From zitterow@pacbell.net Sat Apr 05 17:42:58 1997
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From: zitterow@pacbell.net
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THEMENITE-EXHIBITIONISM "DressUnveiled1" www.nastystories.com
Date: Sat, 05 Apr 1997 21:42:58 GMT
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~Subject: THE DRESS UNVEILED, Part 1 of 3
~From: an150822@anon.penet.fi (NoMan)
~Date: Tue, 20 Dec 1994 20:33:55 UTC
~Newsgroups: alt.sex.exhibitionism
THE UNVEILING OF THE DRESS (Part 1 of 3)
FOREWORD
Yes, folks, it actually *happened*. I'm sure there were a few out there who
thought I was just teasing you with my postings on THE DRESS and related
matters, but here we are. I don't know about you, but I have found it
agonizingly delicious savoring the prospect of our pending adventure at the
boundaries of *barely* acceptable exhibition. Of course, *I* should, since
I'm the one involved, but I know that some of you have been following this
closely so I've tried to update you now and then on how things have been
developing. I still haven't seen those updates at my own site, so I hope
you've been able to follow things up to now.
Time was passing SOooo slowly that I spent some time writing a little fantasy
for myself, playing out in my mind just how things would unfold at the big
party. In my fantasy I got as far as about halfway through the evening and
then found it difficult to continue because there were so many branches in
the tree of possibilities it ceased to be a very credible exercise. *But* it
turned out that the part I did play through in fantasy was remarkably close
to what actually happened. It was off in a couple of details, details that
I *wished* would happen, but knew actually wouldn't, so excepting such bits
I'd say I was right on the mark. I mention this for two reasons. One is to
emphasize that what follows is *not* a fantasy, but a faithful account of the
debut of THE DRESS, but another is to emphasize for those of you who want to
encourage your honeys into this kind of activity that it is *very* important
to be able to anticipate how things will play out so that nothing unfortunate
happens such as getting caught in a compromising position or letting your own
enthusiasm get the best of you and press her/him into something uncomfortable.
Let your fantasies run away with you, and you will get into trouble.
My wife and I illustrate the point. She is actually quite conservative and
conscious of propriety. That she indulges me is a very deep gesture of
affection on her part and something to be respected. It is easy when playing
close to the line like this to trip over it, or to create situations in which
the momentum of a moment may threaten to carry you across it. This is
complicated by the fact that it is a *moving* line, a function not only of the
fixed social mores of others, but of both of your states of mind in the moment.
There were two moments in our evening in which we stumbled into this line.
In neither case did anything unfortunate happen, and in each case we were in
circumstances similar to those of other interludes; the difference in these
two moments was in our joint state of mind, and subtle miscues or misreadings
of mood. Never underestimate the importance of communication, communication,
and more communication. And *lots* of mutual respect. These are not material
to the story that follows, but speak to a bit realism easily missed in the
following account of what was a delightfully erotic evening for both of us.
Enjoy.
GETTING READY
Well, those of you following the updates may recall that at the small dinner
party at the boss's house a few days before the company-wide party my wife
and I enjoyed imagining how a "trophy" wife or two in all their regalia would
feel slam-dunked when my wife would walk into the big party wearing THE DRESS.
After that party, I got to thinking how in this context *I* was kind of a
trophy *husband*. (No humility here, thank you very much!) Considering how
dolled up my wife was going to be, and how eyes would probably be on us all
night, I took stock of my own wardrobe and realized that what I had assumed
I would wear, just by default, was not anywhere in the same class as THE DRESS.
Giving it some thought, and of the more limited options open to us guys (No, a
leather G-string and muscle shirt wouldn't cut it.) I concluded that I finally
needed to spring for a tuxedo. There were several aspects to this idea that
are relevant. One is simply that a tux would add an extra touch of class and
glamour to my wife's presence, which, of course, is what a good "trophy"
husband should do. But another was that since a tux is a stand-out kind of
garment, my dressing this way would help attract more attention to my wife
and THE DRESS. (Like she needed help!) Another more subtle aspect has to do
with the magician's techniques for creating illusion; a magician will often
use misdirection, focussing his audience's attention one place while the real
action is happening somewhere *else*. By wearing a tux I would, while at the
same time attraction more attention to my wife, help diffuse too close a
scrutiny by causing attention to be paid to *both* of us. I decided to go
for it, but to keep it as a surprise, so that I could just appear suddenly
fully decked out the night of the big do. As a little surprise for her to
find later, I wore a black thong under my pants instead of my usual
Fruit-of-the-Looms.
Well, that came off pretty well. I figured we should plan for a late arrival
so as to gain the maximum effect from our entrance. However, my wife knows
me to be an early bird by habit, and so would be expecting me to get us there
more-or-less on time. In order to defeat this expectation, I arranged to be
delayed at work so that I got home later than she expected. As I had hoped,
she was already pretty much ready, keeping a snack warm for us to share
(we would eat at the party, but that would be unusually late for us). We
had our few bites together, then, as I hoped, she took to puttering around
with dinner dishes while I went back to dress. This gave me the time I
needed to get all put together before she would have a chance to see me.
I was just finishing as she hollered back to me to get the lead out. I took
a position near the front door where she finally saw me. Surprised, to be
sure, and pleased. With all the build-up for this party being focussed on
her, and as displayed as she felt in THE DRESS, I think she was glad to see
that I was going all out too. I must say that we looked dashing together,
her all in black and silver spangles, me in the classic all-black tux,
complete with bow tie, studs, cummerbund, diaphragm (hers) - the works.
