Dressing for Dinner

Dressing for Dinner

1. She Accepts a Dinner Invitation

An email from my husband – in the middle of the day? This was not like him. Usually completely absorbed by his work, he sometimes even forgets to eat his lunch! It must be something untoward, urgent or unusual, so I opened the message immediately. No, nothing untoward or urgent but certainly something unusual! It was an invitation to dinner, of sorts, with some strange instructions:

"Hey! Bet you weren’t expecting an email from me. Just to let you know I have ordered home-delivery dinner for tonight. And early dinner OK? No particular occasion, but why don’t you get the candles on the table etc. I should be able to leave work about 3.30. Be back around 4."

This was followed soon after with another:

"Let’s get dressed up for dinner – it’s been a while since we did that. You soak in a long bath this arvo, if you have no clients. Luxuriate, pamper yourself… you deserve it. When you get out, you’ll find your dinner outfit on the back of the door of the guest room… right down to your underwear. Hope you like my choices! Looking forward to seeing much more of you… later this afternoon. Love U. x"

It sounded interesting, and intriguing… and a little out of character; his taking the initiative like this. Something to be encouraged, I thought. Positive feedback. Who knows, it might turn out to be quite exciting. After all, he’d chosen my wardrobe; I wondered what. It might provide an insight into what turned him on. 

I responded to his email immediately, with my agreement:

"Invitation to dinner graciously accepted. Thank you. I’ll be bathed and dressed, as requested, when you arrive this afternoon. But beware… I’ll be thinking about your dinner attire too!"

I thought choosing his outfit in return would be fun, and would show that I was a willing participant. I got a typically brief response:

"Excellent! xx"

“What’ll I dress him in?” I thought. I turned towards his dressing room cum study to have a look through his wardrobe for ideas. “And I’ll look through his drawers too,” I mumbled to myself. “I’m not going to choose just his top layer!”

I paused, thinking that I should first find out what he’d chosen for me. I went to the guest room, which I use as my dressing room, to see what was hanging on the back of the door. It was a surprise: his old DJ, right down to his maroon dickie-bow and matching satin cummerbund. Maybe this was what he was planning to wear. If so, where were my clothes? As I was about to turn towards the bedroom, a slip of paper pinned to the lapel caught my eye. It was a note:

Yes… this is for you, not me. I have my own. It’s a formal dinner, after all. The bow tie is the easy one – just hook it round. Choose your own shoes. Everything else (yes everything!) is here.

“So that’s what you are up to,” I thought. I remembered that once or twice he’d nervously intimated that he would get a thrill out of my dressing up in men’s clothes; nervous about my response perhaps. I'd thought it would be a fantasy well worth acting out, but had not got round to it. Now he was engineering it himself. I felt a little thrill of excitement between my legs with the prospect of turning him on by dressing as a guy, but it was mixed with a slight feeling of regret that I'd not created an opportunity myself before now, seeing he'd made himself vulnerable by revealing his fantasy. I find that willingness to share inner feelings to be very sexy in a man, but it is all too rare.

I looked through the dinner suit on the hangar. There were cufflinks in an inside pocket; struggling with those might be interesting. And the bulge in the outside jacket pocket was a pair of undies; black, silky, lycra. I caught myself thinking: “I’ve got nothing to fill out the front of these.” But he’d thought of that too. In the other pocket of the jacket was a strange shaped object that is difficult to describe. A ‘flaccid dildo’ might be most apt. It had a sort of a pouch resembling a scrotum with two egg-shaped bulges, and was about the size of a ‘British Standard Handful’; it actually nestled quite nicely in my hand. It appeared to be made of very soft chamois and I could feel the ‘balls’ inside move to my touch when I squeezed a bit. It was quite heavy, but just the right size and shape to nestle quite nicely in the front of his undies. “So I’m about to find out what it feels like to be the man,” I said out loud, “though it seems without the erection!”

It was way too soon to start dressing for dinner yet, though it was quite tempting. Feeling aroused by the look and feel of the cock he's created, and the thought that I’d soon be wearing it, I reckoned that a good soak in a hot, steamy bath would be in order. It would give my brain some freedom to relax, wander and fantasise; perhaps even come up with some ideas for dressing him for dinner. In one of my dresses, perhaps. Maybe even my underwear? No, that would be just mimicking what he'd arranged.

