Wendy Ch. 05

Wendy Chapter 5 Mrs. P re-enactment

Monday and Tuesday passed without incident. I avoided Sandy and Benney. Or rather, I avoided seeking them out. My first encounter with Benney had been a chance meeting but other contacts with both he and Sandy had been initiated by me.

On Wednesday I ran ‘butt heads’ into Sandy. I had a habit of walking with my head down when I had something on my mind. Sandy must have spotted me and decided to make me notice her. I suspect her tough little head bouncing off of mine was no accident. Especially since she had to jump up three inches to make it happen.

She tried to look surprised. Her mouth flew open and she rubbed her head but her opening speech gave her away. The head butt was intentional.

“Was the meeting with your lawyer a serious emergency?” Her dark eyes sparkled. I searched her face for that cute smile but it did not appear.

“I’m sorry, it came up all of a sudden.” It was feeble. I had not put much effort into the apology and we both knew it.

“See you around,” her hair swirled as she turned. We both knew better.

That evening the telephone rang while I was studying. I almost knew it would be Wendy as I had still not told her of my ‘phone restrictions.

“What was she wearing?” That habit of bursting into a conversation with a question was becoming annoying.

“She?” I asked knowing whom she was referring to.

“Mrs. P of course.”

“Her name is Lydia, let’s not call her Mrs. P any more,” I said looking at the open books on the table.

“You know that’s not her real name.” Her voice rose at ‘know’ and faded to the raspy sound at ‘real’. A trait I found sexy. I turned off the dining area light and moved to the couch.

“It’s the name she told me to use when I visited her that rainy Saturday night,” I lied. Her given name really started with an L and her last name was Patton. The Patton family was prominent in our town. What if Wendy put it together at some future time? After, say, she got mad at me? I was breaking Ellen’s rule; I was treading on treacherous terrain.

“Let’s call her Lydia, okay?”

“Okay, she’s your lady friend. It sounded as if it was a dress she was wearing? What color was it? What else? What did her panties look like?”

“Blue,” I answered in a playful mood.

“You always say that,” ‘al-ways’ was emphasized with ‘ways’ drawn out in the course rasp that made chills run down my spine.

“I know your trial technique. Is that how you will treat people when you get them on the stand? Fire one question after another at them? From now on, don’t ask me what color something is, I’m color blind.”

“Tell me in your own words then.”

“The pants were plain cotton, probably white, it was dark but I think they were white,” I began coarsely. “Yes, it was a dress and I believe it really was blue but dark blue, darker than navy, almost black. There was a white pattern, like little squares and it had white buttons all the way down the front. I know you’re going to ask what size the buttons were; they were big, about one inch in diameter. Oh, the material was silky but not silk. What did I miss?”

‘Nothing,’ I thought. I had missed nothing about the dress because I knew it like one of my shirts. She wore it that often. She wore it because of the silky feel against her skin. She wore it because there were 13 buttons that often tried my patients by prolonging the suspense. She wore it because it fit loosely and could easily be slipped on in an emergency or could simply be lifted if we were in a rush.

“Bra?”

“Yes, she was wearing a bra but nothing special. I knew it was there but didn’t get to it.”

“What do you mean by that, didn’t get to it?”

“I didn’t try to get under it. I just felt it with my lips when she was feeling the back of my head.”

“Humm,” Wendy contemplated her next question. As her witness on the stand I waited expectantly, “no slip?”

“Humm,” I mimicked her. “Not that I saw.”

“How could you see, I thought it was dark?” The ever wary trial lawyer had me cornered. And she was doing it again; the way ‘dark’ rolled off her tongue made me close my eyes and picture how her lips would look as she spoke; open enough to show the white even teeth behind them. I imagined that she was laying flat on the love seat. I wanted to ask if that was her position and what she was wearing but didn’t.

“Figure of speech; I didn’t feel one; that’s what I meant.”

“Was it a dress or a dressing gown?” I was tiring of her line of questioning.

“God, what difference does it make? I would say it was a house dress; something a women throws on to lounge around the house. But I’ll tell you one thing.” I had just thought of something that might satisfy her.

“What,” she said as if I had just stumbled onto the lost key to her jewell box.

