Tea For Two Families

by Sydney Michelle

 

Part Eight

 

Beth stood at the foot of her bed, fumbling with the snaps of her house dress. She looked longingly at the bed, the covers still thrown back from her nap. It would feel so good to slide between those sheets, close my eyes and sleep. But I need a bath, a warm, bubbly bath. Scratch the bubbles. No time to soak. Maybe just a little.

Beth slid the yellow dress on the hanger, laid it over the foot of her bed. She slipped the straps of her slip off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, pooling about her toes. She ran her hands down her loins before lifting the soft, sheer material with her toes, her knee flexing out from her body. I may not be Cyd Charisse, but Miz Haygood couldn't complain. Well, she could always complain about something, but I can still point my toes. Not bad for an old broad's drill team memories. She slipped on a thin pink robe, just enough to turn a draft.

Beth adjusted the water temperature, hot enough to warm the cool tub, not so hot as to scald. Satisfied, she closed the air conditioning vent before sitting at the bathroom vanity, pulling the faux gilt tray that held her cotton pads and cleansing lotions to her. Gotta get the skin clean. Blemishes are really unprofessional. She began with her eyes, damp cotton pads peeling off the teal eyeshadow and black eyeliner. Lids clear, she looked over her shoulder at the water level. There was just time enough to remove her lipstick before turning off the water.

The bathroom grew warm and moist from the tub as Beth finished cleansing her face. Even on an "informal" day, she applied a little foundation to smooth her color and protect her skin. A few hours of summer sun, even spread over several days, would produce a crop of freckles, less obvious than a case of the measles, but a complication for producing an even toned face.

As Beth stripped off color, pale skin emerged, glowing slightly from the astringent rub. Beth leaned into the mirror, critically examining her pores for any reddening spot, the first sign of an eruption. Ivory. That's what we tan impaired call it. Not peachy, not rosy, but an ivory complection. She had inherited active oil glands from mother Evelyn. That promised a healthy, young skin for years to come, but at the price of eternal vigilance against the dreaded "zit." Still, it was better than her few friends whose skin was so dry that they slathered on moisturizer daily. At least when she had had a bedtime companion, she hadn't felt like a greased pig when she slipped between the sheets to snuggle.

Beth reached back, patted her hair, feeling along the seam of the French Twist for loose pins. Satisfied, she fingered the smooth surface before reaching for the blue floral shower cap that would protect her hairdo in the bath. I do have nice hair. All we Templeton women have nice hair, a bit thick, a bit of wave, a hairdresser's delight. It's truly our crowning glory. It's so nice Freddie and Sandy have it too. No wonder Miss Jennie wants to show Missy Alexandra at the stylists' competition. When his adult hair comes in, it should be a real girl magnet, ideal for a hair model. Perhaps Sarah has a point about Sandy modeling.

Beth slipped the robe from her shoulders as she stood. She couldn't help pausing to look at her reflection, still firm and shapely despite two children and being on the far side of twenty-nine. Her wasit was a little thicker than before she became pregnant with Fredericka, her deep navel had a bit more roll around it than her drill team washboard, but from the tips of her rosy pink nipples to the slight crack of light below her sandy haired bush, she was a fine figure of a woman.

Beth slipped her hands down to the front of her hips, nails splaying through her bush, fingers running alongside the lips of her honey pot. She arched as a thumb found her clitoris hidden inside its hood. Oh-h. It's been so long without a tongue down there. The ruby tidbit swoll, parted the fleshy folds. Maybe I should take up Vicky's offer. A meaningless one night stand with my legs wrapped around a pretty head? Beth shuddered, drew her hands away. She stepped to the tub, intending to wash her tension away.

