Brad's Bitch

It was kind of strange, that first time, getting fucked in a bra and panties. But I actually liked it. And, it became a regular part of our sexual activities. When he and Cynthia broke up in our senior year, Brad had me buy some lingerie of my own so that I could continue to be his bitch en femme.

(That one panty sniff got me hooked, by the way. Brad never knew it but I often sought out Cynthia's used panties and sniffed them while I was beating off. Every once in a while, I'd get a pair of panties that Cynthia had worn after she and Brad had fucked. Then the panties would be infused with lots of her fluids and, as well, with Brad's cum. That was a special treat. My panty fetish is with me to this day. Over the years, I'd often sneak a sniff of one of my girlfriend's panties.)
After we graduated, Brad got married to another woman, Rachel. I didn't live with them, of course. But I did get calls at least once a week or so to come and be Brad's bitch. Usually this involved dressing in women's underwear. Sometimes, he just wanted a quickie at work, though, so the accoutrements were unnecessary.

When I got married, things became more complicated. But the complication were, in Brad's eyes, my problem to deal with. He certainly didn't think they should mean that he should sacrifice anything. And he didn't. I was still on call. I had to get pretty creative about making excuses. And, of course, I had to hide my women's underwear and other things from my wife. But I managed to pull it off.

That's how it started. We are now eight years into this relationship. And it shows no signs of ending. That's fine with me. I've more than made my peace with it. I know I'll never deliver the speech.

As I pulled into Brad's driveway, I knew what was going to happen. This was, in many ways, very routine now, though there were always variations. And, despite the fact that it had become pretty predictable, it never failed to get my heart pumping and my cock stirring.

I would let myself in through the unlocked door. Brad would be nowhere to be seen. I'd strip out of my outer clothes, put on my high heels, fix my wig and insert my breast forms, then head for the living room to wait for Brad. He'd make his entrance and stand, waiting for me to follow his unspoken, but now familiar, instructions.