Lunch Is Served, Lacy

One Year Ago - Tuesday, 10:27 PM

"So explain it to me again."

His wife, painfully attractive in her evening sleepwear, was sitting on the bed. One of her delicate feet curled beneath one of her mostly exposed thighs. Her pajamas were not overly sexy, nor were they meant to be. She was just incredibly well built beneath the overly big, pink, sleep shirt. It was longer than skirts she sometimes wore, yet the legs sticking out of them were heavenly.

He sighed.

Talking about his feminization fantasies to her was often tedious and embarrassing. It was hard to explain even at the best of times and these conversations always led to them both being frustrated at each other. Not a great way to end any evening... especially when just the sight of her was causing him to grow amorous.

Then again, they were not going to fool around regardless. She already explained that in no uncertain terms earlier in the evening. Work had been arduous for her and all she wanted was some to curl up with a good book and snuggle beside him.

Not that this was an unpleasant alternative.

With no prospect of love-making in sight, he tried to explain the whole thing once again.

"I like the idea of being helpless."

"And dressing as a girl makes you feel helpless?"

"It helps the fantasy, yes."

She stared at him quizzically. This was an old argument.

"Look... I don't think girls are helpless. You know that! I adore women and worship you. Is there really any doubt that you are completely in charge of this relationship? If anyone is helpless here, it's me. I just... being a submissive girl is ... I don't know..."

"No, I think I actually get it, babe."

She smiled and bit her lower lip in an absolutely adorable way.

"I really do. We have been around this subject a zillion times since you first mentioned it. I guess I'm just trying to figure out my role in it."

"What do you mean?" His heart was beating faster now. Did she really want to play out this fantasy with him? Actually dress up in front of her and have her control him?

The idea made him light headed.

"I mean... what do I get out of it? You prance around like a sissy and get your rocks off by doing it. But what do I get?"

His face flushed uncontrollably in embarrassment even as arousal built.

Sissy.

She had just called him a sissy.

Soooo embarrassing. Yet....

To hide the erection growing in his pants he made his way to the bathroom, talking over his shoulder.

"I don't know... what do you want?"

It dawned on him, as he put the toothbrush to his mouth, that he had never asked that of his wife before. He had shared almost every sexual fantasy he had ever imagined with her, including the big, behemoth one in the room right now. She on the other hand...

...she never told me even a single one...

"What do I want?" she laughed. "Oh darling... you do not want to go there."

Brushing his teeth he frowned into the mirror, trying to work out her words.

What does that mean?

"I guess I can sort of see the fun in this little dress up fantasy of yours. Possibly."

He caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror. It burned red as thoughts of himself being her submissive, sissy slave flooded his brain.

She is going to dress me up.

He could hear it in her voice.

He was so instantly hard that his jeans were causing him pain. He unbuttoned them to alleviate the discomfort.

He rushed to spit out the toothpaste so he could ask the question.

"Do you mean that?" he asked too excited to even think about rinsing. He could not help himself. He did not want to get his hopes this high only to have them never spoken of again.

"On the towel rack in there..."

His eyes glanced over even as she said the word. He knew what was there. They had been there since she had washed them last night, leaving them there to dry. The word alone made his painfully hard cock throb.

Panties.

Stretchy black nylon panties.

His heart skipped a beat.

"Why don't you put those on before you come to bed?"

It was only a suggestion. He could hear it in her voice. She was testing him...

...testing the 'game'...

Would he do it?

Would he actually wear her clothes if she asked?

There was only one answer.

She did not know that. He could tell by her voice.

Smiling, he stripped out of his pants, tugged his loose fitting boxers down and moved to the towel rack. Just walking, emphasized how painfully erect he was.

He had worn panties before, secretly trying them on.

...but being asked to do it...

...being allowed...

...being commanded...

Just sliding them up his legs made him weak-kneed.

They did not have sex that night. She had said they would not and she was always true to her word. She did require the use of his tongue, however. As she curled up in post-orgasm bliss and gently dozed off to sleep, he began to relieve himself. The panties made it so easy to instantly approach climax.

"Don't do that, babe."

Her voice was soft and very sleepy.

"Not while wearing my things."

Mmmph.

He was so close...

And yet...

