Hearing the engine start, I sat there in a daze, my mind reeling over what had just happened with Dr. Feiler—and how that single encounter might have changed my life forever. It was a terrifyingly exciting thought.

Those two sentences—so nonchalantly uttered—set my heart pounding as my mind spiraled through wild, impossible scenarios. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I realized I couldn’t remember a single moment of the drive home. I must have been running on pure autopilot, my thoughts a blur of fear, disbelief and what's next.

The sun had already set, and a chill clung to the evening air as I approached the porch. Its light cast a pale glow over the three steps—flanked by two overgrown bushes lurking, which I had long meant to trim months ago. Beyond that door, I knew Kimmie would be waiting, expecting answers the moment I walked in. The thought made my stomach knot. How could I possibly recount what had happened, and the way it had made me feel? Even imagining her eyes on me sent a shiver through me, a surge of fear and embarrassment I couldn’t name.

Every step felt heavier than the last as I climbed the three steps, my heart banging in my chest. My hand hovered over the doorknob, clammy with moisture despite the chill. Through the frosted glass, I could see her silhouette—waiting to pounce like a lion ambushing a warthog, wanting every minute detail.

When I finally turned the knob and stepped inside, the warmth of the house hit me, but it did nothing to calm the knot of anxiety boiling in my stomach. Kimmie stood a few feet away, her posture composed but with an underlying tension, a soft, supportive smile on her face. Her eyes met mine the instant I entered, piercing and searching, and I froze, realizing there was no escaping this moment.

“How did it go?” she asked softly, but the edge in her voice betrayed the calm she tried to project. The question hung between us, heavy, and I couldn’t find words—couldn’t even begin to explain the caldron of emotions I carried with me through that drive.

Before I could think, a helpless response slipped out. “I… I don’t know. Okay, I guess,” I stammered, then the words I hadn’t intended tumbled out: “He wants to meet you.” At least it was out there now, spoken into the heavy silence between us.

Kimmie blinked, her shock giving way to a long, excruciating pause. Then she let out a slow breath, almost a sigh, and stepped closer, her brown eyes softening just enough to give me a flicker of relief.

“You mean me… he really wants to meet me?” she asked, her voice calm but careful. I nodded, unable to meet her gaze, my stomach churning with emotions I couldn’t name.

She studied me for a moment longer, then, with a faint, reassuring smile, reached out and lightly touched my arm. “Okay,” she said quietly. “We’ll figure this out. Together. Do you know why?”

Her question might have been meant to calm me, but instead it sent my mind into overdrive, and I was certain she could hear my heart hammering in my chest. Relief and dread tangled in equal measure, and I realized just how much this simple meeting could change everything.

“Well… how does he even know about me?”

“He’s smart, and he knows I’m married, so I guess he’s curious. I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice tight with uncertainty.

“What did you tell him?” Kimmie asked, her voice sharp, that unmistakable inquisitioner’s tone.

I felt my blood pressure ramped up instantly. I knew, without a doubt, that I’d fucked up—and the realization made my anxiety shoot off the chart.

“He… he asked if you knew about Patty, if you wore the pants in the family… and then asked to see a picture of you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, trembling with uncertainty.

Kimmie’s eyebrows shot up, enough to make my stomach gurgle anew. As she processed the information, the room fell impossibly silent—too silent, like the calm before a storm.

“Wait… he actually asked that?” she said carefully, her voice measured but tinged with incredulity.

“Yes… he said you were way out of my league,” I reluctantly volunteered, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

“And what, if anything, did he say about me?” Kimmie inquired, her tone carrying more curiosity than I had expected.

I gulped and stammered saying, "He... he said you were beautiful."

“Beautiful?” she repeated slowly, her voice calm but curious, as if savoring the weight of the word. My throat went dry, and I shifted on my feet, unable to meet her gaze.

"I've looked him up on the clinic's website after your last visit. He's handsome. Describe him to me."

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Words seemed to crawl through my mind, slow and heavy, as if each one had to be carefully weighed before it left my lips.

“He… he has dark hair, and bespectacled eyes that are sharp… like he notices everything,” I began, my voice uneven. “Tall, I guess—taller than me by about eight inches—and… confident to the point of dominating. He carries himself like he owns the room.”

