Her Story Pt 04 Opening Night

(Following is the 4th episode of "Her Story" cycle which is based upon my earlier "Prologue")

Several days had passed since I assumed control of all sexual matters involving my husband of 15 years. As days tend to go, most of our first few spins of the globe as "wife & wife" in our new reality proved mostly unremarkable, especially after that first evening we were already calling the "Night of the Ten-and-a-Half-Pound Tongue!"

This latest morning promised little, a work day breaking clean and crystal clear as darling hubby pulled out early in our farm's semi with a load of non-GMO soybeans bound for Maumee, OH. Although I often ride along on these little jaunts following lay-by, I opted to stay home this time since the events of the last few days needed sorting in my mind, and my best thinking is done alone. Since only three days had passed since I placed several on-line orders, it was something of a surprise then when the first of this assorted sexual accoutrement arrived at our door. I eagerly sat down at the kitchen table and tore into the discreet brown parcel like a kid on Christmas morning.

As hoped, the initial arrival contained the chastity device I'd ordered first - a pink CB-6000S - and my fingers trembled as I separated it from its packaging and spread its various bits and pieces out on the table for closer inspection. Holding the actual plastic cage in my hand, I felt my panty gusset filling to the brim as I pictured his cock straining against the unyielding walls of this new pink prison. "Awesome" is such an overused word today, but certainly not when used to describe thoughts like that . . .

My mind's eye followed hubby's trail that morning north to the grain dump at "The Andersons of Maumee" where I pictured my little darling shooting the shit with other drivers waiting to unload. I'd packed him off that morning wearing new pink lace panties beneath his old work jeans, and I wondered if their bikini cut had prevented anyone from seeing his panty line? I was also curious how any present uneasiness might amp up when he unloads there the next time knowing his own package is also under lock and key. From personal experience gained while making this same trip many times with my father, I know plenty of inane "har-har-harring" passes between men who gather in places like a Midwestern grain elevator; it was practically an epiphany, however, to suddenly consider that dear hubby might not be the first farmer to avoid the Anderson urinals when he needs to take a piss . . .

For the last several days, I'd been giving a great deal of thought to exactly how I was going to introduce Dearie to his pink CB-6000S. Primarily I'd been considering scenarios wherein my loved one feels a butt plug penetrating his virgin ass while the non-too-subtle "click" of his cock cage padlock is still ringing in his ears. My currently favorite variation on this "double-whammy" theme had me caging his cock and stoppering his ass while he's strapped in the stirrups of a gynecologist's chair - as bonafide a reason to use "awesome," I thought, that you're likely to find! But as I stared at the now-assembled cock cage posed on the kitchen table, I realized all my various fantasies fell short in the now-critical instant gratification department since none of the various butt plugs I'd ordered had yet to arrive!

This new, desperate need to see Honey's freshly-shaved ass presented for my penetration upset my original, well-measured plan to patiently wait until all toys had been delivered before mounting an assault on his anal virginity. My all-consuming desire to watch a plug socketed into his rosebud while his caged cock dangled uselessly from a now-hairless crotch made me want to forget the rest of my on-line orders and just find a way to make this happen NOW! There's an adult toy store over on the interstate, I thought . . . It's over 70 miles away, but shit - I really needed to see that cock locked and his sweet ass stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey. More importantly, I needed to see it tonight! "Fuck it," I heard myself saying. "Let's just do it. If we hurry, we can make it back for a cock-suckin' G&T before he gets home. . ."

I've been past this place on I-75 hundreds of times, but never once had it ever occurred to me that I'd go there. Its remote location and large parking lot sprinkled with 18 wheelers gave off a creepy vibe so - just in case - I pulled my Smith & Wesson Airweight from our living room's drop-down firearm storage and checked its cylinder. "Locked and loaded!" I said, laughing as the loaded cylinder locked into register, and I holstered the revolver inside my Concealed Carrie hobo bag. Damn, but my girl Annie Oakley would be so fucking proud of me right now, I thought. Maybe you can get a man with a gun, after all . . .

