Jill , Tim’s Story Ch. 01

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Athletic

Tim

AS is the case with most couples, the early days of our marriage were spent in confirming the tastes and attitudes of each other, finding the things each of us enjoyed doing.

One quick compatability we found was Jill loving to “tease” and turn-on men — and my love of watching her do so. For safety’s sake, this is not something she ordinarily does at work; there she dresses pleasantly, attractively but, in the main, conservatively (although there are a few guys there who would slash their throats if they knew how often she’s worked all day in garterbelt and hose, pantyless)..

While, on rare occasions, she’ll wear a slit skirt or dress to work — or a demi-bra that leaves them wondering whether she’s wearing a bra or not, the way her breasts stand proud and her nipples make mini-mounds in her blouse, sweater or shell — it’s after 5 o’clock and on weekends that she really Does Her Thing.

Step One is hose and rather high heels, especially ankle straps, plus her gold ankle bracelet. If we’re going to be out in public — especially if we’re going to a shopping mall — it’s tight skirts, tennis outfits or skating dresses with their little microskirts. Women give her dirty looks and men drool as they walk into posts. If it’s something like a dinner or convention or a restaurant, it’s highly slit skirts and dresses — front, side, back slits . .. makes no difference: her lovely legs are on display at all times. If the blouse or dress is of a thin material, she’ll make sure she’s bra-less or, again, the demi-bra with its push-up pads and no coverings over her sensitive, proud nipples.

We love it and calmly pass on to each other the reactions we see around us.

At home, things get a bit more blatant, exactly how blatant depending on who’s visiting us at the time. If it’s guys from the various social groups to which we belong, Jill’s usual outfit is sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose, heels . . and a thin, tight leotard with nothing else beneath it but Jill! (She’s been known to wear this outfit when a couple’s been over just to watch the guy trying not to stare while his wife/girlfriend comes to a slow boil because he’s doing a lousy job of it).

If it’s a stranger we’ll probably never see again — or a salesman, repair or delivery man — it gets a bit more interesting because, almost invariably, Jill will wear a thin blouse or tight shell with the no-bra/demi-bra choice, plus a short skirt, one hemmed slightly above mid-lovely-thigh. With this, either a garterbelt and hose or elastic-in-the-top thigh-high hose. From that point on, it’s a game as she “accidentally” exposes her cunt and/or ass to the poor slob while I sit there ‘unaware” of what he’ s seeing.

We’ve been party to some of the worst, most disorganized sales presentations in the history of that profession. Ever seen a man start sweating in an air-conditioned room? This type outfit is also a killer when we go out shopping for shoes for Jill. I’m sure more than one shoe salesman has gone home the night he served Jill and screwed his wife or girlfriend with visions of Jill’s smiling face perched over a clear shot of her delightfully hairy snatch drumming through his head. Naturally (?), her bathing suits tend to be abbreviated, skin-tight and, in a couple of cases, we’ve removed the linings from them; when she comes out of the water, she has no secrets. She also has no lack of admirers and company, all male. Jill has a number of women around the apartments who could cheerfully run her down with their cars, but there’s not a man here with a harsh thing to say about her .

(There’s been an interesting side-effect, though: a lot of the other gals in the apartments have started fighting back by themselves getting even briefer, snugger swimsuits; going to the pool these days is as much fun for me as it is for Jill).

* * *

We approached our first married “just us” photo session with a certain amount of trepidation. We had four reasons for wanting the photos: (1) For our ads in swingers magazines; (2) to swap with other couples of a similar bent around the country; (3) to decorate our bedroom walls; and (4) because it’d be a fun thing to do (and still is).

Our apprehension stemmed from this question: would it be as much fun, would we do it with the same enthusiasm, as we had when we were just “foolin’ around.” In other words, would the same aura of illicit excitement still be there?

It was with those questions in mind that I recorded Jill’s step-by-step disrobing from diaphanous skirt and blouse down to just pale blue, lacy garterbelt, beige hose and 5-inch spikes, her body enchanting, the smile of pleasure on her face infectious and charming, the look of a woman who’s really enjoying what she’s doing.

