George Perry - The willing wife

"Janice," he called out, dropping his suitcase in the living room and walking quickly to the kitchen. "Are you home, Jan?" he called out again, annoyed that his little scheme might go to waste simply because she decided to go shopping.

When he didn't find her in the kitchen, he went to the basement door, hoping she might be down in the washroom. But he didn't have to go any further when he saw there weren't any lights on in the basement. He turned quickly and started back, knowing his last hope was that she might still be up in the bedroom. He almost made it back through the living room before his eyes caught the words painted on the wall. He stopped with a jolt.

"DON'T CALL COPS. NOTE ON TABLE."

The shock of seeing graffiti on his living room wall was enough to daze him completely. He felt as though he was moving in slow motion now as he walked toward the coffee table. He picked up the envelope, noted the pile of broken knickknacks on the floor, and tried to guess what this was all about. Could Jan have done this? he wondered. He watched his hands tear open the envelope, take out a sheet of white paper with a montage of words that were obviously cut out of newspapers and magazines. The words were a hodgepodge of sizes and colors. He had the distinct feeling he'd been through all this before… perhaps in another life, he thought.

His eyes gradually focused on the words and he read the message: "We have your wife. Will not harm if you don't call police. Will call with instructions tomorrow at 10 a.m."

Charles found himself sitting on the couch, reading and rereading the note. It must be a joke, he told himself. But the graffiti on the wall made it more than a joke, he decided. Then he got up and started to search the house for some clue as to what was really going on. It only took him a few minutes to discover that whatever it was, it wasn't a joke. And after a few minutes of deliberation he reached for the phone next to the couch and dialed the bank's number.

"Laura," he said, when his secretary answered, "something has come up at home. I won't be back this afternoon. I'd like you to come directly here after work."

"Is anything wrong?" she asked.

"I'll tell you all about it when you get here. I don't want to discuss it on the phone." Then he hung up before she could ask any more questions.

The attractive, twenty-two-year-old redhead pretended to go about her business as usual. But behind her cool outward appearance, she was exploding with curiosity. The hours seemed to drag unbearably. Then, as four o'clock approached and she prepared to leave, she found herself getting nervous. She wondered what her role would be at the Latimer house.

It took less than ten minutes to maneuver her sports car from the bank's parking lot to the Latimer driveway. Then she spent almost as much time getting out of the car and making her way to the front door, making sure she gave the appearance of complete composure. But the door opened before she got to the front steps and Charles was in the doorway waving her into the house. He looked different in slacks and a sports shin, she noted, and he didn't seem upset. But then you could never tell with Charles, she told herself.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Latimer," she said in her best businesslike voice.

"It's okay. There's nobody here," Charles said as she walked past him.

"What's going on?" she blurted out nervously, suddenly relieved that she wouldn't have to carry on some pretense in front of his wife.

"See for yourself," Charles answered with a sweep of his arm, indicating the words was on the living room wall.

Laura gasped at the sight of the graffiti, and before she could say anything, Charles handed her the note.

"I… I… don't get it," she stammered.

"It simply means my dear wife has been kidnapped. Just as the note states. No tricks. No gimmicks. Someone has kidnapped her and is holding her for ransom."

"Phew! For a minute there I thought you had devised a scheme of your own."

"You should know me better than that," he answered seriously. "I don't believe in taking chances with my future at stake."

"But… now… if you call the police…" She couldn't bring herself to say what she was thinking.

"If I call the police, the kidnappers will kill her."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well… if I call the police and the kidnappers do indeed carry out their end of the bargain, it won't look good in the press. It leaves me open to too much criticism. However… if I do as the note says and wait for the call, then go to the bank with their demands… the bank will definitely call in the F.B.I. This of course will be over my objections. As you know, the bank never does anything without first checking with the authorities. The F.B.I. will tell the bank what should be done and the bank will follow their advice to the letter. And the whole matter will be out of my hands. I'll simply be an actor, playing my role to the best of my ability… more or less. However, I feel certain the F.B.I. will insist on calling in the local police. And by tomorrow afternoon the place will probably be swarming with troops."

"Suppose they come up with a plan that gets your wife back?"

"That's a chance we'll have to take," Charles said flatly. "But it isn't llkely. My role will be crucial, you see. One little slip on my part and the game is over."

"Oh, Charles," she sighed, throwing her arms around his neck and covering his mouth with her parted, moist lips. Her tongue teased him into opening his mouth, but quickly retreated when his tongue tried to catch hers. She fended off his right hand with her left arm as he tried to cup her tit. And she used her elbow to keep his other hand from her ass.

"We won't have much time together," he said with frustration. "After tonight, the place will be swarming with the police and F.B.I. And I'll have to be very careful about every move I make… so please don't tease me."

"Well… maybe a little fooling around," she teased. "But not here…"

"The guest room," he gasped, pulling her toward the stairs.

"Remember, just a little," she laughed.

She loved to dangle the bank's vice president like a puppet on a string. The thrill was in watching him crumble from his ivory tower into a pleading, begging puppy-dog, she decided. And when she rewarded him with a goodie, he quivered all over with appreciation.

When they got to the guest room, Charles began pawing at her clothes, anxious to feast his eyes on her pure white skin. He wanted to see that patch of hair between her legs that matched the red hair on her head and drove him wild with excitement. Not to mention her pear-shaped tits, with their quivering, hard nipples.

Laura let him strip her to bra and panties, then pushed him away and grinned into his drooling, panting face. "Mustn't get too greedy," she said in a tantalizing whisper. "And you're getting way ahead of yourself."

Charles heaved a sigh of disappointment when she slipped from his grasp, but remained bolted to the spot where he was standing. Meanwhile, Laura went around the room turning on all the lights, while his eyes devoured her through the sheer, black panties and bra. It was an agonizing game for him. His throbbing cock was cramped in his pants and pounding to the tune of a premature ejaculation. Then his eyes flashed wide as she climbed on the bed and knelt there smiling at him. "Isn't that better?" she asked coyly. "Now we can see what we're doing."

Charles nodded agreement, but really didn't approve of the way she had the room lit like a stage. She had turned on every light in the room: the bright ceiling lights, the lamps on the two night tables, the dresser lamp and even the flexible reading light over the bed.

"First you have to strip for me, so I can get all hot and bothered," she said.