Tea For Two Families

by Sydney Michelle

 

Part Five

 

Sandy sang as she skipped toward the staircase:

" I got a brand new pair of roller skates.

You got a brand new key."

He skipped at the thought of getting a nose ring for his birthday Friday week. And he and Carol Sue would get their noses pierced the day after. They would be so grown up, real birls, wearing birl jewelry. I wonder if Mommie is giving me a seahorse pin? Like Miz Taylor gave Carol Sue? Wouldn't that make Linda green since she can't wear one?

Sandy didn't even glance at the doors of Freddie's room or Beth's suite across the hall. He focused on how nice it felt for material to swirl about his legs, on which book he would read, on whether he should go back for his autoharp. He yawned. Curling up under a caftan on the couch in the rec room would be nice. He had missed his nap and a little beauty sleep would be nice.

By the time Sandy had reached the landing, Beth had slipped out of Sandy's room, headed for her suite. Freddie could be depended on to change herself, to amuse herself in the recreation room until supper was ready. And most importantly, not to tease her brother.

Beth's bedroom was decorated mauve over blue, a white chair rail dividing the two. A bay window opened the middle of the back wall, the Venetian blinds louvers slanted down to block the sun and provide a glimpse of the gardens and pear trees beside the house. The doors to her walk in closet and the master bath were to the right, an insulating air space on the exterior wall. Her four poster queen sized bed sat on the opposite wall, big enough to be comfortable for two to spoon or roll away to sleep; but rather too large for one alone. A pale pink oriental rug with silk inlays covered the space at the foot of the bed. A Starburst patchwork quilt was folded neatly over the foot rail.

She stood before her French Provincial vanity while she took off her jewelry: the triple strand pearls that her mother had given her at her wedding, the pearl button earrings that always fascinated Sandy, her gold link bracelet, and the white sapphire cocktail ring she had bought with part of the proceeds from her engagement ring. She glanced at her watch with a gold mesh band curled in the pink Wedgewood dish. Plenty of time for a nap. If I set the alarm.

A trip into the closet brought forth a hanger for her dress, a robe for comfort, and a loose yellow housedress for supper. Undoing the neck hook of her light blue, sleeveless, shirtwaist dress was a bit of a problem; a twist of the strings meant it took more than a simple push and lift. Beth sighed. Times like these, it would me nice to have a male around the house. Or a personal maid.

The hook undone, the three cloth covered buttons slipped out of their eyes, allowing Beth to slip the dress. She eyed her silhouette in the mirror as she placed her dress on the hanger. The long line girdle was a bit snug, not exactly lumpy, but it indicated she should get in her laps in the pool more faithfully while the weather permitted. It was a matter of tone, not weight. Besides, she felt better after a few laps, even if she did have to be careful with her head so as not to ruin her hair.

When she peeled off her girdle, she couldn't resist a turn in the mirror. Her breasts were firm, creamy, the nipples canted slightly upwards. There was no sag needing the knife, despite having nursed both her children for three months. Her belly was flat, if she sucked in jut a tiny amount, her bottom taut, just wider than when she had been a bride. She would no be mistaken for sweet sixteen, but at thirty-four and having birthed two babies without a scar, she could hold her own at the club.

Beth shrugged on her white Terri robe, glancing at the bed, a few moments away from a welcome rest. One last glance at the mirror saw a centerfold pose, robe parted, tie hanging loose, round bosoms peeking out, nipples just hidden, a slit revealing her deep navel and a glimpse of her bush. The strands were flat from the pressure of silk and Lycra, framed by the straps of her garters. Beth's dark red nails ran down, spreading and lifting the red-gold strands, so similar in shade to her hair.

Beth smiled at the memory. Alex was a cheating bastard, but he did like to play with my muff. Good head, and good in the sack. No complaint in the foreplay department. Beth shook her head, dismissing the thought and her need. I liked that he liked that I am a real strawberry blonde. Then he cheats on me with a bottle blonde floozie who can't even keep her roots from showing. Well, Alexandra will never cheat on his woman.

