Dating

When Simon walked into the bedroom, he found his wife, Bridgett, sitting in a chair. He gasped when he saw what she was wearing: a midnight blue dress that bordered on lingerie with its lace trim around her firm breasts, dark hose, black heels.

“B…Bridgett,” he stammered.

“What?” she asked, her face betraying nothing.

“I…I thought…I thought you were…you know…going with him to Claude’s?” Simon asked, heart racing.

“We are,” she said.

“You…you look like you’re going on a date,” he said, not sure why she was being so impassive about his obvious discomfort.

“It is a date,” she said.

“But…but people will see,” Simon said, looking at his wife’s gorgeous body, conflicted as always when she dressed like this for him. On the one hand, seeing his wife dressed like this drove him wild with lust. But knowing she did so for her boyfriend, not him, drove him wild with jealousy. Knowing there was a man in her life, their lives, a strong man who gave her direction and guidance, let him let go of the guilt he had that he couldn’t be that man, to realize he never could. Lust and guilt, desire and jealousy. Always one with the other. “What…what are they going to assume?”

Bridgett shrugged. “That I’m on a date,” she said.

“Bridgett!, you’re married!” To Simon it was the perception, not the reality; he’d long ago accepted his status.

“Like I’m the first married woman to have a boyfriend,” she said.

“But…but people will know.”

“Like I’m the first married woman to be ‘caught’ with her boyfriend,” Bridgett said.

“But…but they’ll think…”

“That you’re cuckolded. Simon, do you hear yourself? Honestly, would you rather not know? Would you rather it was an affair? That’s how other men are. Thinking they’re happily married, thinking they satisfy their wives, not knowing what a wife really needs.”

“But I…”

“You accept it, Simon, you know your role. And his. It isn’t something to be ashamed of, love, it’s something to celebrate.” 

Bridgett stood, walked to her husband, touched his arm. Simon swallowed. She was slightly taller than him generally, in heels she towered over him. Not her boyfriend, though, he was taller still. Simon was staring at her breasts, the curve, the smooth skin, the lace. He wanted her so badly, wanted to be inside her, wanted to hear her moan, just once, as he brought her to orgasm. But as much as he wanted that, he knew it was something he’d never been able to do, would never be able to do. As much as he wanted her, he knew that was her boyfriend’s domain, not his.

“Bridgett,” he moaned softly.

“Simon, love,” she said gently, “he’s my boyfriend, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Simon swallowed.

“He’s my boyfriend because I want him in my life and you want him in my life.”

“Y…yes,” he said.

“Then it doesn’t matter who knows, does it?”

“N…no,” Simon said, eyes on her breasts, desiring to reach for them, not daring enough to do so.

She saw his gaze, his hunger, gave him a small smile. “When I come home, love,” she said, “after he’s done.”

“Bridgett, I…I just…I wish…”

“Shhhh,” she said, “there are some things that are just for him, you know that. But when I get home, there are things just for you.” 

"I...I know," he blushed, ashamed of how much he desired her when she returned, ashamed of what he would do to show her how much he loved her and supported her, ashamed of how eagerly he'd crawl between her legs and worship her.

"He's my boyfriend, we shouldn't care who knows."

"I know," Simon said, "I know."