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Author’s note:
This is my first story and a relatively long one (60,000 words total), which probably isn’t a good thing. I originally started posting chapter-by-chapter but realized it hurt the flow, so I’ve reduced it to approximately 8 “parts” or so.
The “action” pics up in parts 4 and beyond, so if you’re impatient feel free to jump ahead. But if the story matters to you, well, you know where to start.
If the feedback is good, or if I’m just enjoying the creative outlet, I’ve imagined expanding this into a series focused around the characters as they develop. We’ll see.
I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 7. For Whom the Bells Toll
I was currently dressed in lingerie. My apron was see-through pink lace and had a bra built in, and barely reached the top of my thighs. My black thong was all that remained of the thong/choker/leash set that I’d been in for most of the evening, and the black opaque stockings were not something I could pass off in public unless I was a teenage Asian with a Hello Kitty backpack. The stilettos would have been respectable if not for the fact that the rest of my outfit was, well, you get it.
The new outfit he had laid out for me, however, was not technically lingerie. It was a costume, albeit a very suggestive if not completely revealing costume. It was a very high-end French Maid costume that he had purchased – despite my objections – prior to the last Halloween. I didn’t end up wearing it out, but I only managed to avoid doing that by agreeing to wear it on multiple occasions in private. This was not an outfit that I could explain to anyone, let alone a random guy from the poker game who was expecting my husband to be flying solo for the night. The level of difficulty had gone up another notch.
To be specific, the outfit consisted of a pretty typical black satin maid’s dress with the white ruffle trim everywhere, plus the ubiquitous headband. There was a short black corset that was meant to go over the bodice, and it included a white crinoline to fluff out the skirt. The collar he had locked on me complemented the outfit. There was a push-up bra with ruffles and, finally, there was a pair of black panties with white ruffles on the bum. I immediately realized the panties would’ve been a problem — and he obviously planned it that way. Each row of white ruffles on the backside of the panties had tiny little bells sewn into them. They made a wonderful jingling sound as dozens of the little devils bounced with each step. I have no idea how he even managed to carry them to the bed without sounding like a reindeer.
Aside from that (relatively major) issue, the panties would have been an upgrade from my current thong. They were pretty modest compared to what I was wearing, but that was only fair considering the skirt barely extended below my bottom when I was standing up straight. There was absolutely no way to conceal my ass if I had to bend or stretch for anything, high or low. The fact that his final instructions were to keep my existing panties on now seemed like a sweet compromise on his part; seeing as I wasn’t going to be seen by anyone, I’d gladly keep the thong just to avoid the bells on the maid’s panties.
Then there were the shoes: black mary-janes, two-and-a-half inches high, with buckles that held them in place. He bought these for me when we were at the outlet mall before I really knew the extent of his perversions. At the time I thought it was sexy that he bought me a pair of shoes that he liked, on top of the pairs I’d selected. Little did I know that he had just come up with a solution for my habit of kicking off my decorative shoes as soon as the clothes started flying.
I looked up at the clock and squealed. Shit! I had just over ten minutes to go.
He knows that I would procrastinate on changing if he didn’t motivate me, but this hardly seemed fair. Even though the corset wasn’t meant to be super-tight, it would still be a bitch to get on by myself in the time I was allotted. The bastard had me jumping through hoops for his pleasure.
The good news was that the new shoes meant I could ditch the old ones, which meant I had a chance. I didn’t really believe that the timer would trigger an obnoxiously loud porno movie, but I also didn’t have the guts to find out. Besides, finding out there was no “porno armageddon” wouldn’t stop him from punishing me anyways.
I slipped out of my stilettos and undid the apron. The stockings were slower but only because my OCD kicked in and I refused to put a run in them as I removed them. That had me down to my panties, and I was thankful I didn’t have to change them, despite the fact that they were damp from each of our respective orgasms. I’d avoided punishment for my profanity-laced outburst earlier, and now he had given me a break on the underwear. As absurd as it sounds, I wanted to somehow show gratitude for showing me leniency.
