The Wedding Reception

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.

And then the scene changed. Someone had requested the Righteous Brother's "Unchained Melody." Many of the dancers started to leave the floor, to take a break during the slow romantic song, and my own wife turned to leave as well, but he reached out and took her hand and wordlessly asked her to stay.

I was surprised, and thrilled, when she accepted his request. At first, she kept a respectable distance, her wrists draped on his shoulders loosely, his hands appropriately on her waist. After all, there was other family around, and even if he hadn't realized she was married, her brother and sisters did, and she knew that they expected her to follow the rules of decorum.

But the respectable distance was only a physical one. His dark eyes were locked onto her baby blues, and she returned the intensity as a powerful musical trance developed. As they swayed together, they moved gradually closer. By the midpoint of the song, his hands were on her lower back, and her elbows on her shoulders, through there was still the merest space between them.

Before the final chords had sounded, though, she was pressed against him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her head on his shoulder. His hands, meanwhile, had drifted lower on her back, onto the upper part of her perfect ass cheeks. My mouth went dry when I saw his strong fingers casually searching for and locating the contours of her tiny panties, and noted his look of brief surprise when he verified that she was in fact wearing a garter belt and stockings. He pressed himself against her body firmly as the ballad came to its mournful close.

She held him for a moment after the song ended, maybe a little too long since the end of the song signaled the break for the DJ, and the rest of the dancers were drifting hand-in-hand off the floor. My wife and her amorous stranger were left standing together, pressed against each other like intimate partners. Her face became flushed and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and the two parted. My wife headed for our table, he headed for his, though he stayed a step behind so he could admire her as she walked away.

She flopped in a satisfied manner into the seat next to me, just as the waiter brought us fresh drinks. "Wow," she whispered. Then when she met my eyes, she blushed deeply and looked down at the tablecloth, fiddling with a stirring straw. "Are you mad?"

Reaching for her hand, I reassured her, "Not mad at all."

"Jealous?" she peeked up under her eyebrows anxiously. I smiled.

"He should be jealous of me. I get to go home with you every night." Her expression softened, and her thoughts seemed to drift to some imaginary place.

"I really liked that...dancing with him. I'm so glad you don't mind, but I just got carried away. Are you sure it was okay?"

I took her delicate fingers and guided them under the tablecloth, to the front of my slacks. I was harder than I had been in years, and she recognized the unique power she had over me in this special place, under these unique circumstances.

"He wants to dance more I think, with me. I think he likes me." I laughed and leaned over to plant a kiss on her full, red lips.

"You are so cute with your little girl insecurity sometimes. I'm certain he likes you. A lot. And he'd do a lot more than 'like' you, if you wanted him to. If you let him."

She blushed even more deeply. "I wasn't going to dance anymore; I feel like I'm playing with fire." She squeezed me again, under the table and giggled, "You men are so predictable."

"In some ways...but in others, not so much. How many men would even allow their wives to dance with handsome strangers, much less encourage them?"

"Not many, I guess. But I really don't know about other men, just you. You really don't mind?"

"The music is starting again, he's coming this way," I looked over her shoulder as he approached, working his way slowly between the tables as the crowd made its way back to the floor. "He looks like he still appreciates you, even after the break. Did you feel that when you were pressed against him? It looks to me like he really, really likes you."

"Oh my god!" she mocked, "What a dirty mind you have!" Then she leaned toward me in a conspiratorial whisper, "Of course I felt it; his body is so muscled, and hard. And thick."

The stranger was standing behind her, almost close enough to brush the front of his trousers against her shoulder, but he probably didn't hear. "Do you mind, sir," he said to me in a rather formal way, "if I ask your wife for the pleasure of this dance?"

"Not at all," I replied in a stilted tone, more appropriate perhaps to a business transaction between Victorian gentlemen. "The pleasure is hers...and mine."

They danced, another slow dance at first, and began as close as they had finished the last one, getting closer still throughout. By the middle of the song they were hardly moving, just tipping back and forth in time to the music as he held her tight. His hands started at the top of her buns, and by the time the DJ had started to cue the next song, he had my wife's round, firm cheeks in each hand, kneading her gently, but obviously, through her skirt.

