What is sexy? A smile? A Breast? A butt? A thigh? Lingerie? All that and more, I guess, but what I found sexy one morning about two years ago wasn't any of those things. It was a minister's wife just standing there. Just standing in the doorway of a church I'd never been to before. I'll call her Jane. She was nice looking, sure, and well dressed, and she did have a decent figure, but something in the way she stood there in the sunlight: straight, smiling, feet together. The picture of femininity. That's what I found sexy.
Of course Jane was unavailable, but I wanted to get close to her anyway. I have had a thing for minister's wives ever since I had a teen-age encounter with another one. After a few months of doorway chats after church, I found a way to get close to her. It turns out that she and her husband were in need of some carpentry and plumbing work. I'm no expert, but I know a finial from a flue pipe, and I was only working part-time, so I soon found myself changing sinks, building cabinets or bookcases and a host of other small jobs around the parsonage. And Jane, who once had been so correct and formal, actually turned out to be very real, with a nice sense of humor. She made most of the decisions about things around the house, so it was only natural that we spent a fair amount of time together talking about this stain or that fixture and countless other things. After five or six weeks her husband, forgive me for calling him "John", even made jokes about my being like "One of the Family".
As time went by and I felt the occasional lingering touch from Jane, I put it down to our growing friendship; her letting her hair down a little, becoming real, as opposed to being on display for all the church to see. As weeks became months, and the touches more numerous, I started to wonder. Was I picking up some small signs of attraction? Could a minister's wife actually be real, be needy of touch and sex? The idea seemed farfetched to me, but there was no denying her hand on my shoulder when I was down on one knee measuring something, or the hands on my waist as she slipped past me in the cluttered hallway.
Around this time Jane started to ask me questions about her clothes. Was this dress too bright? Does this one make me look "matronly"? Innocent questions all---or were they? I was confused as hell, but enjoyed thinking about the possibilities. Then Jane practically started modeling for me. She'd ask me about one outfit, then disappear behind a closed bedroom door to take off one dress and put on another. Soon the bedroom door wasn't even shutting all the way. A short time after that, Jane got a package in the mail one day and became giddy with excitement, hiding it from me. It was lingerie, of course, and she didn't admit it, but it was obvious. Woman have been buying lingerie from Victoria's Secret for over a decade. Not minister's wives maybe, but normal women. Anyway, Jane admitted it over coffee a few days later. She apologized, actually, and said she felt stupid. I had a hunch why, and asked in the most delicate terms if in fact she had bought the underwear to make her husband more "Romantic". The answer was "Yes", of course, and he hadn't risen to the bait. Even a first-year Psyche student with failing grades could have seen that. I smoothed over the moment with some blandishments, said things take time, mentioned a vacation and told Jane straight out she was beautiful. That helped perk her up and I saw a smile again. I saw more than a smile later when working in the hall. Jane let me know she was changing to go over to the church, and she left the door open just a crack. Once again, an invitation? Whether it was or wasn't, I decided to crash the party. With thumping heart I walked quietly to the crack of the door and peaked in.
Jane wasn't there. I could see a fair part of the room, and even more with the mirrors, but there was no sight of her. I heard a toilet flush, and the mystery was solved. Jane emerged from the master bath and stood in front of her closet for a moment before pulling her sweater over her head. She was wearing the new underwear, a lavender bra that probably accentuated her breasts somehow. I could see cleavage and a pale valley between two medium-sized breasts. A moment later she took off her slacks, revealing a matching lavender pan tie. Jane took a minute to study herself from different angles, then reached behind her to unhook the bra and took it off. I silently sucked in my breath as her pink-tipped breasts were revealed. I had ample time to admire them, because Jane turned one way and another, admiring--or critiquing, more likely, her breasts. When she slipped her panties off, I almost gasped out loud. Ten feet in front of me was Jane's ass: Two pale globes separated by a deep crack. Looking in the mirror directly in front of her I could see a patch of light brown pubic hair. Jane turned sideways and sucked in her stomach slightly, giving me more time to feast my eyes. And I did. Did I ever! I tried to memorize every sweet curve, every color, the swaying breasts--everything. The result was a near painful swelling and stiffening of my penis. It didn't get any smaller when Jane selected a conservative white bra and panty and put them on. She looked good in those, too. Knowing the show was over, I retreated as quietly as possible. Not six feet from her door I had the misfortune to make a floorboard squeak, which gave me a heart attack.
I retreated quickly and put all my focus on sanding a banister, hoping to convince Jane that what she heard wasn't really someone in the hall. She emerged shortly, smiling, and even offering a hug before she left. A "Thank-you" hug she called it. I protested that I had sawdust on me, but she asked if that wasn't just a ruse to avoid hugging an "Old Maid". I HAD to hug her now, so I got up, brushed myself off dramatically and held my arms out. Jane came in close and hugged me for a second, and there was no way she couldn't have felt my hardness angled awkwardly off to one side Jane wasn't deterred in the least. She held me tightly.
"Thanks. I needed that. "
I smiled at the old line, but Jane smiled at me and was gone before I could think of a single intelligent word to say anyway.
In the following two weeks Jane bought a pair of shorts and a halter top. She modeled both for me, again waiting for a moment when her husband was out. She made me blush when I said the halter top was borderline, because of cleavage revealed if she leaned over. Jane immediately leaned forward and looked down at herself, giving me an eyeful and a delightful sexy laugh. She admitted that it may not be appropriate for "Everyday", but maybe just around the house.
The next day I was in a plumbing mode and waited to begin until after Jane had taken a shower and her husband was off on his rounds. Jane was still in her bathrobe, and I wasn't working for long when I called for her assistance. I needed someone to hold the new faucet handles while I tightened them from below the vanity. It was a job I hated: On your back, never comfortable, never the right angle, never light where you need it. Things changed when Jane came in, though. As she leaned over the sink, her knee-length robe gapped open in front slightly. In the position I was in, head down by the floor, I could look up Jane's robe with no trouble at all. In fact, moving my head only slightly gave me a view to equal Mt. Olympus, Mt. Fugi and Mt. Everest combined. I was looking at Jane's Mount, Mons or whatever it's called, and the sight was more thrilling than any mountain. A full bush of light brown pubic hair was separated by two protruding labia on a raised mound.
I tightened the washer as slowly as I could for each side, breathing deeply. I wanted to remember her pale skin, the tiny hairs, the somehow sexy wrinkles of those outer pussy lips.
"David?"
That's my name. I tried to answer in a calm even voice, but couldn't. Hers didn't seem normal, either, though.
"How's it going?"
"Beautiful" I replied.