Now, if you chose to overlook the creep who addressed me in the parking lot as "Pretty Mama," or the way my palms sweat profusely all the way there, I'd guess you'd have to say my sudden trip to "the toy store" failed to deliver its anticipated drama. The sales staff went beyond friendly and helpful, and the whole trip might have developed into a full-blown "kid-in-a-candy-store" experience had time not been of the essence. Instead, I grabbed a graduated set of silicone butt plugs, added some water-based lube, a lube shooter three-pack and was back on the road again in 15 minutes. On the way home, I finally allowed myself to relax, setting my cruise to avoid the 20-over-the-limit speed I'd driven to get there and selecting an Alison Krauss playlist. I was singing along to "The Lucky One" when I thought with the butt plugs and lube now joining the Airweight on board, a routine traffic stop might provide some Bear or County Mountie with a fresh definition for "concealed carry" . . .

Back home, I just had time to wash the plugs thoroughly and pre-lube the smallest before I heard his semi grinding up our lane. Filling one of the syringes and placing it and the plugs on my nightstand and the CB-6000S under the bed, I headed down the front stairs to greet darling Roni at the door. As he walked across the lawn with our dog, slim frame backlit by the setting sun, I was reminded of the thrill I felt when I first met him. I raced outside . . .

In many ways, my hubby is a walking physical contradiction. At times all arms and legs, he occasionally radiates the awkward goofy charm of the pre-war Jimmy Stewart, but his length, which seems so obvious from a distance, becomes pure illusion when viewed up close. He's only 5-foot-6 (maybe!) and then only in very heavy socks! When told I'm married to a former college wrestler, new acquaintances often picture me hooked up with some Hulk Hogan-type. It's a bit of shock when they learn my sweetie's class - the NCAA's smallest - stopped at 128 pounds! Posed-action stills of him prior to his injury show his slender arms and legs were once defined by flexible, sinewy muscle, but that muscling (and the training program which sustained it) disappeared long before we met. Running keeps him fit today, but overall his body is softer now. Now just under 120 pounds, his body looks more like it belongs to a perpetual 12-year-old boy than a former college grappler.

At least that's how it seemed until three days ago. That's when I first saw him in the dim light of our bedroom after I'd put him in panties, his skin shaved smooth and his long straight hair pulled tightly into a high ponytail. Only then did it occur to me just how much my sweetheart also resembles an adolescent girl still waiting for her breasts to bud . . .

My enthusiastic welcome and warm embrace surprised him. "Hey!" I said as our dog bounded joyfully around us, barking his fool head off. "Good trip?" He nodded, uncertain where this lavish greeting was headed. "Did you make weight?" He smiled, chuckling at me substituting one of his old wrestling terms for the quantity under contract. "Oh yeah," he said. "And not only did we avoid the dock, but we even received a premium. Hate to deliver bad news, hon, but it looks like we'll be able to afford all this fun at least one more year . . ."

"Like the old boy who wins the lottery and tells reporters he plans to keep farming till it's gone?" I interrupted, spoiling his punchline. "Yup," he said. "That'd be us!"

I possessively wrapped my arm around his waist as we walked into the house. "Ate yet?" I asked, and he shook his head in the negative. "I was just about to make a G&T myself," I said. "How about you shower, then fix us a couple of real mother-fuckin' gin & tonics while I fix us something we can eat on the patio?"

We were working on our second round of G&T's, sitting together in the patio's love seat, when I unzipped his fly, exposing fresh white nylon panties. "Nice!" I exclaimed, rubbing his crotch. "Any of your friends in Maumee wearing bikini briefs today, Honey?" "No-o-o-o," he said, chuckling himself at the idea. "No?" I teased. "Sure about that? I'll just bet if the wives knew how cute you were today in your yummy cummy panties, they'd all be wearing them tomorrow. Suppose any of them realized your wife had her little girl rocking pink today? I could call them, if you like . . . do you want them to know you now have a drawerful of your own pretty panties in pastel girly shades?"

"Fuck no," he answered, blushing pinker than any of his new panties, and I reached out to pull his body into mine. He bashfully ducked his head to my shoulder to avoid my eyes and nuzzled my neck. He's so cute when he does this, I thought, beginning to stroke hair still a bit damp from the shower. Our arms wrapped around each other, and we slipped away into the solitude of our own Midwestern "l'heure bleue." Hands exploring each other, we drifted aimlessly until I heard my own voice break the spell. "Hey, can I ask you a question? One that's been bothering me for a long time?" He raised his head to give me an expectant look. "You never before let me play with your hair, but now you do?" I asked. "What's changed?"

