index


Message-ID: <47158asstr$1079737805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {ASSM} Wife by Vickie Tern 1/13 TG femdom
Lines: 523
Date: Fri, 19 Mar 2004 18:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

                          An Unfaithful Wife
                            by Vickie Tern


The plot:  A man's wife encourages his erotic fantasies and
his emasculation by suggesting to him that she's seeing other men.

The caution:  This story depicts sexual acts between consenting adults.  
Those who are not both of these things should read no further.

The story descriptors:  TG femdom wife humil creampie


1/13

She was in a weird mood, I think.  Or maybe a teasing mood.  We
were getting dressed for work, Cassie to go to her law office
downtown and me to my study downstairs to read over a long report
comparing software technologies one last time and then fax it to
the client who'd commissioned it.  She was just about to pull on
her frivolous french lace panties, the ones that drive my cock
crazy when I see the bottoms of her sweet buttocks peeking out from
underneath them, and she'd paused to inspect the no-nonsense cotton
lining in the crotch.  She saw a stain?  It evidently started her
thinking.  What came out was sudden.

"Hal, honey, have you ever wondered whether I masturbate?  I mean,
say, at the office sometimes, whether I take care of my sexual
needs sometimes when you're not with me to help out?"

I was startled, and stared at her.  The word "masturbate" had never
crossed her lips before.  She stood there, panties in hand, looking
at me and waiting for a reply.  

"No, why?" came out of my mouth before I could correct it.  An
honorable but dishonest answer, and I'd sworn to her and myself
always to be scrupulously honest with her.  So I corrected myself,
"Yes, sometimes."

"You're ashamed to admit it, aren't you?"

"Yes."  

I was.  It was true.  I stared into my sock drawer, looking for a
matched pair and avoiding her gaze.

"Why do you think you're ashamed?"  Cassie often dug into whatever
reasons were given for deeper reasons still.

"I don't know."  That was untrue.  I had my suspicions, and they
weren't welcome.  Because Cassie loved sex.  She seemed insatiable
sometimes, eager for more well past my penis's ability to perform. 
I was never sure I'd satisfied her.  So for years I'd supplemented
our lovemaking with my face between her legs, always before we made
love.  Then sometimes for hours while she did other things, made
notes on legal papers or read or watched TV, even talked to friends
on the phone.  The first time because she asked me to.  But now she
merely pointed when she wanted me to lick her cunt.  "It feels so
nice," she'd say.  "Even when I don't end up with an orgasm.  Just
knowing that you're there for me no matter that."  

Why was I ashamed to ask her about masturbation?  I struggled to
find a reason.

"Because masturbation is a terribly personal matter," I said
finally.  "Some people think it's shameful in itself.  So I
wouldn't want to intrude on anyone by asking."

"Yes, but it's not too personal for us, honey!"  She looked at me,
gently chiding.  "Sweetheart, we're already so very personal with
each other!  We couldn't be moreso.  The truth, now!"

This was awfully uncomfortable.  But I knew better than to try to
change a subject once Cassie opened a line of questioning.  She was
one of her firm's best trial lawyers.

"Because ... because if you masturbate, that might imply we aren't
sexually well-matched.  That I don't satisfy you.  That I'm not man
enough for you."

"'Might'?  Only 'might'?"

I kept silent on that one.  She was determined to leave me no place
to hide.  

"Well, are you man enough, do you think?"

"All things considered, I think so.  I hope so!"

"Then why are you ashamed to ask me if I masturbate?  Because if
you aren't man enough, you don't want to know?"  She had me.

I had to end this.  "Do you masturbate sometimes?" I asked.  I
began pulling on my socks, feigning nonchalance.  

I expected answers as evasive as mine, but instead, Cassie said in
a quite matter-of-fact tone of voice, "Yes, Hal.  I have needs.  So
I relieve them.  Often."

A strange feeling began to creep over me, but she'd established the
scenario and I had to follow it.  "Because I'm not man enough?"

"I didn't say that.  I'd use you if you were there.  But you
aren't.  So I use what's available.  My finger often.  Like this."

Her bush was still fully visible -- her lace panties were still
hanging from one hand.  I stared.  She smiled flirtatiously and
placed a forefinger gently onto the top of her slit, just over her
clit I was sure, and rotated it delicately.  "Mmmmm!" she said. 
"Mmmmmmmmm!"  Then she stopped and looked directly at me.  "That's
nice.  But oh, if you could see your face now!  You're feeling
threatened, aren't you?"

