Secret Rendezvous After Dark

The insistent chirping of the alarm pulled me from a deep, tangled sleep. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, painting stripes across the king-sized bed, a stark reminder of the day ahead. I stretched, savoring the lingering warmth of my wife’s body beside me, before reluctantly peeling myself away. The note taped to the back door, a crisp white rectangle against the aged wood, awaited my attention. It was a simple, elegant script, and the clip-on bow tie dangling from the doorknob confirmed the tone of the evening – controlled, demanding, and utterly intriguing.

“The kids are at my parents’ so it’s just us for tonight. I have handled all the details and am in charge for the evening. Once you come in, you are under my command. Strip down to your underwear and put on this bow tie.” It was signed simply, “The Wife.”

A slow smile spread across my face. This was a welcome change. Lately, our nights had been predictable, comfortable, bordering on monotonous. This felt different, a deliberate act of dominance, a playful assertion of control. I slipped out of bed, the cool air of the hallway a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of the bedroom. The house felt quiet, almost expectant. I stripped down in the bathroom, the familiar ritual strangely satisfying, and clipped the bow tie onto my collar. It was a silk number, midnight blue, with a tiny silver anchor charm – a subtle hint of her personality.

Following the instructions, I made my way into the kitchen, where my wife, Amelia, was already at work. She wore a navy blue blazer and skirt, a surprisingly elegant ensemble for what looked like an old garment. It was a piece she’d worn to interviews years ago, a relic from a time before we met, but she wore it with a confidence that belied its age. She turned as I entered, her eyes assessing, her expression cool and professional.

“Good, I’m glad you’ve accepted the terms,” she said, her voice low and measured. A brief, almost imperceptible flicker of something unreadable crossed her face before she continued, “It’s time for you to get to work.” She glanced down at the bulge in my underwear, a playful smirk playing on her lips, before turning back to her task. “Come chop these onions, and when you’re finished with that, start washing the dishes that are piling up in the sink.”

The task was simple, yet oddly charged. As I diced the pungent onions, I felt a growing sense of anticipation, a delicious tension building within me. The rhythmic chopping, the scent of garlic filling the air, all served to heighten my senses, priming me for what was to come. The kitchen felt small, intimate, dominated by the clatter of pans and the sharp scent of herbs.

As I finished chopping, Amelia gestured for me to turn to the sink. The pile of dirty dishes was substantial, a testament to our busy lives. I began scrubbing, my movements methodical and efficient, a silent acknowledgment of her command. The water ran hot, carrying away the grime and grease, mirroring the heat building within me.

Setting the table was next, followed by carefully arranging the silverware and placing the plates on the linen tablecloth. I served her dinner – roasted chicken with rosemary potatoes and asparagus – one bite at a time, as she instructed. Each morsel was meticulously placed on her tongue, a calculated display of her dominance. The silence was thick with unspoken desires, a delicious tension hanging in the air.

Then, I came back to the dining room. The setting was perfect, bathed in the soft glow of the recessed lighting. Amelia was seated at the head of the table, her back straight, her posture impeccable. But something had shifted. She had shifted, literally. She had climbed onto the table, her skirt hiked up, her legs spread wide, and perched on the edge, a casual display of her power. A lacy black thong peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirt, one of her favorites, a provocative piece that always got her attention.

“It’s time for you to pay for dinner,” she said, her voice dripping with a dangerous allure. She hooked a finger around the seam of her thong and slowly, deliberately, slid it over, exposing her pussy. The sight was undeniably arousing, and I felt a surge of primal instinct take over.

There was no need for words; the unspoken agreement hung heavy in the air. I knelt down in front of her, taking her hand, my fingers tracing the delicate curve of her thigh. I worked my way up, slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of her skin beneath my fingertips. Reaching her butt, I caressed her sensitive flesh with a playful flick of my tongue, teasing her before moving on to the rest of her body. I kissed above and to the left and right, but only to tease. As much as she likes receiving, I like to give. I plunged my tongue into her folds and she let out an audible gasp. I worked from the top to the bottom and back up again, straightening out my tongue and flattening it, making sure to get every inch of her. I teased her clit, flicking it with the tip of my tongue and quickly sucking on it. She may be in charge, but she is at my mercy while my head is between her legs.

She ran her hand through my hair and pulled me away. “We don’t want to get too carried away. I want to drag this out tonight,” she said through heavy breaths. Her body was trembling slightly, her breathing ragged, a clear indication of her arousal.

She sat up, straightened her skirt, and beckoned for me to stand. Noticing the more prominent bulge in my underwear, she cooed, “Oh, that must have turned you on. Pull it out and let me see it.”

I slid my underwear down, revealing my erect cock. She smiled and nodded at me. “Go ahead and stroke it.” The command was simple, but the implication was clear. I began to stroke myself, slowly at first, then building to a frenzied pace, my senses heightened by her presence.

“I want you to go right up to the edge and then stop,” she ordered. I hesitated for a moment, weighing her words, before leaning in close, my lips brushing against her sensitive flesh. I pushed further, reaching the point of no return, and then, as instructed, I pulled back, drawing a sharp breath, my cock throbbing with pleasure.

“Again.” Her voice was low, insistent. I obliged, resuming my solo pleasure, my body writhing in response to her unspoken desires. As I stroked myself, I noticed that she had opened up her shirt. I could see her perky boobs, soft skin and hard nipples. She had also drifted a hand into the front of her black thong to play with herself, running her fingers through the folds of her pussy. The whole picture was making it hard for me not to finish right then and there, but I had orders.

“I think I want some more. I’m not fully satisfied yet,” she said after some time. She stood up and slid the skirt and the thong off and then worked to take the rest of her clothes off. “Come help me with this,” she ordered. Once again, another command I was more than happy to obey.

I got her out of the rest of her clothes and admired my wife’s figure. I really did get so lucky with her. Once she was completely naked, she climbed up on the table so that she was up on all fours in our dining room.

“I want you to use that tongue again. And spank me.”

I pulled up a chair behind her. If I sat down, I would be at the perfect height to bury my tongue in her, which is exactly what I did. She let out a moan, and when she did, I slapped both cheeks with my hands, making a loud clap. She moaned even deeper, and that only turned me on more. I spent a good time eating her pussy and slapping her butt, her cheeks beginning to turn red and her groans becoming louder.

“Just do me,” she finally huffed.

I stood up, my cock at the perfect height to do her. She was so warm and wet from our warm up that I almost finished right there. As I plunged in, we both groaned in pleasure and I began to pump, riding her. I love when we have sex in doggystyle because she has the perfect butt and I get uninhibited access with my eyes and my hands. I never last too long in this position. She arched her back, and I ran my hands up to the nape of her neck and through her hair.

“Pull my hair,” she commanded.

She has just above shoulder length blond hair, so I got in close to her scalp with my hand, grabbed a handful, and started to pull. That only made her moan more. As we continued to thrust and grind, I could hear the percussive sounds of sex, my balls slapping her pussy, our grunting and moaning at each movement, the occasional clap of my hand on her butt, the squeaking of the table. But we were both worked up, and this would be a short session, despite my wife’s claimed intent to drag it out.

“Oh don’t stop, I’m so close,” she moaned.

I was too, and was just holding on to make it last longer. But I was fighting a losing battle. I could feel the climax coming—both in me and in her.

As I plunged deeper, she tightened up, groaning in delight. I shot loads of cum up in her, built up from being teased to the edge. She rode the waves of pleasure until she finally collapsed on the table. We both tried to catch our breath, sweaty, but satisfied.

I left the bow tie on the table, a silent testament to the evening's dominance.

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