Lorraine looks good in stockings. She always has. She has great legs. I guess that might have something to do with her running the best part of twenty miles a week, week in week out, which she has done since college and throughout our marriage, even on our honeymoon. The locals in Goa loved watching the white woman with long, jet black hair, running each day along the beach in just a thong and sports bra, but there was no way that Lorraine was going to let that put her off, and she is still out running around our London four times a week, giving me the chance to write this without her knowing.

So when I say that Lorraine looks good in stockings, that is English understatement. She looks fantastic. Stockings really compliment her legs, with her well defined musculature, perfect calves and thighs, and tight, awesome white butt. Before she started wearing them regularly, I used to regret that they were reserved for special occasions, but I loved those occasions, going out to restaurants, concerts, jazz clubs, and staying in for wine in the bedroom, and sex with stockings and suspender belt. Lorraine's stockings were a subtle signal, that on those nights she wanted to be on top. With stockings, my wife likes to be in control.

Not that I ever minded. Lying back on our bed, with Lorraine squatting on my cock, trimmed black pubic hair contrasting with milk white flesh, framed by black suspender belt and black stocking tops, is sheer, sexual heaven, as sheer and as sexual as the stockings themselves.

It also provides the best view that God has created. Forget all the rivers, lakes and mountains, and all the coastal scenery on this good earth. There is no better view that that of my wife's cunt stretched around the solid shaft of my cock, whether as she lowers herself over the head, or when she is resting on my groin, and every inch of my erection is lodged inside her.

Resting my hands on her thighs and sensing the taut nylon, while she raises and lowers herself, at the rhythm and angle that gives her the most pleasure, is simultaneous bliss and torture. Something about the way she does it is all but unbearable, and my semen inevitably rises against my will, jetting with a delicious intensity through my shaft and flooding her. She seems to love that I cannot control my ejaculation when she is on top, while I can fuck her for ever when she is beneath me. But this is about Lorraine starting to wear her stockings for another reason than to be on top, not about my inability to hold back when it is she who is fucking me instead of the other way around.

We get dressed at the same time in the morning, and leave our flat together. I cycle to my office, the ten mile round trip keeping me fit, instead of running twenty miles a week. Lorraine takes the tube into the city, to the corporation where she works in finance. She walks to the station. By the time I get my bike out from the underground garage, she is on the high street, and moments later, I pass her with a wave.

Most of the year round, Lorraine used to wear tights, sometimes a trouser suit. On a hot day in the summer she might go bare legged, ignoring the assumption that legs should be tanned, and staying with dark business skirts, black or slate grey, that emphasise the whiteness of her calves, but apart from those warm summer days, that my wife always wore tights.

It was a Monday in autumn that her routine changed. It was already too cool to go bare legged. I was bringing through two mugs of freshly brewed Columbian coffee, stark naked - myself, not the coffee - and Lorraine was standing beside our bed, left foot on the ground, her right foot on our duvet cover, easing the stocking top up the rest of her thigh and clipping the two suspender straps in place, front and back. The nylon was black, the only colour she ever wears, if black can be a colour. When it comes to stockings, black is more an absence of colour, a deep, erotic darkness.

I put Lorraine's coffee on the leather place mat on the chest of drawers beside her.

"Thanks," she said.

"Stockings?" I asked. "That's new."

Lorraine put her right foot on the ground, did the careful fingering thing that women do to prepare her second stocking ready to put on and raised her left leg, sliding the nylon onto her foot, her ankle, and her perfect calf. She looked up through her jet black mane of hair.

"It makes a change," she said. "What do you think of them?"

"They look good," I said. "But I guess it helps to have legs like yours."

I have always been a leg man. Lorraine has a slender torso, with a slim waist, a well defined rib-cage, and neat breasts that do not really need the sports bra that she wears for running, or any other kind of bra, except to soften the outline of her dark, cherry nipples beneath her clothing - but it is her legs that I really love, especially when they are up and pressed against my shoulders.

Just the same, Lorraine wearing stockings on a weekday, heading off to work, set my alarm bells ringing. Making a change did not seem quite enough of an explanation. In the nine years that we had been married, she had never worn stockings to the office.

Stockings, in our relationship, meant the 'I want to be on top' kind of sex that I have just described. When Lorraine wore stockings to bed, it meant that she wanted to pass on all of the tender closeness, gentle kisses and loving touches that were the prequel to meaningful love making. She just wanted hard cock that she could ride for her own, personal pleasure.

Not that Lorraine had only ever worn stockings when it was time for bed. We might be heading for a concert, or going to dinner with some friends, and having a romantic evening in our favourite restaurant, and Lorraine would put on stockings instead of her daytime tights, but even then, they were a signal, telling me what she would want when we got back, and keeping me hungry in anticipation throughout the evening.

