tagLoving WivesFor The Fun Of It

For The Fun Of It


My first impression of the place was that it appeared unlived in. Everything was so perfectly placed, so unsullied by life.

Chairs had no apparent depressions from past occupants; coffee table books seemed deliberately angled on pristine tabletops; dried flowers were dashes of contrived colour in contrived places — it was as if the living room had been decorated for optimum affect, and then abandoned. And the other rooms were no different. The spare bedroom had the ersatz feel of a high-end hotel room; the bathroom gleamed as if ready for a photo shoot — even her bedroom was so Vogue-like that when I poked my head in I got not the faintest thrill of titillation. And that's saying something because Susan Cullin is one of the sexiest looking women I had ever seen. She always has been.

In fact, as she showed me around I wasn't so much troubled by the antiseptic environment as fascinated, so I almost didn't catch her words "... and this would be your office."

When I heard the words I was indifferently leaning through a doorway looking absently into a good-sized room that lead to a terrace. It took a moment for her words to register and when they did I almost lost my balance as I looked back to try to read her face. She just smiled, then turned and walked to a chair in the living room and sat down. When I sat on the couch across from her she got up, went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of beer which she handed to me. "This was why I made you wait in the hotel lobby for a half hour. I realized I didn't have any beer in the place and unless you've changed, you probably still believe that a beer-less place is an empty space."

I smiled and dutifully drank, disguising my revulsion at its tepidity, and waited for her to explain herself. But she waited, too. I wasn't sure if it was to allow me time to guzzle the rest of my beer, so I dutifully drank — as much to steady my nerves as to quench my thirst. "You aren't going to explain?" I was looking over the bottle at her.

I knew she had been successful, very successful. When I first met her twenty years before she was working as a secretary for a hotel chain. Today, she was a vice-president of the chain and she looked like one. Her apparel was conservative and beautifully tailored, and what lay beneath the smart blue suit appeared to be the results of some very fine work by a very skilled personal trainer.

"Do you want the long story or the executive summary?"

I looked around for a clock, but there wasn't one. "I'm in no hurry."

She smiled, "Ah, but I am." She hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of herself, "I almost called you at 3 this morning when I figured it out."

This wasn't the girl I remembered. That girl was happy, almost constantly joyful, simple and fun to be around. This rendition seemed to have lost a lot of her joy and had gained a lot more complexity. I thought I noticed this two days before when we had a quick drink after meeting by accident in the lobby of one of her hotels. My initial observations were confirmed during our long dinner last night. I didn't know what she had figured out, I didn't know what there was to figure out.

She was looking straight into my eyes. "I'm not sorry I didn't go with you."

I knew this, she had said as much last night. We had dated for maybe a year and a half then I left town for another job. I had asked her to come with me but she felt her job was more important and declined. I fully understood. I wasn't much of a catch then: I had no solid career prospects; no money in the bank; average looks, and a growing dependancy on booze. At the time, I was surprised she had asked for time to think it over. "I know you're not sorry."

"But I never got over you."

This surprised me.

"We were good together." She stood up and went to the kitchen again and when she returned she handed me another bottle of beer and put the glass of wine down on the table beside her.

As she sat back in the chair I thought back to the 25 year old woman I had know and, probably, loved. We were good together. We hadn't really share any interests but I liked being with her, liked the way I felt about myself when I was with her. I was usually a fairly rotten date, inconsiderate and selfish, but with her I had always made an effort and, as a result, I had liked myself. I liked her, too — but what was not to like? She had a face that was more pleasant than pretty, very narrow hips, beautiful legs and enormous tits that were sometimes enormously embarrassing, like when we went to the beach, or once, when at a new years eve party the blue lights in the darkened room stripped her of all her clothes but the huge white bra beneath her sweater. I nodded, "We were."

"I want us to be good together again." She felt for her glass without taking her eyes from me.

I waited for more while I watched her sip from her glass, but there wasn't any. "That's the executive summary?"

