A good wife
The phone rang. Mary sighed. She checked her watch. 5:35pm. The phone range again. She sighed again.
"Yes," she said, putting the phone to her ear. "Avondale residence. Hello dear."
He was usually home by 6:00. The only reason he'd be calling is if he was going to work late again.
And he was.
Mary hung up the phone on the receiver beside the kitchen sink. She saw her reflection in the bottom of a stainless pot. Her red hair was perfectly styled. Her lipstick was full and red, just like he liked. And she had worn one of her best tweed skirts and a lavender blouse for him. She always liked to be beautiful for him when he got home from a long day at work.
He had been working late a lot recently. Ever since the company had made him man of the year for 1951 a few months ago, he'd been working a great deal harder than usual. She barely saw him. They hadn't even made love in weeks. She had to smile and giggle with the other girls at lunch when they discussed their sex lives. She could only lie, or stay quite and smile discreetly
Mary looked out the kitchen window across their beautiful back yard. At the rear worked a man from the local nursery, carving a great spade into the earth. Since they moved into this house, Mary had missed the beautiful rose gardens she had tended in their last home and Howard had promised that, come spring, she'd have the most beautiful beds in the neighborhood. She smiled. The man was working hard, building large timber flower beds and piling soil within. His shirt was off, tucked into the back of his trousers. His muscles were flexing tightly as he drove the spade into the ground, scooped up some earth, and then threw it into the bed, again, and again.
He was a very handsome if rugged man, with broad shoulders and short trimmed hair. Mary reasoned he had probably been in the war. He was the right age. She imagined him, in the deserts of North Africa, shirtless, digging foxholes. His muscles flexing tightly. His bronze, tan skin stretching, sweat glistening off his back.
Without noticing it, Mary's hand had begun to absent mindedly stroke her crotch through the tweed skirt. As she did notice, though, she stopped suddenly, and smiled with embarrassment, as if someone had seen her. But no one had. There was no one here, Mary remembered. Howard was definitely not going to be for some time. And she knew the worker couldn't see through the window from that distance.
Her hand began to caress the lower portion of her belly, wanting to fully embrace her crotch, but unable to penetrate the material of the tweed skirt.
The worker's muscles continued to flex. He stopped for a moment. Wiped his brow. Stretched his back. Then continued his labor.
Mary stared at those powerful muscles, wondering what it would be like to have them embrace her. She wanted to smell him. She wanted to smell his sweaty manliness. She wanted to be smother by it. Spoiled by it.
She pulled up her skirt. She pulled it up to her waist. He couldn't see her. She knew he couldn't see her. Even if he could he would never be able to see below the counter, she thought.
Her hand slipped along the edge of her hip, gliding across the straps of her garter belt. She clutched her skirt up in a bundle. She bit her lipsticked lip. She could taste the waxiness.
This was wrong, she thought. She shouldn't be doing this.
But she burned inside.
Good ladies didn't do this.
But it had been a month since he'd last touched her, she reasoned. He couldn't blame her. No one could blame her.
Her mound was moist. She could feel the heat through the silk.
Her hands slid past the elastic, through her hair. Her fingers touched the top edge of her lips. Her heart was racing. The worker was there, right there and he had no idea what she was doing. He had no idea that she was staring at him. He had no idea that she was about to fondle herself while watching him work. Watching him dig. Watching him sweat.
Her heart beat furiously. Her breath was labored.
She felt her pussy, there, hungry for attention. Her fingers slipped in easily. Her juices coated her hand. She felt for her clitoris. She began to rub it.
Her breathing increased as the sensations flooded her. Her hand released her skirt. She grabbed the edge of the countertop. Her knuckles, white.
She rubber her clitoris, pushing on it hard. Her hips rocked. She looked at him. His arms worked powerfully. His back shone with sweat.
She pulled against the countertop, pressing her hips against it's edge, giving her hand more pressure.
He dug at the ground with quick, rhythmic strokes.
Her hips thrust against the counter, grinding her hand against her pussy.
She was moaning. She was moaning and rocking her body, ramming it against the edge of the counter.
She wanted him to hold her. To envelope her. She wanted to be smeared with his sweat. She wanted to be crushed by his weight.
She wanted to be fucked by his cock.
At the thought of that. At the thought of a man other than her husband violating her, she exploded.
She doubled over, as if with pain, leaning into the sink. Her hand beneath her. Her hips still grinding against the edge.
Her breathing was coming out in guttural, gasping moans.
Her eyes were wide, but she couldn’t see anything. Everything was a blur.
After a few moments of groaning she turned. She turned and collapsed to the floor.
She saw herself reflected in the window on the oven. Her hair was a mess. Her brow was sweaty. Her lipstick was smeared and on her teeth. Her legs were wide. Her panties were soiled. Her hand was wet.
