It was late summer - a miserably hot, humid season in the city. The fact that I was stuck at an outdoor baby shower for someone I barely knew compounded my unhappiness. Even in a seersucker skirt and white V-neck t-shirt, I was sweating freely in the sticky afternoon heat. One saving grace was that there was plenty of wine (I'd brought a few bottles myself as a "gift").
In the months since John and I had been dating, I'd been drawn into his tightly-knit family, culminating in today's pregnancy purgatory. The shower was for his younger sister – a year and a half younger than me, it had been pointed out by one of his aunts – and I was one of four unmarried women in attendance. One of the other "old maids" was a nineteen year old cousin. I appreciated that his family was so close, but as an "outsider," a large, emotional event like this was difficult to bear. I had probably said a dozen words all day that weren't some hollow variation of "Yeah, I love babies." I tilted my head back and swallowed the last two mouthfuls of wine left in my glass in a single gulp.
"Why do I let myself get talked into these things?" I muttered as I poured myself another brimming goblet and grabbed an unladylike fistful of goldfish crackers. I wandered across the yard towards the host's Labrador, presently tormented by two of the many small children in attendance. As I finished my snack, the children's mother called them away from the dog, which collapsed in the shade of a tree. I squatted indelicately next to him, whispering, "You know, boy, maybe we should just find a nice quiet bar together." He panted happily as I stroked his head and seemed on board with my plan for desertion.
"Sarah...? Oh! Sarah! There you are!" Nuts! John's mother had spotted me. "You need to come meet our friend, Mrs. Kutchner! Her son and John have been friends since first grade!"
I gave the dog a farewell pat on the head. "Don't wait for me. Save yourself." I whispered as I planted my sandaled feet and stood, walking across the yard with my wine glass in hand. The vessel was empty within a minute of joining the older women's conversation, as Mrs. Kutchner jumped right in to the deep end, asking whether John and I would be raising our children in the church. A half-hearted rescue by his mother was all that prevented me from turning on my heel and going home with the rest of the bar table's offerings. Instead, I nodded patiently for the longest six minutes of my life before I was excused. My escape route was a bee-line to the wine table.
John had asked me to come to this gathering of his family's female members and their closest, nosiest friends as a favor. He said it would endear me to his mother, put me in his sister's good graces, and give me the opportunity to feel out how I fit with the larger family. He had said he understood it was still early in our relationship, and that he wouldn't hold it against me if I didn't want to attend. He said I could say no. I repeated this to myself as I overfilled another wine glass.
I was further aggravated at the fact that John was safely out of town at a bachelor party while I was braving his family's collective baby-mania. This meant that while I was enduring the emotional probing of his aunts, John was most likely receiving a lap dance or – I didn't want to think about the other possibilities. This issue had actually boiled over the week before into our first substantive fight. John knew I didn't like strippers, and that I felt what "those women" were willing to do for money was pathetic and sad. I knew I shouldn't be upset with him though; he hadn't made the plan for his weekend trip, and again, he'd given me the opportunity to decline the invitation to the baby shower. And besides, I knew I wasn't in a position to play the jealous role. Still, the timing irked me.
"Why can I never say no to anyone?" I was still stewing over the intrusive old nutcase's interrogation and the question of "who-was-doing-what-on-John" when my phone buzzed in my pocket with a text. 'I'll be in your hood tonight. See you then.' Mr. Dalton was always succinct – vague, even - in his messages. He also never asked, but rather declared his own invitation at a time that fit his schedule. Not that he was rude or unkind in our encounters, but rather he treated them almost as he would any other business appointment; he was professionally courteous in his booty-calls, and expected professionalism in return.
As my relationship with John had developed, my engagements with Mr. Dalton had grown more intense. While John and my sex life was satisfying, Mr. Dalton drove me to an entirely different level of sexual desire. When I was with him, I became a searing, frothing, extra-bodily mass of rabid lust, aching to be consumed and filled until I was exhausted.
Standing at the snack table in this stranger's suburban back yard, staring at my phone screen that set the course for my evening, I felt a warmth spreading inside me and a bead of moisture seeped from between my lower lips. I strode across the yard into the house, bypassing the bathroom nearest the back door that was primarily used by party guests, and found a more private commode near the living room.
I locked the door and leaned against the sink, hiking up the front of my skirt to expose the pink flowered pattern of my panties. Holding my skirt with my left hand, I slowly pushed the fingers of my right hand under the waistband and across my smooth skin until my fingertips reached my clean-shaved snatch.
