One Friday night last April, I was awakened by the sound of a car pulling up out front. After a minute, the engine quit, and in the sudden quiet, the sound of female laughter wafted up to my open second-story bedroom window.
Rubbing my eyes, I tried to focus on the glowing digits of my alarm clock. Midnight, exactly. Leaving the light off, I stumbled out of bed and went to the window to see who had disrupted my sleep.
Down below, in the driveway I share with the condo next door, sat a red convertible. Its top was down and the occupants were plainly visible, thanks to the street light at the end of the drive. Making out in the car’s front seats, probably just back from a date, were my next-door neighbor and her burly boyfriend. I didn’t know Tiffany well—I had moved in two months earlier—but she was young, blonde, and blow-your-mind hot. That night she wore a little black dress, the hem of which was riding way up on her gorgeous legs. One of her shoulder straps was askew, and her boyfriend, leaning over from the driver’s seat, had his hand inside her dress. She, in turn, had a hand down the front of his unzipped pants, and the movements of her arm spoke volumes. He moaned as they continued kissing.
In our world, there are many things that are never questioned, because the answers are already there, deep in our minds and in the depths of our hearts. When you know those answers, there is nothing that a committed person won’t do to make sure that their lover is happy. Such is the case in my current relationship. Oh, you don’t wanna hear about all the mushy stuff? You want me to get right to the good parts? Well, if you insist!
When you walk into our house, you see the same things that are in every other house in America. It’s a cute, little abode with quaint furnishings. The same everyday paintings hang on the wall, along with a hall full of family and school portraits. We have a loveseat and a couch like everyone else, and an old TV. Yet, there is a secret that many don’t know about. A secret that many could only dream of, one that releases all bounds of insecurity and allows only instinctual behaviors—one based on lust.
I am still best friends with one of my sorority sisters from college. Janet married Randy, a wonderful guy who played on our university’s football team. Randy is still a handsome six-foot-two, 180-pound, muscular guy. He has maintained his athletic build after ten years. I married Alex, who is handsome, but not tall as Randy. Alex has a slender body, which some would say is more girly than masculine. Well, that has turned out to be an asset. Why? Because after three years of marriage, I discovered that Alex likes to become Alexis. I caught him wearing my clothes. Alex had thought that when I discovered his passion for feminine fashion, it would be the end of our marriage. But I love the guy. When Alex is Alexis, I love her also. Over the years Alex has exercised and kept up his appearance. Alex makes up into a very sexy woman. At five foot eight, Alexis fills out a size ten dress very nicely. She does her makeup exquisitely. Her hair has grown out and is maintained at a length that is easily styled into a short, sassy feminine look. I have absolutely no hesitation going out with Alexis as girlfriends.
Last Friday, I’d had that sort of rough day when nothing went the way I planned. I’m a potter, and my hands and the clay did not come together once. When I found that I’d had to scrap everything I’d started, I fell into a bad mood. The only thing that alleviated my stress was the thought of asking Tim for a spanking.
When I’m feeling naughty, I know exactly what to do to get Timothy’s attention. I don’t have to be bratty or pout or give him looks. I simply show up for dinner in my special bad-girl costume. That’s all it takes. Of course, the costume is pretty spectacular. I went on a hunt at our local thrift store one afternoon and came away with a plaid schoolgirl skirt and a white button-up blouse. To add to this look, I always wear white thigh-high stockings and the highest patent leather pumps I can walk in.
I hate laundry,” I grumbled.
“Then you ought to have made that last shot,” Henry said in a matter-of-fact way that made me want to kick him.
“I fucking hate it,” I repeated, adding a significant word to express my distaste.
“A bet’s a bet.” He was enjoying himself. I could tell.
I pouted at Henry and then stomped toward the laundry room, a black cloud hanging over my head. I hate laundry, in case you haven’t figured that out. There’s no sense behind the level of disgust I have for the chore. I do not like sorting. I simply despise handling wet clothes. I flat out refuse to iron. And putting folded clothing away is the bane of my existence. The person who finally invents disposable outfits for adults will win my undying gratitude.
