Dishtowels
(Note: This is a cross-over post. The story is inspired by an image and caption that were kindly and generously shared by Blueballs-Forever. This story is longer than others to do it justice. I hope you enjoy it.)
You are standing at the north entrance of the mall, holding a paper bag full of dishtowels, and you are precisely forty-seven minutes early.
This is not a choice you made. It is simply what happens. She said meet her at the exit in an hour, and your body interpreted this as be there now, be there early, be there waiting like a good boy that does what he's told.
And so here you are, standing beside a pillar with a bag of dishtowels, watching the crowds part and flow around you like water around a stone.
You check your phone. You check your watch. You check your phone again, and then you look up, and you see her.
She is walking toward you down the long corridor, and she is not alone.
There is a woman beside her, tall and dark-haired, and they are laughing together the way women laugh when they have just discovered something wonderful about each other.
And it takes you a full three seconds — three long, stupid seconds — to realize who the dark-haired woman is.
Doris.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
You have not seen Doris in — what, four years? Five? Since the divorce was final, since she moved on, since she found Damian.
You've heard the updates thirdhand. She's happy. She looks good. She was always going to look good, Doris, because Doris was always the kind of woman who was simply out of your league, and you knew it, and she knew it, and neither of you ever said it out loud.
And now Doris is walking toward you, arm in arm with your wife, and they are both smiling at you as though they have just been talking about you.
They have just been talking about you.
"Oh, there he is," your wife says warmly, and the way she says it — there he is — makes you feel like a child who has been found.
She reaches you first and takes your hand, and Doris stops a polite distance away, her smile curious, appraising.
"Sweetie," your wife says, and she is still holding your hand, "you will not believe who I ran into."
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
"I ran into your ex," she says, as though this is the most delightful coincidence in the world. "At the lingerie store. I recognized her from the photos you showed me. You have such a sweet photo of her at the lake house, I thought — that's her. That has to be her. And it was."
Doris laughs, a low, warm sound. "I couldn't believe it either. I was just browsing, and she walks up and says — you have to hear this, she says — 'You're Doris, aren't you? I'm his wife.'"
She says his wife the way you might refer to someone else's car or their lawn. As a possession. As a fact.
"And we got to talking," your wife says, squeezing your hand, "and Doris was so sweet, she couldn't believe I was buying panties for you. She said — tell him what you said, Doris."
Doris tilts her head, still smiling at you. "I said, I didn't even know they made panties for men. And she said —"
Your wife's smile widens. "— I said, well, he's in an FLR now. And Doris said — and this is the best part — Doris said, 'Oh... thank God, I always knew he needed a firm hand.'"
You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck.
"Did you really say that?" you manage.
"I really did," Doris says. "I'm not going to pretend I understood you, sweetheart. I loved you. I just never knew what to do with you."
Sweetheart. Doris has never called you sweetheart in her life. It sounds strange in her mouth, borrowed, like a word she picked up from your wife.
Your wife lets go of your hand and steps in closer to Doris, and for a moment you are standing outside their little circle, watching them, the way you watched your mother and her friends talk over your head at the kitchen table.
"He blushes," your wife tells Doris, nodding at you. "Isn't that adorable? He's been like that since we started. His whole body gets pink, right down to his little guy."
Doris laughs. "He was like that when we were married. I used to think he was embarrassed about something. I never could figure out what."
"He was embarrassed about his..." your wife's voice trails off. And it takes you a moment to understand what his means.
"He's got a little guy, Doris. I'm sure you remember. Small and quick. And he spent his whole life trying to pretend that didn't matter, trying to be something he isn't. It made him — oh, what's the word — it made him noisy."
"Nosy?" Doris says.
"Noisy," your wife repeats, and she says it with the patience of a teacher explaining something to a bright but inexperienced student.
"That's what I call it. He's got a little guy, and his little guy is always talking to him. Telling him he's a man. Telling him he should be in charge. Telling him he should do this, do that, assert himself."