I had hoped to get her away from the house without a wrap, thinking that
she could use my tux jacket for getting to and from the car, but it was too
nippy for her to contemplate that. I was pleased that at least she did not
opt for the calf-length overcoat, and instead chose a shorter, poncho-like
wrap that draped a little elegantly over each arm in front rather than being
tied or buttoned; a bit like an unusually large stole, I guess, but of a
dense natural wool ... we're not fur people. Of course, I feared that once
at the party she might not let go of the wrap, clutching it closed in front
of herself the whole night, but that fear turned out to be unfounded.
HERE WE GO
The night began with what I considered a good omen. You have to remember that
my wife is unaccustomed to garments as short as THE DRESS. I expected that she
would have a tendency either to over-compensate in moments of
self-consciousness and tug unmercifully at the hem of THE DRESS, or in moments
of self-unconsciousness forget about decorum and let fly with some titillating
views. As we got in our car for the ride to the party, I held the door for her
and she stepped into the car. In the course of this maneuver, she ended up
flashing a rather wide view of Heaven's Gate as she adjusted her legs, and
because of the contortions involved and the friction of THE DRESS against her
wrap, she missed the tail of the dress completely when she first sat down,
sitting butt-to-carseat before realizing her rather displayed condition and
tugging herself back to something approaching decency. Of course, I was the
only one there to enjoy the view, but I thought it bode well for the night
to come.
I kept the heater on high as we drove to the party, which didn't do me any
good under all of my layers, but kept her mind off the cold. We arrived at
the hotel that had been rented for the evening, and began the search for a
good parking place. We had to enter through one of those little gates with
a uniformed gnome sitting inside issuing passes and taking money. Once
through, not fifteen feet from the little gnome's hut was what most people
would consider the perfect space ... as close as possible to the
entrance/exit, right by the occupied gnome booth and under a bright
streetlight for added security. My wife yelled,
"THERE!"
Now, it is instinct for me to do as I'm told in a parking lot. If I don't
get the space *she* thinks is best, there's grousing to live down. Without
even thinking, without even being aware of it in real time, I cut the wheel
and with a screech we were there. She was sitting smugly, proud of herself
for once again having found the best parking space in the whole lot. I
recovered from my instinctive behavior, and sat there looking dejected.
Her: "What's the matter?"
Me: "Oh, it's a great parking spot, all right. High-traffic area,
in easy view of the parking attendant, well lit, very secure."
Her: ".... yeah ...."
Me: "Well, I was planning on driving around a bit to find us a nice
secluded spot ... you know ... for later."
Her: "Oh ... I forgot ... "
Me: (That's why we guys have to think of everything!)
Her: "That's ok, we'll go somewhere else afterwards."
Me: (Plan B)
We sat for a moment or two, soaking up just a little more heat, then I leaned
over and gave her a "kiss for luck" and stepped out. I rounded to her side and
opened her door, whereupon I was blessed with another view of the Promised Land
as she unfolded from the car. She realized it this time, and on standing up
started to pull her hemline toward her ankles. I reminded her of what we had
practiced; that as long as she was standing up, she did not need to tug on
things in order to know that she was technically decent. Simply smoothing out
any wrinkles would assure that everything else fell into place. Moreover,
the act of running her hands over herself to smooth them out had a rather
sensuous look to it, as opposed to the rather awkward, self-conscious look
that tugging on her hemline telegraphed.
Her: "Just stay close to me."
Me: "Wild horses couldn't tear me away."
And then we headed for the lobby, arm in sensuous arm.
ENCHANTED, I'M SURE
It turned out to be a fairly long walk to get to the ballroom. On the way I
kept replaying the roster of all the faces and names I could remember, and
the various ways I had imagined our entrance would work out. It didn't happen
any of those ways because I had always imagined our entrance as being fairly
dramatic, letting THE DRESS have its full and immediate impact. But since
she wore a wrap and kept it on for some time, the impact of THE DRESS was
smoothed out over a considerable period, until we eventually claimed seats
for dinner. For example, I had imagined the partners to be standing in a
stuffy huddle when we walked up, and I looked forward to seeing the steam
rising from their collars as they looked her up and down not quite knowing
what to make of it, but no such melodramatic scenes occurred.
I was immediately reminded of how much camaraderie there is within the company.
On top of that, it seemed that the employees felt closer to my wife and the
other female partner than they did with the male partners, so we were constantly
being engaged by people of all strata. Moreover, there's a history in this
company of the social barriers tumbling to dust by the time the annual
Christmas party has run its course, so I expected things to get pretty loose
by the time the night was over.
[Reminds me of a humorous incident:
I remember the first of these parties that we attended some years ago. It was
my first chance to meet almost anyone at the company and so I was almost
completely unknown to everyone else. We had had to leave rather early (for
what reason I don't recall) and my wife waited for me while I visited the john.
As I was returning to fetch her, one of the male junior employees came up to
my wife, slipped his arm around her and whispered a few sentences into her
ear. She answered with something, then he whispered again. Now apparently
he had just asked her something about *me*. About that time I had arrived
to stand right next to the guy, on the side away from my wife. She looked
at me and lifted one hand in a genteel gesture of introduction. The poor
fellow had the ba-JEEZ-us scared out of him like he had seen the ghost of
Satan himself! (I'm a big guy, I do that to people.) He *yanked* his arm
away from her shoulder, jumped back a foot or two, and stammered, "H-H-Hello
Sir!" I took pity on the guy, extended my hand and introduced myself.
He quickly walked away, and we left sharing a good chuckle.]
