was no return address on it.  The anonymous sender said that they

had incriminating evidence on me but didn't go into specifics.  I

couldn't think of any misdeeds I had committed that might provoke such a

communication.  It must be something I had done inadvertently.  I

worried that it might be serious, and had visions of my placid life

collapsing in stages around me.  I could picture Giselle growing angry

and leaving me, which would be devastating.  The message ending with a

line about how I would be contacted soon with instructions.

After two days of nervous waiting, I got the second one.  It described

changes I must make in my relationship with my wife.  By then I was

riddled with concerns about possible consequences for not cooperating

and decided that, even though I didn't like what I was being told to do,

it was better than opening a door to disaster.  I stopped on the way

home and made several purchases to obtain what I needed.  Our evening

was pretty typical.  Some internet surfing and some TV watching.  It had

been several nights since we had sex, so at least the timing would be

believable.  

Giselle got into her nighty in the lavatory adjoining our bedroom, as

was her habit.  When she emerged, she looked as beautiful and tempting

as ever.  I hadn't gotten out of my clothes yet.  She got into bed and I

sat on the side of the mattress.

"I've been thinking," I said uneasily, trying to keep the tension out of

my voice.  "Maybe there's something we could do to spice up our bedroom

time."

"Oh?"  Her eyebrows went up.  At least she was interested.

"You know, there's something that you used to hint about me doing, but I

never did it."

"Ah.  You mean going downtown."

I was glad she used the euphemism for giving oral sex, which made it

easier for me.  "Right.  It's kind of sexist for me to deny you that.

And I want to be less that way generally.  What I was thinking of, to go

along with it, was me wearing something not too manly."

This was a critical moment.  She could reject the whole matter out of

hand.  Then where would I be?  My potential blackmailer might divulge

whatever they had discovered about me.  

My wife wanted to know, "Would you be wearing like...?"

"Something feminine."

"Panties?"  Her brow tightened.

"If it's okay with you."

"But that would be in combination with putting my needs first, so to

speak.  Doing what you said a minute ago."

There was my way to get her to agree.  "Right.  I could do it as often

as you wanted.  For as long as it took to... you know... fully satisfy

you."

"When you put it that way, I like what I'm hearing.  But my panties

would be too big on you, with my hips and bottom being as full as they

are."

"I thought about that and took the liberty of buying something that

should fit me."

Now she was a mix of enthused and amused.  Giselle wanted to see my

purchase. I sheepishly explained that they had come in a three-pack.

She laughed and made a joke about how that meant I would have to use my

mouth on her at least three times.  When I said I could get changed

where she had, she surprised me.

"No, dear.  You can do it right here.  I want to watch."

That wouldn't be comfortable but it was smarter to go along rather than

create any conflict.  I got out of my office clothes, stripping down to

my boxer shorts.  For a long moment, I stood there.  Then I remembered

that the panties were still in my dresser, where I had concealed them.  

I told her, "Give me a second to grab them."

She said, "Lose the shorts first."

More discomfort.  I did what she wanted.  She had me turn around slowly.

Only then was I allowed to retrieve the bag from the women's section of

a large store we sometimes visited.  Taking the panties out, I showed

the box to her.  She put out her hand and I passed it over.  That left

me still naked and not happy about it.  She tore off the cellophane and

took out all three.  Their colors were lemon, peach and cherry.  She

quipped about those being fruity hues.  I'm sure I blushed a bit at

that.  Then she handed over the pale yellow ones.  I stepped into them

and pulled them up my legs.  She had me come close enough that she could

snug them into place.  When she smoothed down the front, it sent a rush

of erotic energy through my system.  I suppose it was because we hadn't

copulated for a few nights that I got semi-stiff.  

She suggested, "You can remove my panties.  You put yours on and now

take mine off."