So Lorraine sliding on a pair of stockings on a Monday morning, getting ready for the office, was a turn on, but also was a cause for serious concern, because if she was not going to climb onto my cock and ride it every which way in the next few hours, just maybe she was wearing her stockings for someone else.

That thought gave me some serious discomfort, not just in my head, but right in the pit of my gut. I thought of saying something, but making an accusation purely on the evidence of a pair of black nylon stockings seemed too much like risking our relationship. You have to know for sure, before you call it as it is. Maybe it really was just that my wife felt like a change, exactly as she said. If that was the case, an accusation could be seriously damaging.

So I let it pass.

Lorraine walked to the station in her stockings. I got on my bike and cycled to my own place of employment. I worked through what I needed to, slower than I usually do, picturing her in her office, thinking of the bare white flesh above her stocking tops, hidden by her skirt, but just maybe visible when she sat.

I thought about more than that. My work came to a complete standstill when I pictured her in some guy's office with the door closed while her fucked her up against the wall, or bent her over his desk and fucked her from behind, or sat her on the same desk, opened her legs, and fucked her with her stockinged legs up and around his waist, her ankles locked behind his back.

I stared, motionless, at my workstation monitor, hand on my mouse, immobile, as I thought of my wife exiting this guy's office, his come leaking from her cunt, saturating her panties, and her having to use the rest room to get cleaned up enough to go back to work alongside her other colleagues.

It was not my most productive day.

Then, in the evening, as we gave each they the loving hugs and kisses that we always do, my forensic skills were suddenly aroused, alert for any sign that she had been with another guy, any slight difference in how she smelled, how she behaved, anything at all, and picked up on absolutely nothing. If she was guilty, but acting innocent, my beautiful wife would have won an Oscar.

Some couples stay in their work clothes until it is time for bed. Some change into jeans and tops. Some bathe and shower, and wear robes if they are staying in. We keep our apartment warm enough that thick robes are not needed, and we have matching black satin, kimono style robes with simple belt ties for our lazy weeknight evenings.

Lorraine kept her suspender belt and stockings on, her kimono skimming her stocking tops. I liked that. It was sexy in the kitchen, sexy at the table while we ate, and sexy on our sofa as we chilled to some television shows. I loved stroking her inner thigh, on the white of her leg above her stocking top, although all the time I was enjoying the warmth of her flesh, I was wondering if touching her a little higher, I might feel hardened semen on her panties.

What I could not figure was the way my body was reacting. The idea that she had dressed for some other guy, had allowed this guy to fuck her, had even wanted him to and planned for it, was tearing my brain apart, but having my hand right there, so close to where his cock would have been, was making my own cock as hard and rigid as it had ever been.

I was wearing boxer shorts beneath my own robe. Boxer shorts do nothing to disguise erections. Light kimono robes do not do much more. My tent was obvious, even before Lorraine slipped her hand inside my wrap and felt it for herself, asking if it was for her.

Monday nights we might make love, or we might not. We might just get close, tell each other that we loved each other, and drift off to sleep. That Monday night we fucked the hell out of one another. It was not just my cock slamming into Lorraine's wet cunt. It was her using the taut, running trained muscles of her buttocks to meet and greet my cock every time I thrust it into her, hitting the base of my cock with her pelvic bone, while she clawed at my back with her hands and tightened her legs around my waist as if she was going to stay there for an eternity.

Our sex life had always been good. That night it was incredible.

What blew my mind was that this became the norm. It was not just that first Monday. It was Tuesday, Wednesday and every day. It seemed like Lorraine had bought enough stockings to open a new pack each and every day of that week, and the bathroom rail had rinsed out stockings hanging from it every night.

Apart from that, nothing seemed to change, or if anything, things improved. Our sex life had been good. Chatting with other married mates who had weekend sex, our four times a week had seemed pretty frequent, above the South West London average anyway. Thinking about Lorraine wearing stockings on the tube, and around the office, clearly had an impact on my sperm production. Four nights a week became every night.

It was not just me. Lorraine seemed to be more up for it as well. Going to bed became the way that it had been the first six months of marriage, getting close and intertwined, hands all over everywhere, hers at my cock, mine at her pussy, fingers running through her pubic curls, delving between her nether lips to explore the wetness that must have been there even before we got intimately personal, before turning her and moving between her legs and entering her waiting cunt.

So, every night we fucked like rabbits.

To be honest, I am not sure just how rabbits fuck. I have never seen it happen, not even on those wild-life programmes. They seem like gentle fluffy creatures, and I find it difficult picturing them going at it with abandon, hammer and tongs and all. With their short little arms, even just holding on to get the necessary traction must be tough.

