All Characters In This Story Are 18+ Years Old
Friday, December 21, 1962
Thirty-seven-year-old Roberta Maxon sat in her Westport, Connecticut kitchen and stirred a spoonful of Pream into her second morning cup of coffee. Sighing contentedly, she figured her husband, Phil, and her daughter, Trixie, were likely just now pulling into Grand Central Terminal for their father-daughter Christmas shopping trip to The City. The beds were made and the breakfast dishes were done. Life was good.
As the non-dairy creamer swirled in her cup, Roberta glanced through the archway to the dining room at the cherry china hutch and the triangular folded United States flag on its middle shelf. She had her share of grief when the Battle of Hoengsong widowed her from Phil's twin brother, Paul, on February 12, 1951. But by Valentine's Day, a year later, the generous family support given to her and Trixie by Phil had matriculated into a deeper personal love. She gladly accepted his proposal that they marry and thought it wonderful that he insisted they include Paul's spirit at their dinner table by prominently displaying his burial flag.
Paul and Phil were virtually inseparable, and hard to tell apart, when she met them at a mixer at the their parents' country club in 1942. Roberta went head-over-heels for the Paul, who was slightly more gregarious than his older twin. Phil was great fun, never butted in on Paul's and Roberta's budding romance. The three were soon fast friends. Of course, World War II had its own impact on their lives.
The Maxon Boys turned eighteen, registered for the draft, then were trained and shipped off to Europe. Miraculously, they survived to come marching home together. Paul met his year-old daughter, Patricia, for the first time and decided to stay with the Army as a career officer. Phil took his discharge and went off to Yale. Thereafter, except for holiday gatherings, the brothers seldom saw each other, though they were always in close touch by mail or telephone.
Roberta smiled into her coffee cup and brought her mind back to the present. It was Friday. That meant dusting and vacuuming while the Maytags did her laundry. Trixie would not be here to do the ironing in the afternoon, but that was alright since Roberta's bridge group had cancelled their weekly game because of the approaching holiday.
Just then the phone rang. Roberta walked to the wall unit by the Fridgidaire and picked up on the third ring. "Hi, Bobbie," she heard Phil say softly. "We're here, but there seems to be a weather alert..."
"Yes," replied Bobbie. "Here, too. It's snowing fat flakes right now and they say it'll move south... Oh, you're going to stay in New York overnight and be home tomorrow in the late afternoon? OK, but call again after you find a place to stay... The Plaza? Really? Well, that will be a treat for Trixie... No, I won't worry, and don't you, either... Yes, I'll stay cozy. I love you."
Phil said, "Trixie sends her love, too, babe. Bye."
Roberta disconnected, then carried her cup to the sink. Watching the thick wet snow fall outside her window, she rinsed the cup and set it in the rack on the counter to dry with the other morning dishes. "Well, crud," Roberta grumped internally. "Looks like no cock for me this week!"
Every Friday, for at least the past year, the Maxon routine had been the same: Dinner, drinks, Johnny Carson's monologue, cuddle, fuck and snore. Roberta dearly loved Phil, and had learned to accept that he had become a once-a-week lover, but her body did yearn for Fridays. She laid a hand on her tummy just above her mons and scratched at a deep internal itch.
Seeing the snow sticking to the sidewalk, Roberta perked up and said to the window curtains, "Maybe the weather will ruin his Sunday morning tee time and I'll get a make-up screw." She smiled at the prospect of two orgasms in the same week, even if it meant a thirty-six hour delay. Patting her hands dry on a tea towel, she hung up her apron and left the kitchen to get ready for her household chores.
Roberta's first task was to get dressed. Some women could lounge about or work around the house in a frumpy robe, slippers and their nightclothes, but not her. She did not need full make-up, however she did like to be presentable. Unzipping her peacock-blue velour bathrobe as she went, she moved toward the master bedroom.
After hanging her robe and nightgown in the closet, Roberta crossed to the bathroom. Sitting naked on the toilet seat, she put her left foot up on the tub rim and reached for her Nair. She swathed the cream evenly on her left armpit and then on her bent leg from the ankle high high up onto her inner thigh. As was her habit, even when swimsuit weather was far in the future, she spread a strip two fingers wide in the crease to the left of her vagina and along her broadly triangular copper bush's eastern edge.
Swiveling on the toilet lid, Roberta repeated the depilatory application to her right underarm and leg, then stood and bent forward to push an additional ounce over her perineum. Returning upright, she ran warm water at the sink and prepared her washrag for the final rinse. She was ambivalent about her hirsuteness: It was a weekly bother to deal with, but at the same time, she liked how the cream felt going on and she loved the sensations that accompanied cleaning it off.