I had recorded Jill in various revealing but relatively demure poses when she resolved the dilemma of “What next?” herself. She was sitting in an armchair and, I think, sensed my reluctance to go beyond the nudes (although God-only-knows konyaaltı sınırsız escort why I felt that way, considering our experiences together prior to our marriage) because, without saying a word, she lifted her lovely, hose-clad legs up and over the arms of the chair and, with an enticingly wicked grin on her face, reached down with both hands to daintily — but explicitly — open the lips of her hairy, come-glistening cunt to expose its tasty interior.

Well, I wasn’t about to let that opportunity pass by and I quickly recorded the delightful sight from a couple of angles . . and ran out of film. Changing it took me a couple of minutes and, by the time I turned around again, she had pulled both spike-shod feet up on the seat of the chair, framing her lovely ass with her legs, her knees splayed outward. One hand now held the pouty lips of her pussy open . . while one errant finger gently toyed with her erect clit.

The look on her face was an open invitation to immortalize her lewd self-manipulation and I did, the photos capturing not just her physical activity but also the now sexually aroused, lips-slightly-parted excitement on her face.

We had not been exactly silent during the session but, so far, most of our comments had concerned themselves with angles, poses, position of clothing; our normal light banter had been notable by its absence, choked off, perhaps, by the rapidly deepening atmosphere of barely restrained sensuality that had started at the very beginning of the evening. But I couldn’t resist: I said, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Her finger never slowed as, passion making her voice throaty, Jill said, “Of course, I am . . . and I’d enjoy it even more if you’d bring me the vibrator.”

That made me do something that, for some reason, I’d tended to avoid doing during the evening, which was to look her square in her lovely face — and I found her eyes, glistening and unashamed, staring directly into mine. I was startled at the cheerful lust she was radiating from those clear orbs .. and thrilled out of my skull. There is something so terribly intimate about masturbation that I really look forward to watching her do it — and now the chance to photograph her at it was at hand. Better, I didn’t even have to ask her to re-confirm her feelings on the situation: that totally unashamed .. even proud .. look on her face, coupled with the obvious, well-lubricated dilation of her lovebox answered any questions I might’ve come up with.

Thus, I made no comment as I quickly went to get the long, thick, pink plastic phallic-shaped machine and, equally silently, thanking her with just my eyes, gave it to her.

She held the vibrator in one hand (her other still slowly massaging her clit) and quietly said, “Darling, I’m going to kind of ignore you for the next few minutes and concentrate on myself.” She one-handedly turned on the long, pink gadget and, still working her cunt with her right hand, she raised the now-whirring “lady’s home companion” to her right breast, placing the tip at the edge of her nipple, to that little point’s obvious enjoyment. She hissed softly, then continued as the machine explored, daintily, all the little nerve-ends, “Take all the pictures you want, from any angle you want: I love it. I really get off on finger-fucking and vibrators . . . and I’m really turned on by you watching me and photographing me doing it.” The vibrator pressed down on her nipple, pushing it into its firm-but-resilient cushion. “I think,” Jill said, her voice low and slightly shaky, “you’re going to find I’m still a totally shameless bitch when it comes to getting my rocks off; you said that’s what you wanted and, by God, that’s what you’ve got. I hope you don’t mind.”

Her eyes, which had slowly drifted closed in reaction to her self-manipulation, now opened to look squarely up into mine, the question in them unmistakable. In answer, I just leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on her slightly-parted lips. “I love you,” I said quietly, “Go for it!” She smiled and puckered her lips in silent invitation to one more small kiss, one which I gave her with great pleasure before stepping back to capture her, eyes wide open, on film. Then, still half-smilingly, she slid the vibrator down over her garterbelt-bisected abdomen and gently inserted its whirring tip onto her clit in place of her finger.

Jill moaned softly, her eyes closed and, within moments, her legs had readjusted themselves, one lovely stem, her left, stretching straight out to rest in a dancer s point on the floor, the right re-draping itself over the arm of the chair. Her exciting hose-clad thighs were then spread wide, her cunt completely exposed to my view and that of my camera, which accurately — and excitingly — captured the loving machine’s downward passage through her erotic slot to begin unhurriedly pressing against the opening of her tasty vagina. I watched — and photographed konyaaltı türbanlı escort — in an excitement growing as rapidly as Jill’s as her now-joined hands began slowly fucking her snatch with the motorized dildo, each unhurried inward thrust driving the machine a little farther up into her quivering body. In just a matter of moments, fully one-third of the vibrator was disappearing into her on each inward stroke, to her great delight; her entire body would tense as the machine reached full insertion and would pause while she made a small, involuntary moaning and/or grunting sound.

