It was my birthday and, as is traditional for birthdays, valentines, and our anniversary, we dropped off the kids at Grandma’s and checked into a hotel room. I wasn’t at all sure what Beloved had planned, but I knew that it would be something special. Beloved has always seemed to pride herself on making sure I feel special on my special day. I could fill the Marriage Heat with birthday tales alone.
We had requested two beds for the night, two queens; one to make a delightfully wet mess on and another for sleeping. There’s just something about hotel rooms that tends to inspire Beloved to make more of a mess than usual. In the room was also a boring burgundy colored chair with an ottoman covered with the same fabric.
I had just brought up the majority of the luggage (I have a rule about not making Beloved carry heavy things if I can help it) and set it down in the doorless closet area. Normally my wife immediately unzips the bags and starts filling drawers with our clothes, but this time she snatched a particular bag from my hands and told me to go sit in the chair. My brain balked and she threw a well rounded hip into me as an encouragement. It seemed my cock got the message before my brain as I felt it self adjust in my boxer briefs.
“Go,” she commanded with her lovely smile. “Sit. No peeking.”
I complied. How could I not, if my cock was right about what was coming?
Sitting in the chair I shoved the ottoman away never having cared for them. If I’m going to recline I want a recliner. The time passed slowly as I waited. I scanned the walls, shaking my head at the dull, mass produced, passing for abstract art that hung on the walls; wondered why the chair fabric was so abrasive. Honestly it was the least comfortable piece of furniture, almost as if by design.
Eventually I got bored and my mind slipped into its natural groove when Beloved plans a surprise. I would say that I can guess what she is up to about eight times out of ten. My mind cast a wide net. She hadn’t packed the ropes i knew because they were hanging on the hook in the closet when I looked. The bag was too light to have our whole collection of sex toys. The flogger was too long for the size of the bag. Maybe it was a dress up. Always a fan of roleplaying, I wasn’t surprised that my cock grew even longer and harder at the prospect. Catholic Schoolgirl was always a favorite, but she’d done that a number of times. Oooh, maybe Naughty Nurse.
The door opened. Although I could see the bathroom light cast upon the floor and wall, Beloved hadn’t walked through. I rose from my seat, thinking that was what she wanted.
“No,” she said with a bit of bashfulness. “Stay there.”
“Are you ok?” I asked, a little concerned. Beloved is a very passionate lover, which I credit to her Asian Indian heritage (they wrote the Kama Sutra for crying out loud) but she can also be self conscious and scare easily at times. She has her moments where if she gets spooked she’ll shut down, and I did not want that. I plopped down in the chair immediately.
“Ok. You have to promise you won’t laugh.”
“There’s not a universe in which I would laugh at whatever is about to happen.”
“I didn’t have the perfect outfit so I had to improvise.”
“Again, honey, no chance of laughter from here.”
“Are you sure?”
I thought of something more verbose, but nodded before saying, “Yes. I’m sure.”
“Ok. Here it goes. Remember. No laughing.”
Beloved stepped one foot out of the bathroom and if there was a zero chance of me laughing before the odds quickly slipped into the negatives. On her foot was a pair of black heels that were of the stripper variety. I had bought them for her years before, but Beloved is not one to suffer the pain of heels through a whole date. I joked that they could be “bedroom heels” and she laughed and little had ever come of it. A leg followed the foot and my eyes continued up to see that she was wearing thigh high black stockings. Instantly my cock went so hard my underwear felt constricting.
I took in the rest of the sight of Beloved; she had taken one of her black skirts and rolled it up so as to appear to be a flirty number that barely covered her ass, a black button up shirt stood open to an inch or so below her ample, bra enhanced cleavage, over which was a completely see through blouse, and down her arms ran black, silky, elbow length gloves.
My eyes must have been the size of saucers as she coyly bit her lip and asked if I liked it. I wasn’t sure if the dress up was Stripper or Call Girl, but either way I was all in as I nodded. Nodding was pretty much all I could do at that point since my mouth had gone mysteriously dry. Reassured by my involuntary reaction Beloved reached into our luggage and pulled out our portable stereo and cued up some music. I immediately recognized it as an album by Enigma and my brain exploded.
