White Lingerie

I.

It didn't matter at all that Christine was married. She met Bobby at the mandatory course for all new admittees to the DC Bar. In a large ballroom of the Ronald Reagan Building downtown, Christine was seated at one of the endless rows of tables, apathetically glancing through the course materials. The room was starting to fill up; there was the low background murmur of idle conversation.

"Hi, is anyone sitting there?"

Christine looked up. A man dressed in a shirt, sport coat and no tie was pointing at the seat next to her. He had a Danish in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and he was cute, about her age; just gently past thirty.

"No," Christine said. He began to turn away. "I mean," she corrected herself, "no one's sitting there. You can sit here. Please. I mean, if you like."

"Are you sure?" he asked with a wry smile.

"Yes," Christine said, smiling back. "Sorry about the mix up." He settled into the chair next to her.

"I always get frazzled at these Bar seminars," Christine explained. "They're always so long and boring."

"Me, too. And they make you get up so early just to put you back to sleep."

"Well, maybe we can be discreet and do what my friends and I used to do in law school during boring classes—have very thorough games of hangman."

"You did that too?"

"Almost my entire third year."

"Me too! We used to play legal hangman—the word was always some sort of legal term or phrase."

"I see, well, you're obviously much more sophisticated than we were," Christine said with a pretty smile. "I'm Christine, by the way," and she extended her hand.

"Robert. But please, call me Bobby." They shook hands.

"Where else are you admitted?" Bobby asked.

"California. And you?"

"New York."

They did not play hangman, but had a very pleasant conversation during the breaks, and passed notes furiously like high schoolers during the more mind-numbing presentations on DC Court practice. They exchanged business cards when it was all over; Bobby found out that Christine Greene was a labor attorney for a medium sized firm downtown that represented businesses against labor unions. Christine learned that Bobby Lehman was a trial attorney for the Department of Justice.

Over dinner that night, Christine's husband, Vince, asked "How was your course today?"

"Oh, you know how these things are," she replied. "Boring, boring, boring. I brought some things to do from work, some cases to review, and worked on that during the really dull parts."

That was the extent of their conversation about what happened to Christine at the seminar.

II.

Two weeks later, Bobby and Christine met for lunch downtown. Bobby had just returned from a big narcotics trial he had won in southern Illinois, and through the appetizer course he entertained Christine with stories from that case. During entrees they compared notes about their relationships.

Bobby saw the ring on her hand and asked about it. Christine said she was halfway through her third year of marriage, and that her husband taught "high school English at one of the private schools in Northwest D.C."

She asked him, "What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?"

Bobby had a long-standing, serious girlfriend; three years of dating, but they still kept separate residences. She was a graduate student at the University of Maryland, and currently in Colorado doing research for her dissertation. Bobby did not tell Christine all of that; he simply said, "Yeah, I've been seeing someone, kinda off and on for awhile now. You know."

That was the extent of their conversation about any significant others they might have. After the entrees were brought, Bobby directed the conversation to Christine—what her practice was like (interesting), how long she had been out in D.C. (only one year), where she was from originally (central California), how she liked the East Coast (the four seasons were nice but she still wasn't used to the cold).

"Well," Bobby said to that, "having grown up in the East, I think the best part of the cold can be the keeping warm." Christine understood that he was not talking about hot chocolate.

The calendar read sometime in mid-October.

III.

Three days later it was a Friday and they met for a drink in the early evening at Zola on F Street. Her husband was going to be late at his school, coaching the fall drama production. Christine and Bobby drank a toast to the "DC Bar" and then they drank another toast to "new friends." They talked about their childhoods and told embarrassing stories. They had another drink and told stories about their college days. She told a secret about a hazing party for the sorority she joined (after a "Pimps and Ho's" party, the pledges were dropped off in the center of town and had to walk the four miles back to the campus in their stilettos and platforms and other hooker-inspired ensembles). He told about how he was hazed when he joined the sailing team (all new members had to run a naked mile through the small New England down, going down to the docks and then back to campus on the weekend before Thanksgiving, when it was cold and the male anatomy did not show off to any great pride).

