brassièred: Chapter 9: How do other women do it?

Dave's story

Dave's lack of self-control regarding drink was the cause of countless rows until his wife Sarah started using brassière discipline to encourage him to change his ways.

If you'd asked me a couple of years ago whether I'd ever wear a bra, I'd have been like “No way! Men don't wear bras!”, I mean, really, it's such a ludicrous question - a regular bloke like me, wear women's underwear? No thanks - I'm no pansy! But now I've seen what they can do, I've got to admit I'd have different thoughts. Sounds daft, doesn't it? Don't get me wrong - I'm not a trannie, nothing weird like that. I certainly don't get any kind of kick out of it, believe me, and if I thought I could achieve the same kind of self-control without them, I'd never wear one again. I mean, what's to like about them - they're uncomfortable, and the idea of being caught? Don't go there! But the thought of that embarrassment, well, it's one hell of a motivator. It makes you do the right thing, you know, however tempted you might be.

We've been married five years now, Sarah and I. At first, everything was golden, you know, hunky-dory, and of course, you assume it's going to be like that forever. I mean, we'd lived together a year before we got married, no problem, and she's a fantastic woman - beautiful, smart, funny, you couldn't ask for anything more, God know what she sees in me! But things started to change - I don't know when, it wasn't like it was overnight or anything - because we started having these massive rows. It was my fault, really - I liked to go out drinking with the lads on a Friday night, you know, a couple of pints to help unwind after a long week, you know what it's like. Only it was never just a couple of pints - I'd have a skinful, and stagger home absolutely plastered, and Sarah, she'd be woken by the noise as I stumbled around, or worse, she'd be waiting up for me, tears streaming down her face. She wouldn't say anything at the time, not that I was capable of taking anything in if she had, but boy, would she let rip the next morning, me still with a stinking hangover from the night before. I'm ashamed to even think about it these days.

Of course, I'd promise her that things would be different next time - I'd only have a couple and be home at a reasonable time - I mean, how hard can it be to have a nice evening out without getting utterly wasted? But it's different when you're with the boys, and they're all knocking them back, egging you on. Only two pints? Well, what harm's a third? It's only one more, but then so's a fourth, and by the time you know it, you're completely bladdered again, and Sarah's screaming at you the next morning about it. I don't think we could have gone on for much longer like that, to tell you the truth, it was tearing us apart. But then one night, she was “Right, I'm fed up with these rows. If you want to go out drinking tonight, you're wearing this”, and suddenly I'm left holding this bra, black and lacy, she'd look good in it, but me? I mean, really, what can you say? I told her it was ridiculous, that there was no way I was wearing a bra - I was a man, for God's sake, but she had that look in her eye that told me she meant business. She sat me down and explained that wearing it would mean I'd keep my promises for once, because if I got drunk like usual, who'd know what would happen? Would I really be able to keep it hidden when I couldn't even walk in a straight line? Sarah didn't think I'd want my mates finding out, and so I'd have to stay pretty sober to make sure I didn't end up the butt of endless trannie jokes.

Well, when she put it like that, it all started making a lot of sense. It was only a bra, right, and I did want to keep my promises, didn't I? Truth be told, I'd have done pretty much anything to avoid another row with her, the way things were, they weren't good back then. So I took off my shirt and started putting the bra on, still a little reluctant, it's not like I was begging to wear it or anything queer like that, I mean, a man's got some pride, you know. I felt a right tit, standing there wearing this stupid bra with its great big empty cups in front of my wife while she pulled things into place, but she just kissed me and told me I'd better put a T-shirt on as well, because it would show through my shirt. So I did, and Sarah said it was fine, no-one would ever know that it was there, and I'd better get a move on or I'd be late. Well, I could have sworn that everyone in the pub was staring at me from the moment I entered the door, and I was half expecting someone to burst out laughing as soon as they'd clocked what I was wearing, but it never happened. No-one said a word, and we soon got into the swing of things, just like usual, only it wasn't like usual, because there was this nagging tightness round my chest that kept reminding me of Sarah. I don't know how you women manage wearing bras all day, horrible uncomfortable things, I can tell you, but it did the job.

