Revenge Bi Femme

Gretchen’s Vengeance This is it! Guilt-ridden, shame-faced, more than a little fearful yet too excited to stop trembling, I have to seize this opportunity. It’s what I’ve maneuvered for after all, and it may be the only way to salvage our new-but-maybe-already-fatally-damaged marriage. It’s surely the only way I’ll ever find any erotic fulfillment. If only my too-holy Gretchen can be coaxed into going along… She’s so insufferably straitlaced about lovemaking! Missus Vanilla lies back slack and placid while I labor sweatily away. She wouldn’t even get naked with me before the wedding. Not that I’m complaining! That was indispensable to the scheme. Supremely desirable as she is, the haughty former Miss Baptist beauty queen would surely never have married me if she knew how pitifully under-endowed I am – or how the accompanying inadequacy complex might inhibit my performance while also afflicting me with the most pathetic of fetishes. In any case, since our New Year’s Day ceremony barely a month ago, neither of us has provided the other with a single climax. Furious as she has been ever since discovering my primary (and secondary) failings, how might my defrauded wife take to learning of this possibly even worse tertiary scourge? It’s now or never however. Tomorrow is February fifth, my twentieth birthday. Uncrossing long, exquisitely sculpted legs so that her heavy silk robe opens to expose a breathtaking length of thigh, my marvelously statuesque, slender-yet-stacked spouse has just set down her coffee cup. Smashingly sexy sans any effort or awareness, she runs a hand through that tousled yet still spectacular banner of thick, long, shiny black hair. Brilliantly blue if currently cold, piercingly large eyes meet mine across the breakfast table. Impatient with my hesitation, she repeats what appears to be merely a dully dutiful inquiry. “Well? What do you want for your birthday?” “Uh…uh… A new beginning!” I at last stammer out. “Or at least a way to redeem myself before I lose your regard completely.” Gretchen looks incredibly skeptical as she sits back, blows away a last errant lock of hair and lights up a cigarette. i***t, that ship has sailed off the surface of the Earth. Still she c***s an elegantly arched eyebrow, giving me the at least temporary benefit of her attention. “Go on.” Blotting sweaty palms on my own terrycloth robe I plunge ahead. “I know you’ve been bitter about both my size and performance issues, and quite completely rightly. I’m trying to find a way to make you value me anyway, and maybe even eventually forgive me. Quack remedies aside, I can’t do anything about being so miserably miniscule. But I do have a solution to the related failing.” “You don’t say?” Intentionally or not, Gretchen blows her carcinogenic exhale in my face. “Yes my chosen goddess. As I’m sure you can understand, being so undersized has created some serious inadequacy hang-ups in me. Along with the feelings of inferiority and self-hatred, guilt and shame, comes this depraved craving for feminine discipline – and for being roughly subjugated during s*x. This ‘domination obsession’ has grown so intense at being around such a divine female ideal every day lately that it’s the only thing that now arouses me.” Gretchen has been brushing a fallen ash from the silk-covered swell of one fabulously full-and-firm double-E-cup breast. Looking up sharply at this confession, those captivating eyes of hers have narrowed fatally. “What exactly are you trying to tell me, Harold? That in addition to having hidden an infant’s limp d**k, you’re some kind of sick and sinful pervert too?” “I wouldn’t damn me that badly.” Gretchen’s glare has me squirming in my ever-hotter seat. “I just thought that, in lieu of a present, maybe you could give me the traditional birthday spanking instead. And afterwards – well, rather than always being on the bottom, if you could maybe tie me to the bed, straddle and ride me… Well, Mr. Measly would get in a bit deeper. He’d surely be excited up a lot harder. And I’d probably be able to finish for once. I know how much you want children.” “Damn right I want kids. Lots of kids before it’s too late. And I can’t believe what I’m f*****g hearing!” Gretchen mashes her cigarette savagely into the ashtray. “I thought I was marrying a virile young stud, a f*****g man, and not some simpering adolescent sissy! You piece of s**t, I could have chosen any husband I wanted. Instead I got stuck with you!” Hot blood floods my face with shame. Still Mr. Measly awakes, responding insanely to my seven-years-senior and clearly far superior wife’s utterly justified repudiation/humiliation of me. “I’m so infinitely, infinitely sorry, regretful and apologetic.” Somehow I manage to mutter my remorse, dropping my eyes while urgently fondling myself under the table, under my robe. “I know I’m criminally unworthy of a goddess like you. And I admit I misled you into this sham of a marriage. Won’t you please, please punish such damning and innate failings? If you try it, you might develop a taste for it. We both might find fulfillment that way. After all, a ‘kinky’ s*x life beats an ineffectual one any day.” Gretchen snorts her illimitable contempt. She eyes my ostensibly fidgeting humility for an eternity, during which I see her esteem of me shrinking precipitously. Has she sensed me secretly wanking, another recourse she scorns? I may be saving our relationship here, but at what price? On the other hand, no one could claim our mating was properly consummated. Though divorce is out of the question for religious reasons, what if my wife is about to demand an immediate annulment? She’s looking at me so disgustedly! “Huh! I never heard of anything so pitiably weak-kneed, so baldly self-demeaning! You, Harold, are a shamelessly cringing deceitful wimp, a pitiful excuse for a human. But all right, my useless young eunuch.” Imperious Gretchen abruptly shoves back her chair. “Now that I know what kind of scheming, sniveling little groveler you are, we’ll give your ‘solution’ a chance. Tomorrow night.” She shudders as though dirtied by the mere idea. “I need a good hot shower. But you’re going