Forget rabbits. They are far too cuddly. It would be better to say that we fucked like animals, the way wild dogs fuck, the male with its cock rigid on the prowl for a bitch on heat, the bitch giving off its scent to attract the male, locking her cunt around his cock and enjoying the fuck.

I was like the leader of the pack, letting my bitch know exactly who she belonged to, and fucking her the way that she needed to be fucked so that whatever other dog she might have let fuck her earlier, it would be my cock that she would remember all night and all day long.

One other little thing became routine.

I checked, each night. Lorraine would leave her panties in our laundry basket in our bedroom before she went to clean her teeth and to do whatever else she did with the door of our ensuite bathroom closed for privacy. It was just her panties that she would drop into the basket. She kept her suspender belt and stockings on, going to the bathroom, and climbing into bed.

I would take the opportunity that Lorraine's ten minutes of bathroom privacy provided, and I would lift the lid of our laundry basket, fish out my wife's panties, and check them carefully. There was never any sign of any semen. Not that the guy might not use a condom. But the absence of evidence meant that a not guilty verdict could not be challenged. I had nothing tangible to make me suspect that something more was going on, just that nagging feeling in my gut.

It was the first Thursday of office life in stockings, after we had made love until we were both feeling a little raw, that Lorraine commented on what was going on.

"If I'd known that my wearing stockings to work had this effect on you, I'd have done it years ago."

"I can't help it if they turn me on," I said.

"I'm not complaining," Lorraine said, snuggling close. "Love you, love your cock, love you more."

"Love you too," I said, wondering yet again what had stimulated the change in her years' old habit of wearing tights, not liking the possible reason, but loving the effect that it was having, and loving our closeness.

The thongs started to appear a few weeks later. Lorraine had always been a knickers or panties kind of a girl. I am never sure which is which. I have always thought that knickers are the frumpy cotton things that are worn for practicality, and panties are the closer cut, frillier version, worn to tempt and tease. If so, Lorraine had always been a panties kind of a girl.

Lorraine had never really gone in for the more revealing, more teasing, thongs. Sometime way back she had commented that thongs bit into her crotch a bit too much for wearing to work, so the morning I watched her sliding a thong over her stockings and suspenders made me wonder a little why she had changed her mind.

Lorraine stayed with black. Just like her stockings and suspender belt, Lorraine's thongs were always black. Each morning a black triangle of thin fabric covered her trimmed black pubic hair, with a slim line of black across her lower back just below the thicker black of her suspender belt, with another line of black disappearing down between her white buttock cheeks, keeping that black triangle taut..

It occurred to me that wearing her thong outside her suspender belt meant that removing it would be easier, but I guessed that visits to the restroom could be the more innocent explanation, rather than providing ease of access to whichever guy was the reason for her starting to wear stockings, and now these thongs.

I knew, from experience, that a thong left in place can cause chaffing when you are thrusting in and out. All you have to do, if the thong is worn on the outside of the suspender straps, is pull it down. It makes access to the woman's cunt quick and easy. You just slide right on in, and fuck her.

I did not really want to think about this other reason as to why Lorraine was wearing her thong outside her suspender belt. I tried to remember how she had been wearing her panties up until this switch to leaving her butt bare beneath her skirt, and having her trimmed copse of curls only just hidden if crossing her legs at an office meeting was done just a little less carefully than usually.

Even with her thongs, I checked from time to time, while Lorraine was in the bathroom, for any sign of anything at all, but nothing seemed more than her own secretions might explain. I still had not got a case that would stand up in any court.

Meanwhile, sex with Lorraine continued to be good. Life with Lorraine continued to be good, in our apartment, out with friends, visiting relatives, date nights, everything.

One date night raised concern. I am sure that it was just coincidence. The reaction Lorraine gave on his coming over and commenting on our being at the same concert in the South Bank certainly suggested genuine surprise.

His name was Richard. He was someone more senior in her firm, exactly what, I did not catch. Tall, suave, good looking, if you like the swept back, black haired look, and rimless glasses. His wife, Laura, was blonde, also tall, and well proportioned. They would have been in their fifties, maybe twenty years ahead of us in earnings and quality of life.

It was all small talk, of course, and it lasted only the last few minutes of the interval but one comment that he made quietly to me left me wondering.

"She's really rather good, you know," he said. "Quite an asset."

The second half of the concern was slightly marred by thoughts of Lorraine in Richard's office, Richard enjoying his company's assets, as a guy like him might assume to be his right. I guessed that he was the kind of guy who would prefer stockings to tights, and thongs to knickers, and might even tell an employee he was fucking what to wear. I knew for sure that my wife would be extremely good. She was always extremely good with me. I was sure that if my increasing suspicions were true, then this Richard would be enjoying my wife's assets just as much as I was doing.

