Wednesday Evenings with Babs Pt. 06

A Brief Recap of Wednesday Evenings With Babs Pt 05

For James, Thanksgiving week FINALLY ends. To his surprise, relief and delight, Babs wastes no time in calling him to arrange their first session in two LONG weeks. And she calls on MONDAY afternoon to boot! Wow! He didn't have to fidget all day Monday and then wallow in uncertainty until Tuesday afternoon!

As he drove to her home Wednesday evening he was so keyed up that at one point he had to pull over and do that 'take a few deep breaths' thing. Upon arrival at her house, an extended hug at the door and a few well-chosen words from Babs work the magic needed to calm him down.

After a slow and steamy 'reunion' in Bab's bed, Babs stuns James with a sleepover invitation for the following Friday night, just two days away. She suggests that if he has them, (which he did) to bring a pair of pajamas, all cotton if possible. James thought he had died and gone to heaven, but somehow he was still alive and kicking.

Clad in those all-cotton pajamas, they spend that Friday evening cuddled up on the sofa, watching TV and making out like two teenagers. At one point Babs 'requested' that he give her a foot massage, and in the process of doing so James finds another fun and erotic use for his hands.

Late in the evening, Babs excuses herself and leaves James sitting alone on the sofa. A few minutes later she returns wearing a red 'teddy' and red 'fuck me' shoes. After making love they fall asleep, spooning.

And then... Well... read on...

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It was two fifteen in the morning. Babs and I had been sleeping so deeply that we had not moved in three hours since we had screwed ourselves to a state of sweet exhaustion. She was really out of it. I didn't drink and still don't, but she had consumed a little red wine. In addition to the sweet taste it gave to our kisses, that vino, combined with us fucking our brains out, had left HER out. Out like a burned-out light bulb. She wasn't exactly snoring, but her breathing had the sound of deep slumber.

Now my piss tank was screaming for relief, and I was going to have to disrupt our beautiful body contact to deal with it.

'Shit!' I thought to myself. 'My goddamn bladder is about to pop. Like it or not I'm going to have to get up and take a piss!

Oh so gently I pulled away from her, and she didn't move a bit. Once our bodies were separated I realized in an instant how wonderful this 'spooning' thing was... and is. Determined not to wake her, I tiptoed to the hall bathroom. Luckily she put a little night light in it so I didn't have to flip on some obnoxious fluorescent tube. To keep the noise down I closed the door, sat down, and let it rip. It was only after the flushing cycle was complete that I opened the door.

As I walked back to the sofa bed another need decided to rear its rude head. I need a drink of water. She had left the vent light over the stove on, and once again I was spared having to blast the den with light from the kitchen. But what cabinet did she use to keep her glasses? I opened one, then another, and finally, the third one, right next to the sink, had the glasses. I picked one out and filled it with water. I didn't immediately close the cabinet door, and as I drank the water I saw something else. It was a 1968 calendar, small enough to hang on a little hook on the back of the door, but big enough that each date on it was in a box where one could put little notes reminders, or something about that day.

What I saw on that calendar changed everything in an instant. It was still on the November page. Except for the week of Thanksgiving, there were different initials in each box for Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays and one of the Fridays. Each day had the same initials for that day.

In the Wednesday box were my initials. I could not have looked at that calendar for more than five seconds but it was as if my brain acted like a camera and instantly captured an image of it. I finished the water and closed the cabinet door, then turned around to see Babs standing in the doorway.

Me: Whoa... you startled me again!

Babs: Everything okay?

Me: Oh, yeah. Sure. Sorry for the middle-of-the-night kitchen raid. I needed a drink of water and I didn't want to disturb you. And, oh yeah take a leak.

I had no idea how long she had been standing there, what she saw, and what she thought I might have seen. I struggled to remain nonchalant and act as if the only thing in that cabinet were clean, empty glasses. What I did notice was the quickest little look she made in the direction of that cabinet. A look that was more with the eyes than a movement of the head. Sort of like the eye movent you sometimes see on television when someone is reading cue cards. It was as if she was thinking 'I wonder if he saw that goddamn calendar. I should have put it somewhere else'.

