“Germaine, darling, you’ve got him looking so feminine. So pretty!” Constance Phelps took her cup of tea from the maid and looked round him to her hostess.
“Thank you dear. Yes, he likes to wear a smart blouse and pleated skirt. And of course we have to protect them with a couple of crisp aprons. He loves that.”
Peter Greaves cringed under the searching eyes of the two visitors and turned a brighter shade of scarlet.
“He doesn’t LOOK as if he likes it,” observed Phoebe Salander, giving him a look of mock disbelief as she took her cup and saucer from him. “I’d say he’s burning with embarrassment.”
“Oh he likes his aprons all right,” replied the maid’s wife. “He has to wear them as punishment when he ejaculates into his bloomers. His penis swells with delight, I can assure you. Give the girls a turn, Polly, and show them your pretty aprons.”
He did as he was told, his bloomers sizzling at the legs and his silk-satin blouse rustling in the collar and sleeves. The smooth materials of his costume had the effect his wife wanted, sending a shudder of emotion through him from head to toe.
“Do you think he’s going to – erm – ejaculate for us now?” ventured Constance, relaxing back in her chair to watch.
“Oh he already is,” snorted Germaine. “Look at his lips, pressed together – and look how he’s squeezing his knees.”
Polly Peter closed his eyes and stood still in the silent attentiveness that followed. “I’m looking at the floor round his feet,” said Phoebe in a reverent whisper, “expecting a little pool of boy’s mess,” and both the guests laughed.
“Oh you may laugh,” chuckled Germaine, but it’s running down his stockings. It’s the knee elastics in his pantaloons that stop it going any further.” The girls whooped with delight. “Put your tray down, Polly. Your visitors are going to help me wipe you clean and change your bloomers.”
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