We're dress shopping tonight, a date night.
Yes, our date night is shopping for a dress for her to wear on her date night with Matthew.
I know, it's strange, I know...only a sissy likes dress shopping with his wife; only a cuckold likes picking out a dress for his wife to wear on a date with a man.
I'm both so I'm doubly excited; there it is.
She must have asked me fifteen times yesterday if I was sure, each time I said yes and asked her if she was sure. I think we're both sure. Nervously sure. But sure.
We were sending ideas to each other this morning, inspirations, though we have to see what we can find when shopping.
I sent the first one, almost a joke.
"You like," I asked, "for tomorrow night?"
"Sweetie, if a dress could talk, this one would say 'you're not getting laid tonight,'" she emailed back.
"You're hilarious. Shorter? Like this," I emailed her a little black dress.
"So give me some," I teased.
"Fine," she emailed back a bit later. "Here. I think this sets a better tone. You know, leaving no doubt in Matthew's mind...or anyone that sees us...that I'm his."
"I don't know we'll find something quite that...skimpy, Em."
"We can try," she said, "can't we? I mean...he said go beyond what we'd normally go."
Right before lunch she emailed again. "I found what I want," the email said.
I looked at the picture. Fuck. "That's lingerie," I emailed back.
"Actually, it's not," she replied, "close though. They don't have it locally or in my size online, but this is similar, just as sexy...for club wear."
"Love the necklace, no?"
"Fuck," was all I could say.
"They don't have that either...but there's another option..."
"What," I asked.
"Instead of looking for a slip dress, just look for a slip."
We talked about it, that night, after we got home with a dress, er, a slip, how it made her feel.
"It's not how I picture you," I told her.
"I know, believe me, it's a bit...uncomfortable. When we went out last time, I felt like I was on display, like I was naked, even."
I heard the quiver in her voice. "You liked that? The feeling?"
She nodded. "With him...yes. It makes me feel, I don't know...vulnerable...naughty...like...like I'm..." She paused, bit her lip.
"Like you're his whore," I finished.
Emily blushed deeply. "Sara, I don't mean to," she started to say, perhaps misjudging my thoughts.
"Em," I held up my hand, stopping her; she certainly saw my eyes now, the reaction to the erotic presence of Matthew. "Say it...finish..." She understood, her words didn't hurt, humiliating as they were, her words were the thing, the essence of the thing we were doing, the thing we both craved. "When you dress for him, how does it make you feel?"
She looked at me, our eyes met, I could see the wheels turning in her mind; she too felt the erotic charge between us that Matthew was causing, the intimacy he brought to Emily and me. "I...I feel...I feel like I'm his whore," she said in almost a whisper.
"When else do you feel like that," I asked. "When else do you feel like his whore?"
"When...when he touches me," she said, eyes half closed. "I feel like his whore when he touches me."
"And," I asked, "when else?"
"I...I feel like his whore when I'm undressed in front of him."
"I feel like...his whore when I'm kneeling on the ground."
I half mumbled, half moaned.
"I feel like his whore when he's in my mouth.
"What else? When else do you feel like his whore?"
"I feel like his whore when he fucks me."
"Em," I said, touched her breasts.
"I'll feel like his whore when he cums inside me." We were holding hands, squeezed them together, I was as hot as she was. "And I want you to feel like his whore," she half moaned, "when I get home and you lick me and taste me."
But I feel like his whore now, already, his whore, her whore. It's such a bad word, so, so bad, but so erotic, too, so fucking erotic.