Kolchak The Nylon Stalker Yule Tide Me Over A Stalking Stuffer
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We Need To Talk Chapter 7 free porn video
A few weeks later a cute young waitress approached me and asked me why I
called Hector Mr. Torres, said yes sir and no sir when I answered his
questions. Why did I look at the ground when I talked to him.
"Ummm, nothing, no reason. Please, I'm busy," I said, feeling my face
burn.
"Did he threaten you? Is he beating you up? Tell me and I'll make him
stop," she said.
I could feel my face burning and I knew it was a deep crimson red.
"Please don't Michelle. Please, it's nothing. Please leave it alone," I
begged of her.
The next weekend everyone acted differently around me. I could tell
people were talking behind by back. I knew everyone here knew about me
now, but no one ever confronted me directly. It was the snickers and
stares. The waitresses who would try hover a little longer when Mr.
Torres was near me; the exclamation "Oh my god!" and giggles from the
attractive young waitresses when they hear me say "Yes sir Mr. Torres."
I wonder if everyone also knows about Mr. Stanton. Holy fuck, I just
realized everyone else calls Ms. Benoit Jess or Jessica.
A few weeks later my wife gave me a big hug and kiss when I got home from
work.
"I'm taking you out tonight dear. Your clothes are on your bed."
"Thank you ma'am," I replied.
A pair of gray slacks, dress shirt, and a jacket are laid out on my bed.
I quickly change and meet my wife in the living room.
"You look nice," my wife says as she watches me walk in.
"I don't remember laying any socks out though," she says as she looks at
my feet.
I kept my black dress socks on that I wore to work, thinking...I don't
know what I was thinking.
"What color stockings are you wearing?"
"Black ma'am," I reply hesitantly.
"Off with the socks, and then put on your dress shoes" she states.
It's a nice change riding in her car. Exquisite leather seats, high end
sound system, like her...elegant. She holds my hand in hers, I feel
submissive sitting in the passenger seat holding her hand. I look at her
left hand on the steering wheel and notice she's wearing her wedding
ring. I look at her thighs, we're wearing the same stockings. We talk
about work, politics, the news. A twinge of panic strikes me as I notice
we're heading downtown. Fear begins to grow as she turns on 4th street.
Panic overtakes me as we pull in the parkade a block from the Sanctuary.
The pit in my stomach grows, sucking all the moisture from my mouth. Time
slows to a crawl.
"Get my door dear," she states, waking me from my trance.
I feel like rubber, it's hard to move.
I get out and open her door. I offer her my hand and she steps out of her
car. I can't help but to think how sensual a beautiful woman stepping out
of a car is. I close the door and she locks it with her remote. She grabs
my left hand and we begin walking, appearing to everyone around us like a
normal couple. If one looks closely though they'll notice the subtleties,
her right hand holds my left, her hand is in front.
She hasn't said a word, but I know where we're going. The walk takes
forever, I notice how lose my shoes feel without socks, I'm really self-
conscious about my stockings, about her anklet. It takes everything I
have to open the door. I see Jan at the maitre' D' station and I begin to
sweat. My wife leads us to the desk, and as Jan begins to say hi to me my
wife interrupts her and states we have a reservation in my name. As we're
lead to our table I see Ms. Benoit talking to a couple of waitresses.
When she notices us she stops talking to the waitresses and walks towards
us. This can't be happening.
My wife lets go of my hand as Ms. Benoit approaches us, and it quickly
becomes apparent they're good friends as they hug each other. After what
seemed a too long embrace they separate and Ms. Benoit holds out her hand
to me, "Hi Richie."
"Hi Ms. Benoit," I say meekly, shaking her hand.
They exchange pleasantries as Jan and I stand by demurely. I realize I'm
staring at my wife's shoes, I look up and see Jan staring at my wife's
anklet. I just want to fucking melt!
After they're done Jan once again leads us to our table. I hold my wife's
chair as she sits down. I really don't want to sit...everybody is going
to see my stockings. I can't even look at Jan as I take my seat, I feel
my pant leg ride up, exposing me.
