Psychoanalysis

Proclivities Part 9: Psychoanalysis

Sitting contentedly at my desk at work Friday morning, I contemplated the revelation from Tuesday night... Nope, I definitely didn't want to be normal. Although I'd figured out it was more that I didn't want to be conventional. That was a more apt description. Normal is relative to each individual. Or couple in our case. Conventional reeks of boring.

Each morning, upon rising, George made coffee and brought some to me in bed. I joined him in the shower and we again masturbated for each other. Although we'd been substituting English muffins for croissants at breakfast, it was still a weekday ritual which I embraced fully.

Life had definitely returned to normal, or at least in our lexicon. I'd been to a clinic on Wednesday after work and gotten the prescription for birth control pills, so in a few more days, that would no longer be an issue. Meanwhile, the alternatives, as we called them, were more than satisfactory. It only meant I'd swallowed loads of cum and George drank a lot of cunt juice, as he so delicately put it.

I'd resumed sexting with him during my breaks, doing my best to add variety to the poses, but let's face it; there were limitations to what I could do in the OTP bathroom. Much to my delight, he had begun responding in kind, demonstrating the effects my pictures had on him, including some monitor shots.

Wednesday evening, we posted the "bitch" videos of him taking me doggy, starting in my pussy and then my ass for the first time. Given the view, there was no need to edit them as only the back of my head was visible at times. They were very well received, with our vocalizations particularly appreciated. Unsurprisingly, the anal vid was the clear favorite. However, I was amazed by the number of women who wanted George's cock. Until then, most of the comments and all of the emails had been from guys. I felt a tinge of jealousy, but that was quickly routed as George pointed out that I was getting it and they weren't. And never would.

Yesterday, he had some meetings at the office in the afternoon, so he arrived early enough to take me to lunch. Seeing Betty shortly thereafter allowed me to indulge in a bit of schadenfreude over her dejection that George and I were "an item," as the office gossip went.

Earlier, on my way to work, I called my mom and confirmed that we could come by on Sunday for the cookout, explaining that George was taking me sailing on his yacht on Saturday.

"Sunday would be perfect, dear," she said, but added, "Sailing? He has a yacht? Oh my! Sounds like he's rich."

I sensed concern in her voice and replied, "Yes, he is, but don't let that bother you. He's very down to earth. Believe me, I wouldn't be dating him if he weren't. He's a perfect gentleman."

"That's a relief. Although I doubt that. To varying degrees, no man is a perfect gentleman."

"Okay, mom, I'll grant you that," I replied, inwardly amused that her definition of perfect was a small subset of mine. "So what time should we come by?"

"How is three o'clock?"

"That works," I replied, thankful that would allow plenty of time for George and me to sate our desires before behaving ourselves. "Anything I can bring?"

"No. Just that young man of yours."

"He's not that young, a little older than me. Twenty nine, actually."

"In my book," she said, "that's young. And as you know, your father is three years older than me."

"Yeah, I know. Anyway, I just pulled into the parking lot at work. Gotta go. We'll see you at three on Sunday."

"Perfect. Just one more thing..."

"Sure, but please be quick about it."

"You are following my advice, right?"

I knew exactly what she meant, but wouldn't play along. "What advice is that?"

"You know...about being careful? "

Going for broke, I teased, "But I thought you wanted grandkids."

"Linda Marie Huggins!"

"Just kidding, mom."

"Not funny. I can see we'll need some private mother-daughter time on Sunday."

"Don't worry. I'm being careful," I said

"That's a relief, but that doesn't mean we won't talk."

"If you insist," I replied, hoping my lack of enthusiasm would preclude its necessity. "We'll see you Sunday. I really have to go."

"Looking forward to it. Bye."

"Bye, mom."

Well, that went sideways on me, I thought as I slammed the car door and hurried across the parking lot. Too clever by half -- I really didn't want to have

that

conversation with my mother.

My brooding passed, as, over lunch, George asked if I wanted to pick up additional clothing or anything else I needed from my apartment at our house. He'd go with me to help and had even put my suitcase in his car. Indeed, there were a few more things I could use, mostly clothes and maybe some makeup I'd left behind. Oh, and shoes! I definitely wanted my entire shoe collection. I mean, don't all women have a shoe collection? Then, his ulterior motive surfaced.

"You know what tomorrow is?" he asked.

"Friday?"

