Candles? Check. Butter, milk and pearl onions for tomorrow's dinner? Check. Lube and condoms? Check. Everything is set for Valentine's Day with my husband. The only thing left is to meet Giselle. With grocery bags in hand, I picked up my pace to the coffee shop.
Giselle is a girl I found on the internet. In her early twenties, her bikini body pictures were insane and after exchanging text messages, she agreed to meet with me. I arrived to the coffee shop before her and bought a hot chocolate, watching the door between sips, until she appeared. She had a nice face, long honey brown hair. Her body was tight in boyfriend jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket. I waved at her, very relieved that she looked so clean and sane, and not hard and sullen. She ordered a coffee and joined me.
"Thanks for meeting me. I want to get my husband something special for Valentine's Day. I saw your picture and thought you'd be perfect."
She leaned forward with foxy brown eyes. "What did you have in mind?"
I awoke excited on Valentine's Day and took the afternoon off from work to prep for our special night. I called James as I ran water in the tub for a bath.
"Don't stop for a beer with the guys. Come straight home. I have a surprise for you," I purred.
My husband knows I like to play at being a 1940's or 50's American suburbia housewife. I'm not sure if it's a fetish, but wearing pointy tit bullet bras, tea dresses, stockings and high heels turns me on. Maybe it's because I have a ball busting job bossing men around all day, but when I'm at home, I like wearing high heels while cooking and listening to my great grandfather's 1940's big band records on the record player while catering to my husband's whims. James always indulges me. He especially likes when I turn into a bobby soxer, wearing a tight cashmere sweater over a poodle skirt, bobby socks and saddle shoes with my hair pulled back into a high pony tail. I smack my gum as he flips up the skirt and layers of crinoline to ravage me from behind. I love it!
James promised to be home after work and true to his word, he was home around six thirty.
Tonight I was the epitome of a fifties glamour wife, the kind you find in old Lana Turner and Sandra Dee movies. James opened the front door to find me standing near the front door, in high black heels and a red fifties A-line dress cinched in at the waist. Lionel Hampton was playing sweet tones on the record player. My sweetie had a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
I smiled and said, "Happy Valentine's Day, darling."
"Happy Valentine's Day," he said, handing me the flowers.
I kissed him before walking into the kitchen to fill a vase with water. He hung up his coat and joined me in the family room where my fire in the fireplace made the whole room cozy and warm against the chilly night.
"I made you dinner," I said.
"What did you make?" he asked, taking a seat on the couch.
"Pot Roast, mashed potatoes, peas with pearl onions and dinner rolls."
My gourmet foodie husband, who eats gruyere grilled cheese sandwiches on rosemary bread, chuckled at my old time all American meal.
"And for dessert," I said, pulling up my dress past the top of my stockings to reveal my freshly waxed pussy framed under a garter belt, "Pie."
His pursed his lips as he does when he really wants something before I lowered my dress.
"But first, relax. Martini?"
"Please."
He loosened up his shirt and kicked off his shoes while watching me add ice to the pre-measured martini already in the shaker. I shook the icy shaker with a deliberate sexy bounce, poured his drink into a martini glass, added two skewered olives and walked it to him. He accepted it then slapped my ass before taking a sip.
