A Change in Our Marriage

by Sara Girl

01

 

"What are you working on, John," my wife asked, walking into the study. I had my back to her, and quickly switched computer screens, from a web site she would not be happy about to a spread sheet for work.

"Oh, just running some numbers," I said, hoping I moved between applications fast enough. Somehow, the though of my wife seeing a web site called "Wives Who Cheat" brought a fear to my heart. No, I do not think she would appreciate it at all. I mean, sure most my troll the net for porn, but not quite so many check out the level of kink I was looking at.

"Cuckolded Husbands."

"Married White Wives"

"Wives Banging Blacks"

Okay, fantasizing about your wife fucking another guy may not be up there with Playboy, or every man's fantasy, lesbians, but what the hell, the sites turned me on.

"Well, finish up, sweetie, dinners ready," Sara answered, turning and "leaving me to my work."

I switched back to finish looking at the series of pictures on "Cuckold Marriage" of some white woman in a wedding dress, on her back, some huge black guy pounding into her, while a meek white guy, her groom, I imagined, sat near the bed, looking on. Fuck, I wanted to grab my crotch and take care of myself right then and there. The funny think was, as much as I liked looking at the pictures, and reading the stories, on these sites, it was weird, how the fantasy played out in my mind. I pictured myself as the pathetic husband who couldn't get it up for his wife, and helplessly watched as some stud fucked her. No doubt about it, this drove me wild with lust.

I pictured my wife, her slim athletic body, on a bed, a big black man standing over her, the look of lust in her eyes overwhelming.

Yet, I don't think I actually wanted my wife to do this. I never asked her, and I don't know if I could really take it.

That's what made it fantasy.

Unintended Consequences

Bill Gates put a clear history button on the web browser for a reason, I later thought. To fucking protect idiots like me.

I came home from work on a Wednesday evening, intending to watch a baseball game on ESPN, but never made it past the living room. Sara was sitting there, a glass of wine in her hand, a half empty bottle on the table. Sitting next to my laptop. She looked like she had been crying.

"Sara, what... what's the matter."

She had a hurt look on her eyes, a heavy weight on her chest, and without answering, turned the laptop around to face me.

The web browser was open to "Cuckold Marriage" and the last thing I was looking at yesterday, that I wanted to beat off to, that woman in the wedding dress, split open by some huge Tom, stared at me.

"Sara...I...I can explain," I started to say.

She glared at me, the icy chill from her eyes freezing the words in my mouth. She turned the screen back to her, clicked the mouse, and read, "Is your wife a slut? Does she need it dirty? Does she crave cum?"

I had never, ever, heard language from her like this. Listening to her read from the web site, I understood how porn degrades women.

"Wives Who Cheat? White Sluts? Watching your Wife?" she asked, reading off sites I had read.

"Sara, please..."

"But wait, there's more. Black Master/White Slut. Cum Covered Married Sluts. Fucking Christ John, what the hell is this. What the hell is wrong with...with me...that you read this...trash," she spitted out.

"Sara."

"Don't you love me? Don't I make you happy?"

"Sara, yes, I..." how to explain it. I didn't know.

"No, please, Sara, it's not you. Really, it's not. I don't know how to explain this, but, please, it's not you."

"What is it John, don't I make you happy?"

"Yes, shit, yes, you make me very happy."

"What is it then?"

 

"Sara, its fantasy, that's all. I don't know how to say it, but it's visual. I...get turned on looking at this, it doesn't mean anything to me, or have anything to do with us," I said, not sure if I really believed those words. Nor did she.

"But, John, obviously it turns you on, things like this," she said, waiving her arm to the computer in disgust.

"Yes, but..."

"And you say it's not me. What does that mean? You look at this and think what? That you want this for me...she gestured to the woman on her back, dick stuffed in her pussy.

"Shit, no Sara, I..." I started to cry, emotions flooded over me. "It's me Sara, I don't deserve you, I..."

"John stop, slow down, please," she said as word blurted out from me, "what do you mean you don't deserve me?"

"Sara, I...look at you...look at me...I don't know, I always felt that I married up, that I was...not equal, that you were somehow better than me."

"John," a tear ran down her face, "what do you mean, married up, I love you John, why would you feel that way?"

"Well, let's face it," I said, "I am no stud. Never the football player in high school, never one to have women falling all over me, never the stud fraternity guy in college. Why would you have ever gone out with me, why would you have ever married a mousey guy like me?"

"Because I love you. Because you have the most beautiful heart, the most tender soul, and an amazing mind. If I wanted a stud, I would have married a stud. I married you."

I blushed. God I loved this woman. Yet I still didn't deserve her. Maybe that was why cuckolding fantasies always turned me on. A reinforcement of what I always felt, that I did not deserve my wife, and could not make her happy.

Plus, I knew something else. Our sex life was, well, lacking, to say the least. Oh, not that we did not do it. Not that she did not enjoy seducing me, or having a romantic evening. No, but though she never ever said anything, I knew that I was no stud in bed.

Maybe this was what I had to confess, because I still felt like she was hurt, that she thought it was her fault.

Her words, intended to be reassuring, only reinforced what I felt. "If I wanted a stud, I would have married a stud."

That was the heart of it. Even if we never discussed it, even if she was happy and in love, she did not marry a stud. The very basis of cuckolding fantasies just escaped from her lips.

I started crying, because suddenly I knew.

"John, what's wrong, why are you crying, I just told you I love you," she said, moving to hold my hand. I wanted to pull back, withdraw.

"Sara, don't you see. What you said? 'If I wanted a stud, I would have married a stud."

"But, John...I didn't mean..." her voice trailed off. "It's not that..."

We sat in silence for several minutes.

"John, let me ask you a question. This...stuff you look at," she pointed to the computer, "do you ever...um...masturbate while..."

"Sara!" I said, looking down, embarrassed.

"Do you?"

"Yes," I croaked.

"John, this is important, so please, think about it, why do you fantasize about this?"

"I...it's because of you. I...I suppose I get excited fantasizing about you...getting off."

"Hmmm," she smiled, "you mean that...and this is kind of sweet, it turns you on to think of me getting turned on."

"Yes, I...I don't know why. But, I guess, I feel like, well, I know, that I don't know. Not that you hate having sex with me, but I know it's not satisfying to you."

"But, John, it is. Emotionally, anyway."

"But not physically," I said, knowing it was true.

"John, it's not that I don't love you," she answered.

"But it's true, isn't it?"

"John, sex between two married people is more than physical lust, it's about love, tenderness, connecting..."

"Dammit, Sara, don't deny it. Physically, I don't please you."

"You...it's...well...no," she whispered.

"Don't you see...I know that...that's the...the appeal of those web sites. It's like, I love you so much, I get so happy, so excited, when you get excited, somehow, then, the thought of you, so happy, so sexually fulfilled, it makes me happy, makes me excited."

"Hmm," she answered, her eyes arching. "When I was looking at these web sites, at first, I was disgusted, they are so debasing. But, looking at it your way, it seems there may be some appeal, in a weird way, an actual celebration of women."

She was onto it. Cuckolding was not about degrading women. It was, at least from the husband's side of it, a celebration of women.

"But, John, you...you don't actually want this do you? Do you really want your wife fucking another man? This is just fantasy, right?"

Looking at her, I pondered. Well, I never thought about it. Yes, I suppose, it was just fantasy, it was not like I really wanted her to be with another man. Right?

"John?"

"Um, yes, I...I guess so."

"Because fantasy...a dirty thought in your mind...well, that's much different than reality. I mean, John, as weird as it is, I can understand the fantasy, thinking about it, but I can't believe you want the reality."

She came to me, sat next to me, and I could feel her body heat through our clothes. "I love you John," she said, moving her mouth to mine, kissing me, tenderly, my wife, her smell overwhelming me.

We walked upstairs kissing, almost a renewed passion between us. My god, I did love this woman. And I knew, she loved me.

