Dressing for the Office

Lorraine looks good in stockings. She always has. She has great legs. I guess that might have something to do with her running the best part of twenty miles a week, week in week out, which she has done since college and throughout our marriage, even on our honeymoon. The locals in Goa loved watching the white woman with long, jet black hair, running each day along the beach in just a thong and sports bra, but there was no way that Lorraine was going to let that put her off, and she is still out running around our London four times a week, giving me the chance to write this without her knowing.

So when I say that Lorraine looks good in stockings, that is English understatement. She looks fantastic. Stockings really compliment her legs, with her well defined musculature, perfect calves and thighs, and tight, awesome white butt. Before she started wearing them regularly, I used to regret that they were reserved for special occasions, but I loved those occasions, going out to restaurants, concerts, jazz clubs, and staying in for wine in the bedroom, and sex with stockings and suspender belt. Lorraine's stockings were a subtle signal, that on those nights she wanted to be on top. With stockings, my wife likes to be in control.

Not that I ever minded. Lying back on our bed, with Lorraine squatting on my cock, trimmed black pubic hair contrasting with milk white flesh, framed by black suspender belt and black stocking tops, is sheer, sexual heaven, as sheer and as sexual as the stockings themselves.

It also provides the best view that God has created. Forget all the rivers, lakes and mountains, and all the coastal scenery on this good earth. There is no better view that that of my wife's cunt stretched around the solid shaft of my cock, whether as she lowers herself over the head, or when she is resting on my groin, and every inch of my erection is lodged inside her.

Resting my hands on her thighs and sensing the taut nylon, while she raises and lowers herself, at the rhythm and angle that gives her the most pleasure, is simultaneous bliss and torture. Something about the way she does it is all but unbearable, and my semen inevitably rises against my will, jetting with a delicious intensity through my shaft and flooding her. She seems to love that I cannot control my ejaculation when she is on top, while I can fuck her for ever when she is beneath me. But this is about Lorraine starting to wear her stockings for another reason than to be on top, not about my inability to hold back when it is she who is fucking me instead of the other way around.

We get dressed at the same time in the morning, and leave our flat together. I cycle to my office, the ten mile round trip keeping me fit, instead of running twenty miles a week. Lorraine takes the tube into the city, to the corporation where she works in finance. She walks to the station. By the time I get my bike out from the underground garage, she is on the high street, and moments later, I pass her with a wave.

Most of the year round, Lorraine used to wear tights, sometimes a trouser suit. On a hot day in the summer she might go bare legged, ignoring the assumption that legs should be tanned, and staying with dark business skirts, black or slate grey, that emphasise the whiteness of her calves, but apart from those warm summer days, that my wife always wore tights.

It was a Monday in autumn that her routine changed. It was already too cool to go bare legged. I was bringing through two mugs of freshly brewed Columbian coffee, stark naked - myself, not the coffee - and Lorraine was standing beside our bed, left foot on the ground, her right foot on our duvet cover, easing the stocking top up the rest of her thigh and clipping the two suspender straps in place, front and back. The nylon was black, the only colour she ever wears, if black can be a colour. When it comes to stockings, black is more an absence of colour, a deep, erotic darkness.

I put Lorraine's coffee on the leather place mat on the chest of drawers beside her.

"Thanks," she said.

"Stockings?" I asked. "That's new."

Lorraine put her right foot on the ground, did the careful fingering thing that women do to prepare her second stocking ready to put on and raised her left leg, sliding the nylon onto her foot, her ankle, and her perfect calf. She looked up through her jet black mane of hair.

"It makes a change," she said. "What do you think of them?"

"They look good," I said. "But I guess it helps to have legs like yours."

I have always been a leg man. Lorraine has a slender torso, with a slim waist, a well defined rib-cage, and neat breasts that do not really need the sports bra that she wears for running, or any other kind of bra, except to soften the outline of her dark, cherry nipples beneath her clothing - but it is her legs that I really love, especially when they are up and pressed against my shoulders.

