Things Her Husband Wont Do

DISCLAIMER:

All characters appearing in this story are at least eighteen years of age.

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

drunkenness, feet, bodily fluids, adultery

*****

All that was left was the pool table, the TV, the kitchen appliances, and about a dozen bottles of wine. We'd packed up the rest—the furniture, the china, the antiques, all the hunting and fishing gear and taxidermy—and loaded it onto the truck, just the lady and I. The next morning, I was to haul her stuff to the auction house down in Fallen Oaks. The lady was going to hang around the lodge for another day or two, I guess shooting pool, watching TV, and soaking up a few last memories. She'd take the TV when she went. The pool table and appliances would sell with the lodge. I didn't know what she planned to do with all that wine.

It wasn't an easy move. The lodge was set on a hill, about a hundred yards uphill from where I could park the truck. So, we had to carry all her stuff by hand down a steep wooden staircase, load after load, and then trudge back up. My Fitbit logged 26,733 steps by the time we were through, most of them vertical.

The lady worked just as hard as I did, made nearly as many trips up and down those stairs, and even helped me lug some of the heavy stuff. She only took time off to cook us lunch. I was impressed with her work ethic. I hadn't expected that from an aristocrat. (However, I did get the impression that the lady wasn't quite as aristocratic as she once had been, and that that it wasn't purely by choice that she was selling the hunting lodge built by her great-great-grandfather, but I didn't probe for the details.)

After we'd loaded the last pair of boxes into the truck, she said if I was half as exhausted as she was, then I must be dying for a drink.

I told her I was probably every bit as exhausted as she was, but I shouldn't have a drink, because I needed to drive. Those winding mountain roads could be treacherous. Though I didn't really mean it. I definitely wanted a drink. And I definitely wanted a drink with

her

. So, it didn't take too much persuading to get me back up to the lodge.

With the furniture gone, there was only one place left to sit, except for the floor, and that was the built-in window seat in the main room, in the big bay window overlooking the valley. I assumed that that was where the lady was planning to sleep, because she'd already laid out her bedding—a couple of red silk pillows and a camouflage sleeping bag. She told me to push them aside and take a seat.

Evening was falling—it got dark so early that time of year—and the air was turning chilly. There was a little pile of firewood left. The lady lit the fireplace. Then she disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a bottle of wine in her hand and a sheepish expression on her face. When we'd packed up the kitchen, we'd failed to leave any wine glasses, or any other kind of glasses, or a corkscrew.

I said not to worry, and I showed her how to jigger the cork out of the bottle with a house key and some slaps on the bottom.

She said we could drink the wine straight out of the bottle if I didn't mind her germs. Or else she could get me my own bottle.

I said I didn't mind her germs.

She sat down next to me on the window seat, close enough to pass the bottle, but no closer.

I wasn't sure what this was. The lady had been friendly with me, but not what I'd call flirty. She'd been nice in a slightly patronizing sort of way, like a boss trying to be a cool boss, trying to build rapport with her subordinate, but being a bit stiff about it, as if she were applying managerial techniques she'd learned from a book. Anyway, she was married, well above my social class, and more than twice my age. She'd mentioned she'd celebrated her forty-first birthday only a few days earlier, which made her twenty-one years older than me (and the same age as my mom). So, probably this was nothing.

My best guess was that this was simply the lady feeling depressed in her husk of an ancestral lodge, now stripped of its four generations of remembrances, and wanting to get drunk, but not wanting to get drunk alone, and me happening to be conveniently proximal.

If that's all this was, I was happy to get drunk with her. I liked the lady. And I liked her wine. It was the best I'd ever tasted. The bottle we were chugging from was older than me, French, and probably cost hundreds of dollars.

Still, if the lady had something more than drinking on her mind, I was up for that, too. Despite our age difference, I found her attractive.

She was a blue-eyed dirty-blonde with a tall, imposing figure. I'd describe her as statuesque—actually, she reminded me of a literal statue: the Statue of Liberty, particularly in her face. Her nose was straight, her brow stern. Her mouth, though, did not much resemble Lady Liberty's. It was heart-shaped, plump-lipped, with impish tips, and very kissable. She'd kept her figure fit, but not obsessively so. She was obviously well-fed, with soft breasts and nice wide motherly hips. But time and gravity had been kind, and her snug black yoga pants were entirely suitable.

