All the Bells and Whistles Pt. 01

Author's note:
This is my first story and a relatively long one (60,000 words total), which probably isn't a good thing. I originally started posting chapter-by-chapter but realized it hurt the flow, so I've reduced it to approximately 8 "parts" or so.
The "action" pics up in parts 4 and beyond, so if you're impatient feel free to jump ahead. But if the story matters to you, well, you know where to start.
If the feedback is good, or if I'm just enjoying the creative outlet, I've imagined expanding this into a series focused around the characters as they develop. We'll see.
I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1 - Introduction

Play time tonight as promised -- I'm hosting poker. I hope you're up for it!

I read the text as I was packing up from the office. I'm sure I rolled my eyes at the suggestion, but a small part of me was curious too. My husband has a fondness for elaborate games -- "play time" -- like the one he was trying to plan for tonight; but the truth is that he sometimes got a little too carried away with the planning. However, I can't deny that whatever games he comes up with are often as much my doing as his.

When it comes to sex, I'm naturally (and predictably) shy about my preferences and fantasies. He is constantly trying to get me to be more open about them but honestly, I worry he might be disappointed to know how plain the truth is. He seems to have elaborate and detailed fantasies, that get more wicked and crazy every time he shares them. My fantasies, on the other hand, are always much tamer, and they're usually fragmented and based on general concepts and situations. Anyways, I said I had a hand in what was about to transpire -- even if I didn't know any of the details -- and I'll explain why.

My husband has discovered that the best way to draw my fantasies (and thus, my dirtiest secrets) out of me is to interrogate me when I am at my weakest. That means teasing me with questions in the desperate moments just before I finally reach orgasm. I'll be in the throes of passion (well, as I like to imagine it anyways) and I'll beg him to talk to me -- which is code for "Say dirty things to help me fantasize so I can come!" It's kind of a sexual ADHD I think. I just like to hear his voice mostly, but it does help if he's talking about something a little more interesting than whatever I'm thinking about. The more he talks usually the closer I get to orgasm. But he has figured out how to use my need for erotic distractions against me; he asks me questions.

As an example; when I'm practically holding my breath on the edge of climax, I'll beg him to say something to help push me over the edge. I'll settle for just about anything, but some topics are definitely more productive than others.

In response though, he'll act sheepish and say, "You wouldn't like what I'm thinking," or something to that effect. And of course - desperate for any kind of additional mental stimulation to push me over the top - I'll implore him to tell me whatever is on his mind and I'll even give him this look that says, "Don't worry if it's perverted, I'll understand." (and it's true, I really WILL understand, I just won't usually admit that whatever perverted idea he has is something I find erotic, too).

So - with my passionate encouragement - he'll tell me whatever deviant thing is on his mind and I'll climb one notch higher on the arousal ladder until eventually I'll get what I desperately want -- usually a very satisfying orgasm. Sometimes though, he doesn't just go off on the big oratorical rant of sexual depravity that I'm craving. Instead he'll float out some wicked piece of a fantasy, and then once I've consumed it like an addict he'll stop the story and ask me that evil, predatory question: "Do you think you'd like to try that?" And in my moment of weakness, on the verge of a desperately needed orgasm, I do what I otherwise never do -- I tell the truth.

Over the four years that we've been together the depravity I have admitted to fantasizing about or being interested in is mortifying. At least I think it is. After each revelation, he just smiles sweetly at me in this condescending way that makes me feel like an innocent little girl wandering lost through a big, big world of perverts.

This evening's events were based on one of those tawdry stories that he had constantly interrupted to ask me: "Do you think you'd like to try that?" He must have stopped the story a half a dozen times, all the while with me on the edge of an orgasm. It really does qualify as a dick move. It's hard enough to align the stars so that I can have an orgasm, and he purposely stops talking dirty to me so that he can ask questions?