I have always been good at putting a name to a face. Now I could put a name and a face to the cock that I had been thinking was the reason for Lorraine's stockings, suspender belts and thongs. Any time that I wondered exactly what was going on, it was Richard's face I saw. I really did not like that, especially when Lorraine and I were making out. Even if the thought just slipped past fleetingly, I could picture the guy's face, and I knew his name, and I was enjoying the same wet cunt that he was probably enjoying too. It was not a good place to be, that is where I was.

Just the same, I had nothing to go on, other than Lorraine's change of dress style, beneath her dress, and the fact that her senior was a confident guy who rated her. No lawyer could argue that case and hope to get a firm conviction. It would not stand up in any kitchen confrontation. Besides, life was still good. Lorraine was as loving as ever, in bed and out of bed. I really had nothing of substance to complain about.

It was a few weeks later that something else was different. She felt very different, down there, between her legs.

It was around ten thirty, and we were in bed. We had turned towards each there, as we always do. It is one of the things I love about Lorraine, that there is no holding back the signs of affection. We get close every night, luxuriating in each other's bodies.

I slid my hand down Lorraine's stomach to her pubis and immediately realised what was different. Her skin was smooth and free of hair all the way over her pubic mound, right to her slit, which was already wet and inviting.

We have been married for nine years, and although Lorraine has kept her pubic growth neatly trimmed, she had never gone in for the totally exposed, smooth and hairless look, mainly because she has not seen the point of going through the pain. Waxing hurts, or so they say. I have never tried it for myself. But now, my wife's pussy was devoid of hair. She felt new, fresh, and deliciously accessible.

My cock was already hard. Most nights we were making love, so it was primed and ready, but feeling her hairless mons it stiffened even more, in spite of the involuntary thought that maybe someone else had told her to visit the beautician, and maybe even paid for it.
I wondered if Richard liked his women devoid of pubic hair.

"Fuck me," Lorraine said, possibly detecting my slight hesitation.

And so I fucked her, wondering all the while, as I slid my cock in and out of her tight, wet cunt, whether my suspicions were just a kind of sexual paranoia, or if someone else, Richard perhaps, was fucking this same cunt.

Lorraine stopped wearing thongs the same day she had her pubic hair removed. She did not wear anything else instead. She dressed in just her skirt suit, bra, suspender belt and stockings. Beneath her skirt, my wife's ass and mons were bare, even though it was now January, and cold air circulated there when she walked to the station, cool breezes swirling and sniffing around her exposed cunt, free of fabric, and of its natural insulation of pubic curls.

Not that I objected to Lorraine's new look. It suited her slender frame. I enjoyed her new nakedness beneath her kimono robe around our apartment, the absence of pubic hair exposing her slit with its delicate pink labia just peeping from within, and conveying the subliminal message that her cunt was at all times available and ready to be fucked, which, of course, it was.

I absolutely loved the way her black suspender belt and stockings now framed the white purity of her pubic region. Watching her dressing for work was a delight, marred only by that ever present question running through my head.

I have always enjoyed going down on my wife, opening her slit to reveal the inner surfaces and her neatly recessed clit, and licking at her with my tongue, tasting her secretions, stimulating her with tongue tip teases.

Lorraine's new, smooth mons made this an even more delightful pastime. I could kiss and lick between her legs, above and below her slit, with not a single hair against my lips, adhering to my tongue, or trapping itself between my teeth.

Occasionally, I wondered if there was a slightly different odour, but I know that my sense of smell is not always trustworthy, and that like any woman, Lorraine's odours vary, and are always stronger before she showers. Besides, Richard, if it was Richard, if it was anyone, clearly prefered a condom when fucking someone else's wife. Leave no traces, no hard, encrusted evidence, for the suspicious husband to detect.

For whatever reason, the thought that I might be licking where another man had fucked never put me off when I went down on her. If anything it made me delve deeper between her nether lips, wanting to give her greater pleasure.

When we fucked the experience was much the same. Thinking of the possibility that another cock had been there only made me fuck her harder, as if something deep and dark within my brain was telling me to let her know just who she belonged to, that she was mine to fuck as hard and as furiously as I wanted, when I wanted.

Then, a month or so after her pubic hair had gone, Lorraine passed me her mobile.

"What do you think?" she asked.

I looked at the photo displayed on the touch screen. I had seen similar photos while browsing online in private, but having Lorraine show me one while we were sipping wine in bed was something new.

The photo was a close up of a woman's pussy. Like Lorraine's there was no sign of a single curl, but since Lorraine had already had hers removed, that was obviously not what she was asking about. There was something else, way more daring than having a hairless slit.

I wondered if Lorraine was really serious. This was something I had never even fantasised about. I had seen them of course, in photos, and I liked the look, but I had never in my wildest dreams thought that the woman I had married would go that far.

