It was late Sunday afternoon. We had so much to do around the house that we'd given in and let the kids park themselves in front of a DVD. As soon as the movie title was up on the TV screen, Amy grabbed my hand, led me back to the bedroom.
This is too good to be true, I thought.
In the bedroom, door closed, she snaked her hands around the back of my head, pulled me into her mouth.
Waaaaaaaay too good to be true.
I wavered between going with the moment and questioning. When she finally broke the kiss, I asked point-blank: "Okay. What gives? Are you really starting something?"
She sounded deliciously sinister when she giggled. "No, I just wanted you to help me sort the dirty clothes in here."
Told you so.
"You know, I would have been happy to do that without the seduction. But now that I know how badly you want my help...." I started to unbutton my jeans.
"Ha ha," she said.
I was working on a pile of dress pants that showed my neglect via their desperate need for an iron, if not an all-out trip to the dry cleaners. Amy was sorting through lingerie and talking about how good she felt about the recent underwear purchases she (well, sometimes we) have made.
"It's my dream," she said from the closet, "to have matching bra-and-panty sets. Seven of them. One for each day of the week. Wouldn't that be awesome?"
I dropped my pants — oh, the ones I was sorting, sorry about that — and stepped to the closet. I locked my eyes on hers and searched for the perfect tone of voice that would deliver the high level of import I wanted my words to carry. I said:
"You. Must. Do this."
She started to smile, but my look confused her, and she wasn't sure what to do. "Huh?"
"Amy...." I put my hands on her shoulders. "Of all the dreams you have expressed, this is one of your most worthy goals ever."
She guffawed. But I continued.
"This is an exceptionally, egregiously, supreme goal. You must have seven matching bra-and-panty sets."
She rolled her eyes as she squeezed past me and headed back to the bed, where a pile of socks awaited. "I still can't tell if you're being facetious."
"I'm serious. You totally have to do this."
Okay, so I was being a little silly about it. But my reaction was only a slight exaggeration.
So what's the big deal? It's the fact that Amy might be looking at herself through a prism of sex appeal again. I mean, thinking this way outside of when I've gotten her all heated and horny. This may be the first time in ... what, years? Maybe.
Perhaps all my sorties of carnal reverence, my "shock and awe" blitzkrieg of ardor, have finally begun to chip away at the battlements that prevent her from realizing that this woman is smokin' hot. Amy carries herself with such confidence in her work environment; if her sexual self can find the strength to do the same ... well, there's no telling what might happen. Despotic empires could be destroyed. Literacy rates across our country could skyrocket. Reality television could fade from view. Gas prices could fall!
Of course, the concerns of global warming would increase greatly with the temperature emanating from her heaving, barely encased chest ... with the heat rising with the scent of appetite and ambrosia from the coordinated bottoms. But it's a small price to pay for my wife's new sexual esteem.
Not to mention, it'd be fun to get that panicked cell phone call from Al Gore.
"I'm sorry, sir, but if you saw Amy's ass in this sheer black number she slipped on this morning, you'd just ... What's that? You'd like a picture for future Powerpoint presentations? Well, I'll ask her...."
Showing posts with label lingerie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lingerie. Show all posts
21 March 2007
22 February 2007
V-Day, Night Two: Movie, Dinner, Dessert.
A date.
A date!
Unbelievable. Date clothes! A gift from Amy last Christmas, but not worn until I had good reason. That reason came last Saturday night.
A babysitter! We sprung for one! An extravagance, when you figure in the cost of movie and dinner. Reserved for truly special times ... like, say, Valentine's Day.
A movie! One that isn't animated!
Dinner! In a restaurant with nary a pizza or grilled cheese sandwich on the menu! A wine list! Valet parking! Waiters who don't write down your order! Lookatme, Mom — I'm a grown-up!
I had hoped that Amy would be wearing her new Valentine's Day present tonight, but as it turned out, the bra was running a little small. So she'll return it for something that we both like, and in the meantime, she put on an incredibly hot sheer black bra front-closure bra she picked up yesterday ... So delicious that there oughta be a law. I'm talking, of course, about the law that would state she's not allowed to put anything over it when she wears it. Amy wasn't particularly dolled up, going casual (at my recommendation), but she still looked ravishing. Which worked out well, seeing as a ravishing was on tap for that night.