To be honest I don't even remember the story beyond the basic concept; I only remember that I admitted it would be a turn-on to be tied up while there were other people in the house. And then I finally came. Hard. At least, that's how I remember it. I have a nagging feeling in my gut though that there were more details -- and right now I can't remember any of them for the life of me.

I would be lying if I said I even tried to remember the details as I made my way home. I wasn't really that interested. Looking back, I guess I should have been more interested.

When I walked in the door, he had a look on his face that made it clear he was up to something. He met me in the kitchen where, he kissed me, then handed me a glass of red wine that he had already poured.

Then he started talking; "The guys arrive at 8:00. You will be dressed in what I laid out for you before you start your chores, and you will wear only what I provide you for the rest of the night. I assume that will compel you complete your chores before anyone arrives, and then retire to the bedroom for the rest of the evening. Be aware that the door to our bedroom will not be closed until you have complied with all of my instructions and completed all of your chores. Clearly, if you don't want to be seen by someone other than me, I suggest you do as instructed".

Then he handed me a type-written page of instructions, and he smirked.

I set my wine down on the counter and I took the list of instructions from him petulantly and read. I rolled my eyes at him in disbelief as my eyes scanned down the page.

"I'm not doing this!" I said.

Then I tossed the paper in the air dramatically and gave him a look that made it clear that I thought he'd lost his grip on reality.

"You want to have your friends over to play poker, fine. But I'm not setting up your table and putting out the snacks."

"You can, and you will. Or you'll find that I have a great number of ways of making you regret it."

I scoffed at his threat but truthfully, it didn't bother me. I was just giving him a hard time. If he wanted me to do a few chores to help get things ready -- like a good little housewife -- then I'd help. His requirement that I do it while dressed in none other than lingerie and heels was a bit of a stretch, but I would play along, eventually. It's not like I found a lot of excuses to dress up in lingerie on my own.

When I turned my back on him to walk away though, I received a harder-than-normal slap on my ass as encouragement. If looks could kill, the stare I gave him in return would have had me shopping for his coffin.

Instead I walked away and went to run a bubble bath for myself; that was actually the first chore on the list he had given me (sounds awful, I know).

You should probably know that we have played some rather interesting games before this night. My husband has a thing for kinky fun, some of which I've even grown to enjoy. (By the way, I'm not actually kinky, but he is, and that makes me kinky by association). He tells me that he prefers the B/D, and the D/S parts of BDSM, and that S/M part isn't really his thing. To be honest I don't know what exactly what the alphabet soup all means, but I do realize that he isn't into hurting me in any real way. Generally, his kinky games work for me, too, and so I indulge him.

Anyways, the point is I've had some training for nights like this, and by that I mean actual training.

As a part of his "games", he has trained me in certain commands, postures, and behaviours that he calls upon from time to time. I don't even know how it started; but I can assure you that it certainly wasn't my idea. The training started as a game, and I guess it just carried on. So far it hasn't been anything too crazy; it's not like we pretend that I'm his slave or anything. But as for this training he's been putting me through, I'd probably say I'm a work in progress, and I'd definitely say he's damn lucky I play along.

Now that you have that in mind, and with my bath over with, I wasn't surprised to see the outfit he expected me to wear for the rest of my chores laid out on the bed. It was a pink lace apron with black trim, opaque black stockings, heels, and -- what I should have recognized as a harbinger of things to come -- a black choker with a matching thong and dainty little leash. The leash connects to the top of the panties when not in "use" so it doesn't just dangle all the time. Kinky enough as far as lingerie goes, but not that kinky. He does, however, have a way of making the leash very effective, even if the choker is more like a satin necklace than a collar. Of course, my hair had to be up and off my neck, the better to show off the choker.

At an even six feet tall, the lingerie-equivalent of an apron that he had provided would barely reach the top of my thighs. It was all part of the blessing -- and curse -- of being tall. The upside was that I never had to worry about the stockings being too long, but unfortunately the rest of my wardrobe was a little trickier when it came to fit.

My shoulder-length brown hair was naturally curly -- something my husband was shocked to realize many weeks after we had started dating. I believe his astonished comment was, "It CURLS?!?!"

