Being Mr. X has its advantages, but then so does being my wife’s husband. As Mr. X I knew all about my wife’s (near) flashing in our local café, and I knew she was out confessing some of this to a friend (likely Mona, I knew). But when she returned home and told me herself, in person, that she had once gone without panties or bra in her café, I was unexpectedly overcome with excitement. This was my wife, standing right there in front of me, revealing a sexy secret, without the distance of an e-mail. I was instantly hard at the thought of her tempting fate without underwear, even though I had thought of that exact scene many times before. Hearing the flasher story straight from her, and having her reveal the “secret”, was a powerful aphrodisiac.

Also, there are the physical advantages of being an actual husband. In a sense Mr. X is just a series of words arranged into an e-mail, whereas I’ve got a body attached to me, and having a body is a distinct advantage when it comes to sex. For the first time in the history of these experiments (I think) my wife described in fairly explicit terms a portion of my body, and what she can do to it, and I have to admit that I felt a slight reticence in posting her response. Two realizations followed: one, if the tables were turned and I had a Mrs. X, this probably wouldn’t be much of a blog; and two, my wife is probably right, and I probably do like to be in control, at least most of the time. So it was cock sucking as an educational experience, and if I owned a college that course would be required.

Another lesson (though I knew this one already): if the mind’s not satiated, the body won’t be either. So face to face, after she’d happily swallowed my orgasm, I proposed an experiment of our own. Of course I didn’t put it that way. I just said that I wanted to see what she had done for myself. I wanted her to return to the café without bra or underwear, and I wanted to be there too. She liked this plan, and we agreed to enact it the next afternoon. She would pop over from her office to do some work at her corner table, and I would arrive a bit later, sit across the room, and pretend to read a book. If any friends appeared and wondered why we were apart, we’d just say we were each getting work done. And also: I insisted on seeing something. I wanted to meet my wife the flasher.

She really does look fabulous sitting across a café. She makes you wish you had a hundred clever pickup lines, but even if you did, she makes you realize that you’d be hard-pressed to work up the nerve to cross the room and utter one. I had picked up a newspaper on my way over to the café, and as I sat across the room from this sexy blonde, I pretended to read urgent headlines that weren’t nearly as urgent as my desire to see how much my wife would risk. She had smiled over at me when I entered, but she hadn’t looked up from her computer since. She was alone in her corner at a table supported by a single metal pole, which allowed me (and anyone else) to look at her casually crossed bare legs. She had on a short red plaid skirt cut just above the knee and white flat-heeled shoes. Her shirt was a classy white cotton tank top, and although I knew that she was wearing nothing beneath it, I couldn’t quite see nipples. Her breasts are perfect handfuls and hardly change shape whether they’re in a bra or out, so it was the legs, and the promise of a pussy, that drew my attention.

There were maybe a dozen people scattered throughout the café, some alone, some in groups. At the table closest mine, two men in ties were hunched over paperwork and talking intently. My wife uncrossed her legs, and I stared for a moment, then looked stupidly down at my paper, feeling even more exposed than she was. But as Mr. X once wrote, more or less: people tend to pay less attention than you might imagine. Everyone’s so locked down in their own heads that it usually takes something pretty outrageous to turn a head. Of course my wife was pretty outrageous, so that thought wasn’t as reassuring as it might have been. But as always I loved the danger, and as she reached down to make a show of scratching her ankle, letting her knees sway apart as she did, I was already hard beneath my table.

When she straightened back up in her chair, her knees stayed open. For the woman with the worst poker face on the planet, she was staying admirably cool, and I was incredibly turned on by the thought of the practice she’s recently had in these sex situations. This was how she looked when she was out performing Mr. X’s experiments. She looked like the sort of woman who ordered men off the menu and downed them with blood-red Bordeaux. I wanted her to eat me alive. I wanted her to show me everything, to show everyone the white sweep of the insides of her thighs and the smudge of wet where they met.

She was almost showing it to me now. Under the table her hand slid up her thigh to reveal more. Above the table she was still diligently working, and no one who might have glanced at her would have suspected anything. Like a bad spy, I looked over the top of my newspaper and stared into the shadows between her legs, which she spread even further, smiling at her computer. I shifted down in my seat for a better angle, and then there, for all the world to see, was the fold of my wife’s pretty little pussy. She was grinning hard at the computer now, and I was just plain hard, nodding dumbly across the room with the newspaper now crumpled on my chest. At that point I’m sure I stood out even more than she, contorted as I was into my ridiculous position, and the men in ties beside me fell silent. I felt them turn to give me looks. Of course I didn’t take my eyes from the pinkish spot between my wife’s legs, and my focus drew their eyes to her as well.

What now, little lady? She held on for longer than I ever could have expected, staring intently at her computer screen with her legs still spread. I didn’t dare turn to look at the men. I had no idea if they were seeing what I was seeing, but their table was still silent. Then, after a moment or two, my wife casually took a sip of coffee and recrossed her legs.  She paid us no attention. We were just three men who had admired her pussy from across the room.

Grinning to myself, I straightened in my chair, paid my tab and went out to the sidewalk to wait for my flasher wife to appear. After five minutes she still hadn’t, so I fished my phone out of my humid pants and called. Her voice sparkled as if we hadn’t seen each other in weeks: “Hi sweets, what’s up? Where are you?”

Two could play this game. “Cruising the boulevard,” I said. “Picking up chicks and refining my lines.”

“Sorry…you’re breaking up…,” she said. “Anyway, I’m still at the office and might be here for a while. So much work.”

“You should take a break, go for a coffee.”

“No time,” she said. “Besides, somebody’s always trying to pick me up over there. No, I’ll just stay at my desk. Here at my office. And I might have some meetings, so don’t wait for dinner. Bye now!”

Bye.

Array

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