My throat had tightened and I could barely say it.  "Yes," I had to
reply.  Threatened, but also annoyed.  She was deliberately
provoking me.  Why?

"By a finger?  You're jealous of one slim little finger?  You think
your penis may not measure up even to this?"   She held her slim
finger up erect, inspected it closely, then waved it reprovingly at
me.  "Your cock can't hold a candle to my finger?" 

Now she was playing word games, taunting me!  Better to alter the
direction this interrogation was taking.  "You say you use your
finger 'often,' Cassie?  What does that mean, 'often'?"

She was now gathering the hair at the nape of her neck to twist it
and pin it up, businesswoman style.  With both hands behind her
head and her elbows out, she looked adorably helpless, yet
supremely self-assured, altogether in control.  I was reminded
again how breathtakingly beautiful she was, how lucky I'd been to
attract and win her love, and how privileged to keep it.  She just
looked at me inexpressively, and said nothing.  She was
accomplishing whatever it was she'd set out to accomplish, I could
tell that much.  Making me uneasy, that much was certain.

Since I felt goaded, I tried again.  "'Often' implies there are
other things too," I tried to explain.  Black suspicion where she
was going with this began to form in my head, and I thrust it away,
but nevertheless I could feel my balls pull up, my scrotum
tightening defensively.  "Like what?"

"Other things, yes.  Fingers aren't always enough.  You know how I
am sometimes when we're in bed together and we're neither of us
ready to sleep, and we decide to make love.  Sometimes I'm already
as wet as if we'd already made love.  Fingers can't do that.  A
girl needs ... well, other things to help her out."

Was she telling me ...?  "What other kinds of things do you mean
exactly?" I asked again, trying to suppress the tension in my
voice.

"Whatever other kinds of things are available.  All offices are
full of them."   She was by now nearly dressed, and inspecting
herself in the mirror, looking out at me in all wide-eyed
innocence. 

I could only croak out what she'd been leading me toward.  "You
mean you sometimes use ... other men?"

She seemed satisfied.  Was that where she'd been leading me?  "Oh,
if I used men to get myself off, that wouldn't be masturbation,
would it, Hal?  Any more questions?  No?"  

But what had she said?  "I have needs.  I relieve them.  Often." 
So we weren't talking only about masturbation!  And unthinkable as
it was, she wasn't saying she didn't use other men when I wasn't
available!  She knew I couldn't possibly ask the obvious next
question.  Marriages are based on faith.  I didn't dare doubt her
fidelity and then ask about it.  I was feeling strangely
demoralized, yet also agitated.

"Oh, dear," she said, staring at the rock-hard erection now tenting
my underwear.  "I see all this talk has excited you."  She glanced
at her wristwatch, a delicate little thing I'd given her for our
first anniversary, she never wore any other.  "And there's no time
now to do anything about it.  Well, you have my permission to
masturbate today before I get home.  But you'll have to tell me
what your masturbation fantasy was tonight when I get home.  Every
detail.  Promise?  Bye bye, sweetheart!"

I did sometimes sneakily masturbate during the day, while reading
porn stories on the Net.  I didn't think Cassie knew.  And now,
she'd given me her permission?  If I tell all afterward?  But how
could I masturbate with her "permission"?  Apart from it
constituting a confession that I'd done it at all, it would be an
acknowledgement that I could pleasure myself only under her orders,
that she'd taken charge of my sex life even in her absence. 

An hour later, when I'd faxed off my report and felt free for the
rest of the day, I decided to grasp my boner.  Resentfully, but I
did it anyhow.  As if under orders.  "Yes, Cassie," I muttered to
myself ironically.  "Now I intend to masturbate!  Does that make
you happy?"  I wasn't happy.  Who was she to grant me permission to
do something I've done most of my life?

Yet as I finally spurted my load into a handful of kleenex, I
gasped "Thank you, Cassie" sincerely and gratefully.  Because
incredibly, for the first time in my life, it was really good! 
Altogether guilt free!  Uninhibited!  No way cheating her of libido
or sperm I owed her.  For the first time since our marriage I
wasn't indulging myself shamefully in the belief that I was
depriving her of what was rightfully hers.

That night I told Cassie the truth, that I'd masturbated, and how
I'd felt afterward.  That what I'd fantasized while stroking myself
was what she'd confessed, that she was in her office masturbating
her pussy.  That I'd seen her legs spread wide, her slit's pink
lips and fringe of golden hair fully visible.  That her finger was
twiddling her clit and then plunging into the orifice.  Then that
her cum was trickling out of it, and I was licking it off her
thighs.  It was her cum at first, pouring out of her abundantly. 
Then maybe mine.  Then -- I couldn't help it, a dark notion had
emerged when I was so near a climax I couldn't suppress it -- maybe
cum from someone else at her office.  Some other man's cum.  

