The petite young housewife paused momentarily on the stairs, wondering who could be at the door. She wasn't expecting anyone that day, and the only neighbor who was in the habit of dropping in unexpectedly was Mrs. Carson, who was away on vacation. The doorbell rang again.
"Just a minute," Susan called as she descended the steps and paused in front of the mirror to straighten her dress and pat her hair into place. Oh, it must be the paperboy collecting for the week, she decided.
Going to the front door, she opened it slightly and found that her visitor was a good-looking young man who she guessed was in his late teens or early twenties.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Excuse me, ma'am," the young man said politely, grinning at her with a friendly smile, "but is your husband at home?"
"No… not at the moment," Susan replied, somewhat cautiously. Tim had warned her often about being careful of strangers in the neighborhood, especially since the crime rate was going up steadily, even in their suburban area.
"Oh, that's too bad," the young stranger said. "I tell you, ma'am, I'm in kind of a tight spot. I know its not proper for me to be knockin' at your door like this – you probably think I'm some kind of freak or somethin' – but I'm just lookin' for odd jobs in the neighborhood."
Susan noticed that he spoke with a slight trace of a southern accent. His face was extremely handsome, youthful and wholesome with bright brown eyes and high cheekbones topped by a thick curly shock of dark brown hair that, Susan thought, made him look almost like a young Greek god. Opening the door a little wider she noticed that he was quite slender, with an extremely well-muscled body revealed by the tapered bright yellow T-shirt and tight white jeans he wore. His feet were clad in high black workman's boots. Despite her initial distrust of her visitor, the young wife found herself fascinated by the good-looking youth and curious to know more about him. His face was so pleasant and sincere that it allayed her fears.
"Do… do you live in the area?" she asked.
"No, my home town's Atlanta, Georgia, and I'm headin' for Oregon to visit my brother. I been hitchhikin', but my luck ain't been so good. I had to get a bus from Ohio out to here, and my money ran out. Tell you the truth I ain't had a square meal or slept in a decent bed for two nights, so I thought I'd just ask around to see if there were some jobs I could do. I noticed your lawn needs cuttin' and I thought I'd just ring the bell and ask.
"I see. I don't know what to say. You should speak to my husband about it, really. We do need to have some work done on the yard, but…"
"Can I talk to your husband when he comes back?"
"I don't think he'll be here until Sunday." The young wife immediately regretted her last remark. Although she had no real reason to mistrust this boy, she knew a wife alone without a man in the house was in a very vulnerable position. "I'm… I'm sorry," she said, attempting to close the door.
"Ma'am look, I'm really desperate for some money, can I just do the work and come back when your husband comes home to get paid? I can sleep in the park down the street tonight, and believe me, by tomorrow afternoon your yard'll look like the garden of a palace!"
"I… I don't know," Susan said nervously. She felt foolish being so standoffish with the young man. After all, his story made sense, and he seemed sincere. What harm could there be in letting him work on the yard? Still, she had heard stories about suburban wives who were preyed upon by strangers when they were alone. She glanced searchingly at the boy, as if trying to make up her mind whether or not to hire him, and he smiled back at her so winningly that suddenly all her suspicions appeared utterly ridiculous. "Oh, I suppose it'd be all right," she said finally. "When do you want to start?"
"Right now," he replied cheerfully. "The sooner I get to work, the sooner I can get some food in my belly."
"Oh, well why don't you come in and have a sandwich, it'd be no trouble."
"Ma'am, I ain't sure that'd be proper, what with your husband away."
Susan smiled at him warmly. There was definitely something about him that inspired her trust. He was so courtly and gentle, so clean-cut, certainly nothing like the dirty hippies she had seen wandering around the streets lately, with their unkempt long hair and ragged clothes.
"I'm sure I can trust you," she said, "Come on in. I've got some ham and cheese in the refrigerator. A good sandwich and a Coke will make you work better." "Well, to tell you the truth ma'am, I'd sure appreciate it."
