Prom Night

Wife's Prom Date

by Miles Naismith

It was the common fantasy of Prom Night. My date and I were in the motel room, both feeling awkward. He was hoping this would be the night he became a man. He stood there, no Greek god, but not bad for a kid who had just turned eighteen. I wasn't bad looking, and his wide eyes and obvious erection told me he wasn't unhappy with his last minute date.

Very typical, except that I was twenty-nine and married.

My date was my best friend's son, Harry. The poor guy had been humiliated when he found out that the "cool" girl who had asked him to the Senior Prom had done it only on a bet from her in-group friends. Is there anything more pathetic than the high school cliques that think they are better than the rest of us, only to find out that nobody cared about their high school status in the real world? But my date was too young for perspective, and when the girl laughingly told him, at the last minute, she was going with her real boyfriend, he was devastated.

His mom called me to commiserate. She was a good friend. As recent arrivals in this city, following my last promotion, my husband and I had not had a chance to meet many people, But Joan and I just clicked.

After getting thoroughly pissed at her description of the treatment her son had endured, a thought sprang into my head. Somewhere in the misty depths of my memory, a vision of a movie or tv plot struggled the surface. Something about a Playboy Bunny, or a movie star, or maybe a voluptuous prostitute, going to the Prom as the date of a similarly situated victim of the mean girls.

I interrupted whatever she was saying to blurt out, "Joan, I will go as his date!"

"Don't joke about this, Joy. It's not funny."

"I'm not joking. With some make-up, I can pass for, well, maybe not high school, but college age. No one around here really knows me or my relationship with you, so no one will guess how I came to be his date. I will act tastefully sexy, and flirt with Harry in front of the girls that did this, and make their boyfriends jealous of Harry. I can do it, Joan."

"I don't know, Joy. He may feel even worse if he thinks it is a pity date."

"Pitch it as a revenge date. Tell him I'm not offering because I pity him, but because I want to crush the assholes that do this kind of thing. It's personal for me. I didn't go to my Prom because my long term boyfriend got enthralled by a bigger pair of tits and dumped me three days before the Prom."

"You are making that up . . . you want me to believe another teenage girl had bigger boobs than you?"

"Believe it, Joan. Of course the rest of her was considerably bigger as well, but the boys used say, the bigger cushion, the better the pushin,' so that apparently didn't bother him. In high school, I was a cross country runner and a gym rat, because I knew I wanted to be a Marine like my dad. In service, my BMI was 14 and change, meaning I had very little fat tissue. My girls have plumped up considerably since I got out and got married."

"Well, I would kill for your breasts. Harry will be the envy of his friends."

"Just be sure to let Harry know that no matter what the urban legend of Prom Night may be, he won't be getting lucky on this date."

A brief discussion of logistical issues, then Joan said she'd talk to Harry.

An hour later, Joy answered the phone to hear, with no greeting, "You serious about this, Mrs. Foster?"

"Yes, Harry."

"And you really think it might work? That I could make those bitches sorry?"

"Yes, Harry."

"Mrs. Foster, would you do me honor of being my date for the Prom."

"Yes, Harry. I will expect a corsage, and you can pick me up here at 7 p.m. day after tomorrow. And start calling me Joy' . . . you don't want to slip up later."

"Thank you, Joy."

"We'll plan to meet tomorrow to go over our act. Say, 3:45?"

"With bells on, Joy."

"Oh come on, Harry, where did you get that? That's even before my time."

"I watch a lot of old movies, Joy. See you tomorrow."

Over dinner, I casually declaimed to my husband, "You'll have to make your own dinner day after tomorrow. I have accepted a date for that evening, and will probably be out late. I am finally remedying a certain painful hole in my range of experience."

I have to give my husband credit, he has incredible aplomb. After asking me to pass the rolls, he said, without blinking an eye, "So I am to understand that my performance as a spouse is so substandard that you have to remedy this lack elsewhere?"

"No, Sweetie, you can't remedy this lack. You are much too old."

"I can get a prescription for Niagra, or buy whips and chains. What is it I'm too old to do."

"You can't take me to the Prom. I am going with Joan's son, Harry." And I told him the story.

Being a typical man, he said with a grin, "You know what is expected by every red-blooded boy after the Prom, don't you?"

"Of course I do. It ought to work out great. Harry gets rid of his virginity, and I get a young guy with lots of energy and a quick recovery time, for once. I just hope he has a big one."

We both laughed, and had great sex that night.