“You shouldn’t bet if you’re unable to lose with grace. Didn’t your mama teach you that?” For some reason, Henry was tagging right along with me down to the basement.
I was so preoccupied with admiring the beautiful French countryside that I had not noticed how late it was getting. I pulled my rental car off the road and checked my guidebook for the nearest chambre d’hote or bed-and-breakfast. There was one close by, and I soon found the now-familiar green and yellow sign, in front of a very neat and obviously well maintained house and farm buildings.
The door was opened by a very attractive young woman of about twenty-eight, who was wearing jeans, a loose-fitting work shirt and slippers. If anything, her outfit accentuated her fresh, country look of short brown hair, friendly eyes and a welcoming smile.
I like having sex in front of mirrors. Even when I’m all by myself, I will stand before my bedroom mirror with my vibrator, thrusting the toy in and out of my pussy while I watch myself. I never confessed this fetish to a lover previously, because I hadn’t wanted to sound vain. I could only imagine the dialogue. “You want to watch yourself when you come, pretty girl? You need to see the lust in your eyes?” I would be embarrassed at best, turned down at worst, so I’ve kept this kink to myself.
Often, I’ve been able to get what I need without much effort. Most bedrooms have a mirror somewhere, and with a little clever maneuvering, I’m usual able to catch a glimpse—or even a full-on show. Sometimes, I’ve worked a little harder for release. When I discovered a wall of mirrors in a unisex bathroom at a local gourmet grocery store, I told my boyfriend at the time that I wanted him to fuck me there. He thought I was into the thrill of almost getting caught. In reality, I loved watching the two of us fuck in that white-tiled room.
What was to become an obsession began with simple gold lettering on a door. The shop had just opened, and I’d walked by numerous times before noticing the words “Vintage Lingerie and Hosiery” written in antiquated script. I mostly wore tights or pantyhose, if I covered my legs at all, but an image of thigh-high seamed stockings instantly popped into my mind. Seconds later, I was thoroughly aroused and my panties were drenched.
My interest piqued, I went inside the shop, admiring racks and shelves overflowing with teddies, peignoirs and negligees. I came to a halt when I encountered a collection of garter belts. From that I plucked a sexy black-lace number that had caught my eye. As I flipped through a display featuring vintage legwear still in their packages, I heard a sexy male voice behind me.
The other night I decided to stop at a local strip club to unwind. Little did I know, it would turn into one of the most fantastic nights of my life.
There were about twenty girls dancing and approximately thirty to forty guys in the club. I watched the ladies for a little while, to decide which one I would like to have dance for me. I settled on two different women. The first was a tall girl, around five-foot-ten, who had long, dark hair that fell to her mid-back and was just gorgeous. She had a tiny butt and extremely long legs. She was small in the chest, but I was okay with that. She was model-type beautiful. She told me her name was Angie. She took me to a corner of the club and pulled me forward on the seat, and then gave me one of the best dances I ever had. I had her dance for me twice, and then I took a break. I was afraid my cock would explode; she rubbed me and showed me her breasts and cunt while she danced. I was in heaven.
The woman across the room had a way of looking at herself in the mirror. I observed her watching herself, not because I thought she was pretty (although she was), but because I could tell that she thought she was pretty. In fact, she thought she was beautiful. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that a certain type of attractive woman will reuse the same gestures repeatedly, in the way a model will turn “her good side” to the camera. This redhead was like that, looking down at her drink in a sad little way, running her hand through her thick hair, and always, always returning to her gaze in the mirror.
I don’t know precisely what prompted me to send her a drink. I don’t usually pick up girls at clubs, and I don’t care for women who are so tied up in their own appearances. But I do like to tie girls up, and I could see what this one would look like: wrists over her head in the middle of my bed.