I was drinking dead slowly that evening, scared stiff that any moment someone would suss what I had on under my shirt. Steve, big fellow, likes his booze, he was chiding me for not keeping up, but he soon knocked off when he saw he wasn't getting a reaction - I guess he must have thought I was coming down with something or the like, I don't know. I made two pints last all evening, then came straight home once it was closing time, not staggering around like usual, but straight home and there was Sarah, not crying her eyes out for a change, but smiling, no, beaming all over, and I was dead chuffed with myself, because I hadn't let her down and we wouldn't be rowing come the morning - to tell the truth, we stayed in bed late that Saturday, only we weren't sleeping if you know what I mean. And it's been all upwards and onwards from then on, you know - our marriage has never been stronger. I still go out drinking with the lads on a Friday, but I never have more than a couple of pints nowadays because Sarah always puts me in a bra before I go out. She keeps joking, at least I think she's joking, that I should wear one more often because of how it's improved things, but she's happy enough with just Friday nights for now, and I can't complain if that's all it takes to keep us together.

Actually, no, I tell a lie. There was this one time when she wanted me to lose some weight, and she had a point, because I was getting a bit of a belly. We sat down and discussed diets and whatnot, but it's hard work not eating what you want when you want, let me tell you, so come the next week, I'd actually put on weight, not lost it! Well, she wasn't having any of that, and told me in no uncertain terms that if things hadn't improved by the next weekend, I'd be wearing a bra for the following week, and that would happen each and every week I let her down until I was slim and trim. That sure shook me up, I can tell you - Friday nights is one thing, but an entire week in a bra? You must be kidding! She sure knows how to drive a hard bargain, that girl, God knows where she gets such ideas from. Anyhow, I stuck to my diet that week, that's for sure, but the next week, well, maybe I wasn't so motivated by then, maybe I'd forgotten, but somehow I'd managed to put on a couple of pounds. Sarah was quite matter of fact about it. “I told you what would happen, but obviously you didn't think I meant it”, she said. “Well, I did. If you keep eating like that, you're going to get man breasts, so you may as well get used to having them sooner rather than later”. With that, she held out a bra, not my usual Friday night one, but a white one with these padded cups, filled out with something. There was no way I'd be able to hide those babies, believe me, you could still make them out even under my coat! I looked a real prat, but Sarah insisted I had to wear it whenever it was just the two of us that week. “Just be glad I'm not going to make you wear them to work”, she teased, “not this time, any how”. That was quite enough for me - it only happened that once! It wasn't long before I was in much better shape, the threat of having to wear that padded bra again, that's what did it.

Marjory's story

Marjory's husband George had an affair with another woman that almost cost them their marriage, but brassière discipline helped her to rebuild her trust in him.

Oh, goodness, where do I begin? Words simply can't describe what you go through when it happens to you, you know. One minute everything's fine, and the next, well, it's as though your world's been blown apart without warning, and you're left standing there, completely frozen, looking at the shattered pieces of your life, not knowing what on earth to do next, if indeed you can do anything next. In an instant, you've lost everything you had, everything you thought you had - it's simply gut wrenching. I can't convey the horror, the enormity of what it's like to be betrayed like that by the man you love. I don't think George had any idea of what he would be putting me through when he started down that path - it was just a bit on the side for him, some cheap thrills, nothing more. He couldn't have, surely? You couldn't intentionally put someone you loved through such anguish. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, not him, not even her, so how could he?

