They sit, one in each corner of the double closet, like two, squat, white, abstract pieces of art, open to whatever interpretation the viewer chooses to make of them. Only the sculptor can validate the interpretation of any observer. Even though I own them I have no intention of even confirming what they represent or why they stand, alone and abandoned, in the corner of my clothes closet. They are both my cross and my salvation, all in the same breath; my sole remaining link to the past and the only hope I have for the future.
Like Scylla and Charybdis, master and mistress of the perils of the sea, and guardians of the straits in ancient Greek mythology, they guard the entrance of my own private hell; or rather they are in and of themselves my own private hell. No one, should they be discovered before my death, will ever fathom their significance in my life or the purpose of their contents. After all, they are so much more than what they appear on the surface, and only I know.
They swim before my eyes shimmering, the lettering on the sides flowing together and then separating, forming grotesque faces, first looking at me and then at each other as if deciding as to how to devour me, as if they have not already done so.
God damned you, John. God damns you to hell for leaving me responsible for them and their contents! How could you? Why would you? What did I ever do to deserve this? I was a good wife, a loving and caring wife. I followed your lead and I supported you. I kept your house and bore your children.
No matter how I shift my head on the pillow in my neatly arranged bedroom, I cannot avoid seeing them peeking out around the edges of the doors on each side of the open closet. I silently curse, once again, as I fling my glass, and the remnants of the latest drink of scotch, against the far wall of the master bedroom. The scotch diluted by the melting ice cubes, trickles down the beige wall to puddle at the baseboard beside the shards of broken glass and the fast melting ice. The two white sentinels remain impassive in the closet; observing all and saying nothing.
Deep in the recesses of my mind I know that I am not thinking clearly. Thankfully, the scotch is once again starting to take command, but I don't care. Or maybe I cared too much, and that is why I am drinking too much, all by myself in my lonely bedroom, alone in my bed.
Naked in the bed, I let my fingers, cold and wet from clutching the ever-present glass, slide down my flat belly into the luxuriant bush of thickening auburn hair covering my pussy and spreading up my flat belly. A sly smile teases at the corner of my lips. Just like a real beaver, a coarse outer layer of fur covering the fine inner layer and the tender, sensitive skin underneath. My index finger slides down to the top of my ever-moist slit, slipping into the crevasse to torment once again the ever-agitated bud hidden in the dampened fold of skin. My eyelids droop as a slight thrill courses through my body. As I drift back into the memories, to more sensual times, my finger starts to stroke in and out, and the wet sounds of my arousal echo though the silent, lonely bedroom. The sentinels watch from the closet saying nothing, observing all.
As my fingers increase their tempo, memories of that last, fateful morning come flooding back, as if it were only yesterday. A morning that started out promising something new, stimulating invigorating and forbidden in our sex lives, and ended in disaster.
As we stand in the shower, the needle sharp spray pounds down, soothing our tired muscles, and cleansing the sweat from our bodies after our early morning eye opener. John is standing behind me in the tiny stall, his ever turgid cock wedged in the narrow crack of my ass, a constant reminder of what he is always looking for from me and what I am more than willing to give. Steam, rising from the scalding waters, clouds the small room, masking everything in its billowy clouds, and making everything slick to the touch.
"Oh John, that feels so good," I whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the pounding water, as his callused fingers, covered in soap suds, slide over my tender nipples and down my taut belly. "You're insatiable, don't you ever get enough?" His fingers tense but he knows that I don't really mean it as my body relaxes in his hands.
"Will you relax, Peggy, the kids are all gone, off on their own, probably screwing their brains out. We have the house all to ourselves, finally. We can yell and scream and chase each other through the house to our hearts' content if we want. We are alone and I am going to ravish you in a way you have never been ravished before." The comment piques my curiosity but my mind is quickly distracted as his finger slides over my slick belly into the sopping hair covering my wet slit.