"Then please come in. By the way," she asked as she opened the door to let him in, "what's your name?"
"Art, Art Wilson."
"I'm Susan Jameson."
"Howdy, Mrs. Jameson."
"Oh goodness, don't call me 'Mrs.' – that sounds so silly. We must be practically the same age. Just call me Susan."
"That's real nice of you, ma'am. Susan, I mean."
Susan laughed merrily, completely secure with the handsome youth now, and rather pleased to have some company to divert her attention from her problems.
"The kitchen's this way, Art," she said, walking past him down the front hall. "Follow me."
The young man watched her intently as he walked behind her down the hall, his eyes riveted to the swaying ripe half-moons of her buttocks, while his face became clouded with a dark and strangely perverse expression that was totally unlike his previous smiling countenance. I sure will baby, I sure will. Right up into that nice All-American pussy of yours!
For the rest of the afternoon Susan tried to busy herself with housework while Art worked diligently mowing the lawn, trimming the bushes, and tending to the garden. He seemed to know a great deal about landscaping, and the young housewife couldn't resist glancing through the living room window now and then to watch him, fascinated, while he worked. He had stripped himself of his T-shirt, and Susan found herself staring unconsciously at his trim athletic build, his sun-tanned skin gleaming with perspiration. Although he was shorter than her husband, and was slender like Tim, there was a classic beauty to his body so striking that the naive young wife could hardly keep from staring at it. She was oddly compelled by the young man and, hardly aware of it consciously, her thoughts kept turning again and again toward him. Finally, she invited him to dinner and they dined together on hamburgers, french fries and salad, chattering warmly back and forth.
'Well," Art said, as he finished the last of his coffee, "it's pretty late and I should get out of here so the neighbors won't gossip."
"Oh, don't worry about the neighbors. I hardly ever see them anyway."
"Yeah, but it's gettin' dark, and it's only proper for me to go. Your husband wouldn't like it if he knew I stayed past dinner with you all alone. I got to get my sleepin' bag from the station anyway, and then grab a place in the park."
"Art, I just thought of something! We have a storeroom over the garage, and I'm sure my husband wouldn't object if you stayed there tonight."
"Gee… I'm sure tempted. It'd be better than a park bench, that's for sure."
"Then it's settled. I'll leave the garage door unlocked while you're getting your things, and you can just go right in. Then I'll make coffee tomorrow morning before you start work."
The young man glanced warmly at Susan, then looked down sheepishly.
"Susan… you've been real kind to me. Ain't many people would be so kind to a stranger the first day. I… just want to say thanks."
"You don't have to thank me," the young wife replied. "Believe me, you're helping us by doing the lawn."
Art glanced up at her, and for a moment there was a vivid moment of contact between them as their eyes locked. Susan felt herself blush slightly as strange tingling sensations fluttered over her skin.
"Well," Art said finally, shyly tearing his eyes away from her. "I guess I'd better be movin' on. I'll see you in the morning."
"In the morning," she replied, rising to walk with him to the front door.
At nine o'clock that night Susan sat watching an Italian Western on television, smoking one cigarette after another and sipping slowly from a glass of light rose wine. Normally she almost never drank, particularly when she was alone, but tonight she had been feeling oddly excited and decided that a little wine might calm her down. But no matter what she did, the restlessness persisted.
I wish Tim would come back tonight, she thought as she stared without interest at the flickering screen. There's so much to be settled between us, and I'd feel better if he was here with me and we could talk it out. I've been too cold to him, I know, but I think if I just tried a little harder I could really let go and be the kind of wife he wants.
Of course she couldn't dismiss the fact that her deep-seated mental traumas over sexuality still rigidly held her mind prisoner. God only knew how much time it would take for her to become strong enough to transcend her fears. She desperately wanted her marriage to work, for she loved Tim deeply and wanted their life together to be full of happiness.
Suddenly tamping her half-smoked cigarette in the coffee table ashtray, she got up, flicked off the television set, and began walking toward the stairs, pausing to pick up her glass of wine and the bottle.
