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From: taria29c@aol.com (Taria29c)
Subject: RP Ancient Taria: Art Appreciation Part Three (#2/3)
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(Continued from #1/3)

Slowly I turned my gaze toward Mark's slumbering form.  Could it be...? 
No, I thought resolutely, there is no way that my husband, Mister Straight
and Narrow, could ever even contemplate...After all, just to get him into
oral sex had taken months.  But then, hadn't it been worth it?  And he'd
been so...enthusiastic...ever since.  But Andres?  Christiaan and Rose? 
How well did I know my husband, anyway?  What was he not telling me?

Then again, what had I not told him?  I was chilled by his discovery of
what I had hidden away, not only because he was keeping it to himself, but
also because I had kept secrets from him.  And now he knew.  But why
hadn't he waited up to tell me, to confront me?  What was he thinking? 
How was he feeling?

I was confused, my mind awhirl with thoughts and counterthoughts, worries
and fears, guilt and curiosity.  I didn't eat or even shower.  I just got
undressed and slipped under the covers, watching my husband sleep beside
me for a long time.  Eventually I fell asleep.  But I tossed and turned
restlessly, and by the time my alarm buzzed at me the next morning it was
almost a relief to get out of bed.

Slowly I arose and stretched, bending over a little to straighten out my
back.  As I half-turned I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. 
What was that, peeking out from under Mark's clothes on top of his
nighttable?  Wasn't that the corner of a magazine or something?  It
was--and sticking out on top of it was a slim leather strap and a buckle. 
A-HA! I wanted to shout.  Caught you, you little devil!  You've been
looking at my dirty pictures and playing with my toys!  I left the bedroom
with a grin on my face, used the bathroom, and poked my head back out to
peer into the room before I showered.  Watching carefully, I saw Mark turn
over from his side onto his back and reach a hand out to push the telltale
corner further underneath his clothes.

You faker!  You're not even asleep!  Making more noise than I really
needed to I yawned elaborately and walked back into the room, pretending
not to notice the sudden stillness of the figure on the bed, not to
mention the obviously fake snores.  Moving to the foot of the bed, just at
the right angle for him to see me under his half-closed lids, I turned
around to fiddle with the drawers of our bedroom chest.  I bent lower at
the waist, knowing as I did so that my night teddy was riding up and my
underwear peeking out.  After a little aimless rooting around I stood up,
my back still to him but facing the mirror that stood atop the chest. 
Quite deliberately I reached down to pull down my panties, pulling them
gradually lower until they dropped onto the floor.  I stepped out of them
and began to pull my teddy over my head in a slow, sinuous motion, knowing
that as it rose more and more of my ass was exposed, then my back.  As it
rose over my head I arched my back and held my arms high above my head, as
if I was simply engaging in a morning muscle-stretch.

As I watched him sidewise through the mirror, I could see that my
"innocent" morning
posturing had Mark's full attention.  Not wanting him to know that I was
aware of his wakefulness, I turned around slowly until I was facing him
and faked a yawn.  Then I made another big stretch right in front of him
with my eyes closed and my head back.  My motions thrust my chest forward
and I made no move to cover anything, letting him feast his hooded eyes on
my breasts and belly for a few moments.  Then with a sigh--of regret? 
longing?  I hoped he thought I was wishing he was awake so we could make
love--I turned toward the bathroom again, grabbing some clothes to don
after my shower.

I like a good, long, hot shower, especially in the morning, but that day I
took no chances.  I finished my ablutions in record time, exiting the
bathroom as quickly as possible to forestall any hasty activities on his
part.  As I swept back into the bedroom I saw that my precautions were
well-founded; he was still on his back, but from the hall I could see that
he had been lying with his knees bent and spread apart, his hands probably
busy under the covers.  When he saw, or heard my return, though, he
quickly lowered his knees and tried to place his hands in some casually
arranged position on top of the covers.  I tried hard to suppress my smile
as I noticed that he could not hide *everything* he had been up to--just
below his midsection *something* was poking the blanket upward.  I
finished dressing and turned back to face him while I bent my head to put
on my earrings.  I chuckled quietly in my throat and looked directly at
him as he "slept."  "Oh well," I murmured, "what a waste of a good morning
hard-on.  Too bad..."