Often their fingertips touched, and they kept their hands in close proximity, as if little electrical sparks were jumping from one to the other. After about an hour, Bobby made was making a point and for emphasis put his hand on her knee. She was wearing a skirt, so he could feel her stocking underneath his palm. When they parted a half an hour later, his hand had worked its way up to about her mid-thigh.

IV.

The next week, they met again for another end-the-week drink at Zola.

"I really like your hair," Bobby said, reaching over and fingering the tip of her straight, brown bob. "I think it's very stylish, very sleek."

"Thank you. I used to have really long hair; I just cut it down in the last year or so. I think it looks more professional." Her hand crept up the length of Bobby's arm.

"Of my goodness!" Christine exclaimed, surprised. She was feeling his bicep through his suit jacket. "You are so strong!"

"What can I say," Bobby said, in mock self-deprecation, "those law books are heavy. All those case reporters . . ."

She smiled. "And you just hide all these muscles, it's just not fair. Men's clothes. Really! You see, women's clothes, I mean we just have to put it all on display, I mean, you can't hide anything," and with that she crossed her legs, letting the skirt of her suit ride up on her thighs.

"Well," Bobby said, "I think that's a public service you do, letting men see those excellent legs of yours." He leaned in closer to her, only inches away from her mouth. "I think you definitely fulfill your pro bono obligations to the bar each year."

"Yes, and I also fulfill my pro boner obligations," and with that Christine gave his crotch a quick squeeze.

Bobby, still playing with her hair, leaned in even closer—but when their mouths were almost touching she pulled back. "Excuse me," she said, lowering herself from her bar stool, "I think I need to go to the ladies'." Bobby watched her sashay out of the bar, her trim frame moving gracefully, her pert ass perfectly shown off in the gray tweed skirt suit.

When Christine came out of the ladies room, she found Bobby there in the secluded little area by the restrooms. She started to say something, but Bobby closed the distance to her and silenced her mouth with his hard, masculine kiss. Their arms wrapped around each other; Christine kissed him back, passionately, urgently, with need.

They backpedaled into the ladies' room and stumbled, mid-embrace, into a stall. Christine had just applied her bright red lipstick and now it smudged over her mouth and his. They could taste the alcohol on each other's breath. He groped brazenly for her breasts through the white oxford cloth of her blouse and she loved it, encouraging his strong hands to feel her body everywhere. He squeezed her ass, her thighs. He held her close against him so she could feel the throbbing lust he had for her between his legs.

In her turn, she wrapped a stocking-clad leg around him, rubbing herself against his body obscenely. Their tongues met in a frenzy of saliva and skin; she could smell the deep, manly scent of his cologne, and he could still smell the delicate conditioner she rinsed her hair with that morning.

It ended when he began to reach for the buttons of her blouse.

"No, not yet," she protested, French kissing him like a college sophomore.

"Why not?"

"I'm not wearing a very nice bra today. I don't want you to see it."

"C'mon . . ." he said, cupping her left breast and savoring the feeling.

"No. I wasn't . . . Monday. You can on Monday."

"Monday?"

"Mmmm-hmmm." They had broken their kiss now, and he could see her face: she was flushed, bright red. He could feel the blood in his face, his heart still pounding in a rush.

"But there's a whole weekend in between."

"Then you'll just have to jerk-off wondering what I'm like now won't you?" she said, taking hold of his cock through his pants.

"Let's go to a hotel, then. My treat?"

"Oh yeah?"

"If you're going to make me wait, I'm going to want to take my time and enjoy it."

She kissed him once on the mouth, quickly. "Okay."

V.

Monday was cold and overcast. Even though it was only a few blocks from her office, Christine took a taxi over to the Willard Hotel. The doorman opened her cab door, and she stepped out of the cab. She was wearing an overcoat and sunglasses, even though there was no sun in the sky. She had a leather tote bag with her. Quickly, she walked up the steps into the opulent yet compact lobby. A grand, fresh floral arrangement in the center of the lobby dominated the room, its perfume wafting over to Christine as soon as she passed through the revolving front door.

So this is what indecency smells like, she thought to herself, thinking that the organic earthiness of the flower bouquet made a fitting parallel to the earthy musk of sex itself.