As Jan begins to hand me my menu my wife says, "Oh, he won't be needing
that. Thank you."
Jan pulls the menu away from me looking a little confused. "Aahh...OK.
You're waitress will be here shortly."
Oh my god. Did she see my stockings, did she see my wife with Mr.
Stanton?
With anyone else??
I felt sick.
"Don't you think the weather's been beautiful. Perfect summer if you ask
me," she says looking at her menu.
"Yes ma'am," I reply, thinking how fucking surreal all this is.
It's amazing how powerful that small act was, how submissive it made me
feel. I feel very conspicuous sitting here while my wife reads the large
menu while I sit here with nothing. I wonder what everybody is thinking,
I don't know what to do with my hands
"Hi, I'm Angela and I'll be your server," a sweet voice says as the
waitress approaches from behind me, startling me.
"Oh my god, hi Richie I didn't recognize you all dressed up."
"Hi Angie, this is my wife Diane, Diane, Angela," I said trying to
maintain some composure.
"Hi Diane, nice to meet you," as she extends her hand to my wife.
They give each other a strange look, a knowing look, as they shake hands.
"What can I get you to drink?"
"I'll have a chardonnay."
As Angela turns to me and begins to ask what I want to drink my wife
interrupts, "Richie will have a glass of water."
I can feel my face burn as Angela looks at me for confirmation, all I can
do is nod my head.
I can't believe this is happening, dread pours through me as I think
about having to work here in a couple of days. I try in vein to pull my
pant cuffs down, and can feel myself begin to sweat.
"Relax dear. Enjoy yourself," my wife says as she stares into my eyes and
puts down the menu.
When Angela returns with our drinks my wife orders the salmon dinner for
herself and a salad for me. While we're waiting for our dinner my wife
directs the conversation, one minute banal conversations about the
weather, quickly changing to how turned on and wet she is, my last cummy
date, my last bondage experience, to the fact that I needed to change
the scent the next time I wash her car. I find myself in a heady mix of
humiliation, subspace, and arousal.
When our dinner arrives my wife motions to her nearly empty glass. After
Angela leaves I reach for the dressing next to the salad when my wife
wags her finger as a wicked grin washes across her face. She reaches in
her purse and hands me a small metal flask. I open the flask and pour a
little bit of the contents on my salad and try to discern what it is.
"All of it. Pour it all over your salad."
I pour the thin whitish substance over my salad, and the smell of urine
and cum fill the air. I'm mortified knowing I'll soon be putting this in
my mouth. I hand the empty flask back to my wife, pleading with my eyes
to not follow through. My wife smiles as she seductively takes a bite of
salmon, licking her lips. I grab my fork and stab some lettuce and slowly
bring it to my mouth. My wife stares intently as the lettuce passes my
lips and I bite down. The taste of cum and piss fills my mouth, disgust
and shame fill my being.
When Angela returns with my wife's glass of wine I notice her take a
second look at my plate. Does she notice the full dressing cup, yet
dressing is on my salad?
Can she smell the piss and cum?
Did she notice my stockings?
My face once again turning a crimson red as I lower my gaze to my plate.
My wife thanks Angela for the wine.
More than likely Angela didn't notice anything, but maybe she did. Every
time I see two waitresses talking to each other I think they're talking
about me. I want nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die. My wife
teases me...every bite of her dinner sensual. Her stocking feet rubbing
my stocking leg.
"The waitresses here are all really hot, aren't they dear."
"Yes ma'am," I say, taking another bite of my cum and piss soaked
lettuce.
"I bet you would have tried to fuck at least a couple of the waitresses
if my silly little dicklet wasn't safely locked away, wouldn't you have
stud?"
I shake my head. "No ma'am. I'm committed to you and you alone."
"Oh that's sweet," she says, biting into her dinner like she's biting
into flesh.
"Too bad I can't lock up those precious little lips of yours. You'd
probably do anything to worship Angela's pretty young feet with soft
kisses, soft kisses over every inch of her pretty feet. Run your tongue
between her sweaty toes. Suck her her big toe like a little bitty dick.