“It was loose fitting. The way it hovered around her crotch when she sat on that box. You know it had to be loose fitting to allow her to spread her legs.” I felt like the expert witness whose testimony would sway the jury. I pictured her turning to the judge to say ‘the defense rests’. She did.

“Good bye,” she said as the line went dead.

It was six minutes to eleven. I closed my books and turned out the kitchen light. It was no use going to bed; I knew I would not sleep.

I thought of that raining Saturday night. Wendy had not shown interest in the story. Nor had she wanted to hear of my other experiences with Ellen during her visit that week before Christmas two years before. Wendy, I decided, was strictly a first timer.

The next afternoon I was on my hands and knees in a flower bed when Wendy stopped at the shop. I was planting tulips which I hoped would bloom in the spring and call attention our supply of bulbs. I was working to get the bed completed; the sun would set within the hour and the earth was cold. I looked up at her.

Her pose was striking. She was dressed in black from the tip of her derby hat to her rain coat to the four inch heel that elevated her to a height I could not match. All I could do was sit there and admire her finery. She was in high spirits.

“Do you still have the display? I would like to have it decorated and delivered for a small gathering I’m hosting.” She smiled down at me, she eyes fairly glistened.

“It may be out; I don’t think we picked it up yet,” I answered, knowing the display had not been out of the store room for at least one month.

“Can you check? I need it for tomorrow but delivery tonight would be best,” her blunt and to-the-point demand was vintage Wendy.

“You’re not going to do this,” I said, knowing but not wanting to know what she was doing.

“I’d like 36 long stemmed roses and a yellow ribbon,” she ordered.

“Yellow, I suppose, you know we don’t have that many here?” I noticed the white blouse peeking out from under her rain coat. ‘I’ll bet it has wide pointed collars’, I thought.

“Of course, they must be yellow. Now, come with me and set this up.” She coaxed, beginning to walk toward the shop.

Every order counted. Reluctantly, I joined her on the brick walk. With the derby she was six inches taller than me.

“Those heels would be perfect for a wall job,” I said to deflect my embarrassment for appearing so short.

Her naturally rosy complexion changed shades. I thought for a minute that I had lost an order.

When she didn’t call on Friday I decided Wendy must still be pissed at my remark. ‘Why would she go to the expense of having three dozen long stemmed roses and the display delivered unless she had alliterative motives?’ I thought. Perhaps she really did have some sort of gathering at her apartment that day. I wondered what Sandy was going to be doing that night. It looked like this would be my first Friday night alone at home in weeks.

I also wondered what Mrs. P was doing and considered calling. We had not spoken since my last attempt and that had been over a year. She hung up the phone and when I re-dialed the number she threatened to have me arrested for harassment. I knew she wouldn’t and told her so. It would have meant that our affair would need to be divulged. I had not called again.

But I visited the house across the street often; the house with the wall in front where I had sat that rainy Saturday night waiting for the children to go to bed. Each time I would always check for a sign that she was home; a casual wave, a gesture, a nod, any sign that she acknowledged my presence, my existence. There was none. I had an excuse to be there. Tad had bought the house before his marriage to Marcie and I was to expected to look in from time to time when they were out of town.

We had only seen one another once in passing. Her lovely features had taken on a dreary stare as those gray green eyes held me at bay. I was sure she recognized me but there was nothing in her eyes that said so.

“What’s the K. stand for?” I asked when Wendy called that night. It was after nine.

“That’s not important,” she was not in her usual playful mood. “I’m finished with the display,” she said. There was nothing sexy about her voice and she was making no attempt to make it so.

“Sure, I’ll have Walter pick it up tomorrow. What time should he come? Have you removed the roses or will he be expected to do that?”

“I need it out of the apartment tonight. You will need to come over and pick it up.”

“How did the affair go?” I suspected there had not been one.

“I’ll expect you, say 10 minutes?”

I backed the van into a space in front of Wendy’s apartment at the Windsor and opened the back door. I rang the door bell and waited. The door swung open and a figure motioned for me to enter. The apartment was dark except for a dim light coming from the kitchen. As we passed it I noted the time on the stove clock. It was 9:37. We were one minute late.