The next day, I showed Harry how I would flirt with him at the dance, and made him make out a little with me as we practiced dancing. Nothing overt - this was high school - but I noted some swelling as I pressed my breast against him. I told him go with the flow, and never act surprised no matter what I did. Then I grabbed his hand and rubbed it over my tit. He jumped, let out a little weird noise and looked shocked.

"That is just what I do not want you to do. Act blasé. Keep your face calm. It's not real, so no need to get emotional."

I pulled his hand from my breast to my ass, and this time he managed to look, if not blasé, at least reasonably calm.

"Better."

"Kiss me."

He looked startled.

"Blasé, remember. You've done all this before, and it's no big deal. Kiss me."

For a close lipped, muscles tight, wooden face press, it wasn't so bad. I finally got him to relax, and while we kept our tongues out of it, he finally managed something that looked real.

We sat and talked about after the Prom. When we were finished, he knew we would spend the night together, that if he was considerate, he would probably see me naked, and that he was not going to fuck me, but might get some heavy petting experience.

As he was leaving, I said, "Blasé. Practice it." And I slid my hand across his crotch. He hardly flinched. Progress.

I talked to Joan that evening. She was happy. Harry, she said, had come completely out of his funk, and was looking forward to the Prom. She thanked me several times. But there was something in her manner that suggested a little residual regret. I pried it out of her.

Turns out that the girl had led Harry to believe he would get very lucky after Prom, and she was sorry he wouldn't have the make out experience she and her late husband did, even without sex. It was traditional, she said.

I don't believe she was hinting at my taking up the slack in this area. She was a widow, but very circumspect, and I was married. I just think she had some disappointment for her son. But it started my thinking.

That night, I asked my husband if he would be all right with me spending the night with Harry. Not having sex, but staying with him for bragging rights later. He knew the motel where his tormentors were planning to stay, and I figured if they saw us spend the night, it would do much for his reputation.

Hubby laughed and said he thought that was a great idea. But he surprised me when he said I should do a little making out for real. "Give the kid a thrill, with a capital T. Teach him the stuff I wish I had known at his age."

I wasn't really comfortable with the idea, but I remembered Joan's comments, and missing the same opportunity at my Prom, so I kept silent.

As we kissed following a pleasant missionary evening, and before sleep, he said, "Think about what I said. I'll bet the kid has never even seen a nipple in person." Then he turned over and was shortly in la-la land, probably dreaming about being a teenager fondling a bare breast.

The next morning was the day of the Prom, and I was excited. I bathed early, shaved legs and underarms smooth, and then, impulsively, my lady parts. I was bare from the neck down. I thought how it would be a shock to Hubby, who asked me to shave or wax before, but who had never seen me bare. I would tease him later that I only did it for Harry, and make him wonder about the make out session.

I looked online, and sure enough, his school had dress code guidelines for the Prom. So much for the dress I had planned to wear. Apparently backless was not allowed. I ended up choosing a white top that draped nicely over braless breasts, keeping the lack of infrastructure discretely camouflaged. I paired this with a long, full, black skirt. Simple and elegant, but quietly sexy. Harry would know immediately my braless state the first time I brushed against him, and I could jiggle revealingly when we confronted his tormentors. But most others would not have a clue. And even Harry would not know that I had left my panties behind when he picked me up.

Hubby made me show him what I was going to wear. I put it on over bra and panties for him. He looked at me critically for a moment, and then said, "No bra."

"What?"

"Bra straps will show when you turn, and you know strapless bras don't flatter you. Your tits are perky and perfect without a bra, and that top doesn't need one. Even with strong light behind you, the top is opaque, so no Princess Diana effect to show the lack of a bra."

My husband may be a computer geek, but he has an eye for clothing. Of course I already knew I was going braless, but I essayed one more feigned gesture of reluctance, "But what will Harry think. I don't mind looking good for our revenge plan, but I don't want him to think I am a floozy."

"Floozy? Who uses that word anymore? Any way, the way the top fits, it won't be obvious, and when Harry bumps into you, it'll give the kid a thrill."

At 7 p.m. sharp, Harry arrived with a knock on the door. He actually had a corsage. Hubby let him in, shook his hand, and said, "I am counting on you to take care of my wife. Protect her with your life."

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Foster. Thank you for letting me get back at the bitches with your wife. She is some kind of schemer, isn't she."

"Indeed she is. And speak of the devil, here she is. Now line up for Prom pictures. Yes you, wifey. Put your hand around her waist, Harry. It's traditional. Now, you kids be good. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I kissed Hubby good bye, took my date's arm, and walked out to the car.

