“Having fun down there?” I whisper to my wife, craning my neck to peer down around my prodigious breasts.
“You know it! Wear Your Wife To Work Day is the best!” my wife-panties exclaim from beneath the desk.
Lifting one heel, I cross my legs demurely, thick thigh gliding over the other. My wife gives a delighted squee, using the movement to snuggle closer against my womanhood. I wiggle my black satin panties against the chair, knowing the experience is akin to a full-body massage for her pantified form.
“Mmm that feels so good. Thanks, sweetie. Oh, and thanks for wearing a shorter skirt this time - it makes for a much better view. It’s nice to put faces to voices for a change!”
The skirt is more a belt, gracing only the top of my buttocks while leaving the rest of the pert peaches exposed. I tug at it awkwardly. My wife had chosen it, though it was wholly inadequate for the feminine proportions the autocloset had blessed me with this year.
“You’re welcome. Although I’m concerned it might be giving the wrong signal to the other men in the office.”
That’s the central flaw with Wear Your Wife To Work Day. While the married men are expected to wear their wives upon their feminised bodies, the ones spared the transformation are the horndog young men without partners. It creats something of a charged atmosphere out of what is intended as a light-hearted (albeit jovially humiliating) annual event.
“Yup! I caught your new hire checking out your ass over lunch break,” my pantie-wife giggles.
I squirm at the thought of being objectified. “I’d best have a word with him about inappropriate behavior in the workplace. Wear Your Wife To Work Day is a day of fun, not an excuse to leer at your feminized boss!”
I wobble onto my heels and mince across the office, cursing whoever programmed the autocloset for this year as my ass jiggles obscenely with each step. It gives my wife quite the ride as she clings on for deep life. I lean over Simon’s desk. “Can I have a word with you in my office?”
A scandalized gasp escapes my panties as I lead him back to the office and, sure enough, looking back I find the man’s gaze drinking in the sight of my finely feminized derriere. He isn’t even trying to hide it. The cheek! Clucking my tongue in displeasure, I bite my tongue in anticipation of the proper dressing down awaiting him, but there’s little I can do about the exaggerated sashay of my hips, nor the wiggling of my soft buttocks except to endure his stares until I have him in my office.
“Close the door behind you and have a seat.”
A rough hand grabs my neck, powerful muscles bending me down over my desk. His hand lifts my skirt to expose my plump, vulnerable cheeks jutting into the air, then seizes the delicate fabric hem of my wife, dragging her down my rippling thighs.
“I’d rather have you instead,” he rasps in my ear.
He wrenches her away. There is a snap of elastic, a ripping of lace. My yell is silenced as he stuffs my wife, now nothing more than a torn rag, into my mouth. My mumbles and moans filter through the gag as he unbuckles his pants and mounts my womanhood on his cock.
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