Susie felt it happen as she slipped off her dress, sheer magic warmly enveloping her flesh, softening it to the bone. Her movements slowed. She dropped the dress on the bathroom laundry hamper and felt her face, her throat, her bra stretched by suddenly swollen breasts. Her nipples were hard. She slid a hand down her belly, over her panties to her crotch. It was moist.
She gazed about her blue-and-white bathroom. Nothing appeared altered. The tiles gleamed. She had scrubbed them this morning. The shower door stood open.
She had been about to shower. In the bedroom she had laid out fresh undies and a crisp summer dress. The kitchen smelled of roasting beef, to be done in an hour when husband Brian arrived home. Susie, young Mrs. Susie Fenner, was an efficient, methodical homemaker.
But magic sent fingertips languorously roving her nyloned breasts, buttery-soft caresses teasing the growing caps. She felt slinkily sensual, like a cat in heat, switching her tail and sniffing for toms. Magic? She did not believe in magic. It was sex. Her vagina was pulling, wetting. But why?
She turned to the mirror, saw cornflower-blue eyes wide, round, a blonde girl amazed at the transformation of herself. The eyes of innocence, about twelve years old, Brian had said with a sneer, her emotional growth stopped before puberty. And each time he drove his erection into her dry vagina, each time she humped desperately at him, trying to cum, and failing, she wondered. Maybe Brian was right.
But Susie was twenty, a grown woman with large, protruding breasts, and in her panties a broad fan of hair, and plump lips swelling the crotch.
She plucked at nipples like thumb-tips poking out the nylon. Lust had darkened her eyes. Heated breathing had dried her lips. A sliver of pink tongue-tip lashed out, wetting them. Brian Fenner's frigid wife saw her nostrils flare, then her hips writhing.
This was not the Susie she knew.
What was happening to her?
She curled an arm behind her back, pinched the bra hooks free. The nylon jerked, pulled by the weight of her breasts.
Her chest was golden, from gardening in the hot summer sun. Abruptly the color changed to milky white, flesh protected by her halter, broad mounds swelling outward, the inner curves almost meeting.
In the john at an office party she had overheard a woman say, "That wife of Brian Fenner is all tits and ass! Such a sexy girl, why on earth does he screw his secretary?"
Susie knew why. Brian screwed his secretary because his wife was frigid, had a dry, knotted vagina, despite the feeling right now of moistness in her panties.
She plucked the bra cups off her breast crowns, pink swells of teacup size, tipped with thick nipples. She brushed her fingertips about the areolae and watched them bulge, extending the nipples until together they formed cones. Hot, now. Tingling. She let the bra fall and fisted her tit ends, squeezed them, closing her eyes and thinking how Ronnie used to suck them, Ronnie her high-school guy, the awful shit, stood her up on dates, eventually joined the Army and disappeared, but sweet, dear Ronnie had kissed and licked every part of her body, loved her to the toes.
In the mirror her pink lips were open, teeth glinting as she drew deep, shuddering breaths. Avoiding the sight she looked down at her swollen breasts as she pulled the nipples out to fingering pegs. Then she dropped her hands to her panties, rolled them slowly downward over her mound hair, which expanded to a brownish fluff on release. She had a quite hairy snatch, a jungle of thick, silky curls hiding her plump mound and lips, even concealing her clit, which was grossly oversized. It disgusted Brian, who said it was like "a little boy's prick"!
"Well, it's what I've got!" Susie had sobbed.
Anyhow, it was not like a prick. It was smaller, and completely slick, and Ronnie used to suck it avidly. It was not a deformity, a doctor had assured her long ago, a mere anomaly, unusual but not rare. Susie was determined to ignore it. Yet had it something to do with her vaginal dryness, her inability to cum on Brian's penis?
She was rubbing her pussy before her panties were down, squeezing the hairy lips and working their slippery insides on her hot, swelling clit. Wow! Hot! And wet in there, like when Ronnie used to slip his prick in and sometimes she'd cum on feeling the head throb in her vaginal mouth.