He certainly likes my hair.

I dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen to complete my list. Or at least feign an effort to try. I tidied the front entrance, vacuumed (which I have to admit is always satisfying), cleared the kitchen and the large dining table, and started to put out the snacks he had picked up. Based on the amount of food he had, it looked like he was actually expecting some people tonight -- that should have concerned me more than it did while I was arranging bowls of chips. He finally showed up from the garage carrying a green felt tablecloth.

"Are you actually having people over to play cards tonight?" I asked with a trace of derision in my voice. I honestly thought he had been joking earlier. You know, setting the stage for a little roleplay...

"Yes. I told you: poker. A few of the guys from the team are coming over." He tossed me the felt table cover while he explained. "Put this on the table, I assume you want to be finished your chores before they arrive."

I glared at him as I caught the tablecloth.

"What's with getting me all dressed up then?" I asked.

Despite my nonchalance to this point, I was still acutely aware that I had been cleaning house dressed like a frat boy's wet dream. I couldn't decide which of my many slutty accessories were the worst; the stockings and the choker were vying for top of the list though.

"You're dressed up because I wanted you dressed up. You'll find that most of your predicaments tonight will be for the same reason".

He ignored my "fuck you" glare and started stocking the fridge with beer.

"I don't know what you thought you had planned for tonight, but you're not getting it, and you're certainly not getting laid," I said.

I couldn't allow him to act so cocky. It would set a bad precedent.

Chapter 2 - Attention

By now you might be thinking to yourself that I'm acting like a brat and this is all just a buildup to a tale of him taking control to teach me a lesson or put me in my place. Or you might even be thinking that I'm dressed like a stripper for his enjoyment while doing housework and thus I'm entitled to a few answers. Either way, you're probably right. But the real reason for me playing the fed-up housewife card was to force him to divulge his plans. Have I mentioned I don't like surprises?

He ignored my comment, finished stocking the fridge and walked past me -- taking the tablecloth with one hand and landing a stinging slap on my ass cheek with the other.

"You really should do as you're told tonight. At least some part of you is curious enough to have put on that outfit and come downstairs to tidy up like a maid in a porno. That part of you wants to know where this goes. The other part of you, the conservative, shy part, really doesn't want to be standing there, dressed as you are, when one of the guys shows up early.

"By the way, I told them not to bother knocking but to let themselves in any time, as I'd be on my own tonight. I told them you were out with the girls."

He walked to the dining table and turned around.

"Now, are you going to help me with this?" he said while he looked at me expectantly.

I gave him a grumpy look and clicked my way over to the dining table in my stilettos. As we laid out the poker tablecloth the perfectionist in me took over, and I didn't realize that he had stood back to watch as I fussed over the tablecloth by myself - smoothing and adjusting until it was just right. That had me bending over the table a fair amount, and he was enjoying the view.

As I fussed and fidgeted, the tails of the bow on the back of my apron tickled my cheeks as they swung back and forth, and it reminded me of the swat he had landed on my ass only minutes before...

"There, are you happy?" I mumbled grumpily.

"Not yet," he said.

"What?" I exclaimed. "What more do you want?"

I was now genuinely moping, feeling absurd with the choker and the frilly apron and the heels and everything else I was wearing.

Ignoring my poor attitude he walked over to me and he quietly said, "Stand at attention."

Now this is where that little bit of training I told you about earlier becomes relevant. I don't know where he was hiding it, but when I turned to him to see what else he expected, I noticed he was holding a riding crop.

"Attention" is one command that he has essentially trained me on over the last few months. At first it felt weird and even kind of creepy (he actually referred to it as "training" when he introduced it during play time one evening), but as much as I hated to admit it, I had enjoyed the experience. It scratched an itch that I was barely able to admit to myself, let alone anyone else; not even my husband. Plus, there was no denying that it took balls to even attempt to put me through it. Besides, it gave me a weird sense of satisfaction every time I passed one of his training "tests".

