A Good Little Wife goes Bad (Chaps 1 + 2)
written by:
Ponderer

This is a slow-paced story that, I hope, is both well-written and humorous, and which I trust will appeal equally to both men and women. As it says in the story: if you want to read a ‘wham-bang-thank-you-M'am' kind of story, you may be better off looking for your ‘fast fix' elsewhere. I would welcome comments (especially from any ladies) via email, and, please vote for the story, if you like it. Thank you.

A Good Little Wife goes Bad

Chapter One

I don't know why on Earth I've decided to write all this down: one thing's for sure: I'm the only one who'll ever get to read it. I guess it's just a way of getting my thoughts in order; getting a handle on all that's happened. Putting things down in print has always worked for me, that way. Still: what would you expect of a journalist? I think I'll write it as a story: maybe a bedtime story for adults...

God knows how I got into this mess: well, I do know: it was my own stupid fucking fault, but then, it often is, I guess.

I suppose if this is going to be a ‘story', before I go any further I should describe myself, not that there's any point: seeing as the story's only for me, but I'll stick to my self-imposed assignment. So: I'm 25, 5' 8', slim, and have long blonde hair; I think my legs are my best feature, but guys seem to like my breasts. So: what else is new?

We're from England, but moved here to Singapore a year ago when Mike got a job with an investment bank in the city. As I said: I'm a journalist, but apart from the odd bit of freelance here and there, I've not found a job, here, yet. But Mike's earning such good money, now, that's not really an issue, at least as the financial situation is concerned. I don't know if you know Singapore, but I always say that it's more West that the West! The city centre is just one gleaming mall after another, and you don't even have to venture out into the fresh air (or the heat) to get between many of them: just seamlessly glide along the air-conned, store-lined hallways from one to the next; in fact, it's impossible to tell where one mall ends and another begins. It's shoppers' paradise. Why am I telling you all this when all you're really interested in are the ‘juicy details'? Well, for one thing, being a ‘journo', it simply goes against the grain not to set the scene a little, and if I am going to write this, then I may as well do it my way. And, for another thing, I told you: I'm a woman, and you should know that women like to build up to things: if you want to read a ‘wham-bang-thank-you-M'am' story, then do us both a favour, and read one written by someone who's got a dick.

But this description does have a point, because my fall from grace, the place where I stopped being the perfect little wife I'd always been and became, well, something else entirely, the setting for where I right royally fucked up, was in one of these shiny cathedrals where shoppers flock to worship Mammon. It was, in fact, in Ion Orchard, one of the very newest malls, which only opened at about the time we arrived here. Like most of the malls, here, in the basement there's a very large food court, part of which, at Ion, is called Food Opera. Most of the seating area of Food Opera is situated in a towering atrium where you can sit gazing up at through about four floors of sparkling glass and chrome to the ceiling far above. (Incidentally, just as an aside, and in case any of you reading this would like to absorb a little cultural information while you're getting your jollies, one of Singapore's most famous red-light establishments, The Orchard Hotel, is know as ‘The Four Floors of Whores', with, I've heard it said, each floor being given over to girls of a different Nationality: Pilipino, Thai, Chinese etc, but I expect that last bit's just bullshit.) Anyway, at Opera you can look up at all these other shopping levels, and each level has a balcony overlooking the food court, well, I say balcony, but they're just the walkways around the stores that have almost-chest high glass barriers and wooden guardrails along them, enabling the passersby above to lean over and peer down at the people eating below, and the ones below to look back, except most of them never look up from their plates, or the person they're with. I guess the lower level is about 10-15 metres (say 30 to 40 feet) from the tables below.

I don't know if you picked up on the most salient point in the above description, or not, but it was the word ‘glass'. Yes: that's right: all the ‘balcony' walls are completely transparent. That's just one of the things you notice about Singapore: it's a city of escalators (man: some of them go up three or four floors, I'm telling you, when it's not busy, it's common to see people sitting down on them) and every single one of them has glass sides. I guess that's not all that uncommon, but you just know that it's all been designed by a man, don't you. And when you couple that with the thousands (and I'm not exaggerating) of stunning Asian girls wearing micro mini skirts, well: talk about Perv's paradise!

