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You had a lot on your plate that day: a huge backlog of work to complete, a number of clients to contact, and far too many petty, in-house meetings to attend. A duvet day was exactly what you needed. Let’s face it you weren’t feeling the best anyway; maybe some kind of low-grade, background fever. You couldn’t risk passing it to your colleagues. The company certainly wouldn’t thank you for that! It wasn’t even a duvet day then, you were sick. 24 hours in bed would see you back up and running: fresh for all of the challenges that would still be there tomorrow. One simple phone call and today would be cancelled. So, make the call!

And all that stress just melted away. Afterwards you lay there, under the duvet, taking up as much of the king-size bed as your slight frame would allow, falling down into a well-deserved snooze: no alarms, no interruptions, totally and utterly alone, totally and utterly relaxed…

…except…one part of you wasn’t relaxed. One part of you was suddenly screaming for attention; the kind of attention that only someone who has nowhere else to be can afford to give it, the kind of lazy, sleepy, self-indulgent attention that can send you into a dreamscape of erotica or steer you into the centre of an orgasmic maelstrom.

For a few brief moments you gently ground that delicious erection against the mattress, hoping in some hazy way that this would be enough to satisfy, that this would tide things over until you fell asleep, but the friction served only to increase your need and, grumpily, you levered yourself onto your back to take hold of the situation.

Uncharacteristically, on this particular morning, you elected to use your left hand and, arching your back, you spread your legs and other arm out to ease the kinks as you pulled softly at your cock-head. Your right arm caught on something under your wife’s pillow exposing a hint of sea-green satin to your peripheral vision, even as your body returned to focus on the job at hand, and in your erotic state you found that your fingers were unconsciously engaging with the material and your mind informed you that it was enjoying the experience, wondering if it was her nightie or her panties.

To say that these thoughts confused you would be to understate that moment completely. They so threw you that you failed to notice that you were no longer playing with yourself; now your entire being was focused solely on the movement of your fingers over the material, the movement of the material over the skin on the back of your hand, the growing interest in which item of your wife’s clothing you were playing with and, now that it was on your mind, how it would feel to rub it against your erection; how it would feel to fuck it, how it would feel to cover it in your cum!

You had to give it a try, the idea was too scrumptious to ignore! You’d have plenty of time to wash and dry it before she came home: she’d never have to know!

The prospect of this illicit behaviour woke you up, didn’t it? You sat up in bed, stacking the pillows against the headboard to get comfortable and in the process you exposed the item with which you had been playing. It was her nightie and, for some reason, you found yourself a little disappointed. You’d wanted it to be her panties: far more intimate than her nightie as they pressed against all of her secret places. Now you found that the material alone wasn’t enough. Now you wanted the material to incorporate all of the connotations of sex and cum, her pussy and her ass, all of her private moments exploited for your masturbatory enjoyment.

For a few minutes you tried to make do with her nightie and, absolutely, the satin felt wonderful istanbul escort against your cock but it wasn’t enough for you anymore: you had to have her panties to make this work and the hamper was just over there in the corner beside the dressing table. You could find them easily. It would only take a couple of seconds.

Even as you were thinking this you found yourself idly rubbing her nightie over your body, over your stomach and across your chest. You only really noticed you were doing it when you felt your nipples stiffen as the satin brushed against them. The sensation was wholly new and unexpected and even as you climbed out of bed to approach the clothes hamper your mind was exploring new exotic directions; you just didn’t know it…yet.

A quick rummage and you found what you were looking for, dark lace pattern against sea-green satin: what did they call this type of panty? Oh yes, a thong, because the rear was basically a thin strip of fabric that pressed between your cheeks. That you had such knowledge excited you and you raised that strip of fabric to your nostrils and filled your lungs with the essence of her.

I like to think that it was as you were standing there with her panties against your face that you discovered there were two competing narratives circling around your brain. Yes, there was the immediate and obvious need which was bouncing frantically against your lower stomach at each and every muscle twitch but there was something else niggling at you: a new thought; a scary thought, an unwanted thought.

And it wouldn’t go away, this thought. You couldn’t shake it off. It had wormed its way to the front of your mind and was now curled around, and indistinguishable from, the erection standing so proudly out in front of your naked body.

You tried to ignore it, to put it out of your head, but each time you did so your cock began to shrink and panic began to set in because you found that you really, desperately, wanted to cum. You needed to cum and you worried that these thoughts, if they weren’t acknowledged, would come back and haunt you every time you tried to make love to your wife and you would become impotent, unable to function, a shadow husband desperately avoiding intimacy with his own wife.

Would you do it? I mean it was so kinky, so perverse! You shivered excitedly, imagining how the front panel would feel against your cock; how the string would feel against your anus. Then, decision made, you found you couldn’t wait to step into your wife’s thong, to draw her panties up your legs and settle them in place over your hips.

And your decisive nature was rewarded a hundredfold: the very moment you bent down to put them on your cock stiffened and, as they progressed over your knees and thighs, you found yourself harder than you had ever been before, even harder than you were the first time you slept with your wife, if that were possible?

You checked yourself out in the vanity mirror and enjoyed the view. Amazingly, the front panel easily encompassed your cock and balls, which you realised must be smaller than you thought, and you reckoned your ass looked good enough to pass as a woman’s…in the right outfit.

Your hand began to rub your hard, little cock through the lace and satin, revelling in the new sensations and you looked on, appreciatively in the mirror. Catching a glimpse of the discarded nightie on the bed behind you figured you had come this far, what would be the harm…

…as it slipped over your head your arms sought the spaghetti straps and the nightie whispered over your shoulders, over your chest and settled in place, the hem halfway down escort bayan your bottom, half covering your raging hard-on.