"True, but it's also our one week anniversary, so I thought we should celebrate by going out to dinner at a fancy place."

"You're so sweet," I replied. "That would be lovely. Where?"

"It's called Pier 15. Right by the inlet, very close to the docks where the fishing boats come in. It's a seafood place with a great veranda overlooking the bay. Their menu is based on what the boats have brought in that day. I've already reserved a table so we can have dinner and watch the sun set."

"I've heard of it. Never been there, but it sounds delightful."

"Then it's a date," he replied and after a short pensive pause, added, "You still have that white blouse and black leather skirt you wore the night we met, right?"

"Of course."

"Would you mind wearing it? I think it would be appropriate."

"Definitely," I agreed and the idea stirred my recollections of that erotic evening. "I presume it would include the black pumps too?"

"You read my mind," he confessed with twinkle in his eyes. I made a mental note that I'd have to replace the thigh highs that got trashed a week ago.

"Now you've got me full of anticipation."

"Me too, but that's kind of the point, isn't it?"

No denying that, I reminisced, sitting at my desk after lunch, bringing bemusement as I worked on some hardware architecture diagrams for the proposals George was shepherding through the Programming and IT departments, knowing that, in a small way, I was working with him.

So, as planned, we stopped by my apartment after work on Thursday. Most of the clothing I had left behind was for cold weather. Bulky stuff, it consumed most of my suitcase. The overflow of shoes and makeup ended up in my duffle. It was a quick stop, as Judy wasn't home, but I did make a note that I should call her, certain that she would be more than a little curious.

My white blouse didn't necessarily need washing, but I did so anyway as soon as we got home, adding other laundry I'd accumulated since moving in. I also really appreciated George's spacious laundry room, he showed me where the ironing board was and that it readily fit between the machines and cabinetry. Although the blouse was wrinkle resistant cotton, it still needed some touching up with the iron. I'd also fetched a red bolero shrug with bright brass clasps that kept the front panels together, to complete my ensemble, serving two purposes. It could be cool dining outdoors on Friday, but add some elegance as well. After all, we were going to an upscale place and hoped I could turn some heads, recalling how we'd both indulged that guilty pleasure at the Mallards game.

Finally, five o'clock on Friday arrived and I left the office, making a quick stop at a lingerie shop in the mall, purchasing a few pair of thigh high stockings. For tonight, I'd gotten a pair in black with a fishnet pattern. Just a touch trashy, I gleefully noted. George should like them too.

Upon arriving home -- yes this was home now, no longer George's house -- as was his custom, he came out to greet me as soon as I'd parked, embraced and kissed me. Another ritual he'd established and I fully supported. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and snug, dark purple trousers, he'd already gotten ready for the evening.

"What's in the bag?" he asked.

"Just some thigh highs I picked up."

"Excellent. You look ravishing in them," he replied, with the obvious reference to our introduction exactly one week ago. Out on the patio, he stripped me to just them and my black pumps, leaving me a jumbled mess of embarrassment and titillation. I still marveled at how much my life had changed since then.

"What time is our reservation?" I asked as we headed inside.

"Seven thirty."

"So what time do we have to leave?"

"Around seven."

"In that case, I'd better get a move on," I said as we stood in the sitting room. "If you don't mind, wait down here while I change. I don't want to spoil the effect of my outfit."

"Sure. I'm looking forward to it."

"Thanks," I replied, giving him a peck on the cheek and heading upstairs.

I made a detour to the laundry room to fetch my blouse, neatly pressed on a hanger. I entered the bedroom. George had tidied things up -- an unexpected trait I adored. I laid the blouse on the bed along with bag of my purchases. What's this? Oh! The white lace bra and black boy short panties I'd worn last Friday and surrendered to him in the Brick House parking lot, were neatly arranged on the bed.

He'd promised to return them in the future, but his timing was perfect. Tucked in the panties was a little note that read:

Wear these tonight.

Love you.

P.S. Yes, I washed them.

I hadn't even considered the post script, but it was so characteristic of him. Given where we were going, I was also relieved that it was not going to be a no underwear evening. At least to start with, I projected, as I formulated devilish scheme.

Enough of that! I stripped off my conventional work attire and donned the bra and panties, creating an unexpected glow. How could putting on clothes be so affective?

