She found him through the internet. He'd enjoyed a distinguished career in publishing, writing scores of articles and essays for feature magazines before joining a respected publisher with a closet division devoted to erotica, where he became editor-in-chief. Through email exchanges and a phone call she conjured an image of a refined gentleman in a big office wearing a thousand dollar suit, an image that relaxed her after realizing what she was going to do.
After setting the meeting, she went shopping for a new business suit of her own. Thinking he was a man of distinction, she took her time picking the perfect outfit, one that was refined as well as sexy. She settled on a midnight blue suit with a short pleated skirt from Saks. Almost as an afterthought, she stopped at La Perla on her way home. She parked her Mercedes out front, strolled the aisles of the lingerie store, ran her fingers over the silky camisoles and bras...all the while daydreaming about the plan that would make her husband the celebrated author she knew he deserved to be.
Her husband was not a writer by trade. He was an entrepreneur. He had opened a single tanning salon many years ago and now owned a string of salons and health clubs across three states. He had acquired a considerable amount of wealth and was fortunate to have a trusted management team running his business. At forty-one, he was semi-retired, spending his time these days writing about the sexual adventures he and his wife had shared over their ten year marriage. His two completed novels and almost all of his stories featured her as their protagonist.
From their earliest days she liked hearing of his desires and was eager to satisfy them. Doing what he asked excited her; knowing he was turned on by her willingness to please him excited her even more. By outward appearances, they were a normal, loving couple; but when he asked her to, she'd participate in whatever daring adventure his imagination would dream up. Being one who loved to write, his imagination was quite vivid.
Before going out on the town she would ask, "How do you want me dressed, baby? What are you in the mood for tonight?" Just asking the questions, with all the intrigue the answers might imply, would make her wet with anticipation.
Sometimes he'd pull a little black cocktail dress from her walk-in closet and suggest a string of pearls to accessorize it with. Sometimes he'd lay a leather miniskirt and bustier on their king-size bed and hand her nothing but thigh highs and a pair of stilettos.
Little of what he'd written had seen the light of day. For him, the enjoyment was in the writing. It was a way to remember their adventures and a way to keep her motor purring. Reading of their past exploits made her wet for future ones, a fact not lost on him.
It was she who pushed him to submit his stories to an erotica website they knew of. When he did so, the few stories he sent were well-received by tens of thousands of readers. When the accolades came, she encouraged him to peddle his two novels to publishers, though no matter how hard she pushed he never seemed interested to do so. At some point she realized she'd have to take matters into her own hands.
She looked cute in her new suit while standing on the train platform. It was obvious from the glances she received from the male commuters waiting for the train. Her short-cropped jacket had little puffed sleeves and the pleated skirt sat high on her thigh. Under the coat was a pale gold camisole from La Perla and beneath the skirt a matching pale gold thong. She wore pale gold sandals and a pretty gold anklet. Just for fun, she'd slipped on a gold toe ring before leaving the house.
After boarding the train she settled in for the half hour rumble to New York. Hoping it would relax her, she pulled one of her favorite stories from her brief case and began to read. It was a true account of a time she'd gone to a massage therapist to rid her of lower back pain. When she'd come home from her appointment she'd remarked to her husband that the masseuse had been cute and flirty with her. That was enough for her husband to set up another appointment for the following Saturday, even though she'd mentioned her pain had dissipated.
While driving her to the therapist's office the following Saturday her husband reached over the emergency break of his BMW and slipped his hand under her miniskirt. He himself was tremendously excited, and he wanted to gauge hers as well. She'd been quiet in the car, knowing what she was being sent to do, and when his fingers snaked into her thong she held his arm against her and bit her lip. He smiled when he felt how dripping wet she was. As always, they were on the same page. A few minutes later, when he turned into the masseuse's parking lot, his fingers were still priming the pump. By now she was no less nervous, but even more wet.
"I'm not sure I can go through with it, baby," she said.