Thankfully nobody had to use the bathroom during those 12 minutes, so I didn’t have to deal antalya escort with any panic-inducing interruptions. The noise from downstairs was noticeably rising though as the guys seemed to be loosening up.
The headband went on first. The bra and the dress were easy enough to get into, and the crinoline was a cinch. Although the bra always needed adjustment when so much lift is applied to my breasts. Tightening the laces on the back of the dress was a little bit of a struggle, but I managed to get it done without making too many stupid faces in the process. Next came the corset, and it took a solid 5 minutes. I probably started to panic as I fought with it. I managed to put it on backwards and then twist it around in place and straighten out the dress with two minutes left.
I grabbed the new shoes off the bed and then realized my old outfit was piled on the floor. I abandoned the shoes and scampered around the room as quietly as possible, picking things up. I dumped the lingerie and the old shoes in the laundry basket in the closet, praying that he wouldn’t notice the shoes in with the laundry, and I even managed to dig my vibrator out from under the pillow and return it to the bedside table. All that took only 30 seconds, leaving me 90 seconds to put on my shoes. It was going to be close.
I scooped up the shoes from the bed and bent over to pull them on. It was then that I realized the corset was going to come back to haunt me. I could only bend over with great effort, making it a bitch to get my shoes on. Buckling them up wouldn’t be easy, either. I was down to 60 seconds now, so I scurried over to the bench I’d been violated on so completely only minutes before and used it to get first one foot up and into a shoe and then the other.
I was done! Suck it, husband! In a momentary lapse of judgment, I fingered the tv with both hands and stuck my tongue out for the camera (again).
I had only 10 seconds left, so naturally I panicked. What had I forgotten? I must have forgotten something. He always finds something that I forget.
“Whatever,” I whispered to myself.
I took two rather loud steps away from the bench to be closer to the bed, planted my feet the appropriate distance apart and brought my hands up behind my head in one fluid motion, to be standing at attention as the timer showed three seconds. I broke into a huge grin of satisfaction knowing that I’d won this little head-to-head event, and he would be disappointed to lose an opportunity to make me pay. Although the celebration might have been pressing my luck, he didn’t say I couldn’t do that. (Seriously though, who was I trying to kid?)
The timer counted down.
Three.
Two.
One.
And then the screen went black.
Chapter 8 – Maid to Order
For a moment I thought he had failed to turn it off in time. I mean, I know I won, but it was close, and if there was any problem with his phone, well I might be screwed anyways, right?
Or maybe he saw my little celebration and was pissed?
But when the screen stayed black for longer than a moment, I started to relax. A lock of hair had broken free from my ponytail and headband to fall into my face, and I tried to stick out my lips and blow it off my face. I was at “Attention” and until he acknowledged that I’d won, I wasn’t going to move.
The screen on the tv brightened and showed a new time “1:30.” The glow from the tv coming back to life drew my attention to my reflection in the full-length mirror that flanked the wall-mounted tv.
I looked like another cliché fantasy. The maid’s outfit was actually very nice — if you like that sort of thing. It didn’t evoke memories of the cheap bagged costumes that are everywhere at Halloween. The dress looked well-tailored and made of heavy satin fabric. The corset was gorgeous up close, and certainly gave me a shape that no woman could achieve without mechanical assistance. My breasts – though not large — were transformed into a lascivious display of creamy skin peaking from the top of my bodice. And the collar made my neck look longer and my body taller overall, which is saying something at my height. The collar also seemed to transform the costume from something playful or whimsical to something more serious. It seemed to give the impression that I was not in control. It was unnerving, to be honest.
The heels gave my bare legs — which you could pretty much see completely from top to bottom — amazing definition.
I’ll admit that I’m not easily impressed with my own features, but this costume was impressive in its results.
Then my cellphone chimed.
I was now faced with a dilemma. I couldn’t remember if I could break from “Attention” to check my phone. I know he was sending further instructions, and I know he mentioned something about the phone, but I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do.
The phone chimed again. I could see from my position that it was antalya escort bayan the reminder chime, not a new message.
