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I’D had my eye on Eddie ever since we’d first met — almost as intensely as he had his eyes on me, especially my legs, at every opportunity. The first time we met, at a meeting of a group to which we belong, my reaction to Eddie was almost identical to the reaction I’d had when I’d first encountered Tim many years before: the thought that, “NO man has the right to look at another man’s wife like that!”
I loved it, just as I had the first time Tim had looked at me that way.
I confess to shamelessly playing up to Eddie every time we met thereafter, making sure he had a good (if seemingly accidental) leg show whenever possible and, in conversation, standing close to him, touching his chest and arms frequently, and skillfully loading our conversations with just enough double entendre’ to keep him guessing as to exactly how much I meant in which way. Since our group is also big on hugging as a socially-acceptable greeting, I always made sure to hug him with more than just my arms, if you follow that.
Besides, being hugged by Eddie is quite an experience, since he’s about a foot taller than I am, lanky, good-looking in an unconventional, Abraham Lincolnish sort of way, wry, quietly humorous . . and just a wee bit shy.
Tim and I, of course, discussed the mutual attraction between Eddie and I, just as we freely discussed his attraction to other women and I mentioned other men.
As anxious as I’d been to share my body with not just Tim but, simultaneously, with other men as well, though, there is a very definite line to cross the first time you put the urge into practice. You might find this hard to believe but, at the time Tim and I took up housekeeping together, he was one of only THREE men I’d actually had sex with in my entire life — one of them my ex-husband — notwithstanding the fact that I had my first rememberable sex fantasy (and, not too long thereafter, my first bout of masturbation) before I entered grade school, and one of my favorite fantasies for years has been of laying on a floor, naked, playing with myself with dildo, vibrator and fingers . . . while a group of equally naked men stand around me in a circle, watching me and jerking themselves off all over my quivering body.
It was Tim who decided it was time to take me across the line from fantasy to reality. He orchestrated exactly how it was done — and Eddie was his instrument.
Unusual for a Saturday night, we had nothing in particular planned — at least, I THOUGHT we didn’t until Tim , over dinner, casually said, “Oh, by the way, darling, I’ve invited a friend over for drinks in a little while. I wonder if you’d be agreeable to wearing . …” and he specified what he wanted me to put on. Interesting. I told him I’d be delighted to .. and who’s his friend?
At that question, Tim got about half . . flustered/embarrassed/vague and went silent for a few moments before he looked up at me and said, “Uh . . sweetheart, unless you have some serious objections, I think I’d like to invoke our ‘Do what you’re asked without questions’ agreement for the evening. I’d like what happens to be a surprise; it certainly will be for my friend . . and I’d like it to be that for you, too.” He paused. “Look, Jill, that agreement of ours can be one helluva lot of fun for both you and I, but I don’t think either of us is going to be comfortable THINKING about it until we actually DO it the first time. I think each of us needs to put the other through a totally unexpected event that involves someone other than just the two of us and get total cooperation before our minds will REALLY turn themselves loose.
“In other words,” he said very seriously, taking my hand in his, “I’d like you to follow my lead blindly this evening . . so we can find out how we feel about it in the morning. Will you do that for me? For us?” His need was obvious, his discomfort plain. The implications, the possibilities — good AND bad — riffled rapidly through my mind, but I don’t think he noticed the mini-second pause before I squeezed his hand and said, “I love you . . I trust you. Corny as it sounds, I’m yours to command,” and gave him a smile.
“Thank you,” was his simple reply. He glanced at his watch. “Go get your cute ass ready then, and I’ll do the dishes; he’s due in just half-an-hour.”
Naturally, as soon as we both stood up, we kissed . . . long and deep (is there any other way?).
* * *
Finding Eddie at the door was, at one-and-the-same-time, both a pleasant AND an unsettling surprise. Pleasant because, as I’ve indicated, I like Eddie; unsettling because, with Tim knowing of my feelings toward Eddie, I immediately realized that my husband’s imagination would be less inhibited than if whoever I’d greeted at the door had been a total stranger. Yet, there were also streaks of both excitement (I’d craved Eddie — now I was pretty certain I’d have him before the night was out) and fatalism: I’d promised to do ANYTHING Tim asked, so I had no control over what was to happen . . . which, casino siteleri rather than being frightening, I found peculiarly comforting: it was out of my hands, so I could just relax and go with the flow, with no responsibility for anything that happened (isn’t rationalization fun?).