Normally, I had a policy of not fooling around with married ladies—and I met a lot of them in my profession—but I decided, in this case, I'd make an exception. From what the lady had told me about her husband, he sounded like a total schmuck. For one thing, the guy was a hedge fund manager, and I'd never met a hedge fund manager who didn't deserve a good cucking. For another thing, he sucked at his job. It was because of his bungling, I'd gathered, that the lady was forced to sell her family's lodge. And for a third thing, the prick hadn't even bothered to come help his wife pack—which was obviously an emotional ordeal for her. So, as far as I was concerned, his wife was fair game.

As we downed the bottle of wine, the lady put on a movie. It was an old black and white gangster film from the early 1930s, filmed partly in and around her great-great-grandfather's lodge, shortly after he'd built the place. The plot involved a gangster, his moll, and a bank robbery. After some car chases and shootouts, the gangster and his girl holed up in the lodge, with both the police closing in and a forest fire raging. In the end, of course, the lovers chose to go down in flames.

By the movie's fiery finale, the lady and I were well into our third bottle. Driving home was out of the question. The only place for me to sleep was on the pool table. The lady said I could use her sleeping bag. The cushions on her window seat were plenty soft, she said, and she'd be near enough the fireplace to stay toasty, so she wouldn't need a cover.

I texted my boss and said I wouldn't be bringing the truck back that night. I didn't bother to make up a phony excuse, because my boss was my cousin, Jeff, and he was cool about those sorts of things. I also texted my mom (with whom I, unfortunately, still lived) and said I'd be spending the night at Jeff's. I'm not sure why I lied. I was a grown adult. Anyway, I was pretty sure nothing was even going to happen between the lady and me. But I guess old habits die hard.

I was getting up to go to my billiards bed, when the lady plonked her foot on my lap and stopped me.

She asked me if I'd do her a favorite and take off her boots. She said she was too drunk.

Considering the amount of wine we'd guzzled, I didn't think she seemed especially drunk. Her speech was unslurred, her movements smooth and controlled, and her eyes were fixed on me with an intense focus. In fact, she seemed pretty well-composed—more so than me at that point. Because I was buzzing hard, my head spinning.

The lady wore a pair of cherry red leather lumberjack boots with enormous clunky heels, almost like a woodland version of stripper boots. They fit over her yoga pants up to mid-shin. In my impaired condition, they were a chore to remove. She'd tied them tightly, using some complicated knot, and it took my clumsy fingers a while to work out the details. Then I had to undo about ten rows of laces. Though focusing on the task at hand did help clear my head.

When, at last, I popped her right foot free, she let out an exclamation that was almost sexual. The aroma of new leather spilled into the air.

Flexing her ankle and pointing her toes, she made the four cardinal directions of the compass and several points in between. When she was done stretching, she left her foot dangling in the air in in front of me. She said nothing, but she gave me an expectant look, which, somehow, I knew what it meant.

I took her foot in my hands and, with my thumbs, kneaded her sole through her heavy woolen sock.

She exhaled, loudly, a smile crossing her face. She took another slug of wine and fell back onto her pillows, letting her body go slack. A flip of her chin and a wiggle of her toes was, as best as I could tell, a signal that she wanted her sock off.

After I'd taken it off, she presented me with her other foot, and I removed her other boot and her other sock. And then I had both her bare feet in my lap. She made it clear with her facial expressions that she wanted more foot-rubbing. And I was happy to do it, thinking it would lead to other kinds of rubbing.

Now, I'm not one of those foot fetish guys. When I meet a beautiful woman, the first place my eyes go isn't her feet. As far as female anatomy goes, I'm more a fan of faces, asses, boobs, bellies, thighs, etcetera. I don't think feet would even make my top ten. But, if that's what a woman is into, then I don't mind giving her feet some attention—as long as they're clean and healthy and not grossly deformed.

The lady's feet were clean and healthy and very well-formed; her soles moist and smooth all over; her toes all straight, proportionately-sized, and nicely separated; her toenails pink, glossy, and impeccably pedicured. Even after being cooped up all day in her lumberjack boots, schlepping up and down stairs, her feet still smelled fresh, like coconut and leather. She'd obviously lavished a lot of care upon them, and she wanted me to admire them.

