Alamo Preacher

No comments in over a month - what am I doing wrong?
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, here.

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I was still sobbing a little as I got ready for bed. Heather had put me in my place forcefully and mercilessly. I was a wimp. A cuckolded sissy wimp. How could I enjoy - no, luxuriate in - such a painful shaming experience?

I didn’t know how, only that I did. In fact, as I got ready for bed, the only real regret I had was that Heather wouldn’t see and be able to comment on my girly nightdress. I pulled it out of the drawer in what was now my room. It was the softest, swishiest babydoll nightdress I had been able to find. Pink satin with a lace bodice and darts around the edge, it had white lace bows all over the straps and hem. I had recenly got a pair of pink opaque pantyhose to wear with it and I pulled them on as I prepared for bed. The soft babydoll fell gently over my head and my chest as I draped it over me. I’d washed it with a perfumed conditioner and it smelled and felt divine.

The urge to masturbate was almost overpowering. Almost. I couldn’t even think of disobeying Heather now, not after having been put over her knee just so she could enjoy seeing me cry.

I wondered if I could ask her to put me in a chastity device. It would certainly make it easier not to masturbate.

Oh god! I missed Heather already. My little bed was so lonely and empty. How much worse would it be when I knew she was sharing what used to be our bed with another man? But oh god, the thought of sucking spunk from her crotch was unspeakably arousing. And in any case, it wasn’t like I had a choice in how my life turned out now anyway.

Heather had made everything very clear. She loved me, but she didn’t desire me sexually - she never had. I was to obey her in everything. She would help me by breaking my spirit, destroying my pride. This would help me to accept my subservient role. She would fuck any man she wanted, and my role was to serve her and please her in any way I could.

What was there to regret? Spelled out like that, my past life seemed like a sham, a waste of time.

How many times during our past life had I longed wear her panties, for her to hint that she was attracted to other men? I had spelled out my fantasies in stories and imagined what they would be like, played out in real life. Now, here it was, reality. I’d seen Heather dress in lingerie to please another man. Seen her on her back, her pussy rammed full of another man’s cock. Heard her moans and whimpers of satisfaction, lust. Heard her spell out how she’d never been satisfied by me. Seen her look of contempt at my sissy fetishes.

My cock was hard but not uncomfortable inside the pink opaques. The delicious feel of the pink satin babydoll enveloped me. I fell asleep, savouring it’s soft embrace.

I woke early and got ready quickly. I had heeded Heather’s comments the previous day and put aside plain cotton panties, flat shoes and a sensible white blouse and knee-length black skirt. Black pantyhose completed the outfit, and, while I’d have liked to wear something a little sexier, the pantyhose and skirt were enough.

I got breakfast ready, and while I was wondering whether to wake Heather she stalked into the kitchen in her robe.

She sat to eat without a word, and when I moved to pour her coffee she waved me away. Heather had never been a morning person, and I took the hint and left her alone. I went upstairs and busied myself tidying her room. I drew her a bath and laid out fresh towels. When I heard her returning upstairs I retreated into my own room until she was safely in the bath and then hurried back downstairs to clean away her breakfast things.

I was nearly finished when the phone rang. It was unlikely to be for me. I heard it ring again. Heather was in the bath. I skittered over to the phone and picked it up.

"Hello?"

It was a man, a voice I didn’t recognise.

"Oh, hi. I was looking for Heather. Is she there?"

My heart was pounding. This could be anybody, but my mind immediately imagined that this must be some lover of Heathers, impossible though that would be.

"I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone now, could I take a message?" I said, trying to keep my voice even.

"Sure." Said the confident voice. "Tell her Brad called, and I got her message, and that I’ll see her tonight. Got that? Cary is it?"

"Yeah. Yes it is. I got it." I replied, ice suddenly flooding my veins.

"I thought so." Said Brad. "We’ve never met, but I knew Heather when she was in college."

There was a long pause. I had to fill it.

"Oh, right." I said.

"Yeah." Said Brad evenly, letting more silence fill the space around our words.

"Right, so I’ll pass on the message." I said, trying to sound calm and unconcerend.

"I know you will." He said, and immediately hung up the phone, leaving me suddenly listening to the dial tone.

