Dressed to Impress, page 9
Cuddling with Jack, after he’d come forcefully down her throat before licking her to a delicious climax, Miranda reflected on her discovery of the video. Dated and full of its own self-importance as it was, watching it had provoked them into pushing at the edges of their comfort zone for the first time in ages. Tomorrow it would be hidden away in the loft again, and their brief foray back into student recklessness would be forgotten. Or so she imagined.
They’d made plans for the coming weekend: a visit to the latest exhibition at Tate Britain, followed by dinner in a little tapas place on the South Bank. Jack had to abandon those plans at the last minute, after the BBC’s legal department contacted him regarding edits that were needed before his forthcoming documentary on food additives could be screened. He promised to make it up to Miranda, voice full of genuine apology, before heading off to the edit suite. It wasn’t the first time his work had got in the way of their social life, but she’d come to accept it as the price she paid for being the wife of a successful TV director.
When he returned that evening, he had a surprise for her. Champagne, and a beautifully wrapped box bearing the name of an exclusive West London lingerie boutique. Tearing the paper off, she discovered inside a black chemise, edged with lace, a matching pair of high-cut panties and a thin, frothy suspender belt. Nestling in the bottom of the box was a packet of seamed stockings.
‘Silk,’ she murmured, rubbing the material of the chemise between her fingers. ‘Oh, Jack, it’s beautiful.’
‘Put it on for me,’ he urged. ‘All of it. I’ll pour the champagne.’
Vintage fizz and expensive lingerie. Who couldn’t fail to appreciate such a romantic gesture? Miranda wondered. Yet she sensed it was leading to something, as she unhooked her bra in the en suite bathroom and pulled the chemise over her head. The garment was so short it skimmed her crotch, but she loved the way she looked in it, the lace trim partially concealing her breasts and the apex of her thighs, hinting at the promise of more. The panties were equally skimpy, leaving half her bottom cheeks bare as she pulled them up over her suspenders – always the suspenders first, for easy removal of her underwear over the cumbersome straps. As for the stockings, she discovered they too were genuine silk; a little heavier and thicker than anything she’d previously worn. With less give than the Lycra-rich tights she usually wore, they seemed to hug her legs provocatively, and it took her a good couple of minutes to get the seams straight. With their fully-fashioned heels and toes, again something she was unused to, they made her feel like some 1940s pin-up girl, about to pose for a raunchy calendar to give the troops a treat. An impulse she didn’t quite understand made her slip on a pair of black high heels as a final touch.
By the time she’d finished dressing, she was reminded of the outfit she’d worn in Jack’s film, but this was a much classier version. Aware she must be keeping him waiting, she couldn’t resist one last slow pirouette in front of the mirror, admiring the way the stockings and heels lengthened her legs, and how the panties clung to her pussy. Already her juices were seeping into the fine silk fabric.
Hot and needy, she ran her hands up her legs, feeling the contrast between the fine mesh of the stockings and her plump white flesh above. Turning and looking at herself over her shoulder, she gazed at the stocking seams, pointing their way impudently up to the thick welts, guiding the eye to the delights waiting above them.
Stepping back into the bedroom, Miranda was greeted by the sight of Jack holding two champagne flutes. As she approached he paused in the act of holding one out to her, clearly taking in the sight of her in the new lingerie. Until now, she’d never really understood what it meant when someone was described as tongue-tied, but Jack clearly seemed to have lost the power of speech. She took the glass from his nerveless grip and sipped from it, revelling in the feel of the bubbles fizzing against her tongue.
At last, Jack recovered his voice. ‘You look amazing.’ He shook his head slowly, as if still not quite believing in the vision before him. ‘Just perfect for what I have in mind.’
‘And that might be …?’
He didn’t need to answer. His guilty glance towards the bottom of the bed told her everything. While she’d been changing, he’d been busy setting up his tripod. His digital video camera lay on the bedsheets.
