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Erin Ch. 12: On the Runway

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

{Note: This is the twelfth in a multi-part story series cataloging the progressive evolution of a relationship between a dominant woman who provides leadership and discipline for her husband. Each installment can stand alone, but they read much better if you start at the beginning. Go to: Erin Ch.01 — Female Led Relationship. JQGraves}

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our walk-in closet off the master bedroom, contemplating my reflection. I was “dressed” in navy-blue women’s panties, matching knee-high socks, a pair of fuzzy mules with a one-inch heel and a black “Easy Up Firm Control Waist Cincher”. I’m guessing that whoever came up with the name of that garment was being paid by the word. Otherwise “girdle” describes it accurately, though I prefer “Waist Cincher” when I am forced to wear it.

‘If someone not aware of our Woman Led Marriage catches me in this,’ I thought, ‘I’ll claim it’s for back support. Yeah, an old football injury, or a fall while climbing K2, in my youth. Something manly.’ Sigh. ‘It makes me look slimmer. Wish it didn’t squeeze so much out the top.’ Some men get a charge out of wearing women’s clothing; I don’t happen to be one of them.

Erin threatened me with women’s shapewear years ago—jokingly, I’d hoped—if I did not lose a few pounds and tighten up my belly. I’ve gained a few more pounds since then. Still not obese, but not fit and trim. There’s no evidence of a six-pack. Since her mother instituted my current, at-home fashion—panties (with an apron when working)—my admittedly soft middle became too obvious.

Erin dragged me to an exclusive women’s clothier and introduced me to Bethany, her Personal Shopper, an attractive young lady who knows Erin’s taste in clothing, and who picks out things for her to save Erin the time and money of searching for things herself. We were in the store for most of an hour, and I provided free entertainment to the two ladies while they discussed possible additions to my wardrobe. The waist cincher was one option, and a better one than the full corset or the classic bustier—guaranteed to enhance the bosom. Or, how about the “High Waist Butt Lifter” (I kid you not) that one had them rolling in the aisles while I stood there, appalled, my pants down around my ankles.

Bethany had me drop my dockers to take measurements, which revealed the panties I was wearing and made the bulge of my chastity device obvious to her. If she were an older woman, instead of a young lady ten years my junior, it would have been a little less humiliating. I have to give her credit; she was all business while she measured me, only giving my panty-clad package a single pat from below. She could have teased me and made it much worse. Since I am currently in a Crown of Thorns penis device locked to my Prince Albert piercing, I was glad that she did not purposely stimulate poor Chuck to be tortured by all those waiting points.

From shapewear, we moved over to panties. My mother-in-law put me in panties after she got my penis pierced since, she argued, “Panty material is softer and the closed design provides better support than your male boxers while your wounded member heals.” As I healed up, she kept me in panties (and often little else) I think because she enjoyed having a nearly naked young man around the house. An instant “tradition” that Erin adopted when she returned from her travels.

I was allowed to pull my dockers back up before going out of the measuring area to the panty section of the store. This was good, because the sights of all that femininity on display, plus the ribald discussions between the two women did stimulate poor, imprisoned Chuck. Bethany handed me a bag with the store’s very feminine logo to carry our selections, and I held it in front gaziantep porno hikayeler of me whenever I feared a growing bulge at my crotch. At times, it was a struggle to not curl up around my dick when those wicked points made contact.

Bethany started with the skimpiest, frilliest panties in the store. “I don’t yet know your tastes,” she said to me, “but this thong style, bordered in lace, is in fashion.” She held up a garment consisting of very little material in a pastel purple with ruffles at the borders. “Or, the girls are also buying the lace retro thong,” she said, holding up an entirely see-through creation in pink. Erin snorted a laugh at that one. Bethany was clearly comfortable enough with Erin to have a little fun at my expense.

“Oh, these are so precious,” Erin exclaimed, moving from the women’s to young girl’s section and lifting a pink pair with cute little ponies on the hips.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have that pattern in his size. We could probably special order, but in the meantime, the girls seem to love these,” Bethany volunteered, raising a string bikini with a pink and blue camo design.

