Thursday, May 2, 2013

Some Kind of 50's Housewife

Ever crave the simpler life? Things were so much easier on 'Leave It To Beaver'.  Everyone's role was easily defined,  and they knew what was expected of them. Wow, how things have changed from then to now. In May we are paying tribute to the "Unexpected Love" theme.  

Storytime Tryst does not own this image.


Some Kind of 50's Housewife
Ben Hannigan

Dear Diary,

It’s that time again, comfortable and happy and talking to you as I have since I was twelve about my day.

Settling into the sofa after a long day of work I almost melt into the soft comforting red cotton covers. My back sore from spending the day sat a desk typing endless lines of literary criticism. My partner is in as well, home after meeting each other in that last gentle walk that we share cutting across the park full of kids goofing off after school and mothers trying to corral theirs from the larger herd in order to head back to the boring world of Friday night homework and the chores.

My hand snaked into hers my world exploding into colour at her touch, that 3 inch strip of contact somehow engulfing my whole being. We walked home, chatted and talked about our day, about what we wanted for food and our plans for the weekend ahead. I’m a housewife only without being bound by anything more than love, I write from home and cook and generally try to spoil my Lana by just creating things to make her smile. My friends and fellow writers call me a fifties housewife when they witness our homecomings. Lana comes in, I’m there sliding her coat off, sitting her down on the bed and sliding off her heels.

 She’s greeted with a smile and a drink, a glass of Prosecco, a tea, a coffee, a fruit cider all depending what I feel she needs based on her chatting through the day. Not to brag but I’m very rarely wrong, but anyway. I’m always trying to make her see she’s desired and wanted to put the effort in and show her she’s worth the world to me, I’m changed from my slippers to my three inch Mary Jane heels, or my three inch Wedges. My make up is restrained just a hint of my sexuality, a little blusher, a faint red lipstick and eye shadow, my clothes fresh, not marred with the damage of a day’s travels, the ink and flour stained hooded top and jeans in the wash or hanging to one side for tomorrow.

The fifties housewife thing started as a joke because when I get writers block I clean or cook as you know but over time as I continued to work from home I began to get these weird thoughts, more and more I found myself reading that kind of erotica, and writing these stories of a loving wife greeting her husband after work, dropping to her knees in adoration as he stepped over the threshold. So I began to play on it, I’ve always loved 50’s fashion and the way it looks on me so I slowly began my plans, little things, like doing my make up fresh for her and tidying up my clothes so she wasn’t greeted by flour coated mess. And well, she liked it! Her coming home to me dolled up for her, she kissed me like I was all she needed, all she wanted like she wanted to devour me. So I started to do more. I’ve always grabbed her a tea or a brandy when she’s come in so this isn’t anything different for her. Today is the day I’ve decided to go all the way, that this is the relationship I want, the role I am choosing to play, I’ve spent weeks agonizing on the clothes and the shoes and the hair, I look like a regular June Cleaver.

. I’m in a dress today, a mid calf  button up light shimmering baby blue cotton dress with white trim, finished off with a pair of low heel black pumps and a single set of white pearls across my throat with matching stud earrings. Underneath I’m in stockings and a pair of sheer baby blue panties and matching bra and garter. The whole thing finished with perfect Swing Bob cut hair. I can feel my arousal leaking into my panties as it always does as I walk by her side my clit aching with desire because this perfect woman who looks so fucking hot in a business suit is mine. Her in short hair, but still all woman and effortlessly sexy in a powerful strong aggressive almost masculine way but with gorgeous boobs, fantastic legs and a figure to die for.

We are in the house now, I slip her coat off and place her bag down hanging off the banister, and I walk her into the living room and half guide her half push her down into the armchair we curl up in when I am feeling vulnerable or we are gaming together, the archetypal 50’s man’s spot, the prime view of the TV and the remote is there and her Manhattan is there just how she likes it. She half mumbles a “wha?” as I look into her eyes and whisper one word “Please.” When I use that look she can never deny me anything and she knows she will end up enjoying it so she just let me move her into the chair.

I dropped to my knees the look of adoration there like something from a Kirsten Pipe advert and my hands move to her feet, I slide off her heels and my hands move upwards and I undo the buckle of her belt and tug at the waistline of her trousers. She lifts her delectable bottom automatically at my pleading eyes and I tug them down and off her fantastic strong and silky smooth legs in one movement. Leaving her in nothing but the top half of her trouser suit as her knickers had pooled into her trousers and slid down with the outer garment. I move straight to this morsel I just uncovered and taking her clit between my lips I suck her greedily, eagerly, my head bobbing, tongue tapping on her sex and working her. I’m using every trick I can to drive her to an explosion. If anyone could see this now, I think, her with her short hair and her fifties housewife on her knees bobbing her head. It would be a scene from all across the US in decades long past but when you look closer when you look beyond the short hair and the suit you see that feminine figure that I fell for at the start, that smouldering gaze of lust that can drop my panties at twenty paces. I can hear her mewling gasps and moans, her grunts of animal lust as I bob my head faster and stroke her thigh driving her up and into new heights of ecstasy, her knuckles white as she gripped the arms of the chair exploding with a grunt jerking her hips and squirting into my mouth.  It’s not like when a boy does it, its sweeter, and doesn’t choke me in the same way that the one boy I ever let do that did. It’s her scent, her taste and it’s perfect.