Before he could react I zipped out of the room and marched down the hall. 
I picked up my overcoat and shook it so he could hear the keys in my
pocket jingling.  As I neared the front door I silently kicked off my
shoes, then opened the door, held it a second, and slammed it, with me
still inside.  Then I stood stock-still for a moment, straining my hearing
to find out if my ruse had worked.  It had, because a moment later I could
hear the blankets fall to the floor in a heap, and I heard the rustle of
book pages being turned.  As quietly as I could, I crept back toward the
door of my bedroom, inching along the wall, until I could carefully peek
at what was transpiring.

I saw my husband, still lying on his back, but now fully exposed.  The
bedclothes were gone; so were any shorts or pajama pants he might've been
wearing when he came to bed the previous night.  With his legs bent and
spread apart, I had a clear view of Mark's rigid cock standing tall and
proud.  Mark's right hand was wrapped around his shaft, tugging the skin
up and down as it pumped in slow strokes.  His head (the one on his
shoulders) was facing away from me, thank goodness, and was tilted to the
left.  He was looking at the Andres photo catalogue he had commandeered
from my closet, grasping it in his left hand, which was resting on his
nighttable.

I had seen Mark masturbate before, but only when we were having some kind
of sex together and then only for a moment or two.  I remembered mutually
masturbating once, long ago, when we were young and daring and still
dating.  But I had never had the chance to watch him when he thought he
was unobserved, when he was at his most natural.  I watched in fascination
as his hand moved up and down, pumping his cock in a rhythm that I knew
matched the throbbings he felt.  It was marvelous, seeing the way his body
built its way toward a rising pleasure even as his mind was occupied
elsewhere, focused not on his own body but on the erotic photographs that
held his attention.

My mouth was dry as I watched his hand speed up its tempo a little,
quickening its pace as he built to a climax.  So soon? I groaned inwardly,
feeling cheated by the quick conclusion I foresaw.  But I was more than a
little pleased as well.  So, you can't hold it in after weeks without
making love?  Good!  And I hope that my little peep show this morning made
things worse!  I grinned as I contemplated the torture he must have
experienced as I exhibited my naked body to him, and then yanked it away
untouched by his horny little hands. 

Suddenly his pace slowed again, and I looked on in wonderment as he let
the book slide out of his fingers and reached out with his left hand. 
After a brief moment his hand closed around the erstwhile contents of my
lavender sack--my cock, still attached to the leather harness I had worn
the last time, with Kathy.  I was dumbstruck as I watched my husband Mark
bring the cock closer to his body, rubbing his chest, his nipples, with
the tip.  I was thunderstruck when he held it up for a moment, looked at
it...and then slowly inserted it into his mouth!  His lips closed around
the cockhead, sucking, moistening, and I looked on as he slowly, softly
pushed it and pulled it in and out of his mouth, a little deeper each
time.  Mark knew how to give a blow job?!?  Where the hell did he pick
THAT up?

I almost smacked myself on the forehead.  Of COURSE he has a pretty good
idea of blow job techniques.  He's had 'em, hasn't he?!?  Maybe he even
learned this from ME, I thought, and I continued to stare as he extended
his tongue and gave the cockhead a good, sloppy licking, wetting it down
thoroughly.  I was tingling as I began to think about that.  If he was
moistening the cock, lubricating it, that must mean...  And he did not
disappoint me.  With his eyes closed, his right hand still gripping his
now-straining cock, my husband guided the latex penis down between his
spread knees, under his balls, to his dark anal opening.  I held my breath
as he pushed a little, changed the angle of the penis in his hand, pushed
more, and gasped loudly.  "Errrrrrr," he grunted, and I felt rather than
saw as the cockhead pushed into him, penetrating him, pushing past the
tight ring of muscle at his entrance until the head was just inside him,
the rest of the cock hanging down.

Mark moaned, and suddenly his right hand was pumping furiously, jerking
with hard, fast strokes.  He was panting and moaning now, quick sharp
moans as his climax neared, the cockhead in his anal aperture driving him
into a frenzy.  His hips were bucking wildly now, his left hand just
barely keeping the head of the cock inside him as he stroked himself with
abandon, and I heard a loud "Aaaaah!" as the building tension met its
sudden release and his body went rigid for a moment, and then I could see
the spurts as he ejaculated into his hand and over the top of it, his cum
soaking the hand clenched around his cock and spilling onto his stomach,
which was heaving with his deep, ragged breaths.  

I watched as his body slowly relaxed, the latex cock softly emerging from
the opening it had barely entered, his legs straightening as he unbent his
knees, and suddenly I realized how vulnerable I was to discovery.  As Mark
began to recover I tiptoed back down the hallway with mincing little
quicksteps, making it to the front door and picking up my shoes.  I waited
with baited breath until I heard him get up and head to the bathroom to
clean up.  As he turned the faucets and started running a shower, I exited
the front door, the sounds of my escape camouflaged, I hoped, by the
running water.