Beth slid into the water, its warmth engulfing her, soothing her, relaxing her. When the warmth reached her tits, the teats relaxed, deflated. The warmth covered her shoulder, encasing her in almost womb-like comfort. The tub was deep enough that her knees remained under, at least when they were parted as much as the tub allowed. That allowed warm fluid to flow through her thatch, trickle between protective lips. She clinched slightly, opening herself to the warmth that flowed within, mimicking in reverse the slow flow of a lover's satisfying stream.

Beth began to wash, to raise a lather on her hands, then smooth the suds down her legs, over the arch of her foot, between her toes. She lifted each leg in turn, stretched, pointed her toes, felt the thigh and calf flex, tighten, relax. Can I? Still? She pulled a knee toward her, then straightened her leg. The foot poised, straight and hairless before her eyes. Yes. Once a drill teamer, always a drill teamer.

Beth's thoughts drifted back to a dusky fall afternoon her senior year, after practice was over. Ben Thomas was a dream, a back, tall, shifty, fast. He had good hands that let him catch passes as well as make them. I never knew how he got my bra undone without my knowing it, but his hands, his tongue had felt wonderful on my breasts. When I let him reach inside my panties, his finger knew just where to press. After the Homecoming Dance, we were, I was, only a technical virgin. The next afternoon, I wasn't even that. All my drill team flexibility came in handy in the back of that van. Only terminally horny teenagers could do it there like pretzels without being permanently warped. The day before the game for district, my soreness was gone, my flow had stopped, and I wanted him in me again. He was against our tree while I wrapped my legs around. His big hands helped me bend back. I had my first orgasm. I sat in the tub forever, feeling him flow out of me, reliving every delicious shudder.

Beth's finger had pressed between the folds. She shuddered lightly at memory of her wrapped around Ben, of hi shaft throbbing and pumping in her until his hot seed stream splashed inside her. It's been too long. Mama deserves to be nice to herself.

Beth slowly washed herself, the hand towel rubbing softly over her, arms, pits, breasts, belly. Her body was still half aroused, the soft folds of toweling awakening her nerve endings, the warm, sudsy water trailing off her body like a lover's tender kisses. It was only when she sat up to awkwardly wash down her spine, that the lush receptive feeling dissipated.

Beth levered herself up, toed open the drain, stood there dripping as the water whirled, pooled, slid down the drain. She clutched herself, wiped water from her body, touched herself. She arched her foot as she stepped over the rim of the tub, reached for a bath towel, began to rub her body slowly, thoroughly, as she dried herself. She passed the towel between her legs, drawing it back and forth slowly, to rid herself of any dampness clinging to her cracks. She lifted a knee, pointed her toe, rubbed down the calf to the tips of her polished toes. Her toes dug into the bath mat, depositing the dampness between them in the long fibers.

Dry, Beth watched herself in the circle of mirror fog as she removed the shower cap. Yes. There's something of interest there if I do say so myself. Good bait should I go trolling. Should I?

Beth considered the proposition as she shrugged on her robe, her toes slipped into her fuzzy mules, as she opened the vent louvers. Maybe. But who? Where? When?

Beth turned out the light, her arm caressing the hardness of the doorway as she slipped back into her bedroom.

 

§§§

 

The sheets felt wonderfully cool and crisp as Beth slid between them, drawing the light cover up around her. She turned on her pillow, hairdo protected by her sleep cap, body comfortable inside the aqua folds of her nightgown. Her head worked at the pillow, carving out a comfortable crease as her arms snaked another pillow close to her. Have to do. Someone softly spooned next to me would be better. Oh well.

Beth's legs drew up slowly, her toes pushed down, down under the robe lying loosely over the foot of the bed. Her feet nestled under the turned back coverlet, the layers warding off the chill nipping at the soles of her feet. Least no ice blocks on my legs. She drew the pillow hard to her, her thighs capturing the nether end. But no warm tush either.

Beth closed her eyes, letting the music of soft strings flow through her. The notes sifted over her, caressing her, escorting her mind off to slumber. Schubert soothed, relaxed, never intruded into her soft drift away from consciousness.

