Lavender Pt. 01

Eighty degrees, a beautiful summer evening, and Mrs. Roberts is going to take a bath. She spent the day working up a sweat: hoeing, weeding, cutting the grass, clearing the junk from the garage, hauling the trash to the landfill, dusting, sweeping out the cobwebs. All to get dirty for the Bathtub.

Everything was ready. Her kids, Laura and Bobby, were on the other side of the country with their father and the Bitch (her Ex's turn for custody). She had the week to herself. Her four best friends were scattered to the four winds. Barbara, in Connecticut with her parents; Terri, burning her skin in Florida; Bill, off to Paris with his boyfriend; and Marion, who won a trip to Australia.

Before each of them left, Betty gave explicit instructions. Over the next week, they were not to call her...for anything...ever - "If there's a nuclear war, major epidemic, massive meteor strike, the Rapture - you-do-not-call!" Her friends understood; they knew how Betty loved that Bathtub.

Her fetish was common knowledge. Betty was an aquaphile; she loved the feel of water on her bare skin. She practiced discretion in public but at private swim parties, in her (ex) husband's presence and close (open-minded) friends, she swam nude. She loved baths and showers, the water cascading on her body. Her friends were ok with it; everyone has their proclivities. Laura and Bobby were conceived in a bathtub and swimming pool, respectively.

Betty disconnected the phone and left the cell in the guest room...at the other end of the house...under the mattress...with the door locked. All the doors and windows, with one exception, were locked. Betty lived in a secure house. High walls around the garden and backyard reduced the danger of intruders.

Betty wasn't worried; the neighborhood was safe, three years since the last burglary. The only person who might pose a problem was Derrick, Bobby's friend from next door. She suspected him of spying on her with his binoculars (not that she minded too much, she had a touch of exhibitionism).

His parents' attic was a good vantage point; it faced the garden and a person could see over the wall. She knew Derrick had the hots for her (and while common sense and social mores prevented her from overtly reciprocating, she couldn't resist a subtle flirt here and there, "But really, he's way too young."). Betty remembered Derrick was in summer camp and his parents were in Hawaii. In fact, most of the neighborhood was on vacation. In the summer, everyone in the neighborhood went somewhere else.

One look at the bathroom revealed why Betty took such deliberate care to prepare for her bath. Designed by her ex-husband, Carl Roberts Roberts, known professionally as C.R. Roberts, architect and interior designer, the bathroom was a marvel; inspired by the paintings of Maxfield Parrish, built of brick, wood, and clay.

Betty thought Carl built it as a wedding present; twenty years of a bad marriage taught her it was built for his ego. Plants and hanging vines were set around the sink and ceiling, and in vases around the room. The entire west wall was a bifolded double French door. In the winter, it was closed; sunlight came through the windows to nourish the plants and vines. In the summer, the doors were folded back, opening the bathroom to the garden. Automatic sprinklers, set on timers, made sure the plants were watered regularly. The bathroom faced west so the setting sun cast a rosy glow, blending with the earthy tones of the room. Evening was Betty's favorite time.

The neighborhood is all but deserted. The house is sealed, except for the garden doors; Betty's incommunicado for the week. The Bathtub is filling with water, just above warm, just under hot. The sun is setting on a warm evening, Debussy on the speakers (Prelude To The Afternoon of a Faun); time for her bath.

Betty shed her clothes and put them in the wash. She walked through the house nude. When she reached the bathroom, Betty passed the full-length mirror just inside the entrance, pausing to look at herself. The day's sweat made her skin glow in the early evening. "MILF," Derrick's words (an overheard conversation with her son).

A lot of the boys (and some of the men, a few married) thought the same. "I have to admit, I look pretty good." She ran her hands over her body for self-love's sake. She was tempted to dip into her pussy, already wet with anticipation. "No, wait for the bath."

Betty Roberts was 43 years old; 5'10", shoulder length dark brown hair, brown eyes with just a hint of crow's feet, trim body, cantaloupe-sized breasts, still good and firm, a pilates-flattened belly, wide child-bearing hips ("That's two kids for ya."), close cropped pubic hair over a tight pussy, lovely bubble ass (thanks again pilates), long-limbed arms and legs. "Good enough for the men in the neighborhood but not for C.R," she thought contemptuously.

Two years ago, Carl walked into the bedroom and announced he was leaving her for his secretary, "His twenty-one year old, vapid-headed, bleach blonded, silicon-breasted, plastic surgeried, liposuctioned bitch of a secretary," Betty sniffed. She ran her hands over her breasts, "At least my body is natural."

The divorce was amicable under the circumstances: shared custody of the kids, a healthy alimony, but she fought him tooth and nail for the house. "That Bitch can get her own bathroom," she told him. Carl moved his business east, taking his secretary ("New wife," he said, "New acquisition," she said) with him. The kids hopped back and forth; to their credit, they were in her camp. They came from their last visit and told her Carl was building the Blonde a larger, more palatial bathroom.

