Wedding anniversaries are supposed to be beautiful celebrations or love and romance, which is exactly what Caroline and I enjoyed as we lazed in the canal barge in Amsterdam during the one hour tour of the city, champagne of champagne in our hands. It was our fifth wedding anniversary, and we had arrived the night before, flying in straight after work.
Our hotel was in central Amsterdam, which meant that we could walk everywhere we wanted to go. We had had a lazy morning, before strolling in the sun to find a café for our breakfast. The barge trip was around mid-day, and once it had finished we found ourselves a canal side restaurant serving lunch, and took a table on the pavement.
Caroline had checked out the guide book and had two places she wanted to visit in the afternoon, so after lunch we walked first to the Anne Franke house, where we spent an hour going back in time to the Nazi occupation. Then we walked to the Van Gogh museum, queued hand in hand for forty minutes to get in, and spent another hour viewing the paintings at the speed that suited Caroline.
With the walking, and the time spent at each of the places Caroline had wanted to see, we got back to our hotel a little after six, which in a sense is where this all begins, and where she began to reveal a side to her that I had not suspected might be there.
Just to explain, Caroline is a good looking brunette who had been with at least a few other guys before we met, which was not the most romantic of places, but on a Greenpeace street stall in London. Unlike the other activists, Caroline was not dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, but in a summer dress that said suburban London, and her parents turned out to be respectable, church going people, who hold garden parties for local charities, and coffee mornings or afternoon teas for the local elderly.
So once a month Caroline still helps out with the Greenpeace stall, and once a fortnight we go to her parents place in time to go to church with them, and then enjoy family Sunday lunch. Caroline serves cakes and scones at the fundraisers, and chats with the elderly guests, delighting her parents in the process.
She even looks like her mother, which is fine with me. At twenty two, which is how old she was when first I chatted with her at that Greenpeace stall, Caroline had a perfect hour glass figure. Her mother, I discovered later, still has. It may need a little more support than Caroline's but if my wife keeps her figure as well as her mother has, there will be no complaints.
So when, in our hotel, Caroline asked if I had made plans for our anniversary evening and I admitted that I had been leaving that until we had arrived in Amsterdam, she surprised me by what she proposed, even if Amsterdam is world renowned for a kind of tourist attraction that few other European cities have.
Maybe I should have planned something special. The city break had been my idea, partly our anniversary celebration, partly a chance to relax and make our trying for a family all the more enjoyable, and possibly increase the chances of success. I had booked and paid for the hotel and flights, but I should have worked out how we would spend that all important evening. Instead, it was my wife who made the running.
Caroline's first suggestion was that we showered and changed into what we would wear for the evening. After all that walking, that made sense. Besides, when I am heading out for the evening I like to have a second shave of the day, to lose my five o'clock shadow, and to be as smooth as possible when we get back to bed.
I was at the basin of our en suite shower room when Caroline slipped past me, ducking into the shower stall, her naked, white flesh curvaceous as ever. The next thing I heard, instead of the shower itself, was an electronic buzzing, and I guessed that my wife was giving her underarms the once over, just as I was doing with my jaw.
I carried on shaving. Caroline stepped out of the shower to put her lady razor where it would not get wet, and I noticed in that brief moment that I had been wrong. Like most brunettes, Caroline has a healthy growth of hair between her legs that she needs to trim from time to time. This time she had done more than trim her curls. She had shaved her pubis smooth. Her pink lips peeped from her slit, without a single curl to shield them from view. My luck was in.
Caroline showered. I finished shaving. Caroline came out, water dripping from her body. I love that her breasts are firm enough that the droplets from their undercurves fall clear away from her body. I also love the way that after she showers her areoles are tight and rubbery and her teats are hard. But I needed to get ready, so I went into the shower stall and turned on the water.
By the time I came out, Caroline was half dressed, in a skirt and stockings that I had never seen before. The skirt looked like cheap imitation leather, black, button fronted from waist to hem, pencil tight, and cut to a few inches above the knee. The stockings were black diamond, fishnet mesh. For whatever reason I just assumed that they were stockings, although my wife normally wore tights with skirts. Something told me that I was right, but it was only later that I would know for sure.
I got dry and started dressing, still not sure what Caroline's plans were, but watching her continue getting ready. She took a tissue paper wrapped, flat package from her flight bag and tore it open, taking out something black and flimsy. She unfolded it, opened it out, slipping her arms into the sleeves and buttoned the front to just above her nipples.
It was a blouse that was not there. She was wearing it, but it hardly existed. It was black, but it was translucent. You could see right through it. Her upper body, arms, torso, breasts, wide brown areoles and nipple stubs, might all just as well have been naked.
