Sunday, November 30, 2014

Saturday, November 29, 2014

Thursday, November 27, 2014

After doing all the cooking and cleaning on Thanksgiving, I'd say I earned my reward.

I'm thankful for (in no order except the first):



The girl inside me.



The freedom to be who I want to be.

The mobile internet revolution.

The man in our lives.

Whoever invented the CB6000S.

The relative peace and prosperity of the part of the world I live in.

Monday, November 24, 2014

I totally take it the right way!

Doggy Bag

"Honestly, honey, I really didn't mean to sleep with him, it just, well, kind of happened."


For those of you that remember these things, my anniversary was last week.

Emily and I celebrated on Saturday, though, had a wonderful day together furniture shopping (we're looking for a dining room table). We went to some quaint stores, came home and made dinner together, and sat on the couch until we went to bed.

No, we did not, as I had kind of hoped, have sex. That is, I did not, as I had hoped, get permission from Matthew to make love to my wife, like a husband and wife.

He'd asked me when we were celebrating our anniversary, somewhat reluctantly I told him a simple dinner on the day, plans for Saturday.

"That's okay, I hope," I texted, "you don't have plans with her, do you?"

"No I don't," he said, "I wouldn't do that, take your day, that would be cruel."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it.

"That said, it's too soon."

"What's too soon," I asked.

"What you want to ask and are afraid, what you're thinking about but won't say. What you're hoping to do..."

I didn't answer right away, he was right, but I didn't know what to say.

"Am I wrong...?"


"It's too soon."

"Too soon?"

"Too soon. It's too new for her...and for you...too soon to confuse the two of you. So...before you ask...the answer's no. It's too soon."

"Okay," I said, for what did one say to the man telling you that you can't make love to your wife.

"Understand I won't always say no, but it's too soon. For now, that part of her is mine."

Should I have been mad? Jealous? Hurt? Maybe, but I wasn't any of those things (well, maybe a little jealous). Instead, I was, well, excited. Excited at being denied. Excited at his control. Excited at the game we played. Excited that life was controlled, to some extent, to a large extent, by him.

He wasn't in our lives, day to day, that is, we did not see him every day, we didn't even talk to him every day. But his presence is with us.

Hey, I'm in the 1%

Some Random Thoughts:

Some people are mean. 

Emily is an amazing woman.

I'm very lucky.

I'm not ready for winter.

It takes me awhile to write things and I don't write about everything and sometimes I don't get to things I want to get to.

Sometimes I disappoint people. 


I should blog more...

Time is precious.

Totally need this book

No End

Part 3

Well, here's some more. 


With a finger, Matthew beckoned Emily to him, closer, closer. When she was in front of him, he looked her up and down, reached out, touched the bare skin of her arms. "Look at you," he said, slowly turning her so she faced me. "Sara," he nodded to the tray, "finish preparing her, please." He pushed her forward, a step away from him, towards me.

Trying to pace my breathing, trying to ignore the tightness between my legs, the very unladylike tightness, I set the tray down, picked up the chain, and unsure what to do, knelt before my wife. "Hmmmm," Emily moaned softly.

I looked up at my wife, at my goddess, she was so beautiful, so stunningly sexy, all I could think about was how much I wanted to lean forward, lick her, kiss her, touch her but that she was his, that she was his whore for the night, not mine. She reached forward, took my head in her hands, tilted my head up, looked me in the eyes.

I love you, she mouthed, a silent message from me to her, repeated it, slowly, forming each silent word carefully and purposefully.

She let go, held her wrists to mouthed as I clipped the chain to her wrists.

And again as I stood and clipped the leash to her collar.

"She...she's ready, Sir," I said, holding the end of the leash to him, giving her to him, his whore, my wife.

"Thank you, Sara," he said taking the leash from me. He stood still for a moment while I moved back a respectful distance, then suddenly he tugged the leash, not hard, but his movement was swift and Emily half fell into him. The kiss was long and deep. Emily seemed reluctant at first, we'd talked about it, I knew she felt self-conscious kissing her boyfriend in front of me, but she warmed to it, was too overwhelmed by Matthew, his strong lead.

As they kissed, Matthew's hand wrapped around her back and I could see his strength, his hand squeezing her back through the sheer fabric as he moved it lower, first to the small of her back, lower still to her ass.

