My wife has always had an exhibitionist tendency, probably left over from high
school days when we had sex in risky places out of necessity. She is a gorgeous
redhead, a true redhead with pale skin, freckled where the sun has licked its
infrequent rays, and a lush growth of shocking red-orange hair at the base of
her belly. Her exhibitionism was mild, though, and what happened one afternoon
far exceeded her limits. Or would have, had she known. One late afternoon we had
had a couple of glasses of wine while sitting in the shade in the backyard. She
had on a thin cotton print dress that left a lot of breast-top and shoulder
bare, and reached down well below her knees. She called it her "lucky dress"
because it showed her body to such advantage that she invariably got lucky when
she wore it. She eschewed underwear of any sort, so was bare beneath. When she
would stand with the slanting rays of the sun behind her, I could see a perfect
outline of her nude form beneath the light dress, and her hair glowed in
beautiful red highlights. She was in quite a mood -- the wine had apparently
gone right to her head. She walked up right in front of me and reached down to
grab the hem of her dress. Slowly, she twitched it up her legs, to her knees,
then higher, revealing smooth pale thighs. She quickly flashed a glimpse of red
fur that grew still higher, then turned. She sawed the hem of her lucky dress
back and forth across her rear, swaying her hips to an unheard rhythm. Inch by
inch, her bare bottom came into view, like a full moon peeking from behind
slow-moving clouds. It was then that I noticed a movement in the bushes behind
her. There was someone there, watching! I was so surprised that I didn't say
anything for the moment it took to recognize him as a young man who jogged by
our house every morning. I was even more surprised when I saw what he was doing.
His jogging shorts were down, but he was up -- way up -- his exposed penis
standing at attention in a most needy fashion. There are a lot of reasons I
should have done something, of course, but at that moment, the tableux hit me
with such an erotic charge that I was paralyzed. It was my sweet little
redheaded wife that had brought this young man's cock to such an impressive
erection. If I had seen the shadowy outline of her bare body, so had he. If the
jiggle of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her dress had caused my member
to twitch, it had had the same effect on his. For a moment, the thought crossed
my mind that she would enjoy seeing this young man's long, thick penis hard just
for her, but I quickly rejected the idea. Her first impulse would be rational
and proper -- she would run from a peeping tom in the bushes. The quality
decision had already been made for her, though. Such a wildly perverted
opportunity might never come again. I would have my wife give a show that this
young man would never forget, nor would I. I turned my attention back to my
wife's performance -- the internal debate, if you can call such a one-sided
argument a debate, had lasted only a second. She had bent forward to give me a
fairly complete view of her breasts hanging down below her neckline. She was
also unknowingly giving the stranger a good view of her rear end; probably even
a tantalizing glimpse of slick pink flesh between fringes of red hair. I stood
up and gently spun her around so that the front of her body now faced away from
me -- toward the unseen eyes I knew were drinking in the sight of her. She
turned her head to look at me over her shoulder, her expression playful. My
hands moved over her body toward her breasts. Her naked throat was a long, pale
curve as she tilted her head back to receive a kiss. I massaged her breasts
under her dress, pushing them into swells of lightly-freckled flesh above the
low-cut collar. Nipples stiffened under my attentions, neither revealed nor
hidden by the thin material. Then one hand moved down, across the curve of her
belly, leaving one breast pushed up into prominence. She pushed her hips
backwards against me, wriggling against the stiffness she found. Our kiss broke
with a slight gasp from her lips. Eyes closed, tongue moistening lips, a smile
playing on the corners of her mouth. The hem of her dress was gathered by
fingers playing along the front of her thighs. Cloth gave way to a touch of
smooth skin, then eye followed hand as I pulled her hem higher, exposing her
thighs. Fingers felt the tickle of her pubic hair before its orange-red glory
was unveiled. Now both hands pulled upward at her hem, and the richly-colored
triangle between her thighs was seen set against the pale planes and curves of
belly and hips. She put her feet a little further apart, opening her thighs to
attentions that were not nearly so private as she thought. More than my finger
dipped into the fleshy cleft half-hidden by her pubic hair. My wife's secret
places were also being touched by a stranger's eyes. He witnessed and shared her
rising excitement as I stroked the stiff little bud that sought my fingertip. He
heard her soft moan of pleasure. Little by little, he was plundering her sexual
secrets, filling his pounding blood with memories of how she looked, how she
sounded. Memories that would bring both stiffness and relief in years to come. I
continued stroking my wife while I pulled her dress up with my other hand. Now
she was completely naked except for a temporary bundle of fabric across her
breasts. Her trim waist, the lazy eye of her belly button, the curves of her
hips, and now, far below the fair skin of her exposed abdomen, the shock of
red-orange hair beneath my hand, were all of it displayed for the pleasure of
not one man, but two, not only her husband, but a young stranger. In the
watcher's imagination, the swollen tip of his penis was feeling the slippery
gully between the fringes of red fur. It was his stiff member that rubbed
pleasurably against the near-naked redhead's clitoris, not my finger. With a
final upward tug, her breasts popped free. She helped pull the dress up over her
head, impatient to get rid of it. Her red-gold curls were tousled in the wake,
curling invitingly over bare shoulders and teasing her throat in tickling wisps.
