Two hours and fifteen minutes of watching budding bosoms poking out from tight tee-shirts only to be leered at by tall, lean boys with broad hairless chests and taut thighs, racing on motorcycles, drinking beer, and pawing at each other's bodies like it was merchandise on a sale table, and Kathy was ready to go home. Listening to the couples in back of her, their lips smacking and tongues sucking as they sparred and sparked in the darkness of the movie theater, the auburn-haired wife nudged her husband in the ribs with her elbow and whispered, "Let's go home, Art."
"But the gang bang hasn't even happened yet," he protested hissing. "… And the leader of the gang still has to fight her boy friend."
Kathy smiled flirtatiously. "Let's go home and have our own gang bang, Art. Huh? What'd you say?"
What could he say? All those young kids making-out and carrying on like there was no tomorrow had affected him, too. Especially that honey-haired actress with the high, round breasts that she strutted around so proudly to show off to all the guys who followed her with their tongues hanging out. Art consoled himself with the fact that she would be gang-banged in the end… although they never really showed that in the film, only implied it.
But he couldn't protest. He had a damned good looking wife who wanted to go home and make love.
And good looking she was, too. Long, thick auburn hair that she tied back with barrettes and ribbons, hair that shone yellow and red in the sunlight… flashing blue eyes that cooled the flames of her red tresses, showed off her peaches and cream complexion. A smattering of Irish freckles pebbled her nose and cheeks, with just enough color to catch and hold the sun's tanning rays. The look of health and vivacity was she, and he couldn't help but smile every time he caught a glimpse of her in a mirror or shop window.
Feminine too. She spoke in a soft, unobstreperous manner, always polite but not syrupy to cause suspicion. Delicate was the word, delicate as fine Irish lace.
She stood erect and proud, yet in a gentle unassuming way that couldn't help but make you want to run up and throw your arms around her neck.
"Yeah, hon. We'll go," smirked Art, slipping his arm in his corduroy jacket.
They silently slipped from the theater just at the climax of the film. Art took one final peek over his right shoulder before giving up the fantasy of "No Tomorrow" for real life. He loved movies and he loved adventure.
The moon was just rising over the sloping hills surrounding the outskirts of the town when they reached the car parked only a block from the theater.
Kathy slid in, unlocking her own door, and slithered over to the middle of the cold plastic seat and rubbed her hand along her husband's firm thigh, then rested her head on his shoulder.
Ah, she felt young again, like a nineteen year old girl out on a date, instead of a twenty-eight year old woman going home from a movie with her husband. To be young, again, she thought with a sigh of nostalgia for the recklessness of youth.
Well, tonight she just might be a little reckless herself! The movie combined with the necking behind her had reminded her there was more to life than washing dishes and reading magazines. Life was to be lived, and tonight, by God, she was going to live!
Darlingly, she slithered her hand further up her husband's thigh til it reached the warm vee of his pants, where her fingers explored the growing bulge in his trousers with ever-increasing lust.
"Hey, baby," cooed Art, his knuckles white as he clutched hard at the steering wheel. "You're gonna get it tonight, you little devil, you."
With a satisfied grin, she drank in the promising words, hoping that tonight Art wouldn't get sidetracked by a sudden plotting inspiration or a telephone call. Tonight would be theirs alone to share.
Art was breathing hard by the time the Dodge Dart pulled into the driveway of their rented home in the newly constructed patch of tract homes outside of Elston.
Out of habit that had become a ritual, Kathy got out of the car first to open the garage door, walked to the door adjoining the garage to the house, and stepped inside just as the phone burrrhhhhed.
"OH, God," she spat with a hiss, "now what's the matter?" After eight years she'd learned to detect the different signals from the mere sound of a telephone ringing. Perhaps it was a parapsychological talent she'd developed from the necessity of paranoia. The short impatient rings… now more than two or three… those were the hasslers. Four or five meant a neighbor or Art's parents. Any more than that and it signaled work.
Kathy reached the phone on its seventh ring. She didn't have to count the rings any more, the sound was imprinted in her brain, indelibly.
"Hello?"
"Yes, he's locking the garage door now. Hold on a minute…"
Unavoidably, she knew it was work. Probably some tip on the drug bust, she guessed. But who could tell? The underground policemen with whom Art worked seemed to communicate in a secret language that she couldn't decipher.
