Getting ready for bed.
Quite a simple act, getting ready for bed.. Yes, something we all do, isn't it. I enjoy taking my clothes off. I've made the point, many times, that I do like being watched. It gives me a buzz. A little thrill, maybe. I've written about it in other stories. But, you know, for me, it doesn't have to be in front of a stranger. I get a kick out of stripping in front of my husband. I don't mean every single time I do it, but, on occasion, my heart literally starts to pound. Let me tell you about one specific night.
It was about 15 years ago, but, I remember it vividly. We'd been married for almost 20 years. My husband was, at the time, unaware that I had strayed, occasionally, from the marital bed. This particular day, I'd been to a conference in London, and, after a boring day, I met a lover for dinner and, not to put too fine a point on it, got myself royally screwed in his hotel room. I'd not been drinking, so I drove home, as planned, to Cambridge.
I arrived home about 11pm. Steve, my husband was already in bed, reading. I sat at my dressing table and we made small talk about the conference. I'd already told him I was meeting an old friend, a man, for dinner and Steve asked how he was. Obviously, I didn't mention the romp we'd had in his hotel room. Strangely, though, I did get the impression that Steve was a little too curious about my dinner date. He's not the jealous type, but, I suppose, he wondered why I'd got back so late. London is, to be fair, only an hour away, at that time of night, via the M11. My mind kept wandering back to what I'd done, behind Steve's back, those flashes of me with my legs wrapped round James's bum. I was starting to tingle.
I sat there, on my stool, alternating between looking towards Steve and then back towards my mirror, my face, perhaps, displaying a slightly guilty look. Between his questions, he looked back at his book. I knew he was listening to my answers, but still paying attention to the text, evidenced when he, from time to time, turned a page.
I stood up, slipped my jacket off and placed it neatly on a hanger, before hanging it in the wardrobe. I sat down again and toyed with my earrings. I knew, from selecting my clothes in the morning, that my nipples were visible, albeit faintly, through my bra and the almost see-through fabric of the blouse. OK, let's be honest, that's why I chose them. In the mirror, I noticed his eyes watching me and then reading his book, and back again to me. Another question, or two. Another lie from me, in response. I was feeling ever so guilty, by now. Perhaps I'd better just get undressed and slip into bed. Normally, of course, he sees me dress in the morning. Today, he'd left early and I was still showering when he went out. I'd dressed after he'd left and, knowing what the day was going to bring, had selected a nice business suit for the conference and quite raunchy underwear for my afters, as it were.
Anyway, there I was, sat on my stool, contemplating what to do. I could easily have slipped into the ensuite, stripped and slipped a Tshirt on, keeping my underwear hidden from his prying eyes. But, you know, he was pissing me off. Yes, I'd been a naughty girl, but, in my warped brain, that certainly didn't give him the right to suspect it. We women do have strange thought patterns, don't we.
I stood up, again, and, weirdly, I pushed my blouse further inside my skirt, making my nipples more visible as the blouse tightened against my bra. I walked to his side of the bed, reached for his glass of water and took a sip. He looked directly at my chest as I stood there, one hand holding the glass, the other placed firmly on my hip.
“Nice bra. You do know your tits are on view, don't you ?” he muttered.
“For Christ's sake, I had a bloody jacket on”, I snapped back. As I walked back to my dresser, I added, “Well, for the conference anyway”, in a barely audible voice.
“What do you mean by that”, he snapped back.
“Oh, read your book, you old fart,” was my terse, uncalled for, answer. “Next time I meet him, I'll not wear a fucking bra.”
“Bit tarty, darling. No knickers, too, I suppose”.
Hands on my hips, I shook my head at him and sat down again. My heart beat a little faster as I started to undo the buttons on my blouse. The last button undone, the blouse opened and I looked at myself in the mirror. I slipped the blouse off. Now, to be fair, this was similar to my normal type of bra. Low cut, balcony style, very narrow back-strap. But, then, there was subtle difference. The cups were made of a completely sheer, gauze like white fabric and every detail of my nipples was visible through the cup.
