Wife’s fantasy becomes reality

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Brunette

Every year, my wife and I had dinner and a debrief. We got dressed up in our ‘going out’ outfits. We found a babysitter. We talked about plans for the future, and thought about what had gone well – and not so well – during the past year. We marvelled at how we had created three children together in 6 years, which – in hindsight – was both a brave and an exhausting thing to do! We held hands and reflected on how through all of our ups and downs, as a couple we mostly stayed close and worked together. There had been times when one or the other of us had slept in the spare room amid some shouting matches, true, but we always found our way through. And we smiled at each other like teenagers over the diner plates when we were reminded of the explosive makeup sex, which we agreed was always totally worth the arguments.

Elllie had maintained an incredible figure, even after she had given birth to and fed three babies. I did my best to never miss an opportunity to compliment her looks, her amazing personality and how important she was – both to me and to our family too. For as long as I had known her, she had always been beautiful – with a naturally square jaw, large green eyes and youthful, smooth skin. Ellie was still petite at 35, with shapely legs, toned bum, upper arms and hips and a flat stomach – with a few sexy stretch marks to remind us both of how strong her body had been, and remained. Her ‘battle scars’, as we called them. And, oh my god, her breasts… naturally slightly lower now than in her 20s, but perky, on the larger side and with gorgeous nipples which hardened up nicely under my tongue. When reclining on her side , I always thought that she looked like a Titian or a Goya renaissance nude. My very own real life oil painting. And a woman very in tune with her body, and her sexuality.

I was mostly pleased with my figure these days too. Gone was the gawky, pale, overly thin chain smoker of last decade. In his place was a healthier, if somewhat heavier, grown man – with more muscular biceps and pecs, and legs which looked less like they had been borrowed from a sparrow. Ellie would love to stand next to me in the evening candlelight at our full length mirror, her hands stroking down over my chest and arms, telling me how much more attractive my bulkier body was to her than the skinny boy she had taken into her bed in the past.

On our annual reviews, we both loved to reminisce after a few glasses of wine – about how we met, the kinds of scrapes we used to get into together and more often than not, about some of the more explicit encounters we had shared…

I met Ellie when we were both in our early 20s. I remember thinking that she had a faint air of disapproval about her whenever we talked – she would wrinkle her nose slightly, and avoid eye contact. We would engage in awkward chats on the staircase, or when bumping into each other as we turned a corner on the way to a meeting room or other. She often seemed keen to get away, back to her desk and the administrative tasks which gave her so much satisfaction. I remember thinking an awful lot about the buttons of the blouse she wore to work, and the slight tension they usually seemed to be under when I allowed my gaze to – in my mind, casually – drift down over them.

I was no expert, but to my horny young mind her blouse seemed a little too tightly fitted for what was contained within it. And God knows I spent plenty of time thinking about opening it up to double check that theory, and what I hoped we would do next. But first Ellie would need to give me the time of day, of course, and the chances of that happening seemed remote. She was a very good girl at work, prim in her pink skirt, translucent tights and sensible flats. The kind of girl who would never dream of wearing a black bra under a white shirt when she was in the office. Someone who worried about the appropriateness of the length of her skirts. And just the kind of girl I could easily fall madly in love – and lust – with. If only there was a way to get her to loosen up a little, maybe over a drink or two. Or three. Or four.

As luck would have it, a few months after our first awkward office encounter, a colleague organised some leaving drinks and we were both invited. I made a point to sit, nonchalant, on the arm of a leather sofa opposite her chair, so we could make eye contact and small talk. The pub was loud, and so we had to lean in close to be heard. We had hardly said more than a few sentences to each other at work, but that night we had lots to talk about. And before the night was over it turned out that Ellie was similarly interested in the buttons of my work outfits – in particular, the top button of my smart grey work trousers… and all the buttons of my Italian cotton shirt with its stylish black stripe at the collar and cuffs. And – being as her blouse was somewhat overly tight – I did the gentlemanly thing and helped her out of it.

And so here we were, in some fancy restaurant neither of us had beylikdüzü ucuz escort ever heard of – on our third glass of wine, talking about our shared successes, failures, sexual experiences and – particularly after the second and third glasses – our unfulfilled secret fantasies.

