The Onesie

"What is that?" I asked.

"What?" she replied.

"What you're wearing."

"This?"

"Don't play coy, yes, that."

I was lying in bed with the TV on, our normal ritual on a work night. A little TV. Maybe a kiss goodnight. We turn the lights out and go to sleep. We call it "Wednesday."

"It's my new pajamas."

"I figured that. I've never seen them before."

"It's a onesie."

"I know. Does it have feet?"

"Not this one," she said, stepping around the bed.

"Don't babies usually wear them?"

"They make them for adults, too."

She gave me a little twirl. It was black with little colored stars on it. There were buttons down the front, and the material was thing, like cotton. Or something similar. It was tight -- hugging each and every one of her curves -- and she had two buttons unfastened, so I could get a hint of skin.

"I like it," I said.

"Do you?"

"Yeah."

"It doesn't look silly?"

"Ummmm no," in a way that let her know I very much disagreed with that notion.

"Good."

She talked to me about work and her sister and the drive in from town last week, or something. I could hear her voice, but I could not concentrate. She was leaning down to plug in her bedside light, and all I could focus on was how tight this onesie was and how great her ass looked in it and how much I wanted to fuck her.

"... and she laughed. Which was odd. Because you know her. She never does that."

"Right."

"Are you listening to me?"

"Huh?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Uh, yeah. Sister. Work. Traffic."

She eyed me with that curious look, pulling back the covers and grabbing her book. I had CNN on, so she flipped open her novel and stretched out, her body covered in onesie from shoulders down... except for that patch of skin that those opened buttons were kind enough to show. One would think MORE skin is a turn on, but sometimes the turn on is the restriction of access.

When she read, she had this habit of twirling her hair. Normally, I did not notice. Today, it was driving me crazy.

"What?" she said, catching me staring.

"Huh?"

"What are you looking at?" she had that devilish smirk on her face that told me she sort of knew what was on my mind but wanted me to say it.

"Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe is not an answer."

"'Maybe' is an answer, it's just not a definitive one."

She returned her eyes to the page, and I lowered the volume on the TV. I lay on my side, to her right and tried to be discreet, my eyes shooting glances at her in this onesie. But it was hard.

I mean, it was just so tight. And she looked so... cute. And sexy. And adorable. And hot. It was confusing.

You have to understand, she is normally so many things, but cute is not one of them. Sexy? Glamorous? Beautiful? Sophisticated? Gorgeous? Brilliant? All of that. But I've never called her cute.

The word felt like an insult. It was a default compliment. A word used to describe things that made you say "Awww," not "Mmmmm." I never thought cute and innocent meant hot, but now it did. So now I was confused and couldn't stop staring. And I wanted to be inside of her.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"What?"

"Is your hand lost?"

"Is it?" I said.

"I thought this was TV time. Why are you rubbing my stomach?"

"It does not have to be TV time, who says?"

"Well, it's Wednesday."

"So? There are no rules."

"I thought there was?"

"No," I said. "And if they are, we make them."

"It's the onesie, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Admit it," she said, teasing. "You like it. You think it's sexy."

"No, that's not it."

"It's something new, and you like it."

"No," I said, my cheeks blushing. "I mean, it's fine."

"Yeah?" she said, standing up. She turned around, so I could see her ass outlined in the tight fabric. "So when I bend over like this, it does nothing?"

"No moreso than normal," I lied.

"OK," she said, grabbing the onesie and pulling it apart, so the buttons unfastened, all the way, to right below her belly button... just inches from where I wanted to bury my face. Her tan flesh peaked out, but the onesie did not fall open. Instead, it gave me a good view of her cleavage and stomach: just soft, silky skin peaking out of black cotton. "And this? Nothing?"

My mouth was suddenly dry.

"Nah," I said.

"Liar," she said.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Show me your cock."

"What?"

"Prove it. Show me your cock."

"What does that prove? Maybe I'm just excited."

"Just admit you like the onesie."

