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Erin Ch. 16: The Fitting
By Jonathan Quincy Graves
{Note: This is the sixteenth in a multi-part story series cataloging the progressive evolution of a relationship between a dominant woman who provides leadership and discipline for her husband. Each installment can stand alone, but they read much better if you start at the beginning. Go to: Erin Ch.01: Female Led Relationship. JQGraves}
Erin strode into the room after her long day at work, picked up the remote and turned off the TV. “It’s only Thursday evening, yet it’s already the third day this week you’ve failed to complete your chores,” she said, staring down at me. I felt more than a little vulnerable, sprawled below her on the couch in the family room, but I was in no mood to take her crap.
“No, it’s not,” I said. “I admit I shifted a task or two from Monday to Tuesday, and I forgot to vacuum yesterday, but…”
“And you did not make the bed this morning. That’s three.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve had more important things to do.”
“Like lying on the couch and watching MSNBC? That water glass is going to leave a ring on the coffee table, and the newspaper is scattered on the floor.”
“Okay, you win,” I snapped back. “I suppose you’re going to punish me now.”
“Oh, I’d love to, and you more than deserve it for your laziness, and even more for your attitude. But if I gave in to my anger now, I’m afraid I might really hurt you. So, clean up this mess, and get up to bed. You won’t be eating dinner tonight, which is just as well since you’ve got nothing started.
“You may think you’re getting off easy, but I’m not cancelling your punishment, merely postponing it. I’m going to make a few calls and see if I can arrange something for tomorrow.”
Erin stocked out of the room, expecting me to do as I was told. I wasn’t happy about it, but I picked up the paper, took the water glass to the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher, then took a rag and some spray polish back to attend to the coffee table. When everything was up to standards, I headed up to our room. I wasn’t the least bit hungry before Erin sent me to bed without my supper—like a naughty little kid—but now, suddenly, I’m famished.
“Make a few calls, and… arrange something?” her words came back to me. It didn’t register at the time, but now I wondered, What the hell was that all about?
Nothing more was said between us that night, and Friday morning I was up before Erin, put on the coffee and made her breakfast. She doesn’t demand it on work days, but I always have coffee ready in the mornings, and occasionally breakfast. But this morning, I was remembering the things I’d said and how I’d said them last night, and her promise of delayed punishment made me feel like I was living with an unexploded bomb. Erin thanked me for breakfast before she left for her office, but her demeanor was cool. Unsaid, but clearly stated: “Don’t expect this to get you out of the punishment you’re due.”
I had trouble writing on my novel that day and gave up early. I had my chores done before noon. After a brief lunch, I went back over them again, along with everything else I’d done around the house that week. I was determined there would be no flaws if/when Erin inspected my work. Erin does not treat me like a child, usually, but she expects a certain level of respect from me, and with the mood I was in last night, I had not shown her that respect. It had been a bad day at the computer—a bad week, really. None of my characters in the book I’m working on would do the things I wanted them to do. By two o’clock, I’d given up in disgust and flopped down in front of the TV. Bad enough, but it might have helped if I had explained the reason for my funk rather than giving her lip.
At three in the afternoon, Erin texted: “Shower, shave, put on your frilliest pink panties and the blond shapeware. Socks and platforms to match.”
This did not look good. My frilliest were a pair in pink satin festooned with ruffles and bows. Erin gave me them as a joke for my birthday. I put them on for her for about five minutes, and when we were both done laughing, they were consigned to the bottom of my panty drawer to rest forever, in the dark. “Socks to match” no doubt referred to the pink, spangly anklets with little white bows in the front. The associated platforms are pink and fuzzy with a 2.5-inch open heel. None of these do I wear voluntarily.
I stared at the message for almost a minute before texting back, “Yes, Ma’am.”
At four-thirty, I received a text: “Have dinner ready for six-thirty. Something light.” I usually have dinner ready at about that time, but I guess after last night, she felt it necessary to specify. Six-thirty was a little on the early side for us—especially on Friday night when her commute is hell—and “something light” implied physical activity after, like a meeting with Erin’s hairbrush, Lucile. Or a visit from her heavy, supple, leather strap, Delphyne. Or both. My stress level was climbing. Until artvin escort I’m actually over Erin’s knee, the worst thing about a punishment promised is the interminable wait for it to be delivered.
