Lydia Gordon: A degraded honeymoon

Sylvia led Cathy off one direction while Bob went with Jack Bailey in the other. At the door of the bathroom, the brunette told Cathy to hand her dress out so she could get it dried. Cathy stepped inside, pushed the door half shut and moved back so she would be obscured from the other woman's view, then quickly unbuttoned the dress of her brassiere-clad breasts, pushed it from her shoulders and let it drop from the flare of her hips, then retrieved it and handed it out. She listened to Sylvia's footsteps move away down the hail, then closed and latched the door, reached behind her back and deftly undid the snap to her bra, feeling her already pertly erected nipples tingle to even greater rigidity as she shed the bra-cups from her proud young breasts. Clad in nothing but her low-hanging panties, the slender blonde bent to start the hot water to run in the bath, then straightened up, hooking her thumbs into the elastic waistband to peel the skimpy little panties quickly down off her hips and thighs. Though the water hardly covered the bottom of the tub, she got immediately in, her bare golden skin prickling with goosebumps from the sharp contrast of the warm water of the bath and the cool dampness of her own sensitive flesh.

She settled completely down on her buttocks, relishing the sensation of the water rising quickly up between her thighs to lap right into the softly curling hairs of her cunt and her sensitive pink vaginal lips. Her brain still reeling from her stunning encounter down in the barn, she took the bar of soap and the wash cloth and began gently to scrub over her shoulders and underarms and breasts, using the washrag only as an excuse to indulge in an innocent and wistful self-caress, as she'd showered before they'd got on the road from the south in the morning.

My God, Cathy thought, she didn't think she'd ever experienced anything so abrupt and direct, so physical and animal, in the whole history of her relationship to the male sex. Not that so much had really happened. After all, he'd just kissed her and held her body close to his, and for all she knew it might have been nothing on his part but a way of subduing and calming her, as one might hug and kiss as a means of calming a a hysterical child. But that still didn't account for the look of ruthless anger and lust she'd seen in Jack Bailey's eyes when she'd tried to knee him in the groin. It was a look which she'd never seen anywhere else in her life, except perhaps in a movie, and the strange mingling of excitement and terror that had gripped her at the sight of it was something she'd rarely ever known – except, to a degree, at least, she reminded herself with a sudden surge of apprehension and regret, just before Bob had taken her cherished virginity on their wedding night.

That somber association startling her back from the dreamy reverie into which she'd been unconsciously drifting, Cathy replaced the soap in the tray, draped the washcloth over the edge of the tub, and sat silently staring down at the lush swells of her proudly upstanding breasts and, between them, the sleek smoothness of her belly and, lower, the almost awesomely beautiful triangle of the sparse, light brown hair of her cunt. The sight was for her now a bitter reminder of her unfulfilled sexuality, of the conjugal failure of her marriage. Even the fact that her thoughts of Bob had detracted her from those deliciously forbidden thoughts she'd been having about her earlier encounter in the barn served to instill in her a numb hostility toward her husband, and she knew that was a warning sign she shouldn't ignore. She knew now that the danger she'd sensed in the storm must have been a real premonition instead of idle fantasy. And she knew that it was imperative that she and Bob get away from here as soon as possible, before, on a foolish whim, she allowed something to happen that would only make things more difficult for their marriage in the long run.

And that, she told herself without conviction, was the thing that really should be concerning her now. Her marriage was what was important, and she couldn't give up on it just because everything hadn't been storybook wonderful during the first difficult month of adjustment. It was love, and a lasting relationship that mattered, not the raw excitement of one illicit, animal-like encounter with a man who seemed romantic and exciting only because she didn't know him.

Perhaps fifteen minutes had passed before Cathy heard the soft knock on the door and Sylvia Bailey said: "You're dress is dry. I'll hang it out here."

"Okay," she replied. "Thank you."

Cathy listened to the sound of the other woman's footsteps moving away down the hall, then lifted herself to a standing position in the tub and stepped quickly out. She retrieved the long bath towel that hung on the rack and began to pat softly over the moisture-beaded curves of her naked flesh, her eyes straying to the full-length mirror on the bathroom door as she did so. She brushed across the still rigidly erected little buds of her nipples, then rubbed the towel down the smooth plane of her belly, into the softly curling hair that covered her pubis, and finally straight up between her slightly parted thighs, the fluffy material scratching teasingly along the slit of her cunt, little shivers of forbidden pleasure darting through her body. Then, eyeing herself thoughtfully in the mirror, she released the towel with her right hand, letting it fall free of her thighs and hang to the floor.

It was crazy, she thought. The whole thing was just crazy. Here she was in this house belonging to two total strangers, two people she'd seen for the first time less than half an hour ago. Here she was, standing stark naked in their bathroom, questioning the whole foundation of her marriage which itself was less than a month old. Of course they weren't complete strangers, she reminded herself. At least in one way there had been a kind of recognition down in the barn when she'd been startled by Jack Bailey and ended up immediately in his arms, kissing him, melting her tender young body against his. It was almost as if she'd been waiting for him to fulfill the threat she'd perceived in the storm.

Quickly then, the naked blonde finished drying herself, replaced the towel on the rack, and carefully opened the door. Remaining concealed behind it, she reached around and retrieved her dress, which had been left hanging on the doorknob. She draped the dress across her arm, stooped to pick up her brassiere and panties, which she'd left where she dropped them on the floor. Realizing that they were both still soaking wet, she hesitated thoughtfully. That was so stupid of her, not having given them to Sylvia Bailey to dry along with her dress. Of course her own body heat would dry them soon enough, even if those wet bra-cups might be a little cold on her breasts at first. But until they were dry, she reasoned, she would be walking around with her dress quite noticeably moistened in two separate, distinct places – her buttocks and pubic area, and her breasts.

Not completely eluded by the irony of her little predicament, Cathy considered her alternative. And there was only one reasonable alternative – she could wear her dress without her brassiere and panties. Going braless in this day and age was not in itself that daring, of course, but even with a brassiere her shapely breasts, their ample size exaggerated by the slenderness of her torso and her arms, attracted more attention than she needed or cared for. The light colored print cotton dress, with buttons down the front, would be particularly revealing. And as for her panties, even though Bob and Jack Bailey and his wife didn't know she wasn't wearing them, she would know herself, and the very idea of walking around with her pussy bare, even bare beneath a knee length skirt was something Cathy had always considered indecent to the point of slutiness.