She took it from the hook over the kitchen table, sat there gazing at the panties wadded in her hand as she answered.
The caller was Madge, Brian's secretary, saying, "Your husband will be with you in a moment, Mrs. Fenner. Your line is on hold."
"Uh huh," Susie murmured absently. She tossed the panties on the table and pulled back her skirt. Her pussy, she saw, was still wet, hair matted, the lips puffed and pinkish, ovalled about the crinkled jelly of her inner parts. Her clit had gone limp and lay curled about its notch.
Then Brian spoke. "Tonight we're going to Caroso's with Clayton and his wife, so dress up for Crissakes, you know what a terrific looking hunk of ass she is, and Caroso's is the in restaurant, got it?"
She said, "I thought you were fighting with Clayton."
"Olive branch stuff, his idea, bury the hatchet. In my back, and don't trust his bitch of a wife – he has her trained to milk you, see, find out what I've said about him, the crummy asshole. Pick you up about six."
The line clicked. Dead.
She did not lift the receiver up to the hook but laid it on the table and returned to studying her pussy.
A few tiny flecks of Phil's creamy jizzum hung in her pink labial creases, evidence of her infidelity to Brian.
On the phone, squeaky sounds, perhaps a feminine voice. Probably it was Madge, repeating Brian's orders. Madge, who spread her legs when Brian said to. At least, that was what Susie had heard at office parties. Carla, Clayton's wife, said everybody knew about it, though Susie had no reason to trust Carla's word.
At the moment that whole scene was unimportant. Susie rose and headed for the bathroom to douche out her pussy but on the way her steps slowed. She felt lethargic, drugged, and reaching the bedroom she entered and flopped down on the bed. In her mind whirled Phil's erection stretching the pink panties, the jiji wobbling in her vagina as she swung, and Gwen naked down to shaven vulva, in lotus position on her yoga platform. It all seemed too much to absorb.
She slept through the afternoon.
CHAPTER SIX
Brian arrived late. He flung himself into the house tearing off his clothes on the way to the shower.
Susie sat at the kitchen table sipping a dry martini and smoking a cigarette. She wore a blue sheath dress and opal earrings, heavy eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick.
Brian, unzipping his pants, gave her a quick look and said, "Okay, you look all right. Maybe you'll get into the swing eventually, dressing like an executive's wife should."
But Susie was seeing herself as a wood nymph with one breast exposed, flitting about the house next door.
He said, "But hold down the boozing or you'll spill the beans to Clayton's wife, like how big I scored yesterday which Clayton doesn't realize yet. That cunt is one sneaky bitch, don't forget it."
His pants and shorts fell. He was kicking out of them, toeing his shoes off, and everything would remain in a heap for Susie to haul away. She gazed at him, thinking what a wonderful body her husband had, that great hairy chest, the long, muscular legs. And his genitals, a dark penis that even limp looked fat and long, plump testicles weighting his scrotum far down between his legs.
He was twice the man Phil was. But, impaled on Phil's rigid organ, Susie had gotten the biggest cum of her life.
Brian went and showered, appeared wearing a new gray suit, a silky sheen to it, oh yes he was a dreadfully handsome husband to have, and in the car, a big new sedan, she guessed she should feel rather queenly, pretty wife of executive exuding success, the same at Caroso's where a bill that Brian slipped into the headwaiter's hand bought them the best table and instant service.
Clayton made a good appearance, smaller than Brian and with a foxy look – Brian was equally sly but concealed it – handsomely dressed and adorned by the beauteous Carla, a redhead wearing an actress bra that squeezed her big white breasts out into view, sheer sex, that woman, but watch it, she is as sneaky as Brian says.
During cocktails the two men went off to the bar to have a stiff one while clapping each other on the back and roaring at their jokes. Susie thought, What a pair of fake, shitty bastards!
Carla prattled about office gossip, clothes, hairdos, the latest perfumes and vaginal deodorants, none of which had to do with a wood nymph. Susie smiled vaguely and answered in one word questions. Carla was obviously relieved when the men returned.
They had wine with dinner and brandy afterwards, too much to drink maybe because Susie sat like a lump, a washout, maybe a dumb house-wife, she thought. The booze gave her a headache and when they got home she took sleeping pills and zonked out. During the night she thought she felt Brian stick it into her but she was not sure.
In the morning she came alive. Alive, yes, skipping and singing as soon as Brian had left for work, by nine o'clock finished tidying up, and dancing to the back lawn and across it to the latticework gate and through to the shadowy back porch of the house Brian called a Gothic horror.
In the kitchen she heard the twanging of a ukulele.
"Rita!" she called.
"Sweet Susie! Come in, do you know the tune of Aloha Ohee?"
Susie hurried in, found her friend wearing a white-on-red sarong, her body voluptuously swaying through a hip-tossing hula as she strummed a ukulele held at her waist. Her bare breasts rolled and swung, and so did a lei of fresh red and white flowers about her neck.
Delighted, Susie clapped her hands, and in that moment knew the key to this house. It was joy, unselfish, undemanding, shared.
How unlike the jungle warfare of Brian and Clayton!
Susie ran to Rita and gave the ritual kiss on the mouth and in it, her tongue weaving about Rita's almost in hula rhythm.
Then Rita laughed and said, "So, my wood-nymph darling, you're back. To the wardrobe?"
"Oh yes!" Susie cried and arm-in-arm they swung into the hall to the roomful of costumes where Susie snatched her mesh-like blue garment from a hanger and began undressing.
Rita, strumming her ukulele, said, "Phil told me how big you and he made it."
Blushing, Susie nodded. "He's sweet."
"His mood was so high that this morning, when his old boss phoned and asked him to do a special repair job on a business machine, he accepted. You certainly snapped him out of his fag-fear mood."
Susie paused in unhitching her bra. "Then he's not here?" she asked, disappointed.
"No, but Howard, my husband, is, and dying to meet you. So's everyone, after how Phil talked. By the way, he took this job in part to raise money to buy you something."
"Goodness!" Susie said. "A gift? But I'm married – goodness, it makes a mixup, doesn't it? And Willa, what would she say?"
"Nothing nice. She mother-hens Phil. She's rather a brassy creature. Punch her in the stomach, show her you won't take any crap and she'll be a doll."
"Goodness, I couldn't punch anybody," Susie said, hanging up her bra and then pushing down her panties hurriedly, eager to get into her wood-nymph costume.
Rita, smiling at her, said, "You are indeed a luscious thing, Susie. You make my pussy fairly quiver." Then abruptly she put down the ukulele, gave a yank at the sarong knot on her hip, stripped off the garment and came stark naked into Susie's arms.
The meeting of soft breast and belly flesh, a cushiony merging, flowing together, heated Susie to the toes, and eagerly she hugged her friend, found her mouth, kissed her.
Like that, tongues lolling over each other, nipples growing lustily – Susie could not be sure which pair of the four nipples indenting the warm breast cushions were hers – bellies squashing snugly, pubic hair brushing thighs, they twined arms about each other's backs, hugging tighter, pulsing on a shared heartbeat.
Susie recalled her puzzlement yesterday about her apparent lesbian streak. Right now it seemed pure affection, love for dear, generous Rita, who had so wholeheartedly welcomed her to this strange menage called the Pageant, the Zoo, Howard's Horny Haven.