This was my wife. This was Caroline, who every second Sunday stood with her parents singing hymns and who knelt beside elderly friends to talk with them, and she was standing in an imitation leather skirt with diamond mesh stockings and a sheer blouse that hid nothing but displayed everything.
I said nothing. I was still pulling on my trousers. Caroline went to the dressing table and sat on the wooden curved back chair, doing her make-up, her back to me. Her back is flawless. Her entire body is flawless. I could still see her front in the mirror. Her nipples pushed the blouse out into points. As I closed my fly I realised that my cock was swollen.
Caroline does not wear red lipstick. She wears muted colours, closer to the natural shade of her lips. I have known her to wear pink. That evening my darling wife carefully applied brilliant red lipstick, the only colour that would perfectly match the outfit of a hooker.
I put on my shirt, my socks, my shoes. I checked my jacket to ensure I had my wallet. I had my jacket ready and waiting to carry over my shoulder when Caroline stood up from the dressing table and turned to get her own jacket from her flight bag. The jacket matched her skirt, thin, black, imitation leather. She put it on. It had steel zips at the front and on the pockets and decorative steel chain on the upper arms and across the back. It worked. It was what a street prostitute might wear.
"So where are we going?" I asked her.
"Where any guy would want to go," Caroline said. "The Red Light district."
"You planned this?" I asked.
"Of course I did, silly," she grinned. "It's only fair. You brought me to Amsterdam and put up with going where I wanted to this afternoon. I just wouldn't want you seeing the girls behind the window and being tempted, so I thought if you had your own hooker for the night you might stay out of trouble."
She zipped up the front of her jacket, to just below her breasts. You could still see the sheer blouse beneath, and the valley of her breasts beneath that, but you could not see her areoles or nipples. She picked up a cheap, shiny, black plastic clutch bag and looked at me.
"Ready to go?" my new slut of a wife asked, smiling.
Caroline seemed to know the way. I guessed that she must have memorised the route from the guide book map. It took us fifteen minutes to get to the main station square, and a minute more to go down a small street with shops and bars to a walkway beside one of the many minor canals. It was there that we saw our first red lit windows with virtually naked girls posing within touching distance, were it not for the glass between.
They were both lookers, those first two girls, a blue eyed blonde with skin as white and as flawless at Caroline's and a raven haired, olive skinned beauty with dark oval eyes. The blonde wore white underwear and the black haired girl wore red, but what they were wearing left more visible than it covered, and even what it covered still showed through. You could tell that the blonde had neat button nipples, that the other girl had dark, flat areoles, and that neither of them had any pubic hair. Nor had my wife.
"Like them?" Caroline asked.
"I have you," I said. That was a question that I was not going to answer truthfully.
It was still around eight in the evening, and it was not yet dark. There were plenty of people around. This was not a place reserved for dirty old men in raincoats. There were people of all ages, including children. How the parents explained to their kids why the ladies in the windows were almost naked, I have no idea. It is not a place I plan that we bring our children when we have them, but it was clear that in Amsterdam, prostitution is just accepted as a normal part of life.
Caroline unzipped her jacket. I thought that she just planned to let it fall open, but I was wrong. She took it off, and did as I was doing with mine, carried it over one shoulder. The people closest to us noticed. She immediately received a lot of looks.
No one else on the canal side walkway was wearing anything other than normal summer wear, teeshirts, blouses, dresses, tops of all kinds. There were some good looking legs on display, below short skirts, or short shorts, but no one else was displaying their breasts, with only sheer black fabric to cover them, that the light from the evening sun shone straight through so that it was flesh, and not fabric, that was spotlighted by its rays.
We strolled, slowly. It was not as densely red light as I had thought that it would be. There were normal bars and restaurants, and then there would be more windows, some normal buildings, probably residential, and then a sex club or a sex shop and even a museum of sex, which we stopped at and, after looking at each other to check if we were in agreement, which we paid the money for and went inside.
If you want a full history of sex and all the interesting artifacts that people have created over time, to do nice and nasty things to each other for at least the pleasure of one of the participants, then you need to visit the sex museum yourself. We found it fascinating, but no more fascinating than I found Caroline when I realised that she was using the moments when my attention was caught by an exhibit, to undo the buttons of her skirt, starting from the hem and working up.
The museum is on several floors, with steep Dutch wooden stairways interconnecting them. By the time that we reached the third floor, Caroline's skirt was undone as far as the apex of her legs. That was when I knew that she was wearing stockings, just from her walking towards me. Unbutton a tight pencil skirt and the front of the skirt will open as you walk.
"Can I just check something with you?" I asked her.
"Of course," Caroline said. "What is it?"
