I didn't have the reaction I would have expected, seeing her so shamelessly captivated by some handsome guy at the European nightspot we had stopped at on the second night of our vacation, and I didn't expect to say anything about it. It just came out. Without thinking, I simply said, "I would guess that guy over there, across the ballroom, the one our guide just introduced us to earlier, makes your panties wet."
She'd been openly gazing at the tall fellow on the other side of the dance floor, a man she had seemingly been intrigued in since our tour guide had brought him over to our group and introduced him to us. She blushed at my comment about wet panties, but she didn't deny it or argue. We'd never engaged in mate swapping, sex with other couples, or even discussed the subject, but it was clear that night that the fellow in the tan sports jacket had my wife's full and undivided attention. He was tall, good looking, about forty, and had an air of confidence that gets many women's pussy juices flowing.
I studied the guy she had been looking at, and I made that ballsy comment virtually on a whim. She looked at me, looked back at him, and then surprised me by smiling and nodding. It was a saucy smile, a mysterious look filled with sexual hunger and more than a little edginess, the kind a husband dreads, usually. That look was an indication of something salacious brewing in that glorious and unpredictable brain of hers, thoughts that may be unmasking a spirit that had rarely surfaced, a part of her I had not yet been aware of.
"That fellow over there," she inquired, this time looking at me and speaking clear and succinct, beaming as she spoke, "the one in the tan sued coat and five hundred dollar boots? Yes, my, my sweet, my panties are indeed wet, and I am pretty sure he is responsible." My pulse jumped and I looked back in his direction, my senses filled with a strange arousal and an exhilaration I did not understand or anticipate. It was not like I had fantasized about her with other people, pleaded with her to copulate with another man, but that confession of hers brought me to a level of excitement I had seldom felt.
My bride of 15 years had just said something I never anticipated, never heard from her before, and her "wet-panties" acknowledgement made me see a side of her I'd never known, a quality that expressed her in a whole new sense. I was learning a lot about my wife on that trip, and about myself as well. It was the vacation we'd planned for years. We were traveling through six countries: Spain, Portugal, France, Germany, and Italy. The look in her eyes that night motivated me to think in ways I'd never imagined.
"Surprised?" she asked with a roguish grin.
"Not that he makes your panties wet," I said honestly, returning her grin, kissing her on the cheek, then on the mouth, "but that you would openly tell me he does and not just keep it to yourself and masturbate to his fantasy later in private. That surprises me a bit. So he gives you that pussy tingle?" I said.
She nodded impishly and grinned again. "He does." I was amazed that she told me, but I was even more amazed that I reacted as I did. Instead of getting angry or hurt or resentful, I was aroused that she'd tell me, and it got my attention, intrigued me, even delighted me, but most of all it filled my head with sexual images of the two of them naked and rutting carelessly, images I'd never indulged before. The thought of my wife getting wet panties over a stranger in a sued coat and expensive boots actually compelled me to envision his naked and erect manhood sliding into her plump and eager slit.
"This trip is for new experiences," I said, surprising myself by the comment. "He would definitely be a new experience. You should go, talk to him, see what he's like, see what emerges," I suggested, feeling even more aroused by proposing such a thing.
She looked at me, appraising how serious I was, remained silent for nearly a minute, mulling the possibilities I figured. "Go ahead," I urged with a wink. "See what happens. See if he fucks married women." She didn't laugh at my joke, didn't change her expression, simply studied my face for a while, then she turned and gazed at him for a few prolonged seconds. Finally, she seemed to make her decision, spontaneously, quickly, completely, and she got up, leaned over, and kissed me.
"I'll be right back," she said with a wink of her own. "New experience," she said.
"An adventure," I reminded her. "Fuck him if you can." I watched the sway of Claire's tight, round bottom as she strolled in the direction of the man who had attracted her attention. It was a sensuous derrière, and I'd seen it, loved it, admired it for over a decade, but that day I imagined it naked, being fondled and kissed and handled by the man she admitted made her panties wet.
I pictured him taking off those wet panties, clutching her luscious orbs, pulling her hips towards his, kissing her shoulders, her nipples, the softness of each breast. I imagined him turning her over on her stomach, kissing the supple cheeks of her bottom, running his tongue the length of the slit between her cheeks, parting those spheres and probing her anus with his tongue. Then I envisioned him putting her on her back, opening her legs, and entering her vagina with a long, European prick that slid into her pussy with a steady movement that made her shutter. "Fuck her good," I whispered aloud as I watched him flirt with my wife across the club.
He was tall, handsome and muscular, but as much as anything he projected confidence and that was probably what had attracted her. She sat down next to him and it took no time at all for them to break into a relaxed and obviously cordial conversation. This was a totally new side of my wife I'd never seen: going to another man, flirting, doing something so spontaneous, so daring, and I actually hoped she would take it as far as it could go. I don't know why I hoped that, but I did.
