Heather Brown

Wayward wife

CHAPTER ONE

It was 3:30 in the afternoon and I had nothing to do. I had finished my washing and cleaning. It would be at least a couple of hours until it was practical for me to put the TV dinners in the oven so that supper would be on the table when George walked through the door. I felt as lifeless and listless as the dust mop standing over in the corner.

There wasn't even anything worth watching on television. Nothing but soap operas at this time of day. I couldn't stand to watch them. They made me so depressed. I guess the reason was that the characters were all so unhappy. Just like me.

Suddenly itching with tension and frustration, I got up and rearranged the furniture, moving one chair here, the coffee table over there. Then I stopped in the middle of it when I realized that it was the third time I'd moved the furniture this week.

I just left the coffee table right in the middle of the living room so that there was no way you could pass through the room without stepping around or over it. At least that would give me something to think about every time I crossed the room or I'd crash my shins into it. Come to think of it, at least the pain would take my mind off my boredom.

Where were the kids? It was summer. They were out someplace, and probably wouldn't be back until dinner when their father got home. I'd already fed them lunch so they'd lost interest in me until it was time for them to eat again. I found myself wishing that they were here now, even getting into mischief, so I could yell at them. The excitement of getting angry at them would have picked me up the way I was feeling.

I was so jumpy that I couldn't sit down and remain still, so I walked around the room smoking a cigarette. The ashes fluttered to the floor, but I didn't care. If enough of them got on the rug it would be dirty enough to clean again and that would give me something to do. I looked at making a mess as sort of an investment.

When I had finished my cigarette I stopped circling the room and looked around. Suddenly I realized that I couldn't stand to be in the living room another second. I was sick of it. If I stayed here another minute I'd start smashing the furniture.

Dashing into the bedroom, I threw myself across the bed, sobbing for lack of anything better to do. But finally the tears dried up because they really weren't connected with anything specific. If I had known exactly why I was so upset maybe my grief wouldn't have been so bad. However, the fact of the matter was that I couldn't explain why I was so unhappy.

My husband George made good money. He had a good job and was willing to buy whatever I needed for myself and the house. I had the best appliances money could buy to make housekeeping a snap, and a 24-inch color television set to watch whenever I felt like it. My two children were both normal and healthy. I had a closet full of clothes. There was a station wagon out in the driveway of our beautiful ranch-style home that I could drive anywhere I wanted to.

So what was wrong with my life? I didn't know. If I had been able to identify my problems I might have been able to do something about them. As it was, I felt like I was under a spell – turned by some unseen force over which I had no control. I had everything I had thought I wanted when I'd married George at eighteen – and yet here I was practically on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I rolled over on the bed so that I was laying on my back. The bed faced a vanity table which had been in my family for years. My parents had given it to us as a wedding present. Before I had married George it had always been in our home, and now every morning when I woke up as a woman it was still the first thing I saw. It seemed like it had always been with me, as though it were part of me.

It had an enormous oblong mirror that reflected everything in the room. As I lay on the bed I could see myself in it, and I studied myself the way I had so many times over the years. When I was a girl and the vanity table was in my room, I had often fantasized that I was Alice peering into the looking-glass when I was alone. As a child I'd been sure that it was no coincidence my name was also Alice, just like the little girl in the fairy tale, and that if I concentrated long enough I would wind up in Wonderland just like the fictional Alice.

The truth was that I had never gotten over my fantasy about the mirror having magical qualities. Even now, at thirty-eight, some lingering residue of my childhood forced me to concentrate on the mirror during moments like this, hoping through my imagination to escape from reality into some fantastic wonderland.

I peered across the room at my face in the mirror. It was a pretty face, of that I was sure. People had always said so, ever since I was a little girl. Those who had known me as a child frequently remarked when they saw me now that my face was as innocent and fresh and youthful as it had been when I was eight.

I was proud of my looks, and kept my blonde hair long and free, just like a girl's. Some people hate their freckles, but I was glad I had never, outgrown mine. They kept me in touch with my childhood, a soothing consolation at moments like this when being grown up seemed like a one-way ticket into a maze of boredom and frustration.

