The Red Panties - A Trans-Erotic Odyssey
Becoming the Mistress’ Cuckold Servant
The kitchen clock was ringing out its midnight chimes when I held up the panties my wife had been wearing that evening. Above the sink, steam rose from the hot, soapy water awaiting their immersion. I contemplated the delicate, translucent lace and silk, held together with ribbon-bow hip ties. My bewilderment delayed their hand-washing momentarily as my bafflement incited further pondering on their vivid, red hue. It was a choice of color my wife rarely made in her lingerie preferences. The abundance of diversity in Amanda’s panty drawers included all manner of shade and fabric but the predominance of whites, blacks, pinks, pastels, and flower pattern prints left little room for vibrant red. Despite my intimate knowledge of my wife’s underwear, never before had I set eyes on these fetching, if bold, panties. Coco Chanel’s adage that adornment was never anything except a reflection of the heart came to mind as I thought of the emergent glow of Amanda’s rosy cheeks in recent times. Like her panties, they reflected the now evident passion of her heart’s desire.
Notwithstanding my emotional turmoil, bearing witness to the pleasure my wife now took from being a woman was a business I could only envy and serve with lashings of anguish and distended arousal. The sheer joy she was clearly deriving from being female was, at once, a privilege to behold and, however much I would wish it otherwise, a bruising reminder of my mediocre masculinity. Imagining the growth and change of the relationship between a husband and his wife was a gift with which I may not have been blessed; nonetheless, I could never have imagined this.
At the start of our relationship, I made a point of coming out to Amanda about my secret obsession with cross-dressing. Her open-armed response to my somewhat shameful confession made me believe that my wife-to-be was, quite literally, sent to me by angels. Amanda’s embrace of my fetish was the answer to my prayers. Having come out to her as a ‘heterosexual cross-dresser’, I believed I was at the happy-ever-after chapter of my life. Knowing otherwise was a credit to my wife’s greater wisdom and her awareness of change. Even then, unlike me, she had an inkling that my early settlement to identify as a ‘heterosexual cross-dresser’ was, like so much in my life, premature. Cross-dressing, she realized, was just one step in a trans-erotic odyssey that can take one into every realm of desire imaginable.
Over the years, we enjoyed a unique and shifting sex life. Delayed gratification proved to be a feature of our lives. My wife and I spent years talking about sex, perhaps as much as doing it. In time, this was to stand us in good stead. Indeed, it was to alter our preconceived notions of coupledom for good.
We had often discussed my uncontrollable sexual arousal when cross-dressing. Amanda would often lecture me playfully on the composure of women. Women, I was frequently told, despite enjoying the sexual frisson of wearing their clothes as much as transvestites do, somehow manage to do other things than just masturbate in their feminine frippery. Learning to overcome the perpetual desire to reach for their panties, women are capable of serenity in all manner of work, rest, and play in silk lingerie, nylons, and exquisite dresses. If that weren’t enough, many women also learn to execute all this in erotically charged high heels. If I was to be true to my odyssey, instead of reaching for my panties every time my dress lining brushed my nylon stockings, I had to learn to do the same. Obsessive-compulsive sissy-clit-centricity was my wife’s diagnosis of my condition. Chastity was prescribed to be the best therapy. Throughout periods of appointed orgasm denial, a dissociation with one’s panty-interned penis meant my only useful sexual purpose was upon the lifting of my wife’s skirts, signifying her desire for on-demand cunnilingus. Gradually, I was finding my life to be one of reward and occasional punishment. A goddess’s acts of kindness were becoming, it seemed, my sole purpose. The offering of a hand to kiss, or even a cheek were becoming treats for obedience. In doing something well, fortune might be favored by her lap to lie upon and her breast to suckle. The days of my beta-male attempts to satisfy her with my meager tumescence were beginning to dwindle. We were finding a new kind of love.
It was beneath her dress one day, deep in the diligent provision of the finest cunnilingus I could muster, that I heard my wife take a phone call, informing her of a promotion at work. It was to change our lives. This afforded us, I was informed, more time for me to be at home to cook, clean, and launder. With a vision of a housewife’s domestic ecstasy, I was not slow in surrendering to the proposition. I was in heaven, greeting my wife’s return from work with the devoted attention of a loving, lesbian wife, always gracefully attired to get her attention. This immersion in my lesbian fantasy distracted me somewhat from my wife’s unspoken, mounting desire to receive a good, old-fashioned, pro-active, mighty rogering. It was around this time, she announced her project to make a boudoir out of what she deemed to be the outmoded notion of a master bedroom. To facilitate her desire, I submitted to her wishes that I move into the spare room. It was clear my presence in her boudoir would be by invitation only.
