The phone rang. It was Mark, my husband.
"Hey there, honey," his voice greeted me. "How're the preparations going?"
It was Friday afternoon and two of Mark's old friends were dropping by for drinks in the evening. I'd never managed to met them properly before, but I had seen lots pictures of the three of them together on various trips and heard endless stories of their adventures over the years. They sounded like fun and I was keen to meet them.
"All under control, darling," I replied.
"I knew it would be," he laughed. "Hey, something's come up here at work on the Bricker deal. It means I might be home a little later than I thought."
"Do you want me to cancel tonight?" he asked. He sounded a little worried.
I knew how much Mark was looking forward to catching up with Ben and Paul. I thought about how disappointed he would be if it was cancelled.
"No," I said. "It's OK. I can hold the fort here until you get home."
"Are you sure?" he asked. "I won't be too late. A half an hour or an hour tops."
"No, that's fine," I assured him. "The guys won't be here for a while and they will probably be politely late anyway. Not a problem."
"That's great, honey," Mark said. I could hear the relief in his voice. "I knew I could count on you! Anyway, I'd better get back down the salt mine and get the stuff here sorted. I know you'll make them feel at home. Ciao."
"I will," I replied. "See you soon, bye," I added before ending the call.
I went back to finish off the preparations and finally slipped into the shower to freshen up before the guests arrived.
I stripped off and looked at myself in the mirror. Still in good shape for my late forties, I thought, not overweight, reasonably fit body, breasts a nice handful as Mark used to say, no butt-sag. I probably passed for a MILF, I imagined, as the vulgar slang these days tastelessly described women like me.
Without intending to, my mind strayed onto a familiar recent theme: why didn't Mark find me attractive anymore? Well, at least that's how it seemed. Our sex lives used to great, even wild at times, but sex between us had become predictable and then lately, infrequent.
I knew that my sex drive hadn't declined! I was still pretty damn horny but Mark seemed to have lost a little interest. He was still attentive and affectionate; maybe it was just too much work, but whatever the cause, it left me a little frustrated and I was looking for something exciting to happen to jazz up our lovemaking.
I stepped under the shower and immediately felt its therapeutic effect. Showers are one of the great luxuries of modern life. I loved being naked and feeling the jets of warm water splash against my skin.
I washed myself with faintly scented bodywash and let the water trickle all over me. I reached for the lady razor and quickly touched up my legs and armpits.
I don't know exactly why I decided to do it, maybe it was because of the sexual frustration I'd been feeling, but for some reason, I also shaved my pussy. I hadn't done that for ages! I felt a little naughty and rebellious after it was done. And I must admit it did feel good to be so smooth down there, like a virgin all over again. Madonna instantly ear-wormed into my head. Mark might like the surprise, too, I thought.
When I finally stepped out of the shower and saw myself in the mirror I thought, wow, a shaved pussy really does make a big difference! You're hot, Ros!
I dried myself slowly. I must have taken longer than I thought, showering and shaving, because I was still naked in the bathroom when I heard the front door bell.
"Oh my god," I thought. "They're here!"
I finished my toilette and quickly rushed into the walk-in robe and threw on a lacy pair of knickers, a button-up blouse and a casual skirt. I looked informal and respectable.
I ran to the door and peeked through the spy-hole. Two men whose faces I recognised from many photos, stood there. One of them held a bottle that looked like whiskey. I opened the door swiftly, a little breathless.
"Oh, sorry to keep you waiting," I said, "I'm Ros, you must be Ben and Paul. Come in."
"I'm Ben," said the man holding the bottle, "and he is Paul. Hi Ros, good to meet you at last," he said as they crossed the threshold and entered my life.
I shook hands with them both and we exchanged pleasantries.
"You know Mark has talked about you so much. It's like I already know you!" Paul said smiling sweetly.
"Ha," I said laughing at the thought, "well Mark does the same about you two guys. It's like we're old friends who have only just met!"
Ben presented me with the bottle, an excellent single malt from Tasmania.
"Hmm," I purred approvingly, "and with good taste in whiskey, too, I see."
"Well," Ben replied, "I can't take all the credit for that. We listen to Mark and we know this is one of your favourites."
"Speaking of Mark," Paul enquired, "where is he?"
"Oh," I explained, "he had something last-minute to do at work. You know Mark. He'll be here in about half an hour or so."
"In the meantime," I added smiling, "I'm to make you feel at home. Let's start with drinks."
"Let me give you a hand, Ros," Paul volunteered.
We went to the kitchen and Paul fixed us all neat whiskeys with a little ice on the side and I arranged the nibbles.
We sat on the lounge and talked about how they had met Mark and some of the adventures they'd had together.
I told them about my job as an accountant at a local charitable organisation.
"Ah," Paul joked, "so you're into double entries, then."
I missed the sexual overtone of the joke and just laughed and agreed whole-heartedly.
"Yes," I laughed, "we all know that one entry is good, of course, but personally, I find two entries much more preferable!"
I had to admit, these guys were really nice. They were smart, funny and charming all at once. And they were easy to look at, too.
I knew they were both in their early fifties, same age as Mark and like Mark, they were still in pretty good shape. Their hair was greying at the temples giving them the distinguished look that men gain as they age.
Paul was taller and thinner while Ben looked stronger; maybe he still worked out. They were both dressed in jeans, casual shirts and loafers.
I streamed music on the Soundlink. Smooth jazz direct from Paris, France, wafted in the background.
Paul asked me to dance and we all shimmied to the groove. Both men danced well. I was enjoying myself and relaxing.
"You dance really well, Ros," Ben said appreciatively. "It's a dying art."
