My wife and I went to her niece's wedding reception a few months ago. My hands still tremble with erotic excitement when I recall what happened that night. Writing it down may prove to be too much. I almost don't want to share the tale because I think if I tell anyone else what happened, it somehow won't be true anymore.
When my wife gets tipsy, she flirts. When she gets drunk, she becomes a different woman entirely and loses all her ingrained Lutheran inhibitions. When she gets a little drunker than that, she falls asleep. Not "passed out" drunk, she's done that a couple times by drinking her way through the sleepy stage. But usually when she gets drunk, goes right past the uninhibited sweet spot and she's just not really able to function anymore because she gets too sleepy.
So the trick for me (which requires me to stay sober) has always been to help her maintain the "just right drunk," but that has only worked a few times. So mostly I help her stay tipsy and just imagine what it would be like if she ever followed through on all the flirting that she does. She enjoys it too, so I don't mind. And I've never needed alcohol to lose my inhibitions, since I wasn't born with any.
At her niece's wedding, the ceremony had been nice, though a little too long (Catholic weddings are like that, and my brother-in-law had married into a Catholic family, so that turned him Catholic too), and I had been fantasizing about all the sexy bridesmaids in and out of their not very sexy dresses, and what would happen if her niece's lovely strapless wedding dress fell down just a couple inches further and revealed the bride's pert little breasts (hey, she's a grown up, and she isn't my niece ... I'm allowed to dream).
I had also been fantasizing about what would happen at the reception. At the last wedding we attended my wife got tipsy and flirted outrageously with her sister's husband. After a few weeks, when she got back on speaking terms with her sister, I think they made an agreement not to cross that line again.
But tonight I had hopes. I always had hopes, but an open bar gave me even bigger, longer, harder hopes than usual.
My wife was wearing a long grey skirt that flared at the bottom, just below the knee. I had convinced her when we were shopping for this trip, the first one a long time that we took without at least part of our brood with us, was one of the few chances for her to wear stockings and a garter belt underneath. Her bikini panties, demi-cup bra and garter were all newly purchase, sexy, and see-through black lace.
She topped the outfit off with a long-sleeved sweater-style blouse, a thin, knit, delicately patterned fabric in black, silver and grey that paired perfectly with the skirt. It had a leafy pattern, woven into the soft, varied texture. Some of the silvery leaves in the pattern seemed semi-transparent, in the right light. I devoted a lot of my own attention to testing this transparency hypothesis.
With access to an unlimited supply of Scotch sours and a very attentive waiter (well, he paid a lot of attention to her, anyway), my wife hit the tipsy point pretty quickly. I did my best to ration her consumption at that point, going so far as to pour some of her drink into my diet Coke when she wasn't looking, or just encouraging the server to clear the half-finished drinks whenever she hit the dance floor with her sisters or brother. I really can't dance (it's rather painful to watch, in fact), and she didn't know any of the mostly college-aged folks that were friends of the bride and groom, so dancing with family was her only way to let loose, unfortunately.
By the time night had fallen and both the youngest and oldest family and guests had left the reception to let the more experienced and committed revelers celebrate the nuptials, she was fully into tipsy, and right on the edge of drunk. I had also noticed that there was a man sitting at a table next to ours who had fixated on my wife.
He was younger than us, maybe by ten or fifteen years, but at least that many years older than the bride and groom's college crowd. A strongly built man in an expensive suit, shaved bald. Simultaneously sophisticated and tough-looking, he might have fit equally well in the role of a Wall Street trader or as a mechanic in a motorcycle repair shop, but with everyone dressed in their party best it was impossible to tell.
What wasn't at all hidden, though, was that he had fallen deeply, hotly in lust with my woman, my wife of more than twenty years. His eyes followed her around the room. He was sitting at a table with friends, so he wasn't leering, and he was doing his best to stay engaged in his table's conversation, but I could tell.
