PART I
My day started off the same as usual so I had no reason to foresee anything out of the ordinary coming. I was up and dressed by eight a.m., boiling a pot of hot water, anticipating a dose of my morning java—a cup of Maxwell House with two tablespoons of sugar and a splash of low-fat milk. The sound of the Kenmore stainless steel toaster alerted me that my raisin bagels were toasted.
Taking a seat at the kitchen table, I noticed a note on top of my morning paper. I recognized the handwriting immediately. It was the gorgeous print of my wife of two years, Sandra. She made it her business to leave the paper on the table every morning before heading off to work. I reached into the chest pocket of my light blue, button-down Polo shirt, extracting my reading glasses. As I placed them on my shaven face over my dark brown eyes, I blushed as I thought about how sexy she always says I look in them. Unfolding the letter, I began to read:
Dear Brendan,
I would like you to meet me at the home of a friend tonight at seven o’clock sharp. I have a great surprise for you. Listed at the bottom are the directions and address to the home. Please don’t call me trying to figure out what’s going on. I’m not going to answer my phone.
Love, Sandra
I glanced over the address and directions to the home. I sighed loudly and folded the paper, wondering why she had not bothered to bring this up last night, probably knowing that I would have declined. The last thing I wanted to do was have dinner with some colleagues of hers. I could think of a better way to spend a Friday night. Lately, we were having dinner with different people at least three nights a week. It was always the same thing over and over—unseasoned food and conversation about dull current events. Most of the time, I found myself agreeing to things I ordinarily would not.
My wife works for a prominent law firm that specializes in criminal law in the city of Rochester, New York, a mid-sized city in the western part of the state. I hate to brag, but she is one of the best defense attorneys in the city and her main objective is to become partner by any means necessary. So, I often find myself supporting my lady even when I
don’t want to.
I buttered my bagel and sipped my hot coffee. I still had about an hour before I was due in the classroom. I teach African-American history at my alma mater, the University of Rochester. I graduated, along with my wife, in the class of 1993. We dated all through college and grad school, deciding to get married after we established our careers, hoping to become successful and begin to raise a family. Your typical American dream, but so far we haven’t had any children.
I finished eating and headed out to my car, a black, 7-series BMW that I had recently purchased. My daily newspaper almost slipped from under my arm as I unlocked the door and noticed what appeared to be a pair of women’s panties wrapped around the gearshift. I looked around to see if someone was playing a cruel prank on me and the culprit would appear, laughing, but no one appeared except for my neighbor’s dog barking through the white picket fence and wagging his tail briskly.
I entered the comfort of the black vehicle, smelling the pungent odor of the beige leather upholstery. I threw my burgundy leather briefcase, along with my newspaper, on the passenger seat while studying the black lace panties wrapped around the gearshift. Beside the women’s undergarments, there was another folded note with my name on it.
I unbuttoned the bottom button of my navy blue blazer, reached into my pocket, and grabbed my spectacles again. I picked up the letter and began to read:
Dear Brendan,
This is not your typical dinner party. So please don’t waste your time dreading this evening. I guarantee you will never say I’m not spontaneous or adventurous again in your life. The panties are just a sample.
Love, Sandra
I’m embarrassed to admit my dick grew a few inches rapidly. I grabbed the panties from the gearshift and stretched them apart to get a better look. There is something about women’s lingerie that turns me on. I mean turning me on with a capital T. I examined them with a keen eye. My dick was throbbing and screaming for an orgasm. All in a matter of minutes, I was contemplating masturbation, something I enjoy a little too much.
I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, causing me to conceal the panties next to me. Turning around, I realized that it was just my neighbor to my right, carrying his trash to the front, so I picked the panties back up and continued to study them. They were silk and see-through, with lace running all around the outside of the fabric, and a black silk string was tied into a bow just above the crotch area. They were definitely an undergarment for an intimate setting. Bashfully, I put the crotch area to my nose and sniffed lightly, hoping to get a whiff of my lady’s sweetness. I am sprung and not afraid to admit it. Besides my porno-watching addiction and my desire to relieve myself, Sandra is my all and all.
