The Salesman's Hot Wife

CHAPTER ONE You make trades in this world, Margo, and living with d**k is one of those trades ... How would you rather have it? A ritzy place on top of the world with some no-good-nick? Lots of money and a sports car and a guy with no pzazz? You could have gone that route but you didn't ... So leave it alone already ... make the best of it as you can... She stood up from the sofa and pulled her silky green housecoat closed around her voluptuous young nakedness. She looked down at her toes, bowing slightly, and asked herself if her toe nails really needed doing too. She decided against it and made her way into the kitchen. ... And this room is another rat-hole, she found herself thinking as she poured a second cup of coffee. The linoleum was coming up in large peels over by the ironing closet, and the backdoor had a warp in it that made entering or leaving the place a definite pain. It's not forever, Margo ... just leave it be... In the bedroom she sat on the edge of the sagging mattress, and the rusty, squeaking springs cried back at her. "Ugh," she groaned aloud, "I don't believe it ... I've got to get out of here...! " In a jiffy she had the housecoat off and was rushing nakedly into the bathroom, her large, well-rounded breasts rising and falling in a gentle, easy bounce as she landed in front of the mirror. "Maybe," she whispered at the lovely blonde in the glass across from her as she began applying her lipstick, "you'll go to the Marina, and meet yourself a handsome Sea Captain who will take you away from all this landlubber hypocrisy, out to the wild islands of the South Seas, there to-" She slipped with her lipstick and had to start over. She went quickly about the task, not bothering with distracting, unnerving commentary. She put makeup on her cheeks, a smooth patting of powder to mat everything down, eye liner and shadow, hint of black silhouette on the lids and lashes, and then a neat, blue-silver glitter, something to accent the sharpness of her lake-blue, almond-shaped eyes. "Mmmmm," she sighed pulling her lovely blonde hair back and away so as to be able to see more clearly. Her face was just about ready. She smoothed out the line of make-up at her neck so that there would be no awkward "tan" line. She'd shaved her long shapely legs the night before. Just to make sure, she lifted one foot and rested it on the lid of the toilet. She smoothed the skin of her shin, calf and knee, up to the thigh with two hands, spreading a light coating of cream softener with her palms as she went. She rubbed the oily stuff into her leg until it disappeared leaving even her full thigh softly coated and luxuriously silky. Then she did the other leg. By the time she finished the cream had disappeared entirely in the soft skin of her supple thighs and calves. In the bedroom she dressed quickly with a pair of sheer black panties, pulling the silky under drawers up over her scissor-sharp legs until they covered her soft, dark-sandy pubis and firm, plush buttocks. She put on a black, see-through brassiere, one which cupped her creamy white breasts but did not entirely obscure their full nakedness. She picked out a poplin blouse made of a light sheer-green color, one that buttoned in front with a fly-away collar, and she added to that a navy blue skirt. At the last minute, she put on flesh-colored stockings and a pair of cranberry heels. She knew by the glow in her cheeks as she stroked a comb once through her silky blonde hair that she was ready to get out of the house. She had closed the locked door and was slipping into her overcoat when the phone began ringing. She debated leaving it go, but since the ringing was persistent, she decided to answer. She got the phone on the tenth ring, with the living room door open, her coat half-way on, her purse open on the coffee table, keys still loosely jingling in the handle of the door. "Hello, Mrs. Blaster?" came the strange, pebbly voice on the other end of the line. Margo still wasn't used to people calling her Mrs., so it took her a moment to collect herself and reply. "Yes, this is Margo. Who's this?" She changed hands with the phone, having grabbed it left-handed in her hurry to catch it, and missed the reply. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't catch that. Who is it?" "My name is Elmer Stag," said the unpleasantly deep voice at the other end of the line, "and I think we should meet." There was a long pause and Margo hardly knew what to say. "Are you still there Mrs. Blaster? I think we should meet. Soon." "Hey," said Margo, losing patience with the intruder, "I don't even know you! What's this all about?! " "Never mind that. Just listen to me. I have information about your husband." "Say, what do you mean you have information? What kind of information?" "Now, now, Mrs. Blaster. There's no reason to get panicky. And don't try playing games, either. My sources are reliable. I know all about d**k and his, ah, previous life." "Look, I don't know what you're talking about," Margo suddenly frantically appealed to the stranger, "but I don't like the idea of your calling me up this way and accusing my husband-" "-Maybe he didn't tell you," interrupted the stranger. "Maybe you'd like to know yourself. About where he's been and what he's done? Wouldn't you like to know about your husband's real past? I know if it were my wife, I'd sure like to know if she had a prison record..." "A what?" Margo hesitated. "Did you say prison record?" "Mmmmm, that's right, Mrs. Blaster. Two years." Again she paused. "Mrs. Blaster? Are you there?" "Where do you want to meet me?"