Robert Taylor: Bored wife

She said, "Miss Haley – June – I'm a friend of Doris Colby's. My name is Ann – Dunne." She used her maiden name, thinking this the easiest identity to remember.

"Doris?" The girl hesitated. Then her voice lowered to a whisper. "I'm not supposed to use the phone for personal…"

"Dads said you and I must meet, June. We have so much in common, if you get what I mean. Tonight after work? At Bingo's?"

Silence. Then a whispered, "I must hang up, Ann…"

"Five, five thirty?"

"Yes, yes!"

Betsy hung up, smiling with satisfaction.

She had work to do but toying with her clit had brought her close to a cum, so she remained sprawled in the phone chair, massaging her clit and pulling her titties, at last panting when the steamy cuntal bubbles began bursting within her, an easy orgasm that left her feeling happily loosened, like warm jelly settling deeper into the chair.

Once she had dragged the wet mattress out to the back yard, scrubbed it with disinfectant, and left it for the hot sun to dry, she proceeded languidly, in keeping with the weather and the sensuality of her mood, bathing, washing her hair, tidying up tag ends of house work.

For the encounter at Bingo's she chose a clinging white dress but low on the bosom. Without a bra it looked shameful, lascivious! Was it too blatant a sexual come-on for the shy June? Well, it fitted the new Betsy.

She looked up the address of Bingo's in the phone book, drove there arriving just before five.

She found it on a side street, a place with a pink stucco facade, a pink door, a modest sign and no windows.

She went in.

The pink outside reflected the interior, pink tablecloths and seats in the booths, pink-cushioned barstools. Subdued lighting and a mere murmur of juke box music. A dozen or so people, mostly women alone or in pairs. Betsy chose a solitary barstool.

As she climbed onto it a woman bartender came smiling to her. Handsome, dark hair cut very short, wearing a pink shirt, a dark-blue vest buttoned tightly on a huge bosom.

"I'm Bingo," she said. "Welcome to our little den of iniquity."

"My name is Ann," Betsy said.

The woman was eyeing her breasts. "You're new…"

"Yes. What a charming place! I'm here to meet a friend of a friend – June Haley."

The other nodded. "I'll tell her something luscious looms in her future. Drink, Ann?"

"A dry martini, please."

While Bingo prepared the drink, Ann gazed about, saw two women in a booth with their heads together, hands under the concealing tablecloth.

Feeling each other up, she thought. Another woman, alone at the bar, was casting smiling glances at Betsy. Come hit her stuff!

She was amused and a little thrilled to be the object of a chase while herself on a mission of seduction.

She lit a cigarette, feeling quite satisfied with herself. She had left the house spick and span, had brought the mattress in and found it none the worse for its experience, had gone over to Laura's thinking of asking her about her work; selling houses sounded like fun and the hours appeared flexible. But Laura had been out. Well, tomorrow.

She was sipping her drink when a hand touched her arm.

It was the woman who had been eyeing her, a pretty brunette with a lushly sensual lower lip.

She said, "Bingo told me you have a date coming. But I thought – until then."

"Join me! I'm Ann."

"Marcia." She brought a barstool over touching Betsy's and climbed onto it, saying, "This place will be a madhouse after the offices let out. I like it better this afternoon way, sort of peaceful and friendly."

She smiled broadly. Dimples. And that lush, wide lower lip flattened in the sexiest fashion.

"You don't work, Marcia?" Betsy asked.

"My husband says he earns enough. And he does."

"The same as mine! But – dammit, I want my own money. Buy my own things."

"Me too. But so many jobs you have to sleep with the boss – my husband says. I just don't know if I could…"

"It would depend on the boss," Betsy smiled. "Goodness, we do think alike." She smiled quickly. Then Betsy felt, the other's hand caressing her knee.

"You prefer girls?" she asked.

Marcia blushed and glanced away. "Well – there's a cocktail lounge called Tina's – you've been there?"

"No."

"It's all women. Somehow I don't fed comfortable there, everybody pawing you, all hot eyed. See, I like men, I really do…"

Her hand had slipped under Betsy's skirt was stroking her thigh.

Betsy said, "But here you can sort of swing…"

"I'm terribly mixed up," Marcia said. And Betsy, sipping her drink, thought Marcia a match for what she had been yesterday, before Laura began turning her on. She observed that the woman sat slumped, biting her lip, frowning, while she herself was straight backed. Determined!

She said, "But Marcia, you seem to have a tendency to stroke girls' thighs."

The other withdrew her hand as though Betsy's flesh had burned her. A tear grew in her eye.

"Please excuse me. If you don't want…"

"Oh, I liked it. Did you?"

Both eyes misted over. She sobbed, "I'll ruin my makeup." She sniffled. "I didn't even realize I was doing it. Just being friendly."

"You mean you didn't let yourself know you were feeling my leg?"

"I'll look awful. Lily husband's coming here soon…"

"Pat your eyes with wet paper towels in the rest room."

Nodding, Marcia turned away and slid off the stool, then whispered, "Would you help me – cum?"

Curious now, Betsy climbed down and followed her toward the back of the lounge, noting the voluptuous roll of Marcia's ass. Bait? Am I being seduced?

The place was still quiet, the office crowd not yet arrived. There was time… She felt rippling little quirks in her cunt as they entered the rest room.

The place was nicely appointed, vanity tables and benches facing excellent mirrors, sinks in pink porcelain, pink doors on the john stalls. Betsy wetted wads of paper toweling in cold water as Marcia, still sniffling, sat on a vanity bench.

Patting the wads on the woman's closed eyes, Betsy said, "Of course, you could tell your husband why you've been crying."

"He wouldn't understand."

Nor would Jim, Betsy thought, straddling the bench, holding the cooling wet wads in place. Marcia took over that task, and Betsy lit a cigarette. Really, how could she get through Jim's armor to explain that cunts were also people with urges, leches, and the overwhelming need to control their own destinies?

She asked, "Marcia, were you making a pass at me, or not?"

"I wanted to – touch you – in a friendly…"

"Let's see," Betsy said, taking the woman's hand and placing it between her thighs. Fingers trembled on her flesh, tried to press firmly, retreated. Betsy hunkered down the bench, closer to her, the hand almost to her panty crotch.

"Ann, I have nightmares. Kissing girls." Betsy figured that Tina's place did not fit Marcia's taste because there the lesbianism was apparently all feel and grab, whereas here she could tease herself while playing the virgin.

Sighing, Betsy pushed the hand out from under her skirt, and rose.

"Ann! Don't you – like me?"

Betsy gazed down at eyes now cleared of tears. She wondered if June Haley were like this, coyly skirting the edges of her lusts. That certainly would upset her plans.

She thrust away, out of the room, abruptly aware that she had been terribly cruel. But she had had enough of women who lacked the courage to do their thing; a woman such as she had been.

She saw Bingo talking to a girl who stood at the bar. Both looked at Betsy.

It had to be June. Tall – Betsy had imagined her smaller – with a long, fine waist, pouty breasts, a perky behind. Soft brown hair with reddish tint. But most striking were her eyes, hooded by heavy lids, and shadowed by the longest and thickest of black lashes.