A Picture in Black and White

"My panties match. They're, um, black, high-cut bikinis, maybe a quarter-inch on the side, with tiny flowers along the top edge." She paused. "They're sheer, too. Front and back." She gulped for breath, and paused, her face a bright shade of red.

Charles seized the moment. "Very nice," he began slowly. He paused, then asked, "So, how much of you would I be able to see, considering the fact that they're sheer?"

Brigitte paused again, for what seemed like two minutes. But suddenly she seemed to have found new resolve. My heart was pounding at the prospect of what she would say. I was not to be disappointed.

"You can see all of my breasts, especially my nipples," she explained quietly. "And the panties...show everything. From the back you can see my cheeks. And from the front," -- she gulped again -- "you can see all of me. As if I wasn't wearing any panties at all." Brigitte sat back, still blushing furiously, seemingly exhausted from this confession.

Charles and I, of course, were nearly falling off our seats. I think I was about to have a heart attack -- either that or an erection that would certainly lead to one.

I'll admit I was stunned. I could barely get my wife to talk about sex, and here she was describing in detail what she was wearing to a veritable stranger. True, a handsome and elegant stranger, but still...

Charles quickly regained his composure. And I think I realized at that precise point, watching him quickly take control of an enormously charged moment, that there was a resolve to him that I hadn't recognized or appreciated earlier.

In fact, he barely missed a beat. "Thank you, Brigitte," he said quietly, with a smile. She gave a weak smile in return. Then he turned to me, still grinning, and rubbed his hands. Literally rubbed his hands.

"Okay, then! You have a choice. Because yours was the second-best hand, you can either accept your dare, or you can will it over so that Brigitte has to comply. In other words, she loses twice." He laughed. "Or wins twice, depending on your point of view."

Brigitte said nothing -- just took a long sip of wine from her new glass, and looked at me in anticipation, trying to figure out what I was going to do. Actually, knowing me as well as she did, she probably knew exactly what I was going to do, and was merely bracing herself.

"I'll will it over to you," I replied, smiling back. I was eager to see how adventurous he would be. Heck, I was more eager to see how adventurous my wife would be.

Chapter VI

"Very well then," Charles answered, knowing full well beforehand what I was going to say. "Let me see," he said, his voice trailing off as he pretended to be lost in thought. He looked at Brigitte, who was blushing again, and looking like she was trying to find a corner of her seat where she could hide. She sought refuge in another long gulp of wine, and looked back up, mildly fortified.

"Let's see..." Charles continued, teasing us both, drawing out the tension. "I should think... Yes, that's it."

"What?" Brigitte and I asked simultaneously.

Charles, elegantly but firmly, replied, "Your lingerie sounds so lovely the way you described it, I would like to see it."

"No!?" Brigitte sputtered, nearly choking on a mouthful of her Chardonnay. "Here!? You can't be serious. Do you mean here? Now?" Brigitte wriggled on the seat, trying to figure out what to do.

"You did lose the hand, honey," I reminded her, shifting in my seat to accommodate what now felt like the largest erection I'd ever had.

"But not here, not in the Ritz lounge. You can't mean that, Charles!" she whispered to him.

"Bruce is right, you did lose the hand, Brigitte," Charles explained. Then he paused for a minute, to let the implications of his request sink in a bit further. "Actually," he began, looking slowly around our corner of the darkened bar, "it's pretty discreet here. The folks over there are miles away, they have their backs turned, and the bartender is busy." He glanced around again, assessing the setting. "The lights are down low... we're in a secluded corner... You don't strike me as one to welch on a challenge, Brigitte!" Charles admonished, grinning all the while.

I thought: How could you get annoyed with this guy? He was funny, good-looking, had charm in extremis ... Plus, I was dying of curiosity. He was right about the setting. We were positioned in a small alcove of the lounge, our backs to the rest of the room, and our chairs shielded somewhat by some tall Kentia palms. The lights were, indeed, down low, and it was so late -- nearly 1:30am -- that most of the patrons had already left for the night.

Brigitte looked around the room slowly, and it dawned on me that she might, in fact, just be thinking seriously about it. My head spun. Surely she wasn't going to go through with this, I thought -- part of me hoping she wouldn't, and another deeper, more private part of me tantalized by the idea. The fact that she hadn't looked to me for agreement was a little bothersome, but to be honest, I was too intrigued with what was unfolding to care.

