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Finally, Changed

I knock on the hotel door and wait. I have a bag in my hand, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. I check my watch to make sure I'm on time. That's the important bit; we don't have long before the party, before you have to be sitting at the dinner table in the fancy restaurant your husband booked for us all to celebrate your birthday.

After an age, I hear the lock click and you open the door.

"Can I get changed?" I ask.

"Sure," you nod, and let me in.

I can tell you're reluctant, and when the door closes we just stand there, looking at each other.

"Second thoughts?" I murmur.

"I guess not."

"You don't seem very...."

"I am," she interjects, and I realise I misread her.

"Nervous?"

"Yeah. Really, just really nervous."

"Raincheck? It's perfectly fine."

You shake your head, your eyes locked on mine, and I can see that you're psyching yourself up. I give you a moment more, and then we begin.

My voice is firmer now as I say, "Show me what you're wearing tonight."

You lurch into movement, and I follow you, watching the way your hips move in your jeans. You pull a black dress out of the wardrobe and lay it on the bed.Finally, Changed фото

"I thought I'd wear this," you tell me, "What do you think?"

I can see the nerves again, until I give you the answer you're hoping for. "You'll look stunning."

I smile at you and for the first time, you smile back.

"Let's start getting ready. We don't have long."

Your hands curl up in the fabric of your t-shirt, but I stop you.

"That's not how this works," I say, and you freeze.

Your hands are warm in mine and I can see the uncertainty in your eyes again. This is all so very new to you, but you wanted to see what it was like. I move your hands down to your sides, holding you lightly by the wrists. You don't resist me.

"Arms up," I tell you, "Let me."

You raise your arms and I pull your t-shirt up over your head. It's a watershed moment, and I can tell that you've committed, standing in front of me in your bra. I walk around behind you, ready to put you to the test. I touch your bra clasp and your body stiffens. You're willing yourself not to move, to just let it happen as we discussed. You know everything that's coming because we talked about it. I don't want to surprise you, and you thought it would make everything easier. I was sure it would have the opposite effect, though, going round and round in your head for weeks, incorporating itself into your little private fantasies. I just hope the reality measures up to what you've been imagining in bed as you curl up next to your husband in the dark.

You're not looking to cheat, you're a good wife, but sometimes in your head there's just that little bit more. You don't need to go any further than this to fill that little gap, acting out a little fantasy of giving up control to a stranger. We've known each other for years, but tonight you've let a man into your hotel room to dress you as he chooses.

I unhook your bra and you instinctively move to cover yourself up as I pull it away from your body. I let you fold your arms over your small breasts, shielding your nakedness. I put my hands on your shoulders and turn you around to face me, watching your expression closely. I can see something new in your face now; the nervousness has given way to something else, making your cheeks blush.

Without asking, I reach down and unbutton your jeans. The zip rasps as I draw it down, the only sound in the room. Your eyes are so pretty, locked on mine, as I watch you willing yourself not to flinch. I push your jeans down over your hips and they crumple to the floor. Automatically, you step out of them to stand before me barefoot in just your panties, caught up in the dilemma of whether to shield your breasts or your crotch. Smiling, I slide my fingers into the waist of your panties and begin to push them down, doing it slowly so that you can feel every inch as I strip you finally, completely, naked.

Your panties tumble down to your ankles and you stand there, rooted to the spot, as I step back to inspect you. Your hand snakes down to your crotch to cover yourself, but I've been waiting for that. I intercept you, pulling both your hands down to your sides.

"Let me look at you."

You bite your lip, but you remain still. I make a slow circuit, my eyes taking in the curve of your breasts, the shape of your hips, reaching out to trail my fingers over your exposed skin. I note the faded lines on your tummy, the relic of bearing two children. I trace the contours of your rear, my hand drifting up your waist as I complete my circuit, moving inexorably up your torso to your breasts.

I stop, and I can see it in your face, the confusion. You expected to be touched, your body ready to feel my hand cup your breast. Instead, I smooth my hand down your front until my fingertips make contact with the triangle of your pubic hair. You open your mouth but stop, and I fix my eyes on your face waiting for you to respond. Between your legs, my fingers are winding softly through the curls of your hair.

"Are you ready?"

You don't answer immediately, but I can tell that you've already committed to this. It's in the way your body holds its pose, even as my fingers inch further down through your tangled forest. You nod.

"I need an answer."

You lick your lips. "Yes," you whisper.

"Good. That's all I need to hear. Silent now until I allow you to speak."

Just saying the words crosses the line between us. We've talked a lot over the years, but it still took a long time for you to trust me enough to confess this thing to me, an unrequited need you've harboured ever since you can remember. You tried it with your husband, but it doesn't work because he's your husband, the man you share your life with. This needs trust but it also needs separation, an air gap and an unpredictability that is the opposite of your relationship with him.

"Legs wider."

You shuffle your feet, spreading yourself.

"Wider than that."

You open your stance further, all the time conscious of my fingers circling through your tightly-curled nest.