I sat there, swivelling my body from side to side, admiring my breasts. I stood up and, with my back towards him, unzipped my skirt. I pushed it down my thighs and let it drop to my feet. There you go, I thought to myself as the rest of my underwear came into view. Now, bear in mind, I'm a stockings wearer, having never really got on with tights, so he wouldn't have been surprised to see his wife clad in such hosiery. However, there's a big difference between sexily dressed and dressed for sex. And, I was clearly dressed for sex.
White knickers that matched my bra. Made of the same gauze-like white fabric as the bra cups. Completely sheer, every square inch of my skin completely visible through them. Cut away sides, the leg elastic cutting across my bum cheeks, at the rear, and delicately sitting against the edge of my pubes, at the front. The suspender belt was part of the set. Elastic around my waist, of course, with that same gauze linked between each of the straps. Unusually for me, it had six straps. Don't get the impression this was a weighty garment, designed for BDSM activities, it was incredibly feminine and, I'll bet, barely weighed an ounce.
“Happy now,” I spat towards him as I pulled on the elastic of my knickers, letting it snap back against my waist. “See, knickers on !”.
“Mmmmph,” was all he could muster, as a response.
“Well, for the conference, anyway”, I mumbled, unable to resist goading him further.
I sat down again. I used to use a chair at my dressing table. I changed that for a stool, a few years earlier so, now, there is an unimpeded view of my back. I reached behind my back and, expertly unsnapped my bra, using just one hand. I deliberately stretched past the clutter on my dresser, to place the garment in an empty space. My breasts swayed, my knickers tightened across my bum, the back suspender straps tautened against my thighs. My heart pounded, knowing I was giving him the best view in the house. I was probably saying to him, look, this is what you could have won, dearest. I checked my mirror. Yes, his eyes were fixed on my body. I looked down at my feet, my heels still in place. I could have, quite easily, reached down to remove them. But, I was in a strange mood, certainly vindictive at his attitude, but, partly frivolous, too.
I stood up and, again, with my back towards him, I reached down and undid the buckles, keeping my legs perfectly straight. I fumbled a little, ensuring he had more time to focus on my bum, a part of my anatomy he has great affection for, particularly when it's encased in flimsy fabric. I sat down and slipped my unbuckled shoes off.
Turning to one side, I got to work on my suspender straps. Crossing my legs, I felt a rear strap pull tight and felt that wonderful rasp as one stocking made contact with the other. I adore that feeling, makes me feel so very sexy. I undid the front clasp, then the side one, before raising my leg from the stool, to give me access to the back strap. Job done, I slid the stocking down my leg. I turned towards my mirror and, yes, he was still transfixed on my performance.
I turned to my side again and got to work on the other stocking. This time, when I'd slipped it off my foot, I stood and, reaching behind me, uncoupled the belt. I pulled it off and, neatly folding it, put it on the dresser next to my growing collection of worn underwear. A quick mirror check. God, I could plainly see some movement under the duvet. He was touching himself. That sent a thrill right through me. I do love watching a man wank.
I suddenly felt incredibly guilty. I'd acted like a right cow. I'd had sex with somebody and then treated my husband like the bad guy. I'd felt justified at being angry towards him. Time to make amends. I knew he liked to watch me. I walked towards the full length mirror and, standing there, looked at myself. It's a well known fact that, although a naked woman is so very sexy, men do find a scantily clad woman, even sexier. And, to be honest, I couldn't have been more scantily clad than I was at that moment. I pulled the elastic of my knickers back to my waist and did that usual woman thing of half-turning and checking my bum. Still looking across my shoulder, into the mirror, I repositioned the leg elastic so it sat perfectly across the middle of each bum cheek. I cupped my hands around my breasts and squeezed them slightly, supposedly checking for lumps. I do that every day, as it happens. But, seemingly oblivious to his presence, this time I touched my nipples slightly and, quite deliberately, continued doing it for a few seconds. I looked downwards and, tilting my head to one side, almost wistfully, I ran my fingers against my pubes. I slipped my hand down into my knickers and, raising my head, pressed my fingers firmly against my pubes, clenching and unclenching my bum as I did so. Carrying on with this blatant display, I turned towards him, my mouth partially open. He was looking directly at me, now unashamedly rubbing his cock under the duvet.
