Sheer black stockings and white cotton stockings

It was at a party at a man's villa in the suburbs where he kept his mistress that I met him, my college classmate. In the garden, the mischievous moonlight made the women even more alluring and the men even more passionate. The hosts' intimate and romantic demeanor seemed to encourage people to want something to happen; men and women spontaneously formed couples, and he and I got along exceptionally well. "It's too noisy here, let's go for a walk in the nearby woods," he said, looking at me with a seductive gaze. In that quiet woods, he kissed me. Actually, as I followed him into the woods, I knew what was going to happen, but I didn't stop. Just yesterday, my husband hadn't come home all night again. I've lost count of how many times this has happened in the three years of our marriage. His explanations are always high-sounding: people from company headquarters came, entertaining clients, etc. Sometimes I'd find things like a strand of hair, a wisp of fragrance, or a red mark on him. My husband said that casual encounters are unavoidable, but he has his bottom line: he will never sleep with any woman other than his wife. When he embraced me in the woods, I was flustered, but the fluster quickly subsided. As long as we didn't go to bed, kissing wasn't a sin. Thinking this, a wave of pleasure washed over me, and my lips instantly filled with tender desire. His passion both terrified and moved me. At the time, I naturally didn't know that he had been celibate for over four months, and that his wife was pregnant. Days passed like water. I often recalled that romantic night, our passionate indulgence in the woods. I thought: This was probably what my husband meant by "playing along"! Only, a woman can control the depth of that "playing along." That night, his hand slipped inside my bra, gently caressing my full, firm breasts. I nestled in his arms, eyes closed, savoring the passionate pleasure. Suddenly, his hand slipped under my skirt and through my panties, gliding over my pubic hair and reaching between my legs. I instinctively squeezed my legs together, my body stiffening. Realizing the situation, I hesitated for a moment, then relaxed. We were still within acceptable boundaries. I closed my eyes again, enjoying his caresses. It was the first time a man other than my husband had explored me; the stimulation was indescribable. But when he tried to pull down my panties, I fought back against my burning desire and ran out of the woods. At that moment, the man only went forward, never backing down. Thinking this, I felt increasingly resentful towards my husband for coming home late. We exchanged contact information when we parted. I knew that number by heart, but pride made my fingers weak. I even regretted running out of the woods that night, because I was a woman who had suffered from loneliness and coldness in bed. Just as I was trying to let that summer night pass by, he called. Later, he told me that if he called me the day after we broke up, he would definitely reject me. It turned out to be a game of playing hard to get. He first treated me to Japanese food, then we went to a bar, where the alcohol gradually eroded my reason. He looked at me with burning eyes and asked, "After we finish drinking, shall we go to a hotel?" I smiled without answering, and he revealed a barely perceptible hint of smugness. Before getting in the car with him, I called my husband to ask when he would be home. But his phone was out of service. I remember when we were newly married, if I called him at night and he was out of service, I would frantically search for him, fearing something had happened to him. Finally, I found my girlfriend, who came from a family of police officers, and she comforted me, saying, "Nothing bad will happen. Maybe he's just messing around somewhere." Sure enough, that night he was relaxing at a bathhouse. Seeing my tear-streaked and frightened face, he nonchalantly said, "If my phone is out of service in the future, it's because I'm in a sauna; there's no signal there." Whenever my husband's phone signal was out of service, my heart would pound. I learned to smoke. This time, I took out a cigarette again, leaned against the car door, and quietly smoked. He didn't rush me; I stubbed it out halfway through and got into his car. At a hotel, we spent an extremely wild night. That night, we made love non-stop, resting when we were tired, and then making love again, both of us like people who had been starved for a long time, finding immense satisfaction. He wanted me to be his mistress, and I agreed, but on one condition: I would arrange the meeting times. I didn't want to ruin my marriage. After that, whenever my husband didn't come home at night, I would call him, and then we would go to a hotel and book a room by the hour. No matter how late it was, he would come out immediately as soon as he received my call. He once boasted to me: "She's pregnant, and I still dare to come out in the middle of the night; it shows how much I care about you." His words made me feel elated. I became even more proactive in finding opportunities to meet him. Later, one time we couldn't find a hotel room because it was peak tourist season, and he suggested we go to my place. I looked at him in surprise. He said she wasn't home, that she was at her parents' house taking care of her. That's when I understood why he was so unrestrained. Of course, I didn't go to his house that night. Once a woman becomes unrestrained, she's not far from falling into depravity. I still wanted to be a decent woman. The first time we had sex in the car, it wasn't very comfortable, but it was exciting. I became increasingly infatuated with him. To please him, I wore sexy pink thongs, whereas before I always wore white cotton shorts; thongs made me very uncomfortable. I used to love wearing white cotton socks, which were both absorbent and warm in winter, but he preferred me to wear those thin, feather-like black stockings, which made my feet sweaty and cold all day long. I started dressing up for him, wearing his favorite sexy outfits on dates. I became increasingly dependent on him. Six months later, our rendezvous gradually decreased. His wife gave birth to a son. His phone was switched off as soon as he got off work. I gradually realized that during those six months, I was just a tool to him. I decided to break up with him completely, and he didn't bother me. Soon after, I became pregnant. I was worried about whether to keep the baby. The night he found out I was pregnant, my husband said, "From now on, I'll pick you up from get off work every day, do the housework, and stay home with you and the baby at night." I didn't take his words to heart at all. The next afternoon at 5 pm, when I walked out of the company gate, I saw my husband standing there. I got into the car and saw vegetables and fish in the back seat. When we got home, my husband went straight to the kitchen. I wasn't moved; I thought he wouldn't last long. For more than five months of my pregnancy, my husband picked me up from get off work every day. I was filled with a strange sense of gratitude. During my pregnancy, I didn't show any signs of fatigue; I smiled radiantly and was exceptionally beautiful. Winter came, and my husband bought me a large bag of white cotton socks and loose, comfortable white cotton underwear. My husband washed my underwear every night. One day, my husband found a pink lace thong in the closet. "You've worn underwear like this?" I was shocked. After breaking up with him, I threw away all the sexy lingerie I'd used to please him, but unexpectedly, I had one pair left. Such underwear, though beautiful, might not be comfortable. Since it's worn underneath and not meant to be seen by others, comfort must be the priority. I wrapped my arms around my husband's waist from behind, tears silently seeping into his sweater. Before I knew it, my due date arrived, and I gave birth to a beautiful daughter smoothly in the delivery room. In the days that followed, my husband returned to his old ways, often coming home late or not at all. I still nag about it incessantly, but the resentment and suspicion of the past were gone. Life inevitably settles into a routine. I often think of my lover kissing me in the woods on dull, boring afternoons, recalling every detail of our encounters. These memories didn't bring me any joy. It felt like I only truly saw him after giving birth; I found him truly terrifying. A man who cheats on his wife while she's pregnant is not only heartless but also lacks the qualities of a proper man. Every woman longs to walk hand-in-hand with her beloved on the long journey of life. Women shouldn't be too calculating. As long as he returns to their side to shelter them from the storm when it comes, he's a good man. My husband is a good man. And what about his former lover? To his wife, and to me, he has nothing to do with being a good man.

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Sheer black stockings and white cotton stockings

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