"You've said you're researching another book. You said you had pretty much decided to write your book some where other than your home. So why not in this state, why not in this city, why not in this apartment, why not in that room," she pointed to the room behind me, "and why not as my partner?"

With the last words her confidence seemed to dissipate. She looked a little scared, certainly apprehensive; she seemed to shrink a little into the chair as she nervously crossed her legs, and when she reached for her glass, I thought I could detect a slight tremour in her hand. But I gave her full marks for trying to look composed and poised. And I gave her full marks for the set up — because I couldn't think of a single reason why I shouldn't move in with her. I had never really gotten over her, either. Plus, she had a fantastic, if arid, apartment; the room behind me would make a perfect office, and the large municipal library was only a few blocks away. And the timing was right, I really needed a change. So the idea of moving in with her didn't take long to process. But even at that, all I could think to say was, "Twenty years is a long time."

She smiled, "You still drink beer from a bottle."

"But not as much of it."

"No, that shows."

"And the rules are?" I drank to hide my nervousness. It was slowly dawning on me that I really wanted to be with her.

She smiled at this. "Ah, there's always a catch, isn't there. Always." Her smile faded to seriousness. "You have a single responsibility."

I knew her pause was for dramatic affect and it was effective, I had no idea what the responsibility would be. I guess my face showed that I was concentrating too hard on the negatives because she said, with a little exasperation, "Oh, for God's sake it's not as bad as all that. I just want you to put the fun back in my life. I basically haven't had any since you left." She reached for her glass again but she didn't drink from it, instead, she held it up in front of her as if poised for a toast, "I want to love you again and I want to be loved by you ... again." She smiled and brought the glass up a little higher. "What do you say?"

"Are you sure you want this?" I was pretty sure I did.

She put her glass down, got up and held out her hand to help me to my feet. When I tightened my arms around her she seemed to melt into me and I could feel her warmth instantly. I was savouring the moment and I guess she was too because we just held on to each other, not moving, just squeezing as if preventing the other from escaping. Then she broke away, took me by the hand and we walked to her bedroom. As she collapsed on her bed she pulled me with her.

"Do you want to hear something pathetic?" Her face was just inches from mine as we lay on our sides.

"No." And I didn't.

She brushed away some hair that had fallen into her eyes. "Well I'm going to tell you anyway." She kissed me lightly on the nose. "Years ago, my doctor said I should have them reduced. But I didn't. Do you know why?"

I had just figured out that she was referring to her breasts when she answered her own question. "Because I just knew I was going to be with you again and I knew how much you liked them."

"That is pretty pathetic." And I felt a little offended and I told her why. "Do you think your tits were that important to me?"

She smiled, knowingly I thought, "You used to spend a lot of time with them." Her smile was mischievous and disarming.

"How have they been?" I took the liberty of brushing the back of my fingers against one.

"Frankly, lonely."

I wanted to ask her why, how could that possibly be true? I wanted to learn more about what she had been doing since I last saw her, but that was back burner stuff. "Would they like a visitor?"

She quickly kissed me on the lips and then moved onto her back. "Yes."

I took my time undoing the blouse beneath her jacket and when I completed the task I sat her up and helped her off with her jacket and blouse and undid her bra and as she settled back down, I took a familiar place on her stomach and she held her breast as I sucked on the nipple.

I had forgotten how little passion she had during sex, which is probably why I had spent so much time hanging out with her tits. She hadn't been cold exactly but she sure as hell had never been exciting and, it seemed, in this she hadn't changed.

I spent a few minutes with her nipple, enjoying her purring and my slurping sounds and then looked up at her, "Thank you."

She waited a moment before answering, "For what?"

"For keeping them for me." I wanted to add 'but you shouldn't have, you should have done what your doctor suggested' but I didn't, I just returned to the nipple I had thought about so many nights before dropping off to sleep. This got me some tender caresses which tipped the balance. I got up, took off my clothes then pulled off her pants, pantyhose and panties and when I got back on the bed I placed my knees between her legs, opened her up and very slowly put my penis in her and when I had full contact I lightly lay on her and kissed her gently. "Did you notice that I never answered your question?"

