Mark and I had this game, one that had started seven years ago in our premarital counseling. The pastor hadn't meant it to be sexual, of course, but honestly he should have known better. His suggestion was that when you started to experience conflict, you should step back and decide if the thing you were fighting about was even worth fighting about. And if it wasn't, which was often the case, he suggested that you "just say yes." Whatever it was, just say yes. We decided to adopt it as a rule in our household, and... well, Mark being a red-blooded male, that quickly became sexual. I used it most often to get him to give me footrubs, he used it for blowjobs, anal, toys; it was all fun and games, because it was all things we would have said yes to anyway- there wasn't much that was off limits in our sex life.
After about six months, the joke got old and was retired, or so I thought. Just before our first anniversary, Mark reminded me in a much more serious tone about our "just say yes" rule. I rolled my eyes, assuming that he was going to use it for another deviant sex fantasy or something, but he surprised me with a trip to Paris instead. He was right to remind me of our rule- I would not have agreed to the expense without it, but looking back he was absolutely right to entrap me with our game. We had a wonderful vacation, maybe the best of our marriage so far, and it was all because I had to "just say yes". The next year he used the rule again, for a no-limits sex romp that lasted all weekend. I didn't walk straight for a week after that, but I had almost as much fun as I had had in Paris.
This year was our seventh anniversary, and Mark had sprung the rule early this year. I woke up Monday morning to a beautiful card on Mark's pillow- he left for work early most mornings, and did his best to sneak out without waking me. The card was simple and elegant, and the inside held a flowery script in a deep blue which simply said "just say yes".
I smiled and went about my day, until my phone buzzed at ten A.M. I was dressed and ready for the gym, but a text from Mark instructed me to take pictures for him in the shower. I was about to reply with something bratty, when the white card with its blue script caught my eye. As if on cue, Mark texted "just say yes".
I stripped off my yoga pants and my sports bra and examined myself in our large bathroom mirror. I almost always wore yoga pants to the gym, the closest I got to exhibitionism since Mark and I married. Mark knew I was a flirt before we married; in fact, the first time I met Mark I was topless in a hot tub with a co-ed group of friends. We had snuck into a hotel pool area after a few too many drinks at the karaoke bar, and although I had no intention of sleeping with any of the guys it was actually me who had suggested skinny dipping. When Mark unexpectedly came upon us in the hot tub, hoping to relax after his work conference, his eyes nearly popped out of his head at my exposed breasts. He rushed to get into the spa before his swim trunks gave him away, but of course we all noticed and laughed. Not in a mean way- all of the boys had been hard as rocks for quite a while, and if the ladies hadn't been in a hot tub we still wouldn't have been dry. By the end of the hormone-fueled night most of us had paired off, and I would have been surprised if any of the boys besides Mark were left unsatisfied that night.
Looking back, it may have been cruel, but Mark and I stayed up all night talking and getting to know each other- mentally, not physically. His balls must have ached the next day like someone kicked them, especially since I didn't cover my tits until the sun was nearly up, but he took his frustration like a champ and we started the long path to the altar, not that we knew it that quickly.
The exhibitionist side of me wasn't exactly public knowledge, however, and after we were married it didn't come out very often. Although it excited me to know how I could drive men wild at will, once Mark and I married I wanted the world to know I was his, and the only time I wore REALLY revealing clothing was on dates with him. Other men would absolutely stare, and my panties were always soaked after those dates, but topless nights with my friends were a thing of the past.
I did have two naughty routines that kept my exhibitionist side alive after marriage, however. Every Sunday, I wore something very skimpy under my dress to church. It excited me knowing that if any of the church men were to get a glimpse under my simple (usually black) dress, they would see lingerie sluttier than anything in their wife's closet. Mark knew about all this, of course, and we would laugh together after church if any of the repressed congregants' eyes lingered on me a bit longer than appropriate, although it was very unlikely they could see anything.
The other naughty routine involved my yoga pants and the gym. I worked very hard to keep my figure after marriage, and a big part of that was that I went to the gym five days a week, almost without fail. Although what I wore was not any more inappropriate than some of the college girls' outfits, I did make sure that every pair of yoga pants I wore was see-through, and I rarely wore more than a sports bra on top. I did wear a baggy T-shirt through the parking lot and on any errands I ran after my workouts; to me, the gym was isolated and sacrosanct. My flirty showoff side was allowed within those four walls, but it stayed there out of respect for my husband. While I was there, however, I did have a little game with my somewhat transparent pants and skimpy tops. I made it a personal challenge to make at least one man's shorts visibly bulge before I could consider my workout finished. Some days this meant I was there for hours, if the gym was particularly scarce. Some days I squatted in a pink thong and had accomplished my goal before my second set. Occasionally I had to get daring and ask for a spotter, in which case I usually chose bench press. (If you're not familiar with the gym, a true spotter on the bench press by necessity has their crotch near the lifter's head, and if I exaggerated my struggle with the bar, well- a good look down my top with my tits shaking a bit and my head near the spotter's crotch? Let's just say I never failed my challenge if I pulled out that move.)
