Wendy Ch. 06

“I had to cut one of the buttons off,” Wendy said. She turned to display the dress she had worn the previous Friday night when we had frolicked on the laundry appliances.

I inspected the dress as this was the first time I had seen it in the light. It had obviously been laundered. It was remarkably similar to the dress I had described. The material and color matched those of the dress worn by Mrs. P on more occasions than I could count. The buttons were white and about one inch in diameter. I could not tell where the 14th button had been extracted from. The size was the only difference in the two dresses; this one was several sizes larger.

“Perfect,” I said approvingly. It was obvious that there was no other clothing under the dress.

We had agreed that the dress that opened down the front would be suitable for our ‘date’ when Wendy had called me about my remark.

“What did that mean?” she began questioning me as soon as I picked up the phone. As usual she took me by surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“What you said about a wall job, you said my high heels would be perfect for one.”

It took all of five minutes for me to explain that I was joking about how the high heels that she had worn the day she stopped by to order a floral arrangement would be perfect for a wall job.

She had played dumb saying that she thought I was serious and wanted to know what a wall job was.

Although I suspected that she knew I was joking that day and I also suspected that she knew very well what a wall job was, I gave her a complete description of the act and she listened attentively. I had a nagging thought that her knowledge, no matter how acquired, was greater than mine.

I failed to divulge my personal lack of experience with the position. I did, however, offer to demonstrate for her how I thought it worked.

“How’s Friday night? Say 7:30?”

So there we stood in Wendy’s apartment, both expectant and nervous, about to try something new to us.

We had discussed dress but I was a little dubious about there being nothing beneath it. The shoes, of course, were a given.

“It’s usually done outdoors,” I suggested, thinking she would have understood that. Using a ‘wall’ is done out of necessity; there is no bed available and it’s too cold to do it on the lawn. I hoped that she would take the hint and grab a coat because we were into November and it was getting nippy outside.

Wendy’s face clouded like it always did when she became perplexed. It was apparent that she was not in favor of venturing outside to look for a suitable wall.

“Or not,” I wavered.

The cloud vanished. It was as if the sun had come out. “Pick one,” she said as she motioned around the room.

I surveyed the apartment and considered the sturdiness of the interior walls. It would be better to choose an exterior wall with layers of brick or cinderblook behind the wallboard. Paintings and photographs lined nearly every wall of the living room. I spotted the stair landing where we had removed the display; there were pictures there too.

I thought of the laundry space. That was an exterior wall, I had seen the cinder blocks. The appliances occupied most of that wall but there was space on both sides. This was probably the only place in the apartment without framed artwork of one kind or another.

I took Wendy by the hand and led her to the laundry area. She was not impressed about my choice; the pout was returning to her face. I pounded on the painted blocks to demonstrate their strength and looked up at her to get her approval.

She relented. “Can we at least turn out the lights so I don’t have to look at the other wall?” I yielded.

I backed her up to the space next to the dryer and gave her a kiss. She separated her legs but it did little to lessen our difference in height. It came to me that two inch heels would have done the trick.

I pressed her body to the wall and she warmed to the attention. I whispered ‘one’ as I unbuttoned the top one. Not to be outdone, Wendy began undressing me. “One,” she said as she tossed my shirt on the dryer. By the time she got to my belt buckle I had unfastened four of her buttons and had one of her nipples in my mouth.

“Thirteen,” I said as she tossed my shorts on the dryer. She wanted to keep the dress on and I preferred to have my socks; otherwise, we were naked. I played with her ass cheeks and she cooed. My cock was jumpy; it nudged her pussy and she cooed more.

Wendy took my cock in her hand and sort of patted it against the lips of her cunt. She broke our kiss to suck in air. She ran my prick up and down her pussy. A humming sound was coming from her lips. I couldn’t help noticing how moist she was.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” She whispered in my ear, her voice had that raspy tone that I found so sexy.

Reluctantly, I lifted my leg and extracted the condom from my sock. She relinquished my cock so I could roll the rubber on. Knowing she would want to inspect the job I reached for her hand and let her feel the latex covering. She voiced her approval, “mmmmm.”

