Carl Van Marcus - The motorcyclist_s wife

Now, three weeks later, the half-naked woman standing lost in thought in her darkened bedroom realized with a guilty start that her own hands had risen to caress her uncovered breasts, and that her loins were rippling with the same liquid desire as she'd felt that sun-drenched afternoon when her husband had tried to make love to her right in the kitchen. Opening her eyes, which had been clenched shut while she relived the obscene memory, the lonely wife could not help noticing that her rose-pink nipples were hardening into taut little buttons. Thoroughly ashamed of herself, she snatched her hands away from her forbidden flesh and made a conscious effort to erase all erotic thought from her mind.

What's wrong with me, anyway? she asked herself. Here I am, playing with my body like a thirteen year old instead of a mature married woman. And it's no good blaming Verne for being gone so much… it's not his fault I love him so much I can't stand being away from him.

Ignoring the tingling excitement in her stiffening nipples, the flushed young woman flicked on the bedside lamp. The artificial light lessened the strange sensual atmosphere in the silent bedroom, but Sandi's swollen breasts were still sending out indecent messages of arousal to all the nerve-endings in her shapely young body. To her chagrin, the crotchband of her snug-fitting white cotton shorts suddenly felt far too tight, as her vaginal lips puffed up in a way that made the honey-blonde housewife feel more ashamed of herself than ever.

"I won't try this stuff on tonight," she muttered, pushing the cardboard boxes back onto the top shelf of the closet after extracting an orange-colored nightgown and a soft red bathrobe. "And I won't bother about dinner either – I'll just go right to bed. Maybe if I start getting more sleep, it'll help my nerves."

Turning away from the dresser mirror as though she were afraid to look at her own naked figure, the nineteen year old wife slipped out of her shorts and at once began to pull the new nightgown over her head to hide the body of which she was feeling so ashamed. Then, as her eyes registered on the gossamer garment, her hands froze in midair. The very idea that Verne had even considered her brazen enough to wear such a revealing nightie was shocking enough, but the lewd thrill of titillation that surged through her bloodstream at the thought of how her husband's eyes would light up with desire when he saw her in it was even more shameful.

It's… it's not just seductive, she thought. It's like something a whore would wear, it really is!

Feeling extremely bold, the young blonde held the diaphanous, apricot-colored scrap of lace up to her naked body and then turned slowly to gaze at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. As she'd expected, it didn't hide one inch of her slender yet curvaceous figure; but she'd not anticipated the way it made her look strikingly different from her usual wholesome self. For one thing, the nylon-lace fabric was cunningly cut to emphasize her well-rounded but average-sized breasts so that she looked as though she wore a D-cup instead of a 34-B! Her hips, too, appeared even fuller and more seductively rounded than usual. Instead of a fashion model figure, Sandi had acquired the body of a Playboy centerfold, and revulsion mingled with a strange excitement in her face as she continued to stare as if mesmerized at the unfamiliar image in the mirror.

"I look like a little girl playing dress-up!" she murmured. "Except that little girls don't dress up to be streetwalkers!"

The clear-eyed, smooth-skinned face with its halo of naturally wavy honey-blonde hair was indeed more like that of a sixteen year old than a nineteen year old. An expression of virginal naivete lingered in her soft brown eyes and rather full lips even after a whole year of marriage, and it was quite true that her voluptuous, though svelte, figure was in striking contrast even without the apricot-hued lingerie. Sandi had been raised in a home where cosmetics, hair dye, and other sophisticated beauty aids were anathema, and since she still retained traces of guilt for breaking certain strict rules her Methodist preacher-father had enforced in his household, she'd never picked up these habits even after leaving home. Consequently, she'd retained a purity and innocence that few girls of her age could match.

In addition, she'd continued to brood over breaking the code of morality imposed in her childhood. Consequently, as she stood in front of the mirror clad only in the skimpy, prostitute-style garment, she seemed to hear her mother's voice echoing in the silence of her empty suburban bedroom.

Suddenly, she was transported back to her narrow bedroom in the whitewashed clapboard rectory, her two suitcases and all her clothes spread out upon her bed as she packed for her honeymoon. Her nostrils quivered with the almost forgotten scent of wilting flowers – the thrifty pastor's wife brought home the limp bouquets after church services, funerals, and weddings – and her proudly-sculpted body unconsciously took on the awkward, hunched-over posture she'd affected in adolescence to hide her budding breasts.

"What's that?" she heard her mother's horrified voice snap. "Surely, Sandra, you can't intend to pack a thing like that! Where on earth did you get it, anyway?" With the tips of her fingers, she picked up a semi-sheer white cotton nightie, looking at it as if its very presence in her house were enough to call down the wrath of God. "What's the matter with that nice pink flannel nightie Aunt Mildred gave you last Christmas? I'm ashamed of you for wasting good money on something like this." She dangled the offending feminine-looking garment in front of her embarrassed daughter's downcast eyes.

"V-Verne gave me money to buy some th-things," Sandi had stammered apologetically. "And then I had the m-money I made babysitting."

"Humph!" the elderly woman sniffed. "Well, if Mr. Smith wants to waste his money on frivolities, that's his business. But I thought you were brought up better than to buy a sinful piece of goods like this, Sandra!"

"But Mother, there's nothing really wrong with this nightie!" Sandi had summoned up the courage to protest.

"There certainly is! Why, you can see your naked body straight through it!"

As there seemed no appropriate rejoinder to this, the young blonde laid the nightdress aside without comment. Later that night, she slipped it into her suitcase, balling it up underneath some inoffensive cotton panties just in case her mother should feel like snooping tomorrow morning.

Now, as the memories faded, an ironic little smile appeared on the blonde wife's face. "What would Mother think of this?" she murmured, wrinkling her nose at the lewdly daring apricot nightdress she was now wearing. But although she was trying to laugh it off, the foundation of guilt was too solid to be easily dissolved, and with trembling fingers, Sandi Smith drew the flagrantly wanton lace nightie up over her lushly ripened body.

I know I'm being silly, she told herself as she folded the soft, silk-like material and laid it carefully back in its box, but I couldn't sleep a wink wearing that, even though I know it's all right as long as Verne gave it to me. After all, he's my husband!

She leaned down to dig her ordinary cotton babydoll pajamas out of the dresser drawer, then paused with her hand on the drawer handle and a serious expression clouding her girlish face.

No! I'm not going to be a baby! she decided. Verne bought it for me to wear, and I'm his wife now, not my parents' little girl! I'll wear it, because he wants me to!

Ignoring the guilty voice pricking at the back of her brain, Sandi again slipped the sexy, slinky nightgown over her slim figure. You like wearing that obscene thing, don't you? the young wife's conscience accused as she climbed into her king-sized bed. You get a kick out of looking like a photograph in one of those dirty magazines. And it's nothing to do with Verne!