Modernmenelaus
Experienced
- Joined
- Sep 28, 2009
- Posts
- 38
I've drafted the first section of a potential chain story - the idea being to write from three viewpoints (husband, wife and boyfriend/lover). Since there's a distinctly British air to my own writing, probably best if it's fellow Brits.
Here's a sample of part 1 (from the husband's perspective)
“Second Friday”
It's strange what can become mundane. Even as I sit on the commuter train home, crowded and hemmed in by the inevitable Friday evening crowds, the evening's routine plays out in my head putting the events into familiar sequence. That said, there's still an undercurrent of excitement, reflecting something – but what? The thrill of breaking of taboos?
We’ve been playing this game now for eight months or so, and have settled into this pattern for maybe four of them. Each “Second Friday of the Month”, in fact, although with the occasional extra thrown in. Does the increasing familiarity strengthen, or reduce the sense of anticipation? Hard to say. I’m certainly feeling that sense tonight.
Nestling in my briefcase is a present. An offering, if you like. Something I’m sure she’ll like, a pair of genuine silk stockings. Much darker than her natural skin tone, but with a slight sheen sufficient to catch the light. I’m confident she’ll like them. One of the more beguiling developments of the last two years has been to watch her own confidence in her appearance grow, and particularly to see her begin to appreciate and make the most of her best features. Her legs have played a large part in that, and she now loves to display them to their best advantage. Her old trouser suits now hang largely unworn in the wardrobe. Instead she’ll wear skirts and dresses, and dramatic, often patterned hose of one form or another – and always with vertiginous heels. It’s an effect I most certainly appreciated and encouraged.
Ah, my station. Not long now, just a short ten minutes or so in the car. Is there anything I was supposed to collect en route? No, not tonight. All essential supplies will have been laid in in advance. Food, wine, entertainment all taken care of. Her planning is usually immaculate.
The drive does nothing to distract me. My mind is still racing with thoughts of the night ahead, and I find myself shifting uncomfortably as my arousal means sitting in the cramped seat is uncomfortable.
Home, to the usual whirlwind of a greeting from our daughter, and a warm smile from my beloved. She seems utterly serene, but I know that below the surface she’s as stimulated as I am. I received the news of the day’s school events with a show of engagement, discuss the plans for the rest of the weekend and do all the other things of normal family Friday evening. I even find myself playing with hamsters…
All of that comes to a sudden end with the ringing of the doorbell. A ball of energy rushes downstairs leaving me to put the pets away, contain the worst of the chaos in the room and so on. There’s no need for her to come back upstairs, the overnight bag for the sleepover is already packed - more of that planning evidencing itself.
The shrieking of two over-agitated ten year old girls resound up the staircase, making it hard to pick out the adult conversation. Arrangements are being confirmed (she’ll be collected about 9-10am, no later, in time to get her to be ready for her riding lesson), and inquiries made about plans for the evening. Those are met with slight evasion and half-truths – going out for a meal, may be out late, nothing special, just one of those evenings we all need every now and then. I smile to myself when I hear that it’s not certain which of us will collect our child; one thing I’m certain of is that she’ll need to sleep late in the morning. That’s become another part of the routine, her recovery from the late night and subsequent exertions.
We’re alone now. Time for the real preparations to start. I hear her footfalls coming up the stairs, and into her bathroom. Water begins to flow, so I assume she’s bathing. I’m a little perplexed seeing as she’s already told me that the arrangements require readiness somewhat earlier than usual.
Downstairs to the kitchen. The next step in the accustomed ritual. Chilling in the freezer is a bottle of good sparkling wine. I open it, and pour two glasses. As I do so, I find myself musing on what’s to come. I wonder what she’ll choose to wear? Her choice is usually inspired, and even thinking of it makes me rock hard. Last time it was quite restrained – purple bra, pants and suspender belt under a fitted skirt and blouse. The time before that, just a tiny thong under her favourite clinging Chinese dress. Before that, a tight-clenched corset under….but I’ll know soon enough, she’s usually got it laid out on the bed when I take her the wine.