He ended the kiss, turned her around, leaned her back into him and ran his hands up her arms then inward, cupped her breasts. "So beautiful," he said, to me as much as to her.

I watched his hand touch her, looked up at my wife. mouthed again then moaned audibly as she rubbed against him, moved her hips and ass against him. He smiled, a big, content, proud smile, stood still, radiated confidence as she did the work, as she literally threw herself against him. We locked eyes, Matthew and me, it was unspoken but obvious message.

Tonight she's mine. Tonight she's my whore. Tonight I own her. Tonight she wants me. Tonight and every night I'm the man.

"Get her coat please, Sara, before I let take her to the bedroom instead of the party." My eyes went wide. "Not that you'd object...but another time."

I put the trench coat over her shoulders, I couldn't button it, simply tied the belt to hold it closed.

"Shall we, pet," he said, reached for the leash, pulled it from the coat.

"Yes, Sir," she said, looked back at me, mouthed the words again, meant them.

Monday, November 10, 2014

Part 2 - Meeting His Whore


Precisely at seven, I heard his car pulled into the driveway; thirty seconds later, he rang the doorbell. Stomach turning, hand shaking, breath ragged, I opened the door. 

Matthew and I just stared at one another for a moment, perhaps neither of us sure what to do, what to say. But I was the maid, he was the guest, and even though he was so clearly the dominant one, I knew I should break the silence first.

"Please...please come in, Sir," I said, barely audible. As he walked past me, I stared at him in his charcoal suit, silver tie, white shirt, impeccably tailored to his muscular, athletic body. He was dressed like a man who would frequent a high class prostitute, that is, the client for my whore wife. " finishing up," I said, looking at the floor. I could feel his gaze on me, all over me, judging me, appraising me.

"Sara," he finally spoke. "Finally...Sara."

"Yes...yes, Sir," I looked up at him. Finally for me, of course, but finally for him, too?

"Well, well, well, I'd say you look quite pretty in your costume, Sara, but I'd be lying." My eyes went wide, his seeming rebuke stunned me and I looked down, wanted to flee. He chuckled, wounding me even more...for the moment.

"So sensitive...just like a girl...I'd be lying, Sara, because this isn't a costume, is it, this pretty thing is the real you?"

I looked up again, met his eyes, wanted to cry. "I...yes," I said.

"Let me say it again, then, without the qualifier. You look quite pretty...Sara."

"Thank...thank you, Sir."

"You're explains so much."

"What...what does?"

"What Emily sees in you...why she needs a man...what you seek...why you and Emily don't...very often. Seeing you explains everything...Sara...everything." He continued to look at me, I didn't know what he thought, what he was attracted to, but I knew I looked pretty, knew I looked feminine...not like my wife, but still, I knew.

"I..." I started to reply, but couldn't form my thoughts into words.

"When did you last try to be a male with your wife?"

"Dressed as a male," I asked, confused.

"No, no," he looked irritated. "When did you last screw?"

"Oh," I said, "I..." I thought for a moment. "I don't know, actually,'s been awhile..."

"Since before the wedding? Since before we met," he asked impatiently. "'s important to me."

"I don't remember when, exactly," I said, "but...yes...before the wedding..."

"Good, good," he said, sounding relieved, a rare display of anxiety for him. "You're locked, I assume?"

"Yes, Sir," I kept my eyes lowered, it was a difficult thing to admit, especially to my wife's boyfriend. 

"She told you we talked about it, didn't she?"

I blushed, knew what he meant. "Yes."

He moved slowly behind me. "It's important to her, Sara, to hold it, I understand that, but I would if she didn't. I never have, but I would, I like the symbolism." I swallowed, felt the familiar swelling; I liked the symbolism, too, the control, the surrender. He was watching me, chuckled. "Something tells me perhaps you'd like it, too." 

I was breathing heavily, so many emotions and thoughts going through my mind. I felt him behind me, close, so close the hem of my uniform and petticoats moved when he moved, his body wasn't touching my body, but inch or two and it would. "Surrendering to me, just like Emily."

I pictured his hands on my legs, between my stocking covered thighs, reaching between them, touching the cage, demanding the key, surrendering to him. Perhaps he pictured it, too, but I didn't know, perhaps he wanted it too, but he didn't say. As quick as he was to take my wife, his pattern with me was slower, taking small steps only when I could not longer stand it.