It was nearly 1.30, so I scampered downstairs for a bite of lunch while the bath was filling. I took the opportunity to get the table laid, the candles arranged in the dining room, and make sure there was a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge. Then back upstairs to the bath. It was hot and steamy. I tipped in some aromatic bath salts and stirred them around as I gingerly stepped in and slowly let my naked body descend into the water, inch by inch. This was going to be good.

There’s nothing like hot water to relax the body. And the mind. I put my head back on my little blow-up bath pillow, closed my eyes, and gave my brain permission to wander off on its own for a while: to imagine ahead to later in the afternoon and to plan something exciting and stimulating for him too. I don’t know whether I was asleep and dreaming, or in some sort of trance, or awake and just fantasising, but whatever it was, my subconscious created a very stimulating scene so intense that it seemed physically real.

Lying back in the warm bath, I started thinking about dressing myself in his DJ. I realised that my breasts would still show inside the dinner suit and wondered how I might deal with that. Then I came up with the ‘Dexter solution’… Gladwrap! I could almost feel the light touch of the plastic wrap across my breasts as my mind imagined wrapping it around myself. First cool, making my nipples stand up, then warming as it wrapped tighter. Then I imagined myself starting to dress; first arranging the standard handful in ‘my’ undies. I felt myself stepping into the undies and wriggling them up, snug except for the front, and then slipping the dildo thing down by belly and in under the elastic waistband. As I did, the smooth, flaccid cock and mobile bumps of balls started to feel connected to me somehow; a part of my own body. The sensation of my hands patting and arranging them through the undies was very real indeed. A definite tingle, a shock even, ran through my body as I imagined my fingers touching the end of that little penis beneath the stretch fabric of the undies. I stroked again, this time fondling and cupping the balls. I felt them move and the scrotum tighten. This feeling was not coming just through my hands, but also from deep within me, from somewhere near my clitoris, or maybe my g-spot. I shuddered. I took my hands away. I could still feel the pressure of the fabric against the penis as it started swelling. 

The sensations continued to come both from my hands and fingers, as they played and strayed, and also directly from the cock, balls and scrotum, through a connection somewhere deep inside my body. I slid my right hand inside the waistband of the undies and cupped my hand around the balls and encircled the growing penis with my thumb and forefinger, my other resting lightly on the outside, feeling the movements through the fabric. I reached right under the scrotum and tickled my perineum. That was very stimulating. Then back to grasp the now erect penis tightly. Through my fingers, I could feel it straining and twitching. From the inside, I felt a wonderful mixture of sensations; a build-up of pressure and desire inside against the hands and firm grasp of the fingers on the outside; an abandonment of control as the swelling and twitching passed the point of no return; flushing of my face and hardening of my nipples as the contractions started deep within my bum – first fast and impatient and then slower and powerful, exploding out of me. I held my breath, connecting with every sensation and relishing in the aftershock twitches deep in my body.

I opened my eyes slowly, looking around the bathroom. My left hand was cupped between my legs and my right across my chest resting on my left breast. I felt drained, warm and satisfied. As though I’d had an actual orgasm. I took a deep breath. This was all very nice, but there was much to be done. Nearly 3 o’clock and I’d been over an hour in the bath. I knew what I had to do next. I had ow  out what he was to wear tonight and I had phone calls to make to arrange it. I had to dress myself too, in preparation: oil my hair down and give it a parting, get those breasts smoothed down and bound up in Gladwrap, and even try to create a 5 o’clock shadow using make-up or eye-liner.

I had to go hunting too, hunting for some sex toys… the ones we didn’t use all that often. Now where did we put those? Maybe he’d put them in his bedside table, or maybe I hid them somewhere safe, like on the top of my wardrobe.

I went off to look.

 

2. He Does Some Errands

Ping! and Buzzzz. Text message from my wife. Will I pick some things up at the shops on my way home? Of course I can. I text back:

"What do need and from where? I should be on my way around 4."

The response was more than a little intriguing. I had to go to the clothes shop in the center of town, near the clock-tower roundabout. I knew it, as I'd accompanied her here once before, but clothes-shopping isn’t really my thing. My attempt to get more information wasn’t successful. She just wanted me to text when I got there. I wondered why.

Getting parking in the centre of town wasn’t as challenging as I had thought. I guess it’s still a bit quiet at 4 pm, when the shops are just opening up again after the afternoon break. The ‘Clock Tower Roundabout’ is a bit of a misnomer though. There’s no tower and no roundabout, but there used to be. Instead, the city planners had erected a large, sloping clock by the side of the intersection. A concession to history. I parked round the back of a row of shops, in a slip road, and walked towards the intersection, texting while I walked.