"You can scream and yell all you want. Only the walls can hear and they can't talk." He whispers into my ear as his finger massages the soapsuds trapped in the thick mat of auburn hair that has always been my secret pride and joy. I can feel his teeth start to nibble at the lobe of my ear as the blood starts to run more quickly through my veins. Can I ever get enough of my man, I silently ask myself, as I feel his stiff cock probing insistently at me from behind.
My mind wants to follow this conversation, to question what he means, to question what is to come. John's fingers are entwined in the tangled hair of my bush. The coarse curls protrude through his spread fingers. His index finger finds my leaking slit and starts to gently massage the little button. His hard cock slides up and down the narrow crack between the small cheeks of my ass, rubbing against the puckered little rosebud that is my asshole. My attention wanders and I quickly forget the provoking words, and lose myself in the physical sensations of the moment.
The coarse whiskers on the side of his unshaven cheek chafe the sensitive skin on the side of my neck. His unseen lips open, once again, capturing my earlobe between them, sucking on it, teasing, and pulling at it. His tongue flicks out, probing the opening to my ear. A shiver darts down my neck, down, down into my sex. The smell of my arousal permeates the heavy steam, giving it a special scent, the smell of a woman in heat.
My mind and body start to relax, to float gently into that ever so special world I visit solely in the arms of my loving husband. "Oh, John... don't you ever get enough," I moan over my shoulder. The words of protest are made lie to by the actions of my body, as I melt back into him.
I feel his lips release my earlobe and he whispers right into my ear, "Never Peggy, I never get enough of that tight little pussy of yours." A smile, unseen by him, teases at the corner of my mouth as my neck arches back and I fit the crown on my head under his chin; my lips searching for his, my eyes closed in the pounding spray.
His left hand slides up the flat plane of my tummy and cups my right breast. His fingers separate and the hard, engorged bud of my nipple slips between them to be teased, sending a shiver up my spine. I barely notice his right hand slipping out of my bush, abandoning the dripping slit and its sensitive little treasure, and circling over my hip. He eases back and the log that is his rampant cock slips out of the crease of my ass. Surely he is not going to stop, not now. "John... please don't stop," I whine, a tone of pleading in my voice.
"Relax Peggy, relax and go with the flow. I won't leave you hanging. We are going to experiment, try new things. We are all alone, so nobody will hear us, nobody." His gentle, soothing words, the warm water and my singing nerves ease my fears and I ignore the signals my questioning mind has started to send. His hand glides across the small of my back, the fingers like fire on my sensitive skin. They slide down the crease of my ass where only moments ago his thick cock had been so firmly lodged. Lubricated with the rich, thick suds he worked up in my bush, his long thick fingers work their way in my crack, teasing my nether hole as they slip back and forth across the sensitive opening.
My breath starts to come in ragged gasps as hoarsely I cry out, "Oh, John, it feels so good, sooooo good, please don't stop, pleaaaase!" His hand massages the tense muscles in the cheek of my ass, his fingers slide up and down the crack and slowly I relax under his gentle massage. His left hand moves from one breast to the other, tormenting my rigid nipples. My head is thrown back, and the hot spray beats on my face.
Unconsciously, my legs inch apart, as the soles of my feet slip on the suds covered floor of the shower. My knees buckle, giving easier access to his exploring fingers. I lean forward and rest my forehead on my forearm on the shower wall. My free hand grasps his as he pulls at my taut, singing nipples. Deep in my conscious thought I marvel at John's renewed vigor. Maybe we should have encouraged the kids to move out sooner, I think as his fingers slide up and down my crack, working their way into the narrow channel as my muscles relax. I gasp as I suck in air to satisfy my racing lungs.
I inch my hips back and open my legs further apart as his fingers work their way into my crack. The spray beats on my back and runs down the crack of my ass, providing a lubricant for his roving fingers. Lank strands of my still dark hair hang down into my face, the water dripping from the ends. I see nothing, feel nothing but the rough hands massaging my taunt ass. His index finger begins to circle the brown, puckered hole, touching, teasing the tense little bud.
My eyes are partially open and the water blurs my vision but my brain begins to register this alien presence in this forbidden, most private area. "John... John... what are you doing?"
.... There is more of this story ...