All the way to work the image of my husband naked, writhing, uninhibited,
danced before my eyes.  After a while on the Parkway I started to worry I
might plow into a Jeep or something, and so I stabbed at the radio button,
searching for something to distract me.  No such luck, because the first
words I heard were "...welcome back to Dr. Joy, here to discuss love,
intimacy, and relationships.  We've been speaking to Dina, who has been
feeling a distance growing between her and her husband.  Now tell me,
Dina...how has this been affecting your intimate relationship?"

"Ummmm....what?"

"Your sex life, dear, your sex life.  If it were a casserole, for
example..."

In the car I snorted once, loudly.

"...if it were a casserole, would it be piping hot?  room temperature? 
yesterday's refrigerated leftovers?"

"Oh, DEF-initely leftovers.  He almost NEVER wants to have sex any
more..."  Dina was getting positively chatty.  "And just the other day I
found a stack of adult magazines!  In his desk, downstairs!  He says that
he just buys them to, you know, look at the pictures..." 

I snorted again, even louder.  Dr. Joy apparently concurred, because she
said, in a flat no-nonsense voice, "He's *not* just looking at the
pictures, Dina."

"But he saaaaaays..."  Dr. Joy cut her off immediately.  "Dina, that's
what he would tell his mother if she found them.  Are you his mother?" 
"Noooo," came the uncertain reply.  "Dina, he is masturbating.  He uses
those magazines to look at while he is masturbating."  "But...howcome he
isn't...I mean, why isn't he satisfied with meeeeee?" she whined, and I
tuned out mentally, catching only the words "masturbate, masturbate,
masturbate" somewhere in Dr. Joy's response.  But Dense Dina had clarified
something for me: why should I be concerned or upset about Mark's behavior
this morning?  After all, he was just putting the photo book and sex toy
to the same use I had!  And I had enjoyed both of them very much.  So had
he, I recalled with a grin.

As I squeezed the Toyota into a miniscule parking spot and climbed out of
the car, I was struck by a sudden thought.  Instead of worrying about why
Mark was masturbating, instead of wondering about what he got out of it,
wouldn't it be better to capitalize on it?  This morning my husband had
unknowingly told me what he enjoyed, what turned him on.  I stood there,
holding the door open, rooted to the spot next to my car.  Wouldn't it be
great if I could find a way to bring that freedom, that lack of
inhibitions out of him? 

A thoughtful expression must have crossed my face as I flashed back to our
lovemaking,
and his tendency toward silence, especially when he was having one of
those "stealth orgasms,"
the ones where he barely made any noise and his whole body just went rigid
all of a sudden as he came.  He was moaning this morning, I realized,
twisting around and really getting into it.  Could I still bring that out
of him? I thought.  I had, once upon a time, but after being married for
so long... 

I smiled, a faint, small smile, and licked my lips, my tongue moving
slowly across them.  So *that's* what he likes, hmmmm?  Well maybe it was
time to find out what we could do together to improve on that.  And Kathy
DID ask me what I had in mind when I bought it...The wheels in my head
began to spin a little faster, and I absently stepped back and slammed the
car door shut.  That day, during my lunch break, I went out to do a little
shopping.

I got home late that night, by intention this time, rather than
carelessness.  I didn't open the front door much before eleven o'clock,
having whiled away the evening playing Tetris on my work computer,
ordering in Chinese food, and thoroughly enjoying the sensation of working
late while my husband might be waiting up, instead of the other way
around.  When I finally did get in, I was pleased to notice that
yesterday's mess had not recreated itself; Mark must''ve gotten bored with
TV really quickly and found something else to occupy his day.  I smirked
at the thought, wondering if the "something else" had anything to do with
his activities that morning.

By the time I reached the bedroom I had assumed a weary air, plodding
slowly down the hallway and emitting tired little sighs.  Mark was in the
bedroom already.  In fact, he was in bed with the lights out, but not
asleep.  Behind my tired pose I smiled to myself.  All was exactly as I
had planned it, and hopefully my husband did not suspect a thing. 