"I’m here… Where in the shop am I going?"

Ping! and Buzzzz, again.

"Second floor. Ask for Lisa. Asian shop assistant."

As I walked up the stairs, I was confronted by a huge floor of lingerie! Rack upon rack of it. An expanse of bras, panties, g-strings, stockings, body stockings, suspender belts, corsets – and things I’d never seen before and could only imagine how they might be worn! And what an over-saturation of colours; from the ‘traditional’ reds and blacks to shocking pinks and greens. Many with sparkles and bling; only to be expected in this part of the world.

I was getting nervous, as there were several local women browsing, and shooting me furtive glances. I felt that I shouldn’t be there. I could feel my heart rate rising and perspiration beading on my brow. And I could feel a slight swelling in my groin – a response to the feeling of daring, excitement, and risk. But I was on an errand. Ask for Lisa, the text had said. So, I found an assistant and asked for Lisa. “That’s me ma’am sir,” she said. “I help you?”

“Umm. Actually, my wife sent me here. I looked around somewhat helplessly, not sure what to do or say next. Lisa laughed: “You got rucky wife,” she said. “Man buy sexy underwear for her. What name you wife sir?”

“She’s called Joanne,” I replied. “Do you know her?”

“Yes. She called earlier today. I see her before too. Tall, sexy lady. She say you come in today and for me to help you choose sexy lingerie and get light size. But you choose. What you like?”

I had no idea. “Knickers,” I blurted out, embarrassed. “Sexy knickers.” I turned around to look for the knicker section, which was way off in the other corner, past the cashier counter. There were the two local ladies, deep in discussion about shocking pink bras, still turning to scowl at me from time to time. I scurried past them without looking up, feeling furtive.

Lisa scurried after me, quizzing me loudly about what type of knickers ‘sir wanted’. “We have new range sir. Vely good. Madam like. Vely good plice. Make madam feel vely sexy. You look? You buy this one… yes, madam be happy. If madam happy, she make sir happy!”

“OK, show me please.” She opened a large cardboard box that was under one of the display tables. A riot of colours jumped out as she pulled out pack after pack of French knickers, what I would call ‘boy-leg’ knickers. “Why are these so good?” I asked.

“They special lace, sir. Lace with lycra. Sticks to bum. Crings like second skin. Feels vely good to wear. Smooth, sexy. How many you want?”

I sorted through the cellophane packets, looking for a less ‘shocking’ colour. There! Black lace with pink ribbon ties at the sides and a pink bow at the front. I picked them out to look at the label. It said: These French knicker-style lace shorts have classic charm and utter sexiness all rolled into one. With beautiful floral lace & cute pink satin lace-up ribbon on each side, you will be hard to resist in these knickers, with the added allure of the crotchless opening - perfect for those planning a sexy revelation.

That’s it, I thought. My own crotch was already finding the thought of a ‘sexy revelation’ hard to resist! “How much for these,” I asked Lisa. After some bargaining, an essential part of purchasing anything in this part of the world, I texted:

"OK, done. Knickers. I like them. Hope u will 2. xxx"

 There was an immediate response.

"Not done yet. Sorry. Also want stockings. Like ones we looked at a while ago, with patterns. Same floor. You choose."

Stockings! I did recall our looking through a vast array of decorative stockings, tights, body stockings some time ago. Where was that again? I texted back:

"Onto it. Hope u know how much nervipation this is 4 me! X"  

Some time ago we'd coined the term 'nervipation' as a contraction of 'nervous anticipation''. Lisa appeared, just as I was losing courage and thinking of beating a hasty retreat before someone called the police to arrest me for stalking in the women's lingerie section. “I help you sir? You want something more?”

“Stockings,” I said. Looking pleased, she took me off down an aisle to a stack of shelves against the wall, packages spilling off onto the floor. What a bewildering array of options! Fortunately, the package on the top contained a pair of attractive, thigh-high, sheer black decorative stockings with a stay-up lace top adorned with pink bows – perfectly matching the ribbon on the knickers. “Yes these; they’re just right,” I said decisively; relieved to have been so quick. “How much?”

“No sir. Not yet! I know something that will go so well with this - to hold up the stockings. Come, come, come.”