I let out a small gasp at the first contact, wetting the ends of my fingers between the moist lips, before bringing them up to the button of my clit. Rolling the nub rhythmically beneath my fingertips, my body churned with thoughts of Mr. Dalton's cock and how and where he would be using it on me in just a few short hours. I swallowed a moan as tiny pre-climax bubbles worked their way through my nerve-endings. I was about to stroke myself to orgasm in a stranger's bathroom at a baby shower! The taboo of the act pushed me over the edge and my body tensed as I clenched to cum. I was almost th-
"Sarah? Are you in there?" John's mother knocked on the door as she spoke. "Monica's about to open presents, but we don't want you to miss it. Everyone's waiting." A blue-hot wave of panic flashed through my brain, softening slightly into boiling humiliation. Had John's mother just caught me masturbating? I wrenched my hand from my panties and straightened my clothes as I looked in the mirror. Flushing the toilet, I forced my voice to normalize as I responded.
"Th-thanks, Cheryl. I'll be right out." I eyed the small window as an escape path, but resigned myself to returning to the party. I opened the door and his mother, who was standing a few feet away, turned and smiled at me.
"There's always such a line at the one near the back door. I'm glad you found another option." She said as she hurried by me and entered the bathroom. Relief washed over me with the realization that the older woman was merely anxious to use the loo. I returned to the backyard and poured another glass of wine as I braced for the gift opening ritual.
I faked my way through a couple rounds of girlish coos and sighs as the expecting mother unwrapped bibs and socks, before slowly backing my way to the edge of the estrogen fueled crowd. I felt another buzz in my pocket. "You need to look professional." I scrunched my brow in confusion, then as I turned, I found John's mother. I muttered an excuse of not feeling well and made my escape into the dimming light of the early evening.
"What does he mean 'look professional'?" I asked out loud in my empty apartment as I turned on the shower. I walked to the bedroom and tossed my t-shirt and skirt into the hamper. Was this some secretary fantasy he wanted to play out? Were we going to role-play a job interview? I reached to my back and unhooked my bra, letting the cups fall casually from my round, firm breasts as I pushed my panties down my legs to the floor. Or did Mr. Dalton just want to stick it to a buttoned-up white girl? I blushed as I stepped into the steamy spray of the shower, mentally surveying my wardrobe and assembling an appropriately prissy outfit. Dragging the soapy luffa across my skin, I scrubbed away the irritation and boredom of the afternoon. My body felt recharged in the hot wash, and I grinned eagerly to myself at what the evening held in store for me.
Turning off the water and wrapping myself in a towel, I stood in front of the mirror as I blow-dried and straightened my hair. Selecting an alarmingly bright shade of pink lipstick, I contorted my mouth into an exaggerated "O" as I applied the balm. I pressed my lips firmly together to even the coverage, then blew a kiss to the mirror. My full, pouty lips – plump and inviting in normal circumstances – were now transformed into a bright, attention-grabbing center of my pale face. I finished by applying my eyeshadow and mascara, giving my eyes a light smoked frame for their cock-hungry gleam.
Moving from the bathroom to the bedroom, I walked to the dresser and let my towel drop to the floor as I opened the top drawer and pulled out a matching white lace bra and thong. I stepped into the delicate panties, pulling the waist band until the elastic rested at my hips. Holding the D cups of the bra over my breasts as I looped its straps around my arms, I reached back to fasten its rear hooks. The translucent white mesh of the bra's cups was overlaid with a white lace flower pattern, providing a tantalizing glimpse of the creamy flesh of my breasts while discretely obscuring my pale pink nipples which stiffened slightly in the cool air of my room.
I went to my closet and selected a simple tight, white, three-quarter sleeved blouse. I slipped my arms into the shirt and buttoned the front – leaving the top two undone - and smoothed the small pockets over my boobs as I pulled a tweed pencil skirt off the hanger and pulled on the garment. I tucked the tails of my blouse into the waist, then fastened the zipper at the back of the skirt. The material of the shirt gripped my flat stomach and generous chest and, when pulled tight, gave a clear outline of the white lace of my bra. When I leaned over, the undone buttons at the top provided a mouthwatering view of the fleshy tops of my breasts, as well as the scalloped lace edges of my bra cups.
After stepping into a pair of three-inch black patent heels and completing the outfit with a string of pearls around my neck, I walked to the mirror to assess my appearance. I sized up my reflection; the image cried out 'secretary ready to take dictation', and I hoped Mr. Dalton would be pleased.
I hung up the towel and straightened the apartment, then looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was already a quarter after ten, and there had been no word from Mr. Dalton since I left the party a little after six. I sat on the couch with an impatient huff, my body and mind teetering between arousal and irritation. Pulling out my phone, I checked the timestamp of his last message again, then absentmindedly pulled up an internet article to put my mind elsewhere.
