Good Love

It was a lovely spring day, bright and sunny with a slight breeze. I regretted that I couldn't dress appropriately for the weather. Instead, afraid of being recognized, I was covered from head to toe, complete with hijab and large sunglasses. Jackson was dressed casually in pressed jeans and a light turtleneck that hugged his broad shoulders and tight biceps perfectly. I had to stop myself from randomly pausing in the street to just kiss him.

During our walk Jackson asked me about what had happened to the secret memo that had people chasing us and that put our lives in danger in New York. I filled him in on how all of us who had copies of the memo tried to devise a plan get it out and how news organizations refused to publish it because they couldn't find anyone to verify its authenticity. Then I also told him about our friend who had tried to send his copy of the memo and had disappeared, and how we all basically gave up, fearful for our lives and for our families' lives.

"You guys were brave," he told me. "You did what you could."

"Then why have I felt like such a coward?" The question went unanswered. Jackson just squeezed my hand and kissed it as we continued walking, silently contemplating. "Isn't that the definition of cowardly?" I continued, "when you fail to do what is right because you are too preoccupied with protecting your own ass?"

"You guys didn't sit on the information, you tried to get it out but no one would listen."

"I didn't personally take the risk," I countered, "and expose my copy of the file. Even if the newspapers wouldn't publish it, I could have posted it online, tried other means to get the truth out."

"You know with all the information out there that just randomly posting it online would only have a very slim chance of making an impact, but it would have put you and your families' lives at risk."

"And that's exactly why I feel like a coward," I exclaimed, "because I was afraid to take a bigger risk. Plus, we all just got so demotivated. I think that's what makes me feel the worst.

"Orkideh," he said, drawing my name out and stopping us on the sidewalk, "every cause worth fighting for needs people who are willing to dedicate their lives to it, perhaps give their lives. But just as important as having that commitment is knowing when you need to survive, to live to wage a smarter fight tomorrow, one that you might actually win."

We began walking again, in more silence as I contemplated what he said. His words were no doubt meant to make me feel less guilty, but I had to admit there was wisdom there. On the other hand, I knew all too well how easily the ethic of self preservation could freeze a person into inaction indefinitely.

At that moment we happened upon this cute little lingerie boutique called --. Jackson suggested that we go inside, sensing an opportunity to brighten our mood. I hesitated.

"Let me treat you to some new sexy undies," he suggested as we stood in front of the store. He was being respectful of my need to remain discrete with our affection in public but the look in his eyes told me that he wanted to suck on my neck and tell me just what he would do to me back in the hotel while wearing some new lingerie.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," I stammered.

"Why not?"

"Do you really want to buy me something that I wear once or twice for you and then take home to wear for Br-... for someone else?" I asked, avoiding the mention of my husband's name.

"I'm trying -- to think about that," he answered somberly, hurt clouding over his eyes.

"Not that I would want to wear them for him," I tried to recover, "but it would look strange for me to return home with new sexy underwear that I never wore for him. They would be impossible for me to hide, and I sure wouldn't want to just throw them away after this weekend, good lingerie is too expensive."

"Well," he pondered, "let me watch you try some on, then. Let me have that image to take with me. Let it be our foreplay for when we go back to the hotel afterward."

"As if we need it," I said softly. Truthfully, I was getting horny just at the thought of modeling for him. But I was also still hesitant -- extremely self-conscious about doing such a thing in a public place.

Jackson could see the conflicted turmoil on my face and rushed me into the store before I could change my mind.

There were two women working in the store -- one younger who looked to be about 25, and an older woman who looked to be in her 40s and carried herself as if she were the manager or owner. Perhaps detecting my nervousness -- I suspect it was obvious from my dress -- the older woman gave her younger colleague a knowing look and came over to offer her assistance.

This woman knew her craft. She was friendly yet spoke softly to me, aware of my fears about discretion. She introduced herself as Marie, and asked if we were looking for something specific or just browsing. Feeling comfortable, I took my hijab and sunglasses off and shook her hand. We explained that we were browsing. She briefly pointed out the different sections where we could find different kinds of panty and lingerie sets.

"Take your time and figure out what you like, what you may want to try on," Marie explained. "When you're ready, we have a private fitting area in the back and a 'hubby's couch' where he can wait comfortably until you are ready to show him what you're trying on." She said the latter part seeing the wedding bands on both of us, assuming that we were married. I wasn't about to correct her.

"If you want to try on any corsets," Marie continued, "those can be a bit tricky at first and I can help show you. But take your time and enjoy yourselves, and just let me know if you have any questions." Seeing how her demeanor had put me at ease, she left us alone to explore. The fact that there were no other shoppers in the store also made me feel at ease.

Jackson had an insatiable appetite to see me in all kinds of outfits, so it took us a while to gather everything I would to try on. He had impeccable taste in women's underwear, even though I found it hard to imagine ever wearing a corset or a bustier in my real life. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy wearing sexy bras and panties, it was just that the bustier and garters seemed a bit much. Nevertheless, I was getting turned on just watching Jackson's excitement grow from his anticipation. He was like a kid in a candy store, and I was the candy.

When I was ready to try some things on, Marie led us back to the fitting rooms and pulled the curtain on the largest one for me. Jackson was about to follow me inside when Marie stopped him and directed him toward the couch by the entrance to the back hallway where the fittings rooms were.

"Down boy," she laughed knowingly. "A little anticipation is a good thing. Let her call you in when she's ready." He put on a fake pout but complied with her orders. I couldn't help but smile and Marie gave me a knowing look that made me blush. Sensing the electricity between Jackson and I, she whispered to me to make sure that I left my current panties on while trying on any others. Then while still smiling, a stern look came over her eyes to let me know that under no circumstances were we to get carried away and start fooling around back there. I thanked her and tried to assure her with my own eyes that we would be good.

When I was ready I called Jackson in. When he came through the curtain and saw me he gave me a look that made me feel foolish for ever hesitating to come into this store with him. A smokey, sinister look clouded over his eyes that spoke of all the bad and naughty things he planned to do to me. There was a fire in his eyes as he looked me up and down, shamelessly objectifying me, burning my flesh with his piercing gaze and making it blush.

For a moment I doubted whether I would keep my promise to Marie about not fooling around in the fitting room, knowing that I would comply with anything Jackson demanded of me. My own reflected gaze instantly noticed the bulge in his pants and I half expected him to command me to get down on my knees and give him relief. I had to wonder just who I was in realizing how happy I would be to comply with such a command.

Instead, Jackson walked up to me and attacked my lips with his own. He kissed me deeply, passionately for thirty seconds then just as briefly broke the kiss and stepped away, leaving me breathless and in danger of having to buy the pair of panties I was supposed to be just trying on. Moaning, he took out his phone and began taking pictures.

The babydolls didn't turn him on as much as the bustiers and the teddies. To my surprise, he liked the lace boyleg panties more than he liked the thongs. I asked him why as he positioned me against the mirror and took a picture of me from behind. "I like the way the lace frames and hugs your butt," he told me, the bulge growing in his pants, "it makes you look even sexier than the thongs."

I asked him what he did with the other pictures he took of me in New York. Unabashedly, he told me how he masturbated to them with my panties pressed up against his face. The revelation made me throb between my legs. Bashfully I confessed to him how I did the same every time I was in the bath or shower over the past two years. If it was even possible, his erection grew stronger from my confession. I could see it, batting against the front of his jeans trying to get to me. I started getting wet, too wet.