“All right, you two,” I said, blushing to light up the store. Just the sight of all these women’s intimates on display all around me was enough to encourage Chuck and embarrass me. “Could we maybe tone it down a little? You’re starting to draw attention. Tell you what, I’ll wait elsewhere while you have your fun. Is there a gun store or a tractor outlet in the mall?”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Erin said, taking my arm so I would not escape. “It’s just that you are so cute when you blush and get all flustered.

“I think,” she said to Bethany, “we’re looking for a full-cut or boyshorts style, in solid colors and not overly feminine.”

“Well that’s no fun,” Bethany said, “but here. This is probably what you’re after.” She moved over to a “SALE” table with full-cut cotton panties in plain colors on display.

“Those will work,” Erin said, “but also some hipsters that he can wear with his waist cincher. That should give him a little extra incentive to exercise and lose that flab around his belly.”

“Plus, he’ll look great in them,” Bethany said. She had me hold out the store bag so she could drop in several pairs of various cuts and colors.

“Do you have knee socks to coordinate with each of those?” Erin asked.

“You bet,” Bethany said, as she, finally, led us out of the panty department. I did not notice that, in passing, Erin palmed one of the lace retro thongs in navy blue and slipped it into my bag. Actually, I was trying to withdraw mentally from the entire scene, so would not have noticed if she slipped a bowling ball and a set of pins into the bag.

When we’d bought out the store—two waist cinchers, one black, one blond and eight pairs of panties with a similar number of matching knee socks, Bethany led us up to the checkout counter.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Erin said, peeling off and heading toward the exit.

“But…” I said, as quick on the uptake as ever.

Bethany, no longer inhibited by my wife (as if), held up each item, named it, folded it carefully in tissue and slipped it into a pristine, very feminine, store bag, while I stood there, the object of interest to half the female population of the city (well, the six or seven young ladies present at the time).

I cringed when she held up the dainty that Erin slipped into my bag for everyone to see and announced, “One navy, lace retro thong. You’ll just love yourself in this one.”

Bethany added the outrageous total to Erin’s account and handed me three bags with all our purchases. As I turned to leave, she called out, “I know your sizes and preferences now, so I’ll have better choices for you when you come in next time. Thank you for shopping with us.”

I missed a step, and my face got even redder, but I resumed my steady pace to the exit. I fought down the urge to run, and I did not turn around to reply.

From that boutique, we walked two stores down the concourse to a women’s shoe store. I pleaded with Erin to let me wear my running shoes around the house but she said, “With all the exercise you’ll be doing to lose that flab, your workout shoes will be all sweaty and smelly most of the time. Besides, we should stick with the theme and get you something a little more stylish to go with your lovely panties and knee socks.”

The shoe store was not nearly as exclusive as the boutique we were just in, but it was still a women’s store. The sales girl who waited on us couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old and thought it was great fun to assist a thirty-something man to select just the right style and fit.

“We’re not looking for anything fancy,” Erin said, “just something comfortable for him to wear around the house.”

“We don’t carry men’s footwear,” Stacey said (I read her name tag), “but we have plus sizes in most things so I’m sure we can find something he’ll like.

“What size shoe do you wear?” she asked me.

“Ten and a half,” I answered, keeping my voice low to make it less obvious to other customers that we were shopping for me and not my wife.

“Ten and a half would be a twelve or thirteen in a woman’s size,” Stacey shouted, as though I might be hard of hearing and standing twenty feet away. (Well, a bit of exaggeration, but not by much.)

Erin watched me get all “cute” (blushing and flustered) then said to Stacey, “I was thinking of a pair of mules, not too fancy, in a neutral color that will not clash with his socks.”

“Sure, we can do that. Come over here, and he can try a few things on. Were you picturing an open or closed toe?” she asked Erin. Clearly, I was just along to check the size and carry the embarrassingly labeled bags.

We followed Stacey to a spot near the front center of the store. Passersby could see us from the concourse through the glass wall. Erin selected, and Stacey brought me several pairs to try on, to the amusement of two young women whispering back and forth while pretending to examine a pair of spike heels nearby, and the obvious disapproval of a matron with her granddaughter who wanted to know, “Why is that man wearing girl’s shoes?”

We bought two pairs of mules, one tan pair with a low heel, fur on the inside and a couple of rabbit’s feet (?) decorating the toes, and one pair of fuzzy, navy-blue, open toes with a one-inch heel. Erin did the choosing; I was still lobbying for cross-trainers.