I was absolutely distraught when I finally found out what he'd been getting up to behind my back. How long it had been going on for, I don't know, a couple of months he said, but it could have been years for all I knew, still cooking his dinner, still washing his clothes, his dirty, soiled underwear, being taken for granted like a fool while all the time he was cavorting with that harlot. She was half my age, you know, vacuous little tramp, one of the secretaries from the office, goodness knows what she got out of it, though it was clear what he saw in her - sex, pure and simple. Maybe I'd never have known if he'd not used our car for one of his sordid little liaisons, if she'd not been stupid enough to lose her lipstick down the side of the passenger seat, in the dark when they were fumbling around, no doubt. Bright red, it was, the little slut - whores would be embarrassed to wear such a colour, but she had no shame, carrying on with a married man. I couldn't make sense of it at first - why would George have lipstick in his car, it took a while, but suddenly the horrible truth dawned, and it all started to make sense, the late nights at the office, the silent phone calls, just everything. There was no other way to look at it, but believe me, I tried. You never think something like that's going to happen to you, you know. Always to other people, women in magazines, not to you, never to you. But it had. My head was spinning, I needed something to steady my nerves.

I'd had quite a lot to drink by the time he returned home, and by then I was furious, like a devil possessed. I tore into him even before he'd got through the door, and he broke down and confessed everything to me, just like that. It had all been a big mistake, he said, he'd never meant it to go as far as it did, it didn't mean anything and it would never happen again. I was livid, purple with rage - he'd broken my heart into a thousand pieces and now he had the nerve to tell me that it meant nothing to him? He started begging me to forgive him, he was on his knees, promising that he'd do anything if only I'd take him back, that we could forget any of this had ever happened, whatever it took, he'd do it if only I'd forgive him. I don't know why, maybe it was the gin or something, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a pile of washing that was sitting there, waiting to be put away, and my bras were sitting on top of it. It was the most ludicrous thing I could think of, I wasn't expecting him to go along with it, I wanted him to refuse so I could prove his words were meaningless, but I threw one of the bras at him and told him to put it on that instant, that if he wanted me to even look at him again, he'd wear it then and there, that he'd promised to do anything, and this was that anything. And he did. To my utter surprise, he put the bra on, slowly because his hands were shaking, fumbling with the clasp, then stood there, cowed, wearing my bra on top of his shirt, looking like a right Charlie, while I gave him what for until I'd worn myself out and started crying, too tired for words.

Well, in the end, we sorted things out. After a number of calmer conversations, we came to the conclusion that things would never be the same again between us, but although it was useless trying to pretend that none of it had ever happened, we would still try our hardest to make things work the best they could. There would need to be some changes, however, if I was ever going to begin to rebuild my trust in him - I needed to be sure that there was no way he could ever betray me like that again, and since he had promised to do whatever it took, I told him would have to wear a bra whenever he was dressed, no matter what. It had started off as quite ludicrous an idea, but the more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that no other woman would ever be interested in him if I made him wear a bra - I mean, who would? He'd never be tempted to do anything untoward with them, because they'd find out and be quite put off. I can't say he was enthusiastic about the prospect, but he had no choice in the matter, not if he wanted us to stay together, so he agreed that that's what we would do. I made him spell it out for me, word for word, so I knew and he knew what he was getting himself in for. I can still hear those words now, promising to wear a bra all day, every day, to show me he was sincere in his desire to make amends.

I measured him up - sounds daft, doesn't it, measuring your husband for a bra - and got him some pretty lace ones, some white, some pink, all rather feminine, enough for a clean one each day with some spares for washing. He's worn them ever since - every morning, he puts one on and comes to me so I can sew it closed - the trick is to sew through his shirt as well, that way he can't be tempted to take it off, and each evening before he gets ready for bed, I check it's still secure before releasing him. It always is - he knows what it would mean if it wasn't. He rarely says anything about it, it's just another part of his life now, but it reassures me no end that he hasn't got up to his old tricks. Once a month, on the anniversary, I make him wear one that's much too tight, just to remind him why we're doing this. He knows better than to question it, of course, however much he silently suffers its discomfort. I don't know if I'll ever really forgive him - deep down, there'll always be the pain of what he put me through that day, but putting him in a bra saved our marriage, there's no doubt about that. It's been years now, and he's never cheated on me again - in fact, he's probably more devoted to me than he ever was before! Girls, take my advice, even if your bloke is the most loving man in the world, don't let it happen to you, get him in a bra, and he'll never be tempted to break your heart.

Sue's story

Sue had trouble getting her boyfriend Colin to help with the cleaning, but thanks to brassière discipline, he now does all the chores for her.

