There is something erotic about horse racing. Not the horses of course, but the dressed-up fillies trackside. On the Australian racing calendar, there is, of course, no bigger event than the Melbourne Cup. Cup day is a national event, with most race tracks in Australia hosting a race day.
My wife, Abbey, always goes to Cup Day races in the regional city where we live. I had to work -- it's not a national holiday, unfortunately -- but I came home at morning tea to see her before she left. She was wearing a short, snug-fitting black dress with white inserts and lace over the shoulder. Her large breasts jutted proudly, with the semi-plunging neckline providing a tantalising hint of cleavage. It was classy rather than slutty. Black and white high heels, an elaborate fascinator and a fashion handbag completed the outfit. The North Queensland heat meant there was no need for stockings. Her shapely lightly tanned legs looked better without stockings anyway. Makeup, perfume and her chunky silver anklet and she was ready to go. At 45, she looked 35. A statuesque, blonde milf in her sexual prime, ready to be pursued.
Abbey looked stunning and I knew she was certain to attract attention, even though there would be hundreds of other dolled-up ladies at the track. She had been picked up at the races before, so I was hopeful she would get lucky -- not just in the betting. "Have fun, babe. Call or text when you want me to come and get you," I said.
"Thanks, Hun," she said and gave me a peck on the cheek.
As I went back to work I drove past the track and lines of people were already streaming in. It was going to be huge.
I left work at about 4.30pm and drove back past the track. There were still plenty of people inside, but lots were making their way from the course to the two pubs nearby. Drunk and dishevelled guys and girls staggering along -- the "walk of shame"! I went home and waited.
At 5.45pm my phone rang. "It's me. Can you come and get me? I'm at the Irish pub." Her voice was loud and I could hear the bawdy sound of the other revelers in the background.
"Sure, I'll be there in a couple of minutes." The pub is only a few streets from where we live (gotta love living in a small regional city).
"Can we drop someone else home too?"
"Sure, see you soon. Be out the front," I said and went to the car. Before I left I put a box on the passenger side front seat.
As I pulled into the parking lot I could see her standing with a man. He looked to be late 30s, fit, with dark hair and an olive complexion. Abbey had a drunken glow about her but still looked stunning. They walked over to the car. "Hey Hun," she said. "This is Tony. I said we can give him a lift home."
We shook hands. "Jump in. You might both have to go in the back though," I said, motioning to the box in the front seat.
