Chapter 2: The Gift
The parcel arrived on a Tuesday, while Ben was elbow-deep in a supplier’s spreadsheet. Charlie left it conspicuously on his desk, a small black box tied with a silver ribbon. "Open it before dinner," she'd texted, adding a single winking emoji.
His heart did a slow, heavy roll. He waited until the house was quiet, the evening sun painting the bedroom in long, amber stripes. The ribbon came away with a soft hiss. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a confection of black lace and satin—a bustier with structured cups, and attached to it, four delicate garter straps.
The door creaked open as he was holding it up, the lace glittering. Charlie leaned in the frame, a slow smile spreading. "Early present," she said. "Model it for me."
His fingers fumbled on the tiny hooks and eyes at the back. "A little help?"
Her touch was electric as she came behind him, her breath warm on his neck. She took the straps, her fingers brushing his skin, and pulled it snug. "There," she whispered, her hands sliding around to cup the stiffened fabric over his chest. "Look."
He turned to the mirror. The man reflected was both alien and perfect. The bustier cinched his waist, sculpting his torso into an unfamiliar, elegant shape. The black lace contrasted starkly against his skin. The empty garter straps hung down like promises.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word full of awe.
"Indeed," Charlie said, her eyes dark in the glass. She produced the stockings from her pocket, the ones with the intricate lace tops. "Now these."
He sat on the edge of the bed, rolling each sheer nylon up his leg, her gaze a physical weight. He attached them to the dangling clasps, the snap of each one loud in the quiet room. When he stood, the seams ran straight and sharp up his thighs, vanishing under the lace hem of the bustier.
She approached him then, a predator in her own domain. Her hand smoothed down his flank, over the satin, to the lace top of his stocking. "You're so hard for me already," she murmured, her fingers tracing the outline of his cock, trapped and straining against the structured front panel. "All trussed up and ready."
Charlie didn’t wait for an answer. She unfastened the front panel of the bustier with a sharp, deliberate tug, freeing his erection. Her hand wrapped around him, pumping once, twice, a rough claiming that drew a shattered gasp from his lips. “Mine to play with,” she growled, pushing him backward until his shoulders hit the cool wall.
She dropped to her knees, her blonde hair brushing his stockings. Her mouth was hot, obscenely wet, and she took him in deep without hesitation. The sudden engulfing heat, the view of her head bobbing between his thighs framed by lace, was violently intense. “Christ, Charlie,” he choked out, his hands fumbling for her hair.
She pulled off with a filthy, wet sound. “You like that?” she asked, her voice husky, her thumb smearing pre-cum over his head. “My proper husband, standing in his fancy lingerie while I suck his cock?” He could only nod, a strangled moan his answer. Her tongue traced a wicked path up his shaft before she swallowed him again, deeper this time, hitting the back of her throat.
His hips jerked involuntarily. “I’m going to…” he warned, the coil in his gut tightening beyond bearing. She released him again, leaving him aching and exposed to the cool air. “Not yet,” she commanded, rising to her feet, her lips glistening. She turned and bent over the foot of the bed, presenting herself, her knickers already pushed aside. “Now fuck me. Hard.”
He stumbled forward, his stockings slipping slightly on the wooden floor. He drove into her with one desperate, deep stroke, burying himself to the hilt in her slick heat. She cried out, a raw, gratified sound, and pushed back against him. “Yes! Just like that,” she panted, gripping the duvet. “Use your new lace, Ben. Fucking ruin it.”
He gripped her hips, the lace of the bustier biting into his palms as he pistoned into her. Each thrust was a rough punctuation to her gasped commands. “Harder,” she snarled into the duvet, her voice muffled. “Don’t you dare fucking hold back.”
He obeyed, his own control shredding. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping skin, her choked moans, the rustle of fine nylon straining. His world narrowed to the animal rhythm of their joining, the sweet, searing friction, the breathtaking clench of her around him. “God, you feel… you’re so fucking deep,” she cried out, her body arching.
A sharp, taut wire snapped inside him. His release tore through him with a violence that buckled his knees, a raw shout ripped from his throat as he spilled into her. She clenched around him, milking every pulse, her own climax shuddering through her in ragged waves. They collapsed together onto the bed, a tangled, sweating heap of lace and limbs.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their panting. “Well,” Charlie finally said, her voice raspy with satisfaction. “That’s one way to christen a gift.”
They lay tangled in the wreckage of the bed, the lace and satin digging into his skin. Charlie’s fingers traced the now-damp edge of the bustier where it met his sternum. “Supplier spreadsheets feeling a bit dull now, are they?” she murmured, her breath cooling the sweat on his neck.