As I did it, I became more excited. Then I proceeded to the part I would

have preferred to skip.  I got on my tummy between her extended legs,

putting my face inches from the juncture of her thighs.  I was so close

to the center of her womanhood that I couldn't avoid inhaling its musky

scent.  I also got a close-up view of narrow pink lips and the furrow

between them.  At the top of the slit was her pearl of a clitoris.

Beyond that was a triangle of short blond curls.  

"I'm waiting," she called to me in a singsong voice.

Still trying to postpone the inevitable, I kissed the insides of her

thighs.  Then there were no more delays to be had.  I poked out my

tongue and ran the tip up and down her nether lips.  I flicked at her

clit.  She sighed.  Next, I used the flat of my tongue to lap her,

applying more pressure.  That elicited a moan.  

She hissed, "Yes," with a long sibilant sound at the end.

My efforts were getting her wet, which meant more of the unwanted flavor

for me.  I pushed my tongue into the vertical space and did more

licking.  Her hips began to move.  She squirmed her bottom around.  I

held onto the sides of her buttocks and continued with what I was doing.

Her breathing quickened.  Very soon, I could tell she was nearing an

orgasm.  Those panties teased my penis, which for some reason was fully

hard.  Giselle shuddered and had a quaking climax, with more fluids

produced for me to slurp up.  I was glad when it was over.

I was less than glad when she said, "Go real slow.  Just use your lips. 

After a minute, you can do more.  I want to finish again."

I did and she did.  It took longer the second time. Once she had been

launched into the pleasure-sphere again, she slowly relaxed.  

"That was sweet, Billy," she said languidly.  "I suppose that now I owe

you one."

I swallowed drily and then made a throat-clearing sound, as if there was

a bug in my esophagus that I was trying to dislodge.  "There's something

else I need to tell you."  I played back the online instructions in my

mind.  This wasn't going to be good for me.  "The panties and what I did

for you, they're both for the same reason.  I realized that I have a

submissive streak.  That's why, along with the other changes, I'd like

you to not be generous with me, when it comes to... um... doing it."

"Hold on.  Are you saying that you don't want to get in and get it on?"

I was still in the position I had been occupying.  I raised my head so

she could see me nod.  "I'd like to try it and see how it goes."

"But we're still on schedule for you using your lips and tongue on my

lower region?"

"Yes.  Absolutely."  I recalled a detail the email had urged me to

convey.  "I'm sure that the longer you make me wait, the more dedicated

I'll become to putting you first."

It was her turn to nod.  "Okay, if you say so.  But you can tell me to

let you have your fun, too, anytime you want."

"Thank you.  Let's see how it plays out."

"Fine.  But now hop up and give me another eyeful of those panties."

I did it without considering my erection.   When she saw how it tented

out the yellow panties, she chuckled.  Giselle said that since I was so

obviously enjoying our new arrangement, she wouldn't have to feel guilty

about making me wait.  Despite how upsetting that was for me, I forced

myself to smile, trying to give the impression that I was 100% in favor

of being left unfulfilled.  

We went on like that for the next week and a half.  She couldn't believe

that I still wanted to remain celibate.  I became more and more obsessed

with her body and how much I wanted to go back to regular sex.  Even

though going down on her still made me nauseated, I kept up the pretense

that I was delighted to do it, and thrilled to be denied completion.  

Then came the next email.  I guess I had been in denial about those and

was convincing myself that they would end, so I could return a little at

a time to what used to be.  The new instructions were cause for

distress.  Surely my wife wouldn't go along with what I would be telling

her I wanted.  Still, she had surprised me by being agreeable to the

first round of changes.  Beyond that, she was increasingly in favor of

them.  Offers to reinstate my rights had already ceased.  My tormentor

somehow knew how far everything had progressed, or at least had guessed

it.  Perhaps I was giving clues in the way I wrote back to them, with

the words I chose or even what I said in general.  

Giselle was eager for another one of our non-reciprocating sessions.  I

got naked and put on panties.  By then she'd had me purchase more.  The

current pair was pink and had ruffles all the way around.  She chided me

about how the excess material hid my hard-on.

