Upping The (Underwear) Stakes

You really do keep it coming, don't you. Interpret that as you like. I've waited too long to write back, so without further ado, here's the story of my night on the town with my husband, which turned out to be much different than I'd suspected.

My first task was of course to present your game to my husband. We've always talked fairly easily about sex and our fantasies, but it's most often he who starts the conversation, so this was a small challenge for me. I'm generally most open about sex when we're naked in bed, but I knew he had a meeting the afternoon of the evening I'd planned for your challenge, so I called him and suggested we meet at a bar around 7:30. I proposed a seedier bar we haven't been to in years and which is known to have its fair share of prostitutes. Are you sure? he asked twice, but I insisted. I knew that we wouldn't meet anybody we know there, and actually I love observing prostitutes. In a past life I think I was probably some royal courtesan. And my husband loves any excuse for a cocktail anywhere (and probably wishes we went out more often), so he quickly agreed. His meeting might run later, he said, but he would call as soon as he was finished. Now I knew I had at least taken care of your requirement to enter the bar separately.

As the time approached I took a quick shower and dove into my closet for something sexy and springy – a thin black wrap slit up the side, black lace underwear, a big gold belt, and a slinky silk top I had made in Vietnam, which only has three buttons, so it's always low-cut. When 7:30 came, he still hadn't called, but I drove over to the bar anyway. I say it's a seedy place, but the decoration is actually quite well-done and the crowd is mixed, so as I sat at the bar I didn't feel too much out of place. There were lots of men in there though, looking for girls, and amid the couples and groups of friends, a few stylish girls that looked, well, expensive. So the place was crowded, and as I looked around I realized that I was probably going to get hit on before my husband ever arrived (which might complicate the game), so I went off to the bathroom to kill some time. Which is where I was on the toilet with my underwear around my knees when he called to announce that he was on his way. "Wait!" I cried almost desperately, shifting into a whisper so I wouldn't be overheard. "Guess where my fingers are right now?"

"Up your sweet little ass. All five of them," he said.

"Nope," I sighed. "But very close. I'm already at the bar. I went to take a pee and I'm horny! "

"Shall we have some phone sex? But then you'll probably be needing your phone hand for other purposes, won't you? Never fear. I'll speed, and I happen to be bringing two hands of my own."

"Wait," I giggled, knowing I now had him in the palm of my…hand. "I want to play a game with you. And then I briefly described your "experiment". I would be at the bar when he came in. He would sit across the room like some handsome stranger and flirt with any girls he liked. I would be watching him, and he would be watching me, but at least for a while we would pretend not to know each other. And then whatever little line he crossed with a woman, I would have to cross the same line with the man…and vice versa.

I was relieved to hear him laugh indulgently. "Well you horny monster," he said. "And what's your punishment if you can't keep up?"

"Then you can spank me hard and made me promise to be a bad girl," I cooed. What he didn't know was that I had every intention of leaving him in the dust. And had he forgotten what a good spanker I am?

The bar in this place is a big, bulky thing overhanging a line of stools that slide up underneath it. I was sitting there with a glass of white wine when my husband strode in like some kind of sports god exiting the tunnel before a big game. He looked confident and indestructible, and although his eyes skipped over me as if I was an ant, I knew that the performance was for my benefit. He took a seat at a table by the windows near the entrance, and I watched him order a bourbon out of the corner of my eye. I wanted to be fucking him right there and then, which only made me more impatient to play your game and win.

All in all we were at the bar for about thirty to forty-five minutes. We were slow to get started, both of us looking around and looking available. I was finding it almost impossible to keep from looking at him, or to burst out laughing, and so looking for something to occupy myself I drank my wine quickly and ordered another glass. As I did this I noticed two men in their fifties watching me. They were dressed with some class and probably had money. They were obviously looking for a couple of hookers to take off to a hotel, and although I clearly wasn't the type for sale, maybe my second drink had caught their interest. A woman waiting for her man generally sips, but if she downs her first and orders a second, she's more likely looking for an adventure – drowning her sorrows, maybe, or something like that, and so maybe they could help. At least that was my read of them at the time. Maybe they were just drawn by the sight of my thigh, which was bare through the slit in my skirt, all the way up to my waist. In any case, they came over next to me and stood close as they introduced themselves. The strong smell of aftershave came off of one of them, but it wasn't disagreeable at all. They were French tourists, they told me, the one with the aftershave standing so close that his hip occasionally brushed my knee. He was trying to make it seem as if he was being jostled into me by the crowd, but he was exaggerating – there wasn't that much of a crowd. It was clear that they both wanted me, and even if neither of them was particularly my type, the feeling of being alone in a bar and desired by two strange men was definitely an exciting one. It's been a while since I did that,  and let's just say I wouldn't have minded….