She waves a hand. "It's like he has a yappy little dog in his head, barking all day long. It confuses him. Makes him think he's something he's not."
Doris is listening with rapt attention, and you are standing there, holding a bag of dishtowels, feeling your face burn.
"So I put him in chastity," your wife says. "It quiets his little guy right down. You'd be amazed."
Doris's eyebrows go up. "Chastity. Like a — a cage?"
"Like a little cage, yes. It's called a nub, actually, because that's what it holds. He's got a nub, and the ring is small and snug, and once he's locked up, his little guy goes quiet. And once his little guy goes quiet —" your wife pauses, and her smile takes on a particular quality, a fondness, a pride, "— Doris, you should have seen it. He discovered he had a pussy."
There is a beat of silence. Doris blinks. "He had a —"
"A pussy," your wife says. "Of his own. Right here." She gestures vaguely at your backside.
"A man like our boy here, he spends his whole life listening to his penis. That's all he knows. That's all anyone ever tells him. You're a man, you've got a cock, go fuck something. But once his little guy is all nice and snug, once the noise quiets down, he starts to feel other things. And he realized — he realized his real center was back there. His real pussy. The place where his pleasure actually lives."
You are frozen. You can't move. You can't speak. You are a child in the grownups' kitchen, and the grownups are discussing you as though you are not there, and your face is so hot you're certain it must be visible from space.
"Wow," Doris says softly.
"Wow is right," your wife says. "So we trained it. We got him a nice little plug to wear during the day, and once a week or so we have a training day, and I teach his pussy what it's for. He loves it. He loves it so much, Doris. You should see him when I'm done with him. He's like a different person. Calm. Happy. Settled."
Doris looks at you then, and there is something in her eyes you haven't seen before — not pity, not contempt, but something like wonder. Something like oh, that's what he was. That's what he always was.
"And that's why you were buying him panties," Doris says.
"Exactly," your wife says. "He needs to feel pretty. He needs to feel like the sweet little thing he is. It gets him in the right headspace for training. Aroused and open and — oh, you know, ready."
There is a silence. You are aware that people are walking past you, that the mall is humming around you, that somewhere a fountain is burbling, and none of it seems real.
The only real things are the two women, standing close together, and the fact that they are both looking at you with the same warm, appraising expression.
"Would you like to see?" your wife asks.
Doris's eyes go wide. "See?"
"See how far he's come along. Today is a training day — that's why I was at the store. I like to saddle him up and ride him, and I'd love to have someone to show off to. He's come so far, Doris. You'd be amazed. And you knew him before, so you'd really appreciate it."
Doris looks at you. You look at the floor. You are acutely aware of the cage beneath your jeans, the way it holds you, the way it has been holding you all afternoon, keeping you quiet, keeping you good.
"I don't know," Doris says, but she is smiling, and her voice has gone soft. "I wouldn't want to — I mean, is he —"
"He'll be fine," your wife says. "He likes being shown off. Don't you, sweetie?"
You can feel both of them looking at you. You can feel the weight of the question, the soft close of it, the way there is no emotionally viable answer except yes.
"Yes," you hear yourself say. Your voice sounds small. It sounds like a boy's voice.
"See?" your wife says, beaming at Doris. "He said yes. We'll meet you there. I'll give you the address."
She does. You stand there holding the dishtowels while she writes on Doris's phone, while they hug goodbye like old friends, while Doris waves at you — waves at you, the way you wave at a neighbor's dog — and walks off down the corridor.
Your wife turns to you. She is smiling her warm, certain smile. "Well," she says. "Wasn't that lucky?"
"Lucky," you echo.
"She's lovely," your wife says, taking your hand again. "I can see why you married her. She's got good instincts. She just didn't know what to do with you." She squeezes. "But I do."
---
The house is quiet when you get home. Your wife sends you to the bedroom to change and prepare yourself — go put on the new panties, sweetie, the pink ones, freshen up your pussy, and wait for us — and you go, because going is easier than not going, because her voice makes you want to go, because the cage has been humming against you all the way home and you need the release of being seen.
