Valentine Daze by Throne (Patreon)

Valentine Daze by Throne

Valentine's Day last year was full of the unexpected for me. The first surprise I got was when my wife Martina revealed that she had found out I had been secretly crossdressing, and that she wasn't shocked. Instead, she found it 'cute'. My second surprise was that she had known for a while and been doing research on it. Finally, she startled me by saying that she wanted to pursue my fantasies and some related ones of her own, so long as I agreed to do it on her terms and not act like, as she put it, 'a whiny sissy bitch'. I was dumbfounded by those holiday revelations, which she unleashed all in a bunch one evening, after I had gifted her with candy and flowers. Then she had me strip down to my jockey shorts, keeping an eye on me while I did it.

Her question was, "Are you ready to explore your secret wishes? It would be my Valentine gift for you, though it wouldn't end tonight."

When I found my voice, I said, "Yes, Marty," though I was already thinking that she didn't honestly comprehend my tastes and we were heading for a series of misunderstandings.

She told me, "That's fine, Rob. For starters, I assume you have a female name for those special occasions. Would you like to share it with me?"

I hesitated. This would be a big confession on my part. Also, what I had come up with wasn't particularly imaginative.

"It's Roberta."

She chuckled. "That's sweet. I hope you don't mind if I use something with a bit of humor to it. How about if I call you Olive?"

"Um... okay." "Last name, Panties."

"That's fine." I was too busy trying to absorb everything that had just happened to notice how that name would sound all together.

Marty helped me out by saying, "Let's get you started then... Olive Panties." When I still didn't comprehend, she clarified, "I... love... panties." Understanding must have belatedly shown on my face. With a tolerant smile she said, "Try to keep up, Olive."

"Yes, darling." I meant that affectionate term 100%.

"So, Miss Panties, let's see your stash. I assume it's that box in the back of your closet."

"It is," I admitted sheepishly.
"Go get it, girl. I can't wait to see you all dolled up."

I went and retrieved the anonymous cardboard box, which was about big enough to hold a microwave. After I set it on the bed and opened it, I looked back
at my wife to find out what she wanted next. Marty put the end of her forefinger on her chin and pursed her lips.

She said, "Take out one of your pretties and hold it up."

I picked what was on top, which was a short slip made of satiny material. No big surprise, it was pink. I suspended the sleepwear by its narrow shoulder straps.

Marty went on, "Now tell me all about it. Where did you get it and how long have you had it?"

Making a small throat-clearing sound, I told her, "This one I bought in a lingerie shop. I drove to one in another town, in their mall. I've had it for around three years."

"And how do you feel when you wear it?"
That was a lot different from simply revealing basic facts. When I lowered

my eyes, she told me to look at her while I spoke. Her tone was mild but firm. My eyes met hers.

"Well," I said, "it's extremely nice against my skin. The way it leaves my legs bare, from the middle of the thighs down, is exciting to me. And it's so light that it's almost like I'm not wearing anything."

"I like the way you think. Model it for me." "Are you sure?"

"How are we ever going to explore your hobby if you don't dress up in front of me?" she asked reasonably. "Let's go. Strip, Miss Olive." I hooked my fingers under the waistband of the shorts and paused. She smirked and suggested, "That is, unless you'd rather wear your slip over top of what you have on."

"No, dear," I said apologetically. "That would be silly."

"Then stop being a silly sissy and do what you're told. I'm the boss of you now, and I expect unquestioning obedience in all Missy matters."

I was nervous and excited at the same time. My jockeys were plain white ones. As much as I would have preferred something more colorful, my wife was the one who bought them and she went with the most basic option. I shimmied out of them.

Eyeing me up and down, she said, "You don't have much body hair, but what's there will have to go."

That sent a tingle through my nervous system. To be hairless all over would be a dream fulfilled. I wanted to cover up, at least a little bit, but didn't think I should do it without permission. My hands kept shifting around, not arriving anywhere. Belatedly, I picked up the slip. It was the moment of truth. Without thinking, I assumed body language that was more feminine, cocking my hips pressing my elbows against my sides. I realized what I was doing and straightened up. Marty drilled me with her unwavering gaze. The girly garment went over my head and slithered down, teasing my

skin and especially my nipples. I tugged gently to straighten it and then ran my hands over the front, which smoothed it but also added to my stimulation. My penis twitched.

"Go on," Marty said. "Show me your sissy strut."

I moved forward, placing one foot in front of the other, taking small mincing steps. I held my hands out to the sides, with wrists limp. There was a swish in my step.

"Very nice," she complimented. "That's so girly." She chuckled. "I like being in control. In fact, it's getting me wet. Come here, Olive."

When I was in front of her, she took my head between her hands and kissed me hard. Her tongue invaded my mouth. My wife was definitely the one doing the kissing, with me being totally on the receiving end. My arms hung limply. She drew me into a tight embrace and teased my ear with the tip of her tongue, before nibbling on my neck. When she released me, I was close to swooning. Marty ran her hand down my chest and kept going, until she reached my dick, which had decided to get stiff. She held it through the slippery material.

