The Housewife From Hell
Introduction: Michael, 22, wants to be a priest. Sort of. Amanda, his mother,
is 44, not a raving beauty, but she has needs. Our housewife is Amber, an afternoon wife. She's married to Harold, a typical husband who falls asleep after dinner.
Chapter 1
Michael grumbled to himself as he sat reading an erotic novel he'd purchased at the adult book store. These lurid classics were hidden under his mattress because his mother was very strict about his reading material. He found time to read when she was doing the laundry or out next door with a neighbor discussing who had moved to Canada or maybe to Bolivia. Life was getting tougher, prices were going up, and a good man was hard to find. That's what his mother always said.
Amanda was his mother's name, not scriptural, but since the worst people in the world have scriptural names, Amanda' s dark side works well for this story. At her age, 44, she was no raving beauty. But she did have curves. When she was younger she got hired fast because of her bust size, her big boobs, not because she was good looking or had an IQ that was off the charts. Her boobs, like two huge grapefruits, sat on her chest and when you spoke to Amanda you usually talked to her boobs. It irked her at first but then she learned to live with it. After all, there were lots of flat chested women who needed to get advanced degrees, like MBA's, to get hired. Amanda had a high school diploma and a burning desire to talk to God. Or almost anyone who would listen. In a sense she was spiritual and she went to confession every week and even Michael didn't know what she told the priest but it must have been one hot confession since the good father always emerged red-faced and perspiring heavily.
Her going to church had a influence on Michael when he was an impressionable kid. Thus when he had to make a life decision it was either the priesthood or go to law school. Too many people were lawyers these days, usually bottom feeders or politicians, and Michael wanted to distance himself from those worthies. Even the Vatican had lawyers and judging from headlines the Pope spent more time purging the Church from lawyers than he did caring for his flock.
Michael couldn't understand why he was torturing himself, getting hard and then what was he supposed to do? Jerk off as usual; he hated himself for masturbating. Self loathing, that's what it was called.
He intended to become a priest, a Jesuit, and he was serious about getting a doctorate teaching in some university, maybe Santa Clara University, or Loyola, both Jesuit schools. He didn't think he possessed the grit he needed to become a parish priest. Just the thought of the confessional alone made him shiver. Having to listen to women tell him how often they played with themselves, and who was licking whose pussy and who was having an affair with some married guy. It was more than he could take.
Deciding to test himself, Michael wanted to see if he could handle the temptation. It wasn't like he was Moses leading Israelites to the Promised Land. Moses was 80 years old when God told him to get out of Egypt. And Moses was smart enough to know he was old, not that he'd be tempted to fuck his brains out for 40 years in the desert. His libido was almost gone. Maybe that's why God chose him. If he were a young man, and had all those yummy women to deal with, he would never have made it.
* * *
Michael knew about the women who went to the Copley lounge to meet salesmen. These were afternoon wives because they were there to meet salesmen in the afternoon. Salesmen looking for action with a horny housewife. But Michael didn't have the personality makeup of a salesman, he tended to be morose most of the time. He never looked at the good side of life, only the concept of eternal damnation. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he felt it was a good fit. Who ever heard of a happy priest? He had a big sign posted in his bedroom, borrowed from Dante's Inferno: "Abandon hope all ye who enter here ..." or something like that. It was the gateway to Hell.
Before going away to seminary, he wanted to give himself a gift. A going-away present to himself: he wanted to get laid. It was written on the white board hanging in his study. GET LAID! He actually wrote it in Greek because he didn't want a tirade from his mother. Unfortunately, he was still a virgin and he felt he had to indulge in the excesses of the flesh to see what all the fuss was about.
He had never slept with a woman, other than his mother and she wasn't really a woman. She was his mother and they cuddled when he was sad, which was most of the time and she taught him that his issues were connected to his penis and if she fondled his pecker to make it stiff and rub it a while until he felt his balls explode everything would be OK. At least until it got hard again, which didn't take long, with his mother fingering his shaft the way she did. She loved playing with his penis when it was soft, and she'd put it in her mouth and suck it until it got hard. His mother took care of everything, like a good mother should.