Erin arrived home at six-seventeen. I was in the kitchen, doing the finishing touches on a salmon salad. “Welcome home,” I said, trying for cheery. “How was your day?”
“Typical for a Friday.” She paused to look me over, smirked and said, “My, don’t you look cute.”
I blushed, knowing that I did not look cute. I looked ridiculous. “As ordered,” I managed with a crooked smile.
“Yes, and a good thing, too. I need to hit the loo. Is dinner almost ready.”
“Yes, ma’am. I can put it on the table whenever you’d like.”
“Good. I’ll be right back.”
The table was set, the salad was in place, and I waited at Erin’s chair at the head of the table. When she came back down—still dressed in her pants suit, I noticed—I assisted with her chair then took my place at her right.
Erin helped herself to the salad, saying, “This looks good.”
“Thank you. You asked for something light.”
“Indeed, I did, and this is an excellent choice. I recommend that you not overindulge or dawdle over your meal. We have an appointment this evening and you will not want to be late.”
“Are we going somewhere?” My stomach clenched so I suddenly did not feel like eating. Surely Erin did not plan to take me out of the house dressed as I am. Please not!
“Yes, as a matter of fact, we are. You have become much too comfortable with the status quo lately, forgetting who wears the pants in this family. Weekly maintenance is not as effective as it used to be, so I am taking additional measures to remind you of your status.”
Erin stopped her explanation there. So, after a minute, during which I put my fork back on my plate no longer able to think of food, I asked, “Additional measures?”
“Yes. Tonight, we are going to buy you a cute little dress,” she said, looking me in the eyes. “Michelle has recommended a seamstress, a Mrs. Campbell, who makes specialty dresses to order. I have talked to her on the phone, and she is expecting us for a fitting at eight o’clock.”
“A dress,” I said. Erin’s stare was so intense and her tone so merciless that my mouth was suddenly so dry I could barely speak. I was, however, able to curse Michelle subvocally. That damned woman is Beelzebub in heels. Why did Erin ever have to meet her?
“Yes, a dress. A punishment party dress, to be more specific. Something we can slip you into when your attitude requires serious readjustment. When, like last night, you decide that you can act like a superior male jerk with impunity.”
“I’m sorry,” I managed.
Erin laughed. “Oh, I think you’ve forgotten what that phrase means, but I promise that before the night is over, you will remember. Now, if you are not going to eat, put away the rest of this delicious salad and get started on the kitchen. I’ll be done shortly, and we’ll leave soon thereafter.”
I scraped my plate off into the salad bowl—I’d not touched it and there was no sense throwing it out—excused myself from the table, cleared my side of the table and went to the kitchen. I keep on top of things when I cook, so there was very little mess to take care of. I dumped the salad into a storage container and put it into the fridge, rinsed off my plate and put it in the dishwasher, then stood against the sink staring out the window at nothing. It has been a long time since I last saw Erin really angry, and longer since I was the cause.
I was still semi-comatose when Erin brought her plate in and reached around me to put it in the sink. She delivered a smack to my panty-clad bottom and said, “Wake up. It’s time to go.”
I startled back into action, took care of her dishes, then turned and said, “I can’t go out dressed like this.”
“No, I don’t suppose that you can,” Erin said. “Best put on a jacket, it’s chilly out tonight.”
“But…”
Erin raised a finger to halt me in mid thought. “Wear the navy windbreaker.”
The jacket she referred to is long, almost to mid-thigh. It would cover my body shaper and panties, but no coat in our closet would completely conceal my shaved legs, the little-girl anklets or the fuzzy, pink heels.
My eyes watered, and I desperately wanted to object, but dared not. Erin (and God, Erin’s mother) has humiliated me in public before, but not like this. No one but Erin has ever seen me dressed like this.
Erin watched me. Waiting to see what I would do. What I did was lower my gaze, walk to the hall closet, pull out the navy windbreaker and put it on. “Good choice,” she said. “Let’s go.”
We were silent on the drive that ended in a residential neighborhood on the other side of town. Erin parked next to the curb and said, “This is it. Get out.”