Hearing clomping in the hallway, Kathy turned in time to hand Art the receiver, shooting him a warning glance, silent though loaded with emotion. Her lips drew into a taut line as she stood in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of wine, listening to her husband grunt out answers to the invisible invader of their privacy.
The auburn haired woman kicked off her shoes, and taking her wine glass with her, padded down the carpeted hallway to their bedroom. Taking off her light summer jacket, she let it fall on the straight backed chair in the corner of the blue room. She unzipped the simple cotton dress and slipped out of it. The soft cotton stroked over her body, sliding over her smooth, creamy shoulders, onto her full, round breasts, then down to her smooth, svelty curving buttocks, her voluptuous young thighs, her smooth slim legs. At last it settled on the floor with a faint sound that could have been a sigh.
Kathy stepped out of the crumpled pile of blue cotton that lay puddled on the rug. She pulled the sheer froth of her slip over her head, and dropped it, too, on the rug. Reaching behind her, she unhooked the bit of white lace which was her bra, then slipped the straps off her shoulders; it joined the dress and slip on the floor.
Her flimsy nylon panties came next, followed by first one stocking and then the other, a garter belt, a pair of low-heeled shoes. The clothing lay scattered around the room where Kathy opened the bottom drawer of her bureau where she kept her seldom-worn clothes, most of which were Christmas presents from Art and a little too daring for her taste, and pulled out last year's present – a see-through nylon nightie that graced the wisps of her pubic hair, so short was it.
She pulled it over her head then stood silently, straining to hear if Art was still on the phone. A muffled voice from the hallway signified he was, and so she sat herself before the long mirror of her dressing table, picked up a hair brush and unclasping the brown tortoise-shell barret from the right side of her head, began her nightly ritual.
Mentally, she counted as the hairbrush stroked her thick wealth of hair. She stared at herself as she counted, satisfied with what she saw.
But was Art?
Tonight he would be, she grinned salaciously at her mimicking image. Against her better judgment, she smeared on an extra thick coating of mascara to make her eyes look even bigger, deeper. That turned on Art, she knew. After watching that movie with all the intonated but never consummated sex, all the vibrancy of youthful energy, she wanted to fix herself at her seductive best, hoping that the allurement of her long-denied body would calm her jagged nerves. She'd been rather fidgety lately, jumping at the slightest sound, and she'd chalked it all up to lack of sex. Those were the symptoms peculiar to her chemistry; after eight years she'd learned to recognize the signs of abstinence.
With a dab of cotton she dosed herself with the faintest and most expensive of her perfumes. Art likes to buy me all these sexy things… nighties, panties perfume… but I never get a chance to try them out on him. It all seemed so foolishly wasteful somehow. A tease.
Practicing moving in front of the big mirror, watching the brief hem of the garment flare over her hips, exposing the tight, hair-fringed slit of her pussy with every step, Kathy grinned with self confidence.
She slithered out of the bedroom, expecting to see her husband readying himself for bed. Although it went against the grain of her gentle nature, she was ready to seduce him… shamelessly. Maybe that's been my problem, she thought. I expect Art to take the initiative, but he's just too preoccupied. Sometimes a girl has to take things into her own hands… like that blonde girl in the movie.
A vivid vision of Art's long, thick cock sprang into Kathy's mind. Well, what else could she do?
But instead of getting ready for bed, Kathy saw that Art was still dressed as he'd been, the only difference being his shirt was unbuttoned and hanging out of his pants. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a pen and paper his attention now as he drew what looked like road maps. Leaning over his shoulder, pressing her warm smooth flesh against his still clothed body, she leaned over to kiss his neck. Surely that would do it!
"Oh… Kathy," he acknowledged, reaching up to pat her petite hand with his big one, his eyes never leaving the paper. Art didn't raise his head, or turn: instead, he clutched her hand and continued drawing.
"What is it?" Kathy asked in a half-whisper, leaning low so that the sweetness of her perfume would reach his nostrils.
"Map. Think we're closin' in on 'em. This weekend. Gonna happen this weekend during the rock concert." He pounded his forehead with his free hand. "Have to figure some way. Oh, Kathy, baby, forgive me, but I gotta plot this out. You know how I am… I can't figure anything out unless I can see it on paper." Still, he didn't turn his head to see his half-naked wife, her firm, round breasts bouncing out of the deep V neckline of her black nightie. Or the naked, damp slit of her pussy fully exposed. Or the mascara-heavy eyelashes that fluttered in shadows over her high cheek bones.
