Robert Taylor: Bored wife

Jim would blow a fuse if she suggested going out loose-titted. She zipped down her dress and I moved her bra, gave her nipples a squeeze, and zipped back up. Then she shook herself, and giggled as she saw her titties dance about.

Mindful of her neighbors booze problem, she took a bottle of gin by the neck, snatched up a pack of cigarettes – and went – feeling her pussy lips squish together as she walked across the back lawn to the Graham kitchen door.

She found Laura inside, looking impossibly gorgeous in a lemon-colored party dress cut down almost to the nipples. No bra, of course.

Betsy hugged her and gave a kiss – just tongues, to save their lipstick.

Tom stood in the dining room doorway, watching, grinning at them. He wore a red knit shirt and gray pants so tight that his crotch bulge stood out like a fist.

"Such a terrific-looking pair of cunts!" he said. "And bath mine. At least until the other guests arrive." He came and hugged both of them. "Betsy, have a drinkie? Gin and tonic?"

She nodded, and as Tom began mixing, she asked, "Who's coming?"

"Two couples we met at Bingo's Boite, a joint where we booze. Named Colby and Thatcher."

"Seven, then, and I'm the odd female?"

He grinned. "Nothing odd about you, Betsy. Looks like you've got everything hanging out where it ought to be," he said, leering at her breasts.

She had to laugh. He had the same cheerful bawdiness as Laura, and his frank recognition of her big tits was a relief after so many men just casting sidelong glances and then talking about something else. With Laura and Tom she seemed to be lifting out of the smothering stuffiness she had so long endured.

Laura had gone to the kitchen table to fix up her snack tray. Betsy went to help her, walking with a roll of her hips to show off her buttocks to Tom, remembering Laura's saying that he called her "that cute ass next door" and that he'd like to take a bite. Gee, she taught, am I really Mrs. Jim Walters rocking my behind as bait for my girl friend's – and lover's – husband? No, I'm just Betsy!

She helped open boxes of crackers and arranged them in the compartment tray around the dip.

Tom said, "Okay, there's the drinks made. Now, I have to put in a business phone call. Betsy, come to the den and keep me company?"

"Go on, darling," Laura said. "I'll have this done in a jiff."

Betsy hesitated, her heart suddenly thumping. But Tom handed her a drink and beckoned, and she followed him out.

In the dining room he said, "Laura told me you two cleaned the house like a hurricane. Great. Two can do three times as much as one. Sometimes I help her and the dirt just seems to disappear."

She wondered if Laura had told him they did the job naked, and ended up in bed. He must at least suspect, after seeing their tongue kiss when she arrived.

In the den he pointed at the couch. She sat. He took the chair at his desk and began dialing the phone. When he had an answer he said, "Mr. Mayhew, please." After listening he said, "Okay," and hung up. "He'll call back when he gets off the other phone," Tom said, tilting his chair back and taking a sip of his drink.

"What business are you in, Tom?" Betsy asked.

"Real-estate appraisal."

"Oh, that's how Laura got into selling houses?"

"Sort of. An outfit I knew wanted a gal to sell, and she's good at it."

"You're sort of Women's Lib, huh? I mean, Jim would flip his lid if I got a job."

He shrugged. "I think cunts are people, and people should do what they want, what they're good at. Like, Laura fixes the plumbing. Somehow she understands it. I just bring tools for her, usually the wrong ones."

The phone rang. He answered it, opened a notebook and began jotting things down as Betsy thought, So cunts are just people! Yes, Tom, I do love you for that. I wasn't born knowing how to cook, I just thought I had to. Yet all the famous chefs are men. Could I become a famous chef?

Tom put down his pencil, reached to his crotch and scratched his genitals.

Betsy smothered a giggle. He had done that so matter-of-factly.

He took more notes, finally clapped the book shut and hung up. He looked thoughtful as he sipped his drink. Then he set the glass down and turned to her.

"Done! Now for the party. Especially you. Betsy, we've called hello and goodbye across the lawn but I scarcely know you."

She was smiling over her drink at him. He had gray eyes, darker flecks in them, warm, easy-going, though there was a determined set to his chin and an aura of confidence. He knew his worth.

He said, "So let's get acquainted!"

He pushed back his chair and came to the couch, dropped down beside her, sliding an arm over the cushions behind her.

"Like we start with a kiss," he said.

And Betsy, not Mrs. Jim Walters, thought that a delightful way to begin. She set her drink on the table beside the couch and turned to him, finding herself a soft and cuddly thing sort of oozing into his arms, her mouth moist and trembling with eagerness as his lips closed firmly on hers, and his strong, meaty tongue plunged to her throat.

She vined her arms about his neck, caressing rather than clinging, for she was firmly held. She had Laura's permission to sex it up with him, which left her free to shamelessly suck his tongue, to caress, to squirm to him and rub her titties on his chest.

When their mouths at last parted he said, "Hello, Betsy. Glad to have made your acquaintance."

"The pleasure was mine," she giggled, and felt a hand on her breast, looked down and saw his lean, strong fingers gently kneading the right one, his thumb rubbing the nipple.

Yes, her neighbor was toying with her tittie, and she loved it.

Tom murmured, "I hope our guests are a little late…"

Betsy, squirming now, feeling hot and damp between the legs, hoped so too.

She asked, "What are they like? The Colbys and I forget the name of the other couple."

"The way we figure it – I mean Laura does – Colby swings but his wife, Doris, like she crossed her legs once and forgot how to untangle them. The others, George is shy, even blushes. But Vera, she's a redhead with the fire you might expect."

As he spoke he plucked at Betsy's other nipple. They stuck out now like fingers making tents in the dress material.

He murmured, "Like Laura said, your nips are for sucking! Anyhow, what we have to do is separate the husbands and wives, see? And keep the guys from talking baseball together."

Betsy judged this simply good party management but she had a hunch that at Horny Haven the objectives were different. But before she could calculate further Tom's hand slipped under her skirt and began stroking her inner thigh.

"Smooth," he said, caressing all the way up, right to her crotch. At the feel of that she gasped. And Tom said, "Hey, you're not wearing panties? Not at our party."

Betsy gave a laugh and said, "Then I'll take them off!"

And she did, raised flipping up her skirt, grabbing the waist of her panties and peeling them down, slipping them off and kicking them under the couch.

Tom's hand was already under her skirt again, his fingers closing on her hairy cunt lips.

His touch surprised her, and Betsy's thighs closed automatically. In that moment she was Mrs. Jim Walters again.

"Hey, you're crunching my knuckles!" Tom said.

She took a deep breath. She spread her legs to let Tom squeeze and tug her cuntal lips, which instantly set ablaze the heat lurking in her belly. But passivity was not enough for the new Betsy. She grasped her skirt hem and turned it back, rolled it to her waist exposing the tawny fluff of her cunt hair, and Tom's hand was between her legs, which were not together now but not exactly spread, either. She grasped a knee and yanked her leg up, feeling the couch cushions. She could feel a breeze from the window ooze over her exposed cunt, a delightful airiness contrasting with the heat induced by Tom's massage of her cuntlips. Even more important was the near completeness of her exposure, Betsy displaying her twat to a man she had the hots for. She grabbed the other knee and brought it up, sat heeling the couch, white thighs winged out wide from the hairiness of her cunt.