I'd like to think that Colin and I are a pretty modern couple, what with both of us having full time jobs, although you have to have, really, the way things are these days, I don't think we could afford to live anywhere near the way we do if we didn't, it'd be quite hard actually, if there was just the one salary coming in each month. We share the load pretty much equally when there's stuff that needs doing, well, for most things, at least. Shopping's fine, for instance, there's no problem with that, Colin buys things when it's more convenient for him to do so than me, but cleaning? Cleaning's always been a bit different in this house. I used to have real trouble getting him to do any of it, but all that's changed now, because he keeps everything spotless these days - I barely need to lift a finger! Sounds unlikely, doesn't it? Let me tell you how it all came about.

I was always the one expected to do the cleaning, for some reason, it was like getting blood out of a stone trying to get Colin to do a thing as far as any of the chores were concerned. Now, it's not like I'm some stay at home housewife who has nothing better to do with her time - I've a busy job, and by the time I get home in the evening, I just want to put my feet up and relax, not have to vacuum and dust and iron and what have you, but I do have some standards, you can't live in a pig sty, now, can you? Colin was never any help whatsoever, so it was me who ended up doing all of it, however tired I was, and while it always seemed a bit unfair, I'd never really given it that much thought, until one day he'd seen me busy tidying up and had the cheek to say that he'd leave me to get on with my “women's work”! Well, really! I'm sure he was only joking, but that comment really got to me.

I was having a good old moan about this to my friend Jane over lunch one day, and she sympathised, because her Mark was the same, it was more trouble than it was worth to try and get him to do anything around the house. “Women's work, indeed!”, she snorted, “What sexist nonsense! I bet they'd think differently if they were women, you know. They wouldn't be calling it that then, that's for sure. Women's work? Pfah! I'd like to see them try, see what they say then”. “I bet my Colin couldn't tell one end of a mop from the other”, I said, still somewhat narked about what he'd said. “Oh, I don't know, I could just see him in a frilly apron”, she chuckled. “And a pair of Marigolds”, I added, taking her lead. “Not to mention a huge padded bra, they've got to look the part!”, she snorted. Over dessert, we had a good giggle at the thought of our useless, lazy boyfriends done up like stereotypical charwomen, painting ever more ridiculous images of what they'd look like and what they'd get up to as they failed to master even the most of basic of chores. It was probably the wine talking more than anything else, but it was good to get it all out, you've got to, really, once in a while, else you bottle it up and one day you explode. Jane's good fun, and lunch with her had really improved my mood.

What she'd said kept coming to mind, however, and although she might have been joking about dressing Colin up to do the chores, the more I thought about it, the more it started making sense, albeit in a really twisted kind of way. Why not? It'd teach him a lesson, if nothing else, he wouldn't be making comments like that again, and given we'd had such a good laugh about the idea, it would be kind of funny to do it for real. I couldn't see what I had to lose, so that evening, after dinner, I told Colin to take off his shirt, and close his eyes. I guess he thought I was up for something else, because he went willingly along with it, unbuttoning his shirt and then standing there with his eyes shut. “No peeking!”, I said, “Keep them closed!”, and I'm not sure when he realised what I was doing, but by then it was too late, because I'd put one of my bras on him, one of those with the padded foam cups, you know the kind. We're roughly the same kind of size, apart from the obvious, so it just about fitted. I can't say he was happy about finding himself wearing a bra, because he started trying to take it off, but I wasn't having it. “Ah ah ah! Not so fast!”, I said, and helped him put his shirt back on. “Remember what you were saying about women's work? Well, it's about time you found out what it was like”, and with that, I started putting my apron on him as well. “It's washing up time for you, my girl! Look at all those dishes that need doing!”. He didn't have much choice in the matter, and hesitantly set to work on them while I watched to make sure he didn't slack.