Worried that this might be a real possibility, if I stayed longer any longer here, I followed meekly behind Lisa. She burrowed through some more cartons and emerged, triumphant, with what looked to me like a corset. “You wife, good breasts, yes?” This seemed a bit forward and personal, but I couldn’t disagree – she has. “Well, she will rove this push-up… see?” And she clasped her own breasts, one in each hand, and pushed them up and together. “See? Make creavage.”

Yes, I could see ‘creavage’, and way too much of it! I could feel my face flushing with embarrassment. I forced myself to shift my gaze from the cleavage to the ‘bustier’. It did look sexy. Black lace, with the same ribbon trim as the kickers, criss-crossed up the front with a bow at the top. And it had pockets sewn in to the bust, for inserting silicone gel pads. Lisa gave me a complete corset education in just a few moments!

“All one package, sir,” she said, “bustier and pads. How many pieces you want? I give you stockings, knickers and this… everything for vely good plice. OK?”

I was sweating… dripping actually. Definitely time to go. “Done!” I said, “Where do I pay?” She took me over to the cashier and talked and giggled with her, in Mandarin I supposed, as they folded and packed my purchases. I was relieved to be done.

As if my wife had been secretly watching from somewhere, the phone rang at that very moment. Maybe she was just being psychic.

“Hi there. I’ve had a great bath. Relaxing and stimulating at the same time. Actually very stimulating. I'll tell you about that later. Now I’m dressing for dinner… I'm impressed with your preparation, very imaginative! How is your shopping going? Are you done yet with the stockings?”

“Yes I am… knickers, stockings and more. I’ve got you a surprise! And very relieved I am to be done too.”

“Wasn’t it just a bit exciting?” she asked. I admitted that it was more than a bit exciting and volunteered that I'd found it arousing. “I’m on my way out of the store now. See you in 10 minutes or so.”

“No wait,” she responded. “One more thing. Go up to the next floor. The men’s section. Choose a couple of pairs of fashion jeans and a shirt and go and try them on. Text me a photo when you’ve got them on.”

I was much more at ease with this request, and set off up the stairs. I thought back to her email earlier this afternoon, when she said she’d be thinking about what I was to wear to dinner. “I’ll be in this,” I thought. “Some nice slacks and a dress shirt.” I looked at my watch. 5.15 pm. There was plenty of time as I’d ordered the dinner to be delivered around 6.

The array of men’s clothes was nowhere near as bewildering as the lingerie on the floor below, thank goodness. And there was no assistant in sight to help. Again, thank goodness. I preferred to look for myself without being asked what I was looking for… usually I didn’t know until I saw it anyway. This might be a fruitless task, I thought. However, I was lucky. A pair of dress jeans that looked OK and a nice shirt, labelled ‘contemporary style’. That usually meant way too tight for me, particularly around the chest. Worth trying, nonetheless.

I headed for the changing rooms, and tried them on. A pretty good fit, both of them. There was a long mirror in the change-room, which made it easy to get a photo on my phone, to text off, with a brief message.

Mission accomplished. What do you think?

I got an immediate response, and it took me aback.

"Buy them. But before you leave the change-room, open the things you just bought downstairs. Put them all on. You are dressing for dinner too! Then come home… quick. I’m horny. Xxx"

She’d been plotting this and the tables had been turned! Curiously, it was as if she’d read my mind, because somewhere in my subconscious I’d already been thinking about trying these on; wondering whether I was choosing lingerie for her to enjoy, for me to enjoy her wearing, or for me to enjoy wearing myself. I wondered whether men shopping for lingerie is always such a mix of motivations, or was it just me. Perhaps I was a closet cross-dresser!

I felt my erection growing as I read through her text message, and started to let my mind stray into imagining her lying in the bath getting turned-on and excited as she thought through what she was going to put me through. Did she find it stimulating, thinking through a scenario? Did she feel a tingling in her clitoris and a swelling of her labia as she imagined me choosing and trying on stockings and knickers? Had she been pleasuring herself as she pondered possibilities? How? Maybe a long bath, then a relaxing recline on the bed with the vibrator, tracing down between her breasts to between her legs. Buzzing, tantalizing, stimulating.

A knock on the door brought me back to reality. “Can I help you sir? Is size OK?”

“Yes… yes thanks,” I replied quickly. “Perfect. I’m just changing now and coming to the cashier.”

