For the next few weeks, I had to take care that my wife could not see my bottom. It was vividly striped with purple weals. The pain had quickly subsided, leaving a not unpleasant ‘glow’ but the evidence of my punishment remained for some time. Somehow the whole incident had stirred my emotions like nothing before. To merely be admitted into the presence of a woman like Mrs. Crawford had been overwhelmingly erotic. I relived the scene countless times, as I wanked off.
Jennifer continued to call on my services, as though nothing whatever had occurred. The incident was not mentioned. If anything, she was rather more pleasant towards me.
Meanwhile, with strict diet and exercise, my wife’s figure was now unrecognizable. I felt sure that her waist was now smaller than when I first met her. Of course, this meant regularly renewing her wardrobe, (Paid for, in part by my labours, next door!). Given her sexy new look and new-found confidence, of course, it was inevitable that she got the new job, on Jennifer’s recommendation.
She was not slow to inform me of the benefits! A doubling of her salary, entertainment allowance, First Class rail fare, and a rather swish company car. Naturally, I was pleased for her and rather proud of the discipline and effort she had shown but had to admit to a gnawing feeling of jealousy. After all, my consultancy work had now completely dried up and I was reduced to working at a level, not much higher than that of an illegal immigrant!
In the following month (after my bottom had fully healed!), Caroline was coming home more tired than usual. I offered to give her feet a massage each evening. This now became a regular ritual, before dinner.
At first, I would merely remove her high-heels and gently stroke her stockinged feet and calves. This always induced little moans of satisfaction. Then I began to introduce kissing and licking her feet. Sometimes, I would lie down below her and allow her to rest her ‘fragrant’ feet on my face, while I kissed them. I certainly wasn’t complaining! Over time, she relaxed more and became more demanding. She would slowly lift her skirt and point to her thighs, which I would stroke and kiss until I reached her stocking-tops. (She always wore stockings for work these days). Subsequently, she would lift her skirt higher and point to her panties. I would then spend some time kissing and licking the delicate garments, bringing louder moans and a very moist reaction. For some reason, despite my repeated attempts, she preferred to keep a layer of sheer fabric between her pussy and my lips. However, this didn’t prevent her from achieving several powerful orgasms.
I was overjoyed with this new arrangement. Even though she paid no attention whatever to my own needs, I was grateful for the resumption of frequent marital intimacy and managed to relieve myself in the privacy of the spare room.
She had made friends with an older woman at work. Someone who didn’t know us, but someone she could confide in. They would often have lunch together and, as Caroline explained, their exchanges became more and more open and explicit. Her friend, Marian, was apparently, highly knowledgeable about sexual matters, and my wife would sometimes convey some of her ‘insights’ to me as I worshipped her legs and panties.
“Marian says that I should have my bottom kissed and licked. She called it ‘rimming’ Peter. She says it’s a way for a man to truly show his adoration for his wife," she said, “Perhaps I’ll let you try it one evening. Would you like that?”
(Is the Pope a catholic!?)
“Well, if you’d enjoy it, darling, I’ll have a go,” I replied.
“Of course, I’d only let you do it if we have the proper equipment. Marian has something called a queening-stool. Her husband made it. Could you make a queening-stool for me, Peter?”
Good god, how my wife has changed!
“Well, I’ve, err, heard of them. Perhaps there are some designs on the internet, I could use. Let me do some research.” (Needless to say, I knew exactly where to look!).
In fact, when I looked, I could see that it would be far easier and quicker to order the required item, ready-made. I wanted to order a comfortable, deluxe version, which would cost me almost £600, plus delivery. My personal savings, other than pension funds, had dwindled significantly. I would need to earn at least £100. A dilemma. No going back now, to consultancy work. The pay for my services next door was all paid directly into my wife’s ‘beauty account’ as she called it. There was nothing for it, I’d have to ask Jennifer for some extra work, on the side.
I found a rare opportunity to talk to her on the following day. I was busy, deep cleaning her kitchen when, uncharacteristically, she offered me a coffee.
Even in casual clothes, she managed to look stunning. Skin-tight jeans and a low-cut tee-shirt. Sitting down together, she began chatting about Caroline and her new job. She’d heard on the grapevine that she was doing very well, and could be in line for promotion to ‘Assistant Director’. Apparently, she’d met my wife’s new friend, Marian too,
“What an interesting woman,” she said, “So full of great advice and ideas. Her husband must have his hands full!”
“Miss Crawford, could I ask a special favour, please?" I managed, “Only, my savings are low and I wanted to buy Caroline a special present. Is there any chance that I could do some additional work for you, cash in hand?”
“I’m sorry to hear that Peter. Caroline certainly does deserve all the attention and luxury you can provide for her. That is why I couldn’t possibly divert funds away from my monthly payments to her,” she replied, “However, don’t look so downhearted, Peter. I may have a solution. Let me think about it.”
“Oh, err, yes, if you think you can help. Yes, please, Miss." I stood up and resumed the tiresome task in hand. Shortly afterward I could hear Jennifer drive off somewhere.
That evening, after Caroline and I had shared a vegan tart and salad, I found myself in the now, customary position, kneeling between my wife’s legs, worshipping her nylons and panties as she, unconcerned, watched her favourite soaps on television.
“I was talking to Marian, again, today, Peter. You’ll never guess what she told me!”
“Mmm, nnnn, nno?” I managed to mumble from under her dress.
“Well, apparently, she keeps her husband in some sort of chastity device! She even showed me the key!” she giggled. “He’ll do absolutely anything for her, just for the possibility of being unlocked! Isn’t that hilarious!?”
I came up from between her hot thighs, “Yes, very funny darling.” I spluttered.
“By the way, Peter, she’s invited us over for a meal – just the four of us. Won’t that be nice?”
“If you say so, Caroline,” I muttered, sarcastically.
SLAP!!!, SLAP!!!
Before I could react, she had slapped me twice across the face with real force.
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that Peter! That attitude of yours is going to change! Now, get under my dress again and be sure you make a good job of it! Oh, and by the way, since you can’t seem to stop acting like a little boy these days, I want you to call me ‘mommy’ at home, all the time now, unless I give you permission.”
I was astounded. One phrase, spoken in the wrong tone and she’d exploded. What had my frumpy, shy wife become? However, I checked my jaw, and, unable to meet her angry look, I said “Sorry mommy," then quickly resumed my pleasuring.
Three orgasms later, she gently grabbed my head and helped me to kneel up a little. She leaned forward, planted a kiss on my forehead, then pulled me to her so that my head rested on her lap.
Gently she ran her fingers through my hair, whilst I nestled against the soft warmth of her thighs. “There, there, Peter. Mommy doesn’t want to be cruel, but you must learn your place. Mommy is the boss now – at work, and at home,” she cooed, “If you are a good boy for me, you might get some treats. Now, take your pants down and sit on Mommy’s lap.”
I did as I was told, feeling more silly than ever, as I took my place across her legs; my naked bottom in contact with the soft fabric of her skirt. She pulled me in again so that I was snuggled against her neck. She reached for my penis and stroked it to attention, all the while whispering naughty phrases in my ear. It was not long before I was spurting my sperm into her hand.
“There’s a good boy, Peter," she said, lifting her hand to my lips, “Now mommy wants you to eat up all your cream.”
'Jeez, where has she got all this stuff!?' I thought, but, not willing to spoil things, (or get another slap), stuck out my tongue and lapped up my own salty slime, until her fingers were clean.
“I thought you looked hungry, Peter. Now we know how to keep those hunger pangs at bay, don’t we?”
“Yes, thank you, mommy,” I sniffed. She sent me to bed.
