For the first time in I-can't-remember-how-long, I knew exactly what I was getting Amy for Valentine's Day .... wayyy ahead of time. The gift revealed itself unexpectedly when I sat in our kitchen one morning. I always need to read something with breakfast — can't just sit there — and I was feeling too lazy to retrieve that day's paper. The only thing within reach was a department store catalog, so I randomly opened it up to a page, and boom: a spectacular bra-and-thong set. Department store catalog lingerie layouts don't normally catch my eye. (I prefer my wimmen nekkid!) But this set not only turned me on, I also knew that Amy would like it too. It had been years since I bought her something sexy to wear. I was resolved.1
Even more remarkable than knowing what I was going to get her was the fact that I actually purchased it a full two weeks before Valentine's Day. Unheard of! While I was at the store, I made the comment that my wife wasn't crazy about thongs, but that the set was so beautiful that I would take the chance. The saleswoman said, "Oh, this style comes with a regular panty too, it's just not in the catalog." Excellent! As much as I love Amy in a thongs, my Valentine's sacrifice was to go with what would make her more comfortable.
My gloating that her Valentine gift was set struck Amy with fear. "I have no idea what I'm doing for you," she whined.
"You don't have to work very hard," I assured her. And I was serious. But Valentine's Day is a big deal for Amy, and on the Sunday before, she enacted her plan at a local mall, forcing me to bugger off for an hour2 while she shopped for my gift.
With V-Day falling on a Wednesday this year, we knew we weren't going to truly celebrate the way we wanted on a weeknight. So we decided instead to do the gifts-and-cards thing on the true Valentine's Day ... but really celebrate it the following Saturday. As it turned out, due to work we had to do for our respective jobs, February 14th almost escaped us without our even opening the gifts. It was 11:30 before we tore ourselves from our computers and settled on the couch with two boxes ... from the same store.
"I have a feeling we got the same thing," Amy said with a wicked grin.
"I should be so lucky," I said.
She opened hers first, and loved the underwear. But she didn't try it on; she wanted me to get to my box. At this point, I knew what it had to be.
"I couldn't decide on just one thing," she said. That's textbook Amy: She purchases, on average, three outfits for every one she actually keeps. In this case, my gift box contained not three, but four different sets of lingerie. "I thought it was time I had more sexy clothes to wear," she explained.
"It's nice when we're on the same wavelength," I commented.
I examined and commented on each ensemble. I had to laugh that two of them had thongs, after I had gone to the effort of avoiding them with my gift. I finally said, "How am I supposed to decide?"
"I thought we'd do a fashion show downstairs," Amy suggested.
Off we headed to our exceedingly comfortable basement, with the rarely used but versatile, large sectional couch. When we head down there, it's usually because we want a place where loud, no-holds-barred sex won't wake up the children. Amy told me to grab the Astroglide before I headed down. My high-school brain kicked in and I let out a long Yesssssss inside, stretching the word out from my head to my loins.
Amy's first outfit3 was a straightforward camisole-panty combo in a grey-blue. She emerged from an adjoining room with a tiny, insecure giggle. But once she came around the couch to me, she'd taken on more of the seductress's demeanor, absently running her hands over the fabric of the camisole and squeezing out a wry smile. I spun my index finger to indicate my supermodel to turn around. I appreciated her ass with my hands, simply commenting, "Nice." She turned back around, took my face in her hands, and gave me a deep kiss. Then, off she went.
Number Two was a little busy: A 1960s-inspired psychedelic print of pinks and purples, with a high slit up each side and little faux-ribbons "tying" said slits together. The cups were trimmed with pink lace. We both decided quickly it wasn't working. As she walked away, I yelled: "Hey!" She dutifully came back and gave me another kiss. I wasn't gonna get shorted!
Third up to bat was a fave: a seafoam-green number, a really soft camisole with a sexy thong. And for extra measure, it came with pajama bottoms of the same material as the camisole. Amy liked this one because of the pajama option; I liked it because of what the pajamas hid. I had her turn around, and I inched down the pants. I tasted each globe of her ass. She laughed, turned around while pulling the pajamas back up. Again, a kiss as she held my head, this time lingering to tell me: "I'm not sure I can wait for the last outfit."
"Yeah?" I whispered, my teeth grabbing at her lower lip. "Why's that?"
"I can't stop thinking about all the ..."
"... nasty things I want to do to you."
I kissed her again. "Go ... get ... the last one ... on ... now."
The final outfit was a winner, too, probably for it's simplicity: A solid periwinkle cami-and-thong thing. She looks great in this color. Honestly, I spent less time studying this one than the others; I wanted to eat this woman alive by now. She was similarly worked up. She plopped right down in my lap, straddling me. Our lips and mouths hungrily explored.