I snatched the panties away from my nose quickly. I knew that the scent did not belong to my wife. My big head came to life instantly, causing my little head to wonder if he should still remain erect. I was confused, and I knew I was not mistaken. My face had been in the place too much. I knew the fragrance of my wife’s pussy from a mile away. I had sniffed her panties a thousand times. I suddenly realized they were not even my wife’s size. These were another woman’s underwear and she smelled delectable.
My mind was racing at a rapid pace. I was not sure how I was supposed to react. But, honestly, I was certainly aroused and craving to satisfy myself. My wife has caught me numerous times watching pornography and stroking my manhood. She believes that there is nothing wrong with satisfying yourself. Sandra is very open minded as well as free spirited. She just teases me a lot about all of the black women I seem to get off on. My wife is mulatto. She just seems to identify more with her white heritage.
I started my car, placed the panties in the inside pocket of my blazer, and headed off to work. I was convinced at that moment that my wife was simply toying with me, based on a discussion we’d had earlier this week. She caught me masturbating to an adult film starring two women in a lesbian scene. I really enjoy girl-on-girl footage. It seems to excite me more than anything else. But anyway, she asked me if I had ever experienced a threesome. I smiled, knowing she already knew the answer to her own question. I still answered out of respect, even though I wanted to say, “I wish.” She then asked me, “Would you participate if given the chance?” I laughed, telling her yes if she was one of the women. She smiled and walked away, leaving me with my dick in my hand. I yelled after her, telling her she was not as spontaneous or adventurous as these porno stars and that was the reason why I loved her so much. Even though I was jacking off to them.
So, I knew this had to be a prank my lady was pulling on me. Obviously, she had acquired some woman’s panties and sprayed a fragrance on them in an attempt to see how much she really meant to me. The games women play at times are hilarious. I knew that she was just trying to make me feel good about a boring dinner party this evening.
PART II
I arrived in front of a huge home located on the outskirts of the city, nestled in a cul-de-sac surrounded by a thick wooded area—a brick colonial with a two-car garage and a well-kept landscape. It looked extremely expensive.
I noticed my wife’s gray Lexus parked beside a candy apple red Jaguar with custom plates that read Ms. Jones. I knew I had the right home.
My day had been long and exhausting to a certain degree. It had taken all of my strength to not give my wife a call. I really was not up to your typical dinner party. But I was definitely famished and looking forward to eating. Hopefully, there was something that I could identify with on the dinner menu.
I exited my vehicle and walked toward the home, admiring the beauty of the numerous colors of lilies and daffodils on display. Reaching the heavy varnished oak door, I looked for the doorbell. To my surprise, there was another note taped just above the doorbell. I thought to myself, What the fuck is going on? Extracting my glasses from my shirt pocket, I began to read a list of directions, the first one telling me to come inside, the door was unlocked. I twisted the knob and stepped in cautiously. At this moment, I had no idea what was going on.
I walked into a dramatic, two-story foyer with two staircases opposite each other and a massive chandelier suspended from a cathedral-type ceiling. As I stood on the immaculate hardwood floors, I surveyed the opulence.
The next set of instructions led me into a cherry wood kitchen with a huge island and granite countertops. I was told to loosen my tie and have a drink to unwind. Fortunately, there was a bottle of Rémy Martin on the table along with two glasses and a bucket of ice. This was certainly my drink—I loved to drink cognac and chase it down with ice water. So, I fixed my stiff drink and looked around in the stillness of the home. Within a matter of twenty minutes, I was buzzing. I guzzled another full glass and noticed soft music coming from a distance.
The note directed me upstairs to what appeared to be the master bedroom. I walked inside to soft jazz and a hell of a layout. I’m talking about a bedroom fit for a king. The walls were painted eggshell white. The finish was extra smooth so I figured it to be the best money could buy. My burgundy loafers sank into the plush beige carpet as I eyed the cherry oak furnishings, including the king-size sleigh bed. To top it off, there was a flat screen television at least sixty-four to seventy-two inches wide against the wall in front of the bed, with an incredible entertainment system. I was apparently in the lap of luxury.