"I'll only be a second, hon. Meet you in the bedroom in a minute," he conjoled, reaching up to give her hand another pat in another show of compromise.
Downtrodden, Kathy pouted her way back to the bedroom. Did he always have to be so damned dedicated? she thought dejectedly. Was his work really more important than she?
… These and other thoughts passed through the luscious redhead's mind as she lay in bed hopefully awaiting her husband. An hour passed before she could stand it no more and went looking for him. Then, too, her wine glass was empty and her throat dry. Art was still at the kitchen table, his thick fingers running through his thinning hair, a deep furrow lining his forehead like the epitaph on a tombstone.
"That's just great," she muttered, halfway down the hallway, knowing there was no use in trying to coax him, no use in trying to show off her naked body in front of him. It didn't work with Art. Nothing held his attention except for crime and drugs and prostitution.
She returned to the blue bedroom and turned out all but the pale night light above the mirror. She lay nearly naked on her side, contemplating her reflection in the large mirror of her dressing table.
Kathy studied the light yellow image of herself: the full rise of her wide-set breasts with the deep cleavage between; the way her curvaceous body swept into an incredibly tiny waist, with only the most gentle, enticing curve to break the flatness of her smooth-muscled belly; the rich swell of her hip and ass cheeks and the darker triangle of auburn hair in the warm, moist vee of her legs; and then the long, perfect sweep of her legs, one knee slightly higher than the other. Kathy knew that any artist would give everything to recreate the sensual image that was painted across the bedroom mirror.
But she was more than a picture. She was warm, flesh and blood woman, and everybody but her husband seemed to be well aware of that blatant fact.
The insistent aching in her loins was slowly becoming a smoldering fire. She had to dampen the flames somehow – and there was only one way, as much as she hated to do such an obscene thing. She blushed at the very thought of it. Never, not since she was a sixteen year old curious female, had she done such a disgraceful thing.
She would use her hand as she'd done that night so long ago. And she would watch herself rubbing her own cunt in the mirror. Perhaps it was a retaliatory act to repay Art for his neglected duty. She thought of the blonde girl in the movie. Would that girl have done the same thing? Another sip of her red wine, and Kathy was convinced that big bosomed girl would have done just that.
Sighing with frustration, the nearly naked woman turned on her back and cupped her ripely mature breasts in her hands, exploringly squeezing and rolling the pliant flesh, teasing the rising nipples until they were hard and throbbing, and finding the sensation surprisingly rewarding. Her breath became more labored, as her searching fingers slowly slid up and down the warm swells of her smooth, unblemished body. She held back from contact with her cunt for a long time, until she could feel the warm fluids begin to flow from her dilating pussy. Then one hand moved through the soft bush of curling pubic hair, barely touching her moistened cuntal slit.
"Ooooooohhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" the redhead moaned involuntarily, her rich, full lips parting with her ever-increasing passion. Her fingers danced lightly over her aroused pussy, feeling the droplets of cunt juice forming along the palpitating furrow of her pussy. Her hands moved to the acutely sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, caressing their ivory-hued smoothness, and she lightly scraped the velvet skin with her fingernails as her entire body began to slowly undulate on the bed. She realized that she hadn't locked the door and that would certainly be embarrassing if Art walked in on her while she was stretched out on the bed with her hands between her parted legs. But then, she reconsidered, it just might serve him right. If he were less of a cop and more of a husband, I wouldn't have to do this.
To hell with him, thought Kathy defiantly, surprised at her own acidulous attitude.
Knees raised, her long legs splayed wide, Kathy finally dipped her fingers into the seething folds of her cunt. Aaahhh! She was wet and ready… ready for a hell of a lot more than just her hand!
Full of yearning, the young wife spread open the soft, swollen flanges of her cunt, arching her back and thrusting her pelvis toward the ceiling. She traced the delicate line of her coral-hued pussy lips with the fingers of her right hand, torturing herself with the maddening touch of her nails. She sought and found the erect bud of her clitoris and slowly rubbed the sensitive organ with a circular motion of her thumb until it throbbed urgently with uncontrollable desire. And then she began to run her fingers up and down the full length of her cuntal slit, even into the smooth crease of her tight ass cheeks until her fingertips brushed across the tiny puckered ring of her anus.
