Dear Mrs. X,
This is your first sex experiment. Today you will not wear panties or a bra. You will wear a blouse open at the collar, and you will not wear stockings. If your husband occasionally sees you dressing, he must not see you today. Let the skirt be long enough to make you feel comfortable, but it should not go past the knee. This is imperative. As you slide it up over your hips, feel the nakedness of your thighs, feel your ass naked against the fabric of the skirt. Then, if you can, sit before a mirror. Spread your legs until you can see your pussy, but do not touch. You should simply understand how easy it would be to expose you. Then the blouse. Feel your breasts as you button it, and then, the erotic sensation of your nipples against the fabric. Will it be cotton? Or silk? I wish you would tell me. And then I will insist: high heels today, but again, not so high as to make you feel uncomfortable. I want you to feel sexy, to feel it in your legs, your groin, your hips, your chest, the power you have over a man. Continue reading The First Sex Experiment
I shouldn’t have done it, but last week I opened my wife’s computer while she was in the shower. We’re both sex nuts, and the bedroom has kept us together through ten years of marriage, but we hadn’t even approached a kiss in weeks. Worse, somehow I didn’t mind. Something had gone wrong, something I couldn’t begin to put a finger on. She’s still one of the sexiest women I’ve ever met, dressing like a classic movie star – garter belts even, holding up exotic silk stockings whose swirling patterns I used to study, all hidden underneath some prim skirt by a French designer. She’s European (it hardly needs to be said), and we live in an exotic place under palm trees across the Atlantic Ocean that I’ll choose not to mention for the moment. Mostly, though, she has preferred not to wear anything at all. She tends to cavort around the house naked, relishing her body: blond hair, always red lipstick, pale skin with tits made for some mermaid bursting from the sea in a Renaissance painting, a round smooth ass, pussy showing pink through a few blond hairs, then firm legs down to bare feet with red-painted toes. She’s the sort of innocent thing on the surface who inspires dirty thoughts, and as far as I can see, she hasn’t aged a bit. But she’s stopped cavorting, and we’re hardly even talking. Her body’s becoming a memory. So what’s gone wrong? I opened her computer hoping to find out.