Wifely Husband

The current economy has caused a lot of havoc with families. In many households, the male is no longer working, while the lady of the house is the one bringing home the bacon and winning the bread. It was the same in our place. In fact, one day my Significant Other made a crack that I was her ‘wife’.

Although I was staying at home, cleaning and cooking, that hurt a little. It brought to mind all those ‘50’s sitcoms with the glamorous housewife taking care of things while the husband was away. Then I thought: Dresses, high heels, fancy hairdo, pearls. Sounds good, actually.

I decided to go all out. Just before my S.O. was due home, I changed into a black cocktail dress, rhinestone jewelry and patent high heels. I applied the most glamorous makeup I could, including false eyelashes and nail polish, and brushed my wig till it was perfect. I “dimmed all the lights, poured the wine, started the music” and got ready for love.

When my S.O. was coming up the steps, I was ready. “Hello, darling!” I gushed as I opened the door. She is used to my alter ego, ‘Cynthia’, even to her appearing by surprise, but I’d never met her at the door this way. She figured out exactly what was going on, though. She gave me a distracted kiss on the cheek, plucked the glass of wine from the silver tray I carried, and brushed past me into the house.

She flopped down in my easy chair, barely glancing up as I placed a plate of snacks on the table within easy reach. She opened the paper, reaching out for a nibble or sip of wine, while I bustled about, straightening already straight things.

Of course, she knew what I really wanted, so she was not surprised when I brought out another tray – this one heaped with ropes. I placed it in front of her, turned gracefully, and put my hands behind my back. With a theatrical sigh of feigned exasperation, she tied my hands behind my back.

“I suppose you’re going to pester me with questions,” she asked.

“Well, I was wondering how your day went, who you had—Mfffgh!” My prattle cut off by the insertion of a gag into my prettily lipsticked mouth. She knotted it firmly around my blonde head, then pushed me gently towards the chair across the room. I sat down, and she tied my ankles together.

There I was, the perfect housewife – glamorously dressed, bound, completely silent and no bother at all to the Head of the Household. That worthy person plopped back down into the easy chair, picked up the paper, and resumed reading. Occasionally a sip of wine or a munchie was consumed. The trussed up woman across the room was ignored.

Of course I quite like being a woman in bondage. Helplessness is feminine, and being roped up is the most helpless of all. Still, it gets tiring after awhile. After over 45 minutes with my hands secured behind me, my ankles roped together and a gag distending my mouth, I’d about had enough. When my S.O. put down the newspaper, I whimpered a little, and squirmed in a sexy way. She glanced up.

“Oh, yeah,” she muttered, as if a tied up wife was a minor oversight. She untied my ankles, helped me to my feet, removed the gag, and finally untied my hands. She took me in her arms, and we kissed. The music I’d put on earlier was playing a slow romantic song, and we slipped into a dance, just us two. She pillowed her head on my breasts just like an adolescent boy as we swayed back and forth. I felt her fingers fumbling behind me, and shortly my flirty little apron came off. Another minute, and my cocktail dress puddled at my feet. I stepped out of it. Underneath, I’d been wearing some slinky lingerie.

“You’re delicious,” she murmured. Gently, she turned me around. Once again, I felt my hands being tied. I feigned romantic oblivion, until she had the knot tied.

“Darling,” I said, “What are you doing to me?”

“As it happens,” she said, “I really do have some work to do tonight. And I don’t want anyone – not even the sexiest she-male in the city – bothering me. So, I’m going to make sure you don’t pester me with your unremitting demands for sex!” She pushed down on the floor and tied my ankles together again. Then she jacked my legs up and put me in a ‘cat-curl’: leaning back against the loveseat, legs tucked up under me. I knew my place, though.

“Phooey,” I said as I pulled against the ropes. “All right, but use a cover-gag, will you?”

“All right,” she said, tying a silk scarf over my lips. By our rules, I wasn’t allowed to say anything.

I whimpered prettily as she walked away to her desk. I twisted my bound hands behind me, but escape would be difficult—if I wanted to. I wondered how much work she had to do, and regretted not asking her before she gagged me. It didn’t matter – I would remain, deliciously tied up, until she had need of me. Then she would untie my legs, lead me back to the bedroom, and I would fulfill my other wifely duties.

01.09.11