I wanted to tease them. I wanted my husband to think that I was about to get fucked. So I reached in my purse for some lipstick and ignored the men for a moment to sensually and slowly apply it to my lips in the mirror behind the bar – where I saw that my husband had already corralled a prostitute into the chair next to him while another was on her feet just in front of him swaying slightly to the music in a tiny little skirt. He had it easy! The girls wanted him, of course, but they particularly wanted his money (though he couldn't have afforded it!). But then I'd known it would be like this when I'd chosen the place. I'd known that sex would be in the air, and that it would be easier for us both to play your game without consequences. So I left him in the mirror and blotted my lips with a cocktail napkin, which I casually placed back on the bar, certain that the men would see. They exchanged sly smiles, not caring if I saw, and asked where I liked to go out around town. In the mirror the dancing girl was now sitting on the arm of my husband's chair and he had put his hand on her shoulder to explain something with a laugh. I was falling behind! So I put my hand on the aftershave man's shoulder, smiled and said that I would have to take them out one night and show them a few good places. They laughed to each other as if there was some private joke here, their laughter sounding like the motors of fancy German cars. The second man moved around to the other side of me, and they were both pushing even closer now. His shirt was buttoned halfway down a hairy chest, and he was wearing tight slacks that showed off an admittedly nice butt. He was talking directly in my ear now, and as I shifted slightly in my seat to move closer to his lips, my thighs pleasantly brushed against each other and my cheeks went hot in spite of myself. The men wanted to take me out that night, but I told them that it would have to be another night. They kept protesting until I told them that I wanted to be absolutely sure to get their numbers and reached into my purse to pull out my phone. This got them excited with the prospect of future possibilities, and as they dutifully gave me their numbers I typed them in with my eyebrows raised like a particularly dumb blonde and a scrunched and sexy smile on my red, red lips. Meanwhile I could see that my husband was taking the girls' numbers down as they playfully slapped his arm. They wanted him, and his money, tonight! And somehow the sight of that excited me tremendously.

The Frenchmen moved closer and closer. The one with the cute ass began to pretend to dance, swiveling his hips around and trying to entice me out on the dance floor with a persistent smile. I protested flirtatiously, putting my hand on his chest but making little effort to push him away. He took the opportunity to completely press up against me, and through the sheer fabric covering my thigh I felt the unmistakable shape of a hardening cock. I felt drunk. I smiled at him and took two long sips of wine. Then I stared into the mirror as he went on rubbing against me, getting so hard that I couldn't see how he was going to be able to move away from me without revealing his hard-on to the entire room. In the mirror my husband was getting friskier with the girls. The more brazen one on the arm of his chair had "accidentally" slipped off into his lap. Her arms and legs flew out in mock distress and she wiggled some more in the attempt to extricate herself. She was definitely getting her own feel of a hard cock against her ass. Hell, with the shortness of that skirt it was quite possible that they'd just had a quick fuck! The girl finally stood up, squawking like a chicken, but it was the other girl that interested me. She wore a tight, long dress over a beautiful, curvy body and some of the most fabulous tits I've ever seen. She was not a squawker. She stared into my husband's eyes with a slow simmering smile, and I could see him shift into a sort of dream state for a moment. I thought to myself: I would really like to watch him fuck her, and then I would really like to join them.

The thought of that turned me on more than my horny French molesters (though I did like the feel of that cock, even if it made me feel a little too dirty. I've never been particularly fond of enormous cocks, but I have to admit that I was fascinated by the size of this thing. I might be able to fit it in my pussy, but I didn't think it would ever fit in my mouth). Then I thought: you're never going to win this damn game with fantasies! Something dramatic was required, I knew.

"I feel as if I'm being molested," I said coyly to the aftershave, very damsel in distress. "Is he bothering you," he said with a rough laugh, looking straight down my shirt to the tops of my tits, and fixing his eyes there so that I would see him looking. "You need to pick two girls, pull out your wallets, and stop wasting your time with me. I'm much, much too expensive."