Suddenly, I recollect the present, and retrieve it from my case. I’m briefly amused by the old fashioned cellophane packaging (why IS the vintage image so important to some makers of hosiery?). I tuck it under my arm, and taking a glass of wine in each hand head upstairs.
I leave the stockings on the bed. Something has caused a slight break in the routine, because nothing’s laid out. It’s for some reason a minor irritation, like a false note in an otherwise perfect musical performance. Ah yes – there’s a change to the routine, meaning preparations have to be brought forward half an hour or so.
She’s soaking under a layer of foam when I enter the bathroom and hand her the wine. It’s instantly coated in condensation as the cool glass meets the warm moist air. She thanks me, we talk for a few minutes of nothing much – neither of us seems quite ready to talk of what’s to come. I hear my Blackberry beep, and return downstairs to check, just in case it’s something urgent from work. Although, it’d take a small earthquake to divert us from this now. It’s not even close to that – a point of utter routine, cleared up in a five word response.
When I return upstairs, the bathroom door is locked. She’s engaged in some of the more intimate aspects of grooming, I assume. Odd, given how open we’ve become about most things, she still won’t be seen tidying, smoothing, trimming. There are no noises to give me any clues as to what’s occurring, and I speculate this may take ten minutes or so. Time enough to check personal emails in our home office next door.
I’m sat at the computer when she comes to join me. She’s totally naked, and looking quite wonderful. Arousal (or perhaps the hot water) has given her a glow, and she’s shaved herself completely smooth. She sits on my lap and she kisses me – restrainedly at first, then with increasing passions, as her tongue explores my teeth. She asks me to check that she’s fully depilated, and I get to run my fingers over the silky flesh of her mound and lips. They feel warm and welcoming. She reacts with a barely audible purr.
I press kisses onto her bare breasts and shoulders then ask:
“Happy?”
She replies:
“Yes, of course, How could I be otherwise when I’ve got the best husband in the world?”
I run my finger along the join of her lower lips, not hard enough to cause them to part, but sufficient to feel the first tiny traces of her seeping dampness. It elicits another purr, and I lift her onto the desktop in front of me. I place my hands between her thighs then push them apart before pressing my face between them. My tongue retraces the same path my finger took a moment ago, but at the top stops to explore the folds around her clitoris. At first, we’re both silent but as her bud emerges from its hood and I establish a rhythm, her breathing becomes audible. I move my hands to grasp her rear and feel one of her hands caressing the back of my head. As we continue, I sense her climax isn’t far away, and speed my tempo accordingly. My own arousal is such I wonder if I’ll come untouched.
Suddenly she pulls away from me, then places the heel of her hand on my forehead to push me back. She tells me it’s too early, that she wants to allow the tension to build through the evening, to make it as good as she possibly can later.
I’ve a sudden dislike for the concept of delayed gratification.
We kiss again, at her instigation, sharing the taste of her arousal. Then, she leads me back into the bedroom, where I present her with the stockings. She expresses delight, and doubly so when she realises they’re “hold ups” needing no suspender belt.
“Can I wear these tonight? They’d go perfectly with what I’d planned to wear”.
“And that is?”
She smiles, but doesn’t comment. Obviously she’s no intention of sharing any more than the minimum of information. Taking my assent for granted, she slips the stockings from their packaging, then crosses the room to sit on our bedroom chair. As she raises her leg to pull on the first of the stockings I had a clear view of her vulva, now obviously swollen with anticipation, the bulge shiny with my saliva and her own juices.
She pulls on the second, then stands to firmly seat the welts just an inch or so below the juncture of her thighs. They frame the “v” of her crotch perfectly. She runs fingers over her thighs, apparently relishing the feel of the soft silk. I can’t resist asking:
“You like them, don’t you?”
She nods. I persist:
“And I think you’re getting really excited about tonight, aren’t you?”
Several seconds pass before she replies:
“Of course I am. You know I always do.” A gap. “If I didn’t, we’d not be doing this, would we? “
She moves across the room, to the entrance to the dressing area."...
