Object to desire

It wasn’t going to be a full house for Xmas lunch, but it would be decidedly fuller than usual, with more guests than hosts. The older generation would likely be dressed smart, but an informal, relaxed lunch is my preference for Xmas Day, so I’d be in my natural plumage – jeans and t-shirt.

After breakfast, there was some discussion between my Wife and me about attire, though other than that I can’t bring myself to cook in smart clothes, with no specific conclusion.
She disappeared upstairs.
20min later I heard the click of heels. She rarely wears heels, never for work, and otherwise doubtless because they are an objectifying symbol of the patriarchy.

The mid-calf boots, which surely must have been dusty, stopped significantly below the hem of Her red dress, paired with a red jacket, and a red velvet scarf hung around Her neck.
She looked good.
She looked sexy.
My hypocrisy was almost palpable – even though I was nominally surprised, I found myself more attracted to Her because She was dressed up, whilst I had made no effort at all to make myself look nice.

I couldn’t help noticing Her tights. Or could they have been stockings? I hoped so, because I’m not aware of Her owning light coloured tights. And stockings would have required a suspended belt. She owns three: black and functional, ivory lace from Our wedding day, and the Infamous Red set I bought for Her 7yrs ago.
There was no way I couldn’t fantasize about the possibility of coordinating underwear – the red sussies, with the torsolette and the thong.
In my dreams!
Only in my sex obsessed dreams.
My fantasy swelled and my own underwear, by coincidence equally red, tightened to the thought of Her bent over the bed, dress pushed up, gusset pulled aside, and me stuffing Her pussy while downstairs the turkey roasted, and while Our guests poured double cream over figgy pudding, Her thighs, in Xmas stockings, would still be slick with my cream.

As She walked out of the kitchen, She strutted that sexy strut brought on by calf tightening footwear.
I was minded of my fetish for women with muscular calves: my first secret, voyeuristic, pubescent crush at school was on a classmate who had fantastic calves, and I lusted over my Wife’s calves long before I went to the trouble of finding out Her name.

When She walked upstairs I wanted to steal a peak up Her skirt, but She hesitated half way up, and for me not to head back to the kitchen would have been conspicuous.
It was probably just as well I didn’t have a camera to hand.
I so wanted to know what She was wearing beneath Her dress.

Every time I found myself stood behind Her I was struck by the barley resistible urge to grab Her arse, or Her tits … or something altogether more Trumpian.

I was acutely conscious that all day I was objectifying Her. If that’s what you want to call it. She doubtless would. Which is why She was probably wearing tights, a pair of boring, baggy, black boy-shorts and whatever functional bra that came to hand, rather than sexualising lingerie.

And as if to transgress yet further, I later stole an opportunity to violate Her privacy and took a peek in Her underwear drawer. Inevitably, still buried at the back and bottom, was the full set of Infamous Red. Apparently not a single item was being worn.

My delusions shattered.
My optimism evaporated.
My loins deflated.
Quite justly.

3 Responses to “Object to desire”

  1. MrH has spent Christmas with me plodding about in pyjamas 😂 now granted I never wear underwear with them but they are definitely not sexy in any way! In fact my pink stripy ones probably make me look like a sick of rock 😂
    Of course he’s also in lounge pants and a t-shirt so I figure it’s acceptable 😁

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: