The Christmas Gift, Pt. 9

Contained.

I was contained.

My labia majora, my pussy, well shaved. Tucked into panties. Strapped in pink leggings. A tight, little slit down the center where they met. And tucked just under the surface a sheen of moisture between my pink pussy lips, waiting to help a welcome party slip inside. A finger. Or perhaps. . .

I eyed the snake in my wife's black briefs — they clung tightly, so it was easy to make out the thick outline stretching into the right leg — and at its end, a bulging head. Now wife, I balked at my husband's cock. It set me on edge. Put quite plainly, it was made to pry me open. To slip in. How I would coat it now if it tried. How wet it would be. How easy would it be to sit on it, if I were able. It made my clit stir, and stirring only emphasized my containment.

Gone were my balls. Gone was my cock — a cock that I would be embarrassed to show off in a locker room if I my wife strode in, swinging free. It's not that I had checked, but in the community baseball locker room people walk about naked, showering, after the game. You see how you measure up, and frankly, I was one of the more well-endowed men in the league.

But Sam. Sam would put us all to shame. And she was strong, muscular, handsome. If she showed up at a game, and stepped up to the plate, the wives in the stands would stop their chatter and take notice. I imagined for a moment Sam decked out in tight baseball pants — the entire uniform. Taking a stance to slug one out of the park. And quite suddenly, to complete the scene, an image of myself in a polka dot skirt popped into my head.

I would be wearing pretty lace panties underneath. My hair in pigtails. Red lipstick. And, to balance my well-endowed husband, my tits would be bulged together in a pushup bra and a low-cut shirt, putting the other ladies' racks to shame. Bouncing together as I cheered, my chipper soprano voice cutting melodiously through the crowd. Go, Sam!

"Eddy?"

Bases loaded. A grand slam. Her arms extending and sending the ball flying. I thought of the way she pushed me over the sink. How my pussy was dripping around my fingers. How badly I wanted her to snatch my hand away and bury her cock inside of me. She had spanked my ass. Strong. Manly. In charge. Just like that. I imagined her hawkeyed, seeing the pitch — and swinging.

"Eddy?"

That's right, honey. Knock it out of the park, and then fuck me under the bleachers. Give me my home run.

"Eddy!"

"Oh!" Startled, I shook my head and looked up. "I'm sorry. Yes?"

"You've been staring at my cock for a good thirty seconds."

"Oh," I cleared my throat, blushing, "have I?" I shifted to my hip, my pussy lips sopping wet, my clit pulsing slightly with my heartbeat.

"A funny thing to do for someone who wants to change back."

I nodded. "I just zoned out. I wasn't staring in any particular place."

She grinned. "Uh-huh." She turned and walked to the closet, returning a moment later in dark grey sultan pants and a black t-shirt. I was standing at our bed trying to forget how much I had liked going down on my wife, how disconcerting it was to find it so appealing, it — her cock —tucked away in her briefs. As she strolled out of our walk-in closet, she tossed something pink my way, I caught it.

I moved it in my hands. "Oh god."

"It's a sports bra. Put it on."

I pulled it over my head, and pulled the tight fabric over my tits. "Oof."

She smiled. "It's tight, but breathable and revealing. It will keep you contained."

Contained.

I liked being contained.

I took a deep breath and adjusted my melons in place.

"There." She smiled and walked around me.

"My little wife." I took a deep breath, feeling her gaze. "My sexy little wife — at least for today."

I nodded quietly. She stepped slowly.

"You have a great ass, Eddy." I bit my lip. God, I could feel Sam taking it in. The space between us. The memory of how he grasped it. I wanted Sam to touch it again. "And your tits. Fuck."

My knees gave a bit, and I caught myself. The way she was objectifying me made my pulse inside and sent jolts of desire coursing through my extremities. It felt vulnerable to be on the spot, but I didn't dare to interrupt. I liked it, deep in my pulsating clit — I liked it.

I was getting hard. And I swallowed reluctantly, my tower crumbled to a tiny cute little button, and yet. . . I had never felt harder.

My clit pressed without notice into my panties. My leggings clung to my smoothed-out pelvis, and cut into the crack of my bountiful butt. My nipples pressed divots into my bra. Everything in pink. Every curve visible.

"It's a shame you want to change back after dinner, Eddy."

I tried not to move. To let the comment hang in the air. I felt ashamed of my decision. Scared to take it back. Conflicted by the new desires I was feeling. And desperate to remain consistent. I was, after all, the man of the house.

"Such great tits."

Fuck.

My wife pointed across the room. "See that mirror over there."

I nodded.

"You'd look good in it, being fucked. I'd want you on your hands and knees."

I moaned a little, looking at my image in the mirror. Every masculine and feminine impulse within me called out in a resounding yes at Sam's suggestion.

Oh, no.

I tried to find something to cling to and all I could muster was four tired words.

Man of the house.

I held on to it. I held onto its no.

No! — the entire point of taking the pills had been to please my wife. Since we were married, before we were married, that had been my one true aim. Happy wife, happy life. Right?

On our honeymoon, I remember my wife slinking to the bed. Hiking her skirt up. Getting on her hands and knees. Offering herself completely to me. I thought of myself — suddenly in danger, in the same position.

This is how it should be for her. This was her place. Not mine. My eyebrows arched, conflicted, searching for reasons for this to remain true. I mean. . . all this was meant to be fun. Sam was lucky I even said yes.

And as far as everything that had happened, it was no big deal. Yes, I totally let Sam come on my face. But it was in the interest of that — showing her it could be done. Showing her how.

And, like, honestly, so what if I sucked her cock? She's my wife and I love her and technically we are "one." It was basically just like me sucking my own cock, nothing more than that.

Sam needed to realize I was still calling the shots. So I flicked my hair back.

"Sam."

"Yes, Eddy?"

"I appreciate your compliments, but don't we need to get dinner ready? Andrew and Bridgette will be here soon."

Sam laughed.

"I mean it." I swayed in place, noting how my pretty new bra kept my breasts close and relieved at the weight that had been lifted off my back. I stood up straight, pushed my breasts out, and put my hands on my hips. "We need to get moving." As ridiculous as I felt at Andrew and Bridgette seeing me this way, I resolved that it didn't matter what my form was — I was still in charge.

Sam nodded. "You're right." A tinge of victory made the corner of my mouth rise in a grin.

"Let's get moving," Sam said, as he smacked my ass on the way out our master bedroom door.

I chirped in surprise as the spank reverberated in the bountiful cheek of my ass and resounded through my body, its energy settling into my clit. Oh!

By the time my ass returned to stillness, Sam was already down the hall. I caught my breath.

What was I saying? Oh yeah. . . that I'm in charge.

Under my pink leggings, across my right ass cheek, a handprint of red was appearing on my pale skin. I adjusted my hair around my shoulders, trying to ignore I would have loved another spank. I cleared my throat and repeated my new mantra.

I'm in charge.

Then my brow furrowed.

"Hey wait! What are we even cooking?"

I bounded behind Sam, trying to catch up with him, my tits and ass bouncing as much as they could in their containment.

.

We worked together. It would not be a traditional Christmas meal, but a house specialty. Homemade pizza. I had recently built an outdoor woodfire pizza oven out back with one of my buddies as a weekend project.

I prepped the toppings in the kitchen, my arms to my side, chopping, my overflowing bust squeezed tightly between each bicep. I watched from the window as Sam carried logs to the stump in the middle of our yard and then split them one-at-a-time with an ax. This was my work, but Sam had insisted on doing it.

Sam raised the ax high and brought it down with gravity, splitting each log in one go. I felt a little amiss that she was doing this instead of me, but it was cold and I was glad for a change of pace.

I poured myself a glass of wine and took it in hand, my long fingernails clinking slightly against the glass.

That's a thought!

My work done — the salad prepared, the dough resting, the toppings ready to go on a tray for Sam — I decided to take my leave and get ready.

I opened the door to find Sam taking an armful of wood towards the oven. I called out sweekly, "Honey, I'm going to go get ready."

Sam nodded without a word and set the logs down by the oven, then turned to fetch more. He would be building a fire. Kindling popped and crackled inside the brick archway of the oven. He was heating it up. Soon we would be ready to slip the first one in.

I tried to find my wife Sam in the man working in the yard. As strange as this all was, it was strangely easy. I had seen her change from on my knees and seeing the transition provided a stepping stone to the leap in perception. I admired the way my husband worked for a moment. Sam's movements were already so graceful, so strong. The evening was settling in. Our guests would arrive soon.

I closed the door, my nipples hard as rocks from the cold winter air, and I made my way, tiptoeing to our bedroom. The hallways, the rooms, everything felt so large now. I had lost nearly two heads of height in the process, and was sore — even the thought of the return journey already made me hurt a bit.

Rummaging in my wife's bathroom drawers I found it. I always liked this color. I twisted the top off and was met with the pungent smell of ethyl acetate.

I took the brush in my right hand and carefully painted the nail of my pinky finger. Then my ring finger. I progressed. With each finger, I felt a steadily growing jubilation. Becoming a woman — from one to ten. When my left hand was done I stretched it out and admired my work. Long beautiful painted nails. I couldn't wait to paint my other hand.

The image of my fingers wrapping delicately around my husband's cock popped into my head. I let it join the cacophony of thoughts running through my head.

I didn't chase it off.

I let it take root.

And develop.

It was nice to have a moment away from Sam. To consider what had happened. The nervousness of meeting our friends quieted for a moment in my mind. I would get ready. Paint my toes. Do my makeup. Put on my dress.

And reluctantly enjoy the wandering through the new thoughts circling in the ether of my mind.

I painted my fingers and smiled at my meditations. The sun was setting. Winter light coursed through the windows.

I turned to my shadow cast on the wall and admired her breasts.

.

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Thank you for reading. We are already hard at work on Part 10. This one will be heating up hotter than a pizza oven. Enjoy your weekend and keep your caption ideas coming.