I took advantage of that remark to say, "What you just said is sort of

what I want to talk about."  I tried to not be obvious about taking a

deep breath to brace myself.  "I know my penis isn't exactly large.

It's on the small size, to be honest.  But you're already aware of

that."  

"And...?"

"It's okay for you to say something about my... err... shortcomings.  In

fact, because of my submissive tendencies, like I brought up before, it

would be good if you... made fun of it."

"You're serious?"

"It's just that..."  I shrugged.  "... some guys are bigger."

"That's certainly true," she said with a bit too much certainty.

"I know you were with other guys before we met."

Giselle appeared to be rerunning some memories from that period in her

mind.  "Some of them were pretty big."

"Unlike me.  That's why, if you'll go along with it, you could compare

me to them."  She acted uncertain, so I said, "While I'm using my mouth

the way you like."  That gave her something else to think about.  There

was no doubt that she relished how I was serving her.  She had become

more uninhibited about steering me into the bedroom.  

"I can try that... Short Stuff."

Like any normal guy, I didn't want to hear my penis dimensions

disparaged, but the illusion I was obligated to create was that I craved

it.  She had me stand near enough that she could finger the front of my

ruffled pink panties.  I gasped and my hips jerked.

"Oh my," I said breathily.

She squinted at what she was touching.  Then she felt around, as if

searching for something.  "Is it in there?  Or did you leave it in your

desk at work?  I can't be sure if your..."  My wife pursed her lips.

"... your teeny weinie is even present."

It was like the floodgates of dammed up insults were opened.  She

snickered and called my endowment names like 'Junior' and 'Little Dude'

and 'Smallfry'.  All of them stung.  What made it worse was that she

took such delight in delivering them.  

The emails continued.  Each one brought a new blow against my pride.

There was a bell I had to buy and suprise her with.  It was just a

handbell.  She could keep it on the nightstand on her side of the bed.

Anytime she rang it, I had to drop whatever I was doing and come

running, with my tongue out and ready to go.  Giselle even took it

further by declaring that I had to strip down when I heard her ring, and

show up in the nude.  Then I would accept whatever panties she had

waiting for me and don them.  I was caught off guard when she came up

with a pair that had an open crotch.  My penis was exposed, so that it

became the target for more of her jibes.  

"Look who's peeking out at me.  It's Mini-Meat.  Sure not anything like

the guys I knew in the old days.  They were double handfuls.  This one

can be held with a thumb and one finger."

Then came more lingerie.  I was required by my mailer to go to a

specialty shop and pick out a sheer nighity, a short one, with matching

panties.  It was champagne-colored, with a bow at the neck.  Giselle

made a game of having me model it, swirling around with my arms out.  I

had to strike pin-up poses.  Then she wanted me to swish around with my

wrists limp.  That was combined with her dissing my little dick and

raving about boyfriends past and their super-schlongs.  All of that came

along with me still not being permitted to ejaculate.  And the pussy

eating was more and more frequent.  

What else did my creative invisible foe come up with?  I was ordered to

shave my pubes, using a disposable razor that was marketed exclusively

to females.  I didn't tell Giselle in advance.  Instead, doing what I

was told, I showed up in panties and another of the nighties I had

acquired by then, a satin one.  She could sense that there was a mystery

waiting to be revealed.  I raised the front of the sleepwear with one

hand and tugged down the panties with the other.  When she saw my

hairless area she froze for long seconds.  I was afraid that I had

pushed the wrong button and would meet with rejection.  After her

initial shock passed, she broke into convulsive laughter.  

Pointing at my shameful state, she said, "Without any hair down there,

it looks even smaller than before.  It's a Baby Boner.  A Doodle Dick."

Giselle's multiple orgasms that evening seemed to be extra intense,

after viewing my latest disgrace.  I dreaded learning what would come

next.

The following message was a mixed one.  It would involve me being

allowed to finish, but under circumstances that turned my stomach.

Plus, I wasn't sure if my wife would accept this one, as extreme it was.