I quickly pulled off the slacks, worried that the drip of honey spreading in my undies might have made its way through to the pants I had not yet bought. Then I quietly unpacked the knickers and slipped one pair quietly out of the cellophane, and wriggled in to them. Lisa was right, they did hug my bum and ‘cringed like second skin… smooth, sexy and vely good to wear!’ In fact, every bulge was obvious, and one in particular was growing perceptibly. I tucked it inside the knickers and arranged it up along my belly, held in place with the tight stretch fabric. The crotchless design made this a bit of a challenge, as my balls slipped out through the gap. Very uncomfortable! Some rearranging and wriggled positioned the gap further back, so the tight fabric of the knickers held them precariously in place.

“Quick,” I told myself, “now the stockings.” That was much easier. And then my pants over the top, checking how obvious my erection was, and finally my shoes. I didn’t bother about my socks.

Now for the corset thingy. How was I going to get that on? Fortunately it fastened at the front and the criss-cross lacing was functional. I tied it tightly on and slipped the silicone pads into my trouser pockets – a ‘chicken breast’ in each pocket! Then I collected my purchases and headed off to pay for my trousers and shirt.

The trip back home was a bit nerve-wracking, wondering what would happen if I’d had an accident, or tripped up and had to be examined in a hospital. Cross-dressing would probably not be looked on favourably! But I made it home without event.

As I drove up to the carport, I noticed someone leaving through the front gate. “Who is that?” I wondered. Then I remembered I’d ordered dinner. That’s who that will have been. It gave me an idea though; I’d arrive through the front door as well, to surprise her. I wondered if she’d have taken up the ‘dinner-suit challenge’.

I unbuttoned my shirt, slipped the silicone chicken breast fillets out of my pockets, and wriggled them into their inserts, pushing my little man-boobs up and together, giving me a hint of a cleavage. Enough that I couldn’t do up the top two buttons of my shirt; that would have to do. I wriggled around to get my now subdued penis into a comfortable position, hoped my balls had not worked their way into the crotchless part of the knickers, and rang the doorbell.

 

3. She Welcomes a Guest(s)

The front door bell rang. This was him now. 'Nervipation' for me too! I straightened my bow tie and arranged my ‘wedding tackle’ in my undies. It produced a quite distinct bulge in my pants but I jiggled it round so that it was not so obvious as to be clearly fake. A glance in the mirror revealed that my attempt at a 5 o’clock shadow was passable. I knew that he’d be in a fine state, after what he’d been through, so he wouldn’t be looking too closely.

I had a long dress ready in the guest bathroom, near the front door, for him to put on immediately he stepped into the hallway. And a wig too. One I’d bought years ago for a fancy-dress party. It would be an interesting pre-dinner drink, that’s for sure, and I was getting stimulated just thinking about it!

I opened the door with a flourish and a broad smile, getting ready to deepen my voice to greet him. But it wasn’t him!

“Good evening sir,” said an Indian voice. “Home delivery from Mandelicious.”

I blushed deeply, quite taken aback, and stammered “Oh… yes, yes. How much?” Fortunately the light was not great on the front step and I stepped further back into the foyer as he smoothed out the bill, peered at it in the dim light, and told me the total

I went back into the kitchen to my purse, found the right money and walked back to the front door, as male-like as I could. “Here,” I said deeply. “Keep the change.” He thanked me profusely and turned away. I shut the door and leant back against it, trembling and giggling.

That could have been worse. It could have been the guy from the laundry. He knows us both, and I’m sure I didn’t look like either of us! I’d no sooner taken the food into the kitchen than the front doorbell rang again.

More wary this time, I crept up to the door and looked through the peep-hole, fully expecting to see the laundry man, and wondering how I would deal with that. I’d pretend to be out, I thought. But no, it was a strange looking man, somewhat like my husband, but with definite breasts, a cleavage, and some form of black and pink singlet showing through the white of his business shirt.

I opened the door with a deep “Welcome home Honey… what took you so long?”

“Well, trying on women’s underwear is not as easy as you might think!” he retorted. “I’ve had a challenging afternoon, thanks to you. Way outside my comfort zone.”

“But was it exciting?” I asked.

“Exciting, yes,” he responded. “ Nerve-wracking, yes. Stimulating and arousing, definitely! You really got your own back, didn’t you. And now I really need a drink”

“Well, you’re not done even yet,” I said, and gestured to the downstairs bathroom. “That’s your changing room. In it you’ll find your dinner dress, a new hairdo, perfume, clip-on earrings, some other jewellery and, oh yes, lipstick. Off you go!”