After a bit of shmoozing, I made a bar run; I figured that my wife would
be a little more at ease after a glass of wine. On top of that, I was a
little afraid that she would feel the need to hold something for security,
and if it wasn't the wine, she might hold that damn wrap all night and we
couldn't have that! So I traded her the wrap for a glass. Not being quite
ready to let it go, she watched longingly after it as I used it to save a
couple of seats for dinner.
THE DRESS was now on unobstructed display for the first time since we came
in the door. It was not long before the attention started to pile up. As
we stood near the bar, for example, we chanced upon one of a handful of
openly lesbian women in the company, together with her girlfriend. She
caught sight of my wife and did a little double-take, obviously not connecting
my wife with THE DRESS at first glance. She turned to us and called my wife
by name, taking her free hand (the one without the wine) and holding it away
from her body taking a good look at THE DRESS.
"What a *sexy* dress!" (the lesbians and gays always seem to get right to the
point) "What closet did *you* come out of?"
The obvious joke was on the mark. My wife has always been curious about the
lesbian experience, and has always felt a connection with these women that I
think that they sense at some level.
We continued milling, enjoying the appreciative comments of men and women
alike. A couple of the partners and their spouses made a point of greeting
us *again*.
(There's a lesson in here somewhere ... my wife, at first a little embarrassed
by all the attention being paid her, quickly answered the incoming complements
by saying that *I* had bought everything for her, thinking of this, of course,
as an *excuse* for her uncommonly daring appearance. She and I both were a
little unprepared for the even higher and more envious praise we both received
in response, wives envious because their husbands would never exercise such
thoughtfulness for them, husbands shuffling a little because they knew that to
be true. I got a little kick out of a couple of the husbands whose wives had
commented this way. Two of them in particular at different times spoke to me
in low tones, "*You* bought her that?" Yes, I said, watching their faces as
they stole glances back at her, their demeanor betraying envy of several
different stripes, then, self-consciously and with just a hint of personal
shame muttering, "I just can't shop for my wife." Another gulp of a highball
and then on to more mingling. The guys envied me, the ladies envied her.
I'm sure from some of their looks that some of the lesbians envied *me*, but
I'm not sure whether any of the gays envied *her* ... social interactions are
so complicated these days.)
Then, of course, the one *flaming* gay fellow in the company (as opposed to
the handful of less stereotypical gays) came up to her, and lifting both of her
arms upward and outward in front of her looked her up and down enviously,
telling her that her dress was simply to *die* for. And yes, he sounded just
like you might guess. (It's a very progressive company!) But no, he was not
in drag ... enough jewelry and glitter to decorate a Christmas tree, including
blinking lights in his ears, but not in drag. I'm not being a homophobe
here ... I even danced with him briefly as he made one of his tours of the
dance floor dancing with all the guys! This guy is just a real piece of work.
We were getting hungry, and found ourselves hanging out with a couple of the
partners and their wives near the seats we had chosen for dinner. One of
these couples was the one with the most party-doll-like trophy wife of them
all. Bouffant blond with enormous cleavage barely contained in her dress,
drippy jewelry, teetering heels, and one of the most annoyingly snobbish
nasal voices I've heard outside of a situation comedy. She looked a little
green around the eyes to me, and the way she interacted with my wife,
placing herself between my wife and her own husband, suggested to me that the
cat in her was flexing its claws.
END OF PART 1 OF 3
NoMan
From zitterow@pacbell.net Sat Apr 05 17:43:00 1997
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From: zitterow@pacbell.net
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THEMENITE-EXHIBITIONISM "DressUnveiled2" www.nastystories.com
Date: Sat, 05 Apr 1997 21:43:00 GMT
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~Subject: THE DRESS UNVEILED, Part 2 of 3
~From: an150822@anon.penet.fi (NoMan)
~Date: Tue, 20 Dec 1994 20:34:21 UTC
~Newsgroups: alt.sex.exhibitionism
THE UNVEILING OF THE DRESS (Part 2 of 3)
A LITTLE CHEESECAKE
Soon we were called to dinner. I sat beside my wife of course, and the
aforementioned trophy wife sat down on her other side, I think in self-defense,
to be sure that her husband didn't sit there. This was my wife's first
"sit-down" of the evening, and she sat demurely, giving a gentle tug on her
hem that just kept THE DRESS from riding up without unnaturally distorting
things. Even so, she still sat mostly directly on the chair, showing a wedge
of the black panty of her pantyhose growing from nothing above her thighs to
about 3/4" below her thighs where she sat in contact with the chair. I got a
kick out of that, mostly because it would make the trophy wife on the other
side of her squirm, but also because it meant that she was sitting with her
pussy in contact with the chair; that's *my* idea of *short*. Continuing her
demure behavior, my wife took her napkin and placed it on her lap, where it
covered the triangular shaped tunnel that lead straight to ... well, you know
where.
As dinner wore on, the patch of black panty showing on each side grew slowly
as the natural movements associated with sitting a long time caused THE DRESS
to creep a little bit. I watched this progress slowly, as casually as I could.