I entered the room humming "Try a Little Tenderness"--"women do get
weary..."--as sort of an early warning.  Turning my back to Mark, who was
propped up on one arm as he lay in wait for me, I began to climb out my
clothes, slowly, wearily.  "Awwww," I heard him say in what little
"bedroom voice" he possessed.  "Rough day, honey?"  Still facing away from
him I grinned, and, trying to keep the grin out of my voice, I let my
breath out raggedly and grated, "you have NO idea."  From there I launched
into a lengthy diatribe about the horrible day I had, how exhausted I was,
how rotten my boss was, how lousy I felt, and how, on top of everything
else, I was probably getting PMS.  None of which was true, of course,
except for possibly the lousy boss part.  But then, today he had been out
sick, and how much better can a boss be?

As I undressed I dropped my clothes in a heap on the floor, every gesture
indicating my tired, cranky attitude.  At least I hoped so.  I showed
practically no flesh at all, the polar opposite of the little exhibition I
had put on that morning.  After slipping out of my blouse I grabbed hold
of the most unsexy t-shirt I owned, a big ratty thing with a faded picture
of "Hello Kitty" on the front; to add insult to injury, I even slipped out
of my bra after I was already in the shirt, yanking it unceremoniously out
of my sleeve ("ta-daa!  look, Mark, no boobs!").  I pulled down my skirt
in one quick motion, tugged down my pantyhose, and without even changing
my panties (oh, I wanted to--but sacrifices had to be made) I climbed into
a thick, bulky pair of sweat pants.  Snug-waistband, cover-everything,
unattractive, no-access sweat pants.  I didn't brush my teeth.  I didn't
go to pee.  I just wrapped myself like a mummy in my blanket and turned
over, facing away from Mark.

My husband was completely flummoxed.  My performance had so deflated him
that he hadn't tried a single one of the seductive moves he had planned. 
After hours of waiting for me--I was five hours late--he had been ready,
primed, posed naked under his thin bedsheet (I had noticed, but then, I
had already foreseen this maneuver), anxious to renew our intimate
relationship.  Or at least anxious to get some, which sort of amounted to
the same thing.  But he had been throttled.  He had been hoodwinked. 
Bamboozled.  My preemptive strike had reduced him to a meek whimper:
"well...can I give you a backrub, Honey?"  I responded with a short series
of negative grunts, and burrowed deeper into my cocoon.  He gave a deep,
theatrical sigh that was probably pretty sincere and turned over to face
away from me, hurt and angry.  Perfect!

The next morning, Thursday, I awoke early for work and hopped out of bed. 
Today I got dressed as hastily as possible, skipping my shower, jumping
into my clothes, hustling for all I was worth.  Again my husband feigned
sleep, this time due to his wounded ego and not his voyeuristic
tendencies.  I pretended not to notice until I reached the
"earrings-and-accessories" stage, when I turned toward him and walked
around to his side of the bed.  Sitting down beside him--he scrunched his
hips over a little to avoid contact with me, the poor hurt sweetie--I
murmured "Oh, darling...I'm sooooo sorry about last night...I was just
sooo tired, and it had been such a looooong day..."  No response.  But
when I reached down and caressed his left hip, he made no movement to pull
it away.  Gotcha! 

I injected a little more TLC into my voice, a more soothing quality.  
"Let me make it up to you, Honey.  How about dinner tonight?  Come meet me
at work, and we'll go out to a nice restaurant," (I rubbed up and down,
softly, pleadingly) "and then afterwards...well, we'll see about
afterwards.  Whaddaya say, Big Boy?  OK?"  He emitted a slightly
whiny-sounding noise, sort of an "nn-nnnn," like a big puppy.  "It's a
date, then," I said, kissing the back of his head.  "I'll see you at
five."  I rubbed his back reassuringly, got up, and left the apartment,
silently cackling to myself all the while.
 
In the middle of the day, about noon, I called home and got the answering
machine.  "Hi-- we're not here right now, but...BEEEEEEEEP."  "Sweetie,
it's me," I opened.  "I'm sorry--I'm going to be a little late.  So could
you please get here at five-thirty instead of five o'clock?  Oh, and one
more thing...don't wear any underwear tonight, Sweetie.  Bye!  See you
soon!"  Of course I wouldn't be able to meet him at five.  My work
schedule was eight-thirty to five-thirty, always had been.  But this way I
had an excuse to call and slip in my real message about his attire.  I
spent the remainder of the afternoon assembling reports and ignoring my
phone, letting the voice-mail get everything.  Mark called five times.  I
didn't call him back.

