“Hello,” I called as I opened the front door to my house, “Anyone home?”
No reply.
I walked in, hung my coat on the rack, and ventured upstairs. On the landing I could hear the soft sounds of splashing water coming from the bathroom. I tapped softly on the door.
“Tom is that you?” called the unmistakable voice of my wife.
“No, it’s the plumber,” I said, opening the door and stepping inside. Martha was lying in the bath, her head resting on a foam cushion at one end, with her eyes closed. Her knees arched out over the soap-suds, and her breasts with those lovely dark red nipples of her poked through the water like two islands. Her skin looked a brighter pink than normal, probably because she liked to have the water as hot as she could stand it when she bathed.
She opened her eyes and looked at me and feigned a look of disappointment. “Oh it is you! I was hoping it was the plumber coming round to check my, er, plumbing, before you came home.”
“Sorry to disappoint, darling, you’ll just have to make do with me,” I said, kneeling down alongside the bath, and reaching over to give her a long lingering kiss on the lips. “How was your day,” I asked when I pulled my face away.”
“Good,” she said, “Helen rang and suggested she and I go out for an Italian this evening and catch up on old times, which is why I’m having a bath now. The kids are staying with their friends this evening, so you can have the house to yourself, and watch some football or something. You could always invite Mrs. Miller from next door round for a quickie while I’m out.
Mrs. Miller next door was a short dumpy woman in her seventies and oozed about as much sex appeal as a louse. “Damn,” I said to Martha, “she and I have been trying to keep our liaisons secret. Still what’s good for the goose etc., if you and Helen are going for an Italian, I suppose I could try it on with her. Are you sure one Italian is enough for the both of you? Knowing your voracious appetite for Latino men, I’d have thought you needed two each!”
Martha laughed. “You dolt, we’re meeting for a drink at Fernando’s at 7.30, and then going for a meal at that Italian place round the corner from there.”
The telephone suddenly rang cutting off any more banter. I closed the door to Martha and went downstairs to answer it.
“Hi Tom, it’s Helen,” I heard once I’d identified myself. “Can you tell Martha that I’m running a bit late, and that I can’t get to Fernando’s before 8.00?
Helen and I spent a few minutes in small talk, mostly about each other’s children and how their education was going. I rang off promising to pass the message on to Martha. When I went back upstairs I found that she was out the bath and sitting in front of the mirror in the bedroom bedecked in a large bath-towel, drying her hair. I took off my suit, hung it in the wardrobe, and threw my shirt into the laundry-hamper. Lying on the bed in just my boxers I watched Martha go about her business of getting ready. Twenty-two years we’ve been married, and I’ve never tired of just simply watching her.
Her hair dry, she shook off the towel and threw it on top of my shirt in the hamper. Unselfconsciously she walked naked over to her to her chest of drawers and selected a thong to put on. Despite being in her mid-forties Martha likes to wear provocative underwear at all times. As she puts it, her job as a teacher demands that she be dressed somewhat conservatively at school, so she likes to make up for it by dressing sexily underneath. It makes her feel more feminine she often tells me. In all the time I’ve known her I’ve never seen her wear ‘boring’ underwear. Her chest of drawers is a museum of sexy panties, tiny thongs, lacy bras, basques, and stockings. I, of course, think it’s wonderful and many’s the time we’ve shopped together for underwear for her. Tonight’s choice was a blue thong with little white strings at each side, which I have often had the pleasure of undoing so that the thing falls away from her. I watched as she pulled them up her legs and adjusted them so that the slight scrap of material sat comfortable in the crack between her buttocks.
She walked back to her dressing table and assumed a position that I find quite puzzling even though I’ve witnessed it a number of times. Whenever Martha is brushing her hair, drying it, or applying make-up she sits normally on the stool to go about her business, but when she needs to apply lip-stick she has this peculiar habit of kneeling on the stool, leaning her elbows on the dressing-table and bringing her face right up close to the mirror. She says she does so to get right up close to the mirror in order to put the lip-stick on properly. This time was no different; she knelt on the stool and leaned forward, her ass sticking provocatively out behind her. My eyes were fixed on those two delicious mounds and the scrap of blue material between them.
“Later,” she said.