I am in our backyard, sunbathing alone, wearing my skimpy yellow bikini. Next to my lounger is a picnic table with long side benches on either side. I glance up in response to the sound of our rear gate opening, and soon the Jameson triplets are walking toward me. I can't avoid an inner smile. The lads are 20 now, tall, strapping, and I've watched them grow from gangly 15-year-olds. I am also well aware that they've done considerable watching of me, through their telescopes that they think are cleverly hidden in shrubbery and their upstairs windows.
As they approach, I think briefly of snugging up the unstrapped top to my bikini, but decide 'what the hell' they've probably all seen my tits' so I leave the top 'as is,' and considerable cleavage is available to them. They pretend not to notice, and are looking very business-like. "Hi boys, what brings you by?"
"Hi, Mrs. O'Neill, "I'm Jim Anderson, these are my brothers John and Jackson."
"I know who you are," which isn't quite true because I never could tell them apart. "Just so you know, I feel deep down that you are naughty boys, even if older now."
The three turn crimson-faced in unison. "You mean, because we sometimes look at you?"
"Boys, I don't think 'sometimes' begins to cover it, It seems that every time I turn around, there are spying eyes watching me."
Jackson, possibly the dimmest of the Anderson-clan bulbs, smiles boyishly and says, "We really like to watch you turn around, Mrs. O'Neill"
Despite my best effort to maintain a scolding tone, I can't suppress a laugh. "Well, I really don't know what to say to that, 'thank you' I guess, but you're not supposed to be using high-powered telescopes to look through my windows."
Jim looks scoldingly at his brother, "Jackson has spoken out of turn, Mrs. O'Neill, but his outburst is related to the idea we want to talk about. May we sit down?"
Okay, I'll admit I was curious. "Sure, I can hardly wait to hear this." So they position themselves in a row on the picnic bench.
Jim says, "Mrs. O'Neill, we really do think you are a beautiful woman, We admire you very much."
Although I always enjoy flattery, I remain salty, "Does that mean you've all seen my tits?"
The faces turn crimson in unison again. "Well, uh, uh, well, sorta yes, Mrs. O'Neill, but there's much more to our plan than that."
"Jim, are the three of you sitting here about to give me some kind of plan, and you're admitting to my face that you've all seen my tits?"
Jackson chimes in again, "We love your face, too, Mrs. O'Neill, not just your tits."
Now Jim turns toward his brother, tone angry, "Will you shut the fuck up, Jackson." He turns to me, "I'm sorry, Mrs. O'Neill, Jackson sometimes speaks out of turn."
I stay salty, "To be honest, Jim, he's the only one of you that has made any sense, so far. What the hell is this about?"
Jim takes a deep breath, "First, Mrs. O'Neill, we don't think you could even imagine how beautiful and exciting you are to us."
I feel a little less salty; he really is a handsome, earnest kid, but I can't see where this is possibly heading. "Okay and...?"
"And we have good reason to believe that sometimes your needs aren't being fully satisfied."
I jerk to an upright position so suddenly I definitely risked leaving the bikini top behind, but it holds. "What the hell did you just say?"
"We have good reason to believe that Mr. O'Neill travels extensively and that sometimes it would please you to have friends who would help care for you?"
Now my mind is nearly blown, "So what the hell?" I sputter, "you guys want to be my Emergency Fuck Squad, or what?"
"Oh, no, Mrs. O'Neill, we know you are a married woman. Our plan assures that you remain faithful to your vows."
Now my head is spinning: so many questions, or should I tell the horny bastards to get out of my sight. "And what was the source of your information about my so-called 'needs'?"
"Mr. O'Neill, ma'am."
Now it's my turn to sputter, "Mr. O'Neill, as in my husband Will O'Neill?"
"Yes ma'am."
"So you're saying that the three of you, along with my husband, cooked up some idea that's going to service my needs while he's gone?"
"On no, ma'am, we've had the idea for a long-time, but then we had a chance to talk to Mr. O'Neill, and he said it might be of interest, and we should talk to you."
Now my mind is muddled except for the certainty that I am going to kick my husband's ass at the first opportunity, but I hear myself say, "So what, pray tell, is this plan?"
Excitement and relief are evident on three young faces. They lean forward in unison. Now my instinct to snug up my bikini top increases. This is almost like swimming in a sea of eager young hormones. But I decide it would be a sign of weakness. In fact, I lean forward a bit in anticipation of hearing the story, possibly meaningfully increasing the cleavage display.
As expected, Jim is the spokesman. "Ok, first it's important to know that all three of us have taken a course in human anatomy and that course included a section on erogenous zones, and one night while we were watching and you apparently forgotten to shut your window shades, we got excited -- actually Mrs. O'Neill we got VERY excited -- talking about your erogenous zones."
My head spins again, impressed in an odd sort of way. For at least four years, I've thought of them as horny little bastards who were a bit of fun to tease when my exhibitionist side was feeling frisky, but now they have studied me in-depth and almost sound like men of science. Still, I know that I must remain harsh about this over-the-top affront to my role as a neighborhood housewife. "Jim, do I hear you saying out loud that the three of you want to fulfill my needs by manhandling my erogenous zones?"