Amazon brings sexual satisfaction right to your doorstep, in more ways than one, or so my wife and I have discovered in the past few years.
You can browse online for items that you will not see in the shops, or at least not on our local high street, like the Feeshow Women's Shiny High Cut Thong Leotard Backless One-Piece Bodysuit Dancewear Gymnastics Swimsuit, which arrived in its silver grey plastic wrap, straight through our letter box.
Of course we have sports outlets close enough to drive to, and the gym we use even has its own small shop, but the sportswear you can buy is pretty standard stuff. Heather has worn lycra shorts and sports bra tops regularly to the gym, and she gets the looks that her body calls out for, even dressed in nothing very stylish, but the Feeshow leotard is something else again.
It comes in several colours and I hesitated between black and gold. The gold is stunning, but perhaps would suit a strip club or a pole dance club more than a suburban gym, so in the end I went for black.
We have a cross trainer in our bedroom, and Heather tried out the leotard there to check that she could work out safely, without the leotard inadvertently slipping to one side, and baring more than either of us intended.
I was pretty satisfied. Heather did not just look good. She looked incredible. Online purchases can be risky. The sizes, especially for items shipped from China, can be smaller than you expect, but the fit was perfect. There was no translucence, but the stretch material clung to every curve and nuance of my wife's body, the wet look black contrasting with the pure milk white of her exposed arms, legs, back and buttocks.
Our cross trainer is set up in one corner of our bedroom, just far enough from the line of fitted wardrobes so as not to impede their mirrored doors. With Heather working the handles and the foot plates of the cross trainer, I was able to enjoy both a direct front view and a reflected rear view of my wife's body in harmonic motion.
The upper part of the front looked like any other leotard. It had inch wide shoulder straps, a scooped neckline that revealed the first couple of inches of Heather's cleavage, but no more than that, and wide cut arm holes that allowed for freedom of movement, but exposed nothing very daring. It was the bottom half that was cut to bare more than most leotards are designed to do.
Most leotards have their leg holes cut to the thigh. Some are cut higher on the thigh than others, but this one was more extreme. It did not even touch my wife's thighs. Neither did it touch her waist on either side. The fabric was shaped from the underarms, diagonally down to either side of Heather's hairless pubic mound. It width was no more than three inches where it hid her navel, and at least an inch narrower where it went between her legs. It covered the essentials, but it was scandalously scant.
Heather's rear view was even better. My wife's buttocks were bare, absolutely nothing covering those delicious globes of flesh. The first sighting of any fabric was at the top of her buttock cleft, and from there it rose to either side of her shoulder blades in an elongated vee, joining the front beneath each arm, and rising over each of her shoulders.
The fabric that comprised that vee was no wider than an inch at any point. Other than that, my wife's back was bare. The Chinese characters tattooed down her spine that we were assured translate to, "make me yours - make love to me", were all visible. So was the butterfly tattoo on her left thigh, the one level with her ass, that gets half covered by her panties and whose intricate patterns deserve more appreciation than they normally receives.
In thirty minutes on the cross trainer Heather burned off four hundred calories and built up quite a sweat. Just seconds later, once she was off the cross-trainer, I had her on her hands and knees on our bedroom rug, the leotard's crotch piece pulled to one side, her slit bared for entry, and that sweat serving as the perfect lubrication for me to slide my cock inside her and reward her for wearing such a daring piece of clothing, with a fucking.
Heather likes to be fucked. In our marriage, making love is not so much a demonstration of affection, but more a way of reassuring my wife that she is fucking sexy, that I just love her cunt, that her body turns me on, and that if we were not man and wife, then I would pay to fuck her, any which way I want to, because her cunt is so divine.
So I fucked her hard. I let her know that the leotard showed her off to perfection. I punished her for being the sexy cunt she is, thrusting hard, and warming her butterfly thigh with the palm of my hand every few thrusts, toying with her pleasure pain erotic need.
Quite why the smack of my palm on her flesh helps my wife to reach her orgasm I have never understood, but some things you do not question. If it works for her, it works for me.
Heather bucked and writhed and pushed her butt backwards as she came, her arms giving way, her head and shoulders falling to the white, deep pile rug, and I kept thrusting, even as she pleaded that it was too intense. I was too close to hold back myself, so she just had to bear whatever intensity she was feeling, until I put out my fire and hers, hosing her deep inside with semen.
That, of course, was just in our bedroom. The gym came later.
Ours is one of the more expensive private gyms that come complete with swimming pool, sauna, hairdressers and beauty therapy. The cost brings exclusivity. Living in a dense urban area brings anonymity. You do see the same faces, and bodies, of those who work out regularly, but you have no idea who they are or where they live.
When we joined, although we have a couple's membership, we agreed not to work out as a couple. Heather does her thing and I do mine. It avoids any sense of competition between us, and leaves us each free to concentrate on our choice of sets, our number of reps, or our target time and intensity on our aerobic sessions.
It also means that occasionally Heather gets chatted up by hopeful males. Her wedding ring does not dissuade them. The philosophy of single guys in gyms seems to be that if it has a cunt, then it is potentially fuckable, and whether it wears a ring or not is totally irrelevant.
So naturally I anticipated some male interest as we drove to the gym together, Heather wearing a pair of leggings and a tee shirt over the leotard. I also anticipated watching her, if from a distance, working out in just the leotard, only to be disappointed.
Heather had gone into the women's changing rooms to put her things in a locker. I was wearing shorts and a teeshirt, and had gone straight into the gym. I did an aerobic stint on an exercise bike to get the blood flowing and was walking to the free weights area when I saw Heather on a running machine, still wearing her leggings.
The leggings were tight, black lycra, with mesh cut outs than ran down the outside of either leg, curving one way on the thigh and the other on the calf. She had left her tee shirt in the changing room, which meant her sides and back were bare above the waistband, but her butt was covered, as were her hips and pubic mound. Her Chinese spine tattoo was visible, but her butterfly was covered.
Walking behind her, I could not see her front, but it really did not matter. The narrow strip of fabric that bared all but her cunt would not be visible. My wife had let her nerves get the better of her. Instead of working out in nothing but the leotard, she had covered up.
Heather's running, as always, was impressive. She had angled the running machine to its maximum incline and was still keeping up a pace. She was already perspiring freely, and she looked good, which she cannot avoid, but just not as daringly revealing as she had been on the cross trainer in our bedroom.
