Submissive wife, bondage, nipple clamps, gagged, self bondage, spanking
*
Good girl takes the night off as the bad girl is taken to task
Male/female - married - bondage - gagged - tied - submissive - punished
"X marks the spot," came the unbidden wolfish thought. I stood in 4 inch heels, legs well apart, stretching the hem of my short half-slip. My arms were pulled apart, held fast with ripped sheets tied to rafters. My ankles likewise were cuffed in leather and fastened to eyebolts drilled into wooden standards. And I had nothing to say about it: my lower face was sealed with wide swathes of micro foam tape. I was modeling a giant X. And the spot? My willing, weeping pussy. I was a helpless prisoner, awaiting my keeper, who would be home any minute. A man who would be most angry with me.
Some backstory: The tax preparer had given us some awful news. We owed $1400 on this April's taxes... and we didn't have it! With my husband's new job, he had checked the wrong box on a withholding form; not enough money had been held back for taxes. We were horrified. We immediately began a brutal scrimp-and-save program. No dinners out, movies from the library instead of renting, no unnecessary shopping, no weekend trips.
I had been the dutiful wife, stretching the food dollar and buying store brands. Each week he bored me with his spreadsheet, our progress on our goal. Weeks later, it was apparent that there was light at the end of the tunnel. Indeed, barring some unforeseen emergency, we will have saved enough for the tax man and more.
As I say, I had been the good partner. But the rewards of that were severely lacking. For one thing, my husband's fussing about finance seemed to distract him from noticing his wistful wife. For another, that new job kept him very busy. I've written before how my carnal needs are more urgent than most women's. What this girl needed was a vigorous screwing!
On a Wednesday night, I prowled the aisles of a favorite store. I had purchased an economical baby shower gift, and was doing a bit of window shopping. As I turned the corner, I saw a mannequin dressed in an exquisite formal gown. Within minutes I was in the dressing room, hands on hips, admiring this beautiful dress on my form. It was strapless. No issue here as I had plenty of firm cleavage to help hold it up. Dark lilac in color, with black panels on the sides, visually slimming my hips. The hem was cut at an angle. I loved everything about this evening dress! And then I noticed the price: the damn thing was $350! I had never bought a $300 dress in my life. Given our bank balance, I was not about to tonight...
And that's when the bad girl came out. The naughty girl. The evil bitch in me easily rationalized the purchase. The twisted wench, she came up with the most devious game plan.
I bought the dress with my store charge card. It's easily the most expensive item of clothing I've ever bought.
The bad girl took over my head. In the next day or so, we formulated our game plan. What we had to do. What would be most effective in getting my husband's attention, and what would be most satisfying for the craving between my legs.
Friday at work dragged on. Under my conservative clothes, I wore a generously large black panty. As I mulled over my plans, my juices seeped into the crotch of these silken drawers. That too, had been part the plan.
Home for the weekend! I arranged my hair in a new style. At last it was long enough for a generous, long ponytail, situated over my left shoulder. I put on the proper bra and heeled sandals, and my new long formal gown. I set the timer and took several head to foot photos of myself until I found the perfect pose. While it printed, I carefully replaced the gown on the hanger and pulled the clear plastic bag over it.
In the attic, I dragged a wooden box into place. It was a kind of step or pedestal that my husband had built months back. We had tried it once with marvelous results. On each end were steel eyebolts. I used the carabiners provided to bolt the box to anchors already set in the floor. Standing on the box, shifting my hips around, I assured myself the box wouldn't slide out from under me. Dare I say, "the stage" was almost set!
At the mirror again, I refreshed my eye makeup. I know my wide eyes are a tremendous turn-on for my good husband. Now it was gag time. I folded the black panties I had worn all day, that had captured all my girlish juices, and I slowly stuffed them into my willing mouth. My cheeks bulged back at me in the bathroom mirror. I pulled a wide strip of micro foam tape across my lips. This is magical stuff! You can see the outline of the victim's lips and face through the material. I slapped on another layer. I tried screaming aloud there in my bathroom. Little sound escaped.
I uncapped a wide magic marker. Starting on my right, and working to my left, I lettered thick text on my upper chest, above my boobs. A 5-letter word stood out stark on my light skin. A naughty girl indeed.
Here's what he would find as he came in the back door to start his weekend.
1) On the kitchen counter, a glossy photo of me dressed like a debutante in my gown.
Also on the counter: the receipt for what I spent. I knew this will make his blood pressure spike!
2) In our bedroom, the offending dress on its hanger and in a bag, draped across the bed. Next to it, an ebony black paddle. For punishing very bad girls.
3) On a doorknob, leading up to our attic, a recently worn bra.
He would recognize that sign. He would mount the stairs to find me up there. And he would be ready to dish out punishment.
I had tied myself standing in this spread-eagle position fully 30 minutes before he came home, to luxuriate in the frustration of an itch I could not scratch. Thankfully the attic wasn't a hotbox this season. Still, I hung in my bondage listening to music and thinking about what he would do, his big hands on me, how severe would be my punishment. The good girl had long fled; for now, it was just me standing on display, the very bad girl.
He slowly came up the stairs, and I twisted impatiently in my bondage. I tugged impotently at the wrist restraints and my legs pulled helplessly at the ankle cuffs. Wetness trailed down my thighs.
He wore an unbuttoned dress shirt and dark boxer briefs. In his hand, he had the black paddle I had left for him.
Here's what he found: a distressed damsel, a captive girl, her arms flung wide, held with sheeting looped over slanted beams. Her legs, too, were thrown wide, held with leather ankle straps and rope tied off in opposite directions. She wore black heeled sandals; a black mini half-slip, the hem grazing her upper thighs, stretched almost taut by her position. She wore a strapless black bra, displaying a fair amount of cleavage. Her mouth was sealed shut with layers of white molded micro foam tape. Her long hair was arranged decorously over one shoulder.
And written across her notable chest, that telling label: BITCH
"Bitch." Was he reading aloud or did the curse word come unbidden to his lips? "Damn it, you know how close we are on this budget thing. You purposely blow it on a damned dress."
I hung my head shamefully, my cheeks reddening. Of course, he was right.
He berated me for my selfishness, for my insensitivity, for my immaturity. I thought my eyes might well with tears and the game would be over. I hung my head, and as his diatribe ran down, I looked up hopefully. He was shaking his head, but the thickening in his briefs told me that he liked the captive wench in front of him.
He gripped the ponytail and pulled my head toward him menacingly. He shook me slightly. Hands roamed over my tits and ass, tracing my outline. He squeezed my bottom.