I began rubbing her up in earnest now, while pinching first one nipple, then the
other with my other hand. She threw her head back and moved her body to
encourage attentions both above and below her waist. Her breasts were thrust
out, nipples pointing more upward than straight ahead, and her hips twitched
forward obscenely under my hand. She was breathing hard now, her hands absently
touching my hands and herself: smoothing down her hips, pulling her hair, as if
they moved without conscious thought. Every bit of erectile tissue in her body
was perked up and begging for attention -- which it received, and roughly. I
knew that it would take little more for her to favor our unseen audience with an
orgasm. Reaching down, I jammed a finger into the wetness inside of her, while
my other hand abandoned nipple for clitoris. Her breasts jiggled forcefully
under the movements of my hands between her legs. My wife was a portrait of lust
in cream and coral colors, all curves and softness and desperate motion,
straining toward the inevitable explosion of pleasure deep within her hips.
Suddenly, she came. A gasp was cut off deep in her throat, and her muscles
tensed. For a long five seconds, there was only a breathless tremor. I'm sure
our observer thought her frozen since he was unable to feel the lust tremble
beneath his hands. But then she pitched her head forward, and drew in a loud,
shuddering breath. Her body jerked as it was wracked by spasms of pleasure
exploding outward from her lower belly. She expelled her breath in a long groan
of physical satisfaction. I mercilessly continued to work the sensitive parts
between her clenched thighs, as aftershocks -- each a mini-climax in itself --
caused her to catch her breath and moan, catch and moan, each catch accompanied
by a forward jerk of her hips against my hands, and each moan by a gyrating
retreat into the luxurious sensation of sexual pleasure. Looking over her
shoulder, I was shocked to see the stranger had stepped forward in his
eagerness. Not so openly that he would have been seen for sure, and my wife was
certainly not being observant. Yet I could see him, eyes fixed on my naked wife,
his shorts down almost to his knees, stroking his large cock. To avoid any
chance of my wife seeing him, I spun her around roughly. She hung her arms
loosely around my neck and pressed against me, and my hands found her buttocks.
I occupied her attention with a kiss, but my own attention was on our
not-so-unseen observer. He had actually taken a step out from cover, watching my
hands massage my wife's rear. I parted her fleshy cheeks, and she cocked her
hips back, unwittingly exposing herself to him. He took a step toward her, the
purple head of his cock, though distant, pointed directly at the sexual parts
which glistened invitingly. I gripped her more tightly so she wouldn't turn
around, and the thought struck me that he was going to just step up and plunge
that long slab of meat right into her. My eyes widened, and I shook my head. He
hesitated, as if coming to his senses, but then, with one more glance at my
wife's spread ass and the the dual promises of pleasure it revealed, he
half-closed his eyes and shot a long spurt of semen. Propelled with youthful
vigor, it shot several feet toward my wife, but, fortunately, fell short of
actually hitting her. Again and again, his fist pumped long squirts of white hot
pleasure from the dark opening at the tip of his cock -- he was that close that
I could see it. I was sorry that my wife was missing the sight. If I could take
a certain guilty pleasure in watching the young man ejaculate so forcefully, I
was sure my wife would have been even more delighted, especially if she could
have appreciated the fact that it was she and she alone who had inspired such
lust. After an orgasm that appeared to be almost as intense as my wife's, the
young stranger, with a blend of worry, guilt, and satisfaction on his face,
mouthed a silent "thank you" and disappeared with rustle back into the bushes.
"What was that?" my wife whispered, giving a startled look over her shoulder.
She snatched her dress from the ground and held it in front of her as she peered
into the bushes. There was something pathetically funny about that modest
gesture, and I had to give a guilty laugh. "Probably just a squirrel," I
soothed, leaving her to wonder what I found so funny about that. The episode had
left me more excited than I could recall in many years, though, and I quickly
led her inside to bed. So vigorous and satisfying was our lovemaking that it was
hard to feel too guilty afterwards.
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