Beth lapped her robe, snugged the tie. Men! She set the music alarm for half an hour, then slipped between cool sheets. She turned over her pillow, careful not to crush her French Twist, pulled a large pillow to her. She wrapped her arms and legs around the soft mass, her chin resting on the top. Ol' dependable. But not very exciting.

Beth closed her eyes, her body relaxing against the pillow and mattress. It had been a long day, a long week, a long month. She needed rest and she imagined herself in the garden swing, engulfed in the fragrance of wisteria blossoms. Someday, someday.

 

§§§

 

"Hi, Honey! What's cookin?"

"Your favorite — chicken and dumplings." The auburn haired form at the stove barely glanced back.

Arms encircled the trim waist of the shirtwaist dress, legs moving close among the voluminous skirt so hips met hips. "You're my favorite dumpling." A nose moved over the stiff bouffant strands, snuggled in the full curve of the deep, shoulder caressing, flip.

"Behave! Or I might burn dinner."

"Let it burn. I have a burning desire for you."

"Elizabeth! Be good!"

"I was, wasn't I?" Hands slid around the waist, somehow no longer not trim and tiny, molding the protruding bulge. "Nothin' says lovin' like a bun in the oven."

"Hush! The children will hear!"

"Let 'em. What's wrong with their knowing I love my wife?" A hand slipped under the skirt. "Hot cross buns for dessert, Honeybuns?" There was nothing impeding the finger sliding between warm cheeks.

"But it's the way you love me." The form turned, lips beside her ears. "Tigress."

Bare toes caressed an ankle. "Keep you barefoot and pregnant?"

Arms slipped up, pulling close. "And loving every wonderful moment. Spread me like hot butter, capture me, milk me until I explode."

 

§§§

 

"Now up, and around and through."

The paper flutters, lowers, the gaze crosses the room to the couch. Gleaming highlights bounce off the soft rolls of chestnut hair piled atop the head. A single thick lock hangs down over a tanned shoulder, the curled end resting softly on warm cleavage.

Sandy looks on attentively, a blouse in his hand, watches the needle pushed through, pulled tight. Freddie sits on the other side, chin propped in her hand, watches the needle dart so close to ripe, full breasts.

"Now you. Every good wife must be able to mend to economize. That's why sewing is part of Home Ec."

"Freddie doesn't have to take Home Ec. It's not fair."

"Different roles, different rules. When you're a coman with a home of your own, you'll need to run it well so your dama's money can go for other things, pleasant things, pretty things."

"Like diamonds?"

"Like those pretty little diamonds Dama gave you for your ears. And things for your babies so you can take care of them and show how much you love them."

Sandy's hand rubs the big belly beside him. "Like for Mikey?"

The head bends close, nose rubbing nose. The light glimmers and bounces off the smooth, upswept hair, off the stacked, two inch barrel curls. "Like for our Michelle. Just like you'll have one day."

"Does it hurt, making a baby?"

"Not done with love, Alexandra. You'll love each other, and care foe each other, and for the little ones who make your life complete." The head turns. "And that goes for you too, Fredericka. Be gentle and loving with your wife."

A smile flashes. Lips form a kiss, blowing it across the room.

Fingers clutch over the report, almost feeling the thick curls crush beneath them as they guide that mouth down, down toward the bush where those pink lips would play, coaxing the honey flow until the moistness was ready to roll him over and capture the curl thick pussy stick. And he would come, softly, gently, and find comfort in closeness, snuggled like spoons together.

 

§§§

 

Eyes flutter open. The room is dark except for the light from the clock and the soft glow of the nightlight. Movement on the edge of the dark draws the gaze to it, eyes struggling to focus.

It is the rocker, rocking gently back and forth, an almost unheard squeak marking the shift from backwards to forwards. A form sits within, blanket covering the feet and lap, extending upwards. The edge is folded back.

A cloud must have moved: moonlight streams through the window, softly illuminating the forms sitting beside it. A small head becomes visible, cheek nestled against the nurturing form, a little hand holding the soft, succulent roundness.

Gradually a soft round mass swims into focus above, the familiar milk chocolate mass that usually lies on the next pillow, the soft pompadour of the Gibson Girl that feels so warm against the thighs, so soft under clutching fingers. The moonlight backlit loose strands fly out, loose from the pillow, no time, no need to smooth them into place for the three o'clock feeding.