In bed, she took charge. Usually, we were more equal partners in the bedroom, I would take care of my own pleasure, my own orgasm, fucking her quickly and furiously, not worrying about her orgasm. She made up for this, my lack of stamina, but engaging in lengthy foreplay, loving it as I tenderly went down on her, bringing her to orgasm with my mouth. In that way, when she climbed on top of me (she was always on top), she was already so flush in the post orgasmic glow, she could cum even though I was not up to the stamina.

Tonight though, we dismissed with much foreplay. She attacked me with a hunger, and I responded. Biting kisses, our bodies clashing and crashing against each other, we were almost fighting. I started to kiss my way down her neck, my signal that I was going to make my way down her body, but she pulled my head back, my mouth to hers.

"No, don't, I need you now," she panted, biting my lips.

"But, I...you know...," I whispered between kisses, ashamed to actually say it, to verbalize my inadequacies, but as always, wanting to please her.

"Stop talking," she said, covering my mouth with hers, her tongue reaching to touch mine. She pushed me backwards onto the bed, and was already on top of me, a lioness on her prey, I thought, feeling her muscular body hold me down.

She ran her moist vagina over my cock, wetting it as she bit my neck. I really did feel attacked, like a mere mortal surrendering to a creature of the night, the vampire taking her blood. I shuddered as she found my cock, moving her hips so she rested over it, moving down, taking in what I had to offer. She moved up and down, wetting it, breathing deeply as she moved around it.

"Sara, slow, I..."

"I know," she whispered, kissing me again, silencing me again. Talking was not what she wanted.

"But, I'm going to..."

"John, trust me."

She moved her hand up my arms, seizing my wrists as she kissed me again, but she stopped moving her hips, trapping me inside her. I felt her warmth, but without the movement, I was held on the edge.

"Is this part of the problem," she whispered, "part of why you have the fantasy?"

"What do you mean," I asked, feeling the metaphorical cold water thrown on my face, and the literal effects of my cock, shuddering, ready to shrink.

"Cuckolding," she said, licking the side of my face until her tongue reached my ear, swirled around, sending chills down my spine. Her tongue soft caress stopped my cock from shrinking. Damn, what was she doing?

"I mean," she said, still working her tongue, "do you fantasize about a man fucking me because you don't last long enough to please me."

I shuddered again. What the fuck was she doing to me? She moved her hips again, very slowly up and even slower down, emphasizing each word she spoke, "Do you get excited by thinking of a man fucking me instead of you." She emphasized the words "man" and "you" and in my brain, there was no confusing her meaning. I was not a man.

She continued to go slowly, grinding herself at the bottom, "Yes, John, do you picture a real man's cock inside me," she panted as she licked and moved at the same time.

"Oh God, Sara...I," I could not finish any thought, my cock was so hard, ready to explode, I started shuddering.

She knew it too, and stopped moving, her mouth came off my ear, and she looked at me, "What is it sweetie," she smiled as I breathed heavily, desperate not to orgasm. "Calm, John, calm down, breath, breath, I am not finished with you yet," she said, shaking herself as an orgasm wracked through her body.

"Sara," is all I could whisper.

As she came down from her orgasm, I realized how significant it was. She had never had an orgasm like that, with me penetrating her, without a huge warm up of oral sex.

I was still on the edge, and wanted to go farther. I tried to move my own hips.

"Stop," she said forcefully, "not yet."

She still held my wrists, her weight from being on top feeling like bonds. She continued to kiss my neck, nuzzling me, nuzzling her property. It brought me slowly back from the edge of orgasm, but left me hard inside her.

She whispered in my ear again, "You know, John, a real man could fuck me to orgasm." She moved her hips up and down once, "his man sized cock would be enough." Another thrust.

"Ohhhh Sara," I moaned.

"A real man would fuck me like I've never been fucked before."

"On top of me, pushing his cock farther and farther into me, filling me like never before," she said, taking a deep breath in on the last word, her body shaking, orgasm washing over her, in a way I had never experienced.

"I need a real man's cock inside me," she shuddered as I exploded in my own orgasm."

"Saaarrraaa!"

After ten minutes of her on top of me, my cock now shrunk to nothing, ready to slip out, I felt all remains of my libido flow away from me. I was ready to go to sleep, and started to try to push my wife to the side.

"Wait, sweetie," she said, squeezing her pelvic muscles, "I can still feel you little cock inside me."

After the orgasm, without any libido, her taunt, which excited me before, stung now.

"Sara, don't," I said, more forcefully pushing her to her side of the bed.

"John, what's the matter, don't you enjoy hearing me talk about a real man's cock," she asked. Fuck. Women, they don't lose their libido. They are not like men. Right now, the thought disgusted me. Especially with my own cock shrunk to nothing after its orgasm.

I walked out of the room without saying another word, and went downstairs to the den to watch ESPN. I turned on the TV, but did not really watch. I felt so conflicted. Damn it, when she was talking during sex, I was more excited than I had ever been before. Now, I felt disgusted at her words. What the fuck was wrong with me.

True Feelings

Some time later, Sara came downstairs, wrapped in some sexy outfit I had gotten for her for her birthday, I suppose in some type of peace offering, though I imagine she had no idea why she should be feeling guilty.

"John, can we talk," she said, smiling a polite smile, obviously feeling bad about my storming out of the bedroom.

I looked at her, hair on her shoulders, the pink nightie showing off her thighs, her obvious love for me on display, but I could not answer her.

"John, please, what's wrong. Why are you so angry? What did I do? What did I say? I thought I was doing something for you. I thought that I was making you happy."

"Sara," I cried, "I...I don't know. I don't know why I go so mad, I just don't understand," I said, a tear rolling down my face.

"Honey, please," she said, sitting down next to me, the bare skin of her leg touching mine. "Do you love me?"

What? Do I love her? Christ, I worship the ground she walks on. "Yes," I said, looking at her with puppy dog eyes. "Well, I love you too, John, I love you more than any man I have ever known, and I want to be here for you, and help you, but you have to talk to me, you have to tell me what you are upset about."

"Sara...those things you said..."

"What, what John?"

"They...they hurt me," I pouted.

"Hurt you? John, please, what do you mean?"

"I...is that really the way you feel about me?"

"John. John," she sighed.

"What?"

"Where do you think I came up with those things to say?"

"What do you mean? Don't you feel that way?"

"Oh dear. John, you don't understand, do you? I said those things, not to hurt you, but to make you happy."

"Happy?"

"Yes, happy."

"But...how happy?"

"John, go back are look carefully at all those web sites you bookmarked. Where to you think I came up with things to say? They are all things from places you visited. I thought you would like that, that dirty talk. I thought I was helping you, with your fantasy."

"But, I...you mean that was for me?"

"Well, of course, honey. Dear, I love you, I was just trying to make you happy, helping you fantasize with me, being involved, rather than leaving you to your dirty thoughts all by yourself."

I stewed on what she said. Was I being a selfish prick? Here is my wife, catching me with what is really vile porn, involving her, and she is trying to help me.

"Sara, I...didn't think of that," I said.

"John, John," she shook her head, "of course I love you and of course I was trying something, trying to make you happy, maybe so you don't feel like you have to hide things from me, we should be open about our fantasies."

I looked down, feeling slightly guilty.

"And unless I am mistaken, you were pretty into it," she giggled, "your reaction sure told me to keep going." Well, I had to admit, it was probably the best sex I ever had. Nothing like sharing a fantasy with the woman you love to get things going.

But, a look of pain came over my face, something was not right. She noticed, "What, dear?"

"Wait," I said, trying to solidify the thought in my head. "You said you could tell I was getting into it, right?"

"Yes," she smiled shyly.

"You could obviously tell you were pushing my sexual buttons?"

"Yes, and dear, admit it, have you ever had such a great orgasm?"

"Um, no, I..." the thought started leaving my head as I thought of our love making.

"Wait...wait," I shook my head. "What about you?"

"What do you mean," she asked, sitting upright.

"You...you had an orgasm without oral sex," I said, almost in an accusatory tone.

"Yes, baby," she smile, "you were good. Her words and her tone were guarded. Something was wrong all right.

"I was good? Sara I didn't do a damn thing but lay there, you did all the work, you took the lead, you..."

She looked away as the thought came full bore into my brain.