I stood there for a moment, my brain stunned into stillness. I could hear Heather moving around upstairs. I wondered if I should help her, or leave her be and go back to the kitchen. Brad must be a former boyfriend, I thought. Maybe Heather had emailed him last night. Maybe she’d told him she was cuckolding me. Where were they going to meet I wondered.

"Cary! Get up here now!"

Heather was shouting from the top of the stairs. With a start I realised she’d called me several times, while I had stood dazed by the telphone.

I hurried upstairs, my skirt flapping on my thighs.

"I was waiting!" She said when I reached the bedroom. She was in a robe, still wet. I could tell she was trying not to let her anger show.

"I’m sorry." I stuttered. "I was, eh, miles away."

"Not good enough." She hissed. "Was the call for me?"

"Yes." I said.

"What you should do, is to see if wanted to take it myself, and then either bring me the phone or take a message. You don’t get to decide who I speak to, do you? Are you in charge here? Are you?"

"No." I squeeked.

"But you think you can decide who gets to speak to me, it seems."

"No. No. I’m sorry."

"No. And then. Instead of coming up here with the message, and to help me get dressed, you just stand there like a moron leaving me calling you!"

"I’m sorry!"

"I’ll make you sorry." She hissed. "Go and get my hairbrush."

Trembling, I went and fetched the flat silver-backed hairbrush from the dresser and nervously handed it to her.

"On the bed." She ordered, curtly. "And pull up your skirt."

I bent over the bed, acutely aware of my ass hanging over the edge. I reached behind and flipped up my skirt to receive my punishment.

"Count them." She ordered, and before I had time to think I heard the swish and then felt the pain explode across my left buttock.

It was so painful it drove all thought out of my head, and before I could unclench my teeth I heard the awful sound again and a second terrible swat hit my other cheek.

"Count!" ordered Heather as she whapped me again. It was so much worse than her hand.

"Nggh. Three!" I gasped.

"No. That’s one. You weren’t counting." She said and whacked me again.

"Nghaaah. One" I quickly gasped, having the presence of mind not to make the same mistake twice. How high would she go? The pain was terrible.

The smacking noise of the brush was ghastly, but the swish it made was worse, heralding the terrible pain to come.

By the time I gasped out "Six" I knew I would not be able to sit down that day.

"How many more do you need?" She asked, pausing for a moment.

My brain whirled. How many? None! But I knew that wouldn’t do.

"F-four?" I stammered, hardly able to believe I was asking more more.

Without pause she hit me again.

"Seven!" I shrieked, suddenly realising that this sounded like I was asking for even more.

"Eight, Nine, Ten." I counted.

"And one more for good measure." Gasped Heather and gave me a final, hardest smack with the hairbrush on my upper thigh that made me jump on the bed.

As I struggled to rise, Heather sat and let her robe fall open to reveal her nakedness beneath.

"Look away." She ordered. "Look only at my feet.

I stood, my head bowed.

"Now, the message." She said.

"It was Brad. He got your message. He said he’d see you later tonight."

"Right. Anything else?"

"No. That was it, except he said that knew you in college."

"Yeah. Do you know who Brad is?"

"No." I said, my voice gone very quiet. My ass felt like it was on fire, the pain spreading down my legs, into my thighs.

"He’s Brad DiTorrino. Heard of him?"

"I eh, maybe, is he a football player?"

"Well done. You’re not much into sports, are you Cary, but even you have heard of him.

Yes, he’s a star player. We dated in college. In a way, I gave him up for you. How’s that for a thought? You want to know what I told him in my message?"

The word wouldn’t come out. She would know I was lying. I couldn’t say it.

"Yes."

I could almost hear her smile. My eyes were fixed on her feet, flexing and stroking the bedroom carpet.

"Of course you do. I told him Cary, that I’d found out my husband has fantasies about me being with another man, and would he like to meet up with me?"

"Oh Jesus."

"Yes. Does that excite you Cary? Do you want to watch another man fuck your wife? Again?"

I was so twisted and desperate again. When I’d got her first email suggesting this I’d gone through the same agonies. Now, so immediate, with Heather asking me directly, it was so intense, so powerful.

Briefly, I tried to imagine what would happen if I said no. I couldn’t. Like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to what hurt me.

"Yes."

