The Good Wife Ch. 01
"I guess I know what chores I'll be doing tomorrow," I thought, noticing several places where his semen had landed during climax and my own thick love fluid had left a mark a few inches in front of the chair because of my first intense orgasm and the accompanying gush, and another wet spot right at the front of the chair where I had dribbled and spilled a little.
Deciding my legs would work fine, I entered the bedroom. I unbuttoned and removed the dress, neatly folding it for cleaning the next day. I sat on the bed's edge and took off those foot torment devices called shoes, gasping in relief and rubbing my feet that had become so sore. While there, I removed the stockings and unhooked them. They joined the dress in piles of dirty laundry.
I raised my arms through the bra straps and pulled the cups down, freeing me to twist the garment around so the six hooks were in front. Those many hooks on a bra that taut were simply too many to undo while doing that double-jointed maneuver we all learn with our first training bra. It joined the dress and hose in the piles.
I took a deep breath, stood, and began the aerobic routine of taking off the girdle. It's a challenge to put it on when I'm fresh and dry and powdered, let alone now that I was damp as if it had swallowed me like a snake. Each inch it came down required significant effort. I was panting and sweating even more when I finally managed to slide it past my butt and push it down and step out of it.
Another collection in the dirty laundry and then I ventured into the bathroom. I washed my face and combed my hair, letting it fall loose to my shoulders. I placed the jewelry in its proper locations, inspected myself in a floor-length mirror, and, content, pulled my nightgown from the top drawer.
This was the special nightgown I wore only on nights when my husband had been disciplined. It was something right out of Victorian times, a present from my mother for my wedding shower. It's flannel with a subdued print that buttons to the neck and wrists and hangs to my ankles. It has special flaps that would allow me to nurse my husband while staying modest.
One final check and then I retrieved him.
He hadn't moved, as expected, and I paused for a moment to admire him. Hell, he looked fine.
"Come on, Dear," I murmured, "bedtime."
We went into the bedroom with no hesitation, and he soon crawled up onto the bed, lying down with his ass centered on the diaper. I smiled, adjusted the diaper to ensure a snug fit around his legs, and did the sticky tabs at the sides. He struggles with control after discipline.
"I'll be back in a moment, Dear," I said.
It was a fast journey through the house, locking the doors, turning off the TV and Bose radio, making sure the alarm was activated, and returning to the bedroom.
My husband was lying on the bed, covered up, his head on the pillow, and his thumb in his mouth.
He continued to cry softly.
"It's okay, Dear," I said, cuddling up next to him, brushing a few locks of hair from his face, and kissing his forehead. "You were a mischievous boy, but you've been punished and now it's over."
He attempted a smile.
I smiled back and watched his eyes as they gazed at my fingers undoing the two buttons that held the flap closed. I pulled the material down and slid my breast out, offering it to him.
When he didn't react right away, I giggled and brushed my nipple, hard with my own desire now, across his lips until he opened his mouth.
"That's good, Dear," I said, ensuring nipple and areola were stroked by his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
I felt that rush unique to women as his lips closed, he began sucking, and then massaged my nipple and areola with his tongue.
"That's right, Dear," I whispered again and hummed a lullaby while cradling his head with my arm, gently stroking his hair with my fingers.
I'm unsure which one of us fell asleep first.
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