An Ordinary Woman?

If you saw me, you'd never guess. You'd just assume I'm an ordinary woman, in her mid-thirties, with an ordinary life. You might spot my wedding ring and realize that I'm married, but you'd never guess what being married to me is like. You might even envy my husband having an attractive wife, which would be ironic.

Attractive, but not especially glamorous. I'm not being mock-modest. I can certainly turn heads when I dress to impress, but I'm just talking about if you saw me on an ordinary day, doing my ordinary things.

Equally, I know very well that even then I'll get my fair share of lecherous looks, like most ordinary women. Because most men can't stop themselves from leering at the swell of my breasts, or ogling my long, slim legs. Men like you.

Still, if you saw me, you wouldn't guess what my life is like.

In fact, maybe you have seen me. On the train, on my way to or from work, perhaps?

Or in the supermarket at the weekend, hurrying to fill my trolley?

Depending on the situation, you'd see a slightly different woman. If dressed for work, I'd be quite smart, maybe wearing a dark skirt suit and a white blouse, and flat black shoes because I'm too tall to enjoy wearing heels when I'm out and about.

Some days, you'd glimpse the shadow of my black bra under my blouse, or maybe an inch of cleavage if I hadn't fully buttoned up. Or, if my skirt was one of my shorter ones, and I wasn't wearing any tights, you might stare at my long, brown legs as I recline in my train seat, but you'd soon look away if I gave you a disapproving glance. Until you couldn't help but start looking again, though maybe more cautiously. I'd still know, though.

Of course it depends on the weather, too. If it's summer, I might be wearing a thin cotton dress, appropriate for work, but clinging just tightly enough to suggest the slimness of my body, the tautness of my stomach and the shape and size of my boobs. In winter, I'd be muffled up in a coat and you wouldn't have any idea about my figure. But your eyes will still be drawn to the black, knee-length, leather boots that encase my calves before giving way to the black nylon that covers my legs until they disappear from your view at the hem of my coat.

In the supermarket at the weekend, I might just be in jogging trousers and a T-shirt. If so then you'd probably notice the jutting prominence of my breasts and, if you looked more closely, you'd wonder if I was wearing a bra or not. If I reach up to a high shelf, and the material of my shirt pulls taut against me, you might think you can see the outline of my nipples, but you can't be quite sure.

You wouldn't be that unusual a man, in my experience, if you lingered near me, pretending to study the shelves but really hoping that I will bend over, so that you'll be able to see down my T-shirt. If so, sometimes you'd be rewarded by the sight of my bra-less 36C tits, other times by a lacy, half-cup black bra. Then again, from another angle, you might see up my T-shirt, and get a look at my boobs hanging naked, or perhaps supported, maybe by a plain, white full-cup bra.

It's possible that, later, you'll masturbate, remembering what you saw. Or you might surprise your boring wife with a sudden rush of lust, without her ever guessing that I provoked it. Just as likely, you'll completely forget me. Just an ordinary woman, doing ordinary, everyday things.

You definitely wouldn't think anything of it if you saw me, on the train or in the supermarket, writing a text on my phone and, often, you'd be right not to do so.

But, sometimes, what I'll be texting won't be something an ordinary woman would write. Sometimes, I'll be texting my husband, and not to say 'what do you want for dinner?'

Scene one

So one day you might see me on the train. I'm coming back from work and I look slightly tired. I'm wearing a tweed skirt, with a blue and black pattern, and a cream blouse. The skirt is a sedate knee-length, and although it hugs my thighs you don't really notice it.

But you do notice that the buttons of my blouse are slightly strained by my breasts, so a couple of gaps have opened up and you can see the black, lacy cup of my bra and, sometimes, the little bow on it nestling in my cleavage. You think it's an accident, a 'wardrobe malfunction' such as any ordinary woman might suffer, but it isn't. It's deliberate.

You keep furtively looking, and I know you are, though I don't give any sign of it. You don't want to be caught looking, but you just can't stop. And you hope I won't notice, because I'm busy texting on my phone.