"Sara, you...got off on it, too. This was not just about fulfilling my fantasy, about "being there" for me, no, dammit, you..."

"John, wait," she whispered.

"You were not just mouthing words you read on a web site, you were..." I could hardly say the words, I was whispering, "you were expressing your own fantasy." I gasped, I almost recoiled in horror. She was not just telling me what I wanted to hear, I think she was telling me what she wanted to say!

"John, I told you, I was just reading back to you things I saw on those disgusting web sites you were visiting," she said, backing up from me.

"Sara, you were not. You have never had an orgasm without me warming you up first with oral sex. You have told me before you had trouble, and I suppose I never really thought about it, but it's so clear to me, you were saying those things because YOU FANTASIZED ABOUT THEM! I'm not good enough for you!" I looked at her, the accusation dripping from my voice and my expression.

She looked at me, her face hardening. Maybe I was wrong, and suddenly, I was the one feeling guilty. "Sara, I'm sorry...I...I didn't mean that...I don't know...you were only being nice to me, I..."

"No, John, you're right," she whispered.

"I really don't...right...what do you mean, 'I'm right'?"

She couldn't meet my eyes when she spoke, "I...I read those web sites you were on. At first, for a couple of minutes, I was disgusted, that you would look at stuff like that, but then, I...started touching myself. I thought of one of the guys on one of the sites, some athletic guy, and I was staring at his dick. I was big...not huge, but...well, compared to...anyway, it was big. Anyway, reading about some wife, I wondered, and in my mind, I took her place."

"Sara, are...are you saying I don't please you in bed." Fantasy aside, it was a direct shot to my manhood. But then, isn't this was cuckolding was about?

"John, no...no that's not what I am saying at all. We have a wonderful sex life, you please me, it's just that...well, it's different."

"Different? What do you mean different?"

"It's like...well...in college, before we met, I was going out with some frat boy that played lacrosse. Don't get me wrong, he was not really my type, he was not sweet and sensitive, kind and tender, well, he was not husband material, like you are. But, there was one thing about him..."

I felt complimented, in a way. 'Husband Material'.

"What thing," I asked.

She blushed. "He fucked like a horse."

"Sara!"

"No, John, you asked. He did not have the best personality, I admit, but he fucked me like nobody's business. His cock was big, almost too big, really, and he lasted forever. It was the most amazing sex..." her voice was caught in her throat as she looked at me.

"Go on," I said, hurt.

"I'm sorry, John, it was just different than what we have."

"And you miss that."

"No. Well, until I found your web sites, no, John, I did not miss it.

But, yes, to be honest, reading that stuff, and this afternoon. Sometimes a woman likes that feeling. That feeling of being taken by the alpha male, the top bitch, thrown down and mounted like a trophy. It's...," she shook, lost in thought.

"It's not what I do, I know," I said, hanging my head in shame.

"John, please don't act this way. Don't lie to yourself. Don't lie to me. You were just as excited as I was before. You had a harder orgasm then you ever had. You actually gave me an orgasm. You can honestly say my words weren't turning you on?"

"No...yes, I mean...they...they turned me on," I was forced to admit.

"Yes, I thought so," she smiled, casually moving her hand to my leg. She started rubbing my leg, slowly working her way upwards, until her hand was under my robe, fingers wrapped around my cock.

"Go on, you can admit it sweetie, it excites you to imagine your wife, on her back, legs spread, a real man, his big, hard cock, his sword, pressing into my pussy..."

"Oh God, Sara," my cock was throbbing in her hand.

She giggled, squeezing my cock, turning the tip purple.

"Is that what you really want, John," she asked, "do you really want another man to fuck me?"

I didn't know what to feel, and shuddered, almost a beginning of a sob.

"Sara, I...I don't know what to feel, I'm so confused," I confessed.

She let go of my cock. "What do you mean, confused?"

"Well, guilty and a little angry, I guess," I said, though admittedly confused too.

"Guilty about what?"

"That...I have not been satisfying you."

"Oh, John, don't you understand? You have been? You do satisfy me. Don't you get it? How much I love you? You satisfy me tremendously, because I love you. Sex, our sex life is an expression of our love, honey," she said, stroking my leg again.

"I suppose you're right."

"And angry? What are you angry about?"

"Angry...and a little hurt," I said, "that you would actually fantasize about another man."

"That's not fair, you know."

"Not fair? What do you mean, it's not fair," I asked.

"Not fair to be angry, John, because you were fucking looking at porn fantasizing about another man fucking me. You were looking at that shit, beating off, thinking of me, the woman you love, fucked by some stranger. That's not fair. Don't you dare fantasize about something like that and then get angry when I have the same fantasy. That's what is not fair," she said, crossing her arms, her eyes flashing with a mixture of anger, frustration, and wounded pride.

"But Sara...I...," I didn't know what to say, because she was right. It was not at all fair for me to fantasize about the same thing she was fantasizing about yet be angry because she had those thoughts.

She calmed back down rather quickly and looked at me. "John, please, remember something, I love you, I always loved you, I loved you from the very moments we started dating."

My pride, though, was still a bit wounded. "Even though you were fucking some college guy that was obviously more of a man than me," I asked.

"Dammit, John, are you not listening to me? I love you because you are not that man. I love you because of who you are, and what you mean to me, how you treat me, because of your femin...," her voice trailed off, "because of your tender side.

Feminine? Feminine side? That's what she was about to say. But in a way, she was right. My tender side, feminine side, I suppose, is why I won her over a guy like that frat boy.

While thinking about this, her hand drifted back to my cock. She wrapped her fingers around it, and looking at it, caressed it.

"John, I love your tender side," she said, moving her hand.

"I love your little cock." A shudder ran through my body.

"I love how you make love to me in the tenderest way, kissing and caressing me." Her fingers were driving me wild.

"I love that you need to, no, want to make love to me with your mouth, and don't worry about this little thing." Her words were in a way, humiliating, but still, exciting, and affirmation of her feelings for me.

She knew it too, and smiled, continuing to stroke me. "If you had a big cock like a real man, like that stud I fucked in college, you would never want to make love to me like you do, so tender, almost like another woman."

I was starting to breathe heavily; my wife was thrusting at the core of my fantasies.

"Sweetie, your little cockette is just purrfect for our love making," she cooed.

"So small and tender, so much like you."

Her fingers continued their steady pace, stroking.

"Few men are like you, small, tender, almost womanly, really. If I needed a man's cock inside me, there are lots of men I could fuck, but how many could give me what I get from you and your little, tender thing?"

"If I ever want a real man inside me," she said, harshly, almost growling, "I would go find some big stud, with a big cock, to bend me over and fuck me like an animal."

With those words, I stiffened, and exploded in orgasm all over her hand. She kept stroking me, slower and slower, letting my cum coat her hand, rubbing it into my skin. She moved her mouth to mine, kissed me deeply, "I love you," she said.

I loved her too. Oh, how I loved her. Even coming down from an orgasm, again, my libido fading away, I loved and wanted her. I moved, breaking off our kiss, and kneeled before her, pushed her hips on the couch. She parted her legs, as my head went under the hem of her chemise. I kissed her moist lips, tasting her, sweetly enjoying, wanting to please her.

Her hands moved to my head, rubbing it, massaging my hair, pushing and directing my efforts. I could feel her right hand, damp, sticky, my own mess being rubbed into my scalp and my face was pushed into hers. I made love to her. Orally. Like only I could.

MANIFESTATION OF A DREAM

Our routine went on; our love making was as tender as always. I took a new pride in my ability to make love to my wife, orally, and she made a subtle and seemingly insignificant change in bed. Penetration, my mainstay of orgasmic bliss was slowly denied. Not in a forceful way, like a fantasy dominatrix would, but in a subtle way. She would stroke me while I made love to her, or return the gift of oral love making. Whereas before, she would excite me until after she had her orgasm, and mount me for mine, she was less aware of my own tolerance, and again and again, took me over the edge before we could maneuver into our traditional love making position.

Subtle.

She was bringing me to orgasm without actually "fucking" me. She may have thought I did not notice, but I did.

"Sara," I said, one night in bed with her after our "tender" love making session.

"Yes honey?"