He was whispering into her ear as she rested her head on his strong chest, and occasionally she would lift her lips to his ear to whisper something back. The last time she did this, as the romantic song came to a close, I was sure I saw her tongue flick out and tease the lobe of his ear.

The DJ picked up the pace and they had to dance apart for a couple of songs. Neither one of them seemed to recognize the third song, and as they stood awkwardly trying to catch the beat, she leaned forward and whispered to him. He smiled broadly at whatever she said, and this time I definitely saw her take his earlobe between her warm, soft lips and gave him a nibble.

He left the dance floor and headed back to his table, the tent in the front of his pants attracting even more attention from all the jealous unattached women who now realized even more clearly how much they were missing. My wife headed back to the powder room, and I was about to get up and follow her when I was intercepted by her younger sister, storming toward me. It was this sister's husband who had been the target of my wife's amorous attention at the last wedding reception we all attended.

"I can't believe her!" she fumed. "She's doing it again."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

She slugged me in the shoulder, a too hard to be playful. She meant it. "You are an idiot; she's practically fucking him right in the middle of the floor. She's such a tramp! I can't believe we're related!"

"Well, little sister, she doesn't mind, he doesn't mind, and..." I took my hand out of my pants pocket so that she could see how hard I was, "...I obviously don't mind." Her eyes bugged when she followed my gaze down to my pants. "Since I don't see how it is any business of yours, why don't you go and take care of your own darling husband?"

"You are sick!" She stormed off just as my wife was returning to the table.

"What was that about?" She looked worried. She still wasn't on very good terms with her sister after the last time they tangled.

Not wanting to tell her that her family was watching her disapprovingly, I took the blame myself. "She noticed my boner when I stood up and I told her I wanted it to be the meat in a sister sandwich."

She laughed, and hit me in the other shoulder, playfully. Sister-bomb defused.

"Sit down," I said. "Have a drink." Every time my wife made a move the waiter was there was a fresh Scotch sour. I was pretty sure he was watching her, but I couldn't spot him at it.

"No," she said a little too quickly, "I probably shouldn't."

"Hmm? Why not?" We were in another DJ break, and instead of sitting and relaxing she was standing, sipping her drink, her eyes flitting around the room.

"I don't want to be spotted," she whispered mysteriously. I was completely confused. She's a tall woman and even taller in high heels. How is standing supposed to make you harder to spot? When she saw my quizzical look, she leaned over and opened her clutch purse so I could see the contents.

There, atop the lipstick, the compact and the room key, were her tiny, lacey black panties. A creamy wet spot obvious on the lining of the crotch.

My dick almost burst through my pants. My prim and proper soccer mom and generally prudish Lutheran wife was naked under her skirt, probably because the bald man had asked her.

For a moment I was stabbed with a jealous pang. She never had made the same concession to me, and I had pretty much begged for exactly the same thing on several occaisions. But then I realized that once one of her longstanding barriers had fallen, whether for him or for me, it should be that much weaker and easier to topple again in the future. Long after the stranger was gone from our lives, I would be the happy recipient of her future exhibitions.

She winked. "See, if I sit down, I'll end up with a spot on my skirt."

The DJ started shouting into the microphone announcing "booty grinding time", and a roar went up from the younger folks as he lowered the house lights and turned on the disco strobes. Most of the middle-aged partiers had left the party, or at least given up the dance floor to the college aged- crowd. With the rest of her family off on the other side of the crowd in the shadows, I saw my wife looking further emboldened by her ability to remain anonymous in a crowd.

Her suitor was again approaching, a predatory look in his eye.

I tried to make my own request of my gorgeous, precious lover as she took her new boyfriend's hand and waved to me on her way to the dance floor, "dance close to me so I can watch." She smiled and shrugged. I don't think she heard me.

It didn't matter though, since by the time my wife and her partner made it to the dance floor it was already so full of gyrating twenty-somethings that she and the bald stranger had to pick a spot right on the edge close to my table.

In no time at all, to the driving beat of Beyoncé's "Single Ladies" (apparently I should have put a ring on it), my wife was imitating the rest of the girls in the crowd and had backed her newly liberated bottom against the handsome stranger's bulge.