Faster and faster her hand moved, until the copious juices of her unquenchable passion were flowing from deep in her churning loins, coating her fingers with a slippery wetness. With a sudden movement, the auburn-haired wife fucked her middle finger all the way up into the steaming warmth of her flexing cuntal channel.
"Ooohhh!" the lust incited redhead gasped. Her finger was so small, when what she wanted most was to be filled to the bursting point with a blood-engorged male cock! Furiously, she began to fuck the stiffened digit in and out of her deprived pussy, whimpering with every stroke. One finger was just not enough. In desperation, she sent another, and still another finger up into her well-lubricated cunt, stretching her pussy as wide as her husband's thick cock would have, but not going anywhere near deep enough into her ravenous pussy to satisfy the prurient fire that was now raging out of control deep within her too-long-deprived loins.
But what else could Kathy do? Her thumb was hitting her clitoris with every thrust, bringing her just to the brink, but no further, of a climactic orgasm. Then she thought of a lewd addition to this shameful act of self-stimulation, something she had never even thought of doing before. But her desperate physical need was overshadowing any rational objection to such a totally depraved act.
Scissoring her long legs and rolling onto her side, Kathy reached behind herself with her left hand and wantonly split her ass cheeks apart, exposing the tiny ring of her anus to the cool night air. Then she put the middle finger of her right hand into her mouth, her tongue swirling over it, coating its entire length with her saliva. Suddenly she arched her back and thrust her smoothly rounded buttocks outward, and pressed her moistened middle finger against her resisting anus.
"Oooohhh!" she gasped as the finger stretched the restraining sphincter muscle and finally popped into the tight, wet depths of her rectum. She lay still for a moment, then began to undulate her pelvis in little circular motions. Having her finger fucked in her anus was a totally new sensation for the love-starved woman. Relentlessly, she forced her finger even deeper into her clenching anal hole, working it in and out until finally the palm of her hand was slapping against her wide-splayed buttocks. Rocking her pelvis back and forth, she began to screw more and more savagely into her clasping rectum while her thumb urgently stroked the tingling bud of her clitoris. "Aaahhh!" Kathy groaned in ever mounting salacious pleasure.
In the big mirror she could see her hand as a dim blur flashing in and out of her puckered anus and could feel her nails scraping the sensitive inner flesh of her cuntal and rectal passages, but the slight pain only caused her to increase the fury and violence of her manual fucking. She could feel it building… she was cumming!
Abruptly a sea of fire spread like a tidal wave through her quaking belly, making her inner cunt muscles frantically clench and spurt great gushes of thick, whitish cum from the contracting lips of her burning hot cunt down over her fingers and the insides of her thrashing thighs and the widespread crack of her spasming buttocks. Kathy knew that her orgasmic fluid would stain the sheets of the bed, but she didn't care as the rich aroma of her satiated pussy reached her flaring nostrils. She kept both hands plunging into her straining cunt until she could cum no more without screaming aloud.
Then, drained and exhausted, she collapsed flat on her back, her hair making a dark red splash on the rumpled pillows. Kathy raised her head, took one look at her reddened cheeks, her disheveled hair, and smeared mascara and started to cry.
OH God! It was wonderful but terrible at the same time. Bittersweet, as Beaudelaire would have put it. What was happening to her? How could she have done such a disgraceful thing? She reached for a Kleenex in the headboard of her marital bed, and dabbed at her eyes, examining the black streaks on the soiled tissue as if it were the sins of the past fifteen minutes. Kathy sobbed harder and, pulling back the coverlet, buried her head in the pillow and pretended she was asleep when Art finally slipped in beside her.
He reached out to touch her and, getting no encouraging response, rolled over on his stomach and tried to sleep. The phone call that night had distressed him, added to his enigmaed mind. Supposedly, a paid informer had reported that the dealers were bringing in six hundred pounds of top grade marijuana. How they would get it to its point of distribution, the informer didn't say… or know, though a rented U-Haul truck was suspected. But the main crux of the dilemma would be finding that one vehicle among the hundreds that would line the road outside of the Olson farm that weekend. Another clue: the big time dealers might use a decoy, something to take the heat off the real operation, something to slow down the cop's pace. A pigeon… a fat pigeon. Now what could that mean?