I stopped what I was doing and walked to my side of the bed and climbed on. “Can I help you with that”, I asked, as I pulled the duvet back, revealing his rock hard cock, his hand unashamedly rubbing it. I slipped my panties off and, holding them against his cock, started to rub them against him. He loves the feel of my underwear touching him. I pushed his foreskin back with my pants, my tongue licking his tip. I deliberately kept my pussy away from his touch, not wanting him to feel another man's spunk seeping out of it. But, I was hot and, like him, desperately needed some stimulation. So, with my free hand, I started fingering myself , while I licked his cock. My hand firmly gripping it, in and out of my mouth it went. My tongue lapped away, on him, as my fingers performed their magic inside me. Unsurprisingly, I felt the tension increasing in his cock. I slowed the movement of my tongue, while I pushed another finger into my cunt, all four now frantically splashing me into a frenzy. Then that awesome shuddering as he spurted into my throat and I, simultaneously, sprayed my hand. I sat on my haunches, smiling at him. I licked my lips trapping the spunk, as it tried to escape from my mouth, pushing it back inside, with my greedy tongue, swallowing it all. To make sure none escaped, I wiped my chin with my the back of my wrist and licked that clean, too.
To finish the job properly, I leant back down and, pulling his foreskin up and down, slowly, licked him until every last drop was safely in my throat. Waste not, want not, that's my motto.
Nuzzling up close to him, I said I was sorry for being late home. He apologised for interrogating me and, without looking at me, he stroked my tits, “Well, James might have had a faint peek at them. But, I get to feel them too”. I think I blushed at the thought of my tits bouncing as I sat astride James, fucking his brains out, earlier that evening. We lay there, arms around each other's naked bodies, and we fell asleep. The last thing I remember, before dozing off, was thinking what an eventful, exciting evening that was.
Author's note.This is probably the fifth draft of this story. Having shown the previous drafts to friends, they recommended certain changes, mainly to include much more detail of my underwear, it being a fundamental part of the story. Hence the very elaborate descriptions in this, the final draft. I do so hope you are now able to get a mental picture of how I was dressed on that particular evening. Thank you for reading and I look forward to reading your comments. Anne.
It was about 15 years ago, but, I remember it vividly. We'd been married for almost 20 years. My husband was, at the time, unaware that I had strayed, occasionally, from the marital bed. This particular day, I'd been to a conference in London, and, after a boring day, I met a lover for dinner and, not to put too fine a point on it, got myself royally screwed in his hotel room. I'd not been drinking, so I drove home, as planned, to Cambridge.
I arrived home about 11pm. Steve, my husband was already in bed, reading. I sat at my dressing table and we made small talk about the conference. I'd already told him I was meeting an old friend, a man, for dinner and Steve asked how he was. Obviously, I didn't mention the romp we'd had in his hotel room. Strangely, though, I did get the impression that Steve was a little too curious about my dinner date. He's not the jealous type, but, I suppose, he wondered why I'd got back so late. London is, to be fair, only an hour away, at that time of night, via the M11. My mind kept wandering back to what I'd done, behind Steve's back, those flashes of me with my legs wrapped round James's bum. I was starting to tingle.
I sat there, on my stool, alternating between looking towards Steve and then back towards my mirror, my face, perhaps, displaying a slightly guilty look. Between his questions, he looked back at his book. I knew he was listening to my answers, but still paying attention to the text, evidenced when he, from time to time, turned a page.
I stood up, slipped my jacket off and placed it neatly on a hanger, before hanging it in the wardrobe. I sat down again and toyed with my earrings. I knew, from selecting my clothes in the morning, that my nipples were visible, albeit faintly, through my bra and the almost see-through fabric of the blouse. OK, let's be honest, that's why I chose them. In the mirror, I noticed his eyes watching me and then reading his book, and back again to me. Another question, or two. Another lie from me, in response. I was feeling ever so guilty, by now. Perhaps I'd better just get undressed and slip into bed. Normally, of course, he sees me dress in the morning. Today, he'd left early and I was still showering when he went out. I'd dressed after he'd left and, knowing what the day was going to bring, had selected a nice business suit for the conference and quite raunchy underwear for my afters, as it were.
