Brad’s phone buzzed beside him, the screen lighting up to reveal the image of his smiling wife. The anxious husband stopped pretending to watch TV and snatched the device from off the armrest. It had been over an hour and a half since his last message, twice as long since his first. In all that time, Betsy hadn’t replied to a single text. Yes, she was on vacation, and yes, her best friend and her husband were taking her out that night, but it was extremely unlike his wife not to respond to him, and he was getting pretty worried.

Reading her long-awaited reply didn’t lessen that concern.

You text a lot.

A prickling sensation needled at the back of his mind, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Something seemed off. Betsy never talked to him like that. She never really spoke to anyone like that. She was your typical Southerner: kind and sweet to a fault, passive-aggressive at her worst. Yet this message read less passive and more outright hostile. Maybe she was testing him; her bff having gotten into her head after only a few days without him around. The risk of the possibility was a big reason he hadn’t approved of this trip to begin with. Leaving Betsy alone with Trish and Dale was dangerous for his marriage.

Sorry, he wrote back. I just hadn’t heard from you was all.

This is Trish by the way. Betsy didn’t have a bag to match her new dress so I’m carrying all her stuff.

That certainly explained a bit. The unfriendly message fit Trish perfectly, especially when it came to him. Betsy’s bestie loved throwing jabs his way. Rather than fight back, however, he simply chose to try and dodge.

She bought a new dress?

We bought it for her, Trish wrote. She’d never buy something like this. But we needed something good for the club tonight.

The club? The idea of Betsy at a club seemed completely foreign to Brad. He attempted to picture his wife in that setting, standing around in a dimly lit and crowded space dressed in her usual attire of a blouse, blue jeans, and a cardigan. The music thumped and blared. The ice in her glass of diet coke slowly melted. He almost laughed. He had a much easier time envisioning her at a church dinner, chatting with their neighbor Charlene and carrying their three-year-old on her arm while their five-year-old pestered her.

However, Betsy was a total pushover. If Trish insisted that she go to a club with her and Dale, she would — and would feel obligated to wear a dress if they paid for it.

What sort of dress?

One not for you.

Brad frowned. He was about to respond when the three dots reappeared.

Hang on. I took a picture of her in it earlier.

He sat up in his seat as his blue eyes bugged out of his head.

Brad had seen his wife in dresses before but those were more elegant or summery. They were nothing like this. Nothing so... overtly sexy.

After two kids, Betsy wasn’t near the slim and tight girl he first met in high school, but the style of the dress gave her extra pounds an undeniable appeal. The straps were thin chains connecting to a draped collar that exposed a touch of cleavage, and the ruched fabric outlined every bit of her curves in the most eye-catching way. Her heavier boobs appeared rounder on her ribcage. The folds of cloth de-emphasized her softer midsection but called attention to her big hips. And it drew the most tantalizing line down to her thick thighs.

His cock instantly reacted to the arousing image, growing stiff in his pants.

At a loss for words, he finally replied with a simple, Wow.

I know, right? There are a few more from throughout the night. I guess I can send them. But you have to say please.

Brad scoffed at the suggestion. Asking for pictures of his own wife? It was ludicrous. Why would he debase himself for a photo when he could have the real deal in three days’ time and have her wear the dress for him when she returned home. Trish, however, had already seemed to anticipate that workaround.

It’s the only way you’re going to get to see her in it, she texted. I told her she had to leave it here and could only wear it when she visited us. Alone. So, what’s it gonna be?

Brad scrolled back up to the picture he already had. Betsy looked so hot in it, and it’d probably be enough to get him off tonight. But the thought of seeing more was a little too much to pass up — even if Trish was intentionally pushing his buttons. He reached down and rubbed the tip of his dick from over his shorts. Or maybe it was because she was. He hated to admit it, but he enjoyed it when Trish fucked with him. She was such a bitch, but her little digs turned him on more than they pissed him off. His dick jumped every time he caught her rolling her eyes at him or making an offhanded comment about his appearance.

Fine. Can I please see more pictures of my wife?

Ugh. Don’t remind me that she married you. Another picture came in. Betsy stood facing the mirror, a strand of her summer blonde hair wrapped around a curling iron. The view from behind led his eyes right to his wife’s sizable rear. Although Betsy’s butt veered on the flatter side, the way the dress contoured to her large hips and thighs gave the wide expanse an appealing silhouette. He continued to rub at his stiff cock and zoomed in closer until his wife’s big ass took up the screen. If you want more, you’re going to have to keep asking.