I look up into her eyes, she can see her juices oozing down my face ruining my makeup and marking me as hers. I’m on my knees my eyes shining with desire breathless with lust and joy. I was grinding my leg against her bare foot, my skirt shifted up exposing my garter and my sopping panties and I watch her eyes rake across my body in frank appreciation and watch her blush as she realises how hard she was gripping my hair and how much to me it was perfect. How much it was me giving a blow job to my husband coming home from the office, how much that I want the housewife fantasy they all tease me about. She pulled me up into her arms and sat me on her lap like a child.

“You really want this?” she asked amazed and breathless.

“Oh gosh, yes please my darlin” I reply the juices running across my lip.

“You are the perfect little woman for me to come home to.” 

I blushed faintly at the praise and watched her sit and sip her Manhattan content to wait for her to allow me to move at her discretion. I watch her happily, my arousal pounding through my clit as I sit there curled up at my “Master’s” feet, my place, my role in life. I decide to be brave “I want this relationship to be like this, all the books I read as a little girl were like this, all the magazines my mommy had were like this.  I had three ideas about my life, the first that I would be in pearls and a dress when my husband comes home from work and I would keep house and work as a writer if he permitted. The second that I would have a full wedding dressed in white and on that night I would allow him to take my virginity.” I blush remembering the conversation from a week ago where I told Lana, ‘if you want to fuck me with a strap-on, you have to put a ring on me’ from the look of arousal on her face I think she was remembering that now as well. I look up from behind my lashes blushing daringly “And the third idea was that my Husband wouldn’t be a boy because boys are icky.” I giggle as Lana starts to laugh, “I still think boys are icky and still want this, so please, please.” I beg with my eyes, my hand in hers, my heart racing.

She looked at me almost as if weighing up the options before speaking, speaking the words that would change my life. “You will be my wife, you will act as a dutiful housewife, you will work as a writer, keep our home well kept and attend to your duties and to me. In return I swear to provide for you, to protect you and to love you. We both have our duties to each other.” She stood an pulled me to my feet, I stood small against her in her arms as she lifted me onto my toes to kiss me, a hard, fast, rough, claiming kiss. I knew that I had found my perfect life here. She wouldn’t allow me to be hurt or to have to help provide for the house. I am hers.

I bounced a little “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. I promise I won’t let you down Sir.”

“Sir, My darling husband,” I try the words out, gently smiling to myself at the aroused but shocked expression on my Lana’s face, shocked at this whole turn of events and still so turned on due to my ‘blowjob’ and my new title for her. “May I be permitted to ask a favour?”

She smiled down, the amused doting lover caressing the back of my neck, “Of course my darling ‘wife’” I led her to the sofa and laid her down before lying the opposite way turning the television on so she wouldn’t miss the car show on television and I began to rub her feet slowly, over the next half hour I idly watched the television and rubbed my ‘boy’s’ feet as we discussed the minutiae of this new relationship. I learned I would be allowed to drive though if we were to go anywhere together, she would drive even in my mini, that I would be allowed a bank account of my own but all bills would come from the joint account and many other things which cemented my trust and love and desire for my ‘husband’. Especially when she gave me permission to ask for sex when I desired it but also permission to say no. My husband, even though she owns me and I wish to be owned, respects me.

 She also setup for us a set of safe words and passwords to check I am OK and happy, and told me that I can ask for my old life back at any time. My lip began to shake and I blubber a bit telling her “I don’t want to go, don’t make me leave” she simply pulled me close, stroking my back, reassuring me and promising that she wouldn’t allow her wife to leave. Calmed and relaxed I carried on stroking ‘his feet’ until I began to doze off happy and content.

I felt a warm pressure on my slit. It was stroking, slow and gentle, as I rubbed my love’s feet after ‘his’ long hard day at work. The pressure comforting me as I spread my legs as the dutiful wife I am. My body is his for everything. I’m half asleep and relaxed. I must have drifted off as I wake up later the television off and the lights turned down low but still that pressure remained. I was soaked with my arousal and that’s all I could focus on until my eyes opened to my lover staring into my eyes stroking my hand as she rubbed my wet cunt, grinning she smirked at me and ordered me to keep watching and not shut my eyes and suddenly my world exploded. I had been fingered before, but that wasn’t this, this was more, was better and I howled with need begging my ‘husband’ for more. His foot grinding into me, ‘his’ heel making me pant and whimper in need, my dress undone by his hands while I slept allowing me to breathe my stocking clad legs entwined round the leg parting mine as I writhed and shook. The big toe wriggling inside me stretching me making sure so ‘he’ said that on our wedding night ‘he’ and I saw my Lana grin at the words just as turned on as I was, “can pound my wife's pussy the way she needs it, the way she deserves it.”

I begged my ‘husband’ to pound my pussy. I debased myself diary, because I need my ‘husband’, need him to know ‘his’ desires can be sated in me, on me and by me and that I am begging ‘him’ to teach ‘his’ sweet innocent wife everything he talks about at work or at the bar with the other men. My eyes rolling back into my head as I howl ‘his’ name, blacking out seeing stars falling asleep a sweat soaked ball of mess and love collapsed onto my Lana. ‘He’ pulls me into the strong arms I adore so much and I rock against the strong body for one final shuddering spurt of orgasmic release. The last thing running through my mind is that I really need to get a male name for my husband.

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