The Teaching
His lips brushed the lobe of her ear as he whispered, the intimacy of the touch emphasising the intimacy of his words.
“Go to the bathroom, take off your bra.”
Then he was gone from behind her, walking around the end of the table to take up his seat opposite her own.
She did not bother to protest the instruction; to do so would do nothing but cause embarrassment and later punishment. She felt a tingle of anticipation at that thought, for an instant considering the benefits of such an indiscretion. Deciding disobedience held too high a price, she pushed back her chair and rose.
The people sitting to her left and right turned to look up at her. Sensing rather than seeing their questioning expressions, she made no attempt to explain the action. Her husband followed the sway and roll of her thighs, the lift of her buttocks through the tight black skirt accentuated by her stiletto heels. Other eyes watched, slyly swapping appreciative smiles.
The bathroom was generously mirrored, reflecting thoughtful brown eyes, an aquiline profile, the nape of her neck exposed beneath short ragged chestnut hair, all simultaneously visible. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, blouse tightening across her generous bosom. Her bra was clearly visible, white, plain cotton, designed for support not pleasure. She gazed into the reflection, questioning herself with a raised eyebrow, already knowing the answer. She would go through with it, despite knowing that the blouse would do little to conceal her breasts without the undergarment. This was not by chance, she realised he had planned it. It was he who had selected her clothes: black cotton sensible length skirt over black satin panties, black hold up stockings, a plain cotton bra and sheer silk blouse. She had thought it had been his intention to embarrass her by displaying the bra under the almost transparent blouse. Over-thinking things, she had assumed the paradox of opposing the sexy transparency of the blouse with the prudish functional plainness of the cotton bra had been designed to expose her as one of those women whose body teased, but whose libido was numb. She could hear his assertive, matter of fact voice, the words hurtful yet somehow confirming his love for her, “Yes, guys, she looks hot, but underneath, she’s an ice maiden.” He wants me to himself. But it wasn’t that at all, the explanation was much simpler and, had she followed her own reasoning, meant he was giving them the green light, letting them know that he was agreeing to their terms, agreeing to share her. The sheer blouse was intended to expose her, the bra was a trick, telling them that the prude was in fact a slut. That was his message.
She released her breath with a gasp like an orgasm, misting the mirror and obscuring the front view of her face. She wiped the glass with her hand, regarded the brown eyes peering through a gap in the mist, distorted by water drops swelling at the tracks left by her fingers. Now the odd combination of bra and panties was explained, the panties were cut high thigh and they hugged her body like an embrace. He had not instructed her to remove them and the skirt was slit higher than the stocking tops. A thought crossed her mind, causing her generous glossed pink lips to twist in a mischievous grin. What if she were to slip the panties off, he would not expect that. It would be her revenge, no doubt it would result in punishment. The grin broadened to a full smile as she slid her hands into the slits in her skirt, hooking her thumbs into the waist band of the panties, she dragged them down, slipped the white cotton over her shoes. A stray thought entered her mind and her smile broadened further as she used the bundle of soft cotton to polish black leather.
With the panties safe in her handbag, she unbuttoned her blouse, purposefully; it would be easy to find reasons to delay. The bra resisted her efforts to unclasp it, reaching behind made her upper arms hurt. Changing tactics, she slipped the straps off her shoulders and with difficulty pulled her elbows through the loops. After pulling her breasts from the cups of the bra, she paused, examined them in the mirror. The bra supported them, thrust them forward, taking a decade from her breasts decline. She smiled wistfully at the thought. Her nipples were pink, flat and soft like impotence, each circled with a prominent brown aureole. She dragged the bra around, winced and tugged more gently, pulled the clasp to the front to unhook it. It was a great deal easier to undo when she didn’t have to reach behind. She finished buttoning up the blouse just as the bathroom door was pushed open. Her nipples were visibly stiffening, the inevitable consequence of rubbing on the softness of her top without the bra between. Her breasts were not quite as visible as being topless, but the erect nipples were obvious, pressed into the tightness of the blouse. She tried to breathe with shallow breaths in a vain effort to prevent the blouse taking the shape of her breasts when she inhaled. The women who had entered were too engrossed in some intimate chatter to take any notice of her, she left quickly in case they did.
Pausing outside the door of the dining hall, she took a deep breath, steeling herself to enter. Only then realising that she still had the bra grasped tightly in her hand. She glanced swiftly about her, spotted a bin with a swing lid to right of the doors. Fingering the plain white cotton for a moment, she shrugged her shoulders in resignation. The dining room doors closed behind her, the lid of the bin swung gently to a halt, concealing the garment like a guilty secret.
Aware that her unrestrained breasts hung lower than she would have liked, she could not resist pulling at the collar of her blouse in an effort to lift them; the sliding cotton caused her nipples to stiffen, pressing their shape into the fabric. She was relieved that only one pair of eyes followed her progress from the door to her seat at the table. Without the soft white cotton of the panties, still holding the warmth of her body and dirt from her shoes in the depths of her handbag, there was nothing that could absorb the consequences of her irresistible arousal; she felt the tickle that ran from her inner thigh reach her knee by the time she had reached her chair. Once seated, she was able to spread the wetness with a surreptitious stroke of her palm through the slit of the skirt. Her husband regarded her with apparent amusement from across the table, a table now scattered with dishes and plates laden with whole roast chicken, braised beef slices swimming in rich brown gravy, succulent pink gammon, a joint of roast pork and all manner of steaming vegetables, lush dark green broccoli, orange carrots, white swede and crisp brown roast potatoes...