"It's complicated," he said, turning away from me to stare at the disappearing glow on the western horizon. "Can't we just say I'm only trying to do what you now expect of me under our present circumstances?

"What the fuck is that? A legal description? The answer is no, you may not!" I laughed. He had agreed to follow my every lead in sexual matters, but I refused to let him off so easily. "That might explain this moment right now, but it doesn't explain any of our past 15 years together. You've let me know often enough that I wasn't even allowed to mention your hair, let alone play with it during our most intimate moments. Although I convinced myself long ago that neither vanity nor religion were involved, to this day I still have no idea why you've worn long hair all the time that I've known you."

His eyes rolled back in a way that told me he really did not want to answer my questions, but my own eyes stared so intently that he knew he wasn't escaping this time without providing one. "Well, as I just told you, it's complicated," he finally repeated. "Maybe I don't even understand it myself . . ."

He shifted around even further to avoid my stare, but instead I just gathered his luscious locks with both hands. I'd spent time the past two evenings dusting his split ends, and the results were well worth the time. As my fingers traced his sun-splashed golden auburn highlights, I could feel his resistance fading. He continued to avoid my eyes as I combed his hair upward with my fingers, but he remained still and quiet while I slowly twisted his hair into a knot at the top of his head. You could hear us breathing in unison in the silence as I first studied the knot, then the shape of his head before finally releasing my grip. As his hair gracefully uncoiled beneath its own weight to fan out below his shoulders, a resigned sigh told me that my little wrestler was finally throwing in the towel . . .

"Look, I began wrestling shortly before most boys started to grow their hair longer," he began. "Some coaches - some in football but especially wrestling - treated long hair on men like it was the end of the world as they knew it. I really think some of them viewed themselves as the final bulwark of American masculinity, making a last stand in a society which - in their not-so-humble opinions - had clearly gone either mad, to hell or both.

"At wrestling tournaments back then, officials kept a ruler and scissors handy at the scorer's table, and they would actually cut the hair of any kid who didn't literally measure up to their interpretation of the rules. And it was usually 'their interpretation,' please note, and enforcement was often arbitrary. It was, in a word, 'asinine.' I'd like to say that's how I saw it, but for me initially, hair was not important. It was a really big deal for some, but it seemed trivial to me. What was important to me then was wrestling with a capital "W." For a male my size, wrestling was one of the few places where I could compete athletically at a very high level. See - at its heart, stripped of the added bullshit - wrestling is what I call a 'pure sport.' The wrestling team is an artificial concept. Teams are just bullshit; it's the individual who scores the points: it's you on the mat against the other guy, all else being equal, and the guy who's better that day is gonna win.

"It's so simple that it's just a beautiful thing, especially for guys built like me. It didn't matter that I'd been the smallest kid in my grade . . . you know I wrestled under 100 pounds in high school, before I 'got my growth,' that is," he said, laughing. "No, I had 'proof' I was the fucking best. 128 pounds? Sure, but if I was the best at 128, it only followed in my mind that I'd be the best at 228 pounds, too. Hell, even 328!

"Maybe you've never been around wrestling enough to notice that those of us who wrestled the lower weights were mostly insufferable little banty roosters? The good ones, anyway . . . It's taken years for me to finally outgrow it, but I was once one of those little assholes up on the balls of my feet, bouncing around on the mat like I was on speed, every fiber of my being endlessly crowing 'I may only be 128 pounds, muthafucka, but I'm the BADDEST 128 pounds you're EVER gonna see!'"

He searched my face for a glint of understanding on my part. "Does anything I've just said make sense to you so far?" he asked, but frankly I didn't know what to say. I never knew the person he was describing. Never before had I heard him talk like this to anyone, let alone me . . .