Lately, my game had gotten much easier due to a mutual gym crush. Everyone who seriously frequents the gym recognizes a few people with a similar life rhythm, and it's an unspoken truth that most of us are at least somewhat attracted to one or two of our fellow gym-goers. The combination of increased bloodflow, sweaty skin on display, pheromones, and gym attire means that this attraction is usually slightly sexual in nature, although it often goes nowhere. My gym crush was a tall blonde man named Steven, and I was fairly certain he had a crush on me as well although he acted completely appropriately. His body betrayed his feelings more often than not, and like I said- the game had gotten somewhat easy for me. Mondays I typically worked out legs, and squatting in front of him to end my routine always left me excited. I was not shy about checking him out in the mirror, and he made sure to take a bench behind my squat rack every Monday, wearing gray sweatpants. His bulge was impressive by the time I was done lifting, and it did impressive things to my panties as well. Most Monday workouts ended with a frantic drive home to peel off my soaking wet thong and thrust my favorite toy deep into my pussy while moaning Steven's name. I pictured him towering over me, pinning me to the wall, our sweaty bodies sliding against each other until he lifted me up and...
My thoughts were interrupted by the phone buzzing again. I was still standing in front of the bathroom mirror, and I was surprised to see that my reflection had her hand in her crotch and a flushed look on her face. I looked down at my discarded yoga pants and bright yellow thong and sports bra, such a perfect outfit to tease my gym crush. My husband was more important, though, and I turned on the water and read Mark's text- a simple "?" following up on his last messages. While the shower heated up, I took in my reflection, my hands wandering over my body as I thought about how best to tease my husband. I ran my fingertips up my thighs, soft and smooth, past my shaven mound and to my hips. Mark liked me clean-shaven, and I liked him going down on me so it was an easy decision. My ass was perky and strong ("juicy" was Mark's word for it, which always elicited an eye roll), the result of years spent in the aforementioned gym. My tummy was tight, although now past the age of thirty it would never look quite the same as my college days. My breasts would also never look quite the same as my girlhood, though, and that was a positive. My tits had filled out some in high school, but had really blossomed into full-fledged C-cups right about freshman year of college. They were my best physical feature, capped by rosy areolae that I gently toyed with as I set the self-timer on my phone's camera. My full, swaying breasts came into view, and I smiled as my pussy tingled lightly at the lewd display. My nipples were instantly hard. Mark was going to love these pictures. I had a flirty idea, and pressed the self-timer before running to the shower. I took three pictures, my body spelling out Y-E-S in a silly cheerleader's choreography, then left the water running as I went to my bedside table and grabbed a dildo.
I had nicknamed this one Steven, unbeknownst to my husband, and I brought him back to the bathroom and toyed with the silicone head against my dripping slit. I worked the head back and forth, spreading my lips but not quite penetrating, until Mark texted back.
"Hot!" was all he replied, with a heart-eyed emoji at the end.
I slipped Steven's head into my pussy and set the self-timer again, sure that my husband would be rock-hard after this. I fucked myself for the short ten seconds of the self-timer, and when I sent Mark the picture I was pleased to see my pussy juices coating the shaft of the dildo in the message. I was headed to the shower to finish the job when my phone buzzed again. Mark, of course, with a picture message.
His cock was hard as a rock, pulled out of his trousers behind his familiar work desk. He stood exactly five and a half inches when fully hard, a perfect average according to Google. He was definitely fully hard right now, trapped in his office at work, and I zoomed in to see a small drop of pre-cum leaking from his engorged head. I plunged my dildo's own head back into my pussy, until Mark's next text interrupted.
"Don't cum," was all it said. What the hell?!? He knew that I had a toy buried inside me, picture proof and all... I texted back a pouty face emoji and continued toying my needy pussy. I spread my labia and rubbed my clit until the phone vibrated again.
"Just say yes," he replied. Fuck!
I begrudgingly complied, and turned the shower water a bit cooler to calm myself down. It didn't help- the cold water on my nipples was almost as erotic as the warm water had been during my impromptu photoshoot, and I finished washing up frustrated and horny. My naked silhouette in the foggy mirror seemed to accuse me, and I pleaded with her that it wasn't my fault.
I did put the gym attire back on, and went to complete my workout. I had missed Steven, and had to settle for giving a college kid an eyeful instead. It was gratifying that at least my fully clothed curves could still get a rise out of the kid with the University sweatshirt on.