You would never guess it, but I'm writing something like this to my husband:

"I saw my boyfriend again at lunchtime. I suppose you guessed that when you saw the underwear I had on this morning, though you didn't dare say anything of course. I told him how much bigger his cock is than yours, and we both laughed. How does that make you feel? Are you feeling jealous?"

I'd leave it for a few moments and then send another:

"I gave him a titty-fuck. He splattered all over them and on to my face. Can you imagine if I allowed you that pleasure? But it's only real men who get that from me. Real men, with real cocks."

I'd follow it up a few minutes later, maybe writing:

"I'm feeling almost dizzy. He really stretched me out. He was so over-powering. He put me over his knee and spanked me, and made me call him 'daddy'. I might just ask him to do the same to you. It would amuse me to see you humiliated like that."

Or my follow-up might say the thing my husband really dreads:

"Afterwards, we had a wonderful talk. He really understands me. I think I'm falling in love with him. Sorry, I know that will upset you, but I can't help how I feel."

Scene two

On a different day, I'm on the train again. It's Friday afternoon, so I'm a bit earlier than usual, and looking forward to the weekend. I'm wearing a black linen dress, and of course, being linen, it has become crumpled in the course of the day. It has also bunched up slightly around my breasts.

It's quite short, and because of the way I'm sitting it has ridden even higher up my long, slim legs than if I were standing up. It's gone high enough that you can just about see that I'm wearing black stockings. But you have no idea that I'm very well aware of what I'm showing. You assume it's just a lucky chance, because surely no ordinary woman would be deliberately teasing you, relishing her power over you?

You're also probably wishing that your wife would wear stockings again sometimes, but the days when she dressed up sexily for you have long gone. Anyway, you might not be so keen for her to do so if it meant she was a wife like me.

You can't actually see my entire stocking tops, although you keep hoping that if I just move a little bit then you might, but you can see the start of the darker nylon that tells you they aren't tights. And because you are sitting opposite me you even half-hope that you might get a flash of my panties.

You're pretending to do the crossword in your newspaper, and you're wondering if you dare drop your pen so you have an excuse to kneel down and see all the way up to the top of my black stockings, my black suspender belt (or might I be wearing hold-ups?), the smooth brown skin of my thighs, and my, presumably black, panties.

Or, you wonder, perhaps I'm not even wearing any panties, and you'll get to see my vulva. If so, you wonder if it's shaved, like so many women's nowadays, or whether you'd see the crisp black hairs of my triangle. You can't stop wondering, but of course you don't dare to drop your pen, so you never find out. If you had ... well, I'm not going to tell you what you'd have seen.

You don't guess that I'd actually find it mildly amusing to see you on your knees before me, and that it would be quite fitting because the text I'm sending to my husband reads:

"Be naked and on your knees for me when I get home. I feel like being cruel to you. I might be kind to you as well, and use my slim, cool fingers to give you the release you're desperate for. Then again, I might just be cruel. I need to be cruel."

Then I send the follow-up:

"I'm going to chastise you, so make sure my tawse is out, and be ready to tell me all the times today you had lecherous thoughts about me."

And then:

"You're erect, aren't you? I know you're erect. Better hope you've got it under control before I get back -- and, no, that doesn't mean you have permission to masturbate, it means get your lecherous thoughts under control."

And then, immediately afterwards:

"But if you really love me, as you say you do, you'll have an erection to honour me, and to give me a reason to be cruel to you with my tawse. Back in ten minutes."

I get up from my seat on the train, getting ready for the next stop, mine. As I do so, I deliberately move my legs so that you finally see the entirety of my stocking tops for a moment, and the start of my suspender belt. But it happens so quickly that you hardly have time to take it in. I smooth down my dress, and all your hopes of seeing more disappear.

Standing up to my full height, I glance down at your crotch and see the expected erection, but I can tell that you don't have the kind of big cock that excites me. As I raise my glance, we make eye contact for the first time and you start to smile. In return I give you a cold look which tells you that I know you've been perving at me, but I'm out of your league.

