28-06-2020, 12:34 PM
Contrary to expectations, she wasn’t wearing black panties to match her bra; what she had on was an old pair, with a slightly pinkish floral pattern on white background. Nothing too sexy as per say, but then….., hell! Anything would have seemed sexy at that point. Even her slightly protruding abdomen and some extra flesh around her hips and thighs (a bit of fat that she put on after child birth and could not quiet get rid of) seemed sexy. In fact, the slight imperfections of her figure made the whole scene even more erotic – reminding everyone in the room that this was an attractive yet ordinary housewife being made to do a slow strip tease before us, not some professional stripper with a gorgeous figure and an artificial smile……. If you guys know what I mean!
Had this entire incident taken place in America or Europe, I might have rationalized our behavior that night by telling you that we were all drunk or a “little high” on some dope. There was nothing of the sort of course. But what was happening in that room was research paper material for some psychiatrist: four perfectly normal, decent people had entered into a trance like state where the bizarre, the extraordinary, was being accepted and enacted as if some force, other than our own individual selves, was at work that night. And it was all highly erotic. With a raging hard-on, my urge to pee was increasing by the minute, but I simply could not leave the room at that point, even if it meant peeing in my pants.
The next round started with me realizing that if my wife lost again, she would be actually be taking off at least one piece of her undergarments, leaving her nude (in the real sense of the word) in the presence of my students, either from the top or the bottom.
From this point on, I can only describe things abruptly, as I don’t really have the words to capture the electric eroticism of the scene.
The round ended and Rozi had lost again! Things might…, just might, have ended at this stage. After all, it was all getting too much. Rozi might have looked at me once more with pleading eyes, and I might have got up and ended the whole affair by taking charge of the situation and telling everyone to get dressed. But that rascal, Salman, played “his cards” (pun intended) really well there. Understanding the psychology of the woman before him, he smiled, looked at her and said,
“We can end it now if you finally accept that women just can’t beat men at cards…., or any other game for that matter.”
That did it. There’s a raging feminist inside my wife. My heart actually skipped a beat as I thought she might chose to dispense with her bra.
Had this entire incident taken place in America or Europe, I might have rationalized our behavior that night by telling you that we were all drunk or a “little high” on some dope. There was nothing of the sort of course. But what was happening in that room was research paper material for some psychiatrist: four perfectly normal, decent people had entered into a trance like state where the bizarre, the extraordinary, was being accepted and enacted as if some force, other than our own individual selves, was at work that night. And it was all highly erotic. With a raging hard-on, my urge to pee was increasing by the minute, but I simply could not leave the room at that point, even if it meant peeing in my pants.
The next round started with me realizing that if my wife lost again, she would be actually be taking off at least one piece of her undergarments, leaving her nude (in the real sense of the word) in the presence of my students, either from the top or the bottom.
From this point on, I can only describe things abruptly, as I don’t really have the words to capture the electric eroticism of the scene.
The round ended and Rozi had lost again! Things might…, just might, have ended at this stage. After all, it was all getting too much. Rozi might have looked at me once more with pleading eyes, and I might have got up and ended the whole affair by taking charge of the situation and telling everyone to get dressed. But that rascal, Salman, played “his cards” (pun intended) really well there. Understanding the psychology of the woman before him, he smiled, looked at her and said,
“We can end it now if you finally accept that women just can’t beat men at cards…., or any other game for that matter.”
That did it. There’s a raging feminist inside my wife. My heart actually skipped a beat as I thought she might chose to dispense with her bra.
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