Everyone in this story is over eighteen. It deals with Steve and his wife Roni (short for Veronica) and all characters are fictitious, having no relation to any real person.
*
I had been married for three years when the events I am about to relate started to unfold. I should tell you about myself β stuff I had never revealed before included. Twenty eight years old, heterosexual, (though not homophobic) I have always β or at least since I had my first hard-on β been prey to a range of fantasies, some of which I think are abnormal. (though what, pray, is 'normal?')
Reading stories posted here, half the world seems to be obsessed with panties, or stockings. Although I'm by no means opposed to a pair of black stockings, especially if combined with high heels, I am much more interested in long, silky nightgowns. Before I was married, I would often sleep in one myself, and the more of my body that was in contact with soft silk β or, more likely, synthetic material β the better I liked it, and I would frequently stroke myself through the gown until I came. There, I've confessed! It didn't have anything to do with wanting to go out in drag β the idea never occurred to me. On my wedding night, Roni, who is a slim, vivacious creature with very small tits, wore a long silk nightgown bought specially for the occasion. I fucked her before she had chance to take it off, then again. But she's never worn it again since then β shit! My own inclination to don such garments seemed to have left me, but my pulse till quickened when I touched Roni's silky slips.
I mentioned panties. Another fantasy of mine is imagining girls in the street to be without them. I once actually came across a miniskirted young mum in a supermarket, who bent down to tend to her child, and afforded me an uninterrupted view of her shaven pussy. Lovely! (I've been looking for her β or another β ever since. No luck.)
You know how it is in the first years of a marriage, especially when you're young. It's tough to talk about sex, and you tend to fall into a rut. In our case, I loved it that as soon a I kissed Roni, her nipples went hard as rocks, and she moaned when I fingered her pussy, then we usually fucked in missionary position, though occasionally in doggie fashion, and rolled over and went to sleep. It wasn't that I was particularly bored with that β she was a great fuck, without doubt, and screamed noisily when she came. (though I did wonder if she sometimes faked it) No, it was great, so far as it went, butβ¦β¦
I haven't spoken of my other fantasy. Looking idly through porn on the internet (who doesn't?) I ran into some BDSM clips, and was especially turned on when I saw a Hungarian offering, featuring beautiful young girls being whipped, until their backs were patterned with red welts. The equally gorgeous creature administering this punishment was evidently enjoying herself, and the young ladies being whipped were obviously willing participants.
Oh, and I forgot, I get turned on when I see a girl wearing clothes that must be enormously uncomfortable β very tight skirts, ultra-high heels β I can just imagine that
they
get off on the restraint too.
I suppose all of that makes me weird β but I do no harm to anyone, do I?
One day I took a phone call, and ended up chatting about this and that with an old schoolfriend of Roni's whom I'd never met, Hazel. She wanted to talk to my wife, who was out, so I promised I'd get her to call back. When Roni came in, she seemed pleased that Hazel had called and rang her straight away. They talked for a while, they I heard Roni say, 'Hang on a mo. I'll see.'
She covered the mouthpiece and said to me, 'Hazel's left her husband and wants to come and stay for a while β OK?'
'Sure,' I said.
'Good, she said you sounded nice.'
'What's she do for a living?'
'She's a psychiatrist at the hospital.'
I never gave the matter another thought until a couple of weeks later, when she turned up on the doorstep. My first impression was that she was a pleasantly plain, slim young woman, a touch more curvaceous, but rather shorter than my wife, and with a nice smile that lit up her face. The idea of sharing my home with two women was slightly worrying β it seemed unlikely I should get much choice when it came to which channel to watch. But Hazel settled in almost invisibly, and all went smoothly. Then, one evening, Roni came home from the solicitor's office where she worked, and announced that we were invited to a party at the lavish home of one of the junior partners.
'And Hazel?' I asked, concerned she would be left alone.
'Oh, I told them about her, and she's invited as well.'
So we all three got ready to go.
Roni looked good in the short, black velvet cocktail dress she wore, which moulded her slim form, and showed a lot of her great legs, encased in black patterned lace stockings. She hummed and hawed over footwear, but plumped for some nice stilettos, which pleased me.
When we went downstairs, Hazel was standing there waiting, and I was immediately struck by her transformation. Plain she wasn't β any more, with artful make-up and long, dangly ear-rings, but it was her dress that caught my attention β all of it! She wore a bronze-coloured, silky, floor-length gown with a halter-neck, which left her long back quite naked, right down to the very beginning of the crack between her buttocks, and revealed a tattooed red and blue butterfly on her lower back. The loose bodice allowed what looked like nice, high breasts a little movement, so that even walking a few paces to the front door caused them to jiggle pleasingly.
We took a cab to the big house in a posh suburb, and a uniformed maid (hired for the occasion?) showed us into a big room, where all the furniture had been cleared, apart from tables groaning under food of all kinds which lined two walls. In the corner beside the door was a well-stocked bar.
The hostess came to greet us. She was a willowy blonde, dressed in a fifties-looking white taffeta skirt, and a blue silk blouse. She introduced herself as Karen, and invited us to help ourselves to food and drink. I reckoned about thirty people were already engaged in just that.
After we had enjoyed some of the tasty snacks and a couple of glasses of wine, Karen announced that she was putting music on for us to dance to. She then dimmed the lights, and the music started with a smoochy number. Karen took to the floor with a young guy, who Roni whispered was a colleague from the office. Karen's husband James was in a clinch with an Asian-looking girl with long black hair, and a long slit in her silver-grey skirt. When another two couples joined in, a guy I knew to be a senior partner at Roni's firm came over and asked if I minded him dancing with my wife. I said I didn't, and took a draught of wine as I watched them go onto the floor, and get lost in the growing number of couples.
'Why don't we have a dance?' asked Hazel, quietly, and we sidled out into the slow-moving throng. She moulded herself to me in a very nice way, I thought, and soon laid her head, with its mane of soft brown hair, on my shoulder. I pulled her even closer.
'Do you like to dance, Steve?' she murmured in my ear.
'Not normally, but I could easily be persuaded,' I replied, 'I like your dress, by the way.'
'I'm not wearing anything underneath it,' she said, in a matter-of-fact way.
Almost automatically, I moved my hand lower, from where it had been resting at the top of her dress's low-cut back, and, with a life of its own, it made its way to the silky material which covered her buttocks. Simultaneously, I was embarrassed to realise that my cock also had ideas of its own, and a rock-hard erection was insisting itself against Hazel's flat stomach.
'Was it something I said?' she said teasingly, pressing her slim body even tighter against me, and I was lost for a reply.
Her nice buttocks were softer than they looked, and as I felt them, she snaked her arm around my neck, and presented her lips to mine. Desperately, I shot my eyes around, but seeing no sign of my wife, I gave in and kissed Hazel's soft lips, letting her dart her rapacious tongue into my mouth. My erection grew, if that were possible, and I suddenly felt in real danger of cumming, there and then. I tried to think about something else, and partly succeeded, because just then I saw Roni dancing closer to us, and smiled at her.
As she moved out of range, Hazel said, 'Who's a naughty boy, then?'
'You don't know how naughty.'
'It was when I told you I wasn't wearing panties, wasn't it?'