Kathy reached the phone on its seventh ring. She didn't have to count the rings any more, the sound was imprinted in her brain, indelibly.
"Hello?"
"Yes, he's locking the garage door now. Hold on a minute…"
Unavoidably, she knew it was work. Probably some tip on the drug bust, she guessed. But who could tell? The underground policemen with whom Art worked seemed to communicate in a secret language that she couldn't decipher.
Hearing clomping in the hallway, Kathy turned in time to hand Art the receiver, shooting him a warning glance, silent though loaded with emotion. Her lips drew into a taut line as she stood in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of wine, listening to her husband grunt out answers to the invisible invader of their privacy.
The auburn haired woman kicked off her shoes, and taking her wine glass with her, padded down the carpeted hallway to their bedroom. Taking off her light summer jacket, she let it fall on the straight backed chair in the corner of the blue room. She unzipped the simple cotton dress and slipped out of it. The soft cotton stroked over her body, sliding over her smooth, creamy shoulders, onto her full, round breasts, then down to her smooth, svelty curving buttocks, her voluptuous young thighs, her smooth slim legs. At last it settled on the floor with a faint sound that could have been a sigh.
Kathy stepped out of the crumpled pile of blue cotton that lay puddled on the rug. She pulled the sheer froth of her slip over her head, and dropped it, too, on the rug. Reaching behind her, she unhooked the bit of white lace which was her bra, then slipped the straps off her shoulders; it joined the dress and slip on the floor.
Her flimsy nylon panties came next, followed by first one stocking and then the other, a garter belt, a pair of low-heeled shoes. The clothing lay scattered around the room where Kathy opened the bottom drawer of her bureau where she kept her seldom-worn clothes, most of which were Christmas presents from Art and a little too daring for her taste, and pulled out last year's present – a see-through nylon nightie that graced the wisps of her pubic hair, so short was it.
She pulled it over her head then stood silently, straining to hear if Art was still on the phone. A muffled voice from the hallway signified he was, and so she sat herself before the long mirror of her dressing table, picked up a hair brush and unclasping the brown tortoise-shell barret from the right side of her head, began her nightly ritual.
Mentally, she counted as the hairbrush stroked her thick wealth of hair. She stared at herself as she counted, satisfied with what she saw.
But was Art?
Tonight he would be, she grinned salaciously at her mimicking image. Against her better judgment, she smeared on an extra thick coating of mascara to make her eyes look even bigger, deeper. That turned on Art, she knew. After watching that movie with all the intonated but never consummated sex, all the vibrancy of youthful energy, she wanted to fix herself at her seductive best, hoping that the allurement of her long-denied body would calm her jagged nerves. She'd been rather fidgety lately, jumping at the slightest sound, and she'd chalked it all up to lack of sex. Those were the symptoms peculiar to her chemistry; after eight years she'd learned to recognize the signs of abstinence.
With a dab of cotton she dosed herself with the faintest and most expensive of her perfumes. Art likes to buy me all these sexy things… nighties, panties perfume… but I never get a chance to try them out on him. It all seemed so foolishly wasteful somehow. A tease.
Practicing moving in front of the big mirror, watching the brief hem of the garment flare over her hips, exposing the tight, hair-fringed slit of her pussy with every step, Kathy grinned with self confidence.
She slithered out of the bedroom, expecting to see her husband readying himself for bed. Although it went against the grain of her gentle nature, she was ready to seduce him… shamelessly. Maybe that's been my problem, she thought. I expect Art to take the initiative, but he's just too preoccupied. Sometimes a girl has to take things into her own hands… like that blonde girl in the movie.
A vivid vision of Art's long, thick cock sprang into Kathy's mind. Well, what else could she do?
But instead of getting ready for bed, Kathy saw that Art was still dressed as he'd been, the only difference being his shirt was unbuttoned and hanging out of his pants. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a pen and paper his attention now as he drew what looked like road maps. Leaning over his shoulder, pressing her warm smooth flesh against his still clothed body, she leaned over to kiss his neck. Surely that would do it!
"Oh… Kathy," he acknowledged, reaching up to pat her petite hand with his big one, his eyes never leaving the paper. Art didn't raise his head, or turn: instead, he clutched her hand and continued drawing.
"What is it?" Kathy asked in a half-whisper, leaning low so that the sweetness of her perfume would reach his nostrils.
"Map. Think we're closin' in on 'em. This weekend. Gonna happen this weekend during the rock concert." He pounded his forehead with his free hand. "Have to figure some way. Oh, Kathy, baby, forgive me, but I gotta plot this out. You know how I am… I can't figure anything out unless I can see it on paper." Still, he didn't turn his head to see his half-naked wife, her firm, round breasts bouncing out of the deep V neckline of her black nightie. Or the naked, damp slit of her pussy fully exposed. Or the mascara-heavy eyelashes that fluttered in shadows over her high cheek bones.
"I'll only be a second, hon. Meet you in the bedroom in a minute," he conjoled, reaching up to give her hand another pat in another show of compromise.
Downtrodden, Kathy pouted her way back to the bedroom. Did he always have to be so damned dedicated? she thought dejectedly. Was his work really more important than she?
… These and other thoughts passed through the luscious redhead's mind as she lay in bed hopefully awaiting her husband. An hour passed before she could stand it no more and went looking for him. Then, too, her wine glass was empty and her throat dry. Art was still at the kitchen table, his thick fingers running through his thinning hair, a deep furrow lining his forehead like the epitaph on a tombstone.
"That's just great," she muttered, halfway down the hallway, knowing there was no use in trying to coax him, no use in trying to show off her naked body in front of him. It didn't work with Art. Nothing held his attention except for crime and drugs and prostitution.
She returned to the blue bedroom and turned out all but the pale night light above the mirror. She lay nearly naked on her side, contemplating her reflection in the large mirror of her dressing table.
Kathy studied the light yellow image of herself: the full rise of her wide-set breasts with the deep cleavage between; the way her curvaceous body swept into an incredibly tiny waist, with only the most gentle, enticing curve to break the flatness of her smooth-muscled belly; the rich swell of her hip and ass cheeks and the darker triangle of auburn hair in the warm, moist vee of her legs; and then the long, perfect sweep of her legs, one knee slightly higher than the other. Kathy knew that any artist would give everything to recreate the sensual image that was painted across the bedroom mirror.
But she was more than a picture. She was warm, flesh and blood woman, and everybody but her husband seemed to be well aware of that blatant fact.
The insistent aching in her loins was slowly becoming a smoldering fire. She had to dampen the flames somehow – and there was only one way, as much as she hated to do such an obscene thing. She blushed at the very thought of it. Never, not since she was a sixteen year old curious female, had she done such a disgraceful thing.