"Think how?" I asked, not sure exactly what the question was, and whether this was a hypothetical question, set to test how I would respond, or if she really was thinking of getting herself adorned like this.

"I mean, would you mind if I got one?" she asked. She seemed to be really thinking about it.

I glanced at the photo on her mobile screen again. The woman had no protruding labia, just a slit that defined her entrance, with a sparkling imitation diamond nestling at the apex of the slit, and a gold ball an inch higher, securing what had to be a curved gold bar that pierced the woman's most intimate female flesh.

I even knew the name of the piercing, a vertical clit hood, set through the small flap of flesh that covers the clitoris when it is not aroused, so that the bar-bell rests against the clitoris, stimulating it when it is touched. I can read websites, and a guy needs to educate himself.

One of the things that I have learned is that when your wife asks a question like that, there are two possible angles. Either she has already decided what she plans to do, and is checking your reaction, knowing that she will go ahead and do exactly as she is planning regardless of what you say, or it is a trap to lure you into revealing what you think, to be held as evidence against you and used whether straight away, or later, when it suits her.

The trick was to avoid enthusiasm of any kind, even if my cock was giving away what I was thinking.

"It's not something I'd ask you to do," I said, "but if you want to,..."

"I didn't say I wanted to," Lorraine said. "I was just asking what you thought."

I was glad that I had played safe. It seemed that caution had been the wiser call. It was just one of those questions that was purely hypothetical, and that giving the wrong answer might not have been a great idea. Too enthusiastic, and I might have been a pervert. Too dismissive and I might have been a prude.

"Well," I said. "It's interesting, I guess. Why? What made you ask?"

"I just came across it," Lorraine said. "That's all."

That was by no means all. I had totally forgotten about that little conversation when three weeks later Lorraine apologised.

We had both got back from work. I was home first, and greeted Lorraine with our usual hugs and kisses. Actually, I was feeling horny, and was hoping that Lorraine might enjoy a fuck before we ate.

Lorraine had taken off her spring coat, and I was embracing her in our hallway, slowly drawing up the back of her skirt as we kissed, until I could feel the warm flesh of her bare butt beneath. I had become used to her wearing nothing below her skirts, and enjoyed fingering the naked flesh of her taut, muscular buttock cheeks.

I did wonder, as I still so frequently tended to wonder, whether this Richard that I met some months before was still fucking her, if he ever had, but that simply made me more horny, and keener to get her in our bedroom and on the bed.

"I'm sorry," Lorraine whispered in my ear. "But not tonight."

My cock started to flag instantly with disappointment. It sensed that it was not going to enjoy the warmth, wetness and tightness of my wife's hairless cunt.

"Are you on?" I asked, calculating from when she had had her last period, and thinking that it had only been two weeks before.

She pulled back just a little, her head no longer beside mine, but facing me, looking up into my eyes.

"The piercer said no sex for two weeks," she said.

"Are you serious?" I asked.

The question was ambiguous, and I was not sure myself whether it was the no sex, or the implication that she had been pierced, that I had meant.

"I'm serious," she said. "She said it would slow down the healing process."

"You've had it done?" I said, disbelieving.

"During lunch," she said.

"The diamond stud?" I asked.

"Not yet," she said. "It's a steel bar-bell that she put in. Once it has healed, in four to six months, I can get it changed, or have the piercing stretched."

"It hurt?" I asked.

"It hurt," she said. "But only when she put the needle through, and again when she put the bar-bell in. Now it actually feels quite nice."

"And you went back to the office afterwards?"

She nodded.

"Sure," she said. "It felt good, knowing that it was there,"

I wondered if she had shown Richard. Then I thought that he might have actually made the appointment for her. He might had gone into the room when it was done, and watched someone else's wife having her pussy pierced just because he asked her to.

The honest truth is that I liked it. It really suited her. Lorraine has her slightly protruding labia, but the piercing complimented them beautifully, even if both the retaining balls were steel, and neither gold nor imitation diamond were yet in evidence.

The serious downside was the strict no touch rule for two weeks. I wanted to fuck her pierced pussy as soon as I saw it, but piercing safety and hygiene rules said that I had to wait.

At least he would have to wait as well. Serve him right. It probably was his idea. He was no doubt delighted with himself that he had persuaded someone else's wife to have her pussy pierced, and was looking forward to fucking her again just as much as I was.

At least, those thoughts crossed my mind, again and again in the two weeks while I was waiting. There was still no proof of anything. Lorraine had done absolutely nothing to give me reason to suspect that anything was going on, except for the way that she now went to work, not only dressing so sexually, but with her pussy hairless and now pierced. There could still be some other explanation, even if it was just my wife wanting to feel more sexual purely for her own self esteem.