I confess, this was, for me, an anxious time. Our monogamy of many years appeared to be shifting like the ground beneath my high heels. What came next felt more like an earthquake in stilettos. The day I was handed The Maidservant’s Cuckold Covenant for my perusal and subsequent signature is not one I shall ever forget. In relationships, it is at times such as these one realizes one is many steps behind a partner, being lured in gently whilst being terrified of the unseen abyss. In the Covenant’s introduction, future terms of address were ascribed. From that moment, I was to address my wife as ‘my Lady’ in the first instance and ‘ma’am’ to follow. Among many provisions and clauses to remain faithful and true to ‘my Lady’, was my requirement to serve my first year of the covenant in absolute chastity. Repeated references to ‘my Lady’s’ inalienable right to extramarital love left little doubt of her intent for an orderly, satisfying, promiscuous life.
I was to learn that a cocktail of humiliation, jealousy, and chastity, can have the most intoxicating effect on one's feelings and an unalterable shift of the soul. Very slowly, agony turns to pleasure; abstinence becomes bliss; her ecstasy, my utter desire, and my service to her, the very being of my soul. The red, silk panties in my hands served as a powerful reminder of that. Clearly, the potency of masculinity required to satisfy a voracious sexual appetite was unlikely to include me. The emotional impact of my contenders was such that they were capable of influencing my Lady’s mood and choice of lingerie beneath her dress. Given the sheer beauty and Priapic power of her nominated challenger, this was hardly surprising. David was undoubtedly responsible for my Lady’s renewed lightness of foot and blushing cheeks.
Lifting my petticoats, I studied my own ivory silk, bikini briefs. Whilst appreciating their modest loveliness, I couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to remove these pretty knickers in favor of something as brazen and shameless as the panties I held in my hands. Stretching them as much as their knicker elastic would allow, I held the ruby-red, silk gusset to my face and breathed deeply. Its familiar, musky scent, combined with traces of Chanel № 19, left me longing to be the one with her now. The sexual jealousy with which I thought I was coming to terms, dare I say, even coming to enjoy, struck me mercilessly with pangs of excruciating anguish. The audible delights of my wife’s ecstasy could be heard all the way from her boudoir. As my own pretty panties struggled with the containment of my arousal, I removed my Lady’s panties from my nostrils with unbearable reluctance and dipped them into the hot, soapy water. To the echoes of Amanda calling out David’s name between her repeated screams of “Yes!”, I found a natural rhythm with which I could execute my labors. Such was the lot of an emasculated husband who had signed up to the post-nuptial terms of the Maidservant’s Cuckold Covenant. It was with such thoughts in mind I went to sleep with dreams aroused by the cacophonous desires emanating from the room next door.
Rising early from a long night of interrupted dreams, I was ready to serve. Despite the early hour of a Sunday morning, I had learned to bear witness to any manner of sexual impropriety in my wife’s boudoir. For this reason, I hesitated before knocking and entering to serve her morning coffee. More vociferous than usual, Amanda’s cries of ecstasy left me longing for the aptitude to provoke such vocal responses to my diligent endeavors to fulfill her desires. Having previously observed the enormity of her chosen lover, I had no doubt that this could and would never be. I wondered what I was likely to behold should I walk in on what was clearly a rapturous moment that seemed to have no end. In the normal course of events, mornings were a quieter, somewhat sedate affair. Customarily aided by attentive cunnilingus, Amanda’s awakenings were typically more composed than suggested by the cacophony of sighs, gasps, and outright screams emanating from beyond the closed door. Thinking that the crescendo of Amanda’s frenzied euphoria could not be long in coming, I checked my appearance in the hallway mirror. Already fully dressed for my day’s exacting toil, I considered the singular privilege I enjoyed in the face of my humiliation and rank jealousy. Amanda’s concession to her once strictly enforced dress code meant that, beneath my white, lace-trimmed apron, I could choose from a selection of approved dresses. The floral pattern of the silk-lined, chiffon dress I now donned raised my spirits, its bias cut forming a graceful hemline around my calves. Its feel against nylon stockings caused my heart to skip a beat, whilst my high-heeled, taupe court shoes imbibed me with a sense of exhilarating intoxication. Through my white apron, my growing excitement was becoming obvious. Nonetheless, with no end to Amanda’s vocal jubilation likely anytime soon, together with a pressing anxiety that the coffee upon the tray I was carrying would cool with any further delay, I raised a hand and knocked gently on the door. The persistence of Amanda’s breathless shrieking left my request for entrance either unnoticed or ignored. I tried again, rapping on the door more loudly.
