My Husband, The Panty Sniffer,

My Husband Is A Panty Sniffer


About six months ago I got really fed up with my husband, Mike.
I loved Mike, but from the day we have married two years ago, all he did was boss me around, treating me like a carpet he could just walk over.
Always telling me what to do and when to do it.
Well, one Friday I’m supposed to work late at the office but get off early.
I walk into the house and find Mike on the living room couch.
Imagine my shock: Big, hairy Mike has on my bra and panties.

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His hand is clutching his stiff cock!
I’m so damn angry that I rip the bra and panties right off him.
Without even thinking, I order him to get down on his knees and hoist his bare ass in the air. First, with my hand, next with his thick leather belt, I whip his butt the way he’s deserved for years.

Nowadays Mike still wears the pants in the family–until I order him to bend over and pull them down!
But from time to time Mike still acts naughty. (As my friend Mistress Leesa always says: At heart macho men are just little boys begging to be punished.) Check out our pantie cams here
For instance, last week he pissed me off big time! That’s when I caught him pawing the panties in my little sister Heather’s drawer.
Heather’s been living with us for three months, getting up early every morning to attend classes at a local university and not coming home until the evening.

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Oh my I’m in my panties

Like me, my younger sister is a blonde with a really nice figure.
The difference between us is that Heather is sweet and innocent.
She never swears and blushes when anyone tells a joke that’s the least bit off-colour.
A regular Miss Prim and Proper.
So a couple of weeks ago I was really surprised when she came to me with a complaint.
It took her a while, with a lot of stammering, but finally, she got up the courage to confide in me.
Every morning, she said, she’d toss a pair of dirty panties into her laundry basket, than other clothes–say, a blouse or a skirt, whatever needed washing.
By the time she came home that evening, somehow that dirty pair of panties would have climbed from the bottom of the pile back on top.
Someone, she said, her cheeks turning pink with embarrassment, was going through her laundry basket, playing with her dirty underwear.
Neither of us needed to call in Sherlock Holmes. That “someone” could only be my sissy husband, Mike.
We agreed that the only way to cure him was to catch him in the act.
That evening, when Heather returned from school, she loaded her video camera and stored it in the large walk-in closet in her bedroom.

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The plan was: In the morning, as usual, Heather would pretend to leave the house for college, opening the front door and slamming it shut. Then she’d hurry back to her room and hide in the closet.
The moment I caught Mike with her dirty panties, she’d pop out of the closet with her video camera running.
Sure enough, early the next morning, as soon as the front door slammed shut, Mike slipped out of bed.
I pretended to be asleep as he yanked on his trousers, then tiptoed from our bedroom.
I waited ten minutes, then followed him to Heather’s room.

The wimp was on his knees by Heather’s laundry basket, his face buried in a pair of HeatherΓ•s soiled panties.
I just stood in the doorway, hands on my hips, and cleared my throat noisily. That was the cue for Heather to burst out of the closet, her video camera rolling tape.
You should have seen the look on Mike’s face.

It was the same shit-eating grin my dog Waldo gave me last year when I caught him pissing on the trunk of our Christmas tree.
I strolled over and grabbed the dirty panties from Mike’s paws.
“You’ve been a filthy little boy again,” I said, sitting down on the edge of Heather’s bed. “Pull down your pants and get over my knees immediately!”

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The sissy glanced pleadingly at Heather, but he could see she was furious.
He cringed when he saw the scowl on my face.
He crawled over on his knees.
I yanked his pants down around his ankles and dragged him over my knees.
I spanked Mike’s hairy ass until my hand hurt, and then I pounded his butt with his thick leather belt.
Then Heather moved in for some video close-ups. Mike started whining like a baby.
I had to shut him up before he disturbed the whole neighbourhood.

“Breakfast is ready, darling,” I said, gagging him with my sister’s dirty panties.
I further reddened his ass with another half-hour of brutal beating.
What surprised me is how Heather really got into it, too.
Every time Mike managed to spit out his panty gag, Heather would pause from her filming and stuff the soiled panties back down his throat.

Heather kept urging me on, saying stuff like “Spank the bitch square on his balls!”
It was a poignant moment of bonding.
Heather and I hadn’t shared so much sisterly fun together since we were kids.
The next evening, my younger sister brought home two 13-inch-long dildos, one red, the other black.
“I’m going to shove the red one into Mike’s mouth,” Heather said fiercely. “I can’t afford to have him eat up all my panties.”
She didn’t have to tell me where she planned to put the black one.

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