***
The movie was Pedro Almodovar's Volver. It was a little piece of joy. (Thank God! When you rarely go out to movies, seeing a film worth the money feels like a matter of life and death.) Like most of Almodovar's films, it had a strong erotic undercurrent -- though this time there isn't a hint of sex, or even a romance. Almodovar accomplishes the sexual charge through his camera lens' infatuation with Penélope Cruz. Or at least her body. He costumes and films her as if she's a modern-day Sophia Loren, complete with the most delectable cleavage I've seen on screen in ages. (At one point, a character asks Cruz, "Where did you get that chest?... Are they real?" Indeed, it was a question I asked myself throughout, distracting myself into trying to remember what she'd looked like in the other films I'd seen her in.)
On a couple of occasions, Almodovar indulges the audience in extended aerial shots, angles that shoot straight down into a most inspiring open blouse as Cruz does seemingly mundane things like washing dishes or walking up a stairway. And there is a moment in this film when she walks up a cobble street pulling a small shopping cart, her hair perfectly up-yet-tousled, that feels like something straight out of the 1940s. Cruz is so glorious, so delicious that I told Amy afterwards I just might have to drop someone off my laminated list to make room for her.
***
I had kept the dinner location a secret, but Amy asked for one hint and easily figured it out. It's an old, romantic haunt of ours from our pre-children days. A storefront type that opens into a lush, cozy space that looks bigger than you'd think from the outside. The decor is eclectic but tasteful. They've added live music since we were last there too, adding a new element to the ambiance. I dropped Amy off and drove away to find a restaurant with valet parking (It's the only way to park in this neighborhood), and by the time I got back, Amy was already seated, raving about the singer/pianist, who had just laid down a pretty damn good version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." Throughout the night, he brought out renditions of Billy Joel and Elton John songs, sung in a lower register than usual, which brought a new facet to songs that otherwise would have been pretty tired.
Fingers were crossed that the food was as good as we remembered. We weren't disappointed. I enjoyed a salmon filet with a light saffron wine sauce on a bed of spinach and some terrific gourmet mashed potatoes. Amy's dish blew us away: a sauteed tilapia with a sauce that included raisins, tomato marinara, and white wine. The waiter gave us a tremendous recommendation on a red wine; if I hadn't been driving, we would have easily finished off two bottles.
We talked a lot about Volver during the dinner, remembering the moments that resonated. We also did a good amount of people-watching (though we didn't scan the room for a fantasy fuck-buddy). Eventually, I couldn't resist bringing the conversation around to ... well, you know.
"I'm trying to decide if I'm going to cash in one of my coupons tonight," I started.
Amy laughed. "You know," she said, "I can't really remember what I wrote. Well, I can remember one of them."
"Would you like me to recite them, verbatim?" I asked.
We ran through them. (It was the anal sex coupon she remembered.) I reiterated the effect that they had had on me. She asked my thoughts on the "wildcard" coupon, and I just said that my I was too overwhelmed by the options to think clearly about it right now.
Amy changed the subject: "I completely forgot to tell you something about your Valentine's Day present: I didn't tell you how amazingly fun it was to try those on."
This was a nice surprise. When I imagined what that shopping experience must have been like for Amy, "fun" was not the word that sprung to mind. Based on my previous shopping excursions with her, the harsh lighting and mirrors in most dressing rooms only seemed to dampen her spirits. Not this time, apparently.
"I was actually getting turned on while I tried them," she admitted.
"That's so cool," I said. "You were there for over an hour, it seems like you tried on a ton of stuff."
"Oh yeah," she said. "The lady helping me really got into it, too, helping me find stuff. I tried on a lot, but the cool thing was that even the items I didn't take, it wasn't because they looked bad on me; they just didn't look as good as the outfits I came home with."
This is an amazing development, on two fronts: First, that she was so comfortable with her body that she had no problem trying on sexy clothes; secondly, that she was actually turned on while doing it.
"In fact," she revealed, "on Valentine's Day, at work, I got to thinking about what we were going to do that night, and I actually got really aroused. For the first time ever at this job, I was trying to figure out where I could go to ... take care of things."
"Did you?" I had to ask.
She laughed. "No, no. But it felt really good to feel ... eroticized again. Like, I'm coming back in touch with that part of me again."
Um ... I'm sorry, give me a moment. I need to wipe a tear from my eye.
Okay. I'm back.
Maybe a corner has been turned. Maybe things are shaping up. But what changed? Was it just her? Or was it something that I did, something I'm projecting, that's changing the equation? There's a part of me that says, Don't overanalyze it. But it'd be nice to know what slight tweak turned up the volume on the sexual dynamic ... if only to understand how to sustain that change well off into the future.
***
On the drive home, out of the blue, Amy brought up a porn movie we'd watched together some time ago. She described a scene she had been thinking about a lot, where porn starlet Chloe gets fucked in her office by her boss, right in front of a vindictive (female) co-worker doing her best to ignore the action going on only a few feet from her. (The movie was Antonio Passolini's Unreal.)