She was interested.  "Someone else's, eh?  And that idea brought
you off?"

I ignored her question, instead repeating that I'd loved
masturbating with her permission. 

She smiled reassuringly, looked at me slyly for a moment, and said
nothing.  Then, "Any time, baby.  But you'll always ask me first,
all right?"  

And I was trapped!  How could I ever?  I couldn't!  Ask my wife for
permission to jerk off?  That's so demeaning!  Impossible!  But now
that she'd asked me to ask her, it was equally impossible for me to
jerk off without her permission!  That would betray her trust!  

"All right?" she repeated.  She meant it!

"Sure," I said carelessly, as though my thoughts had already turned
elsewhere and it was no big deal.

So from then on, for days at a time I went celibate.  I'd be
desperately horny by the time her car pulled into the driveway.  A
few times I had to meet her at the door and take her hand and lead
her straight upstairs, not a word spoken.  She knew.  

But also from then on, whenever I licked and then entered her, I
was always aware before I began how wet she was, whether lightly
lubricated or dripping.  That did happen sometimes.  When she was
soaked I never dared ask how she'd gotten that way.  I made that
mistake only once, and she'd replied by waving her forefinger at
me.  As if that were her answer.  As if that was her instrument. 
As if telling me I was naughty to ask.

But occasionally when she was leaving the house she'd tell me she
had a crowded schedule, she expected to arrive home late or
exhausted.  "So feel free to jerk off any time today, Hal baby,"
she said.  "If you feel like it."   

On other occasions she'd pause at the door and as if an
afterthought, she'd ask me, "Do you want to masturbate today,
honey?"  

Like a little boy caught with his hands in his pants I'd have to
answer in a small voice, "Yes, please," or "No, thank you."  She'd
then smile, and if I said 'Yes' she'd say, "That's fine.  You go
right ahead then, sweetie," and if I said 'No' she'd look at me
wryly amused, as if she didn't believe me, shrug, then leave.

And that's how it was from then on.  Her pussy was mine by marriage
I suppose, though I shared my exclusive rights of access with her
finger.  I hoped only with her finger.  But my cock, my main means
of sexual gratification, was now completely under her control.  

The day finally came when, as she was leaving the house preoccupied
with the day's work and obviously intending to say nothing to me
about it, when I felt a sudden urge to ask her if I could jerk off
today. It was embarrassing.  But I did it. 

She paused and looked at me intently, thinking.  Then she said, "I
haven't asked you this, honey, not since that first time I gave you
permission.  When you masturbate, do you always imagine me
pleasuring myself the same way?  Or someone else also pleasuring
me?"

I was stunned!  How did she know? "Sometimes," I had to acknowledge
reluctantly.  Then because she remained silent, waiting, I replied,
"Sometimes someone else."

"Then you go ahead and masturbate all you want today," she replied,
obviously satisfied with my answer.  "But be sure that each time
you're imagining me with someone else.  I'd like that.  OK?  I
gotta go!"  She kissed the air between us and was gone.

"OK," I replied to the closed door.  I felt somehow defeated.  Yet
also excited, I had no idea why.  She'd asked me to cuckold myself
in my imagination and like it, that seemed to be why.  

That night she made no sexual moves toward me at all.  She seemed
to know that during the day I'd emptied myself utterly, that I'd
beaten my meat over and over.  With no guilty inhibitions, with her
complete permission, I'd watched her writhe in the arms of other
men repeatedly, each time forgiving her so we could both do it
again, me masturbate and she fuck yet another man.


**********


A month or so later, Cassie was already in bed and I was getting
ready to join her when she burst forth out of nowhere, "Sweetheart,
you do know I love you, don't you?  That you're the dearest person
in the world to me, that the happiest day of my life was the day we
got married, and that I never want to leave you, and I think I
would die if you ever wanted to leave me?  Just curl up and die? 
You do know that?"  

What in the world? 

Suppressing my concern, I looked over at Cassie as if casually. 
She'd been sitting in bed reading, but her book was turned down in
her lap.  She'd been watching me undress.  I suddenly came aware I
was stark naked.  

"Are you all right, honey?" I asked gently.  That seemed
ungracious!  So I added as quietly as I could, "I mean, what
brought that on?  I mean, what have I done to deserve that ...
accolade?"  

