One weekend a month of satiny gender bending: an introduction
Male/female - married -- bondage - femdom -- crossdressing -- sissy - gagged - tied - submissive -- teasing -- wife -- husband
"Belts," you say, "fascinate me."
I have no response to this. A large ball gag corks my mouth. I can only shake my head, feeling delicate earrings bounce off the wide black strap.
You loom over me, tracing the outline of the straps across my chest, then bend to trace the ones securing my hips to the seat.
"They are so simple," you purr. "No breaks. They buckle up in a thrice. There's no hassle like with the bands of rope you arrange around me, those damned complicated knots. Knots can work loose. I guarantee this buckle won't give."
All true, as minutes earlier you pulled them taut; then tugged another notch in to thwart any attempted escape.
"Isn't this delightful?" You taunt, brushing me with a fingertip, your long hair caressing my cheek. "Maybe we should be doing this more than just once a month."
One day each month, my wife and I cross a kinky line. We do some gender-bending.
Like now: I'm a secured secretary. Picture me in my snug houndstooth skirt, grey blouse, stuffed bra, and shiny pantyhose. I'm situated in a straight back chair, ankles and knees strapped tied, another belt pulling me into the seat. Two belts cross my ample breasts, securing me to the chair back. Wrists are strapped to the chair as well. I can barely wriggle.
My thick dick fights its confinement, betraying my excitement. I'm right where she likes me. And where I like it too.
Since our early dating, I have been excited by bondage. Linda came along as a willing participant. Over the years, we have bound each other hundreds of times, enjoying some amazing sex. I have secured her spread eagle for hours, drawing repeated orgasms from her until she pleaded for release.
But somehow her health shifted. We noticed that one week a month, her mood noticeably turned. With her monthly period, any sex was forbidden by her. It was messy and disgusting, she told me. She took a hard line. She had me keep my distance.
At first, I was respectful of this. But sharing a bed as we are, could I help it if my thickening cock didn't get the message? I admit it, I would turn and press against her backside. In the past, this was a precursor to passion. But now, when she was in that mood, it provoked anger and argument.
One evening at the start of the cycle, as we readied for bed, she presented her ultimatum. If I didn't want to sleep on the couch, I could only be in the bed with my hands secured. I wasn't to bother her. And if I behaved myself, and followed her rules, I could see some release and satisfaction in the morning.
Our first efforts were clumsy. For instance, I found I couldn't sleep with hands over my head secured to the headboard. In time we came up with cuffs and bands, where my wrists were bound alongside each thigh. Secured as I was, my dick was agonizingly out of reach. But I could doze on my back, listening to her gentle snoring, anxious for my early morning hand job.
I'm not comfortable with the term masochistic. But I have a real penchant for delayed gratification. For whatever reason, I can tolerate taunting and postponed fulfillment. I'm excited by a set of blue balls. And when my release does come, I'm a pumping firehose, shooting gobs of semen, and finding release right down to my toes.
In time, the game advanced.
I had always admired her delicate lingerie. Linda favors silky, satiny panties and briefs (never cotton). It was important to her that "the drapes match the carpet", so to speak, and she always has matching lingerie sets. As we did laundry, my fingers danced and took a few extra passes in folding her things. I teased her about the luxurious feel of her underthings compared to my boxers.
I guess she noticed.
One night, during our Red Week, I was her prisoner. We were in our attic, my hands secured to a rafter high above me, ball gagged, and naked posed before her. First, she produced a condom. I stared powerlessly as she tore the packet with her teeth, then fit the latex and rolled it onto my erect member. In all of our years, she had never applied a condom to me. I found it very sexy and grew another half-inch in appreciation. "We can't have your fluids ruining anything," she told me.
Next, she pulled out some black fabric. "I went shopping for myself, but somehow the items got switched around." She shook out her purchase. "This skirt is way too large for me, but I thought you might like it for you."
I shook my head no and made similar nasal noises. But I was in little position to argue. Linda bunched it at my feet, then drew the garment up my bare legs and hips. Behind me, I felt the button fasten, then she slowly drew up the nylon zipper.
I swayed in my bondage, the hem dancing around my knees. Why did this feel so delightful? My fat cock pressed obscenely, seeking to poke out of the skirt.
"Wait, I should have done this first," she said, then produced a pair of large silken drawers. I know I blushed scarlet. My bride rubbed the pink fabric first on my face, then my bare chest, before arranging them for me to step into. What could I do?
In panties and a modest black skirt, my dick raged against the confinement. To the delight of my aggressive wife. She rubbed me through the layers, I gasped appreciatively at her touch.
She stopped abruptly and fled down the stairs. Abandonment was part of our BDSM game, but this didn't feel like part of the plan. Agonizing minutes passed until she returned. On a short stool, she secured screw post earrings on me. Then she carefully painted my lips around the gag with a waxy red lipstick. At that moment, if I could have pulled free, I would have forced her over some boxes and furiously fucked her pussy, regardless of her state.
In our pretend dungeon, she teased me and she taunted me. Her top came off, she cupped her breasts and drove me wild. And, yes, as a result of her calculated touching and intense rubbing, I crested, flooding the condom with what felt like weeks of pent-up demand.
I was allowed to don a golf shirt, then was reshackled with hands in front. Linda directed me to make two cocktails and join in her our sitting room. She instructed how I should cross my legs and sit appropriately in my skirt.
I was mortified and didn't want to talk about this. But she pressed, wanting to understand just what about the feminine clothing was so intoxicating. I noticed the lipstick on the rim of my glass and blushed a deep crimson.
An explanation fumbled out. In my youngest years, and as a teen, I watched plenty of TV. The old timey Superman was a favorite. And it seemed every week, Lois was a damsel in distress, defenseless, gagged with white cloth in a prim woolen suit. Then... a half hour later, Batgirl on display in a purple bodysuit. She was chained up or wrapped up, her long eyelashes fluttering. For me, bondage was tied to the ideal of the beautiful but helpless female.
Linda understood. When I tied her, she enjoyed the feeling of being powerless, required to submit to my touch and actions. She said that in her bondage, she felt sexy. She could see me wanting to be sexy as well.
I'm not gay, I insisted. I have no desire for men. But I do like the feeling of silky things, and the feminine idea does appeal to me. And the satisfaction of delayed release. Maybe only during our Red Week?
She rewarded me with a dazzling smile. An only child, Linda never had a sister or girlfriend with whom to play dress-up. She looked forward to trolling the used clothing shops, to maybe find a maid or nurses uniform for me. She seemed to relish having a new gurl-friend.
And so, we finished our drink.
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