The figure lead me to the stairway and I followed it to a landing about half way up where the display stood, still decorated with roses and the ribbon.

I had not been on the stairs before. It appeared that they lead to a bedroom and a bathroom on the second floor. Nor had I known where the display had been placed. Walter had delivered it early that morning and Pricilla had arranged the flowers later.

“My children are asleep upstairs so you must do this quietly,” she whispered.

When I bent to get a good hold on the display I heard a hiss behind me.

“Don’t take it without removing the flowers, those are long stemmed roses.”

She disappeared for a minute.

As I waited for Wendy to return, I considered the attention to detail that she had applied to make this re-enactment true to the original script. The place had been darkened and her warning about the sleeping children seemed to be in keeping. And yet it was different; the landing on the stairway substituted for the fireplace at Mrs. P’s home and; we were acting.

She returned with a basket to hold the roses. I untied the bow and proceeded to remove the prized flowers.

She walked backwards to guide me down the stairs. She warned me repeatedly to be careful. As we approached the kitchen I saw the clock on the stove. It was 10 minutes to ten. ‘Right on time,’ I thought.

She stopped in her tracks causing me to bump into her. It was pitch black I had not anticipated the stop.

It was not really pitch black; we were still within range of the faint light coming from the clock on the stove. And I had anticipated the stop but I was playing my roll. I made the bump count.

“Cotton?, that’s your name isn’t it?” she whispered as she turned toward me. Unlike Mrs. P, Wendy’s hairline was even with mine and unlike Mrs. P’s dark porch I could make out the large frame and flowing dress of her stand in.

She could even see my nod but I stuck to the script and answered, “yes, it’s my nickname.”

“Cotton, would you do something for me?”

I bent down so the display would not make any noise when it met the floor, “Sure.”

“I need a roast from the freezer and I can’t reach it, would you?”

I suppressed a laugh. She was really pushing it. Her reach was as long as mine. ‘Where is this freezer?’ I wondered.

She led me to the laundry area at the back of the kitchen where I had seen the washer and dryer. There was enough light from the stove clock to make out the appliances. They stood side by side; there were built in cabinets above them. There was no freezer.

She opened the top door to the washing machine.

“It’s there on the left,” she said, holding the door open and pointing inside. I moved around her and leaned into the opening. A football sized package of frozen meat was visible.

“It’s farther down,” I heard her whisper. It was not; that would have been impossible. I could have easily reached in and retrieved the roast; the reservoir was that shallow.

Instead, I acted my part. I buried my head and shoulders inside the cavity. My head made contact with the frozen package and my feet left the floor; but only slightly. I rolled the package; trying to duplicate the sound that I had described.

“That’s it,” she said. I wondered how she could tell. Perhaps it was because there was only one package of frozen meat in the washing machine. I pretended to extend my arms in an effort to reach the bottom. In reality, it was so cramped inside the washer that I could not move down enough to shift my weight over the side. Unlike my excursion inside the freezer, I had to raise my legs or to make them leave the floor.

Satisfied that I could not stuff more of my body inside I grabbed the bundle in one hand and pushed with the other. I raised my legs high to gain leverage then reversed their direction to propel my body up and out.

I anticipated the blow to my head and purposely delayed my ascent to shield my head from the inevitable. The washing machine door was light and did not compare to the thick freezer lid. I did not expect a single piece of metal to even sting. What I did not consider was Wendy’s dedication to realism.

In her attention to detail she conpensated for the difference in weight between the heavy freezer lid and the washing machine door by summoning all of her strength and energy to bring the door down. On my head.

I dropped the meat and slumped into the cavity. There was a ringing sensation in my ears as I felt the door bounce on my shoulders, again and again. Instead of the cold steam that had flooded my nostrils while I was buried in the freezer there was a stale smell of laundry detergent. Otherwise, Wendy had duplicated the incident perfectly. And it had been accomplished with substitute props.

She became a bundle of terror. From where my head rested against the cold meat wrapper I could hear her stammer, wheeze, cough and make choking sounds.

“Don’t bother with the roast,” she coached as she raised the door.

I was determined to bring up the prize. Like a quarterback, I grabbed the ball in both hands and tucked it under my left arm. With an exaggerated move I flipped myself over the side and fumbled the ball. The package sprayed from my grasp and hit the floor rolling.