So, the first flow I went with was the urge to hug, a big one, amply returned by our tall friend . . . although he wasn’t quite as tall as usual, since one of the items Tim had specified I put on was a pair of shoes I had not, at that time, had an opportunity to wear in public, mostly because I was afraid of breaking my neck if I didn’t get used to them around the house first. Black patent ankle-strap sandals, they have a two-inch platform under the sole . . and 7-inch stiletto heels! What they do for legs and the way I walk is totally obscene and, since this particular encounter, I HAVE worn them out in public, with spectacular results!
Eddie really didn’t get a chance to see them at first, though, and his vague puzzlement over the difference in my height went unrequited as, arms around each other’s waists, we walked into the livingroom, in the middle of which we stopped as he looked around him. “I like your decor,” was about all he managed to find to say. The “decor” to which he referred was Tim ‘s photography: two walls of me, one of landscapes, one of other girls. The shots of me and the other girls are about evenly divided between portraits and what used to be known as “cheesecake”: lots of legs showing in slit and short skirts, dresses, tunics, leotards; some cleavage, too. No tits, cunts or asses showing, but precious little of anything else hidden. It’s a display intended to be very suggestive, and Eddie was in hog heaven, especially over the more leg-revealing shots of me, all of which had me in heels and hose, for which his fetish is as strong as ours (yes, “ours” — I love the look and the feel of them, too).
About that time, Tim came in from the bedroom, gave Eddie a big greeting and deftly directed us so that our guest ended up on the couch and I ended up sitting in an easy chair directly across from him — to BOTH our delights.
I must explain: Tim hadn’t had me put on much but, as is always the case when he specifies my garb, it’s with carefully malice aforethought. I was wearing a copper satin demi-bra — push-up pads but no covering from below the nipple on up — and a brown pair of very special stockings: picture a pair of pantyhose with the entire front, back and hips cut out of them and you’ve got it. With those was a pair of very minimal and quite transparent bikini panties. Over all this was a sleek, slick, shiny and totally concealing robe that flowed over my body, all the way down to the bottoms of my feet which, of course, were set in their fetishistic heels. Other than that, and my always-present ankle bracelet, I was naked . . . although, compared to what I normally wear around the house, I was overdressed.
Eddie and mine s mutual delight stemmed from the fact that Tim loves “staging scenes,” so the sequence was this: Eddie gets a hug, Eddie sees my photos — and me dressed very demurely in real life. Eddie sits down on the couch, I sit down across from him, cross my legs .. . and the bottom of the robe falls open almost all the way to the tops of my thighs, giving him a sudden, unexpected look at not just my kinky heels, but the full length of my legs . . which I smilingly made absolutely no attempt to conceal.
My cunt got instantly wet at the way he looked at them. At the same time, he tried NOT to look .. so hard, in fact, that I surprised both of us by saying, “It’s alright to look at my legs, Eddie; I wore this robe so you could.”
His comment: “Oh.”
Tim came back from the kitchen with glasses of ice and a bottle of white wine at the tail end of this, so he amplified on my statement by telling our friend, “Jill’s like most women: she loves to be admired. She’s different from most women in that she’s more honest about admitting it.”
As Tim handed me a BIG glass of wine (oh, boy!, I have NO tolerance for alcohol; I knew that, by the time I got halfway through that glass, I was going to be well-stoned!), I again surprised myself by calmly adding, “And there are a lot of men who enjoy showing their wives off — but Tim is more honest than most, because he freely admits he enjoys guys getting turned on by me and not only does he encourage me to do it, he gives me a lot of suggestions as to HOW to do it.”
“I see” … said Eddie, obviously not quite seeing it at all.
“For instance, we’ve both noticed how much you enjoy looking at my legs, so it was Tim who specified my ensemble this evening, so you could get a REAL eyeful . . right, Darling?”
Tim , who’d taken a seat by Eddie, on the couch, said, “100% right.” He took a sip of wine — as did I — before continuing, “Actually, Eddie, we both like you, very much — and one of the things we like about you is the way you admire Jill. We also like your gentleness and your quiet good humor, canlı casino but we’re especially impressed with the fact that YOU are obviously impressed by her.”
Eddie was blushing! Good grief!
