A Picture in Black and White

We – or should I say my wife? – first met Charles at our company Christmas party.

I already knew him, of course. I worked with him at the agency. He was a nice guy, charming, handsome... but our respective tasks rarely brought us into any sort of regular contact. I didn't normally give him much thought. I doubt he gave much more thought to me.

It often takes a party – and corporate Christmas parties are ideal – to reveal the undercurrents of an organization. And even more than that: the political and social and sexual dynamics that underlie our proper and respectable behavior. Despite the typical reluctance about attending such events, people normally show up in droves. The parties are always an opportunity to demonstrate the fact that we have other lives outside of our workday world. I think people look forward to them as the chance to make statements.

And of course, they can always blame it on the alcohol, come Monday morning.

Not that anything happened at this particular event. I relay it only because it set the stage for everything that followed. Let me explain.

I was busy introducing Brigitte to as many of my fellow workers as I could. I learned that lesson well enough the year before, when apparently I failed miserably to do so. This year, I was intent on introducing her to everyone possible, including the caterers and bartender, if it needed to come to that.

At some point -- I can't remember when, so blame the scotch and soda -- Charles cruised within our immediate range, and I took the opportunity to introduce Brigitte to him. As he wandered off after exchanging pleasantries, she turned to me and said, "He's the most handsome man in your entire company."

I laughed, having never really thought about it before, but had to agree that she was probably right. I mean, after all, I like to think she has good taste. I took a second look. And in fact, she WAS right. He is tall -- 6'2"? -- black, and fine-featured. He is slender, but not thin, with broad shoulders. And not only is he very well spoken, but also extremely cultured, especially in music, which I knew from several discussions with him about jazz. I think he has an Ivy-League education, to boot. Hell, he had it all, I had to admit a little reluctantly.

A little spark went off in my head when she mentioned how good-looking he was, but I didn't really give it any thought. What I did do, though, an hour or so later when our paths crossed again in the busy room, was to mention Brigitte's comment to him. "My wife thinks you're the best-looking guy at the agency," I confided, with a grin.

He laughed, pleased, and I could tell that he was both touched and flattered. He told me it made his evening. I think, now, looking back, that that was indeed the case, as I learned shortly afterward that he had just separated from his wife. He's a very nice guy; and who wouldn't find such a compliment flattering, especially from someone as lovely as Brigitte?

Chapter II

And there the story would normally have ended. Our paths at work still crossed as infrequently as before. We passed one another in the hall, or on the stairs, and said 'hi', but that was all. With the exception of a nagging little, subliminal memory of a Christmas party opportunity seen, and missed, things went back to normal. Months went on. Life and work resumed as usual. The memory of a brief Christmas party flirtation receded.

That would have been that -- but then, of course, there are always extenuating circumstances, aren't there?

Brigitte and I went to bed one night, a month or two later, and whether she was feeling amorous, or I was, I can't remember. What I do remember, though, was giving her a massage. Of course, that wasn't so unusual. We often begin this way... I don't know how much she likes it -- heck, I think she does -- but I do, because it's slow, and sensuous, and intimate, and we both know where it will lead.

This particular night, though, I was gently kneading her back, occasionally drizzling warm massage oil into the soft valley of her lower back and rubbing it in slowly, when I had a wicked thought. Only the hardening of my cock, gently pressed against the cleft of her soft ass, would have given me away, but I'm sure she didn't notice. I said nothing, at first, other than to whisper gentle, sexy words into her ear, as usual, as I continued to rub her lovely, firm flesh, working my way down to her waist, and then across her firm, round ass cheeks.

But this night, as I leaned into her shoulders, slowly rubbing her upper arms in long strokes, and then pressing my palms firmly down on lower back, loosening the muscles, I took a slightly different tack.

"Do you remember Charles -- from our Christmas party?" I asked softly, as I pressed my warm hands into her glowing back, now shining in the dim light from the scented massage oil. She mumbled something softly, into the pillow, sounding like 'yes'. I took it as an affirmative. And she wiggled her hips a tiny fraction, too.

"I'm thinking of asking him over," I said, as I continued to rub her shoulders and upper arms, then leaning into her upper back, pressing gently but firmly, and working the soft flesh, as I continued to whisper to her. My hard cock was still pressed between the crease of her ass, and as I said the words, I could feel her unconsciously -- or was it consciously, who will ever know? -- part her legs a little further.