Deep-throat her foot like a big thick dickl" she says slowly, sensually.
Oh my god, soft flesh tries to break stainless steels as images flood my
mind, just as Angela appears from behind me.
"How is everything? Can I get you anything?" she asks, like she's asked a
hundred times before.
Unlike every time before however, the customer she's asking is currently,
very vividly, imagining sucking on her feet. My face once again feels
flush, burning. Oh my god...please, please just say no so she'll leave.
"My salmon was exquisite. How about you dear, how was your dinner?"
Oh my god I have to speak, but how. Both the beautiful women turned to
look at me, my face burning, sweating.
"Ahh Good. Uhhm...my dinner was good. Thank you," I stammered, my voice
cracking, barely able to look at Angela.
I look at my wife, I look to the table, to the ground.
After too long of a pause, both women staring at me in silence, my wife
began to engage Angela in small talk, asking about desert, reminiscing
about her time as a waitress while she was in college, about how tired
her feet would be after a long shift, about how lucky she was to have a
wonderful, loving man to massage her tired feet when she got home.
"Awww, that's sweet," Angela replies, both women once again focused on
me.
Silence breaks me out of my trance and I look up to both women staring at
me. Oh my god, they both caught me staring at Angela's feet. What would
Angela think if she knew what I was thinking?
Humiliation mixes with lust, fear with desire. I don't know what to do,
what to say, paralyzed. My face yet again flush from embarrassment.
My wife then tells Angela we're OK and she can bring the check. My wife
beckons me with her finger as her face comes toward mine. She stares
deeply in my eyes for a second before whispering, "So you're thinking
about cheating on me? You're thinking about worshiping another woman's
feet aren't you?"
"I'm sorry ma'am, I couldn't help it," I said, truly feeling guilty about
my thoughts.
You're lucky I don't put you across this table and spank your little
slutty ass. You will pay for your unfaithful desires when we get home."
The couple next to us get up to leave. I can't help to notice how big
the guy is, how well built he is. I turn to my wife who does nothing to
hide what she's staring at. She turns to me after they have left her
vision.
"I bet he would never allow his woman to lock up his cock, or put him in
a sexy little dress, or punish him for thinking about sucking another
woman's foot. They don't even make sexy stockings big enough to slide up
those big manly legs" My wife says as she strokes my leg with her foot,
once again reminding me that my shaved legs are encased in sexy, feminine
stockings.
As Angela approaches with the check my wife reaches out her hand, leaving
no doubt who wears the pants in this family.
Dread, fear of the inevitable. I have to come to work here, face these
waitresses, beautiful women. All the events of the past 45 minutes replay
in my mind. What did they see, what did they notice, what are they saying
about me?
My wife waves to someone behind me, and suddenly Mr. Torres appears to
clean the vacated table.
"Hey there Hector," my wife says cheerfully.
"Hey Diane, you're looking sexy." And then they start speaking in
Spanish.
I'm not only ignored, but the conversation on between my wife and her
lover is completely unintelligible to me. After the talk for a couple
minutes my wife instructs me to greet Hector.
"Hello Mr. Torres," I say meekly.
"Hi Richie, did you have a good dinner?" Mr. Torres says.
"Yes sir," I reply, as both Mr. Torres and my wife break out in a smile.
My god, what were they just talking about?
Did I just eat his cum?
Mr. Torres moves to clean the table just as Angela returns with the
receipt, handing it to my wife.
"Thank you Mrs. Harrison," Angela says somewhat confused reading her name
on the credit card, handing my wife the receipt.
"That's Ms. Harrison."
"Yes Ms. Harrison. You two have a wonderful evening," Angela replies.
Fuck, I really need to get out of here. My wife slowly sips her
Chardonnay, beautiful, seductive. My imagination running wild, everybody
in the restaurant must staring at me, talking about me. Maybe I can hide
while she finishes her wine.
"May I please go to the bathroom ma'am?" I plead.
