The grand tudor estate of Charles and Marsha Goodwin occupied five and half acres of the exclusive Cliffside Villas on the eastern edge of Heathwood's city limits. Our occasion for donning black tie and cocktail dress was to celebrate the acquisition of a recently discovered Vermeer for the Heathwood Art Museum, of which the esteemed Mr. Goodwin held the post of Director. The party also offered an opportunity for major museum donors to meet one another and stare slack-jawed at the impressive private collection on display throughout the house.
My wife Wendy dressed in the traditional black cocktail dress women wear when they are uncertain how a different color will go over. This particular dress broke with tradition by sliding around her body as if it alone was trying to dance the twist while she more demurely gyrated her hips and breasts in that uniquely and uncontrollably feminine way of walking in three inch heels. A single strand of akoya pearls expressed her exquisite taste and appreciation of natural beauty while avoiding the sins of fabulously expensive and nauseatingly inappropriate jewelry. The pearls were of dazzling whiteness with a rose undertone that complemented her long wavy dark brown hair. Her hair shared a joke with her pearls by also hiding an elusive red undertone among its tresses.
"Oh, I see Penelope, off I go. Find me if you need something, otherwise mingle. I know you hate these things. Just think of it as a chance to find things to complain about for the rest of the weekend," she said before cutting a path through the crowd.
"I'm not that bad, am I?" I asked during her departure. She cast a knowing glance with a crooked grin over her shoulder and winked her playful little wink. She silently mouthed, "I like it when you're bad" then cut into the deep throng of guests to make her way to Penelope. I was still watching her through the jungle of bodies when I felt a set of fingers run across my stomach.
When I turned to look, I saw those fingers attached to a body that was trying very hard to burst from a practically sheer evening gown. Her gown sparkled with gold flecks barely concealing her intimate features through a stretchy fabric colored somewhere between nude and sunshine. The voluptuous curves of her flesh pushed against the seams of the flimsy tissue of a dress. Atop that body was the golden mane and canary-eating smile of an heiress who had grown so accustomed to getting what she wanted, that social convention escaped her long ago.
"I'm Marsha, your hostess, and who might you be?"
"Hanson Halifax, but unless you like formality as much as my parents, you can call me what everybody else does, Hand."
"Hand? Why Hand, I wonder. Are there special tricks you do with your hands that a girl might like?"
"It's a nickname. I picked it up in college, but mostly I just tell people it is short for Hanson. There is nothing special about my hands." Marsha grasped one of my hands between hers and examined it, palm and back.
"Well, they aren't unusually big, which was my first guess" she said with a smile after glancing down to my belt. "But, they are well manicured, strong and flexible. Are you sure you don't want to tell me the whole story?"
"It's not something that can be explained. So how many people are invited?"
"It isn't so much how many as whom. Most of our guests seem to be dried up old bitties, harbor seals floating in from suburbia, or pudgy accountants who think of depreciation tables and estate taxes when it comes to art. Are you an artist?"
"If I were, I wouldn't be here because I wouldn't have the money to be a major donor to the museum. Actually, I'm an architect, which means I'm half doodler and half salesman. What do you do?"
"I own a formal dress shop downtown, not for the money, just something to do. It drives me a little crazy sometimes though; helping half-naked women into and out of dresses all day long. Sometimes I help them tape their breasts for strapless numbers, you know, for cleavage. It never fails to amaze me how important a little bit of skin is. Do you ever feel like a little piece of skin is very important?"
"It depends on the owner and location I suppose."
"Sensible answer. Are you always so sensible or do you think I could convince you to take a trip outside ho-humsville for an hour?"
"Ho-humsville, is that near Gateway Park?"
"Naughty me, my mind just slipped to somewhere else as if you had just asked me to park near a gateway, like I'm your schoolgirl sweetheart and you want to take advantage of me in some secluded spot. Maybe you would convince me to get in the backseat and then you would convince me to let you do something small, but clever? Eventually you would convince me to do all sorts of things. But, what am I thinking? That isn't what you asked at all! My mind goes on these erotic errands right out of the blue sometimes. Does yours?"
"I think it's on one right now."