I'll just go to bed early and read, she decided as she climbed the stairs toward the second-floor bedroom. I'll just put everything out of my mind and relax.
She wondered if Art had returned from the bus station yet, and whether he was already in the garage storeroom. Despite her early suspicions she had to admit that she found him quite a pleasant young man, very easy to talk to, full of interesting stories about his childhood in Georgia. Of course he was quite good-looking as well, with a body at least as nice as Tim's, and she was surprised how often her mind kept returning to the image of him working in the yard, bare-chested, his white jeans clinging to his sturdy legs, his brown curly hair glistening in the sun. And yet, even as she thought about it, a part of her chastised herself for dwelling so unnecessarily on his appearance. Was she some kind of sex-hungry housewife acting like a kid the first time a handsome young man came to the door?
She paused at the bedroom door, her mind once more a bewildering maze of conflicting emotions. Maybe I'm losing my mind, she reflected grimly… I don't know who I am any more. Oh God, why does life have to be so hard?
She flicked on the soft orange bedroom light and gazed fondly at the room she had so painstakingly decorated. It was a spacious bedroom, with wide white-curtained windows. The walls were done in blue wallpaper with tiny gold flowers and decorated with pastel watercolors. A huge double bed with a ruffled colonial canopy stood opposite one window, and was draped with a yellow-gold bedspread. A blue-skirted vanity table and chair stood nearby, and an antique colonial dresser completed the furnishings, except for a thick blue pile rug on the floor. This was the young housewife's favorite room, and as she entered and closed the door behind her, she began to feel calmer right away.
She placed the bottle of wine and the glass on the nightstand, then flicked on a transistor radio that stood on the bureau. Immediately the room was flooded with the mellow sounds of Tony Bennett singing I Left My Heart in San Francisco. It was one of Susan's favorite songs, and she hummed along with the music as she turned down the covers of the bed, fluffed up the pillows, and prepared herself for a quiet evening alone. The young wife felt secure and cozy in her pleasant little bedroom world, and soon all her cares had completely faded away.
A shower would be nice, she mused, as she slowly unbuttoned her summer dress and pulled it up over her shapely body. She hung the garment carefully in the closet, then went into the large white-tiled bathroom adjoining the bedroom. Standing before the full-length mirror, she removed her brassiere, folded it neatly, and placed it on a low stool. Then she slid her fingers under the waistband of her tight white panties and wriggled them down over her gently blooming hips and white tapered legs, bending over to step carefully out of them and then placing them on the stool with the brassiere. Now totally naked, she paused to gaze at her body in the mirror.
The bright bathroom light made her skin seem to shimmer a translucent cream color, while the cherry-red tips of her breasts tensed and pushed out like two taut little sentinels in the center of those youthfully firm orbs. Although she was somewhat embarrassed to have such a ripely formed body, she remembered how often Tim had raved about her beauty and said he was the luckiest man in the world to have a wife with her looks and figure, and that she should be proud of her body.
He's right, she thought to herself as she let the palms of her hands caress the rounded orbs of her breasts a moment before sliding them down to the nipped-in line of her waist, I shouldn't be so shy about my physique.
After tying her long brown hair with a rubber band, she turned on the shower, waited until the water was just the right temperature, and then stepped inside. The warm jets of water splashed lightly down onto her supple young body, running in little streams along the flowing curves of her flesh as she began to rub herself with a bar of scented lemon soap, covering herself from neck to toes with a thick lather.
"Mnnnnnnnnn," she sighed, "this feels so nice, sooo nice…"
She slowly relaxed, thanks to the soothing warmth of the water coursing over her frame while the wine she had drunk earlier finally began to have a fuller effect on her. The innocent young housewife found herself rapidly growing more and more mellow as delightful tingling sensations rippled through every part of her wetly glistening body. She soaped her smooth young form over and over with the sweet soap, luxuriating in the gentle euphoria that glowed in her brain and the cascading warmth that flowed through her flesh. Soon, her soap-covered hands reached down to the soft triangle between her cream-white hips and she began to gingerly rub her pussy flesh with lather. Surprisingly, there was an immediate unexpected response in that private area, like little bursts of star-sparkles, as her soapy hands explored her cuntal orifices. Quickly, she pulled her hands away, startled by the unusual response there and feeling vaguely ashamed of herself.