Well, one thing soon led to another. It wasn't long before I'd got him some clothes of his own, so he didn't have to wear mine any more. To start with, it was just a bra, a rather big bra, it has to be said, which I'd pad out with some socks, and a particularly frilly apron I found in a charity shop, the kind your granny might wear, he looked a right picture in it, his big heaving bosom under such a feminine thing, perfect for his “women's work”. I'd dress him up and leave him to get on with things while I put my feet up for a bit. We've changed things a little since then - for starters, I've got him a proper little maid's outfit, though it's really not that proper, the skimpiest little black satin dress you could imagine, with a frilly little apron to go on top, a bit stereotypical really, you wouldn't see a real maid wearing that. I still make him wear a big bra underneath, knickers and stockings too, with a pair of high heels to finish it off. I know it must sound strange, but Colin has quite a well toned body, and it's quite a turn on to see his muscular physique so vulnerable and exposed as he minces around like that, his pert bum showing when he bends over, enough to make you shudder with desire sometimes, but you have to stop yourself and wait until he's finished! We've got into a routine now, so one night a week is cleaning night - he knows he has to get dressed by a certain time, then I tell him what I want doing and he stays like that until it's all done to my satisfaction, after which we go to bed, that does encourage him to get things done! Oh, and the house has never looked cleaner - my little housemaid does a fantastic job.

I like to invite Jane round for tea now and again. I've told her all about Colin's little secret, although he doesn't know she knows, of course, it's more fun that way. He's always on his best behaviour, because I have him all dolled up to the nines in pretty lingerie under his clothes, not all the time, just when she's visiting, and he's scared stiff that Jane might suss him out or I might say something if he puts a foot wrong. Jane's in awe of how things have changed, and I keep encouraging her to do the same with her Mark. I'd thoroughly recommend it to any woman - life's too short for chores, and it's really boosted my confidence too.

Alistair's story

Alistair's wife Amy makes him wear lingerie on a full time basis, something he has gradually become accustomed to.

I've a very high powered job, I'm sure you'll understand if I don't tell you exactly where, but we deal with some really big name clients and move around really quite large sums of money, not one of the biggest firms by any means, but you'd still recognise the name. It can be extremely demanding, as you're always on the go with one thing or another - it's decisions, decisions, decisions, all the time, there's barely a minute to catch your breath some days, and because of my position, it's usually down to me to ensure that everything goes without a hitch. It's hard work, I can assure you, but at the end of the day, it's extremely satisfying - the challenges, the responsibilities, the feeling of being in control of some rather serious business. People often tell me how self-assured I am, well, you need it in this line of work, the confidence to make difficult decisions in an instant, knowing that you're doing the right thing but being prepared to take the blame should you get it wrong. Most people wouldn't last five minutes here, let alone the years I've been doing it. You certainly wouldn't think to look at me that my wife is the one in control, but she is, she most certainly is.

A lot of the guys here have trophy wives, you know the sort, busty, blonde and brainless, don't let my wife hear me saying that, but it's true. It comes with the territory, they're drawn to the money like moths to a flame, they don't seem to care that they'll get chewed up and spat out a few years later when their looks start to fade. Of course, the guys don't mind, indeed, that's what they want, a beautiful body to drape over their arm at social events, to prove to the world how successful they are, not just financially but sexually too, and let's not beat around the bush, the sex is a big part of it. When they start to wear out, well, you pay them off and look for another, that's how it goes around here, it's wrong, but there you go. Everyone sees straight through it, of course, it's a facade, but it's what people do. Not me. I always wanted something different, something more - I wanted a real woman, not the kind of air head that's ten a penny, but one who could think for herself, who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to go and get it, someone who could challenge me on equal terms, not just some top heavy bimbo to bed a few times before throwing away for the next one. Well, I certainly got that with Amy - it's hard to imagine a more feisty woman, there's simply no arguing with her. I don't know how she's done it, but she's got me twisted around her little finger and I'm helpless to resist.

