My name is Lynette, and I am a very successful businesswoman. Until recently, I had moved out of town when I had embarked on a business venture that, unfortunately, did not turn out as successful as I would have liked.
I have returned home and have rekindled a new business with me ex-husband -- no we will not be getting back together. We have worked together before, and we were a formidable team that made lots of money: he looked after the finances and paperwork while I was the saleswoman. This partnership just works! There's no romance between us. That died years ago.
I live in a small house is at the end of a tranquil street. The home next door to mine is owned by my very dear friend, Cathy. She is a few years older than me, and we have been great friends for years. Re-kindling this friendship is one of the reasons for coming back home. Strangely, we are such good friends, but we don't have very much in common. Cathy is a very conservative, church-going citizen. She was widowed three years after the birth of her son, Mathew. Since Cathy doesn't believe in remarrying, she is not interested in seeing other men.
I am in my mid-thirties, and I still think that I am attractive. I'm not tall: I am five feet four inches. I don't know what the metric equivalent to that is: I have always measured heights in feet. But I like tall men; the taller, the better, as I love to wear my high heeled shoes. I have been told that my long legs look fabulous, and I love the way they look when I am in heels.
Like most women, I have an extensive collection of shoes. My shoes are nearly all heels, and when I go out on a date, I wear sexy, tall stilettoes. I like to keep fit by walking and heels shows off my thin, toned calves to perfection. I know that wearing heels is not considered healthy, but I do agree that heels change my posture and I like the "ready for sex" message I am displaying as, to be honest, I am always ready for sex.
I am also a very spiritual person. When I connect with people, I tend to form deep, empathetic relationships. Some people think that I can read minds. It's just that I can really sense other people's moods and thoughts.
AT THE WASHING LINE
I was having a lazy day today. Yesterday, my neighbour and best friend's son had helped me clean up my garden and outdoor deck. That activity had finished with me getting a soaking of water. That had led to my best friend's son and me having some fantastic sex yesterday afternoon, and now I was doing the washing up.
I had already done a load of towels, and they were already hanging on the line. The washing line occupied the small area between Cathy and my house. I thought back to the massage that I had given to Mathew after he had beautifully played with me in my shower.
I had used the large, fluffy white towels to protect my bedspread from the massage oil. That massage had quickly changed to some fantastic sex.
I had forgotten how virile young men could be. Mathew had recently turned twenty-one. I was looking forward to giving this young man an education you just won't get at school.
I had given all my small, Wicked Weasel bikinis a delicate wash. I opened the washing machine and removed the clean swimsuits. They were protected in two lingerie bags, so I unzipped them and transferred them to my wicker washing basket.
I had dressed in a Wicked Weasel white cotton nymph top and a pair of naughty denim shorts.
The white cotton top was very sheer; I sometimes sleep wearing it.
I am only five feet four inches tall, and I had to stretch to reach my washing line. It needed to be this high as, otherwise, my cotton sheets from my king-sized bed would scrape on the ground.
Call it OCD, but I always like to pair things up when hanging stuff on the line. So, therefore, I pegged my sets of bikinis up in order. I still use two pegs clipped on the wireline, and I would drape the thin lycra strings over the pegs so the bikini G-strings would hang the-right-way-up. I simply tied the strings of my bikini tops onto the wire.
The effect was that when you looked at my washing line, all my bikinis appeared as if they were on display. The bikinis bright colours stood out against the white background of my big fluffy towels.
Subconsciously, I wanted people walking along the street to see my assortment of bikinis and judge me as a cheeky, hot woman. In reality, I lived on a quiet street, and the only person who would see my bikinis was Cathy, my conservative neighbour and best friend.
Just then she opened her door and came over to the fence to have a chat. I had a premonition that there was something on her mind; however, the first words out of her mouth were confrontational.
"I wish you wouldn't wear those skimpy clothes," said Cathy. "It makes you look like a harlot!"
"Well 'good morning' neighbour," I replied. "I'm close to wearing want you are. I've worn a cotton top with denim trousers."
"It's not the same," said Cathy exasperated.
"Trust me, men want to see their women dress like this," I teased as I bent down to get something from my washing basket.
"I'm glad I've raised Mathew to be more respectful of women than that!" responded Cathy.
I just stared at her with a raised, well-manicured eyebrow.
Cathy continued, "The scarf in my hair has more material than what you are wearing!" exclaimed Cathy before she stormed off inside in frustration.
I thought to myself, what was that all about? Just then felt my phone vibrate as I received a text message. I keep my phone on silent as I am often in sales meetings and I don't want to disturb my clients while chasing a critical deal.
I quickly looked at the phone's screen as the new message popped up. The message simply said: "Nice under-boobs. ;-)". It was from an unknown number.
I nonchalantly looked around and caught a quick glimpse of Mathew staring at me from out of his bedroom window. He must have looked at my business card, that I gave him a few days ago, to get my phone number. I made a mental note to add this number to 'my contacts'.
I looked at Mathew through his window as I moved across to the end of my washing line nearest to his room so I could hang up my last bikini. As my small lawn sloped downwards in that direction, I had to stretch up just a little bit further to reach the line.
I think I have a trim figure but, as I stretched up to tie the last of my bikini tops onto the line, I could feel my abs protesting slightly. It was a reminder of Mathew's glorious workout yesterday afternoon when he fucked me on my big bed.
I hoped that I was giving Mathew a good look at more 'under-boobs' than before.
UNPACKING
During my unpacking, I had found the boxes which had my paintings, and so I was sorting through them. I liked to think of myself as an accomplished amateur impressionist artist. I heard a knock on the door, so I got up to see who was there.
My heart sank as I saw it was Cathy.
As I opened the door, Cathy apologised, "I'm sorry for my outburst, earlier."
"Darling. There's nothing to apologise for," I responded as we hugged and gave each other an air-kiss.
"Well, we've hardly spoken to each other for ages," continued Cathy. "I'm sorry for being so judgemental," She added after we broke apart from the hug.
"Thanks," I said. "I'll make a pot of coffee. Would you like to join me?"
"That would be nice," Cathy replied. "I've just baked a cake. I'll go over and get it," offered Cathy.
"Deal," I said.
Cathy returned a few minutes later with her home baking. The smell of fresh coffee wafted through my front room. I set up the coffee and some plates on my kitchen bench. Cathy transferred her delicious looking cake to my chopping board. "I'm sorry for calling you a harlot, earlier!" she said.
"Look, thanks for your apology," I replied. "Come, sit down. I've been looking forward to catching up."
We chatted for ages. If there was one thing Cathy was good at, it was knowing all the local gossip. I guess it came from her involvement in the local church.
Towards the end of our conversation, I sensed that Cathy's demeanour had changed. "I'm going away on a Church retreat in the weekend," she announced.
"Oh, what for?" I asked.
"It's nothing, just a leadership workshop," She said. "The thing is, Mathew, will be home alone."
"He is twenty-one," I commented. "I am sure he can look after himself," I added as my mind drifted to how he had looked after me yesterday.
"Did he hurt himself yesterday?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"He says he is off the doctor today," announced Cathy. "It's just that he was cagey when I asked him about it."