She remembered that Miss Whitfield had been particularly harsh on the subject of self-gratification – masturbation as she came to call it later – and had spent hours lecturing the girls about the mental and physical dangers of exploring one's most secret recesses.
"It is the single most disgusting thing a woman can do," she had said one night, "and one would be better to be a whore than do such awful things to oneself!"
As a result, young Susan had vowed never to let her animal instincts get the best of her like that, and she promised Miss Whitfield never to manipulate herself in such a lewd manner. Thus far, she had never been tempted, but now, with the unusually pleasant reaction she had experienced when she placed her lathery hands down there, she wondered if Miss Whitfield hadn't been wrong about that, too. The young wife remembered, too, that the doctor she had talked to had talked vaguely about masturbation, implying that there was really nothing wrong with it, and that it might even be helpful in allowing her to explore her sexual nature. But Susan had ignored him, for to her, doing such a thing was dirty and sinful.
Yet now, wanting desperately to free herself from her fears of sex, she became quite curious to try it. After all, it couldn't hurt, could it, just once? Still, it was a very daring thing for her, and the more she thought about it the more disturbed she became about the idea and the more anxious about the consequences. Finally she decided to put the entire thing out of her mind and just spend the evening reading as she had planned. She let the water rinse off the soap, and a few minutes later she stepped out of the shower, turned it off, and wrapped herself in a thick towel.
Yet once again, as she began to dry her vaginal area, there was a recurrence of the irresistibly enjoyable sensations she had felt earlier, and it was all she could do to pull her hands away from her private recesses and finish drying her body. Placing the towel back on its rack, she opened the bathroom door. Immediately her naked flesh was bathed in a waft of cool summer air from the bedroom. Her white glowing skin grew goosepimply, and she shivered pleasantly from the contact of the cooler air on her freshly showered body.
As she walked naked into the bedroom, the music on the radio changed from gentle ballads to the erotic blues sound of Janis Joplin singing Try a Little Bit Harder. Normally she would have changed stations immediately, but there was something about the song now that intrigued her.
Try a little harder, she mused ironically, that 's good advice for me right now.
The young wife had never liked the late singer's voice much, but tonight there was something in the rough, gratingly sensual sound that intrigued her. The singer's buoyantly determined advice seemed to match her own mood and Susan decided to leave it on. She went to the bureau to select a negligee, and as she opened the drawer, her eyes fell immediately on a short nightie of sheer black lace that Tim had given her on her birthday. She had tried it on only once but had been so ashamed of the way it made her look, so strangely alluring and, she thought, cheap, that she hadn't worn it since. But tonight she felt compelled to slip it on, just to see what it would be like. Giggling a little, still feeling the effects of the wine, she slipped the sheer supple garment over her head and let the soft folds adapt themselves to her body. Glancing in the vanity-table mirror, she was surprised to see how different she looked. Almost… almost like one of those girls in a girlie magazine. Her initial impulse was to take it off immediately, but the young wife realized that would be silly, prudish, and if she was ever going to grow up sexually she would certainly have to let herself be a little daring now and then.
Try… just a little bit harder, the radio sang, as if to echo her thoughts.
With determination she walked to the bed and curled up comfortably against the pillows, then took several long reflective sips of her wine, listening dreamily to the music. Within a few minutes the young wife had become rather tipsy, although she was hardly conscious of the fact. All she knew was that she felt quite pleasant, and her body was shimmering with a delicious kind of warmth she had never known before.
Maybe I just needed to get off by myself like this a little, she thought, just get away from every thing.