"Hands behind your back."

You fold your hands behind your back, taking up a display position for me. It's your first time, and I reach out, lifting your chin, straightening your back, leaning you a little more forward from the hips, adjusting your posture until I'm satisfied.

"Eyes on the floor. You're not allowed to make eye contact."

For some reason, you struggle with this, watching me for a moment longer than required before finally dropping your gaze. I stroke your cheek.

"Hold that pose until I release you."

I cross over to the floor beside the bed, where you dropped your shopping from earlier in the day. I find what I'm looking for, extracting a shoebox. I set it on the bed and open it, pulling out a pair of black matte stiletto heels to match your dress.

"Nice. You did well."

I approach you and place the shoes on the floor in front of you. I tap you lightly on the bottom to move you forward. Gracefully, you step into the heels, gaining another three inches of height, until you're nearly as tall as me. I circle around you again, noting the way the shoes lengthen and lift your legs.

"You look stunning in those," I tell you, and I can tell you're pleased, "Did you get the other item?"

You nod, knowing that you're no longer allowed to speak. I rifle through your shopping again until I find a parcel wrapped in tissue paper. I tear it open gently and hold up the contents for you to see: a lacy g-string in one hand and a basque in matching intricate black lace in the other. You bought these today, knowing as you did so that you'd find yourself here, in front of me in the nude, waiting to be dressed. I imagine how that would have been playing on your mind as you carried the bag around all morning, going from shop to shop and chatting, all the while harbouring your little secret desires. I make a show of folding your g-string up and tucking it into my pocket. You don't quite look up, but I can tell you saw me do it, your mind racing through the implications of me taking possession of your underwear for the evening.

I step up close to you, holding the front of the basque against your soft skin. I smooth the lace against your front, letting my hands explore your body, reaching upwards until my palms cup your modest breasts, sliding the fabric into place. I hear you catch your breath and I know what's on your mind, what you're aching for me to do. I deny you for the second time, my hands diverting behind your back, fastening the hooks into the eyes on the back of your basque, securing it in place over your body. You don't look up at all, your eyes boring into the carpet as you allow me to dress you, slipping each hook into place until I'm done.

I adjust the basque, pulling it up a little at the back, tugging the front into place. I cup your breasts again, gathering the softness of your mounds together in my hands, plumping you into delicious cleavage. I pause, feeling the warmth of your skin through the fabric, letting you feel the way I'm holding your breasts, watching little twin nubs stiffen beneath the lace. I'm waiting, and so are you, but I'm in no hurry, letting my touch do its work until you're gasping.

I take each nipple between thumb and finger, rolling the stiff little bumps gently, and you shudder, your knees coming together involuntarily. I tweak again and you gasp.

"Is there something you want?"

You nod, but it's a tiny movement. Your eyes never leave the floor. I watch you closely, rolling your engorged tips in my fingers slowly. I'm astounded by how far you've allowed yourself to succumb to this, the undiscovered need in you. After all this time knowing you, I would never have suspected you held such deep-seated desires.

I release your breasts and let a hand drift down your front, moving slowly so that you can savour every motion, anticipating its journey over your stomach, over your waist and back to the waiting triangle of pubic hair. This time, I don't play with your curls. My fingers explore further, tracing down over your mons and into the space between your legs, over the folds of your outer lips. I can feel you trembling.

I part you, delicately, and your hidden moisture surfaces, slickening your labia. You're already so wet, just from the anticipation of what I'm going to do to you, but you don't move at all. It's another sign of just how much you've been playing this over and over in your head ever since we talked about what you wanted me to do. Your body is frozen in position, allowing me to explore you at will, completely.

I dip a finger between your lips, slickening with your juices as I tease up and down your slit. You want to move now, I can see it in the way your shoulders tense, but you keep your arms firmly behind your back, determined not to break your display position.

"You're such a good girl for me," I murmur, my lips close enough to your ear that you shiver with a little exquisite thrill.

I spread you wider, my fingertip searching deeper, teasing and lifting your gossamer-thin hood to finally make contact with your clit. It's too much, after the anticipation, and your body shudders. You try to fold up on yourself, but I can see you fight it valiantly, forcing yourself back into your display pose even as my fingertip begins to circle your swollen nub.

My fingers are slick now, toying with your pussy, taking my time to explore you completely. You're letting me do it, and I can tell you're lost in the inner world of your fantasy now, being spread and stroked by a stranger, unable to stop him enjoying your body. It took you most of a bottle of red wine to talk about this to me, and you had the same look on your face then as you do now: soft, helpless, ashamed and horny, exposing yourself so intimately and making yourself exquisitely vulnerable.

My fingertip parts your inner lips and you close your eyes. I stop.

"No. Eyes open. I want you to watch."

Obediently, you fix your gaze on my hand, staring down at my middle finger as it slides into you. I feel you react, clenching around my intruding digit, feeling yourself being entered. I bury my finger all the way inside and pause. All your attention is focused on your crotch now, biting your lip as your breath quickens. I can feel how slick you are, playing out your fantasy.

