Floral Vice

The fluorescent lights of the boutique buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the pastel pink walls and racks overflowing with summer dresses. I felt a familiar knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach as my husband, Mark, pulled me towards a rack laden with sundresses. It was a white confection, a classic v-neck number with a flowy, short skirt and delicate pink flowers stitched along the bodice, secured with a dainty satin bow at the back. The fabric felt impossibly soft against my skin, a welcome change from the rough cotton of my everyday clothes.

“Try that one on,” Mark urged, his voice laced with an almost predatory excitement. It wasn’t the first time he’d been keen to find me a new dress, but something about this particular one seemed to ignite a different kind of desire within him. He’d always been a man of simple pleasures, but there was an undeniable thrill in seeing me dressed up, feeling beautiful, and knowing he’d orchestrated it all.

I reluctantly took off my jeans and t-shirt, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat building in my cheeks. The dress slipped over my head, clinging to my curves in a way that felt both alluring and slightly unsettling. The neckline plunged low, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, and the short skirt barely covered my thighs. It was a far cry from the modest, practical attire I usually wore, but there was a certain charm to its playful innocence.

“How old are you?” a store employee chirped, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and judgment.

“Twenty-five,” I replied, forcing a nonchalant smile. It felt strange to be scrutinized, especially by this overly enthusiastic saleswoman.

“I thought you were seventeen! You look so good for your age. That dress looks very nice on you,” she gushed, her gaze lingering on my chest with an inappropriate intensity.

Mark, oblivious to the employee's awkwardness, let out a booming laugh. “And she has a 16-month-old baby at home,” he bragged, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Wow. You look amazing honey!”

I didn’t truly believe his compliments, but the warmth of his gaze and the genuine delight in his voice were undeniably intoxicating. The dress did feel good, it certainly made me feel beautiful in that moment, so I paid for it, eager to escape the stifling confines of the store and return to the sanctuary of our home.

A week later, Mark insisted on taking me out to brunch at a trendy cafe downtown. He’d convinced me that I needed a little retail therapy, and I was hesitant to refuse his persuasive charm. As we walked, he kept reaching out to brush his hand against my lower back, sending shivers down my spine. The casual intimacy felt both familiar and unsettling, like a slow burn that promised to ignite something dangerous.

“When we get back home, you’re all mine,” he whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

My cheeks flushed crimson, a potent mix of embarrassment and arousal taking hold. The thought of his touch, his attention, his possessiveness, was both terrifying and thrilling. The lace thong he’d purchased for me lay tucked away in my purse, a silent invitation to indulge in a secret pleasure.

As we approached our car, a sudden wave of panic washed over me. The thought of venturing out in public with such a provocative undergarment felt reckless, yet the anticipation of what awaited me at home was too compelling to resist. I pulled out the thong, the delicate lace cool against my fingertips, and slipped it on, ignoring the nervous glances from passersby.

Mark smirked as he saw me in the pink lace, a knowing glint in his eyes. He grabbed my butt for a playful tug, his fingers tracing the contours of my hips. “You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice laced with desire.

“Just trying to keep things interesting,” I replied, my heart pounding in my chest.

The drive home was filled with a tense, electric energy. Every touch, every glance, every whispered word felt charged with unspoken desires. As we pulled into our driveway, I felt a primal urge to get out of the car and into his arms.

We found refuge in our bedroom, the soft lighting casting long shadows across the walls. I lay on the bed, my legs slightly parted, waiting for his arrival. The lace thong felt incredibly vulnerable, exposed, and yet it felt like a delicious invitation to abandon all inhibitions.

“You dirty little slut!” he exclaimed upon seeing me in that position, his voice dripping with lust.

“Oh. I thought I was all yours when we got home. I guess not,” I responded, pulling my legs closer to my body, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

He quickly stripped off his shirt, revealing a muscular chest glistening with sweat. He grabbed my butt beneath my skirt, pulling my hips forward and down onto his lap. His fingers traced the lace trim on my panties, teasing my vulva with a deliberate slowness.

“You know what you’re doing. I said you were a slut, but I didn’t say I didn’t like it!” he declared, his voice a low rumble. He lifted my skirt slightly, exposing my entire vulva, and proceeded to kiss and stroke me with unrestrained passion. The sensation was both exquisite and overwhelming, pushing me to the very edge of my senses.

I loved the feeling of his hands exploring every inch of my body, the way he controlled the pace and intensity of his touch. It drove me crazy in all the right ways, feeding my deepest desires and igniting a fire within me. He gently rubbed my buttocks before giving it a nice crisp slap and moving my thong to the side, taking his dick out of his pants. I moaned with pleasure, completely surrendering to the moment.

“You’ve wanted this the whole time haven’t you?” he teased, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Tell me you want my dick in you.”

“Please put your dick in me! I want it in me!” I pleaded, my voice trembling with desire. “My pussy aches to be filled like that.”

“Good girl,” he said, his voice a husky whisper, before sliding his cock into my waiting body. The sensation was immediate and intense, a surge of pleasure that ripped through my veins. My vagina pulsed around it, and I felt an uncontrollable urge to push him deeper, to lose myself completely in the heat of the moment.

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmured, as he continued to stroke me with unrestrained passion. He moved his head back and forth, covering every inch of my body, pushing me to the brink of ecstasy. My moans filled the air, each primal urge satisfied by the sheer intensity of his touch.

As he pulled out, he left a lingering warmth in my body, a delicious reminder of the pleasure he’d bestowed upon me. We remained in the same position, face down and ass up, for a good fifteen minutes, lost in the intoxicating embrace of our shared desires.

“Before I face the world,” I thought, “I want to rest here for just a while longer, where I have no concerns or worries and I am completely at peace.”

He leaned down and kissed me deeply, his lips tracing the curve of my jawline, sending shivers down my spine. As he pulled back, he whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” And with that, he plunged back into me, promising another wave of pleasure that would leave me breathless and begging for more.

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