lately, with their unkempt long hair and ragged clothes.
'I'm sure I can trust you,' she said, 'Come on in. I've got some ham and cheese in the refrigerator. A good sandwich and a Coke will make you work better.' 'Well, to tell you the truth ma'am, I'd sure appreciate it.'
'Then please come in. By the way,' she asked as she opened the door to let him in, 'what's your name?'
'Art, Art Wilson.'
'I'm Susan Jameson.'
'Howdy, Mrs. Jameson.'
'Oh goodness, don't call me 'Mrs.' — that sounds so silly. We must be practically the same age. Just call me Susan.'
'That's real nice of you, ma'am. Susan, I mean.'
Susan laughed merrily, completely secure with the handsome youth now, and rather pleased to have some company to divert her attention from her problems.
'The kitchen's this way, Art,' she said, walking past him down the front hall. 'Follow me.'
The young man watched her intently as he walked behind her down the hall, his eyes riveted to the swaying ripe half-moons of her buttocks, while his face became clouded with a dark and strangely perverse expression that was totally unlike his previous smiling countenance. I sure will baby, I sure will. Right up into that nice All-American pussy of yours!
For the rest of the afternoon Susan tried to busy herself with housework while Art worked diligently mowing the lawn, trimming the bushes, and tending to the garden. He seemed to know a great deal about landscaping, and the young housewife couldn't resist glancing through the living room window now and then to watch him, fascinated, while he worked. He had stripped himself of his T-shirt, and Susan found herself staring unconsciously at his trim athletic build, his sun-tanned skin gleaming with perspiration. Although he was shorter than her husband, and was slender like Tim, there was a classic beauty to his body so striking that the naive young wife could hardly keep from staring at it. She was oddly compelled by the young man and, hardly aware of it consciously, her thoughts kept turning again and again toward him. Finally, she invited him to dinner and they dined together on hamburgers, french fries and salad, chattering warmly back and forth.
'Well,' Art said, as he finished the last of his coffee, 'it's pretty late and I should get out of here so the neighbors won't gossip.'
'Oh, don't worry about the neighbors. I hardly ever see them anyway.'
'Yeah, but it's gettin' dark, and it's only proper for me to go. Your husband wouldn't like it if he knew I stayed past dinner with you all alone. I got to get my sleepin' bag from the station anyway, and then grab a place in the park.'
'Art, I just thought of something! We have a storeroom over the garage, and I'm sure my husband wouldn't object if you stayed there tonight.'
'Gee… I'm sure tempted. It'd be better than a park bench, that's for sure.'
'Then it's settled. I'll leave the garage door unlocked while you're getting your things, and you can just go right in. Then I'll make coffee tomorrow morning before you start work.'
The young man glanced warmly at Susan, then looked down sheepishly.
'Susan… you've been real kind to me. Ain't many people would be so kind to a stranger the first day. I… just want to say thanks.'
'You don't have to thank me,' the young wife replied. 'Believe me, you're helping us by doing the lawn.'
Art glanced up at her, and for a moment there was a vivid moment of contact between them as their eyes locked. Susan felt herself blush slightly as strange tingling sensations fluttered over her skin.
'Well,' Art said finally, shyly tearing his eyes away from her. 'I guess I'd better be movin' on. I'll see you in the morning.'
'In the morning,' she replied, rising to walk with him to the front door.
At nine o'clock that night Susan sat watching an Italian Western on television, smoking one cigarette after another and sipping slowly from a glass of light rose wine. Normally she almost never drank, particularly when she was alone, but tonight she had been feeling oddly excited and decided that a little wine might calm her down. But no matter what she did, the restlessness persisted.
I wish Tim would come back tonight, she thought as she stared without interest at the flickering screen. There's so much to be settled between us, and I'd feel better if he was here with me and we could talk it out. I've been too cold to him, I know, but I think if I just tried a little harder I could really let go and be the kind of wife he wants.
Of course she couldn't dismiss the fact that her deep-seated mental traumas over sexuality still rigidly held her mind prisoner. God only knew how much time it would take for her to become strong enough to transcend her fears. She desperately wanted her marriage to work, for she loved Tim deeply and wanted their life together to be full of happiness.
Suddenly tamping her half-smoked cigarette in the coffee table ashtray, she got up, flicked off the television set, and began walking toward the stairs, pausing to pick up her glass of wine and the bottle.
I'll just go to bed early and read, she decided as she climbed the stairs toward the second-floor bedroom. I'll just put everything out of my mind and relax.
She wondered if Art had returned from the bus station yet, and whether he was already in the garage storeroom. Despite her early suspicions she had to admit that she found him quite a pleasant young man, very easy to talk to, full of interesting stories about his childhood in Georgia. Of course he was quite good-looking as well, with a body at least as nice as Tim's, and she was surprised how often her mind kept returning to the image of him working in the yard, bare-chested, his white jeans clinging to his sturdy legs, his brown curly hair glistening in the sun. And yet, even as she thought about it, a part of her chastised herself for dwelling so unnecessarily on his appearance. Was she some kind of sex-hungry housewife acting like a kid the first time a handsome young man came to the door?
She paused at the bedroom door, her mind once more a bewildering maze of conflicting emotions. Maybe I'm losing my mind, she reflected grimly… I don't know who I am any more. Oh God, why does life have to be so hard?
She flicked on the soft orange bedroom light and gazed fondly at the room she had so painstakingly decorated. It was a spacious bedroom, with wide white-curtained windows. The walls were done in blue wallpaper with tiny gold flowers and decorated with pastel watercolors. A huge double bed with a ruffled colonial canopy stood opposite one window, and was draped with a yellow-gold bedspread. A blue-skirted vanity table and chair stood nearby, and an antique colonial dresser completed the furnishings, except for a thick blue pile rug on the floor. This was the young housewife's favorite room, and as she entered and closed the door behind her, she began to feel calmer right away.
She placed the bottle of wine and the glass on the nightstand, then flicked on a transistor radio that stood on the bureau. Immediately the room was flooded with the mellow sounds of Tony Bennett singing I Left My Heart in San Francisco. It was one of Susan's favorite songs, and she hummed along with the music as she turned down the covers of the bed, fluffed up the pillows, and prepared herself for a quiet evening alone. The young wife felt secure and cozy in her pleasant little bedroom world, and soon all her cares had completely faded away.
A shower would be nice, she mused, as she slowly unbuttoned her summer dress and pulled it up over her shapely body. She hung the garment carefully in the closet, then went into the large white-tiled bathroom adjoining the bedroom. Standing before the full-length mirror, she removed her brassiere, folded it neatly, and placed it on a low stool. Then she slid her fingers under the waistband of her tight white panties and wriggled them down over her gently blooming hips and white tapered legs, bending over to step carefully out of them and then placing them on the stool with the brassiere. Now totally naked, she paused to gaze at her body in the mirror.
The bright bathroom light made her skin seem to shimmer a translucent cream color, while the cherry-red tips of her breasts tensed and pushed out like two taut little sentinels in the center of those youthfully firm orbs. Although she was somewhat embarrassed to have such a ripely formed body, she remembered how often Tim had raved about her beauty and said he was the luckiest man in the world to have a wife with her looks and figure, and that she should be proud of her body.