to stay right here and clean up these breakfast dishes. The entire kitchen and dining room too, including hand-scrubbing the floors.” “Of course, my incredibly generous goddess. Thank you so much! This gift will be absolutely fabulous for both of us, I guarantee!” “Hmph! We’ll see about that, useless sissy pervert.” Sneering Gretchen sweeps from the dining room, leaving me shivering with glee – and with disbelieving relief. It worked! It actually worked! I have my supremely attractive dream spouse still despite so many frauds and shortcomings! And bless her largess, at last my maddest fantasies are also about to be granted! Oh, heavenly Gretchen, my gloriously gorgeous goddess, thank you so much! Twenty more seconds of frantic stubby-rubbing and I’m suddenly spermy-squirting all over the inside of my robe. Whew! I guess I’d better volunteer to take her turn doing the laundry this time too! *** All that day and the next I spend suspended on tenterhooks. Gretchen is still seething over my dishonesty and openly derisory of my admitted perversity. In response I remain meekly obsequious, ignoring the fact that my birthday arrives without any kind of celebration or even acknowledgement of my finally leaving my naïve teens behind. It’s not until after we’ve shared the usual after-dinner clean-up, that Gretchen gives any indication she remembers our agreement. Hanging a last clean saucepan on the pegboard by the oven, she takes down the big oversized stirring paddle. This is basically a huge wooden spoon, with a handle two feet long and a wide shallow bowl the size of your hand. Hefting this, turning it over to run an appreciative palm over the polished convex surface, my wife gives me her first real smile since my confession. Still it’s a look so full of relishing menace that my legs turn immediately into linguini. Weak-kneed sissy indeed! “All right birthday boy. Into the bedroom.” I walk ahead of her as if in a surreal dream, listening as she smacks that paddle experimentally against her hand. I’m a convicted prisoner on the way to punishment. Judgment hath been rendered; now the sentence must be meted out. Once in the master torture chamber, Gretchen confiscates my phone. She turns it off, turns off her own and shuts them in a drawer. She closes and locks the bedroom door. Turning to see me fidgeting uncertainly, she snaps at me. “What are you waiting for? Get your clothes off, you despicably lying no-d**k sissy!” Face burning, disparaged organ suddenly ragingly pulsating, I hurriedly obey. Something tells me Gretchen is already upping the ante here, and in more than just choosing to paddle rather than merely spank me. While I’m wrenching off my apparel she shuts the curtains, claiming the heavy ornate drapery cords in the process. She starts some Wagner playing, heavily dramatic, even portentous classical music, all about Valkyries attacking warring Norse gods. Dimming the lights, she moves my pillow into the very center of our king-size four-poster bed. Finally she strips the sash from one of her robes and turns to see me waiting there: tremulously naked, shamefaced and as erect as I ever get. “Put your paws out, cringing dog.” “Yes, my goddess.” The tiniest whimper of submissive thrill escapes me as my increasingly authoritarian wife puts me into bondage for the very first time. Using one end of that sash to tie my wrists tightly together in front of me, Gretchen uses the other as a leash to pull me up onto the bed. I know intuitively what she expects of me and I lie docilely on my belly, crushing my throbbing groin into the pillow provided so that my butt juts most invitingly up. Goddess Gretchen stretches my arms out, now using that strong silk sash to bind my hands to the sturdy bed frame right under the middle of the headboard. One tug dissuades any fantasy of escape; my wife knows her knots too well. Heaven help me if there’s an earthquake or fire though, for next she spreads my legs out wide and uses those drapery cords to tie my ankles to the foot posts. I’ve now been rendered completely helpless, vulnerable and entirely dependent even unto my very continued existence upon the infuriated female I so unconscionably deceived into marrying me. Can my tiny little tadger, that condemned remnant of my failed maleness, possibly get any more adamantine? Unable to resist, I use the cover of struggling to hump the pillow under me. Satin over feathered plush, this feels so deliriously stimulating that I moan aloud. The futility of my struggles is more arousing yet; face pressed to the mattress I gasp and writhe and hump ever more openly as I watch Gretchen at last begin to remove her own clothing. Alas she desists after doffing her shirt, skirt and charcoal-colored stockings. Draping one of these over her shoulder she steps back into her heels. Now wearing just a black brassiere and matching translucent lace-trimmed half-slip, she scoops up my dropped blue cotton briefs and climbs onto the bed. Stilling my wriggling, I’m opening my mouth to praise and thank my most irreplaceable deity when Goddess Gretchen suddenly grabs my hair and uses it to yank my head ruthlessly back. Roughly she stuffs that mouth full of my balled-up, genital-smelling, just-shed-and-unwashed underwear. I’m gagging and goggling in shock at her while she wraps her nylon around my head, binding that wad tightly inside. Her question comes as a sibilant hiss of despite. “Is the sick little sissy excited yet?” I nod-nod-nod with emphatic gratitude. She titters wickedly. “What a ridiculously twisted b***h you are! Still I must admit I’m already taking a certain satisfaction from this. I thought I’d just be indulging you. But I’m beginning to appreciate the appeal of humiliating you, punishing you and putting your deceitful ass forever in its superbly-deserved place. “This ‘sham of a marriage’ you described may have serious potential after all. Who knows? I might even have to spend some time online investigating this kind of depraved lifestyle myself. But right now my confessed sissy-hubby has a serious spanking upcoming. Twenty swats, isn’t it? Plus how about another twenty for your still-infantile d**k to grow on?”