He laughed, the sound shaky with spent adrenaline. “Just a bit.” He turned his head to look at her. Her mascara was smudged, her lips swollen.
“Good.” She propped herself up on an elbow, her gaze assessing him again. “I think we keep the bustier. It gives you a shape.” Her fingers traced the line of his jaw. “You’re beautiful like this, Ben. All open.”
A lump formed in his throat, a dangerous swell of emotion. He had to look away, focusing on a snag in the duvet cover. “You… you don’t think it’s wrong?”
“What I think,” she said, her voice losing its playful edge, “is that my husband finally let me in.” She shifted, and the movement made him wince; he was softening, slipping out of her. The reality of their mess was suddenly, viscerally present.
She swung her legs off the bed, the cool air hitting their bodies. “Stay there.” She padded to the bathroom and returned with a warm, damp flannel. The simple care in the act, cleaning him where they’d just been so fiercely joined, cracked something inside him.
“We’re going to Sainsbury’s,” she announced, tossing the flannel toward the hamper.
“What?” he asked, baffled, still lying half-trapped in the lace.
“You heard me.” She pulled on her jeans without underwear, zipping them up over the slick mess between her thighs. “I want bacon for breakfast. You’re wearing that under your clothes.” A challenge glinted in her eye. “Your chinos, that grey jumper. No one will know.”
Ben’s mouth went dry. “Charlie… someone could see.”
“No one’s looking up your jumper, you daft man,” she said, pulling her own top on. “It’s for you. To feel it all day. To remember my hands on you while you’re choosing between heritage carrots and parsnips.” She tossed his chinos at him. “Chop chop.”
The coarse wool of his jumper scratched against the delicate lace. He fastened his trousers, the bustier a secret cinch around his ribs. Every shift of fabric whispered against his skin. Charlie stood before him, straightening his collar with a proprietorial air.
“Perfect,” she murmured, her eyes sparkling. “My dirty little secret.” She kissed him, hard and possessive. “Now go get the bacon.”
Walking through the bright, noisy aisles of Sainsbury’s felt like a surreal performance. Every reach for a shelf, every bend to check a price, made him hyper-aware of the constriction around his chest, the gentle bite of the garters on his thighs. He felt a thrilling, terrifying transparency. The cool air from the open fridge cabinets raised goosebumps on his skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth humming underneath his clothes.
He lingered by the bacon, his heart a frantic drum against the lace. An elderly woman smiled at him as she reached for the same pack. “Lovely evening,” she said. “Yes,” he managed, his voice too tight. He paid, the cashier’s mundane chatter a distant buzz. Stepping back into the car park, the cool night air felt like a reprieve. He slid into the driver’s seat, the engine’s rumble a familiar comfort. Charlie was already buckling her seatbelt, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
“See?” she said, her hand finding his thigh, squeezing high up where the lace met his skin. “No one knows.” He drove home in a daze, her touch a brand through the fabric. The domestic neon glow of the supermarket faded behind them, swallowed by the dark country lanes.
The car’s interior was a silent capsule hurtling through the black. Charlie’s hand remained on his thigh, a possessive weight. “Did you feel it the whole time?” she asked, her voice low in the dark.
“Every second,” he admitted, the confession leaving him lightheaded.
Her fingers traced the seam of his trousers. “Good.” She shifted in her seat, facing him. The dashboard lights etched the curves of her face in soft green. “Pull over up there,” she said, nodding toward a lay-by ahead, a gravel slot carved into the hedgerow.
“Here?” The word cracked. His hands tightened on the wheel.
“Right here,” she said, her tone leaving no room. He signaled, though the road was empty, and nosed the car onto the gravel. The engine cut, leaving only the tick of cooling metal and the rush of wind in the trees.
Before he could speak, she unbuckled and slid across the seat, her hand immediately unfastening his belt and chinos. The sound of the zipper was obscenely loud. “You’re still wearing my present,” she whispered, her fingers pushing past his waistband to find the lace. “It’s still warm from you.” She leaned in, her lips against his ear. “I want to taste myself on you.”
She shoved his clothes down just enough and then took him into her mouth, deep and sudden. He gasped, his head thudding back against the headrest. The world outside—the rustling hedges, distant farm lights—melted into the wet, pulsing heat of her. “Fuck, Charlie,” he groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair.
