The Misadventures of Mrs. Taken Ch. 02

I flip the sign in the window to the 'be back in five minutes' side, lock the door, and snatch up my purse. I'm out the back door in less than one minute and lighting up in less than two seconds. The first puff is like heaven. I'm drifting on a cloud of gray second hand smoke. My nerves immediately settle and the angst buzzing around in my head like a swarm of angry bees is calm. My stomach is a little queasy and my head dizzy. I feel the first twinge of guilt as I smoke my first cigarette down to the butt and dig in my purse for a second one.

Two cigarettes all day isn't so bad. I know what I'm doing. I'm rationalizing. But, I don't care. Foster and I rarely have sex on Tuesday nights anyway. I figure I'll have this habit licked by the weekend, just in time for our usual Sunday morning sex marathon. But for now, what's one cigarette here and there going to hurt? I've got plenty of time left till Sunday. I usually smoke about a pack a day. Surely Foster will appreciate my hard work. The pack in the bottom of my purse would have been empty by this time of day. Doesn't that fact alone show my dedication to the cause? That I'm willing to try for him?

Maybe I'll use the still mostly full pack that I opened yesterday evening to plea my case and I'll get what I missed out on this morning. I doubt it though. Foster is a determined man. He's an honest man. And once he's made his mind up about something there is no changing it. I'll be ok till Sunday. I can survive without a middle of the week stress breaker romp in the sack. When I go to bed on Saturday night, I'll wake up Sunday morning a reformed woman. I'm certain of it.

Guilty I crunch out the butt of my second cigarette into the gravel beneath my shoe. Foster is right. I do stink like smoke. I didn't notice it before, but I do now. I'm not even going to bother trying to cover the smell up with perfume or hairspray. There's no point. If I can smell it, Foster sure as hell will. I'm had and there will be no sex tonight. If I don't quit there will be no sex in my future ever. I take a deep breath to clear my lungs and cough for my efforts. I'll do better, tomorrow. I promise myself that.

Could I go the rest of my life without making love to my husband? I don't even want to contemplate that possibility. I won't lie to get Foster back into my bed or myself into his good graces. I simply won't do it. I know my husband pretty well. I think I can tempt him just enough to get him to relax his stringent no smoking policy. I know I won't get my cake and eat it too. I will have to quit smoking. Soon. But, in the mean time, maybe I can at the very least nibble on a little sweet icing until I manage to kick the habit.

It isn't Foster's fault I started smoking. That one is on me. I picked it up. Stole one from my mom's purse and lit it. Foster always had a pack of cigarettes rolled into his shirtsleeve. He was always more than willing to give me one anytime I asked. But, I can't blame him. I've got nobody to blame but myself. And that frustrates me more than anything. Maybe, I'm so resistant to Foster's unreasonable demands because I'm afraid of failure. If I don't try to quit, I can't fail. And if I do try and don't make it, I'll not only disappoint Foster, but myself as well.

I want to live a long and happy life with my husband. I want us to grow old together. I do. I really do. I know it won't happen unless I quit smoking. That fact alone should give me the incentive I need to quit. I know what I'm going to do when I get home. I'm going to confess. With the nicotine coursing through my bloodstream my resolve solidifies. I can do this. Quit smoking. And I can do it starting tomorrow or maybe, the next day at the latest. By Sunday, I'll be a new woman and a much, much happier one once my darling Foster gets me naked between the sheets.

I'm better now, much, much better. Happy as a lark I flitter into the shop and unlock the door. Later that afternoon I even manage to score a healthy tip from a last minute customer. Right before I get into my car, I light up one last cigarette for the day and have another one afterwards to steel my resolve. I know Foster won't touch me this evening or any other evening until he gets what he wants, but that doesn't mean that after a heartfelt confession and a promise to be reformed completely by Sunday. I'm not going to try.

I walk in the front door expecting to find yesterday's leftover spaghetti heated up and ready for me. Foster surprises me by pulling a couple of steaks from the freezer and lighting up the grill. We don't go out for steak for the simple reason that we don't need to. Foster can grill a better steak than any five star restaurant, and a baked potato is a baked potato, no matter how many stars a restaurant has to its credit.