"I can't decide between the last two outfits," I moaned into her mouth. One hand was on a silk-covered breast, the other playing with the thong and the crack of her ass.
She worked over to my ear and, with some extra breath, hissed, "Nothing says I can't keep more than one...." She ground her crotch against me. Her tongue probed my ear, causing my hips to inadvertently thrust upward.
She backed off and told me she wanted to suck my cock. But when she started unbuttoning my pants, I stopped her. "I want to see you in another position. Get on your knees." Amy smiled and turned around, ass toward me, arms on the couch. "No," I corrected her. "Turn around. Face me." She did so. "Now suck my cock."
I rarely get her in this position, and it's really too bad. I enjoy the master-slave quality to it ... the fact that she's in a position of service. And service she did. "Look at me while you suck me," I ordered. She's always had a hard time getting in the position to do this, but she gave it her best shot. It was more important for me — and apparently for her too — to voraciously work on my cock.
After awhile, her knees were getting tired, she slid up and sat on the couch without taking my dick out of her mouth. The new angle allowed the opportunity for me to seriously do her mouth, but I wanted more: I pushed her back until her head was against the back cushion, and I crouched on the couch, hovering over her, continuing to piston in and out of her mouth. She was hanging on for dear life, but she was enjoying the treatment. I finally fell back in slow-motion onto another section of the couch, winded — but brought her mouth with me, and the assault on my cock continued: She even used her teeth a bit — a little hard, a little painful, the good painful, increasing the energy in the room, and seeming to hone my focus.
"I think I deserve to have my pussy licked," she said after awhile. No argument from me. I kissed her abused, tender mouth, gently ... and then tore off her new thong as quickly as possible. She was sopping. She was steaming. She was delicious. I could not keep from moaning like a starving animal as I tried to get as much of her cunt in my mouth as I could. I can never get enough. I finally settled down into a rhythm, working the pearl and sensing her movements, finding the motion that worked best tonight. Which, tonight, seemed to be a fluttering tongue tip. She bucked into my face as she came, lost in the fog of her peak.
"I need to fuck you now," I growled, and then ordered: "On your knees." Wordlessly, still coming down off her orgasm, she moved into position.
Once I entered her, I stood up and, crouching down, fucked down into her from above. This seemed to work nicely for her, along with the spanking I was administering (with lubed hands, for extra noise and impact). I spanked her in one place over and over again on her right buttcheek, leaving a clear, red impression of my hand on her ass. Happy with that handiwork, I dribbled some lube down her crack, and thumbed her asshole for awhile. Occasionally, I'd grab her hips and concentrate on deep, hard fucking.
"Not ... long ... now" was all I could muster at this point.
"I'm close!" she said, hoping again for the ever-elusive orgasm-during-intercourse. It was not to be this time either. But all she had to say was "Fuck me ... harder!" and I was there, jetting my cum deep into her cunt. And holding myself in her, as long as I could. Not wanting this to end.
"I think ..." I panted as my spent member slipped from her, "... that the gift was a success."
Later, she came back from the other room with the other outfits.
"So the last two are keepers?" she asked. She also asked me if I wanted her to try on the bra set I'd given her. I told her to save it for Saturday night, when we went out for our belated Valentine's Day celebration.
Because, you know ... this wasn't the celebration. This was just ... a fashion show. Right?
1There another part to her Valentine's Day present, too: The first chapter of a multi-part erotic story starring Amy, based on a fantasy she described to me once (in an effort to get me off). My real-life commitments have prevented me from completing the story, so it'll be a fun thing to surprise her with one evening soon. Sorry:I won't be sharing the story here. I know this may come as a surprise when I say that some things need to be kept secret. [Return to where you were in this entry]
2 I ended up in a bookstore, looking at a bargain-book display, when I noticed a copy of Us Weekly lying discarded. The cover story promised proof that Britney Spears was a lesbian. How could I resist? So I'm here to tell you now, Dear Reader, the three indisputable pieces of evidence that prove Britney munches carpet: 1) She was seen walking out of a "known lesbian hangout" with a woman; 2) She kissed Madonna on the MTV Music Awards (3-1/2 years ago, but don't confuse the issue); and 3) most damning of all: a papparazzi took a picture of her looking at a copy of Playboy magazine. And what heterosexual woman would ever do that? So there — it's a fact! [Return]
3 My descriptions of these outfits are hobbled by my Y chromosome. I had to fall back on similar looking items on lingerie web sites to figure out what words to use. Forgive my deficiencies in this respect. [Return]