Just the same, Lorraine wearing stockings on a weekday, heading off to work, set my alarm bells ringing. Making a change did not seem quite enough of an explanation. In the nine years that we had been married, she had never worn stockings to the office.

Stockings, in our relationship, meant the 'I want to be on top' kind of sex that I have just described. When Lorraine wore stockings to bed, it meant that she wanted to pass on all of the tender closeness, gentle kisses and loving touches that were the prequel to meaningful love making. She just wanted hard cock that she could ride for her own, personal pleasure.

Not that Lorraine had only ever worn stockings when it was time for bed. We might be heading for a concert, or going to dinner with some friends, and having a romantic evening in our favourite restaurant, and Lorraine would put on stockings instead of her daytime tights, but even then, they were a signal, telling me what she would want when we got back, and keeping me hungry in anticipation throughout the evening.

So Lorraine sliding on a pair of stockings on a Monday morning, getting ready for the office, was a turn on, but also was a cause for serious concern, because if she was not going to climb onto my cock and ride it every which way in the next few hours, just maybe she was wearing her stockings for someone else.

That thought gave me some serious discomfort, not just in my head, but right in the pit of my gut. I thought of saying something, but making an accusation purely on the evidence of a pair of black nylon stockings seemed too much like risking our relationship. You have to know for sure, before you call it as it is. Maybe it really was just that my wife felt like a change, exactly as she said. If that was the case, an accusation could be seriously damaging.

So I let it pass.

Lorraine walked to the station in her stockings. I got on my bike and cycled to my own place of employment. I worked through what I needed to, slower than I usually do, picturing her in her office, thinking of the bare white flesh above her stocking tops, hidden by her skirt, but just maybe visible when she sat.

I thought about more than that. My work came to a complete standstill when I pictured her in some guy's office with the door closed while her fucked her up against the wall, or bent her over his desk and fucked her from behind, or sat her on the same desk, opened her legs, and fucked her with her stockinged legs up and around his waist, her ankles locked behind his back.

I stared, motionless, at my workstation monitor, hand on my mouse, immobile, as I thought of my wife exiting this guy's office, his come leaking from her cunt, saturating her panties, and her having to use the rest room to get cleaned up enough to go back to work alongside her other colleagues.

It was not my most productive day.

Then, in the evening, as we gave each they the loving hugs and kisses that we always do, my forensic skills were suddenly aroused, alert for any sign that she had been with another guy, any slight difference in how she smelled, how she behaved, anything at all, and picked up on absolutely nothing. If she was guilty, but acting innocent, my beautiful wife would have won an Oscar.

Some couples stay in their work clothes until it is time for bed. Some change into jeans and tops. Some bathe and shower, and wear robes if they are staying in. We keep our apartment warm enough that thick robes are not needed, and we have matching black satin, kimono style robes with simple belt ties for our lazy weeknight evenings.

Lorraine kept her suspender belt and stockings on, her kimono skimming her stocking tops. I liked that. It was sexy in the kitchen, sexy at the table while we ate, and sexy on our sofa as we chilled to some television shows. I loved stroking her inner thigh, on the white of her leg above her stocking top, although all the time I was enjoying the warmth of her flesh, I was wondering if touching her a little higher, I might feel hardened semen on her panties.

What I could not figure was the way my body was reacting. The idea that she had dressed for some other guy, had allowed this guy to fuck her, had even wanted him to and planned for it, was tearing my brain apart, but having my hand right there, so close to where his cock would have been, was making my own cock as hard and rigid as it had ever been.

I was wearing boxer shorts beneath my own robe. Boxer shorts do nothing to disguise erections. Light kimono robes do not do much more. My tent was obvious, even before Lorraine slipped her hand inside my wrap and felt it for herself, asking if it was for her.

Monday nights we might make love, or we might not. We might just get close, tell each other that we loved each other, and drift off to sleep. That Monday night we fucked the hell out of one another. It was not just my cock slamming into Lorraine's wet cunt. It was her using the taut, running trained muscles of her buttocks to meet and greet my cock every time I thrust it into her, hitting the base of my cock with her pelvic bone, while she clawed at my back with her hands and tightened her legs around my waist as if she was going to stay there for an eternity.