I retrieved a bottle of deep red mail polish from the bath, sat in one of the chairs by the window and applied it to my toes and fingernails. Waiting for it to dry was maddening, as I couldn't wait to parade my outfit in front of George, but finally I could proceed.

Returning to the bath, I quickly brushed my teeth. Some light dabs of perfume behind my ears and just above my pussy. Now for the makeup. Usually, I don't wear much, but for tonight, I went all out and heavier than normal -- pale pink eye shadow, mascara, some blush and lipstick in the same red as my nails. Examining the reflection of the finished product proved mildly shocking. It was me alright, but borderline slutty - at least by my standards. Or, upon reconsideration and to my amusement, wasn't a bit slutty my new standard?

The remainder of my outfit was easy enough, just the leather skirt, white blouse and stockings. Oh right! I wanted to wear earrings, not my usual studs, but the ones with a row of four dangling crystal orbs that sparkled wonderfully. Slipping on my black pumps along with the shrug, I made one last inspection in the full length mirror on the inside of the closet door. The black pumps and skirt connected by the stockings, their fishnet pattern supplementing my new standard. The opening between the front panels of my red shrug emphasized my breasts, but, hmm, undo one more button on my blouse to show a little cleavage, seductively displayed just above the top clasp. That should turn a few heads. I made a quick turn to check the back. Yup, just right - tastefully trashy, I surmised, tingling at the notion.

Walking carefully down the stairs -- heels were always a bit tricky for me -- I recalled the last time I'd walked in them. Only I was going up, with George following close behind.

"Wow!" he exclaimed as I entered the living room, where he was seated in a chair by the windows, facing the hallway entrance. "You look fantastic. Even better than the last time. Love your makeup and the jacket too."

"Thanks. Don't get up," I said as he started to rise and I stood before him, turning slowly and, once my back was to him, bending over and raising my skirt for a full view of the black lace panties.

"You really are a sight to behold," he said, concluding with a light slap on my ass. "Naughty girl."

"Oh!" I yelped, dropping my skirt and turning around. "You wouldn't want me any other way!"

"You know me too well, my love," he replied, as he stood, hugging me tightly and kissing me.

"We really should be going," he added, sliding into a black corduroy jacket.

"You look damned good yourself," I commented just before we excited the house.

As we drove along the back roads, I remarked, "This is a first."

"What is?"

"Going out and I have my underwear on."

"That it is. I thought it appropriate to return them to you. Is that a complaint?"

"No way! They make me feel sexy. Plus there are some serious memories associated with them."

"Agreed."

"But more than you know," I confessed.

"Really? Do tell."

"Let's see. Where to begin? As you know, I was planning to go out to a club with Judy and some other girls last Friday."

"How could I forget?" he asked sweetly.

"But I almost didn't wear this outfit. Oh, I'd definitely bought it with hopes of turning some heads; however, it was well outside my comfort zone. Incredibly enough, when Betty abruptly informed me about the quarterly company gathering just that morning, I tried to beg off, saying I already had plans. As she badgered me into going, I was seized by a notion that if I didn't get bold enough to wear it, someday I'd end up like her. So I became determined to wear it and that I might even hook up with someone, although I seriously doubted the possibility. Little did I know how things would turn out."

"Wow! Another unwitting Betty contribution. Although I'd never do it, it would be hilarious to tell her."

"I know," I replied. "On multiple occasions, I've been sorely tempted to tell her about some of the things we've been up to. Like when I first saw her Monday morning, I kept to our agreed synopsis of the weekend, but I fantasized a bit over telling her all of the naughty things I'd done. And then, the first time I sent pictures I'd taken in the OTP bathroom, I ran into her in the hallway right after."

"How did that go?"

"Fortunately, the conversation was brief and coldly professional, but I did mention what a busy day it had been."

"If she only knew..." he blurted out amidst a hearty laugh.

"I love you, George Richter," I said, giving his arm a soft squeeze, sharing our thoughts joyfully filling my heart.

"And I love you, Linda Huggins," he replied with a quick, but purposeful, glance, as he turned into the restaurant parking lot where its elegant, façade impressed me, more like a large grey Victorian home with a porch running across the front, the gingerbread accents painted lavender and teal. As we climbed the six steps, I heard some big band music playing at an unobtrusive volume.

"Count Basie," he informed.

"You certainly know your music."

"I try to give everything a chance, but I've found certain types I can do without."

"Such as?" I inquired.