Me: C'mon, let's get back to bed. I hated having to get out of it and away from your warm little body.

In the short walk between the kitchen and the den, my mind was swirling in thought. In a matter of two or three minutes, I had gone from 'I wish this night would last forever' to 'Who and what the hell have I gotten involved with?' Whatever illusions I had about her and what we were doing were beginning to vaporize. Had she been any other person than who she was I would have asked her about that calendar and the initials on it. If there had been anything real about our liaison other than its sexual component, anything based on mutual trust, respect, and benefit of the doubt I would have effectively called 'time out!' and a little conversation would have taken place right on the spot. And if I didn't feel like I was getting straight answers I would have been out of there, cold night or not.

But with Babs, it was very complicated. This sexual relationship that she had initiated, cultivated, and controlled all aspects of might quickly pivot to claims of things I didn't even want to think about. Getting through the rest of the night and whatever she had up her sleeve for the morning would be a challenge for anyone in my position. But somehow I was going to find a way to control myself.

Once we were back on the sofa bed, she made this little overture that indicated she wanted a middle-of-the-night 'get it on' exercise. Frankly, I think it was a test to determine if I had seen in that cabinet that she would never want me to see. How I would respond and 'perform' might signal to her that she had a problem. Luckily my youthful libido was up to the task, and we did it missionary style. I made all the right sounds and left a nice load dripping out of her, but my cock might as well have been numbed with novocaine for all I felt.

In the morning she fixed breakfast, and afterward, it became obvious that for the time being we were both cuddled out, kissed out, and thoroughly fucked out. And as for me, all I wanted was to GET the fuck out.

I drove about a half mile from her house, pulled over, and began beating on the steering wheel. The word 'furious' doesn't even begin to put a down payment on how I felt. Over and over I shrieked "THAT FUCKING CUNT! THAT FUCKING CUNT! THAT FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING CUNT!" I cursed with such ferocity that strings of spit flew out of my mouth along with my profanity. Then I turned the fury and profanity on myself. "YOU STUPID FUCKING ASSHOLE! YOU IGNORANT, GULLIBLE, STUPID FUCKING ASSHOLE! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!

How could I have been such a naive fool to assume I was the only guy she was fucking? What made me think I was so special that she'd risk everything including her career to get me in bed with her? And for me to be so eager to get in her pussy that I never even considered the possibility that there were other cocks gaining entry to it as well? Am I her 'Boy Wednesday' sandwiched in between 'Boy Tuesday' and 'Boy Thursday'? Did these other boys work at our company too? And when they weren't unloading their balls in her who else might be getting sperm injections from them?

After this initial outburst of outrage. denial kicked in. A part of me wanted so much to find out I was completely wrong. 'Maybe those initials on that calendar meant something else, and that mine were on it each Wednesday was just a coincidence. I needed to confirm my suspicions as soon as possible and in as direct a way as possible. It was time to play amateur detective. Come next Tuesday night I was going to the park and 'stake out' the house to see if a 'Boy Tuesday' existed. And no matter what, if anything, happened between Babs and me on Wednesday, I would return to see if a 'Boy Thursday' might exist as well.

On the following Tuesday, December 10th, I got the usual Wednesday 'appointment' request during the day. Absent any good excuse to be 'missing in action' I accepted. By week's end, I would wish I had been more bold and more skilled in the art of the little white lie.

It came to me that the only times I had driven either by or to her house in the evening hours were on Wednesday nights. Well, maybe except for those nights during the Thanksgiving week that is. But on THIS Tuesday night I did. Suspicions were confirmed and concerns were amplified. Sure enough, there was a car whose appearance gave the impression that its owner might be a bit young. 'Gee, she must be keeping company with 'Boy Tuesday''. I had arrived in the area just before eight in the evening, a bit too early to venture out into the cold December night. So I killed the time just driving here and there, and returned about forty-five minutes later. I parked my car on the far side of the park, then found another bench with a good view of the house but one that was not so easy to see from the house.

