Stepping back over to me, Gerry knelt down and ordered me to open my mouth nice and wide. When I did, she stuffed the silky piece of lingerie into it. I could smell the arousing scent of her perfume on them. Then, standing back up, she began to paddle my ass in earnest. The loud smacking sounds of wood against flesh were sharp and distinctive within the confines of the bedroom. Each strike of the paddle caused my body to shudder and then to tighten up as I groaned in agony. I’d never feared my wife until this very moment. I now knew what she was capable of doing and it excited me. Though I didn’t become erect during the paddling, I was filled with an intense sexual energy. I wanted the beating to stop; yet, I also wanted it to continue. Talk about being fucked up! My wife hit me twenty more times before deciding that her point had been made. By then I was whimpering like some forlorn child lost in the wilderness of indecision. I knew my bottom was raw and blistered, and that I. Every time I called her and hung up without telling her, I felt like I’d let an opportunity slip by. I rationalized my silence by convincing myself that the topic was something best discussed in person. I needed to make another date with her, and I did. I can’t remember ever being so nervous as I was that day. As soon as the date was made, in honor of what I hoped to share, I decided I’d be all dressed up—at least underneath. If I didn’t get up the nerve to tell her (a very distinct possibility), I would at least have the pleasure of going out feeling all feminine underneath my male clothes. I shaved. I lotioned. I painted my toenails. I selected a black, heavy garter belt, black panties and a pair of stockings that I’d been saving for Lord knows what. Before I set off, I opened a bottle of wine and had a large glass of the liquid courage. After a pleasant dinner at a local Italian restaurant (and some more wine), we went back to her house for a little more conversation and, of.
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