Confessions of a Kinky Wife

‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’

Dan, his appetite as reliably healthy as always, plucked a tuile biscuit from my plate and bit into it.

Some of the other diners had left the restaurant now, and we had a little more latitude for un-eavesdropped conversation.

I stroked the edge of the belt with one finger and said, ‘Do you really like it?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve wanted to get you one just like it for ages.’

He just held his smile, expectant, waiting for me to elaborate.

‘I think it would feel nice,’ I said hesitantly. Oh shit, now it was coming out. Could I take that back?

‘Feel nice?’ he said.

I stared down at the melted ice cream on my plate, too mortified to continue.

‘You’ve gone bright red,’ he said, but his smile slowly widened. ‘OK, I think it’s time to get the bill and get the hell out of here. Things just got interesting.’

The restaurant was a short distance from our flat by the harbour. Dan walked me back with one hand around my elbow, the new belt wrapped around his other set of knuckles. Damn, it looked good there. Man and belt in living harmony. I was wildly optimistic as we headed into the lift and, as was our tradi

tion, snogged all the way up to the third floor.

We tipped ourselves out and fumbled the key in the lock and somehow didn’t collapse on the hall floor. Instead we made a kissing, grabbing, lunging progress into the living room and managed to stay upright all the way over to the sofa.

He pinned me to it and I felt that soft leather brush my wrist.

‘So, then, Pip,’ he said, his wide white grin inches from mine. ‘Tell me what you meant when you said my belt would feel nice. Because, as far as I’m aware, belts are meant to keep trousers up. How could that make you feel nice? Hmm?’

‘I just thought … you know … it’s so soft and it smells so good …’

‘Don’t. I know what you thought.’

‘Do you?’

My heart jumped high, sealing up my throat so I could barely breathe.

‘Fancy a bit of slap and tickle, do we?’

I giggled, writhing happily underneath him. Yes! This could happen. This was starting to happen.

‘Maybe more slap than tickle,’ I whispered.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Do I have to sign a consent form?’

‘Story of my life. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. But no. I think in this case a verbal agreement holds good. Go on then. Turn over.’

He let go of my wrists and knelt up, watching me flip myself on to my stomach. My face rested against a velvet cushion, handy if I needed anything to yell into. We didn’t want to disturb the neighbours, after all.

I felt the tickly swish of my skirt being raised. It was a shame I had to imagine the look on his face as he uncovered lacy briefs and matching suspenders and stockings, but I’d seen it often enough before and at least I got to hear his low sigh of pleasure.

Rather than any sharp and sudden smack, the next physical contact was his lips on the low curve of my bottom, kissing their way over every inch of the flesh my knickers weren’t protecting. This kindled an amazing tingle, flooding my pussy and making my skin super-sensitive until I began to rather dread what I’d asked for.

Could I take it back and just carry on with this instead?