Our sex life had always been good. That night it was incredible.

What blew my mind was that this became the norm. It was not just that first Monday. It was Tuesday, Wednesday and every day. It seemed like Lorraine had bought enough stockings to open a new pack each and every day of that week, and the bathroom rail had rinsed out stockings hanging from it every night.

Apart from that, nothing seemed to change, or if anything, things improved. Our sex life had been good. Chatting with other married mates who had weekend sex, our four times a week had seemed pretty frequent, above the South West London average anyway. Thinking about Lorraine wearing stockings on the tube, and around the office, clearly had an impact on my sperm production. Four nights a week became every night.

It was not just me. Lorraine seemed to be more up for it as well. Going to bed became the way that it had been the first six months of marriage, getting close and intertwined, hands all over everywhere, hers at my cock, mine at her pussy, fingers running through her pubic curls, delving between her nether lips to explore the wetness that must have been there even before we got intimately personal, before turning her and moving between her legs and entering her waiting cunt.

So, every night we fucked like rabbits.

To be honest, I am not sure just how rabbits fuck. I have never seen it happen, not even on those wild-life programmes. They seem like gentle fluffy creatures, and I find it difficult picturing them going at it with abandon, hammer and tongs and all. With their short little arms, even just holding on to get the necessary traction must be tough.

Forget rabbits. They are far too cuddly. It would be better to say that we fucked like animals, the way wild dogs fuck, the male with its cock rigid on the prowl for a bitch on heat, the bitch giving off its scent to attract the male, locking her cunt around his cock and enjoying the fuck.

I was like the leader of the pack, letting my bitch know exactly who she belonged to, and fucking her the way that she needed to be fucked so that whatever other dog she might have let fuck her earlier, it would be my cock that she would remember all night and all day long.

One other little thing became routine.

I checked, each night. Lorraine would leave her panties in our laundry basket in our bedroom before she went to clean her teeth and to do whatever else she did with the door of our ensuite bathroom closed for privacy. It was just her panties that she would drop into the basket. She kept her suspender belt and stockings on, going to the bathroom, and climbing into bed.

I would take the opportunity that Lorraine's ten minutes of bathroom privacy provided, and I would lift the lid of our laundry basket, fish out my wife's panties, and check them carefully. There was never any sign of any semen. Not that the guy might not use a condom. But the absence of evidence meant that a not guilty verdict could not be challenged. I had nothing tangible to make me suspect that something more was going on, just that nagging feeling in my gut.

It was the first Thursday of office life in stockings, after we had made love until we were both feeling a little raw, that Lorraine commented on what was going on.

"If I'd known that my wearing stockings to work had this effect on you, I'd have done it years ago."

"I can't help it if they turn me on," I said.

"I'm not complaining," Lorraine said, snuggling close. "Love you, love your cock, love you more."

"Love you too," I said, wondering yet again what had stimulated the change in her years' old habit of wearing tights, not liking the possible reason, but loving the effect that it was having, and loving our closeness.

The thongs started to appear a few weeks later. Lorraine had always been a knickers or panties kind of a girl. I am never sure which is which. I have always thought that knickers are the frumpy cotton things that are worn for practicality, and panties are the closer cut, frillier version, worn to tempt and tease. If so, Lorraine had always been a panties kind of a girl.

Lorraine had never really gone in for the more revealing, more teasing, thongs. Sometime way back she had commented that thongs bit into her crotch a bit too much for wearing to work, so the morning I watched her sliding a thong over her stockings and suspenders made me wonder a little why she had changed her mind.

Lorraine stayed with black. Just like her stockings and suspender belt, Lorraine's thongs were always black. Each morning a black triangle of thin fabric covered her trimmed black pubic hair, with a slim line of black across her lower back just below the thicker black of her suspender belt, with another line of black disappearing down between her white buttock cheeks, keeping that black triangle taut..