I trailed off, aware of how small I must have seemed under Kimmie’s gaze compared to Dr. Feiler. Every detail I shared made me feel more inadequate, less masculine, unworthy of her affection, and I could feel my chest tightening with a mix of dread and subservience.

“And?” Kimmie prompted gently, leaning slightly forward, her curiosity quite evident now.

I hesitated, unsure how much to say, my mind spinning with the implications of every word. “He… seems… intimidating. Smart. Dominant… but still charming?” I finally admitted, the last word tasting bitter on my tongue, knowing full well that Kimmie admired those very traits.

Desperate to shift the focus back to myself, I managed to sputter out, “He thought I looked sexy in the underclothes you picked out for me.”

“Well,” Kimmie said with a faint, knowing smile, “he has good taste in lingerie, then. How big is he?”

“I… I told you—” I began, before the nature of her question fully registered.

“No,” Kimmie interrupted, making a gesture with her hands to indicate length. “How BIG is he?”

Blood surged to my face, and I could feel it burning as my cheeks flushed. I knew the answer—and the comparison to myself made the embarrassment all the more acute.

“About the size of the one you like most from our collection,” I admitted, my voice tight with anxiety.

“Damn… ten inches??” Kimmie exclaimed, her eyes widening. “For real?”

“Yes…” I murmured, my voice trailing off into silence.

Kimmie tilted her head, a slow, thoughtful smile curving her lips. “Well then,” she said softly, “I think I’d like to meet this handsome doctor. What do you think, Sweetie?”

"You wanna know what I think! I think he wants to fuck you!! That's what I think," my response was blunt, unapologetic and definitely more forceful than I meant.

"And what if he did?" Kimmie snapped, "What would you do, Honey? Huh... tell me, what would you?"

Her question hit like a slap, sudden and disarming. I had no answer—only the thundering of my pulse and the weight of my cock surging to life in that red thong. How could I get excited about another man fucking my wife? Was it something I wanted or something I knew she wanted?

We had done some pillow talk about different fantasy scenarios, but I thought they were just that "talk" to spice up the event. But thinking back, I realized it had been Kimmie who first blurred those lines. She’d encouraged me to explore sides of myself I never expected, dressing the part, playing along. At first, it all seemed harmless just between us, husband and wife. However, Kimmie was the one who coaxed me into wearing her panties as part of role playing, just for fun, then stockings and finally buying me some of my own lingerie. She was the one who bought that strap-on and then my chastity cage, just to keep things interesting.

She said, "I like keeping you constantly horny for me and this is the best way to do it."

In reality, we hadn't had traditional sex in quite some time. She liked to peg me until my clitty, as she calls it, was dripping, and on that rare occasion when we did have sex, I always had to lick her pussy clean after firing my load inside her. I must admit that I did enjoy feeling my cum ooze out of her and the taste of our mixed cum.

Only now have I realized something had shifted. The laughter had faded, replaced by a quiet current of power I didn’t quite understand—and couldn’t resist. Kimmie knew it too. She was well aware that I’d do anything to make her happy.

She sauntered over to me, her movements unhurried, deliberate, like someone who knew exactly the effect she had. When she wrapped her arms around me, it felt safe for a heartbeat—until I recognized the unspoken weight in the gesture. Her warmth wasn’t just affection; it was command wrapped in tenderness.

I’d told myself this was love, partnership, mutual trust. But standing there in her embrace, I couldn’t shake the sense that somewhere along the way, I’d started waiting for permission to be myself—and that she had quietly taken on the role of deciding who that “self” was going to be.

Kimmie tilted her head, her voice soft but firm. “Let’s make love.” she said. “You can be on top.”

It sounded generous, but even in her kindness there was direction—a subtle reminder that every freedom I had was one she allowed.

Anger, masculine determination, something dormant erupted in me and I grabbed her hand, almost dragging her to the bedroom. The look on her face—pure, joyful surprise—sparked something fierce in me. I was determined to remind her that I could be in control, too.

There was nothing gentle about my approach. She was my wife, and in that moment, I needed to take her. Fisting a handful of her hair, I kissed her deeply, pouring into it every ounce of passion I hadn’t felt in ages. Kimmie met me with equal fire, her response charged with something raw and unfamiliar—different from the careful rhythm of our usual love.