The door slammed down, echoing the sound the dropped package had made. Unruffled by the noises we had made, Wendy grasp me with both hands and pulled me to her.

In actuality, the roast had not rolled far and since there were no children sleeping in her upstairs there was no reason for her to be ruffled.

Contrary to the original rehearsal, my head had taken a sharp blow. When she grasp me with both hands and pulled me to her I wondered if I would faint.

When her body was pinned between me and the dryer my legs were actually wobbly and my weight was pressed against her because I was in danger of sinking to the floor. This went unnoticed by Wendy; she must have thought I was following the script. She was.

I felt her warm thighs touch mine. She made halted gasping sounds and her body shook.

She prompted me by placing my hands on at her sides. I caught on and clutched the top of the dryer to brace myself against sliding down.

She placed her hands on mine. I felt her press down on my hands. Her first try to lift her body to the dryer was a bust. She had only succeeded in mashing my hands and barely clearing the floor. Her second attempt was not much better.

Pushing me away as if to say ‘I can do this,’ her third try would have earned a blue ribbon. I wondered if she had practiced the lift.

Unlike Mrs. P’s nimble spring to the edge of the freezer Wendy landed rump hard in the middle of the dryer; her back, after a bounce that rattled the wall, leaned snug against the cabinets. Unlike Mrs. P, Wendy had not maintained contact with me and I was on becoming more unsteady on my feet.

She moved forward on the dryer as much as she dared and reached for me. Her skirt was bunched up around her crotch and her bare legs were spread to accept me. But try as she did she was unable to fold her legs back to the side of the box to give me a rest for my arms. Her hands found the back of my head. Gingerly, she patted it as if checking for blood or a raised spot. When I winced sobs escaped her lips.

My face was pressed to her bosom and her chin rested on my head. She cradled my head in her arms.

We moved in a gentle rocking motion for what seemed like minutes. Everything was going to plan. The script was being followed.

But Wendy became impatient. She clutched me to her and pressed her pantied pussy to my chest. When her hands found my shoulders I thought she was going to make the move to remove my jacket as I had described.

Instead, she lifted me by the jacket then pushed me down in an effort to establish friction between us; her pussy against my chest. I got the idea and took over. She let up on the pressure. At some point my jacket was removed.

I lifted my head and she bent down to meet me. She crushed her lips to mine; her tongue was on fire. Together we made an attempt to move to the prone position on the appliances. As Wendy leaned to her right I placed my knee on top of the dryer and my hand on the washing machine to boost myself aloft.

What I had not counted on were the cabinets above the machines. As my shoulder met the underside of the cabinet frame I wondered if Wendy had really thought this out. ‘Had she taken measurements?’ The two appliances were about 24 inches deep as compared to the freezer which must have been 42 inches. ‘This would not be a good time to bring it up,’ I thought. She was probably in no mood for a critique.

I was in her clutches. As I lifted my knee to the place between her legs she grabbed my thigh and brought it hard against her pussy. Our lips were crushed together. Her head, which was hanging over the side of the washer, was moving so much that her motion was rocking both appliances. It was then that I discovered the dryer was slightly taller than the washer and, one of them, I think it was the washer, had not been leveled properly.

I moved my hand up her inner thigh and made contact with her panties which were soaked. I felt inside and penetrated her. This was when her jump slammed me against the underside of the cabinets. I attempted to pull her pants down but with only one hand it was no use.

In her eagerness to duplicate Mrs. P’s move and free herself of her panties Wendy pushed me away too hard and I dropped to the floor. I don’t believe she noticed. I heard a grunt as her knee bumped the cabinets in her attempt to bring her right leg up and push the panties down as Mrs. P had done.

I was ‘prepared’ because I knew Wendy would not make the same mistake Mrs. P had made. I slid my pants and shorts down and rolled a rubber on my cock. As I hopped back atop the appliances I wondered if what I was going through was worth it. My throbbing cock told me it was. By the time I rejoined her Wendy had shed her panties and bunched her dress around her waist.

Like an animal trainer, she tapped my leg. Dutifully, I moved between her legs.