But she felt wonderful.
"Yes," she said, putting the phone to her ear. "Avondale residence. Hello dear."
He was usually home by 6:00. The only reason he'd be calling is if he was going to work late again.
And he was.
Mary hung up the phone on the receiver beside the kitchen sink. She saw her reflection in the bottom of a stainless pot. Her red hair was perfectly styled. Her lipstick was full and red, just like he liked. And she had worn one of her best tweed skirts and a lavender blouse for him. She always liked to be beautiful for him when he got home from a long day at work.
He had been working late a lot recently. Ever since the company had made him man of the year for 1951 a few months ago, he'd been working a great deal harder than usual. She barely saw him. They hadn't even made love in weeks. She had to smile and giggle with the other girls at lunch when they discussed their sex lives. She could only lie, or stay quite and smile discreetly
Mary looked out the kitchen window across their beautiful back yard. At the rear worked a man from the local nursery, carving a great spade into the earth. Since they moved into this house, Mary had missed the beautiful rose gardens she had tended in their last home and Howard had promised that, come spring, she'd have the most beautiful beds in the neighborhood. She smiled. The man was working hard, building large timber flower beds and piling soil within. His shirt was off, tucked into the back of his trousers. His muscles were flexing tightly as he drove the spade into the ground, scooped up some earth, and then threw it into the bed, again, and again.
He was a very handsome if rugged man, with broad shoulders and short trimmed hair. Mary reasoned he had probably been in the war. He was the right age. She imagined him, in the deserts of North Africa, shirtless, digging foxholes. His muscles flexing tightly. His bronze, tan skin stretching, sweat glistening off his back.
Without noticing it, Mary's hand had begun to absent mindedly stroke her crotch through the tweed skirt. As she did notice, though, she stopped suddenly, and smiled with embarrassment, as if someone had seen her. But no one had. There was no one here, Mary remembered. Howard was definitely not going to be for some time. And she knew the worker couldn't see through the window from that distance.
Her hand began to caress the lower portion of her belly, wanting to fully embrace her crotch, but unable to penetrate the material of the tweed skirt.
The worker's muscles continued to flex. He stopped for a moment. Wiped his brow. Stretched his back. Then continued his labor.
Mary stared at those powerful muscles, wondering what it would be like to have them embrace her. She wanted to smell him. She wanted to smell his sweaty manliness. She wanted to be smother by it. Spoiled by it.
She pulled up her skirt. She pulled it up to her waist. He couldn't see her. She knew he couldn't see her. Even if he could he would never be able to see below the counter, she thought.
Her hand slipped along the edge of her hip, gliding across the straps of her garter belt. She clutched her skirt up in a bundle. She bit her lipsticked lip. She could taste the waxiness.
This was wrong, she thought. She shouldn't be doing this.
But she burned inside.
Good ladies didn't do this.
But it had been a month since he'd last touched her, she reasoned. He couldn't blame her. No one could blame her.
Her mound was moist. She could feel the heat through the silk.
Her hands slid past the elastic, through her hair. Her fingers touched the top edge of her lips. Her heart was racing. The worker was there, right there and he had no idea what she was doing. He had no idea that she was staring at him. He had no idea that she was about to fondle herself while watching him work. Watching him dig. Watching him sweat.
Her heart beat furiously. Her breath was labored.
She felt her pussy, there, hungry for attention. Her fingers slipped in easily. Her juices coated her hand. She felt for her clitoris. She began to rub it.
Her breathing increased as the sensations flooded her. Her hand released her skirt. She grabbed the edge of the countertop. Her knuckles, white.
She rubber her clitoris, pushing on it hard. Her hips rocked. She looked at him. His arms worked powerfully. His back shone with sweat.
She pulled against the countertop, pressing her hips against it's edge, giving her hand more pressure.
He dug at the ground with quick, rhythmic strokes.
Her hips thrust against the counter, grinding her hand against her pussy.
She was moaning. She was moaning and rocking her body, ramming it against the edge of the counter.
She wanted him to hold her. To envelope her. She wanted to be smeared with his sweat. She wanted to be crushed by his weight.
She wanted to be fucked by his cock.
At the thought of that. At the thought of a man other than her husband violating her, she exploded.
She doubled over, as if with pain, leaning into the sink. Her hand beneath her. Her hips still grinding against the edge.
Her breathing was coming out in guttural, gasping moans.
Her eyes were wide, but she couldn’t see anything. Everything was a blur.
After a few moments of groaning she turned. She turned and collapsed to the floor.
She saw herself reflected in the window on the oven. Her hair was a mess. Her brow was sweaty. Her lipstick was smeared and on her teeth. Her legs were wide. Her panties were soiled. Her hand was wet.
But she felt wonderful.