I looked over at her, but it was too dark in the bedroom to really see her face. "We...do you know...we have not had actual sex for several weeks now, really, since our 'talk' back then."

"I know, sweetie, but aren't you happy?"

"Happy," I ask?

"Yes, you don't seem to be complaining."

"No, Sara, no, but I...are you happy? I mean, without...?"

She laughed. "Without cock? Honey, be honest, have I been getting cock before our little talk?"

"Sara!"

"No, John, do you think you have been giving me cock? Is that why you were looking at those cuckolding web sites? Cause you have been giving me a big salami ever night," she laughed?

"Sara, I..."

"John, I haven't gotten cock in a long time."

Again, she toyed with my emotions, played with my fantasies, and fuck, was actually exciting me.

I said nothing.

She laughed, touched my face in the dark, "John, I'm teasing you, honey. Yes, I like it when you give it to me, but honestly, I also like it very much how we have been the last few weeks. It's such a different thing, real love making, not fucking. It's such an emotional connection."

"I see," I said.

"In fact, John, it's really what we have always had, a tender relationship, outside the bedroom, and now inside. You are happy, are you not, making love to me like that?"

Was I? Was I happy and satisfied with our sex lately? I had to admit that I was. "Yes, Sara, but..."

"But nothing, honey, you are the most tender, patient, kind, and soft lover I could ever want. I mean, it's almost like you are a woman, that we are two women making love to one another, and it's a very powerful feeling to me, and I hope to you."

Again, the subtle reinforcement from her to me that I was less than a man to her.

"John, you know, that's really it," she said, clearly thinking about it, "tender love, like a woman. That is always what I wanted from you, and always treasured, your tenderness. Maybe in some strange way, I always wanted that, something like another woman, softness in my partner."

She was really pushing my buttons now. A softness? Like another woman? Since our showdown three weeks ago, she was subtlety attacking my manhood again and again.

"Still, Sara, I feel like I am not doing what a husband should be doing for his wife," I said, conflicted still about my place.

"John, you are doing everything I want from you, everything I want from my husband," she said, tenderly, "you are everything I could ever want from my partner, because a big, hairy, strong, masculine stud is NOT what I want, it's not what I wanted for my marriage."

"But, come on Sara, you are a woman, don't you miss...miss it?"

"Miss it, sweetie," she baited me?

"Yes, do you miss it?"

"Miss what?"

I didn't want to say it, but the words came out, "miss a real man."

"Maybe a little," she giggled, "but I have the man I want." She stroked my cheek, and kissed me.

"Besides, honey, it's been so long, I almost forget what its like. Really, since we started dating, you and your tenderness are all I've had, well...mostly..."

Mostly? What the fuck did she mean, mostly? "Mostly?"

She just giggled. Was she fucking with me or did she fuck, I wondered.

What can of worms was opened up when she found my porn stash.

"Sara," I said, sternly, "what do you mean, mostly?"

"Oh, nothing, silly," she answered, kissing my, and rolling over, ending our discussion.

Mostly?

Mostly!

I played on my mind as I lay there, unable to sleep. What was this?

What did I want? Did I really want something like I fantasized about? Did I really want my wife fucking another man? Was cuckolding something I really wanted, or was it all fantasy? Lines were blurred here, I wasn't sure what I wanted, what she wanted, and had no plan.

I was scared.

Stages Set

I woke up on Friday morning to Sara rooting around the bedroom. She often left for the office before I even got out of bed, because her job as an assistant general counsel at a large hospital meant that work started for administration when doctors began arriving, at 7:00 or so. She was usually out of the house by 6:30.

In my post sleep haze, I saw her putting on her pantyhose, and I started to turn over, and cover my head with a pillow. Something hit in my brain, and after a minute or so, I turned back and looked at her. She was rolling a black stocking up her left leg; her right leg was already sheathed in a matching stocking, clipped to a black satin garter belt.

Those were obviously not pantyhose. She wore stockings, hell, I had begged her to wear them for years, but she only wore them when we went out to a special dinner, and on occasion, in the bedroom. Stockings were not for the office, which was when she wore pantyhose.

I looked closer at what she had on, her matching black satin garter belt, panty and bra set. Lingerie from a high class web site, Secretsinlace.com, which specialized in high class, classic lingerie.

"Sara," I said, "what are you doing?"

"Shhh, honey, I didn't mean to wake you, go back to sleep."

"It's okay. What are you doing?"

"I'll be done in a minute, I am just getting dressed for work." She attached the stocking to the garter straps, and picked up a black A-line skirt from a hanger. Still in a sleep haze, I watched her step into the skirt, shimmy it up her legs, over her beautiful ass, and zip it up. She stepped into some strappy heels, which like the lingerie, were out of character for her for the office. A bit too formal. Finally, she slipped a light blue silk blouse on, and buttoned it up. Looking at herself in the mirror, she smiled, and undid one of the top buttons, revealing just a hint of bra and breast.

"Sara?"

"Shhh."

"Sara, why are you dressed...dressed like that?"

"Honey, I'm just trying to look nice today, our Corporate General Counsel is coming up for the week, and, well, you know, I figure I might as well use everything I have to make an impression."

"But, why the lingerie? Why the stockings?"

"Silly, they make me feel very feminine...much easier to charm and flirt if I need to. You should try it some time," she laughed.

That comment flew right by me. "Flirt?"

"Shhh, go back to sleep," she said again, walking out of the room.

I lay there, drifting in and out of sleep, my cock erect, from my vision of Sara walking out of the bedroom, dressed like that. "Flirt," I thought.

After I got dressed and went into the office, I tried to call Sara, but got her voice mail all day. It said she was in the office, but in conference today. I left several messages, but never heard back from her.

Finally, at 6:00, my cell rang, Sara's cell number was on the caller ID. "Sara, I've been trying to..."

She cut me off. "John, I know, I'm sorry, I've been in meetings all day and," she giggled, "stop," she said to someone, "John, sorry, anyway, I've been tied up all day."

"Yes, Sara, but,"

"Brad, stop," she laughed to someone again.

"Sara, are you there?"

Still giggling she said, "Yes, sorry John, anyway I was saying, sorry I couldn't call. Can you fix yourself dinner, Mr. Page, our General Counsel, is taking me to dinner so we can finish up a few thing, I won't be too late, I promise."

"Sara, are you..."

"Sorry John, I have to go, I will see you a bit later."

The phone went dead. I tried to call back her cell, but again, it rolled over to voice mail. Dammit, what is she doing? This behavior was not like her.

I sat at home, in the den, stewing. ESPN was on again, some game to which I was paying no attention.

At about 11:30 I heard Sara's car finally pull up. I was so damn angry, I wanted to jump up and confront her when she came it. But I wanted to play it cool, too. Fuck.

She walked into the den, and though I feigned disinterest, I could not help but glance at her. Fuck. She was so damned sexy. Incredible, even.

"Sara," I exploded, "where the hell have you been? What the fuck?"

"Oh, baby, I'm soooo sorry, we had so much to do, I just lost track of the time, I did not mean to be out so late."

"It's fucking 11:30," I hissed.

"I know sweetie, I know, I was a bad wife this evening." Her tone was laced with double meaning.

"What do you mean," I asked.

"Let me make it up to you," she whispered, moving to kiss my mouth.

I pushed her back, "what do you mean you were a bad wife?"

"Shhhh," she kissed my neck.

"Sara...did...did you..."

"Did I want honey," she licked my neck.

"Did...did you..." I could not finish my thoughts, I was terrified to voice them.

"Did I fuck him, is that what you want to ask, but are afraid to?"

"Sara, please..."

She laughed, biting my neck, moaned. "Did I fuck him!"

I was shaking. "Sara," I tried to push her away. I was trembling, I could feel my cock in my pants, I almost came just from her licking my neck, but I was terrified.

"Did I take his big cock in my pussy, in your pussy?"

"Ohhhhhh, Sara," I was getting dizzy.

"John, John, slow down," she said, "let me answer your question. No," she moaned, licking my ear, whispering.

"No, John, I only went to dinner." I felt my chest deflate.

