Diary Of A Panty Lovers Wife Ch 02

10 days. That seems to be about the right amount of time. If I can convince my husband to hold off orgasm for 10 days, I can get him to do just about anything I want.

I don't necessarily get off on making my husband do things--I'm no dominatrix. I just like sex. But I've learned over time that to get the sex I want, I have to play into his fantasies a bit. Sometimes a lot. Seriously, he might as well be a woman. It's such a mental game to get him turned on sometimes. In his defense, I have several fantasies to choose from, but they all revolve around one grand theme: my underwear. And not just my panties, but pantyhose, slips, girdles, camisoles--all of it.

We are happily married, and over time, he has confessed (and tried to explain) many of his deviant desires to me. Most of them stemmed from some incident in his formative years--seeing or noticing something that, for whatever reason, gave him a hard-on. From then on, it just evolved into straight-up sexual obsession. Sometimes thoughts get into your head at a young age and they're just hard to shake. Women's underwear was definitely a central theme in many of his thoughts.

I've already told how I discovered my husband's appreciation for wearing my intimates. I didn't catch him in the act. I didn't find my missing panties in his gym bag. Nothing like that. He just showed me one day. I guess he's always been pretty honest that way. So honest, in fact, that he told me later that wasn't the first time he had ever worn my panties. He put them on all the time. He's played in them for years. And not just MY underwear, either. He was getting hard-ons from girls underwear for years before he even knew what the hard-ons were for!

The earliest he can remember enjoying the "softer side" of clothing was when he was six or seven. It was the classic scenario you've probably read a hundred times: young boy going to school, no clean laundry, has a sister close to his age, mom says "Just wear these" and gives him a pair of sis's panties, and the rest is history. The only thing different is when my husband describes this event to me, he never mentions how great the panties felt on his cock as he rubbed himself in class. Or how they felt at all, for that matter. He doesn't necessarily recall even having an erection. What he remembers is that they had little flowers on them and he thought they were pretty. This turned into something quite fundamental in his developing sexual thought life. Beyond the physical, purely sensual pleasure, he had a real appreciation for softness and femininity. He pondered what it would be like to be delicate and pretty like the girls. Not that he acted effeminately or tried to emulate girlish behavior, he was just fascinated with what it must be like to be like them. How lucky they were to have closets and dressers full of such pretty things. How nice it must be to be allowed to live in that soft, feminine world every day.

This definitely intensified in his junior high years, as puberty slowly began to set in. And it definitely became more physical as he finally put together the correlation between entertaining his thoughts and that pesky bulge that kept popping up in his pants (although it would still be two more years before he knew what to do with it). With a sister and a mom in the house, there was no shortage of laundry lying around. One day, when getting ready for church, he grabbed what he thought were black dress socks out of the laundry room. What they actually were were black knee-highs of his sister's. Easy enough mistake, really. I mean dress socks are generally pretty thin after all. He had one pulled all the way on before he even noticed that something seemed different. They were thinner, almost see-through. What he really remembers was walking back to the laundry room for his actual socks and feeling the air hit his then-hairless lower legs through the nylon material. "Wow! That feels nice!" he thought.

It didn't take him long to put it all together that the nude pantyhose hanging all around the laundry room were the same material as his mistaken sock and he wondered what that sensation would feel like on his whole leg. Making sure nobody was around, he grabbed a pair and headed to the bathroom. He had seen his mom put on pantyhose before. It seemed pretty simple to him. Bunch them all up at the bottom, put your toes in, and them gradually let out the material as you pull them up. It was like he had done this a thousand times. He got both legs in and pulled them up past his stomach. He didn't know why, but that butterfly feeling in his stomach screamed out that this was definitely an immense pleasure and the he'd be doing it again soon. The bathroom wasn't that big, but he walked back and forth as best as he could to feel the air hit his legs and tummy. Marvelous! It didn't last long. His curiosity was at least temporarily satisfied. He pulled them off, put his pants back on, carefully replaced the nylons in the laundry room, and finished getting ready for church. He probably had them on for less than a minute, but that was ground zero of a pantyhose obsession that lasts to this day.

