Eighty degrees, a beautiful summer evening, and Mrs. Roberts is going to take a bath. She spent the day working up a sweat: hoeing, weeding, cutting the grass, clearing the junk from the garage, hauling the trash to the landfill, dusting, sweeping out the cobwebs. All to get dirty for the Bathtub.
Everything was ready. Her kids, Laura and Bobby, were on the other side of the country with their father and the Bitch (her Ex's turn for custody). She had the week to herself. Her four best friends were scattered to the four winds. Barbara, in Connecticut with her parents; Terri, burning her skin in Florida; Bill, off to Paris with his boyfriend; and Marion, who won a trip to Australia.
Before each of them left, Betty gave explicit instructions. Over the next week, they were not to call her...for anything...ever - "If there's a nuclear war, major epidemic, massive meteor strike, the Rapture - you-do-not-call!" Her friends understood; they knew how Betty loved that Bathtub.
Her fetish was common knowledge. Betty was an aquaphile; she loved the feel of water on her bare skin. She practiced discretion in public but at private swim parties, in her (ex) husband's presence and close (open-minded) friends, she swam nude. She loved baths and showers, the water cascading on her body. Her friends were ok with it; everyone has their proclivities. Laura and Bobby were conceived in a bathtub and swimming pool, respectively.
Betty disconnected the phone and left the cell in the guest room...at the other end of the house...under the mattress...with the door locked. All the doors and windows, with one exception, were locked. Betty lived in a secure house. High walls around the garden and backyard reduced the danger of intruders.
Betty wasn't worried; the neighborhood was safe, three years since the last burglary. The only person who might pose a problem was Derrick, Bobby's friend from next door. She suspected him of spying on her with his binoculars (not that she minded too much, she had a touch of exhibitionism).
His parents' attic was a good vantage point; it faced the garden and a person could see over the wall. She knew Derrick had the hots for her (and while common sense and social mores prevented her from overtly reciprocating, she couldn't resist a subtle flirt here and there, "But really, he's way too young."). Betty remembered Derrick was in summer camp and his parents were in Hawaii. In fact, most of the neighborhood was on vacation. In the summer, everyone in the neighborhood went somewhere else.
One look at the bathroom revealed why Betty took such deliberate care to prepare for her bath. Designed by her ex-husband, Carl Roberts Roberts, known professionally as C.R. Roberts, architect and interior designer, the bathroom was a marvel; inspired by the paintings of Maxfield Parrish, built of brick, wood, and clay.
Betty thought Carl built it as a wedding present; twenty years of a bad marriage taught her it was built for his ego. Plants and hanging vines were set around the sink and ceiling, and in vases around the room. The entire west wall was a bifolded double French door. In the winter, it was closed; sunlight came through the windows to nourish the plants and vines. In the summer, the doors were folded back, opening the bathroom to the garden. Automatic sprinklers, set on timers, made sure the plants were watered regularly. The bathroom faced west so the setting sun cast a rosy glow, blending with the earthy tones of the room. Evening was Betty's favorite time.
The neighborhood is all but deserted. The house is sealed, except for the garden doors; Betty's incommunicado for the week. The Bathtub is filling with water, just above warm, just under hot. The sun is setting on a warm evening, Debussy on the speakers (Prelude To The Afternoon of a Faun); time for her bath.
Betty shed her clothes and put them in the wash. She walked through the house nude. When she reached the bathroom, Betty passed the full-length mirror just inside the entrance, pausing to look at herself. The day's sweat made her skin glow in the early evening. "MILF," Derrick's words (an overheard conversation with her son).
A lot of the boys (and some of the men, a few married) thought the same. "I have to admit, I look pretty good." She ran her hands over her body for self-love's sake. She was tempted to dip into her pussy, already wet with anticipation. "No, wait for the bath."
Betty Roberts was 43 years old; 5'10", shoulder length dark brown hair, brown eyes with just a hint of crow's feet, trim body, cantaloupe-sized breasts, still good and firm, a pilates-flattened belly, wide child-bearing hips ("That's two kids for ya."), close cropped pubic hair over a tight pussy, lovely bubble ass (thanks again pilates), long-limbed arms and legs. "Good enough for the men in the neighborhood but not for C.R," she thought contemptuously.
Two years ago, Carl walked into the bedroom and announced he was leaving her for his secretary, "His twenty-one year old, vapid-headed, bleach blonded, silicon-breasted, plastic surgeried, liposuctioned bitch of a secretary," Betty sniffed. She ran her hands over her breasts, "At least my body is natural."
The divorce was amicable under the circumstances: shared custody of the kids, a healthy alimony, but she fought him tooth and nail for the house. "That Bitch can get her own bathroom," she told him. Carl moved his business east, taking his secretary ("New wife," he said, "New acquisition," she said) with him. The kids hopped back and forth; to their credit, they were in her camp. They came from their last visit and told her Carl was building the Blonde a larger, more palatial bathroom.
"The bathtub's smaller though," Laura said.