I placed my hands between the cheeks of her ass and her dress against the wall. Her ass was soft and warm. The wall was hard and cold. She moved her pelvis forward as I cupped her cheeks, seeking my member. She broke our kiss.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered, pushing me away.

“What?” I didn’t believe my ears. She was already fumbling with the buttons on her dress.

“I told you, I just can’t,” she said. The finality of the statement was clear but I was beside myself.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I knew I was showing my immaturity. I was whining. I was also frustrated and pissed.

“It feels cheap, I can’t do it.”

I was not looking for an explanation. No reason would have made sense to me at that moment. Nor would trying to change her mind do any good but I challenged her anyway.

“It’s supposed to feel cheap. That’s what it’s all about.” I caught myself. My voice had risen to an unflattering level and I knew I had hit a wall. (no pun intended)

Wendy eased herself by me and walked out of the room. I found my clothes and got dressed in the dark.

“How about a glass of wine,” she called out as I was letting myself out the front door. Her voice was chipper and her face had its usual all-is-right-with-the-world glow.

I stared at her incredulously for a full minute then turned to leave.

“It’s already poured, it’s merlot this time,” she said gleefully.

I turned toward her and shook my head. I felt the rubber rolling down my limp prick. I had to laugh. ‘What a fucking predicament,’ I thought as I walked to the chair at the end of the coffee table.

“What does the ‘K” stand for?” I asked, referring to her middle initial which I had seen on the underside of the coffee table.

“Why don’t you tell me the rest of that story,” she said without answering my question.

“Which story,” I asked as if there were several unfinished stories.

“The Saturday night when you waited in the rain for the lights to go out and Mrs. P took pity and let you in. That one.” Wendy’s bare feet were on the coffee table and she looked comfortable with the wine glass in her hand and an expectant smile on her face.

I took a sip of the wine and continued the story.

Mrs. P let me in but was very distant with me. I followed her back to the kitchen.
As we passed the freezer I stopped to take special notice. It stood higher that I
had imagined. What if we had fallen off? The thought provoked a grin on my face.
I shed my dripping jacket and threw it on the freezer. ‘Getting organized for an abrupt
exit in case it comes to that,’ I thought.

“I’m baking cookies,” she announced as she took her place at the center work island. There was a detached tone in her voice as if she was proclaiming her pet rat had just died.

It was evident that I was not welcome. I kept my distance by standing with my back to the sink which was in front of the work island where she was mixing cookie dough. The clock on the stove behind her read 10:17.

She was wearing the same tan slacks I had seen that morning at the flower shop. An apron covered a flowered blouse which prohibited me from counting its buttons. The
make up that she had worn that morning had been removed. The line in her forehead
was missing but her mood was sour.

Her hands moved with dexterity. More flour, milk was added, the mixing spoon spun around the bowl, the consistency of the batter was tested and chocolate chips were added. A cookie sheet was greased and dough was measured out. I wondered if I could call her ‘Cookie’ from now on.

She looked up from her work and saw me watching her. It was a startled look as if she had forgotten I was there.

“I meant what I said,” our eyes locked and lingered, “not a word, do you understand?” Her eyes were fixed on me. They were beautiful.

“I understand,” I answered, nodding solemnly. “I have just one question.”

She had looked away, having released me from her stare.

She looked back, annoyed. “Yes?” She said, then turned to the stove and opened the door.

“What color are your eyes? They’re beautiful but I can’t tell if they are gray or
bluish green,” I said with genuine interest.

The oven door slammed shut and she turned; her beautiful eyes blazed with anger.

“Don’t take that patronizing attitude with me you little twerp,” she screamed as her hand slammed down on the work table causing flour to cloud the air and the milk
bottle to bounce. Surprised at her own action, Mrs. P placed her hand over her
mouth as if she could catch the scream that had escaped her lips.

She capped the milk bottle and tucked it into the refrigerator. Then, on tiptoes
she stepped gingerly along the darkened hall. I held my breath as I watched her
until she disappeared into the shadows.

Relief shown on her face when she returned to the kitchen. Calmly, she spun the
timer dial on the stove to the desired baking time. I wondered how long it would take
for the cookies to bake. Did I have 10 minutes? 15? Surely, the timer would
signal more than the cookies being done; most likely it would also mean my exit.
‘Good thing I know where my jacket is stashed,’ I thought. It was pouring outside.

