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From: taria29b@aol.com (Taria29b)
Subject: Art Appreciation by Taria Part 3 #2/3 (maybe 4)

See warnings on #1
______________________________


     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."  

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