"Of course you do. You’re a cum-sucking faggot sissyy loser. But just in case you suddenly get ideas that you might want to protest or disobey me in any way, just remember, Brad is a fucking beast. He has received 6 penalties for violent behaviour on and off the pitch. Get out of line and he’ll smack you around, and I’ll let him. You bear that in mind, right cuckold?"

"Yes Heather."

"I’m planning for Brad to be my regular boyfriend. He’s a fucking stud, and that’s just what I need. He’ll think it’s cool to fuck a married woman, and he’ll think it’s hilarious that you won’t do anything about it, not that you can anyway. So do what we say when he’s here right?"

"Yes Heather."

"Pull down your tights and panties and go stand in the corner. I want to see your ass while I dress."

And so I stood in the corner, facing the wall, my skirt pulled up and my ass on show while Heather dressed in the smart, glamorous dress suit I’d laid out for her.

When she was done, she let me get back to my duties. Soon, she was ready to go to work.

"Honey, come here." She called from the hallway.

Quickly, but apprehensively I skittered to her.

"Now, I know you’re hurting, but I don’t want you getting morose and depressed here." She said kindly.

She opened her jacket, revealing her tight lambswool top. Underneath, the outline of her satin and lace bra was just visible against the flesh of her generous breasts.

She put her arms around me, pulled my face between the soft mounds.

"Mommy loves you baby." She said softly. "She only wants you to be happy. You understand?"

"Yes." I whsipered, more to her breast than to her.

"But Mommy needs cock." She whispered fiercely.

"I know." I said.

"If you’re a good boy, Mommy will let you watch Brad fuck her tonight"

"Thank you. I love you Heather."

"I know. I love you too Cary." She said and she she held me close to her for a long moment, and then she was gone, out the door to work, leaving only her sweet scent behind her.

I breathed out, realising how tense and worked-up Heather’s presence made me. I took stock. My wife was planning a date with another man. She was going out to work while I was left to look after the house and serve her and her boyfriend. But, she still loved me, and I was free to wear what I liked. Or, at least what Heather deemed was appropriate. Ruefully, I admitted to myself, that, of all the rules she had imposed, that was the one that chafed the most. Yes, my pantyhose and panties and skirt felt lovely, but really, I wanted to wear sexier clothes.

Still, my outfit made me very happy. And, I was forced to admit, the thought of Heather getting herself royally satisfied by her boyfriend was very exciting, and also made me happy in an odd kind of way. I thought again, was I happy? If I could have done, would I go back to the way our lives had been before? No. I wouldn’t have. Like Heather had said, I was a cuckold sissy, and I liked it. More, I loved it. I wouldn’t have my life any other way.

But she’d said more, of course. She’d said I was a sissy faggot. Was I? No. I pushed that thought away. I didn’t really want that. Not really.

I had a lot to do. The breakfast things needed to be cleared away, the beds made, there was washing to be done. I would get on with all of these, and then have some lunch. I smoothed out my skirt, and got to it, the feel of my pantyhose keeping me comforted and secure while I worked.

By lunchtime I had done all that I could. I made myself a little sandwich and ate it alone at the kitchen table. I had a problem. I needed to go out to get groceries and do some more errands. Of course, I could change into men’s clothes and go out, but I really didn’t want to do that. I cleared my plate away and went upstairs to Heather’s bedroom. I sat at her vanity and looked at myself. I knew I could do it. I had made myself up many times before, but eyebrows were the problem. I’d never had the guts to pluck or shave them before, it was instantly noticeable. I picked up the tweezers, and began to pluck.

An hour later, I appraised myself coolly. I wished I had a wig. Maybe I could get one? No. I just needed a hairband. Heather had one somewhere, she hadn’t worn it in years. I searched until I found it. Yes, it helped soften my face and take attention off my male hair length. My eyebrows were shaped, my face made-up my lids shaded. I’d swapped my blouse for a rollneck lambswool sweater and added clip-on earings. I could pass. What’s more I felt terrific. I was aware that none of this had been sanctioned by Heather, but I wasn’t thinking about that right now. In a way, I sort-of reasoned, she had conttol over my male life. As a woman, I had some independence. I was awae that that argument wouldn’t stand up to any scrutiny, but for the moment, it was good enough to give me the confidence to get downstairs, snatch up the car keys and walk out the front door.