"Oh yeah," he said, his lips at my ear, both of them practically on top of me now, as if I was in a cave made of men – smells and hair and lips and an impressive cock. My feeling of excitement at this point, I knew, was also slightly fear. Shaking slightly, I excused myself to go to the bathroom, passing my husband as I went. He now had a girl on each arm of his chair (the beautiful one so perfectly languorously). I was losing, I knew. I needed to come up with some brilliant last maneuver.

In the bathroom again, with my underwear around my knees again, pretending to pee even if I didn't really need to, I hit upon my final move. I slipped off the underwear completely and bunched it up in my left hand. Then I flushed, left the stall, checked myself in the mirror and walked back into the bar. Except that this time I headed straight for my husband. When I reached his table, without breaking stride, I deposited the little silky black ball at the corner of his table. The girls were so occupied with trying to distract him that they hardly noticed, and anyone who didn't know our secret would have more likely suspected that it was a bunched napkin, or a piece of trash. Except for my husband, who obviously realized that it was my underwear and quickly slipped it into his pocket. Then, my biggest kick of the night so far was watching his face as he realized that his underwear was next.

I was quickly surrounded by my Frenchmen again, who had obviously been too occupied by discussions of what a horny little slut I was going to be to notice that the horny little slut had just presented her underwear to another man. My husband was still surrounded by his armchair girls, who seemed to have caught the exchange and were flirtatiously teasing him about it. Random women just walk up to you and give you their underwear? Wooow! Giggle giggle. I was watching him more openly now, curious to see how he'd get out of this fix. Because as difficult as it is for a woman to give a man her underwear in a bar, it can be done. It fits with the general fantasies. For a man to do the same thing, however, is near impossible, not to mention potentially creepy. I was thinking of all of this, and laughing quietly to myself (which the Frenchmen took to mean that I was enjoying them, which was definitely no longer the case). Meanwhile, my husband made no move to escape to the bathroom, and I wondered if he'd given up. But I also noticed that he appeared to be kneading his thigh, as if he was anxious or in pain. The beautiful girl somewhat blocked my view (her tits blocked my view!), but I could see that his hand was in his pocket. I could see it clearly because it was balled like a fist and was working back and forth almost as if he was masturbating right there (in which case I was absolutely doomed!). And then, again just as if he was masturbating, he appeared to "come", loosened his fist, and took his hand out of his pants. I waited for him to look up at me with a victor's smile – top that! – but he didn't. Now he appeared to be massaging his other leg, except that this time his hand wasn't in his pocket. He massaged down his thigh, over his knee – the girls were still too preening to notice much of this – over his shin, and then, briefly, as if he was going to tie his shoe, his ankle. But instead of tying his shoe, he reached up under the cuff of his pants and pulled out a wad of tight cotton. I burst out laughing, and the Frenchmen looked at me strangely as if beginning to realize that they'd made a mistake with me.

His underwear! But how? I wondered as he sat there coolly chatting with the girls as if nothing had happened. Then I thought of the little pocketknife he uses as a keychain, which has a little miniature pair of scissors on it. He would have had to cut through the lining of his pants pocket, then down one side of his underwear to get it off, but I knew that this was exactly what he'd done…and I knew he'd won. Competitive bastard! I turned my smile towards him, and his eyes locked with mine for the first time in what felt like forever, and with a goodbye out the corner of his mouth for each girl, eyes still on me, he stood and walked slowly over to the bar where I was sitting with my Frenchmen. His left hand was still clenched into a fist, but between his fingers I could glimpse the white of underwear. I turned to the bar and downed the last of my drink, pretending I'd never seen this strange, impertinent man. He moved up until he was pressed against my back and reached an arm around me to put his fist on the bar. "Shall we go?" he said loudly, teasingly.

"I'm ready if you are," I said into my glass, cheeks going red again.

"We'll work out a price later," he said as the Frenchmen stepped back, too shocked to start outbidding him, or punching him. I could see my husband smiling in the mirror. He put money on the bar with a nod for the bartender, then opened his hand, and as he slipped his other arm through mine, he left his crumpled underwear on the bar for the Frenchmen to figure out.

We skipped out of there as fast as we could, laughing like high school kids. "Do I win?" he cried.

"You win!" I cried back, and we went off laughing into the night.

And Mr. X, I wish I could excite you with a description of everything we did for the rest of that night, but I've been writing this in bits for days, and it's already too much! So we'll have to save my naked body for another time. You're becoming a fulltime hobby, but I can't say I mind.

Republished with permission from The Sex Experiment. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.