"Sorry, no crisis. Not even a hangnail. Not that I'd be calling you about a hangnail." She paused for a moment and asked, "What are you eating?"
"Lasagna. Pretty good too."
"Posh. Lasagna. That's not what you want to eat."
"I don't know. You haven't had it."
"Well, listen to me for a moment and I'll tell you what you really want."
"I'm listening."
"I suppose you guys are sitting there in long sleeved button up shirts with the top buttons open and ties hanging off of your necks."
"No. Ties done up. Kind of a formal place, really."
"Okay, then listen closely."
"Alright, I said I'm listening." One of his bosses heard his statement and smiled. He knew how it was with wives—after all, he's had three of them. You had to listen to their every chatter, no matter how pointless or uninteresting it was. Ah, well, I suppose that's part of the work of marriage, he mused.
However he really was listening closely to her description on the phone, for he knew that it was going to be much more interesting that simply sports.
"Okay, so suppose I walk in there wearing my black gown—you know, the one with the spaghetti straps on the shoulders, that hug my hips tight and that give just a little bit of cleavage if you happen to look at it from the right direction." Like straight down from the top, he thinks. "So I'm walking through the restaurant straight to your table and say, 'Hello, I will be your server tonight.' Maybe I could speak in an Italian accent, 'Ciao, I will be your server tonight,'" He smiles at her terrible accent and inappropriate use of a foreign word. She knows better, she's just playing. " 'Would you like our special? But of course you do—we have a special meal planned just for you.' Then I playfully glide the spaghetti straps to the side of my arms and you notice that there are no bra straps beside them. I pull the top of my gown down to display more of my cleavage and I bend down in front of you to give you a deep kiss and our tongues touch. We are both so hungry for each other that we just caress each other's tongues and lips, while you reach down and pull the top of the gown down more fondling the side of my breasts."
"That would sure surprise some people" he ventured, not daring to say too much lest his quickening heart rate and deep breathing display his excitement.
"I am sure. They're eyes would be as wide as saucers. They might feel a bit disgusted at our carryings-on in public, but they would also be a tiny bit jealous that they didn't have a wife who would kiss them so passionately in public." I wonder, he thought silently, if that would increase or decrease my chances at continuing work?
"But that would be nothing," she continued, "as to their shock as they see me get up from kissing you and I begin to slowly creep the skirt of my gown up my legs. It's pretty tight, so I inch it up, first on the left, then on the right, then the left, then the right, up past my knees so you and they are staring at my legs to see exactly how much I will reveal to you. And you are secretly hoping that I show you everything. Just as it creeps its way up my thighs—mid-thigh, then upper thigh—I stop and sit on you, straddling your left knee. You reach down and caress the outside of my thighs and butt through my dress. Then I pull the back of my dress up over my ass and I rest my mound on your leg, as you cup my buttocks, stroking them with your fingers. I kiss your neck and whisper in your year, 'I want you.' Then you realize that my wetness was seeping through your pant leg. Finally the realization dawns on you—I'm not going to wait until we are safe at home. I want you now and I'm going to have you right here, no matter who else is watching."
He smiled hesitatingly at his bosses, and they smile back and return to their conversation. He sits back and allows her voice to take him back into her fantasy.
"I look over at your bosses across from the table, where they are staring at us with their mouths dropped open, a bit of drool dripping from one chin. I turn to them and say in my brilliant Italian accent, 'Gratzi, gentlemen, but this is a private party. And though I am sure you would like to join us, I am afraid you have not been invited.' For a moment they sit there, dumfounded. Then it hits them what I said, and they slide out of the booth, to another, less private table. I'm sure they don't mind, for we brought a little excitement into their lives.
"I hump myself a little on your leg, but that is not enough for me. I need more of you than that. Still sitting on your leg, I wrestle the dress up over my torso and sit before you, on top of you, completely nude. I press my hardened nipples against your chest and kiss you deeply again. You are stroking my back, my ass, my breasts, my hair and my legs. Every part of me excites you, and I reach down to feel your hard member. I am stirred inside myself even more and I cannot wait another second.
"I get up off of your lap and sit on the side of the empty table, covered with a thick white tablecloth. I lay back until I am completely resting on the table, with my head dangling off of the opposite end from where you sit." He hears her shifting on their bed at home. He knows that she lay there on the bed, nude, breasts raised up and her hand resting on her thigh, just waiting for the right moment in her story to plunge into herself. He wished that he could open his pants and touch himself as she spoke. But he was lucky that the tablecloth that covered his lap completely hid his ungentlemanly erection. "I open my legs wide until my slit is fully open in front of you. I raise my head and stare into your eyes which can't tear away from my body to look me in the face and I say, 'Dinner is served. Please enjoy.'
"And you do. You put two fingers gently between my folds and part them and then lower your mouth to meet me. I drape my legs over your shoulders as you breathe my scent in deeply. Then, tentatively, your tongue wets the red folds of my skin and then it delves in deeper to seek out my erect clit." He can hear her breathing increase as her fingers stroke herself and enter her wet juices. "It doesn't take long for you to find it..." she pants a couple times, "and you stroke me deftly with your tongue with precise, gentle movements."
As she paused to experience her pleasure without distraction for a moment, he wished that his face was pushed between her thighs and he could imagine tasting her, as he had so many times before. Salty and tart with just a hint of bitter. He could feel her moist folds of skin giving way before his stiff tongue, opening up her center of pleasure. The tip of his tongue slowly stroked her hardness and his lips could feel her vagina walls tense. On either side of his face, her thighs tightened and relaxed with every stroke of his tongue over her small ball of hardness. She would never understand what pleasure he received in being so close, so intimate with her most private, intimate self. Her most sensitive vulnerability, and she opens herself up to me, to touch, to taste, to breath until she fills his mouth, covers his tongue, becomes the very air he breaths and fills his mind. They are one in her pleasure, so that he can enter it and experience it for himself because he is so very close, so near to her implosion that he is pulled into her through the avenue of her orgasm in his mouth.
