Emily left for a work meeting this morning, a week out of town, one of her quarterly things.

First, I’m in chastity. Like, still in chastity, like, fuck, I’d have to look at a calendar to figure out how long it’s been (I looked, today is day fucking 23!)

Last week I’d hinted for several days that it would mean so much to me if she would release me before she left—it got so bad that on Thursday I begged her to let me fuck her, begged her to even just unlock me and jerk me off. Of course, I picked this fight at like eleven at night when we were both tired and about to fall asleep. Needless to say, picking a fight with your wife at eleven at night and angrily asking for, almost demanding, sex, is NOT going to end well. It’s not going to end with sex.

Emily didn’t talk to me Friday. Didn’t return my phone calls. Didn’t return my texts. Didn’t come home after work on Friday until about midnight. Well, when she got home, her sissy was waiting—with flowers and a sincere apology. I apologized for starting a fight at eleven at night, apologized for being bratty and needy, but reiterated my point that it wasn’t just sex I missed, it wasn’t just cumming (I missed them both) but intimacy, too, cuddling, touching, kissing, talking.

Emily thanked me for the apology and the flowers, explained herself, agreed that whatever I felt, picking a fight at night was not acceptable. But she kissed me and cuddled me and I don’t think her hand left me all night.

So, fast forward to Saturday night, dinner, wine, candles, music, simply a relaxing environment, classic Sara seduction of Emily. And it worked!

We found ourselves in bed Saturday night, kissing, touching, smiling, giggling; my body was almost shaking with anticipation. Until just before I started to kiss my way down her stomach, on my way towards kissing her inner thighs, to licking and teasing and making her...

“Sara,” she interrupted me, “just a second.”

“You want me to stop,” I said, hurt creeping into my voice, the emotions from the last few days and weeks flowing into my mind.

“Stop, no, god no, just before you...before you start...”

“Yes?”

“I appreciate the flowers yesterday, and the apology, you wouldn’t be doing this...”

“I know,” I interrupted her, wanting to get back to what I wanted to do, knowing where it would lead.

“You should have apologized, I’m glad you understood that, you were acting like, well, a spoiled child.”

“Yes, I...I know,” I said, feeling my sexual excitement start to ebb ever so slightly, which was sometimes a relief—it took the pressure off the swelling in the cage.

“And while the flowers were nice, your behavior was completely inappropriate and disrespectful and I think you need a consequence, too.”

OH FUCK, my mind was suddenly very alert, very focused, and very scared.

“You do?”

“Don’t you?”

“I...” I started to say that I supposed, but that didn’t seem strong enough, because she was probably right, was right. “Yes,” I looked down, very aware of just what that consequence was likely to be. “We’re not going to...”

“No,” she shook her head. “I would have, I planned to, but no, not now. Not until I get back.”

“Nothing,” I asked, seeking clarification, I suppose, if she meant no sex or worse, and more likely, that she wouldn’t unlock the cage at all.

“No, sweetie, not for you, anyway, you’ll finish what you started,” she grinned, “but that stays on until I get back on Saturday.”

My stomach sank—another week? Another fucking week? Worse, she wasn’t being evil or arbitrary, like a child, the consequences for my actions flowed naturally from my actions themselves. There’s a time and place for everything and that fight was the wrong time and the wrong place. I fought about being unlocked so I was not going to be unlocked before she left.

Which led to the second thing.

See, Emily has this thing where she asks my advice on outfits she picks up—kind of a Sunday ritual before she goes out of town. She models each outfit she’s selected to wear and wants my opinions on the outfit, the shoes, the accessories. Yea, she’s married to a sissy, so of course she asks me my opinion.

How's it go?

Well, she'll come out of the closet wearing something like this:

And I'll give my opinion (this one, needs jewelry or color)

Or something like this:

My comment, add the pink/black scarf.

Red skirt suit, easy, add a bracelet and a necklace, pearls or silver

We went through all her outfits for the week, then she came out of the closet wearing a dress similar this, no bra, and obviously, from the clings, no panties either.

“Emily, you can’t fucking wear that to a work event,” I gasped, “Jesus Christ, not even dinner after your meetings.”

“Obviously,” she frowned.

I just looked at her, waiting for an explanation.

“We don’t have anything scheduled on Thursday night and,” the frown disappeared and she looked down, almost shyly, almost ashamed, but not quite, “and, well, Adam, you remember Adam, my old boss, Adam will be there the second half of the week and...and he asked me if I wanted to go to this club, and so...it’s just us and...you know I have a little crush on him and...

“By crush you mean you’re attracted to him, isn’t that what you told me before?”

“A little, yea.”

“And how you used to banter with him? And flirt a little...more than a little...he’s going to think...you know what he’s going to think...are you really going to...” I started to ask, knowing she would not answer, knowing she loved to tease and torment, knowing that...

“Yes,” she whispered softly.

“What?” Did I hear her right? Yes? Yes? Did she say yes?

“Yes,” she said again, “I...I want to...I...I’m going to...you...,” she looked down at my midsection, where my cage was, where I was locked up, knowing without asking that I was swelling, that locked up, denied release for weeks, I’d never say no, I’d never beg her not to, that I would want it as much as she did.

I swallowed, looked down, too, ashamed at my own excitement, excitement magnified by weeks of denial. “You...you should pack something pretty to...to sleep in...”

“Will you pick something for me, Sara, something pretty,” she asked, looking at me with such tender eyes, eyes I can barely describe, the beautiful, lovely, loving eyes of a woman who knows, KNOWS how much I love her.

I did, a black and mocha fly away babydoll with matching thong panties, something tastefully pretty because Emily is tastefully pretty. Yet purposefully skimpy, so that if...when...she put it on for a man, for Adam, she’d do so in the bathroom while he waited for her in the bed, waited for my wife, knowing he was going to fuck her. She’d get dressed in the bathroom, that’s just something she’d do, come out to the candle lit room, and ask him nervously, “do you like it?”

Of course he would, both—the lingerie and her body. And she’d know, as he stared at her, as he stiffened, as stared at her with lust in his eyes, that she was wearing what her sissy, the love of her life, picked for her to wear. That her sissy, me, was home, locked up, imagining her in this moment, knowing the shy look she’d have on her face as her old boss started at her, welcomed her into bed.