Suddenly she seemed to have made up her mind. "This is as far as it goes," she said, as affirmatively as the moment and her position would allow. We nodded, eager to agree with whatever she wanted to hear. I could detect Charles' quick, sharp intake of breath, and could feel my heart pounding in my ears. I reached down and took another long swig of brandy.

Chapter VII

Slowly Brigitte's hands slid up to the top button of her silk, navy-colored blouse. Glancing first left and then right, she undid it. Her face was flushed, and I could see her blush spreading upward across her chest and neck.

She paused for a moment, and looked around again. Her fingers toyed with the second button, and then that, too, came undone with the flick of a finger. At this point, her blouse was undone to the middle of her stomach. We could see two more white buttons, still fastened, above the waist of her skirt.

Her fingers trailed down to the third button. She looked up at me, and then at Charles, and undid it. Then, with finality, she reached down and undid the last button, glancing subtly around the room as she did so.

She expelled a long breath, and then, looking up at Charles, and, more defiantly at me, gently opened her blouse to our gaze.

I couldn't believe what was happening. My wife was undressing, with almost no urging, for a man she'd barely met. Not only that, but in a public place, no less. I took another, longer and deeper drink of the Courvoisier, and glanced nervously around the lounge. Then I turned back to Brigitte.

She sat, absolutely stunning, in front of the two of us. Her blouse was open, pulled back nearly to her shoulders. She sat upright, proudly, arching her back slightly. I nearly had an orgasm just looking at her. I couldn't imagine what Charles felt like.

The black, lace-trimmed sheer bra showed her off magnificently. Her large, full breasts were beautiful, completely exposed by the filmy, transparent material. Absolutely nothing was left to the imagination. Her nipples were large, dark -- and swollen and erect to a degree I had never, ever seen. They pushed out against the flimsy material proudly, nearly half an inch. I ached to touch them, to roll them between my fingers, to suck them. I could only imagine what Charles wanted to do with them.

For one, brief moment, I saw Charles at a loss. "You are...you are, absolutely beautiful," he stammered. Brigitte blushed, whispering "Thank you" -- but made absolutely no move to cover up. She sat there, radiant and exotic and erotic, her lovely body exposed to our view. Fireworks exploded in my head. I imagine they exploded in Charles' head -- and elsewhere -- too.

Somehow, though, he seemed to quickly regain his composure. I was a little distraught at how well he seemed to do so -- at how much he seemed in control. I was beginning to wonder, with a trace of concern, if he had had far more experience at this sort of thing than I could have imagined. But with the beautiful woman -- my wife -- in front of us, I quickly turned away from such thoughts. I filed it away as a nagging little concern, to be dealt with later.

He lost no time with the opportunity that presented itself. "You are absolutely, incredibly lovely, Brigitte." She blushed again, but continued to sit there, open to his gaze. "But I've seen only half." She ducked her head for a second, sucking in her breath sharply.

"Sit on the edge of the chair," Charles ordered, with a firmness that neither of us had heard before. His tone sent a sharp shock of electricity not only through Brigitte, who straightened up immediately, but through me, as well. My hard cock twitched at the implications of his command.

She did so, her blouse still open, her breasts still exposed in the soft light of our darkened corner. Charles did not need to explain what was requested; Brigitte seemed to know.

She sat at the edge of the chair, as he had ordered. Her long, dark, print skirt enveloped her legs nearly to her ankles, but the wrap style of it meant it was slit nearly to her waist. The opening was on her left, and this she undid slowly, glancing back and forth between us as she did so. She uncovered her lower leg, her knee, and then the beginning of her thigh. At this point she looked over at me, again for some sort of permission, and I nodded slightly. Then, shooting another quick glance around the room, and apparently finding it safe enough to satisfy her, she opened the skirt further. Her thigh was revealed further, and further.

Her skirt was now nearly open to her waist, but the reduced lighting and dark shadows in the room prevented either Charles or I, seated directly across from Brigitte, to really see her well.

"Pull your skirt open, and sit on the absolute edge of the chair," Charles said firmly, and my heart pounded.

