Then, more recently, less positive events had conspired. Discovering Alistair's secret store of pornographic magazines was no great surprise -- most men had one, she surmised. It was that it was not all of lithe young bodies. Often it featured women of her own age, who apparently had no problem both displaying themselves in the most lewd way, as well as apparently taking pleasure in an active - and wide ranging - sex life. She'd been furious.
Angry and frustrated at work that following day, she'd heard about the "Ice Queen" nickname for the first time.
Rachael found in herself a small core of anger. How dare they presume to know about her inner drives? How dare her husband not recognise his good fortune. Also, though, was a nagging guilt; it was she herself who'd created this situation, through her inability, or unwillingness, to set aside her inhibitions.
Beyond the anger, though, a new need was emerging. She had to know. She had somehow to prove to herself that she was capable of being alluring, of provoking lust in men. And that she could herself take pleasure in the sex act itself, unconstrained by circumstances. She found herself imagining situations where she did just that. Imaginings, though, didn't settle any of the questions. Worse, they just contributed to a longing to experience truly passionate sex.
Then, opportunity had offered itself. As soon as the instructions for this event had appeared in her e-mail inbox -- a day of tedium setting budgets for next year's operations at an office miles from home, a night in a hotel, and a day running around a muddy field with fools she mostly despised - a plan had germinated. Provided she attended the day events, no-one from work would be surprised if she had to rush home in the evening; none would expect the Ice Queen to unwind socially anyhow. Equally, at home, she'd be able to show good cause for being away, and even largely unreachable.
She'd been planning the night for weeks, surreptitiously buying the items she felt she'd need. This was her chance to know once and for all what she was capable of.
As the light again changed it was near automatic that she swung the car to the right. Rachael forced herself to concentrate as she joined the stream of traffic, suppressing her imagination in order to concentrate on safety. By the time she was ensconced in the outside lane, there seemed to be no more space for indecision. In fact, she found herself driving with unaccustomed speed, eager to reach her destination. Turning into the hotel drive, she had to make herself slow. The car, her pride and joy, was low slung as befitted a sports car. It had to be taken slowly over the speed bumps, respecting its age.
Pulling into the car park, she contemplated the hotel building. It seemed well chosen for her purpose. A large country house, converted to its current purpose in the last few years, it was large enough to be anonymous, but retained character. That wasn't why she'd chosen it, though. That was more to do with it's proximity to a number of military training establishments. She'd always had a weakness for the sorts of men who became officers and she felt few of them would turn down the offer of a night of uncomplicated sex.
As she stepped from the car, bending over to extract her overnight bag, she felt herself being watched. A surreptitious glance showed her a group of men standing at the window of what she guessed to be the bar, observing her with frank interest. Rachael was pleased to think that her position would show the curves of her backside to advantage. Her only regret was that she was still wearing the flat pumps rather than footwear more suited to her plans for the evening.
Her path to Reception took her out of their line of sight. Check in was quick, efficient, and nonetheless frustrating.
Her original intent had been a long, slow, scented bath, followed by leisurely preparation, a light meal, and then to allow events to take their course. That didn't fit her mood. Arriving in her room, she decided a change of plan was in order. Yet more anticipation was that last thing she wanted; all doubts now seemed gone. For the first time in her life, she thought, she felt just plain lascivious. She wanted to make herself as provocative as possible, to go downstairs, and to see just how much attention she could attract.
She quickly stripped and showered. From her overnight bag she took the short, tight dress that she'd selected with such care. Pulling it over her head, she smoothed it down over her naked body. She'd never ever before owned a piece of clothing under which it wasn't possible to wear a stitch of underwear. She reached into the bag to bring out the broad elasticised belt which she'd decided to wear. Did she need it, she wondered? Normally, she was convinced child bearing had left her with a waist a little larger, and stomach a little slacker than in her youth. Inspecting herself in the semi-sheer black dress, she admitted that that was really self deprecating. Her frequent gym sessions had, in reality, left her waist and stomach tight and toned.
Still, the broad belt did add a raunchy quality. She clenched it tight. Her image in the mirror was starting to look very good indeed, she decided, especially for someone past forty. Her breasts were held firmly by the cups formed into the dress, although they could have been presented a little higher, she thought. Against that, her nipples were clearly delineated, giving a voluptuous effect. She succumbed to the urge to run her hands over them, then to tease them with her fingers. It felt good, sensual, and, of course, it made them even more prominent. Her hands were shaking, she realised. Perhaps a drink would help.
She was prepared. In the bag was a bottle of champagne, but it wasn't chilled. She called Reception, and ordered an ice bucket. Investigating the mini-bar, she found a quarter bottle of white wine, which she opened and poured.
Sitting at the dressing table and sipping at the wine, Rachael snapped the seal on the packet containing the stockings she'd selected to go with the dress. Unusually for her, they were "hold-ups"; although her thighs were firm enough that they didn't cause an unsightly line, she disliked the sensation of the gripping welts. However, this time, the clinging nature of the dress ruled out a suspender belt, so she'd chosen these -- dark, in fact near opaque, with a faint lattice design picked out in silver -- as the most erotic option available. Drawing first one, then the other, up her legs, she was relieved to see that they were long enough to reach almost to her pelvis. That meant that any flashes of thigh she offered would be intentional. Moreover, she contemplated, they'd make her already long, slim thighs look endless.
That concept engrossed her. Rapt by the idea, she reached again into the bag, drawing out the shoes which she'd wished to be wearing earlier. Four inches high, with a thick ankle strap, they'd been bought with the intent of exhibiting her shapely legs, of giving her walk a libidinous sway, and -- most crucially -- sending a not very subliminal message. Rachael had never owned a pair of "fuck-me" heels before. She certainly did now. She bent to fasten the ankle straps. The buckles were stiff. Sufficiently so, she thought, they'd only be coming off in extremis; and in her mind, she formed another vision of herself, naked but for stockings and heels.
She'd fantasised such a scene often enough recently, and even - at Alistair's request - dressed this way in the privacy of their bedroom, albeit lacking the heels.
The night she'd found those magazines, he'd been away on business. Probably just as well, as her first instinct had been to confront him with them and demand that he not bring any such material into their home again. Instead, events took an unexpected turn. Having settled their child, while sitting quietly she found some of the images returning to her mind. Then, having gone to bed early, she found herself waking in the small hours, uncomfortable in churned covers, and perspiring. Her body showed all the signs of arousal, and she knew her dreams had consisted of vague, but undoubtedly sexual images. Settling back to try to recapture sleep, she found herself consumed by an urge to compare her own body to those in the magazines. And thus she found herself in what she thought was the bizarre position of standing in front of a mirror contemplating her strengths relative to the models in the magazines strewn around her feet. She'd felt, in the main, she compared well. Why did he feel the need to look at them when the real thing was available?
The following night, when he returned, she'd attempted to initiate sex. Claiming tiredness, he'd declined. As he slept, she found her mind churning. Was it something wrong with her? Was she genuinely so undesirable? If so, why? She thought that objectively, her body stood well in comparison with those he wanted to look at. She wanted very much to be sure of it now. This was the first time she'd contemplated being seen like that, by some yet-unknown lover. She found the prospect exquisitely sensual, and at the same time daunting.