Anyway: on the morning I'm going to tell you about I'd decided to go shopping at Ion (I, now, sometimes wish I could rethink that decision, or, at least, how I behaved when I got there). I wore my usual sort of clothes: very stylish, very expensive, but quite conservative, I suppose (well, when compared to what most women wear, here, very conservative, I guess). I wore a fairly thin white cotton blouse and a slightly flared cream skirt that finished about four or five inches above the knee (and, believe me, for here, that is very conservative). Apart from my underwear, and a fabulous pair of 3'' heeled Jimmy Choos, that was it: you don't need to wear much, here.

Everything was going as planned until I stopped on the floor above the Food Opera and stood looking down at the people eating below. I was just leaning on the rail, taking in some of the strange-looking dishes a few of them were eating, when I noticed a guy sitting below me and looking up at me. He was a white guy, and must have been about 40, I guess, and he was gorgeous: the sort that you normally only see in the catalogues. He looked a little like George Clooney, that type, anyway, although he had some grey at his temples: distinguished-looking is the phrase that's normally used, I suppose. Our eyes met, but only for a second: I looked away immediately. But it was enough to cause my pulse to quicken a little, and to send a slight flush to my cheeks. I stood there, trying to appear casual, and to get back to thinking about whatever it was I was thinking about before I noticed him, but which, for the life of me, I couldn't remember at all. It was then, whilst glancing about, and taking note of the glass walls, that I realised, with a shock, that he must be able to see up my skirt. But I wasn't right up against the glass, in fact, I was a pace back, leaning forward onto the guardrail, so, the truth was he wouldn't be able to see much more than if he'd been standing next to me. But, nevertheless, the thought gave me a real jolt. I let go of the rail, stood up straight, and was going to move right away. As I said, before, I'd always been the perfect wife: pure of thought and deed (well, deed, anyway) and so my very first reaction was to make sure that no one was seeing anything they shouldn't. I even span on my heels, but something stopped me. I felt this little twinge, this small tickle that I knew was the beginnings of sexual arousal. I felt another surge of blood to my face: caused as much by embarrassment as nascent arousal. Was allowing a stranger to look up my skirt really enough to make me horny? I swallowed a couple of times, feeling warmer and warmer, and not a little confused. This was so out of character. Why didn't I just go and get on with my shopping? But my face wasn't the only place blood seemed to be flowing to: I could feel myself getting warmer between my legs: that twitch was growing. Then it seemed I lost all control of my thoughts: they were no longer about going, or shopping, or anything safe and normal. I thought to myself things like ‘Well: what harm would it do if he did look up my skirt? He'd enjoy it, and, it seems, I would, too. And who would know? It's not like I'm being unfaithful, or anything. Mike would probably just laugh, and think I was being paid a compliment, indirectly. And, anyway, what exactly is he going to see? Just a bit of thigh. I show a Hell of a lot more than that at the beach, or even when I'm wearing shorts.' A whole succession of thoughts like those, flashing through my head (and, yeah: I guess ‘flashing' is the right word). That was all it took, and my fate was sealed.

I took a deep breath, and, instead of walking away, instead of stepping back into my normal, safe, life, I turned, unwittingly closing the door to that life, and stepped into my new one. I leaned against the rail, again, and made sure he was still there, and that he was still looking at me. He was. He was wearing a slight smile, now, but I made sure that I gave no indication that I'd noticed him. Then I straightened up and stepped nearer the glass. I knew that now he'd be able to see a lot higher than before. Moving my head from side to side, as if I were looking for someone, I could see that he'd started grinning. My face felt hot and I knew that it was very red under my tan. I could feel my pussy lips swelling as they became engorged with blood. My breathing was coming faster, too. I stood as close to the glass as I could, leaning back at the same time, knowing this would cause the front of my skirt to flare up, and that he would be able to see my panties. They were nothing special, but they were a little flimsy and could never be mistaken for a swimsuit. I was trembling slightly, now.