The voicemail that Bobby had left for her gave the room number: 514. She took the elevator to the fifth floor, found the door, and knocked. Her heart was in her throat; she felt like she did when she was going out to try a new restaurant or a new play or when she would get her law firm's annual bonus and immediately head out to Talbot's or Ann Taylor, flush with new cash.

"Hi there," Bobby said with a broad grin on his face.

"Hi"

Christine stepped forward, over the threshold into the hotel room. Bobby went to take her coat.

"No, not yet," Christine replied, walking deeper into the room. She passed the bathroom and closet and found the room contained a king sized bed and the typical upscale furniture of an upscale hotel. There was a glass-topped table and accompanying chairs; a large chair with a matching ottoman. One wall was dominated by an armoire that doubtless held the television and extra drawer space. There was a dresser next to the armoire, above which hung a large mirror.

"I'm glad you came," Bobby said, all smiles.

"Oh, I haven't yet," Christine said with a saucy wink, "but I've got high hopes."

"I'll do my best."

"Oh, Bobby," and Christine leaned into him, letting him wrap her up in his embrace.

"I took the liberty . . ." Bobby said, gesturing to a half-dozen lit candles atop the dresser next to the armoire.

"Aren't you sweet," Christine said, and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. The candles were white.

Bobby leaned in to kiss her, and she let him. She kissed him back for awhile, and then she asked him:

"Do you want to see what's under my clothes, Bobby?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to see what I'm wearing underneath everything?"

"Oh, yes."

"You want to see me stripped down for you, you wicked boy?"

"Please, Christine."

"I feel your cock, Bobby. You're getting hard just from thinking about it, aren't you?"

"You know I am."

"Take your clothes off for me first, Bobby. I want to see those big strong muscles of yours." As she said that, she ran her hands across his chest and down his arms, feeling his fit body. She could feel his strength even through his formal striped suit.

Bobby did as she wanted; slowly removing his suit jacket, then his tie, then his shirt and then, finally his white undershirt. Christine touched his chest, with its gentle musculature and light coating of hair. "Very nice," she said. "You look like a lawyer in the suit, but you don't look like one out of the suit. Now, let's see those legal briefs," and she began to undo his belt and the button of his pants.

Christine let Bobby's pants fall to his ankles, revealing boxer shorts with a wild pattern of martini glasses. His dick was bulging the shorts.

"I'm going to look at your dick, Bobby. I'm going to take a look at you. Oh my, what have we here?" she asked, sliding his boxer shorts so that his cock popped through the fly front.

Bobby was speechless out of shyness.

"Mmmm… yes," Christine said, looking down at Bobby's cock. Then, she looked into Bobby's brown eyes. "I think you're going to do quite nicely."

"Oh, Christine," Bobby moaned. She had taken his cock firmly in her fist.

"You're nice and thick, counselor. I think I should move to suppress this. And you know where I'm going to suppress it? Oh, I think you do. Strip all the way for me; let's see that butt of yours. And take off your socks and shoes."

Bobby complied, and Christine walked around him, looking at his body, generally trim, but soft in places. Bobby felt her long nails running across his skin; felt her hard spank on his ass. "The USDA declares this some Grade A beef!" she said, giggling. Christine was fully dressed, even wearing her overcoat, while Bobby was stark naked in front of her. Christine was relishing the power of the situation; she always had had fantasies about being able to make a man do what she wanted, to play the aggressor and let the man be the sex object, a fun gender-bending role reversal.

She snuggled up close behind him. "Did you stroke your cock this weekend, Bobby? Did you?"

"Yeah."

"Did you think about me?"

"Oh, yeah, Christine."

"Did you fuck that girlfriend of yours Bobby? Did you fuck her and wish it was me?" This was the first time Christine had ever mentioned her.

"No. She's out of town."

"Oh, poor baby," Christine cooed. "I didn't let my husband fuck me all weekend, Bobby. And he wanted to. But I told him I had too much work to do. And you know why I had to work? So I could have this whole afternoon free to play around with you. Now, do you want to see me, Bobby? I know you do. Go into the bathroom, and don't come out until I tell you. Okay?"

