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Recapturing The Stray Husband free porn video
Recapturing the Stray Husband
By Rosie
I played the message on my machine for probably the hundredth time.
"Stephanie, your husband is with me. You can come pick him up when you're
ready to apologize and promise you'll stop abusing him."
Though I knew my mother's voice by heart, I couldn't resist running it
over and over again. It appeared on my machine an hour after Jack
tearfully run away - then it made me angry, both at him for being such a
spineless sissy, and at her, for meddling in our affairs. After a week, it
amused me more than anything. For a couple of days I even contemplated the
though of not coming after him and seeing what happened - how soon they'd
get tired enough of each other to admit it. In the end, though, I
remembered that as I was apparently the only adult among the three of us
and decided to come pick him up after all.
Rather than calling ahead, I just drove to my mother's house. I pulled up
her driveway the same time as she did.
"Stephanie?" she cried as she got out of her car, "What are you doing
here?"
"What do you think I'm doing," I said, "I came to get my husband back."
"I'm not sure that's an option," she said, her lips forming a straight,
thin line.
"Oh, I'm sure it is," I said, "And come on, do you listen to yourself
talk."
I made my way towards the door, but she stood in front of me.
"He said that you beat him," she said.
"Did he, now?" I said, fighting the urge to push my mother aside and just
storm the door, "What else did he say? Did he say how he sits on his ass
all day while I'm at work? Did he say how in his view I'm expected to cook
and clean, beside being the only one who brings in the money? Did he
mention how instead of at leas taking the trash out, he spent more than
three thousand dollars - of my hard earned money - on a widescreen TV so
he enjoy his videogames more?"
I could see that this information was new to her, though she stood her
ground nonetheless.
"That doesn't change the fact that you beat him," she said.
"First of all, it's none of your business, mother," I said, "Second of
all, I don't beat him, I spank him."
"As if there is any difference," she said.
"Of course there's a difference," I said, "I don't slap him or pound him
or kick him when I'm mad at him - though I can't say he doesn't tempt me
with his shit - that would be beating. What I do is spank him on his ass
and only after he places himself over my knees."
"Oh?" she said.
"Yes," I said, "And did he tell you it was his idea in the first place?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"One time I was really mad at him, I was in New York for three days and
the first thing he says to me is 'honey, could you do the dishes, it's
really starting to stink?". I admit, that time I really lost it. When I
settled down I told him that I had enough of his shit and that I'm going
to have to start punishing him. I bought him this Playstation in New York
that he was talking about so much, but I said that I was sending it back.
You should see him that time, he almost broke down in tears, begged me not
to do it. So I asked him how he thought he should be punished, and he
suggested spanking him," I said.
"He suggested?" my mother repeated my words in amazement.
"Yeah. He gave me a load of bull about how it's good for me because I'll
be releasing tension and stress while he is disciplined at the same time
but to be honest, I'm sure he just thought it would be sexy," I said, "I
guess I was kind of easy on him the first time, because pretty soon I had
to do it again. The third time he saw it wouldn't be some form of kinky
foreplay he had hoped for, that's when he came crying to you," I said,
"Now can I take him home?"
She stood there gaping silently before she finally spoke again.
"No," she said, "I'm sorry, but could you come back a little later?"
"What? Why?" I asked.
"He's not here," she said quickly.
"Bullshit, mom, I can tell you're lying," I said and took a few steps
sideway, "I can see him through the window."
"Stephanie, come here, listen to me," my mother cried, but I kept peering
through the window. It was dark inside and I could only make out his
silhouette at first - he was in the living room, watching TV. 'Typical,' I
thought. Just as I was about to walk back to the front door, he turned on
a lamp beside the couch. Because of the high arms of the couch I could
only see his head and his shoulders, covered entirely by his long black
hair. 'Not wearing your ponytail again' I said to myself. A second later,
he leaned forward for the remote and his hair swept forward so that I
could see his shirt. I couldn't recognize it immediately, it wasn't like
any that I could remember seeing him in, yet for some reason it was
strangely familiar. It was brown, and strangely shiny. When leaned back,
pointed the remote towards the TV and I saw the sleeve, I remembered where
I'd seen it.
"He's wearing your blouse, isn't he?" I said, turning to my mother.
"You must realize he didn't bring any of his clothes with him," she said,
"He's been here for over a week."
Brushing past her, I opened the front door and marched inside. He must
have thought I was my mother at first - I was in the dark after all -
because he waved at me, showing off the full, billowing sleeve of his
blouse.
"Hello, Jack," I said as friendly as I could, "Nice blouse."
He literally shrieked, then - I had to give him the credit for a good
thinking - turned off the light.
I could hear my mother say apologetically: "He was wearing pink panties
when he came here, he spilled hot soup all over himself and I had him take
his pans off right there and then." Only then did she turn on the light. I
wondered briefly what she had meant as my eyes were getting used to the
bright light of the main chandelier until I saw my husband standing in the
middle of the room, his getaway foiled by my mother. He was indeed wearing
my mother's silk brown pinstriped blouse, with nice billowing sleeves, but
I guessed that the real reason he wanted to sneak past me in the dark was
that his blouse was tucked into the waistband of my mother's black knee
length skirt. Following the outline of his skirt, my eyes scanned his legs
encased in dark hose and the patent black high heeled shoes on his feet.
"This is nice," I said, then turned to my mother, "He was wearing pink
panties because he couldn't be bothered to do his own laundry and he ran
out of clean underwear."
"I'm really sorry about that, Stephanie," my mom apologized.