I had anticipated that this would happen, but the creeping continued well
beyond the point at which I expected her to recollect herself and restore
THE DRESS to its intended position. What I concluded was that there were two
factors that made her unaware of what was happening. One was that she often
wears leggings, stretch pants and the like, and is used to the feeling of
sitting in them. I suspected that the pantyhose had a similar feel, so that
the slow creep of the dress just wasn't very noticeable. (That couldn't happen
if she were to wear THE DRESS naked underneath.) The other was that demure
napkin. Because her lap was covered, she didn't notice that her hemline was
creeping up so. I must say it delighted *me* to observe that this creeping was
*also* observed by the trophy wife on her other side. More than once I noticed
her glancing down and getting this uncomfortable look on her face tinged with
envy and disbelief. Well, I found it hard to believe, too. The creeping
just continued higher and higher until ... I kid you not ... there was *none*
of THE DRESS left between her and the chair. Were it not for the pantyhose,
she would have been sitting with her bare butt on the chair. This extreme
condition didn't last long. She soon realized that she had come rather
undone and moved to put herself back together. In doing so, she laid the
napkin aside, which then showed her hemline to be not down on her thighs
where she had left it, but to have gathered in the crease of her pelvis,
leaving the totality of her crotch on display. She looked a little
flustered on realizing this, but one quick tug and she was back together.
I *know* the trophy wife saw the whole enchilada ... her eyes got real big.
I'm not sure who else observed this tantalizing display. I don't think
anyone else at our table saw it, but our chairs were situated so some people
at few other tables might have seen a piece of this, as well as the service
traffic that went continuously to and from the kitchen right behind us.
LET'S BOOGIE
After a delicious dinner, dessert, and a little more wine, everything was
cleared away. The conversation and drinks had loosened things up a bit, so
that the initial impact of THE DRESS had worn off. The music started and
people began to dance. We decided to wait a bit in order to let the dance
floor fill up, and let people loosen up a bit more before we ventured out.
But, it wasn't long before "Gimme that old time rock and roll" came on, and
I had to drag my wife out to the floor, ready or not. We made our way to
the dance floor hand in hand, her smoothing THE DRESS over her hips and
butt as we walked.
Just about everyone was on the floor for this one, which worked well for us
since my wife felt less exposed in the middle of the crowd. Even so, she
made sure that we didn't stop until we got to the most hidden point of the
dance floor. For the first couple of songs that we danced, one or the other
of her hands tugged on her hemline about every eighth beat. I tried to assure
her that she didn't need to do that, and she eased up as she got into the
mood, but she was still nervous being out there on display in the shortest
dress of the whole party. It was true that THE DRESS had a tendency to creep
a bit as she danced, but that was due mostly to the pantyhose; were she butt
naked underneath THE DRESS would behave itself a little better because it
would slide better on her hips. It was actually fun in a piggish sort of way.
We'd really get into this or that song, gyrating away, and for awhile she'd
forget about tugging and all that gyrating would cause THE DRESS to creep
higher and higher until just a bit of that little panty would come into view
just about the time that she'd get self-conscious again and pull THE DRESS
back down. I imagine that for anyone watching her it was probably a pretty
good tease: creeping up, up, up, almost there, a little more, a little more,
*yes!*, awwwwwwwww. The best of this, of course, I didn't get to see since
it is our habit to dance pretty close to each other, and mostly face to face;
the best views were from behind her and some distance away where one could
get a good angle on it.
Soon the music slowed down and we got a chance to get touchy-feely. We had
practiced this in front of a mirror, so we knew exactly what would happen.
She placed her forearms loosely on my shoulders, lightly folding her fingers
together behind my neck, keeping her elbows at a level just below my
collarbone. This was sort of a modest half-stretch that we both knew would
raise her hemline just about exactly even with the bottom of her black panty,
allowing just a peek to those far enough away to enjoy the right angle, but
otherwise keep her decent. If I chose to, I could manipulate this a bit by
drawing her extra close to me, or unobtrusively pressing THE DRESS into the
small of her back as I held her, both of which caused THE DRESS to slide up
just a wee bit more, assuring that somebody, somewhere, would catch a peek.
I chose to.
Being a good boy, though, whenever I let her come a little undone that way,
I would soon shift position a little and smooth her out again. This must have
looked pretty interesting as well, since it meant sliding my hands down her
back and across her butt in a rather intimate way. There was a bit of tension
in her arms at first, as we both knew exactly what we were doing, but by the
time the song had ended she had loosened up and was smiling with just a hint
of that dreaminess I love to see.
HELLO!
Somewhere along in here I had to answer nature's call. It turned out that
this place was not very well equipped in the outhouse department, the only
lavs for the ballroom floor being halfway back to the lobby. I got to the
men's room, and, being a man, I walked right in. Once inside though, I had
to break my stride for a second, because there at the wash basins were two
men and one *woman*. And a beautiful one at that. The men were washing
hands, straightening ties, etc., she was freshening her makeup. I laid odds
that she was in the wrong restroom, and by this laid odds that the ladies'
was full. Not too surprising under the circumstances. She looked at me in
the mirror, I acknowledged her with a polite "Hello", and went about my
business. Well. My business consisted of taking a leak, so I assumed the
position and rolled out the old firehose at one of the urinals and began to
sigh. As much as I needed to go, the thought of this strange, but beautiful
woman standing at the mirror a few feet away complicated matters a bit by
rendering me, shall we say, a little less than flaccid. About this time,
she hollered back to someone else in the stalls, and another feminine voice
answered. Now imagine yourself in that position. You're in mid-stream,
swelling cock in hand, and suddenly you realize that a few feet away from you
an unknown woman is about to appear in a prime position to get an eyeful of
just how the other half does it. To make matters worse, the feminine voice
a few feet away is talking about having on one of those snap-crotch
bodysuits, and the fact that she is having trouble getting the snaps to
close. That image sent another wave of stimulation crashing into my nether
regions, choking off the already struggling flow from my bladder. Soon
there was a flush, and out stepped a leggy blonde, still not quite put
together, adjusting what I would say had to be the #3 dress of the evening
(THE DRESS being #1). She stood there for a few moments, just a few feet
to my left, fumbling with the dress closure around her neck. Now, ladies,
you may not be aware of male restroom etiquette, but part of that etiquette
is that you don't look at the cocks of the guys standing at the urinals, and
when you talk, you either talk to the wall or the mirror, or something like
that. Of course, this lady was not very practiced in this branch of
etiquette, and as she stood there fumbling with her dress I could see in
the reflection of the polished marble tile on the wall that she was taking
in a relaxed view of my not very relaxed cock. She finally succeeded in
getting her dress closed, smoothed herself, and started to walk by, still
looking at my poor cock that by now was showing unmistakable interest in
something *other* than taking a leak. She looked up just in time to say
"Hi," as she passed me. I said "Hi." There was a bit of girlish giggling
at the washbasins, and then they were gone. My poor bladder was still
struggling to empty, the flow having been so abruptly interrupted. I
decided to just stand there for awhile and let ... ah ... things ...
