Chapter 8: Bab’s History

“You little slut!” exclaimed a laughing Babs. “Thank God your father never knew what you were up to, he’d have killed you and dragged your corpse off to a nunnery!”

By the end of her story, Maggie had stripped down to bare skin as well. Her pussy was shaved almost as bare as the other two, with only a small tuft at the top of her slit proclaiming she was a natural blonde. “Oh, please, Momma! I heard the two of you going at it more than once, so don’t you dare impugn my morals,” she giggled in protest.

“Really, Babs, so you and your husband liked it noisy, huh?” quizzed Caroline. “Did you ever participate in group sex like your daughter and me? Did Harry like that sort of thing?”

Babs snorted in derision. “Who? Harry? Get real! Harry didn’t have the physique one normally associates with that sort of thing, although he was hung like a horse. He was a bit, er, pudgy, so to speak.”

“Momma, how can you say such a thing!” To Caroline, Maggie said, “Daddy was just the biggest teddy bear in the world. He was cuddly.” She stuck her tongue out at her mother.

“Yeah, and he was shaped like a teddy bear, too. But oh baby, if you could have seen him back when I first met him, ooohh, Stud City!”

Caroline laughed. “So, was your great sexcapade with him?”

“Not hardly. Now don’t get me wrong. Harry was a great fuck, and we used to get it on morning, noon, and night, but Harry really was a one-woman man. He didn’t cotton to the idea of sharing me. No, this happened a few years after he died...”

Babs sat at the vanity, nervously applying her makeup. She wasn’t at all sure that she was ready for this and was still half-convinced it was too soon after Harry’s death to go out and try to meet other men. Granted, it had been three years since his heart attack, and if time didn’t heal all wounds, it had certainly put a healthy dose of scar tissue in place.

Several months ago, some friends had convinced her that forty-seven wasn’t dead, or even old, and had talked her into going to a Chippendales show with them. To her vast surprise, she had enjoyed it. She had also enjoyed going with them a month later and visiting a nearby singles bar. Tonight, she had decided to go out on her own, and as she finished her lip gloss, she stood. “If I don’t go now, I never will!” she announced to the empty room and grabbed her purse and went to her car.

Her mood lightened considerably after she had been in Kelsey’s Pub for a bit. Sitting at the bar, she had been promptly swarmed by several younger men, guys mostly in their twenties looking to get lucky with what they thought was a thirtyish divorcee, not a widow closing in on fifty. She began to have fun and was glad she had dressed as she had.

She had never worn this dress before, although it was over three years old. It was the last dress she had bought before Harry had died, and he had never seen her in it. She had planned on wearing it out that night to dinner with him, but his heart attack on the fourteenth green had cancelled those plans. He never made it to the clubhouse. She had almost cancelled this night out when she went through her closet. She could never go out to meet other men in a dress she had worn for Harry. God, he had fucked her in every single one she owned! She still believed that Harry Meredith was the best thing that had ever happened to her in her life.

Barbara Obriski had been born plain white trash and had come home from the hospital to live in the dining room of a one-bedroom trailer on the wrong side of the tracks in Chicago. Her mother never worked, suffering from alcoholism and emphysema, and her father wasn’t much better, doing day labor when he was sober. They survived on disability checks and welfare, most of which went to bad whiskey and cheap cigarettes.

From an early age, Babs knew she wanted a better life than this, but it seemed hopeless. Still, unlike so many of her friends, she stayed in school even after they had dropped out to turn tricks or sell drugs. Even this ended when a smooth-talking guy with a flashy car and some ready cash sweet-talked her into sleeping with him. As best she could figure it out, he knocked her up the same night her popped her cherry, and at sixteen she found herself with a baby girl and he was long, long gone. Her parents wanted to throw her out, until they realized that now she qualified for welfare, too, so they let her stay if she signed over the checks. She had to drop out of school herself.

Still, she swore to herself and little Maggie that someday they would get out of the flea-bitten rotting trailer and get a real life. By the time she turned eighteen, she had managed to get her GED and had landed a job as a secretary-trainee at the nearby IBM factory. With the few dollars she saved, she moved out and never looked back, settling in to a third story walk up with cold water that was still an improvement over her past. She hand-washed her best clothing for that first Monday at work.

Babs was never a religious person, but for the rest of her life she would thank God daily that she went to work at Harry Meredith’s factory as a gofer and clerk. She was brought into his office for a routine introduction to find him on the phone, and she waited silently, scared to death he would send her packing for some unknown fault. He was a tall man with salt-and pepper hair with still more pepper than salt, big boned and heavy set, and in his late thirties. Setting the phone down, he held out his hand and she lunged forward to shake it, knocking over a planter in the process. Fighting back the tears, she scurried to pick it up and clean up the mess she had made of his office and her life. Stooping beside her, he laughed and said, “Jesus, kiddo, don’t sweat it, it’s a fake plant anyway!” She glanced up at him and met his eyes.