“Would you like to lick the spoon? My children like to do that.” Her outstretched
arm held the stirring spoon as she placed tops on canisters with her free hand.

I did not move; certain it was a trap. While I desperately wanted to be
near her, licking the spoon would validate her notion that I was a lad of 16 and young
enough to be her son. When I stayed put she looked up; the spoon with its
residue of cookie dough was still in being offered.

“No?” Her brow wrinkled and she shook her head as if it was a mystery to her that I had not accepted the spoon.

She was treating me like a child and it was infuriating. I considered leaving but
the sound of rain splashing against the outer porch windows kept me planted.

The work area had been cleared. Only a dusting of flour remained which she was
picking up with a cloth as she began to speak.

“I know how young boys brag about their conquests,” she looked briefly at me “I hope you were telling the truth, it would be devastating for me if anyone found out. Anyone!”

Her look was piercing. Her eyes were pleading. She was frightened. Her disposition was infectious. A lump in my throat blocked my thought from emerging.

Tears welled in my eyes and we were both swallowing hard. I walked around the center island and took her hand. She wilted toward me. Her body was quivering.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered in her ear. Her hair tickled my nose and I remembered
the aroma. “No one will know. No one.”

“You don’t understand. It’s more than someone finding out. What if I were to become pregnant? People would find out then, wouldn’t they? I would go to jail for what I did.” Her body vibrated against mine.

I had to admit that I had considered the consequences if she were to become
pregnant but I had not thought of her going to jail for having sex with a minor
because I knew I would never tell. I tried to put those thoughts into words.

“You can forget the first part; I would never tell anyone. I just wouldn’t.”
How could I convince her of my sincerity. “I never fuck and tell!”

“You what?” She yelled as she broke away from her. “Where did you
get that?” She had abandoned all caution to keep her voice low. “You never
fuck and tell? How many women have you fucked?” There was contempt in her eyes.

I knew that she didn’t really want an answer to her last question. She was not
the curious type about such things. But it served my purpose to provide an answer.

“Just one,” I said “before you.”

Her head was moving slowly from side to side. “I don’t believe you.”

“Its true,” I countered “just one. She’s the one who gave me the advice to never
fuck and tell,” I said in all seriousness.

“A woman gave you that advice?” There was a hint of a grin at her lip line.

Perhaps she was enjoying quizzing a teenager about what he knew. I decided to
play along.

“Yes she did. She also told me to be prepared. That’s why I said I was sorry.
Because I did not have a condom that night.”

“Do you usually carry a condom?” She was playing into my hand.

“Yes ma’am, I do. It’s just that the other night I ran out without one.”

“Did you bring one tonight?” Her head cocked to one side awaiting my answer.
I noticed that her body seemed more relaxed.

“Yes ma’am, I did.” Should I tell her I actually have two?

“Let’s see it,” she demanded.

I lifted my right leg and retrieved the rubber from my sock.

She took it from me and held it up to the light to examine the package.

“How old is this thing?”

She leaned over the work counter and placed her elbows on the surface. She
fingered the package in a curious manner.

“I haven’t seen one of these in years,” she said.

“It’s not old,” I said. I placed my arms on the counter and leaned in. Our bodies
were inches apart. The aroma of the cookies baking saturated the kitchen.

“Do you know how to wear it?”

“Of course,” her teasing was making me indignant.

Her smile changed the outline of her face and the mood in the kitchen. I leaned
over and kissed her cheek gently. She didn’t react one way or another. The timer
made a buzzing sound.

She removed the cookie tray from the oven and placed it on pads on the work surface.

“Careful,” she said “it’s hot.” She moved sideways and switched off the overhead
light leaving only the clock light to guide her back to where I was standing.

“Here,” she said, handing me the rubber. “I don’t think you will be needing that
tonight.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said, placing the rubber in my shirt pocket.

“What’s that?,” she asked. She stood close to me. I felt her breath as she whispered.

“The color of your eyes. Do you know what color they are Mrs. P?”

I felt a peck on my cheek. “Flattery will get you nothing but a cookie in this kitchen,” she laughed. There were small stains on her cheeks where tears had come to a stop and dried.