"Imagine I've asked him to give you a massage," I said. "He's asked you to remove all your clothes, to take off your bra and your panties, and to lie down on the bed..."

Brigitte moaned softly as I whispered the words, and then parted her legs further. She seemed suddenly more eager, more willing, more open... She pressed her warm, wet pussy up against me, seeking a hard cock. And the thought of Charles, tall and black, his cock rubbing against my wife's ass as my cock was now, made me harder than I could imagine. I couldn't resist. I grabbed her hips firmly, raising her lower body up on the bed, spreading her legs and opening her. Her glistening cunt, the swollen labia open and inviting, shone in the soft light of the dresser lamp. She waited to take a cock.

I placed my hard prick against her pussy, opening the soft folds of her lips with my swollen purple cockhead, teasing her. Then the teasing stopped, and I began to push deeply into her. My shaft, slick from her moisture, thrust firmly into her welcoming vagina, and I pulled her hips up against me to drive in deeper.

And as I did, I imagined, with excitement and guilt, a tall, handsome black man, thick with cock, fucking my lovely wife.

Chapter III

That was about it for a while. Fantasies don't really get talked about much around here. My wife is shy, and particularly shy about sex. And I would have felt awkward bringing such a subject up outside the context of love-making.

Still, that little distant spark burned a bit brighter in my mind -- flamed, no doubt, by the memory of my wife's reaction to my whispered words several weeks earlier. I filed it away, though, along with all the other little factoids, literary detritus and vague erotic fantasies that fill the mind of a middle-aged man. Who knew what value it would have in future? Better save it, just in case!

The months went by. Then, in November, just when the pre-winter blues were beginning to set in, I had an idea. Nothing fancy – no overseas trip – just a weekend in Boston at the Ritz for the two of us. The hotel was running a 'romantic' special on the room rates, and it struck me as the perfect getaway. Brigitte agreed. I think we were both in need of a date, or at least a brief escape from parenthood.

We managed to find a sitter for the kids for the Saturday and Sunday. And we began to look forward to a day and a half off with as much enthusiasm as if it were two weeks in Paris. Obviously, we needed a break.

The weekend break came up on us quickly, and before we knew it, we were checking in at the Ritz's front desk, the car tucked safely away in the hotel garage. It was a glorious, crisp Saturday noon, nearly 65 degrees, and promised to be one of the last good weekends of the season. We'd made an enormous number of plans for the two days -- not that we'd even accomplish half of them, but it was fun to think about the restaurants, the movies and the nightclubs and dancing that we were going to try and sample. Obviously, we'd been away from city life too long.

We window-shopped and antiqued that afternoon in Back Bay and on Beacon Hill, had cocktails at the Top of the Hub, and then walked back to the Ritz to change for dinner. We had reservations at a new French restaurant on Mount Vernon Street -- someplace decidedly upscale and expensive, and wanted to dress up a bit just for fun.

As our time together and alone is so rare these days, these getaways always have the added spice of romance and promised sex. And so I was eager, as we showered and changed, to see what Brigitte was going to wear. Not just what blouse and skirt, but particularly what she was going to wear underneath. It sometimes indicates what mood she's in. And besides, being so visual, as all men are, there is nothing I love more than seeing my wife in sexy underwear -- unless it's seeing her absolutely naked.

She's funny though -- she'll dress in the closet so I can't see, particularly if she wants to surprise me with something sexy later on. I did catch a peek of something sheer and lacey, though, before she quickly closed the bathroom door to my prying eyes.

Dinner on Mount Vernon Street was everything the reviews had promised. Braised lamb, confit de canard, tarte tatin... We started with a bottle of Pommery, then, for dinner, chose a '94 Graves. We even splurged with a half bottle of Sauterne to accompany the tarte. The meal was exquisite, everything done perfectly and authentically. For a couple of hours, we could pretend we were back in Paris, and we did.

We wandered back toward the Ritz after dinner, tipsy from the wine, wending our way down Charles Street, and diagonally across the Public Gardens through the dark. The walk through the leaves, the city lights creating a golden halo above us, made me realize just how beautiful and romantic Boston could be.