After wringing out the cloth under the running faucet and watching the used goo with its dissolved cargo disappear down the drain, Roberta hung it to dry on its rack. With her hairbrush, she gave her Irish Setter-red shag-cut hair a quick fluff to slightly curl it around her neck and below her earlobes. Still staring into the medicine chest mirror over the sink, she dropped her hands to her full breasts and hefted them. Heavy though they were, they did not sag nearly as much as the boobs on some of her girlfriends at the Athletic Club.
The previous March, the Garden Society's Education Committee showed a film, co-sponsored by the American Cancer Society and the National Cancer Institute, which demonstrated breast self-examination. Since then Roberta had diligently palped and squeezed herself while hoping, of course, not to find any lumps. What she did find was that she enjoyed fondling and pinching herself. She sighed and silently rued through a half-smile, "Oh Phil, this is never as good as what you can do for me!"
Shaking away her rising tide, Roberta strode purposefully back into the bedroom where she pulled a bronze cotton-polyester shirt dress from her closet. Then, from her lingerie drawer, she grabbed a pair of clean cotton panties, a fresh Maidenform underwired bra, a straight no-frills silver rayon slip and a pair of white terry ankle socks. Quickly dressed, she stepped into a pair of brown low-heeled leather moccasins, then left the room carrying with her the hamper with her and Phil's amassed discarded used clothes. On the way to the utility room she stopped in Trixie's teen-neat room and added her stuffed muslin laundry bag to her load.
Roberta had just closed the lid on the Maytag for the first round when the doorbell rang. "Now who could that be?" She wondered as she walked down the hall to entry foyer. Through the narrow floor-to-ceiling ripple glass window she saw a medium large but otherwise unidentifiable person. When she opened the front door, she recognized her neighbor, Judith Barnes' son, Barney.
"Hi, BeeBee!" Roberta said, brightly. "Goodness, I hope Trixie didn't have a date with you! She went shopping in The City with her dad and they got caught by the blizzard. They won't be home until at least tomorrow afternoon."
"Hi, Mrs. M., " Barney answered. "No, I knew she had that trip planned, though we thought we might go skating tomorrow." He looked up at the low clouds and thick falling snow. "Looks like not, now. Anyway, I remember what Mr. M. once told me: 'Make hay while the sun, shines, BeeBee,' he told me. So I thought I might make a buck while the snow falls, if you get my, er, drift!"
Barney laughed at his pun and pointed to the broad-bladed aluminum scoop propped on the porch wall beside him, then asked, "Can I shovel your drive and walks, Mrs. M.?"
Roberta smiled and replied, "Well... how much are you asking for?"
Shyly, Barney scuffed a rubber booted toe at the Maxon's 'Merry Christmas' doormat and said, "Umm, is fifty cents an hour too much, Mrs. M.? I'll work as fast as I can, but you know, snow is heavier than it looks. It's hard work."
"Oh, I know you won't waste time, BeeBee," Roberta assured the eighteen-year-old. "I'm sure your work will be worth it. I might be vacuuming, or in the back of the house, so be sure to ring the doorbell as long as it takes when you're finished, OK?"
Barney was always a little bit flustered around Roberta. He was dating Trixie on a semi-regular basis and he really liked her, but he had a crush on her mother, who he thought looked just like Maureen O'Hara. On their last date, at the movies, he managed to get his hand under Trixie's sweater and onto her bare titty, but weirdly, he caught himself imagining he was copping a feel on Roberta. Thinking about that now made his cock twitch. He was glad it was hidden behind his snowsuit.
"Oh-oh-kay, Mrs. M.," Barney stutttered. He hoped she would just think he was cold and not nervously excited. "I'll get right on it!" He was much relieved that Roberta simply nodded and closed the door. His ears and neck were on fire under his knit wool cap.
Barney shoveled as if demons were chasing him. And maybe there were. All thoughts of the MILF-next-door were cleared from his mind as he cleared the snow from the long double-driveway, the sidewalk to the front porch and the path with paving stones leading around the garage to the garbage cans in the side yard. Seventy-five minutes later he was leaning on the Maxon doorbell again.
When Roberta opened the door, she looked at her Lady Bulova wristwatch and said, "All done? It looks like I owe you sixty-two-and-a-half cents!" She laughed as she saw Barney's confused face and quickly added, "Why don't I just round it up to an even dollar? And throw in a nice cup of hot chocolate, too? Come inside and warm up, BeeBee."
