We – or should I say my wife? – first met Charles at our company Christmas party.
I already knew him, of course. I worked with him at the agency. He was a nice guy, charming, handsome... but our respective tasks rarely brought us into any sort of regular contact. I didn't normally give him much thought. I doubt he gave much more thought to me.
It often takes a party – and corporate Christmas parties are ideal – to reveal the undercurrents of an organization. And even more than that: the political and social and sexual dynamics that underlie our proper and respectable behavior. Despite the typical reluctance about attending such events, people normally show up in droves. The parties are always an opportunity to demonstrate the fact that we have other lives outside of our workday world. I think people look forward to them as the chance to make statements.
And of course, they can always blame it on the alcohol, come Monday morning.
Not that anything happened at this particular event. I relay it only because it set the stage for everything that followed. Let me explain.
I was busy introducing Brigitte to as many of my fellow workers as I could. I learned that lesson well enough the year before, when apparently I failed miserably to do so. This year, I was intent on introducing her to everyone possible, including the caterers and bartender, if it needed to come to that.
At some point -- I can't remember when, so blame the scotch and soda -- Charles cruised within our immediate range, and I took the opportunity to introduce Brigitte to him. As he wandered off after exchanging pleasantries, she turned to me and said, "He's the most handsome man in your entire company."
I laughed, having never really thought about it before, but had to agree that she was probably right. I mean, after all, I like to think she has good taste. I took a second look. And in fact, she WAS right. He is tall -- 6'2"? -- black, and fine-featured. He is slender, but not thin, with broad shoulders. And not only is he very well spoken, but also extremely cultured, especially in music, which I knew from several discussions with him about jazz. I think he has an Ivy-League education, to boot. Hell, he had it all, I had to admit a little reluctantly.
A little spark went off in my head when she mentioned how good-looking he was, but I didn't really give it any thought. What I did do, though, an hour or so later when our paths crossed again in the busy room, was to mention Brigitte's comment to him. "My wife thinks you're the best-looking guy at the agency," I confided, with a grin.
He laughed, pleased, and I could tell that he was both touched and flattered. He told me it made his evening. I think, now, looking back, that that was indeed the case, as I learned shortly afterward that he had just separated from his wife. He's a very nice guy; and who wouldn't find such a compliment flattering, especially from someone as lovely as Brigitte?
Chapter II
And there the story would normally have ended. Our paths at work still crossed as infrequently as before. We passed one another in the hall, or on the stairs, and said 'hi', but that was all. With the exception of a nagging little, subliminal memory of a Christmas party opportunity seen, and missed, things went back to normal. Months went on. Life and work resumed as usual. The memory of a brief Christmas party flirtation receded.
That would have been that -- but then, of course, there are always extenuating circumstances, aren't there?
Brigitte and I went to bed one night, a month or two later, and whether she was feeling amorous, or I was, I can't remember. What I do remember, though, was giving her a massage. Of course, that wasn't so unusual. We often begin this way... I don't know how much she likes it -- heck, I think she does -- but I do, because it's slow, and sensuous, and intimate, and we both know where it will lead.
This particular night, though, I was gently kneading her back, occasionally drizzling warm massage oil into the soft valley of her lower back and rubbing it in slowly, when I had a wicked thought. Only the hardening of my cock, gently pressed against the cleft of her soft ass, would have given me away, but I'm sure she didn't notice. I said nothing, at first, other than to whisper gentle, sexy words into her ear, as usual, as I continued to rub her lovely, firm flesh, working my way down to her waist, and then across her firm, round ass cheeks.
But this night, as I leaned into her shoulders, slowly rubbing her upper arms in long strokes, and then pressing my palms firmly down on lower back, loosening the muscles, I took a slightly different tack.
"Do you remember Charles -- from our Christmas party?" I asked softly, as I pressed my warm hands into her glowing back, now shining in the dim light from the scented massage oil. She mumbled something softly, into the pillow, sounding like 'yes'. I took it as an affirmative. And she wiggled her hips a tiny fraction, too.