So, when I heard the command to stand at attention and I had processed the presence of the crop in his hand, I admit that I did know what to do... and I did it.

"Attention" is pretty simple. I have to stand where I am, with my back straight and my feet far enough apart that he can fit his hand between my legs. My hands must be up behind my head with my elbows out to the sides, and I'm to look straight ahead.

I assumed the position, as instructed. He smiled that annoying smile he gets when he's made me do something I would never otherwise do. And then he leaned in and kissed me.

After he kissed me, he pulled back and appraised my posture. That earned me a swat from the crop on the ass cheek that wasn't currently slightly pink.

"Legs wider apart," he said.

His hand was between my legs, and apparently he didn't like the fact that his fingers brushed my thighs when he placed his hand in my most personal space. I reluctantly and oh-so-slowly inched my feet apart. He tried again, and again I felt the bite of the crop -- this time at the top of my thigh and the bottom of my left cheek.

"Wider," he instructed.

I deliberately inched my feet apart very slowly. I stared back at him as I did so, returning his smirk with a look that most would probably interpreted as: "Screw you". I figure if he is going to treat me like some slut to be trained -- regardless of if I secretly, maybe, might like it -- I'm not going to make it easy for him.

Then again, when his hand finally slipped between my legs and found between them sufficient space to meet his demanding standards, the pressure and contact he applied to my sex was pretty damn worth it. He really didn't have to make me stand in the dining room dressed like a sex toy and act like a slave being inspected, but the way he rubbed me through my panties was certainly making up for it... to a point.

I let out a slight gasp when his fingers made contact. He stifled any further sounds by putting the tip of the crop under my chin and kissing me deeply. He continued to kiss me, and rub me, while I tried to maintain my posture. Eventually my hands faltered from behind my head, and my legs moved (but his hand didn't), and my hips leaned forward to increase the pressure between my legs. He didn't punish me though - he simply spun me around to face the table and placed his hands on my hips, and then he bent me over.

I knew enough to keep my legs straight and bend at the waist, but other than that I wasn't paying attention to anything. His hand was between my legs again but this time from behind, and he was massaging me through my panties. The fact that the panties were attached to my choker by a leash, and were underneath a ridiculous, frilly, see-through apron, and that the apron wasn't long enough to reach the tops of the stockings he had made me wear, along with the high heels; well they were all details that contributed to my arousal. I must admit, his attention to detail doesn't do much for me at the beginning of our games, but it starts to add up as things move along.

His hands eventually slid up my hips to my back. One pressed me down, bent at the waist, while the other reached forward with the crop to lift my chin up so that I was forced to look ahead. The pressure and friction on my panties was now coming from his erection, which he was grinding into me despite the fact that it was still safely contained within his pants.

The position isn't the most comfortable way to be dry-humped, but I don't think he particularly cared. It certainly wasn't going to achieve any measurable satisfaction for me that way, but it did have the effect of making me wet, which it turned out was a small part of his elaborate plan for me that evening... more on that later.

Eventually he pulled back, ending the teasing from the erection which was now showing clearly through his pants (which, by the way, always looks uncomfortable! How do guys deal with that?).

He brought me back to reality with another blow from the crop, which I took in silence, still bent over the table.

"It's ten-to-eight darling, I suggest we get you upstairs," he said.

Realizing that one of his buddies -- guys whose wives and girlfriends I count as my social circle as well -- might walk in at any moment brought me back to reality pretty quickly. I nodded meekly, flustered by the pleasure he had just inflicted. I stood and smoothed the front of my lacy excuse for an apron, and then I went directly upstairs, my heels clicking the whole way.

Chapter 3 -- The Bedroom

"You have two minutes to freshen up if you need to," he said as he followed me into the master bedroom.

The lights were turned down to a soft glow.

I shook my head and said, "I'm fine. What are you planning anyways?"

He just smiled that wicked grin of his again.

"You'll see. Stop asking questions or I'll make it worse."