Meanwhile Lorraine was following the advice that she had been given, not to wear anything that might rub against or pull on her new piercing. She had stopped wearing anything other than her suspender belt and stockings beneath her skirt to work, but she also had to stop wearing jeans at the weekend, and wore casual skirts instead.

Time had passed. It was autumn when Lorraine had stopped wearing tights to work and started wearing stockings. It was late spring when she had her piercing done. The weather was warm enough not to need a coat, which meant that Lorraine's commute by tube was in her skirt-suit. My wife was riding escalators and taking stairs naked beneath her skirt, her pussy bare, devoid of hair, with its new steel piercing nestling at the apex of her slit. That thought got to me.

She was walking around her office like that as well, at her desk, attending meetings, sitting on chairs and sofas for in more formal and less formal settings, her hem line rising, maybe the bare flesh above her stocking tops showing at the side, needing to cross her legs or keep them tight together, to ensure that no one opposite saw what I saw when she was dressing, and undressing, back in our apartment.

I wondered if Richard had private meetings with her in his office.

The middle of that fortnight was Lorraine's mother's birthday. There were six of us at a celebratory restaurant dinner on the Sunday. Her parents', her younger sister and her sister's boyfriend, and ourselves. Lorraine wore an electric blue dress with a high side split. She was still following the piercer's rules. Beneath her dress, Lorraine wore a bra, to smooth out the inevitable profile of her nipples, and nothing else.

The meal was superb, but the fact that Lorraine's family, her parents in particular, would have been shocked had they been aware what lay beneath her dress made it all the more enjoyable. It was just a pity, and seriously frustrating, that I could not yet fuck her when we got home.

The sex, when we finally resumed a fortnight later, was just incredible. Lorraine had told me that just walking around, she enjoyed the sensations that her piercing gave her. The curved steel bar bell had been inserted under her clit hood, right against her clitoris, and every step she took, every movement, reminded her that it was there, and stimulated her with pulses of sensual pleasure. She loved it.

Lorraine has always enjoyed it when I fuck her, by which I mean not the whole beginning to end of making love, but the actual thrusting in and out of her. She is sensitive enough to love the feeling of bare cock sliding in deep, and then withdrawing, only to be repeated time and time again. With her piercing, she loved it even more, enjoying my cock as deep inside her as it could get, because then my lower belly pushed against hers, her bar-bell moved against her clit, and she enjoyed not just one, but a series of ongoing orgasms that she said were hard to tell when one ended and the next began.

It was good for me as well. The pulsations of her vagina when she came felt incredible around my cock head and my shaft. What worked for her pussy, worked for my cock. As Lorraine put it, we really could not understand why every woman would not get herself pierced right at their clitoris, just like hers.

Three weeks later, we were drinking Moet.

Lorraine had bought the Moet on her way from the tube station to our apartment. She was grinning from ear to ear when she walked in.

"This is for us," she said. "I want you to take me to bed right now and fuck me while it's cooling, and then we can celebrate my good news."

A gentleman never turns down his wife's request to fuck her, not even when he is intrigued as to what the good news is all about. I took the champagne from her hand and put it in the freezer, as a faster way to chill it then the fridge. Lorraine was already in our bedroom.

She was out of her skirt-suit, blouse and bra, and lying on the bed in her stockings and suspender belt, her steel piercing twinkling. I got undressed and joined her. I was moving to intertwine a little before getting on top and sliding my cock inside her, but she intervened.

"Lie on your back," she said. It was said gently, a request more than an instruction, and I went with the flow.

It was Lorraine who moved between my legs, licking my already erect cock from my balls to the tip of the head.

She looked at me, still smiling.

"I want you to enjoy this," she said. "It's my way of saying thank you, for letting me do what I've been doing."

Then she got to work, using her mouth on my inner thighs, balls and cock, exploring every nook and cranny with her lips and tongue, and taking my cock head in her mouth as far as it would go. She even got me to raise my butt, and went below my balls with her wet tongue, rimming and probing where the sun never shines.

I lay there luxuriating in everything she did. What guy would not enjoy their wife doing all that to them?

I also wondered exactly what it was that my wife was thanking me for, letting her do what she had been doing. For more than six months I had never been sure exactly what she had been doing. I was trying to work out if the pleasure I was received was really the way a wife would thank her husband for allowing her to fuck a guy at work, letting this guy tell her how to dress, tell her to keep her pussy hair free for him, and then giving her the neatest piercing ever.

Right then, with everything she was doing, it might even have been worth it. If the amazing sex we had been enjoying, and the delicious treatment she was giving me, were the pay back for not asking what was happening at work, then maybe it was better not to ask.

Looking at her as she sucked my cock, and then having her reach both hands to play with my nipples while I just lay there, accepting, I was thinking how many guys get to enjoy sex like this with their wives. I guess not that many, at least not after the initial honeymoon period has died down, and things have become more routine.