My wife looks into my eyes. Her manicured fingers gently stroking the
stem of her wine glass. I love the taste of wine, such a rare treat for
me. I would give anything to take the last gulp of her wine to wash away
the taste of piss and cum filling my mouth. I'm fixated on two well
manicured fingers gently stroking her stem, not unlike how I rubbed my
silly little clittie so long ago.
"No," she states as her finger stops stroking.
My eyes are fixated on her fingers. Cold hard steel restraining the
evidence of my desire, but does nothing to quench my desire. How many
times have I begged for those fingers to resume stroking, now I just want
them to pick up the glass and bring it to her lips and bring an end to my
hell. I cannot tell her we're going, I cannot ask her to finish her wine
so we can go, I can only endure what's happening.
Finally her fingers bring the glass to the sexy lips and she finishes her
wine. My wife gets up, grabs her purse, and begins to walk towards the
door. I jump up and follow her, a couple steps behind. I can't fucking
wait to get out of here. Every step, a step closer to freedom from my
humiliation. As the front door appears a huge sense of relief begins to
overtake me; only a few more seconds and this will be over!
About 10 feet before we get to the maitre' D' station my wife stops,
turns to me, and directs me against the wall. She pulls out her makeup
bag and hands me her purse.
"Stay," she commands and disappears into the lady's room.
No, no, please no. I can't do this. I look over and see a couple waiting
for a table looking at me. I turn my head to the maitre' D' table and see
Jan looking at me. I look down at the red purse; there is no hiding it,
there is no hiding me. People walk past me to go to there table, women
walk past to go to the bathroom. I can't look up. I can only stare at
their shoes and smell their perfume as they walk past. They must be
talking about me in the bathroom. The din of the restaurant seems loud,
the temperature very hot.
"This isn't your typical work night Richie, Are you here with Diane?" a
familiar voice booms above the din.
"Yes sir."
A large pair of leather shoes come into view.
"Where is she?"
"She's in the lady's room Mr. Stanton," I meekly reply staring at the
ground.
Great, I'd love to see her," he booms, and walks over to talk to Jan.
I have no choice in the matter. Fuck, I'm standing here holding my wife's
purse while one of her past lovers waits for her. I stare at the floor,
begging for my wife to return...praying. Fuck, I'm standing outside the
bathroom holding a big red purse while a man she fucked while we were
married waits to talk to her. Everyone must be starting at me, I can't
look up, I can't face them. Please, please, I beg you to come out.
"Nice to see you Diane," a deep voice booms above the din.
"Eric, you're looking good. Still going to the gym I see."
Two feet appear in my vision, inches from each other. One of the dainty
ones rises from the floor. They embrace for far too long. His feet look
so big next to hers. I wish they would step away from each other while
they talk. I should man up and demand it, but I just stand where my wife
put me and look at her purse clutched in my hands. I stare at the key to
her silly little dicklette. Everyone must be staring at them, at the key,
at me.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Mr. Stanton asks my wife.
"Sure," my wife responds.
My wife invades my space for a quick second. At least she'll be taking
this red purse that's telling everyone in the restaurant I'm a pussy-
whipped wimp. Hopefully she'll tell me to go to the car so I can finally
be alone in my humiliation.
She slides her makeup kit in her purse and walks away with Mr. Stanton.
NO, NO, NO, NO. You can't. Please, please, PLEASE. This is too much. The
din of the crowd seems to get louder, the sound laughter. Are they all
talking about me, laughing at me?
Please be quiet so I can listen for my wife, hear her talk, hear her
footsteps. I look at the purse, my focal point, so I don't see the people
staring. Feet walk past me as my face points to the ground. My heart
begins to pound, the room is so hot. A man and woman walks past me, I
suddenly become aware of my stockings as I stare at hers. Emotions
building, boiling. I feel like I'm on a big platform in the middle of the
restaurant, everyone staring, pointing, laughing. A huge red purse...a
beacon to all that I'm not the man of the house.
The din grows louder, the room grows hotter, the crowd gets bigger, the
spot light gets brighter. My emasculation on display for everyone to see.