I balance on my tiptoes to give him a peck on the lips. He wrinkles his nose at me and asks how many cigarettes I smoked today. I immediately confess. Foster hides his disappointment in me as he gently reminds me yet again of our deal or rather, his terms. I swallow back my snappy comeback. That I didn't agree to any terms or demands. Smoking five cigarettes in a day isn't bad and is a far cry from my usual half to full pack a day. My husband nips me on the curve of my neck, something he knows puts me in the mood for loving, and whispers in my ear that he hopes tomorrow I do better and put the cigarettes down for good because he's ready for a little loving himself.

I'm tempted to tell him to use his palm unless he wants to alter his terms. I'm tempted to stomp my foot like a spoiled child and march out onto the back porch and light up a cigarette out of sheer stubbornness. But, his urge for some action between the sheets might work to my advantage. Luckily, I know how to drive Foster crazy too.

Foster:

I knew by the sound of Claire's voice she was up to something. Supper wasn't quite ready yet. I had the steaks ready to go on the grill and the baked potatoes in the oven. Ice melted in glasses and the table was set. I was waiting till she got home to put the finishing touches on our meal. My steaks for some reason unknown to me are the stuff of legend. There really isn't any secret to how I make them, just a little salt, pepper, olive oil and a capful of Jack Daniels poured over the top. That's it. Not exactly rocket science, but I enjoy the complements anyway.

I wasn't disappointed that Claire had slipped up. Disappointed because what I had been thinking about since six this morning wasn't going to happen tonight, but not in her. I expected Claire to fall off the wagon a time or two. I hadn't of course, but quitting smoking was something I decided to do, not something I had been coerced into doing. Actually, I was pretty pleased with myself for my diligence and with her for trying so hard. But, I couldn't let her know that. I had to stick to my guns and could allow no wiggle room for a slip up or two.

I had to give Claire an incentive to quit. Five cigarettes in one twenty-four hour period was actually pretty good, for her, considering she was a pack a day smoker. But, it wasn't good enough. If I gave in and gave us both what we wanted so badly, tomorrow she might drop down to smoking four cigarettes or she might go back up to smoking a full pack because I had caved. I wasn't going to take the chance. I went into the kitchen to fetch the steaks as she announced she was going to take a shower before supper.

Claire hated smelling like perm solution and hair color. She spent all day marinating peoples' scalps in chemicals for the sake of beauty. The smock she wore over her clothes didn't prevent stray bits of other peoples' hair from clinging to her. Claire had outfits designated for work only and the minute she came home from the shop whatever she had worn to work that day went straight into the washing machine. She couldn't stand the thought of sitting down at the kitchen table to eat and getting stray hairs that had hitched a ride home on her into the food. And to be honest, not that she had ever mentioned it other than vaguely in passing on her way to the shower, she had seen more than one person with head lice or ring worm come into the shop over the years.

The way she said my name had my cock pointing due north like the needle on a compass. I shouldn't have turned to look, but I did. She was grinning, standing in the mouth of the hallway that led from the dining room to the bathroom, and wearing nothing but her birthday suit. I had seen my wife naked more times than I could count, but the sight of her bare always got me.

She asked me some silly question that could have waited until she had gotten out of the shower and dressed. I mumbled a passable answer and watched her sashay down the dim hallway toward the bathroom. Some men are breast men, some are thigh men, but me, I'm an ass man and the sight of my wife's bare ass jiggling seductively with every step she took had me ready to toss my lofty principles into the garbage and go after her.

Her ass had changed along with the rest of her over the years. The first time I saw those two round cheeks bare they were firm and smooth and I could cup them in the palms of my hands. The size of Claire's butt had always been a point of contention for her. Not for me though, I loved it. Her little ass popping out from beneath the hem of that red and black plaid skirt of her color guard uniform was what caught my attention in the first place. Her ass was bigger than it had been when she was sixteen. I considered the roundness and dimply flesh of it a bonus, more to love. She, however, did not.

I loved to take Claire from behind. Not in the behind, no we had never done that and I could not imagine sticking my cock in her backdoor. But, I loved parting those cheeks and watching myself glide in and out of her sleek pussy. The way her muscles rippled and flexed as I drove myself deep inside of her did it for me each and every time. My wife was curvy and soft, just the way I liked her.