I sat in the cold and dark, waiting and watching. Sure enough, just after nine-thirty the front door opens and some young guy walks out. And there was Babs, standing in the doorway in her robe, just as she did whenever I left. After an exchange of pleasantries, the guy gets in his little junker and as he drives away, Babs waves and closes the door, just as she did whenever I left. 'Boy Tuesday' was not a figment of my imagination.

The following night was a test of my non-existent acting skills. You might say my body was engaged with hers but my mind was elsewhere. The 'climax' of the evening was another old-fashioned missionary fuck. I made all the right theatrical noises, but instead of happening naturally as before they were all an act. I even managed to bring her off before draining my balls. But as my load surged from my cock and was partially absorbed by her body I found myself wondering if my sperm was now swimming with any remnants of Boy Tuesday's.

On Thursday night I was once again at my 'observation post' in the park. Sure enough, there was yet another automobile of the type more associated with a young guy than any self-respecting adult anywhere near Bab's age. So now I knew that, including me, there were at least three members of Bab's 'harem'. Boys Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. The Three Stooges, each named for a day of the week.

Just as before, I sat there waiting for him to emerge and depart. When he did what I witnessed scared the hell out of me.

When the front door opened 'Boy Thursday' stormed out of the house. Babs appeared at the door, and it was obvious that things had not been going well. The sounds of a profanity-laced argument filled the night air. F-bombs were freely and frequently exchanged. Babs had lost her cool over something. It was a side of her that I had never seen.

The final thing she said to him was chilling: "You want to fuck with my life? Go for it! I can really fuck up yours and you know I can!"

"FUCK YOU, YOU HORNY BITCH!" he yelled in reply. He got in his car and burned rubber getting away as she SLAMMED the door.

What had provoked this exchange? Was it a bad night on the mattress that escalated? Had 'Boy Thursday' seen the calendar too? It didn't matter what the reason was.

There was one 'benefit', if it could be called that, from witnessing this blowup. Whatever hurt I felt had evaporated and had been replaced with fear. But with the fear came resolve. From that moment on I was determined to figure out a way to extricate myself from this nightmare. The anger was still there, and I had no further interest in Babs and the free access to her tits, ass cheeks, pussy and blow jobs. These things were never really 'free' at all. Now the bill had come due, and no amount of money could pay it off because it wasn't about money at all. The true price could well be something else that begins with 'free'... my FREEdom to walk the streets.

As I drove home that night, I vowed that somehow, some way, I was not going to be there next Wednesday night.

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Searching For An Exit Ramp

Terms like 'nymphomaniac' and 'cougar' had not entered my vocabulary at that point. Even if they had, finding information about them would have been very difficult in those pre-internet days. The answers to questions I was beginning to formulate might have made for 'interesting' searches with unsettling answers.

How many years had she been doing this? Were there other guys, other 'boy toys' who were no longer on her 'active roster'? If so how had those 'relationships' come to an end? Did she keep a journal or a diary documenting her seductions? Did she have calendars from past years with initials in the date boxes for each month?

From the first she had been in control of everything, and to keep that control she had erected this invisible wall around herself. To maintain the wall itself, she would, at strategic moments, say and do things that would fool me (and no doubt the others) into thinking I might be able to break through it. For all the deep physical intimacy we had shared I didn't know much about her. She was a master of mind and emotion manipulation and had an intuitive talent for knowing just who to target.

How do get I out of this nightmare? What could I do to rescue myself? It was like I had become involved with a drug dealer and had decided to get out of it knowing I might get murdered in the process.

Sunday morning found me still grappling with trying to figure out a way to not be in her bed on Wednesday. Maybe it was my stupidity in venturing out into the cold night on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, but later that day an excuse, a way out, began to develop. It began with a feeling of malaise, and in a few hours, the unmistakable signs of a sore throat began to develop. For me that meant only one thing: I was coming down with a cold. It is a measure of how screwed up my priorities were that it was a welcome occurrence. In about twenty-four hours I would have all the excuses I needed to avoid Wednesday night in Bab's bed! I called in sick on Monday morning and that evening, now armed with Bab's home phone number, I was able to give her the great news. I didn't even have to fake a raspy voice. I ended up being out all that week.