By four-thirty I had abandoned all pretense of getting any more work done,
and panic set in.  Had I pushed him too hard?  Would everything work out
the way I hoped tonight?  What if he was angry with me?  Was this really a
good idea?  But I had passed the point of no return already, and I steeled
my resolve.  Dammit, it had been months since we had made love at
one-hundred-percent capacity.  He had been so busy, so wrapped up in his
work that I had been lonely, frustrated, and aching with need for months. 
Would my little tryst with Kathy have occurred if Mark had been tending
the home fires properly? I wondered.  Well, maybe--but I wouldn't
have...then again, maybe that line of reasoning had its flaws.  Still, I
deserved to be in the driver's seat for a while.  And deep down I *knew*
that he would enjoy this.  He absolutely positively would.  I hoped.

By 5:25 I was sitting at my desk looking busy, despite the fact that the
office had cleared out a half-hour earlier when all the nine-to-fivers
departed in a cloud of dust.  Not even a single secretary remained to buzz
Mark in, so when he called my intercom to let me know he was there I had
Security open the door for him.  After a few wrong turns my husband
eventually navigated his way to my desk, where I sat with a pencil stuck
behind one ear, a stray tendril of hair trailing down in front of my face,
and my lower lip sexily pouting as I "concentrated" on some piece of paper
or other.

Mark drew closer.  "So...you ready to go?" he asked, a little testily.

"Ummm...one sec," I responded absently, watching carefully out of the
corner of my eye as he walked right up to me, his body language conveying
his cranky hostility.

"Look," he said as he reached me.  "I--"

His words trailed off as I turned toward him suddenly, my eyes ablaze, my
hands making a beeline for his crotch.  With no fumbling at all--and I was
mighty proud of that--one hand held his pants material straight while the
other unzipped his fly in one swift tug.  ZZZZZZZPPP.  Without hesitating,
or speaking, I sent my hand diving into his open fly, and I made a pleased
noise in my throat when I noted his compliance with my "no underwear"
instructions.  I wrapped my fingers around his cock, which was still
flaccid--perhaps out of shock--but began to respond immediately to the
attention.  I carefully maneuvered it out of the opening, taking special
care as the crown emerged from between the zipper tracks, and lowered my
mouth to it.  

There is nothing--NOTHING--quite like the sensation of a hardening,
thickening cock in my mouth.  With my eyes closed I enclosed his penis in
my wet lips, enjoying the texture of the soft, rubbery flesh, the small,
thin droopiness.  But the attraction for me is the way a soft cock begins
to almost jump in my mouth, warm and pulsing, and then begins to grow,
filling out inside me as I pull back my teeth and let it expand between my
lips.  His penis grew hot, the pulsations faster, the small softness
giving way to immensity, to hardness.  I love that feeling of ballooning,
the ecstasy on my lover's face and in his groans as his cock becomes erect
inside my mouth, the rise in tension and excitement that always seems to
me to be akin to the onset of an orgasm.  By the time he is fully hard I
have always pulled my head back a little, my throat unable to accommodate
the size of the monster I have brought to life.  But it's always fun to
try.

Mark looked like he was in shock.  For weeks we had had practically no
intercourse of any kind.  For days I had been torturing him in his
unbearable horniness.  For hours I had ignored his very existence.  But
now he stood there, his knees buckling slightly, as I commenced a
leisurely licking of his erect dick with the broad, flattened surface of
his tongue, punctuated by extended moments of taking only his cockhead
between my lips and sucking it in and out, like a child would a popsicle. 
And then I pulled away from his wet, glistening penis, turned my head up
to face him, gave him a wide, dazzling smile, and pulled at his pants so
that his cock was once again encased.  Very cautiously, I zipped his fly
back up. 

I had dumbfounded him yet again, as the stricken expression on his face so
clearly showed.  "I can't do this *here*," I murmured.  "There's so many
other people around."  Mark obviously did not agree with my assessment of
the situation, but he was too much in shock to articulate his views
coherently.  "But....I.....I mean....You--"  I stood up next to where he
was still standing--in more ways than one--and patted him on the cheek. 
"Come on, sailor," I grinned, slipping my hand into his.  "Let's go out
and begin our evening.  I *promise* you that it will be one to remember." 