What he wanted was a real woman, a hot blooded female, the kind that wanted to meet a salesman, the kind of woman who was so bottled up with frustration that even a middle-aged pot bellied salesman was better than her husband. Luckily Michael was only 22 years old, and in decent shape. He jogged in the morning, and his stamina was good. Not having big muscles meant he was trim and didn't need custom made suits. Lovers did not need big arms to romance a woman, they needed
savoir faire
.
Filled with trepidation, Michael knew about the Copley lounge. Everyone knew about the Copley lounge. When a woman walked into the Copley lounge men could smell her pussy ten feet away like a dog sniffing a bitch in heat. He had no idea what to wear, a suit, no tie, the look of a tech type in jeans and t-shirt, or an MBA type in a 3-piece suit. Did anyone even wear 3-piece suits anymore?
Chapter 2
One hot August afternoon, Amber walked into the Copley lounge. She would hardly label herself as an afternoon wife. She told herself she wasn't like those other women, most of them cheap sluts who cheated on their husbands. She just wanted a drink after shopping, before she headed home. She had spent a small fortune at Nordstrom's.
She lived in a small town outside of Boston. Off Route 128, a town with lots of homes built 200 years ago. The homes were expensive, if you liked colonials, and she was glad Harold bought it for it.
Setting down her shopping bags, she sat down at a small table, went through her purse, and found her cigarettes and lighter. The man took her order and returned to the bar. Amber puffed on her cigarette, sat back in her chair, and waited for the barman to bring her drink.
Amber was a beautiful woman. Her thick auburn hair was cut just below her shoulders, giving her an upscale appearance, high fashion, with money.
Her figure was fabulous. She had long, slender limbs and sharp features. Her breasts were round and firm. She had a trim waist, narrow hips, and the legs of a model. Her pencil skirt and sleeveless blouse accentuated her beautiful arms, breasts, and thighs.
The barman brought her drink.
Amber sipped it slowly. She told herself that she would have one more drink before she drove home. She checked out the people in the lounge, and made eye contact with a woman, a younger woman, maybe a college girl wanting to have some fun. While Amber pondered the possibilities, her thoughts were interrupted.
"Mind if I join you?" It was a tempered voice, refined.
Amber turned and saw a tall, blond-haired fellow in his early twenties. He was good looking, and he was dressed in a jacket with patches on the sleeves. One of those academic types. She shrugged and watched him as he sat down, facing her. His eyes roamed over every square inch of her body. Amber didn't care; she was quite used to this.
"I don't think I've seen you before," he said, smiling.
Amber turned, and stared out the window.
The young man eyed her curiously. This was one cold fish, he told himself. But she was gorgeous, and he wanted her. He decided that he would not give up.
"You busy tonight?"
Amber continued staring out the window. Sighing deeply, she nodded.
"How about tomorrow night?" he asked.
Again she nodded. She felt he was fishing; he wasn't very polished. Too bad because he was good looking, a decent type, not the kind where you hate yourself in the morning.
The young man got up and looked down at her, frowning. He started to say something, but Amber turned and looked up at him. "I'm married," she said.
"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. Then he turned and left her sipping her drink.
"I'm sorry, too," Amber said under her breath. Then, sighing and finishing her drink, she got up, picked up her shopping bags, and left the lounge.
She thought about him as she drove the short distance home. Pity, she reflected sadly. He was certainly a good looking guy. He had a good body, slim, and seemed intelligent. He would probably be fantastic in bed. It was a shame she had to turn him down.
Amber drove up the driveway to her house, picked up her bags, and entered the house through the kitchen. She set down the bags and began emptying the groceries onto the kitchen table. In twenty minutes, she had everything neatly stored away. Then she sat down at the table, lit a cigarette, and thought about the young man once again.
You could have swung it, baby, she told herself. Harold won't be back till tonight. You could have swung it. He could have followed you home, stayed two or three hours, and left an hour or two before Harold even got home.