As if unconcerned I slipped my nightshirt over my head.  I'd always
slept in pajamas but recently I'd shifted to nightshirts.  Cassie'd
given me some a few weeks ago, and then called the Salvation Army
and given away my pajamas.  They were short, barely reaching my
bum.  She said she wanted to reach for me whenever the mood struck
her, or anyhow, that she wanted to feel she had unrestricted
access.  Could I deny her?  She had reached for me a few times
since, and it was wonderful!  Our first few years of marriage she'd
wanted to be wooed, and she'd lie there like a princess as I kissed
her toes or her eyes and then worked my way up or down.  But for a
while now she'd taken all the initiatives.  "Just let me," she'd
say.  "You be the princess."

I'd lie back in bliss with my eyes closed as she slipped her hand
up and down my penis and squeezed it until I grew hard, then
mounted me or mouthed me or pushed her boobs into my mouth or
pulled my head into her crotch or rolled over onto me or rolled me
onto her and into her, all without the slightest restraint.  We'd
become like one sentient being, one flesh --  her slightest gesture
would tell me what she next wanted and I'd perform it devotedly. 
I loved it that she felt that passionate!  

I saw she was wearing her babydoll top, and a glance told me that
its matching sleep-panties were still on her dresser.  That was a
broad enough hint that she expected to reach for me tonight. 

She responded not at all to my query, so I answered hers.  "Of
course I know you love me, Cassie.  And you know I love you just as
completely"  

I'm sure I did.  I'm sure she did.  There were times when she'd act
as if I were still probationary, as if we were still in the early
days of our relationship and she still hadn't made up her mind
about me, as if her tentative feelings about me were auspicious,
promising, but ... well, there are other men, she'll just wait and
see about me, and meanwhile, well, I'll do for now, if I contiunue
to shape up.  In earlier days I never knew if that was how she
actually felt or if she was only teasing me, stirring me to renew
my courtship of her, to try extra-hard to please her.   When I once
asked her, she'd smiled and said nothing.  Whatever, it always
worked.  I'd then make extra efforts to meet her needs and desires. 
Though whenever she slipped into that mood of seeming uncertainty,
I was always unsure why.

Not now.  Cassie's customary facial expression was sincere and
concerned, and now too.  Her eyes were moist and she made no effort
to wipe tears away.  I was the center of her life, she was saying,
and she wanted me to know it.  "You do know, don't you, that your
happiness is the dearest thing in the world to me?  Dearer than
life itself, I sometimes think!"

This was the strongest statement she had ever made about us.  I
choked up immediately.

"Yes," was all I could croak.  I wanted to ask her, 'Cassie, what's
wrong?!' but I couldn't.

"And I know you feel the same way about me.  Don't you?"

Finishing on a question?  What did she want?  Something she was
afraid to ask directly?  Reassurance of some sort?  What?  

I said "Yes, of course."  Then carefully, I inquired again, "Why do
you ask, honey?"

She hesitated for a long time this time as if struggling with
herself, though her eyes never wavered from mine.  Then she spoke
suddenly.  "Because I need to ask you some things you might not
like.  That might make you uncomfortable."

So I was right.  But at least it was to ask me things, not to tell
me.  Ever since we'd talked about masturbation I'd been afraid
Cassie might want to say something I couldn't endure hearing, maybe
about an affair, about an infidelity that would destroy us as a
couple.

"Like what?" I asked.  I just stood there in my nightshirt, my
genitals and my butt exposed, my voice deliberately kept attentive
yet casual, so whatever she said and whatever my reaction, none of
it would seem to be a big deal.  Though obviously it was a big deal
to her and that made it one for me too.

"Like, I want you to tell me for once, really honestly, from the
deepest place in your heart, all of the ways you feel when ...oh,
I don't want to say it.  You'll get mad.  Or maybe you'll feel bad
I'm even asking."

"No, never," I said.  "Ask."

"It's really a whole series of questions, sweetheart.  This is only
the first one."

I carefully shrugged, as if nothing could faze me.  "No problem,"
I said as reassuringly as I could.  I sat down on my side of the
bed and then waited, still watching her.

"All right, baby."  Her eyes were now wide open, fixed on my face. 
"I've been wondering about this a lot, lately.  You know that men
... ah ... flirt with me sometimes.  The way men do.  You've seen
it, at office parties and things, galas at the Club, social
gatherings.  Even here in our own house when we're throwing a
reception or something, and everyone knows I'm married to you and
you're right here being the host, despite that some men come on to
me as if you were only some hired servant.  Well, sweetie, I want
to know -- I need to know, really and truly -- tell me everything
you feel when ... when that happens.  When you see guys making
moves on me.  Everything."