"Oh yes you did," she turned me over, and though I flopped out in the process, she put me back in as she lay on top of me. "I know you. You moved into this apartment the moment you entered me, and you know it."

That I did, and I was just now remembering how she liked to fuck. She lay on me and kissed me with little nibbling kisses and she move on me almost imperceptibly until she stopped and squeezed me tightly and groaned into my mouth. Afterwards, she was dead weight and I had to concentrate to get myself off.

As I lay there with her body wrapped around my side the word 'unsatisfactory' came to mind. I wrestled with whether or not to address the problem — lousy sex could continue, I suppose, but for both of us, it would be far better if it didn't. I chicken out, extricated myself from her and padded the unfamiliar path to her fridge.

I had nothing against lousy sex, it was better than none, but since parting from her so many years before I had experienced real insight into the alternative and good sex was a far better way to go: it was more fulfilling, more fun and, as a result, more frequent. As I filled a glass from the cardboard wine cask in the fridge it occurred to me that her approach to sex may have less to do with inclination than with inexperience. I hoped so. If my principal task in this apartment was to bring more fun into her life, sex may not be the first place to start, but it would be up there on my To Do list.

When I got back she was lying regally with the sheet pulled tight to her chin with a very contented look on her face. I put her wine glass on the night table and sat on the bed sipping tepid beer already looking forward to the ones chilling in the freezer. "This business of fun: is it a two-way street?" I asked. "Are you supposed to bring fun and pleasure into my world as well?"

She was a little confused as she looked at me, "Well, sure, if I can."

"You can. Remove the sheet." She hesitated as I thought she would. It's not that she's modest, it's more a case of not understanding that looking at a body, and hers in particular, could be a source of real pleasure to me and, as a result, fun. I don't think she saw bodies this way. To her relationships were all about the mind: the fun she expected me to deliver was, I suspected, mostly verbal. But she did remove the sheet and when she looked up at me inquiringly I said, "Do you mind if I just look at you for awhile?" I pulled a leg onto the bed and nodded to my hard-on, "You can see what you do to me." She smiled with a trace of embarrassment and closed her legs a little.

As I said, she has narrow hips and beautiful legs but I didn't mention her skin. She is naturally dark, as if lightly sun tanned, and even twenty years later her skin looked as soft and supple as I remembered.

"I've aged." Her words surprised me because I was thinking the exact opposite, that she hadn't, or not much.

I guess any woman lying naked under the gaze of a guy she hasn't seen in two decades would make her feel vulnerable but she seemed defensive, too. "You're beautiful, Sue. Actually, you're magnificent."

"I don't feel beautiful."

"Why not?"

She pulled herself towards me and buried her face under my leg. Her voice was a little muffled but I could still detect the sadness. "I don't know. I just don't. I'm in shape. I know that. And I have big breasts but I've never felt beautiful. Maybe it's because of my chin."

I had forgotten about that. She'd had measles or something as a kid which had retarded the growth of her jaw and, as a result, she had to have a piece of her hip bone implanted in her chin to fill it out. But you'd never know it. "There are effective de-capillaries out there aren't there?"

I could feel the stillness, then her face poked out from around my knee, her eyes narrowed in confusion, and then, I guess, she remembered my fondness for teasing her and she smiled and buried her face back from where it had come.

I began to lightly stroke her belly. It was irresistible: smooth, narrow, downed with almost imperceptible light brown hair. Her navel seemed like a button etched in muscle and her flat stomach disappeared into a wispy triangular tangle of brown silken hair. "I think you should do what your doctor suggested."

Her face popped out again, "You don't mind?"

I settled down beside her and licked at a nipple. "I probably have a few weeks before you could get an appointment." I looked up at her. "Are they bothering you?"

She nodded, "Ya, they're starting to. I'm getting back aches, the doctors said I would. I was planning to do something about it."

"So you weren't waiting for me."

Her muffled voice had an edge of irritation, "You obviously weren't coming. You knew where to find me."

I tried to be cheerful. "So you think our encounter in the lobby was happenstance?"