Panicked, I looked up and down the sidewalk before removing my seatbelt and opening aydın escort my door. No one was in sight, and it gets dark early this time of year, so I hoped no one would see me. Of course, the dome light in the car went on when I opened my door and swung my bare, shaven legs out, but I still saw no one watching.
Erin came around the car, took me by the wrist, walked me up the walk and up the steps to the porch of an older, well-kept home. The porch light was on and seemed overly bright and revealing. My wife held tight to my wrist and rang the doorbell. The wait seemed longer than usual to me, but finally I could hear someone approaching the door and a kindly, old, gray-haired grandmother type opened the door. She had a pleasant face, wrinkled with laugh lines, and could not have stood over five feet tall.
“You must be the young lady I spoke to earlier” she said with a welcoming smile. “Please, come in. It’s chilly out tonight.”
“Thank you. Yes, it is. I’m Erin. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“Not at all, not at all. Michelle is one of my favorite customers, and she speaks highly of you. Just hang your coat in the closet there. And this must be your young man,” she said. “Let’s take a look at you.”
Before I realized what she was doing, Mrs. Campbell grasped the front of my jacket and began lowering the zipper. I tried to interfere, but she smacked my hands away and said, “Hands at your sides, girl!” When she spoke to Erin, her voice was that of everyone’s favorite aunt. To me, it was that of a drill sergeant dressing down his troops. The difference was disorienting, but it had the intended effect. My hands went to my sides almost of their own volition.
I glanced over at Erin. She was grinning at the old lady’s use of the word, “girl.”
Mrs. Campbell opened my jacket, slid it off my shoulders and handed it to Erin to hang up. “Hmm,” she said, “you definitely need that foundation.” She poked me hard in the belly. I felt her fingernail through the thick fabric of the body shaper. The old lady was stronger than she looked.
The seamstress turned to Erin and said, “I think we can find something that will suit your needs, but you really should put her on a diet.” She slapped me in the belly with the back of her hand. “Why don’t we go down to my studio where we can look at a few designs and talk about the features you might want.”
Mrs. Campbell led us down a flight of stairs to a large, open, high-ceilinged basement room. “Stand there, girl!” she ordered, pointing to the floor in the center of the room. “Let me show you photos of a few of my past creations to give you some ideas,” she said to Erin in her sweet, little-old-lady voice. I couldn’t imagine how she did those disparate vocalizations out of the mouth of that grandmotherly face without destroying her vocal cords. It was like an outtake from “The Exorcist.”
She guided Erin over to a worktable, opened a binder and began leafing through the pages. They spoke in quiet tones and I could not make out the words, but the pictures must have been amusing, because they both laughed at some of the photos.
After several minutes of discussion, they turned and looked at me, speculatively.
“I have a sweet little punishment party dress I use as a demo we can put her in, but first we must do something about that belly,” Mrs. Campbell said. She walked over to the wall and lowered a switch. There was a humming sound above me, and I looked up to see a rope with a short, metal bar with wrist cuffs at the ends gradually reeling down. When it was chest height in front of me (shoulder height for Mrs. Campbell), the old lady centered the switch, walked in front of me and put my left hand in one of the cuffs.
“What are you doing?” I asked, hiding my other hand behind my back.
“Give me that hand this minute, young lady!” she demanded, and almost like magic, my hand moved to the other cuff where it was secured in place. “I’ll stand no further nonsense from you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I said, sullenly.
“Yes, what?” she said.
“Yes, I understand you. I just don’t understand why you are doing this.”
Mrs. Campbell went back to the wall and raised the switch. The rope was reeled back up and my hands were slowly raised until, at full extension, I was standing on the balls of my feet in my platform shoes.
Mrs. Campbell picked up a long, black plastic rod from her work table and walked back to where I was stretched up. “The proper response would have been, ‘Yes, Madam, Yes Ma’am,’ or even ‘Yes Mistress’, although that last might more properly be reserved for your wife. Now, let’s try again. I’ll stand no further nonsense from you, young lady. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand,” I said, growing a little tired of her “girl” and “young lady” crap. “Now what the hell are you doing?”
The seamstress turned to Erin and asked, “Do you mind?”
“No, balıkesir escort not at all.”
Mrs. Campbell nodded, stepped beside me, pulled the rod back and whipped it forward across my panties with surprising force. Whrrr-Swick!