I bend my finger in little come-hither movements and you squirm. I know what I'm doing to you, and when I find that little delicate spot deep inside you, your breath catches. It's the slightest friction, feather light, but it's enough to unleash powerful feelings in you. I can feel you responding, slickening my hand until you are sopping, gasping for air, struggling not to break pose because you need me to continue and any disobedience will be punished by me withdrawing my finger. You need to be a good girl otherwise all this will go away.

"Do you want to cum?"

You nod vigorously, your eyes fixed on my hand cupping your glistening slit. My other hand cups your breast and you know what's coming next. I tweak your nipple, making you groan as the pleasure spikes down your body directly into your poor, neglected clit. In answer, I press my thumb against your swollen nub and tweak again, making you writhe.

"Eyes on my finger," I snap, and you struggle to comply.

I can see the effect my attentions are having, and as my finger toys mercilessly with your g-spot I can sense you losing focus, your thoughts turning inwards. I release your nipple and reach behind your back to grab your wrist. You'll do whatever I want now. I push your hand against your breast, forcing you to grasp your own nipple. It's a test for you, and your fingers begin to tweak and play, sending little shocks deep into your core as you pinch yourself through the lace. Your other hand is dangling by your hip and I interlace my fingers with yours, pulling your hand to your crotch.

I'm brushing your clit with my thumb, but I stop, sliding your fingertip into position. You take over eagerly, strumming your nub without a hint of self-consciousness at being made to masturbate in front of me. I watch as you take over expertly, building yourself up to climax.

My finger is still embedded inside you, teasing and stroking your most sensitive spot, as I go around behind you. I turn you slightly, getting you into just the right position, sliding a second finger into you now and slipping in and out, moving faster until my fingers are a blur. Your body begins to arch, and you moan, muttering words that have no structure. I put my hand on your head, curling my fingers in your hair.

"Ready?" I growl, my lips brushing the back of your neck.

You can't answer, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your fingers blur over your clit. Savagely, I tug your head back, raising your eyes so you're staring straight ahead, directly into the mirror. I want you to see how you look, stripped naked in high heels and a lacy basque, squeezing your own nipple as you masturbate furiously to accompany a man's fingers plunging deeply and relentlessly inside you. Your body shudders and I feel you orgasm, your eyes locked on the vision of yourself debasing your own body for pleasure.

I pull you to me, supporting you as your knees come together, crushing my hand between your shuddering thighs as the waves of ecstasy roll on and on. I can't move my fingers now, but they're pressed up against your g-spot, deep inside, and it's enough to make your walls tremble and contract around my intrusion. But the part that stuns me is your eyes. You are locked in fierce eye-contact with the writhing, panting woman in the mirror, watching her body succumb to her shattering orgasm, the vision burning itself into your brain. You begin to crumple, but I hold you, wrapping my arm tightly around your waist.

At last, you part your legs and my hand slips out from within you. Your thighs are glossy with the sheen of your wetness and your chest is rising and falling rapidly, fighting to control the aftermath of your climax. You have surrendered yourself completely to me, but there is just one final push. I raise my juice-soaked fingers to your mouth, watching you in the mirror as your eyes find my slick digits. You know what's coming next, even though we never discussed it, and you let me part your lips and slide my fingers inside.

You close your eyes in surrender and begin to suck, tasting yourself, cleaning my fingers. Eventually, I pop them out and you turn to face me.

"Do you have something you want to say?"

You nod, but your eyes are dreamy, drifting in the afterglow of your orgasm.

"You're still not allowed to talk."

I take you by the hand over to the bed and pick up the black dress. You stand there meekly, letting me dress you, watching as I strip off myself and get changed into my shirt and trousers for dinner. I transfer your lace g-string from my jeans to my trouser pocket, watching your eyes follow the scrap of material.

"Do you want to clean up before we head downstairs?"

You nod, aware of your slick fingers from where you masturbated yourself. I didn't tell you about this part.

"Pity," I tell you, "I like you just how you are. Let's go."

Your eyes flare as you realise what I mean to do. I take your hand, leading you towards the door. You pull back for a moment, but the protest is over as soon as it began, and you allow yourself to be led out of the room and down the corridor to the elevators. We wait in front of the polished bronze doors, and I can see you looking at yourself in your reflection, lost in your thoughts.

You're going to go downstairs and we'll all go to dinner. You're going to sit there with your husband and all your friends around you, smiling and laughing, enjoying the meal. There will be presents to receive, and mine will be last, slipped into your hand at the end of the night, just before your husband takes you upstairs: your little lace g-string. Maybe you'll wear it for him, peeling off your dress in front of him in your room, to stand there in your new lingerie.

But then I remember the look on your face in the mirror as your orgasm peaked, held naked in my arms. Maybe you'll be wearing the g-string when you strip off, hiding the fact you've been naked all night under the dress.

But maybe you've changed. Maybe you won't.

---

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