Maybe I felt silly. I was a grown man. I was evolved. The idea that a bit of connected fabric would cause such a visceral reaction was a little foreign. Or maybe I felt embarrassed. Why was this outfit so hot? Was I a plushie? One of those guys who liked to hump people dressed up in mascot costumes?

Or maybe I just liked denying her what she wanted.

"No."

"Fine," she said, smiling, lying back in bed. She did not bother buttoning up her onesie. "Watch the news."

She sat her book down, turning out her lamp. She lay her pillow down, her body flat against the bed. Her fingertips lightly brushed her skin, making a trail down her button line. I could see the goose bumps on her flesh as she teased herself, sliding her hand lower, lower, under the fabric, disappearing below the tight black cotton.

Her fingers found what it was looking for, because her back arched and she moaned. I could see the material moving up and down as her fingers slid in and out of her pussy. Her left hand was lost under the top of her onesie, pulling and pinching her nipples as she fucked herself.

"OK," I said.

"What?"

"You win. It's the onesie."

"Mmmmm," she said, increasing her pace. "Good. Glad to hear."

"I can take over now."

"No."

"Why?"

"You took too long. I have this."

Her eyes were closed, her legs instinctively scissoring together as she rubbed her clit. I had seen her make herself cum a lot. I knew where she liked to touch and how much. It was killing me to not be a part of the process.

"This is too much," I said, on my elbow now, staring at her.

"You can cum, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," she said. "But you have to do it yourself."

I laughed. She loved watching me jerk off. I'd take what I could get.

I snatched my pajamas down, freeing my cock. It was throbbing and warm to the touch. Precum already dripped down my shaft, proving further what a horrible liar I am.

I moved a bit closer to her, so my legs were pressed against hers. I stroked the shaft, moving my gaze from watching her wrist disappear beneath the fabric, back up to her beautiful face, lost in the moment.

She opened her eyes, looking down at my busy hand. She bit her lip and stared as I jacked my cock.

"You like this, don't you?" I asked, now the one doing the questioning.

"Mmmhmm."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"You like touching your pussy while I stare at you?"

"Fuck. Yes."

"You going to cum for me?"

She bit her lip, her mouth moving but nothing coming out. Her eyes were fixed on my cock. "Close."

Her hands moved faster, her mouth forming a little O. She slipped the onesie shoulder down, freeing her right tit, her left hand tugging hard at the nipple, twisting it with her finger tips. Goddamn I loved when she played with her tits.

Her lips were so near mine. I wanted to kiss them. I always did. Her lips were my safe zone. But I didn't want to break the rules of our little game.

She arched her back, pushing her hips up, her face seizing in intensity. Her orgasm hit her hard, and she paused there, eyes squeezed shut, letting it wash over her. She froze in the moment, letting the feeling linger as long as she could, barely making a noise except the sexiest moan I ever heard.

I jerked my cock, staring at her face. Wanting to cum but needing her eyes back on me.

Her body came down, and her breathing returned. "Fuck," she said. One word. It was all I needed.

Her eyes were back on my cock, and I jacked it hard. "You going to cum for me daddy?" she asked, in her sweetest voice. I fucking lost it.

I moaned, twisting my body, aiming my cock at the bare patch of her stomach peeking out from underneath the onesie. I felt a white-hot warmth and relief wash over me. I grunted as I shot. The first hit its target, settling on her soft skin. My aim was less accurate on the next 4-5, splashing across the black cotton, leaving trails from her chest down to her legs. She didn't seem to care.

"Wow," she said, finally. "That was a lot."

"Yeah," I said, lying on my back, my cock softening in my hand. "Sorry."

"Why?"

"I made a mess of your onesie."

She laughed. "Yeah, a little."

"It will come out?"

"It should be fine."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yeah, I mean, you know, if you want to wear it again."

"You'd be OK with that?" she said, her eyebrow arched.

"Uh, yeah. I think that would be good."