We got into bed.  She was naked, showing off her body to heighten the

acute case of blue balls I had developed, which ached day and night.  At

work, I couldn't stop sneaking peeks at the female employees.

Appearance and age weren't as important as they would have been in the

past.  I just focused on breasts, bottoms, and legs.  Even feet and

shoes become erotically charged.  

With my instructions in mind, I broached the subject of resuming my

ejaculations cautiously.  "I had another idea.  It's a new way to feed

my need for humiliation and submission.  Would you like to hear it?"

She snuggled up against the pillows that she had pushed against the

headboard of our bed.  "I won't say no," she replied mischievously.

This was an entertaining game to her, possibly one with no limits.  

"What I was thinking was that, maybe you could let me just put the tip

of my dick.."  To keep in line with  how she wanted to hear it jeered

at, I amended, "... my laughably small dick, against the entrance to

your pussy.  I'd be able to feel how moist and warm you are down there

but not go any further."

She smirked.   "And then?"

"You could touch my nipples, tease them."

"Which we both know gets you overexcited."

"That's true.  If you did it even a tiny bit, it could push me over the

edge."

She concluded, "And then you'd spurt without even getting to be inside."

She made a thoughtful face.  "I like what we have now, with your mouth

making love to my snatch."

"That's part of it," I was quick to explain.  "After you rush me into

making a mess down there, I'd still have to go down on you.  I'd be your

clean-up man."

Giselle corrected, "Clean-up boy.  You'd need a full-size cock to be

considered a man."

"Right.  I'm sorry.  I wasn't thinking.  Anytime you forced me to squirt

my shot, I'd need to lick it up."

"And swallow it."  She made a sour face.  Then her features relaxed.

"That's totally disgusting.  But it's making me wet.  Go get out of what

you have on.  Get into some panties with no crotch.  And that new filmy

top that's doesn't close in the front, so I can reach your nips."

I obeyed, changing in front of her.  She got visibly more involved and

aroused.  When I got between her feet, she decided she needed some

kisses on the outside of her twat, but no licking yet.  I did that,

getting myself more worked up.  Then I moved into the missionary

position, which I hadn't used for so long.  I gingerly set the tip of my

penis -- my pathetic undersized dick -- against the vestibule of her

sacred place.  Up came her hands.  She nimbly titillated my receptive

nipples.  I hunched my hips three times, gave a loud whimper, and lost

control.  It was a huge relief to empty my balls but that was offset by

what I had to do next.

"Funtime's over," she called out merrily.  "My dinky-dicked husband has

to go south and clean-up that mess he made.  And he has to do it now,

while it's nice and warm."

I backed up and ducked down.  What I saw caused me to make retching

sounds.  My ejaculate was all over her vertical smile.  I stuck out my

tongue and went to work, gathering up a dollop of cream.  It tasted

terrible.  It was slimy.  I made myself gag it down.  To cover for any

signs that I despised what I was doing, I made sounds like I was

enjoying a sweet treat.  Whatever Giselle thought, that I was suffering

or delving into perversions, she merely let it go on.  When she

finished, it was perhaps the most powerful orgasm she'd ever had.  

Her conclusion was, "I'm going to enjoy doing this a lot.  But not too

often, because I don't want to spoil you, Billy.  Making you play the

waiting game is part of my fun."

By the time the next email came, I was thinking of trying to negotiate

terms to gain some say in the decision that were driving me ever deeper

into this new and unwanted lifestyle.  When I tried to make some

headway, my unknown correspondent announced that they had been adding to

their file on me.  I was taken aback by that.  Though I still didn't

know the nature of my crimes, if they could have been expanding my file

all this time, they must be many and terrible.  I surrendered.  