I fight back tears as I stare at her purse. My testicles are in this
purse. I'm a man...I'm not a man...a thing. I should kick Mr. Stanton's
ass, he could throw me over a table and rape me and there would be
nothing I could do about it; he's so big, so strong. Everyone staring at
me holding a purse...the last of my masculinity slipping away, in front
of the world. I'm a FUCKING MAN!
My wife has my dick, her silly little dicklette, locked up. I can't
remember what it looks like, what a real orgasm feels like. I become
aware of my stockings. The events of the night playing over and over in
my mind. I fight back tears...a lump in my throat I can't push down. FUCK
I'm going to start crying in front of all these people. And then.
And then a sense of peace begins to wash over me, a sense of calm. What
do I care what all these people think?
I only care about what one person thinks, my wife. This is what I asked
for, this is who I am. Sometimes I wish I wasn't wired this way, but I am
and there's nothing I can do about it. I can either spend my life
fighting against it, or accept it.
I'm content. I slowly pick my head up. Jan is talking to a customer. I
look around the restaurant, at the waiting area, people going about their
business. I catch the eye of a woman looking at me, and we exchange
smiles before she looks away. Is she content?
How many men have asked their wife for this, only to be met with disgust
or ridicule?
I glance at a husband staring at a woman's breasts, his wife sitting by
his side staring off into the distance. People talking, laughing, acting
like their supposed to, playing the role given to them by society. So
many people staring into their phones, the tiny screens more exciting
than the person their with; even if I were allowed to look at my phone
while I was with my wife, there's nothing on it that I find more
important than my wife. How many of these people hiding who they are,
shoving who they are down deep a hole inside themselves, living a lie?
How many of them are gay, but would be kicked out of their church or
synagogue, pushed away by their families and friends so instead they
pretend to be 'normal'?
How many men look at a woman and wonder, not what it would be like to
fuck her, but what it would feel like to wear her clothes, but wouldn't
dare tell their wife for fear she'll laugh at him, tell him to get help?
Life for a so many is a series of boring events, sex something they have
to do, while they can only fantasize about who they are by hiding away in
secret, making sure to cover their browser history lest the person they
love find out who they really are, or still fantasize about it. I'm the
luckiest man in the world, my wife not only accepting the person I am,
but embracing who I am. She has brought my fantasies to fruition a
thousand times over and I love her for that...and I love myself. I could
be standing here in my frilliest outfit and I wouldn't care.
My wife and Mr. Stanton eventually return and my wife grabs the purse
from my hands. While reaching into her purse she catches my gaze. She
stares into my eyes, into my soul...and I into hers. The loud din slowly
goes silent, all the faces fade away...even the hulk of my boss fades to
nothing. It's just me and my wife staring into each others eyes. Time
stops. We stare into each others soul forever, for a second.
My wife drops her keys back in her purse as she turns to Mr. Stanton. "I
think I'm just going to go home tonight Eric."
My wife grabs my hand and whispers in my ear, "Come."
It was a beautiful evening. My wife took us on a walk around the city,
and we enjoyed a long intimate conversation. We talked about the evening,
our future, whether to continue on with our relationship or go back to
being husband and wife. We talked about how we were doing...were each of
us happy, content with each other, our relationship, ourselves. She tells
me I don't have to work at the restaurant any more, it's served its
purpose.
A flood of relief washed over me. Washing dishes over the weekends has to
be the most difficult tasks my wife has assigned me; grueling, hot,
demeaning. The fact that I would no longer have to suffer through another
long hard shift of washing dishes to pay for her dates was really an
incredible relief.
"Thank you ma'am," I say, truly expressing my gratitude.
"Go ahead," she says stopping, turning to me.
"What?" I ask, confused.
"Go ahead. What you have an overwhelming desire to do. Do it."
Her eyes, her smile, her voice, reach deep within me, each one twisting a
different emotion. I bend my legs, right in the middle of the sidewalk.
My head bows to the ground between her legs, and my lips pressed against
her shoe.
"Thank you," I say, over and over as my lips press against supple
leather, a gentle, worshiping kiss between each expression of gratitude .
A woman across the street exclaims, "Oh my god. Look at that," followed
by laughter.