Lorraine finally moved up, kneeling on either side of my torso and reaching between her legs to angle my cock just right before lowering herself onto it.

Her cunt was beautifully wet and tight. It was almost like it felt too much, too intense.

She stayed like that, using her red painted finger nails to tease my nipples, and I took in the slender seductress I was lucky enough to have love me, and who I loved so much.

My eyes went to her pussy. I had become used to the absence of hair, and loved the look of milk white flesh all the way to the neat pink lips stretched around my shaft. I loved the contrast of her soft, vulnerable flesh, with the hardness of the steel set through that flesh, and the glint of the balls securing it, one larger than the other.

I reached for my wife's cherry nipples, but Lorraine eased my arms away, saying that there was something that she had to tell me.

I waited, wondering if she was finally about to be open about what had been happening, and how I should respond.

"You remember the guy we met at the concert last year, with his wife?" she said. "I introduced you to him."

"Sure," I said. "I remember. Richard, wasn't it?"

"That's right," Lorraine confirmed. "Well, what I didn't tell you, was that a month or so before then, he came onto me."

I sensed my cock twitch inside her, but I said nothing, waiting for what was to come. I knew the way that office politics can work. There were still plenty of men around who think that the women in their office are fair game. It seemed that I was right about Richard being one of them.

"It was in his office," Lorraine said. "He closed the door, and sort of got me against the wall, so there was no way out."

I just listened.

"He used one hand to cup my breast. The other was under my skirt before I could even react, and he was telling me that he'd wanted to fuck me for a long time."

Inside I was getting angry at this guy doing that to my wife, but my cock was somehow getting harder.

"So that's what the stockings and everything have been about?" I said. "Those were for him?"

"In a way," my wife said. "He seemed surprised when he tried to finger me and found that I was wearing tights. He even said they didn't suit me. Real women wore stockings. So I thought okay, then I might as well let him know that I'm a real woman."

"Okay," I said, although I was not really feeling okay at all.

I guess up until then I had been able to repress the thoughts of this guy fucking my wife whenever those they had come into my head, but hearing Lorraine tell me what had actually happened made it all too real.

"You seemed to like my stockings too," Lorraine went on. "I love the way you watch me getting dressed, and the way we made love more often. I guess I'd been neglecting that side of our relationship."

She gave a squeeze with her vaginal muscles, tightening them around my cock.

"And I'd never dressed sexily for the office before. It felt good, especially when I realised that other guys were noticing my stocking tops as well."

Listening to my incredibly sexy wife talk like this was sending confused messages from my head to my cock, and back again. It was a turn on, and it was a turn off, both at the same time. Lorraine looked amazing, squatting on my cock, and the sensations I was experiencing were exquisite. But the thought of her wearing stockings because this guy had told her to, and was regularly fucking her, was flipping the switch the other way.

I guess, like any married guy, I wanted my wife for myself. The way that it is supposed to work, a wife is supposed to dress sexily for her husband, not for some other guy, who is fucking her on the side.

Having suspected something like this was going on for over six months, I guess I should have worked out how I would deal with it if it turned out to be true, but I had not got that straight in my head. It did not help that everything about our relationship was so good. Our sex life was wonderful, our day to day living together was good, relaxed, and fun, and I just loved the woman, even more than sex and our easy, supportive relationship could ever explain. Everything was absolutely perfect. I really did not want that to be disturbed.

But now I knew there really was this other guy.

I pictured Lorraine bent over this guy's desk, the door locked against interruptions. All he had to do was lift her skirt. Her cunt was bare and waiting for him. I wondered if his cock was bare as well, and then remembered that there had never been any sign of semen. Maybe she douched.
Lorraine was still talking.

"I think the way you've been with what I've been doing is amazing," she was saying. "I mean letting me go to work dressed like that is one thing. Letting me have my piercing, after I'd got rid of my pubic hair, that was so good."

I glanced at her hairless pubic mound, and at her pussy, her delicate labia stretched around the base of my cock, the piercing glinting back at me.

That was when my thoughts all came together, sorting themselves out so that I had totally clarity. There was no way I should accept another guy fucking my wife, let alone arranging for her to be pierced.

I looked at Lorraine's left hand, the one with the wedding band that I had given her, and the diamond cluster engagement ring. Now she planned to wear a larger single diamond at her clit, just as soon as her piercing had healed enough to switch from surgical steel to gold. The diamond might be paste, but it would be telling me her clit belonged to someone else. He could have her. It was over, and it was time to lift her off my cock.

"What was really wonderful," Lorraine said, "was the look on his face when I flashed him a glimpse of my piercing. He went all red, and looked like he nearly had a heart attack. Everyone else in the room was wondering what had happened to him. It felt almost as good as when I slapped him."