"Oh, how delightful. It reminds me of daydreaming in my shop. Sometimes groups of girls come in with a bride-to-be looking for bridesmaid's dresses. I can end up with five or six girls in thongs or panties or damn near nothing at all slipping into one dress after another. It's enough to make me want to spend my lunch with a vibrator. Knowing how uninhibited they are in my store, I sometimes picture what those girls must do at the bachelorette party. The gag gifts alone must be something to behold, don't you think? Don't you also think, Hand, that we can make my party more fun than my lunch break at work?"
"Do you have something special planned for later?"
"Do I? Hmmm..." she trailed off. "Have you noticed that how much fun you have often depends on others?" She paused to let her eyes delve into mine. The almost constant swinging of her flirty little body stopped. "Would you like to join me for a dip in the hot tub after dinner?"
"That will depend on my wife."
"Don't worry" she said as she brought her hand up behind my ear and feathered her fingers through my hair. Pressing her warm body against mine, I felt her breath, a gentle breeze of late summer, blow across my neck as she whispered in my ear, "she can come too."
My penis inflated with astonishing speed. Rather than embarrassing myself with a full grown branch in the middle of the main ballroom floor, I changed the subject by clearing my throat and asking, "Where's your husband? I'd like to thank him for inviting us here tonight."
Marsha stepped back and twirled around on one heel like little girls do when they pretend to be ballerinas. "A ha! There he is over by the bar with his friend Ben flirting with those two girls" she announced while pointing across the room. I followed the line of sight from her extended arm and saw the backsides of Charles and Ben along with Wendy and Penelope who were laughing and pushing at the men at every opportunity to touch them.
Watching her from a distance reminded me of how much I enjoyed looking at her. I could sit entranced for hours watching her do anything at all; grouting a tub, separating laundry, reading a newspaper. Her presence always absorbed all my senses from the perfumes she hid among her curves, the flowery aroma in her hair, the softness of her skin, and silkiness of her clothes, to the lilting aria of her speech.
Penelope contrasted sharply with Wendy. While Wendy presented an elegant and sophisticated image draped in black with modest jewelry, Penelope bedazzled onlookers with brilliant bursts of red, fiery diamonds shimmering about her fingers and neck, and her skirt parted the full length of her leg leaving only guesses about the cut or even existence of panties. She wore dangling earrings off her slim lobes beneath platinum blonde hair that she wore up in a fantastic display of the skill of her hair stylist. I had to admit the emerald green of her eyes magically complemented her attire.
Charles waved about his champagne flute with the easy charm of that most rare specimen among men who are comfortable enough to golf, dance, and probably nap while wearing a tuxedo. His deep tan from sun that also bleached his hair to a light brown added a weather worn ruggedness to his face not usually seen among men of leisure. The forty something years of his life had been good to him, though he had been good to himself.
His slender frame looked like it could be broken in half by the linebacker build of his friend. Ben was young, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-eight. His black hair and fair skin had seen little of the sun Charles seemed to worship. He looked desperate to shed his tuxedo, like most men, but also appeared mature enough to stand in discomfort for hours, if it was socially expected of him.
"Would you like a tour of the house Hand?" Marsha asked as she gingerly grasped my fingers. I agreed and she proceeded to show me a varied collection of art they had accumulated through years of auctions. Their collection included many genres from photography and Realists to sculpture and Surrealists. Their home too was most impressive. After wandering through its many rooms and alcoves, she brought me to a set of double doors.
"This is where the party ends, for this is the south wing and home to our private rooms. We don't let the regular partygoers investigate where we spend most of our time." She led me through the double doors and down a long hall to the billiards room. She closed the doors behind us and turned on a dim overhead light. The walls held many bookcases filled with old editions. A large mirror occupied one wall while a mosaic filled the opposing wall. In the middle of the room rested the requisite pool table. She wandered over to the mirror to adjust her hair.
"Do you play pool?"
"No, not really. Charles sometimes entertains in here, but this room is more a repository for our book collection than an actively used game room. What do you think this is?" she asked as she looked closely at a spot on the mirror. I walked up and stood behind her, unavoidably drawing in her sweet scent. I couldn't see any smudge or flaw in the mirror.
"I don't see anything."
"Maybe this will help." She reached over to the edge of the mirror and turned off the light switch. It was a trick mirror. We could see through it to a bedroom. While my eyes adjusted to the lighting, Marsha unhooked the neck strap of her dress and let it fall to the floor. She wore no panties or bra, just a few token pieces of jewelry. She pressed her ass against me, urging my growing penis into her.