"Harry," I said, "We can't go in this car."

"Huh? Why not. It's a Beamer. My mom let me have it for my special date."

"But will your classmates recognize it as yours. I think not. We are going to your place and getting your old Toyota with the Save the Whales stickers, and anyone who doesn't actually see us arrive at the motel will know it's you in that room."

"O.K., but I don't have any Save the Whales' stickers . . ."

"Well, I Heart Calculus' or whatever. Anyway, get the car."

I drew many an eye when we walked in. A stop to stand before some kitschy backdrop for our professional Prom pic, and then on to the Gym, complete with twisted streamers just like I imaged it. I walked towards the refreshment table, and sent Harry off to get me punch, telling him to take his time. I moved over to the chaperons, and said, "Before you jump to conclusions, let me tell you a story."

It turned out that they were teachers at the school, and all knew of what happened to Harry, and when I told them what I planned to do, they all smiled. The one whose smile looked like it hurt her face quickly reverted to her usual (I assume) disapproving scowl and told me not to carry it too far.

I drank the punch, then forced Harry to dance, close, and secretly smiled at the evidence pushing at my stomach that he had realized my girls were uncorralled. I got him to point out the clique with his erstwhile date, and, a few dances later, danced him over to them.

"These some more of your friends, Harry? Introduce me to them." Some side to side movement made sure the boys knew I wore nothing under the dress. The girls too, of course. Then it happened. The straight line I was hoping would come.

The guy who was with girl that dumped Harry said, "What's an old babe like you doing with this loser?"

"Why, you think you'd be a better catch?"

He broke out of the slouch I am sure he thought was just so cool, and stood to his full height, maybe six feet. He flexed a couple of times and announced, "I expect I could give you a much better time than the dork here. Come with me right now and I'll show you."

I stared him up and down. "I think you have an overinflated ego, little boy. Probably trying to make up for an under inflated dick. Almost certainly you are an adolescent jerk off who thinks it's enough if he can get it in before the premature ejaculation makes his cock all soft again. That may be enough for this air head bimbo who actually nodded encouragingly as you dissed her by hitting on me," I paused and looked at her as this sank in, "but I prefer a man who has skills in bed. One that can make me come again and again, before and after he gets his. And can hold an intelligent conversation when we are not in bed. Clearly not you on either count."

"Fuck you, bitch."

"Touché! A brilliant riposte. I am deeply wounded." I clutched my heart. "By the way, riposte is spelled r-i-p-o-s-t-e in case you want to look it up later."

Turning to said airhead bimbo, I said, "Thank you freeing Harry to see me. We know we have no long term future, just fun in bed for a while, so I encouraged him to date girls his age. He was excited about you, but I guess he didn't realize you were just jumped up trailer trash. Thanks to you, I get him for the whole night tonight, no curfew. Y'all have fun with Billy Bob, ya hear." The last in my best fake Southern Accent.

Turning to "Billy Bob," I lowered my voice to a whisper, and leaned in toward him, "Despite your wounded pride, you won't try to beat on me in the school gym. Probably a good thing for you. Before I became a contractor, I was the first woman in Marine Force Recon. Look it up on Google. Try me and you could well end up literally dead, fucker. But one nice thing about being an ex-Marine is that there are no ex-Marines. While I doubt Harry needs protection, I don't like you. I would welcome an excuse to point you out to my brethren in this town. So you better hope no one bothers my friend, because I will not try to find out who did it, I will hold you responsible, no questions asked. This will be your only warning."

Actually, I lied about being Force Recon. But I was one of the first females to qualify for infantry, and I was sure I could actually kill an untrained kid, even if he were bigger and stronger. Judging by the look on his face, I doubted I would have to find out.

Harry asked me, "What was that about?"

I told him, "You had better get good in bed real quick, because you're gonna have girls wanting to find out what you did to me after the way I talked you up. Lots of people heard. I wasn't quiet. I got the idea from the Legally Blonde movie."

He said, "Yeah, I remember that scene. But I doubt it will work in real life."

"We'll see."

We danced and socialized until the witching hour, and then headed to the motel. We got there just as "Billy Bob" and his bimbo were going into their room. I smiled and waved. And sure enough, the clerk I had charmed yesterday had come through. Our room was adjacent to theirs.