yeah ... things ... settle down a bit. On the way back to the ballroom
I saw these ladies in the hall, and acknowledged them with a polite
"Hello, again." They giggled again. And that was that.
JITTERBUG
The DJ tried to cater to everyone, and eventually a few big band tunes came
on. That cleared the floor pretty quick, but if you like ballroom dancing,
that's exactly what you want. My wife and I were fond of ballroom dance in
college, especially swing dancing which is what a lot of big band music is.
(I know I'm boring some of you with this, but there's a point) Well, I find
it impossible *not* to dance when Glen Miller's "In the Mood" comes on, and
this was no exception. Moreover, it gave us the excuse we needed to break
away from an evangelical fundamentalist Christian trying to Save us.
My poor wife. She puts up with a lot from me. During "In the Mood" she gets
whirled and twirled and twisted and rocked and bopped and who knows what with
nary a moment to regain her equilibrium until the thing is over. Well, that
also meant that she was rather indisposed to maintain control of her hemline,
and though we missed a couple of moves because her "catch" hand was tugging
instead of catching, she lost the battle. I gotta admit I didn't even think
about it while we were dancing because I was so into it ... I thought we
were being watched because we were such hot dancers. That may be, but about
the time the song was over I realized that it probably also had something to
do with the fact that we were dancing so vigorously that my wife found it
impossible to keep her hemline within the bounds of propriety. There were a
couple of combination twirl-and-clutch moves that were especially revealing.
There's one where the man and woman are hand-in-hand facing each other, then
pass each other raising their hands over their heads (hemline goes *way* up),
then extend and return to a closed position with the man's arm around her
waist (which tends to bring the hemline up still more). This is actually a
simple maneuver, but it is one of my favorites because it looks good and we
do it well. Consequently, I threw her into it a number of times during this
one song. As the song progressed we were having increasing difficulty with
it because she was not completing the move as she usually does (which is
funny because it is practically instinct for us). I slowly came to the
realization that this particular move left her hemline somewhere around
mid-butt, giving a big eyeful to all the spectators. It turns out that my
wife was trying to make me aware of this as we danced, and was valiantly
trying to regain control of her attire, but I was too much into the dancing
to realize what was going on until things were pretty much over and the ...
ahh ... cat was out of the bag ... so to speak. I suspect it is safe to say
that as a result of this one song, about a third to a half of the company
got a good view of about a third to a half of her pantied butt.
This proved the wisdom of the pantyhose. As great a fantasy as it makes, had
she gone completely without underwear she would have been flashing her bare
butt and pussy to the whole company, and we would have been in big doo-doo.
Well, it took us a while to recover from that one. Both for me to stop
perspiring and her to stop blushing. We got to that point in the evening
that we always do, of waiting through a few so-so songs, waiting for "a good
one" so we can get in that last dance before calling it a night. We were
about to give up and go when on comes The Village People with "YMCA".
You've probably already gathered that there are a fair number of openly gay
and lesbian employees in this company, and that's right. Under these
circumstances, we just had to dance. I'd say we had about a three-way split
between heteros, gays, and lesbians out on the dance floor. And I gotta say,
those of us out there for that song were by far the best partiers. A rousing
good time was had by all on that one.
A GRACEFUL EXIT
On that note, we collected ourselves and left. We unraveled the long walk
back to our car, saying assorted good-byes and Merry Christmases to those we
met along the way. We found our way back to car, still sitting safe and
secure under that bright street light, assorted people and the occasional
car going by on their way out. At least the uniformed gnome was gone from
the little hut. This was far too conspicuous a place to get carried away,
and the risk of any passersby being company people was pretty high. Still,
it's tough to just walk away from an event like this without a little
gratuitous foreplay. I opened the driver's door and dropped a couple of
items inside, then rounded to her side, the side away from the worst of the
traffic, and opened her door. There we held each other for awhile enjoying
some warm kisses that betrayed the heat growing within us both. I told her
that wherever we were going to go from here, and whatever we were going to
do, she wouldn't need the pantyhose anymore, so while we stood there
together, I was going to strip them off of her. She said ok.
I slipped my hands under her wrap, and gave her a nice roaming hug over THE
DRESS. Then I let my hands drop to her hemline and slid my hands under THE
DRESS, raising it ever so slowly as we kissed, continuing until THE DRESS
was in a wad up around her breasts. Then I slid my hands down again to the
top of her pantyhose, hooked them with my thumbs, and began to peel them off.
I worked them down to about the end of her wrap, so that it would not yet be
obvious to passersby what was going on, then I restored THE DRESS to its
proper position. Then taking one last nibble on her lips, I slid down her
body and finished peeling the hose off of each leg. Now, under her wrap, I
could enjoy the *full* expanse of her nakedness letting my hands slide from
her thighs to her shoulders, sliding THE DRESS aside and feeling only her
cool skin.