The music on the radio shifted once more, this time to something classical… she'd heard it before but couldn't quite identify it. It was a slow sensuous piece, with a steady throbbing undercurrent of drums. Ravel's Bolero, she suddenly realized. That's what it is. She had always liked that composition and, setting her glass on the nightstand, she stretched out on the bed and listened, her eyes closed, as the slow inexorable rhythm filled the room and permeated her brain. Her alcohol-fogged mind seemed to drift on a cloud high above the earth. She felt so light, so lovely. And always in the background, the insistent pounding of the music.
Almost without realizing it, she stretched her nightie-clad body provocatively on the bed, slowly undulating it in time to the music. Her mind seemed to fill with strange images as her tipsy imagination began to take hold of her. She imagined she was on a tropical jungle beach, in the shade of a palm tree, a primitive goddess alone in paradise. Oh, how pleasant it was, how delightful her sensuously writhing young body felt as she lay on the bed, drifting in fantasy. Her short nightie had bunched up above her hips now, and unconsciously she let her hands wander down and lightly finger the white smooth flesh of her hips, then drift up across her abdomen. Lazily she untied the ribbons of her lace nightie and let it fall away from her firmly molded breasts, still imagining herself on an isolated Polynesian lagoon. The soft breeze that fluttered in through the curtained windows played on her velvety skin like a thousand little feathers brushing over her, increasing the languid excitement that pervaded her. Her fingertips brushed curiously over her upthrust breasts, and immediately the berry-tipped orbs were flooded with enchanting warmth. Anxious to increase her new-found pleasure, she began to massage the pliant mounds with the palms of her hands, growing subtly more and more aroused as the music picked up tempo to match her quickening pulse.
Although the innocent young bride was not aware of it, her body was slowly awakening, awakening to needs and hungers that had been suppressed far too long. As her exploring hands pressed sensuously against the ripe fullness of her breasts, they began to trigger reactions in nerve-endings all over her body that had lain dormant for many years. A faint heat began to chum in Susan's loins, and her heart beat faster and faster. Soon the young wife was running her hands up from the sculpted columns of her thighs to her quivering breasts and shoulders, then down again, over and over, increasing the euphoric sense of lewd sensual pleasure that enveloped her with the steadily rising force of a flood. Her breath came more and more quickly as the music built up its subtle barbaric pace, and soon her hands were crawling hypnotically down to the golden-brown triangle of her pubic patch.
Suddenly, as her hungrily curious fingers first touched the hair-lined split of her pussy, an electric thrill of excitement shot through her body with the force of a thousand volts of unleashed energy. She gasped as this unexpected stab of heat shot through her body, immediately bringing her back to reality. She pulled her hands away from the trembling pussy-furrow, overcome with shame as she realized that she had begun to play with herself down there.
What's happening to me? she cried inwardly. What am I doing?
She struggled desperately to resist an overwhelming impulse to plunge her fingers upward into her vaginal sheath. It was wrong, wasn't it? Sinful and shameful? Yet the music kept pounding its merciless lurid beat into her drink-clouded mind, and her body, operating independently, it seemed, surged with the desire to be satisfied, demanded that she bring her rising passion to completion. "No… no," she murmured aloud, "I mustn't let myself do such things…"
But it was too late. She was possessed now with newly discovered animal lust, and the sensual beast in her had to be appeased! She found her hands moving, almost of their own volition, down to the warm little slit nestled between her thighs. Guilt and shame tore through her brain like bolts of lightning, but there was nothing she could do to stem the tidal wave of uncontrollable craving that threatened to inundate her voluptuous young body.
"God help me," she cried piteously, "God help me!" In the next moment her hands had clamped themselves feverishly on the exposed lips of her cuntal furrow, and she began to rub the pink moist folds of flesh, driven by erotic needs too long denied. With a last deep groan of anxiety, she suddenly surrendered to the onslaught from within, and began to finger herself in total abandon, like a shameless nymphomaniac caring only to satisfy the whims of her desire.
