For some reason Helen found herself feeling that she was perfect. Why not, after all. Here was someone who didn't know her, had not had time to assess all her faults, her little idiosyncrasies. Someone for whom she just might be perfect! The confused but oddly excited housewife found herself listening with rapt attention to Andre's life story, and by the time he had finished, she truly felt that she knew him, or at least that she knew him well enough so that she felt comparatively safe in meeting him, as he suggested at a coffee shop in Greenwich Village not far from his apartment on Houston Street.
Helen hung up and realized that she was trembling from head to foot. She had only told the man her name and the color of her hair and eyes. She had said she would be wearing her red coat, brown boots and gloves. The blonde housewife jumped up and squealed with joy. She was free! Young again. She was having an adventure!
Helen took a taxi. It wasn't all that far, and she probably could have taken the bus. She made it a point never ever to take the subway. It was far too depressing, not to mention dangerous, being underground, unable to see the light of day, or in this case, the dark of night. The taxi was warm for the weather was turning quite cold. The driver was pleasant in that he didn't speak to her at all. With a great sense of expectancy, the blonde wife looked out the window at the passing New York night life, the neon signs flashing, the people. As the cab reached the Village, Helen looked attentively at the dating couples, the kids walking arm in arm, arms around waists. It was like another world to her, and she suddenly wanted to be part of it. She looked for women of her age, perhaps her middle class background, and found many. By the time she stepped out of the cab after tipping the driver lavishly, as thought it would bring her good luck, Helen felt as though she had completely left behind her the restrictions and problems that her husband represented. It was a good feeling.
Heart pounding, the voluptuous, love-starved blonde adjusted her hair nervously as she approached the Pussy Cat Cafe. She peered inside the steamy pane glass window before entering. There at a corner table she saw the man she was certain was Andre. She caught her breath. Could that be he? He wasn't too bad looking, rather distinguished, fortyish, balding, reading the Village Voice as he'd said he would be. He looked completely safe! That was the main thing.
She entered the cafe and immediately the man at the corner table looked her way. He smiled broadly, and she smiled nervously back. Then she made her way to his table. They sat having coffee and brandy for some while discussing music, the theater, movies, and Helen was impressed at how well-informed Andre was. When he suggested that they go to his apartment around the corner to watch a special program on the Arts on the educational television channel, Helen thought it would be nice to go. After all, she was an adult. She could take care of herself. Willingly, and feeling very daring indeed, Helen went along with the handsome Frenchman. She was a trifle embarrassed at finding that he was slightly shorter than she was when he stood up. But he amicably took her hand and placed it on his arm as they walked the short distance to his apartment building.
Helen walked along with the near stranger, thinking how polite he was, perhaps it was his European background, for he was half-French apparently and had lived in the south of France for many years. She was also wondering what she would say if she suddenly ran into someone she knew, or her husband. What was that creep doing now anyway, she wondered. No doubt he had not even come home yet, even though it was well past nine-thirty at night.
Andre's apartment was on the third floor. A walk-up, and Helen was frankly disturbed by the sinister aspect of the building itself, but her new boyfriend seemed to be trying his best to reassure her. When they reached his apartment and he opened the door for her, she was pleasantly surprised to see that the apartment itself was tastefully furnished, with wall-to-wall carpeting, thick gray drapes, burgundy painted walls, and soft pillows that were strewn about in lieu of a sofa. Various items of sculpture were placed advantageously in the one-room apartment, and crowded bookshelves indicated that Andre was a reader. The television set was brought out from one corner, and the Frenchman turned it on before going to mix a couple of drinks in the tiny kitchenette that opened up like shutters on one side of the room.
Andre encouraged the attractive blonde housewife to take off her boots and relax her feet, and after a moment's hesitation she did so. Then she reclined against a big pillow and sipped her brandy and water while looking at the opening sequences of the program.
But to her amazement when Andre came and sat down beside her, Helen immediately found herself being caught up in the stranger's arms. She protested, turning her head away when he tried to kiss her, and thinking, Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into?
"Don't fight, relax!" he told her as they struggled together on the rug. "Relax! You'll like it."
"Oh no… no… I thought we were going to…" But Andre's mouth had found hers. He was half-lying on top of her, using his weight to hold her still enough to execute the kiss. Helen, in spite of her fears, found herself responding to the stranger's passionate kiss.
Isn't this what you came for? Isn't this what you came for? a voice resounded in her head in time with the wild beating of her blood at the pressure points of her temples. At the same time, the pretty blonde wife could feel her man-hungry body, so long deprived of a romantic reaction, responding with a lewd impatience to the stranger's touches.
And then she was letting his hands run along the ripely heaving contours of her breasts, stopping to play at the spot where the nipples protruded, tweaking them rhythmically through the soft wool of her dress.
Andre moved swiftly to cover her clothed body with his, the hardness of his thickening cock pushing into the flesh of the young wife's belly.
He kissed her wetly on the lips, forcing her mouth wide with his tongue, and then rhythmically sticking it in and out of her mouth until Helen realized that he was parodying the act of love with his thrustings between her lips.
"Oh!" She was excited. Very excited! And the scientist's wife wanted nothing more than to love and be loved by this unknown person, this man whom she'd met through an advertisement in a filthy underground paper! Oh God, if her mother were alive, what would the old lady say if she knew! She'd hemorrhage for sure!
But Helen wanted it, wanted to be here in a handsome bachelor's apartment, wanted to be writhing obscenely on the rug this way! She was allowing him to leave her briefly, long enough to turn on a red light nearby that cast a soft deep shadow over them, seemingly the same color as the lust that the neglected wife had felt for so long. She lay now with her head on a pillow, her eyes closed in mute submission to whatever might happen next. Her ears seemed to be burning and every part of her being was filled with anticipation. Then to her overwhelming joy, she felt her slender legs being slowly spread apart, and her breath came in ragged rushes as she felt her lacy panties being slowly drawn off. There remained her sheer silk stockings and the accompanying garter belt, but her seducer did not touch them. The center, her hair-trimmed pussy, blonde in color, was exposed in all its blushing glory, however, to Andre's lusting eyes.
The Frenchman could not restrain himself from kneeling rapidly in front of the golden-haired triangle of Helen's mouth-watering pussy. It was a beauty! He could almost tell in advance how it would taste! The shape of it, with the sparse, gently curling blonde hairs was consummately appealing to him, and he once more congratulated himself on being able to predict the delectability of a woman's succulent little cunt just by hearing her voice on the telephone.
He saw that Helen's eyes were closed and that she was offering herself to him with a fervor that was almost religious. The woman's inner passivity excited him even more. His face approached the pale silk of her cuntal mound, the secret "vee" of her pussy, and eagerly Andre flicked out his tongue, parting the thinly curling traces of pubic hair and penetrating the already wetly pulsating slit of the adulterous wife's naked cunt.