Scene three

It's a Sunday afternoon, and I'm in the supermarket. I'm in a hurry, because it will close soon, and I look harassed and cross. In fact, just at that moment, someone seeing my face might guess that I can be quite strict, quite cruel. But they wouldn't have any idea what that really means.

It's cold outside but warm indoors, so I've taken off my coat and scarf and put them in my trolley. Underneath, I'm wearing a tight pair of black jeans, and knee-length, black leather boots with a low heel, plus an old Exeter University sweatshirt which I've had for years, and it has been washed so often that it is now slightly faded and a bit too small for me. Because it's Sunday, and because I've only been visiting my sister, I'm not wearing a bra.

You probably first notice the brisk click-clack of the heels of my boots on the polished floor. Like most men, it's a sound you find sexually exciting, and you may have started getting hard before you even take in my tall, sleek body, the tightness of my jeans around my bum, and the long, dark hair flowing over my shoulders.

Of course you decide to keep pace with me, as if accidentally visiting the same aisles that I am visiting. You're hoping, maybe, to strike up a conversation, if you dare, but if not then at least to have a good look. God, men can be so pathetic. I decide instantly, because I have an instinct for these things, that your cock is probably quite small. Too small for me.

As you trail around after me, you realize that even more exciting than my boots and my bum are my big, firm, bra-less boobs. You are mesmerized as they rise and fall under my sweatshirt. You can just about see my nipples outlined against its tight material. I know without even looking that you're semi-erect in your trousers.

I can't be bothered to work out whether or when you manage to catch a glimpse down the top, or from underneath, my sweatshirt. I'm a bit too busy to care because, apart from the shopping, I need to text my husband.

This is what I write to him:

"I talked to my sister about you today, and how you confessed to me that you had been thinking inappropriate thoughts about her again. She asked me if she can punish you."

The follow-up:

"I agreed that she can, and she will be coming round later. I ought to warn you that she intends to be very strict with you. She also asked me to suggest what she should wear whilst she puts you in your place. I know the kind of thing you'd prefer."

And after that:

"So instead I suggested it should be nothing in any way sexy, that you might get pleasure from. We decided just some old blue jeans and a cardigan, and trainer shoes, would be best. I think she's planning to use the cane, but I don't know how many strokes she'll decide to give you."

When I get to the checkout tills, you're right behind me, of course. You probably reckon that when I bend over to transfer items from my trolley to the conveyor belt is the best time to get to see down my sweatshirt to my swinging brown boobies, and I decide to let you do exactly that a few times.

Then, as if noticing you for the first time, I clutch the neck of my sweatshirt to my body, closing off the view, and letting you know that I've spotted you leching at me. I can almost hear your heart pounding, fearing that I am going to denounce you in public, but I don't.

But in the car park, as I load my shopping into the car, I see you pass and quietly say,

"Got a good look at them, did you?"

You blush, and walk faster, trying to ignore me. But the wet patch of pre-cum at the crotch of your trousers tells me, as if I didn't already know, that you will be frenziedly masturbating to me the moment you get home.

Scene four

It's the morning rush hour, and I'm on the train to London. Seeing me, you probably assume that I'm travelling for work. In fact, I'm going to spend the day with my new boyfriend, in his flat. Of course you wouldn't guess that, since I'm wearing a wedding ring.

Plus, I'm not dressed glamorously, as if for a date, because that wouldn't feel right first thing in the morning. Still, I look good, and I'm heavily made-up with red lipstick and dark black mascara. I'm wearing a new grey dress, tight at the waist and bust, and pleated at the skirt which comes down almost to my knees, below which the black nylon of my hose appears. It has just the hint of being a school uniform, though it's almost twenty years since I left school. I know it's the kind of thing my boyfriend will adore seeing me in.

If you look closely, and like all lecherous men you do, you'll notice the thin black straps of my bra peeking around the much wider shoulder straps of the dress. Then again, you may be far too busy looking at my feet and my shoes.

Unusually for me I'm wearing high-heels. I'm too tall for them really to be comfortable, but my boyfriend likes them. At this moment, I've allowed one of them to dangle from my foot. It rocks slowly back and forwards, to the rhythm of the train, and I can see that you are following each movement. Inwardly, I'm laughing at you, knowing that I've snared another pathetic foot fetishist.