Hearing him tell the story though, it still seemed way more mental than it was physical. It is true that he was fascinated by how the pantyhose felt on his legs, but that novel, "breezy" feeling isn't exactly sexual. He still hadn't figured out masturbation, so there were limits to how physical this was really going to be. What really cemented this into his psyche was noticing the church girls later that morning. Some girls his age had already starting to develop, others still just looked like young, junior high girls. But virtually all of them were wearing either pantyhose or tights. He never really noticed before how universal they seemed to be. And all of these girls were sitting there looking as feminine as could be--freshly pressed dresses, nylons, Mary Jane's, cute little sweaters... All of his earlier thoughts resurfaced--how nice it must be to be allowed to sit there like that, all soft and pretty. His mind of course focused on the nylons as he mentally revisited his time in the bathroom just an hour earlier. "Those felt really nice. I wish I could just wear them all the time like they do. They probably don't even know how lucky they are!" Oh, the unfairness in the universe! These girls just walked around all day in their tights like it was nothing. He would have to sneak his for a few minutes at a time in the bathroom.

His femininity fascination led him to trying out other clothing items that he would occasionally find in the laundry room. His sister had a few pairs of panties that were made of some stretchy-satin sort of material. He has no idea what the material actually was, but it was definitely not cotton. This is when he really started to appreciate the physical as well as the mental. Those panties felt great as that mystery material stretched around his small mast. And they were shiny! Remember the part about some seemingly irrelevant detail making an impact and becoming an obsession? Well, here's an example. Panties have to be shiny. You want to turn my husband on? Cotton's not going to do it.

He would also occasionally find a slip to wear. His sister's full slips were short enough that they didn't extend much past his butt, so every once in a while he would put one on, tuck it into his pants and wear it to school for a day. He loved the way it felt as it slid around on his skin. He wore a light jacket so the straps wouldn't show through his shirt, and he would periodically reach his hand up under his jacket to feel the slip slide around under his shirt. But like everything else, whatever physical pleasure he derived, it was twice as much of a mental excursion. Sure, the slip felt nice, but what got his attention was the lace trim, the delicate straps, the shiny finish of the material. Why were girl's clothes so pretty? Why were they allowed to enjoy this lacy, soft, delicate, FEMININE existence and he was stuck wearing pants and tidy-whities?

This line of thinking reached full maturity in high school. This is when the girls began to discover the power of seduction. They would walk around the private school (where dresses and skirts were required), showcasing their long legs in dark, sheer nylons. Most boys were attracted to the legs of the girls themselves and how they could follow those legs up to some sort of hole they could jam their cocks into. Although the beauty of the nylon covered legs was not lost on my husband, he was infinitely more seduced by the power itself. How captivating this power was! That a girl could slide on some pantyhose and a nice dress and could walk into a room and instantly have the full attention of every boy in there. Every male eye followed her legs across the room and every dick stirred with raw, sexual desire. The confidence that girl must have to know she could wield that sort of power! The thought was absolutely intoxicating.

This is one of those things that separates my husband from a lot of the trannies and sissies you see on the internet. Does he wish he was a woman? Absolutely. He wishes he could experience--even just for a day--that sort of sexual power over someone else. He wishes that he existed in a world of soft materials and delicate accents. More than anything, he wishes he could experience the kind of orgasms women have. The total-mind-and-body, wave-after-wave, eyes-rolled-back-in-your-head, out-of-control orgasms that boys don't get to have. But one thing he doesn't want to be is a guy dressed up like a girl acting like a sissy and talking in a high-pitched lisp. There's no seductive power with that. Don't get me wrong. He appreciates the thrill and excitement that comes with "forbidden", taboo behavior, but doing curtsies in a petticoat isn't really his thing. He will never be a public crossdresser. He will certainly never reveal his secrets to anyone but me. But when he peeks under his slacks and sees panties and nylons, his deepest fantasy and desire is imagining he actually could be that attractive, exquisitely feminine creature and that these legs could present themselves to the world every day, not as a dude dressed like a chick, but as a beautiful, sexual, seductive woman.