"Although there are some good tunes, most rap is music for the tone deaf. I like bluegrass and old school country -- the modern stuff is just poor man's rock and roll. At least in my opinion. And as you observed, dance music is obnoxiously repetitive."

"You'll have to school me on your tastes."

"Sure. You seem like a quick study," he added, his words heavy with extra meaning.

"I try," I said with equal intent as he opened one of the French doors for me.

We stood arm in arm before the lectern just inside. A cheerful, young brunette in pearls and a black A Line dress greeted us, "Good evening. Welcome to Pier Fifteen. How may I help you?"

"Indeed, it is a good evening" replied George, "We have a reservation for Richter, thanks."

She poked at the tablet before her. "Yes, for two at seven thirty on the back porch," she confirmed, "This way, please."

"Ladies first," said George with a slight gesture as we followed off to the left.

The main dining room was alive with conversations; at the far end, large windows double hung afforded a panorama of the bay. I quickly glanced around. Nearly all of tables were occupied and set with crisp, bright white table cloths and small floral arrangements. The cream walls were contrasted with purple wainscoting, matching the trim on the widows and crown moulding that rimmed the high ceiling.

We proceeded out the back, through an open set of French doors, to a large porch containing about a dozen tables identical to the ones inside. The hostess seated us at a table for two at the far corner to our left. Our view across the water was unobstructed -- the early evening sun hanging over the water, below it a band of cumulus clouds draped across the horizon.

"Oh, George, this is lovely!" I remarked once we were seated.

"Yeah, it's a step up from Rita's Crab Shack."

"A few steps, I'd say."

"And you sure did get more than a few admiring glances as we walked through the dining room."

"Are you jealous?"

"Not in the least. Proud would be a more apt description. Gloating as a matter of fact."

"Then I succeeded," I replied as we exchanged conspiratorial grins.

Presently, a waiter, dressed in black pants and collared shirt appeared, placing two glasses of ice water on the table and handing us each a menu, which, apparently, was printed daily. Upon asking for our drink order, George suggested a bottle of prosecco and I readily agreed. I believe it was the same brand we'd had on Sunday, which had proved so eventful.

We perused the menu for only a couple of minutes before the waiter reappeared with the wine in an ice bucket and champagne flutes. Discretely opening the bottle, he filled our glasses and departed once he'd determined we weren't ready to order.

Raising his glass, George said, "Here's looking at you, kid."

I touched my glass to his and we both took a sip.

"

Casablanca

, right?" I asked.

"Correct."

"I know the line, but have never actually seen the movie."

"Well then, that will have to be our next movie night."

"Sounds good," I agreed enthusiastically. "But, anyway, thanks for being so thoughtful, celebrating our first week together."

"You're welcome. It's been the greatest week of my life and I wanted you to know it."

"Mine too, but what I meant is that you always find ways to make me feel special."

"Isn't that what you do for the one you love? You certainly make me feel that way too."

"Thanks, but I never expected it to happen to me," I replied, as my mind was drawn to my secret plan for later.

"I know what you mean. Now, how about we order. Do you know what you want?"

"Not yet, just give me a minute."

Shortly thereafter, the waiter took our orders. The food was fantastic. I had a grilled sea bass, wonderfully fresh and flakey. George had seared day boat scallops. As we ate, and did in the bottle of Prosecco, we talked about a myriad of things, A little about work, but mostly about the basics of sailing and my maiden voyage coming up tomorrow. I didn't quite grasp it all, but he assured me that I'd get the hang of it. Of course, I'd be wearing my new bikini. That much I fully comprehended.

Once we'd finished dinner, George suggested we have dessert.

"I'm having the crème brûlée. They do it really well here. Have you ever had it?"

"No, but I've always wanted to try it."

"Why stop now?" he teased with a sly wink.

"Why indeed," I replied, loving his innuendo. "Tell you what. I need to visit the ladies room. So why don't you order while I do."

"Sure. Sounds like a plan."

Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I walked back through the dining room, and after some looking about, I located it. Thankfully, instead of stalls, the three toilets were totally private, with full louvered doors and I proceeded to the last one. I really did have to pee, so that made it convenient to stow my panties in my purse that I'd hung on the back of the door. Getting my bra off was a bit more complicated as I stood to take off the red shrug first, unbutton my blouse and its cuffs, letting it hand from my skirt. Once I'd put my bra in my purse, I reversed the process.