It’s soft, wet, perfect. Slowly, I run that finger up and down my slit, barely touching my skin, teasing myself. Begrudgingly, I remove my hand from my tits and spread my pussy lips wide open with two fingers. Even under the blankets, I feel a rush of cold air hitting my now exposed pussy. I feel like such a slut and I love it. I run my middle finger up the center of my pussy until I find it, that perfect bundle of erotic nerves, my clit. Even just brushing over it sends a jolt through my body. With my middle finger, I trace slow circles around that little button. I’m tempted to go faster, to cum right then and there, but restrain myself. I repeat those slow circles for a few moments more then abruptly pinch my clit. I could’ve screamed, but instead settle for squirming in bed. I’m right on the edge of orgasming, so I have to pull my hands away for several seconds to cool down. I’m not quite done yet. As much as I wish I could, I don’t have any toys of my own in the room. Instead, I. We spent the rest of the day in downtown Chicago playing tourist; starting with lunch in a garden restaurant at the Art Institute, my wife's minor was art; and then some window shopping along Michigan Avenue. My wife had worn her new denim mini-skirt, which was long compared to what she would normally wear, a simple off-white silk blouse without a bra, ankle socks and comfortable walking shoes. She did manage to find this tiny little plaid skirt that we bought in a small boutique on Michigan Avenue, along with a pair of over the knee white stockings. She was planning to wear them when we went back to the adult theater we'd discovered the night before; but, as it turned out, we ended up not going back there again. We had dinner and then walked around for a while. It was soon obvious that the area was deserted. The stores were all closed. It was a ghost town, so we flagged down a taxi for the ride back to our motel. Towards the end of the ride back to our motel we passed two.
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