You go to the washroom first. Clean yourself out. Freshen yourself.
You change in front of the mirror. The panties are pink, delicate, lacy at the hips.
The cage is a small plastic nub nestled in the fabric, and when you look at yourself you see — you see a boy. A pretty boy. A boy who has been good and is about to be rewarded for it.
You hear the doorbell. You hear voices in the hall, warm and laughing, and then your wife's voice, carrying up the stairs: "He's just in the bedroom. Go on up, he'll be ready."
You hear footsteps on the stairs. The door opens.
Doris is standing in the doorway, and behind her, your wife. Doris is wearing a strap-on — a sleek black thing, curved, realistic — and your wife is wearing another one, slightly larger, and they are both smiling at you the way women smile at something sweet.
"Look at you," Doris breathes. "Oh, honey. Look at you."
Your wife comes in and hands Doris a bottle of lube. "He's got a routine," she says, settling onto the edge of the bed. "We'll let him show you. Go on, sweetie. Show Doris how you open yourself up for us."
Your hands are shaking as you reach for the bottle. You know the routine. You've done it a hundred times.
You lie back on the bed, pull your knees up, and reach between your legs, and you are aware of them watching you, two women, one who loves you and one who once loved you, both of them watching you prepare yourself like a good little thing.
"That's it," your wife coos. "Slow. Nice and slow. He likes to take his time, Doris. He gets all — oh, you can see it on his face. He's already going soft and dreamy. Look at his eyes."
Doris leans in. You can feel her gaze on your face, warm and curious, the way someone might study a painting. "His eyes are glazing over," she says softly.
"That's his little guy going quiet," your wife says. "Watch. When he opens himself up like this, the noise just — drains out of him. Like pulling a stopper from a sink. All that yappy little-dog energy just flows right out."
You press a finger inside your asshole. Then two. The lube is warm, slippery. Your asshole knows this routine. Your asshole has been trained to welcome it.
You feel your hole soften, yield, open the way a flower opens — not because it chooses to, but because that is what it was made to do.
"Hnnnh," you breathe. A small, helpless sound.
"There he goes," your wife says. "Hear that, Doris? That's the sound he makes when he starts to find his center. That little hnnnh. That's his pussy waking up."
His pussy. Doris has known you for years. She was married to you. She saw you naked a thousand times, and never once did she use that word for any part of you.
And now here she is, standing in your bedroom, wearing a strap-on, listening to your wife talk about your pussy as calmly as if she were describing the weather.
"He's ready," your wife says. "Look at him. He's open. He's soft. He's waiting." She turns to Doris. "Do you want to mount him first, or should I?"
Doris's eyes are wide. "You first," she whispers. "I want to watch. I want to see how you do it."
"Sweetie," your wife says, turning to you. "On your hands and knees for me. Show Doris how a good boy presents his pussy."
You roll over. You get your knees under you, your hands flat on the mattress. The pink panties are pulled down to your thighs, the cage nestled against the sheets, cool and snug.
You feel the air touch your open hole, and you feel — you feel available. That is the only word for it. Available the way a shelf is available, the way a cup is available. Made to hold something.
"Look at that," Doris breathes. "Oh my God. He's — he's open."
"He's presenting," your wife says, climbing onto the bed behind you. You feel the mattress dip. You feel her hands on your hips, warm and sure.
"This is what he's for, Doris. This is what he was always for. He just didn't know it." She nudges the tip of her strap-on against your asshole. Cool. Slick. Pressing. "And now he does."
She pushes in.
"Ahh — hhhhh —" The sound comes out of you before you can stop it, a long, low exhale, a sound that is not quite pain and not quite pleasure but something else, something deeper, something that lives in the root of you.
"There," your wife says. "There's my good boy. Take it. Take it all."
She sinks in slowly. Inch by inch. You feel your hole stretching, opening, yielding around the silicone. Your asshole accepts it the way wood accepts a nail — parting, yielding, submitting.