Between his arousal and the pleasurable sensations of his cock tip against the fabric of his underwear, asking Betsy’s best friend for sexy pictures of his wife had shifted from absurd to kinky. Can I please see another picture of my wife?

WHAT did I tell you? Trish replied. Ask again.

Brad could hear Trish’s snarky and assertive tone across the screen, and it sent a shiver through his shaft. His wife wasn’t the only one that was a pushover. Brad secretly loved being bossed and ordered around, particularly when it came to threading this kind of sexual line. He always imagined Trish as an aggressive and dominating lover, and the idea of her ordering him around and taking control in twisted ways had crept into his fantasies. But it was never just her. His wife also played a central role in these kinky thoughts.

Betsy never acted unpleasantly toward him, but her pliability had allowed for little moments where Trish’s criticisms seeped through. Small, what-would-have-otherwise-been unmemorable occurrences that stuck in his mind because of how his prick reacted to them. His wife was normally so docile and kind that seeing her act maliciously — especially in regards to him — made for a perversely wicked contrast to the woman he knew. It led to dark fantasies of Trish manipulating Betsy and having her insult and degrade him.

Can I please see another picture of Betsy?

Two more pictures showed up. The first was a selfie of Betsy and Trish taken at the traditional downward angle. The two girls looked stunning. Unlike her friend, Trish retained a fit figure, having never had kids, only recently gotten married, and spending quite a bit of time in the gym. Although Trish’s dress showed off her shoulders and toned arms, from what was visible in the photo, it seemed much more conservative than Betsy’s. It was quite a contrast seeing his reserved wife as the more provocative of the two. A fact further emphasized in the second picture, which showed Betsy bending over and slipping on her heels. The view gave the barest glimpse down the front of her dress, and it occurred to him at that moment that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

She looks really good, doesn’t she?

She really does, he texted back. Really hot.

More than you deserve. Brad groaned. Sticky precum had formed a wet patch in his shorts. Heading into the bedroom, he slipped off his moist clothes and laid down on the mattress. He slowly pumped his cock with his fingers and read Trish’s last message. Right?

Yes.

Good boy.

“Fuck,” he grunted, his eyes taking in the new images.

Betsy stood at the bar, head tossed back and taking a shot. Her long hair cascaded down her back in waves, and the slight arch of her spine pushed her boobs and butt out.

In the second picture, she sat on a stool with a cocktail in hand, and the shortness of her dress left almost all of her lower limbs exposed. Her already thick thighs appeared even bigger with one leg crossed over the other.

The final two photos were of her back up again, chatting with some guy. One had her smiling kindly, her posture straight, and her body leaning back as she sipped from a glass. The other looked like it was taken later: her dress a little less neat and tidy, her hair less pristine. She also seemed less stable on her feet, mid-sway. Her head was bowed slightly, and she sucked from the mixing straw of a fourth drink, her caramel eyes turned up to the guy in front of her.

Was Betsy drinking? Out of everything, that seemed like the most unbelievable aspect of all this. His wife never drank, except for special occasions like anniversaries or New Year's, and even then, it was usually one glass of champagne at most. The drunkest she’d ever gotten was at Trish’s wedding and that was because Trish kept insisting her bridesmaids do shots with her.

Brad barely saw or hung out with Betsy most of the event — Trish wanted the bridesmaid and groomsmen always together — but back at the hotel, she had stumbled in drunk and horny and fucked him while still in her dress. It was one of the hottest nights of their marriage, even though — or maybe because — she kept wishing he could go deeper and criticized his lack of prowess.

Uh-huh. We did a shot when we arrived, but then this guy kept buying her drinks all night.

Which guy?

This guy.

Brad’s breath caught in his throat. A picture of Betsy on the dance floor with the same guy she’d been talking to in the previous photos popped up. He was tall and muscular with dark hair and swarthy skin. There was about a foot of distance between them, but he was clearly eyeing her up as she laughed and moved her arms to the beat. It all appeared very chaste but something about his wife dressed that way with another guy sent more pulses of pleasure through his shaft. But the two images that followed soon after that one turned up the voltage on the pleasure meter.

The one she was dancing with all night.

Betsy and the stranger clasped hands, a bit closer together as he tried to teach her how to move a bit better to the beat.

His hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder, their hips both angled toward to each other. She was still smiling at him but there was less pure amusement and more of an added touch of intensity.

She was dancing with this guy all night?

Oh yes. She really got into it. Want to see?

To Be Continued