We stumbled and clung to each other, arms tangling, bodies pressing until we crashed onto the bed in a writhing heap of heat and breath. Our hands searched desperately, our mouths finding skin, warmth, anything to claim—each touch driven by the frantic need to consummate this emotional passion.

There was nothing but the two of us, every sound drowned beneath the pulse of our panting. The sheets twisted beneath our struggle, the rhythm of it rough, uncoordinated—but real. Alive. Kimmie’s nails raked across my shoulder, drawing blood—a sharp spark that sent another primal surge through me. Our eyes met for a single heartbeat, and something unspoken passed between us—defiance, longing, maybe even forgiveness—before we closed the distance again, surrendering to the rush that erased everything else.

My cock residing in places I had forgotten were mine to reclaim. She was coated in my love juice, marking my territory. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in years, as if reclaiming a part of myself that had been dormant lulled to sleep by Kimmie's siren-like ways and my total devotion to make her every desire come true.

What followed was a blur of movement and need. I lost track of time, of sense—driven by something raw and consuming. Fucking her in every Kama Sutra position I could remember, the barriers between us fell away until there was nothing left but exhaustion, heat, and the steady rhythm of two people fighting to remember what they once were then at last sleep.

I woke to the sound of birds outside the window and the smell of bacon wafting through the house. The sunlight felt too gentle, almost forgiving. Kimmie had let me sleep in, something she rarely did, but it was Saturday, after all. She was in the kitchen, moving about with that calm efficiency that always made me feel both comforted and slightly on edge.

For a moment, it felt like everything was normal—domestic, simple, safe. But beneath that warmth lingered the quiet awareness of how much of my world seemed to orbit around her.

As I made my way to the kitchen, I found she had already set the table. The orange juice was poured, the toast buttered and burnt—the way I liked it. The smallest details, remembered and repeated, like quiet affirmations that she knew me better than I knew myself.

It was comforting, and yet, in some inexplicable way, disarming. There was power in that kind of care—the kind that made gratitude and dependency feel dangerously close to the same thing.

Kimmie looked up as I entered, a soft smile curving her lips. “Morning, sleepyhead,” she said, sliding a plate toward me. “You needed the rest after last night’s workout. You really outdid yourself—your endurance was impressive. Thank you.”

I sat down, murmuring my thanks. The food was simple, familiar—eggs, bacon, toast—but somehow it all felt staged, like a scene she’d prepared for me to step into.

She watched me take a bite before speaking again. “You’ve been pretty quiet,” she said lightly, though her eyes searched mine. “Everything okay?”

I hesitated, unsure of the right answer. The truth felt too tangled to name. I wanted to say that things were fine—but her gaze left no room for ambiguity. She’d already decided what the truth should be. I knew she was going to meet Dr. Feiler.

“Dr. Feiler gave me his private number, in case you want to call,” I said at last, feeling strangely obligated to mention it.

Kimmie paused mid-sip of her coffee, eyes lifting to meet mine. There was a flicker of curiosity there—or maybe calculation. Then she smiled, that careful, knowing smile that always made me feel like I’d just stepped into the middle of a plan she’d already made.

“That was thoughtful of him,” she said. “And thoughtful of you to tell me.”

Her tone was even, pleasant, but beneath it I sensed something more—an unspoken reminder that even my gestures of honesty somehow served her design.

After breakfast, I heard her voice from the other room—measured, composed, the kind of tone she used when she wanted something to sound effortless. I didn’t need to ask who she was talking to. The cadence of her words, the pauses between them, told me enough.

When she finally ended the call with a calm, “Goodbye,” I waited, pretending not to listen. Moments later she appeared in the doorway, brushing an invisible crumb from her sleeve.

“We’ll meet Dr. Feiler for lunch at Gordo’s at two,” she said. Not a suggestion, not a question—just a decision handed down with quiet finality.

And, as always, I nodded before I’d even realized it.