"For a long time, that was all I needed," he resumed. "I needed the boost wrestling provided to prove myself - I think we all did. It defined me, but in doing so it also enabled me to turn a blind eye to the bullshit world wrestling was becoming off the mat. Some never escape its culture of control, and I'll be the first to admit it took me longer than it did for most who finally see it for the pure bullshit it's become. The long hair thing, at first, wasn't even specifically my idea of bullshit - that was someone else's bullshit! But even for me, long hair eventually became the symbol of its bullshit in general.

"It didn't hit me until after my shoulder surgery. I blew off a couple haircuts - I got one every two weeks, late Friday afternoon, you could set a clock - but don't flatter me by thinking it was "rebellion" on my part. I had things to do, or something . . . I don't even remember anymore, but the next thing I knew the coaches were ragging me about the length of my hair. The case against long hair was always presented as a hygiene issue - got to keep the god-damned sacred mat inviolable from staph germs or whatever! But after my surgery, the doctor ordered me completely off the god-damned mat, and a couple missed haircuts now constitute a health hazard? Then my rehab began, but the coaches don't even give a fuck-all about how that's going for me. They just want to bust my chops over the date for my next haircut? Well, bullshit to all that!!"

I'd never seen him like this before. I always pegged him for a few hidden issues buried beneath that genial self-contained nature of his but figured he'd get around to tell me when he was ready. Nothing prepared me, though, for all this anger. "Rehab's no picnic, especially after your motivation turns to shit," he said. "One day I just walked into Coach's office and told him my scholarship could go to someone else because I was finished with wrestling. Holy shit!! I don't even want to get into where it went from there: how they acted all butt hurt because I was a champion leaving eligibility behind; how my decision was 'hurting' the fucking 'team!' I'm sure not revisiting the way their arguments devolved into me being nothing more than a selfish pussy asshole, et cetera, et cetera . . .

"Well shit, I figured - if the length of my fucking hair was that fucking important to them, then it was even more fucking important to me. I know it pissed them off as it grew longer, and it angered them that now they had to see me and what they called my 'fag hair' on campus because most of their snide remarks over the next two years eventually got back to me. I haven't been in the athletic building since, but it's a safe bet that while my picture is still there as a conference champion, I otherwise don't exist. That's fine; they mostly don't exist for me, either. Occasionally I'll see people I knew back then. Even though it's been nearly a quarter century, I still get stares and whispers. My hair is just my way of addressing that: 'Fuck you!'"

He paused again to allow me a comment, but it took a few moments to find my voice. "Why have you never told me this?" I finally asked.

"I don't know," he said, looking at his feet. I could tell he was genuinely embarrassed and worried he'd already said too much. "Maybe because once I met you, all that shit went from something that was deathly important to something that only once was? I think when I met you, I was doing a reasonable job just being my buttoned-downed self (and - believe me - he was!), but inside I know I felt like a train wreck. Just knowing you cared about me . . . just hearing your voice say you loved me! Maybe you never noticed, but just knowing you put me back together. Maybe the parts didn't always fit; maybe I'll never be big enough to put all of the old shit behind me, but I realize more and more each day that I'm just happy to be yours - yours anyway you'll have me. I hate that I have to sound so damn needy, but I really need to be your everything. I want to be your man, but I'm more than content to be your woman. I'll even be your little girl, but I just need you to love me."

"Wow," I said. "So no pressure on me, eh? Well, you still haven't explained why you've always been so weird about anyone - especially me - daring to touch it?"

"I guess using my hair for any other purpose than to just say 'Fuck off, asshole' made me uncomfortable, okay? See, I didn't grow my hair because some chick told me it would be "hot." It was my 'freak flag;' my 'Don't Tread On Me flag.' You can't exactly say something like that was 'conceived in love,' can you? It was just there to piss certain people off."

He paused to think what he'd just said before continuing: "There's one more thing, I guess, if I'm being honest . . . crap, I don't know what all I've thought about this over the years, but after all that was said about me at the time, I suppose I didn't want to seem "too fem?" There was this invisible tightrope that needed to be walked because I worried about being gay."

My expression must have been one of total incredulity. "What the fuck does that even mean?" I exclaimed. "You worried you were gay? Or you worried that others thought you were gay? You thought you had some type of contagion that required constant monitoring?!!" He looked devastated by my sudden outburst, but I couldn't help it when I just started laughing at him.