.....I recall her comments when this process first started. Her remarks about a new workmate, his immaturity and his self-confidence. He was a relatively junior technician, not someone with whom that she’d normally have had a great deal of contact. Despite this, there seemed to be a lot of conversation – on his part, always risque, often complementary, sometimes provocative. She’d respond in kind. He’d praise her legs. her style, her figure, then push her to show off a little more. Mostly, she would. From what I can gather, she responded in kind, and over time, he moved on to telling her of his sexual conquests. At some stage, she volunteered to join them.
She’s moved to the chest of drawers where she keeps her jewellery. She selects a pair of earrings – long and ornate – and puts them on. Next, she finds an ornate choker, of a design fashionable some years ago, but bedecked with tiny green stones. It blends perfectly with her eyes, and with the purple lace. It also emphasises the slimness of her neck. She slips bangles over both wrists. This is more jewellery than I think I’ve ever seen her wear.
Finally, she reaches into the drawer and brings out a ring-box. I recognise it. It’s the box in which she’s accustomed to keep wedding, engagement and eternity bands. They’re slipped onto her ring finger, and then joined on other fingers by a few, select costume pieces, mostly silver filigree. I’ve a sudden mental image of her in a few hours; lying on a rumpled bed, hair and make-up dishevelled, skin moist and glowing, naked but for choker and rings, and completely satiated.
I find that I’ve recovered the power of speech.
“You look utterly delectable. And unbelievably lecherous”
She moves to me, presses her soft breasts against me and puts her arms around my neck
“Is that the right word, for a female? I was aiming more at “indecent”, or maybe even “randy””
“You look all of those, and more”.
My erection is firm against her pelvis. She pushes against it.
“Good. Because that’s how I feel right now.” Randy, and lecherous, and lewd...actually, “randy” covers it well.”
She moves to kiss me, recalls her make-up, and checks herself. Instead, she moves her hand down to my groin and squeezes. I groan. She continues
“I’m looking forward to having this inside me. As deep as you can get it.”
I’m steel-hard. I reach around to her backside and slide up the lace, running my hands over the exposed flesh. It’s her turn to purr in response.
“You will. Tomorrow”
“Promise? Because I want that very much.”
“Promise. Make sure you’ve some energy leftover”
“I’ll make sure”"
Here's a sample of part 1 (from the husband's perspective)
“Second Friday”
It's strange what can become mundane. Even as I sit on the commuter train home, crowded and hemmed in by the inevitable Friday evening crowds, the evening's routine plays out in my head putting the events into familiar sequence. That said, there's still an undercurrent of excitement, reflecting something – but what? The thrill of breaking of taboos?
We’ve been playing this game now for eight months or so, and have settled into this pattern for maybe four of them. Each “Second Friday of the Month”, in fact, although with the occasional extra thrown in. Does the increasing familiarity strengthen, or reduce the sense of anticipation? Hard to say. I’m certainly feeling that sense tonight.
Nestling in my briefcase is a present. An offering, if you like. Something I’m sure she’ll like, a pair of genuine silk stockings. Much darker than her natural skin tone, but with a slight sheen sufficient to catch the light. I’m confident she’ll like them. One of the more beguiling developments of the last two years has been to watch her own confidence in her appearance grow, and particularly to see her begin to appreciate and make the most of her best features. Her legs have played a large part in that, and she now loves to display them to their best advantage. Her old trouser suits now hang largely unworn in the wardrobe. Instead she’ll wear skirts and dresses, and dramatic, often patterned hose of one form or another – and always with vertiginous heels. It’s an effect I most certainly appreciated and encouraged.
Ah, my station. Not long now, just a short ten minutes or so in the car. Is there anything I was supposed to collect en route? No, not tonight. All essential supplies will have been laid in in advance. Food, wine, entertainment all taken care of. Her planning is usually immaculate.
The drive does nothing to distract me. My mind is still racing with thoughts of the night ahead, and I find myself shifting uncomfortably as my arousal means sitting in the cramped seat is uncomfortable.