“Ow! Stop that!” I cried. The strip of pain across my ass was acute and growing.
“A slow learner,” she muttered, and again there was a Whrrr-Swick! and another line of fire formed. She whipped two more slashes, each about an inch lower than the preceding. before stepping in front of me, looking up at my face and asking, “Do you understand?” this time in her sweet grandmotherly voice.”
“Yes, Ma’am, I understand,” I said, fighting back tears.
“Good girl,” she said. She put down the rod, took the top of my body shaper in both hands and pealed it down. “This is a fine garment,” she said to Erin, “just not up to the task for this fat body.” She pulled the shaper down to my ankles and had me step out of it. I had to flex my toes to keep the open-heel wedges on or I would have hung from my wrists, unable to touch the floor.
“To fit her into my demo, we must use something a little more aggressive. I have just the ticket.”
The old lady went over to a cabinet, opened a drawer and pulled out a classic, whalebone corset. She bade me step into it, which I did, and she pulled it up my body in quick jerks. It was tight to begin with, but once she had it in place, she laced me up in the back. She got impressive leverage with her knee against my ass and pulled the laces so tight I could barely breathe.
At one point, Erin said, “Would you like me to help you with that?”
To which Mrs. Campbell replied, “No need, dear, I’ve got it.” This was followed by a powerful jerk of the laces that forced an exhalation from my lungs, which no longer had the capacity to pull the air back in. I whimpered and took little panting breaths, struggling not to pass out. I was sure that my waist had been constricted down to less than twenty inches, while flesh bulged out of the top of the corset so I could have easily filled a bra with a C cup.
“That’s better,” Mrs. Campbell said as she lowered the wall switch. My heels returned to my shoes, my weight was taken up by my feet and my hands slowly lowered to chest height.
“If you wouldn’t mind releasing her, dear?” she said to Erin as she walked across the room to a large closet.
Erin unstrapped my wrists and asked, “How are you doing?”
“My ass has been sliced to ribbons, and I can barely breathe,” I said. I was in serious distress on both counts.
“Yes, well, we need to do something about your figure. I’ve let it go far too long, and now you’re paying the price.” She offered no comment regarding the condition of my backside.
“Now, this is a basic model,” Mrs. Campbell said, approaching with a short, girly dress in pink and white, decorated to the extreme with lace and ribbons, “but it will give you an idea of what can be done.” She held the garment close to the floor and commanded, “Step in.”
Erin took my arm to steady me, and I reluctantly stepped into the dress. The seamstress pulled it up my body and had me put my arms into the balloon sleeves that tightened down with elastic bows just below my elbows. When she zipped it up in the back, I immediately realized why she’d needed to tighten the corset. The bodice was very snug.
“You’ll probably want to put her into a bra to corral this excess flab at the top.” She grabbed and squeezed a handful of flesh through the material covering my chest. She had remarkably strong fingers, and I groaned.
The dress was high-waisted, with a full skirt that flared out over integral pink and white petticoats. It was so short that it barely hid my panties. A wide pink satin ribbon sewn just under my ribs could be tied in a bow in the back. The collar was a tall, stiff band that extended up under my chin and fastened in the back. Just being put into this too short, much too elaborate, overly girly, pink and white party dress was humiliating punishment.
“The waist band and collar are reinforced with stitch-bonded polyester,” the seamstress explained, “and they can each be secured with small padlocks here in the back, to prevent unauthorized removal of the garment. I’ve found a supplier in Thailand, however, that produces these intricate little catches which are difficult to open without being able to see what you’re doing, so unless your girl is left unsupervised the locks may not be necessary.”
“Clever,” Erin commented.
“Some mistresses still use little locks for their psychological effect. This wide ribbon material is also reinforced, and can come in handy when your girl is in need of discipline. Let me show you.”
I felt the seamstress tying a floppy bow in the back, then she said, “Cross your arms behind you, girl.” I complied, and Mrs. Campbell put each hand through a loop of the bow, then she pulled on the tag ends to tighten the loops about my wrists and pull them up high on my back. Finally, she tied the ends off in another bow, securing my arms firmly in place.
“These little ribbons here can be used to tie up the back of the skirt so that her panties are on display for corner time or merely to clear the way for an effective spanking.” I felt the dress and petticoats bunch up in the small of my back.
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