I commiserated with her on her sore, tired soles and told her she was in luck, that I happened to have some expertise in foot massage, if she wanted.

She did want.

However, I wasn't being strictly truthful. Personally, I hadn't massaged a lot of feet. But I'd received numerous foot massages of a very high quality. Back when I was playing football—before the injury that brought my college days to a close—I dated a student of physical therapy, one of our team's trainers. She gave me regular rubdowns, both foot and otherwise. And I figured I could do a reasonable copycat job on the lady.

But first, I wanted to maneuver her over to the pool table. The window seat was a bit too narrow and cramped for my purposes. I wanted to lay the lady out flat on her back and give myself room to work, like at a massage table. And she agreed that this was an excellent plan.

The lady tuned the TV to a satellite music station, playing muted jazz. She bundled up her sleeping bag and pillows and asked me if I'd fetch her towel from the bathroom. Before I did, I watched her make her way to the pool table, She saw me watching and she put on a little show with her hips, sauntering with a slow, exaggerated sway. I could see that she wasn't as sober as I'd thought. Her line to the pool table wasn't especially true, and after she'd laid out her bedding, it took a couple of not-so-graceful tries to heft herself onto the table.

When I returned with her bath towel, I found the lady spreadeagled, wearing nothing but her panties—a simple pair of red cotton briefs, not the sexiest, but probably the most practical for a day of hard physical labor. One of her forearms was crossed modestly over her breasts. She said she hoped I didn't mind that she'd made herself comfortable.

I certainly didn't mind.

She took the bath towel from me with her spare hand and asked me to turn off the two floor lamps on the other side of the room. Once they were off, the space was lit only by the fireplace and the TV.

I found the lady now covered by her towel. She was holding her panties out in her hand, as if for me to take. I took them and pressed them to my face, inhaling her musky scent.

She told me she was a married woman.

I took another deep draft from her panties and told her how I loved her aroma.

She said she took her marital vows very seriously.

I tossed her panties and took my place at the foot of the table, taking one her feet in my hands—the left one. I started in with her ankle, the way my trainer ex-lover had always done. I made circles around her anklebones with my thumbs. Then I took hold of her toes with my one hand, supporting the back of her ankle with my other, and worked her through some range-of-motion exercises. She stopped talking, closed her eyes, and let me do with her foot as I would.

If she was trying to be modest, the lady had laid out her towel the wrong way. She had the long way spread perpendicular to her body. It was a big plush towel, but it was a hair too narrow to cover both her breasts and her crotch in an adequate fashion. She'd elected to cover her breasts. As I worked her ankle around in circles, her legs slid apart. I needed to duck down only an inch or two to see beneath the towel.

The space between her legs was shrouded in shadow, but I could see she was sporting a bush. This surprised me, as I'd taken her for a shaver, a waxer, or at least a close-trimmer. But maybe I shouldn't have been surprised, given her unmodified face and seemingly natural breasts. In any event, I was pleased to see it. While a smooth-shaven kitty would never be a deal-breaker, I much preferred a warm furry cunt. It spoke to me on the most primal level. It spoke of sex, of fertility.

I wanted to nuzzle up to it. I wanted to crawl onto the table and ravish her with my tongue. My cock wanted to leap from my jeans. It wanted to pounce. It wanted to pound. But as drunk as I was, I managed to keep myself contained. I didn't buy the lady's line about her marital vows, but I felt a blunt approach could still lead to frustration. So, I'd have to exercise some discipline. I'd have to finish the job I'd started. Anyway, massaging her tender feet wasn't without its pleasures.

Gently, I stroked her Achilles, hoping it would, indeed, prove to be her weakness. With my thumbs, I made butterfly motions across the top of her foot, pressing down a little harder here and there, trying to engage pressure points, like my ex had always done. Of course, I didn't know where any pressure points were actually located, so this was all a bit of fakery. But then, I thought reflexology was a pseudoscience, so it didn't much matter whether I was doing it correctly. The point was to make the lady feel good and to make her believe she was in the hands of an expert.

It seemed to be working. She let out a contented sigh. She told me her husband had a phobia about feet. He wouldn't touch her there.