I realized very quickly how special my birthday was about to be. My wife has moments of boldness, as I mentioned before, but can also be very self conscious. I had, of course, brought up to her my desire for some stripper roleplay, but she had always blown it off by saying she would feel too awkward, wouldn’t know what to do, and as a result it wouldn’t feel a bit sexy at all. Clearly, that hadn’t stopped her. I couldn’t help but feel enormously loved as she prowled more than walked towards me and then traced the outline of my face with a silk clad finger.
There she was, my Beloved of more than a decade, every one of my favorite features exposed, enhanced, on display, and so very willing.
I had not realized that I had reached out to touch some of my favorite bits until she soundly smacked one of my hands.
“Ah, ah, ah,” she scolded with a smirk. “Are men allowed to touch strippers?”
“No,” I glumly admitted.
“That’s right. No touching. I can touch you,” she said, punctuating her point by grabbing my throbbing cock through my jeans, “but you can’t touch me.”
“That is so not at all fair,” I said with a shiver and then a whimper as she quickly removed her hand.
“No,” she replied with a gleam in her eye, “but it sure is fun.”
My Beloved began to sway her hips to the music in front of me with all the grace and allure of a belly dancer. She writhed and twirled so sexily I had to wonder if she had somehow taken lessons without my notice.
My goodness, she knew how to entice me. With each thrust of her hips, every push of her cleavage in my face, each glimpse of the flesh just above her stocking line, I found it increasingly difficult to keep my hands to myself. There were whole minutes that my hands were a fraction of an inch above the armrest because of my internal conflict. I was not at all used to not touching what belonged to me as bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. Every now and then she’d give me a look that told me she was enjoying my slight torture so much that the whole scene was turning her on as well.
At one point the true lap dance, as I think of it, began. She turned her back to me, cast a sexycute grin over her shoulder, and lowered her swaying ass inch by inch until it made contact with my denim covered crotch. A moan escaped her lips as she began to grind, as if she was needing that as much as I was. My head fell back and more than once I had to grit my teeth and force my hands back onto the armrest. It felt so warm and so moist, so heavenly, that I was lost. Nothing existed outside that room or beyond that burgundy chair.
My Beloved ground in circles and back and forth until she suddenly stopped, tensed, and a ragged breath escaped from her. She then straightened up and stood smirking at me.
“Wait…wait…” I said groggily feeling a little jipped and more than a little damp on my crotch. “What? That’s all?”
“Hardly,” she replied with a throaty laugh.
She kneeled on the ottoman and began to strip; first the sheer outer clouse, then the gloves, then the shirt that was already half open leaving her in the bra, skirt, stockings and heels. Her hips gyrated as if she was grinding the air.
She gave me a “come hither” look and a crooked “get over here finger” as she bit her lip, the hunger and need quite clear in her eyes. She turned away from me and bent over so that she was on all fours on the ottoman presenting me with a lovely ass under her makeshift mini-skirt.
“So, I can touch now?”
“Oh, God, you better!”
I slowly reached out with both hands, cautiously coming into contact with the flesh I so adored. I admit, I moved slowly to give my Beloved just the slightest taste of her own medicine, but it did in her what it had done in me. She began to moan, to whine, to pout, and finally beg which…I’ll be honest, the begging always works.
An uncontrollable gasp escaped from me as I flipped up her skirt to find her lovely ass cheeks were accentuated by the flimsiest black thong.
“You like it?” she asked still panting and impatiently grinding against nothing.
“It’s…uh…hot…” I replied struggling for words. Beloved always has had a dim view of thongs so it was a double surprise.
“Happy birthday, baby. I was trying to flash it to you the whole time, but the skirt wouldn’t cooperate. Now, I want your cock in me.” It wasn’t a request.
I hooked a thumb under the little band of black with one hand, and removed my pants and underwear with the other. My Beloved went rigid with a moan as I made my first thrust.
“Oh…fuck…” she groaned in pleasure at our connection. She arched her back like a cat enjoying a scratch.
We set to work finding our rhythm, soon exploded in a flurry of orgasms and expletives. Not long after we collapsed into a pile of appreciative giggles and sighs.
Once our breathing returned to normal we made our way to the bed and slid under the covers to snuggle our way through the afterglow.
“So,” I said after a while, “Massive wet spot on the ottoman. That’s new for us.”