She rose up on her arm, dumping my head from her chest. Her eyes wide with surprise. "It wasn't?"

It was never much fun teasing her because she was so innocently gullible. "No it was." Excitement on her face turned to disappointment and when she settled back down in resignation, I nestled back to her breast.

"So why didn't you call me, contact me?" she said, "You've been divorced for almost ten years?"

I had already established from our earlier conversations that she had taken a real, if distant, interest in my life. "Honestly? This is going to sound like so much bullshit, but I wanted to think that you were living an absolutely blissful life. I didn't want to know that I could improve it."

It was the right thing to say. She pulled me up and kissed me with more feeling than I thought she could show.

I pulled away, kissing her in the eyes and forehead, "You've done fantastically well, Sue, I'm proud of you."

"Up until about a year ago, I would have agreed."

Her face had lost its glow. "What happened?"

"The annual property managers meeting." She was concentrating on the ceiling, as if trying to remembering the exact circumstances. "It was always my place to shine. But for some reason, and I still don't really understand why, at the last moment I sent my assistant. I knew then that it was more or less over for me. I no longer cared as much about something that had been, up until that precise moment, my one consuming interest in life: my job. When that happens you look around and take stock of your life. I didn't like what I saw."

"Thus the need for fun?"

"Thus the need for you." She turned me over and climbed onto me and lay her head on my shoulder, her lips almost brushing my cheek. "I've had all the business success I want, I have all the money I need. Now I want a life. I want a life with you."

I was my turn to stare at the ceiling. I was a little afraid of the desperation in her voice. "How hard are you prepared to work at it, because building a relationship is going to take some hard work, all relationships do?"

She leaned up on an elbow that dug into my shoulder, "Harder then I worked at my career, and no one has worked harder," then she smiled, "and no one had to work harder. I was never a natural, at that or, obviously, at relationships. I'll do anything to make this work."

"Do you mean that?" It sounded like she did.

"Try me."

"How should I take that?"

"Any way you want ... just hurry."

The pots and pans in the place hardly seemed used but they were easy enough to find and the lack of food in the fridge made the choice for dinner really easy, an omelet, which was just about done when she joined me from her bath. I noticed the smile on her face first, she was really happy, that was obvious and it gave me a flush of excitement. Well, the flush may have actually come from what she was wearing, a really sexy, flimsy teddy that stopped mid-way on her panties, the teddy was red, the panties were yellow. She looked unbelievably desirable — that may have been from the smile.

"Do you like it?" She turned in a tight circle with the grace of a dancer.

"I don't believe the word 'like' quite covers it."

"Good," she said, as she came up beside my and studied the omelet, "'cause I have drawers of the stuff."

This surprised me. A lot. The clothes I had seen her in so far had been practical, business-like and well tailored, but never seductive, and I knew she didn't think of herself as sexy, so why would she have drawers of lingerie? It didn't make sense to me so I asked her.

"Saturday with the girls."

Most every Saturday, she and a few others shopped. They bought everything, she explained, by cooperative consultation so when one wanted to buy lingerie, they all went to the store together and, well, a few 'you'd look great in this' usually meant that they all walked out with something. After a few years, she said, the drawers can get pretty full.

"But I've never actually worn most of the stuff, not really. Oh, the bras and panties, but never any of this," she was feeling the hem of the teddy and she just shrugged.

"And how do you feel about it now?" I took her in my arms and squeezed her with one hand as I removed the omelet from the burner with the other.

"I'd like to finally wear it."

"Good answer," I said, kissing her. Then I hugged her for so long the eggs got cold.

A half hour later we were settling onto the couch when I noticed for the first time there was no TV, no stereo, no electronics of any kind. "What have you got against music?"

She got up and walked over to a small, ornate desk that was pressed against the wall. I hadn't noticed the Boise radio, which now filled the room with Brahm's violin concerto.

She settled back on the couch and smiled at me as she tucked her legs beneath her, "I've got nothing against music. I've just never had much time to listen to it."

"Did you work that hard?"

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