"So, what is it about the scene that turns you on?" I asked. "Is it the office setting?"
"Maybe," she said. "I don't know, really. It just works." Getting Amy to pin down why something turns her on is always a challenge, just like it's difficult to get her to clearly identify any kinks.
At home, when I returned from walking the babysitter to her car, Amy stood in the kitchen. We embraced, kissing passionately.
"You want me to find that movie?" I asked, and she nodded a mm-hmm. We got more comfortable — there would be no tearing off clothes tonight, probably because mine were new! I donned a robe, while Amy put on the second of the two Valentine's Day outfits she'd decided to keep. I was not able to find the video anywhere (which worried me greatly: Had I left it out somewhere where my kids or babysitter might have found it?), so we oped for a movie I had on my computer. Down to the basement we went, with Amy settling in between my legs, her back against me, the laptop on her lap.
It turned out that the movie wasn't our cup of tea. It's what the industry commonly calls a "couples film," which means that it's shot with all beautiful models. It would have been considered "hard-core" (penetration, money shots, etc.), but instead of really getting to hear people in true throes of ecstasy, you get lots of Enigma-like music playing over their slow-motion machinations. It's staged, dressed up, and extremely slow-moving. It's the kind of movie that men just introducing their wives to watching porn together would try ... but we're way past that. We found ourselves fast-forwarding through all the seductive posing and lip-licking to get to some action.
Finally, there was one scene that started to work for Amy — a beautiful woman being lavished with attention by two men. I finally saw a hand disappear into her thong when that scene got going.
"Who would you be doing that with if that were you?" I asked. "Who is joining us?"
She moaned. "Graham, a new guy in our office," she whispered. How very interesting!
"Oh yeah? Is that Graham's cock you're sucking while I get ready to fuck you from behind?" I was playing with her tits through the camisole, and she was starting to writhe. "Or maybe," I continued, "Graham is here, between your legs. He's licking that wet, hot cunt of yours while you and I both watch. He can look up and watch me squeezing your tits while he eats you. Would you like that?"
She groaned. We murmured for awhile about her new young workplace stud. I wondered if she'd ever really fantasized about him. I'll have to ask her another time.
The movie, which was already pretty much a dud, was becoming less and less interesting to us.
"Once you fuck Graham and me, are you going to return the favor?" I asked into her ear. "Will you share my cock with another woman?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Who gets to suck my cock with you?" I asked.
"Who would you like?" she asked.
I have to admit: I was stymied. I spend all this energy fantasizing about Amy that when she asks me what other woman I'd like to do, I'm at a loss. "You can say it," she urged, as if I had someone in my head but was withholding. But there was no one!
Finally, I came up with a couple. "I'd love to watch you and Cynthia go at it," I suggested, indicating a high-ranking co-worker in my department. "Or maybe you and Shelley," the woman who, along with her husband, Amy had suggested (though not seriously) as foursome partners in a sex coupon. "Between her tits and yours, I could be a very happy boy."
The laptop suffered no damage, but it was pretty much kicked away. Amy threw open my robe and got to enthusiastically sucking my cock. Later, I requested a 69: Few things excite me more than her trying to suffocate me with her pussy while she blows me. I was so worked up with all the talk that it didn't take long, once we were in that position, to spray a helping of cum all over her tits and my stomach.
Amy gave a victory giggle as I came, enjoying the fruits of her labors. She crawled into a position where my head was in her lap, as I slowly came down. She hadn't come on this night, but she was fine with that. I vowed to even that score as soon as I could.
We talked for quite awhile, about the night, about the rest of our weekend, about previous Valentine's Days. This one — or perhaps should I say, the two-part celebration — was definitely the most fun in recent memory. It wasn't anything extravagant or original, but when so rarely and get to be a couple out in public, extremes of romantic ingenuity aren't necessary to re-capture that lightning.
A date!
Unbelievable. Date clothes! A gift from Amy last Christmas, but not worn until I had good reason. That reason came last Saturday night.
A babysitter! We sprung for one! An extravagance, when you figure in the cost of movie and dinner. Reserved for truly special times ... like, say, Valentine's Day.
A movie! One that isn't animated!
Dinner! In a restaurant with nary a pizza or grilled cheese sandwich on the menu! A wine list! Valet parking! Waiters who don't write down your order! Lookatme, Mom — I'm a grown-up!