I waited impatiently and listened to the mumbling and struggling coming from the bathroom. After what seemed like an age, he emerged somewhat flushed. I must say he looked pretty good, and I found his self-consciousness very arousing. “Good enough to seduce,” I said to myself under my breath. But how would a seduction work, I wondered. I’ll have to make a mental shift to think of myself as the man, to feel and act like the dominant one in a sexual liaison, and to think of him as the woman. Confusing. And challenging.

He interrupted my thoughts, with a plaintive “help”. He had the tube of lipstick in his hand, looking defeated. “Here, let me help you with that,” I said, thinking that the addition of lipstick would aid in the sex-change that was needed in my mental processes. ‘He’ was about to become ‘she’ in this seduction.

With that, I tucked her hand into my arm and escorted her into the living room, where a glass of Prosecco awaited.

 

4. He Gets Down to Dinner

Wow! She was prepared, that’s for sure. I’d been surprised by the lingerie excursion and especially having to put it on before I got home, but the dress, wig, perfume and even lipstick revealed a serious amount of planning and imagination. I wondered if she been as horny as a result of her planning as I’d been while concocting my plan, preparing her dinner suit, building her ‘men’s bits’, and emailing her the instructions from work. Even emailing her caused a stirring of my cock and some seepage.

She looked the part in the DJ. Dapper… even manly. I could go for ‘him’, even if I'd been a real woman I reckoned. And I felt an erection starting to develop, despite being tightly constrained by the stretch fabric of the sexy women’s knickers I was wearing. Yes, I was up for a bit of role playing. I hoped that ‘he’ was up for it too. I took a big swallow of Prosecco, leaving a clear lipstick print on the rim of the glass. 

Now there was a problem to be solved; how to sit down elegantly while wearing a long dress and holding a champagne glass. Not easy, but I navigated it. I had rearranged the bustier and inserts to give myself something of a cleavage. Not a lot, but it showed at the neckline of my dress. I wondered if he’d noticed the ‘creavage’. It was the wig, more than the corset, that really made me feel that I was someone else. More than the stockings, knickers or corset even, perhaps because they were covered and not an external expression of sexuality. I found myself automatically playing with my hair and flicking it to one side when I talked.

I looked over at the dapper man on the sofa next to me, and wondered what role he was building for himself… husband, lover, gigolo? Even transvestite! He looked handsome, at ease and self-assured. More than I felt myself. He was wearing that DJ like he was well used to it. There was no sign of a bust pressing against the inside of the jacket, but a distinct swelling in the crotch. It looked quite a bit bigger than the British Standard Handful that I had constructed earlier, and I wondered if he’d augmented it a bit; with tissues, or a sock. In any case, he seemed pleased to see me as his eyes looked me up and down.

“I like your dress,” he said. “It suits you. You should undo a couple more buttons to reveal a bit more of your cleavage. And that necklace sits very well there. Sexy”

Strangely enough, my cheeks starting to flush with his compliments. I felt as though I wanted to please him, to do what he wanted - whatever that might be. Is that a female response? Where was it coming from? I unfastened a couple more buttons, trembling a little out of nervousness, arousal or anticipation, I’m not sure which. The neck of my dress fell open on the right to reveal the top of my pushed up breast, squeezed up by the silicone insert and framed by the black lace and pink trim of the bustier. Looking down, I could see the top of my nipple peeking out, and wondered if he could see it too. Instantly I could feel both my nipples hardening and then a moistening between my legs. The familiar warm feel of a drop of honey squeezing out.

I looked up. Yes, he was looking at my breasts and he must have been able to see the exposed nipple. I could hear an intake of breath and he exhaled slowly. “Stunning,” he said. “Play with them, pinch them, tickle them. Dip your fingers in your Prosecco and moisten them. I want to watch.”

I lowered my eyes to avoid his gaze, embarrassed at what he’d asked me to do and by how intently he seemed to be focussed on my breasts. I put my glass down, dipped my two forefingers into the Prosecco, and slowly moved the cold, moist finger tips toward my nipples. They reacted instantly to the cold by hardening and swelling almost painfully. I pinched them between forefingers and thumbs, which caused an indescribable sensation in my groin, as if there was an electrode there on my most sensitive part, and touching my nipples completed the circuit and released an electric current. I used my finger tips to explore delicately around the nipples, finding out exactly the locations which set off the current.

