Last night, my wife met up with her boyfriend. She slipped on that favorite pair of yoga shorts—ones I’ve always adored on her. They hug her curves perfectly, especially her ass, and I can’t help but be completely captivated. There was a time when those shorts signaled she wanted me, when she’d wear them specifically to ignite my desire. But lately, the ritual changed. Now, she puts them on, struts around the house just enough to make sure I see, and then she leaves.
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She had them on last night. The way she teased me was electric—flirting so intensely I thought luck might turn my way. I was rock hard, as she knew all too well. Then, with a sly smile, she promised she’d be back later and walked out the door.
A couple of hours later, my phone buzzed with a message from her boyfriend, James. The picture he sent made my breath catch: her, shirtless, still wearing those shorts, straddling him in reverse, his boxers still on. The image was raw, intimate, and utterly consuming.
After two hours of silence, I got another message — she was on her way home. When she returned, she dropped the shorts into the hamper without a word, took a long, hot shower, and slipped into bed.
Tonight’s her planned date night—arranged for weeks. She’s chosen that little black dress she wore when she first met James. The night’s plans include dinner, dancing, and then retreating to his place. She’ll probably stay over. When she comes back, she’ll hand me her phone, and as I watch her fingers stroke me, we’ll look through any pictures and videos she captured.
But that is for tomorrow. Tonight, I’m alone. Those shorts still lie atop the hamper. As breathtaking as she looks in them, I have to admit—I look damn good in them too.
I can’t wait for tomorrow’s images, but tonight I’m savoring a private, intimate connection, wrapped in the fabric she wore dancing over James just yesterday.