He moved his hand up, touched my bare arm; I shuddered, tried not to flinch. "Go get your mistress, Sara," he said, "go get your wife...bring me my whore."


She was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting impatiently; but she had a concerned look when I walked into the bedroom. "Sara, you're shaking."

"I...I'm okay," I said.

"Are you sure," she stood, walked to me, reached for me. "Sara, was he...what did he say."

"He...he said I looked pretty," I whispered.

"Oh, honey," she embraced me, obviously relieved. "I...I knew he'd be okay."

"He...he sent me to get you..."

"Does he costume?"

"General...not details...just...just that your dressed"

"As a whore," she said softly, voice shaking with excitement.

"Yes," I said.

"His whore."

"Yes, yes."

She looked at her wrists, looked up at me. "There's more, isn't there?"

I wasn't terribly surprised, Emily was no fool. "Yes, but...after...after he sees you."

"You're an incorrigible tease."

"I...I wasn't sure if...if you'd...say no," I admitted.

"But you know I wouldn't to him...right," she accused.

"I...I don't know..."

"You know, Sara, you know, don't try to fool me. Just remember, two can play at that game." She looked down at the hem of my skirt. "You might not tell him no, either."


"Come now, take me to him."

I looked at my wife again, at her lingerie, everything so sheer, her nipples hard, visible, her pussy barely covered, the mask adding a sense of daring, adventure. She was the most beautiful woman I'd even seen, ever been with, the kind of woman that caught a man's eye when she entered a room. She was mine, my wife, my lover.

And I was giving her to him.

My wife.

My lover.

His whore.


Matthew, normally reserved, normally completely in control of him emotions, cracked for several seconds when we walked into the room, his eyes went wide, in surprise, in appreciation. What did he think? Did he wonder how he came to be here, in the living room of a couple's house, came to be in possession of someone's wife? "My god," he whispered before regaining control of his emotions, before regaining control of the situation.

We stood there, Emily in the center of the room, me slightly to the side and behind. I had my moment, now was hers alone.

"Look at you," he said taking a step towards her.

"I..." She stopped, waited for his direction.

"Just look at you," he said again. " perfect." He glanced at me, back at my wife, his comment was meant for both of us. Emily, for her beauty, me, for my decisions. "I..." His voice froze again, "I don't know if I can..."

"Sir, if I may," I interrupted, having already thought what I knew he was thinking. He looked at me, nodded. I went to the guest closet, opened it, took out Emily's stone colored Burberry trench, held it up for them both to see. "For the car ride."

He nodded, smiled. "Perfect," he said, took a step towards me. 

"Sir...if...if I may...there...there's more..." Now my nerves started to fail.

"More," he raised an eyebrow.

I went back to the closet, picked up the silver serving tray I'd put in there when Emily was bathing. On the tray were three things I was afraid took things too far, afraid pushed sexy to slutty to way, way beyond, afraid was past anyone's comfort zone. 

On the tray?

The gold chain that connected her wrist cuffs:

A gold chain/leash/lead to clip to her choker:

And a crop, playful but serious riding crop:

I watched him, and for the second time that evening, Matthew looked stunned; Emily, I knew, expected the chain for her cuffs, or something like it, but not the other things and she gasped. A hot, sexy, 'I'm fucking soaking wet' gasp.

"Well," Matthew again composed himself quickly, "well, well, well." He looked at Emily, judging, read her, read me, "is my whore intending on misbehaving?"

", Sir," Emily said almost playfully. "I...I don't plan on it."

"Come, over here," he said to me, "we'd better make sure, shouldn't we?"

Friday, November 7, 2014

You're all impatient!

This stuff takes time to live, process, and write about. I do have a job, you know!

Love you all!


Monday, November 3, 2014

Lounge Wear, Sissy Style

Protip: Your tummy isn't the only thing it trims, sissy.

Two fingers

"Of course it will fit, honey, look, you're certainly not thicker than two of my fingers when you're soft and these fit."

"But...but what happens if know...grow?"

"We've talked about this, honey, that's kind of the whole point of this, you're not supposed to grow anymore."

Meeting Sara and Stuff, Part 1

Yea, like wow.