I had hoped that Amy would be wearing her new Valentine's Day present tonight, but as it turned out, the bra was running a little small. So she'll return it for something that we both like, and in the meantime, she put on an incredibly hot sheer black bra front-closure bra she picked up yesterday ... So delicious that there oughta be a law. I'm talking, of course, about the law that would state she's not allowed to put anything over it when she wears it. Amy wasn't particularly dolled up, going casual (at my recommendation), but she still looked ravishing. Which worked out well, seeing as a ravishing was on tap for that night.
The movie was Pedro Almodovar's Volver. It was a little piece of joy. (Thank God! When you rarely go out to movies, seeing a film worth the money feels like a matter of life and death.) Like most of Almodovar's films, it had a strong erotic undercurrent -- though this time there isn't a hint of sex, or even a romance. Almodovar accomplishes the sexual charge through his camera lens' infatuation with Penélope Cruz. Or at least her body. He costumes and films her as if she's a modern-day Sophia Loren, complete with the most delectable cleavage I've seen on screen in ages. (At one point, a character asks Cruz, "Where did you get that chest?... Are they real?" Indeed, it was a question I asked myself throughout, distracting myself into trying to remember what she'd looked like in the other films I'd seen her in.)On a couple of occasions, Almodovar indulges the audience in extended aerial shots, angles that shoot straight down into a most inspiring open blouse as Cruz does seemingly mundane things like washing dishes or walking up a stairway. And there is a moment in this film when she walks up a cobble street pulling a small shopping cart, her hair perfectly up-yet-tousled, that feels like something straight out of the 1940s. Cruz is so glorious, so delicious that I told Amy afterwards I just might have to drop someone off my laminated list to make room for her.
I had kept the dinner location a secret, but Amy asked for one hint and easily figured it out. It's an old, romantic haunt of ours from our pre-children days. A storefront type that opens into a lush, cozy space that looks bigger than you'd think from the outside. The decor is eclectic but tasteful. They've added live music since we were last there too, adding a new element to the ambiance. I dropped Amy off and drove away to find a restaurant with valet parking (It's the only way to park in this neighborhood), and by the time I got back, Amy was already seated, raving about the singer/pianist, who had just laid down a pretty damn good version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." Throughout the night, he brought out renditions of Billy Joel and Elton John songs, sung in a lower register than usual, which brought a new facet to songs that otherwise would have been pretty tired.
Fingers were crossed that the food was as good as we remembered. We weren't disappointed. I enjoyed a salmon filet with a light saffron wine sauce on a bed of spinach and some terrific gourmet mashed potatoes. Amy's dish blew us away: a sauteed tilapia with a sauce that included raisins, tomato marinara, and white wine. The waiter gave us a tremendous recommendation on a red wine; if I hadn't been driving, we would have easily finished off two bottles.
We talked a lot about Volver during the dinner, remembering the moments that resonated. We also did a good amount of people-watching (though we didn't scan the room for a fantasy fuck-buddy). Eventually, I couldn't resist bringing the conversation around to ... well, you know.
"I'm trying to decide if I'm going to cash in one of my coupons tonight," I started.
Amy laughed. "You know," she said, "I can't really remember what I wrote. Well, I can remember one of them."
"Would you like me to recite them, verbatim?" I asked.
We ran through them. (It was the anal sex coupon she remembered.) I reiterated the effect that they had had on me. She asked my thoughts on the "wildcard" coupon, and I just said that my I was too overwhelmed by the options to think clearly about it right now.
Amy changed the subject: "I completely forgot to tell you something about your Valentine's Day present: I didn't tell you how amazingly fun it was to try those on."
This was a nice surprise. When I imagined what that shopping experience must have been like for Amy, "fun" was not the word that sprung to mind. Based on my previous shopping excursions with her, the harsh lighting and mirrors in most dressing rooms only seemed to dampen her spirits. Not this time, apparently.
"I was actually getting turned on while I tried them," she admitted.
"That's so cool," I said. "You were there for over an hour, it seems like you tried on a ton of stuff."
"Oh yeah," she said. "The lady helping me really got into it, too, helping me find stuff. I tried on a lot, but the cool thing was that even the items I didn't take, it wasn't because they looked bad on me; they just didn't look as good as the outfits I came home with."
This is an amazing development, on two fronts: First, that she was so comfortable with her body that she had no problem trying on sexy clothes; secondly, that she was actually turned on while doing it.
"In fact," she revealed, "on Valentine's Day, at work, I got to thinking about what we were going to do that night, and I actually got really aroused. For the first time ever at this job, I was trying to figure out where I could go to ... take care of things."
"Did you?" I had to ask.
She laughed. "No, no. But it felt really good to feel ... eroticized again. Like, I'm coming back in touch with that part of me again."
Um ... I'm sorry, give me a moment. I need to wipe a tear from my eye.
Okay. I'm back.
