Of temptation and indescretion

Business used to take my Wife away from home on a relatively regular basis. Perhaps every couple of months. These were times when I would indulge my kinks. I could wear latex with impunity, fuck my Flashlight whilst watching porn in bed at night, enjoy a full day with my butt plugged, or spend 36hrs comfortably confined in my CB6000s.

Times change.
It is nearly a year since I chose to move into the spare bedroom, or My bedroom as We have come to refer to it, so some of these things are now easy. Though less so the fetishwear.
Changes at work have meant She doesn’t visit the business’s outposts nearly as often.
Until this week.
She is away.
And my inner perv has been a little revived by the restorative benefits of wearing rubber.

At the weekend, I hastily dashed out a photo and post for Sinful Sunday 389. It had meant digging out my red latex cycling shorts and a pair of (not quite) matching opera gloves.
Was the moribund beast of my sexuality nudged awake?
That night, for the first time in many weeks, I felt a desire to clamp my steel ball stretching collars around my scrotum. I had forgotten how good it feels to wake up, roll over, and have the pendulous weights tug on my nuts.

Three days later, and the stretchers were still in place. (As We now both sleep alone, there is no significant risk that She will see and challenge me to justify my testicular adornments.)
And She was away on business.

Encouraged by the response my shorts and gloves had received, I have embarked on a reportage through my collection of fetishwear.
First to be snapped was my white latex shirt. That evening as I edited the selected shot, I was still wearing the shirt. It creaked satisfyingly as it constricted around me.
I watched a couple of episodes of Wonderlust – the BBC’s recent drama series following a married couple who resort to an open relationship to revive their own failed sex life. [Ed: The odds of AM and his Wife watching this together are negligible – there’s far too much sex in it for comfort, and whilst no one would suggest an open relationship would benefit Them, the show’s subject matter is just a little too close to the bone.]

Come bed time, I contemplated my options.
What used to be Our bed and Our bedroom are both more comfortable than Mine.
I could sleep in my Wife’s bed.
My disinterest in masturbation notwithstanding, I could wank myself to sleep on Her side of the divide.
Having recently rediscovered such pleasures, I could happily saturate Her duvet with my cum.
And in the morning I could rouse myself with an equally sticky and dissolute act of rebellion.

I can’t say I wasn’t tempted – the thought of my Wife’s body heat sublimating the suggestive scent of my semen and defiant indiscretion from Her bedding certainly had significant appeal – though I decided against it. I’m not a complete arsehole.
Instead, the next morning I woke in my own bed, and as my balls swung across my thigh, heavy with both unspent spunk and all but a pound of steel, I inhaled the heady aroma of my rubber shirt, which hung on the chair by My bed.
If my inner perv is on its last legs, it may yet not go quietly.

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