He did not want to ruin this. He did not want her to rethink the game she had only just started to play with him.

He did not sleep much that night. Each move was erotic torture. He stayed hard as a rock for most of the night. Each time it would begin to subside, a move or a thought would cause it to pop back up, harder than ever.

He slept very little and each and every time he woke up, it was in an erotic hell of stretchy nylon.

Today - Sunday, 3:37 PM

Mark thumped the back of his head against the door. How had he gotten himself into this situation?

The shoes were absolutely killing him now. His back slid down the door and he slumped to the ground trying to yank the heels off. The boots were laced up solid around his ankles and strapped tight. The two, tiny padlocks dangled mercilessly against the side, atop a wide strap that covered the ties. He yanked as hard as he could, but knew it was no good.

I'm trapped like this. Trapped in this outfit, in my own house, with some strange man.

Sitting in this outfit was so much worse than standing. It made his feet hurt less, but the humiliation was worse. The petticoats poofed up, revealing his exposed crotch. His smooth thighs clamped together to hide it, but this only agitated his sensitivity down there. The nylon stockings rubbing together were now constricting as well. They radiated heat and made him squirm in discomfort. The garter straps stretched tight across his legs and ass cheeks, only served to remind him of his bondage.

Worst of all was the corset!

Oh GOD it is tight!

Tricia had yanked and pulled more and more and more and more, when he had first put it on today.

Sitting like this, made him close to passing out. The two frantic pulls he had done on the boots had forced him to hold his breath. Now he was having to sit up straight, his back against the door, even to take small gasps of air.

Panic began to overtake him. He was not entirely certain he could get back to his feet from this position. The corset made simple bending motions tough at best. Getting up onto the stilts he had strapped to his feet was a very daunting proposition. He felt so helpless. This was not a sexy, arousing kind of helpless. This was the scary, panic-attack kind.

He took as deep a breath as the corset allowed and leaned forward again, pulling frantically one last time at the boots.

Oh please god, let them come off... let me out...

...let me OUT!

Tears were coming down his cheeks now.

This had to end.

He stumbled back downstairs.

It took him a full five minutes to get back to his feet and to catch his breath.

He was genuinely petrified now. Should he stumble and fall down the stairs, he could be in serious trouble. A wrong turn could cause him to be on the ground, gasping for breath and unable to even get back up.

The tears were still coming down, a little faster now as he made his way to the guest bathroom. It made him feel even worse that he was crying and couldn't stop. Tiny sobs kept causing his corset-enhanced bosom to heave like the main character from one of Tricia's romance books.

...crying just like a little girl...

Maybe he could hide in the bathroom.

Even as the thought formed, he knew it was no good. Tricia would find him there instantly. Unlocking the bathroom door was no hard trick. A push of a paper clip into the little hole in the doorknob would pop it right open.

He went into the tiny room anyway and carefully blotted the tears from his eyes. Looking in the mirror was horrifying. His eyes were more than a little smudged now, no doubt from the crying.

Having my face ground in the sofa probably did not help either.

The rest of his makeup was relatively unmarred, though. The raccoon eyes his tears had caused did not even look half bad, in a kind of grungy, model look. The smudged, teary eyes only made him look more helpless.

He hated that he still looked this sexy.

Yet...

...removing the makeup...

...removing the sexiness...

...would make me look more like a man in a fetish French maid uniform.

He definitely did not want that.

Why is Tricia doing this?

He minced his way to the kitchen. As much as it annoyed him, swinging his hips made it easier to move in the painful heels. As he clicked down the hall, the petticoats swished against his equipment. What had been arousing only a little while ago, now irritated his over-sensitive cock. He wished now, that he had not climaxed. At least then, he would have had the erotic stimulation to take his mind off the humiliation.

...and if I hadn't cum, I never would have removed my panties. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

A fresh wave of humiliation overtook him.

MY panties.

With his desire spent, all he could think about was the situation he found himself in. As he cooked he kept shifting from heel to heel, trying desperately to relieve the ache from one foot then the other. Each stage of the meal only increased the dread in his chest. Each step brought him one step closer to being seen again.

Being seen by him...

Mark shivered at the Lacy thought in his head. It had just a touch of the Bimbo-Slut in it. Normally, she would not come back for hours after an orgasm. Yet, this was not an ordinary day.