“Come!” Amanda roared.
I took a deep breath and opened the door. What greeted me caused me to avert my gaze as I placed the coffee on Amanda’s bedside table and approached the window to open the curtains. My presence made little difference to events unfolding before me. Without hiatus, Amanda’s invited lover, David, was driven in his intent to fuck her senseless. Reaching for the ceiling, Amanda’s divided legs seemed to lengthen with every plunge of David’s life force deep within her yielding openness. Her arms around his neck held onto him determinedly, inviting him deeper and deeper into her gaping wantonness. With her nightdress pushed up and gathered around her neck, David was ravaging her breasts with impunity. Such unrestrained and hysterical eagerness was the kind of behavior in which Amanda would never allow her husband to indulge. With no acknowledgement of my presence and no abatement of my Lady’s voluble urges, I thought it best to make a discrete exit to attend to preparations for her languorous bathing which, no doubt, would be assisted.
Whether or not my departure had anything to do with the onset of my Lady’s titanic orgasm, I would never know but, given the insignificance of my presence and the intensity of David’s passions, it was unlikely. In my absence, the room became saturated with the reverberation of Amanda’s unbridled joy as her entire body shuddered uncontrollably with paroxysms of heightened pleasure. Not unused to such elevated delights, my Lady clearly thought herself capable of coping with the waves of multiple orgasms I could hear taking hold of her but, as the passage of time offered no dissipation in her ecstasy, she, like I, was bound to wonder if she might struggle to survive the frenzied hysteria now holding her captive.
It was late morning before Amanda’s post-orgasmic serenity brought any calm to the household. My Lady had a flare for infrequent but meaningful affection, for knowing when to be merciful. High noon, in this month of Sundays, was to be just such a moment. With David’s departure, Amanda’s invitation to me to join her on the sofa was an act of compassion quickly seized upon. Running my hands down the back of my dress, I turned and perched my derrière next to the woman who was my wife and redoubtable mistress. In an even rarer moment of kindness, Amanda let me recline and lay in her lap. My upward gaze filled me with a vision of hope. The sight of Amanda’s nimble fingers unbuttoning her blouse aroused within my petticoats the desire of anticipation. My delight at the ease with which she opened her bra with a front fastening was evident from the excitable movements beneath my dress. Cradling my head within her right arm, Amanda allowed her emergent breasts to descend over my waiting countenance, leaving her left hand free to explore beneath my petticoats.
“I’ve been thinking, Francine, sweetie,” Amanda announced as her left hand came to rest on the pulsating silk and lace bulge of my panties. “Don’t you think your journey to womanhood has been progressing rather slowly of late?”
It came as no surprise to me that my long-awaited veneration of my Lady’s benevolent breasts would be offered with a challenge to my mind to accompany the distracted probing of my underwear. Aware of the one way nature of the conversation to come, my lips sought suckle in Amanda’s proffered breast.
“Take Kate’s Vincent for example, or, as I should now call her, Veronica,” Amanda began on her soliloquy of breast donation and panty stroking. “Never had Vincent displayed any transvestite tendencies yet, in less than two years, his female transition is more complete than yours might ever be. Veronica is already a beautiful woman.”
My Lady’s compelling breasts filled my face as her hand strayed down the gusset of my panties. When her palm clasped the flimsy layers of fabric around my tentative testicles, the furthest reaches of her fingers pressed sheer silk into my hollow of prostate receptivity.
“I’d like to introduce some amendments to our covenant,” Amanda went on. “A life of servitude is for sissies. As an aspirant woman you are going to require disciplined pathways to true trans-sisterhood. I understand you may not know if you wish to progress so far but I would like to know sooner rather than later.”
The momentary pause in my ravishing veneration of the bountiful milk of my Lady’s kindness was like an invitation to elucidate.
“I’d like to put you through the same vigorous program Vincent has undergone to become Veronica,” Amanda elaborated. “It will require round-the-clock panty, penis, and testicle inspections, observable orgasm denial, experiments in fellatio and experience of penetration. Would it not be better to live the life of a woman, like me, rather than the demeaning life of the cuckold, servant, reformed husband and failed man you are today?”
As the impact of her words sank into my distracted mind, I sought to draw the occasional breath Lady Amanda’s mellifluous, abundant breasts would permit. In the ecstasy of her suffocating kindness, amidst visions of my future trans-womanhood, I was left wondering what she might do next with her panty-caressing hand.