I thought, somewhat shakily ‘Well: he's seen the front; maybe he'd like to see the back.' So: I turned slowly around and leaned back against the rail, as if I were waiting for someone. I was feeling so turned on; almost directly in front of me were some toilets: just opposite the Starbucks, and I knew that I was going to have to go and masturbate in them soon. It was then I decided to really push the boat out: taking another deep breath, I bent over at the waist and pretended to adjust the ankle strap on my Jimmy's. I knew that he'd be able to see all of my panty-covered arse, and the thought sent a shudder running right through me, nearly making me come on the spot. I opened my quivering legs wide and stretched right down; I even shot a glance through my legs and down to the floor below: he was still grinning widely, and had his phone in his hand as though he'd just had a phone call, or was thinking of making one. I quickly looked away, and my hair tumbled down in front of my face. I could feel that my pants were getting wet: I could feel my juices coming out of me in what felt like little squirts. My breathing was quite ragged by now. I kept up this pose for as long as felt decently possible (well: indecently, I guess), and then stood slowly up and turned back to the rail to check on Gorgeous. But he was gone!

I could not believe it. He'd actually walked out on my display! How disappointing. How infuriating! How fucking dare he!!! My dismay and ‘shame' at this blatant rejection, this utter disinterest in my charms, instantly turned to fury. Fucking faggot! I hope his next boyfriend gives him the fucking clap!

And then a silky voice, right next to my ear, said ‘Looking for me?'

Jesus Christ! I dropped my bag and nearly jumped over the balcony! If I'd had that coffee I'd been thinking about, earlier, I know damn well I'd have wet myself.

It was him.

Flustered just doesn't even begin to describe my emotions. I can tell you, I nearly bolted. That great surge of adrenaline was just screaming at me ‘RUN!!!' I think I would have done, too, if I hadn't felt completely paralysed. Can you imagine if I had run' I mean, Jimmy Choos are wonderful for a good many things, but a 100 metre dash just doesn't happen to be one of them. If I hadn't been transfixed, I'd have broken a least one fucking ankle, probably two!

My mind was blank. There was nothing coherent happening between my ears at all. I just stood there, face flushed, my hair stuck to my face with sweat, mouth open, my breath coming in short pants and every part of me trembling. I had all the after effects of an Earth shattering orgasm without fucking having one!

He quickly bent down and retrieved my bag, together with the things that had spilled out when it hit the floor: my passport, phone and some tampons (of course!).

After what seemed like a couple of hours of my standing there like that, my eyes wide, staring at him, a look of concern crossed his face.

‘Are you all right?' he said, putting a hand on my arm ‘You're trembling.'

This broke the spell, at least to the extent that I actually managed to move: I tore my eyes from his face and stared down at the hand that was on my arm. Still no rational thoughts, though.

After what seemed like another day or two, he said:

‘Shall I find you a chair? Somewhere to sit down?'

And then all my thoughts came flooding back from wherever the cowardly bastards had been hiding.

OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. The man I'd been practically pole dancing for, in public, hadn't left: he'd come up to find me. He had found me. He had hold of me! OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG.

WTF could I possibly say? Could I still pretend that it was all completely innocent' Could I turn on him and accuse him of being a pervert' Fuck! I wasn't even sure I could stand, if it weren't for him half holding me up. And I didn't trust my voice to work at all.

I swallowed a couple of times and wondered if I could just giggle and get away with it, but I knew that even if I could manage it, it would come out sounding like hysteria and someone would end up slapping my face.

‘Do you know what I think?' he said, smiling again. ‘I think that maybe someone's been a very naughty girl.'

Ohhh Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My mouth dropped further open and I felt my face redden even more, both of which, up until that point, I'd thought would be physiologically impossible.