Jill seemed so totally wrapped up in what she was doing that it came as a surprise to me when, in a quiet, almost-dreamy voice, she asked, “I know why I enjoy playing with myself, darling . . . but why do you enjoy watching?”

I mulled that for a moment as I watched her right hand — her left still stroking the vibrator in and out of her — raise itself to her mouth and her tongue begin licking, very erotically, her fingertips. “It’s not just masturbation,” I told her finally, softly, “I enjoy watching and hearing women come; it’s usually such an intimate, uncontrolled and utterly beautiful and exciting thing to observe . .. . and it makes no difference in its effect on me whether I’ve caused it, someone else has caused it — or the gal’s done it to herself. It’s beautiful and I love being part of it, especially as a spectator, so I can observe all the nuances . . and because it seems like such a completely TRUSTING thing for a woman to allow me to share with her.”

The now-saliva-covered finger of her right hand had dropped squarely to the top of her slot and began rubbing her red, erect clitoris in concert with the vibrator burrowing within her, the twin sensations making her slide down a little farther in her seat and (if such a thing were possible) exposing her beautiful cunt and exciting self-manipulation even more. Her throaty voice was now a little shaky as she asked, “You don’t feel . . threatened . . by me being able to get my own orgasms?”

It was my turn, as the tempo of her self-delight subtly picked up tempo, to ask a question: “Does it make you enjoy sex with me any less?”

Her eyes still closed, she smiled and said, “Not at all!”

“Well, then,” I told her, “There’s no reason for me to feel threatened. I just like to relax and watch the show.”

The smile still on her face, her eyes still closed, her trembling voice said, “In that case, Tim , Darling, get your camera ready . . because I think you’re about to get one HELLUVA show!”

With that, her head kind of rolled to one side, her right leg pulled itself up to rest, bent at the knee, on the arm of her chair, her left leg raising and draping over the other arm. Everything, including the puckered rosette in the middle of her ass, was now completely exposed, the position even pulling wider the already dilated lips of her femininity.

My camera and I immortalized each step-by-step readjustment of her luscious, quivering body … especially the rearrangement of her hands which, in a few subtle, obviously-practiced moves, had quickly switched roles: suddenly, the vibrator was in her right hand, the tip teasing her clit, while two fingers of her left hand plunged into her vagina to begin stroking, her ring finger with its broad, gold wedding band splayed out so that it pressed on her tightly-clenched rectum each time its mates slid into her well-lubricated tunnel of love.

Jill’s moans were very loud now and it was obvious that she had made the decision not to hold back on her reactions, even though I was observing her; in fact, she theorized later that the thought of me watching and photographing her probably amplified, to a large degree, her usual strong and abandoned enjoyment of her own body.

Unformed sounds erupted from her throat in concert with her rapidly-moving fingers and their clit-tingling plastic companion. Somewhere in this, my darling started having little orgasms every minute-or-so; when one would hit, her movement would pause for a few seconds and you actually could see the tension rise in her body until a semi-anguished sound would come from her throat simultaneous with her body shaking . . then she’d resume her twin strokes. Each explosion seemed a bit more intense: she was obviously building to a peak.

It didn’t take her long to get there. As I excitedly recorded every significant move, her left leg started rising, and growing, inquisitive sounds crept from her straining throat as her fingers moved faster in her juice-dripping pudendum . . “Uh? Huh? UHH?!?!” suddenly, her fingers jammed themselves deep into her well of love and, judging from the movements of the tendons, began wiggling frantically back and forth on her super-sensitive “G-spot” as the vibrator slid down in such a way that the tip was pressed to the edge of Jill’s busy fingers while the barrel of the machine konyaaltı ucuz escort rested solidly on her entire slit — INCLUDING her clit Her lovely body went rigid . . she went silent, although her mouth was open, her throat strained . . her back and neck began to arch, her face tilting toward the ceiling . . . .