‘When we watched my old student film the other night, I saw so many things that were wrong with it. I thought I was the next François Truffaut, and what I was really making was a glorified pop video. But you – you were the one marvellous thing about it. Miranda, I just couldn’t take my eyes off you. It was like I was falling for you all over again.
‘Then I was walking past the boutique today, and that chemise was in the window. I had to get it for you. I knew you’d look fantastic in it. And the stockings – God, I never knew there could be something so magical about real silk stockings.’ He paused, finally getting to the point. ‘And I thought – maybe tonight we could make the film I wanted to make all those years ago. One that’ll never be seen by anyone but us.’
‘If you mean what I think you mean, I’m going to need some more of this champagne first,’ Miranda replied, but she didn’t say no. Perhaps Jack’s film had roused in him the same need as it had in her, to rediscover some of the passion that had somehow been lost to comfort and familiarity as the years had passed. Lounging back against the pillows, she let him refill her glass. For the first time she noticed he’d also been busy lighting candles that filled the room with the heady scent of jasmine.
They shared kisses between sips of champagne, desire building in a slow burn. Once Miranda’s glass was empty she set it aside, ready to begin.
‘OK,’ Jack said. ‘Lie on your front, and do your best to pretend the camera isn’t here.’
She remembered him instructing her to do something very similar, so many years ago in that shabby bedroom in his student house. It was difficult not to turn and look when he murmured, ‘Oh, yes … so beautiful …’, but she discovered if she glanced to her left she could catch sight of him in the dressing-table mirror. He was playing the camera lens up the length of her stocking-clad leg, lingering on the planes of her calf and thigh, before moving towards her silk-covered crotch.
‘Right, Miranda, I want you to get up on all fours.’ This was new, but she did as he asked. Last time, he’d been guided by his artistic vision and his need to impress his tutors. Now, she suspected, he was giving in to a more lustful impulse.
He was close behind her, and she could only imagine what was being captured by the camera as he swept it slowly across the half-covered terrain of her backside. Could it detect the growing damp spot in her panties? The wet fabric clung to her sex lips in an intimate caress, and for a moment Miranda wished Jack’s fingers were touching her there, pushing the silk up into the hot, slick cavern that was her pussy.
‘OK, sweetheart, reach behind yourself and ease your panties down very slowly.’
That was easier said than done. Miranda was convinced she’d topple off the bed as she used one hand to peel down her underwear. She wanted Jack to strip her, but he was living out some fantasy of directing porn she’d never known he had until now. When the panties were down far enough to reveal her pussy from behind, Jack told her to stop.
‘Touch yourself.’
The command was so direct, so horny, Miranda couldn’t help but moan in response. Looking back over her shoulder before she complied with his request, she saw her husband’s hand clamped round the crotch of his jeans. She’d played with herself as he watched so many times before, but never with him directing the action, telling her where to stroke, how firmly to apply the pressure, when to pull back. Following his instructions, she began to understand how a woman might get off on being told what to do, stringing out her pleasure and only being allowed to come when – or perhaps if – her partner decided she could.
This was what she’d been craving since they’d watched the video together: the rush that came from trying something she’d never done before. But just because Jack had cast her in the submissive role, it didn’t mean she couldn’t improvise.
Miranda beckoned him to come round and stand close to her head. Reaching out, she knocked his hand away from his cock. He seemed about to complain, until she pulled down his zip. Her fingers sought for the opening of his boxers and pulled out his thick shaft. Now his lens was focused on her hand as it slowly ascended his length, then returned to the base.
‘Put that thing on the tripod,’ she ordered him. ‘You know I’ve never been a great fan of shaky camerawork.’
She took the break in proceedings as an opportunity to remove her panties entirely, leaving the suspenders to frame her pussy in front, her bare bum cheeks behind. Liking the effect, the sensation of being half-stripped, she went further, slipping one strap of the chemise off her shoulder, exposing a breast. Softer and heavier than it had been in her student days, it fitted perfectly in Jack’s hand, and when he came back to the bed, he took it in his grasp and strummed the nipple with his thumb.