Our long day and the rich meal sent us back toward the hotel, and toward bed. The wonderful meal and the romantic stroll was making us feel, if tired, at least young again, and I think both of us, linked arm in arm, had similar thoughts as we headed for our room.

Chapter IV

As we entered the lobby though, and passed through the bar, it seemed a shame to end this night so early. "Let's have a drink," I suggested, and Brigitte agreed.

We wandered into the cozy lounge, and sat down at a corner table, dark and secluded and perfectly in keeping with our mood. The waiter wandered over eventually, and we ordered: Courvoisier for me, and a glass of Chardonnay for Brigitte. We leaned back and let the peace of a weekend alone wash over us.

A few minutes later, I casually surveyed the other tables and the bar, at which there were maybe four or five seats. With a start, I thought I recognized someone seated with his back toward us at the bar. It looked like Charles, from the agency.

Blame it on the alcohol, or the romance of the weekend, but I turned to Brigitte, smiled, and said, "I think the cutest guy at the agency is over at the bar right now."

She turned quickly to the left and looked over, never one to miss an opportunity to get a scoop on what was going on.

"That's Charles, isn't it," she said, more rhetorically than questioning.

"Indeed, I think it is," I answered simply.

"Should we ask him over?" she replied, ever one to make the world feel at home.

"If you like, of course," I agreed, amenably. I was in a wonderful frame of mind – kind of bombed, actually – and welcome to just about anything. I got up and walked over to the bar.

Charles was alone, quietly nursing a rum and ginger. "You've been summoned," I joked with him as I leaned over and shook hands. I really did like him, and it was a pleasure to be able to ask him over to our table.

He was obviously pleased to be asked, and I led him back to our table.

"Charles, this is Brigitte; Brigitte, this is Charles," I said with a grin. "I think you know one another?" They giggled -- both of them -- and pecked each other on the cheek.

Charles was as charming as ever. Apparently he was out on the town that night, having finished his weekly poker game with several close friends. A late-night drink at the Ritz bar was often part of his customary habits, he explained.

"You wear a suit to your poker games?" I teased him, and he laughed.

"Well, we like to think of ourselves as sort of an upmarket travelling card game," he said, chuckling again.

Brigitte said, "Well, I approve." And then she blushed, although it was difficult to see it in the dark. I'm not sure that Charles noticed, but I did. I smiled inwardly, but a little alarm bell sounded distantly.

"You play poker?" she continued. Charles nodded.

"What do you play for?" she asked. Charles hesitated for a moment.

"Well, mostly we play for money -- nothing significant, just enough to keep it interesting."

"What do you mean 'mostly,'" she persisted.

"Well..." his voice trailed off. It looked like he was a little embarrassed. There was a pregnant pause.

"Mostly we play for money, but it depends on who's playing," he answered.

"So, who plays?" Brigitte asked, sensing some kind of opening. She took a sip of her wine, already half empty, and looked him in the eye. Charles laughed.

"Mostly my friends from college," he answered, vaguely evasive. "But sometimes some of their wives or girlfriends want to sit in," he continued. He paused.

"So, what are the stakes?" Brigitte asked, pressing on. The wine was obviously having its effect. I couldn't remember seeing her be this forward before.

Charles took a big sip of his rum and ginger and looked at her, assessing the gravity of her question, and the ramifications of his answer.

"Well... sometimes," he said, "depending on who's there, people are feeling a bit more adventurous and want to play for, um, higher stakes."

"Higher stakes, indeed!" she shot back. "Like what? Strip poker?" She giggled.

Charles looked down into his drink and chuckled. "Yes, sometimes," he answered.

"NO!" Brigitte nearly shouted. And then, more quietly, "Really?" Charles had her attention, there was no doubt of that. I looked over at my wife in a slightly new light.

"Well, uh, yes," he replied, simply.

"So, if you lose a hand, you have to -- what?" Brigitte was on a roll. Charles blushed.

"Well, whoever wins the hand...um...he--or she--gets to tell whoever's playing, since everyone's lost but you, who has the winning hand, what to do!" Charles seemed relieved to have gotten this explanation out, however inelegant in its delivery.

"Let me get this right," Brigitte replied. "If you win, you get to tell whoever's playing what to do? You mean, you're in charge?" She took another sip of her wine, looking directly at him, waiting for his answer.

