| Mar. 22nd, 2005 @ 04:49 pm (no subject) |
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“We have to hurry,” she whispered to him, breathless from the danger and the tightness of her dress, “my kids will be home soon.” He stirred as she slipped her house key into the lock, deft and graceful. It slipped in without resistance and she turned the knob noiselessly, the door swinging open and revealing the perfect suburban home. The kind of home that only a housewife can make: sterile, yet warm, with everything perfectly matched and the scent of baked goods hanging in the air.
Suddenly, he wanted her even more. She had been something, sitting at the bar, her blue dress painted thin and even over the expanse of her hips. Sipping at a Cosmopolitan and chain smoking those skinny cigarettes rich women buy, leaving blood red stains on each discarded stub. God he had wanted her then, with her fallen woman smoke rings, a slice of mystery so rare in this midwestern town.
But now, the thought of her rich and powerful husband in his office across town dreaming of her martinis, her blonde children in their classrooms dreaming of her cookies, made his heart race and his blood rise. She was someone’s wife, someone’s mommy, a wearer of pink sweat suits and a watcher of rec league soccer games. They knew her as an untouched, perfect domestic angel. But he knew her other side too. The side that squeezed into blue cocktail dresses and picked up blue collar boys on the dole for an afternoon romp on her expensive, Laura Ashley bed sheets.
His hands went to her body and she smiled, self-possessed in her desires. She moaned softly as she let his calloused hands paw at her softness, slipping over the satin of that little blue dress. But she caught them when he went for the zipper and led him, wordless, into the kitchen for another drink.
Moments later, with two tall whiskey glasses empty and lying in her gleaming sink, she had led him down the stairs into a warm basement finished with rich wood paneling linoleum floors arranged to look like tiles of art deco marble. He had tried to stop her at the bedroom, the thought of having her in her husband’s king sized bed was so attractive to him that he considered leaving when she laughed him off. He had only relented at her breezy explanation that she hated the lace curtains and the overly cushy bed, and that she’d had a special room built for her specific interests when it came to sex.
She slid a false bookshelf to the left and led him into another room, darker and carpeted with plastic tarpaulins. She sat him on a small cot and excused herself behind a metal partition. The effects of all that whiskey had started to take its toll on him, his muscles loose and non-compliant. He worried for a moment that he’d had too much liquor to perform, but when she walked back from behind the partition with nothing but a leather apron pulled taut against the milky white of her body, he discovered that he was in perfect working order.
She sat herself in his lap and allowed for a few more moments of his rough handed pawing, before pushing him down against the mat and making quick work of the manacles hanging at its sides. He struggled against them lamely for a minute, but the whiskey had made him heavy and soft and slow. Besides, the sight of that soft blonde hair spilling around the neck of that apron, and the swell of her large breasts from below it made him forget about the bondage. If she was going to let him touch her, to feel her, she could do it any way she pleased.
“Would you like a blindfold,” she’d asked him, her eyes shining as she held up a tiny piece of fabric, “or do you like to watch?” It wasn’t until she reappeared from behind that partition for the third time, this time carrying a hacksaw, that he realized he shouldn’t have declined that thin strip of satin.
“We have to hurry,” she whispered, “my kids will be home soon.” |
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