The feel of the tights was undeniably absurd. His flesh, usually comfortably contained within trousers, was now a lumpy landscape beneath the constricting nylon. His pen-is and scrotum felt uncomfortably compressed, a constant, chafing reminder of his predicament. Above the waistband, his belly, a testament to years of comfortable living, formed a soft, fleshy overhang. He could only imagine the sight he presented.
As he shuffled out of the bedroom, his head still bowed, he could feel Agnes's gaze on him. He didn't need to see her face to know that his discomfort was her amusement. A soft chuckle escaped her lips, a sound that, under different circ-umstances, he might have found endearing. Now, it was just another twist of the knife.
"Oh, Arthur," she said, her voice laced with mirth. "You do look… rather fetching."
He refused to meet her eyes, a flush creeping up his neck despite the chill he still felt. The humiliation was a tangible thing, a weight added to the already heavy burden of his shame.
Agnes rose from her chair, circling him slowly, her eyes taking in every unflattering detail. "The fit is… snug," she observed, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "Quite… revealing."
Arthur remained silent, his hands clenched at his sides. He felt utterly exposed, not just physically, but emotionally.
"Don't you think so, Arthur?" Agnes prompted, her voice still light but with an underlying expectation of compliance.
He swallowed hard. "Yes, Agnes," he mumbled, the word barely audible.
"Yes, what, Arthur?" she pressed gently.
He took a shaky breath. "Yes, Agnes… it is… snug."
Agnes's smile widened. "And does it serve as a suitable reminder of your… situation?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. He knew what she wanted to hear. He knew he had to surrender even this small piece of himself, his own perception of his ridiculous appearance.
"Yes, Agnes," he said, his voice stronger this time, though still tinged with shame. "It is a constant reminder."
"Good," Agnes said, her tone shifting back to the firm authority he had heard earlier. "Now, about those chores…" She gestured towards a basket overflowing with laundry. "There's no time to stand around admiring yourself, Arthur."
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor. The absurdity of his attire, the physical discomfort, the crushing weight of his humiliation – it was all part of his new reality. And as he bent to pick up the laundry basket, the tight nylon of the tights a constant pressure against his skin, he knew this was just the beginning. Agnes was enjoying this. And somehow, he suspected, her amusement was a key part of his punishment.
Topic: A very angry wife (Read 8352 times)