‘Strip for me, darling,’ Miranda whispered as the little nub stood out proudly under his caress. ‘Show the camera how the years have treated you.’
He looked good naked, having lost the gawkiness of his younger years and filled out his tall, rangy frame. It wasn’t fair, Miranda thought, how men seemed to get better looking with age, while women were only considered beautiful when they were young and unlined. But she knew her body so much better now than she had twenty years ago; she had gradually become mistress of her own needs and responses. The orgasms she had now, with or without Jack’s skilful input, were proof enough of that.
She dragged her thoughts back to contemplation of her husband’s body. His clothes having been disposed of without ceremony, Miranda ran her hands over his muscled back, down to his taut round arse.
‘Oh, so gorgeous – and all mine.’ She squeezed his cheeks affectionately.
‘Hey, when did you start directing the action?’ Jack’s grumble was good-natured. For all the pretence that he was shooting some kind of arty porn film and she was his compliant leading lady, nothing really mattered any longer except their lust for each other.
Miranda grinned, kicking off her heels and pointing her toe. ‘The moment I thought what a great shot it would be if you were to kiss your way up my silk stockings.’
‘Now that sounds like a challenge.’ With that, Jack took her foot in his hands and sucked her toes into his mouth. The feeling of the moistened material against her skin had her squirming. Until now, she’d never really considered the pleasure she could get from having her feet played with, but as he swiped his tongue over her silk-clad sole in broad, flat strokes she arched her body up, overwhelmed by the sensation. When he relinquished his hold on her toes and began to plant kisses up her calf, moving towards the ticklish place at the back of her knee, she wondered if she might actually come before he got anywhere near her sex.
Urged on by her breathy moans, he moved relentlessly higher, easing her leg over his shoulder so he could nibble at the soft skin left exposed by the stocking top. On another night, she would have been happy for him to carry on licking, to make her cream around his supple tongue as he lapped at her clit, but now she wanted something more direct; the feel of their bodies joined in the most primal way.
‘Please, please,’ she begged, ‘just fuck me.’ Her need was plain, and he responded to it. No more teasing, no more delaying the moment when his dick would push up into her welcoming cunt.
Still, having proved he could follow her instructions so faithfully, giving her the sweetest pleasure, Jack now seemed to need to regain an element of control. Pinning Miranda’s hands together above her head, he thrust into her. Normally, he’d inch his way in, taking his time, letting her grow used to the way his girth spread her wide, but she was so wet, so open there was no need for any of that.
‘I love the way you feel round my cock,’ he told her. ‘Like your cunt was designed for the sole purpose of holding me tight.’
‘There speaks the auteur.’ Miranda chuckled.
‘No, there speaks a very horny man who just wants to fuck his gorgeous wife’s brains out.’
‘So stop pontificating and do it.’
When they watched the film back later, they’d both agree the camera angle was all wrong, the shot dominated by the sight of Jack’s rapidly flexing buttocks, rather than the place where his shaft plunged into his wife’s slick hole, only to pull out again shining with her juice. But as he fucked her with welcome ferocity, such considerations were far beyond their thoughts. She writhed beneath him, urging him on with her movements and throaty gasps. With every stroke, he took her just a little closer to the moment where her world would dissolve in orgasm before reassembling itself, just a little brighter than before.
‘Almost there,’ Jack announced, sweat beading on his handsome face. They gazed into each other’s eyes in the moment before his climax hit him, feeling a connection that had never gone away, not even during those times when sex inevitably took a back seat in their lives. Tonight had reinforced the bond between them, and Miranda was sure there would be many more nights like it from now on, with or without the camera to record them for posterity.
‘Love you,’ Jack grunted as he came.
‘And I love you,’ Miranda replied, feeling sharp spasms of pleasure roll through her. She rode the waves, enjoying every last ripple as they slowly faded to nothing.