"Oh, Doris," your wife says, her voice warm with wonder. "You should feel this. He just — he opens up. Like he was made for it. Because he was."
Doris moves around to the side of the bed. You can see her out of the corner of your eye, her dark hair loose, her face flushed, her strap-on jutting from her hips.
Your ex-wife is watching your wife fuck you, and her mouth is slightly open, and there is that look in her eyes again — wonder. And now hunger.
"Does it hurt?" Doris asks.
"Not anymore," your wife says. "It used to, the first few times. But we trained him. His pussy learned what it was for."
She pulls back. Thrusts in. Slow. Steady. "Now it just feels like — oh, what do you call it, sweetie? Tell Doris what it feels like to have my cock in your pussy."
You can't speak. Your mouth is open. Your eyes are half-closed. The dildo is pressing against something inside you, something deep and electric, and every time it presses, a jolt runs through your whole body, up your spine, into your skull.
"Hnnngh — fffuh — it feels —" Your voice is a thread. A whisper. A boy's voice.
"Use your words, sweetie," your wife says. "Doris is here to learn."
"It feels — nnnnh — it feels like — it feels like I was made to take it. Like coming home."
Your wife laughs, delighted. "Hear that, Doris? Coming home. That's his pussy talking. That's his button. I call it his button — that little spot inside him, right there, that makes him go all soft and sweet when I press it."
She angles her hips. The cock shifts. Presses.
"Mmmmnnngh — oh —" Your whole body shudders.
"There it is," your wife says. "Found it. See how he reacted? That's his button. That's the place his real pleasure lives. Not in his little guy. Not in that nub. Right here, inside his pussy."
She starts to fuck you. Properly now. A steady, rolling rhythm. In and out. In and out. Each thrust presses your button, and each press sends a cascade of sensation through you — warm, electric, dissolving.
"UunnnGH — uunnnGH — uunnnGH —" The sounds come out of you in time with her thrusts. You can't stop them. You don't want to stop them. They are the truest sounds you have ever made.
"Look at his little guy," your wife says to Doris. "Look at it."
Doris looks. You feel her gaze. Your caged cock is hanging between your legs, the plastic nub snug and secure, and inside it, your penis is straining — small, hard, desperate, leaking a thin clear thread onto the sheets.
"He's hard," Doris says. "Even in the cage, he's hard."
"He's hard because his pussy is being fucked," your wife says. "That's the thing about a boy like him. His little guy gets excited because he's being penetrated. Not because he wants to penetrate. Because he knows — his body knows — that he's where he's supposed to be. On his knees. Being ridden. Being used."
She thrusts deeper. You cry out.
"AAH — hhhh — please —"
"Please? Do you want me to stop fucking your pussy, sweetie?"
"Please — nnnnh — please don't stop."
"That's right," your wife says. "I never stop until you're finished. Until your pussy has had its fill." She turns to Doris. "Do you want to try him now?"
Doris nods. Her face is flushed. Her breathing is quick.
Your wife pulls out. You whimper at the emptiness — a small, lost sound, mmmmph — and then Doris is behind you, her hands on your hips, her strap-on pressing against your open, slick, aching hole.
"Go slow at first," your wife says. "Let him feel you. Let his pussy adjust."
Doris pushes in.
"Oh — oh —" Your voice breaks. She is different from your wife. A different angle.
A different rhythm. A different woman inside you, and your body trembles with the strangeness of it, the newness, the wrongness that is also so, so right.
"Good boy," your wife murmurs. She moves to the head of the bed. She kneels in front of you. Her strap-on is in front of your face — the one that was just inside you, glistening with lube. "Now, sweetie. Open your mouth for me."
You open your mouth.
She slides in.
You taste yourself. You taste the lube. You taste submission. Your wife's cock fills your mouth, and your ex-wife's cock fills your pussy, and you are — you are full. Full at both ends. Full the way you were always meant to be full.