He looked at me, puzzled and more than a little suspicious.  I returned
his look with a smoldering smile that expressed all the deviltry I had
been containing for the past two days.  A moment later we entered the
elevator for the short ride down from my second-floor office.  As soon as
the doors closed I attacked him, mashing his lips with my own, my hands
rubbing his back, snaking under his suit jacket, caressing his unfettered
ass through his pants, which were just tight enough to cop a good feel. 
As the bell dinged for the Ground Floor I snapped off the kiss and
straightened myself up, gleefully staring at the hard-on that still raged
at his crotch, threatening to burst its bonds at any moment.  As we left
the building I could see that his eyes were a little glassy, and contained
just a hint of fear.  I chuckled low in my throat, insinuated my arm
through his, and snuggled up to him as we walked three blocks to the
restaurant. 

As we neared the familiar green awning with "Phillipe's" in gilt
lettering, Mark grunted once, a little noise of disapproval.  Following
his gaze, I saw two teenagers sauntering ahead of us, a boy and a girl who
were obviously in love, or at least thought they were.  Both were in
jeans, and as the girl awkwardly shuffled forward with her head resting on
the boy's shoulder, I noticed that his hand was planted firmly in her back
jeans pocket, plastered against her backside.  "Oh, please," my husband
muttered, "just get a car and climb into the back seat like everybody
else."  "Oh I don't know," I murmured.  "Actually, that looks like it
probably feels really nice."  And, without further ado, I leaned my head
on his shoulder and slipped my arm around him, moving my flattened palm
down until it was circling his ass, under his suit jacket.  "I'd stick it
in your back pocket," I whispered in Mark's ear, "but that wallet you have
there is in the way."  He jumped forward, and looked back at me, his
cheeks flaming.  I smiled mysteriously and swept past him into the
restaurant.

"What has gotten into you?!?" he demanded, once we had been seated.  I
looked back at him appraisingly over the top of my menu and replied,
"you're blushing, dear."  As his fading blush brightened again I
surreptitiously slipped one foot out of my shoe and extended my stockinged
foot until it touched his.  Then, slowly and deliberately, I ran my toes
up his leg and to his crotch, where I lingered for a moment, flexing the
toes experimentally.  For a second, his legs opened wider and I felt him
push his crotch slightly forward against my foot.  Then, as he realized
what he was doing, his eyes widened and he stared at me, goggle-eyes. 
"Really," he asked.  "What *has* gotten into you?"  I smirked at him and
jabbed my toes forward so that they poked him right dead center.  He
closed his eyes briefly, and by the time he opened them a mischevious
gleam was apparent.  He reached down one hand and grabbed my foot at the
ankle; with the other he started tickling my instep.  I am horribly
ticklish, so the effect was instantaneous.  I burst out giggling, gasping
for him to stop.  He just tickled harder, staring right back at me.  Then
we both heard a loud cough right next to us, and looked up to see a rather
uncomfortable waiter standing patiently beside us.  

Mark blushed.  I blushed.  Somehow we managed to stumble through placing
an order with only a modicum of stuttering.  But as soon as the waiter
left, I stuck my foot out again and caressed Mark's calf with it.  "You're
incorrigible," Mark grinned at me.  "You ain't seen nothing yet, buster,"
I responded.  Once again my husband stared at me, but he no longer looked
apprehensive.  Now his expression was one of a man intrigued.  Pretending
to be busy with the wine list I titled my head a little and sat still,
letting Mark's gaze linger on me, drinking me in.  Finally I raised one
eyebrow and looked back at him, a slightly challenging look on my face,
full of promise of things to come.  His eyes went a little glassy again
and the color returned to his cheeks.  I smiled and returned to my wine
list.

Dinner was lovely, the food delicious, the atmosphere romantic, the erotic
tension between Mark and I rising with each bite.  I alternated between
looks of smoldering passion and feigned innattentiveness.  He began to
look like his head was going to explode, as he switched back and forth
from staring at me in awe to smoldering a little himself.  Finally we were
done and Mark was going to order dessert.  "Let's not, honey," I said to
him, searing him with a look of pure heat.  "We can get dessert....later."
 

Mark gulped, swallowing hard; I was really getting to him now.  "Uh, OK,"
he said to the hovering waiter.  "Why don't we just...um...get the check."
 "That's a good idea," I murmured, my foot beneath the table returning to
its exploration of my husband's thighs.  "I think maybe we should go home
now.  It's getting late."  Mark's eyes bulged--that wasn't all that
bulged, either, since my toes were massaging his crotch--and after
straightening himself carefully he got up from his chair and we left.  As
he reached out to open the door, I snuck up behind him and caressed his
derriere once again.  Again he jumped, and I let out a quietly devilish
laugh as he stepped to the curb to hail a cab.

(Continued in #3/3)

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