Tom Covenent
“Go to the bathroom, take off your bra.”
Then he was gone from behind her, walking around the end of the table to take up his seat opposite her own.
She did not bother to protest the instruction; to do so would do nothing but cause embarrassment and later punishment. She felt a tingle of anticipation at that thought, for an instant considering the benefits of such an indiscretion. Deciding disobedience held too high a price, she pushed back her chair and rose.
The people sitting to her left and right turned to look up at her. Sensing rather than seeing their questioning expressions, she made no attempt to explain the action. Her husband followed the sway and roll of her thighs, the lift of her buttocks through the tight black skirt accentuated by her stiletto heels. Other eyes watched, slyly swapping appreciative smiles.
The bathroom was generously mirrored, reflecting thoughtful brown eyes, an aquiline profile, the nape of her neck exposed beneath short ragged chestnut hair, all simultaneously visible. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, blouse tightening across her generous bosom. Her bra was clearly visible, white, plain cotton, designed for support not pleasure. She gazed into the reflection, questioning herself with a raised eyebrow, already knowing the answer. She would go through with it, despite knowing that the blouse would do little to conceal her breasts without the undergarment. This was not by chance, she realised he had planned it. It was he who had selected her clothes: black cotton sensible length skirt over black satin panties, black hold up stockings, a plain cotton bra and sheer silk blouse. She had thought it had been his intention to embarrass her by displaying the bra under the almost transparent blouse. Over-thinking things, she had assumed the paradox of opposing the sexy transparency of the blouse with the prudish functional plainness of the cotton bra had been designed to expose her as one of those women whose body teased, but whose libido was numb. She could hear his assertive, matter of fact voice, the words hurtful yet somehow confirming his love for her, “Yes, guys, she looks hot, but underneath, she’s an ice maiden.” He wants me to himself. But it wasn’t that at all, the explanation was much simpler and, had she followed her own reasoning, meant he was giving them the green light, letting them know that he was agreeing to their terms, agreeing to share her. The sheer blouse was intended to expose her, the bra was a trick, telling them that the prude was in fact a slut. That was his message.
She released her breath with a gasp like an orgasm, misting the mirror and obscuring the front view of her face. She wiped the glass with her hand, regarded the brown eyes peering through a gap in the mist, distorted by water drops swelling at the tracks left by her fingers. Now the odd combination of bra and panties was explained, the panties were cut high thigh and they hugged her body like an embrace. He had not instructed her to remove them and the skirt was slit higher than the stocking tops. A thought crossed her mind, causing her generous glossed pink lips to twist in a mischievous grin. What if she were to slip the panties off, he would not expect that. It would be her revenge, no doubt it would result in punishment. The grin broadened to a full smile as she slid her hands into the slits in her skirt, hooking her thumbs into the waist band of the panties, she dragged them down, slipped the white cotton over her shoes. A stray thought entered her mind and her smile broadened further as she used the bundle of soft cotton to polish black leather.
With the panties safe in her handbag, she unbuttoned her blouse, purposefully; it would be easy to find reasons to delay. The bra resisted her efforts to unclasp it, reaching behind made her upper arms hurt. Changing tactics, she slipped the straps off her shoulders and with difficulty pulled her elbows through the loops. After pulling her breasts from the cups of the bra, she paused, examined them in the mirror. The bra supported them, thrust them forward, taking a decade from her breasts decline. She smiled wistfully at the thought. Her nipples were pink, flat and soft like impotence, each circled with a prominent brown aureole. She dragged the bra around, winced and tugged more gently, pulled the clasp to the front to unhook it. It was a great deal easier to undo when she didn’t have to reach behind. She finished buttoning up the blouse just as the bathroom door was pushed open. Her nipples were visibly stiffening, the inevitable consequence of rubbing on the softness of her top without the bra between. Her breasts were not quite as visible as being topless, but the erect nipples were obvious, pressed into the tightness of the blouse. She tried to breathe with shallow breaths in a vain effort to prevent the blouse taking the shape of her breasts when she inhaled. The women who had entered were too engrossed in some intimate chatter to take any notice of her, she left quickly in case they did.
Pausing outside the door of the dining hall, she took a deep breath, steeling herself to enter. Only then realising that she still had the bra grasped tightly in her hand. She glanced swiftly about her, spotted a bin with a swing lid to right of the doors. Fingering the plain white cotton for a moment, she shrugged her shoulders in resignation. The dining room doors closed behind her, the lid of the bin swung gently to a halt, concealing the garment like a guilty secret.
Aware that her unrestrained breasts hung lower than she would have liked, she could not resist pulling at the collar of her blouse in an effort to lift them; the sliding cotton caused her nipples to stiffen, pressing their shape into the fabric. She was relieved that only one pair of eyes followed her progress from the door to her seat at the table. Without the soft white cotton of the panties, still holding the warmth of her body and dirt from her shoes in the depths of her handbag, there was nothing that could absorb the consequences of her irresistible arousal; she felt the tickle that ran from her inner thigh reach her knee by the time she had reached her chair. Once seated, she was able to spread the wetness with a surreptitious stroke of her palm through the slit of the skirt. Her husband regarded her with apparent amusement from across the table, a table now scattered with dishes and plates laden with whole roast chicken, braised beef slices swimming in rich brown gravy, succulent pink gammon, a joint of roast pork and all manner of steaming vegetables, lush dark green broccoli, orange carrots, white swede and crisp brown roast potatoes...
Tom Covenent
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