Once again, I was abandoned to handle the checkout—not nearly as embarrassing as checking out at the panty counter, but still entertaining to those shoppers nearby. The two girls I noted earlier were openly laughing at this point, both at my purchases and my bright red complexion.

We had to go to a specialty shop to find an apron or two that satisfied Erin’s evil intent. Simple brown or red aprons with logos like, “Head Chef” or “Bar-B-Que Master” wouldn’t do. She insisted we get light colors in a floral design to, “maintain the theme”. I ended up purchasing one bib apron, and one pinafore with flounces at the shoulders and waist and a wide ribbon that tied in a big, floppy bow in the back. This time at the checkout counter, I tried to imply that they were for my wife. Don’t know if anyone bought it, since my wife made me try them on before she chose them.

As we left the mall Erin said, “See? I told you this would be an adventure.”

All I wanted to do, at that point, was to stash the girly store bags I was carrying in the trunk of the car as quickly as possible. I feared that all the various women who had seen me humiliated in the mall were following us out to our car. And they might have been, but I was too embarrassed to look back to see. At the least, they had to be packed against the glass doors, pointing and laughing.

At any rate, you now have the full story of how I came to be standing in front of the full-length mirror in our walk-in closet off the master bedroom wearing a mostly see-through lace retro thong in navy blue, matching knee-high socks, a pair of open-toe, fuzzy, navy mules with a one-inch heel, and a black “Easy Up Firm Control Waist Cincher”. Not that easy to pull up, by the way. You should try it some time.

Erin was relaxing on the couch in the family room with a glass of wine, waiting for me to model my new outfit. I was in front of the mirror, no longer looking at myself but stalling and trying to work up the courage. ‘Right now,’ I thought, ‘her mood is playful, but if she has to come find me, that could change.’ Sigh. ‘Ah well.’

When I entered the room, Erin clapped her hands and exclaimed with glee, “Wow! I love it! I’m glad you shaved down there. You look so… so sexy dressed like that. Stop. Turn around,” she directed, index finger circling in the air.

I turned slowly to give her the full effect.

“That thong is even sexier from the backside. Your cheeks are still multi-colored from yesterday’s lesson, so that does detract from the effect, but still…

“Come here,” she said, reaching into her cleavage for the key to the Kali’s Teeth penis cuff I wore.

My mood suddenly improved. I’d wear whatever Erin wanted to put me in if it meant freedom for Chuck. Well, almost whatever.

With both hands, Erin skimmed the thong down my hips, then unlocked and removed the chastity device. My member was not hard yet, but I knew that it was relieved to no longer have all those nasty points just waiting to punish any swelling.

Erin pulled the thong back up, smoothing it all around with her hands. It fit like a second skin to the contours of my backside—a highly decorative, lacey, navy blue skin. My cock was getting a little more chubby when she stopped and said, “Now walk to the end of the room, turn and come back… Not like that. Strut! Place one foot in front of the other. Pretend you’re on a runway; dozens of fashion critics are watching and judging your every move… That’s it… Much better.”

I wasn’t used to the one-inch heel of the open-toe mule, and they felt a little strange—kind of like walking down hill, but not. I didn’t have any trouble walking in them, but strutting on the plush carpet was a different story. They felt higher, more awkward when I strutted.

Erin made me walk the room a second time, directing slight adjustments to my body language. As I completed the second circuit, she waived me in, reached into my panties and adjusted, stroked and squeezed my cock so it stood straight up, the head just showing out the top.

“I can’t wait until mother sees you in this getup,” she said.

“Oh, please,” I begged, “you wouldn’t…”

“Oh, but I would,” Erin said. “You brought this all on yourself. If mother had not caught you masturbating like some teenage sissy while I was out of town, your situation would never have taken this course. And I might not have ever discovered how much I like your new look,” she added with a wicked grin. “Granted, the thong is a little over the top. You should reserve that one for special occasions, like when mother has her lady friends over and wants you to serve them drinks and snacks.”

My expression went from shock to horror.

“Relax, honey, just kidding. That won’t happen… At least, I think it won’t happen… But… you know mother. She does have a twisted sense of humor.”

END of Erin — 12 — On the Runway

Copyright © 2020 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved. Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.

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