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There are many things you can search for when looking for houses but “welcoming and rampantly kinky neighbours residing next door” is not one of them; they come by extremely good fortune and Erin and I were very lucky.
At the end of a leafy cul-de-sac were two houses: one was the original manor house that dominated the plot of land, and the other was a small property at the end of the small shared drive, that was originally an ancillary house for servants in decades past. Cheshire is full of these sorts of properties, and the four-bedroomed family home was ideal for our needs, especially as it was at a reduced price because the owners were keen for a quick sale.
The day after we moved into the house, we saw a saloon car pull alongside our neighbour’s property and my wife and I took a break from unloading boxes to meet the couple whose drive we shared.
I wasn’t sure what I expected from the owners of the manor house three times as big as my property. Bryn oozed warmth: a man as tall as me with short black hair a slightly receding hairline. I’d find out later that the scruffily dressed gentleman owned a company worth ┬ú5million and yet he looked just as normal as my wife and I.
He shook my hand, embraced Erin and welcomed us into his expansive home. Christina, his wife, was a short smiling bundle of energy. She hugged us both, pressing her warm body against our tired torsos and escorted us into the lounge. She dispatched her husband to the kitchen to prepare liquid refreshments for their guests.
I remember noticing that she was in great shape; the figure-hugging outfit exhibited her sexy figure and well-proportioned breasts. The blonde-haired woman suggested that her husband show me around their house and Christina took my wife into their garden with their glasses of chilled white wine.
Bryn said little about the family who we had bought the house from, but what few words he chose were less than complimentary. I felt a little uneasy as he suggested there had been an acrimonious disagreement but istanbul travesti I found Bryn was welcoming and inoffensive.
“Baby, Erin and Peter have only moved in yesterday and they still haven’t unpacked all their cooking stuff. Go and make tea for us all please.” Christina barely looked up from her chat with my wife. Bryn smiled and nodded, and refused all offers of help so I joined the chattering women in their garden.
Their garden wasn’t huge, but was secluded. It was shielded from the long gardens of the other houses in the cul-de-sac by tall hedges and I couldn’t see a single house from my position on the grass. The two giggling women chatted conspiratorially and I didn’t interrupt as I looked around the landscaped garden.
Instead my mind turned back to our hosts and their relationship. From the way she spoke to him, looked at him and he responded to her, was not that of a normal vanilla couple. I recognised the interactions between them as she barked with an air of dominance and command, and he did as he was told accordingly.
Those first couple of hours I warmed to the married couple: Bryn was passive and friendly and Christina was bubbly yet unyielding. Once she had ordered her husband to make dinner for us, there was nothing Erin and I could do to change her mind. We didn’t want them to go to any trouble and our clothes were dusty and sweaty from our manual toil of moving furniture and unpacking goods for most of the day, but they just embraced their guests.
Christina was insistent, and Bryn cooked a wonderful dinner of spaghetti bolognase with a pudding to finish. We washed down his cooking with two bottles of wine.
I felt a little guilty when they refused to let us help wash up and Erin drunkenly giggled as Bryn bent over to retrieve a spoon he dropped onto the floor. His tracksuit bottoms slid down his bum and revealed a bright pink, lacy pair of womens’ knickers encasing our host’s buttocks.
“Nice panties,” Erin instinctively cried, causing Christina to glance at her husband and snigger. Bryn blushed travesti istanbul slightly, mumbling as he got up and hurriedly carried our dirty plates into the kitchen. “Sorry,” my wife offered to our host.
“No problem.” Christina called her husband back into their dining room, glaring at him as he tightened his scruffy tracksuit trousers. “Our guest has just complimented you on your underwear, what do you say?”
“Ummm…” He blushed brightly, staring at the floor as he took a deep breath. “Thanks Miss,” he finished, smiling gently at my startled wife.
“Now as my guest here,” Christina continued, gesturing at Erin and ignoring me, “has already seen that I often put you in some lacy underwear then perhaps you shouldn’t wear that scruffy tracksuit.”
“I don’t care what you’d rather. You’ve embarrassed yourself in front of Erin and that shows me up.” She glanced at my wife holding an empty wine glass and licked her lips. “I don’t think he has the right to wear trousers if he wants to flash his panties, do you?”
“Definitely not.” Christina clicked her fingers at her partner, staring at him as he wordlessly unbuttoned his clothes and allowed his tracksuit bottoms to fall to the floor.
I tried not to look; I was feeling mildly tipsy, slightly uncomfortable yet curious: aroused yet apprehensive. His hot pink lacy knickers did little to hide his bulge and they looked ridiculous on the six foot man.
His cheeks burnt in humiliation; his nose sniffed as his wife talked disparagingly about him. Yet, she chose the words carefully, “my husband’s damn silly but I love him.”
I recognised that dynamic from our books, our videos and our play: a punishment and a reward. A psychological carrot. He was burning up with shame at exposing a secret part of him to another couple, but then there was his tormentor saying she loved him.
“I did tell you we were very kinky,” she needlessly added.
“I know! Us too!”
“Oh, you got him in panties? Men are so much better when they are in their place!” Christina istanbul travestileri laughed, as my eyes returned to the dining table. I blushed, shaking my head and spluttering; we must have had too much wine. “Prove it!”
“Ummm… I’m not sure…”
“Peter,” my wife cooed gently. “Bryn’s shown his. It’ll be a giggle!” Her glazed eyes swept across my hesitation. “I’d really love you to join in the fun with us.”
Her voice never raised, her tone never sharp but she guided my will into standing in front of our hosts and unbuckling my jeans so they cascaded between my knees. Plain blue boxer shorts. Boring, functional, masculine.
But Christina just beamed, pouring more alcohol into our glasses, which I was still drinking from ten minutes later as we sat underneath the patio heaters soaking the last remnants of the Sun before it dipped below the horizon.
I sat in just my boxer shorts, my host in just his pink panties; our T-Shirts confiscated by the giggling tipsiness of our wives. They both laughed as they removed the faded cotton garments and Christina openly fondled my clothed buttocks. “That’s so spankable and damn fuckable!” She exclaimed, treating me like a discardable sex object for her entertainment. “I hope you don’t mind,” Christina continued as she stretched out on the loungers. “But we are having a few friends over next weekend. A bit of a party until late.” Her eyes fixed on Erin as she spoke softly. “We have them every so often.”
Bryn shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps they would…”
“I don’t think so,” she interrupted. “It gets a bit… passionate!”
My wife fidgeted. “We are… quite far back from your property and ummm… I think we might be away this weekend. Or are the kids at your mums?”
“Our kids spend a couple of weekends a month with my parents,” I added but Christina didn’t stop staring at my wife, trying to read her expression. I think they may have communicated telepathically as both women broke into a smile at the same time.
I don’t think I was on the same wavelength as them although I guessed their party would be a very adult affair and bored with the minimal conversation Bryn and I tossed a beachball between us and began, in just our underwear, play football on their garden.
Somehow, I didn’t think they played ball with their other guests.
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