My face and hair were the same, but the rest of my body had changed. As I looked from the bed into the mirror I could see the peaks of my breasts using from under the thin sweater I was wearing, not lessened in their firmness because I wasn't wearing a bra today. Even from across the room I could make out the erect shape of my nipples pressing through the clinging fabric.

I looked from the reflection of my breasts swelling under my sweater down to my bare legs. I had always been proud of them. They were long and shapely and perfectly complemented the paradoxical combination of my innocent-looking face and lush womanly breasts. I gazed appreciatively at them, beginning at my ankles and moving my eyes slowly along them until they disappeared beneath my skirt.

Alice in Wonderland? Over the years I must have spent hundreds or even thousands of hours staring into my own personal looking-glass, and I had never run into any fantastic characters like the March Hare or the Queen of Hearts. But I had discovered a substitute that was almost as effective at taking my mind off reality: the reflection of my body in the mirror.

I rested my hands on my stomach for a moment, placing my palms flat against my belly and feeling myself breathe. Then, as my breathing accelerated so that I was almost panting, I moved my hands downward and caught the hem of my skirt with my fingers.

As I drew my skirt up over my waist, I instinctively spread my legs, looking straight ahead into the mirror at the reflection of the bulging crotch of my sheer panties. They were an old pair that I had picked at random out of the dresser drawer this morning, and the crotch was worn to a thin gauze by frequent washings and the rub of my pussy against the cloth over a two- or three-year period.

My mouth watered at the sight of the folds of my pussy boldly pushing through the flimsy fabric. Even from across the room I could see the suggestion of the muffled tangle of my cunt hair massing to spring free, the whole mound of my pussy flexing pulsingly. The filmy, clinging panty cloth stretched tautly between my thighs, my cunt throbbing to be free.

I liked to tease myself during my magic moments alone with myself and the mirror. Knowing that my pussy craved its freedom, I led it on by sliding my fingers under the elastic top of my panties and gently rubbing my fingertips over my rubbery pussy lips. Inside I could feel the cunt juice started to bubble. Within seconds my pussy would be sopping wet.

When the pussy juice finally started to flow, I writhed uncontrollably, my thighs automatically spreading farther and farther apart until my panties were completely caught in my crack. I watched my cunt swallow my panty crotch, seeming to digest the flimsy cloth as the juice oozed out of the sides of my pussy, glazing my crotch. By now my hand had seized my cunt and was rubbing it in a circular motion. Every inch of my pussy was being stimulated at once.

Two of my fingers trapped my clit in a scissors-grip and squeezed it between them. The tiny nub grew until it was tingling erectly, throbbing with desire. My hips bucked wildly. My ass wriggled. My cunt throbbed more and more openly in the mirror, the crotch of my panties like a thin blue line bisecting my loins.

Now that I had teased my cunt to the point of no return, I peeled my panties off. They came stickily out of my crack as I rolled them wetly down my thrusting hips. Once they were off and heaped damply on the floor, I spread my legs widely, filling the mirror with the hairy image of my hotly open cunt.

I plunged my lingers into my pussy. Two fingers, and then three of them, licking my lips at the sight of being deeply fingerfucked by my own hand.

And then the doorbell rang.

CHAPTER TWO

A door-to-door salesman. Brushes.

My life had become so boring that frequently I secretly welcomed one of these jokers ringing my bell, trying to sell me something I didn't want. At least it filled the time. The more I resisted, the more they talked, and the more time it killed.

But not today. Not now. I had a cunt between my legs that was ready to explode. I was afraid that if I got into a conversation with someone, within two minutes they would notice the pussy juice trickling down my legs.

I suppose I could have just not answered the door. But the minute I heard the bell ringing, the fragile atmosphere of my Alice-through-the-looking-glass fantasy had been ruptured. As the ringing persisted I became more and more convinced that if I tried to ignore it, whoever was at the door might come into the house anyway, catching me with my hand halfway up my cunt.

Standing there talking to him at the door, I prayed that I could get rid of him before the fact of my oozing cunt, drooling nakedly under my rumpled short skirt, became so obvious that it would embarrass both of us.