I opened the suitcase I brought when I checked in that afternoon. It held a laptop, and two fair sized speakers. It would have been too much trouble to separate the audio from the video on the three long amateur porn vids, so I cued them up on the computer for later. It had taken a couple of hours of research, even with the expert help of my husband, but they sounded real, not faked, with no background noise. I figured Harry could even watch, to add spice to his Prom night experience. It even turned out that the laptop had HDMI out and the TV mounted on the wall across from the bed had HDMI in.

The head board of the bed was against the wall that separated Harry's tormentors from us. Perfect. I climbed up and slammed my back into it, before grabbing a few pillows from the chairs in the room to make it comfortable to sit up against it. Harry got the idea without coaching, and his thump was more enthusiastic than mine. We knew they heard, because of the answering thumps. Too many of them. Obviously staged.

I patted the bed beside me, and Harry hesitantly sat down. Too far away. He was stiff a a board . . . except not the way he should have been. He looked scared. I said, "I'm ticklish behind my knees and in my armpits."

It was all he needed to get started. Soon I was screaming with laughter, shouting "Stop that. Leave me alone, you animal."

In short order, Harry had, accidentally, of course, manually confirmed my lack of bra, and visually confirmed my lack of panties.

Finally, I pushed him away. I raised my arms and told him to take my top off. His eyes got wide as he dropped it in the bedside chair, but that was all. He must have practiced blasé. I stood and dropped my skirt myself. I said, "Naked. Now."

He was hesitant at first, but I could see his resolve kick in. After a smooth and amazingly unhurried flurry of discarded clothing, he was standing there with nothing on but an erection. I patted the bed, as before. No hesitation this time. Blasé, indeed.

"Harry, you are going to learn some techniques that women like, shortly. Girls will be curious about you after tonight. But not yet. We need you to be able to pay attention, so we will try to reduce this distraction." With that, I initiated my first pure hand job in many years.

I will say this for Harry: as my hand pumped up and down, sliding ever more easily as pre-cum was slathered over that hard cock, he said exactly the right thing . . . nothing. He just got stiffer, made a few involuntary jerks, and eventually spewed ejaculate over my hand.

He looked like he was about to apologize, so I put one finger on his lips, and raised the other to my mouth, where I stuck my tongue into one of the blobs. Then I said, "First lesson."

I sucked up some of his come, and pulled his lips to mine. I kissed him, pushing his come into his mouth. Gamely, he accepted it.

I said, "You are going to want a girl to blow you, someday, and you are going to want to come in her mouth. If you want her to take your come in her mouth, you should be willing to take it in yours. And if you come in her pussy without giving her an orgasm, you must be willing to eat your come off her clit if you want to really earn the reputation I started for you. Get a reputation in high school for being mindful of the girl's pleasure, and you will never need to fear competition from the jocks."

I turned on the porn vids for the audience next door, while I showed him how to kiss and caress the various parts of a woman's body, with special emphasis the clit. God knows I would have put out in high school for any boy who had even heard of a clitoris.

When he was doing a pretty good job of vibrating his tongue in the right place, I gave him a bigger compliment than he knew . . . I let myself come on his tongue. Surprisingly, for the beginner he was, he tightened his grip on my hips and wouldn't stop, even as I became too sensitive and tried to buck and push him away. Except I must not have been toooo sensitive, as I didn't let myself come the second time, he ripped it from me.

As I lay there, with his head between my outspread thighs, he moved up to kiss me. This put his cock near my entrance. He didn't press, or even look the question at me. He just kissed me. It was I that took him and guided him in.

One push with my upraised hips and he was no longer a virgin. He started thrusting, too fast. I slowed him down. He lasted that way for a while, and then could not help himself. He sped up to the point of no return. He came in me in great spurts.

But, bless him, the kid had paid attention to what I told him earlier. He realized I was not close to orgasm, and quickly resumed his earlier position. I felt his come ooze out, but he never flinched. His vibrating tongue pushed me up the slope until I fell over the cliff.

I pulled him up beside me, and kissed him. I tasted both of us on his tongue. He started to move his hands to my breasts, but I stopped him. It was time to sleep. The third porno was still playing as I drifted off into some erotic dreams.

The next morning, when I awoke, it was early. I needed to pee and freshen up. I tried not to disturb Harry.

When I came back from my shower, he was up and dressed. He looked like a puppy expecting to be punished. This wouldn't do.

I looked at him with my best NCO scowl and said, "Naked. Now. Shower, then report back, soldier. And I expect you to be standing at attention, so do what you need to do before you reopen that door." The look on his face was priceless as his clothes came off and he scurried for the bathroom.

