A Friday night out of town made special according to my husband's wishes.
We have a reservation already confirmed at the Hilton Inn.
Arrived at 2:20 so I might shower and dress before going to the lounge..
We entered the lounge about 4 pm. My husband's friend was already seated at the bar.
Tonight, I am not allowed to wear a bra under my white blouse or panties under my short wrap-around skirt.
The neon cocktail sign above the bar flickered pink across my bare skin as the skirt flap opened with every step.
His friend held the high, bare stool steady so I could slide up onto it. Turning the seat towards the bar, my skirt opens
as my knees parted. My husband watched as I exposed my nakedness.
His friend blinked twice, then slowly set down his whiskey glass with a soft *clink*.
He stepped closer, positioning himself between my open knees.
His fingers hovered just above my knee, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
"You're serious," he murmured—not a question, but a statement weighed with something heavier than surprise.
"Yes," I replied. My hand is covering his.
His fingers twitched against my skin —but I didn’t push them away. Instead, I allowed his thumb to trace a slow,
deliberate line along the inside of my thigh, just beneath my skirt. His fingers walked higher on my sensitive skin.
I felt my husband shift beside me, his body pressing against mine in silent encouragement.
Our new friend's fingertips brushed the very edge of where my skirt still clung, teasing the boundary between exposure
and restraint. His fingers stilled for a heartbeat—long enough for me to catch the sharp intake of his breath before they
curled inward, dragging the fabric of my skirt up another inch. My husband’s hand settled on the small of my back,
pressing the thin fabric of my blouse till I leaned in closer to his friend. My left foot extended to the floor.
I felt my skirt hem fall away to my outer thigh, then being lifted higher. Fingers brushed against bare skin seeking my wetness.
My husband moved to my side, blocking any view others might have.
A slight hissing sound escaped from my lips as fingers finally—finally—found what they were seeking.
I realized just how ready I was, as his hand was circling slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing the shape of me.
My husband’s grip on my arm tightened, his breath hot against my ear.
He muttered in a soft voice, "Relax." Him approving sent a fresh pulse of heat between my thighs.
His words came out as a rough whisper against my neck, his lips brushing my skin as he spoke—
"We should take this to the room." His hand slid from my back to my hip, gripping hard enough to slide me forward.
I felt our friend's fingers twitch against me in response. The bar stool creaked as I shifted my weight, my thighs gripping
the edge just long enough to guide myself down, not onto the floor, but onto a waiting hand. The sudden contact drew a sharp
gasp from my lips, my legs instinctively tightening around his wrist as I settled into the cradle of his palm.
I nodded, swallowing hard, my pulse thrumming as his fingers curled, deliberately pressing the soft flesh to part.
We made a big mistake.
The guy we chose turned out to be completely wrong for us.
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