She didn't see herself as beautiful. She saw the size of her jeans and the roundness of her curves as flaws. Claire would grumble in disappointment when she stood in front of the mirror. She would suck in her belly and thrust out her breasts, trying to imagine her former size six figure and practically burst into tears. I didn't get it and I'd tell her so. She would roll her eyes at me and tell me I was blinded by love and that I didn't see her as she really was. I did see her, just not as she saw herself.

The woman had things in her underwear drawer I didn't want to contemplate. We didn't go out often to places that required dressing up, but when we did, she would stuff her curves into these instruments of torture in order to tame the bounty God gave her. Sometimes, I wondered if she could even breathe encased like a sausage in the restrictive spandex and with all those wires and little hooks poking into her. Claire didn't need to try so hard to look beautiful. She was beautiful in the skin she was born with. I didn't care that she wasn't a size six anymore. Beneath those curves was still the woman I loved. There was just a little more of her these days and it suited me just fine.

I heard the shower turn on and shook off my erection. I couldn't give in. Maybe, I could give her an incentive to quit smoking. She had done well today. Claire had earned a bit of positive reinforcement and I had just the thing in mind.

Claire:

I usually slide into a comfortable pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt after I get out of the shower. Foster was completely unaffected by my little peep show in the hallway. I don't know why I had expected anything different out of him. He is a man of routine and of a one-track mind. Not much could divert his attention from steak, but I thought for a minute I had him. Foster gets this gleam in his eye when he is interested, and I don't mean in food. I saw a flicker of it there in his baby blues before he turned and retreated to the kitchen.

He isn't going to go down easily. But, that man is going to go down, on me hopefully. Freshly showered and scrubbed from head to toe in the body wash I know he prefers. I paw through my dresser for a pair of skimpy shorts and a snug camisole shirt. Foster likes my ass. I have no idea why. My ass is big enough to sit a dinner plate on and maybe, that's the connection.

I always thought my boobs were my best figure feature. In high school, popping out of my DD-cup bra, my breasts were a source of embarrassment. But, at the age of forty-two, I think I've finally come to terms with the girls. My camisole top is a little bit sheer from being washed so many times and the thin pale pink cotton does little to hide the press of my nipples against the fabric. I square my shoulders and try to thrust my breasts up proud and high. It doesn't really work. Gravity is your friend unless you're a middle-aged woman and it is certainly starting to do a number on my finest attributes. Standing in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I shudder at what I'll look like by the time I'm sixty.

My shorts are the shortest shorts I own. As close to booty shorts as a plus sized woman can find and not be arrested for indecent exposure. Turning to inspect my figure in the mirror I wonder what Foster sees in my ass. There is certainly too much junk in this particular trunk. I've tried everything to lose the extra pounds. Everything that doesn't involve sweating, running, or actual physical exertion on my part, that is. I think that might be part of the problem as to why I'll probably never get my big butt back into that teeny-weeny band uniform again.

Foster is asking too much of me. Doesn't he realize that most people who quit smoking gain weight? I can't afford to put on one more ounce of unneeded poundage. Of course, Foster didn't gain weight when he quit smoking. He has actually lost most of his middle-age potbelly. He is still a bit soft around the middle, but it looks good on him. Aging in general looks good on Foster. The gray around his temples, the character lines in his face, even his receding hairline adds something to him instead of taking away.

In high school when the kids weren't teasing him about his dark sunglasses they teased him about his weight. Foster was tall and skinny as a rail. Everyone called him Stork Boy when they weren't calling him Foster Grant. Over the years Foster has lost his ability to eat anything in sight and never gain a pound. I call that little trick of Mother Nature's poetic justice. It evens things out a bit between the two of us and nobody ever calls him Stork Boy anymore.

I gather my hair up into a loose bun at the crown of my head and let a few curly tendrils wind down the nape of my neck. The look is sexy without being too overt. Makeup would be too obvious. Foster would know immediately that I was up to something if I put on some lipstick and a little mascara.

