I was sitting in the black leather club chair in the corner of our master suite, reading a book, pretending to pay no attention to my wife, Jill, standing naked in front of a chest of drawers. Jill bent slightly at the waist to open one the second drawer down, not bothering to look back at me, but still knowing that I must be looking over the top of my book by now.
“Stop,” I thought to myself. “Don’t play her games. Don’t look, don’t give her the satisfaction.” I knew that’s what she wanted. Me to look, to say something. No. I would not. I looked down. Read. Just read.
I heard her open the drawer, rummage around. My peripheral caught her standing up straight, looking at herself in the mirror.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
But I had to. I had to look up. I was human. I was in love. She was beauty. I had to look. And she knew it.
I looked up. She was watching me. In the mirror. She watched my eyes drift over the top of my book to her. She saw me look, knew somehow exactly how long to hold her pose, how long it would take me. She stood, half looking at herself in the mirror, half watching me watch her strike her pose. She stood holding a black and taupe garter belt to her waist, posing, looking at herself.
“Hmf,” she said ever so quietly, nodding her head, agreeing to herself as carefully stepped into the pull up belt, the garter straps dangling on her legs.
I quickly looked back down to my book. No, stop, don’t let her win!
Jill picked something up off the dresser, moved to and sat on the edge of the bed next to a pair of , now facing me. She lifted one of her legs up to the bed, her knee towards her face. She gathered a black stocking with her hands, slipped it over her toes, carefully pulled it up her leg. She stood, attached it to the three garter straps, sat, began the process with the other.
Finished with the stockings, she slipped her feet into the black strappy heels, bent down, fastened them. Then she really pushed.
Head down, I let my eyes drift upwards just as she tugged at the tops of each stockings, pulling them taut, running her fingers up the inside of each thigh as she did, up, close to the center, breathing a deep breath in and out as she did.
This was too much! I snapped my book shut, a shot, the sound moving around the room shocking both of us.
Jill looked up at me, unflinching. “What’s the matter? I thought you liked it when I wore stockings?”
“I do, you know that. I beg you to wear them all the time.” Which was true. I love her legs, her feet. Naked. I loved them even more in nylons, pantyhose, stockings. Especially stockings.
“So you should be happy then,” she retorted, picking up a pair of matching black and taupe panties and stepping in to them.
“Why today, Jill? Why? Why every time you go somewhere with him,” I spat out. Him was an old boyfriend, Jason, who she had dinner with, went to a play, concert, something, every couple of months.
“Every time? What do you mean?”
“You wore stockings last time, when you went to that concert. You’re wearing stockings today.”
Jill tilted her head, looked at me, then looked away, picked up her bra, answered me as she put it on. “You’re jealous?”
“Should I be?”
She walked slowly, deliberately towards me. Jill was already tall, just over 5’10”, more so in heels. The stockings gave the illusion of even greater height, especially standing over me.
“We’re going to a club, I just like to look pretty,” she said in a slight pout. “Why does that make you jealous?”
I swallowed, not sure what to say. Not wanting to argue, not wanting to fight.
She knew she was in charge right now, that I was putty, helpless. No matter what I wanted to say, what I felt, that standing in front of me, wearing stockings and a garter belt, she owned me.
Jill lifted on of her legs up, put her heel on the edge of the chair, inches from my crotch. “I look pretty, don’t I?”
“Yes,” I swallowed, trying to shake my head, to clear the jumble of thoughts. I wanted her. I wanted her now. But I knew she was leaving, going out, going out with Jason. I didn’t care. I was her husband. I was her. I moved my hands up towards her leg, touched the nylon, her warm skin radiating heat, sex, desire.
“Do you think he’s going to touch me? Is that what makes you jealous? Knowing he wants to touch my stockings just like you are?” She inched her foot closer to me, closed the gap, so the leather bottom of her sandal, her stocking covered toes were touching me.”
“Or are you jealous because you think I want that, too, that I want to feel his hands on my legs, his fingers running up the insides of my thighs?”
I was breathing heavily now, my hands almost shaking, almost unable to keep in contact with her legs, almost breaking away from the nylon.
“It’s been so long since he touched me like that, lover, so long. So long since I felt his body touching mine, since I felt his skin.” She was moving her foot up and down, letting her shoe tickle me, torment me, tease me, stroke me.
“He’s not going to touch me tonight, lover, I’m yours. You know that. When I get home tonight, I’m yours. My legs are yours, my feet are yours, my body is yours, but…” Her foot touching me was almost too much for me.
“But,” she said slowly.
“What,” I groaned.
“When I get home tonight and you’re licking my foot, kissing your way up my leg, when you realize how wet I am…”
She paused, letting me rub her legs, touch the nylon, feel the sensation, the softness, let me excite myself.
“When you realize how wet I am, remember that I’m so excited because I’m dressed like this and all night I’ll be thinking about Jason touching me.”
I almost hyperventilated, my breathing was so quick. She bent down, foot pressing harder into me, her knee resting against my chest, my hands forced upwards to her panty covered ass. “When you fuck me tonight, lover, just remember, I’m going to be thinking of him.”
Jill kissed my ear, slowly stood up, walked to the closet and slipped a little black dress over her head.
“I knew you’d like the stockings, sweetie,” she said, picking up her purse and walking to the door. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way home.”