Brigitte inched forward, sitting up straight, her blouse still open and her nipples seemingly more erect than ever. They poked out fiercely and proudly from the sheer, skimpy bra.

And she did as he said. She opened her skirt, pulling the soft folds of dark material up and away from her legs, tucking it up behind her, out of the way. Her entire skirt sat bunched up around her waist on the leather lounge chair.

I couldn't believe the picture she presented, sitting proudly and completely exposed in front of this handsome black man. Her tiny bikini panties were entirely open to view. They hid nothing. The black, floral edging framed her lovely pussy perfectly. The dark triangle of her pubic hair was wonderfully open to our gaze, and we drank in the sight of her. She sat before us, virtually naked. The crotch of her tiny, transparent panties glistened, wet with her excitement and anticipation.

My wife sat literally naked in front of another man, waiting for his next command.

Chapter VIII

This Manet-like tableau lasted only for a brief minute, however. Brigitte suddenly seemed to remember that she was sitting in a somewhat advanced state of déshabillé in the middle of a public bar. Her hands flew to her skirt, pulling it down and around her legs modestly, and then shot up to the buttons on her blouse, securing them rapidly, one after another. She sat back, still blushing, and looked down. She avoided Charles' gaze entirely, and only raised her head briefly to shoot quick glances at me -- trying to assess my opinion about all of this, I'm sure.

"I -- I'm sorry," she said at last, looking at me. "I don't know what got into me."

"That's quite all right, sweetie, it must have been the wine, huh?" I said, somewhat disingenuously. After all, I was as guilty as anyone for egging her on. More than anyone.

How could I tell her that I was enormously proud of her -- that she was stunningly attractive? That I was flattered to be her husband. That I knew she must have a thousand admirers, and that I just happened to be lucky enough to have her as my wife?

How, too, could I tell her, as embarrassed as I was by this, that I had never been more aroused than just now, watching her sit gloriously exposed to Charles. The human psyche is far too convoluted to try and fathom, and the English language woefully inadequate when it comes to explaining such emotions. I decided to err on the side of caution, and not attempt any feeble rationale.

Charles, of course, had a somewhat harder time restraining himself. He was practically gushing.

"I am touched -- honored," he began. "You are absolutely gorgeous. You are -- I think -- Bruce is -- Bruce is one of the luckiest men in the world!"

"Yes, he is," Brigitte agreed with a broad smile, but she began to color pink again, and you could tell that his compliments were getting to her, working some small measure of magic.

I looked over at the two of them and the effect his words had on her. Man! The charm and influence that this guy had! What else might he be able to talk my wife into?

At that moment, the waiter made his way over to our dark corner and informed us that the bar was closing. The notice was hardly a surprise, but it was a massive let-down for all three of us, you could tell. The evening had had an emotional, sexual charge that I hadn't remembered in quite some time, and here it was all suddenly draining away with a waiter's 'last call' warning.

I looked over at both Brigitte and Charles, and grinned wickedly to myself. "We have a bottle of champagne in our room," I said, surprised at the way my heart suddenly started beating faster. I made a conscious effort to slow it down. "It seems a shame to let it go to waste."

I looked over at Brigitte out of the corner of my eye as I said it, noticing her quick, sharp intake of breath. Charles seemed, for a second, at a loss for words, but then quickly turned to me and smiled. "What the heck!" he said with a grin. "I love champagne!"

Each of us stood and casually made our way out of the bar toward the lobby and elevators. On the way out I stopped to speak to the bartender and to settle the bill -- knowing that I didn't need to, as he already had my credit card imprint, but wanting to give Brigitte and Charles a few minute to wander on their own. Call me an instigator, or foolish, but most any man with any degree of self-confidence and self-worth would have done similarly, out of sheer curiosity and a sense of adventure.

I caught up with them a couple of minutes later as they stood at the bank of elevators. Brigitte was blushing again as Charles spoke quietly to her. I couldn't catch their words. As I approached, they both looked at me with a curious, distant gleam in their eyes -- one that made me wonder, for a brief moment, if maybe I'd bitten off more than I could chew.

Screw it, I said quickly to myself, reminding myself that I was in charge here.