Her tongue probed my ear, wetting it. "Is that a disappointment to you, John? Did you want me to say yes, did you want me to tell you I fucked him? Did you imagine your wife, sexed up in lingerie and stockings, on her knees, sucking a real man's cock?" She moved her hand to my pants, and started rubbing me, not squeezing, but rubbing through my pants.

"Did my sweetie want me to do that? Did you want me to confess that I fucked him? Did you want me to tell you I finally had a real cock in my pussy and it felt wonderful?" Her fingers kept moving, rubbing me through my thin pants. My head was thrown back, I was moaning.

"Saarraaa."

"Did you want your wife to FUCK? To get COCK. To get what you CAN'T give me?" She emphasized the words. "Is that what my sweetie wanted? To know that a REAL MAN had his hands all over me?"

I whispered, "Yes," unsure if it really was, or if it was my libido talking.

"You wanted me to fuck him," she challenged me, stopping the movements of her hand.

"Sara, please, don't stop," I begged.

"Did you want me to fuck him," she demanded, still not moving her hand?

"Did my little woman want her wife to FUCK him?"

"Yes," I whispered again.

"Then say it, bitch," she ordered, moving her hand two quick strokes.

"Say it."

"I...I wanted you to fuck him," I groaned. She started moving her hand again.

"I wanted my wife to FUCK another MAN," she demanded.

"Yes, yes, wife fuck another man," she moaned, running her tongue into my ear again, rubbing me, "that's a good girl."

Her words, her confusion of gender, her motions were driving me insane.

"I want my wife to fuck another man," she whispered, "say it again."

"I want my wife to fuck a man," I groaned, and she responded by rubbing.

"Again."

"I want my wife to fuck a man."

"Again!"

"I want my wife to fuck a man."

"Again," she moaned into my ear.

"I want my wife to fuck a man."

"I want my wife to fuck a man."

"I want my wife to fuck a man."

Her petting went into overdrive as I kept moaning her words again and again.

"I want my wife to fuck a man."

Finally, I could take it no longer. I explodes, wave after wave or orgasm washing over me, an orgasm at depths I never experienced before, cum exploding into my pants.

"I want my wife to fuck a man," I whispered one more time.

"Good girl," she cooed into my ear as I shuddered.

Before I could calm down, while the wave was still overwhelming me, she stood up, and started walking out of the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood. "I'll see you in bed, love," she smiled.

I was left there, my face wet from her tongue, my pants wet from my cum, and my ego bruised, damaged, on fire, enraged, engaged, hyped up, charged and totally whipped.

Setting Things in Order

By the time I got upstairs, Sara was already in bed, sleeping, and again, I was left to crawl next to my incredible wife and ponder what had happened. I had a fitful night's sleep, tossing and turning, dreaming and remembering what we had done earlier. "I want my wife to fuck a man." That thought kept going through my head as I tossed around. And her "girl" comment. "Good girl," she had said. What did she mean?

I woke up the next morning to the smell of fresh brewed coffee, and to Sara, my lovely Sara, bringing me coffee, juice, toast, and some fruit, all on a tray. I actually blushed, feeling guilty at her efforts to please me. She was too much.

"Sara, about last night," I started.

"Shh, sweetie, drink some coffee, eat, then we can talk."

I ate, and she was right, the food felt good in my stomach.

"Sara, you...the things I said...you said...last night."

"Wait, John, let me ask you this. Did you enjoy yesterday?"

"Well, last night was," I started. She cut me off.

"No, John, not last night, or at least not only last night. Did you enjoy yesterday," she emphasized.

I thought of yesterday. Her dressing in lingerie, going off to work, flirting, I suppose, teasing me, and last night, making me say things, saying things herself.

"Yes."

"All of it, John, I need to know this? All of it, all day, not just the climax, so to speak, in the evening?"

"Yes," I blushed.

"Watching me dress, what did you think?"

"Well, I wondered what you were doing, I thought maybe all your pantyhose were dirty," I said.

"Dammit, John, please don't lie to me. This won't work, this is," she sighed, "We have to be honest with one another, John, no matter what."

"I...I wondered why you were dressing like that," I said.

"And," she said slowly, moving her hands, motioning for me to continue.

"And, I...I wondered wh...who you were dressing for," I admitted.

"And you called me so many times during the day because..."

"Because...because I was worried you were spending time with that guy from out of town."

"John, of course I was spending time with him, he is my boss, but why...why were you calling?"

"Because...Sara...because I thought you were going to sleep with him," I admitted.

"Ahhh, and that made you feel?"

"Angry," I answered quickly.

"Angry. Angry? You felt anger? John, please, I hope you are just answering without thinking, because if you felt anger, than I have seriously misjudged things."

"No, Sara, you're right, it wasn't anger. I guess it was..." dare I say it, "excitement."

"And when I told you I only went to dinner, what?"

This was easy and hard. "I felt...disappointed," I blushed.

"Hmmm, disappointed because..."

I blushed, remembering her words, my words. "Because I want my wife to fuck a man."

"Yes," she smiled.

But I was not through with her. "Sara, why did you call me a girl? You did that several times."

"Are you a man," she asked, a gleam in her eyes.

"Yes," I answered quickly.

"You are," she asked, surprised. "Why did you say then, 'I want my wife to fuck a man.' You didn't say another man, you said, a man? Think about it, John. I told you to say you wanted your wife to fuck another man, but when you repeated it back, you said a man, you changed it from another to a."

"But I didn't mean anything by that," I protested.

"John, John, my sweet husband, you meant everything by it."

"Don't you see, John, you don't see yourself as a man because you can't please me as a man."

"Yes, but..."

"No buts. Because you can't fuck me to an orgasm, you think you are less than a man. Don't you get it? You don't think of yourself in that way."

"You are confusing me, Sara," I said, truly mixed up.

"If you really thought of yourself as a man, you would have said you want another man to fuck me. Because you don't think of yourself as a man, you said just that, "a man."

"But...I...what do you think of me as," I asked.

"My lover," she answered, avoiding an answer.

"But, Sara, you avoided my question. You said we had to be honest with each other. Do you see me as a man?"

"No, John, I don't."

A tear ran down my cheek, I could not help it. Fantasy was one thing, the dream. But hearing it from her, that my wife did not think of me as a man stung.

"John, please don't cry," she said, tender, an honest concern in her voice.

"What am I to you then," I asked in agony.

"It's hard to explain, John, I guess I always saw you as...as slightly feminine."

"Feminine? What the fuck does that mean," I said, feeling her words hit me in my gut.

"John, don't be angry. How many times do I have to try to explain it, I love you completely the way you are, every aspect of you. You complete me, you make me whole, totally," she said, her words as honest as could be.

"But feminine?"

"Listen John, you are asking me about things I haven't really thought about. I mean, inside, I always adored your softness and tenderness. You know that. Remember, I picked you instead of some stud because I wanted you."

It was strange. Her explanation was comforting and unsettling at the same time. She loved me, but picked me instead of a stud.

"You mean, you picked me, you fell in love with me, instead of a...a man?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Sara, what does that mean?"

"It...it means I love you for who you are, because you are...feminine. Because you are tender, in the bedroom, and out. Because you," she was forming words in her mouth as they jumped into her mind, almost free associating, "because you are like a woman, I guess."

"Is that how you see me," I asked, stunned.

"In a way, yes," she confessed, her head lowered, almost ashamed.

"But...I...I'm not..."

"A woman," she completed my thought, "of course not, but John, let me put it this way. If masculinity and femininity were on the opposite ends of a line, a pure man was a "1" and a pure woman was a "100", the pro wrestler, The Rock, would be a "1" and Julia Roberts would be a "100."

"Okay," I said, following her.

"Well, I am not a "100" because, for example, I love sports, I might be a "90" instead. All woman, with a slight tinge of masculinity," she explained.

"Yes, and..."

"Well, John, my college stud, the one who fucked me like a horse, he was a "1" all the way," she smiled. "And...okay, here is where the example applies to you. John, I think of you as a "60" at least."

"A 60? What?"

"Yes, you are a man, biologically, who has more feminine qualities than masculine qualities. That is why I love you."