Maybe a corner has been turned. Maybe things are shaping up. But what changed? Was it just her? Or was it something that I did, something I'm projecting, that's changing the equation? There's a part of me that says, Don't overanalyze it. But it'd be nice to know what slight tweak turned up the volume on the sexual dynamic ... if only to understand how to sustain that change well off into the future.
On the drive home, out of the blue, Amy brought up a porn movie we'd watched together some time ago. She described a scene she had been thinking about a lot, where porn starlet Chloe gets fucked in her office by her boss, right in front of a vindictive (female) co-worker doing her best to ignore the action going on only a few feet from her. (The movie was Antonio Passolini's Unreal.)
"So, what is it about the scene that turns you on?" I asked. "Is it the office setting?"
"Maybe," she said. "I don't know, really. It just works." Getting Amy to pin down why something turns her on is always a challenge, just like it's difficult to get her to clearly identify any kinks.
At home, when I returned from walking the babysitter to her car, Amy stood in the kitchen. We embraced, kissing passionately.
"You want me to find that movie?" I asked, and she nodded a mm-hmm. We got more comfortable — there would be no tearing off clothes tonight, probably because mine were new! I donned a robe, while Amy put on the second of the two Valentine's Day outfits she'd decided to keep. I was not able to find the video anywhere (which worried me greatly: Had I left it out somewhere where my kids or babysitter might have found it?), so we oped for a movie I had on my computer. Down to the basement we went, with Amy settling in between my legs, her back against me, the laptop on her lap.
It turned out that the movie wasn't our cup of tea. It's what the industry commonly calls a "couples film," which means that it's shot with all beautiful models. It would have been considered "hard-core" (penetration, money shots, etc.), but instead of really getting to hear people in true throes of ecstasy, you get lots of Enigma-like music playing over their slow-motion machinations. It's staged, dressed up, and extremely slow-moving. It's the kind of movie that men just introducing their wives to watching porn together would try ... but we're way past that. We found ourselves fast-forwarding through all the seductive posing and lip-licking to get to some action.
Finally, there was one scene that started to work for Amy — a beautiful woman being lavished with attention by two men. I finally saw a hand disappear into her thong when that scene got going.
"Who would you be doing that with if that were you?" I asked. "Who is joining us?"
She moaned. "Graham, a new guy in our office," she whispered. How very interesting!
"Oh yeah? Is that Graham's cock you're sucking while I get ready to fuck you from behind?" I was playing with her tits through the camisole, and she was starting to writhe. "Or maybe," I continued, "Graham is here, between your legs. He's licking that wet, hot cunt of yours while you and I both watch. He can look up and watch me squeezing your tits while he eats you. Would you like that?"
She groaned. We murmured for awhile about her new young workplace stud. I wondered if she'd ever really fantasized about him. I'll have to ask her another time.
The movie, which was already pretty much a dud, was becoming less and less interesting to us.
"Once you fuck Graham and me, are you going to return the favor?" I asked into her ear. "Will you share my cock with another woman?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Who gets to suck my cock with you?" I asked.
"Who would you like?" she asked.
I have to admit: I was stymied. I spend all this energy fantasizing about Amy that when she asks me what other woman I'd like to do, I'm at a loss. "You can say it," she urged, as if I had someone in my head but was withholding. But there was no one!
Finally, I came up with a couple. "I'd love to watch you and Cynthia go at it," I suggested, indicating a high-ranking co-worker in my department. "Or maybe you and Shelley," the woman who, along with her husband, Amy had suggested (though not seriously) as foursome partners in a sex coupon. "Between her tits and yours, I could be a very happy boy."
The laptop suffered no damage, but it was pretty much kicked away. Amy threw open my robe and got to enthusiastically sucking my cock. Later, I requested a 69: Few things excite me more than her trying to suffocate me with her pussy while she blows me. I was so worked up with all the talk that it didn't take long, once we were in that position, to spray a helping of cum all over her tits and my stomach.
Amy gave a victory giggle as I came, enjoying the fruits of her labors. She crawled into a position where my head was in her lap, as I slowly came down. She hadn't come on this night, but she was fine with that. I vowed to even that score as soon as I could.
We talked for quite awhile, about the night, about the rest of our weekend, about previous Valentine's Days. This one — or perhaps should I say, the two-part celebration — was definitely the most fun in recent memory. It wasn't anything extravagant or original, but when so rarely and get to be a couple out in public, extremes of romantic ingenuity aren't necessary to re-capture that lightning.
20 February 2007
V-Day, Night One: Fashion Show
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 ..."
"Mm-hmmm?"
"... 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]
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 ..."
"Mm-hmmm?"
"... 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]
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