Something else had been working at the back of my mind, too, all the while. I had been vaguely curious about Charles' sexual orientation -- ever since I met him, in fact. I mean, there was just something about him -- a sort of flitting nature, his soft-spoken approach, but nothing you could put your finger on -- that made me wonder about his interest in women.

Of course, I realized, standing there waiting for the elevator to arrive and take us to the 10th floor, that I was only trying to console myself. Charles had shown none of that side this evening -- only charm, wit, laughter and the occasional, quiet firmness -- together with an abiding interest in my attractive wife.

The elevator hissed to a stop and the doors slid open quietly. We stepped in. Brigitte moved toward the back, radiant with a glow that I half-heartedly hoped was a result of the wine. Charles moved to her left, and I stood on her right. I pushed the button for '10' and the doors whirred shut. As they did, I saw, from the corner of my eye, Charles' hand slide across to Brigitte's lower back, and then move downward.

Chapter IX

I wondered whether to say something. I wondered whether to do something. So, I did. I reached over with my left hand, and slid my hand across my wife's firm buttocks.

Charles' hand was already there. He had moved his hand down, and was slowly and firmly cupping Brigitte's bottom with a firm, tender grip. He looked up at me, and smiled, questioning. I smiled back, giving nothing away, but not saying 'no', either. Brigitte closed her eyes and slowly sank against the both of us. We held her up between us. The elevator continued to whirr softly, moving up. I was glad for its slow progress.

Then Charles moved his hand away -- but not to remove it, I discovered. Instead, he gently slipped it under the opening in her long skirt. She breathed in sharply as his hand slid underneath. I looked down and could see his hand slowly caressing her buttocks under the soft fabric. He moved it slowly up and down, stroking her, first her left cheek, and then her right. I imagined how her firm cheeks must have felt to him, encased only in the tiny bikini panties. I wondered, in fact, whether he had slipped his hand under the panties themselves, to directly caress her warm, soft skin. She leaned against both of us a little more tightly, closing her eyes, turning to me and giving me a soft kiss on the back of my neck. I smiled, and she let out a long, slow breath.

I decided to give Charles his freedom for now, and moved my own hand away from Brigitte's bottom. Instead, I trailed it gently up the front of her thigh, tracing my finger upward, across her waist, toward her breasts.

Whatever she may have planned on saying later, whatever denials or convenient lapses of memory she might have in store to explain her current behavior, would all be moot, I decided as I studied her lovely figure. Her erect nipples stood out sharply and proudly, practically unrestrained by either the flimsy material of her bra or the light, blue silk of her blouse. I remembered some cliché from an old novel: The body never lies.

Suddenly, at the 7th floor, the elevator hissed to a stop. "Okay, then," I said loudly to both of them -- and partly to myself -- decidedly uneager to have someone discover us in an early phase of flagrante delicto. The doors slid open and a middle-aged couple stepped in, smiled briefly, turned their backs, and pushed '12'. Their presence was sobering, and we stood quietly behind them, our behavior once again chaste. It was, I thought in retrospect, fortunate to be interrupted, as I was beginning to feel uncertain about the situation.

Did I want to encourage something like this? Did I want to see my wife so apparently curious and adventurous? Perhaps most difficult to wrestle with was my comfort level with Charles. Not Charles as Charles, per se, but Charles as another man, attentive to my wife. After all, I've never been guilty of underestimating my ego. How did I really feel about all of this, and how far exactly, was I willing to let it go?

The 10th floor arrived quickly, and the doors whirred open again. "This is us," I said cheerfully, and we stepped off the elevator and proceeded down the hall. I found the key, and opened the heavy door, stepping in after Charles and Brigitte.

It was dark in the room. Through the big picture window we could see, below us, the bright, winking street lamps of Arlington Street, the large old oaks of the Public Garden, and, beyond, the distant illuminated windows of Beacon Hill. One of the most appealing vistas in Boston lay in front of us on this late night. We stood and looked out for several minutes, saying little, either out of respect for the scene before us, or more probably due to a certain degree of nervousness.

Finally, I walked over and turned on several table lamps, softly illuminating the suite. I wandered over to the mini-bar, leaving Charles and Brigitte gazing at the view. I pulled out the chilled bottle of Veuve Cliquot, and then found three champagne glasses on the shelf above. How considerate of the Ritz to stock these in the room, I thought with a quiet smile.