What came from that communication was originally going to be merely me

buying a few pairs of stockings to wear.  Because I'd had the temerity

to try to have a voice in our one-sided dialogue, I would now have to

purchase a variety of them.  There would be ones that were smokey,

patterned, seamed, and fishnets.  When I showed Giselle the entire

collection, she was amazed.  She made me hold them up to my legs.  I

told her that, even though I had very little body hair, I would be

removing it all, with her permission, which she granted gladly.  I also

said she might want to start calling me a sissy, and that she was free

to give me some appropriate name to be addressed by around the house.  

First, she had me put on a pair of black satin panties with red trim.

Then I had to sit and roll the fishnet stockings up my legs.  She had

found a pair of ballet slippers while out shopping and had me put them

on, with the understanding that would soon be learning to walk in heels.

She said, "I like that, about what to call you, sissy.  Sissy Billy.

Panty Boy."  She chortled.  "You've certainly earned the title of sissy.

I mean, look at you.  Most of the time I see you, you're dressed like

Priscilla the Pansy.  So yes, sissy you are and sissy you shall be

called.  So be it."  She made me do an improvised sissy dance, which

mostly consisted of me poorly imitating a stripper, bumping and

grinding.  "I'll take my time thinking up a proper new name for you.

The longer it is, the more you can enjoy anticipating what I come up

with.  Isn't that right, Miss Shrimp Dick?"

"Yes," I answered.  Because it seemed more correct, I changed that to,

"Yes Ma'am."

She told me, "I like hearing you say that.  Make it a regular thing.

And speak softly and higher.  Practice sissy speech.  Give me some

sighing and sniveling.  Make me believe."

"Yes, Ma'am."  I pitched my voice the way she wanted it.  "Thank you so

much, Giselle, for helping me get in touch with my true self."  I sighed

theatrically.  "I don't know how I lived any other way."  That got

punctuated with a wet kissing sound.

I became like one of Pavlov's dogs when I heard her signal for me.  I

was so attuned to the bell, the bell, the bell.  The ringing and the

singing of the bell.  That sound made my dick twitch.  It caused me to

salivate, in anticipation of tasting her.  Even thoughts of my repellant

clean-up duty set off a reflexive tingling in my ever-ready nipples.  

Shopping via computer, my wife found a site that sold kinky equipment.

Even though I hadn't been told to ask for it, she decided on her own to

get a paddle.  When it arrived, she opened the package slowly,

teasingly.  When she removed the sorority-style slab of wood with its

narrow handle, I got another surprise.

"See?" she said with a malicious grin.  "I had your name put on it."

Cut into the surface was not Bill or Billy, but Bitsy.  I cringed at

this latest indignity.  

She wanted to know, "What's your name, sissy?"

"My name is Bitsy."  I improvised a curtsy, holding up the hem of my

brief nighty.  

As I had no panties on for a change, Giselle noticed something.  "You've

got some stubble down there.  It's time to do something about that."

"I'm sorry.   I should have shaved again."

"You most surely should have.  Your failure means I get to try this

lovely paddle out on your soft buns.  But that still leaves the hair

problem.  Luckily for you, Bitsy, I anticipated this.  That's why I got

a laser tool that will not only eliminate that ugly growth, but also

prevent it from returning -- ever.  You'll be sissy smooth all over, from

the time I remove that hair and kill the roots.  What do you say to

that, girly?"

"Thank you, Ma'am.  I'm very..."  (choke)  "... grateful."

She narrowed her pretty blue eyes.  "Talk in the third person.  Say that

Bitsy is very grateful."

Feeling like a fool, I simpered, "Bitsy is very grateful that you're

getting rid of her hairiness, so she can be more of the sissy she wants

to become."

Giselle rocked with silent laughter.  "That's priceless.  Talk that way

all the time."

"Yes, Ma'am.  Bitsy will try to remember."

"If Bitsy forgets," she reminded me, "Bitsy gets the paddle.  Speaking

of which, you've already earned some swats.  Let's go easy on you.

We'll start with ten.  Reach for the ground, my puny-peckered pussy-

boy."

I bent over, like I was going to touch my toes, which I came close to

doing.  She wanted to know if I was ready.

I told her, "Bitsy is ready."