How he knows it is time, how he awakes and finds the anxious form, picks it up, holds it close, comforts it, all the time preparing, undoing a tie, loosening a gown, baring a breast heavy with milk for a hungry mouth. How he does this without awakening the slumberer beside him, without complaint, with merely a tired smile at breakfast, cooing alternately at baby Michelle and his dama, is a mystery. Or rather, a distant memory of being a nursing mother.

An elbow presses against the mattress, the head rises, drinking in the sight of mother and child, wife and child, lover and child. How precious, how fleeting.

The shadowed head lifts, a smile in the darkness.

"Go to sleep, my lady, my mistress. Our baby sleeps, and so should you. I will be with you soon."

The arm relaxes, the head sinks, the eyes close. A mother nurses her child and all is right with the world.

 

§§§

 

The room is full. Music fills the room, bouncing off walls, high notes muffled by the bodies that laugh, move, sway to the music. Waiters circle through the crowd bearing trays of appetizers, collecting empty glasses, proffering napkins. To some, safely away from spousal eyes, they are another tasty dish, their short, black skirts lifted out by layers of crisp white petticoats, frilly white aprons encircling trim waists, cleavage cracks displayed under lace trimmed square yokes, slender arms emerging from short puff sleeves. The waiters keep smiling even as roaming hands sampled their ample wares. They know the guests know the rule was simple: look freely, caress gently, but no pinching, no pawing, no grabbing, no flipping up skirts or demasting panties.

Massed bodies part and fill as people move through the crowd. Food, drink, the relieving of same, conversation and even a little dancing on the too small parquet is the order of the evening. It is fun, it is social, it is in deadly earnest of contacts made, plans broached, competitors watched. Each woman there is expected to drink and be sociable. Getting drunk and losing your tongue would lose contracts. Each wife or escort is part of the package, dressed, coiffed, expertly made up, bejewled, all to tempt contacts and competitors while making a statement as to how desirable their successful dama must be.

The crowd parts for a tall blonde backing through the mass, his hair swept up in a French Roll under a mass of barrel curls, loose tendrils sweeping kiss points at his nape and ears. The gold beaded sheath shimmers in the light, undulates with every move. The hem sweeps the toes of gold satin shoes, the three inch heels adding to the stack of hair piled behind the tiara. Tonight, his eyes would be on the level, breasts pressing together if there was time before the party ended for a slow dance together. And there would be time, so everyone could see he was hers.

The blonde turns, bends to greet other wives, acknowledges their damas. They gather together, as comen are wont to do, drinks in hand, laughing, comparing notes. Anyone who isn't there is fair game, but mostly they talk of clothes, and children, and who has found a new babysitter, or who is giving what party. But they hardly ever talk of how long their damas work, and how lonely they sometimes feel when, at the right time of the month, what they really want is to be held, and petted, and made to feel, well, wonderful. Or how when they have a brand new hairdo, and a new dress, and have added a touch of perfume with the children early off to bed, she hardly notices when you are so ready for her to advance and capture you.

When the band strikes up "Man, I Feel Like A Woman," there are quick looks around, a joint shrug, a beeline for the dance floor. It is early in the evening, and damas were still circulating, but the ladies can enjoy themselves while showing off what they got. On the floor, four comen became birls once again, arm in arm, drinks disposed of while they pass arms around their waists and find the rhythm. Heads throw back, curls waver and bobble, light shimmers form jeweled ears and throats, the comen form the supporting hold of the kick line perfected in drill teams, pageants, and proms. Just because their hair is up, they wear long gloves for style and warmth, and their figures are fuller from loving, and bearing and nursing babies, the juices still flow in ways the waiters would not understand for years.

The blonde wiggles in time, raises a knee, once, twice, kicks, kicks higher, shifts, repeats. Laughter spills over the crowd that has stopped, gathered round, claps as the foursome bob, kick, circle in place, assets jiggling despite the constraints of girdles and Merry Widows. When the chorus hits, they all begin to wail:

 

Men's shirts – short skirts,

Oh, oh, oh.