She worked him with a furious rhythm, her tongue dragging along his vein, her other hand cupping and squeezing his balls through the damp lace. Her noises were greedy, wet, and wanton. He could feel his control fraying, the coiled pressure from the supermarket, from the wall, from all of it, ready to snap.
“Stop,” he gasped, pulling her hair gently. “I want to be inside you.”
She released him with a pop, her lips slick. “Then fuck me,” she said, climbing astride him in the confined space. She yanked her jeans and knickers down just enough, guiding him into her with a ragged sigh. She was soaked. He filled her completely, the car seat creaking under their weight.
She rode him with a fierce, driving pace, her breasts swaying in the half-light, her eyes locked on his. Each slam of her hips drove him deeper. “This is you,” she panted, her voice raw. “All of you. Mine.” His climax built, a tectonic pressure, and as he spilled into her with a shattered cry, she clenched around him, milking out every last shuddering pulse.
The cold air from the half-open window bit at their damp skin. Charlie slumped against him, her breath a warm gust on his neck, the lingering scent of sex and her lavender lotion thick in the cramped space. “We’re a mess,” she mumbled, but her voice held a deep, satiated glow.
He could only nod, his hands still shaking as they traced the lace still tight around her back. She shifted, the movement making him gasp as he slipped, softening, from her body. A wet warmth seeped into the wool of his jumper where she’d been pressed against him.
“Home,” she said, her voice firming as she rearranged her clothes. “I’ve got another parcel.” She saw the question in his tired eyes and that wicked smirk returned. “What, you thought one was enough?”
Days later, another box, longer this time, appeared on his pillow. Inside, nestled in black tissue, was a sleek satin chemise the colour of crimson wine, and with it, a pair of sheer black briefs crafted entirely of delicate lace. “Tonight,” her note read.
He waited until midnight, the house silent. The crimson satin slid over his skin like cool water, the hem brushing mid-thigh. The lace briefs were a whisper, barely there, cupping him with a terrifying lightness. He stood before their darkened window, seeing his pale reflection in the glass superimposed over the sleeping garden.
The bedroom door whispered open. Charlie stood there, leaning against the frame, her eyes drinking him in. “Christ, Ben,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep and desire. “You look… devastating.”
She crossed the room, her hands finding the satin on his hips, sliding up to his chest. “These are for me,” she said, pushing him gently backward toward the bed. “All of this is for me to unwrap.” Her fingers hooked into the lace at his waist. “Now let’s see what I bought.”
Her fingers didn’t fumble with the delicate satin ties at the front of the chemise; she opened it like a gift she’d been waiting for. The cool air hit his skin, raising gooseflesh, but the heat of her gaze was hotter. “There you are,” she whispered, her hands pushing the crimson fabric off his shoulders, letting it slither to the floor in a silent pool.
She knelt, her eyes level with the new lace briefs, a black web against his pale skin. “Oh, these are exquisite,” she breathed, her thumb stroking the sheer panel where he was already half-hard. “I bought more lace, you see. Different textures. To learn what makes you shake.” Her mouth, hot and demanding, closed over him through the fragile fabric, the wet heat and friction wrenching a broken sound from his throat.
She tore the lace aside with a sharp rip, the sound final, and took him fully into her mouth, deep and relentless. His legs trembled; his hands gripped her hair. “Charlie, please,” he begged, the words stripped raw.
She pulled back, leaving him glistening and throbbing. “Please what?” she asked, looking up, her lips swollen and slick.
“I need to be in you.” The admission was a gravelly rasp.
She stood, shucking her own cotton shorts, and climbed onto the bed, opening herself. “Then get in me. And don’t you dare be gentle.”
He followed, covering her, the head of his cock pressing against her slickness. He pushed in, a single, deep, complete invasion that made her arch and cry out. “God, yes, just like that,” she gasped, her nails scoring his back. “Fuck me like you’re trying to break the lace.”
He drove into her, each thrust a desperate anchor, the world narrowing to sweat-slick skin and her choked, filthy encouragements. “You feel so good,” she panted, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. “My beautiful, lace-covered fucking husband.”
The orgasm took him violently, a white-hot detonation that locked his body taut as he emptied himself into her with a ragged shout. She clenched around him, her own climax a sharp, gasping echo against his neck. They collapsed, breathless, the torn lace a damp ruin between them.
Their breathing slowed, a ragged duet in the quiet room. Charlie traced the torn edge of the lace briefs, now a wet, shredded web against his skin. “Ruined,” she murmured, but her voice held no regret, only a dark pride.
