It was mid afternoon when she awoke. She felt refreshed by the few hours of sleep, as though she had never once tossed or turned.
She showered again (it was becoming a habit, wasn't it?) and selected a blue blouse, which she disdained buttoning and knotted just below her tits. It showed off her tits to perfection, in an even more blatant manner than had the pink halter.
She also took a pair of faded hip-hugger blue jeans, which she had cut off very short. Plenty of belly and plenty of thigh were left visible. When she slipped her ass into them, her cheeks protruded out from behind.
Slipping her feet into sandals, she stopped in front of the mirror and admired herself.
Honey, you got it. Make no mistake about it, when they passed out the extras, little Wendy was at the front of the line. Nothing second class about her lithe body.
She pranced downstairs and out to the garage, feeling the best she ever remembered feeling. She supposed that was because she had been royally fucked. That made all the difference. Yes, all the fucking difference in the world.
Passing the houses in her neighborhood she thought of all the men who shared them with their wives. How many were there who were unhappy with their sex lives, who had women who did not understand their needs, their secret desires, and who, failing to understand, were cheating not only their men, but themselves?
She pulled into the supermarket, needing a few things to carry her through the weekend.
She had gathered a few staples, bread, eggs, a steak for her dinner, when she rounded a corner, and almost ran down Professor Martin Wynn.
"Whoa," he said, skirting the metal cart she was pushing with some deft steps. "I'd hate to be the unwilling victim in a hit and run."
Wendy smiled. "Sorry, Professor Wynn. I guess I wasn't watching where I was going."
Martin Wynn was an English professor at the city college whom Wendy had met during a three-week seminar he had conducted at her high school during February. Open only to honor students, Wendy had been proud to have been chosen by the faculty to participate. The course had been called Modern Communications. She had found the course exciting, even if Professor Wynn was often a bit stuffy in his strict professionalism.
She became aware that Martin Wynn was sizing up the nonverbal signals being given off by her swelling tits and tight pants. She wondered exactly what she communicated by her dress-a come hither ripeness, blatant or subdued sexuality, mere wantonness? Whatever she communicated it was getting a rise from the professor.
"And where might you be heading in such a hurry?"
He smiled then. The gray at his temples gave him a sage appearance, but his face was strong, and the lines in it seemed precisely placed. She could not imagine him with the unlined face of youth. He seemed to exude the wisdom of maturity. He was born serious, erudite, wise.
"I guess that what I'm hunting here could wait. How've you been?"
"Just fine. I haven't seen you around for a long time." His eyes twinkled. Were they undressing her, or was she just imagining that she saw a familiar look in his gaze?
"And I have missed your pretty face," he continued, his voice trembling a little as he spoke.
"I really enjoyed the party we had at your house the last day of the seminar. You have a beautiful place."
Professor Wynn probably had the most exquisite house on the block, a two-story stone home that radiated elegance.
"It was my pleasure. Good company is always welcome."
"I'd like to come again sometime, really look it over. You have some truly beautiful paintings."
"Thank you. You'll… have to come soon. I'd… we'd, my wife and I, be glad to have you come."
She agreed to visit soon, and they stood awkwardly silent for a few more moments, before Professor Wynn dismissed himself.
She watched his back retreating, going through the checkout stand without stopping, and then out the door.
Wendy smiled to herself. Whatever Professor Wynn had come to the market for had been forgotten. He was leaving empty-handed.
She went on with her shopping.
It was a couple of hours later when Martin Wynn pushed himself away from his desk and lit his pipe. He was tired of reading juvenile rhetoric, of pouncing on plagiarism's, of reading garbled interpretations of the poets he had sought to enlighten his students about in class.
Seeing the reams of paper still to be plowed through, he leaned back in his chair. He ran his hand across his brow and massaged the corners of his eyes. His gray-streaked head drooped a bit as subconsciously he admitted defeat, though consciously he clung to the hope that he could still enlighten these immature minds to appreciate the poetic masterpieces, to distinguish between the maudlin sentiments saturating the pages of most modem magazines, as well as saturating the minds of those who read their facile mouthings.
