Chivalry Is On Life Support Ch 06

I mentioned foreplay. But let me be more specific about what sex entailed for Brooke and I. I tried one more time to have vaginal sex with her after we were married, with similar unfortunate results. We tried different positions, including her on top, squeezing my sensitive nipples, but nothing seemed to work. She was visibly bored during the act, and clearly completely unsatiated afterwards -- until, of course, I went down on her.

From that night forward, sex for us consisted of me pleasuring her orally, and she very occasionally giving me a hand job or a foot job. For the former, she would lay across from me and place her feet, either bare or in pantyhose, against my face as she brought me off with her hand. She liked to roughly mash her feet against my face, sometimes inserting her toes into my mouth as she moved her pretty hand up and down my lubricated cock. She would typically read a book or magazine while giving me a foot job, her indifference perversely an aphrodisiac for me. In general, I believe she viewed these rare occasions to be a form of pity sex. However, whether due to their rarity or their rather degrading nature, they invariably resulted in an intense orgasm for me.

On one of these occasions about three months into our marriage, after bringing me off with her stocking-clad feet, she said to me, "Walter, when you come, you moan like a little bitch, you know that."

"I'm sorry, Brooke."

"I also notice how much more excited you are when I wear pantyhose or tights when I bring you off. Why is that?"

"I don't know. I guess it's just the sensual feeling of the nylon when your foot rubs up against me. It drives me a little crazy."

"The way you moan, and how much you like the feeling of nylon against your skin, it's almost like you're a female in some ways. You're really more like my lesbian lover than you are a man."

"I'm sorry Brooke," I said again.

"Don't be. I had a couple of lesbian relationships during college. You're a better muff diver than any of them."

"Thank you, I guess."

"I have an idea. Put on a pair of my pantyhose, and lay down next to me on the bed. Here, let me get you a pair. My guess is that you already know how to put them on without running them. Is that right, Walter?"

"Yes, you're right. As usual."

"Show me."

I rolled up the stockings in my hands, before delicately slipping one foot over my toes, and pulling them up my leg.

"I knew it! It's like you're an expert at this. Are you a crossdresser?"

"No. I've never worn a bra or a dress, or anything like that. I just used to borrow a pair of tights from my mom's dresser, every once in a while, when I was a kid. I guess I've always liked the feel of nylon against my legs."

"And your little cock."

"Yes, and my little cock."

"Look at you. Your baby carrot is getting hard even though you just ejaculated a little while ago. You DO love wearing nylons, don't you? Wait a minute. It's time to come clean. Bring me your little bag."

"Little bag? What do you mean?"

"Little bag. Little box. Backpack. Whatever it is you use to store your stash."

"My stash of what?"

Then she got angry. "Walter, do you think I'm a moron? I see how excited you get wearing my nylons. I see how you know exactly how to put them on. You don't really expect me to believe that you only used to dress up when you were a kid at your parents' house, do you? When you've been living on your own all these years. Give me a fucking break. Bring it to me NOW."

So I did. Tail between my legs, I walked down to the basement, where I had hidden my things on the top shelf of a storage closet. I had considered throwing them away when we moved into to the new house together, but somehow I just couldn't part with them. And it wasn't a small box either. It took both arms for me to carry it.

When I got back up to the bedroom, Brooke was sitting on the bed, holding a glass of red wine. She was still wearing nothing but her pantyhose.

She smiled at me, mockingly, dimple prominent. "Wow, it's bigger than I thought. Dump it out on the bed."

I did as she commanded. When I had finished emptying the contents of the box, lying on the bed were multiple pairs of panties and tights, in a variety of colors. Most were loose, but there were a few unopened packages as well. Mixed in among them were a pair of nipple clamps, a leather strap, a wooden spoon, leather wrist and leg cuffs, and a leather collar. I covered my face with my hands.

Brooke picked up the strap and lightly smacked it against her hand. "Who used to use this on you?"

"No one, I swear. I know I wasn't honest about having all this stuff. But I only use the strap and spoon on myself. I promise. It's actually kind of hard to do."

"That's pretty pathetic, but I guess that's why I'm inclined to believe you. Because you're pretty pathetic."

"I am, I know. I'm sorry, Brooke."

"Not as sorry as your going you're going to be. There's going to be some changes around here. First, you're going to give me a little fashion show."

A her command, I put on and modeled for her several pairs of panties and tights.

My cock was shamefully hard the entire time. When I put on a particularly shiny pair of black tights, Brooke said, "Stop. Come here." She rubbed her hand over the shiny fabric that was tented out by my cock. "Walter, you're my knight in shining nylon." She giggled, sipping her glass of wine.

"You've been a very naughty knight, lying to your lady. Bend over the bed."

After I did, so, she hit me 10 times on my bottom with the leather strap through my tights. Brooke was something of a gym rat, and was in excellent shape. She hit hard, about ten times harder than I ever could when trying to beat myself. Afterwards, she finished her bottle of wine, watching a movie while forcing me to stand in the corner for 45 minutes -- my tights pulled down halfway, my red ass on display.

That night, however, she spooned me and tenderly held me in bed, until we both fell asleep. Still wearing my tights, I felt submissive and protected, and slept like a baby.

Following that day, Brooke threw away all of my briefs and boxers, except for two pairs "just in case."; I was now compelled to wear panties every day under my pants or shorts. She purchased me several new pairs, in a variety of styles and colors. She favored sheer, nylon mesh and satin fabrics, rather than cotton, many with little bows or ruffles. She also bought me several new pairs of pantyhose, tights and thigh high stockings, including three pairs of seamed, sheer, black stockings.

From that point forward, when I gave Brooke her nightly foot massages or recited poetry to her, I wore nothing save for a pair of panties or tights, often with a pair of nipple clamps.

So that luck I mentioned? This was the beginning of the end of my golden era; storm clouds were on the horizon.