Not long ago, my wife and I joined friends for a rare proper dinner at their place. She looked stunning: a fitted short-sleeve top that hugged her full, rounded breasts, and a classy plaid miniskirt that made her legs look endless. The meal was delightful—easy conversation, lots of laughs. Afterward, we moved to the living room, snacking and playing Switch.
While my wife slipped off to the bathroom, I followed her into the hallway. I gave her ass a squeeze, then slid my hand under the skirt, feeling the soft curve wrapped in her panties. I whispered that when she’d been sitting on the couch earlier, moving around freely, Fred—who was on the floor—kept turning his head, eyes flicking between her knees. I wasn’t sure if he’d seen anything, but the thought alone had me buzzing.
My wife knows me too well. She smirked and asked if I wanted Fred to get a little treat. I grinned and said yes. We returned to the living room. The instant she sat, I caught Fred’s peripheral glance—my gut told me he’d spotted something. Her skirt was short and thin; the room’s light filtered through the fabric, making her light-gray panties faintly visible.
We played a few more rounds. I watched Fred steal glances, practically squirming with impatience. So, while chatting with my wife, I gave her a quick wink. She got the cue. Casually, she tucked one leg under herself on the couch, letting her thighs naturally part. From my side angle, I could almost see the tops of her legs—Fred’s direct line of sight must have been pure gold.
No surprise, Fred tanked every round. His focus was elsewhere, head swiveling back twice a minute. He even used small talk with my wife as an excuse to stare for seconds at a time.
On the drive home, she laughed and said toward the end, Fred stopped pretending—mouth talking to her, eyes locked downward. She had to play oblivious, legs going numb, too shy to shift.
More stories of orchestrated wardrobe malfunctions to come whenever the chance arises.
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