In essence he was blue-penciling his thoughts, deleting the pessimistic tones that threatened at any moment to break the barriers and confront him with their inescapable arguments of his own rank failure to enlighten and educate.
There were things on his mind, sensual things which ate into his concentration, things wet and warm and furry.
He stood and let his mind float out of the cloying confines of his room drift past emerald phrases locked in his mind, and dwell on more earthy things. On a tight pair of cut-off blue jeans hugging two well-defined hips that undulated to a rhythm more powerful than Keats.
And in a bastardization of the immortal bard, he felt his too solid flesh melt, and a warmness grip his loins.
Wendy Halliburton. He could not help remembering the seminar party. Hadn't she brushed against him then? It had been innocent enough. She had turned abruptly, standing quite close to him and bumped into him. He felt the soft resilience of her firm tits give against his arm. They were magnificent! He had already been made aware of her tits; how could he help it? Her breasts demanded attention, and he longed to give him his sole attention, but the others were there. Margaret was there. Now he was even more aware of Wendy's tits pressing into his arm, and he felt the flush of embarrassment flood him.
At the same time her loins had collided with the back of his hand, and had he touched the yielding flesh of her thighs, her belly, her cunt mound? He was not sure. The silken fabric of her dress was magnetic all sleek and warm. For one wild moment, out of control, he had wanted to turn his hand and cup it between her thighs and ardently stroke the soft female flesh, even through the cloth.
She had seemed to realize that. He thought he saw the glint of apprehension in her eyes, and he was surprised that she did not step quickly away, recognizing what had flitted ever so quickly across his mind.
Wendy. It was a haunting name, one that today he could not erase from his mind. He rolled it quietly across his lips, in a soft whisper, letting his mouth shape it, almost feeling the texture of the name. He tried to sound husky as he said it, as if he were poised above her, preparing to consummate their innocent brushing into a full-fledged frontal assault on her cunt.
He shook his head. What the hell was he thinking of? He was happily married, he told himself, but even as he admitted that, he found himself dredging up all the little annoyances that his wife taunted him with.
Margaret. Wife, mother of his grown son. Matronly was the word that came to his mind when he thought of her. He tried to apply words like "sensuous" or "passionate" to her, but quit when he realized what a dismal definition they made in conjunction with her mousy looks.
Words like "sensuous" or "passionate" were fitting to women like Wendy. She could give them meaning, could make the words into flesh. Ye Gods, and what flesh she gave them.
Margaret had never been a passionate woman, even when their love had been in its first bloom. Of course she performed her wifely duties, never shirking what she felt was her responsibility, but Martin had always been aware that she perceived of it in exactly that fashion as a dutiful response to her mate.
In her words, sex was "brutish, lacking the intellectual".
After they had fucked, she would ask, "Was I all right?" and he would invariably sing her praises, even when her performance had been less than adequate.
He paced about, restless like a caged lion.
Even he had begun to consider it a mere performance, and his own actions in the bedroom no longer had pep or energy. He would wheeze and grunt his way to orgasm, emptying his balls in her unprotesting cunt, yet always aware that something was missing.
What he wanted was a wantonness, an abandonment on the part of his wife. He wanted her to be a slut.
Now with Wendy, he was sure that he would not have to lead the slightest bit. And the more he thought about it the more enamored he became of the idea.
His wife was gone to a lecture. She was on the invitation committee, and also had to help with the refreshments. She wouldn't be home for hours.
He stared out the window at the life glowing in the trees and flowers. The sun had still another hour of life before it would disappear behind the horizon.
Martin touched the receiver of the telephone. He was tempted to call Wendy, to make her a simple overture, but the thought of rejection, of shocked outrage on her part, of embarrassment should she mention it to Margaret, stayed his hand. He would need a reason to call her.
She had said that she wanted to see the house. That would be his excuse. He would have to be careful about what he said.
He had come up with his opening remark. He would have to play it by ear from there. He did not want to rehearse anything for fear that it would sound stilted. He must be spontaneous.
Already he felt the excitement gripping him. Butterflies danced in his stomach, and lust, like a puckish elf, tickled his balls.