“You can’t answer because you don’t know either,” I said with an air of triumph.

“That’s true,” she said “I never could tell. You can call me Lydia, Mrs. P makes me feel old.”

I rubbed her shoulder. She did not respond but didn’t move away. That was a good sign. I moved my hand to the back of her neck and made little tracing motions there.

“Watch the hot tray. It’s near your left arm,” she said as her body leaned into mine.

I tried to kiss her but she resisted. It was clear that she only wanted me to hold her
which I was glad to do. My rump was against the work counter. If we were reversed,
I thought, and if she were to hop up on the table we could repeat the adventure we
had on the freezer. But the cookies on the hot tray would be in the way. That
was the hot and cold of it.

My fingers traced her spinal column from her neck to the small of her back. I could
almost count the bones. I palmed the indented section of her back. She melted into
me and moved her cheek snug against mine. My hands slipped to her ass cheeks
and pulled her closer. It was then that she moved her face to be kissed.

For the next 10 minutes we worked together with only one goal; that was to squeeze every part of our bodies together as tightly as possible. Our tongues were braided
together, her breasts crunched my chest and her thighs were devilishly pressed to mine.

She stood on tiptoes and dry humped my cock which was straight out and hard. I moved my hands to her tits and squeezed. She broke seal at our mouths long enough to whisper, “do that, do that,” then reattached our lips.

She came and almost collapsed. Her arms fell limp at her side. I caught her and held her against me for what seemed like minutes. She was gulping for air and making swallowing sounds and purring all at the same time. My cock was painfully hinged between us.

I felt a peck on my cheek and her arms came around my neck for support.

She took my hand. She walked backwards and I followed her to a door at the other side of the kitchen which I had taken for a pantry or a half bath.

Lydia switched on a small lamp and turned to close and lock the door. The room was only about eight feet wide but ran the depth of the kitchen, about eighteen feet. The
lamp sat on a small dressing table near the door. At the far end of the room was a sewing machine and chair surrounded by shelving filled with seamstress paraphernalia.
The only other furniture was a small single bed. Lydia pulled down the window blinds opposite to the bed but did not bother with the rear window that looked out onto the porch.

She made a jerking motion to free her blouse from the waistband of her slacks and
begin to unbutton it. Her look told me to do the same. I matched her every
move. We kicked off our shoes and shed our pants. She turned for me to unfasten
her bra. As the straps slid over her shoulders I cupped her breasts and my cock
probed her butt. She wiggled out of my clutches and turned to me.

“Put it on,” she whispered.

“Huh?” I was trying to lower my shorts without breaking my cock.

“Let me see you put it on,” there was a tone of impatience in her voice.

I retrieved the rubber from the pocket of my discarded shirt and stripped it
from its outer package. She watched intently as I checked the direction of the
roll before unrolling the rubber up my cock. It was a tight fit. She nodded
her approval.

The bed was really just a cot. She bent and placed one hand on it and pressed firmly to make the springs squeak. A combination frown and grin crossed her face as
she shook her head and looked my way to see that I understood why we could
not use it. Instead, she lifted a coverlet from the bed and spread it on the floor.

All this time I had marveled at the shape of her body. It was perfect.
“Turn off the light,” she ordered. We were standing not far apart. I was naked except for my socks. She still wore her panties. The sag in her breasts was slight and her stomach was almost flat. Her powerful legs were firm and shapely.

“Let’s not,” I said as I reached for her wanting to burry my face between her tits.

The determination on her face and the squareness of her shoulders made it clear that she wanted the light off. My preference was to keep it on.

There was a short struggle. In and effort to bring her to the floor I dropped to my knees and surrounded her legs with my arms. She resisted. Her powerful legs would not budge and her hands were pushing on my shoulders.

She was able to take a step toward the lamp. This was followed by short kicks to my legs; near my cock. I was loosing my grip on her legs. She took another step and it was clear that she could drag me all the way to the light if she was not distracted. As she took another step I lunged toward her panty covered pussy and blew as hard as I could. Her body straightened and her hands moved from my shoulders to the back of my head. Her panties were soaked. My tongue pushed them into her opening and moved the fabric within her. Her pelvis pressed against my mouth and she made little gasping sounds.