My hair hasn't turned gray yet. I think maybe I'll luck out and turn blonde and then fade into a perfect cottony white head of hair like my mother has. The red tint my hair used to have is already starting to go pale in patches. I've helped women battle time since I was fresh out of beauty school and I'm glad can hide what little bits of gray hair I see here and there on my head with a few highlights and a little creative styling.

I'm starting to get twitchy for a cigarette again, so much for my resolve. I pop a piece of nicotine gum into my mouth and chew like crazy. I've already ruined my chances for loving today unless I can coax Foster into a temporary state of grace. Sex would be a nice diversion from my cravings and I think that's the angle I'll use to plea my side of the case. But, skipping the after sex cigarette? I'm not so certain I can do it, but I'll keep that little tidbit to myself.

I hike my shorts up just a little shorter to give Foster a good peek at the goods. I'm not wearing any underwear and I'm sure he'll notice. I want him to notice. I want to drive him nuts and have him reconsidering his position on the whole smoking thing and I think maybe, I can pull it off.

Foster:

I'm not a clairvoyant, but I don't have to be to read Claire's mind. Most women wouldn't have the desire nor would they try to make a seduction out of helping with the after supper clean up, but Claire does. I noticed right away that she wasn't wearing any panties beneath those short, shorts she put on after her shower. It is the middle of winter and she's probably freezing that cute little ass off, but I appreciate the view. She bends over way farther than necessary to put the steak sauce on the shelf in the refrigerator door and gives her ass a wiggle to make sure I notice. She's got all eight inches of my undivided attention. I'm ready to bend her over and take her right here and now in front of the row of condiments stashed on the shelf.

Her breasts are free and the nipples pressing against the thin cotton of that little, tight top she put on. The fabric is so sheer that I can see the color of her areola, a pretty peachy/pink tone, showing through. She stretches much further than she needs to in order to slide the plates into the cabinet so that her shirt rides up and flashes her belly. Afterwards, Claire leans with her palms rested against the counter and arches her back. As if she's trying to work out a kink in her spine. I know better though. She's making sure I get a good show and I am.

The woman knows my every weakness. She is wearing her hair up in a messy bun exposing the places I love to kiss. Some men wouldn't notice these little nuances, but I do. I don't need Claire dolled up in makeup and dressed in skimpy lace panties to capture my attention. I like her natural and she is beautiful enough without any enhancements. I can see the wheels in her mind turning at warp speed. She's wondering if she is getting to me. Her attempts are having the desired effect. I'm just trying damn hard not to let it show.

I drop the steak knives into the kitchen drawer and hide my grin. We've never had sex in the kitchen and I'm wondering how much the neighbors can see of us through the window above the sink. I could park her pretty ass on the counter and peel down those shorts and indulge us both with a little sweet dessert. The idea is an appealing one. But, if there's one character flaw we share. It's our stubbornness. Claire wants me to drop the subject of her smoking and I won't back down. I want to give her a little incentive to quit, but not so much of one that she thinks she has won.

Neither one of us are going to win in the long run if she doesn't quit. I need to remind her of that. I draw her into my arms and plant a kiss on her lips. She tastes like steak with a lingering smoky hint of Jack Daniels. I work my hand under her shirt and palm her breast. By this point in our relationship, I know exactly how to get her worked up. She loves her breasts played with. I tease the nipples with the tips of my fingers and ease the pad of my thumb over the ripe peaks.

Claire arches her back and thrusts the bulk of her breast into my hand. I love the way her breath hitches in her throat and her toes curl when she gets aroused. Her hand wanders to the fly of my jeans and she tickles her fingertips over my erection. She knows I'm pretty simple and direct in terms of what I like and what I don't. It doesn't take much to get me going and I hope that never changes. I need to stop before I get to the point where I can't. I whisper in her ear and remind her of what she needs to do to end this battle of wills between us. I break free from her hold and I'm off to the shower. I don't care if the water is hot or not. A cold shower is exactly what I need anyway.

Claire

Foster takes forever in the shower. I hope he is enjoying it. Our ancient water has needed replaced for years and it takes an eternity for the water to heat up. Knowing that Foster is probably taking a cold or lukewarm shower at best makes me grin maniacally. He deserves a cold shower for getting me all hot and bothered and then abandoning me like he did before we got to all the good parts.