"Well, well," she commented. "It appears that my new girlfriend likes having me take the lead. Isn't that right, you little slut?"

"Yes, love," I said breathily.

She moved the box from the bed to a chair that stood against the wall. Then she ordered me to turn the covers all the way down and fluff up both pillows. I did it, in a trance. Could this actually be happening? Marty told me to stand by the bed. She undressed slowly, down to the skin. This time, when she hugged me, it was less forceful but more erotic, in a different way. To have her breasts pushed against my chest, while she was nude and I was in that caressing slip, ignited a fire in my loins. She repositioned us, so that she was the one with the backs of her knees against the edge of the mattress.

"I'm going to lie back, with my feet on the floor," she explained. "You're

going to kneel in front of me and use your mouth to give me pleasure. Take your time. Maximize my enjoyment. And get used to this being a big part of our sex life." After a few seconds she added, "Plus, you shouldn't expect me to give you much in return, if anything."

"Yes, Ma'am." I automatically switched to that form of address, which seemed natural under the circumstances.

She sat and let herself fall back. I sank to my knees. Marty inched her
hips forward, to give me greater access. I bowed my head and pressed my lips to her lightly furred, blond mound. Her thighs drifted apart. As I licked, she made a throaty sound of satisfaction. Encouraged, I made sure
to pay special attention to her pearl. As I mixed the two techniques, along with some probing, she began to squirm her bottom. Her hands rested gingerly on my head, not holding me in place, but also signaling me not to back off. I slid into sissy-sub-space. I might have stayed there longer, except that her movements and vocalizations soon told me she was approaching lift-off. I slowed down enough to keep her on course, yet not enough to ruin the mood. It worked, giving her several added minutes of prolonged pleasure. When I picked up speed again, she was launched into a wet, animated, squealing climax. Her reaction was all the reward I needed. Decelerating once more, I lapped my wife through a long after-buzz.

"Very good, Olive," she told me in a hushed voice. "I'll make sure you have plenty of chances to practice that." She shimmied herself up until she was fully on the bed, then swung around, taking up one side. "Come here and lie beside me, where I can reach you, sweetie."

I was only too happy to comply. Once I was there, she stroked my hair. Her hand went lower, running over my chest and lingering on each nipple. In no time, she had me hard in my panties once more. Marty rolled onto her side, facing me. She teasingly ran her fingers over the front of my lingerie and down to my erection. The slip was tent-poled by my penis. With just one fingertip, she continued to tantalize my libido, making the satiny slip work its tactile magic on my receptive member.

"When I looked into what you sissies like," she said softly, "there were some interesting scenarios. One type caught my attention." Her hand

stopped for a few seconds, leaving me anxious that she might not start again. "It made me think about how I could put you into some flouncy outfit, all ornamental ruffles. You would simply radiate girliness. There would be no way for you to see yourself as a man while you were dressed that way, with your hair teased up and a few touches of make-up on your face. While you were like that, you'd have to lie next to me, like you're doing now. And do you know what I'd do?"

Uncertain of where she was heading, but nevertheless intrigued, I replied, barely audible, "No."

"I'd call my secret lover. He's as macho as you are mincy. You'd have to listen while he and I had a naughty conversation."

I nodded. When I tried to say 'yes', all that came out was a sound that tried to form into the word but failed. She had struck the epicenter of my epicene epicureanism.

She pretended to hold up a phone and speak into it. "Hello? Brutus? How are you, big man? Me? I'm just here with my simpering sissy, Olive Panties, who I was telling you about. I wish you could see her. If you don't already believe she's no competition for you, one glance would convince you." She chuckled. "Right now? She's wearing harem pajamas," she improvised. "They have puffy sleeves and legs, which you can see through. It shows off that I had all the darling's body hair removed. I haven't told her yet, but the laser treatments were permanent. None of those nasty follicles will ever produce anything again."

Her words were something I had fantasized about, though never wanted in real life. They were a powerful mental aphrodisiac. I bit my lips but it didn't stop me from moaning. There was no way I could keep still. Her touch on my penis, through the slip, lightened. She maintained the teasing without taking me toward the finish that I increasingly craved. It was maddening.

Marty went on, to her imaginary bedmate, "One of these nights, I'd love for you to come to our house. Well, it's my house now, since I had the weakling sign everything over to me. When he goes to his mundane office job, I usually make him take lunch in a bag. Sometimes he has to pack it, with me

telling him what to include. Or else I do the job, so he can be surprised by something overly sweet. Of course, he always wears lingerie under his male clothes. Sometimes there are even a garter belt and stockings. But as I was saying, you should visit us some evening. I'm sure you'd get a good laugh from watching the pansy flit around the house. He could serve us drinks. In fact, he could be there when we hit the sheets together."

She pretended to listen to something the nonexistent Brutus was saying. I twisted around under her knowing ministrations. "Honey," I pleaded. "Please."

My wife shushed me. "I'm talking to my Number One. You be a good girl and hold your tongue, Olive. I'll have something for you to do with that tongue later, because this chat is getting me so hot." Then, talking into the phone that wasn't there, she continued, "It would do Olive good to see a real man's cock, to remind her of how poorly equipped she is in that department."