He was a tall, handsome young man, probably in his early twenties. He said he was working his way through the local university to become a veterinarian. He looked the part. He was fresh and rough-hewn like he had been raised on the healthy environment of a farm, getting involved with animals and the land while he was growing up, instead of drugs and cheap thrills like so many kids around these days. He had short brown hair and a jutting jaw. And even under his brown corduroy suit I could see that he had an exceptionally muscular body.

"I hope I haven't interrupted anything," he said, his azure-blue eyes meeting mine.

"Oh, no, no," I lied. "I was just waking up from a nap anyway."

"Well, then, may I come inside?" he said assertively but pleasantly.

"Uh, sure… sure," I said, unable to think of any other response to his polite insistence. "Come in and have a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"No thanks," he said as he sat down.

He must have been about six-foot-four and over two hundred pounds without an ounce of fat on him. Standing in the doorway, walking across the room or sitting down, I could see that he was a beautiful hunk of man. And not the least of it, I suddenly noticed when he sat down and his pants stretched tightly against his crotch, was the huge corduroy bulge between his legs. Spontaneously, it occurred to me that at least five pounds of that two-hundred had to be his cock, judging from the provocative mound in his trousers.

"Do you have something cooking in the kitchen?" he asked, startling me with his unexpected question.

"Why do you ask?" I said, puzzled.

"Because you were licking your lips… like you were thinking about something good to eat," he said, smiling.

Was it my imagination or didn't the bulge between his legs seem to throb when he said that? I averted my eyes from him, trying to deny my interest in his crotch.

But it did no good. My cunt was foaming with uncontrollable desire, even hotter than it had been when I was fingerfucking myself in the mirror.

"Are you sure you don't want any coffee?" I asked again, trying to forget about the pulsing between my thighs.

"No," he said, "But don't let me stop you if you want some."

"Oh, no, that's all right," I said, trying not to betray my nervousness and taking a chair across from him. As I sat down, my skirt climbed to the tops of my thighs. Remembering that I had nothing underneath I gave it a tug, muttering in frustration under my breath.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?" he asked.

"Oh," I said. "I was just complaining to myself how short this skirt is. It's out of style, I'm afraid. I just wear it around the house."

"I think it's very attractive," he said, smiling. "If you're worried about what I think – don't. Besides, you have no reason to complain. You have exceptionally beautiful legs."

"Thank you," I blushed.

"And you don't have to sit clear across the room, you know. I'll never be able to show you my samples unless you come over here to the couch." He patted the sample case he'd been carrying. But in some fantasizing corner of my brain I could see him patting that bulging crotch.

The way he looked across the room at me, I didn't see how I could say no without seeming to be impolite.

"Don't worry, I won't try and bite you… or try and sell you anything you don't want."

"I know you wouldn't," I said as I moved to sit beside him.

I could feel his eyes on my legs as my skirt slid up. I knew I should have put my panties back on before I answered the door. My skirt was within a couple of inches of the bush of my cunt and there was nothing to stop this stranger from seeing it if I made a false move. It would be bad enough if a stranger saw my pussy, but even more embarrassing when he noticed that it was absolutely sopping.

"You know," he said, putting his arm around me, "you are a very pretty girl."

I was so flattered that such a good-looking young guy had called me a girl I ignored my immediate reaction of being annoyed at his forwardness and let his arm remain unmolested around my shoulders.

"I'll bet you get lonely sitting around here alone all day," he said like he really understood my plight.

"As a matter of fact I do," I practically blurted, astonished at my candor. "But of course," I quickly tried to cover up, "I read quite a bit, and I have a few other interests."

"Like what?" he said, moving his body even closer to me.

"Oh, you know… you know," I stammered, totally at a loss to give any examples.

"Like playing with your pussy?" he said in a voice as calm and friendly as the one he'd used to introduce himself when I'd answered the door.

"I beg your pardon," I replied incredulously.

He didn't say anything. Instead he just looked down between my legs. My mouth flew open when I looked down, too, and saw that my skirt had wriggled halfway up my bare hips and half of my cunt was showing. A thick trickle of glistening goo oozed strikingly from the crimson slot in the center of my bush.