I kept the angle of my gaze at around his waist and was again surprised at the size of the bulge in his crotch. It seemed to angle upwards and to the left, and was pushing against the inside of his fly. His hand came up and pressed hard against the swelling, rearranging it a little as if it were uncomfortable, or maybe trapped in a pubic hair. But he kept his hand there, moving up to the zip, undoing it slowly and sensually. I could feel another oozing of warm sticky fluid in my own crotch.

“Come over here!” he ordered, exuding certainty about what he wanted and confidence that he was going to get it. “Kneel down here on the sheepskin rug,” he said, “And stroke my cock.”

I knelt down in front of him and looked up at his face, past his hand cupped inside his open fly and the swelling in his crotch, to his encouraging smile. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked. “Taken a cock in your mouth and sucked it off?”

“No never,” I answered truthfully. I had sometimes wondered what it’d be like to go down on a cock. I knew well enough what it felt like to have mine sucked, what movements of tongue and lips were most stimulating to me, but I’d never actually done it to someone else. When I raised my hands and slid them up his thighs, he removed his hand from his crotch and leaned back a little, once again exhaling slowly and deliberately, with his eyes closed.

“I have power,” I thought to myself. He was clearly affected by the sensations my movements were creating, and he was getting aroused. I moved my right hand up and into his fly and traced the outline of his cock through his undies. The swelling inside felt hard and long; nothing like what I had constructed.

I brought my other hand up and fiddled for the button at his waistband, releasing it. His DJ trousers fell open and I pulled them from under his bum and down past his knees. I slid my hands round to his bum and pulled him towards me, with my face pressed against his crotch. I hooked my fingers in to the waistband of his undies and pulled them out to release the cock within. It sprang out, as though actively delighted to have been released from solitary confinement. It was the strap-on dildo I’d bought some time ago and had hidden away, waiting for the right time to bring it out and then forgotten about completely. I wondered fleetingly where she (now ‘he’) had found it, and but quickly pushed that thought aside and returned to the job in hand.

I was really turned on now, with the sight of this appendage right at face level. I grasped the shaft near to its base and squeezed, sliding my hand up and down a little. It felt quite real; a little narrower that the cock I was used to but just a smooth and a bit more flexible. I got a surprise when I could feel a slight buzzing as I squeezed. “Ahhh,” I thought, I’ll bet one of those small vibrating bullets is in there somewhere. I wondered where it was, and whether it was stimulating for him as I moved the cock in my hand. I looked up again at his face. He was watching intently and let our a moan of pleasure as my hand slid up and down, eyelids drooping a bit as he focussed on what I was doing.

“Suck me,” he said. Take me in your mouth. I want to see it.” When he could see me hesitating, he added: “Go on, do it!”

Suppressing my inhibitions, I let the moment take me, and I started tonguing the shaft, starting at the base, where the harness strap went between his legs, making sure that he could see my lipsticked lips and flicking tongue around his erect cock. I licked all the way to the tip and then pursed my lips right around it, still holding the base of the shaft with one hand, feeling the persistent buzzing of the vibrator. My other hand slipped around his bum, low down, with my finger tips sliding between his legs.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I moved my head down, letting my lips slide firmly along the shaft and feeling the firm ‘flesh’ of the erection sliding against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. It was an amazing sensation; somehow fulfilling and certainly arousing. Though I could no longer see his face, the squirming I could feel with the hand that was between his legs suggested that he was aroused too. Then I felt his hands gently touching my hair; stroking gently, and then more firmly cupping against the back of my head, preventing me from moving back, though not pressing me down further onto his erection.

“More.” I heard him say. So many sensations were tumbling in on each other: the feel of the erect phallus against my lips tongue and now the back of my throat; the feel of his squirming bum as my fingers slipped further round and into the crack; the firm pressure of his hands on my head. My heart started pounding as it dawned on me that he wanted me to deep throat him. Could I do this?

“When you feel like gagging, just tilt your head back further, breathe in through your nose, relax as you breathe out. And swallow; that will help it slide down more easily.”