Jack just about had the presence of mind to turn the camera off before pulling Miranda into the security of his arms. Within minutes she slept, a satisfied, dreamless sleep that enveloped her like pure black silk.
Walk on the Wicked Side
Heather Towne
Lorraine really discovered the power of her shapely legs and feet when she was in gym class in her final year of high school. The girls’ regular instructor, Mrs Dukanitch, had broken her back in a bull-riding accident and Mr Dupont had filled in for the rest of the term as substitute.
Mr Dupont was an applied mathematics scientist by training. But after going slightly insane attempting to find the last number in Pi, he’d been reduced to teaching at a high school, following the career freefall trajectory of the old adage: those who can’t, teach, and those who can’t teach, teach gym.
The short, stoop-shouldered, prematurely bald and bespectacled man appeared stricken when Lorraine first pranced out of the girls’ changing room in a pair of super-short white shorts, her long, lithe, sunkissed legs flashing. She was a smart girl, discerning, and even though she didn’t understand the psychology of it yet, she could see the effect her legs had on the limb-struck Mr Dupont. And she used it to her advantage.
She wasn’t particularly concerned about her mark in phys-ed. But she did need top grades in her other courses if she was to get the scholarship to the college she desired. So she let Mr Dupont hold her slender, delicately constructed ankles whenever she, and the rest of the class, did sit-ups; let him hold the rope for her whenever she climbed, her trim, mounded calves hooking around the rafter-hung rope, lean young thighs squeezing it tight; and Mr Dupont was the one who personally stretched out and rubbed her smooth, slim legs whenever she came down with one of her frequent cramps. In return, the leg-obsessed man hacked into the school’s mainframe and gave Lorraine’s marks a six- to eight-point boost in every subject.
She did well in college, computer science and engineering becoming her chosen career path. The fact she was surrounded by brilliant men in boys’ bodies, introverts harbouring raging inner desires to be dominated and used by women (in other words, quintessential leg-men), helped her cause considerably. She moved into her first apartment in Silicon Valley shortly after graduation.
‘Hi, I’m Lorraine.’ She held out her hand to her new neighbour.
‘M-Myron,’ the small, rather effeminate-looking twentysomething mumbled, limply gripping her hand. His hair was black and stringy, his face pale but pleasant, body girlish. ‘W-Welcome to the building.’
‘Thanks.’ Lorraine bit her plush lower lip. ‘You know, I could really use a man’s help carrying in all of my boxes.’ Her lustrous dark hair was sleekly pulled back in a ponytail, highlighting the fine bone structure of her face, her large violet eyes and long black lashes, her red, glossy lips. Her tall, slender, statuesque body was clothed in a plain white T-shirt and pair of grey sweatpants, scuffed sneakers on her feet.
Myron looked at her sweatpants and sneakers and said, ‘Oh, yeah? I, um, would like to help out, but, uh, I’ve got to go to the lab, to do some work.’
Lorraine curved her lips into a smile, noting how Myron’s downcast brown eyes didn’t wander north of her waistline. ‘On a Sunday? That’s too bad. Oh, well, nice meeting you.’ She slipped inside her apartment with a wave of her hand that went unnoticed.
The apartment was starkly empty except for the five suitcases containing her best, most expensive clothes. She quickly shed her plain work gear and plunged her feet and legs into a pair of sheer pantyhose, wrapped her bum and thighs up tight in a black stretch-skirt, poured her peds into a pair of black pumps. A white satin blouse was added as an afterthought.
Myron was just leaving his apartment when Lorraine stepped back out into the hallway in her changed garb. He gaped at her, gazing with widened eyes at her sculpted legs sheathed in the sheer hose, the curved arches of her feet platformed up in the pumps. His key rattled in the door lock.
‘More boxes to leg on up,’ Lorraine sighed at the twitching young man. ‘Guess I better put my best foot forward, though, huh?’
