Looking back, it was my fault she bought that red dress. Although in my defence I could hardly say no and it started off harmlessly enough. What happened after that, well, it is amazing what can set people off.
It had been a torturous day of being dragged from one hot, stuffy, overcrowded shop into another. I was nursing what seemed to be the world's largest hangover and had just about exhausted my limited repertoire of "it looks lovely dear" and "how lovely" comments. My mouth was dry and my head was throbbing. I am not sure at what point in my life seven pints of lager had changed from a warm-up to a battering by a London bus. The noise and bustle of the shop was wearing me down. How could people stand to be in these places? The walk through the perfume department had damn near killed me. I was planning petty and dark revenge on the next rude teenager to elbow past me when she finally picked the dress from one of the endless racks and asked me if she should try it on, a hopeful look on her pretty little face.
"Why not dear," I mumbled, praying that she had found something she liked and would mercifully end this torture yet dreading the inevitable twenty minute wait while she tried the dress on. I would probably pass out and have my lifeless body trampled by the horde. This was before she tried one size up, one down and three in different colours.
I shuffled around the shop for a couple of minutes my eyes roaming over the ranks of bovine shoppers mindlessly shuffling clothes along the racks.
I collapsed into 'the husband chair' and was lowering my head into my hands when she twirled out of the changing rooms, her face beaming. The sight of her knocked my breath away. She had skipped out of the room barefoot, her small pale feet pattering against the marble floor. She was wearing a bright red strapless summer dress that ended about two inches above her knee. My wife is a small woman, only just reaching five one -- but she has been blessed with a fairly decent pair of breasts, which, due to her size, appear almost a little too large for her and make her appear a little unreal, almost cartoonish, like a teenage fantasy of what a woman should look like. Her catalogue-model face, with soft blue eyes, shoulder length, raven hair and full, thick lips accentuate the image further. I am a very lucky man.
I felt luckier still as I watched her dance up to me, swishing the ends of her dress in her hand. I noticed that it was slightly too small for her, the top riding adventurously low over her bosom and showing off an unheard of level of cleavage- at least for her. I also realised, with glee, that she was bra-less and the only way she could counter the glorious cleavage was by hiking the dress up and exposing more of her toned, shapely legs.
"What do you think?" she asked me hopefully, twisting to see the back of the dress in the mirror.
"Very nice, very nice indeed," I replied.
"Hmm, I'm not sure," she said, biting her lip. My heart sank. "This is the last one they have and I think it is a little small."
"Rubbish," I said, probably too quickly "you look great."
"You don't think it is too racy?," she asked, pulling a face and pushing her tits together to examine the effect.
Desire flared though me and I stepped in front of her, grabbed her by the ass and drew her in for a deep, passionate kiss. We had not kissed like that for an eternity. My wife's eyes bulged wide and she felt my hand tighten on her ass and she felt my rock hard cock straining against the front of my trousers pressed against her belly. Sad to say it, but passion like this was fairly out of character for Katie -- she was usually way too conservative for public displays, yet strangely, she was kissing back and not pulling away. Here, in the middle of a busy shop with her in that dress. My eyes popped open in surprise as I felt her warm tongue dart into my mouth. She broke the kiss but stayed pressed against me, grinning lazily. My heart, already racing, nearly stopped as she casually dropped her left hand down and squeezed my straining member.
"Mmmm way too racy," she whispered. My hand roved over her ass and I suddenly realised.
"You are not wearing any knickers!" I quietly exclaimed, incredulous.
"Nope, I don't like the line they make-- this is a commando dress," she said easily, mischief in her eyes as she pulled away. "But it's too expensive; I'll have to put it back."
"Don't you dare," I commanded as she slipped back towards the dressing room. "I'll buy it for you, on one condition."
She looked at me with her innocent eyes, "And what might that be?"
"You wear it home," I dared, "Just slip on your shoes, and let's go."
She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes a deeper blue. I feared the strange spell had been broken and I had pushed too far. I was about to retreat and crack a lame joke when she suddenly turned.
"Okay then," she said as she sauntered back to the cubicle, swaying her hips. A few moments later she was back, her jeans and woolly jumper in a neat pile, with her matching bra and knickers piled conspicuously on top.
My hangover forgotten, we stood in the queue to pay, my wife looking for all the world like she had stepped out of one of the wall posters of pouting models that surrounded us. I tried to keep my jaw off the floor. She held her pile of cloths in front of her in two hands, with her small bag dangling from her elbow. My idiot drooling was interrupted by a sudden and random fit of practical thinking. How do you buy a dress that you are wearing? As I pondered this a mechanical voice directed us to our till. I followed as Katie sashayed up to the counter. The assistant was a young spiky haired man, probably a student working through the summer. He reached out to the pile of clothes that my wife put on the counter, picking up her knickers and looking over it for a tag to scan. My wife smiled up to him as a look of confusion crossed his face.