The day may have started like any other day, waking up, coffee, but I knew it was not going to be nothing ordinary. In fact, I was up early, 6:30, as I couldn't sleep, was too excited about later. I got up, made coffee, straightened up the kitchen, did some laundry, you know, typical sissy husband duties, while Emily slept in. I work her at 9, as she'd asked (instructed) the night before, and we went on a nice seven mile run, some her and me time, ate breakfast together after.

At 3:00, Emily said she was going to take a nap and asked me to wake her up at 4:30, Matthew was picking her up at 7:00. We hadn't discussed her costume or getting ready or any details, she rightly assumed I had a plan. And I did.

While she slept, I went upstairs to our guest room, showered, shaved, did everything a woman would do to make herself soft and feminine.

I dressed in my favorite foundations garment-a sheer black bullet bra and sheer panties to go with a six strap garter belt, all from one of my favorite stores, Secrets in Lace. The panties were not super tight, as I would have worn if I was full 'tucking', but they were supportive enough to keep the cage holding my already swelling penis tight against me.

Black stockings, of course, classic for the look I was going for. And 4 3/4 inch black thin ankle strap sandals.

I did my makeup, feminized my hair and looked at myself in the mirror.

The foundation garments were just that, the foundation of my femininity, the building blocks of what Matthew said he wished to see, Sara, Emily's French Maid.

Was he serious? I wondered, of course, was full of nerves, was all week, all day. But he knew, he'd hinted, had taken charge in his own way.

I have several maid's uniforms-a mundane housecleaning uniform (too practical, not sexy, a real 'get work done' uniform), a prettier cotton uniform that's sexy, a couple of satin uniforms that scream sissy.

Matthew was getting sissy. He'd only used the word once, way back, but hadn't called me the word I love and hate so much. But he was getting the was me...the essence of me. The choice of uniforms was really not difficult at all. 

We'd bought it online, I'm sure some of you are familiar with it. It's made of high quality satin, has incredible detail, and gives a perfect trim look. (Incidentally, you can buy it here). I wear it with petticoats, of course, the satin pinafore, a maid's cap, and a matching black and white lace choker and wrist bands (cuffs). 

I looked at myself in the mirror again, felt nervous again, wondered if it was too much, if I was wrong, whether I should change, forget all of this. What kind of husband allows this? I was dressing in a maid's uniform to serve as my wife's maid while she dressed as a slut to go to a Halloween party with her lover. Tell yourself that, and feel the self doubt creep in. But it was me, wasn't it?

What I wanted. Always. To be true to myself, what I was. A sissy. A cuckold. No. No. I had to go through with this, wanted to go through with this. Show him you're not a man, show him you're not a threat, show him the real you.

It was a line, once crossed, could never be undone. But it was a line I had to walk past. He expects it. She expects it. And you want it. This is you.

What would he think? That you're a sissy, what do you think he'll think.

How would he react? He'll understand...he has his role, you have yours.

But this was the final step, the true acknowledgment that in this threesome, he was the man, Emily was the woman, and I was the cuckold. The sissy cuckold.

Matthew. Emily. Sara.

The man. The whore. The sissy.

He'd been honest at every turn, I reminded myself, if he asked for this, he wanted this.

It was 4:25, no time for self-doubt for the moment, it was time to wake Emily, time to wake sleeping beauty, prepare her to become the belle of the ball.

She was dozing but opened her eyes when I opened the door and stepped into the room; no matter how quiet I tried to be, my heels clicked, clacked on the wood floor. 

"Hmmm," she smiled softly, "it's been too long."

"Mistress," I questioned, consciously adopting the deferential tone a maid should use with those she serves.

She smile. "It's been too long since you served, love."

"Yes, Mistress," I said, walking into the bathroom to draw her a scented, oiled bath in our soak tub. While the tub was filling, I gathered the things I needed: a bath pillow, washcloths, body wash in a scent I knew she'd appreciate-Pure Seduction.

"You're so good to me, Sara."

"Thank you, Mistress," I smiled playfully as she slipped into the tub. I left her to enjoy herself while I set our her costume, what little of it there was, anyway.

So, what was she going to be? Well, what was she? But Matthew's whore. I mean, he wanted slutty, right? He wanted to show her off, right? Emily, shy at heart, found it so erotic, so naughty, so thrilling to dress for him, in ways she'd never dress for me (in public). 