"But...why then, why did you marry me?"

"Because I love you and what you are. If you were even a fifty, let alone a ten or a one, I would never have loved you as much."

The obvious question burned in my mind. "But, Sara, if you love me because I am a "60" instead of a "10", would you love me more if I was a "70?"

"Yes," she whispered. Suddenly, it was there, out in the open. She would love me more if I moved down this line, lost more of whatever manhood I had. I did not know how to even think about this startling revelation.

"I don't get it," I said, even though I think I did.

"Yes, John, I would. I would love you more if you were more...more feminine," she admitted.

"But Sara, you said you fantasized about...men," saying that, setting men as different from me hurt, but I continued, "men, even though you love me. How can you say you love me, but still lust for...," I was having trouble finishing.

"Still lust for a real man," she smiled?

"Yes," I whispered, blushing, feeling slightly humiliated.

"Because, I suppose as much as you satisfy me, making love to you, is different. It's emotion, tenderness, love, sweetness, and every feminine feeling a woman can have. But still, from a raw sexual desire, a woman, yes me, loves cock, and sometimes loves being taken in the rawest, powerful way a man can. A way you can't. Sometimes I fantasize about actually being fucked. Sometimes I miss having a cock inside me."

Her words stung, and she knew it. The meaning was clear. She missed having a cock inside her because I was not doing that for her.

"What do you want from me, Sara," I asked, shaking.

A Change for the Better

"To be honest John, since reading all that vile porn you had, about cuckolding, about wimpy husbands, about subservient men, serving their wives, I have been thinking about that all the time."

"You want a divorce, don't you." I asked, on the verge of crying.

"A divorce? A divorce! John, are you listening to me, to yourself? I told you I love you more than words could ever describe. Listen to me, no matter what, no matter what ever happens, I NEVER want to lose you. Never. Never."

"But you want a man, don't you," I said, hurt.

"Yes, John, a man," she smiled.

I caught her meaning. I made the distinction again, between a man and another man. In those words, I again did not refer to myself as a man.

"I mean..."

"No, you said it right."

"A man," I whispered. "If I'm not...a...what do you want from me."

"At least an 85, maybe a little more."

"You want me to be a woman, you want me to have a sex change," I asked, shocked.

"Silly, no, no, I don't want you to have a sex change, please. I want a marriage to you, not a partnership with a biological woman."

"What then, what do you want from me?"

"I want you to develop more, to stop being conflicted about who you are, to embrace you feminine side by letting go, by stop thinking about how you can be more masculine, and worry about how you can be more feminine."

"More feminine," I asked, shocked.

"Yes, more feminine. I want you to consciously accept your femininity.

I want you to embrace it, to desire it."

"But, how...I don't know what you want."

She smiled. What was that about?

"That's an interesting answer, sweetie. Do you know that? You asked me 'how' to become more feminine. You didn't say no, you didn't protest. All you asked is 'how' to do it."

It's true. My inner conscious was already accepting what she wanted, even if my brain was slow to catch up.

"Honey, how do you know a woman is more feminine? How do you know a woman is a tom-boy? How can you tell a '90' from a '60', using my scale?"

"I'm not sure I follow," I said, confused.

"Okay, John, answer this, what's the difference between a normal woman, a feminine, glamorous, heterosexual woman, and a butch lesbian? How do you know a butch when you see her?"

"Cause she looks like a butch," I answered.

"Yes, she looks like a butch, obviously, but why?"

"Because she doesn't look feminine?"

"What does she look like?"

"Um, hard, uhh, butch..." I tried to describe, "I guess, masculine. She looks like a man," I said, picturing a stout woman, hair cropped short, a flannel shirt, jeans, work boots, almost dirty, like a line backer, not an ice skater.

"Yes. Where do you think she shops? Victoria's Secret or Wal-Mart."

I laughed. "Probably Home Depot. Do they sell work clothes there?"

Smiling, Sara walked over to her hamper and picked up a pair of panties. The black satin panties she wore yesterday. "Think she wears these, that butch?"

I laughed again, "No, I don't think so, probably men's flannel boxers."

"Why those?"

 

"Well," I thought, "I suppose to feel tough, um...butch."

"Masculine," she asked.

"Sure."

"And why did I wear these yesterday," she asked me, walking closer to me, holding the panties out from her body. "Why did I wear these?"

"Well, you said you wanted to feel sexy," I answered.

"Sexy? Is that what I said? I wore them to feel sexy?"

I thought back to yesterday morning. I was half asleep then, and I did not catch all her words.

"No, John, not sexy. I am sure I looked sexy in them," she grinned, knowing she did, "but no one saw them. Why would I wear sexy lingerie if no one was going to see it?"

"I...I don't get it, Sara."

"Femininity. I wore them to feel feminine. The butch wears men's boxers to feel masculine. I wore satin panties to feel feminine."

I gulped as the meaning of her words dawned on me. "Put these on, sweetie," she smiled, holding the panties out to me. Her tone was not that of a request. It was a quiet command. Put them on.

I took the panties from her hand, my own fingers trembling. What is scary? I didn't even think to protest or to refuse. Her tone left no room for question. I slowly stepped into the panties, slid them up my legs, over my hips, over my little cock, which, I was shamed to see, was quickly growing.

Sara smiled. "John, you have such a cute ass," she giggled. I turned, stood on my toes, and looked over my shoulder in the mirror to see.

She laughed out loud. "What," I asked, her laugh stinging me.

"Oh, no, nothing John, but I see I'm right about femininity. You stood on your toes and looked over your shoulder in the mirror. That was a most feminine move, something a man would not do. See, the panties have an effect. And John, even if you don't realize it yet, you feel sexy in them, you just don't know how to admit it. But you do. I know...because something gives it away."

She pointed to my crotch, where my erection was neatly framed in the satin of the panties.

"Oh John," she said, suddenly moving to kiss me. "MMmmnnn!" She gurgled happily, her lips mashing mine, her tongue probing into my mouth. "Now that is nice."

Her mouth found mine again as she pushed me back onto the bed, and her kiss was feverish. I'm always aroused by her excitement; it's infectious. I writhed beneath her and enjoyed the bizarre sensations. I held her shoulders as she rubbed my flesh against hers. I cupped one of her firm breasts - it felt fantastic feeling her nipple as it burst from the rim of her sexy satin chemise. Sara moved her own hand over my left nipple. She tweaked it expertly and wave after wave of pleasure washed over me. Her other hand was at my groin was rubbing furiously. I enjoyed it. The hand at my nipple squeezed my flesh molding it into a small but perfect breast. At that moment her lips swooped down and took my nipple into her mouth! I thrashed about wildly; it was almost too good, too good to bear!

She continued kissing my nipples, pushing my chest around, making small mounds. Her hips worked over my legs, bringing her pantied crotch into direct contact with mine. She rubbed her panties over mine, satin on satin, and I honestly felt feminine, I felt myself surrendering to her.

I moved my hands down to my panties, wanting to take them off, to penetrate her. "No," she groaned, as she pushed herself down harder onto me. "Do it this way, be my woman."

She continued to "bump and grind" rubbing me clit to cock. No. Clit to clit. She began to shudder as she orgasmed and her sign was my sign. I began to orgasm in response. We withered, rubbed, pushed, kissed, touched, and moaned our way to a dual orgasm. Her and me, me and her, bodies becoming one.

We lay intertwined for some time, kissing, touching, exploring. I giggled, at one point. "What," Sara smiled.

"Honey, for the second time in two days, you made love to me and left me a mess down there," I said, feeling that 'mess' cooling down.

"Well, honey, I suppose turn about is fair play, since women always have a mess down there after sex," she laughed.

She rolled off me and I looked at the clock, it was almost noon. Well, some way to spend a Saturday morning.

"Honey, I have to get up," I told her, "I have to get some things done around here today, I can't stay here all day." Saturday, in early afternoon, I messed around with some things around the house, so I could watch golf later. She sighed, kissed me, but let me climb out of bed.

I pulled down the panties sheepishly a bit embarrassed at what happened. I guess I was still at a '60' for right now. Grabbing shorts, boxers, and a tee, I started to get dressed, with Sara laying on the bed, still in her nightie, watching me. She shook her head, and had a devilish smile on her face. "What," I asked.

