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“You ready, hon?” I ask rather impatiently, and rather unreasonably. My wife doesn’t take that long, and we’ve got plenty of time, but I’m ever vigilant about time. I waste entirely too much time focusing on time.

In answer, she steps out of the bathroom with a twirl, her short skirt flowing out (and up) to reveal a tremendous amount of thigh. “How do I look?” she asks, smiling.

I hesitate just long enough to wipe the drool from my chin — the only acceptable hesitation when answering this question, by the way — and stutter out something that resembles “gorgeous”.

We say goodbye to the kids and the babysitter and climb into the car. As I drive, I can’t help but notice her skirt slipping higher, a little mind game she’s playing with me despite her acting innocently oblivious

Once we arrive at the restaurant, I open the car door for her —’cause I’m a gentleman and that’s how I roll — and she climbs out, deliberately flashing me in the process. I catch a brief glimpse of blue lace that I immediately recognize as a skimpy little thong that I adore. Like a left hook to a glass jaw, the sight leaves me reeling.

I’m imagining that thong under her skirt as I follow her inside, my eyes glued to her booty the whole time. We’re shown our booth and she scoots up next to me, intoxicating me with her warmth. My hands almost immediately creep to her thighs, savoring the short skirt, but she moves my hand away every time I get a little too explorative.

Despite the battle of wills going on under the table, we eat dinner and have a great conversation. The waiter orders our dessert, and as he leaves, she whispers in my ear, sending chills down my spine. “I’ll be right back.”

With that, she slips out of the booth, and I get to see the slightest hint of cheek as she stands up. Like magnets, my eyes attach to the swaying of her skirt as she walks away.

Now that she’s gone, you’d think I’d be calming down. No such luck. The image of her backside is tattooed firmly in my brain, and I’m happily helpless prey in this trap she’s laying. I’m still relishing the thought when she comes back, just as the waiter drops off the brownie we’re to share.

She snuggles up to me again, and I’m still thinking about the thighs, butt, and other goodies under her skirt as I reach for a fork.

Then I feel her hand in my pocket, the pressure so near my hips sending me on high alert. Then another whisper in my ear: “A little gift.”

I reach into my pocket and feel the warm, moist coarseness of lace. Wide eyed, I pull it out to inspect it — sure enough, blue lace.

She’s just pulled off — literally — one of men’s favorite moves.

Like a ninja, she’s gone stealth commando.

And with her panties in my pocket, my mind is really reeling! A wife going commando is one of the simplest mind games she can play.

Originally posted 2015-08-31 08:00:10.