Bobby went into the bathroom and closed the door. He looked at his body in the mirror, he thought briefly of his girlfriend. He couldn't believe that he was about to fuck this sexy woman, with her thin, size six body and sexy, short brown hair. He could feel the sexual energy in her body the first time he touched her leg at the bar; his cock was rigid with lust for Christine! She had such a naughty wit, such an elegant manner about her—her clothes were always classy, but showing off her power as a woman. He stroked his cock while he waited, dying to see her stripped like she ordered him to strip!

All weekend he beat himself off, reliving the thrill of French kissing her in the ladies' room, the erotic newness of feeling her up through her clothes after work on Friday. Now, waiting in the bathroom, he felt like he could come just at the thought of her getting ready to ride his cock in the middle of the workday!

"Okay," he heard her call to him.

Bobby opened the door and saw Christine. She had one leg on the floor. With the other leg she kneeled on the bed, a sultry pose showing off the length of her sexy legs. It also showed off the delicate white stockings Christine wore; classy, yet totally vampy. Where her thigh-high stockings stopped they held on tight to the soft flesh, cinching into her thighs, making the tops of her thighs looks even softer and more womanly.

On her feet, Christine had put on a delicate pair of satiny white heels. They covered her toes, crossed her feet in a few naughty straps, and then tied to her ankles with a thin ankle strap. The heel was just long enough to belie the innocence of the color.

Half-bent over like that, Christine was also showing Bobby her ass through her full-cut satin panties. Her pose stretched out the fabric of her panties against her sweet rump, and Bobby wanted to reach out and feel the satin pulling taut against the fullness of her ass.

"Do you like?" Christine asked, full of confidence, looking back at Bobby over her shoulder. "Let me show you the rest."

With that she turned, revealed the white lacy bra that encased her B-cup breasts.

"You look just like a bride," Bobby said, saying the first thing that came into his head.

Christine blushed. "I wore something just like this under my wedding dress, in fact. In fact, I wore these exact same shoes," she said, kicking up her feet in emphasis. "Aren't they a little too naughty to get married in?"

"You look great!"

"Yes, no hiding your reaction," Christine said looking at Bobby's cock, still fully erect. "Do you like my white lingerie? Was it worth the wait? I didn't want you to just seem me in any old bra and panty set."

"Christine, you look so sexy. But you are very, very naughty."

She giggled. "I may look like a bride, but I do feel like a slut."

"Then come here, little slut."

"Oh no, no, no. Crawl over to me, Bobby. Show me how much you want me."

He did just like she ordered; Christine enjoyed seeing his trim body pump and flex as he crawled across the carpet to where she was sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed. Christine enjoyed seeing his rigid cock almost brushing the ground as he crawled. When Bobby reached her, Christine dangled an elegant foot in front of him. He kissed the soft leather of the closed-toe with his lips, exactly as she intended him to.

From her white leather shoe, to her stocking-clad foot, up the white expanse of her nylon-covered calf, Bobby kissed Christine legs, rubbing his face against her calf, feeling her soft white stocking against his cheek. Arriving at her thigh, Bobby rested his head against her there, feeling the warmth of her, and smelling the unmistakable scent of the warmth between her legs. Glancing up, Bobby could see the outline of her pussy against the satin of Christine's panties.

"I like where you're headed," Christine said.

"There's just one thing, first," Bobby said, standing.

Christine looked at him quizzically.

"Give me your hand," he said, and reached for her left hand. She extended it to him, and he took her hand in his and slid the little golden band off of her ring finger. He put it down on the table, next to where she had lain her purse.

"Now then, where was I?" Bobby said, resuming his kneeling position.

"I believe you were right here," Christine said, pressing down hard on his shoulders, forcing him to a spot mere inches away from the center of her womanhood.

Bobby could feel the heat radiating from her, it grew stronger and stronger as he drew closer, until the satin fabric of her panties brushed against his lips and the musky smell of her was flooding his senses.

"Oh, Bobby," Christine moaned, laying back on to the bed and giving herself over to abandon. "Kiss me there, dear. Kiss my pussy. Yes! Oh, yes!"

He kissed her through her panties, feeling the delicate white satin growing more and more damp. He hooked his fingers into the elastic of the waistband, and as he pulled them down, Christine lifted her ass, showing the full extent of her complicity.

"I feel like such a whore!" she exclaimed, proudly, as she felt the air on her naked pussy. "All that virginal white lingerie, but I still feel like a whore!"