The party was being hosted by my husband's new boss. Kevin had recently taken a new position in his company, and this was the first time we were going to socialize anyone with the new gang. I wasn't looking particularly forward to it, but I can do the "Isn't your wife charming?" routine when I need to.
I wore one of my favorite dresses – it's sleeveless and ankle-length, and has buttons from the high collar to the hem. I knew Kevin would enjoy our game of having me unbutton a button every time we got stopped at a red light. Underneath I wore the bra and panties he had gotten me for Mother's Day. He loved getting me something "maternal" from the kids and something decidedly non-motherly from him. The bra was black, but extremely sheer. The matching thong was equally flimsy. I love getting dressed in front of Kevin so he knows exactly what he'll uncover later on. I made a point to play with my nipples a little so they stood out clearly through my dress, the almost non-existent fabric of the bra doing little to mask them. On the way over, he couldn't keep his hands off my breasts, and I just leaned my head back against the headrest with my eyes closed and enjoyed. He was rolling one of my nipples between his thumb and finger, and I was squirming and moaning when I opened my eyes to see a particularly evil grin on my husband's face. We were pulling to the curb a few houses down from our destination, plenty of cars lining both sides of the road. Looked like there was going to be a pretty good-sized crowd.
"I think those panties are probably pretty wet," he said.
"I think they probably are," I answered agreeably.
"It's not a good idea to wear wet clothes," he said. "Why don't you give them to me."
I grinned back, and sliding my hands up under my dress, lifting my hips and wriggled out of the tiny strip of black fabric. I handed them over and he sniffed appreciatively before tucking them in the pocket of his jacket.
"Maybe I should see how wet you are?"
"See or feel?" I asked.
"Both."
The skirt of my dress was soon up around my waist and I waited for him to slide his thick fingers inside my pussy and perhaps relieve this arousal he had created. He just sat there.
"Put a finger in," he said after a moment. "Two, if you want." I was horny and happy to oblige. I slid forward in my seat, and started the finger-fuck myself. I was getting close when he said, "That's enough." I couldn't believe it. He took my wrist and guided my hand to his mouth, and slowly sucked my fingers, his tongue sliding between, reminding me of other experiences I'd enjoyed with that tongue. He was not doing much to make the situation better for me. I thought about rubbing my clit furiously with my other hand, seeing if I could cum quickly, but two things stopped. First, and primarily, he had said "that's enough" and my submissive nature understood an order when I'd heard one. The other was more practical – I was probably going to be shaking hands with is boss in a few moments, and it stuck me that a hand covered by pussy juice was probably not one to offer. I thought irreverently about how in
Young Frankenstein
, Gene Wilder and his fiancée rubbed elbows, but thought his boss might not get that reference. At any rate, thinking of Marty Feldman is usually a pretty good way to get your libido under control, so I was calm and breathing normally when we got out of the car a minute later.
When we arrived, I dutifully met the new boss, Gene, and his wife, Paula, who seemed genuinely friendly. I would have been a wreck with so many people in my house, but I guess when you can afford to hire a caterer, your worry level is considerably less. I went into "charming" mode and the abbreviated interlude in the car was (mostly) out of my mind as we circulated and I was introduced and we made small talk.
It seems that often at these things, the women tend to congregate in the kitchen or living room, while the men migrate elsewhere. That night, there was a college game on, and Gene apparently had quite the man-cave, with a flat panel TV and the sports package on cable. Since I genuinely like football, I stayed with my husband as we first got ourselves a second drink (another vodka for him, another bottle of beer for me) and got an update on the score.
I was watching the game intently, my hands on the back of the couch, not realizing that in that position, I was accidentally enhancing my cleavage. The dress was not exactly low-cut (it was a business party, after all), but it had a V-neck. I hadn't realized that as I leaned forward to watch a particularly impressive throw (and illegal hit afterwards), my arms were pressing my 40Ds together so that I was nearly over flowing. Not everyone in the room was as intent on the game as I was, however, because after seeing the replay of the throw (and the hit that led to the roughing the passer penalty afterwards) twice, I looked around to see a man looking intently at me – and not exactly making eye contact.
I noticed the direction of his stare and looked down myself, and, startled, dropped my hands and stood up straight. His moved his gaze up and he did make eye contact, but without any sign of shame. He was, I guessed, in his 50s, and had an air of quiet power and containment that I found extremely sexy. He was wearing the uniform the evening – blazer over polo shirt with Dockers-style pants, but his looked more expensive. He had closely cut salt-and-pepper hair, still mostly pepper, and rimless glasses that made him look intelligent. No, that wasn't right. His eyes were intelligent. The glasses were just a prop. Smart
and
sexy. I was intrigued. I realized that Kevin had left my side and remembered he'd murmured something about finding the bathroom. I turned my head to look out through the door to see if I could see him, but my husband was nowhere in sight. As I turned back to the TV, I saw Mr. Salt-and-Pepper making his way toward me.
I weighed my options. Stay here and engage in flirty banter with a man who, with each passing second, I thought I would screw in a heartbeat, or flee. I'm a great flirt, but not when I genuinely want someone. In those cases, I prefer to just be honest. My husband and I have a relationship that would actually have supported either option, as long as he got all the details later, but in his new boss's house, I didn't think honesty would be the best policy, so I chose flight. I looked him once more in the eye, and then slipped out the door. Not sure where I was going, I headed down the hallway, and found myself at door that led outside. I thought the cool night air might cool me down some, so I opened the door and stepped outside. I found myself on a small patio – to the left and up couple steps was their large wooden deck. Light from the kitchen window was streaming out onto the deck, but it was where I was standing. I leaned back against the wall of the house and took a long drink from my beer. Then the door I'd just come through opened.
He acted with quiet efficiency, in keeping with the character I'd imagined. First his drink was set on the deck, then his glasses were folded and slipped into the breast pocket of his jacket. He looked at me, quietly watching him, and still without a word, took my bottle, and set it on the deck next to his. Then he stood facing me. He wasn't asking permission, but he was clearly giving me my last chance for an out. I could have chosen the flirt option at this point, and we could have pretended it was just in fun. I looked up at him, and involuntarily licked my lips.
His placed one hand on either side of my face, and tipped my head up, then one hand slipped down to rest against my throat—no doubt feeling my racing pulse—while the other slipped around the back of my head, tangling in my hair. He was clearly naturally dominant.
Did he act that way with everyone he wanted,
I wondered. I didn't have time to think after that.
