Didn't he know that she was trying to pick out a sexy dress to wear when they went out to dinner to celebrate their anniversary? When she'd return from the dressing room and ask how a dress looked, he'd shrug and say, "It looks nice."
She didn't want to look "nice." She wanted to have him look at her with the fiery passion of when they were first dating. They'd been married only two years, and he was acting like they'd been married for decades. They'd already looked at three stores in the local mall, and she still had nothing to wear for their anniversary.
So, when they passed a lingerie store, she grabbed his hand and dragged him in. His interest seemed to pique, as they wandered from rack to rack. She started with camisoles, and then moved to the racier things like thongs, zebra striped and leopard spotted. She flipped through stockings and garters, lace and fishnet. Rather than wander off, her husband was close on her heels. He even laughed as she lifted a pair of pasties. They were pink, covered with sequins, and had string tassels. She held them up in jest over her breasts, and said, "You like?" He grinned like an idiot and just nodded.
The next rack had crotchless panties. One was shaped like butterfly with small beads and fringe. It had a matching bra with ties that closed over the nipples. They had been giggling before, but they were now quiet, their breath held, their eyes fixed on the fabric, and the empty places between the fabric. He must have been imagining her body in those areas. She was. She could feel her cheeks burning and knew she must be blushing.
After two years of marriage (and let's admit it, some boyfriends before that), she liked to think of herself as both experienced, and, even more importantly, sexually open minded so that something like a peek-a-boo bra and panty set was no big deal. But telling yourself you're comfortable is not the same as being comfortable. You can pretend to be, but you can't will it. She could try to tell herself that holding the butterfly set in the store with her husband staring at it was "no big deal," but her flushed face, her trembling knees, and the wetness forming between her legs said otherwise.
She did what most people do when faced with something pushing them beyond their comfort zone: she put on her bravado.
"Pick anything out," she said. "It's my anniversary gift."
"That looks nice," he said.
"Ok," she said, and smiled.
She slipped off to the changing room. She pulled off her sweatshirt and wiggled out of her jeans. Her jeans were a little tight—not because she'd bought them that way, but because she'd bought them years ago, and apparently, either they'd shrunk in the dryer, or she'd put on a few extra pounds. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was wearing mismatched bra and panties. Normally she wouldn't give it a second thought, but holding a matched pair made her conscious of the fact.
When she slipped on the silky lingerie, she admired them in the mirror. She noticed how her nipples, caressed by the silk, were hard, and almost peeking out. The slit in the bra was held only by a small pink ribbon. The crotch of the panties were also held by a pink ribbon, which seemed to barely constrain her puffy folds. She reached down, and was surprised at how wet she'd become.
At first, she had only dipped a finger along her folds to check, but her finger, finding her body already aroused, couldn't help but automatically begin. By familiar habit, her finger began to circle her clitoris, softly, and slow, just how she knew to get herself off. She wasn't even aware of what she was doing for a moment—she'd closed her eyes and let herself feel the sway of bliss. She lost herself for a moment, as she would often do at home on her bed, when alone.
As she rubbed her clit with her right hand, she let her left hand cup her breasts, first one and then the other, pinching and tugging her nipples. This made her squeal softly and squirm. She could feel herself getting even wetter, which was her body's way of begging for a finger inside her. A familiar progression in her masturbation.
She inserted one and then a second finger inside her. Slowly she began to pump her fingers in and out as her right hand continued to rub small circles around her clit. Her rhythm had picked up and her breathing had become shallow and ragged. She was moaning now, and beginning to feel the low and slow build up of an orgasm.
Just then, a knock on the door stopped her. The store clerk asked if everything was ok. She could only stammer, "Yes, fine, thank you."