Ellie looked incredible tonight. She had on a green dress, cut slightly low at the front, with a white lace collar which sloped invitingly down and then back up again, like a stream of material, over her cleavage. I could make out the single freckle, a little friend of mine from many times past, on the slope of her left breast. Her makeup was subtle, but the eyebrow pencil and mascara drew attention to, and accentuated, her beautiful eyes and lashes. I could see that she had chosen earrings which I had bought as an anniversary gift, carved silver, which dangled and danced daintily as she spoke. Her legs, not too thin, shapely, strong, just as I liked them, were clad in sheer black tights, and my cock twinged slightly as I pictured the wide band of see-through material, which I knew would be clinging to the tops of her smooth thighs. A slit on the dress ran up the side of one leg as she sat across from me, revealing a half-hidden calf and single foot, pulled loose from her shiny black, heeled shoe. The other silky foot was running up and down the calf of my left leg, distracting me from whatever she was currently saying to me!

“What do you think?”

Ellie took a long sip of her Merlot, and looked expectantly over at me, her foot temporarily paused against my instep, toes absently rubbing against my ankle, a sexy smile twisting across her pretty claret lips. I drank with her, and smiled back, stalling for time and trying to ignore the bulge that had developed in my lap. I was consciously and desperately trying to keep my eyes on her face only, always above her hemline, in a futile attempt to calm myself down. I realised, too late, that urging myself not to picture the tights on her upper thighs was an enormous own goal, and I shifted slightly in my seat, adjusting my napkin with practiced movements, to cover what felt like an increasingly obvious trouser malfunction beneath.

“I think you’re fucking amazing” I finally replied, and fired off my most winsome smile. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“You’ve been staring at my tits again haven’t you? I can tell you haven’t been properly listening!” she cocked an eyebrow at me, and this time took a gulp of the wine.

“Just in case you need me to refresh the key points then, darling” and she gave me a gentle little kick on the calf with her bare foot. “Listen this time! I was asking whether you think I’m getting past it… you know. Maybe I’m too old to try to be sexy or whatever? It’s funny, I used to think 30 was ancient when I was a teenager, and I used to think it was strange that my mum and aunts would get all dressed up and go out at their age… and I’m well past that point myself now! I just worry sometimes when we go out like this that I’m pretending to be something I’m not, you know?”

“Don’t be ridiculous – you’re incredible. You’re clever, sexy, and great company. In fact, I’ve seen at least three guys check you out tonight already so…”

she half-coughed, half-laughed and took hurried another sip of wine, before looking up at me, a surprised smile on her face.

“Who? Which guys? Come on, spill the beans babe.”

I glanced around the restaurant, then paused while a bored looking eastern European waiter arrived to ask how our meal had been and take some plates away. Then, leaning close in a conspiratorial whisper I filled her in.

“The dude sitting with his – wife probably? She’s got a red and black skirt on, and one of those really OTT frilly tops, kind of purple… sitting to our right, a little behind you. He stared at your bottom when you went to the ladies room a few minutes ago, then pretended he was looking at that rubbish landscape print on the wall by the door.”

The man in question was probably in his late forties, with an unsightly paunch, and had at least one tomato sauce stain on his shirt. I waited as Ellie oh-so-casually leaned back in her chair to check the couple out, then leaned back in, a slight grimace on her face.

“Oh, you could have started with a less-gross one! You’re meant to be trying to build up my self-esteem, remember?!” She glared at me, then dissolved into tipsy laughter, leaning further forward over the white table cloth, her breasts sitting delicately on the table edge, affording me and enviable view down the front of her dress. I cleared my throat awkwardly, and shifted the napkin again, my mouth suddenly very dry.

“What do you mean?” I responded, in mock outrage, “I’m sure that guy is very personable when you get to know him – probably got hundreds of anecdotes about times he spilled sauces on himself.” We both giggled loudly, trying and failing to keep our composure, ignoring beylikdüzü üniversiteli escort the glances from nearby tables. Finally, Ellie shook her head and sighed loudly, before continuing in a voice that was slightly too loud for the quality of restaurant we had booked.