With no warning, she swung fast and hard.  There was a loud splat.  I

yelped and stumbled forward.  She snapped at me to get back into

position.  My wife also told me that, because I had moved, that first

swat wouldn't count.  I had to make myself stay still while she

administered a full ten, taking time between them for the pain to

penetrate fully.  I squealed and sniffled and blubbered.  At the end,

the total was eleven, because of the one that didn't get added in.  She

decided that it made more sense to make it an even dozen, so I was given

one more.  She landed it across the backs of both thighs, where there's

less padding.  It hurt like blazes.  I broke down and cried piteously.

She said, "For a subby sissy like you, Bitsy, this must be the ultimate

high."

"Yes, Ma'am.  Bitsy loves being paddled.  She's such a bad sissy that

she deserves it."  Where was I coming up with that from?  

For about a month after that, the only emails I got were for minor

matters.  I was instructed to flounce more, to occasionally lisp, and to

even employ baby talk at times.  It was so emasculating.  Then came a

blow that even everything up until then hadn't prepared me for.  At

first what I was expected to do seemed so outrageous that I was

confident Giselle wouldn't respond favorably to it.  Then, after

mentailly reviewing how far I had been dragged down, and how plainly she

had enjoyed every step of my descent, I worried that she might go along

with it.  This was going to be the most painful idea for me to introduce

and act like it came from me, rather than the unseen fiend online.  

She had me in a pair of champagne-pink bloomers, along with a matching

top that left my midriff bare.  I was very aware of my abscence of any

body hair.  There were bright pink pumps on my feet, shiny ones with

two-inch heels.  Giselle had me stroll around the house, swaying my hips

and holding my face between my hands.  The hair on my head had been

growing all along, with only enough trimming to eliminate dead ends.

Now she was putting it into short ponytails at either side of my head.

They bounced with every girlish step I took.

I made a polite mini-cough sound and asked, "Is it okay if Bitsy says

something?"

"Of course.  I'm always interested in what's going on inside your little

bird brain."

"Well, Bitsy knows that you work with a lot of men.  Some of them must

be tall and strong and not at all like a sissy like me."  I licked my

lips and gave her a dopey look.  "Because Bitsy can't do sex stuff right

with her poor excuse for a dick, Giselle should be free to see real

men."  I waited, begging silently for her to reject that idea at once.

Instead, she took her time, mulling it over.

My wife said, "You've got something there.  I do get a lot of interest

from some of those guys.  It wouldn't take much for me to get one of

them to make a move."  She smiled slyly.  "Would Bitsy like that?  Would

it give Bitsy some twisted kicks?"

"Oh, yes, Ma'am," I lied.  

"Let's paint Bitsy's pretty face while I think about that."

She took me to the vanity table that had recently been put in our spare

bedroom.  There was also a dresser.  Both pieces of furniture were

white, with gold trim.  I sat in the ice-cream-parlor chair in front of

the table.   I watched the mirror as she got busy on my face with

foundation, blush, mascara, and more.  The big finish was lip liner,

which she used to give me a larger mouth, and candy-apple lipstick that

she used to fill it in.  When my wife was done, I barely recognized

myself.  It gave me a vertiginous sense of losing control, of having my

core identity taken away from me.  

"You know," she said casually, as if what she was saying wasn't of great

import, "I think I'll take you up on your suggestion, Bitsy.  I'm going

to fulfill a fantasy for you and see if I can get one of those studs in

the office to ask me out.  I'll tell them that I'm in an open marriage,

and if it goes further, I'll explain that the open part goes only one

way.  I may even reveal that my former husband is now my sissy pet and

sex slave.  Wouldn't that be amusing?"

"Oh, yes," I enthused, lisping a final fricative.  "That would be such

joy for Bitsy."  

