Las tetazas de mi esposa: March 2010

I was toweling off this morning. "Before you get dressed, will you help me with something," she asked.

"Yea," I said, eyes narrowing as I looked at the clock. I was already running late.

"I have a lunch meeting today," she said, leaning towards the mirror, carefully applying her makeup.

I waited for her to finish, but she just focused on her makeup. "Okay," I said finally, starting to get annoyed, wishing she'd just get on with it.

"It's with Jason Stevens."

"Oh," I swallowed, the name freezing me in my tracks. Jason Stevens, a new client. She had shown me the email exchange they had after their first meeting, part business, part obvious flirting on his part, borderline inappropriate. I saw her responses, too, of course, demure, sidestepping deftly his inquiry.

What was missing was the obvious. The, I'm flattered, but I have a boyfriend. She did not really flirt back but she certainly did not discourage him, either.

"We need to discuss a few more aspects of his thing, so he asked me to lunch." She continued with her makeup, still not asking me anything, not telling me what she wanted.

Again, I broke first, of course, she was more disciplined than I. "What do you need help with?"

She was applying eye liner stopped, hand in mid air, turned to me. "I want you to go pick something for me to wear."

The thoughts that shot through my mind:

Jason thinks my girlfriend is hot.

Great, I can pick something totally drab.

She knows teasing me like this excites me.

I should turn the tables and dress her like a slut.

This is a business meeting and she still has to go to the office so that's not right.

She knows exactly all the things I'll be thinking.

I know that's the truth, the last thing, that she knows exactly what she'd doing, that she's already teasing me, that I can't help it, that her sissy boyfriend fantasizes all the time about her cuckolding me, that when she teases me about it, it makes us both so excited.

She knew I would not pick out something frumpy, as much as she knew I would not dress her like a whore. She knew exactly what I would do and how I would feel. She knew the tremors of excitement that would run through my body as I imagined myself picking out an outfit for her to wear.

I went to her lingerie drawer, itself always an exercise in erotic exploration. There, I found what I was looking for, the matching bra, panty and garter belt set, stockings of course being the only appropriate thing I could pick for my love to wear.

I set the ivory and mocha lace and nylon garments on the bed, knew just what stockings were called for, the beige reinforced heel and toe nylons with the traditional dark welt.

My hands were shaking as I set the stockings down next to the lingerie. She loved to feel sexy, pretty, feminine, and wearing this, thinking about it all morning, I knew every fiber of her body would be electrified, that, whether she wanted to or not, she would be naturally aroused, confident, even flirtatious.

As sexy as she would feel because of her lingerie underneath, she had a business meeting, not a date, so I had to choose something from her professional wardrobe.

And I knew just the skirt suit that I would want to see her in. The navy blue pin stripe one, the one with the jacket that was cut to hug her trim waist, the one with the skirt that was just a tad shorter than she usually wore. The skirt, cut above the knee, but below mid thigh, long enough to be decent, acceptable, in her conservative office when standing, but short enough that when she sat she showed off a fair portion of her long, beautiful legs.

She came into the bedroom, watched me standing there, naked, carefully laying the lavender silk blouse next to the other items. She glanced at the clothing, then to me, eyes focused on my midsection.

"Look at you, all excited picking out my outfit for a business lunch as if I was going on a date."

My eyes glanced down my own smooth skin, to the obvious indicator of my own thoughts, stayed there, betrayed by my body, humiliated.

"That's what you think about, fantasize about, don't you, sweetie?" She was dressing herself in the lingerie, the seduction of dressing as powerful as the seduction of undressing.

"Cute."

"What," I asked, my mind drifting back from fantasy.

She was sitting on the edge of a chair at the foot of the bed, pulling a stocking up her leg.

"I said Jason's cute, I don't know how he's going to focus on business instead of staring at my legs, but that's what you're dreaming about, no?"

I was breathing heavily, turned on by her, the here and now, by the fantasy in my mind.

"A man reaching under the table, gently, lightly, resting his hand on my thigh. Should I stop him if he does? Should I make it clear I have a boyfriend? Or should I let his hand rest there, just a thin layer of nylon between my skin and his?"

My eyes were fluttering back into my head, her voice, her words.

She spoke softer. "If I don't say anything, he'll take that for encouragement, you know. If we sit somewhere secluded, his hand will drift up my thigh. I'm scared, lover."

"Scared," I swallowed.

"Scared. His fingers running up my leg, he'll find skin, lover, hot skin. I'm scared when he realizes I'm wearing stockings he's going to assume I wore them just for him. I'm scared when I feel his hands on the inside of my thigh, I'm not going to be able to tell him to stop, that I'm going to tell him to go further."

My eyes flew open, I felt her hand, her warm skin, on mine, her fingers on my thigh. "I'm scared I'll tell him how badly I want him to touch me, how badly I want him to fuck me and I'm scared once I say it, I won't be able to stop."

She took my erection in her soft hands.

"I know what you fantasize about, and I'm scared I won't be able to say no, I'm scared I won't be able to stop." She was stroking me, looking at me, hopeless, helpless.

"Do you want me to stop?"

I was getting dizzy, I was breathing to fast, lightheaded.

"I...I don't know," I finally managed to say, unsure if I was answering to her question to stop now, stop rubbing me, or stop later, stop Jason.

I was close, so close to the edge, when she pulled one last time, one last hard tug. "Please, please don't stop," I begged, thrusting my hips forward towards her hands, but unable to touch them, meaning to continue stroking me.

"Maybe I won't," she cooed, "maybe I'll let him have his way with me."