It dawned on Barney that Roberta was making a joke, so he laughed a little with her as he stamped the caked slush from his boots then toed them off and crossed the Maxon threshold in his stocking feet. "Gee, thanks, Mrs. M.! That's really swell. I am a little bit cold."
Roberta scanned Judith's son, from the yarn ball atop his cap to the frayed big toe on his left sock. "God!" She exclaimed to herself. "I never realized what a big tall boy he is!" Out loud, she observed, "You'll soon overheat in that insulated snowsuit. Are you wearing anything besides underwear under it? You should take it off. I can get you one of Mr. Maxon's robes to wear if you need it."
Roberta's words hit Barney in a stunning fusillade. For a moment his mouth gaped and he felt like a fool. Finally, he answered, "No, I mean yes, uh, it's okay, Mrs. M. I don't need a robe."
"Oh, well, fine," Roberta replied. "Just shrug it off right there, then. The parquet has a good wax coat on it. A little snowmelt won't hurt it." Turning her back on the youth, she said, as she began walking away, "I'm going to put some milk on the stove for our cocoa. Come into the kitchen and sit with me."
Five minutes later, Barney ambled into the kitchen and Roberta nearly dropped the Hershey's tin she held when she saw him. As bulky as the snowsuit was, it was not the reason for her first impression. This boy was already a man. She guessed him to be at least two, or possibly three inches taller, and twenty or more pounds heavier, than her husband, who himself stood five-ten and a was a fit hundred-and-seventy-five pounds.
Moreover, Barney's physique beneath his Westport High School T-shirt more than suggested he was an athlete. Also, his thigh muscles fairly bulged at the hems on his loose fitting soft jersey cloth gym shorts. In fact, the closer Roberta looked, the more well-developed muscle mass she saw. She took in a long deep breath and slowly let it out, hoping to dissipate the instant tension which rose in her chest.
Barney had no idea what was happening inside Roberta, but he clearly saw her bosom lift and push against the buttons on her bronze dress. It was impressive. Behind his briefs, inside his gym shorts, his prick was starting to stir up trouble. He quickly looked for a chair on the far side of the kitchen table where he could sit with some protection.
Roberta stirred the chocolate into big mugs filled a third of the way with cold milk. When the powder and liquid was a smooth mixture, she added near-scalding milk from the saucepan on her Westinghouse range. Bringing the steaming cocoa to the table, she sat directly opposite Barney and asked, "Do you like marshmallows?"
Barney squirmed on his chair as he tried not to stare at the hinted cleavage above Roberta's undone top two shirt buttons. Her undeniable buxom slope mesmerized him. Desperate to break free from her chains, but not knowing exactly how, he answered, "Uh, yeah... Have you got any, Mrs. M.?" Immediately he berated himself, "That was stupid! What do you think? She's gonna offer you something she doesn't have?"
Roberta exclaimed, "Good! Me too!" Pushing her chair back from the table she rose and walked to a cupboard. Now Barney's eyes and mind were captured by the receding undulating ass under the her skirt's shifting pleats.
Barney stabbed a hand under his waistbands. His almost completely hard dick's fattened head was hot in his fingers as he pulled its engorged stalk to lay vertically trapped, flat against his gut. In hell, he whipped his spoon furiously in his cocoa with his free hand while blowing on the bubbling froth, hoping it would cool enough that he could drink it straight down and escape. His toes cramped in his socks as he dug them into the linoleum and wished his boner would go away.
Roberta kept talking as she moved. "I noticed you have marvelous leg muscles, BeeBee," she said conversationally. "Do you play hockey?" Barney groaned. "I'm sorry," she persisted. "I didn't hear you. Did you say you do play hockey?"
Barney exhaled forcefully and answered proudly, "Yes, Mrs. M. I've lettered the last two years. I think we have a shot at State, this year." Just then Roberta, in profile to him, stretched for the cupboard over the Frigidaire to reach the marshmallows. Her 37-26-37 hourglass figure tightened. As she lifted onto her flat shoes' toes, her calves flexed and her butt wiggled minutely.
Barney groaned again. Roberta turned her face toward him and said cheerfully, "No, thanks! Don't need any help. The bag just got pushed way to the back, that's all. Be there in a jiffy!" Mercifully, she rocked back down to stand normally, then returned to the table with the plump confections.
Noticing Roberta's nipples had decided to announce themselves during her exertion, Barney rolled his eyes and forced himself to look away. "Th-thanks Mrs. M.," he stammered as she plopped two white squat cylinders into their mugs. Small brown droplets splashed out onto the Catalina-green Formica.