I'd seen a lot of it.  Cassie was beautiful when we got married and
she'd only gotten moreso.  Now she was gorgeous, honey blonde,
beautifully groomed, huge wide eyes, teeny chin, a naturally
pouting mouth, tall and poised.  A doll, a dish.  A babe.  More
rare, a babe with brains, more than one opposing attorney had
mistaken her subtlety for naivete and gotten creamed.  

When she's dressed and made up for a formal occasion, she's
absolutely ravishing.  She'll put the last touches on her face,
hang a perfect  pendant from her neck, and then turn to ask me "How
do I look?" as if she didn't know.  I'd glance over and see the
gleam of pride in her eyes and I'd catch my breath and my heart
would lurch.  Every time.  Hers is the kind of beauty that
staggers, even intimidates.  Some men find it challenging.  They're
challenged to possess it somehow.  And they keep trying.  I knew
that.

And not only her beauty, her manner, too.  She carries herself
confidently, decisively.  And then there's that concerned
expression.  When she speaks, she looks directly into your eyes as
if appraising you, maybe reserving judgement, maybe approving, as
if large issues and powerful emotions were lurking just beyond that
decision.  As if she could see things in you that amused her, or
gave her a handle on you.  Or gave you reason to believe that if
you took her hand and led her to a bed, she'd go willingly. 
Eagerly.  As if she'd lead you.

Men fall hard in her presence.  I had.  Some feel her power and
pretend they don't, become evasive, I'd done that too at first. 
Yet when she approves what she's seeing, that same look becomes a
glorious invitation.  It says she wants to know you better, maybe
even intimately.  It's flattering, that look, and it emboldens all
but the most timid of men.  

Then when they're hooked she flirts with them shamelessly! 
Twisting her body, glancing sideways, thrusting her boobs forward,
smiling in subtle invitation, tossing her head with the same 'come
hither' motion she'd used when she first saw me.  But then she'd
meant it!  It turned out she'd made up her mind about me
immediately, however seemingly tentative she seemed since.  I came
to her and joined her and we've not been separated since.  I was
what she wanted, she told me on our first date.  And I wasn't the
least bit intimidated.  I exulted!

Maybe her flirting is a reflex she isn't even aware of?  Maybe.  As
when she makes me feel I'm still on probation, useful for the time
being only.  It gives her a feeling of control.  And she needs
that.  She likes it.

I've seen the result often enough.  Like at office parties, for
instance.  She's a partner in a huge law firm where people rarely
see each other, so they often hold get-togethers in the name of
"collegiality."  Spouses attend some, but I doubt Cassie behaves
any different whether I'm there or not.  She uses parties as
informal professional opportunities to mend fences, query policies,
check out strategies.  She's always working the room.  Few people
there know me, so from a distance or even standing alongside her I
can usually watch what happens as if I were a fly on a wall.  

Certain men come foward ingratiatingly almost as soon as they see
her.  Superbly confident, poised, charming, they bend their faces
close to her to share some confidential witticism or compliment. 
Or proposal.  She never backs off or turns away.  Instead, she
parries gracefully, lifting her chin and shaking her head as though
flattered and grateful but she just can't respond right now, this
isn't quite the moment, you know, her husband, her obligations,
things.  But soon.  There's always an implicit promise, maybe they
can find some more private time to ... locate an understanding. 
She always leaves them feeling hopeful, though they never know just
why.  

So they'll often offer her a lift when the party is breaking up,
asking if she'd like to pause first for a drink at the Roundabout
Bar or the Marriott. or the Oasis just down the street.  Even when
I'm standing right alongside her.  I sometimes wonder if they know
I'm her husband but don't care because it doesn't seem to matter to
her.  Whether she's sending them signals I can't interpret.

Then they'll always call the house later that evening or the next
day, always with business to discuss, or more proposals.  Cassie
wears a wedding ring as I do, the same kind.  But these men assume
she's available nevertheless -- maybe she lives alone or she's
separated, or maybe she works mostly at home and her husband's out
of town.  Or maybe he's away at work and won't ever know.  Or she's
available because he's a wimp who doesn't matter.  They aren't
aware that I'm the one who works at home, that Cassie does almost
all of her work downtown.  That I'm the one receiving all their
calls to my wife.

end 1/13
VickieTern@AOL.COM

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+