Exactly thirteen years ago, I was standing in the church I grew up in, making promises to God and my man, getting married.
So for week 13 of #LingerieIsForEveryone and this week’s #WickedWednesday, you get three pictures of my lovely husband.
Last weekend, we had a rare child free night. To get round the inevitable performance anxiety – oh fuck, just the sheer joy of not having to have a silent orgasm or being able to play without locking the bedroom door tempered by the “I must be in the mood tonight” nerves- we scheduled a photo shoot.
This is isn’t his kink, but that he trusts me and loves me enough to both play dress up and let me post photos overwhelms me with just how lucky I am to have someone who supports me, experiments with me and who allows me to push his boundaries as much as he pushes mine. I wanted an image for a story, and he is a very good sport. His jeans clad bum features in Tantrum, and for this story, it was supposed to be tights… but stockings were available… and sexier.
And just in case this seems a bit one sided… he took the misery stick to my backside in the loving room… because we could… and then chose the Sinful Sunday image he felt best displayed his handiwork.
There are more photos to come! But first, the story that sparked them.
Fabric, so fine it was barely there at all, made me aware of every inch of my legs. Caressed. Held. Warmed.
“How do they feel?” she asked.
“Nice.” The weak word slipped through my tight throat.
I flexed my foot and subtly the material moved against skin and hair. Ripples of new awareness from flesh I thought I knew.
Her hand slipped between the constraining layer of stretch and the satin briefs, stroking the lace trim to lie smooth before letting the waistband snap back with satisfying sound. Shivers chased over my skin and even gooseflesh felt magnified.
I wondered how she ever got anything done. Every inch of my attention lay beneath the lightly sheened lycra.
Nodding at herself, and not waiting for my reply, she crouched before me lifting my foot and smoothing the seam over my toes.
I want her to keep touching me and I want her to stop. Equally. Imperatively. My dick twitches beneath my panties and drags with more emphasis against the silkiness. Like the first time. Like I’m held by gentle hands.
She notices the hitch in my breath and smirks as she stands before turning away to finish dressing as though this was no biggie.
She’s good like that. Frustrating in equal measure.
“My red dress ok?”
She turns, as though she knows I’m struck dumb and I nod. Watch her wiggle and curse as she hauls a tight tube of something slinky and black over her hips and midrift. Like a hundred times before, I move behind her and help the last few inches up her back and sides while she slips her arms through the straps. Like always, I wonder what it would feel like, but now, with tights still sparking every nerve from toe to waist, I think I want it more.
She bends to reach for her bra, and I pull her hips back against mine. Spandex against nylon against satin against me. Layers of sensation, more not less for the loss of our nakedness. Squealing she slaps my hip. “We’ll be late!”
“We won’t. Reservation is 8pm.” My voice is raspy from my silence. Sounding like myself feels right and wrong all in the same bundle.
My hands slide up her cool, smooth and unnaturally firm flanks until I reach the living softness above. Cup her, take her weight. She arches, pushing into my hands and dick. Stretching for long seconds until she snaps back tall and pulls free.
“8? I’m starving now.”
She pulls on her bra and I slip my leg into the chinos I’d chosen. To not feel the roughness of the fabric as I pull them up is wonderfully strange. The slide of leather dress shoe far more pronounced against tights than even fine dress socks. And yet, as I button my shirt and smooth it into my trousers, fasten them in the mirror, I look the same as always.
She moves behind me now, watching me examining my reflection. Smooths her hand over my hip and groin. Trails over my thigh.
“Stockings would have shown here. Just a tiny bit.”
She moves slightly to the side and takes my hand over the same height of her leg, smoothing the draping fabric until the indentation and protrusions of her stockings and clips show clearly through the fabric.
“You, of course, have the thighs for hold ups. So just a slight crease where they take bite.” She continues, moving her hand back and drawing a firm line just below the depth of my pocket.
The heel of her hand ghosts across my fly, the constraining grip of lycra adding something I think I’d miss in stockings.
“Would you like that?”
Ask me that a few years ago, when I would wander like a ghost through the high street hiding behind the excuse of a girlfriend’s birthday to covetously prowl through racks of impractical lingerie, furious with myself for feeling ashamed. For wanting. Eaten with confusion.
She makes my chest tighten with emotion. She already knows the answer.
“I think I would.”