(Part 1 - Morning Ritual)
I always start his day for him. While most wives might pick out a tie or remind their husbands to grab a packed lunch, I choose panties. He waits patiently at the end of the bed while I sift through silk and lace, pretending to deliberate, enjoying how his cheeks color as he wonders what I’ll make him wear.
This morning, I hold up pale pink lace, nearly see-through. “Perfect for you,” I purr, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He takes them from me with shaking hands, slips them on, and then reaches for his trousers.
“Not so fast,” I say. I hand him a tube of mascara. His fingers tremble, but he coats his lashes, blinking at the mirror with a soft vulnerability that makes my stomach twist with power.
When he’s finally dressed — panties, mascara, and all — I kiss his cheek and send him out the door. No one at work knows. That’s our secret. Mine, really.
But the best part? He knows I’ll spend the day deciding what I want to do with that power.
---
Evening Arrival
By the time he comes home, I’m already dressed for the night. A little black dress, thigh high stockings, lips painted just a shade too dark. He steps inside, places his briefcase neatly by the door, and leans down to kiss my neck. He always lingers there, like he’s searching for a scent he doesn’t want to find.
“Dinner?” he asks, his voice careful.
“Not for you,” I whisper, slipping a folded piece of paper into his palm. His eyes drop to the list:
Dishes
Laundry
Vacuuming
Heels
His mouth opens just slightly, then closes. He doesn’t argue. He never does. He walks quietly to the bedroom, slips on the black stilettos I picked for him, and begins.
I sit on the sofa, legs crossed, sipping gin and watching him glide awkwardly from sink to counter, apron tied over his shirt. The sight makes me smile — my little secret housewife.
But tonight, I have more in mind.
---
The Dinner Guest
The doorbell rings. He pauses mid-task, mascaraed eyes wide. “Who—?”
“Finish your chores,” I interrupt, rising gracefully to open the door.
On the threshold stands Mark — tall, broad, dressed casually, beautifully handsome man, with an easy smile that tells me he knows exactly why he’s here. “Come in,” I murmur, brushing my lips against his cheek.
My husband watches from the kitchen, pretending not to, as I lead Mark into the dining room. “I hope you don’t mind,” I say sweetly, “but he’s cooking for us tonight.”
Mark chuckles, sliding into a chair. “Lucky me.”
The evening unfolds like a play. I flirt shamelessly, my hand brushing Mark’s arm, my laughter a little too loud. My husband’s cheeks flush pink, but he doesn’t dare say a word. He pours wine, clears plates, tidies up — all in his heels.
---
The Excuse
When the last sip of gin is gone, I make a little gasp. “Oh no. We’re out of tonic.”
My husband immediately straightens, eager to fix the problem. “I can run to the shops—”
“Good boy,” I purr, pressing a note into his hand. He slips into his coat and disappears into the night, heels tapping against the tile as he leaves.
The door barely clicks shut before Mark’s hands are on me. His mouth is hot, demanding, and I arch against him with a hunger that’s been simmering all evening. My heart pounds at the sheer audacity of it — my husband’s out fetching tonic while I’m spread across the dining room table, moaning into another man’s mouth.
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