James Wheaton: The playful twins

She'd noticed how strange he was acting when he came home last night. He had a funny look in his eye, and she couldn't help noticing that there was an obvious bulge in his trousers. The way he kept staring at her, too, like a dirty old man, had made her uneasy… she'd been afraid that he'd try and make her do disgusting things that night in bed. But to her surprise, he had just rolled over on top of her, without a word, and roughly spread apart her legs. As usual, she tried to be responsive and to show some sign of arousal, but his coarse jabbing with his thick, hardened penis disgusted her more than anything. She just lay there with her eyes closed, as he thrust into her, like a rutting animal, and she breathed a sigh of relief when, with a few heavy grunts, he emptied his semen into her. She could hardly wait for him to roll off her again, before she dashed into the bathroom to wash away the outward signs of their coupling.

Bob broke into her thoughts with a curt goodbye and it was with a feeling of pleasure that she heard the door slam behind him.

Automatically, she began to clear away the breakfast things. A dull plodding resentment governed her actions. She felt used and humiliated… a piece of chattel to be used at her husband's whim. She'd tried hard to make him a good wife. She kept the house clean and tidy, cooked good meals, and she knew she had kept her looks and figure. She'd even asked her father to offer him a job so he wouldn't have to labor like an ordinary workman in other people's gardens. If he likes gardening so much, she thought indignantly, he could do ours on weekends, as a hobby, like other men do! She put the dishes in the dishwasher, and began to tidy the other rooms. But she felt no joy in her work. She had been so relieved when her father had found this house and offered to buy it for them. He was so good to them and Bob was so ungrateful!

She couldn't help feeling that most of the fault for the trouble in their marriage was Bob's. She had really tried to help him. She offered to teach him the ins and outs of society etiquette, but when she suggested it, he got furious and refused to discuss it. He just didn't want to be helped, to improve himself.

She still had her headache, so she decided to treat herself to what she considered a real luxury… a long luxuriant bath.

One of the things that impressed her about their otherwise ordinary suburban house, was its two bathrooms. One of these was a magnificent large room, with a deep old-fashioned tub. This she had appropriated for herself and had even gone so far as to have a special lock attached to the door. Now she stepped into the room and as she habitually did, locked the door behind her.

Her taste for old-fashioned luxury was obvious in the decor she had chosen. The walls were covered in a special fabriclike wallpaper with a tiny rose pattern. She had installed a marble dressing table, topped by a huge gilt mirror, and instead of an ordinary shower curtain, she hung a pair of red antique velvet drapes with a waterproof backing. These fell from the high ceiling right down to the floor and they were tied back in a Victorian style. The whole effect was that of a regal boudoir, and Julie felt tension drop away from her as she selected a lavender scented bubble soap and began to draw the tub.

As the bath was filling, Julie slipped off her robe and nightdress and scrutinized herself in the full-length mirror. On the whole, she was pleased with what she saw. Her tummy was a trifle rounded, but knew that it was not unattractive. Apart from that, she still had the figure she had that day, over five years ago, when Bob had come home from the army and had stared so rudely at her. Goodness! She was only seventeen then… so much had happened since then! Not all good either, she sighed, stepping into the fragrant bath.

She lay back, covering her shoulders with the creamy lather. The ends of her coppery hair floated for a moment and then sank into the foam. A sigh of contentment escaped her as the warm enveloping water seeped into her pores.

As she lay there soaking, she recalled again the girl she had been at seventeen… cheerful, vivacious, full of hope for the future… a far cry from the lonely, depressed person she was now. What had gone wrong? Again she asked herself the question that tormented her daily… was it a mistake to have married Bob? She knew the difference in their backgrounds was overwhelming and now they didn't even have the same interests. Tears blinded her eyes as she thought of the endless litany of unfulfilled nights… their frustrating sexual encounters… they were almost like strangers with each other. Surely it wasn't all her fault, as Bob so darkly intimated? She knew that, coming from a conventional, somewhat religious background, she was a little inhibited, but wasn't it a husband's duty to try and help his wife, to be patient with her and carry her out of the repression of a cleric-dominated way of life? But no! Bob was too selfish, too caught up in satisfying his own animalistic impulses to take time and find out what she really needed. Tears streamed down her face and all the misery of her unhappy existence flowed from its pent-up hiding place. A memory came flickering back… a thought she tried to banish forever from her mind. An image of a girl on the seat of a car, flailing about in lustful abandon, under the surging poundings of her fiance's penis! Wildly shaking her head, she tried to blot out the memory of her own pre-marital surrender, but her lewd words, screamed at the height of depraved passion, seemed to echo throughout the room.

"Fuck me… fuck me harder…"

She clasped her hands over her ears to shut out the lascivious memory. Where had she learned those words? She never used them, before that time or since, and felt a pang of distaste whenever she heard her husband use them.

Sanity returned to her troubled mind, and she lay back again, the tears drying on her cheeks. She felt cold and began to scoop up the soap bubbles. Idly, she smoothed them over her breasts, delighting in the way the frothy lather coated her creamy orbs. As she covered them with bubbles, she noticed how the nipples, a deep blush pink, stretched and awoke and the crinkled brown skin around them began to contract and squirm. She continued to massage them, enjoying the relaxing sensation, until the reddening buds jutted out boldly from the soap-covered mounds. A shiver raced through her and she sank further back in the suds. She began to soap herself, lifting one graceful leg and then the other, lathering it right up to her thigh. A tingle erupted deep in the pit of her stomach as her hand grazed the wet clinging curls of her bronze triangle. She rested her palm momentarily on the glistening mound and a forbidden tingle shot through her. She felt her nipples stiffen again and involuntarily, her hand flew up to the hungry orbs. The tingle in her stomach had grown to a jabbing fire and horror crept over her as she realized that she was becoming aroused.

But, almost of its own volition, her hand dropped lower and began to search gently in the swelling folds of her pulsating vagina. Her finger brushed against the tiny erogenous knob of her clitoris and she gasped at the electrical shock of the unexpected contact. A twinge of guilt prodded at her conscience… memories of the childhood warnings instilled in her that to touch oneself there was evil, dirty… but the incredible hunger, borne of two years of frustration would brook no sidestepping, and she began to trace the hot, throbbing lips of her vagina, swollen to fleshiness, with her fingers. Her fingertips glided over the slippery flesh of her inner folds, and slid toward the clasping, viscous opening. Her breathing was ragged and a series of sensual visions tumbled about in her head and she felt swept along in the increasing erotic frenzy that she was conjuring up in her mind. She raised up her knees to afford her probing fingers greater access to her burning vagina and she began to thrust her finger into the moistness of her vaginal orifice. Her loins were aflame, and her head was spinning with the strength of her overwhelming need. With a savage mewl, she sunk her finger into the inflamed opening. The warm fleshy walls closed in ravenously over her finger and a gnawing hunger told her that one finger wasn't enough.