Part of me thought ‘OMG: he knows!' The other part though ‘Jesus: who is this guy: he sounds like he thinks he's trying out for a job at Doms-R-Us'

I had to say something to get this all cleared up: so I could go back to my shopping, and he, to looking up women's dresses. I cleared my throat, and, looking back up at his face, but, not meeting his eye, said ‘I... I... I, you see... well, I... I... I think...' and then I stopped. I mean: where do brains actually go when you need them? I just couldn't think of what to say. If I denied it, I knew I'd sound about as convincing as a fox saying to the farmer that he only hung around the henhouse because the view was particularly fine from there, and that, anyway, he'd recently turned vegetarian. But I had to try; So I started again.

‘It was an accident.' I said; the words tumbling out far too quickly.

But as soon as I'd said it, I knew it was exactly the wrong thing to say. For one thing, it meant I knew precisely what he was talking about. But, even more damning, if I'd been innocent, then my first reaction would have been an instant, and indignant, denial. Damn!

But then he spoke, again. ‘Listen. I understand. It was just a bit of fun, wasn't it?' No harm to anyone.' He was stroking my arm.

I glanced guiltily from side to side, but couldn't think of anything to say, and, of course, my silence was as good as an admission. But then he carried on.

‘And, I think I can safely say that we both enjoyed it very much.' He was smiling properly, now, his eyes twinkling, doing the whole George bit. It was pretty obvious that not only didn't he have to try very hard to get women, he probably spent most of his time fighting them off.

‘I think you're mistaken...' I began, relieved that both my brain and mouth seemed to be working in tandem, again.

‘But your pants were wet.' He interrupted, still smiling. ‘I saw them.'

Oh Fuuuuuckkkk!!!! Now, I don't have to tell you, this was upping the ante by a hell of a lot.

What could I say' That I had a bladder condition and had wet myself? I mean, you've gotta admit that things have come a very sorry pass, if telling a complete stranger that you've pissed yourself seems like your best option. He started speaking, again.

‘There's nothing wrong with having a little fun, is there. I mean: we're both over 21, aren't we?' And then, after the briefest hesitation, adding, with an even broader smile ‘Well: at least I know I am.' Laying on the charm by implying that maybe I wasn't. He was smooth, all right.

‘I am over 21' I said, looking at the floor, ‘But, I'm married' I tacked on, in a mumble; and knew, instantly, that, once again, it was the wrong thing to say. Now I'd as good as admitted that flashing him had made me cream my pants. I looked nervously around. Was there anywhere I could escape to? Could I throw him over the balcony? Would it kill him, if I did? Did I want to spend the rest of my life in prison? For flashing my knickers? I shook my head: this was getting ridiculous.

‘I see. So: being married precludes you from having fun, does it?'

‘Precludes?' I thought. So: he's educated. And I realised that he sounded British, too, which hadn't registered before, because, for me, that still seems ‘normal', but, of course, here, that's far from the case.

‘That sort of fun, it does' I said, in a very quiet voice.

‘With strangers.' He said.

‘With strangers.' I confirmed.

Great! So now we were actually standing around, here, and calmly discussing my indiscretions.

‘I'm sorry' I said, for no apparent reason.

‘Well: I'm not!' he said, quickly, and began laughing.

I knitted my brows and pouted, still looking at the floor. What now?

‘Everyone should be able to have fun.' he said. ‘In fact: I think you should have some more.'

Some more? What did he mean? He was still stroking my arm gently. I'd almost forgotten. Almost.

Then he did something that left me dumbfounded. He flipped my passport open, glanced at it, and said ‘Yes, Isabella' or is that Bella? I definitely think you should have some more fun.' Then, after glancing down, again, he said ‘Or should I call you Mrs.-------? (And I'm not going to print my surname, here, even if this is just for me: but it's quite an unusual one.)

When he said that, my stomach turned to water. He knew who I was! He could find me! A wave of nausea washed over me. I'd even completely forgotten he was holding my passport and my other things, that's how much of a state I was in. And I knew that the ex-pat community here in Singapore was small enough that tracking anyone down would be child's play: especially someone with a surname like mine.

Then he turned to my phone and quickly tapped in some numbers.

‘What the hell are you doing!' I cried, just as a ringing sound came from one of his pockets. He'd phoned himself to get my number.