I saw the hunter's gaze he focused on my wife ... because I knew from experience what it felt like to be absorbed in a woman you didn't really knw. If he was like me, it would have started with her pretty feet, sheer black stockings in strappy sandals, moving gracefully on the dance floor. He would have seen her out there and caught the fervor, then tracked her back to the table. He would have searched the fabric of her skirt to determine what, if anything, she wore beneath it.
If he was paying close attention he might have seen the subtle yet distinctive buttons of the garters that were holding her stockings up or the vertical line of the garter straps at her hips. He would have been fantasizing, as I would in his situation, that she was taking full advantage of the freedom that garters provided by leaving her panties at home.
He would have been wondering if she was shaved, and hoping that she wasn't. He would have imagined her trimmed pubes that matched the long golden-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and swirling around her as she moved sensuously on the dance floor.
If he was anything like me, and I'm sure he was because he so obviously shared my appreciation for my wife's special beauty, he would have been wondering if she wore a bra under her blouse. He would have strained his attention to catch the telltale sign of an erect nipple brushing against the soft fabric and confirming that my wife's perfect B-cups were unbound. He would have carefully followed the bounce and sway of her breasts as she danced, hoping to find clues.
My wife, for her part, seemed unaware of his rapt devotion.
When the bald man went to the men's room, I followed. I stood at the available urinal next to him and glanced over discreetly while he peed. My wife will tell you that she doesn't really care about the size and shape of a man's privates. She'll tell you that his eyes, his smile, his hands, and his sense of humor are all more important. This man may have had blue eyes, I don't remember. He may have smiled, I really don't recall. He had two hands, I'm sure of that, and they both seemed perfectly functional.
But my wife doesn't fantasize the way I do. She likes to be seduced, charmed, wooed. I'm different. I don't imagine her being entranced by his wit or impressed by his intelligence; I imagine her impaled by his powerful thrusts and swallowing his salty cum. So I need to see a guy's cock to fuel my own imagination about how he could use that thing between his legs to exploit my wife.
When I noticed the size and shape of the bald man's flaccid weapon, my mind start to spin with fantasies about her kneeling before him, sucking him, fucking him, and letting him violate her ass.
I waited until the men's room was empty except for the two of us. As we stood washing our hands I made my approach.
"I noticed you checking out my wife..." I said, without accusation.
"Oh, man ... I'm sorry. She's not wearing a ring ... I didn't know."
"Hey, no problem, she normally doesn't wear one. Doesn't like jewelry. Your appreciation of her is flattering, actually ... all those hot, younger women at the party and you are paying such close attention to mine."
"She's so gorgeous. You're a lucky guy. I'm glad you don't mind me admiring her. She's got something about her; I don't know ... I just can't stop watching, imagining."
"I know exactly what you mean, and I don't know what it is either ... but she has the same effect on me." I had to stop talking about her because I was getting obviously hard in my slacks. But I couldn't let it end there. "You know ... I can't keep her satisfied." I paused for effect, and then I continued as though the double-entendre was accidental. "She likes to dance ... a lot ... and I can't keep up with her ... no sense of the music. I'm sure she'd dance with you if you asked. She'd probably enjoy having a different partner for the evening."
His eyes widened slightly, and I thought I saw him twitch in his pants. "I'd love to ... thanks, man." I left the bathroom first, and he stayed behind, possibly to rearrange his increasing stiffness, but more likely to give a silent fist pump in salute to his good fortune.
He came back into the ballroom after I sat down next to my wife, and he proceeded directly to our table.
"Excuse me, miss," he tapped her on the shoulder. "I don't have a dance partner, and it doesn't seem as though you do either. Would you be mine?" She blushed, and started to reply, but then looked at me.
"Would it be okay?"
"I think it's a great idea ... maybe he can satisfy your dance floor needs ... I know I can't," I replied with a knowing grin.
She needed no more encouragement. In a moment they were out in the middle of the crowd, dancing to rock, and hip-hop, and a bunch of songs I didn't even know by genre. The music was all fast, so they mostly danced at arm's length, getting a feel for how to coordinate with each other's movements. I had a great time watching my wife have a great time with another man.
.... There is more of this story ...