Home, to the usual whirlwind of a greeting from our daughter, and a warm smile from my beloved. She seems utterly serene, but I know that below the surface she’s as stimulated as I am. I received the news of the day’s school events with a show of engagement, discuss the plans for the rest of the weekend and do all the other things of normal family Friday evening. I even find myself playing with hamsters…
All of that comes to a sudden end with the ringing of the doorbell. A ball of energy rushes downstairs leaving me to put the pets away, contain the worst of the chaos in the room and so on. There’s no need for her to come back upstairs, the overnight bag for the sleepover is already packed - more of that planning evidencing itself.
The shrieking of two over-agitated ten year old girls resound up the staircase, making it hard to pick out the adult conversation. Arrangements are being confirmed (she’ll be collected about 9-10am, no later, in time to get her to be ready for her riding lesson), and inquiries made about plans for the evening. Those are met with slight evasion and half-truths – going out for a meal, may be out late, nothing special, just one of those evenings we all need every now and then. I smile to myself when I hear that it’s not certain which of us will collect our child; one thing I’m certain of is that she’ll need to sleep late in the morning. That’s become another part of the routine, her recovery from the late night and subsequent exertions.
We’re alone now. Time for the real preparations to start. I hear her footfalls coming up the stairs, and into her bathroom. Water begins to flow, so I assume she’s bathing. I’m a little perplexed seeing as she’s already told me that the arrangements require readiness somewhat earlier than usual.
Downstairs to the kitchen. The next step in the accustomed ritual. Chilling in the freezer is a bottle of good sparkling wine. I open it, and pour two glasses. As I do so, I find myself musing on what’s to come. I wonder what she’ll choose to wear? Her choice is usually inspired, and even thinking of it makes me rock hard. Last time it was quite restrained – purple bra, pants and suspender belt under a fitted skirt and blouse. The time before that, just a tiny thong under her favourite clinging Chinese dress. Before that, a tight-clenched corset under….but I’ll know soon enough, she’s usually got it laid out on the bed when I take her the wine.
Suddenly, I recollect the present, and retrieve it from my case. I’m briefly amused by the old fashioned cellophane packaging (why IS the vintage image so important to some makers of hosiery?). I tuck it under my arm, and taking a glass of wine in each hand head upstairs.
I leave the stockings on the bed. Something has caused a slight break in the routine, because nothing’s laid out. It’s for some reason a minor irritation, like a false note in an otherwise perfect musical performance. Ah yes – there’s a change to the routine, meaning preparations have to be brought forward half an hour or so.
She’s soaking under a layer of foam when I enter the bathroom and hand her the wine. It’s instantly coated in condensation as the cool glass meets the warm moist air. She thanks me, we talk for a few minutes of nothing much – neither of us seems quite ready to talk of what’s to come. I hear my Blackberry beep, and return downstairs to check, just in case it’s something urgent from work. Although, it’d take a small earthquake to divert us from this now. It’s not even close to that – a point of utter routine, cleared up in a five word response.
When I return upstairs, the bathroom door is locked. She’s engaged in some of the more intimate aspects of grooming, I assume. Odd, given how open we’ve become about most things, she still won’t be seen tidying, smoothing, trimming. There are no noises to give me any clues as to what’s occurring, and I speculate this may take ten minutes or so. Time enough to check personal emails in our home office next door.
I’m sat at the computer when she comes to join me. She’s totally naked, and looking quite wonderful. Arousal (or perhaps the hot water) has given her a glow, and she’s shaved herself completely smooth. She sits on my lap and she kisses me – restrainedly at first, then with increasing passions, as her tongue explores my teeth. She asks me to check that she’s fully depilated, and I get to run my fingers over the silky flesh of her mound and lips. They feel warm and welcoming. She reacts with a barely audible purr.
I press kisses onto her bare breasts and shoulders then ask:
“Happy?”
She replies:
“Yes, of course, How could I be otherwise when I’ve got the best husband in the world?”