Anyway, there I was, sat on my stool, contemplating what to do. I could easily have slipped into the ensuite, stripped and slipped a Tshirt on, keeping my underwear hidden from his prying eyes. But, you know, he was pissing me off. Yes, I'd been a naughty girl, but, in my warped brain, that certainly didn't give him the right to suspect it. We women do have strange thought patterns, don't we.
I stood up, again, and, weirdly, I pushed my blouse further inside my skirt, making my nipples more visible as the blouse tightened against my bra. I walked to his side of the bed, reached for his glass of water and took a sip. He looked directly at my chest as I stood there, one hand holding the glass, the other placed firmly on my hip.
“Nice bra. You do know your tits are on view, don't you ?” he muttered.
“For Christ's sake, I had a bloody jacket on”, I snapped back. As I walked back to my dresser, I added, “Well, for the conference anyway”, in a barely audible voice.
“What do you mean by that”, he snapped back.
“Oh, read your book, you old fart,” was my terse, uncalled for, answer. “Next time I meet him, I'll not wear a fucking bra.”
“Bit tarty, darling. No knickers, too, I suppose”.
Hands on my hips, I shook my head at him and sat down again. My heart beat a little faster as I started to undo the buttons on my blouse. The last button undone, the blouse opened and I looked at myself in the mirror. I slipped the blouse off. Now, to be fair, this was similar to my normal type of bra. Low cut, balcony style, very narrow back-strap. But, then, there was subtle difference. The cups were made of a completely sheer, gauze like white fabric and every detail of my nipples was visible through the cup.
I sat there, swivelling my body from side to side, admiring my breasts. I stood up and, with my back towards him, unzipped my skirt. I pushed it down my thighs and let it drop to my feet. There you go, I thought to myself as the rest of my underwear came into view. Now, bear in mind, I'm a stockings wearer, having never really got on with tights, so he wouldn't have been surprised to see his wife clad in such hosiery. However, there's a big difference between sexily dressed and dressed for sex. And, I was clearly dressed for sex.
White knickers that matched my bra. Made of the same gauze-like white fabric as the bra cups. Completely sheer, every square inch of my skin completely visible through them. Cut away sides, the leg elastic cutting across my bum cheeks, at the rear, and delicately sitting against the edge of my pubes, at the front. The suspender belt was part of the set. Elastic around my waist, of course, with that same gauze linked between each of the straps. Unusually for me, it had six straps. Don't get the impression this was a weighty garment, designed for BDSM activities, it was incredibly feminine and, I'll bet, barely weighed an ounce.
“Happy now,” I spat towards him as I pulled on the elastic of my knickers, letting it snap back against my waist. “See, knickers on !”.
“Mmmmph,” was all he could muster, as a response.
“Well, for the conference, anyway”, I mumbled, unable to resist goading him further.
I sat down again. I used to use a chair at my dressing table. I changed that for a stool, a few years earlier so, now, there is an unimpeded view of my back. I reached behind my back and, expertly unsnapped my bra, using just one hand. I deliberately stretched past the clutter on my dresser, to place the garment in an empty space. My breasts swayed, my knickers tightened across my bum, the back suspender straps tautened against my thighs. My heart pounded, knowing I was giving him the best view in the house. I was probably saying to him, look, this is what you could have won, dearest. I checked my mirror. Yes, his eyes were fixed on my body. I looked down at my feet, my heels still in place. I could have, quite easily, reached down to remove them. But, I was in a strange mood, certainly vindictive at his attitude, but, partly frivolous, too.
I stood up and, again, with my back towards him, I reached down and undid the buckles, keeping my legs perfectly straight. I fumbled a little, ensuring he had more time to focus on my bum, a part of my anatomy he has great affection for, particularly when it's encased in flimsy fabric. I sat down and slipped my unbuckled shoes off.