My phone vibrates to indicate an incoming text, and I pull it out of my handbag. It's my boyfriend!

"I hope you remembered what I said? No panties."

"Sure. I'm on the train now and I promise I'm not wearing any."

"Did you tell hubby?"

"Ha Ha. Yes of course I did. He knew I was seeing you anyway as I'm wearing heels.

But usually I let him watch me get dressed once I've put my underwear on, and I didn't today cos of wearing no panties like you said. As you know he's never allowed to see me in anything less than my skimpies."

"How did he take it?"

"Oh, his little face looked ready to cry. So I had to remind him that it's not my fault his cock is too small to satisfy me. Not like yours."

My phone vibrates again. But this time it's my husband.

"Sorry I made a fuss this morning. Sometimes I find it difficult."

"I know. I know how difficult it is for you. But it has to be this way. You must just try to bear it. And remember not to masturbate thinking about what I'm doing, or I'll have to give you the tawse."

"Don't worry, I'm sure I've got myself under control this time. Hope you have a great time with him."

"Ah, that's sweet x"

My phone vibrates one more time. It's my boyfriend again.

"I've decided -- no bra either. Remove it now."

I reply, indicating that I will do as he orders. I get up from my seat and go to the toilet at the end of the carriage. It's cramped, but I manage to unzip the back of my dress, unclip my bra, and then work it out through the armholes of my dress. I put it in my handbag, re-zip my dress, and check my make-up in the mirror. As I walk back to my seat, I'm conscious of what my boyfriend crudely calls my 'knockers' swaying freely under my dress.

As I sit down, I see that you've noticed them, too. You probably also notice that there are no longer any bra straps to be seen at my shoulders. You certainly notice that I haven't closed my handbag and that my black bra, still warm from being next to my luscious brown skin, is lying there, the lacy cups, the straps, the hooks and eyelets all visible to your gaze.

For the first time, perhaps it occurs to you that I am not just an ordinary woman, doing ordinary, everyday things, though you could have no idea of the real truth. Then again, a woman might think, and even a man might guess, that perhaps it is just that the clasp of my bra has broken by accident and I have been forced to remove it. Nothing more than that. Or that I have discovered that I've foolishly bought a badly-fitting bra, and it has been digging painfully into my flesh.

Yes, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation except, surely, an ordinary woman wouldn't leave the discarded bra on public display? I look over at you, frown angrily and screw my face into a look of disgust, and zip my handbag firmly closed.

I shut my eyes, thinking of the day to come with my boyfriend and, even more, of telling my husband all about it when I get home. I wonder if he really will manage not to masturbate all day and, if not, exactly how I will punish him. Or, if he has controlled himself, whether, for once, I might jerk him off, making him spunk all over my lovely new dress. It would be such a small, easy thing for me to do if I choose to. He is always so on edge that it only takes two or three strokes from my cool, skilled fingers. Or I might just ruin his orgasm, and leave him twitching and frustrated. Well, I'll see how cruel I feel later.

Once more, my shoe dangles and swings provocatively from my elegant, nylon-clad foot.

Coda

Next time you see an ordinary-looking woman, doing ordinary everyday things, just remember there might be rather more to her than you think. She might be mixed-race, like me, or of any ethnicity. She might be in her mid-thirties, like me, or she might be any age. She might be tall and slim, like me, or any shape or size. She might be attractive, as I am, or she might even be beautiful, but she might very well be plain.

She might be accidentally revealing a little too much flesh, or a little glimpse of her undies. Or she might, like me, be deliberately teasing your cock and amusing herself with how weak and pliable lecherous men are, so that the tiniest hint of her sexuality enslaves them.

When she is texting on her phone, fingers tapping quickly, her face concentrated, she might be chatting to any number of people about any number of things. But she might be cruelly taunting and humiliating her cuckolded husband, or making the arrangements to meet one of her lovers.

She might be like me. If you're very lucky, she might even be me.