‘Give me my things back!' I almost yelled as he touched his pocket and his phone stopped ringing.

He shrugged as he gave me my stuff back. ‘I just thought it might be nice to be able to keep in touch, that's all' he said. And, then, indicating the tampons and raising one eyebrow in a very salacious way, he added ‘You may want to find somewhere safe to stick those' glancing pointedly down at my crotch and then back up to my eyes.

My heart did a little stutter, and I felt the blood rush back to my face: I guess it must have drained away, at some point: probably when he said my married name. Looking down to hide my confusion, I stuffed my things back into my bag. This was going to end right now, and I was determined that I'd have the last word before storming off. So, glancing back up, and coldly looking him in the eye, I said ‘If you don't think I'm going to delete your phone number as soon as I get home, then you're fucking demented!'

‘You have an absolutely fantastic arse.' he said with that bloody twinkly smile of his.

OK: maybe I'd have to settle for the second-to-last word before storming off, then. But the thing is, ‘storming' is another thing that Jimmy Choos weren't exactly designed for, so, giving him a stormy scowl instead, I shoved past him and sort of tottered briskly off, head held high. If he'd wanted to, he probably could have kept pace with me with just a lively stroll, but he didn't: I looked back a few times, but there was no sign of him.

Needless to say, I headed straight for the MRT, to go home. (Oh: the MRT is what they call the tube, the underground, the subway: whatever, here.) On the train, all the tension flooded out of me. I'd got away with it! I'd escaped! I threw back my head and laughed out loud. A few of the people smiled a little uncertainly at me; the others either pointedly ignored me, or looked like they were thinking about changing seats at the next stop. But I didn't care: I was free!

When I got home, I was still feeling a little pumped, so I took a long bath, and played with myself until I had a wonderfully relaxing orgasm, thinking about what had happened.

That evening, I was all over Mike almost as soon as he walked in the door. ‘What's brought this on?' he asked, at one point, but he had a silly grin on his face, and he didn't do any complaining. By the time that bedtime came around, I was so exhausted I fell into bed, happy to put the day behind me and chalk it all down to experience.

But I hadn't deleted his phone number'

Chapter 2

The next morning, after Mike had left for work, I couldn't seem to settle to do anything: there was some online banking I should have seen to, and some emails I wanted to reply to, but I just couldn't seem to get my head in gear. I kept going and making coffee: I was on my third cup, now: any more and I'd look like I had Parkinson's disease. And then, with a surge of excitement, I realised that I hadn't done the shopping I'd meant to, the day before. I could go back to Ion and do that! A fleeting thought crossed my mind that I might see Gorgeous, again, but, I thought, I can't let that rule my life; he's not going to decide what I can or can't do: that'd be like giving in to terrorists, or whatever.

Galvanised, I dashed into the bedroom to get changed, and, grabbing the first things I laid eyes on, slipped into them. (OK: so maybe they weren't exactly the first things: maybe they were the fifth or sixth, but I was still ready really quickly.) I ended up wearing a very pretty pink floral dress, with buttons from V-neck to hem, and my pair of 4'' pink Louboutins to go with it (OK: so I've no brand loyalty; so shoot me!) Underneath, I wore a pink bra and pants set, that was quite a bit more see-through than the one I'd worn, yesterday; but that was neither here nor there: nothing was going to happen, today, and anyway, they were just the set I always wore with this dress.

There's no denying I was very nervous on the MRT, but I told myself that this was only natural: that if he were there, it would be so much the better, because it would give me the chance to totally blank him, so that he'd realise that nothing like yesterdays debacle was ever going to happen, again, and he knew exactly where we stood.

At Ion, I wandered around the shops, looking at tops, and skirts and dresses, but my mind keep wandering, and more than once I caught myself looking at things that were a lot more revealing than things I normally wore. Part of me justified this by thinking that maybe if I dressed a little sexier, maybe I could avoid incidents like yesterday's: but that was ridiculous, because I had no need to ‘avoid' them, because nothing like that would ever happen again.

