She was unaware of her husband's presence and yet, even believing herself to be alone, her movements were as erotic as if she had been doing a striptease. She rolled the nylon stocking up her calf with sensual grace. Her hands seemed to be caressing her flesh with narcissistic pleasure.

James grinned.

He wore boxer shorts sand the fly of those shorts began to gap open as a result of the swelling activity that bad started to take place within.

Everything about Amanda was erotic.

She was tall and willowy and graceful. Her legs were long and sleek. As she bent down, her tits were like ripe fruit, ready to be plucked, firm and succulent and capped by large, dark nipples that were constantly stiff. She had a mane of dark, curly hair worn in an intricate style, with ringlets and coils, and her pubic bush was an echo of that ebony hair, a wide wedge of thick, black hair that curled far out towards her hipbones and sent a slender tendril up to her belly button. She was smooth as satin and suntanned evenly, without the pale patches that a bathing suit would have left.

James watched her snap the strap of the garter belt to the stocking.

He was pleased that she wore stockings, instead of the fashionable pantyhose that so many women wore these days – and which made them look as smooth-crotched as plastic dolls. But he realized that she did not wear the stockings for his pleasure as much as for her own, for she really loved to look and feel sexy and sensual. He had often found her posing, naked, before the full-length mirror – and sometimes running her hands over her tits or up her inner thighs in a caress of self-appreciation.