“I had to cut one of the buttons off,” Wendy said. She turned to display the dress she had worn the previous Friday night when we had frolicked on the laundry appliances.
I inspected the dress as this was the first time I had seen it in the light. It had obviously been laundered. It was remarkably similar to the dress I had described. The material and color matched those of the dress worn by Mrs. P on more occasions than I could count. The buttons were white and about one inch in diameter. I could not tell where the 14th button had been extracted from. The size was the only difference in the two dresses; this one was several sizes larger.
“Perfect,” I said approvingly. It was obvious that there was no other clothing under the dress.
We had agreed that the dress that opened down the front would be suitable for our ‘date’ when Wendy had called me about my remark.
“What did that mean?” she began questioning me as soon as I picked up the phone. As usual she took me by surprise. “What are you talking about?”
“What you said about a wall job, you said my high heels would be perfect for one.”
It took all of five minutes for me to explain that I was joking about how the high heels that she had worn the day she stopped by to order a floral arrangement would be perfect for a wall job.
She had played dumb saying that she thought I was serious and wanted to know what a wall job was.
Although I suspected that she knew I was joking that day and I also suspected that she knew very well what a wall job was, I gave her a complete description of the act and she listened attentively. I had a nagging thought that her knowledge, no matter how acquired, was greater than mine.
I failed to divulge my personal lack of experience with the position. I did, however, offer to demonstrate for her how I thought it worked.
“How’s Friday night? Say 7:30?”
So there we stood in Wendy’s apartment, both expectant and nervous, about to try something new to us.
We had discussed dress but I was a little dubious about there being nothing beneath it. The shoes, of course, were a given.
“It’s usually done outdoors,” I suggested, thinking she would have understood that. Using a ‘wall’ is done out of necessity; there is no bed available and it’s too cold to do it on the lawn. I hoped that she would take the hint and grab a coat because we were into November and it was getting nippy outside.
Wendy’s face clouded like it always did when she became perplexed. It was apparent that she was not in favor of venturing outside to look for a suitable wall.
“Or not,” I wavered.
The cloud vanished. It was as if the sun had come out. “Pick one,” she said as she motioned around the room.
I surveyed the apartment and considered the sturdiness of the interior walls. It would be better to choose an exterior wall with layers of brick or cinderblook behind the wallboard. Paintings and photographs lined nearly every wall of the living room. I spotted the stair landing where we had removed the display; there were pictures there too.
I thought of the laundry space. That was an exterior wall, I had seen the cinder blocks. The appliances occupied most of that wall but there was space on both sides. This was probably the only place in the apartment without framed artwork of one kind or another.
I took Wendy by the hand and led her to the laundry area. She was not impressed about my choice; the pout was returning to her face. I pounded on the painted blocks to demonstrate their strength and looked up at her to get her approval.
She relented. “Can we at least turn out the lights so I don’t have to look at the other wall?” I yielded.
I backed her up to the space next to the dryer and gave her a kiss. She separated her legs but it did little to lessen our difference in height. It came to me that two inch heels would have done the trick.
I pressed her body to the wall and she warmed to the attention. I whispered ‘one’ as I unbuttoned the top one. Not to be outdone, Wendy began undressing me. “One,” she said as she tossed my shirt on the dryer. By the time she got to my belt buckle I had unfastened four of her buttons and had one of her nipples in my mouth.
“Thirteen,” I said as she tossed my shorts on the dryer. She wanted to keep the dress on and I preferred to have my socks; otherwise, we were naked. I played with her ass cheeks and she cooed. My cock was jumpy; it nudged her pussy and she cooed more.
Wendy took my cock in her hand and sort of patted it against the lips of her cunt. She broke our kiss to suck in air. She ran my prick up and down her pussy. A humming sound was coming from her lips. I couldn’t help noticing how moist she was.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” She whispered in my ear, her voice had that raspy tone that I found so sexy.
Reluctantly, I lifted my leg and extracted the condom from my sock. She relinquished my cock so I could roll the rubber on. Knowing she would want to inspect the job I reached for her hand and let her feel the latex covering. She voiced her approval, “mmmmm.”
I placed my hands between the cheeks of her ass and her dress against the wall. Her ass was soft and warm. The wall was hard and cold. She moved her pelvis forward as I cupped her cheeks, seeking my member. She broke our kiss.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered, pushing me away.
“What?” I didn’t believe my ears. She was already fumbling with the buttons on her dress.
“I told you, I just can’t,” she said. The finality of the statement was clear but I was beside myself.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I knew I was showing my immaturity. I was whining. I was also frustrated and pissed.
“It feels cheap, I can’t do it.”
I was not looking for an explanation. No reason would have made sense to me at that moment. Nor would trying to change her mind do any good but I challenged her anyway.
“It’s supposed to feel cheap. That’s what it’s all about.” I caught myself. My voice had risen to an unflattering level and I knew I had hit a wall. (no pun intended)
Wendy eased herself by me and walked out of the room. I found my clothes and got dressed in the dark.
“How about a glass of wine,” she called out as I was letting myself out the front door. Her voice was chipper and her face had its usual all-is-right-with-the-world glow.
I stared at her incredulously for a full minute then turned to leave.
“It’s already poured, it’s merlot this time,” she said gleefully.
I turned toward her and shook my head. I felt the rubber rolling down my limp prick. I had to laugh. ‘What a fucking predicament,’ I thought as I walked to the chair at the end of the coffee table.
“What does the ‘K” stand for?” I asked, referring to her middle initial which I had seen on the underside of the coffee table.
“Why don’t you tell me the rest of that story,” she said without answering my question.
“Which story,” I asked as if there were several unfinished stories.
“The Saturday night when you waited in the rain for the lights to go out and Mrs. P took pity and let you in. That one.” Wendy’s bare feet were on the coffee table and she looked comfortable with the wine glass in her hand and an expectant smile on her face.
I took a sip of the wine and continued the story.
Mrs. P let me in but was very distant with me. I followed her back to the kitchen.
As we passed the freezer I stopped to take special notice. It stood higher that I
had imagined. What if we had fallen off? The thought provoked a grin on my face.
I shed my dripping jacket and threw it on the freezer. ‘Getting organized for an abrupt
exit in case it comes to that,’ I thought.
“I’m baking cookies,” she announced as she took her place at the center work island. There was a detached tone in her voice as if she was proclaiming her pet rat had just died.
It was evident that I was not welcome. I kept my distance by standing with my back to the sink which was in front of the work island where she was mixing cookie dough. The clock on the stove behind her read 10:17.
She was wearing the same tan slacks I had seen that morning at the flower shop. An apron covered a flowered blouse which prohibited me from counting its buttons. The
make up that she had worn that morning had been removed. The line in her forehead
was missing but her mood was sour.
Her hands moved with dexterity. More flour, milk was added, the mixing spoon spun around the bowl, the consistency of the batter was tested and chocolate chips were added. A cookie sheet was greased and dough was measured out. I wondered if I could call her ‘Cookie’ from now on.
She looked up from her work and saw me watching her. It was a startled look as if she had forgotten I was there.
“I meant what I said,” our eyes locked and lingered, “not a word, do you understand?” Her eyes were fixed on me. They were beautiful.
“I understand,” I answered, nodding solemnly. “I have just one question.”
She had looked away, having released me from her stare.
