My husband had this mischievous glint in his eye when he gave me the box last night. "Try these on for our date tomorrow," he said, kissing my neck. I opened it later, alone in the bedroom, and pulled out the La Cortigiana panties-handmade in Italy, the tag said. The fabric was like nothing I'd felt before: so light and sheer it almost melted into my skin. And there, embroidered in soft gold thread across the front, was "Hotwife." I blushed just looking at it. We'd talked about playing around with ideas like this, but talking and doing are two different things. I'm not the bold type; I get nervous even wearing a low-cut top. But something about the word, about his excitement, made me curious enough to agree.
The next evening, I slipped them on under my favorite black skirt- the one that hits mid-thigh, nothing too risky. The panties felt barely there, like a whisper against me. I checked the mirror a dozen times: from straight on, they looked normal enough, opaque in the dim light. The embroidery was subtle, tucked away unless I really spread my legs wide. "It's just a fun secret," I told myself, heart pounding a little as we headed out to our usual bar downtown. This was our first time trying anything like this - him encouraging me to feel sexy, to maybe flirt with the edge of exposure. He held my hand in the car, squeezing it every few minutes, like he could sense my nerves.
The bar was crowded but cozy, low lights and jazz playing softly. We grabbed spots at the counter, me on a high stool, him right next to me. I ordered a gin and tonic to steady myself, crossing my legs tightly at first. But as we chatted - about work, about nothing—the alcohol warmed me up. He leaned in close and murmured, "You look incredible. Remember what you're wearing under there." His words sent a little thrill through me, making me shift in my seat. I uncrossed my legs, letting my knees part just a fraction, testing the waters. After all, I was wearing panties; no one could see anything, right? It felt playful, empowering even, like I was in control of this tiny act of daring.
Across the way, at a small table near the window, a couple of guys in suits were nursing beers, glancing around the room. One of them caught my eye once or twice=- nothing intense, just the casual scan you do in a bar. I sipped my drink and laughed at something my husband said, my legs relaxing a bit more. The stool was high, my skirt riding up naturally, and I let my knees drift apart another inch or two. Not wide, not obvious - just enough to feel the air brush my thighs. I thought about the embroidery, hidden away, and it made me smile inwardly. This was our game; no one else was in on it.
But then I noticed the guys at the table again. The one facing me directly had paused mid-sentence, his eyes flicking down for a split second before snapping back up. His friend turned subtly, following the gaze. My stomach flipped. Were they.. looking? I squeezed my thighs closer together, but not all the way - curiosity mixed with the buzz from my drink kept me from clamping shut. My husband must have sensed it; he glanced over, then back at me with a slow grin. "They're checking you out," he whispered, his voice low and approving. Heat rushed through me, not just embarrassment, but something deeper, electric. I realized then, in the bar's shifting light, that the panties weren't hiding much at all. They were so sheer-practically invisible up close. If my legs were parted even slightly, like they had been... God, they could probably see everything. The outline, the gold letters gleaming faintly, my skin right through the fabric.
I didn't dare look down to confirm, but the thought alone made my pulse race. My cheeks burned, but I didn't move. Part of me wanted to bolt, to laugh it off as paranoia. But another part-the one my husband had awakened with that gift-felt alive, desired in a way that sent shivers up my spine. The guys weren't staring outright; they were subtle, stealing glances while pretending to talk. One even raised his glass in a vague toast our way, smirking. My husband squeezed my knee under the counter, his touch saying everything: he loved this, loved seeing me like this, loved the secret thrill of others noticing.
We stayed another half hour, me perched there with my legs just relaxed enough to keep the game going. Every time I shifted, every time their eyes wandered back, that warmth built inside me—slow, insistent, making my breath come shorter. It wasn't about being wild; it was the intimacy of it all, sharing this first step with him, feeling stesny yet bold. By the time we left, hand in hand, I was buzzing from head to toe. In the car, he pulled over halfway home, kissed me hard, and said, "Tell me how it felt." And I did, every detail, watching his eyes light up. That night changed things for us—in the best way.
The next evening, I slipped them on under my favorite black skirt- the one that hits mid-thigh, nothing too risky. The panties felt barely there, like a whisper against me. I checked the mirror a dozen times: from straight on, they looked normal enough, opaque in the dim light. The embroidery was subtle, tucked away unless I really spread my legs wide. "It's just a fun secret," I told myself, heart pounding a little as we headed out to our usual bar downtown. This was our first time trying anything like this - him encouraging me to feel sexy, to maybe flirt with the edge of exposure. He held my hand in the car, squeezing it every few minutes, like he could sense my nerves.
The bar was crowded but cozy, low lights and jazz playing softly. We grabbed spots at the counter, me on a high stool, him right next to me. I ordered a gin and tonic to steady myself, crossing my legs tightly at first. But as we chatted - about work, about nothing—the alcohol warmed me up. He leaned in close and murmured, "You look incredible. Remember what you're wearing under there." His words sent a little thrill through me, making me shift in my seat. I uncrossed my legs, letting my knees part just a fraction, testing the waters. After all, I was wearing panties; no one could see anything, right? It felt playful, empowering even, like I was in control of this tiny act of daring.
Across the way, at a small table near the window, a couple of guys in suits were nursing beers, glancing around the room. One of them caught my eye once or twice=- nothing intense, just the casual scan you do in a bar. I sipped my drink and laughed at something my husband said, my legs relaxing a bit more. The stool was high, my skirt riding up naturally, and I let my knees drift apart another inch or two. Not wide, not obvious - just enough to feel the air brush my thighs. I thought about the embroidery, hidden away, and it made me smile inwardly. This was our game; no one else was in on it.
But then I noticed the guys at the table again. The one facing me directly had paused mid-sentence, his eyes flicking down for a split second before snapping back up. His friend turned subtly, following the gaze. My stomach flipped. Were they.. looking? I squeezed my thighs closer together, but not all the way - curiosity mixed with the buzz from my drink kept me from clamping shut. My husband must have sensed it; he glanced over, then back at me with a slow grin. "They're checking you out," he whispered, his voice low and approving. Heat rushed through me, not just embarrassment, but something deeper, electric. I realized then, in the bar's shifting light, that the panties weren't hiding much at all. They were so sheer-practically invisible up close. If my legs were parted even slightly, like they had been... God, they could probably see everything. The outline, the gold letters gleaming faintly, my skin right through the fabric.
I didn't dare look down to confirm, but the thought alone made my pulse race. My cheeks burned, but I didn't move. Part of me wanted to bolt, to laugh it off as paranoia. But another part-the one my husband had awakened with that gift-felt alive, desired in a way that sent shivers up my spine. The guys weren't staring outright; they were subtle, stealing glances while pretending to talk. One even raised his glass in a vague toast our way, smirking. My husband squeezed my knee under the counter, his touch saying everything: he loved this, loved seeing me like this, loved the secret thrill of others noticing.
We stayed another half hour, me perched there with my legs just relaxed enough to keep the game going. Every time I shifted, every time their eyes wandered back, that warmth built inside me—slow, insistent, making my breath come shorter. It wasn't about being wild; it was the intimacy of it all, sharing this first step with him, feeling stesny yet bold. By the time we left, hand in hand, I was buzzing from head to toe. In the car, he pulled over halfway home, kissed me hard, and said, "Tell me how it felt." And I did, every detail, watching his eyes light up. That night changed things for us—in the best way.
