January is a very quiet time. The month just seems to slip by in a blur; the New Year invariably is a busy period at work for Alistair and I go almost into automatic mood, being the good efficient housewife, happy to keep the household in order with the expectation of any particularly nefarious thrills in the near future.
Having a ‘quiet’ period is quite nice actually. A bit of uneventful ennui for a few weeks can be soothing in a funny sort of way. After the hectic and full-on events of Christmas and New Year, it’s good to have a time when you can re-charge the batteries.
But by the time January is over and February is upon us, that period of relative uneventful quietness does start to get a bit boring; the humdrum- and largely sex-free it must be admitted, which is perhaps the most difficult part- starts to become a bit wearing. The chance to rest and hunker down with a book in the evening is a regular, enjoyable experience that starts to wear quite thin. So Valentine’s Day in mid-February comes as a welcome relief. We have our Lenten period of reflective denial over and done with early; by V-Day, it’s time to get back into the swing of some good old fashioned lust, general debauchery and energetic spanking again.
And so it usual for this time of year for Alistair to enjoy his ‘hat-trick’ routine. This quite simply involves a sustained day of me being a totally submissive housewife, and him depositing his spunk in my main three orifices, namely cunt, arse and mouth in the space of a few hours.
It starts a couple of days before when Alastair becomes My Lord. It’s a pretty straightforward routine whereby I become a traditional housewife in 1950s mode. I wear flouncy patterned dresses, sturdy Play-Tex bras that make my tits look like torpedoes, stockings and even a girdle which I know drives My Lord mad with passion but it is a passion he suppresses and doesn’t satisfy which of course builds up a –usually impressive- head of lustful steam.
And so I potter about the house at My Lord’s beg and call. It’s all simple routine, but nonetheless also builds up healthy levels of need within myself and I often feel myself becoming wet as I gaze down at my marigolds, washing up the dinner plates in the sink [the dishwasher is strictly out of bounds during these times]. The need to be quite roughly fucked in a number of holes grows ever stronger and the sense of denial over those few preceding days, only intensifies that need.
Finally, it is Valentine’s Day. The routine for me starts early. I dress in a short, flowery pink skirt, shocking pink high heels, sheer gloss hold up stockings, a tight white blouse and the obligatory little white lace pinnie. My hair is pulled back with an Alice band. My nipples are hard with anticipation. I provide My Lord with breakfast in bed at 8.00.a.m. He grumbles but I can tell he approves of my dress and drinks in my legs. I leave the bedroom happy, but of course not yet fully satisfied.
I then get down to some cleaning, dusting the living room with a little flounce in my step.
At 8.20 a.m. there is a knock on the door and I open it. It is a bouquet of flowers for me from My Lord and I flounce and flutter my eyes at the young man delivering them. I feel a pleasant little thrill as he looks wantonly at my tits in the tight, almost bursting white cotton blouse and appreciatively at my legs as I coo over the flowers.
Then I am back in the kitchen arranging them in a large vase. I can hear My Lord coming down the stairs. I busy myself with the flowers, humming quietly to myself. Then I can sense him stood in the doorway of the kitchen. He was more than merely watching me; I can feel his eyes appraising me and I can also feel the increasingly torrid waves of anger coming from him. He is very displeased with me and I dampen at the thought that it is about to start…
Find out what was in store for me in Part 2....