Is this a trick, or am I allowed to answer the phone? I was furious at myself for not paying closer attention to his instructions. He scores points on technicalities like this all the time; it was just his style.
I agonized over the decision. I listened to the sound of the men downstairs as their game picked up steam. Their voices and their laughter became a cruel taunt as I fretted over whether I was allowed to answer my phone when I was dressed as a French Maid and standing like a slave waiting inspection.
“Fuck it. I won. He can’t deny that.”
My phone as within reach, I didn’t have to move my feet. I even kept one hand behind by head as I picked it up and read.
You look amazing. I want to come see for myself.
I couldn’t help but reply.
I won.
? You made it in time, yes. I’m proud of you.
What now?
You see the timer?
Yes.
Good. When you get these instructions, you’ll only have that much time to comply. If you succeed the timers will go away for now. Understand?
Yes.
Did you change your panties?
No. You told me not to.
I wasn’t great at typing with one hand. I thought of using Siri, but that seemed like it would be too noisy.
Correct. Good girl.
My cheeks flushed with humiliation at the condescension in that phrase.
What do you want?
I was getting inmpatient.
I changed my mind, change your panties. That is the challenge… pretty much.
Bastard. So much for leniency, he was going to make me jingle my way into being discovered by a half-drunk buddy of his looking for the toilet. I looked over to the bed where I’d left the maid’s panties. They were pretty much where he’d put them, I don’t think I had touched them on account of his initial instructions to not change my panties.
But what did he mean by “pretty much?”
What’s the catch?
Do you remember when you swore at me earlier?
Shit.
There are some unwritten rules to the games we play, which are very well understood between me and my husband. He comes up with the games and does all the planning and makes all the rules, and for my part I simply must abide by the rules and be a good sport. One of the unwritten rules that is clearly understood is that swearing and being a bitch is not considered “sporting.” Of course, he designs the games in such a way to try to get me to break the rules or otherwise “lose” the game. It might sound tilted in his favour, but the understanding is that his game has to appeal to both of us on some level, and it is certainly in his best interest to make sure it does otherwise there won’t be many games played in the long run. By agreeing to participate in one of his games it is implied that I must see it through to the end, which I always have… so far.
Anyways, my earlier outburst had been unsportsmanlike, and by unwritten convention I knew he was entitled to punish me for it. All my efforts and all my humiliation to this point hadn’t been enough to make him forget my lack of judgment earlier. My heart sank in anticipation.
Yes. But I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I was just anxious. Really, I’m sorry and I won’t do it again.
I wasn’t too proud to beg when I found myself facing his discipline after I’d crossed the line. I was typing with both hands now.
Well I’m glad that you’re sorry, and I appreciate your apology, but I can’t ignore it.
I sighed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I had an idea where this was heading…
Okay. Just get it over with.
I was giving up.
Good then. Change into the panties for your uniform. Based on your rude outburst from earlier I’m sure you’ll know of a good place for the panties you’re currently wearing. When you’re done stand at attention again. I’ll come up to check on you.
I sulked when I read the text. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; he had done this sort of thing before. His favorite way to punish me was to make me uncomfortable, usually by embarrassing me.
My hands dropped to my sides, and my shoulders slumped in defeat. I may have accomplished all the tasks he had set before me, but he and I knew very well that by me breaking the rules he had won a small but significant victory, and that took all the pride out of my accomplishment.
As I stood wallowing in self-pity, the timer started to count down.
I wanted nothing more than to continue sulking, but I didn’t have time. I knew exactly what he expected me to do, and the timer prevented me from hesitating. I still believed I could win this game, despite being behind early, and I was determined not to give up.
I tiptoed around the bed as quietly as possible, to within reach of the maid’s panties. I reached under my skirt and slid down the thong I’d been wearing all escort antalya night. It wasn’t easy with the corset, but once the thong was about half-way down my thighs, I was able to wiggle my legs enough that it dropped to the floor and I could step out of them. With about sixty seconds to go I picked up the frilly maid’s panties as gently as possible and I sat on the bed. Even handling them gently, the bells on the panties sounded as loud as the bells in a chapel on Sunday. I hooked my thumbs in the waist band and then rolled back on the bed, trying to bend my legs up far enough to reach my feet with the panties. The collar I wore wasn’t huge, but combined with the corset, they were restrictive enough to make this harder than it should be.
