One of the interesting effects of anonymously giving your hot wife sexual dares (over which you both privately obsess), is that the thrill often sends your libidos off the charts, and then neither of us officially has any clue as to why the other is so hot to strip. We’re living private adventures, which is thrilling, but they’re really the same adventure. And the hotter those private adventures get, the more extravagant we are in the bedroom. All of which seems to be leading us towards some cataclysmic fuck as apocalyptic as the Bomb in a science fiction movie.
A few last remaining survivors wander the streets in a daze, in lingerie, urgently seeking more sex.
Human civilization has been destroyed by the Great Fuck, but only more fucking will save them…
…from a strain of Sex Zombies who want to fuck them…to death!
Forgive me. Yes, I would probably watch that movie, but then we were talking about my wife’s sexual dares. And how they turn us both on. And how we keep these secrets to ourselves. And how although I’ve never given “experiments” as her husband (only as “Mr. X”), Mona’s Sidewalk Experiment got me so worked up (the woman apparently has no limits!) that I impulsively repeated the dare to my wife.
I was set to meet her at our favorite bar for a drink after work, a tradition we have at least once a week. The evening was warm and she decided to walk over from her office nearby (I was already at the bar installed in an armchair with a beer). I knew she had left the house that morning wearing a dress, without hose, when she called to say that she was on her way.
“Are you wearing underwear?” I asked softly into the phone. She laughed, but I sensed a little uncertainty, as if she wasn’t sure whether I was flirting or really asking. “Unfortunately, yes,” she finally said.
“I want them off before you get here,” I said, a little louder, relishing the danger. “Otherwise there will be consequences.” Then I hung up the phone – a nice touch if I do say so myself.
I drank my beer and waited. Ten minutes later she swept into the bar with red cheeks – red from the walk or from the loss of her panties? I intended to find out immediately. She kissed me and took a seat in the armchair opposite mine. “Well?” I asked.
She pretended not to have heard. “Did you have a good day?” she asked, idly glancing around for a waiter.
“Yes, I had a good day,” I said, “but I’m much more interested in your last ten minutes.”
I actually think she blushed. Had she failed the dare? For months I had imagined her out in the world confidently fulfilling Mr.X’s experiments without blinking an eye. But was she blushing like a schoolgirl every time? Or did the fact that the dare had come from me add an additional level of difficulty?
Without a word she sighed and lifted her purse from the floor where she had set it, then tilted it towards me so that I could see inside. There were her panties. Well done. Now it was my move. Admittedly a bit flustered myself, I reached into the purse and balled the panties in my fist before bringing my hand back to my side.
She was smiling at me victoriously when the waiter appeared beside us. “You call that proof?” I said, locking eyes with hers, both of us ignoring the waiter. “For all I know you carry around an extra pair of panties. God knows why.”
Without missing a beat she treated the waiter to a luminous smile and asked for a glass of white wine. Her grace under pressure was almost as much of a turn-on as the knowledge of her naked pussy up in the shadows of her skirt. “So how did you do it?” I asked once the waiter had gone. “I want details.”
She had been walking, she told me, through the quiet neighborhood of houses between her office and the bar. The blocks are square and straight in that neighborhood, so there’s really no place to hide. As she walked she tried to work the panties down over one of her hips, but there wasn’t enough loose material around the waist of the dress to slip the elastic down very much. She was sopping wet at this point, she said. She thought of me waiting for her, and even if the dare was relatively mild, she was determined prove that she could accomplish any little sexual challenge that I could dream up (if only she knew! or does she!). She decided that she would have to crouch down and pretend to have dropped something, then reach up between her legs and slide the panties down. Easier thought than done. She almost lost her balance a couple of times. A man passed by on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and looked at her curiously. She pawed at the pavement as if she’d lost a contact. I imagined more men watching the panties come down, like zombies. I imagined her getting wetter.
Getting the panties down to her knees was tough, but the really tricky part was from the knees down over the ankles. It becomes more difficult to pretend you’ve lost your contact lens when your legs are tangled in panties, apparently. So this part she did quickly, still crouched down, one hand to the sidewalk as one heel came up, then the other, and the panties were free to be shoved into her purse. She stayed crouched for a moment to stop her head from spinning. She felt as if she was peeing, she said. Her dress had bunched up closer to her hips as she worked the panties off, and if she hung her head, she could see her pussy between her bent legs. She really felt as if she was going to pee, and somehow the idea of doing that, right there on the sidewalk, turned her on immensely. Her head was spinning again, and the fresh air felt delicious on her cunt, and she felt like melting into a puddle, but she managed to stand up and walk the rest of the way to the bar.
“Lies,” I said with a big smile as the waiter arrived with her wine. I fingered the panties in my hand so that he could have seen. “I’m going to need to see for myself.”
She put both hands on her knees.
“Show me,” I said a little harder, as the waiter set down her glass. The armchairs were low, so I had a direct view of her legs, which casually began to come apart.
“Thank you!” she said brightly to the waiter.
“More,” I said, before the waiter could disappear. I was staring straight at her crotch, and her legs went a bit further apart. I couldn’t see her pussy quite yet, but the shadows where her legs met now had a slight texture.
I just grinned at her. She knew that this meant “more”, and then, as if she’d just been set upon by a passionately awaited body, her knees collapsed wide and her head fell back on the chair, eyes cast up on the ceiling as if she were being fucked. I was shocked, thrilled. I stared at her pussy, instantly hard and probably as obvious as she was now. God I know and love that pussy so well, but in a relatively crowded bar, surrounded by strangers, it was like some strange woman’s cunt and impossibly enticing.
Then the knees slowly came back together, and she leveled me with a devastating stare. Had someone seen? It hardly seemed to matter. The blush was gone. She was Mr. X’s woman now. I wanted her desperately.
She looked down at my agitated crotch and bit her lip for just an instant. Then she said: “Are you wearing underwear?” I didn’t respond. I waved frantically for the check.
When we got back home we shot for the apocalypse. We fucked like the last survivors in a room full of zombies who wanted us ravenously but were defeated by our fucking.
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