I thought 'Okay, that took care of this week, but what about next week, and the week after that, and so on and so on? It took only a quick look at the calendar to bring hope to my soul and a broad smile to my cold contorted face and its nose red from sneezing. NEXT Wednesday would be Christmas Day, and the Wednesday after that would be New Year's Day! Glory be! I'm going to be much too busy with family gatherings! Poor horny Babs would just have to slog through without me. Maybe by the first full week of 1969, she will have forgotten me altogether. Perhaps she might even meet another young recruit at some holiday party, and had replaced me with some fresh meat! Such a possibility was at the top of my Christmas wish list. Make it happen, Santa!

More than ever before I understood why communication from her was so spotty, scattershot, and many times absent. When you're working to keep at least three boy toys on three leashes as well as keep them in the dark about each other, you must tightly control communication. It was why I never knew if each little Wednesday evening session with her might be the last. No matter what each member of her harem might think about where they stood with her, each was truly on a week-to-week basis and the only determining factor was her whims. You had no way of knowing if you and your dick had been dumped and replaced by some other fool and their dick. And no way of knowing why. No doubt that the calendar was a simple but vital tool in that control effort.

Yet for all of that, the fact that she had no problem with her boy toys parking in her driveway was a puzzling contradiction. You might also say it was a pretty serious leak in her control and 'security system'. Any one of us could have done what I had done, drive by that house and see a different car on different weeknights. And depending on their mentality, any one of them, past or present could have slammed on their brakes, gone to her door to 'investigate' and do who knows what about anything they might find out. I thought of all those Wednesday evenings when that might have happened and how it might have turned out for me. It was chilling.

At times it got to the point where I found myself rooting for my draft notice to arrive in the mailbox.

Babs benefitted from abundant vacation time and was out of the office all the week of Christmas and the following week of New Year's Day. I had no idea what she did those weeks, but unlike the self-inflicted misery I indulged in during Thanksgiving week, I didn't give a shit. I was just thankful that no phone call came either week.

During a particularly dreary stretch of Winter weather, the turbulent year of 1968 finally wheezed and gasped to its miserable conclusion. On Monday, January 6th, 1969 nearly everyone was back in the office. 'Nearly everyone' being the operative phrase. For me, the year began with two nagging concerns, leftovers from '68. The question of when the draft would come knocking on my door, and if I could find the 'exit ramp' to escape Babs.

The first signs that 'something was up' with Babs came the next day, Tuesday the 7th. The 'usual' time she called came and went, and the phone remained silent. At some point during the week, word came through the very short office 'grapevine' that she had not come back to work on Monday. She was absent for some 'health issue'. I kiddingly thought to myself 'Maybe she got some venereal disease from Boy Tuesday or perhaps Boy Thursday'. I dared not use her home phone number to call her and express my concerns for her health and best wishes for a speedy recovery from whatever was ailing her. Out the entire week, she was back in the office the following Monday. And the next afternoon, the 14th, the phone again remained silent even though she was there. Ditto the 21st.

Curiosity kicked in, and so on the night of the 21st I drove by her house, and the only car in the carport/driveway was hers. The same held true on Thursday night, though the absence of Boy Thursday could have been the result of what I had witnessed back in December. It seems that Bab's sex train had derailed, or at least slammed on the brakes. This only reinforced my belief in the venereal disease theory, and a bit of health concern for myself began to creep in. Though her pussy and my cock had not mingled body fluids in over a month, and no symptoms of anything other than youthful horniness had appeared in my crotch, I could not help but wonder.

As January fell off the calendar and the weeks of February began to parade by, it became obvious that Wednesday evenings with Babs had come to an end. The phone ceased to ring on Tuesday afternoons. Our course of intercourse had run its course, without a word of explanation from her, and I was not about to ask for one. It was the ant hill better left unstirred, or that 'sleeping dog' that must continue to lie.