"Mmmmph — mmmmph — mmmmph —" The sounds are muffled now, garbled, your wife's cock sliding in and out of your mouth in time with Doris's cock sliding in and out of your ass.
"There we go," your wife says. "There's my good boy. That's the double tap, Doris. Mouth and pussy. Both ends. This is what he needs. This is what he was made for."
Doris is fucking you faster now, finding her rhythm, her confidence growing. "He's so — oh — he's so yielding," she breathes. "He's taking it so well."
"Of course he is," your wife says. "He's a good boy. Aren't you, sweetie?"
"Mmmmph — mmmmph — yyythh —" You try to say yes. The word is garbled around her cock. It doesn't matter. They both know what you mean.
"His button is right there," your wife says. "Angle up a little. You'll feel it — a little bump, a little ridge."
Doris adjusts. Thrusts.
"AAAMMMPPHH —" The sound rips out of you, muffled but explosive, and your whole body convulses between them.
"There it is," your wife says, laughing softly. "Found it."
Doris starts to hammer it. Steady, sure strokes, each one pressing your button, each one sending a cascade of white-hot pleasure through your core.
Your wife fucks your mouth in time. The rhythm syncs. In, in. Out, out. Two women using you. Two cocks inside you. Your body is an instrument, and they are playing it together.
"He's close," your wife says. "I can feel it in his mouth. He gets so sucky when he's close. Like a baby. Like a little baby nursing."
You are sucking. You are sucking her cock desperately, hungrily, your eyes closed, your body trembling, your caged penis leaking steadily onto the sheets.
You are a baby. You are a good boy. You are a thing being used, and it is the most loved you have ever felt.
"Cum for us, sweetie," your wife says. "Cum for Doris. Show her what a well-trained pussy can do."
Doris thrusts deep. Hits your button. Holds.
The orgasm breaks over you like a wave.
"MMMMMMMPPPPHHHH —" The sound is long, muffled, shattering.
Your body convulses. Your ass clenches around Doris's cock. Your caged penis spasms, and thin, weak cum dribbles from the slit of the nub, pooling on the sheets beneath you. Your whole body shakes, trembles, goes rigid, then melts.
Doris gasps. "Oh my God — he's — I can feel his — his pussy — clenching —"
"That's his pussy cumming," your wife says. "That's what it looks like when a boy cums from his pussy. Isn't it beautiful?"
Doris slows. Stops. Your wife pulls out of your mouth. You collapse forward onto the bed, gasping, trembling, tears on your cheeks, cum on the sheets, your hole still open and clenching around nothing.
"Good boy," your wife whispers. "Good, good boy."
Doris withdraws slowly. She sits back on her heels. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright. "That was —" she starts.
"I know," your wife says. She strokes your back.
"Thank you," Doris says softly. And then, to your wife: "I never — I never knew he could be like this. I never knew how to —"
"Now you do," your wife says. "And you're welcome to come train with us anytime. He's got a lot more to learn. And I think he'd like having you here."
Doris looks down at you. Her eyes are soft, and there is something in them that might be love, a different kind of love than the one you failed to earn from her years ago.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Doris says.
"Yes," you whisper. "Yes, please."
"See?" your wife says, and she kisses the top of your head. "That's settled then."
And you lie there, in your wife's arms, a small warm thing, exactly where you belong, listening to her and your ex-wife plan your future over your head like the grownups at the kitchen table, and you have never felt so safe, so seen, so known, in your entire life.
This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, a bag of dishtowels, an ex-wife's wondering eyes, and the training day that showed them both what his body was always for.
Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.
If you enjoy my blog and my captions, you’ll want to read this story. If you’re like me, a beta who loves submitting to Women, wearing chastity, and getting pegged, you need to read this story. My ex Wife used to peg me regularly and it was wonderful. This story captures what it feels like to bend bent over by a Woman you love. Please reblog this so more betas can find it. Thanks so much to The Responsive Male for writing so many wonderful beta stories. ❤️
