Chapter 2

Two hours and fifteen minutes of watching budding bosoms poking out from tight tee-shirts only to be leered at by tall, lean boys with broad hairless chests and taut thighs, racing on motorcycles, drinking beer, and pawing at each other's bodies like it was merchandise on a sale table, and Kathy was ready to go home. Listening to the couples in back of her, their lips smacking and tongues sucking as they sparred and sparked in the darkness of the movie theater, the auburn-haired wife nudged her husband in the ribs with her elbow and whispered, "Let's go home, Art."

"But the gang bang hasn't even happened yet," he protested hissing. "... And the leader of the gang still has to fight her boy friend."

Kathy smiled flirtatiously. "Let's go home and have our own gang bang, Art. Huh? What' you say?"

What could he say? All those young kids making-out and carrying on like there was no tomorrow had affected him, too, Especially that honey- haired actress with the high, round breasts that she strutted around so proudly to show off to all the guys who followed her with their tongues hanging out. Art consoled himself with the fact that she would be gang- banged in the end... although they never really showed that in the film, only implied it.

But he couldn't protest. He had a damned good looking wife who wanted to go home and make love.

And good looking she was, too. Long, thick auburn hair that she tied back with barrets and ribbons, hair that shone yellow and red in the sunlight... flashing blue eyes that cooled the flames of her red tresses, showed off her peaches and cream complexion. A smattering of Irish freckles pebbled her nose and cheeks, with just enough color to catch and hold the sun's tanning rays. The look of health and vivacity was she, and he couldn't help but smile every time he caught a glimpse of her in a mirror or shop window.

Feminine too. She spoke in a soft, unobstreperous manner, always polite but not syrupy to cause suspicion. Delicate was the word, delicate as fine Irish lace.

She stood erect and proud, yet in a gentle unassuming way that couldn't help but make you want to run up and throw your arms around her neck.

"Yeah, hon. We'll go," smirked Art, slipping his arm in his corduroy jacket.

They silently slipped from the theater just at the climax of the film. Art took one final peek over his right shoulder before giving up the fantasy of "No Tomorrow" for real life. He loved movies and he loved adventure.

The moon was just rising over the sloping hills surrounding the outskirts of the town when they reached the car parked only a block from the theater.

Kathy slid in, unlocking her own door, and slithered over to the middle of the cold plastic seat and rubbed her hand along her husband's firm thigh, then rested her head on his shoulder.

Ah, she felt young again, like a nineteen year old girl out on a date, instead of a twenty-eight year old woman going home from a movie with her husband. To be young, again, she thought with a sigh of nostalgia for the recklessness of youth.

Well, tonight she just might be a little reckless herself! The movie combined with the necking behind her had reminded her there was more to life than washing dishes and reading magazines. Life was to be lived, and tonight, by God, she was going to live!

Darlingly, she slithered her hand further up her husband's thigh til it reached the warm vee of his pants, where her fingers explored the growing bulge in his trousers with ever-increasing lust.

"Hey, baby," cooed Art, his knuckles white as he clutched hard at the steering wheel. "You're gonna get it tonight, you little devil, you."

With a satisfied grin, she drank in the promising words, hoping that tonight Art wouldn't get sidetracked by a sudden plotting inspiration or a telephone call. Tonight would be theirs alone to share.

Art was breathing hard by the time the Dodge Dart pulled into the driveway of their rented home in the newly constructed patch of tract homes outside of Elston.

Out of habit that had become a ritual, Kathy got out of the car first to open the garage door, walked to the door adjoining the garage to the house, and stepped inside just as the phone burrrhhhhed.

"OH, God, she spat with a hiss, "now what's the matter?" After eight years she'd learned to detect the different signals from the mere sound of a telephone ringing. Perhaps it was a parapsychological talent she'd developed from the necessity of paranoia. The short impatient rings... now more than two or three... those were the hasslers. Four or five meant a neighbor or Art's parents. Any more than that and it signaled work.

Kathy reached the phone on its seventh ring. She didn't have to count the rings any more, the sound was imprinted in her brain, indelibly.

"Hello?"

"Yes, he's locking the garage door now. Hold on a minute..."

Unavoidably, she knew it was work. Probably some tip on the drug bust, she guessed. But who could tell? The underground policemen with whom Art worked seemed to communicate in a secret language that she couldn't decipher.