Turning to one side, I got to work on my suspender straps. Crossing my legs, I felt a rear strap pull tight and felt that wonderful rasp as one stocking made contact with the other. I adore that feeling, makes me feel so very sexy. I undid the front clasp, then the side one, before raising my leg from the stool, to give me access to the back strap. Job done, I slid the stocking down my leg. I turned towards my mirror and, yes, he was still transfixed on my performance.
I turned to my side again and got to work on the other stocking. This time, when I'd slipped it off my foot, I stood and, reaching behind me, uncoupled the belt. I pulled it off and, neatly folding it, put it on the dresser next to my growing collection of worn underwear. A quick mirror check. God, I could plainly see some movement under the duvet. He was touching himself. That sent a thrill right through me. I do love watching a man wank.
I suddenly felt incredibly guilty. I'd acted like a right cow. I'd had sex with somebody and then treated my husband like the bad guy. I'd felt justified at being angry towards him. Time to make amends. I knew he liked to watch me. I walked towards the full length mirror and, standing there, looked at myself. It's a well known fact that, although a naked woman is so very sexy, men do find a scantily clad woman, even sexier. And, to be honest, I couldn't have been more scantily clad than I was at that moment. I pulled the elastic of my knickers back to my waist and did that usual woman thing of half-turning and checking my bum. Still looking across my shoulder, into the mirror, I repositioned the leg elastic so it sat perfectly across the middle of each bum cheek. I cupped my hands around my breasts and squeezed them slightly, supposedly checking for lumps. I do that every day, as it happens. But, seemingly oblivious to his presence, this time I touched my nipples slightly and, quite deliberately, continued doing it for a few seconds. I looked downwards and, tilting my head to one side, almost wistfully, I ran my fingers against my pubes. I slipped my hand down into my knickers and, raising my head, pressed my fingers firmly against my pubes, clenching and unclenching my bum as I did so. Carrying on with this blatant display, I turned towards him, my mouth partially open. He was looking directly at me, now unashamedly rubbing his cock under the duvet.
I stopped what I was doing and walked to my side of the bed and climbed on. “Can I help you with that”, I asked, as I pulled the duvet back, revealing his rock hard cock, his hand unashamedly rubbing it. I slipped my panties off and, holding them against his cock, started to rub them against him. He loves the feel of my underwear touching him. I pushed his foreskin back with my pants, my tongue licking his tip. I deliberately kept my pussy away from his touch, not wanting him to feel another man's spunk seeping out of it. But, I was hot and, like him, desperately needed some stimulation. So, with my free hand, I started fingering myself , while I licked his cock. My hand firmly gripping it, in and out of my mouth it went. My tongue lapped away, on him, as my fingers performed their magic inside me. Unsurprisingly, I felt the tension increasing in his cock. I slowed the movement of my tongue, while I pushed another finger into my cunt, all four now frantically splashing me into a frenzy. Then that awesome shuddering as he spurted into my throat and I, simultaneously, sprayed my hand. I sat on my haunches, smiling at him. I licked my lips trapping the spunk, as it tried to escape from my mouth, pushing it back inside, with my greedy tongue, swallowing it all. To make sure none escaped, I wiped my chin with my the back of my wrist and licked that clean, too.
To finish the job properly, I leant back down and, pulling his foreskin up and down, slowly, licked him until every last drop was safely in my throat. Waste not, want not, that's my motto.
Nuzzling up close to him, I said I was sorry for being late home. He apologised for interrogating me and, without looking at me, he stroked my tits, “Well, James might have had a faint peek at them. But, I get to feel them too”. I think I blushed at the thought of my tits bouncing as I sat astride James, fucking his brains out, earlier that evening. We lay there, arms around each other's naked bodies, and we fell asleep. The last thing I remember, before dozing off, was thinking what an eventful, exciting evening that was.
Author's note.This is probably the fifth draft of this story. Having shown the previous drafts to friends, they recommended certain changes, mainly to include much more detail of my underwear, it being a fundamental part of the story. Hence the very elaborate descriptions in this, the final draft. I do so hope you are now able to get a mental picture of how I was dressed on that particular evening. Thank you for reading and I look forward to reading your comments. Anne.
3 years ago
