I am putting on my lipstick when I hear Bill. "Honey, we should be going now." "Just a moment, dear. I need to blot my lips first."
It's so nice to be going out. Bill is usually too busy to socialize, but lately he had changed. He used to be oblivious to my choices of clothing or hairstyle, but for the last couple of months he had been positively dictatorial about nearly every little detail. For tonight, he had bought me a new pair of Wolford stockings - thigh highs, really - and a matching La Perla thong and bra. And yesterday he bluntly told me that I should get my nails done and get my legs and my bikini line waxed. Being a man, he hadn't said anything about my hair or shoes or dress - issues a woman would have considered MUCH more critical than what colors my nails were.
Still, it was nice to have Bill being more forceful, more domineering. For most of our marriage, he had been almost effeminate - well, not exactly effeminate, but not forceful, not dominant, not...masculine. That was harsh, maybe too harsh. But it was the best I could do. I knew Bill was liberated when we married, but I really didn't expect him to be so deferential. The last couple of months had been refreshingly different. He told me what restaurant we would go to, what movies we would watch, decisions he used to have me make. The first time he ordered for me at a restaurant was a little strange, but a pleasant change. And lingerie - he certainly bought it based on how it looked on me, not on how comfortable it was to wear. Still, it's refreshing to have someone making these little, tiresome decisions. And if he gets too tedious, I can always put him in his place.
I finish my lips and hurried downstairs.
"You look nice, sweetie. I'll bring the car around."
"Thank you, dear. I'll be on the porch." Good. Time for one last glance in the mirror. I want to make a suitable impression.
Bill left through the kitchen to get the car. I checked my reflection. Not bad. Hair in place, make-up flattering but not obvious, no lipstick on my teeth, stocking seams straight...I look pretty good if I do say so myself. In my late thirties, most Caucasian men thought I was closer to 25 than 40. Which I rather enjoy, actually. All those hours in the gym do pay off. Yes, Japanese-American by birth, but a California girl by culture. I eat right, love biking, tennis, swimming, and religiously spend five hours a week in the gym, two with a personal trainer. And it shows. I'm toned and tight. Not exactly buxom, but my legs and butt are spectacular, if men's glances are any indication. I grab my coat and purse, step through the door, and pull it closed.
Bill pulls the car up to the front steps seconds later. Stepping in, I take pains not to wrinkle my skirt too badly. Pulling out of the drive, Bill puts his hand on my thigh and pushes my skirt up. "Bill, don't do that! I'll look a mess."
"You'll look incredible, as always, Patricia." His hand massages my thigh gently. "Tonight's going to be very special. I've been ignoring you too long."
"You've been busy, Bill. I don't mind."
"Still, I'm going to make it up to you. You've been so supportive, you've given me so much." Bill's hand moves a little higher up my thigh. Although my skirt was short, shorter than I'd wear for work, it was an A-line and rather tight, not really designed to be pushed up like this. If I were standing, OK, but not seated. I probably should have worn a looser, slitted skirt, but Bill hadn't said anything about his plans. I really do like pleasing him, but I can't read his mind. The heat from his hand, the mere fact that he was touching me, and where he was touching me - my pussy was growing warm. A pleasant flush in my abdomen, a tingling in my tummy. "Bill, stop. My skirt. Wait until we get home."
"You're wearing the stockings I got. Very nice. And you're so smooth. God, so sexy. Maybe I should just pull the car into that dark lot and ravish you now. Touch my cock. Now."
"Bill. You're driving. What's gotten into you? Don't be silly!"
Taking my hand in his, he pulls it onto his crotch. "Bill! Stop it!" I protest. He's being too strange. The hard cock I felt was exciting, but even so! Did he expect me to give him a hand job? While driving? Or a blow job? Still, this is too much. If we were on vacation, in a strange place, maybe then. But in our own town, mere miles from home? This is too much.
I pat his pants, then withdraw my hand. "So where is this mystery place we're going, sweetie?"
"It's a private club, Ms. P." That's his pet name for me when he's annoyed. He's been using it often recently. "We've got to go to Belvedere."
"Bill, this isn't a swing club, is it? We agreed, not close to home. I'm willing to play if we're away, but not close to home." Bill and I had made our first foray into swinging last summer, in Honolulu. Bill picked up a local girl and we did a threesome. It was a lot of fun, actually, and I enjoyed it. So much so that the girl and I got together twice more without Bill. But I told him in no uncertain terms that I wouldn't do anything like that close to home.
"No, dear. It's a private gentleman's club. Fine dining, bar, golf course, and a bunch of rich old men talking business, with their wives talking about shopping, I suppose. This could lead to a lot of business for me."
"So I should make nice? Who should I blow first?"
He laughed. "Yeah, like you'd do that, Ms. P." He was smiling. It was a joke between us, one which we made more often since Honolulu. Me trading sexual favors to benefit his business, me trading sexual favors to pay for an elaborate vacation, or, less commonly, Bill lending me to a business acquaintance. It's not exactly my favorite fantasy, but I do enjoy it enough to play along with him. And Bill always seems ready to play. "We're being hosted by William Robinson and his wife. If we impress them, I suppose we'll be put forward for membership."
We pull off the highway onto a county road, and minutes later, off the road onto a private drive. Minutes after that, we pull up to a fine, large, well-lit house, in that California lodge style. A little pretentious, but quite appropriate for the setting - a beautiful wooded lot, on a rise overlooking a lake. It reminds me of the Cartwright's house on Bonanza - except that it was bigger, more refined, and had a paved drive, electric lights, and valet parking.
Bill takes my arm and leads me into a beautiful foyer, where we're greeted by the maitre d'. He guides us to the coat room, then to a private dining room off the main room. As I walk through the main dining area, I couldn't help but notice that the assembled parties are well healed, clearly accustomed to being treated well. I also notice that many of the men were watching me carefully. With few exceptions, the women took little notice.