Children, my beautiful children. Tucked in their beds.

Beth tucked the pillow top under her chin, the soft mass warm against her belly. It was warm, soft, almost like being with someone. If it only breathed.

A head appears, so close I can touch it. Curls, a jumble of sausage curls, inviting curls, beseeching fingers to play with them, clutch at them, lose themselves in them. To grasp, to capture, to control the head beneath them, drawing it forward, then down, guiding it down to play, to worship, to lap. Those curls, curls of willing surrender, offering pleasure to receive pleasure in turn. A coman's curls, soft, docile, devoted to pleasing his woman.

Ringlets fall behind, from under one side of the crown mass, ends layered, three long curls, golden curls fall down, down past the neck encircled by the ribbon of a velvet choker, down over the shoulder, one down onto the breast. The milky breast gently swells above the heart shaped beaded bodice, the glimmering bodice trimmed with stiff lace of a wedding gown.

The head turns, eyes glistening, ears sparkling, a tiara shines before the curls. Shadow accents the eyes, a blush mimics the true rosy flush of the cheeks. No ring rests over his pink lips. The bride's nose receives her wedding ring at the altar from her dama. Kneeling to pledge to love, honor, and obey, he will raised by his dama as her wife, her beloved.

Alexandra's head bows, waiting to receive his veil, the veil of modesty, of his singular devotion to his dama to be, faithful, committed, a good wife. "Please, Mama."

It's time, time for the birl to pass to the protection of another woman, to become a coman with his own nest, to fill it with love and devotion. And children of his own.

The veil lifted in place, corners pinned under the nest of curls, those curls that will soon be drawn down so he may pleasure his dama, before his groom mounts him, melds with him, makes him her own. After tonight, Alexandra will no longer be my sweet little birl, but a good wife and a good mother. And a good lover.

The blusher falls forward, incompletely hiding the eyes glistening in anticipation. His hand rises, a hand encased in a fingerless lace glove, oval nails pointed and polished, his diamond engagement ring gleaming, waiting to be joined by a wedding band. The hand rests lightly on an arm encased in Delft Blue soignee silk. "Ready, Sweetheart?"

Alexandra's head nods, the long golden curl sliding softly up and down the heaving breast. "Ready."

Ready to wed, bed, and be bred. My sweet birl.

The bridal room door opens. The wedding party looms ahead, the first notes playing as the first pair steps off. All before, Alexandra left, arm clasping arm. Hand covers hand as slow steps lead down the aisle. A glance to the side finds a steady head, a proud head, only the short breaths betraying the bride's nerves. With each step, the torso raise and falls even as the head remains steady, true to all those hours balancing a book. Only the slight movement up and down of the golden curl on milky breast marks any movement, any bobble.

At the head of the aisle, Alexandra's head turns, eyes shining at mine, than turns again, looking at his fiancée. His smile widens, his eyes gleam, then glance down lest they betray his ardor, his desire. His hand is placed on the hand that will protect and cherish him, love him, support him. He will change his name, change his point of reference, change his role, change everything he does, change everything but his beautiful soul.

 

§§§

 

Beth's eyes blinked, opened. The only sound in the dark room was the whisper of the upstairs air conditioning, making its last run for the night. Besides the glow of the bedside clock, the only light filtered through the blinds and draws from the street light on the lot behind. The pillow between her legs was crushed, the fill pressed upward, molded to her belly and breasts.

Beth blinked, her dream so vivid that its reality overwhelmed the night enveloping her. Slowly the details faded, only the bright, veiled face of her Alexandra retaining the strength of its impression. My birl. My beautiful birl. What a beautiful bride you will be. So long before you are pledged, before you become a bride. So many tomorrows.

Beth shifted, lifting the warm mass away from her, turning the coolness to her, holding it close, stroking it.

Someday, I will be without them. Someday, I will need someone to help fill my days. Not now, but someday.