Really go wild.

Yeah, do it in style

A hand touches an elbow, lips breathe warmth on an ear. "He's a keeper, Beth. Don't ever let that one get away. Even if he does wear pants sometimes." Vicky's smooth chestnut upswept head smiles. "After all, it must be so much fun stripping them off and reminding him who really wears the pants and who wears the lacy panties. Now that's doing it in style."

The four comen kick and turn, faces turned away. The pearl choker around the blonde's throat is unique.

That's my birl. Mine to have and to hold, capture and milk. Mine alone A real keeper.

 

§§§

 

The music swells, drums and strings, and a wail builds behind the ring of a tambour. A leg emerges from the door, smooth, toe pointed, nails polished and gleaming, a ring on the middle toe chained to a belled anklet. The leg wraps the door frame, an arm appears, long fingers wear zils, thin bracelets encircle a slender wrist. A few thick dark strands stick to the upper arm, encircled by a thick band. Pink chiffon trails from a wrist loop, leads behind the doorway to an unseen figure.

The drumming and pipes intensify. The long bead strands fly back and he springs into the room, feline, feral, viral, a cat to be captured, tamed, rendered into a purring pet. Only the right woman, a strong woman, a perfect mistress, could tame such a wildcat. And make him like it, beg to wear her ring in his nose, to bear her baby, to bare his body only for her, to be captured, milked, fulfilled in an arching climax.

The dancer flys around the room, whirling, swirling, long black tresses flying, obscuring the face with every turn. Long muscles ripple, shiver, curves shimmy and shown. Supple finger flash, clash, the ting of the zils adding to the frantic beat. Skirts fly, veils swirl, filmy material reveals more than it concealed. The belly is flat, the breasts succulent pomegranates peeking over the gilt threaded band. Hands swirl, he turns, arches back, hands tumbling over the magnificence of his toned torso.

His hair, gleaming black layers of hair that fall to his navel, waves of hair to be grasped, twisted, used to lead him to service well his mistress, tumble and fall, thick, shiny, vital, his crowning glory promising life and passion, fall behind him, pool behind him. This one, he should not be bought, but captured, tamed, brought to heel, docile and demure, a pleasure in and out of bed, whose pleasure is to please his mistress. And giving pleasure, receives it.

The music rises to a climax. The dancer pushes over, face down, arms outstretched, wrists crossed. "Am I pleasing, Mistress? Do you want me? Take me, care for me, protect me. Spread me, capture me, milk me. I am your houri in the bedroom.

The music dies.

Amidst the chains and baubles, a wedding band encircles the third finger of the left hand.

He is mine. Mine by right of capture, by right of protecting, of pleasuring the tender heart beneath his raven hair.

Fingers reach out, twist perfumed locks between them, lift the beseeching head.

"Come, my darling birl, come taste the sweetness of my pleasure. Come, pleasure me, my sweetness, and I will give you children."

"Oh, my darling Beth, will you? To have your birl, to give you a daughter, to know a coman's greatest joy. Take me, my darling, limp and besotted after you have had your way with me so that everyone who sees will know that I am your coman, your willing, loving coman, slave of my desire for you."

Fingers draw the head to the foot, to receive the first kisses of a loving and beloved wife. Soon he would scream out his pleasure, squeal at the pleasure of being conquered and captured by a powerful dama. And soon he would swell with pride at the swelling of new life.

 

§§§

 

Music intruded, "A Stranger In Paradise."

". . . WPLY, the Cumberland plateau's voice for the arts. And next on Broadway Revue . . ."

Beth's eyes flicked open, searched the room. Where is . . ? The pillow was warm against her, her thighs damp. So real. Yet so unreal.

She stirred, pulled the robe close around her, pushed up, swung her feet over. Instinctively, Beth reached up, touched her hair, checked the twist's smoothness for flyaway strands, the seam for loose pins. I should care? I've no one to really notice. Or muss my hair when I need it mussed.

Sandy. Freddie. They must be hungry. Time to get my act together.

Feet hit the floor. The robe pooled around her toes. Mom, mistress of the Universe, was stripped for action.

  

  

  

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