. . and, suddenly, her eyes popping open in a look of shocked surprise, she came. A sharp scream came from deep within her, small but growing rapidly to a full-grown whoop of total delight, and then her body began convulsing as her hands began moving again, her legs waving in mid-air while unformed cries of joy howled from her mouth and rebounded off the walls of the room for at least a full minute before, exhausted, she collapsed in a sexy pile of trembling, closed-eyed femininity.

* * *

After a couple of minutes, I knelt at Jill’s side, kissing her softly on the hand and offering her a glass of chilled strawberry wine which, with a small groan as she readjusted her body, she accepted gratefully.

“That was beautiful,” I told her, “one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She smiled, sipped her wine, and said, “That was one of the more exciting moments I’ve ever HAD in my life. Darling TIM , you’ve got a full-blown exhibitionist on your hands; I hope you don’t mind.”

“My only regret, my darling, is that I don’t have a videotape recorder and camera, too.”

She thought about that for a second before deciding, “Now THAT’S kinky; maybe we should build it into our budget . . such as it is.” We both thought about that for a few silent moments before she seemed to shake herself, look at me, leer (one of the few woman I know who can leer), and say, “Okay, sport: your turn.”

Gulp.

* * *

It was almost 45 minutes later – – with me half-frantic — that Jill got around to the Grand Finale.

She had donned a floor-length satin robe after I’d helped her out of her chair (“You were clothed while I was naked; the least I can do is return the favor”) and the reason I was half-frantic is that, by the time she’d gotten me disrobed to the point where my shirt was open and my cock hanging out of the fly of my pants (capturing each step along the way, of course), she was using her cool hand and hot mouth to get me rigid and keep me that way. For her purposes, it wasn’t enough that I just be hard, oh, no: each time I needed pumping up, she’d spend the time to single-mindedly stroke or suck me right up to the edge of the borderline before orgasm. While this was certainly delightful as it was going on, it built a pressure up in my nuts that, in looking at the photos later, gave a certain . . strained and rather desperate look to my face.

Jill didn’t miss much in those photos. Quickly getting me stripped to nothing but my short-sleeved shirt, she captured me and my rigidity standing up, laying down, kneeling, squatting, arched backward, bent over, sitting . . . . legs closed, spread, raised . . if there was an external portion of my body that she didn’t get on film, I’ll be damned if I can figure out what it was.

Finally, she disappeared for a moment, to return with a towel which she carefully laid down on the front edge of the seat cushion on the chair in which she’d earlier had her frantic bout of self-excitation. A silent, mock-formal wave of her hand made her wishes clear and, with a pretty damned good idea of where we were heading, I sat down, slouched toward the front of the chair. A couple more hand signals and it was MY legs that were draped over the arms, my ass, cock and balls open to the inquisitive eye of the camera.

As has always been the case in somewhat similar situations, I was simultaneously embarrassed . . and enjoying myself. Both conditions were fueled by the smile on Jill’s face that told me SHE was enjoying herself, too . . . especially when she quietly said, “Okay, my darling: stroke — but no popping off until I tell you it’s okay.”

I blushed as I reached down to lightly slide my fingers over my cock, the sensations from my fingertips quickly bringing me from half-limp to full stiff in just a few seconds . . and rebuilding my excitement to the point where I threw my residual inhibitions to the wind and went with the flow.

Jill teased me a bit by letting me get close to explosion a couple of times and then making me quit before I could get release. Finally, she let me calm a bit, to have a cigarette, sip some wine, change film in the camera . . . all without straying from my seat, although my legs were down now. My darling, bless her, is as aware as I of the value of taking your time in an erotic encounter: what could be accomplished in five minutes becomes infinitely more enjoyable when dragged out to an hour or more, a mutual discovery that we not only take advantage of at every opportunity but do our best to teach to every playmate we acquire.

One can drag things out only so far, however, and by the time I’d polished off my wine, the combination of pent-up excitation and a certain . . apprehension . . about letting myself go totally, to completely release my dignity and self-control in front of someone not physically involved, had me in a curiously semi-stoned state: I couldn’t have been more stoned, in fact, if I’d had a hit-or-two off some exceptionally good grass.

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