Beth stroked the pillow with her hand, moving it gently down, finding her hip, her thigh. The hand slipped between the pillow and her body, between her legs. She felt her bush, flattened, not damp, but not completely dry. Her finger found the top of her crease, opened the lips, found her pleasure button lying quietly within. It awakened to the pressure, grew, emerged to be stroked.

Yes, yes. It's been too long. Vicky's right. I need to feel like a woman, desired, wanted. I need it, need to feel myself mount as I am filled, need to feel release, relief.

Beth's finger pressed, sawed little circles, her love knob growing under her pressure. She arched, caressed her breast with her under arm, clasped her thighs to capture the high hand. Little pants blew against the pillow, he belly shimmered, she tightened, clamped, stiffened. She inhaled, stretched tight, relaxed. Her eyes closed, her breaths came in long, sighs soft, deepening.

Oh, yes. I need someone. If just for a night.

Beth's body relaxed. She pulled the pillow under her, rolled forward onto it.

Maybe Vicky's right. Get out some, find someone. But the children? Me, a desperate grass widow?

Beth hugged the pillow tightly to her.

Me? Prowling the bars for prey? Me? Who's only done it with three men in my life?

Beth reached up to check her sleep cap. The stiff material was still firmly anchored by long pins, the string bow still in place under her ear.

If I do, what would it be? A hotel bar in Nashville with some self-centered male? A desperate she-male from a Heraton fern bar? Definitely not Angela. How could I give him instructions, look him in the eye after rolling him in the hay?

Beth rolled over, tucking the pillow under her, then rolled the other way, pulling the pillow close behind her back.

Face it, Beth, ol' girl. You're a one man woman. Someone's pretty head beside you on the next pillow, breathing softly afterwards, but someone you can respect. Maybe even marry if the kids like him. Pretty curls to twine about my fingers. Willing to put his tongue to good work on my honey pot. Someone round, yielding, supportive of me this time. What's the use of living in Heraton and not take advantage of the norms?

Have a pretty fiancé, a pretty bride, a pretty wife. Maybe even barefoot and pregnant. Might feel good to knock up my wife, have him all swollen like a grape. That would give the girls and birls at High Style something to talk about. Beth Brown's little coman. Pregnant again? When's he gonna drop? Seems like he's always swelling or nursing. Lucky birl.

Beth smiled to herself, heart pounding just a little. Girl, would that ever show Alex. He wouldn't be the only one who could give Freddie and Sandy step-siblings. Lessee, one of each, a beautiful birl and a gallant girl. That's the ticket. That way Sandy would see what it will be like when he has children.

Beth reached over, punching the "Play" button. There was a soft swirl, then the first familiar strains of Schubert's "Sonata in D" rolled forth, soothing, relaxing, inviting sleep. She reached back, tucked the pillow under her back, tight under her buns. She folded her hands under her cheek and shut her eyes.

"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And bless Freddie and Sandy for being so sweet. And bless Mama Evelyn and Papa Robin for being there. And bless Vicky for being a wonderful friend. And let Fredericka and Samantha grow to love and care for Carol Suzanne and Alexandra."

Images danced on the back of Beth's eyes. An auburn bouffant smiles and laughs, hands supporting his belly great with child. A chestnut pile holds Freddie and Sandy close, Sandy gently rubbing his big tummy. A dark brown Gibson looks up and smiles contentedly, his blouse open to let their child suckle. A golden blonde with curls stacked high lies back in a sheer red nightgown, eyes sparkling, arms held out, a stencil on his belly: "Insert Baby Here." A long black shag crawls like a cat across the floor, then stands and turns, his belly distended between his harem pants and jacket.

Beth smiled contentedly. It might be fun, looking. If I can just find the time. But I've got time, nothing but time.

Beth's shoulder blades relaxed, her shoulders slumped. Ah, well, tomorrow's another day.

  

  

  

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