As our parting shot, I slipped her wrap off of her and put it in the car,
enjoying for just a few moments THE DRESS it its bare-assed glory, the way
in fantasy I wish she could have worn it tonight. We exchanged a few last
kisses, and then for just a moment, I slipped my hands under THE DRESS again,
raising it over her hips, exposing her nether cheeks to the nip of the
December air; one squeeze each and we were on our way.
END OF PART 2 OF 3
NoMan
From zitterow@pacbell.net Sat Apr 05 17:43:05 1997
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From: zitterow@pacbell.net
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THEMENITE-EXHIBITIONISM "DressUnveiled3" www.nastystories.com
Date: Sat, 05 Apr 1997 21:43:05 GMT
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~Subject: Re: THE DRESS UNVEILED, Part 3 of 3
~From: an150822@anon.penet.fi (NoMan)
~Date: Tue, 20 Dec 1994 20:34:35 UTC
~Newsgroups: alt.sex.exhibitionism
THE UNVEILING OF THE DRESS (Part 3 of 3)
PLAN B
Our parking in such an exposed place caused us to abbreviate our interlude
a bit short of, shall we say, fruition. As we drove home I set into motion
"Plan B". I took us toward the shore, to a place we had visited once or
twice in previous summers. It was a small beach set among the rocks. Not
really good for swimming or sunning; the surf was too rough, and there
wasn't much sand. But it was popular with the surfers. I reasoned that at
this time of night, and at this time of year, it would be deserted except
for the local traffic on the access road and the houses that overlooked the
beach. I figured that it should be pretty quiet too. Besides the natural
beauty of this little spot, and the prospect for a little solitude, there
was a little extra here that made this spot picturesque. Set into the
rocks, just above high tide, were four heavy wooden poles that supported a
lattice roof that, when in good repair, was overlaid with palm fronds to
make a sort of Tahitian gazebo. It was my idea that we would walk down to
this spot and let nature take its course.
When we arrived at the beach, things were pretty much as I had hoped. There
were less than two dozen parking spaces at this beach, and the couple of
cars there looked like they belonged to dwellers rather than visitors, so
I suspected that we were, in fact, alone. We secured the car, and walked
carefully down the sand and rocks to the gazebo, taking care that she did
not lose her footing due to the inappropriateness of her heels to this
terrain.
We had never actually visited the gazebo before. It provided *token*
shelter from the surrounding houses and the elements, but more in concept
than fact; the streetlights still fell on us, and though I faced the ocean
in what followed, I know that we were in the plain view of the nearby street
and houses. Our *real* cover was the night itself. Thus, the major appeal
of this little gazebo was the mood it added, like that of a well-chosen
picture frame; it added a little romantic flavor to an already beautiful
scene. The tide was high, with the waves breaking just a few feet from
where we stood. She liked it.
I leaned against one of the four posts and opened my arms, inviting her in.
She came and stood in front of me, gave me a little kiss, and then began
to unfasten my trousers. She had never messed with these before, and it
took her a little while to figure out how they were fastened, but soon she
had them open and coyly, slowly, lowered my zipper. Just as I am fond of
letting my hands roam, she didn't go straight for the prize, but pushed
her hands inside my waistband, stoking my hips and working her hands up
under my shirt. Her next motion was intended to drag my usual
Fruit-of-the-Looms down off my hips, but as she got to the waistband of
my thong underwear she stopped short, smiling and asking, "What's this?"
She lifted my shirttail and inspected me approvingly, but paused only a
moment before continuing on and dragging these too down to my mid-thigh.
Having liberated me from the ties that bind, she cupped my cock and balls
in both her hands and stepped into me, pressing her pussy against them. By
this time I was eager to return the favor, and reaching under her wrap I
slid my hands under THE DRESS once more, this time raising it as high as
it would go, baring her all from her breasts down to those tiny heels. She
pressed into me harder now, both out of a visceral urgency and a need to
shield us both from the cold. I roamed over her body like it was the very
first time, taking in every curve and deeply massaging every sensuous
tumescence from her breasts to her supple sides to her hips to the meaty
globes of her exquisite ass. Meanwhile, she stroked me to maximum rigidity,
and guided me into her very core. We merged. She lifted one leg over one
of my arms, and I took her cheeks in my hands, letting her relax her full
weight onto her pussy for maximum stimulation. We slow danced. Me slowly
driving into her, lifting her off the ground by her pussy at the crest of
my stroke, her relaxing into me at the trough, over and over and over in an
agonizingly wonderful bump and grind.
She was biting her lips, now lifting, now sinking, her head lolling this way
and that as she dissolved into me. She opened her eyes for a moment and I
whispered to her one word:
"Now."
"Now" is a simple word with a deep meaning. For us, in our intimate
familiarity, our knowledge of each other's ways and wants, "now" had a
special meaning. "Now" was the time to culminate all the preparation, the
weeks of anticipation, the hours of titillation. "Now" was the nexus of
this drama that we had staged and were playing out there between the land
and the sea. "Now." She knew. "Now" was the time.
She let go of me and leaned back a bit looking me knowingly in the eye,
watching for the expressions that she knows well, but that remain a mystery
to me. Still meeting each agonizing thrust, she rocked back and forth on
me like a ship rolling on the waves. She lifted her hands to her shoulders,
and began slowly pushing her wrap aside until gravity took over and it fell
to the ground. Then she grasped THE DRESS, already bundled into a ring
between her breasts and shoulders, and giving me a little look that said
"Here we go ..." lifted it over her head and let it, too, fall to the ground.