"Are you butch?"

"Butch?"

"Yes, are you a bull dyke butch lesbian," she chuckled.

"No," I said, giving her a funny look.

"Well, honey, remember, we are moving to the femininity side, not the stud side. Unless you want to be a butch. Of course, a butch is more masculine than you, at least a '20', so why are you going to wear those flannel boxers?"

"What else would I wear?"

"Why, panties, of course, silly, what else would a woman wear?" She jumped up, rummaged through her dresser, and pulled out a pair of pink satin high cut panties. This was moving too fast for me, "Sara, I don't know."

"John," she said, anger rising, "this is not some game to play just because you get horny, I am serious about this. Look at these panties. Satin, lace, so smooth. You know, this is what separates things. Men never wear lace, never!"

I looked at her panties in a completely new light. They really were lovely, and I told her so. "Is this what you see for me, Sara? Panties? Like this?"

"John, it's what I hope for, but I'm not sure you can handle it. I want it, I really do want this, but I don't want to scare you, or push you away."

"But, it's one thing, in bed, a few minutes ago, I would be embarrassed to wear these, under my shorts," I told her, my face flushing. Despite that, in a way, I did want them.

"Not with me, John, you should NEVER be embarrassed with me. Remember, I want this, this is MY idea."

I took the panties, my fingers slipped over the satin, "but...but what's next, Sara, I mean, all your panties have...have matching...bras. Is a bra next? Skirts? Dresses? I don't know," I said, shaking my head.

She looked at me, "John, let me be honest, yes John, slowly, but yes. A bra. Don't be afraid John, remember I love you and this is for me too. Imagine wearing those panties and the matching bra, wearing them for me, slipping them on to please your wife, feeling so dainty, so vulnerable, and so deliciously feminine...for me!"

"Oh God, Sara," I got weak kneed at her words.

"Put them on, John, please, put on your panties for me." How could I resist? What could I say to this woman I love. I pulled them on, pulled her satin panties up my legs for the second time today.

While I was pulling them up, she pulled the matching pink bra from her drawer and held it up for me to see. "Please Sara, not yet, I'm not ready for that, I can't do that," I gasped.

She set it on the dresser. "You don't have to yet, John," she promised, "but I want you to know it's here, waiting for you."

I was shuddering again as I pulled my shorts up over my...her...no, my panties. "Think of this John, my panties are like my hands are all over your ass and front," she smiled, "and when you wear a bra, all over your chest.

I went about my early afternoon, her words burned into my mind. It really did feel like her hands were all over my ass and my cock. It was driving me wild with desire, a desire she wanted nothing to do with right then.

Later that afternoon, before sitting down to watch golf, I was in the bedroom, and Sara looked at me, smiling, admiring. "What," I asked.

"Nothing, dear, just looking at your ass, that's all," she smiled, her eyes dancing over me. She never talked like this, never so openly did anything like that.

I blushed. "So, how do they feel?"

"My panties," I asked sheepishly?

"Yes," she smiled, "your panties? Do you like them?"

I blushed. "Yes," I said, meekly, my eyes unable to meet hers, moving, coming to rest on the bra which was still on her dresser.

"You want it, don't you," she whispered. "You have been thinking about it all day, John, haven't you?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't answer.

"Take off your shirt, John," she said.

I shook my head. "Take it off, John," she commanded.

She walked to me, holding the bra out, "put your arms out," she instructed. I did as ordered; meekly letting my wife put the soft bra on me. "Oh, John, it's a nice fit, it holds your breasts in place so well," she smiled, touching the bra cups with her fingers. "Look in the mirror, John. They are so sexy. Do you like your new bra and panties," she asked, emphasizing whose they were.

"Yes," I whispered, too terrified to say anything else.

"Good, say it then," she smiled.

"I...I like my new bra and panties," I choked out.

"Sweetie, you make me so happy," she smiled.

She handed me short and a tee shirt to wear over my delicate things as I went about my day. It was an amazing experience, a day in satin, the bra tugging and pushing into me, the panties cupping me.

That night, undressing for bed, I took them all off and threw them into the corner. I always slept naked and felt more so without my...my bra and panties. In bed next to me, her arms around me, she asked, "Did you like that, today?"

I smiled, "Yes, Sara, I did."

I drifted off to sleep, in her arms, happy, safe, and secure.

We woke up the next morning, Sunday, and showered together, laughing, smiling, and being in love. I grew in the shower, and soaped up, kissing her, moved my hips to try to enter her. Sara turned her hips to the side, and said, "John, don't ruin it."

Was sex with me "ruining the mood?" Is that how she thought of it? But isn't that how I wanted her to think of it? Isn't that what my cuckold fantasies were about? Perhaps, but I knew fantasy was not reality.

Back in the bedroom, I went to my dresser and pulled out a pair of boxers. "Feeling butch today," Sara asked.

"What...I...,"

"Did you become butch last night?"

"Well, no Sara, but I just wanted to get dressed and go read the paper." Sunday morning I sat around in boxers and a tee shirt, drinking coffee, reading the paper.

"You can get dressed, John, but in your underwear, not some bull dyke's underwear."

I stood there, holding the boxers in my hand, frozen. "Don't just stand there, John, get dressed so we can go read the paper," she said. She was being vague on purpose, trying to piss me off, I think.

"Sara, I..."

"Your underwear," she said, pointing to the discarded bra and panties I wore yesterday.

"You...you want me to wear your bra and panties again," I asked.

"Your bra and panties," she corrected me.

"Yes, yes, my bra and panties," I said. "But they are dirty," I protested.

"I know, but that is the only set of underwear you own, so you are going to have to wear them again until we can buy you some more," she smiled.

"Buy some for me," I asked?

"Well, of course, silly, a girl needs more than one bra and one pair of panties."

"But Sara, I'm not..."

"Not sure how to shop for your first bra," she smiled, "don't worry, I will go with you after lunch."

Just like that, I was going bra shopping. I put on the bra and panties like she asked, and she slipped on a camisole and tap panty set. Damn she looked good. She saw me eyeing her, "look pretty?"

"Yes," I smiled.

"Me or the lingerie," she smiled.

I blushed. Cause I wasn't sure.

I followed her out of the room, feeling a bit awkward in only my bra and panties, but at some level, feeling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

We were sitting on the couch, sipping coffee, the paper spread between us. I was reading the sports page, she was looking at ads.

"What do you think of this bra," she asked me, showing me a pink satin and lace number in an ad from an upscale dept. store.

I glanced over quickly, annoyed at being interrupted. "You'd look nice in it."

"Not for me," she laughed.

"What do you..." I started. Oh, duh. Of course not for her.

I looked closer at the ad she showed me, at the $40.00 bra. It really was pretty. "It is pretty," I said, staring at it. "Look, John, it has matching panties and a matching garter belt," she said, pointing farther down the page.

"Garter belt," I choked.

"Yes, if we got this one, you could wear stockings with it," she smiled, looking like a happy child.

"Stockings? Christ Sara, what are you talking about? Isn't that going too far," I said, fury rising up in me. "I mean, it's one thing to wear a bra and panties, but come on!"

"What's wrong with stockings," she demanded.

"Those are for women," I said scornfully.

"And what are you," she asked, angry, "a man?"

"I..."

"Don't you see, can't you do what I want to be happy," she said.

"Sara, I thought you wanted me to be..."

"A man? No, John, no, no, no. Nothing we have discussed leads to that.

I DON'T want you to be my man, do you see? I want you to be my woman."

And there it was. The unspoken desire she had for me. A woman. To be her woman. Not her man. And how did that fit with me? Is that what I wanted? I wanted to be a man! But sitting there, in a bra and panties, how could I possibly think that? No I didn't want to be a man, but did I want to be a woman?

"This is what I want you go get, John, a set like this," she held the ad up with the incredibly sexy bra, panty and garter belt set. "Now, normally a woman's first bra is more of a training bra, but usually women need their first bra as a girl. Since you waited until you were an adult woman to get your first bra, I think it's appropriate to buy you a woman's bra," she smiled.

