Carl Van Marcus - The motorcyclist_s wife

Instead of getting right out of her car, the twenty five year old brunette paused to light a cigarette and consider the situation. She'd felt a little dubious about coming over tonight, not wanting to intrude on the grief-stricken wife's privacy, but she'd finally decided that if it had been her husband Larry who'd been injured, the last thing she'd have wanted was to be all alone. Now, though, there was this funny business about the light – it did seem to indicate that Sandi didn't want any visitors.

Clare sighed, thinking as she often had before that Sandi Smith was one of the most difficult to understand females she'd run across in quite a while. Months ago, when the Smiths had moved to a house in Lakeview Estates only a few blocks away from the Johnson's home, Clare had looked forward to becoming good friends with the younger blonde woman. She'd expected to have more in common with her than with most of the other women in the subdivision, who all seemed to have several young children and a husband who came home for dinner every night of the week, but the pretty new wife of her husband's best friend hadn't responded to any of Clare's overtures. In fact, the brunette had the distinct impression that the younger girl didn't approve of her at all, and after several rebuffs she'd stopped ringing her up to chat or inviting her to go places. The only times she saw her were when Larry and Verne were in town and the two couples would get together.

She's probably just shy, Clare told herself now, stubbing out her cigarette and getting out of the car. And I'm sure she needs cheering up, whether she thinks so or not… everyone needs friends when things are rough, and maybe this is a good opportunity to get to be real friends…

As the statuesque brunette made her way across the dark back yard, the sound of a car squealing recklessly down the quiet suburban street startled her. It seemed to be coming from right out in front of the Smith's house, and the vague uneasiness she'd felt as the light suddenly flashed out returned. When there was no answer to her increasingly loud knocks, she began to feel certain that something very mysterious was happening inside the white frame house.

Something's going on here, I know it is! she thought. I don't know if I like the feeling of this…

Moving as silently as she could, the tall, voluptuous young woman inched open the door leading into the kitchen, and the moment her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, she knew her instinctive suspicions had been more than justified. Only one conclusion could be drawn from the discarded bathrobe, empty wine bottle, and especially the heady odor of sex which permeated the small kitchen: Verne's quiet, frigid-acting little wife had a secret lover! Who ever would have thought such a thing!

Although Clare prided herself upon being a sexually liberated "swinger" and in fact had a more than dutiful relationship with her boss, plus several other boyfriends who satisfied the needs of her healthy young body while Larry was away on tours, she had to admit to a tremor of shock that Sandi was carrying on like this just after Verne's accident. By now her curiosity was avidly aroused, and she determined to ferret out the lurid details from Sandi.

If there was anything Clare enjoyed, it was a good sex scandal, and this was even more outrageous than her recent discovery of a well-concealed swap club right here in the staid subdivision of Lakeview Estates. Though she had no particular interest in swapping, far preferring the live-and-let-live relationship she had with Larry, it gave her a good deal of secret satisfaction to know which prim and proper young mothers pushing their baby carriages in the mornings would be participating in nude orgies in someone's split-level come nightfall. Far more exciting, though, was tonight's verification that the pretty young blonde was actually a hot-blooded female like herself, not the mousy prude she'd appeared to be.

Her pulse quickening, the lithe brunette tiptoed down the carpeted hallway, hoping against hope that the car she'd heard skidding away wasn't that of Sandi's lover and that she might be able to observe them in the act. Before she'd gone more than a few yards, however, her lascivious expectations were forgotten as the sound of a woman's inconsolable sobs reached her ears. Breaking into a run, the dark-haired neighbor hurried to the bathroom and flung open the unlocked door.

"Sandi!" she exclaimed, genuinely concerned by the bedraggled appearance of the young blonde girl in the tub. "Good God – what's happened?"

The naked blonde whirled around to stare straight into the face of Larry Johnson's wife, then buried her face in her hands in an agony of shame, unable to bear the further humiliation of being discovered for what she was. Everything was over now – her marriage was finished! Clare would surely tell her husband, who'd tell Verne out of spite…

Clare Johnson gaped down at the rich curves of the naked girl in the bathtub in bewilderment, trying to understand what was going on. None of this made very much sense, and her reasoning ability was distracted by a strange thrill curling along her backbone. Sandi's body was far more lushly feminine than she'd ever imagined, and the dark-haired wife felt half-forgotten emotions surfacing rapidly as she gazed at the blonde's rose-tipped, water-slickened breasts and taut, well-rounded ass-cheeks. Impulsively, she reached over to stroke the weeping girl's soft-fleshed arm, feeling an undeniable warm tingling surge through her own body at the contact.

"There, there, honey," she murmured in a soft, soothing voice, bending over to kneel on the fluffy pink mat beside the tub and placing both of her hands on the younger girl's shuddering shoulders. "Don't cry… look at me – tell me what's the matter. Let me help you…"

Even as she tried to console Sandi, Clare's mind was flooded with memories of the time eight years ago, when she'd first left her parents' farm in Southern Illinois to go to secretarial school in Chicago. She'd shared an apartment with a beautiful blonde girl named Rosemary, and they'd immediately become close friends, sharing confidences and clothes and often going out on double dates together to prevent being pawed at by some over-amorous young man. Both of them were determined to remain virgins until marriage, or at least until they truly felt in love, and it was doubtless that this unnatural denial of the needs of their ripe young bodies had deepened their friendship to the point where both voluptuous virgins were sharing the small apartment's double bed instead of taking turns sleeping on the uncomfortable coach.

Now, so many years later, Clare's sensuous body vibrated with excitement as she remembered the beautiful, erotic nights she'd enjoyed with Rosemary, and the sensual stimulation they'd obtained first by kissing and cuddling, later by licking and sucking every inch of each other's smooth white flesh. Rosemary's girlish breasts had been so soft, so warm… her virginal pussy so sweet-tasting… her orgasms so poignantly intense… Her slender, graceful young body – so similar to Sandi Smith's – seemed to have been designed expressly for love.

Their guilt-free, deeply satisfying love had continued for about six months, until they both met men strong and seductive enough to deflower them, dropped out of secretarial school, and went their separate ways. Every Christmas Clare received a card from Rosemary, who now lived in California with her husband, and though she'd never met the man she was certain that he couldn't help but be happy with a woman as sensually skilled as her friend had been.

Now, for the first time since that short but intense affair, the sultry brunette found herself longing to re-experience the tender rapture of lesbian love. Perhaps it was because Sandi so closely resembled Rosemary, but Clare was vibrating with an irrepressible longing to caress and comfort the gracefully seductive young blonde.