The first attempt didn’t work. On the second attempt the panties caught on one of my heels, and the noise seemed to be deafening. The third attempt I managed to get them as far as my ankles, and then I rolled forwards onto my feet, making what seemed like a thunderous “clunk” when my heels hit the hardwood, followed by a cascade of jingling bells. But I had succeeded in getting the panties to my knees, and the rest of the way was manageable. I don’t think the bells could have made more noise if I’d shaken the panties like a tambourine though.
With about 25 seconds left on the damned timer, I crouched down. The combination of the corset and the collar pretty much prevented me from being able to look down at the floor immediately around my feet without stepping back a few steps, so I felt around with my hands until I found the panties I’d just removed. I picked them up and faced the tv with about 15 seconds left. I spread my legs slightly as I had already done so many times before this evening, and then I let out one final resigned sigh of defeat. The look on my face showed nothing of the triumph I had felt only minutes before.
I did indeed know what to do with the panties in my hand. I thought wistfully about the laundry basket just around the corner in the closet, which held the rest of my original outfit from the evening, but I didn’t dare.
As the timer clicked down past 10 seconds, I wadded up the panties, still wet from of each of our respective earlier sexual accomplishments, and I opened my mouth.
I pressed the panties into my open mouth with five seconds to go, and then I placed my hands behind my head just as the screen went black.
Chapter 9 – Sickness
There I stood, a picture of submissive triumph for my husband. The tables had turned on me so fast that I felt like I had just wrestled defeat from the jaws of victory. The ridiculous part about it is that I truly did feel as if I could’ve accomplished every challenge he had set in front of me and won the game without breaking the unwritten rules we settled on long ago. I still would have ended up in this outfit, in this very situation, but without the punishment for swearing — without my panties stuffed humiliatingly in my mouth, a powerful, symbolic penance for my behaviour. Instead I felt like I’d failed. All my efforts to “win” at this game of sexual challenges and predicaments had been in vain. All because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. The fact that I had had to stuff my own panties in my mouth as a result of my failure was just the final ironic twist. My husband is a devious, wicked, depraved man. I couldn’t figure out how he could do these things to me, and how I could enjoy it.
And that was the truth of it. Despite my dejection, I had to finally admit to myself that I was loving every minute of it.
How the fuck can that be possible, I ask you? How can I feel like I just lost the game and yet enjoy it more? My husband would try to explain it to me I’m sure, but I probably wouldn’t listen. I’d hear him, but I wouldn’t actually listen. I never do. It’s too embarrassing. I could never admit to anyone that I like this… not even him.
I don’t know how long I stood at “Attention” waiting for him to arrive. How long had I been lost in my thoughts? It couldn’t have been that long, but my legs were starting to ache, and my arms were getting heavy. It is weird how standing still can be so tiring… I can run a 10K on a moment’s notice but ask me to stand in one place for 5 minutes and my legs start to shake from the strain.
He said he would come up to check on me when I was done. Well I was done. Every instruction, every little detail, I’d followed it. Now he was making me wait, as if he was making a point.
I was facing the tv — and that fucking webcam of his — as instructed. That also meant that I was facing the mirror. When we had finished renovating this room, I had flanked the tv on the wall with two tall mirrors. They made the room feel larger, and they were put to good use whenever I was putting together my outfit. Now they were a problem. As long as he made me face the tv, I would be facing the mirrors. Based on the size and layout of the room, I was pretty much guaranteed to always be facing a full-length reflection of myself, as I was now.
I couldn’t help but stare at my reflection. The heels, the skirt, the ridiculously short skirt; the corset and my subsequent cleavage; the collar that was so prominent; the absurd little headband; and of course, my other panties peeking out from my mouth.