Your body’s reaction to female clothes amazed you. Your cock pulsed continuously, without the need for manual stimulation, your nipples hardened, seeking contact with the small, lace bra-cups and you found yourself trawling through her drawers seeking more; wanting something else to put on that would intensify the stimulation you were experiencing even more.

It wasn’t long before a pile of clothes formed at the foot of the bed: stockings had been your first find but this was soon followed by a bra; from the wardrobe a pretty dress; from under the bed her favourite heels and a bracelet and choker from her jewellery box.

You knew these things would fit, knew her sizes the way you knew your own; had laughed when you had first woken up together to find that your feet were exactly the same size and shape. Back then these similarities were embraced because they brought you closer together, now you embraced them selfishly, delighting in the possibilities they provided.

Off came the nightie and you struggled into the bra; wondering at how much more difficult it was to put on than take off. Then the indulgent caress of each stocking as you sat on the bed feeling the string of your thong run enticingly along your crack each time you raised your leg. The pretty, summery dress, zipped at the side, tight bodice flowing into a mid-length, flouncy skirt that showed off your stockinged calves delightfully.

You were being overwhelmed by emotions and feminine scents; you felt dizzy with lust. You couldn’t trust yourself to touch your little cock in case it would cum too soon and all of this would be lost. You wanted to finish. You needed to put on the heels, you needed to see how they would change the way your legs looked, needed to understand the way they tightened your calves, flattered your thighs and lifted your bottom.

It wasn’t easy standing in them and even more difficult taking those first, cautious steps, but you felt so wonderful; almost complete, you thought, as you checked out your reflection. Your eye had fallen on the lipstick as you reached to put on the silver choker with enamel butterfly pendant pinned at the front and you trembled at the idea. Might that not be one step too far? A place from which you might never return?

But now you were committed: committed by your ever-increasing lust, committed by your uncontrollable, unsupervised desire, by the lack of any accountability and by the feminine voice that was suddenly in control of your every thought, urging you to do it, to experience everything!

You sat in front of the dressing table, looking into the vanity mirror, wishing you knew more about applying the myriad of foundations, powders, and eye make-ups arrayed before your eager eyes. The perfume too attracted your interest but the fear that it would still be discernible when your wife got home dissuaded you, on this occasion.

Lipstick you could handle. You felt confident in your ability to apply it correctly having seen your wife do it countless times before and so it proved, even down to the tissue once you were finished – you mustn’t forget to flush that later!

And you were ready! You were awash in femininity: delicate colours, sensual materials, exciting straps and those glorious heels that you couldn’t help but admire even as your hand snaked along your stockings to slide beneath your skirt and find your hard little nubbin.

To maintain this delightful illusion you found you could no longer think of it as a cock and yet you were loath to give it Maltepe escort its feminine name (you could not yet call it a clitty) and so settled on a no-less thrilling compromise; your nubbin!

Your other hand slid the dress and bra straps from your shoulder to gain access to your breast and nipple, where they tightened deliciously against your upper arm as you rubbed your little nubbin through your panties. You would not stroke it, would not reach inside to wrap your fist around it and pound yourself to orgasm. This had to be done properly; your approach must be in keeping with the beautiful clothes you were wearing, and besides: you wanted to fill your panties; you wanted to be a good girl!

With each of these thoughts your rubbing became more frantic. It would not be long, you could not last. You watched yourself in the mirror; your skirt hiked up, your stockings on show, your creamy thighs and pretty green panties pressing against your questing fingers and you found yourself, on the cusp of explosion, wishing you were sucking on a cock: how proper it would be for a slut like you, displaying herself as you were, to be sucking on a big, thick, hard, beautiful cock and making it cream, as you were creaming! Moaning and spurting; filling your panties, spilling through the lace, turning the satin to a dark, deep-soaked green, endlessly pumping more and more cum that oozed from its flimsy covering and, to your dismay, soaked into your dress and your stockings and flowed down the crack of your bum, unstoppable!

And you collapsed from the release of it! La Petite Mort the French used to call the female orgasm, you thought, as you remembered feverish teenage nights reading Victorian erotica: The Little Death! You couldn’t move. You had expelled all of your energy in that one massive orgasm. Even your extreme concern over the state of your dress paled into insignificance compared to your need to rest…to sleep.

It was 2pm when you finally awoke with a stark recollection of what had occurred and one glance in the mirror confirmed, with horror, your state of dress. You found yourself disgusted by what you saw before you; this sluttish female parody of yourself. Guilt washed over you as you struggled to remove every trace of this embarrassing episode from your body. You couldn’t bear to even touch the clothes, still warm from your flesh; couldn’t bear to think of washing them, wouldn’t countenance the public shame of delivering the dress for dry-cleaning. Instead you bundled everything into a bag and, naked and ashamed, hid it deep in the recesses of the attic where it could stay until you felt able to face your self-disgust.

A long shower removed the stains of femininity from your body and your soul and you emerged renewed and refreshed and finally and completely clean convincing yourself it was a nothing but an inconsequential momentary blip upon your masculinity, a mistake you would never make again, nothing to worry about. And so it proved, for in the following days you thought little of your experience; though your dreams were filled with cocks and panties and lifted skirts and wonderfully high, high heels.

You tell yourself it was only a bit of fun but, inside you know: there’s no going back now! Now that you’ve experienced that intense, first pleasure you’ll need to feel it again and again.

Sure, you can put on your male clothes, muss up your hair and nobody will ever know; but you’ll know. You’ll remember how each item of clothing felt as it flowed across your skin, the press of lipstick as you applied it to your cocksucking mouth, how hard you got as you looked at your true-self in the mirror and you’ll come back: Tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that, you’ll come back to that wet, used bundle in the attic, wanting to experience all those wonderful, confusing sensations again and again.

You can’t just stop yourself from wanting: there’s no going back now!

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