I grinned to myself, delightedly as I turned into the street, not much caring if a neighbour saw me. Driving as a woman felt wonderful. I found myself laughing at nothing as I sat in traffic. I arrived at the supermarket in a daze. I smoothed my skirts as I stepped out the car. It felt great. I strolled into the shop, trying not to grin all over my face. I picked up my groceries and made my way to the checkout. The shop wasn’t busy but there were a few people at the tills. Was i getting second glances? Not that I could tell. The assistant was young, pretty, bored. She rang up my groceries without a thought and told me the amount with a yawn. To her, I was just another middle-adged housewife, picking up her shopping. I was so pleased with myself I took a detour to Pennys and picked up some pantyhose. I got some panties too, and then noticed the shoe section. I got a basket.

Only the bulk of my shopping made me stop. and head for the tills, I couldn’t carry any more without dropping things. I had blouses, some skirts and a couple of plain dresses that I hadn’t even tried on as well as the panties, hose and shoes.

"Wow. You’re buying a lot of clothes." said the cashier, rather pointlessly. I didn’t care.

"Yes. Yes I am." I agreed, and I grinned at her. She just smiled back, oblivious.

I raced home, trying to keep my emotions in check. I was experiencing a wonderful rush, quite unlike anything I’d ever felt before. Everything before had been playing. This was real. Just like I’d only played with the idea of sumission and cuckoldry before, but when Steve’s cock had sunk into my wife’s pussy, it was finally real. Now, I knew, before I’d just been playing dress up, now I was really dressing as a woman. And I wanted it, always.

Back home, I stowed my purchases in my room and checked my appearance. Yes, I hadn’t been just kidding myself, I could pass, but it could be so much better.

Now though, I needed to get on with things. I put away the groceries and began preparing the meal. Heather hadn’t said, but I guessed she wasn’t intending for me to eat with her and Brad.

I felt a twinge at that. I felt so happy with myself after my afternoon shopping that I wanted to share it with Heather. The thought that she was intending to spend her evening with this other man made me sad, jealous. Still, I knew she had needs. ‘Mommy needs cock.’ She’d said, even as she’d held me to her bosom that morning. And somehow, the thought of her getting cock, having a romantic evening with an exciting man, having the thrill of being fucked by an handsome, virile boyfriend made me happy and excited too. I hoped she would enjoy it, that it would go well. So, I prepared the meal as well as I could. I laid a romantic table for them, chilled some wine. Put some suitable CDs by the stereo and went upstairs to turn back the sheets on her bed.

After I was done, as an afterthought, I pulled some petals from the stand of flowers I’d laid on the hall table and scattered them on the sheets. Doing that felt so bittersweet, I almost choked up. She was my wife, but this was all I could do for her. The romance, the physical intimacy, the sex would be with another man. Not me. He would be the one to kiss her, to undress her. He was the one she would smile at. Brad would make her eyes sparkle, then close in passion. It was his cock that would press against the folds of her pussy, would part her lips, shove inside her, make her gasp in yielding, feminine pleasure. Then she would spread her legs around him, press her heels into his back, pull him into herself, gasp his name and hug him close to her. Brad would fuck my wife. I imagined them together, him - silent, powerful - her, perspiring, needy, whimpering, her perfect rear bouncing rhythmically off and into the mattress again and again, as he fucked her, her knuckles knocking on the headboard, as her arms waved helplessly above head, his fingers kneading her nipple, squeezing hard, painful, cruel, her squeel of delight, encouragement. Then, the bitten, muttered, pleading profanities as his orgasm built, her obesiant, submissive encouragement to him to finally release into her, as gratfeul thanks for the base, sexual pleasure he had given her. The offering of her face, her breasts, her belly as fitting sites for his seed. His triumpant climax, his use of my wife as his whore, his slut, her grateful happy acceptance of his cock, spasming, jetting his thick spunk onto her pretty, smiling, appreciative face, coating her forehead, her eylids, her chin, her throat, her breasts. Her eyes locked on his as she laps and coaxes the fluid onto her lips, and gently squeezes the last oozing drops onto her mouth.

Would she think of me then? Call me to her? To see? To witness? To prove again her unfaitfulness? To show me again how I was nothing to her? To demonstrate to her lover this pitiful pet who once was her husband. Would I amuse them? A post coital entertainment. The pathetic cuckold, grateful only for a chance to clean the spunk from his wife’s face.