Oh yes… I wanted to do this. I really needed to deep throat him. I wanted to make him come; to feel his orgasm. As I tilted my head back to take in every last inch of him, holding tight onto his bum with both hands now to control his movements as well as my own, I could feel him tensing, tightening the grasp of his hands on my head, twitching as if in the throes of orgasm, and then relaxing. His legs were trembling as I slid my mouth back along his still erect phallus, and he slumped back down onto the couch.

“Wow!” he gasped after a few moments. “That was an incredible experience, watching you do that. What a turn-on. And you shall be rewarded.”

I already felt rewarded, with a serious leakage of honey lubricating my still-throbbing cock inside the tight clutch of my knickers. I was close to coming myself. I’d been close to coming for ages… it seemed like it might have been hours.

He seemed to be recovering quickly, and sat down on the couch. He untied his shoes so as to be able to kick off his pants.

“Take off your dress,” he ordered.

A little more of my underwear was revealed with each unbuttoning, first revealing my propped-up bust (and the generous covering of chest hair, which I tried to ignore), then the bustier, then the knickers, with my straining but constrained erection clearly visible through the sheer fabric, in the middle of a spreading dark patch of leakage. Amazingly, the knickers had stayed firm in place, with my balls still tightly captured below my cock. The missing crotch was still positioned over my perineum and bum.

“Lie back on the couch,” he said.

I sprawled there, dressed only in my stockings, knickers and corset, watching as he squeezed a dollop of lubricant from a small container and started smearing it up and down his phallus, before handing it to me, adding: “This is for you… you apply it.”

I was confused. Apply it where? To my entrapped cock?

He seemed to sense my confusion, and added: "Well, you don't want this to be painful do you? Where do you think I'm going to fuck you?!" 

I swallowed nervously, but did as he asked, smearing lubricant around my ass. He was still acting forcefully confident and seemed to be enjoying the thought that he was going to have his way with me whether or not I was well lubricated. I was being completely compliant.

He lifted my legs up and positioned the leather pouf/footstool beneath them, and the pulled me down so I was lying flat, with my head up against the back of the couch and my legs off the edge of the pouf. He knelt down between my knees, spreading my legs apart and lifting them up to raise my bum up, deftly slipping a cushion under me. I felt exposed and vulnerable, but at the same time excited and nervous.

I clutched my knees and closed my eyes. I could feel his fingers exploring through the gap in the crotchless knickers, slipping over the lubricant and locating the smooth skin around my anus. It contracted involuntarily at the touch, and pulled away, but at the same time it felt very stimulating. I forced myself to relax, willing him to keep going, to keep exploring. Then I felt the cool and slippery end of his phallus against my bum cheeks, as his fingers guided it slowly, inexorably toward my hole. Again it contracted tightly, but he kept up a firm, steady pressure until I relaxed and in it slipped.

He stopped as his cock came up against stronger resistance, deeper inside me. He pulled back a little, and then a bit more. ‘No… not all the way out,’ my mind was willing him. He must have heard, subconsciously, as he started sliding in again, slowly. And further this time. Again he reached strong resistance as my inner sphincter tightened. He didn’t move; just kept up the steady pressure. Involuntarily, I felt myself bearing down, and all in a rush I relaxed, giving way to the new sensations, totally accepting the whole length of him, sucking him in with all my inner muscles. It was such an incredible, overwhelming feeling of abandonment and intimacy. I was so ripe that I could feel myself starting to contract rhythmically, with the contractions in my bum squeezing around his cock as my orgasm built up and up, culminating in a wonderful, exhausting, hot ejaculation, into my knickers.

I lay there glowing and panting, as he slowly withdrew, stepped out of the harness, pulled up his pants and tucked in his shirt.

“I’m hungry. It’s time to sit down to dinner.”

I was hardly able to move, feeling flushed and deliciously drained of energy, as well as precious bodily fluids! But I stirred myself to action and put my dress back on, rearranged my bustier and fastened a couple more buttons at the neck of my dress. I felt very dishevelled. I collected the champagne glasses, joined him at the table, and poured us both another drink. He turned to smile at me, and leaned over to smooth down my hair.

“Was that good for you?” he asked. I could only nod.

“Let’s eat,” he said. And he picked up a little bell that was on the table in front of him and rang it loudly. I looked quizzically at him, wondering if I, the wife, should go in to get the dinner. He stopped me as I was about to stand.

“Relax. I thought this romantic dinner you invited me to would be so much better if we were served at the table, so I’ve arranged for a waitress. She's already here, in the kitchen, just waiting for me to ring the bell!"

 

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