When erect, I'm of average size there, or almost. The thing is, when I'm soft, my dick shrinks up to nothing but a nubbin. Besides which, I'm sure the fictional Brutus was hung like a super-salami. The bottom line, however, was that she was tapping into the familiar sissy idea of having an undersized pecker. She was implanting the idea that I fit that category into my mind and I wasn't resisting it.

Marty switched to kneading the inside of my thigh. My arousal didn't subside. She said to Brutus, "If Olive stood by the bed while we were in
it, she'd never be able to mistakenly think of herself as a true male again. In fact, I'd put together a special outfit for her, just for that occasion." She listened and then answered the question he might have asked, "Well, I might have Miss Sugar Britches in cheerleader drag. Or maybe looking like a French maid, since she'd be waiting on us." She pretended to think for a moment. "Better yet, I could deck her out like a little slut. There'd be a wig with short hair in some outrageous color, like pink or purple. To go with that, gobs of make-up, including enough eyeshadow and lipstick for three girls." She giggled. "Then a leather choker, kind of like a dog collar. Next would come a cropped top in some fairy color, with something written on it, like EASY or TRAMP. Then there could be hotpants, with a

rear seam that rode up into her butt crack, to show off her cheeks. Finally, some fishnet stockings and black shoes with square toes and boxy 2- inch heels, like she was trying to be punk and tough, though not succeeding. Oh, and I'd have her chewing gum, to complete the image."

I jerked my hips, in an effort to jog her back into touching me more. She let me suffer without that for another minute but then relented.

"And the idea would be that Olive, as the junior bad girl, would be taking lessons from me. I'd demonstrate my tricks on you, Big B, in great detail. I'd spend lots of time showing off my oral skills, something that the sissy will no longer have the pleasure of receiving, unless I do it just to tease her but never to take her all the way. So, there she'd be, standing by the bed, looking down on us while we do the deed. It'd be fun to have her lick my twat, so it would be extra wet to accommodate that weapon you have between your legs. She might even have to take hold of your tool and guide it in."

That was at the outer limit of what I thought I wanted, even in a scenario like the one she was weaving. Still, it struck at the core of my alter-ago. The message was transmitted directly to my straining, slip-swathed dick. She must have sensed that.

My wife said, "And then you'd pump me Brutus, showing off your confidence and stamina. You'd pump... and pump... and pump."

She matched her manipulations to those words, in an irresistible rhythm. I made a noise like an alley cat in heat. She didn't slow down. I was rushing toward an ejaculation. Then it happened. I spurted onto the inside of the slip, while gasping loudly. Hot wetness spread under the thin material. With a final whimper, I relaxed. That was when the full realization of what had just happened rushed in on me. My loving wife, in catering to my innermost desires, had made me spunk and create a mess below the waist. I slammed into a wall of shame.

I told her, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen."
"No," she affirmed, "but I did. And when we're in bed like this, I'm the

head honcho. So that happened because I wanted it. Therefore, you don't have to be ashamed. It was merely what occurs when a pathetic pink-boy loses control. It's not as if you had enough willpower to avoid it. Sissies never do."

She was letting me off the hook, at the same time that she was driving home the definition of my new role. I was relieved and felt protected, though I'll admit that a strong sense of humiliation lingered. Marty had struck a perfect balance of giving me what I needed, while still delivering the mortification my dream identity demanded.

In the days after that, it was as if my life had gone from black and white, with shades of grey, to full brilliant color. She sent me to work with panties under my trousers. I couldn't use the urinals in the office men's room. When I sat on a toilet, I needed to be careful in lowering my lingerie, to make sure no one spotted it under the stall door. As soon as I arrived home, she would have a panty inspection, making me drop my pants and shuffle about with them around my ankles. There were occasional swats to my thinly covered buns. After dinner, she would supervise me donning my costume of the evening. It was often what a maid would wear, as I was doing most of the housework. There was one uniform like a housekeeper in a hotel would wear. But there was also the classic French maid costume, complete with a pixie-cut black wig. I would have to dust and polish, while she oversaw my efforts.

In bed, I most often wore baby doll nighties, short and transparent, in several different colors. The champagne-colored one had a big bow at the neck. I took the role of her male lesbian lover, providing endless oral attention. She adored that, and was always sure to include lots of teasing. I was rarely allowed to finish, because she insisted that my longing made me try harder to satisfy her. That was one more of the features of my favorite imaginings, that became a fact in my life.

It has been over eleven months since our lives changed for the better. Marty keeps taunting me about the chance that she might take an actual lover. She even makes me look over her shoulder while she cruises around dating sites and selects possible candidates. I'm not sure if I want us to go that far, yet would be the realization of perhaps my most deeply

submerged wish. And she's talking about doing it this Valentines Day, which is coming soon. The possibility has me in a tizzy.

Is she serious about turning me into a cuckold? At times, I intuit that

she's still feeling me out about it, trying to discern my ultimate desire concerning that option. The chance of it occurring leaves me in a daze. Would she do it, plunging me into the depths of sissy reality? Could she? Should she?