"The bathtub's smaller though," Laura said.

The Bathtub: the other reason she fought for the house; the crown jewel. It brought together the East and West styles. It was a pedestal tub, made of enamelled Pennsylvania steel, set on carved imported marble. Specially designed overflow drains, surrounded the base. Ivory-handled, brass-coated faucets were mounted at the end.

The plumbing was state of the art. Betty could program whatever temperature she wished. When the tub filled to the brim, Betty turned off the faucets and brought the imported soaps (from Italy and France) and the scented oils (vanilla and lavender).

She loved lavender; Bill introduced her to the flower. She found its scent intoxicating and bought as many scented products as she could find. Betty made sure the bath water was liberally sprinkled with lavender oil. She waited a few moments, savoring the anticipation. All her anger, her worry, her frustration, soon to be drowned in scented water.

She could forget about her ex-husband and his bitch; her exasperation with the kids (both teenagers who got into teenage trouble) and well-meaning but misguided friends (who were consistent in their attempts at matchmaking, underestimating her anger towards men); and the final frustration: man-hating aside (except for Bill), she hadn't gotten any since before the divorce. Dildos, carrots, and oil-coated fingers helped, but not much. "God, I want some cock," Betty thought as she climbed into the tub. She lay back to enjoy her earned relaxation.

The creature had no name pronounceable by human tongue. His language was a profusion of clicks and gurgles. He was more than intelligent by human standards; the civilization he represented was old and respected. How He ended on this gods-forsaken planet was through a series of accidents involving a faulty navigation AI and a stray meteor.

His ship's superior cloaking technology masked the vessel from the primitive detection devices of the inhabitants, but He was still in deep trouble. The crash had gravely injured him; the medscan detected severe internal bleeding; to make matters worse, He was approaching the peak of his mating cycle. His diplomatic mission was perilously jeopardized and his chances of finding a partner before sexual peak were ruined; He gurgled in frustration.

He sent out the appropriate distress calls and activated the homing beacon; the relay stations placed near the system would pick up the signals soon enough. He ordered the AI to perform a more detailed scan. The 3D vid screen told him the bad news: it was doubtful He would survive long enough for the rescue party to arrive.

Something had to be done; billions of sentient lives were at stake. He had vital information that could stop the war between the Sentient Republic of Alpha Centauri and the Gemini Confederacy. An idea came to him. He activated the portable Encyclopaedia Xenobiologica and scanned for information on the planet's dominant species.

The dominant life form was bipedal and sentient, albeit primitive, but the Alien found what He was looking for: "Yes, it might work. It borders on bestiality but I just might be able to pull this off." The Alien stored the diplomatic pouch in the AI, along with a note detailing his plans; he scanned a copy to his brain and then set off in search of a suitable biped.

Standard procedure required that, if possible, a crash landing must be made in a remote area, far from native habitats, so as not to alarm the locals. Procedure went out the airlock when the engines failed. The Alien had set down in the first convenient area, near some primitive dwellings, thankful for the cloaking device.

When He reached the dwellings, a quick walk through revealed most of them were deserted. The Alien started to become desperate; his body oils and pheromones were reaching their peak excretions. He was still bleeding internally. The Alien came to a wall; not well built or too high by his standards but, given the nature of his injuries, it took some effort to climb.

The other side of the wall seemed to be some sort of enclosure. The Alien had visited enough planets as a diplomat to recognize a garden. Many sentient civilizations had them. "Interesting," he thought. This one was a riot of strange flowers and ferns. His scent glands opened; the smells were remarkably similar to the scents from his body oils and pheromones. He couldn't resist broadcasting a query to His ship's AI for a chemical analysis; the reply confirmed his suspicions as to the similarities. He was reminded, with a sad twinge, of Home. "A good place to die," He thought.

He followed a path to one of the dwellings. The Alien noticed that one of the rooms was missing a wall and there were strange sounds emanating from it. The sounds had a rhythmic quality: "Intriguing. Music?" As He approached, he noticed a large bowl-like object in the center of the room. One of the bipeds was in it. Most of it was immersed in water; only its head and upper shoulders were visible. The biped seemed preoccupied.

Some of the smells emanating from the room were similar to his pheromones: "Good, this could mask my approach." The biped's eyes were closed; the Alien noted the encyclopaedia's words on the bipeds' hygienic habits and relaxation activities. "Perfect, this couldn't be better," the Alien thought.

Water was a crucial part of what the Alien needed for the Process. If the biped was a female, so much more convenient. The Process was accepted in emergencies so long as the species in question was sufficiently evolved; the biped had to be subdued, however. The Alien raised one of his hands to fire a needle, a defensive remnant from a distant past, useful for this purpose; He fired.

To Be Continued...