"Mmnnnn," she mewled, as her vaginal flesh blazed with new-found excitement, "mmmmmnnn… yesssss… oh, yessss…"
Her fingers, as if possessed by an instinctive knowledge, greedily closed around her clitoris and began to prod and massage the tiny little bud of flesh until it hardened like a little penis and quivered erect. At once, hot maddening ripples of delight tore through the innocent young wife's loins as waves of warm pleasure rolled through her body like distant thunder, heightened by the driving sensuous music of Bolero playing on the radio and building to its frantic climax.
Oh, this is wrong, wrong! her mind screamed, but it was too late. She was caught now in a torrent of unbridled ecstasy as strong as cascading water bursting suddenly through a disintegrating dam. As if trying to make up for all the years of frustration, her body began to shudder madly in its hunger for pleasure, yearning for more thrilling forbidden excitement and hypnotically forcing the helpless young wife to continue twisting and prodding her hotly throbbing little clitoris with lustful abandon. There was no way Susan could fight it, and her sleekly tapered legs began to thrash and kick as her body undulated in sheer rampaging passion on the bed.
Finally, as if drawn by a powerful magnet, her fingers slipped downward away from the wildly aroused clitoris and traveled toward the eagerly expectant entrance to her cuntal interior. Her pussy flesh had grown hotly moist now, responding frantically to the sudden release of animal lust, and as her fingers reached her cuntal ring, she realized that it was already drenched with vaginal fluid.
"Aaahhhhh," she cried aloud, in submission to the steaming passion that enveloped her completely. She plunged two fingers deep into the wetly pulsing flesh of her cunt, pushing them up into the receptive widening canal until they were all the way in. Then, driven on by a force that transcended her fears and guilt, she began boring her fingers in and out of the warm wet passage – in and out, in and out – creating staggering jolts of unbelievable pleasure in her lust-possessed body.
She was so captivated by her self-induced passion that she failed to notice that the door to her bedroom was, at that moment, being slowly opened!
Art stood in the dim light of the hallway, leering in at the incredible sight of the wantonly splayed young wife finger-fucking herself on the bed. A cruel, salacious smile played across his lips, and he silently reached down, unzipped the front of his tight white jeans, and withdrew the rapidly thickening shaft of his cock, slowly jerking it up and down while Tim's wife, totally unaware of his presence, worked steadily closer to her climax.
"Ooohhhhhhhh" she groaned deliriously on the bed, carried away by a staggering crescendo of self-induced pleasure, "Uuuunnnggghhh!"
Suddenly the walls of her vaginal interior, driven wild by the rotating plunging activity of her frantic fingers, began to palpitate frenziedly and issue forth a sweet stream of hot female fluid. Susan's loins burned with a stimulation that surpassed anything she would have thought possible, and in that moment she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she had reached orgasm.
Like a bird soaring aloft into heaven, the young wife catapulted over the brink of ecstasy into a rapturous bliss as her hands flailed upwards into her wide-open, drenched and cumming vagina! She laughed and moaned aloud in utter triumph, scarcely believing how wonderful she felt as her body shook uncontrollably with gusts of hot pleasure. Her head flailed back and forth on the pillows, her light brown hair flying in every direction as she cried and groaned with utter delight.
She was cumming! Cumming for the first time in her life!
Oh, she wanted the sweet radiance to go on forever and ever, and yet, finally, her passion began to ebb. Soon she lay still on the bed, breathing heavily, her eyes closed in contented satiety while her body throbbed softly in the luffing afterglow of her titanic release. She had finally done it, finally let go enough to experience a full climax, and she knew now that it was possible. She could make Tim the happiest of husbands!
Then, suddenly, she heard the bedroom door slam with a thud as it flew open and banged against the wall. With a gasp of alarm she turned and cried out in shock. Art was standing in the doorway, his huge cock completely erect and jutting out from the front of his opened "Don't want to keep that nice pussy all to yourself now, Susan, do you?"