It occurred to me that wearing her thong outside her suspender belt meant that removing it would be easier, but I guessed that visits to the restroom could be the more innocent explanation, rather than providing ease of access to whichever guy was the reason for her starting to wear stockings, and now these thongs.

I knew, from experience, that a thong left in place can cause chaffing when you are thrusting in and out. All you have to do, if the thong is worn on the outside of the suspender straps, is pull it down. It makes access to the woman's cunt quick and easy. You just slide right on in, and fuck her.

I did not really want to think about this other reason as to why Lorraine was wearing her thong outside her suspender belt. I tried to remember how she had been wearing her panties up until this switch to leaving her butt bare beneath her skirt, and having her trimmed copse of curls only just hidden if crossing her legs at an office meeting was done just a little less carefully than usually.

Even with her thongs, I checked from time to time, while Lorraine was in the bathroom, for any sign of anything at all, but nothing seemed more than her own secretions might explain. I still had not got a case that would stand up in any court.

Meanwhile, sex with Lorraine continued to be good. Life with Lorraine continued to be good, in our apartment, out with friends, visiting relatives, date nights, everything.

One date night raised concern. I am sure that it was just coincidence. The reaction Lorraine gave on his coming over and commenting on our being at the same concert in the South Bank certainly suggested genuine surprise.

His name was Richard. He was someone more senior in her firm, exactly what, I did not catch. Tall, suave, good looking, if you like the swept back, black haired look, and rimless glasses. His wife, Laura, was blonde, also tall, and well proportioned. They would have been in their fifties, maybe twenty years ahead of us in earnings and quality of life.

It was all small talk, of course, and it lasted only the last few minutes of the interval but one comment that he made quietly to me left me wondering.

"She's really rather good, you know," he said. "Quite an asset."

The second half of the concern was slightly marred by thoughts of Lorraine in Richard's office, Richard enjoying his company's assets, as a guy like him might assume to be his right. I guessed that he was the kind of guy who would prefer stockings to tights, and thongs to knickers, and might even tell an employee he was fucking what to wear. I knew for sure that my wife would be extremely good. She was always extremely good with me. I was sure that if my increasing suspicions were true, then this Richard would be enjoying my wife's assets just as much as I was doing.

I have always been good at putting a name to a face. Now I could put a name and a face to the cock that I had been thinking was the reason for Lorraine's stockings, suspender belts and thongs. Any time that I wondered exactly what was going on, it was Richard's face I saw. I really did not like that, especially when Lorraine and I were making out. Even if the thought just slipped past fleetingly, I could picture the guy's face, and I knew his name, and I was enjoying the same wet cunt that he was probably enjoying too. It was not a good place to be, that is where I was.

Just the same, I had nothing to go on, other than Lorraine's change of dress style, beneath her dress, and the fact that her senior was a confident guy who rated her. No lawyer could argue that case and hope to get a firm conviction. It would not stand up in any kitchen confrontation. Besides, life was still good. Lorraine was as loving as ever, in bed and out of bed. I really had nothing of substance to complain about.

It was a few weeks later that something else was different. She felt very different, down there, between her legs.

It was around ten thirty, and we were in bed. We had turned towards each there, as we always do. It is one of the things I love about Lorraine, that there is no holding back the signs of affection. We get close every night, luxuriating in each other's bodies.

I slid my hand down Lorraine's stomach to her pubis and immediately realised what was different. Her skin was smooth and free of hair all the way over her pubic mound, right to her slit, which was already wet and inviting.

We have been married for nine years, and although Lorraine has kept her pubic growth neatly trimmed, she had never gone in for the totally exposed, smooth and hairless look, mainly because she has not seen the point of going through the pain. Waxing hurts, or so they say. I have never tried it for myself. But now, my wife's pussy was devoid of hair. She felt new, fresh, and deliciously accessible.

My cock was already hard. Most nights we were making love, so it was primed and ready, but feeling her hairless mons it stiffened even more, in spite of the involuntary thought that maybe someone else had told her to visit the beautician, and maybe even paid for it.