**** Monday night
There are many adjectives you could use to describe my wife: gorgeous, severe, ambitious. One you would probably not use would be 'chef' (fine, I know, a noun; told you I sucked at grammar). There was one thing though she really could do well - whip up a delicious, creamy, handmade pasta.
"Now you're sure you prefer my cooking to that nice Italian?" she said, scooping up the last bit of carbonara with some bread.
I most certainly did. I leant back in my chair, patting my belly, wondering if that last mouthful wasn't going to be the final nail in my 30 inch waist's coffin.
"Oh my Lord, yes! I don't care which part of Lazio you come from, no-one can make creamy Italian quite like you!"
I was never one for going out on my birthday. I hated the hoopla, the attention, the stilted 'happy birthday to...' as the staff inevitably paused, awkwardly, waiting for the name of the person they neither knew nor cared about. No, I much preferred exactly this: a night in with my gorgeous wife, a nice meal, some wine,... some...
"Wouldn't you prefer a nice restaurant to this?"
She clearly hadn't the faith in her own creation that I did, gesturing around herself at the kitchen, the low spotlights shining off the large dark-grained table top.
I pointed outside, the wind helpfully blowing harder, whistling, as the rain surged again, pattering against the glass doors.
"Look at it, it's filthy out there. I've got everything I need right here," I said, mainly truthfully, leaning across to take her hand, stroking it. "I love you so much," I added, this time entirely honestly.
"Well, hold that thought," smiled Claire, pulling her hand back from me, sliding her chair out from the table. "You haven't seen your main present yet!"
She stood up, running her hands slowly down her body, the silky material of her black dress clinging to her every curve. This I liked the sound of.
She just smiled that little sexy smile of hers. I tried to shut out the image of her smiling like that at Deejay, the man's hand inexorably moving up her leg, and concentrate on the here and now.
"Alexa, lower the lights a little. And play something sexy."
She emphasised that last word, as if Amazon's algorithm would understand exactly what she meant. Fair play to the A.I.; it managed to pick out one of her favourite trip-hop numbers.
My mind flashed back to the hotel room as Claire started to slowly move her hips, her hands running up and down her body, her face a picture of seduction.
This time, I couldn't be the gentlemen - I stood up, wanting to grab her, squeeze her; fuck, to bend her little ass over the table and spank her for being such a tease.
She wasn't having any of it - she just pushed my chest as I went to get up, dropping me back down in the chair, wagging her finger at me.
She started the same damned sexy moves she'd pulled in the hotel, both arms reaching up and across to hold the shoulder straps, pulling them down; I suddenly got a glimpse at my main 'present'.
I have to admit, fancy underwear is not the biggest draw for me; what's the saying, 'it's what underneath that counts'? But I had to give her her due - the lacy blue garment really was quite hot.
She pulled the dress down further, shimmying it below her waist, the thing dropping to the floor. Christ, I take it back - this underwear was the proverbial bee's knees.
It was all a lovely ultramarine blue, her gorgeous dark areola showing through their chiffon cages, a delicate lacy suspender belt sat just across her belly-button.
She turned, bending over, looking back at me, her finger provocatively brought up to her lips, a faux-innocent look on her face. She shook her perfect little backside, most of her pale white cheeks exposed, the expensive underwear clearly not bought for its coverage.
"You like?" she teased.
I don't think it was really a question - I'm pretty sure I looked like the wolf in those cartoons, eyes popping out of his head, tongue lolling out his mouth. Hell, I think I even wolf-whistled.
She turned, walking back to me, and sat herself down on my lap, arms reaching around me, pulling my face into her tits, smothering me. Hell, if you're going to have to go, I figured this is how I'd like to exit the world, the woman of my dreams grinding on my lap, my face buried in her chest.
"So you like me flirting with other men, do you?" she purred. I could feel the warmth between her legs - I knew she could feel what I made of things.
She started grinding herself harder, pushing her hips forward, then down, rubbing my erect cock for all she was worth. She leaned her head into my ear, nibbling at it, whispering, "His hand was so big and warm. You know what they say about a man with big hands, don't you baby?"
I was crazy turned on, my wife stripper-dancing on my lap, whispering dirty little things in my ear whilst I busily tried to chew down on her nipples. My teeth grabbed a hold of one of the sweet little cherries, nibbling at it, pulling it.
"Careful!" she cried, "You don't want to wreck your present on its first outing!"
I'd planned my own present unveiling for later in the evening. But right then, as she looked down at me, I couldn't quite manage to hide it. I could see her looking quizzically at me as I 'grr' with a nipple in my mouth, my face obviously giving the game away; I looked like a kid at Christmas, stoked with my present, but also desperate for her to open her present.
"What?" she asked, trying to interpret my mischievous expression, "What's that look mean?"
"I've got a present for you!" I managed, unhappy at having to let go of her sweet breasts, but my heart pounding nonetheless, pounding as images of what her present might do to her flashed through my mind.
"But it's your birthday?" she squeaked, not doing a very good job of hiding her glee.
You know you can buy presents for a couple, right? Well, this was one of those. Granted, not the sort of thing you might want unwrapped round the tree at a friend's house, but hey. I told her, "Think of it as a present for both of us."
You see, dirty-talk aside, I still thought Claire was just playing with the idea of fucking another man. She was just having fun with it, using the thrill of it to amp her up, to tease me, to get us both running hot. But I don't think she seriously considered it a realistic scenario.
I, on the other hand, was dead set on making it a fucking (pun intended) hot reality. I'd bought this present to try and give her another little push, another small nudge, to get her mind - amongst other things - more used to the idea, more used to the feeling.
Ever since that night in the hotel, it was all I could think about. Seeing her flirting with that big bastard at the party had just made the idea grow deeper roots, little tendrils of desire sinking themselves further into me, wrapping around me like some insidious ivy. Watching her get felt up and almost fucking kissing him... Well, that had turned it into what now felt like an obsession.
Cursing myself for bringing an end to the lap dance, my wife reversed off of me, kissing my forehead, a gorgeous, expectant look on her face.