“Ok, you said at least three guys, so who else is there? And they had better be fucking hot this time or I’m leaving!” I shushed her, laughingly, and grabbed a hand between mine, rubbing my fingers over the diamonds in her engagement ring.

“Language, sweet! You’ll be answering to that stern Polish waiter if you keep dropping those F bombs, and I’m pretty sure he kicks people out for less… anyway, are you ready? Composed? Ok, the next guy was sitting at the bar when we came in – I was catching you up after checking our coats and when I walked in I’m pretty sure he was about to come up to you and introduce himself. He was – you know. Tall, dark, handsome… etc.”

She gasped, her hand clenching mine tighter, the tip of her tongue pushed against her top lip, and a big, satisfied smile lit up her face. “Oh my god, I remember who you mean! I totally noticed him when I was waiting for you. The guy in the tux, looked like he had been at a wedding? With the shaved head? Oh god, he was really fucking hot actually, I totally would have, babe”.

“Would have what?!” I feigned outrage, frowning at her and pointing – though we had been together plenty long enough to be comfortable having those types of conversations and – as I said earlier – my wife was a woman very much in touch with her sexuality. And very good at getting what she wanted.

“You’re a married woman, remember!” I wagged my finger playfully, taking the opportunity to refill our glasses, and splashing a little over the rim of hers, staining the tablecloth. I pulled the candle round to cover the mark, and looked up at her, as she leaned in close and whispered her response.

“Well, I would… have… done… anything he liked, really” she breathed deeply, fluttering her eyelashes and settled back dreamily in her chair, eyes raised to the ceiling, chest heaving dramatically, imagination apparently in overdrive.

“That’s one of mine” she said suddenly, looking up at me intently from the depths of the embroidered armchair. “That’s one of my fantasies. You were asking earlier, and I was too shy to tell you, but I’m horny and drunk now so…”

I took a moment, swirling the rest of my wine around my glass, trying to work out whether to order another bottle, then responded.

“So you’re saying that It’s your fantasy to fuck some hot guy you met at a bar? Because, and I don’t for one second mean to imply that you have had anything but an honourable and chaste life to date babes, but I suspect that you’ve potentially in a few moments of weakness already done that a few times, in the past I mean?”

She tilted her head, to one side, and broke eye contact.

“No, that’s not what i’m saying at all. And yes, I’ve screwed more than one random hot guy I met in a bar, and enjoyed it, and I’m not ashamed of it either thank you very much. I meant us, a well-to-do married couple, meeting strangers in a bar together and… you know. Flirting a bit. And… stuff.” She paused, suddenly thoughtful. “I think we need more wine. Waiter! More of this lovely wine please!”

People were definitely looking over at us now, and a few were chuckling to each other. I didn’t care – I was drunk, we were out, and this was fun. Our waiter turned up remarkably quickly, another Merlot already uncorked and ready to go. Talk about efficient service… Ellie and I clinked glasses, then assented to the waiter’s suggestion that we take our drinks and relax in the bar area while he cleared our table away. I agreed quickly, if only to remove myself from the crime scene of the spilled red wine incident of 30 minutes earlier, and I took the opportunity to squeeze Ellie’s waist, and then her bum, as I walked her to the bar.

“I’ll be right back” I told her once we had settled at a table in the far corner, and made my way to the bathroom to freshen up. The corridor was lined with ornately framed ‘countryside gazette’ articles about home counties goings-on: births, university graduations (as if that’s really noteworthy enough to spill ink over) and what to me sounded suspiciously like arranged marriages between the children of various landed gentry. More than one of the images featured people standing next to and cuddling horses, almost suggestive of the idea that graduation had been achieved with additional equine support. An emotional support horse, for the exam room, perhaps? I snarked to myself as I walked back to the bar. A horse un the exam room… sounded messy, to be honest, though I imagine Oxford has had to deal with far worse from the Bullingdon boys.

As soon as I entered the bar, I knew something was up. Ellie had one of her expressions on her face. beyoğlu escort She looked a bottle of champagne, trying to contain herself, but with a very loose cork, she found herself on the verge of bursting out of the bottle and splashing everywhere… I made to sit down, eager to see what had provoked these stratospheric levels of excitement. Before I managed it, she was whispering frantically to me: “They’re. Back. He’s back! I can’t believe it, my knickers are a bit wet already!”.

