Of course just as things were escalating, we had a break at school. So, I couldn't see Jenny in her usual seat in the third row riser, exposing her panties to me. That is, when she felt like giving me a show. When she felt like torturing me.
Now I had to wait a whole extra week and wonder whether in the next class she would keep her legs open or closed -- whether they would be clean or soaked with her lover's cum.
And in that time, I replayed those office hour sessions in my mind where she would continue the tease. I imagined the aroma of her pussy dripping on my leather couch, as I hoped to lick it clean. Or I imagined the texture of the fabric of her panties against my tongue mixed with the taste of her boyfriend's cum and her pussy.
I imagined all that as I followed Jenny's punishment -- delegated to my wife -- and edged myself every day. Previously, Jenny had my wife edge me, but now I was on my own. I wondered if that was meant as a punishment for me or a reward for my wife.
On the first day of break, I heard my wife gasp from the kitchen. She saw me come in with the questioning look, looked up from her phone and said, "Oh, it's a text from her."
"Jenny?"
"
Ms. Anderson
, Mr. Cale," she said.
"Yes, sorry, Mrs. Cale."
We found ourselves switching more frequently to our honorifics. It was how Jenny referred to us. I was 'Professor' or 'Mr. Cale.' My wife was 'Mrs. Cale.' And Jenny was always 'Ms. Anderson.'
I said, "Can I see?"
My wife thought for a moment and texted back. The silence hung between us for a minute until we heard the ping from her phone.
My wife dropped her hand down and shook her head. "She says this is just between us."
And now 'us' meant Jenny and my wife. I felt sad because -- I don't know -- I had a thought that Jenny was
my
friend. But, we all knew that wasn't true. She was my tormentor. She was my Domme, if I were honest. There were intimacies she would never have with me.
But as the text conversations went on, I felt that it was part of Jenny's diabolical approach. She was strengthening their partnership. Now that Jenny had my wife's number (in so many ways) they continued developing their connection. To my knowledge, Jenny never called my wife but they did exchange messages frequently. And it wasn't lost on me that even though Jenny could have easily gotten my number, I received nothing.
And seeing that connection grow, seeing my wife have a secret connection with another person, simply fueled my desire to get their attention. It might have been my own narcissism to think that Jenny or my wife were doing this deliberately to extend my sexual anxiety, to further humiliate me. It was better than thinking they were forming a real bond -- one I would never be able to form. The effect was the same either way. I was determined to do anything to please them. I woke up thinking of how to please them. I went to bed thinking of how to please them.
That impulse started with my consequence for coming without permission at the last office hours. So, I would at least start the day with edging and end the day with it, at the very least.
The first night, my wife walked in on me.
"Are you playing with yourself, Mr. Cale?"
I froze. It felt like being caught doing something dirty even though I knew they demanded it as atonement.
"Keep going," my wife said as she took a seat in the reading chair in the corner and began to watch me -- legs crossed under her skirt as she let her foot dangle provocatively.
But my erection began to flag.
"What's the matter? Is he shy?" she said. "Do you need some help?"
Somehow, masturbating for just my wife felt strange. I mean, normally if we were horny, we'd be rolling in the sheets. With Ms. Anderson, I never questioned her instructions. But my wife hadn't taken that dominating tone with me -- not until Jenny showed her the way.
Our office hours had awakened something in my wife -- an old lust. One she thought she had put behind her with the exchange of our wedding vows. With Jenny dominating us, my wife had become bolder with me. She liked adding to my torture. And my current flagging state was revealing that I too needed more than our old vanilla sex to get me going.
"I wonder if you just need a different inspiration," my wife said standing up. She walked over to the side of the bed. She looked me in the eye and began to pull up her skirt. Slowly she exposed her silky pink underwear. The filmy fabric barely covered her hairless mound.
I felt the life begin to return to my dick. My wife smiled. Maybe she even felt flattered knowing it wasn't
just
Jenny's pussy that could stir me.
"You like looking up women's skirts?" she said. "Unfortunately, this pussy isn't getting filled by you anytime soon." She slowly traced the cleft of her vulva. "But maybe you can make these panties sticky in a different way."
She hooked her fingers in the straps and slowly began to slide them down her legs. She bent straight over at the waist for effect. When the panties got to her ankles, she stepped out and lifted them up. Her skirt stayed bunched, exposing her whole smooth vulva to me. Her labia were pink and delicate. I pursed my lips, thinking about licking her. She held out the panties to me dangling off one finger. Then she let them drop onto my lap where they landed on the tip of my dick.
"Why don't you use those to stroke yourself?" she said as she turned to walk back to her chair. She didn't bother to pull down her skirt, so it slid slowly down her ass as she walked away, covering one cheek and leaving the other exposed. It was so fucking sexy.
As she turned around and sat down, I began to use her panties to stroke myself. I'd already started to get hard again, but using the cool fabric, knowing that they'd just hugged her pussy, and feeling the intoxicating effect of her boldness, I began to lose my self-consciousness. I could feel the slight dampness at the gusset and even could smell the light aroma of my wife's arousal.
I increased my tempo, sliding the smooth fabric over the head of my dick, watching the pre-come seep through.
I heard the 'snap' sound effect of her phone's camera and looked over to see her tapping on the screen. I heard the 'send' sound as she was, of course, sending pictures back to Jenny.
"Ms. Anderson demands evidence of your compliance," she said.
My breath came faster as I realized I had no privacy even here in our marital bed. My wife was giving Jenny a peephole into our private life.
There was a ping. My wife said, "She says, 'The dignified professor.' There's an eye roll emoji."
I had to stop stroking immediately to keep from coming. My dick twitched under the taught fabric as a bead of cum flowed up.
She said, "Wow, that didn't take long after all. While you take a break, you can suck that clean, then you can wear them the rest of the night."
For the rest of the week I wore my wife's panties, even though we didn't have office hours where I would have to prove to Jenny I was wearing them. My wife would slip out of a frilly pair at night and hand them to me, "For tomorrow."
She giggled as I struggled to get the thong situated or to keep my hard dick inside. Then she'd take a picture and send it to Jenny. I never heard directly, but sometimes my wife would say, "Ms. Anderson approves," or "Needs more lace," or one time, "I thought he was small enough to tuck inside?"
That one made me wish for a moment that I
could
stay soft enough to make the panties look prettier on me. And it's not like I ever wanted to dress in women's clothing. Being a sissy wasn't my fantasy. Yet, I wanted to make them happy and seeing me like that -- vulnerable and embarrassed -- really seemed to please them. And I would do anything if I thought it would turn them on.
My wife started to enjoy "catching" me at edging. After the second day, she simply demanded it whenever it amused her.
"Do it now," she said the first time while we were watching TV on the couch together. "Don't stop until the show is over."
I started to pull my pants down, but she stopped me. "No, just take it out. We don't need to see your body."
The thought that I was now performing for Jenny behind the camera would bring me to the brink quickly. My wife waited a minute or two when I was thoroughly over-sensitive. Then she reached over and rubbed her thumb over the crown until my leg began to quiver.
Then she let go, wiping her thumb on my slacks. She said, "Start again."
On the third time, she recorded a video for Jenny. She said, "See how his legs shake? He can only use his fingers to lightly stroke or he'll burst."
I moaned.