Combined with seeing a stranger in the mirror, that decision damaged my

ego in ways that might never be reversed.  I sat there in a daze while

she combed out my hair, teased it up, and used spray to keep it that

way.  With me appearing rather whorish, she announced that it was time

to head for the bedroom.  The entire time that I was taking her through

a trio of animated orgasms, without having been allowed to gain relief

myself, she was rhapsodizing about what it would be like to be with a

true male with  capable cock, one that hadn't been conditioned to go off

prematurely after a few touches of his nipples, which were sensitive

'like a girl's'.  

I desperately hoped that any flirting she did at work wouldn't lead to

overtures by some manly guy.  That hope was dashed on the rocks of

reality when she came home one day acting moony.  I didn't dare to ask

her what the cause was.  She waited until we were relaxing in the living

room.  I had on a corset with attached garters that supported shiny

stockings.  There was a lace vest that did almost nothing to provide me

any covering.  My hair was up in a topknot.  I had to sit at her feet

with my legs folded, facing her.  She touched my nipples with her toes

several times, enough to leave me distracted.  

While I was thus weakened, she said, "Let me give you a progress report

on my blossoming office romance.  Since it's one of your twisted turn-

ons for me to get into this, I'm sure you want to hear about it in great

detail.  His name it Matt.  You should see him, Bitsy.  He's tall and

has broad shoulders, a face like a male model, and dark wavy hair.  He's

easygoing and funny.  After we talked a few times, with each one getting

more intimate, I clued him in to my open marriage.  He was so primed to

hear more that I went ahead and told him how my spouse turned out to be

Panty Nancy.  Instead of being revolted, he just smiled and asked if I

was doing okay with that.  I told him I was but that I missed having an

actual red-blooded, beer drinking, steak eating man in my life, one who

wore boxers instead of a pink thong.  He volunteered to fill my opening,

if you'll pardon how that sounds."

I was left wordless for a few minutes.  Giselle had me rub her feet and

massage her calves.  As you might guess, that got me heated up.  She

rested her feet on my shoulders and eyed me critically.

"I still love you, Bitsy, but it's not the same as before.  You're less

like a husband and more like a housepet.  Thank goodness all this fits

in with your cherished dream scenarios.  I mean, imagine if you didn't

want all this.  If you'd rather not be my panty-wearing, pussy-licking,

sexually-dominated, weakling, who has to eat his own spunk, when he's

allowed to get it out of his little balls.  Just think what it would be

like if you didn't get your kicks on Route Sissy Sick."

Barely above a whisper, I assured her, "But I do want all those

things... and more."

"You'll get more this weekend.  Matt is coming by to pick me up on

Saturday night at eight.  We're going to a nice restaurant he knows

that's famous for its seafood.  The place is expensive but he can afford

it.  In the short time he's been with the company, he's climbed almost

to the top of the management ladder.  Isn't that nice?"

"So nice," I lisped, as if my induced speech impediment was needed as

further proof of my failure as a man.

She put her feet in my lap, letting both heels weigh down on my

genitals.  My wife said I could lift them up one at a time and kiss

their bottoms.  She told me not to worry about getting my mouth dirty,

as she wouldn't require my oral attentions that night.  Strangely, I was

hurt to learn that I wouldn't have to provide services that I didn't

want to give.  Giselle told me she was saving herself for Matt.  I slept

on some blankets alongside her bed that evening.  She did give me a

pillow, scented from her hair, which I hugged as I tried to sleep.  

The weekend came.  Saturday came.  Eight o'clock came.  Matt came.

Giselle left.  

She wore a slinky knitted dress that clung to her shapely body.  Her

hair was pulled back and held with decorative combs.  She had on heels

that sent signals I hoped Matt wouldn't pick up on.  I was left at home

in something less attractive.  My costume was a one-piece bathing suit,

a rubber swimming cap, and flip-flops with plastic flowers on them.  She

even made me put sun-block on my nose and protective balm on my lips.

Her rationale for all that was that I was going to spend hours reading

an online story in multiple parts.  The total word count was staggering.