Well, back to the real world. He's not a woman. He's my husband. And as much as he wishes he had a vagina, I actually do have one. And it occasionally needs a dick in it. The problem is that he over-romanticizes the pussy. With all of these other childhood ideas bouncing around in his head, the pussy has taken on an almost mystical, supernatural status. It is definitely not a sometimes sweaty, sometimes not-so-clean, but very functional orifice that aids in going to the bathroom and feels really good when filled with cock. No. In his mind, it is the very essence of my womanhood. It is the center from which emanates all of this magical, seductive power. It is the very core of my femininity. It is basically equivalent to the holy-of-holies. It is a delicate flower that should be carefully and reverently wrapped in the finest of satins and silks when not in use. At the appropriate times, its unveiling should border on ceremonial. Goodness gracious! Just stick your cock in it already!

So back to the 10 days. I don't really have to convince him or distract him to not jerk off for 10 days. He would go 30 if I told him there was a special treat for him at the end. He is totally driven by expectation. He loves the build-up and would happily be on the edge of sanity for an entire month as long as that month was spent mentally rehearsing whatever fantasy I told him was waiting at the end. But an entire month is unnecessary--10 days is enough. It does the job. It leads up to a night of enjoyment for him and I get mine the next morning. Just the leftovers, you say? Hardly. He's reluctant to have plain old sex, because after building it up in his mind for so long, he's much too close to orgasm to last more than about 6 seconds inside me. But there's enough of a "second wind" the next morning that I can get a pretty good drilling. He's not so sensitive since he finally released his load the night before, but he's aroused enough to do the job long enough for me to climax. Mission accomplished.

But back to the night before. Apart from penetration, being so close to the edge definitely makes him do anything else I could ever want. I said I wasn't a dominatrix and that's true. But I'm no dummy either and I'm happy to capitalize on his fragile state of mind. One trick is knowing that by this time, it's almost totally mental, which means that I don't even have to play with his dick. He's so out of his mind that I can just give him a nice pair of panties and some control-top pantyhose and I know that he'll be safely tucked in there for future use. Hard to even get an erection if the pantyhose are tight enough. Seriously, sometimes a good pair of control tops works as well as a chastity cage. Sometimes I'll throw in a bodysuit or a panty girdle. I do it to make the underwear even tighter and make sure his penis is kept in check. But he feels more feminine, which makes him even hornier, and I reap the benefits. Call it a win-win.

Remember the inordinate pussy worship? That actually works out pretty well for me too, because his version of worship involves a lot of tongue work. Since he views this as the very core of my womanhood, he becomes almost desperate to experience it as intimately as he can. He begs me to straddle his face so he can ravenously suck up my juices. I willingly comply with his request. I guess that's just one more favor he owes me. In his frenzy, he will grab the tops of my thighs and force me down onto his face. If I'm feeling nice, I'll wear some satin panties and pantyhose as well. A hole in the gusset gives him all the access he needs. If we just came home from a date, I'll leave my dress on for a while. Straddling his face on the bed, he can enjoy the view from inside the tent formed by my dress and slip draped over his head. His mind is free to wander back to his high school days. Those pretty, feminine girls in their pretty, feminine dresses... This is what he would have liked to do to them. Crawl right up inside those skirts and experience their femininity in the most intimate way he could imagine--unwrapping that delicate core of womanhood and lapping for all he was worth. And now here he would be--his tongue in a pussy, satin encased ass in his face, and nylon clad thighs hugging his face, all from his secret little hideout inside my skirt. All the while, his cock straining futilely against his own very feminine, but restrictive clothing. Squirming and writhing on the bed as though he were in pain, the desire building and building inside him, but without the corresponding erection that could bring him release. Pelvis desperately pumping the air but with no hope of satisfaction.

Okay. Maybe I am a dominatrix.

But I don't think so. Not really. I'm getting pleasure out of the fact that my pussy is being worked by a master. I don't get any sexual pleasure out of dressing my husband up. That's just a means to an end. The more I play to his fantasies, the more pleasure I get. I know he would love to experience sex as a woman, so I try to help a little. I touch him in all the ways I like to be touched. My erogenous zones aren't necessarily the same as his, but he is aroused by the experience. I gently graze the inside of his nylon covered thighs. I run my hands up and down his sides, grabbing hold of his satin hips at the bottom and playfully pinching his nipples on the return. What that man can do to my pussy and clit with his lips and tongue is incredible, so I'll occasionally reward him by leaning forward and gently grabbing his crotch. I know he's powerless to produce an erection against the prison of his undergarments, but his squirming betrays that it must definitely be pleasurable. He'll give out a desperate--almost pathetic--moan, which vibrates my clit exquisitely.

