He said he never meant to hurt her: it was just a bit of fun. It was an aberration, a mistake, his teenage mistress meant nothing to him. He loved his wife of twelve years, and Sandy had been nothing more than a cataclysmic fuck-up.
And she wanted to believe him.
But she knew things needed to change. The jilted wife had found images on their computer and investigated; she checked his phone, his diary and his life, uncovering his business conference was was not in Eastbourne, but Paris.
She confronted him on his return: he admitted his guilt. She offered him divorce, he pleaded for another chance.
He promised to be faithful, but could she trust him?
A chastity cage was the first condition of their reconciliation. The cold steel snapping shut over his cock drove home the reality of his predicament. He begged, but she remained resolute: her patience stretched taut by his vociferous pleading, whimpering as she slid the stout padlock closed on his genital liberty.
She promised her errant husband that he would have to earn his relief and showed its effectiveness with her vibrating wand, pressing the oversized head against his freshly-shaved loins, and the bars of his cage. He panted, and writhed, groaning as his cock was imprisoned: stifled and subdued. Stimulated but not satisfied.
She had no such concerns; she made him watch her orgasm, obscenely rubbing her clit with the buzzing toy. She panted and squealed; gloriously savouring every touch of her toy. She watched him, squirming; the nastiness of her actions, the malevolence of her teasing games, the sense of overwhelming justice fuelled her lust as waves of relief swept through her.
Her next demand was his underwear: gone were the designer boxers and replaced with lacy briefs: pink, black, white, and all with feminine bows. He complained, angrily demanding his clothing returned, but she refused: how could he cheat on her, if he had to remove women’s panties in front of his floosie? Her logic was impeccable as she openly taunted him with the pink lace.
He blushed as they glided over his knees to nestle against his shackled cock; his voice laden with desperate pleas. She was tired of his incessant whining and snapped a cane against his backside: that was her third condition.
She had to take charge.
He fought her uncompromising dominance with resistance; he argued that she was exploiting his vulnerability by ascending to a dominant position that was unfairly skewed. He said she was abusing him. She laughed, cracking the cane against his flesh; if he would not trust her to be fair, then how could he expect her to trust him?
He surrendered to her arguments, her will and her cane. She threatened him with a strap-on dildo if his resistance persisted.
It lasted for a month: every day his chaste cock would be snuggled by silk underwear while his bottom was caned or cropped for every minor indiscretion. He begged to be released, before threatening her with divorce if her attitude persisted.
She took it. And showed him the video she’d had made of the previous four weeks. “If I don’t get the house,” she warned, “I’ll show this to everyone.” She winked. “And you won’t get the key.”
And as her feminised husband realised, it was her plan all along.
Featured image used under a CC-license from here.