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Housewife’s Choice

Housewife’s choice

Each morning is a ritual, a step by step of tasks in an order devised by him for both their satiation. She awakes each morning, giddy with anticipation, and leans over to envelop her love in a kiss, an embrace, her bare arms sliding over his bare chest – pyjamas are only worn in the bleakest depths of winter.

He growls like a wolf at the scent of her perfume, of the two of them. Of the night before and fucking her until her limbs were weak.

Sleepily he takes her hand and draws it downwards, to his cock, already stiff and ready for her. She brings him off with her hand gratefully, easily, and wears his come with honour.

She rises and pours tepid water from the jug on the dresser into the wide china bowl. The bathroom is only steps away but Charlie is from a once aristocratic family and enjoys their refusal to join the twentieth century even at the midway point. He likes the action of her filling the jug each night and carrying it almost reverentially to the bedroom. He watches her pour the water and joins her beside the washstand, wiping his face with the flannel as she cleans him carefully. He endures the strip wash at the foot of the bed in part so his love can luxuriate in the bathroom after he has gone. She will read, and think, and relax in the cool serenity of the tub.

Satisfied, he kisses her forehead and she takes the dish away, to pour down the sink, then makes her way downstairs to light the stove and set his breakfast.

She hears his heavy footfall as the kettle begins to whistle. Perfect timing.

He is knotting his tie, watching her add tea leaves to the pot, carefully filling it and trying not to scald herself. His little naked nymph. His pet.

He sits and reaches into the toast rack. She returns from the pantry with butter and marmalade, and milk. He takes his tea very sweet and very hot, mixing it almost like a witches brew. Her tasks complete, she stands at his side, until he instructs her to sit. And they breakfast together like every other couple on their street of narrow, plain cottages. Perhaps more lovingly. Perhaps with more laughter. He pours her tea with milk, butters her toast generously so the yellow oil drips down her chin and over her ample breasts.

When they have had their fill, she places the crockery in the sink – on weekends he stands behind her with his arms looped around her stomach as she washes and dries, but today is Wednesday, and he must leave for work. He kisses the top of her head, then tilts her chin and kisses her with ownership; drinking her in. She is full of life when he departs, informing her of the outfit laid out on the bed for when she has finished the dishes.

She has a tiny spot of excitement in her stomach; she has it every morning. Apprehension and excitement as she mounts the stairs, wondering how he will dress her. Some days he leaves her a set of lingerie – black lace that thrusts her breasts outwards, and holds her as tightly as he; and stockings and beautiful knickers, to be displayed permanently – if she is to run errands then she can only button her coat to the neck and pray that the wind won’t betray her.

Some days – today – he left a simple flowered dress with buttons – no brassiere, no knickers or stockings. The dress was blue with red peonies on it; and laid out next to the garment on the bed was three sheets of writing paper and a pen.

Atop the first was scrawled “To do list” in his messy hand, and underneath a short list of tasks. He had noted the sausages in the cold storage larder needed to be cooked – requested toad in the hole. Reminded her to take time to read her library books. And the third task, was a blunt request to touch herself for him.

“You will play with your sweet cunt, and you will write me a short essay about it, my girl.”

She shivered and went to run a bath.

In the bath, she leafed through her library book – Jane Eyre – and considered washing her hair, but it had only been a couple of days since the last wash. She wrapped it in a scarf to keep it out of the water and soaped herself carefully. She washed her face and then her hand idled between her thighs, pulling at the crown of curls – a sharp hit of pleasurable pain as the water cooled around her. She brought the other hand to her breast, slightly dimpled in the cooling air, and she tugged the nipple with some force. Her moans echoed around the white tiles and she slid lower into the water, her hips angled upwards. She rubbed her clitoris gently at first. Lightly. Barely making contact with her body. When her fingertips did reach the flesh her body jerked almost immediately; sending a tidal wave over the rim of the bath as she convulsed.

But the bathroom was not the ideal location for her self-love. She clambered out of the tub and wrapped herself in the towel he had left out for her.

On the bed was a necktie. She hadn’t noticed it before – he must have chosen against it as he dressed that morning. She picked it up, meaning to tidy it back into the wardrobe, but something in the rough texture of the tie in her hand made her falter. She folded it over and over into a neat little bundle, then stood there, staring at the parcel of material in her palm.

She removed the towel and let it fall to the ground in a heap. She took a pillow from the neatly made bed – his pillow – and brought it between her thighs as she knelt on the bed, crowning the cushion with his tie. She did not go slowly as she had whilst bathing. She ground her cunt against the harsh fabric; her wetness soaking into the material. In her mind he was watching her as she debased herself, naked on their bed, infusing his dreams with the thick, heady scent of her body. She was animal, bestial and free, using her body for his satisfaction above all things. Her body became tensed and filmed with sweat and she heard her breath catching, fringed with cat-like moans. She loved the way she sounded. She moaned louder, heedless of the open windows, the mothers in the neat homes around her.

Her scent rose.

Her body ached.

She wanted release.

She ceased her grinding and knelt, perfectly still for a moment or two, before rising and dressing. After all, he had not given instruction for her to give in to her carnal desires.

She allowed herself five minutes to calm her shaking hands before sitting down at the kitchen table to begin her essay.


  1. I could do with a few minutes on my own now too☺️
    Missy x

  2. […] Lockhardt’s Housewife’s Choice was another one that had me pausing during my busy week and needing to go and spend a little time […]

  3. […] between two lovers is something I really can appreciate, as Master T and I have our rituals too. Housewife’s Choice by Hannah Lockhardt is an example of rituals, but also submission and dominance. I love […]

  4. Oh my… this is incredible. Mmmm!!!

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