It was an electric moment as she stood there looking like Botticelli's Venus,
in total nudity, total sexuality, impaling herself on and being impaled by my
cock, waves crashing into the rocks as waves of passion overtook us. The
sensations of being stripped totally bare and "taken" in this wonderfully
open place quickly became too much for her, and despite the cold that had
hardened her nipples into rocks she lost touch with anything but the fire
that welled up within her. She took me again by the neck and threw her
other leg over my other arm, literally mounting me, her only connection to
this world being my grip on her thighs and and the repeated pounding of her
loins against mine. She bucked up and down on me as if in one moment
struggling to escape and in the next moment collapsing into submission.
Over and over in exquisite agony. Unrelenting, unforgiving, unconceding.
Her loss of control infected me, and I soon felt a warmth that grew in
intensity with every heave and thrust like a bellows blowing blast after
blast of life-giving air, warming the dull ember to a brilliant red and then
suddenly into open flame. The warmth within me suddenly turned to fire and
I pumped blast after blast of liquid heat deep into her, driving her from
passion's trance into spasms of resolution, tensing her every muscle, sending
her clawing the air, gasping guttural animal-like cries over the pounding of
the surf.
And then collapse.
Like the victim of a seizure, she lay atop me; legs over my arms, arms over
my shoulders, head down, quaking, shaking, without the strength or control
for voluntary movement. I took us down slowly, continuing a slow and gentle
rhythmic penetration that eased us back into the world, the world of thoughts
and consciousness.
Another day, we would have stayed in that moment for the duration our passions,
savoring their going as we savored their coming, but the cold proved too much
for us and we soon had to make our way to real shelter and real warmth.
HOMEWARD BOUND
I eased her down to the ground and she slowly shifted her weight off of her
pussy and onto her feet, disengaging from me. She took a deep breath, and
with one body-wracking shiver was suddenly possessed by the chilling cold
that in our passion we had managed to ignore. Another shiver shook her
frame as she looked about for THE DRESS and her wrap. Since her first
priority was to warm up, and THE DRESS would not help much in this regard,
she just picked up THE DRESS without putting it on. Instead, she just put
her wrap about her and urged me to get her to the warmth of the car a.s.a.p.
As we made our way back to the car, I noted that her wrap didn't really cover
her adequately and that she should put THE DRESS back on for decorum's sake.
She cared little for decorum at this point though, being more concerned about
getting warmed up again. As we were making our way over the rocks back to
the parking area, two surfer-looking guys arrived in a beachy-looking car and
parked next to the "trail head", such as it was, where we would have to pass.
They were cracking out a couple of beers, tailgating on the little seawall
using their parking lights for illumination. We had to walk right by them
to get to the car, and I found myself ill-advisedly muttering, "See?" She
was too cold to care by this time though and just grabbed my hand harder
saying, "Let's just GO!" So we continued walking gingerly up the rocks, me
in my tuxedo, her in her heels and wrap. To make matters more awkward, she
had one hand in mine for support and the other, holding THE DRESS, was
stretched out to her other side for balance, leaving her wrap wide open,
giving our two spectators a full-frontal view of her natural beauty. There
was no way to be inconspicuous in passing these two, so we just walked by as
casually as we could, exchanging hi's and good evening's. Once on the solid,
flat ground of the parking lot, she let go of me and clutched her wrap shut,
folding her arms over her chest and strode determinedly toward our car looking
just a little bit steamed.
I must have given her one of those "I told you so" looks, because by the
time we got to the car and I started to unlock her door, she said, "OK I'LL
PUT IT ON ... YOU HAPPY NOW?" at which point she took off her wrap and laid
it over the open door, standing naked on the public street for a few moments
as she fumbled with THE DRESS and shimmied back into it. She put her wrap
back on and said sharply "NOW LET'S GET THIS HEATER BACK ON!"
Fortunately, the whole interlude at the beach had not taken long enough for
the engine to cool down much, so very soon the car was toasty again and the
icicles were falling away from my wife's words. She apologized.
Her: "I'm sorry ... I just got *too*cold*!"
Me: "Yeah, it was pretty chilly ... but it was fun."
Her: "Yeah ... nice to be here now, though."
Me: "We'll have to come back sometime."
Her: "In the summer."
A TOUGH ACT TO SWALLOW
About an hour had transpired by the time we completed the drive home
and prepared to crash for the night. I was still riding high from the whole
night's experience, and rather than get into my nightclothes right away I
just placed them by my pillow and remained naked as I readied myself for
bed. I remained naked as well as I slipped into bed, not particularly
conscious of lookin' for more lovin' but as we warmed each other under the
covers we both realized that I wasn't ready to sleep.
Tired as she was by this time, she was wonderful about it. She took my cock
and balls in her hands, much as she had there on the beach, and giving me
the sweetest slow soft caresses with her slender fingers brought me to full
size. She gave me a little peck on the lips and then slid down the bed,
pausing here and there to plant a little kiss on my chest and another on my
stomach. She snuggled in close, lying on her side, and after a few
introductory kisses and licks, took my cock into her mouth.
I *love* oral sex. I love giving it, I love receiving it. I love being
free to nuzzle all the delightful textures of her sex, to smell her smells,
to taste her tastes. I love being able watch and feel her body jerk and
writhe as I lift her slowly and delicately through all the levels of heaven
until she pinnacles and goes crashing over the edge. But this time I was
enjoying the opposite pleasure, of being able to give all my attention to
my own sensations as all of her attention was focussed on me.