She choked out a cry. So hot! She shoved the panties down, kicked out of them and hurried to the shower, turned it on and stepped in squeezing her pussy lips, pulling and pushing as the tepid spray dashed at her breasts. The water did not cool them. Instead the needling jets teased the turgid flesh to further swelling. Susie had begun hip-grinding, forcing her pussy at the finger pressure, wrenching and jerking, which made her firm breasts wobble and slip, roll here and there.
And why? Why? Because she could not cum in bed with Brian, and all her sexuality had bottled up? Because he was a selfish brute, just jamming it into her without a kiss or a caress? And maybe because of the new people next door, who laughed all the time, joyfully full of piss and vinegar? And she envied them? Because she was so alone?
All of those things?
She bowed her legs, slid a finger up her drooling, open hole, and went into a paroxysm of hip jerks, fuck-shoved, impaling her on the digit.
It was the people next door, she thought. They had to be part of it. It was since they moved in that those waves of heat had swarmed over her a dozen times a day.
She backed to the tiled wall, bracing herself as she surrendered to a flurry of hip jerks, hissing loudly through clenched teeth, writhing, twisting, breasts spilling to the right, then the left. She flagged her head, let out a shriek.
"My cum!"
A boiling gush, a flare of scalding heat ripped through her belly as a hip jerk shot her over the peak.
She sagged against the tiles, sobbing, the jerks slower, voluptuous now, and she groaned as her vagina slithered and pulled, gaped, then snuggled in on itself, all loose and sexy but empty, nothing in it but a girl's finger.
Susie felt wobbly-legged when she toweled dry, rubbing her flesh as though to punish it, sobbing, smearing at tears, avoiding sight of her reflection in the mirror. Shame! Self-abuse, that's what they called masturbation. If Brian knew, he would be sickened. Perverted woman! He'd say maybe her long clit was no deformity but the result of continual masturbation. Or from lesbian practices. Yes, he would say that. If Susie showed any warmth at all toward another woman he made horrid remarks, said maybe she was such a lousy lay because she really dug other snatches, wanted to eat hair pie!
Sniffling, she wound the towel about her body, knotted it under one arm and went to the bedroom, a bright place where sunshine glowed in the pale-yellow marquisette curtains, a color like the clothes she had laid out on the bed, a yellow dress and matching bra and panties. She would dress, look fresh and pretty for husband Brian, meet him at the door with a wifely kiss and a chilled dry-martini cocktail. But she would pass the evening in dread of the moment when he jammed his hard prick into her dry vagina, which he said felt like a rusty keyhole.
Yet right now she felt love juices trickling down her leg.
She could hear voices now, and a spate of laughter coming through the curtains. The people next door. She moved to the window, crouched against the wall and peered out through the curtains.
The neighborhood was composed mostly of ranch houses and split levels only a few years old but Susie was gazing at a relic of times gone by, a Gothic monstrosity of three stories, with cupolas and slate Mansard roofs, a house much too large for one family. Two weeks ago, three young couples had moved into that weather-worn antique.
Susie had not yet met any of them. Nor had Brian, but he judged them commune hippies, probably fags and lesbians; in his view, disgusting.
Hedges of overgrown privet surrounded the house except for a gap on this side, where they had rigged chicken wire on posts and had planted Morning Glories that were already vining up the wire. Susie understood their desire for privacy, having glimpsed much naked running around.
The voices she had heard came from three of them beyond the chicken wire. They were scraping the peeling paint off the house. Two girls and a fellow, wearing straw hats, shirts and shorts.
As Susie watched, the male member of the trio reached the handle of his paint scraper up between one girl's blue-denimed buttocks, and gave her a goose.
She screeched, whirled on him and made a grab at his crotch.
The three of them were laughing. Watching, Susie giggled.
He backed off. The other girl got into it, and they crowded him against the hedge, both girls snatching at the front of his shorts. He dropped his scraper and tried to fend them off with the palms of his hands, but feebly, helpless with laughter. Finally one of the girls got a handful of crotch bulge.
There were laughs, shouts, and the two girls went back to their paint scraping.
Like in high school, Susie thought, she and Ronnie, always grabbing crotches. But Ronnie had been her steady. Here two girls had gone at one man, and that sort of took her breath away.
What followed left her gasping.
Standing there talking to the girls – Susie could hear only echoes of their voices – the fellow unzipped his shorts, dug out his penis, and began to pee.