Babs and Harry Meredith were living proof of love at first sight. They stared speechless at each other for several minutes before standing, whereupon she was shown to where she would work. She had an almost psychic ability to tell when he was watching her. Out of the blue she would turn around to see him standing in the doorway to his office, staring at her and smiling. She would smile back, dazzled, and they would go back to work.

At the end of the week, he called her in to his office and very nervously asked her to dinner. She had almost tripped over her tongue saying “Yes!” and had promptly called and made arrangements with an elderly neighbor to baby-sit Maggie. When Harry showed up to the door of her apartment, she was dressed like she always did at work, since her work clothes were her best clothes, and introduced him to Maggie. He was fascinated that she could have a toddler already and wasn’t frightened off like so many other men had been.

Harry had immediately seen as he walked into the dilapidated tenement that Maggie would be a fish out of water at the fancy restaurant he had made reservations at, so he stripped off his tie and stuck it in his pocket, then took off his jacket and slung it over a shoulder. Instead, he took her to a fancy pizzeria in a suburban mall, only to discover that this wasn’t much better.

After they were seated in the small booth, Maggie had stared down at the table in front of her. “Harry, look, somebody messed up and gave me two forks!”

“Babs, that’s your salad fork,” he said quizzically.

“Huh?”

“You eat your salad with the small fork, and your meal with the big one,” he explained.

Faced with her ignorance and inelegance, Babs Obriski broke down and cried, the tears gushing out along with a mangled attempt to explain her inability and naiveté. Harry simply scooted around the booth to her side. Throwing a bear-like arm around her shoulders, he used his napkin to wipe away her tears, telling her, “Babs, I know you’re not all that fancy, but I didn’t ask you out because I thought you were fancy. If I wanted some damn debutante, I’d have gotten my mother to hitch me up with some daughter of one of her friends.” Babs stopped crying long enough to listen. “Listen, I’ve been that route already, and it was a damn disaster. You, I don’t know, you’re real, I guess, and all the money and fancy breeding and education can’t buy that.” He continued in this vein for several minutes more, finishing with, “Just be yourself!”

She dabbed her eyes and sniffled, then smiled. “You know, though, two forks is pretty silly. I mean, you can’t use more than one at a time anyway!”

“That’s the spirit!” he said as he slid back to his place. “By the time we go someplace fancy, you’ll have this crap down cold.”

Startled, she looked up at him. “What, you mean you’d want to go out with me again?”

It was Harry’s turn to look startled. “Well, sure, why not? Listen, I grew up with kids who needed servants to tell them what to wear and what to do. You already know that stuff - think of the advantage you’ve got!”

“Oh, God, I think I’m going to cry again,” said Babs, who scurried off to the bathroom. Harry stared after her, at a loss for words. When she came back, she had washed her face and fixed her makeup. “Harry Meredith, I love you,” she told him.

Harry was stunned but waved it off, even though he was well and truly smitten by Babs. True to his word, he took her to dinner again the following Friday. By then, she had been able to cash her first paycheck and use some money to buy a nicer dress at a local thrift shop. After dinner, they took a nice drive along Lake Michigan and went parking, something Harry hadn’t done in twenty years. He still remembered the basics, however, and was more than able to perform once Babs had climbed into the back seat and undressed.

After three months, he had Babs transferred to a manager at the other end of the plant, explaining that with her so near he couldn’t get any work done. Three months after that they were married in a simple ceremony, and he bought a house and moved Babs and Maggie in. Taking a two-year-old on his honeymoon wasn’t part of his overall plans, but he grinned and did so anyway. He had truly grown fond of the little girl, and she had begun calling him “Da Da.” Anyway, she was well behaved and took frequent naps, giving Harry and his new bride many opportunities to screw around. On their first anniversary, he asked Babs if he could adopt Maggie as his own, and she agreed with joyful tears.

As Harry had foretold, Maggie had been able to soak up ‘class’ like a sponge. She wanted to be the best wife a man could ever have, and remembered the old saying, “The perfect wife is a chef in the kitchen, a lady in the parlor, and a whore in the bedroom!” While she never made great chef, she was at least a competent cook, and within a short time had indeed become a refined and elegant hostess in the parlor. But it was in the bedroom that her true talents lay, and Harry was delighted to discover that his blushing bride never blushed.

If Maggie was someplace else, Babs was an aggressively wanton woman. She loved nothing better than to worship at the altar of her husband’s ten-inch cock. She would wake him in the morning with a blowjob, she would greet him when he came home from work by taking him upstairs and providing a quickie, and at night she would put on a frilly negligee and fuck him silly in bed. For all of Harry’s considerable sophistication, in many ways he was a very down-to-earth guy, and for his part, he could think of nothing better to do than to make love to his gorgeous drop-dead knockout beauty of a wife every chance he could get.