Those of you who, like me, have illustrious mates, whether they are famous (or infamous) locally, state-wide, or nationally, know what it's like to be "the spouse." My wife Cassandra is a well-known local politician so we end up attending all sorts of events and functions, many of which she is recognized at. I'm a simple businessman (although I own my own company and do quite well financially, thank you) and don't really enjoy the limelight, but Cassandra insists that I attend at least ¾ of the occasions with her.
Cassandra is a true extrovert and is flits around talking to almost everyone at every event – how she can know so many people and remember their names and something about them is beyond me – while I'm an ambivert, and one who disdains vacuous conversation.
What I primarily do at most of the events that I attend with Cassandra is appreciate the female guests. There are always many different types. Some of the most notable are: young, plump and charming; blonde with recent breast enlargement; thin and middle aged with passable face lift; old and classy; provocatively dressed to impress; showing lots of leg to de-emphasize deficiencies in face or chest; conspicuously bored; just pure hot; and plain but cheery. I can find something to appreciate about just about any woman – except those both old and obese.
While at the start of this tale I had a rich fantasy life when appreciating the women eventers (is that a real word?), I was almost boringly faithful. While at 45 and 6 feet 5 inches tall I was still at my college basketball playing weight of 215, my hair was still essentially all blond (any gray fit right in and is imperceptible), and I got more than my share of attention from females. However, I rarely even flirted and certainly never to extremes, and was skillful at deflecting drunken females who came on to me.
A Wednesday night in May found me at an almost typical event that I attended as "the spouse." Since the weather was beautiful the women had less clothing on than usual, there were a higher percentage of good looking ones than normal, and it was outside in a truly beautiful verdant setting, so the evening was enjoyable. Then I saw her and it moved from enjoyable to scary; she was a brunette who looked to be in her early forties with a smooth natural complexion.
She wasn't the most beautiful woman that I'd ever seen, and certainly wouldn't win a beauty pageant.
She wasn't particularly provocatively dressed, although her clothing was in excellent taste and highlighted her best features.
She didn't have a DD rack.
She wasn't tall (probably 5 foot three) even though I like tall women (Casandra is 5'10").
She didn't have a big ass (I love slim women with big butts).
What I could see of her legs, however (which included some thigh) looked as nice as any I had ever seen, anywhere.
Even more significantly, what she had was a way that she carried herself, smiled, chuckled, and sipped her red wine, that made her as sultry as a tropical breeze on a cold winter day. She naturally just seemed to flip her hair, purse or lick her lips, hold her hands, drink her wine, and move her shoulders, in a stimulating manner. Those sensual actions were nothing, however, compared to her walk – which absolutely mesmerized me. As she strolled, more than walked, her head was up, her shoulders back, and she lead with her boobs (while not double Ds, ample). Her arms swung loosely back and forth while her hips swiveled from side-to-side with her weight more in her heels than on the balls of her feet.
As I watched her move from place to place I didn't even notice my cock getting hard until she moved out of sight behind a veranda pillar, when suddenly I felt it twitch. I had a full blown erection, a first for me at one of these events. I calmed myself down by looking at plain, overdressed, or frumpy women, and cautioned myself not to try and find her and ogle her some more. "I really don't want my wife, or even a friend or acquaintance, suddenly catching me with a stiffy; way too embarrassing," I admonished myself.
About fifteen minutes after my boner had deflated, I was on an uneven brick patio standing still but looking at the swimming pool off to my left instead of ahead of me – despite my caution to myself probably instinctively looking for Ms. Walking Wet-Dream – when I was run into and felt a liquid soaking my chest.
"Oh, I'm so sorry; I tripped on a raised brick, and I've soaked your shirt," a distinctively female voice rang out.
I was perturbed by my unexpected shower until I looked down and saw who the culprit was – Ms. Sex-On-Wheels!
"I...I...don't think that it's too bad," I stuttered as she tried to soak up the red wine that drenched my shirt with a cloth napkin.
"I don't know if I can get much off," she stammered herself as she continued to move the napkin over my chest.
"Well at least if I had to get an unanticipated bath it was from the sexiest woman here," I chortled.
She stopped trying to remove wine from my shirt – although her hand remained in place on my chest – and gazed directly into my eyes with a look that was hard to read. Suddenly I was embarrassed by my declaration.
"I'm really sorry..." I choked out, "sometimes the filter between my brain and mouth doesn't function well."
She got a big smile on her face and said, still staring into my eyes, "I'm more worried about the filter between your eyes and brain not working," she laughed. "I didn't splash wine onto your corneas did I?"
I guess my filter was still malfunctioning because I continued even though by now I had time to think. "Actually my eyes are working just fine. If you don't think that you're the sexiest woman here either it's you who needs corrective lenses or you don't have a realistic self-awareness."
"Oh really..." she chuckled. As she continued to rub her napkin on my chest she glanced around. I should have jokingly told her "I'll give you a half hour to stop that body contact" but somehow I didn't have the nerve after the "sexiest woman" comment and follow-up.
"What about that young women to your left with the short red dress," she cackled as she nodded her head toward her right.
"She's certainly pretty but doesn't hold a candle to you in the sultry department," I deadpanned, staring down at her as her eyes flitted between looking at the red stain on my shirt, and my eyes, and then to her left.
"What about the women with the yellow pashmina and the Double D boobs to your right?"
"Some guys might find her great, but to me you're twice as sexy."
"I can't believe we're having this conversation," she chuckled as she continued her quest to eradicate wine from my shirt, "I think that you're just teasing me to get back at me for ruining your shirt, because I'm no Mrs. America."
"Maybe not, but you have naturally alluring mannerisms?"
"Like what?" she asked, finally removing the napkin from my chest and making intense eye contact.
"The way you flip your hair, purse and lick your lips, hold your arms, make eye contact during conversation, and walk – all sexy. I doubt that anyone taught you any of it; it seems to me that you're a natural.
"Have you been stalking me?" she laughed, putting her hands on her hips, even though one contained the wet napkin and the other her empty wine glass.