He felt exposed, more than naked, the vulnerability a stark, thrilling ache. “Worth every penny,” he managed, his voice gravelly.
She laughed, a low, rich sound, and shifted to kiss his shoulder. The cool air raised goosebumps where their sweat-slicked bodies parted. “You’re trembling,” she said, her hand smoothing down his flank.
“It’s a lot.”
“Good.” She propped herself up on an elbow, her gaze traveling his body. “My turn for a question.” Her fingers found his chin, turning his face toward hers. “When you’re at work, talking to the broccoli suppliers or whatever, do you think about this? About the lace under your chinos?”
He held her gaze, the truth suddenly necessary. “All the time,” he confessed. “It’s like a… hum. In the background.”
A slow, victorious smile spread across her face. She swung her legs off the bed, the muscles in her back flexing. “Get up,” she said, her tone leaving no argument. “I want a shower.” She stood, a powerful silhouette against the lamplight, and offered her hand. He took it, letting her pull him from the wreckage of the sheets, the torn lace falling finally to the floor.
He followed her into the steam-clouded bathroom, the tiles cool under his feet. She reached into the shower caddy, her hand emerging not with soap but with a smooth, obsidian silicone wand. “Another surprise,” she said, her thumb finding a button; it buzzed to life, a low, insistent hum.
“What’s that for?” he asked, his voice barely above the sound of the water.
“For me,” she said, her eyes locking on his. “To watch.” She stepped under the spray, pulling him in, the hot water sluicing over them. She pressed the buzzing wand against herself, her head tipping back, a sharp gasp escaping her. “Now fuck me while I use it.”
He entered her in one slow, relentless push, the water making everything slick and desperate. The vibration thrummed through her, into him, a shared, electric current. “Harder,” she commanded, her words fractured, and he obeyed, slamming her against the wet tiles, her moans echoing off the glass.
“Harder,” she commanded, her words fractured, and he obeyed, slamming her against the wet tiles, her moans echoing off the glass. The vibrator’s buzz was a constant, maddening counterpoint to their frantic rhythm. He felt her body clamp down around him, a series of sharp, pulsing convulsions that ripped a raw scream from her throat.
Her climax triggered his own, a brutal, sweeping release that emptied him into her shaking body. They slumped together under the spray, gasping, the water cooling around them. He nuzzled the damp hair at her temple, spent.
She turned off the water with a decisive click. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by their dripping and their breath. She handed him a towel, her eyes glinting with a secret.
“You’re not done,” she said, her voice low. She stepped out, leaving wet footprints on the mat. From the vanity drawer, she produced a small, velvet pouch.
“Another one?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“The last one tonight,” she promised, untying the silken cord. She tipped the pouch’s contents into her palm: two delicate silver chains, each with a small, smooth ring. “Anklets,” she said. “For you.”
He stared, speechless. She knelt on the damp bathmat, her hands sure and gentle as she fastened one cool chain around his right ankle, then his left. The metal was a shock against his skin, a faint, permanent weight. “There,” she whispered, standing to admire her work. “Now you’re marked. Even when you’re dressed, you’ll feel these.”
The chains were cool, almost foreign, against his skin. He stared at his ankles, the silver stark and undeniable against the damp floor tiles. “Charlie,” he breathed, the name carrying a weight of awe and helpless surrender.
She tilted her head, her wet hair dripping onto her shoulder. “Too much?”
He shook his head, no, a slow movement of utter capitulation. The metal was a secret that would whisper against his sock all through tomorrow’s meetings. She closed the distance, her body still slick and warm, and pushed him back against the vanity. The cold marble bit into his bare back. “I can smell me on you,” she murmured, her nose nuzzling his throat before her teeth grazed his skin.
Her hand slid between them, gripping his cock, which stirred urgently under her touch. “Already?” she laughed, low and wicked. “You’re so fucking easy for this.” She guided him into her with a slow, excruciating roll of her hips, seating him fully inside her with a sigh that was pure possession. “Feel those chains,” she ordered, beginning to move, a rough, grinding rhythm designed to make the metal sway and chafe. “Think about them tomorrow when you’re talking to the man about steak pies.”
He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as she rode him with a deliberate, crushing intensity. Each thrust was a claim, each gasp from her lips a brand. “You’re mine like this,” she panted, her eyes locked on his, wild and unfiltered. “Marked. Known.” His climax built, a furious tide, and when it broke, it was with a raw, shattered cry that he felt in the very bones of her. She clenched around him, drawing it out, until he was spent and shaking, held upright only by her body and the cold vanity at his back.