My new purple panties

She got the sofa to herself, the remote on the arm, and her feet up. Halfway through the titles, she shifted and made a low, unhappy noise.

"God. My asshole's gaping."

I looked up from the sink.

"It hurts. It's just open. Air on it." She wriggled, winced, and pressed her hips down. "Bring me a soft pillow, darling. Bed pillow. The good soft one."

I dried my hands, went up, got it off the spare bed, and brought it down. She lifted her hips. I slid it under her; she settled onto it with a long sigh.

"Much better. Oh, that's much better."

Then she lay back and looked at the ceiling. "You want the rest, don't you? You've been sat at that table all day chewing on it, wanting the rest."

I said nothing. She took it as yes.

"Fine. Since you're so interested."

Her hand went under the robe, unhurried, palm flat.

"It was gone one in the morning when he took me into the living room. My legs had gone by then. He carried me — hooked an arm under my knees, lifted me off the bed like a sack of shopping. I laughed the whole way down the stairs, which is not dignified in a man's arms. He put me down on the rug and built the pillows up."

She rocked her hips into the soft one, slowly.

"Your cushions. All four of them, off the armchairs, stacked, the throw over the top. My hips up on it, my face in the rug. It put me higher than the bed ever did, higher than I wanted. He stood behind me, put his hand flat on my back, and pressed down until my spine went hollow, my ass came up like I was offering it, which I was."

Her breathing had changed already.

"Then he stripped. Properly, no hurry — jacket off, shirt off, then trousers, while I watched over my shoulder. God. God, that cock. You can't see one like that in a photograph and get the scale. Heavy. Pale at the root, going pink towards the head, thick all the way, thicker at the base where it came up out of him. One long vein up the underside, blue, standing proud of the skin like a cord. Broad, blunt head on it, wider than the shaft. It moved when he did, swung, and slapped down against his thigh as he stepped out of his trousers. Thick enough that his own hand couldn't close round it. That's an alpha's cock, darling. There's no other word for it. It doesn't look like it's for sharing. It looks like it's for getting what it wants."

Her fingers had gone quick.

"He used his thumb on me first. Then two fingers, then three, in and out, taking his time. It hurt — it always hurts; the body just objects. I got my fists in the rug. Then he took them out and put the head of that thing against me. So much wider than three fingers, it was a joke. The blunt of it, dry for a second, then slick. He pushed the head in just the first half inch, stopped, and let me feel the size of it."

She shivered. Hard. Shoulders, arms, thighs, all of it.

"Breathe out, he said. I breathed out. He went in."

She stopped, rode the shiver down, and went on lower.

"The ring of it. Stretching, wider than it wants, that burn like a match held to it — nowhere to go, because your hips are up on a pile of cushions, a man behind you with both hands full of your ass holding you open. I screamed into the rug. He said, 'Good girl,' and gave me another inch. I felt the vein drag. You can feel the vein, that's the thing — it works against the inside of you, one side then the other, like it's counting. Another inch. Another scream."

She picked her wine up, drank, and set it down.

"Now, you won't understand this bit, so I'll say it slowly. It hurt. It hurt the whole way in. But I wanted him in there more than I wanted it not to hurt. That's the trade. Two hours of him in my front had opened me up like a door. Sending him off to be gentle somewhere else would have been worse than the burning. So, I pushed back on him. Took the last of it. Three more inches, all at once, the whole of him coming down flat onto me — hips on my ass, balls on me, that heavy cock buried to the root in a place that wasn't built for it. I felt my own pulse round him. I felt how far up he was."

Her hand was quick, small tight circles.

"Then he fucked my asshole. Slow at first. Long, patient strokes, letting the sphincter learn him. It does learn — that's what nobody tells you. Ten, twelve pushes in, it gives up arguing, just takes it, over and over, every one going right up through you. You feel it in your stomach. You feel it in your throat. He got a fist in my hair, pulled my head up off the rug, and made me say how it was. I said it. Harder. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop. He gave me harder. The ring of my sphincter burning like a coal. I came anyway, twice, snot on the rug, tears going sideways off my nose."