"Oh, you're more than welcome," Roberta purred. "Would you like something else? Maybe a little nibble? A cookie, perhaps?"
"Umm, no thanks, Mrs. M.," Barney hurried to reply. "Actually, I need to get going. I wanted to do the Tyson's, the Breck's, and the Wilson's houses, too, if they let me." He gulped at his still too hot cocoa and burned his tongue. Wincing, but otherwise hiding his hurt, he stood up and exclaimed, "Gosh! It's nearly noon! I've got to go!"
Roberta watched amused as the teen, flag flying in his shorts, scurried back to the entry hall to don his outerwear. Giving him space, she stayed where she sat and thoughtfully sipped her cocoa. When she heard the front door shut, she walked to the foyer and watched Barney hop awkwardly into his rubber boots. As he nearly ran from the porch, she thought, "Bye-bye, BeeBee! It's been fun!"
Not immune to her own actions and their effects, Roberta chided herself, "You were bad, Bobbie, to tease the boy like that!" Subconsciously, she pressed her right hand to her heart and her left hand against her abdomen while her mind riposted, "Maybe so, but that's no 'boy' and you know it!" Continuing her self-debate, she said aloud, "OK, that's true, but there's still dusting and vacuuming to do!"
Two-and-a-half hours later, Barney Barnes lay spread-eagle on his back on his bed with both hands busy on his cock and his balls. All afternoon he had been unable to drive Roberta Maxon from his mind and now his raging hard-on demanded not to be neglected. He stroked himself fast and tugged his nutsack while he recalled her glorious silhouette; her wonderfully round ass; her fulsome bust with its hard nipples striving to tear through her clothes. When he came, he shot semen clear up onto his naked pectorals, then fired again and again in decreasing spurts in a ragged line from his sternum to his navel.
Following a light dinner, Roberta hand-washed her plate and utensils, then moved to the family room. After she turned on the television in the Zenith home entertainment stereo console that Phil had bought the previous Christmas, she muted the sound with its Space Commander remote control. Walking to the nearby wet bar, she built herself a moderately stiff Rob Roy cocktail and took it to the mullioned window overlooking the Maxon's large enclosed backyard. Though it was pitch dark outside, the fresh snow brightened everything at ground level while flakes continued to eddy in the wind and break onto the panes in front of her.
Roberta did not understand what had compelled her to tease the Barnes boy, but curiously, she was unable to push the encounter from her mind. Nor would her body let her forget the excitement that she felt witnessing his torment. Even now, as she recalled Barney's tented shorts and blushing face, her tummy flip-flopped. "Well, it is Friday night," she thought. "Probably the whole darn episode was just hormonal habituation. Doggone it, Phil! I wish you were here right now!"
Roberta tossed back the rest of her drink, returned to the bar and set down the empty glass. Changing her mind about making another highball, she took up the extension phone's receiver and dialed. When her neighbor answered on the second ring, Roberta said, "Judith? It's Bobbie Maxon. BeeBee shoveled my walks this morning, but left before I could pay him. If he's home, maybe he could step over here and get it?"
Judith Barnes nodded into the phone, "Why, of course, Bobbie! He can be such a forgetful boy. Thank you for remembering!" She covered the mouthpiece and yelled into the house, "BeeBee! C'mear! Now!" Back on the phone with Roberta, she said, "I just called him. I want to get back to my TV show. He should be here in just a minute and you can square it with him directly. Thanks again, Bobbie!"
Roberta chuckled to herself at Judith's priorities and waited. Soon enough Barney said into her ear, "Hello? Who's this?"
"Hi, BeeBee," Roberta replied. "It's Mrs. Maxon...
"Oh! Sorry, Mrs. M.," interrupted the teen. "I thought you were one of my friends from school. Didn't meant to sound rude."
"Not at all, BeeBee," Roberta soothed. "Your mom didn't give you any reason to know who was calling. Actually, I'm the one who should be apologizing to you. I never gave you the dollar I promised for shoveling my snow."
"Oh, that's okay, Mrs. M.," Barney allowed generously. "It's not like you were going to move away before I could collect, is it?" He snorted at his own joke, then continued, "I can pick it up anytime." Thinking the conversation had reached its logical end, he started to cradle the receiver but stopped as he heard 'Wait, BeeBee!' crackle through the earpiece in mid-air. With the phone back by his face, he said, "Sorry, Mrs. M. Is there something else?"