"Uh, that's about it," he replied, now clearly embarrassed. Brigitte picked up on his discomfort, and sought to sooth it. However, to do so, she took a tack that surprised even me.

"Wow..." she said, her voice trailing off for a moment. "I love it!"

I looked at her. Charles looked at her. Was this the wine, or was this my real wife, a side of whom I was just now seeing for the first time?

While I sat and thought about it, swirling the brandy in my glass, Charles took it as some sort of cue. He seemed to sense that some sort of subtle Rubicon had just been crossed. I think he realized suddenly that he was now on the offensive.

"Yes, that's about it," he explained. "Sometimes it's a 'do-what-I-request' sort of thing, and sometimes it's just sort of a 'Truth-or-Dare' thing. If you lose, I mean." Charles seemed a tad embarrassed -- although not quite as much as I think I would have liked him to have been, considering what he was saying.

"So, give me an example," Brigitte pressed on.

Charles looked at me briefly, a quick glance asking some sort of permission, and I indicated nothing that would dissuade him from continuing. He took it as a green light.

"I have some cards here," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a deck, blue-backed and worn at the edges. I laughed out loud at his sense of timing, and he shot a grin back at me. Brigitte subtly caught her breath.

"Deal you in?" he asked us both, grinning again -- but the question was really aimed at Brigitte. I nodded, and said, 'Of course'. Brigitte nodded as well, attentive as hell.

Charles quickly shuffled and cut the deck, and then dealt us five cards each. They lay face down on the table, pregnant with threat or promise. "Okay," he said.

We picked up our cards.

Chapter V

My hand was unimpressive -- a Jack, two 4s, a 6 and a 9. I looked over at Brigitte -- she looked literally poker-faced -- and then at Charles, who seemed to have the slightest smile.

"Two," I requested, and Charles put them face-down on the table. I picked them up, and looked -- a 9 and a 10. Brigitte took two -- when the heck did she ever learn to play poker, I wondered? -- and then Charles took two.

He obviously had a winning hand. "Two 'dares' or 'do what I say'," he said, grinning. I decided to fold -- perhaps, if truth be told, to see what would happen. Brigitte decided to fold as well. I put my cards down on the table, revealing the pair of 9s. Brigitte put hers down: two 9s. And then, with a flourish, Charles laid his cards on the table: A pair of 10s and a pair of Jacks. "Guess I win!" he said with a slight chuckle.

I looked at him, and he looked at me, and then at Brigitte, and she looked at me, and then at him. "So what does that mean?" she asked, slightly nervous, taking a large sip of her wine.

"Uh...I get to dare you -- or to order you -- to do two things," he answered, just a tad uncomfortably, I was happy to say. "Or," he continued, "since I technically won over both of you, I can dare both of you one thing each."

I looked at Brigitte to see how she'd react. I was curious, to say the least, at what was about to happen.

"And what if I refuse the dare?" Brigitte asked, somewhat defiantly.

"Well, then, I guess that's the end," Charles replied, somewhat wistfully -- but also somewhat firmly, despite his wry smile. It was quite a moment. The evening hung on a delicate fulcrum. What seemed like an entire day passed.

And then Brigitte rose to the challenge.

"Okay, go ahead," she said, a slight tremor in her voice, taking another big sip of wine. "Well..." Charles said, looking reflective.

"The first dare is..." he finally said, looking directly at Brigitte -- and we both waited expectantly.

"The first dare is..." and he paused again... "to describe exactly what you're wearing under your blouse and your skirt," Charles finally said, looking directly into her eyes.

Brigitte blushed deeply -- although she must have known that something like this was coming. She stammered a bit. She twirled her finger around the lip of her glass. Then she looked briefly at me to see if it was okay to continue. I smiled softly, and she took it as a 'yes'.

She continued to look down at the table for a minute, and then drained her glass of white wine before looking up at Charles. I quickly ordered another round for all of us as the waiter passed by. When he finished delivering the drinks, after what seemed an interminable amount of time, we resumed our game.

Looking directly into his eyes, she said, slowly and softly, "I'm... I'm wearing a black bra." She blushed for a moment, then seemed to find her voice again. "It has a tiny, thin back strap... It has small, floral designs along the top of the cups, but the cups themselves are sheer." I looked over at Charles, and could tell he was trying to catch his breath. Brigitte blushed again, but pressed onward, gathering steam.