As lunchtime approached (which was when I'd been at Food Opera, the day before) I found myself glancing at my watch more and more frequently, and, yes: becoming more nervous. But I had to eat, didn't I, I told myself, and Opera was the obvious choice. And, anyway, as I'd told myself, earlier, confronting him (or, rather, ignoring him) now, and getting it out of the way, would be a hell of a lot better than spending the rest of my days in Singapore just waiting to bump into him. Just then, on cue, my stomach rumbled. Right: this was it. I strode purposefully off and made my way straight down to the food court: to where he'd been sitting. But he wasn't there. I wandered around the whole area, past all the counters, but he was nowhere to be seen. I felt a big letdown. I was disappointed, because, I told myself, I just wanted to get this out of the way.

Anyway, after completing a couple of circuits I just bought some Mee Goreng and sat down and ate it. After finishing the food, I bought a lychee drink and ‘people watched' for a while. When ‘yesterday's time' had long gone, and it was obvious that he wasn't coming, I got up, feeling cheated, and took the escalator up to where I'd been standing the day before. Careful to stay well back from the glass, and even making sure I was standing halfway behind one of the columns, I looked down to where I'd just been sitting. I thought I'd just have one last check before giving up entirely, and getting on with my shopping. Thinking that I'd caught a glance of a dark-haired white guy, right at the back, I leaned a little more over the railing, peering down, when

‘Looking for me again?' whispered in my ear.

Of course, I did the whole cat on a hot tin roof bit, again: dropping my bag and everything. When I landed, I spun round and screamed ‘JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! WILL YOU STOP DOING THAT!' causing everyone on the floor I was on, the floor above, and those down in the food court, to stare at me. I just stood there, arms akimbo, fists on hips, scowling at him, and hyperventilating like I'd just finished a four-minute mile.

‘Er' A little tense, today, are we?' he said.

‘Piss off!' I said.

He just laughed and bent down to get my bag, which, this time, I snatched right off him.

‘So.' He said ‘Were you looking for me?'

‘Yes' I said, realising I'd look a complete fool, if I said anything else.

‘And why was that?'

‘So I could ignore you' I mumbled, realising, after I'd said it, just how idiotic that sounded.

He leaned a little forward, turned his head slightly to one side, raised one eyebrow, and, in a sing-song voice said ‘Er... FAILLLL.'

‘Oh, Fuck Off!' I snarled, spinning round to turn my back on him to lean on the rail, again.

‘Careful' he said ‘You don't want to unintentionally give someone a treat, do you?'

With a gasp, and an involuntary glance down to the food court, I hurriedly stepped back from the glass' and crashed right into him. But at least I stopped the latest ‘Fuck Off' from escaping my lips: I figured that I'd wasted enough of my witty rejoinders on him, already.

He steadied us both by putting his hands on my arms. I could feel that his face was in my hair, and that my backside was pressed into his groin. ‘Jesus, Bella: way to go: you certainly know how to ignore a guy, don't you?' I thought to myself, ‘If you ignore him any harder, he'll probably cum in his pants.'

I didn't know what to do: I didn't want to step back to the glass, and I couldn't move backwards, at all, and my heart was racing, and I was finding it hard to catch my breath, and my throat felt tight. So I just stood there.

He was slowly moving his hands up and down my arms, sending goose bumps and chills scudding up an down my body. I shivered.

‘Like I said, yesterday, Bella: you have an absolutely fantastic arse' he whispered, thrusting his hips gently forward and nuzzling into my hair.

I moaned slightly, leaning my head back and pressing my bottom back into him. I was so hot! I could feel my pussy pulsing. What the fuck was happening here: I'd gone from a standing start to 60 in about 3 seconds. Since when had I turned into a Lamborghini'

‘I think we should stop' I mumbled.

‘Why' Don't you like it?'

‘Ohh yes' I moaned ‘That's why we should stop.'

‘But, I though we'd decided that you needed to have a little more fun.'

‘No: you decided that.' I murmured.