Kimmie began getting ready for our lunch date shortly after noon. She chose one of her favorite black dresses—the one with the slit up the side—and added her gold chain necklace and matching bracelet. She moved with a quiet precision, gathering a pair of black thigh-high stockings and three-inch heels, as if each piece were a carefully considered part of the day’s plan.

Watching her, I felt that familiar mix of admiration and apprehension. Every deliberate choice she made reminded me of the rhythm she set for our lives, the subtle way she shaped the day—and, often, me—without needing to say a word.

We arrived early. Kimmie positioned herself so she could see everyone entering the door, her posture effortless yet commanding. I noticed the way her face brightened when Dr. Feiler appeared; she stood immediately, motioning him over to our table.

His eyes widened as he took in her presence, a mixture of surprise and admiration flickering across his expression. It was like watching a lion confronted with something captivating and untouchable. Kimmie remained composed, guiding him to the table with calm authority, as though the room, the day, and even the meeting itself belonged to her.

"Kimberley, you look scrumptious. I don't think I'll need to order lunch. I'll just feast on you."

I shifted slightly to sit closer, taking the spot she indicated, but even then, I felt like a spectator rather than a participant. Kimmie dominated the conversation with ease, her gestures and inflections guiding the rhythm of their dialogue. Every laugh, every glance between them seemed loaded with sexual innuendo.

I found myself analyzing her every expression, the way she subtly steered Dr. Feiler’s attention, how effortlessly she drew the focus toward her. It was mesmerizing—and unsettling. For a moment, I realized that my role in this room, in this interaction, was largely defined by her presence and her decisions.

And yet, despite the quiet unease, I couldn’t deny the admiration that tethered me to her, the strange, undeniable pull of being in the orbit of someone who moved through the world with such assured control.

It was obvious that Dr. Feiler was captivated by my wife. Kimmie leaned in, laughing easily, her gestures animated, commanding his attention with a natural ease. I watched as she guided his hand to her thigh while placing her hand on the large bulge in his slacks. I'm sure he thought she was an easy piece.

About halfway through our meal, Kimmie excused herself for a few minutes, leaving the two of us at the table.

Dr. Feiler leaned back slightly, studying me with a faint, approving smile. “Pat, you’ve been awfully quiet,” he said. “But I have to say—you definitely picked a wonderful person for your wife.”

I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, unsure how much to say. His compliment was sincere, but it also carried an undercurrent of observation, a recognition of the way Kimmie seemed to dominate the room even in her absence. I nodded, murmuring my thanks, aware that the silence between us now felt heavier, charged with the shadow of her influence.

We both looked at Kimmie as she approached our table with a confident, sexy stride. Dr. Feiler seemed to be drooling as she sashayed her way toward us, her hips flicking side to side sexily.

We both looked up as Kimmie approached the table. She moved with a sexy effortless confidence, her presence commanding the room even before she reached us. Dr. Feiler’s eyes followed her closely, clearly impressed by the way her hips swayed side to side, while I sat there quietly, captivated and slightly unnerved by the force of her personality.

When she reached the table, I noticed her slip something into Dr. Feiler’s coat pocket. The gesture was subtle, meant to go unseen by me—but it spoke volumes. Was it a private message? Or more likely, the small token of her wet panties? A jolt of jealousy twisted in my chest, sharp and unwelcome, but I couldn’t look away.

We finished lunch, and as Dr. Feiler held Kimmie's hands and locked eyes with her, he murmured, “We need to do this again.” My stomach tightened at the sight, and in that moment, I felt completely invisible—both to him and, more painfully, to Kimmie—and I realized just how much power she wielded, not only over me, but over he as well.

From the moment Kimmie entered the restaurant, she commanded everything—every glance, every heartbeat, every thought in the room. Dr. Feiler couldn’t take his eyes off her, and I was frozen somewhere between awe and the sharp sting of exclusion. Every subtle movement, every hidden gesture— slipping her sullied panties into his pocket, the way she held his hands—was a reminder of the control she wielded, and of how invisible I had become to her desire. By the end of lunch, the truth hit me hard: Kimmie’s power wasn’t just intoxicating—it was absolute, leaving me caught in a swirl of desire, jealousy, and the maddening knowledge that no matter what I did, I was a small satellite caught in her orbit, powerless to resist and doomed to circle her for eternity.