We, my husband and I, are getting ready for a reception. Nothing that will excite me. It concerns his circles and is an obligation to me.

I am prancing around naked, extensively and ostentatiously like a spoilt child, thus expressing my relative unwillingness. My husband, I am sure, is aware of this and yet keeps silent. I know that he does not suffer my antics gladly. He will think my prancing simply indecent. He cannot overcome this feeling, no matter how much he likes my body. He likes it - no, loves it, but in and around bed and bath only. He is that kind of man and I love him. However, he is wise enough to suffer in silence, the dear. On my part I am aware of both his discontent and his wisdom. Is it not funny how people who know each other well and love each other play such pointless games? I simply cannot help living out my discontent. But also, yes, I have an inner need to provoke.

He has meanwhile progressed to tying his beau-tie. I continue my provocation by sitting down on a bedroom chair, spreading my legs wide and clipping my pubic hair in his presence. He manages to keep his silence, ever the dear. I do observe his gaze flashing to my gash from time to time. He is a gentleman, of course, but not free from his animal desires. Let me add: fortunately. I repeat: there are mixed feelings in evidence.

I carefully lay out on the bed the clothes I will wear: a bright green two-piece suit with wide, knee length skirt and collarless jacket, a tight sleeveless top, shiny and of a subdued orange. I select my finest orange lace bra and briefs and flesh-coloured hold-up stockings. Finally, I find my green heels.

He is ready and looks at me doing this, impatiently, before he reminds me of the time and then, after a kiss on my cheek and a hand around my waist, disappears.

Henceforth the ostentatious procrastination is pointless and I get ready to dress. I pick up my bra, slip my arms through and then stop. There is a choice to make. To be prim, proper and dull? Instead I could be a bad girl and amuse myself. An easy choice. I dress minus the bra and briefs, but including the hold-ups, so as to appear proper. Let's see... Before I put my jacket on, I look at myself in the mirror. The respectable, stylish Mrs. V... with the exception of my breasts, the shape of which and whose nipples are clearly visible, the way they are packed in the tight and shiny top. Obscenely visible to some eyes. I smile mischievously to myself and then put on my jacket, thus covering the danger area. Only just, as I decline buttoning it up. As it is, my mirror now reflects me as the respectable Mrs. V from head to toe. Mind you, do not get the wrong idea. I have no intention to appear otherwise. The essence is in the word 'appear'. To myself, I wish to be first and foremost a sexual being. I am naked and available, in my mind's eye. Then, lest I would forget I am, I think of my set of duo balls. They will serve to keep reminding me.

I go over and retrieve them from my panty drawer. Back in front of my mirror, I lift up my skirt, spread my legs and insert them. The not so respectable Mrs. V looks at herself in the mirror and laughs.

My husband calls me and I drop my skirt. One final knowing look in the mirror and I am off.

Walking down the stairs, I already feel different: my breasts bouncing, my hardening nipples stroking the thin top and the duo balls merrily clanking away inside of me ... I feel I can hear them.

My husband kisses me, hands me my coat and opens the door while I put it on. We hurry outside.

It is not warm and somewhat windy. On the way to the car my skirt is not so much blown up, but nonetheless a draught cools my nether parts. Oh, must I now suffer for my fun?

I am able to get seated in the car in the most discrete, lady-like fashion, so well indeed that once seated I have to purposely hitch up my skirt slightly and give my husband the benefit of a view of my stocking tops. He does pat me on the thighs and smiles before we drive away. Good man! Have I said I love him?

For the briefest moment only I do feel somewhat exposed when I hand my coat in at the cloakroom. They could not possibly notice anything unusual, I know.

I brace myself for the boredom that will come as we enter the main hall. My husband immediately commences shaking hands and making formal but animated conversation. I shake hands after him, put in a polite word here and there and smile. I look at the other women, who follow their husbands like I follow mine. They are like women, wear like clothes - almost as tasteful, that is - and behave like me. Are there any that actually have their hearts in this? There are, I know, those that enjoy playing their part in the power play that such an event also is. A good woman is an indispensable partner to a man in power or on his way. I feel sorry for my husband. Mind: I am not sulking here. My husband is no fool for suffering that and neither am I for making him. On the other hand I do feel sorry that I cannot put my heart into this game and excel. Or my certainly underutilised brain. I am haphazard in that department.

There are times when I am ready for a private game. This is to be one of them. But is it not in his interest too. At least I look better when I amuse myself!

To this end then I move liberally, like a ballet dancer. When standing talking I shift my weight often abruptly from one leg to the other, which causes the duo balls to resettle, and also my breasts, which again makes my nipples shift against my top. When we go and switch partners, I first turn my torso in a grand sweep followed by the rest of my body and then walk to our next place. I walk with slightly enhanced archetypal female movement: swaying hips, with the shoulders in counter-motion, and, whilst keeping my head level within reason, setting down my feet with deliberation.

Will the superficial observer notice? I hardly think so. As I said, my aim is not to make a fool of myself. What he or she will observe is a woman, capital W, who smiles most confidently and is radiant.

I am delighted when I hear a jazz band starting to play fairly vigorous dance music in the adjacent big ballroom. Whatever impression I have created of my husband, this composed creature, he loves to dance. So I step, turn and sway vigorously under his direction. The sensation is almost obscene, my breasts, my nipples, my vagina... it would not take a sex maniac like myself to become aroused. If I were to close my eyes I would risk losing control and drool down to the floor.

As it is, I ask you, dear reader, to forgive me, when I confess that I did come during the third dance. All the while I looked at him and kept moving, mechanically. Would he have seen that my eyes lost focus for a minute, if that is how long it was? No one will have noticed the juices that overflowed. No one but I! I felt truly naked and exposed afterwards. I was extremely weary, yet excited, when a business associate of my husband, who is also good friend of the house, asked me to dance. Lord knows that these days I would not even dream of actually being promiscuous. I do like the man, though, as a friend and as a man. Will he have noticed that I did not wear panties as his hands ever so slightly, ever so briefly touched my rear; that I did not wear a bra when he stroked my back and pressed his chest against mine? Will he have observed that I was on the verge of a second coming after two quick dances? Did he notice that I did come during the next slow dance, when he held me close? He did not see my face but he did feel my body and may have registered the slight pause in my dancing, the tremor that possessed me at the climax. When he returned me to my husband he did look at me rather sweetly and kisses me rather fondly on the cheek. Like friends do, my husband will have guessed, like friends.

After we had come home and my husband had settled down on the couch in full tuxedo, taking a peak in the evening paper, when I had disappeared to the bedroom to shower, on a spur I raided him and made passionate love to him there and then. I deliberately gave him no time to think, as this action of mine was most unusual. I had him - my words - fuck his brain out, leaving him incapable of wondering why, the dear.

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