A feminized basket ball player

“You little bitch.” is what my wife said to me as I walked in from the gym. I was a little startled, taken aback, but immediately aroused. “Excuse me.” I said in a tone that I am sure sounded far less innocent than I intended. “Don’t play me for a fool, you faggot whore. I found your phone bill, it was right here on the counter. I was looking through it innocently enough, when I noticed all of these long distance calls to Los Angeles. I thought to myself, gee, Alex and I don’t know anyone from Los Angeles, so I decided to call the number.”

I admit, I was in shock. As I said, I never consciously intended for her to catch me, I had not even been aware that I had left the bill out. I was a little disturbed, but still confident that my service wouldn’t have told my wife anything about me. “So . . . ” I asked nervously, waiting to hear the damage.

“So! So!!! All you can say is so? I’ll tell you so. So, I called this number expecting to find some business partner of yours, in my wildest delusions I was fearing some type of girlfriend. Little did I know.” “Little did you know?” My voice was trembling now. “Little did I know that you WERE the girlfriend, you little bitch.” My wife had her arms crossed across her breasts, pushing them up a little against the tight confines of her yellow cashmere sweater. As I said, my wife is a full six inches taller than me, a large, strong woman, with platinum blonde hair, big breasts, and long, toned legs. The sight of her glaring at me like that was frightening. She was completely in control, and I began to feel more and more diminutive in her presence.