Oral sex is not easy for her. It is a technical but essential point that
I am larger than the average bear. It is an ongoing difficulty for both of
us that she is able to get only a little less than half of my cock in her
mouth before I am probing the back of her throat and the dreaded gag reflex
takes over. Consequently, for oral sex to be comfortable for her, my
penetration of her mouth must remain relatively shallow. Sometimes, as my
own spasms wrack my frame, this line gets crossed accidentally sending her
gagging and wretching. That's no fun for either of us, so we are careful
to avoid it.
She often simulates a deeper penetration by sliding her hands along my cock
in sync with her sucking, and this is what she was doing tonight. We were
both feeling pretty easy, relaxing in the glow of a truly remarkable night
together, with the aura of our beach front lovemaking still about us. It
was almost as if we picked up where we left off when the cold overtook us.
I had been easing us back from our climax by continuing my penetrations in
a very slow and gentle mode, rhythmically caressing her from within just as
I might stroke her cheek from without; it was that kind of motion that we
settled into; she lay still with her hands about the basal half of my cock
as I slowly executed shallow penetrations of her mouth. We often do this
rather vigorously, in what some might crudely call a face-fuck. She seemed
to be expecting this and was gripping me somewhat tightly with both her
hands and her mouth as she usually does on those occasions. I was in a much
softer mood though, and asked her to ease off and relax. She did, and over
a couple of minutes became sufficiently relaxed that she shifted position
and lay her hands around behind me, caressing the cleft of my ass, letting
her mouth do all the work. Her mouth relaxed, too, and I noticed a subtle
and unfamiliar change. It's funny how two people can know each other so
well that such a subtlety can be detected, but it was there. I know her
mouth. I know her style. I know her way of forming a pocket to receive
me, and know its shape and its depth. It was different. As I continued
my slow and steady probing, the nature of this change took shape in my mind,
and I realized that she was relaxing the blind end of that pocket, inviting
me to penetrate her more deeply. I did so cautiously, only the smallest
fraction of a millimeter with each stroke until I filled out this
new, elongated pocket, really only a fraction of an inch longer than the
old one. But my cock knew the difference. It knows where her teeth come
to rest on each stroke, and it knew that this was new territory.
But the changes continued. Again, I detected the boundary of this pocket
receding subtlely, and it seemed to recede a bit more this time than before.
Once I was sure, I again let my stroke elongate to meet it, and my
consciousness was overtaken by an altogether new sensation that it took me
some time to shape in my mind. As the image came together in my mind's eye, I
dared not believe it, but as I continued my agonizingly slow penetrations
I knew it to be real; she had relaxed her mouth enough that my glans
had slipped past the base of her tongue and had entered her throat.
The realization went through me like a lightning bolt, but I managed to
maintain control over my penetrations to avoid any untoward movement that
might disturb the unfolding miracle.
But the changes continued. She showed no signs of discomfort, and though
I no longer could discern the existence of the familiar pocket, I took it
from the casual lay of her hands across my body without the slightest
tension that she was inviting me to continue forward. This I did, ever so
slowly. Agonizingly slowly, maintaining the same speed, just slowly
lengthening each stroke. I was increasingly threatened with physical
incapacitation as the new sensations were quickly overwhelming my ability
to control my movements, but I maintained enough of it to stay the course
and continue the long easy movements, nearly withdrawing from her mouth,
then sliding in again, deeper and deeper, past the base of her tongue,
into her throat, heading for her toes. The crescendo of deeper and deeper
penetrations continued to build until I felt her nose nestled in my pubic
hair and her lips against my body for the first time in this life.
I erupted. Like Vesuvius. Like Krakatoa. Like Mt. St. Helens. My hands
behind her head, her face pressed against my body, liquid heat blasted deep
into her throat. The sleeping gag reflex awoke in all the commotion, but
did nothing more than grip my cock all the harder and catapult me over a
peak I had never really hoped to scale. Sounds boiled out of me that I
had never heard before. Pitiful sounds of a man reduced to whimpering
helplessness and quivering collapse.
She pulled back for a moment to grab some air and then slid gently back onto
me ... one long, smooth, unimaginable stroke from earth to all the way to
heaven. When I felt her face press into me again any mote of self control
that may have remained within my grasp was wrested from me as my body again
reacted of its own accord, convulsing as tsunami surged outward from my
epicenter, laying waste to any conscious thought as I dissolved into pure
sensation.
She pulled back again, and as at the beach I had eased us back into the world
with slow, gentle strokes caressing her from within, she now eased me back
from my out-of-body experience, coaxing my soul back into my body with a
series of ever more shallow strokes, ending with her relaxation back into
our familiar shallow pocket, where she held me motionless for some minutes
as I slowly softened in her mouth.
She released me, pressing a parting kiss deep into my pubic hair, then joined
me face to face on my pillow. We kissed. I babbled incoherently. She
pressed a finger to my lips and we lay in silence, each in our own thoughts,
as slowly sleep overtook us.
EPILOGUE
The story of THE DRESS is laced with exhibitionistic titillation, which is,
of course, why it has been posted here. But I hope it is clear that it is
a love story as well. While THE DRESS added something extra to our evening,
had she worn another dress, more conservative, perhaps even completely
uninteresting, little that mattered about this night would have changed.
THE DRESS is but a piece of cloth. It is THE WOMAN INSIDE that I love, and
it is THE WOMAN INSIDE that made this night one of high points of my life.
Honey, I love you.
END OF PART 3 OF 3
NoMan
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