"Don't be," I said, "I'm not."
"You're not?" she asked warily.
"No, as a matter of fact, I'm glad. But first things first, where are the
clothes he came in?" I said.
"Upstairs," my mother said, "I can bring them if you want to."
"Yes, please," I said, then turned to my skirted husband as she left, "You
know why I'm glad, honey?"
He dumbly shook his head.
"Well, because I'll finally get to know what men do and don't do," I
began, "You see, before we were married, and before you lost your job, I
had a really distorted view on what men do. To think that I believed that
men could help around the house!"
I laughed - earnestly - though not at my folly. Jack, for some reason,
couldn't see the humor in that.
"But you've explained to me quite clearly that men don't do that.
Especially when they're unemployed, men mostly lie around the house, watch
TV and play videogames," I continued, "Until now, I thought that that was
all men did, but now - thanks to you and my mother - I now realize that
men also dress up in nice blouses and skirts. Though I wonder - is this
only when men are visiting their mothers in law, or is it a general
thing?"
"Stephanie, please, it's not what it looks like," he said.
"Oh?" I said, then plucked at the silk of his blouse, "Well, 'this' looks
like a ladies blouse to me, and that," jamming my finger in the waistband
of his skirt, "If I'm not mistaken, is a skirt."
Jack just stood there and dumbly looked at the floor.
"It's not..." he mumbled.
"Or maybe I've got it wrong," I said, ignoring his efforts to explain his
situation, "Maybe you do want to help at home, but feel that as a man,
you're forbidden to do so, and the only way to work around this obstacle
is if you become a woman. Is that it?"
He remained silent, still starring at the floor.
Aggravated, I took hold of his jaw and forced his head upwards.
"Answer me!" I hissed.
"I... no... yes..." he stammered, then looked away, tears trickling down his
face.
Luckily for him, my mother arrived with his clothes at that moment.
"Thank you," I said, taking the clothes from her. I could see Jack almost
reach out for them so I held them behind my back, clearly indicating I had
no intention of giving them to him. Instead, I went to my mother's
kitchen, found a pair of scissors and went back to the living room, where
I cut up my husband's clothes before a flabbergasted audience.
"What on Earth are you doing, Stephanie?" my mom finally spoke.
"I thought it was pretty self explanatory," I said, "I'm cutting up my
husband's clothes, since he looks comfortable enough in yours."
"I thought you were taking him home," she said.
"Oh, I am," I said.
"Stephanie, please, I can't go out dressed like this," Jack cried.
"Don't see why not," I replied, "As a matter of fact, I don't remember the
last time I've seen you in clothes as sensible as these."
"He's right, Stephanie," my mom said, "Dragging him out dressed like that
wouldn't be a good idea, not if you have to walk two blocks from your
parking lot to your home."
By the change in the tone of her voice I could tell that mother hardly
harbored any sympathy for my husband who had her believe I had been
abusing out of pure malice, so I knew she wasn't just trying to protect
him from my wrath. I thought for a second, then looked at Jack. Clearly he
looked like a man in women's clothes, but at the same time among the three
of us, he was the shortest one - hardly as tall as me even on his two inch
heels. He was thin, almost frail and with his delicate facial features and
long hair, it wouldn't take much to turn him into a woman.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right," I said.
"Shouldn't have cut up my clothes," Jack piped up, "Now you'll have to go
back home for new ones."
"You know you've got a lot of nerve, mister," I said to him, "The only
thing that'll happen to your clothes if I go home without you is that
they're all going to get cup-up like these ones here. I'm taking you home
this evening and you'll be wearing my mother's clothes."
I paused for a second to see their reaction. Jack was looking quite
worried while my mother was surprisingly calm.
"You can borrow anything in the house - if my mother lends it to you, of
course," I continued, "I suppose you can find a pair of pants, some
loafers and a sweater in which you won't look like a man in women's
clothes as much as you do now. I mean, it is dark outside so you just
might pull it through. Or, you can try to make yourself look like a woman.
Your choice. Either way, I'm taking you home in exactly one hour so make
good use of that time."
"Stephanie, come on," he said, "You can't be serious."
"I can't?" I said, cupping his jaw with my hand again, which made him
shirk with fear, "Listen, honey, one more objection out of you and I'm
dragging you home right now, regardless whether it's a good idea or not."
He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to say something more,
but before he could actually say it, my mother stepped up to him, took him
by his hand.
"Come on, Alice, let's see what we can do with you," she said.
"Alice?" I chuckled.
"What?" she shrugged, "I'll make him look as good as I can but all it
takes to undo that is for you to call him Jack out on the street."
"Makes sense," I said as she led him upstairs.
"I'd rather not go out dressed as a woman," I heard Jack say as he was
trailing behind my mother.
"I only have women's clothes," my mother replied, "You'll be dressed as a
woman whatever you wear."
"But what about the pants I wore the first time?" he whined,
My mother said something in reply as they had already entered her bedroom,
I couldn't make out what it was. For a while I could hear the muffled
sounds of their dialogue, my husbands whiny complaints and my mother
increasingly annoyed retorts until the flow of the conversation was
abruptly cut by my husbands shriek. Alarmed, I started to climb the stairs
myself, until I was comforted by sounds I was more familiar with. The
steady rhythm of an open palm hitting against a panty-clad backside was
accompanied by my husband's squealing pleads for mercy that eventually
turned into weeping. I turned back and returned to the living room. It
looked like everything was going to be okay after all.
The End
Anastasia
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