Despite the heat of the kitchen, he felt cold. The steam coming up as he drained the pasta did little to help.

Standing at the closed door of the study felt surreal. He was afraid to enter a room in his own house. The fear inside of him had multiple levels. There was the fear of being seen in his sissy, maid outfit. That was at the top of the list. There was also a whole set of fears that his rampant imagination had set loose. Just as soon as he had rounded the hall and seen the door to the den was closed even more horrors flooded his imagination.

Is Tricia cheating on me?

Was he being cuckolded this very moment behind a door in his own house. So many of the fantasy stories he read online had that as a plot point. It was not his fantasy. He did not want to share her with anyone.

What if she is?

What could he even do about it, dressed as he was?

A delicate, feminine hand reached out and knocked softly on the door.

For a second, the fear monster inside of him swelled to gigantic proportions and then...

"Yes, Lacy?"

His wife's voice.

"Lunch is ready." Lacy murmured softly, knowing even as she said it, that it was not going to be enough to satisfy her. The humiliation was overwhelming, like a leaf in flood water.

"Pardon me? Come in. We can't hear you."

Oh god. Why was she doing this?

Cautiously, he opened the door and slid just enough of himself into the room to be seen.

"I said lunch is ready."

The two were sitting exactly as they were when he left them, him in the chair and her lounging on the chair back beside him. They both looked at him, expectantly.

"Wonderful," Tricia said, getting to her feet,

"We'll take ours in the dining room and why don't you help yourself to a portion out on the patio."

She was moving fast, already pushing past him out into the hall and towards the dining room.

On the patio? Was she...

"It smells wonderful, Lacy. I hear you're quite the cook."

Oh god! He was coming towards her!

She squeaked, and stepped back so as not to make contact with him as he moved through the door. Mark had not realized just how large Mr. Goodwin truly was. He towered over Mark, despite the five-inch heels. This did nothing but strengthen the helplessness he was currently feeling.

"We'll take another couple of glasses of wine too, babe."

Without warning, there was a smart smack on his backside. Mark was at a complete and total loss.

The bastard just grabbed my ass...

...UNDER the petticoats!

Mark just stared after them both as they disappeared into the dining room. The world had gone mad.

Does he know I'm not wearing panties?

Does he know he just touched my bare ass?

Does he know that I'm a guy?

His ass was still warm from the touch. Mark knew it had to be his imagination, but it was almost like he could feel the hand-print burning into him.

A guy just groped my bare ass.

He shivered, looking down the hall to the dining room. He could not go in there. Tears were beginning to form again, so he bit his lip forcing them away.

I will NOT cry.

It was easier said than done. He blinked back his tears, his hands unconsciously fluttering at his eyes trying to help hold them back.

I have to go in there.

If I don't...

What would Tricia do?

He did not want to think about it. She was acting scary-crazy. Everything that normally seemed safe and sound was now on its end. Mark felt like he was clinging to anything and everything all at once.

...anything to stay above water...

He would do what she asked. That was the safest path. After all, Tricia was his wife. He trusted her.

...mostly...

He was about to follow them, when relief suddenly flooded into him.

They are out of the den!

Frantically, he scrambled behind the sofa.

NOTHING?!

My panties!

Both the lacy ones and the gaff were nowhere in sight.

Gone!

Only the hand towel remained on the floor. He wanted to drop to his knees. He wanted to scramble around under the couch looking for them. He even started to kneel.

The constriction of the corset made him reconsider.

Mark wanted to scream. He pulled at the bottom of the corset through the maid uniform, trying to loosen it even just a little. It did not budge an inch. If anything, pulling on it seemed to make it feel tighter. His tiny bosom, the one forced up by the overly-tight corset, was pooling out of the low cut top of the maid uniform. It heaved with exertion and fear. He gasped for air, his senses exploding with his own strawberry scent.

He had never felt more exposed, scared and humiliated in his whole life.

He caught a glimpse of the maid in the mirror on the mantle. A sexy, frightened girl, breathing heavily looked back at him with huge, frightened eyes. She offered such an amazingly sexual image that he had to look away.

Somewhere, buried deep inside the frightened mind of Mark, the Bimbo-Slut began to stir.