Eventually, the shower sounds ceased, and the door opened. He was only about half-staff, but I had probably scared him. It's happened to better men.

"Okay, here's the deal. If you can make me come with no penetration and no oral, you can fuck me. You have one hour."

He goggled at me a minute, and then smiled.

It only took him 16 minutes of practicing all those kisses and caresses we went over the night before to get me to a small, but satisfying orgasm.

He seemed content to continue as we were, but I stopped him. I said, "This is the most important lesson we will share: Never do this bareback with any of your other girlfriends. I let you come in me because I have no diseases and an IUD, and I knew you were inexperienced and virgin. But you will never know for sure about your girlfriends. When you fuck one bareback, you are fucking every partner she has ever had. You will have only her word if she says she's on birth control, and even if she is, you better hope she doesn't forget her pill. And you may not wish to marry, or see your child aborted, if you get one pregnant. Rubbers are not optional. Did you bring one?"

He sheepishly nodded.

"Oh, confident were you? Well, your wish worked out this time. Get it."

He went to his wallet and pulled out the packet.

I had him open it, and we worked with it until he could get it started correctly by feel, even with his eyes closed, every time. I had had partners fumble interminably in the dark before. Frustrating, when I was ready. By the time he had the drill down, the rubber was dry and tired, so I got a fresh one out of my purse.

"It should be a little easier to hold off with the rubber on. You won't be quite so sensitive. But you might bring a little lubricant when you use them. If you have done a proper job getting the girl ready, she'll be naturally lubricated, but rubbers are not slick. No vaseline. It degrades latex. KY only to start. Now, don't expect this from your girlfriends, but I am going to put this one on you the best way."

He was drooping from all the lecturing until he saw the rubber in my mouth, and my lips started to push it down his cock. He perked right up. I gave him a short blow job, then lay back and spread my legs in invitation.

Again, though, I had to hand it to the kid. He listened. He used his tongue to make sure I was naturally lubricated before he sank his cock into me. I squealed, and I don't squeal.

The rubber must have helped, or else he was practicing blasé, because he lasted a long time. He even made me turn over and took me doggy style. As I came closer to the edge, I felt his finger slide into my anus during a long thrust. I never taught him that. The duration and the surprise did it for me. I convulsed in orgasm. I collapsed face down and he followed me, continuing to thrust, until I felt him convulse. We lay there, him on top with his soft cock in me, for what seemed like a long time.

When he got up and started to remove the rubber, I took the filled rubber from him. I had him bring my phone. We took a picture of the contents of the rubber running down my tits, carefully not showing my face. I would tease the hell out of my husband with it.

I made him give me his white undershirt to wear, putting it on over the drips, making the shirt transparent at the obvious wet marks. One spot showed half an areola. I took his boxers as well, and went out to the car wearing only those items.

I was hoping the tormentors would be outside as well to see me, but no such luck. I did notice a movement in the blinds on their window though. Another high school age couple did see us. Maybe word would get around.

As we drove home, I gave him one last bit of advice. I made sure he knew it would be a mistake to say anything about what we did. Girls his age, or any age, wanted know he would not brag to his buddies, or anyone else. If he did not even tell his then current girlfriend about her predecessors, it would make them more confident about his discretion where they were concerned. And it would make him more mysterious.

The garage door was open when we got to my house, and I had Harry drive inside. I would just as soon not have nosy neighbors see me getting out in a wet tee shirt and boxers. I grabbed my clothes and skipped in through the garage door.

I couldn't help but feel uneasy as I saw my husband eating lunch at the kitchen table. We had had a second, very long, talk the morning of Prom, and now I was going to find out if he meant what he said.

"Hello, my gorgeous, naughty wife. How was your Senior Prom? All you imagined it to be?"

"Hello to you, handsome husband. Yes, right down to twisted streamers and disco lights."

"And how is Harry this fine morning?"

"No longer a virgin. And how is Joan?"

"Also no longer a virgin."

"Of course she wasn't . . . oh, wait! No."

"Yes."

"Well, it's a good thing you got it from her. That's one you won't get from me . . ." pausing before adding in a teasing voice, "although Harry did put a finger in . . ."

"Is that what I think it is on that shirt?"

"Yes. And it soaked through from the inside. I have a picture!"

As he picked me up and slung me over his shoulder like a cave man, he said, "Sounds like someone deserves a spanking . . . and some reclaiming."