"I'm thinking of asking him over," I said, as I continued to rub her shoulders and upper arms, then leaning into her upper back, pressing gently but firmly, and working the soft flesh, as I continued to whisper to her. My hard cock was still pressed between the crease of her ass, and as I said the words, I could feel her unconsciously -- or was it consciously, who will ever know? -- part her legs a little further.
"Imagine I've asked him to give you a massage," I said. "He's asked you to remove all your clothes, to take off your bra and your panties, and to lie down on the bed..."
Brigitte moaned softly as I whispered the words, and then parted her legs further. She seemed suddenly more eager, more willing, more open... She pressed her warm, wet pussy up against me, seeking a hard cock. And the thought of Charles, tall and black, his cock rubbing against my wife's ass as my cock was now, made me harder than I could imagine. I couldn't resist. I grabbed her hips firmly, raising her lower body up on the bed, spreading her legs and opening her. Her glistening cunt, the swollen labia open and inviting, shone in the soft light of the dresser lamp. She waited to take a cock.
I placed my hard prick against her pussy, opening the soft folds of her lips with my swollen purple cockhead, teasing her. Then the teasing stopped, and I began to push deeply into her. My shaft, slick from her moisture, thrust firmly into her welcoming vagina, and I pulled her hips up against me to drive in deeper.
And as I did, I imagined, with excitement and guilt, a tall, handsome black man, thick with cock, fucking my lovely wife.
Chapter III
That was about it for a while. Fantasies don't really get talked about much around here. My wife is shy, and particularly shy about sex. And I would have felt awkward bringing such a subject up outside the context of love-making.
Still, that little distant spark burned a bit brighter in my mind -- flamed, no doubt, by the memory of my wife's reaction to my whispered words several weeks earlier. I filed it away, though, along with all the other little factoids, literary detritus and vague erotic fantasies that fill the mind of a middle-aged man. Who knew what value it would have in future? Better save it, just in case!
The months went by. Then, in November, just when the pre-winter blues were beginning to set in, I had an idea. Nothing fancy – no overseas trip – just a weekend in Boston at the Ritz for the two of us. The hotel was running a 'romantic' special on the room rates, and it struck me as the perfect getaway. Brigitte agreed. I think we were both in need of a date, or at least a brief escape from parenthood.
We managed to find a sitter for the kids for the Saturday and Sunday. And we began to look forward to a day and a half off with as much enthusiasm as if it were two weeks in Paris. Obviously, we needed a break.
The weekend break came up on us quickly, and before we knew it, we were checking in at the Ritz's front desk, the car tucked safely away in the hotel garage. It was a glorious, crisp Saturday noon, nearly 65 degrees, and promised to be one of the last good weekends of the season. We'd made an enormous number of plans for the two days -- not that we'd even accomplish half of them, but it was fun to think about the restaurants, the movies and the nightclubs and dancing that we were going to try and sample. Obviously, we'd been away from city life too long.
We window-shopped and antiqued that afternoon in Back Bay and on Beacon Hill, had cocktails at the Top of the Hub, and then walked back to the Ritz to change for dinner. We had reservations at a new French restaurant on Mount Vernon Street -- someplace decidedly upscale and expensive, and wanted to dress up a bit just for fun.
As our time together and alone is so rare these days, these getaways always have the added spice of romance and promised sex. And so I was eager, as we showered and changed, to see what Brigitte was going to wear. Not just what blouse and skirt, but particularly what she was going to wear underneath. It sometimes indicates what mood she's in. And besides, being so visual, as all men are, there is nothing I love more than seeing my wife in sexy underwear -- unless it's seeing her absolutely naked.
She's funny though -- she'll dress in the closet so I can't see, particularly if she wants to surprise me with something sexy later on. I did catch a peek of something sheer and lacey, though, before she quickly closed the bathroom door to my prying eyes.
Dinner on Mount Vernon Street was everything the reviews had promised. Braised lamb, confit de canard, tarte tatin... We started with a bottle of Pommery, then, for dinner, chose a '94 Graves. We even splurged with a half bottle of Sauterne to accompany the tarte. The meal was exquisite, everything done perfectly and authentically. For a couple of hours, we could pretend we were back in Paris, and we did.