Both girls watched as a glistening stream of urine arced through the sunshine and spattered on the lawn.
Wow! Susie thought. One of the girls could be his wife or girl friend, but the other? What kind of a bunch were they? Did they live in heaps? Group-grope stuff?
She could see his prick clearly, a long one, and she reacted by slipping a hand in under the fold of her towel to the furriness of her pussy. She gave it a squeeze, found the inner surfaces of the lips were squishy. She thought, I do love guys! Meeting the right guy I feel flash blushes, find my ass wagging, and my panties get squirmy-moist in no time at all. Like it's only my husband who turns me off! Yet I married him because after just a glance at the big, handsome bastard my pussy juiced!
Now she heard one of the girl's voices distinctly, saying, "Howard, we know how big your cock is. Why do you have to show it off?"
They were laughing, and so was Susie, though she felt a tear in her eye, loneliness. How she wished she were one of those girls, teasing the fellow about displaying his prick!
While massaging her pussy, she tore the towel open and began pulling her nipples. And the longer she watched the three next door, the more her tugs and squeezes speeded. Were the people next door the cause of her spells of heat, the sensual upwellings that demanded masturbation?
Well, they made her think of Ronnie, and the carefree days with him, when their sexuality had been joyous, laughter punctuating the gasps and grunts of orgasm.
Susie bowed her legs, squeezing her pussy back and forth as she panted uphill toward her cum.
Brian arrived home late, a huge man filling the kitchen doorway. He had made it through college as a line-bucking halfback, and as an executive at the Helting Corporation he bulled his way up the ladder. He was dark and ruggedly handsome but his face was red. He had been drinking, Susie knew.
She gave him his martini cocktail and the wifely kiss on his cheek. He was sweaty. In her crisp yellow summer dress she did not want to press close up to him.
He gulped at the drink, then snarled, "That guy Clayton! The cocksucker tried to take over the Burkholtz account. I told the big boss that Clayton would bungle the fucker, give it to Brian boy, I'll make Burkholtz buy like our products are cheap at half the price."
"That's nice," Susie said, understanding none of it. Brian ranted a lot about office doings, but never explained. She only knew that Clayton was Brian's friend, that with his wife they often went to dinner as a foursome, but on the job the two men fought like jungle animals.
"Clayton blew his top when the big boss gave me Burkholtz. Called me a back-stabbing shit, and I laughed in his face. He even took off on you, saying, 'Your wife Susie, the way she wags her big ass…'"
"I haven't got a big ass," Susie said mildly, taking the roast from the oven.
Ignoring her, Brian went on, "'Wags it like she's hot pussy you can't satisfy, probably fucks the plumber and the gas-meter reader.' I mean, you can see how pissed off Clayton was, saying all that, and I told him she's frigid, got a cunt like a faucet rusted shut."
Biting her lip, Susie left the roast and poured herself a drink. She said, "You didn't really tell Clayton that."
"I'd had some drinks."
"You and he were drinking together, after work?"
"Who else? I had to smear it in his face, didn't I?"
"You could leave me out of it."
"Oh, fuck!" He refilled his glass. "In public you do that wiggly sexy shit, dance with Clayton, rubbing your belly all over him, can't blame him for thinking like that. But at home, shit. Then you're little Miss Dry-cunt, big round eyes surprised like she never saw a cock before."
He glowered at her, then lunged off toward the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt.
Susie blinked at tears. Brian was really wound up tonight. Had something happened besides the fight over the Burkholtz account? Like, if Clayton had made it with Brian's secretary – they seemed to battle that way, too.
She and her husband lived separate lives, that's all. After two years of marriage they were strangers.
She heard the shower go on. If she were part of that office life, she thought, they'd have things in common. But Brian would not let her hold a job.
He was not always this bad. Though, lately it had been worse between them, as though the new people next door were also affecting him.
Thinking of them, she found her fingers walking her skirt up and dipping into her panties. She opened her slit and nudged her clit. At least, Brian had not mentioned that tonight, how it grew out like a little boy's prick.
The pig!
If only he'll get stumbling drunk, she thought, and pass out, unconscious so he doesn't even know I'm in bed with him…