She was smiling at the thought. I was putting my hands under her legs, finding her shins to get the right grip to lift her and put her to one side, when I did a double think about what she had just said.

"It felt almost as good as when I slapped him..."

It was like I had been slapped in the face myself, and woken from a nightmare.

"You slapped him?" I asked.

"Well, he shouldn't have put his hand up my skirt," Lorraine said. "And it seemed the only way to get out of his office."

My brain was whirring. From thinking that the guy had been fucking my wife for the past six months, I was trying to rewire my synapses to take in that Lorraine seemed to be telling me that she had actually fought him off, which left me wondering about the stockings, the hairless pussy, and the piercing.

"So you slapped him?" I repeated.

"Pretty hard," Lorraine said. "He didn't show his face for a while that day. It would have shown the mark."

"So, he never got to fuck you?" I said. It was a pretty crude way to ask, but I needed to be clear about exactly what had happened.

Lorraine went serious, concerned that I could even ask.

"I slapped him," she said again. "He backed off, and I let myself out of his office while he was still hurting. If anything else had happened, I'd have told you."

"Sorry," I said, "I lost track a little. So, why exactly did you decide to start wearing stockings instead of tights? I thought you said it was his idea."

"To let him know what he was missing out on," Lorraine explained. "I thought if he was going to try to force himself onto me, then I wanted him to know that I could be as sexy as hell, and he was not getting any of it."

"Okay..." I said. "So..."

"So the next day we were in a meeting in the break out area, and he was sitting opposite. I wasn't sure if he could tell if I was wearing stockings, so I crossed my legs again, just to be sure he noticed. I saw him looking, and I just crossed my legs a few more times as the meeting went on. It was fun."

I was beginning to get the picture, and was relaxing a little. My cock was also getting the picture, but instead of relaxing at the thought of my wife flashing her white thighs at this guy by crossing her legs while she was sitting opposite him, my cock was finding the scenario something of a turn on, and was getting stiff again.

"So you teased the guy?" I said.

"A few times," Lorraine.

I smiled at the thought.

"So losing your pubic hair, getting yourself pierced, was that all about teasing this guy?"

"Not quite," Lorraine said. "It was really for me. I'd discovered that wearing stockings made me feel really good about the way I dressed. Wearing thongs took it to the next level. It was like a kind of power dressing. Some of the other men noticed as well. I could tell they looked at me differently. It even made me feel good about the work I was getting through.

"Besides," she grinned. "You were fucking me more."

"Okay,..." I said again, still trying to work out her logic.

"So I thought, why not go further. After I had myself waxed it just felt incredible, going around the office knowing how naked I was underneath my skirt, especially when I went without a thong."

"With no one else knowing?" I asked.

"Oh, Richard knew," Lorraine said. "I showed him."

"You flashed him from one of the sofas?" I asked, wondering if she had really done that.

"Not quite," Lorraine.

"What then?" I asked.

"I went to his office with a report that I'd completed. He was sitting reading it. I leant against the door and eased my skirt up to show him what he was missing. He glanced up and saw, and I let my skirt fall back and left him to think about what he'd just seen."

I almost laughed at the image that conveyed. She was quite a woman.

"And the piercing?" I asked.

"That was for me," she said. "There was an article in an online magazine. That was the photo that I showed you. I don't think I'd have done it if I hadn't seen the way your cock responded."

I remembered. I had tried to play down my reaction to the photo, or rather to the thought of Lorraine having a clit hood piercing, but you just cannot control how your cock responds.

"But...," she paused.

"But...?" I asked.

"But I let him see it," Lorraine said.

"In his office?"

"In a meeting," she answered. "I told you that I was feeling good about my work. I managed to out-perform everyone else in my team for the second quarter running. He was sitting opposite me, congratulating me, and I just opened my legs. That was when he went red. And,..."

"And...?"

"And he still had to tell the rest of the team that I'd been promoted. I told you I felt good about myself, and it was showing in my work. My performance was so good they've given me my own team to head up, which is why I wanted to thank you for not asking me what it was all about, and trusting me."

Now the champagne made sense. The celebration was for my wife's promotion. Whether I deserved Lorraine's thanks for trusting her was another question. I might not have asked her what it was all about, but I had certainly had suspicions that it might be better not to share.

Besides, I was not sure that I wanted my wife to know that some of the time, thinking another guy was fucking her in his office, had been a turn on. Telling her it had been a turn on just might encourage her to try doing it for real.

So I held back. I could always tell her another time. For now I contented myself with tightening my biceps to lift her off my, cock, turn her onto her back, slide my cock back inside her cunt, and give my darling, daring, successful wife the fucking that she deserved.