"I… I…" I stuttered, vainly trying to think of a denial for what was as obvious as both the nose on my face and the bare, moist pussy between my thighs.

"Don't be afraid," he said, reaching over my shoulder and squeezing one of my breasts, cupping my braless tit in his strong but gentle grip. "You want it, don't you?"

"No, actually I have all the brushes I'll ever need," I said.

"You don't have to play games with me," he said. "I've seen you looking at my cock ever since I sat down. You don't have to be ashamed that you want it."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," I said huffily, trying unsuccessfully to act as though his bulging cock and balls were the last things I had on my mind. Actually my brain was filled with their burning image, a picture of a long stiff prick and two throbbing testicles engorging my imagination.

"Oh, no, baby," he said, "you've got it all wrong. You wouldn't have answered the door with no panties on unless you were hoping ten inches of cock was waiting for you at the door."

Ten inches! My pussy started doing flip flops.

"No… no, you're wrong," I weakly protested. "I was… I was doing something in the bedroom."

"Playing with your pussy," he said. "See, I got you to admit it. I was right in the first place. Now why don't you just admit that you're horny as hell and let me split your pussy wide open with my cock. If you make me wait too long I'm afraid I'll tear my pants. Believe me, you've got me just as turned-on as you are. And there's only one thing that will cure it."

He pushed me back on the sofa and started lifting the bottom of my sweater. "No bra either," he said, just before my tits popped free and he gently grasped them, pushing them together so that he had both my nipples ensnared in a singe hand, squeezing them into turgid erectness. "You really want it, don't you?"

I was speechless. He manipulated me like I was his puppet, slipping my sweater over my head and tossing it to the floor so that I was nude from the waist up. Down below, my skirt was now bunched around my waist. My exposed cunt seemed to blaze like a glowing ember between my legs. A trickle of drool spewed from my gash, leaving a dark stain on the sofa.

Abruptly, his calm exterior cracked for the first time. He leaned over, crushing my body in his tit-caressing embrace and breathing hotly in my ear, "Yeah, baby, you're ready for it, aren't you? You're a hot little bitch. You need it all the time, don't you baby? Your husband can't begin to satisfy you."

I was mute. While my body helplessly writhed under his touch, one hand easing between my uncontrollably parting thighs while the other stroked my tits, I found myself blushing, unable to contradict him.

Immediately I realized that the reason for my inability to answer him was that, what he was saying was true. George was a dud in the sack.

When George did fuck me – about once every couple of weeks when he wasn't too tired from trying to get ahead in the insurance business – it was just a crude slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am, rolling off of me and falling asleep just as soon as he had come. Particularly over the last couple of years, more times than I cared to remember I had wound up laying flat on my back with a pussy full of sperm, squirming in frustration, far short of having come myself.

"It's true, isn't it?" the salesman said, slipping a finger inside my cunt and working it gently in and out, my pussy lips instinctively clinging to it as my senses began to boll. "Your husband doesn't satisfy you. He's too busy at the office to pay any attention to your needs. To your body. To your tits. To your cunt. To your hot, throbbing cunt. I can feel your pussy crying to be fucked."

Before I could answer he dropped his head down to my tits. His tongue darted out and flicked my left nipple. Then he sucked my right nipple into his mouth. I felt a warm, pulling sensation start rippling down my stomach and into my pussy. Another of his fingers squirmed to join the first one inside my cunt and I opened my legs to accommodate his thrust, losing control of myself. I moaned as he ran his large hand up and down my pussy, massaging it and fingerfucking it into a drooling frenzy.

"Are you ready for it now, baby?" he breathed huskily into the cleavage of my compressed tits. "Are you ready to find out what ten inches of steel feels like?" Slowly he slipped a third finger up my pussy and started to give me a three-pronged fingerfuck. It was the most delicious feeling I had experienced within memory.

"Yes, yes," I cried, giving in totally at last to my impulses. "Anything! Give it to me! Fuck me!"

"Say please."