Eventually, I feel that wonderful electricity radiating from my abdomen and spreading slowly to my fingers and toes. My clit swells and my nipples harden. I began crushing his head between my thighs like a vise. Every muscle tightens and my pelvis convulses uncontrollably as he forcefully holds me down on his face. Through no conscious will of my own, I grind my clit into his chin while his lips continue to work their magic on mine. It's usually about this time that I look down and see my husband, lying there in pantyhose and a slip--maybe a girdle, maybe a bodysuit... whatever. As I tremble from the aftershocks, I shrug and think, "I guess there's worse things."

Well, we can't just leave hubby in this state forever. I'm pretty satisfied for now. If I don't give him some release soon, it's definitely not going to last long we he finally "comes inside to play". He's a good man and he deserves a treat. I know he doesn't want to lose the pantyhose, so we always keep scissors in the nightstand drawer. Some quick--but careful--work on the gusset of his nylons and panties produces a hole from which his desperate member springs. It almost instantaneously engorges with blood. He holds his breath as the feeling from so quick an erection combined with his already desperate state are sometimes enough to throw him right over the edge of orgasm. He loves the hole in the nylons.

Back to his childhood.

Remember the random thoughts that get lodged in a kid's brain? Right around his fourteenth birthday, a male teacher at the school asked if my husband could help him move from one apartment to another that weekend. He would pay him $20 for the day, which I suppose at that time was a fair price for a high school freshman. The teacher's fairly attractive wife--also in her mid-twenties--worked at the school as well, but in a separate administrative section. They were a young couple fresh out of religious college. My husband knew who she was, but didn't see her much and certainly never interacted. The staff, like the students, followed the same strict dress code of dresses and skirts, so he had never seen any of these women any other way. He had already developed an intense appreciation for pantyhose by this time and had only just recently--finally--figured out how to masturbate. These were truly magical times.

He was picked up by the teacher that Saturday morning and driven over to the old apartment, where the young Mrs. was packing up things in the kitchen. Maybe she just finished working at the school or maybe she was cold. Who knows? But she was wearing nude nylons underneath a pair of fuzzy, gray, 80s-style sweatpants. The sweatpants were pulled up just above her knees exposing a very nice pair of shiny, nylon covered calves. Her otherwise bare feet made their way back and forth across the kitchen carrying glasses and plates. Wow! What a strange combination of visual delights the heavens sent down that day! Her hips were just full enough to make this outfit incredible. He knew that underneath the loose sweats, her legs and ass were encased in a nice, tight cocoon of nylon. He couldn't help but wonder what the soft, fuzzy material of her pants would feel like sliding over those smooth pantyhose. He wished he could grab a handful of that woman's ass just to see what it felt like. But while all of this was going on, he immediately noticed something he had never noticed before.

She had no dick.

It may seem like he should have known this already--and of course he did. Academically. But he had never really noticed the shape of a woman's body before. As she was working, she kept pulling her pants up, and every time she did, he could see the material pressed tightly against the gap between her thighs and wrapping around to her barely poochy tummy. He had never noticed this before. All the girls at school wore dresses, and he was only just now the age where he might have paid attention to a girl in tight pants. Back then, women weren't just walking around in yoga pants and spandex leggings. This truly was a unique opportunity for him. "So smooth," he thought. You see, he had already been sneaking the occasional pair of panties and nylons for a couple years now, but whenever he looked down to admire the view, there was always this alien bulge that didn't belong. Subconsciously, his mind just accepted that as the norm. He never really thought about it. But now, through the material of her constantly readjusted pants, he finally noticed the distinct lack of... anything. Just a magical smooth void that extended from her tummy, between her legs, and around to her butt. He couldn't stop staring at it. His mind went back to the fuzzy pants material and what it would feel like to just palm her pussy and let his hand slide back and forth, encountering nothing but smooth curves. He looked down at his own hardening obstruction. The difference permanently registered itself in his mind.