It's bizarre. Everyone sees me as this powerful executive in charge of everything around him, not knowing that under my suit I'm wearing frilly women's underwear to please my wife, the one who's really in control. I don't know how things ended up like this, to be honest - it just creeps up on you without you really noticing, slowly but surely, until before you know it, you're wearing a bra and knickers all the time because that's simply what you do, because that's what she wants. I can tell you exactly how it started, mind you, because I remember that all too well. One of my colleagues had been boasting about how he was going to pay for his already rather well-endowed girlfriend to have breast enlargements for her birthday, you know, those silicone implant things, and the place was full of rather crude banter about how best to take advantage of such new toys. Well, when Amy asked me how my day had been, I mentioned this, just in passing, and rather foolishly suggested that this would probably buy the girl in question an extra couple of years before being scrapped - a somewhat crass comment in retrospect, it has to be said, but when you've spent the day in such a testosterone laden atmosphere, it's easy to get into that kind of mindset. Amy was having none of it, and told me in no uncertain terms that I was bang out of order. I didn't want to cause a scene, I mean, why make a big deal about something that really wasn't that important? So I apologised, and told her that I didn't mean to cause offence, and she seemed to let it go.

She obviously hadn't, because a couple of days later, she told me that my comments were still bothering her, that she didn't think I was a chauvinist pig like my colleagues, and so expected better of me than to come out with rubbish like that. She'd been thinking about it, and had decided that the best way for me to understand what women with larger breasts have to go through would be for me to experience them myself. I wasn't quite sure what she was getting at for a moment, I mean, come on, I'm a man and we don't have to worry about things like that, but she said that was the problem! There was no way I was having breast implants, I said, that's just ridiculous, but she just laughed and told me that wouldn't be necessary - a padded bra would work just as well. That was ludicrous - there was no way I'd be wearing a bra, thank you very much, really, a man like me? I don't think so! But there's no arguing with Amy when her mind's made up like that, her tenacity has to be seen to be believed, it's one of the things that makes her who she is, and so it didn't take long before I was all togged up in this rather large bra, stuffed with water balloons that wobbled and jiggled around with even the slightest movement, feeling like a prize idiot, face burning bright red with shame, Amy trying to stop herself from giggling at my predicament, telling me that they weren't perfectly realistic but they'd do for now, and how did I like my new-found friends? She made me wear that bra all evening, and I soon learnt that large breasts aren't as much fun as I imagined.

Well, if I thought that would be it, I was sorely mistaken! It didn't take long before I was wearing a bra on a regular basis, Amy finding excuses for why I ought to be brassièred, as she called it, more and more often, taking any opportunity to dress me up until I was wearing one whenever I was around the house. Then she wanted me to wear one from time to time when we went out, then occasionally to work, and it became harder and harder to say no to her, because there was never really any point when she pushed me too far, it just crept up gradually without me really noticing, until I was wearing one all day every day, safely hidden under my suit in public, but often with a pair of very realistic breast forms when we were alone together. And it didn't stop there, oh no, there were matching knickers too, and in the winter she has me wear stockings and suspenders, they're quite a remarkable feeling, stockings, whenever you move your legs, they're there. I've even had to wear a corset once or twice, laced so tight I could hardly breathe. No wonder no-one wears those any more! I'll tell you something, I'll never say anything derogatory about women's bodies again, now that I know what they have to go through. Us men simply don't have a clue, like Amy said all along.

Goodness only knows what clients would think if they ever found out what I've got on under my suit, but no-one's ever said anything. Really, what could they say? It's such a preposterous idea, really, that a man like me could be wearing such things. Part of me wonders if one of my colleagues also wears a bra, you know, but it's hard to tell - it could just be a vest under his shirt for all I know, and it's not as if I can ask him straight out what he's wearing - I mean, really, he's not going to say “my wife makes me wear lingerie”, because there's no way I would, I'd just deny it, and who could prove otherwise? Maybe people wonder the same about me - who knows? In a strange kind of way, I get a buzz out of it, however humiliating it may be, the way my wife and I have this intimate secret going on that no-one else knows about. It's hard to describe it, really, it's like I belong to her. Even if she makes me wear women's underwear all the time, she's still the most fantastic women in the world - you couldn't find a more loving wife, and I'm lucky to have her, however much she delights in exercising control over me. Does that sound weird, coming from an otherwise pretty dominant man like me? Maybe, but that's the way it is.