‘Really' I thought that you decided it when you chose to show a complete stranger your pussy and your arse when they were only covered by the thinnest layer of silk.'

I gave an involuntary jerk and moaned softly.

‘You really enjoyed showing yourself off to me, didn't you?' he whispered.

I felt my head nodding.

‘I think you'd probably enjoy showing yourself off to others, too, wouldn't you' And, perhaps, showing a little more? I think that I'd like that, as well.'

I felt limp, like a wet dishcloth, in his arms, and my panties, between my legs, were like an even wetter dishcloth: I could feel the cold air conditioned drafts wafting up my skirt. I couldn't gather my thoughts; all my body was aware of was its arousal. He pushed his erection into my bottom: this hard rod pushing me forward. I had no choice but to step to the barrier, with him joined to me.

I looked down to the food court where there were quite a few people eating.

‘Let's give them something to look at' he whispered playfully. He reached down with one of his hands and caught the front of my dress.

‘What are you doing!' I gasped. But I knew, because I could feel him undoing the bottom button of my dress.

‘Shhh' he whispered quietly.

Down below, there didn't seem to be anyone aware of what was happening on the balcony, but I knew that wouldn't last long. I could feel my cheeks burning, but I made no move to stop him.

At that moment, someone who looked like a local guy, who was sitting with another, glanced up, and I could see he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing, which was some guy fiddling with some woman's skirt. He looked puzzled. I could feel George's hand slide up and begin to undo another button. I swallowed. My breath was coming in short gasps. The guy below said something to his friend, who, then, also looked up. They exchanged glances, and then, both now grinning, looked back.

I knew that they wouldn't be able to see anything more because of the button(s) that were open, but I was probably showing quite a lot anyway. I leaned my head back against G. and half closed my eyes, watching the guys, below, from beneath my lids. Button, by button, my dress was unfastened, until I could feel G's hand at my waist and knew that they were undone all the way to there. But my dress was still closed. I was still decent: I wasn't showing more than I had been, before. But this was just so ‘naughty', I guess: having your dress open to your waist in public.

From their expressions, it was obvious that the guys, below, couldn't believe either their eyes, or their luck. They kept looking around to see if anyone else had noticed: but no one had. The column I'd originally been hiding behind blocked the view from one direction, and only a few tables were at the right angle to see me; there were others at those tables, but they were either facing the wrong way or just hadn't looked up.

I felt G's arms release me, and his hands slip down to the outside of my thighs. I knew what was going to happen next: the grand opening ceremony, and I was shaking like a leaf at the prospect. Slowly, very slowly, I felt my dress being bunched at the sides: it was splitting open in a vee, like the curtains at an old fashioned theatre. I could hardly stand: my legs were shaking so much. My head lolled forwards, and looking down my body, I could watch my skirt disappearing and also see my audience. Both guys had their mouths open: they were practically drooling.

I realised, with a shock, that G was now holding my skirt at both my hips, and that it was completely open: these strangers, maybe 30 feet away, were staring at everything I had below the waist, and that it was only covered by a tiny pair of semi-transparent, clearly soaking wet, panties. I realised that my landing strip of pubic hair must be visible, my slit, and, if their eyesight were keen enough, the bump of my very erect clit. Anyone else who happening to look the same way would be able to see the same thing. Anyone. I shuddered. How could a ‘good little wife' ever do such a thing in public!

Then G quickly slid his hand down and across my abdomen and brushed his fingers over my clit. That was all it took for me to have the most Earth-shattering orgasm of my entire life. In public. Watched by complete strangers.

I cried out when I came, and if G hadn't grabbed me, I would have collapsed. The noise caused a few more people to look up from below, but, by then, my dress had fallen back into place and all they could see was a man helping a lady who, apparently, was having some sort of fainting fit. I was vaguely aware of the guys below giving each other high-fives as G whispered ‘Come on: if you can walk, I think we'd better go, before you do something that gets us both arrested.'

In a daze, my legs feeling like they belonged to two other people, I began to fumble with the front of my dress.

‘No. Leave it: it's more fun, like that' And the day is still young...'