"Sara, you are scaring me," I laughed, half serious and half kidding.

"John, why? I'm sorry, maybe I'm getting ahead of your comfort level, but I just feel so good about this. Going with you to buy your first bra...it's so exciting. It's such a milestone in a woman's life, something you will never forget."

See, she was scaring me.

"You know, there is one problem, John," she said.

"What...you mean beyond buying me a bra," I said sarcastically.

"I know my bra fits you, but we need to get you the right size if we are buying one. I wonder if they can fit you today."

I shuddered, "Sara, are you fucking crazy? You cannot possibly expect me to do that."

She pondered this. "Perhaps you are right. Not yet, anyway. It might...well, I think we can take care of that. Take that bra off," she smiled, walking out of the room.

I took off my bra...I can't believe I said that... 'my bra'...I took off my bra, and stood there, self conscious, only in panties. Sara came back with a sewing tape measure in her hands.

"Good morning, Ma'am, I understand you wish to be fitted today," she smiled, almost giggling, acting like a saleswoman, even wearing a white short robe.

"Um, Sara...I...,"

"Now, don't worry Ma'am, your bra size can change over time, so it's a good idea to be fit now and then...it's nothing to be ashamed about. Here, turn around and lift your arms up."

Sara wrapped the tape measure around my chest, "hmm, about a 38," she said.

"Now, cup size," she mumbled, taking my chest in her hands, "you are an A cup, I think, that may be a problem."

"What?"

"Well, 38A is a difficult size, we rarely carry that in stock. You are probably best to go with the 38...A cup only comes in a 34, and that won't fit. So, go with the 38 and we can see about filling the cup, we have some nice cup fillers. I think a 38C is what you need, Ma'am, and then some C cup bra fillers." She took a piece of paper out of her pocket.

"Here is my card, and I have your size filled in on the back. I'm also writing down a web site that sells cup fillers," she handed me the card.

"Um, thank you," I mumbled, feeling very self conscious about this.

"I'll be over there helping someone else, please let me know if you need help picking out some styles," she said, leaving the room again, leaving me holding the card, where Sara had written down the information.

A minute later, Sara came back in, and looked at my hand. "What's that, sweetie," she asked. "Did you get fit?"

"I...I...here...," I stammered.

She took the card from my hand. "Oh, a 38A...but she has down here to get a 38C with bra fillers. She was right, you can't get a 38A so, well, this is helpful, a web site with something to help." I had the feeling again that Sara was several steps ahead of me.

"Let's see about these fillers." She went to the computer, the one that originally got me into this damn mess, and started the web browser. I blushed as I saw the home page. It was no longer cnn.com. She changed it to cuckoldhusbands.com. She smiled at the surprise on my face. "Still fantasize about that," she asked.

"I..."

"Don't worry, I know you do. Don't think just because we are doing this, properly dressing you, I've forgotten about this."

She called up the web site the saleswoman...well, that she had written down. Up came a page of silicone breasts...lifelike, nipples, in flesh color. "What are those," I asked.

"These are breast forms for women who had a mastectomy that don't want implants. They come in every size and flesh color and look and feel just like a real breast when glued on."

"Breast forms," I asked, shocked.

"Well, you don't want implants, do you," she asked me.

"God no!"

"Silly, then these are what you need to fill out your bra."

"They...they look like real breasts."

"I told you, that's the point, for women who lost a breast, or just want to enhance themselves without implants. They glue on, they are warm to the touch, from skin, bounce, everything, just like real breasts."

"Glue?"

"Yes, they are quite secure, I read, the glue will hold the breast forms on securely for weeks without any loss of hold, even when played with, run with, anything. Without the release solvent, they hold in place very securely."

"Weeks," I asked, my knees weak. She only smiled.

I stood there, watching, while Sara completed the information the site requested for ordering the forms. Fifteen minutes later, we had a UPS tracking number, and scheduled delivery for 10:30 am, the next day, Monday morning, for a pair of C cup breast forms for me.

My feminization continued.

"Get dressed, the mall opens soon," Sara said, "we have to go buy your first bra."

She was practically running to the bedroom herself, to get ready, to go shopping, to help me buy my first bra. I moved a bit slower, as always, not wanting to rush thing, things Sara had every intention of pushing forward with.

Walking into the mall, I felt like every single person was staring at me. Sara did not make me wear her bra to go out, but I still had on her panties. Were the lines visible through my trousers? She held the door for me, smiling, "your first bra," she whispered, "you must be so excited. Are you?"

I gulped. Because I was. As messed up as that can sound, I was excited, because I was going with my wife to buy my first bra.

"Yes," I answered, palms sweaty.

She giggled, "Probably as excited as I'm going to be when I get a real cock inside me again," she laughed, breezing through the door, leaving me standing there, dumb faced, looking around to see if anyone heard her.

"Come on silly," she laughed, going through the second set of doors.

She took my hand when I caught up to her, flashed her smile at me, "does that turn you on or bother you," she asked?

"The bra?"

"No, when I talk about a man fucking me?"

"You know it excites me, Sara," I said, with all seriousness in my voice.

"I know, I just like making you think about your fantasy," she said, wrapping her arm around my waist.

We walked into Victoria's Secret like this, and I felt something inside me as we entered. I had shopped here before, but never like this. With Sara, it was different. I was nervous, butterflies danced. Sara sensed it, my damp palm, "First bra makes all women nervous," she whispered in my ear.

Sara looked around and spotted a table overflowing with bras, of all colors, the same one from the ad in the morning paper. She steered us to the table, at the same time a saleswoman moved to us.

"May I help you," she asked, smiling at us.

"Yes, we were looking at this bra."

"Well, it's a nice piece, a bit high, price wise, but a wonderful piece. It's lightly padded, but in a way to enhance the figure without being overbearing. All day support, but still very sexy, a great evening piece too," she said, giving that woman to woman smile to Sara.

Sara picked up a black one, examined it, the clasps, the straps. "Yes, it's nice, I'm not sure what else we are getting, but I know I want this."

"Are you about a 34C," the sales woman asked, looking through the assortment of bras.

"Yes, but I need it in a 38C, please," Sara smiled.

"Color?"

"White, please," Sara answered.

"And the matching panties?"

"Oh, yes, a size large," Sara said. The woman looked at us, and I wondered if she knew or if I was being paranoid.

"There's a matching garter, too," Sara asked her.

"Yes, ma'am, there is, this way please," she sauntered off to take us to the garter belts.

"Stockings," she asked Sara?

"White? I assume you will need longs?"

Did she say 'he' or 'you'? I could not be sure.

"Yes," Sara answered, taking two pairs of the stockings. "You know, I think I should get this entire set in black too, with two pairs of black stockings, and four pairs of nude stockings."

While she gathered our things, Sara wandered around the store, me in tow. She picked up some things here and there, sometimes two, camisole and tap panty sets, a teddy. We found ourselves in front of a bridal display, and Sara picked up a boned corset. It was stunning. Satin, laces, garter straps. I saw the tag, size 34. "That's not my size," I laughed, hiding my nerves.

"I know, I wasn't thinking of it for you, dear."

"Well, why would you need a bridal thing," I asked.

"Well, white is pure, virginal, innocent. The first time. That's why brides wear white."

"Yes," I said, confused.

"Maybe something to wear for my first time."

"Your first time what?"

"My first time with...," she hesitated, "Oh, nothing," she smiled, adding the corset and a pair of coordinating panties to the pile.

We paid for the purchases and went home. I was scared and excited, unsure of what we were going to do when we got home, but to my surprise, Sara simply put the bags in her closet.

I wanted to ask her, but I did not want to admit, to her or myself, that I actually wanted to try the bra on.

We went throughout the day, I busied myself around the house, feeling weird, missing the bra I had on before, missing my new one, still in panties. At bedtime, Sara did get out a camisole and tap panty set, in black satin for me, but as weird as it sounds, I still wanted the bra.

In bed, curled in Sara's arms, her fingers resting on my flat chest, through the satin of the camisole, I drifted to sleep, thinking only about wearing a bra.

 

To be continued...

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