Claire's story

Claire finds merely the threat of wearing a brassière is enough to keep her boyfriend Neil from getting too out of hand.

I've always been a pretty outgoing kind of girl. I wouldn't say I was a tomboy, not really but I like to speak my mind, not like those mousey types you never hear so much as a whimper from, no, I'd rather be free to express myself, thanks all the same. You've got to be a bit bold from time to time, got to assert yourself sometimes, or you end up being taken advantage of, like a doormat, going nowhere fast. I like having a bit of a laugh, really, and heaven knows you need to, you can't take things too seriously or life just gets you down. Neil, he's my boyfriend, we've been together three years now, he's a similar kind of guy, likes a bit of a laugh too. That's what first attracted me to him, he wasn't deadly boring so like so many of the other guys on my course, he was fun to be with, knew how to have a good time. Still is, that's why we're still together, but much as I hate to say it, sometimes he can be a bit much, he gets a little carried away in the heat of the moment and it's hard to bring him back down to earth. Well, it used to be. Things are a little different now, now I know what gets to him.

Like I said, we like to have a bit of a laugh. So, one day, we were out shopping together and there was this fat bloke coming towards us. Not just overweight, because lots of people are like that, even I could do with losing a few pounds, but this guy, he was really fat, you know, morbidly obese or whatever doctors call it, and the worst part was he had these man boobs that were really obvious because he was just wearing a T-shirt, it was gross. I could tell Neil had seen him too, because we looked at each other, and I put on a funny voice and said “Phwoah! Look at the tits on that! You don't get many of them to the pound!”, mimicking your average leery builder, because this guy was anything but top totty, his flab was minging, it really was. Not that I'd say that to his face or anything, that'd just be rude, he was out of earshot, but we still had a good laugh at his expense, there's no excuse for letting yourself go like that. I was getting a bit carried away, heat of the moment and all that, and in a different funny voice, I said “He's got bigger breasts than me! He needs to wear a bra, or his boobs will sag! Do you think he's going for a bra fitting?”. Here's the strange bit - Neil had been laughing along with me right until this point, but suddenly fell silent, you could tell he was quite uncomfortable with the suggestion, and then he just changed the subject, while we were still in mid-flow, and that's not like us, we do things to death.

That got me thinking. It was so unlike Neil, with any other guy you could just put it down to not wanting to be rude about someone, but not Neil, that's not his style, he'd just say it and deal with the consequences later. He's a pretty skinny chap too, so it wasn't that I'd hit a nerve about being overweight or anything, it had to have been something else. The next day, on a hunch, out of the blue, I quite deliberately asked Neil “Why don't men wear bras?”, and that practically floored him - he was at quite a loss for words, and stammered that he didn't know, and why ask such a stupid question. That settled it - it was clear that he somehow felt threatened by the idea of men wearing bras, because each time I mentioned it, I got a similar kind of response. Now, you hear about guys who get off on dressing up as women, but Neil really wasn't the type, so there was obviously something else. Over time, I narrowed it down, and it wasn't long before I'd got it all figured out - he was scared of having to wear a bra himself, though I can't think why, he just looks a bit daft in one. So whenever he gets carried away or I want to snap him out of something, I simply have to suggest he should wear one. “Am I going to have to make you wear a bra, Neil?” tends to work particularly well, though it doesn't have to be that obvious, anything along those lines will do.

I've only ever made him wear one a couple of times, when he's really done something to deserve it, but it's like he's a different man when he's got one on. You've got to see it to believe it, he does whatever you ask him to, doesn't say a word back, just gets on and does what he's told. It's kind of creepy, really, and I wouldn't want him like that all the time, it'd be too weird. I could see how some women might appreciate it, but not me, I'd rather have my bloke the way he usually is and keep wearing a bra as just as threat, something I can throw into a conversation to bring him back to me, it works well enough like that not to need anything more.

brassièred

Chapter 9: How do other women do it?

Dave's story

Marjory's story

Sue's story

Alistair's story

Claire's story

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