Blistered Lips

“From now on,” she is saying, “you will wear panties. No arguing. No protesting. I’ve disposed of your boxers; every last pair. Come, Andy, let me show you.”

She’s always called you Anderson before. Your given name. The one you prefer.

But this is the beginning you’ve known was coming for a while now. Since the night she came home and caught you.

She’d been so quiet and demure when you’d married. When you look back, you think those qualities were what drew you to her. That somewhere deep inside you knew; that you knew even then that your fetishes and desires needed some kind of cap. That her softness, her goodness would keep you safe from your own demons.

But she’d caught you. One of those rare occasions you’d indulged your desires. Alone, your beloved out for the night. That’s what she’d told you. No reason to expect her until late. And you couldn’t resist. Found the pink lace thong you’d bought her for Valentine’s Day, slipped it up over your thighs, your stiff prick.

You were so devastated when she’d walked in finding you masturbating into the crotch of those panties, a pair of her soiled ones across your face. Now she knew. Knew your naughty, dirty secret. But the shock, the revulsion was quickly replaced with a smile. She giggled; told you how ridiculous you looked. And there was a look in her eye that you didn’t understand. Though, now you do.

Because she took over from that point on. Making you wear panties sometimes when you fucked her. Then making you lick her cunt while wearing panties and humping the mattress. Sometimes right before you were going out with the guys she would insist you wear panties. She even bought you a few pair of your own, very feminine, satin and lace. You were at her mercy because the panties felt so good and dirty at the same time.

And you couldn’t say no. There was a power exchange the night she caught you. You realize it now. And, as you follow her to the bedroom, you realize that things are never going to be the same, will never go back to the way they were. Maybe you like this. Maybe you’re glad to finally be the panty slut you’ve always secretly wanted to be.

The top dresser drawer is open. You see satin, nylon, ribbons, bows. It’s not a man’s drawer anymore. You look at her.

“What about when I go to the gym?”

She ignores your question, reaching for a pair of the panties–white with little pink and yellow hearts. She holds them up in front of you.

“Put these on, Panty Andy. Be the little Panty Slut you know you want to be for me.”

She’s never called you anything like that before. You blush. But you also feel your prick responding to the calm authority of her words, the intuitive power in her demeanor. You slowly begin removing your jeans. Her words have hypnotized you. You only need to do what your Goddess Wife says. That is all that matters.

When the jeans are lying next to you on the floor, she hands you the panties, then reaches for a tube of lipstick. “What’s that for, honey,” you say as you pull the panties up over your pelvis, feeling the rush of pleasure as your prick drags along the soft fabric.

She looks at the panty tent your erection has caused and snickers. Again, she ignores your question. “Here, stand in front of the mirror.” You move to her side as she takes the lid off of the lipstick tube. “Close your eyes, Panty Slut.” Because it is all you can do, you close your eyes. You feel the lipstick, guided by her firm hand, moving across your torso. All the while she is laughing. You get the weird sensation that you are hearing her in stereo, but chalk it up to the surreal-ness of what is happening.

Finally: “Okay, open your eyes.”

You slowly open your eyes to see your chest, your ribs, your belly smeared with pink lipstick, spelling out the truth. Even backwards you can read it, because you’ve always known it. And you see Jessica standing at the bedroom door. Jessica, your wife’s best friend. Jessica’s lips are twisted into a lewd grin. She is shaking her head, like she is disgusted with you, perhaps even finds you pitiful. She mouths the words, “You are so fucked.”

“Read it out loud for me and Jessica.”

And you do.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a panty slut. I am not a real man. I am panty slut Andy.”

As humiliating, as embarrassing as your dilemma is, you are more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life. Your prick is leaking into the panties, a gray bloom spreading across and down the front of them.

“Now, Andy Panties, show Jessica how hot you are. Rub the front of those wet panties. Yes, you’ve leaked all over them, haven’t you? Now rub them and read your little mantra again and again until you cum in those panties in front of us.”

You know you should stop this. But you can’t, because you want this, you need this. And so you begin rubbing.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a….”

But it’s too late. Because you are coming so hard that your knees are buckling, your asshole and balls are twitching.

“I told you that would happen,” Jessica tells your wife.

“Now you’ve got him by the balls. Forever.”