Robert Taylor: Bored wife

Doris' husband, Colby, was laughing boisterously with Laura; a party guy. So that left only Vera's husband, George, still blushing and gazing down at his shoes, and Doris, to turn on.

Betsy whispered, "Vera, what does your husband dig? I mean, how to get him into the party?"

"He digs you, all right. Took one look at your tits and turned beet red. George is a mathematician."

"God, and I can't even balance my checkbook."

"He likes poetry, too."

Betsy groaned. "The only poem I know is the limerick about the old man from Nantucket."

"Whose cock was so long he could suck it?"

"Dirty tongue you've got," Betsy giggled.

She studied George, wondering how to get to him. Not tall, stocky, hard body like a wrestler. Then Laura descended upon him, dragging with her the loud Colby, and George's face did come alive. "So let Laura do it…"

"Let's get me another drink," Vera said.

Thus the party began, not quite a cold start because of the foursome's stop at Bingo's; some expert manipulation by Tom and Laura, and then the ice was pretty well broken.

Betsy talked to George about poetry, or at least she started him off, but he was not yet loose, kept blushing and looking away and stammering. With Doris she exchanged girlie small talk. And wherever she moved, Vera seemed to be at her elbow.

Then Tom whispered to her, "Need ice – drinks – want to help?"

She nodded and took a tray of empties to the kitchen. There, filling the ice bowl, Tom said, "The redhead's got a twitch for you, Betsy. Give her a come-hither look, you know, let her fly a little. The ice might break."

"My God, I thought the ice was busted all to hell!"

"Hey, we haven't even started." He turned from her then, pointed at the screen door. "Rain."

It was falling in huge, scattered drops. "There might be hail," Tom said, left his ice bowl and went to the screen door, staring out across the lawns.

And Betsy sauntered after him, swaying, and at the door hung a hand on his shoulder and rubbed a breast on his arm. She said, low-voiced, "Well, you busted my ice, anyhow."

Gazing down his body she saw the ridge of his erecting cock. Being the new Betsy she did exactly as she wished, reached across his thigh and laid the flat of her hand on it, and rubbed.

She felt his hand come up behind her, tracing the curves of her buttocks, settling between, squeezing her.

He whispered, "Those bastards interrupted us – I've never been so horny in my life."

She nodded against his shoulder. "Me too. I wanted you to fuck me." His cock was rising, a long bony thing with an enormous bulge of head that seemed to fill her cupped hand.

Tom groaned, and dug a finger into her rear cleavage. "Honey, sometime tonight I'll get into your cunt. But we have all those people to turn on. We have to quit this…"

"Well, at least let me feel it." She grabbed his zipper tab, her fingers trembling so she had difficulty holding on. Finally she got his fly open and slipped her hand in. She felt a tangle of pubic hair, at last the hot horniness of his cock shank. Her fingers coiled about it and she gripped as though to tear it off. It gave a throb and she felt that fly right into her, through her body, a responding spasm, a spitting heat like a tiny cum in her cunt. Suddenly on the point of tears, she whimpered, "Tom, let's run through the rain to my house and you can fuck me right now…"

"No, honey. We're hosts, like you are too…"

She found the head, a great, swollen, apple-sized thing, and as she clutched it Tom groaned.

"Honey, no. Don't! You're driving me crazy." Biting her lip, she gasped, "You promise to fuck me tonight, Tom? Cross your heart?"

"Betsy, I'll fuck you until one of us is sore!"

She clung feverishly to him until he wrenched her hand off his prick, zipped up and left her there bawling, getting wet from rain slashing against the screen door.

She recovered, alone in the kitchen, with the help of ice water patted on her swollen eyes and cheeks, and then a husky shot of gin.

Returning to the living room with drinks she saw Vera eyeing her hotly, talking to Colby, mouth moving, words spilling out but looking only at Betsy.

When the drinks were distributed she found Vera at her side, offering cigarettes.

Vera lit her up, then asked, "Where's the john? I have to pee."

Betsy pointed to the hall.

"Come help me?" Vera said.

Betsy glanced at Tom, bent over tiny Doris, and felt a twitch of cuntal urgency, then a stab of jealousy when he caressed the girl's arm. She could not endure this.

She let Vera, now holding her hand, lead her off to the bathroom. The rain had ended, and the humidity was greater than before, sweat between their linked hands. Once out of sight of Tom she could gaze sideways at Vera, at the pouty white breasts – she glimpsed nipples of a salmon color – at the glowing red hair and alabaster complexion and long, dark lashes shadowing her eyes.

In the bathroom Vera handed her drink to Betsy, hung the cigarette from the corner of her mouth, and scooped up her skirt to squat on the john.

Betsy saw the girl's panties slip down her legs, then milky thighs spreading, and her broad, auburn pussy bush. Vera held her skirt up higher than necessary. Displaying it.

Betsy stood against the sink sipping the drink she held as pee squirted into the bowl.

"My bra," Vera said. "I'm going to take it off. Fuck George! Aren't husbands shits?"

Betsy smiled. "Maybe it's marriage itself that's shitty. I mean, here I am the seventh person at this party, the spare woman. I feel a little lost – all this freedom – but it's like I'm two inches taller. And without a bra, you have no idea. It's like my bra was my husband, and now my titties just hang how they want, and spill around, and dip and bob, and if my nips get horny they show through my dress. And I'm glad!"

"George would just kill me."

She needed help, Betsy saw. She swigged down the drink – she was feeling a little high now – and set the glass in the sink. She moved to the girl squatting on the john, bent over her back, pushing aside the mass of silky, coppery hair, sensuous stuff that clung to her fingers, and opened her dress zipper.

"Betsy, I don't know – I mean – George…"

"Fuck George," Betsy murmured, wrenching the bra hooks free.

Then she gazed down the girl's front at her sagging dress, at bra cups loose on milky, tip-tilted breasts. She could not resist, slipped her hands down Vera's chest into her bra and cuddled the soft warmth of her titties.

Vera stiffened, gasping, "Oh-hh, Betsy, now you've done it! Now you've done it!"

Tears ran down her cheeks.

Betsy bent to her, kissing the tears, saying, "Honey, what is the matter? I know you're turned on to me…"

"Oh yes, from the first minute, the first glance! But George will call me a lesbian. He'll sneer, like tasting something dirty, sour."

The girl's cheek was as smooth as satin. Betsy rubbed hers against it, murmuring, "What matters is, you and I swing for each other." The breasts in her hands were so white, the salmon-colored tips so delectable that she wanted to simply gobble them into her mouth. But Vera was trembling, hands on her bare thighs forming claws digging fingernails into her flesh. This must be done with caution and delicacy.

Vera sobbed, "He says I always want to go to Bingo's because it's a lesbian hangout. Oh, maybe it is. I can glance at a girl, meet her eyes, and I know. We met the Colbys there, and the moment I saw Doris…"

"Doris? She swings too?"

Vera sighed. "She's more uptight than I am. Oh, I come on like gabby and full of fun, but Betsy, right now I'm so scared! And Doris is a hundred times worse. One night – Colby was off on business and we'd had about ten drinks, and she was just adorable, all over me, lapping – what cums I got! Then for a week she avoided me, just cut me dead on the phone – such guilt…"