‘We’re also cognizant of the fact that, as much as you’ve probably been tempted to do so a time-or-two, you’ve never so much as hinted to her that she should ‘cheat’ on me by meeting you ‘on the sly.’ We felt such discretion in the face of such urges should be rewarded, hence the invitation to share our Saturday night with us.”
Eddie — poor, confused Eddie — looked very, very puzzled. I wasn’t puzzled but I WAS rather curious as to how Tim was going to maneuver up to what I suspected he was heading for.
My curiosity didn’t have long to wait. “Eddie,” Tim continued, “We would like to start putting together a group of ‘Water Brothers’ (CF: “Stranger In A Strange Land” by Robert A. Heinlein), people with whom we can share anything and everything, friends in the best and most complete sense of the word, people with whom we can be completely ourselves and whom we can trust to keep their mouths shut about it.
“We think you’re a candidate.”
We both looked at Eddie for his reaction. After a few silent seconds, he finally mumbled, “Well, I like to think of myself that way. I’ll certainly try.”
“We know you will, Eddie” — this from me — “that’s one of the reasons you re here tonight.”
Very sincerely, he said, “Thank you” . . . and then a sudden thought hit him: “You said ‘ONE of the reasons.’ There’s more than one?” “Um-hmm,” I said, surprising myself by adding, “The way you look at me turns me on, ferociously. YOU turn me on!” Oh, dear, the wine was getting to me!
Poor Eddie just kind of added a grin to his blush, simultaneously and understandably: after all, what CAN you say to a remark like that? Anyway, his blush at hearing it was no deeper than mine at the realization that I’d SAID it.
Tim continued on, “Our ‘Water Brother’ rules, as we have discussed them, will be very simple. This home is a sanctuary, one in which our special friends may suggest anything they’d like, say anything that occurs to them, do anything they want if they can find someone who wants to do it with them. If they want to walk in the front door and immediately peel off all their clothes, great; in fact, after tonight, you’re just as liable to find us naked as clothed when you come over . . . which we hope will be fairly often.
“Naturally,” Tim added, “it follows that what happens within these walls STAYS within these walls . . except with other Water Brothers. Dig?”
“Makes sense. Sounds nice, in fact,” said our lanky friend. “I’m flattered that you’d ask.”
Tim got up from the couch and started toward the bedroom as he said, “It’s a theory we’ve been developing for several years; we figured it was about time we saw if theory could be translated into practice.”
With my husband’s disappearance into our bedroom, Eddie and I found ourselves with nothing to say . . . nor anything to do besides stare at each other. With the wine pervading my system pushing me along, I decided to let Eddie stare at something worthwhile so, silently, I recrossed my legs, slowly, in the opposite direction, simultaneously leaning slightly to the side so he could see the expanse of hose-covered flesh better. He proved a silent but unmistakably appreciative audience.
I’d just completed this obviously deliberate move when Tim returned. I wasn’t terribly surprised to see him carrying a couple of loose-leaf binders in his hands … although a small, alcohol-submerged corner of my mind muttered, “Oh, dear!” again when I saw their color: brown, the white letter “J” emblazoned on their spines.
I’ll explain. We mount our photos inside plastic page protectors in notebooks; the color of the cover indicates the type of content, the letter indicating who’s inside. Black is general stuff, kept in the livingroom; green, also kept in the livingroom, is portraits and cheesecake. The brown notebooks pick up at the point where breasts or pubes start showing: nudes. These are kept in the bedroom, as are the red ones — what we call the “Down and Dirty Collection” — which pick up at the point where any sexual contact is made, even if it’s just my finger in my own cunt; regardless of what it is with whom or how, anything like that goes in the red books, right next to the bed where we can grab them and enjoy them anytime we’d like.
So, Tim was getting ready to show my body, via photos, to Eddie . . with absolutely NOTHING hidden from him; usually considerably enhanced by my sizeable collection of garterbelts, basques, corsets, open bras, hose and heels, the photos show me standing, sitting, kneeling, legs wide or up and spread open, my (usually dilated from excitement) cunt generally aimed right at the lens.
A very short, silent, eye-to-eye communication passed between us as Tim re-entered the room. He saw my recognition of the books, raising an eyebrow in inquiry; only a flicker kaçak casino of time passed before I gave just the tiniest of nods. (“May I?” “Go ahead”).
