Quote:
Originally Posted by piecenick
As soon as I get on the freeway, out of traffic, they start undressing, SIL stripped down to bra and panties, hot, but nothing I had not seen before, my wife is down to panties, they put their nice clothes on, then my wife tells her sister, "you can't wear that bra with that dress, the whole strap is showing in the back."
SIL says "damn", her only alternative is braless, she drops the top of her dress, off comes the bra, she did it so fast and neat, I barely got a peek. 10 minutes later, her make up is done and we arrive.
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I’m reminded of a similar moment from a while back. It was a friend’s birthday night, and after a fantastic dinner at their place with six or seven of us, we decided the night was too young to call it quits. So, we planned to hit a nearby bar and gave everyone an hour to go home, change, and get ready. One of the girls, who wasn’t great at driving and lived near us, needed a ride. We dropped her off first and arranged to pick her up on the way to the bar.
When we swung by to get her, she hopped in wearing a sleek, halter-style gray sleeveless top that hugged her curves and a tight, sexy leather skirt. My wife immediately called it out, pointing out the big fashion faux pas—her black bra straps were completely visible, peeking out from under the top. As a guy, though, I thought it looked hot as hell. But then, right there in the backseat, she pulled off this classic women’s maneuver. With a few deft tugs, she slipped the bra straps off her shoulders, worked them down her arms, and—bam—yanked the whole bra out through one armhole, all without flashing a thing. The whole process was mesmerizing: her fingers deftly unhooking and sliding the straps, the fabric shifting as she freed herself, her curves briefly accentuated by the motion before the bra came loose. Her full, rounded breasts, no longer confined, bounced slightly, now perky under the thin, clingy fabric of her top. The material was so sheer I could just make out the faint outline of her nipples, two subtle points pressing against the gray cloth, teasingly visible in the dim car light.
I was driving, pretending to focus on the road, but my eyes kept darting to the rearview mirror, catching every second of her little performance. There’s something about the act of “putting on” or “taking off” that drives my senses wild—way more than just seeing a woman naked in front of me. That slow, deliberate reveal, the way the fabric moved with her, ignited a fire in me. Anyone else feel the same?