I said he was crazy. Her feet were beautiful and extremely touchable. I lifted up her foot to my mouth and kissed the underside of her big toe.

That triggered a low growl, like a cougar's, from deep in her throat. She wiggled the tip of her toe into my mouth for me to lick and nibble.

The flexing of her leg made her towel ride up. Now, I didn't need to duck to see her pussy. It was on full display, her light brown curls glinting in the firelight, lush and magnificent. Her bush, however, wasn't completely untamed. Albeit full in volume, it was trimmed around the edges to form a tidy triangular muff.

Feeling the fresh air on her newly exposed sex, the lady's eyes popped open. With a drunken hand, she tugged at the towel in an effort to recover her pussy, but succeeded only in uncovering her breasts. These were nicer even than I'd expected, and more voluminous. The vest she'd been wearing all day had concealed their full extent. They weren't extroverted, outward-thrusting breasts, but relaxed low-hangers, wide-spreading, portending milk and motherly hugs.

I stared at her sprawling bosom. Then I looked up to meet her gaze. Our eyes locked in a silent scrimmage. I couldn't read her expression. But after a long moment, she blinked slowly three times and yielded. Her hand ceased its struggle with her towel.

Again, I lowered my eyes to her breasts, admiring the rosy flush of her nipples. I let them roam down to her pussy, drinking in the outline of meaty lips lurking beneath the foliage like a hidden kiss. I tried again for eye contact, but she looked coyly away. A blush came to her cheeks. Her tongue dabbed at her upper lip. She didn't speak. I didn't, either, because I still had her toe in my mouth. She pushed it in deeper, wanting me to suck it.

I sucked it. Simultaneously, I gripped her foot with both hands like a sandwich. Starting at her heel, I drew my thumbs in long, soothing lines along her sole all the way to the base of her toes, making several passes through the valley in the ball of her foot and moving outward to her arches.

My thumb bumped a tender spot on her arch, making her whole body go tense. I could feel the knot in her muscle. Switching from thumbs to knuckles, I zeroed in on her sore spot, kneading it gently in half-moons, gradually ramping up the pressure, and carefully watching her reactions. When her exhalations grew long and her thigh slackened, I switched to the tips of two fingers, working her knot around in tight, firm circles until I felt it melt away.

The lady moaned with relief. She asked if she could adopt me.

I took two more of her toes into my mouth and slurped on them noisily.

One of her hands twitched, like it wanted to reach for her crotch.

I tried to emulate, on her sole, the motion of two fingers swirling on a clit. In case the message wasn't clear enough, I did the same thing with my tongue on the underside of her big toe, circling in the opposite direction (showing off my bimanual coordination—although I don't know if she appreciated the degree of difficulty).

Her hand got the message. It twitched again and began to make circles on the sleeping bag by her side. She closed her eyes, rolled her head back, and muttered something I couldn't understand. Her hand leapt to her belly, and she flipped her towel off onto the floor. And now she was nude. Her fingers circled her belly button a few times before they slipped down between her legs and dived into her bush.

She called me a bad boy, said to look what I was making her do.

I started to think maybe reflexology wasn't such a pseudoscience, after all.

Plunging her middle finger straight into her cunt, she fluttered her hand side to side, slapping and popping at her clit with her Mount of Saturn. Meanwhile, she pumped her foot in and out, fucking my face with her toes.

Her other foot slithered up under my shirt, groping my belly and chest. Suddenly, she yanked her leg back, trying to rip the shirt off me. It didn't work; it was a sturdy shirt, made in Canada. But she did rip a seam in the armpit.

I let go of her foot to take off my shirt. While I was at it, I took off my pants and my socks and, after a slight hesitation, my boxers.

The reason I hesitated was because the lady was watching me intently. Her finger withdrew from her vag. She was still palming her clit side-to-side, but slowly—very slowly. It seemed that something was amiss.

She told me she was a faithful wife and never cheated on her husband. But she was staring straight at my cock, her eyes wide, her tongue circling her lips.

I couldn't believe she was still playing this game. And I didn't believe for one minute that she was a faithful wife.

So, we stood there awkwardly, my cock pointing at the ceiling, her hand slowly mashing her clit, her other hand reaching to tweak a nipple.