She gulped, suddenly embarrassed by her over-share, then grabbed my wrist and pulled me down into the seat next to hers, rubbing my hand over and over with barely-contained excitement. She looked at me, her eyes bright; a wide, manic, drunken smile on her face. I looked intently at her.

“What – Are – You – On – About?” I asked, taking the opportunity to glance around to check no one was watching, before placing my hand lightly at the top of her inner thigh. As I did so, her legs slipped slightly further apart, welcoming me on board, then she crossed one over the other, primly pulling her dress up, out, and over – but keeping my hand in place. I could at once feel the smooth softness of her thigh, in contrast to the slight roughness of the material, and the firmness with which the opposing thigh was keeping my fingers locked in place.

She leaned back into the depths of her chair, licked her lips, and then murmured into my ear.

“Nine o clock, over behind that pot plant. The one on the raised – what do you call it? – the raised plinth-thing. That sexy tux guy is back. And he has a sexy little black dress girl with him” she could barely contain her excitement. “And I’m fair-ly sure that they’ve been eye-contact flirting with me since they arrived. And I’m also 100% sure that I’ve been flirting back. And I’m really fucking turned on right now, like seriously fucking turned on honey. To the point where I’ve literally had to check to make sure my nipples aren’t visibly poking through this dress. You’re going to need to give me a really good seeing-to later, no holds barred babes, I really need you to show me who’s boss, ok? A proper hard fucking, I’m giving consent in advance in case I get too drunk.”

She giggled at her own joke, as her hand dropped to the arm of my chair. Then further down, directly into my lap. She smiled triumphantly as her knuckles grazed over the swell of my erect cock, pushing prominently up against the front of my suit trousers. “I need you to promise me a good shag right now! And no excuses! That’s assuming, of course, that I don’t choose to go home with him…(she cocked an eyebrow at me, feeling my cock throb against her hand) “Or with her. Or with both or them…”

I gasped at this, half amazed, half turned on. What on earth was in that wine?

“What?! a girl can dream, can’t she?” And she sighed again, her legs parting slightly, moaning gently as my hand immediately – and obediently – slipped up to the front of her tiny black knickers. I knew what she wanted, and I wasn’t about to deny her. She didn’t check to see if anyone was nearby – at this point she really didn’t care whether anyone could see or hear her, or whether we might be asked to leave.

My sexually adventurous wife, half lying on her chair in full view of another couple, eyes half closed, wine glass perched between fingertips, was asking me urgently not to stop. And fantasising about two strangers who were now looking over, across the bar.

I rubbed the tip of my forefinger over the front of her knickers, pushing insistently, feeling for the intense heat and slight dampness that I knew I would find if I searched well enough. Taking a casual sip of my wine with my other hand, I used her breathing and tiny gasps as an audible roadmap, and before long I was tracing intricate circles over and around her clitoris, through the black material, as she squirmed in her seat. She placed her wine glass down on an occasional table, and her hands – from force of habit – fell to her chest, fingers against her collarbones, then began to slip down over the front of her dress. Her gasps became more urgent as my finger moved more quickly, applying firmer pressure and I heard a familiar, slightly strangulated moaning start up in the depths of her throat as she started moved to the very edge of her orgasm, her body edging past the point of no return.

As she climaxed, gasping and trying to stifle her moans behind her hands, someone cleared their throat and a chair scraped immediately adjacent – and uncomfortably close – to our table. Ellie’s eyes flew open. She suddenly sat up straighter, still coming, whilst trying to adjust the hem of the dress. I glanced up, to see the smiling faces and expensive looking black formal clothes of the other couple, asking if we minded if they joined us.

“Yes!”. “Fine!”. Ellie and I blurted out over each other, than laughed and tried to regain our composure, our breathing still coming suspiciously fast, Ellie’s chest and face patchily pink with the flush of her orgasm. They introduced themselves as Josh and Allie. I shook his hand without getting up. My other hand was still locked away under my wife’s dress. Allie leaned in to kiss Ellie on both cheeks, her hands resting gently on Ellie’s shoulders, which were still pulsing with urgent heat and must have felt red-hot to the touch.

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