Her knees came together, then apart. The robe was off one shoulder.

"Then he finished in there."

Her voice went thin.

"God. That's the bit. That's the bit I keep thinking about with the telly on. He went stiff all through, shoved up, and held — I felt the first one go. Hot. Right up inside, deep, somewhere a cock isn't meant to reach. Warm, darling. It was warm. It spread. He kept pumping; it kept coming, filled me up like a cup, and had nowhere to go, so it stayed. In my bowels. Sitting in me. Nine, ten pulses. He was groaning over the top of me, that open, broken groan. All I could do was lie there with my ass in the air full of it, shaking."

Her heel drummed the seat edge twice. She came with her eyes shut, quiet, and jaw tight, then her hand slowed and stopped, and she let it drain out of her.

"Then he pulled out and put his thumb straight in to keep it there. Don't you lose any of that. So I lay on your pillows with a man's thumb up my arsehole, holding his spunk in me. I thought — right. That's what it's meant to be."

She reached for the wine, drank, and wiped her mouth.

"Now go get my slip, the purple one. Open crotch." A pause. "It's too big for me; I want it returned."

Up the stairs.

It was over the chair in the spare room. Purple, thin, soft brushed jersey, warm in the hand. I pressed it to my cheek before I'd decided to. It smelled of her — the soap she uses, warm skin, something under it.

I held it out and checked it properly. The slit ran the whole way through, from front to back, open on both sides. Nothing to hold anything in. You'd put it on and just be open.

I wondered what it would feel like.

Downstairs, she knew at once. Her eyes came off the telly and onto my face, narrow.

"Did you smell this?"

"Me? No."

"Did you sniff my underwear?"

Heat up my neck and my ears. She watched it happen, mouth curving.

"You did. You did smell it, didn't you."

"I —"

"You perv." Full volume, delighted. "I should punish you. Touching my stuff. Sniffing my stuff."

Silence, barring the telly.

"Right," she said. "Put it on."

"What?"

"Yes. Put it on now."

I looked at it in my hands. Then at her.

"NOW."

I winced, unbuttoned, dragged my trousers down, and wanted to put it on over my own underwear.

"No no no, mister, properly."

I swallowed. Got the underwear off. Stepped into the slip. The fabric came up my legs like warm water, my penis coming up with it. I pulled the waistband flat over my hips. My balls dropped through the open front and hung out in the room.

"Perfect."

She got off the sofa, stood in front of me with her hands on her hips, and looked at me a long while without speaking. Long enough that I wanted to cover myself. Long enough that I didn't dare.

"Hands at your sides."

I put them at my sides.

"Turn round."

I turned. She walked a slow circle. Behind me, she put a finger under the back of the slip, pulled it up into the crease of my arsehole, and let it snap back.

"Look at that. Cut for a woman. There's nothing in it."

"Anna —"

"Did I say you could talk?"

"No."

"Then don't."

She came back round the front and slapped my balls casually with the backs of two fingers. I made a noise.

"There. That's the noise. That's the noise I want out of you from now on." She did it again. "Bend over the arm of the sofa."

I bent over it, hands on the cushion. The slip rode up my back, leaving me hanging. She put her palm flat on one cheek, spread me, and I felt the air on everything.

"God, look at it. Not even hard from a woman, are you? Hard from being told." A flat slap landed on my ass, loud. "Say what you are."

I could feel my ears going.

"Say it."

"I'm a sissy cuck."

"Again. Louder, you're mumbling." And slapped me harder.

"I'm a sissy cuck."

She laughed and said, 'Let me go.' "Up. Go stand at the mirror."

The hall mirror. I stood in front of it in the purple slip, balls out, face red, penis standing up inside the slip. She came, put her chin on my shoulder, and both of us were in the frame.

"Look at yourself. That's what you look like now. Ten of these, in purple, arriving Saturday. One every day. One to bed. One to the shops." She flicked my ear. "When the door goes, you answer it."

"To the postman?"

"To anyone."