I run my finger along the join of her lower lips, not hard enough to cause them to part, but sufficient to feel the first tiny traces of her seeping dampness. It elicits another purr, and I lift her onto the desktop in front of me. I place my hands between her thighs then push them apart before pressing my face between them. My tongue retraces the same path my finger took a moment ago, but at the top stops to explore the folds around her clitoris. At first, we’re both silent but as her bud emerges from its hood and I establish a rhythm, her breathing becomes audible. I move my hands to grasp her rear and feel one of her hands caressing the back of my head. As we continue, I sense her climax isn’t far away, and speed my tempo accordingly. My own arousal is such I wonder if I’ll come untouched.
Suddenly she pulls away from me, then places the heel of her hand on my forehead to push me back. She tells me it’s too early, that she wants to allow the tension to build through the evening, to make it as good as she possibly can later.
I’ve a sudden dislike for the concept of delayed gratification.
We kiss again, at her instigation, sharing the taste of her arousal. Then, she leads me back into the bedroom, where I present her with the stockings. She expresses delight, and doubly so when she realises they’re “hold ups” needing no suspender belt.
“Can I wear these tonight? They’d go perfectly with what I’d planned to wear”.
“And that is?”
She smiles, but doesn’t comment. Obviously she’s no intention of sharing any more than the minimum of information. Taking my assent for granted, she slips the stockings from their packaging, then crosses the room to sit on our bedroom chair. As she raises her leg to pull on the first of the stockings I had a clear view of her vulva, now obviously swollen with anticipation, the bulge shiny with my saliva and her own juices.
She pulls on the second, then stands to firmly seat the welts just an inch or so below the juncture of her thighs. They frame the “v” of her crotch perfectly. She runs fingers over her thighs, apparently relishing the feel of the soft silk. I can’t resist asking:
“You like them, don’t you?”
She nods. I persist:
“And I think you’re getting really excited about tonight, aren’t you?”
Several seconds pass before she replies:
“Of course I am. You know I always do.” A gap. “If I didn’t, we’d not be doing this, would we? “
She moves across the room, to the entrance to the dressing area."...
.....I recall her comments when this process first started. Her remarks about a new workmate, his immaturity and his self-confidence. He was a relatively junior technician, not someone with whom that she’d normally have had a great deal of contact. Despite this, there seemed to be a lot of conversation – on his part, always risque, often complementary, sometimes provocative. She’d respond in kind. He’d praise her legs. her style, her figure, then push her to show off a little more. Mostly, she would. From what I can gather, she responded in kind, and over time, he moved on to telling her of his sexual conquests. At some stage, she volunteered to join them.
She’s moved to the chest of drawers where she keeps her jewellery. She selects a pair of earrings – long and ornate – and puts them on. Next, she finds an ornate choker, of a design fashionable some years ago, but bedecked with tiny green stones. It blends perfectly with her eyes, and with the purple lace. It also emphasises the slimness of her neck. She slips bangles over both wrists. This is more jewellery than I think I’ve ever seen her wear.
Finally, she reaches into the drawer and brings out a ring-box. I recognise it. It’s the box in which she’s accustomed to keep wedding, engagement and eternity bands. They’re slipped onto her ring finger, and then joined on other fingers by a few, select costume pieces, mostly silver filigree. I’ve a sudden mental image of her in a few hours; lying on a rumpled bed, hair and make-up dishevelled, skin moist and glowing, naked but for choker and rings, and completely satiated.
I find that I’ve recovered the power of speech.
“You look utterly delectable. And unbelievably lecherous”
She moves to me, presses her soft breasts against me and puts her arms around my neck
“Is that the right word, for a female? I was aiming more at “indecent”, or maybe even “randy””
“You look all of those, and more”.
My erection is firm against her pelvis. She pushes against it.
“Good. Because that’s how I feel right now.” Randy, and lecherous, and lewd...actually, “randy” covers it well.”
She moves to kiss me, recalls her make-up, and checks herself. Instead, she moves her hand down to my groin and squeezes. I groan. She continues
“I’m looking forward to having this inside me. As deep as you can get it.”
I’m steel-hard. I reach around to her backside and slide up the lace, running my hands over the exposed flesh. It’s her turn to purr in response.
“You will. Tomorrow”
“Promise? Because I want that very much.”
“Promise. Make sure you’ve some energy leftover”
“I’ll make sure”"
.)