The storyline was about a husband who goes on vacation at a beach resort

and, due to his luggage being lost, ends up in female clothes.  His wife

is willingly pursued by hunky guys, while he passes for a girl and had

young men coaxing him into tending to their cocks, which are uniformly

above average.  He has to be a submitting sucker because otherwise his

true gender might be exposed.  It was somewhat unbelievable, especially

when he gets dumped in the surrounding jungle and is seized by members

of a local tribe whose men are even better endowed than the athletic

dudes he was already with.  I read until my eyes got tired, took a very

short break during which I couldn't stop fretting over what my wife was

doing, and then resumed reading.  It was troubling that my penis kept

throbbing and demanding attention that I was not allowed to give it, and

wouldn't want to even if I could, because the thought of being

titillated by that freaky fiction gave me the willies. 

Sometime after midnight, Giselle returned.  I peered out though a narrow

space alongside the curtains of the living room picture window.  There

was a long sleek car, and an impressive man who must be Matt, who opened

the door for my wife.  He walked her up our front steps.  I couldn't see

them then, but from the added minutes that passed, I assumed some

goodnight kisses were being exchanged.  I had visions of their tongues

in each other's mouths.  Fearful of getting caught away from my assigned

task, I scurried back to the computer and returned to reading.  The

unlucky husband in the story was getting a break from the native men,

when curvacious native women discovered what he could do for them with

his lips and tongue.  Those women were fierce and demanding.  They

wanted the oral gratification their own men never gave them.  

When Giselle came to me, she appeared much like when she had left,

except that her hair was a bit mussed and her clothes were ever so

slightly disordered.  She had a lopsided smile.  

She wanted to know, "Would you think less of a girl who jumped into bed

on her first date with a guy, if he was irresistable?  And if he turned

out to be equipped like a stallion?  And if he had technique to spare

and staying power like you wouldn't believe?  I mean, would a girl who

gave it up for all that be so bad?  Hmmm?"

"I don't know," I answered numbly.  Then, remembering myself, I whined,

"Bitsy can't answer that.  Bitsy doesn't know."

Giselle laughed goodnaturedly.  She told me, "Let's go to the bedroom.

You can undress me.  I'll tell you all the lurid details.  And guess

what?  You'll be doing clean-up duty.  Swabbing the deck.  Eating cream

pie."

It was like I was gut-punched.  Giselle patted me on top of the head and

wrapped my topknot around her finger.  She walked me down the hall.  I

helped her out of her clothes.  The inner gusset of her panties was

thickly coated with Matt's white sauce.  She said it might leave a stain

if it wasn't removed right away, which led to me having to lap it off.

I could smell her womanly scent, mingled with his seminal fluid.  Even

after all the times I had consumed my own jizz, this was mortifying

beyond belief.  

Naked and unashamed, about her nudity or her infidelity, she stretched

out on the bed.  I assumed my familiar spot between her spread legs.

She gave a long yawn.  

"Do me, Bitsy, while I revel about my magical night."

In my ludicrous beach outfit, I got my well-trained mouth busy.

Slurping up Matt's plentiful output was unthinkably awful.  I wished I

couldn't hear my wife's words but they came nonstop.  She praised him to

the skies and detailed the wonders of his enviable member.

Unsurprisingly, she got in a few ratings of my own endowment, which

suffered by comparison.   She crooned about what a sexpert he was.  She

didn't know how long he had lasted, but estimated it at an hour.  And

the three orgasms he gave her were indescribable, but she tried to

detail their qualities anyway.  

"And now," she concluded, "after the slamming she gave my lady-part,

your tongue is just right too sooth it.  Keep that up and I'm going to

have a bonus climax.  The perfect end to a perfect evening, Bitsy."

I was too occupied to say anything.  My thoughts turned once again to

the remote evildoer who had put me through all my tribulations.  Who

could have done it?  Who would know so well my domestic situation?  Who

could divine my weaknesses and exploit them so well?  What person could

understand what vulnerabilities I must have and tap into them so deeply

that they had reduced me to a sissy cuckold?  

Who?  Who?  Who?