Jordan’s Diary entry 11


As you can imagine the fancy dressed party was full of sexily dressed women.

Blair and I remained handcuffed for only the first ten minutes. During this time her prisoner outfit was greeted with lustful up and down stares from the guys and raised eyebrow with up and down stares from the women. I was met with wide grins and giggles as my short panted prisoner outfit clung to me as much as Blair’s obscenely short tee shirt.


Within an hour I was concerned about my hardening cock and wished I was wearing the cb6000s to keep it in place. In fact the idea of wearing a chastity belt whilst my wife was leered at and flirted with by all the guys was a huge turn on itself. An excitement not mitigated by the array of sexy thighs and boobs from the women.

 Blair soon disappeared onto the dance floor, as is usual for her after a few glasses of white wine. Fortunately the clinging tee shirt-dress stuck to her bottom and only rode up occasionally. Not that it stopped guys taking her in with lustful eyes. I was desperate to get a way for a wank.

I noticed only one other guy in what I considered a subbie outfit, a burly rugby fellow in a maid’s uniform. His muscular tattooed arms exposed. No danger of seeing him as a sissy.

So here is an interesting observation. Many of the women made a bee line for me. I guess in my prisoners outfit I was less threatening than some of the more masculine outfits in which the other guys were attired.

It was as if the prisoner uniform gave them permission to approach and make fun of me. And I loved it.

The life changing incident with her boss Morgan Hopkins was to happen after the meal.

The food was delayed, so more wine was drunk. The dining room was a raucous cacophony of heightened sexual tension. It was amazing no women were on their backs on the floor. I imagine that roman orgies must have had a preamble such as this.

Blair grabbed me at the foot of the stairs and dragged me upstairs.

“I can’t dance anymore. These heels are killing me.”

 I looked down at her white ankle boots and made a note to buy such a pair as soon as possible. They made her legs in the black tights look even more sumptuous.

Gripping my arm she whispered, “and I can see the ladies love your little bottom in your shorts.”

I laughed, confiding that I had never before enjoyed so much attention from women.

So that was when we saw the group around Hopkins.

Morgan Hopkins was holding forth outside the snooker room on the balcony. He stood before a huge painting of some overly decorated general from hundreds of years ago. He was surrounded by a small group of giggling women and men who I could see were in two minds about him. Part envy at him being so tall, good looking, clearly the boss and effortlessly alpha male.

Blair gripped my hand and dragged me over to them.

“Hi!” she announced to Hopkins, breaking up one of his stories.

The outfit I should have worn!

The women were pissed off at her confidence and exchanged glances: ‘who does she think she is?’

I felt myself flush. Blair is a quiet lass as a rule but after a few drinks she is the sort of girl to clamber onto a table to dance.

“Hey!” Hopkins bellowed. “Look at you! Wow.”

“This is Jordan, my husband. You met him before.”

She tugged me before him and I flushed bright red feeling like a little boy in my shorts before such a bear of a guy.

As you know my fantasies have been about Morgan Hopkins cuckolding me, with me being a sissy in chastity. So now I was speechless.

And I need to tell you what Hopkins was wearing. Even today, some weeks later, it gives me a thrill. He was dressed as a US police officer, with baton, gun and flat hat. He filled the uniform with some menace, I think helped by the way the cap’s peak came partly down over his eyes. It made him look no nonsense tough

I cleared my throat, feeling speechless and way too nervous to feel any erotic charge.

“Yeh! We keep meeting up when we are pissed eh Jordan?” he laughed.

I laughed, and yes it was sycophantic laugh and yes I was feeling hot about my cheeks. I guess he was about 6 inches taller than me, maybe standing 6’3”, but he was wearing big boots. I have never seen him without this huge confident grin, as if he knows something wickedly funny and he won’t share it.

So he filled us in on the story so far before continuing it with his audience in his hand. The punch line was only something about him already having received a cheque for twice the amount from the client but for some reason we all found this hilarious.

You don’t need to know about the next half hour or so of chat. Some people left, mainly the guys and a few more joined, mainly girls. I remember feeling a bit of an idiot standing in the half circle of his audience not saying anything, watching my wife’s giggle and fawn over his every story.

Then it happened. It makes my mouth go dry even now.

It started with him saying something to Blair about being late at a meeting, it was part of one of his stories. Blair, now benefiting from far too much wine cocked one knee  in front of the other to look up at him and gushed. “So are you going to arrest me officer?”

She span her handcuffs around her hand in front of him.