So she was going to be his whore. His high class whore. 

So while Emily relaxed in the tub, I set out her outfit, each item carefully and lovingly placed on the bed for her to see when she was done soaking. 

"Love," she called out some half hour later, and I went to her, helped her from the tub, toweled her dry. Patiently I sat with her as she did her hair and makeup. Kind of patiently, anyway, because the anticipation was killing me. The anticipation of her seeing her 'costume' and the anticipation of dressing her and the anticipation of seeing her. And the anticipation of Matthew seeing her. 

Finally...fucking finally, she finished (she was dragging it out on purpose, I knew and she knew I knew). But she was as excited as I was, it showed with every movement, in her eyes, in her voice.

"Well," she said, "I suppose it's time to dress."

"Emily," I said, my voice almost breaking. Again, the self-doubt, not just about Matthew, that doubt was a constant present, a reminder of the depth of my feelings for my wife. But self-doubt about the costume I'd picked (slutty, he instructed, slutty, he commanded, but was it too much, did I take it too far?)

Whore? Was I really going to dress her as Matthew's whore?

In some ways, in many ways, that word, that attitude, was the foundation of this three-way relationship. He took my pretty, demure, respectable wife (from outside appearances anyway) and pulled from her what she wouldn't do on her own. He pulled to the forefront her inner slut, her latent desire to shed respectability and throw herself at a man. When she hesitated, he demanded more. When she pulled back, he pushed forward. He knew her deep, dark desires and made them come true. 

Calling her his whore was taking her desires, her fantasies, her need for a man and making them a reality. Matthew, the opposite of me, helped her fulfill the need to be led, to submit, the need to be with a alpha man. Ant the need to have her husband support her. She gets to have her cake and eat it too-the benefits of her most intimate lover (me) coupled with the benefits of a dominate, sexual, alpha man.

So yes, she's his whore. What other costume could it be than his whore?

This was my inspiration, not exactly what I went with, but it was the mental foundation:

And below is what my wife saw when I walked with her into our bedroom.

I started with a set I'd gotten her awhile back but hadn't given to her yet (it was, when bought, going to be a surprise gift for her to wear for me...and now, in a way, it was a completely different surprise for me...and her...and him.) It's from Agent Provocateur (since it when it was on sale).

What drew me to it? The sheerness, the way it would cover her breasts, but not really, the way it would hide them, but not really. How perfect for tonight. I just love how sheer it is, how well it would with black Cervin 100% nylon stockings and five inch heels:

Perfect, to start with, right? But what to finish with? Well, sheer was the theme, right? Sheer to show off, sheer to be daring, sheer to be slutty, sheer to be his whore. 

I mean, it's probably wrong, but I want her to turn him on, I want her to turn everyone on!

But that wasn't enough because I'm bad, because I'm kinky, because I want her to submit to him. So I bought something I shouldn't have, these jewelry like wrist cuffs and choker (I set them out on the bed, not the chain that playfully connected the cuffs...that was for later...a surprise).

The last two things for her to see (for now), were icing on the cake:

"This...this is it," I said when she saw, immediately taking away any thought there was more (there was, a thing or two).

"Sara..." She turned to me, I saw the look in her, realization just how sheer everything was, how she'd be on display, sexualized. But excitement, too, lust, I assumed for Matthew, for my participation, for the realization sh was his whore.

"I..." I swallowed. "''re his whore," I said softly, shyly.

"Oh, Sara," she said quietly.

"It's too much," I said, self doubt again.

"You mean too little," she teased. "My god."

"Emily...I...he said..."



"Dress me, love, dress me."


"Dress me as his whore."


But for the cage I wore, I would have been erect. As it was, I strained against the confines, a reminder underneath I was a male, a reminder underneath I was a sissy. Her nipples, hard, were visible, just barely, though the layers of sheer fabric. She looked sultry, slutty, sexual.

"He'll be here right at seven," she said, a minute or two before. "Why don't you let him in while I finish," she said holding the mask up, "introduce yourself, make him comfortable, come get me."

"Emily," my voice cracked.

"Let him meet Sara," she said, "he wants do you."

"I...I'm scared."

"I know," she said gently. "But you can't change who you are."