Leave work with Brad

Your gaze wanders to the papers and files stacked on your desk, to the reading glasses on your keyboard, to the spreadsheet files open on your screen.

You've hardly been able to sleep all week with the pressure Mr. Perry has you under. You hate it. You hate your job and, as you look at Brad, you realize that despite all the distance in your relationship, there is something worth saving there. He has a long way to go to prove to you that he is the man you married all those years ago.

"Fuck it," you say and yank off your ID badge. "Let's go. I'm done with this job."

"You're quitting?" he asks in surprise.

"Not exactly," you say. "I'm going home for the day. Let Perry fire me on Monday."

Brad shakes his head, but does not question your decision. You march through the office, arm in arm with your husband.

"Mr. Perry said to remind you to have those files by five," says Wendy as you walk past her desk in the lobby. You reply with your middle finger.

Laughing, you join Brad at his car. It's a bigger, more comfortable sedan than your own. The sort of car a man buys when he's trying to be practical and still feel like he's showing off. The leather crinkles beneath you and you feel, at last, freedom. No more spreadsheets, no more numbers that don't add up.

"You sure?" asks Brad, his hand on the keys.

"Go!" you insist.

Brad takes you to Chau, the molecular gastronomy restaurant you saw featured on that TV show. He must have planned this at least a month in advance to get a reservation. Dinner is amazing, from the drinks that come to the table as ice that melts as you hold the glass in your hand to the appetizer made from various flavors of foam, you are blown away. The menus are edible, the flavors are incredible, and you and Brad laugh and joke about each surprise the meal has to offer. It's the perfect sort of meal to have before a night out too, just enough to give you a kick of energy, but not so much you feel weighed down. By the time you finish eating your chocolate dessert shaped like a model of the restauraunt you are feeling giddy.

"To a great dinner," you say to Brad, toasting with your drink.

"We're just getting started," he answers. "After this, I'm taking you shop-ping."

You drive to the glitzy strip of boutiques in the downtown area and start at one end, piecing together a vintage outfit, a slutty dancing outfit, and something sexy but practical. Brad splurges and buys you a heart-shaped platinum necklace that hangs against your cleavage.

"We can do the museum before dancing," he says. "Did you want to change?"

"Not yet," you say. "There's one store left."

You gesture to the red-curtained window displays of Pandora, the high-end lingerie store. A grin spreads across Brad's face and he quickly ushers you inside. The store is small and permeated with the mingled aroma of new leather and spiced perfume. Mannequins are posed erotically and dressed in leather straps, sheer negligees and open-cupped bras. You're so bewildered by the sensual displays and exotic outfits that you don't notice the sales girl until she is right next to you. The sexy young woman has short-cropped black hair and a slightly goth look that suits her perfect body. Her generous cleavage is amplified by a corset.

"Hello, my name is Eve, how can I help you?"

You catch Brad eying her, but let it slide without comment.

"I want something naughty," you say.

She smiles at that and asks, "How naughty?"

When you don't immediately answer, Even takes your hand and leads you deeper into the store. The electro music is adding to the sexual feel of this place. Amid the racks of scandalous outfits and costumes, Eve selects a few she thinks you would like. With your arms piled high, you retreat into the changing room to try them on. It's a surprisingly luxurious changing room, with a red leather loveseat and mirrors covering every wall. The entry is hung with a curtain. Eve and your husband wait patiently outside.

The first outfit - a black leather corset, boots and a leather g-string - does not suit you at all. You look good, but it feels like you can't even sit down. You're much more interested in the pink and chocolate pile. It's a billowing sheer chemise with an empire waist worn over a pair of chocolate boy shorts and a matching bra, both fringed in pink lace. The bra is the real surprise: it's completely open-cupped. Your breasts are lifted and separated by the lacy underwire and that's it. You think it looks hot and it makes your ass look even better with your firm cheeks hanging out of the bottom of the shorts.

Drape it all in the sheer fabric, silky material sliding against your hard nip-ples, and you think you look amazing.

"Why don't you come in and have a look," you say to your husband. You hold one of your shopping bags up over yourself to hide the outfit until he is inside the changing room. You motion for him to sit down on the loveseat and then you slowly lower the bag, revealing your body swathed in the sexy lingerie. His eyes practically bug out as you pose for him, your breasts thrust forward, but every curve easily visible in one or more of the mirrors.

"Holy shit," he says, once he can speak. "You look unbelievably hot. I..you look sexy as hell."

He's right of course, and as a track you recognize starts on the sound system you set the bag aside and begin to move to the music. You start laughing, but after a few seconds you are staring in your husband's eyes, tracing your hands down your curves and turning, thrusting your ass at him and rocking your hips. You spin back around, drop a knee between his legs, lift his chin with a fingertip, lean in as if you're going to kiss him and turn away. You learned all these moves from those strip aerobics videos and you know how to use your body to turn a man on. Your husband leans back, watching you work it, watching you flip up the bottom of the chemise and then lift it over your head. You press your bare breasts into his face. When he reaches a hand around to squeeze your ass you smack it away and wag a finger in his face.

"Everything alright in there?" asks Eve from the other side of the curtain.

"Fine," your husband says, his voice sounding hoarse.

You grind your ass down into his lap, feeling his hardness against you. He groans quietly. You move as if you're fucking him, pressing the swaddled heart of your ass against him, rocking your mound and mashing it against him in time with the music. You fall forward intentionally, sliding your breasts against the hardwood, your ass up as you reach back and peel the boy-shorts over your shapely butt. Your wetness makes the fabric cling to you for a moment before it pulls free. You can feel the heat against your fingers. You slide them down your thighs, pushing your ass up even more and baring yourself completely to your husband.

"Oh fuck is that hot," he murmurs.

You have another hot idea for him.