Hearing clomping in the hallway, Kathy turned in time to hand Art the receiver, shooting him a warning glance, silent though loaded with emotion. Her lips drew into a taut line as she stood in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of wine, listening to her husband grunt out answers to the invisible invader of their privacy.

The auburn haired woman kicked off her shoes, and taking her wine glass with her, padded down the carpeted hallway to their bedroom. Taking off her light summer jacket, she let it fall on the straight backed chair in the corner of the blue room. She unzipped the simple cotton dress and slipped out of it. The soft cotton stroked over her body, sliding over her smooth, creamy shoulders, onto her full, round breasts, then down to her smooth, svelty curving buttocks, her voluptuous young thighs, her smooth slim legs. At last it settled on the floor with a faint sound that could have been a sigh.

Kathy stepped out of the crumpled pile of blue cotton that lay puddled on the rug. She pulled the sheer froth of her slip over her head, and dropped it, too, on the rug. Reaching behind her, she unhooked the bit of white lace which was her bra, then slipped the straps off her shoulders; it joined the dress and slip on the floor.

Her flimsy nylon panties came next, followed by first one stocking and then the other, a garter belt, a pair of low-heeled shoes. The clothing lay scattered around the room where Kathy opened the bottom drawer of her bureau where she kept her seldom-worn clothes, most of which were Christmas presents from Art and a little too daring for her taste, and pulled out last year's present--a see-through nylon nightie that graced the wisps of her pubic hair, so short was it.

She pulled it over her head then stood silently, straining to hear if Art was still on the phone. A muffled voice from the hallway signified he was, and so she sat herself before the long mirror of her dressing table, picked up a hair brush and unclasping the brown tortoise-shell barret from the right side of her head, began her nightly ritual.

Mentally, she counted as the hairbrush stroked her thick wealth of hair. She stared at herself as she counted, satisfied with what she saw.

But was Art?

Tonight he would be, she grinned salaciously at her mimicking image. Against her better judgment, she smeared on an extra thick coating of mascara to make her eyes look even bigger, deeper. That turned on Art, she knew. After watching that movie with all the intonated but never consummated sex, all the vibrancy of youthful energy, she wanted to fix herself at her seductive best, hoping that the allurement of her long- denied body would calm her jagged nerves. She'd been rather fidgety lately, jumping at the slightest sound, and she'd chalked it all up to lack of sex. Those were the symptoms peculiar to her chemistry; after eight years she'd learned to recognize the signs of abstinence.

With a dab of cotton she dosed herself with the faintest and most expensive of her perfumes. Art likes to buy me all these sexy things... nighties, panties perfume... but I never get a chance to try them out on him. It all seemed so foolishly wasteful somehow. A tease.

Practicing moving in front of the big mirror, watching the brief hem of the garment flare over her hips, exposing the tight, hair-fringed slit of her pussy with every step, Kathy grinned with self confidence.

She slithered out of the bedroom, expecting to see her husband readying himself for bed. Although it went against the grain of her gentle nature, she was ready to seduce him... shamelessly. Maybe that's been my problem, she thought. I expect Art to take the initiative, but he's just too preoccupied. Sometimes a girl has to take things into her own hands... like that blonde girl in the movie.

A vivid vision of Art's long, thick cock sprang into Kathy's mind. Well, what else could she do?

But instead of getting ready for bed, Kathy saw that Art was still dressed as he'd been, the only difference being his shirt was unbuttoned and hanging out of his pants. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a pen and paper his attention now as he drew what looked like road maps. Leaning over his shoulder, pressing her warm smooth flesh against his still clothed body, she leaned over to kiss his neck. Surely that would do it!

"Oh... Kathy," he acknowledged, reaching up to pat her petite hand with his big one, his eyes never leaving the paper. Art didn't raise his head, or turn: instead, he clutched her hand and continued drawing.

"What is it?" Kathy asked in a half-whisper, leaning low so that the sweetness of her perfume would reach his nostrils.

"Map. Think we're closin' in on 'em. This weekend. Gonna happen this weekend during the rock concert." He pounded his forehead with his free hand. "Have to figure some way. Oh, Kathy, baby, forgive me, but I gotta plot this out. You know how I am... I can't figure anything out unless I can see it on paper." Still, he didn't turn his head to see his half-naked wife, her firm, round breasts bouncing out of the deep V neckline of her black nightie. Or the naked, damp slit of her pussy fully exposed. Or the mascara-heavy eyelashes that fluttered in shadows over her high cheek bones.