At that point I was embarrassed. Embarrassed at not having the guts to have left the group ages before, maybe with a excuse of having a pee. And now embarrassed at my drunken wife making a fool of us. I felt a tremor of anger. Had there not been so many people around I would have said something to her.

Hopkins took the cuffs from her and I watched my wife twist back and fore like a naughty school girl in front of the headmaster. Her eyes seemed huge, she was awaiting his response. I knew she was hot. In the days when we had sex she wore that same passive, willing to please look when aroused.

Hopkins’ grin stayed firmly in place as he waved the cuffs in front of her. “You are a naughty prisoner aren’t you?”

There were giggles but it was as if the group was holding its collective breath with sexual tension.

“Maybe,” Blair whispered slyly.

“These are toy cuffs prisoner. Look.” He closed them and then used the trick catch to spring then open. “If you wore these you would escape!”

She played the game by gaping and putting her hands to her mouth. “Please Sir I just didn’t know.”

And now I had a semi hard on. And I suspect I wasn’t the only guy in the group with a hardening dick.

“You need these.” Hopkins pulled a hefty set of handcuffs from his belt.

We were awestruck by them. It was as if he was a hypnotist and we his subjects.

My wife’s eyes were huge, unblinking orbs. She took in every flash of light on the silver cuffs.

Hopkins lowered his voice and if sharing confidence said, “These are real police handcuffs. A friend in Honk Kong bought them for me. They are the actual ones police use over there.”

I swallowed. I wanted a pair! Real police handcuffs. Wow.

He lowered them before Blair. “They are double locking. You know what that means?”

She giggled, “I am doubly in trouble?”

There was some laughter.

“Well, yeh, that too.” Hopkins continued in sotto voce. “It means you lock them once to hold the prisoner but then lock them a second time so that they won’t get tighter. Stops prisoners squeezing them shut on their wrists and then them needing to be opened. Means you can keep your prisoners locked up for a longer time.”

 Blair had no witty response. Her glossy pink lips fell open showing her white teeth. Her eyes were set on the cuffs.

“Want a give them a try?” he asked,

Her mouth dropped open in shock, but then giggled and held out her wrists.

I can recall feeling almost fully erect. The top of my prisoner outfit didn’t descend far enough to hide my groin so I moved my wine glass to obscure it as best I could. I was breathing quickly, as if I had just been for a run.

Being unaware of anything in that room save Morgan, his double locking cuffs and my aroused wife I cannot say what the others were feeling or doing. Even the music and shouting was wiped out by this moment of electricity.

All attention was on the two of them.

Morgan kept his eyes locked on my wife’s as he clicked the first cuff around her slender wrist. I could see her boobs rising and falling under the clingy prisoner outfit. She was in heat.

“Now I lock it once.” He turned the key in the mechanism and we heard a click. “Now I double lock it.” The lock clunked a second time and we all knew Blair would not be able to remove her cuff without Hopkins’ key.

“The other hand.” Hopkins commanded as if ordering another drink.

Blair was reluctant; I could see her eyes waver. She glanced up at him about to say something but then grinned, as if thinking better of it before offering him her right hand.

He closed the cuff around it and Blair gasped.

“So I lock it once.” Click. “And now the second time.” Clunk.

And so my wife stood before him her hands handcuffed wearing just a sexy, tiny, body hugging tee shirt, pertaining to be a prisoner’s uniform, along with her little ankle boots.

There was a short moment when galaxies formed and were destroyed before the group came back to life and people started snapping pictures on their phones.

Morgan gripped my wife’s shoulders and spun her around so his arm was about his captive. “My prisoner folks!”

If this were a Deborah Ford story I guess the evening would have ended with me in handcuffs as Hopkin’s prisoner and Blair lying on her back on a snooker table while Hopkins took his pleasure. But Hopkins quickly unlocked Blair and started cuffing the other women who pleaded to try the handcuffs.

Blair approached me, her eyes sleepy with arousal searching deep into my eyes. I could almost hear her saying: ‘so what do you think of that cuckold. Your fantasy comes true?’

 We didn’t speak. We walked back downstairs to the dance hall then towards the wine bar. It was at that moment that I felt it. I had precum around my cock. It felt cold and wet in my boxers.

Taking hold of Blair’s wrist I stopped her and she looked at me with wide eyed expectation and a sexy grin.

“We have to go,” I said. “I am damp in the groin.”

She whispered in my ear, “You are not the only one.”

We left with me keeping my hand across my shorts to hide any evidence of ‘spillage’.

Will tell you what happened when we got home in the next journal.

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