...

She kept me in it all evening. Washing up in it, wiping surfaces in it, taking the bin out to the side gate in it. Every time she passed, she put a hand out and slapped my balls, never hard enough to be the point, always hard enough to keep me thinking about it. At half past ten she sent me up to run her a bath, sat in it while I knelt on the mat, and then made me dry her legs when she got out.

Wednesday went fast, the way days do with too much in them.

Steak out of the freezer by nine. The marital bed was stripped, the good cream sheets on, and ironed. The whole house, from top to bottom, has bathrooms, a bin, and a front step. All of it in the slip, which I stopped noticing after an hour, then started liking. The way it moved. The way there was nothing between my legs. Every time I crouched or reached up; things swung.

At eleven the doorbell went. I froze halfway up the stairs with a bin bag in my hand.

"Door," she called from the kitchen.

Parcel. A lad in a company fleece with a scanner, who looked at my face, then down, then up again.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

"Signature." He held the machine out, eyes dropping again while I scribbled. "Cheers, mate." and he laughed.

She was in the hall behind me when I turned round, arms folded.

"See. Nobody died."

...

By half five she was in something very sexy, black with straps, stockings, and hair down. At six, tyres on the gravel.

"Go and say hello to Mike." Giggling. Actually giggling.

I went out. The porch boards were cold.

"Hi, Mike."

He looked at me. Looked down. Looked at me again, laughed — big, easy, not unkind.

"What's this, then?"

"Don't ask him," Anna said, coming out behind me in the black. "He'll get it wrong. Hands at your sides."

I put them at my sides.

"He wears them now," she said. "Every day. All of it." She put her hand flat on my stomach, pushed until my back was against the porch post, hooked a finger into the open front of the slip, and pulled it wide. My balls came out into the cold in front of him. "That's the arrangement. He's in undies; I'm his superior. Say hello properly, husband."

"Hello, Mike," I said.

"Hello, mate." He was grinning, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels.

"Slap them," she said.

Mike raised his eyebrows. She nodded. He stepped in and slapped up into my balls with an open hand, harder than she ever had. I folded round it with a sound like a gate.

"Christ," he said. "That's satisfying."

"Please, do it again."

He did. I got my breath back against the post.

"Now tell him what you are, nicely." Anna said.

"I'm a sissy cuck," I said to the boards.

"Louder."

"I'm a sissy cuck."

"There." She patted my cheek. "Wasn't hard, was it."

She got her phone out. "Stand still, both of you." One of Mike with his arm round my shoulders, his hand holding the slip open. Then she made me turn and bend over the railing and took three more. I heard the shutter go each time and knew exactly what was on the screen.

"Right," she said, putting the phone away. "Where's his penis, Mike?"

Mike squinted down at me, playing it dead straight. "In there."

"Too small to see."

They both laughed. She turned into him and kissed him — long, open, both hands in his jacket, one knee coming up round his hip — his palm up under the back of her skirt by the end of it. She came off him with her lips wet.

"Are you going to knock me up, Mike?"

"Yes."

"Please, could you slap my husband again?"

He did. Properly. I saw it coming. It still took the top off my head.

"Go make dinner," she yelled.

...

The grill was hot. Two steaks, salt, pepper, nothing clever. Fries in the oven. I stood over the pan in the purple slip with my eyes watering, balls aching. Behind me in the front room Mike said something low; she laughed at it.

Then a strap hit the hall floor, she moaned, and I turned the steaks.

...

I carried the plates through at ten past. She was over the arm of the sofa, skirt up, stockings on, Mike behind her in his jacket, one hand flat between her shoulder blades. She lifted her head off the cushion.

"Put it down. Don't wait; it'll keep warm."

"It'll go cold."

"Then you keep it warm for us. Just like my cunt for Mike." She put her forehead back down. "Fetch another pillow. This one's gone flat."

I set the plates on the table, went up the stairs two at a time, and came back with the soft one under my arm, as I heard my wife calling me.

“Darling, could you help Mike align his cock for me?”

To be continued.