"You don't have to wash dishes anymore, but it would sure get me
so...fucking....hot if you asked me to work this weekend."
Another wave on the roller coaster. As quickly as she shot my emotions
up, she dropped them back down. I really, really don't want to go back.
The relief of never having to go back there was almost overwhelming...the
thought of going back filling me with overwhelming dread. With my lips
pressed to her shoe I asked my wife if I could work this weekend, and in
no time I was begging, pleading, for her to please allow me to work this
weekend.
We finished the night making incredibly passionate love, our way.
A couple weekends later, instead of a leather smock and a hairnet I'm
wearing a maids uniform as I was cleaning my wife's bathroom. Opening her
toilet I see the unmistakable drippings of piss on the edge of the bowl,
triggering a montage of images and scenes, smells and sound, I'm unable
to control. Me wiping fresh piss off this toilet after Mr. Torres fucked
my wife, the sight of his cock, my face in this filthy bowl while my ass
was burning, massaging a naked back, naked thighs, naked calves, a golden
key against bronze skin...painting nails, serving.
I rub my hand up and down my crotch like a girl in a futile attempt to
pleasure myself. I must concentrate on the toilet. I'm so desperate to
kiss her...shoes. What the fuck...I want to kiss my wife...I need to kiss
her shoes, her feet.
My wife towering above, the feeling of her wet cunt torments me...the
ultimate tease, the ultimate denial. The sound of Mr. Torres' grunts
mixed with my wife's guttural screams and moans. The look of my wife's
lips wrapped around his cock...the sound as she bobs back and forth, a
couple days ago, abject fear of the pain if I stopped bobbing back and
forth on the perch, my red lipstick smeared on her cock...my red lipstick
smeared across our picture, marking time. My wife's beautiful calf, her
beautiful foot...rubbing Mr. Stanton's huge foot, thick massive calves.
My wife's stocking foot, rubbing my stocking clad leg. I look down at my
red toe nails sticking out of my pumps, thin hairless calves wrapped in
silky nylon. I'm holding a filthy sponge in my hand, a sponge covered in
the stale piss of another man.
I turn on the water to rinse the sponge, reminding me how Mr. Torres
sounded like a racehorse as he stood pissing like a man, the sound of my
tinkle as I sit like a girl. I see myself in the mirror...neither a man
nor a woman, I'm me. The sound of my bells tinkle as I continue with my
chores.
Being put away, mounted to a post in the garage with the brooms and
mops...a thing, except I desperately longed for my owner to return...to
find another use for me, to be with her....to worship her. Unlike the mop
I was cold, unlike the broom my discomfort grew as each minute passed.
Unlike the rake, this turned me on. Soft slippery hand, stroking. Please.
Brown muscular sweaty ass in my face, the sound of grunts as he cums deep
inside my wife. The musky smell. Her perfume. God I desperately need to
cum SO FUCKING BAD. If I kiss her shoes I might get to cum. Please please
PLEASE let me kiss her shoe, the sole of her filthy shoe! I bask in my
arousal as I clean. A roll of the dice determines my fate. Is today my
lucky day??
Hands reach down in a futile attempt to stop the pain, a cold steel plate
protects my wife's property from unauthorized hands. I scurry as quickly
as I can to the living room. I'm breathless as I catch a glimpse of my
wife's beautiful face and incredible body as my eyes instinctively drop
to her bare feet...a brass key dangling from a delicate gold chain
against a bronze ankle...so fucking beautiful. She's reading some
documents, the contents of which I will only know if she allows it.
Anticipation, fear, longing, desperate desire. I don't know what the next
minute will bring, the next hour an eternity. It takes everything I
have...all the power within me, everything that I am, to patiently wait.
Silence fills the room.
The silence is broken as beautiful fingers grab the stem of a glass of
ice water. She casually brings the glass to her beautiful lips and takes
a sip. She casually places the glass back on the table.
The sound of a page being turned.
A few moments later I'm startled out of my trance as my wife simply
states "We need to talk."...
The End.
India
- 09.11.2021
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