She couldn't believe she was doing this. She was, after all, happily married, and she took her responsibilities in that line seriously. There was no way she was ever going to do anything that could damage her family. However, everyone needed a bit of excitement now and again, and one day she'd stumbled across a site on the Internet where people could find friends. Sexy friends.
She'd thought about it for a few days, going back to have a look, see what was going on. She wasn't unhappy with her sex life, but there was a feeling that there must be more that what she had. Many people on the site were after sex, pure and simple, with men, women and couples, and they weren't shy about advertising the fact. That wasn't what she wanted however. She just wanted someone to talk to. Someone with an imagination. And after a few months of weeding out the dickheads and dick pics, she'd found someone. Someone who could listen to her, and write for her in a way that made her tingly in all the right places. A sexy friend, in fact. And oh, could he write – she'd had to become adept at using the computer with one hand between her legs, teasing herself until she shuddered to a climax. And she was sure that he was doing something similar on the other end of the network connection...
And now she had agreed to meet. Not for sex. Oh no. That would never happen. But, having spent months getting to know each other, it seemed silly not to meet, to take the chance to sit opposite him and look into his eyes, to laugh with him. As a friend. A friend who knew nearly all of her sexy secrets, sure, but just a friend.
So, the arrangement was that they'd meet up in the middle of London during the day. Big anonymous London, Covent Garden, maybe. They would have lunch, talk, maybe take a walk. And then go home. Their own homes, both of them. It would be nice, safe – just friends meeting up to spend some time together. No sex – neither of them were looking for that, and anyway there wouldn't be time. They both had to get back to their own families for the evening.
So why was she taking so much trouble getting ready? She'd started the night before, thinking carefully about what she would wear, picking a nice blouse with a silky skirt – not too short, but a nice feeling as it brushed her legs. If it was warm enough, she wouldn't need tights with it. Her underwear was white and flimsy – she thought that was important even though he wasn't going to be seeing it. She'd even selected the perfume she would wear, and decided where she would wear it. The usual places, yes, but a couple of quick squirts under her skirt would leave her feeling pretty, she thought.
And on the morning itself, with everyone else out of the house, just enough time before her train. Taking a shower, shaving her legs so that the skirt would feel nice brushing against them. Suddenly, with the razor in her hand reaching the tops of her thighs, a wicked thought. He'd often said that he loved smoothly shaved pussy – so much nicer to lick, he said. True, he wouldn't see it, but maybe she might be able to lean across the table and whisper in his ear what she had done that morning. She was sure her husband would also appreciate it that night, and he'd probably give her a highly pleasurable reward for her trouble. So why not?
An hour later, standing on the station platform waiting for the train, she felt strangely giddy. Standing in front of the mirror afterwards, seeing herself as she hadn't done since she was a teenager was one thing – in fact, she thought, she hadn't even felt like this since she was a teenager – but the feeling of her smooth lips rubbing against her knickers was making her weak at the knees, and she was pleased when the train arrived and she could sit down. During the short journey into town, she kept looking around the carriage and wondering if any of the other passengers could guess the secret she carried under her clothes, and what they would think.
Once she'd got off the train, she decided that she had enough time to walk to the rendezvous point. Wandering through the London streets, she wondered what he would look like in the flesh, so to speak. Sure they'd swapped pictures, but it wasn't the same, was it. Would he like her? The day had grown a bit chillier, her legs were feeling the cold and she now regretted not wearing tights. As she was passing a large clothing store, she decided to pop in and buy some before the goosepimples caught on her skirt, but as she was standing in front of the rack deciding which ones, she had another thought. So, picking up a pair of thigh-high stockings she walked towards the till, and while she was paying asked if she could use one of the changing rooms to put them on. As she approached the place were she was to meet her friend, she smiled to herself – if he only knew what she now looked like under her skirt – the stockings, the somewhat transparent underwear, the obvious lack of hair - chances are he'd have to stay sitting down! The thought made her feel a little damp and tingly.
And there he was, just as in the photographs, large as life. They embraced, him breathing her in deeply. "You smell delicious", he said, holding her at arms length before wrapping her again in his arms. "Good enough to eat." A momentary vision of him doing just that flashed across her mind, and a jolt went through her pussy.
"I thought we'd stop here and have lunch", he said, steering her towards a small Italian place in a backstreet. It was dark and quiet, with tables set between deep banquettes giving privacy – she could almost imagine that they had the place to themselves. And there they sat, talking, eating (slowly), looking at each other, not really believing that they were doing this while their partners went about their daily business. She felt bad about that, felt she was deceiving her husband, but it was harmless, wasn't it? Just friends?
"I've brought you a gift", he announced, producing a small box. "Go on, open it." She slid the top off and nestling inside was a string of pearls. Jewellery, she thought. But wait, what was that scrap of white lace? She lifted it out of the box, and it became clear that it was an item of clothing. A thong, in fact, but instead of a piece of fabric to cover her modesty there was just that string of pearls. She blushed, laughed, and stuffed it into her handbag. Really! What was she supposed to do with that?
Dessert came and went, and they lingered over coffee. The wine had got to her, and she stood up. "Excuse me, I have to go and powder my nose." She walked to the ladies, aware that he was watching her go. Maybe she put an extra wiggle in her walk. Maybe.