Tim laid the notebooks down next to Eddie, then perched in his own corner of the couch (the better to watch both of us) as he continued weaving his web of words:
“Since you’re also a fan of my photography, Eddie, we figured we’d give you our ‘2-in-l’ special. You get to see Jill at her best and also see what I’ve been up to with my camera over the past few months.” Tim ‘s hand pointed at the books. “Feel free to take your time looking; we’re in no hurry.”
Speak for yourself, darling. I was getting downright anxious . . and very, very wet between the legs!
Our friend picked up the top book and opened it as if he were afraid there were a letter-bomb concealed within — but open it he did, uncomfortab1y aware that both of us were watching him intently. It didn’t take him very many pages to forget our inspection: he was busy conducting one of his own. He submerged himself in those books so completely that, at one point, he unconsciously reached down and readjusted his swelling cock within his jeans, to my great delight. It caused Tim and I to look at each other, smile, and throw each other kisses before we went back to watching Eddie.
Our friend must’ve spent the better part of twenty minutes looking at the contents of the two books and seemed more-than-a-little dazed when he closed the second one.
“These are . . very good . . was all he managed to say besides, “Thank you for sharing them with me.”
I just smiled, blushed, and took another sip of my almost-gone wine while Tim acknowledged Eddie’s remark by saying, “We’re glad you enjoyed them.” It was Eddie’s turn to take a slug of wine.
Apparent impasse. What next?
I hesitate to say I was drunk, but I certainly had a good buzz going, which is what probably gave me the nerve to get up from the chair and announce, “I don’t know about you two, but I’m very, very warm and, since Eddie’s already seen me naked in pictures, I don’t see much point in wearing this robe any more. Any objections?”
Both of them were smiling, Tim in relief (I found out later he’d been trying to figure out the best way to get me to do exactly what I was getting ready to do) and Eddie in . . embarrassed anticipation: he just gestured palms-up with his hands while shrugging his shoulders in an “It’s alright with me” move.
Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I undid the buttons and slipped the robe open and off, tossing it onto my chair. Tim raised an eyebrow at me in acknowledgement of his discovery that, in my own contribution to the proceedings, I’d lightly rouged my otherwise-pale nipples and aureoles. The rubicent buds were quite stiff.
Eddie just stared as, in my kinky heels, I tip-toed around the coffeetable to stand between the two of them, facing toward our guest, who no longer found it possible to avoid looking at me. Looking down at him, I softly asked, “Do you like my ensemble, Eddie? Tim picked it out thinking you might find it attractive.”
Our lanky chum seemed to be having problems breathing, swallowing and speaking, but finally managed to say, “It’s VERY .. attractive . . and exciting!”
I was just full of little surprises tonight: surprising myself as well as my audience of two. I stepped directly in front of Eddie while turning my back to him, giving him an unmistakable view of my ass, posing there for a few seconds, then completing the turn so that I ended up facing both Eddie and Tim , right by Eddie’s knee. I was very much aware of how lewd I looked. “Actually, Eddie,” my husband contributed, “few people are aware of how often Jill is wearing outfits like that under her street clothes; it’s usually our own private joke.
“However, what you’re looking at right now does have one item in it she normally doesn’t wear at all.” Eddie looked up at my face, questioningly. The silence from my husband gave me my cue to assuage our (friend’s? victim’s?) curiosity.
“The panties, Eddie. Three-fourths of the time, I’m wearing no panties under my clothes; no pantyhose, either, unless I’m in shorts or jeans. Just think: most of the times you’ve seen me, my pussy’s been naked under my skirt or dress. From now on, when we meet in public, you’ll wonder whether I’m that way or not. Since I don’t want you to die of curiosity, if I look at you and do this” — I rubbed the side of my nose in a seemingly innocent way — “you’ll know that, no matter what else I’m wearing, there’s nothing covering my bush.”
Tim picked it up instantly. “Actually, Eddie, the only reason I had Jill wear any panties at all tonight, quite honestly, is because I thought the two of you might find it enjoyable for you to be the first man to ever take her panties off of her while I watched.”
Eddie’s head swiveled sharply around to face my husband, who later described the look he got as “delighted shock;” Tim just gave him a wide “that’s what you heard” smile that caused Eddie to turn around and look up at me. Still blushing slightly –although less, now that the die was cast — I did my best to sound calm as I said, “Please, Eddie . . . take my panties off of me. I don’t want to hide ANYTHING from you.”
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