Stripped, Stoned and Stuffed

The opening story in a series about a petite wife, a voyeur husband, and a drug with mysterious powers.

Mary and I were married in July. By September, I was sexually bored. Mary just wasn’t that interested in sex, and seemed more to “tolerate” it than enjoy it. I suppose that came from her upbringing, in that she was the only daughter of a very conservative, Bible-thumping minister. She must have been brainwashed to think sex was a sin, and not to be explored or enjoyed. Her father was strict, too, even maintaining his control over her after she and I married. She knew she had to be “pure” and completely respectable to avoid incurring her father’s wrath.

Oh, my little wife was cute, though, very! At 4’10” and 100 pounds and only 18, she had a small figure (32B, 20, 34) and looked much younger. She loved me, and at least made some effort to humor my need to experiment with sex. I was surprised that she went along with my little “game” of having her put her hair in pigtails, wear little girl outfits and take her strolling through the mall or a park to watch other men’s reactions. Yeah, pretending she was my daughter and using her to turn on strangers was “twisted”, I know. But, no harm in the fantasy, I thought, and it definitely turned me on. When she would wear a little tube top and short skirt, bobby socks and sneakers, I swear she looked like she a nicely developed 12 year old. Watching other men grab their bulging crotch after they looked at her little butt, twitching as she walked ... well, it stirred something in me. But, I wanted more. I wanted something “forbidden”.

Mary worked at a nursing home as a candy striper. She looked like a little preteen girl in her uniform, and was always getting groped and felt-up by old men as she passed their beds or bent over in the day room. She would complain to me about it, and gripe about how those “dirty old men” kept looking up her skirt or down her blouse every chance they got. I encouraged her to put up with it, reminding her that looking at her and copping a feel was about the only sex life these poor old guys had. Actually, I secretly liked hearing her reports about her encounters at the nursing home. I would get a hard on as she told of old Bill Jensen slipping his hand under her skirt from behind and stroking her panty covered, hairy slit, before she could jerk away. I would rub my cock as she mumbled how 80-year-old Howie had snuck up behind her as she was bent over making his bed, and humped his fat dick against her butt as he reached around and grabbed her little boobs. This was no turn-on for my conservative, sexually repressed wife, of course. But the mental images I conjured up of old men jacking off while she bent over, leaned down or was careless with her skirt when she stooped ... well, let’s just say I knew what my ultimate turn on would be. My favorite fantasy, even before we were married, was to think about another man, or several men, wedging their cocks up my tiny wife’s cunt or down her throat. Oh, I wrestled with some guilt, alright. I mean, I was her husband; I shouldn’t be having these thoughts. Still, I couldn’t shake it. Right or wrong, I wanted it to happen, and happen again and again!

Mary’s boss at the nursing home was a doctor, Sam Nathen, who was in his fifties, I’d guess. Once, as we lay in our bed, Mary told me that she was uneasy around Dr. Sam, because he kept staring at her crotch, or boobs or butt. He never touched her, she admitted, but it seemed pretty apparent that he liked petite women ... especially those that looked very young and naive. Still, he was her boss, and one day Mary suggested that a proper thing to do would be to invite him to dinner at our home. She planned the evening, prepared a nice meal and was upset with my suggestion as to how she dressed. Thinking a demur blouse and slacks were the proper thing for a minister’s daughter to wear, and wanting to avoid encouraging any unwelcome advances from her boss, Mary was not happy with my request that she dress as a little girl. I reminded her that pleasing the boss was a good idea when it came to job security and raises, and I pressured her as much as I could by using the one approach that seemed to work every time. “If you really love me” I would begin ... and she would always relent. It worked this time, too. I had her wear a short, loose skirt that came down just below her little butt checks. She pulled a thin, white blouse over her budding boobs covered by a sheer white bra. The effect was perfect, because the dark shadow of her thick, brown nipples was just barely visible through the blouse. If she bent a bit too far, I could glimpse her butt covered by her plain, brief, white panties. The pigtails and white socks and sneakers were icing on the cake, and she looked for all the world like my preteen daughter when she answered the door. “Good evening, Doctor Sam” she said.