The Magic Box

Chapter One Elizabeth had been sort of kidding that night several months ago…but sort of not. During foreplay her husband Bill had teased and tantalized the already-aroused woman so skillfully, so relentlessly, that at his sly-eyed pleading she at last had to admit some of her most private, dirty little fantasies to her loving husband. A bit guiltily and yet wickedly thrilled, too, as the man kissed her, touched her, stroked her, she had husked out the sweet, syrupy impossible scenarios that had excited her in desperate secret for so, so long. She had always been a “good girl”—rather prim in high school, not very experienced at all in college before she met Bill, and then a solid, respectable wife and mother all these years…but, ah, how she seethed sometimes to the thought of wanton, exhibitionistic debaucheries that she knew could never be played out in the real world. One daydream, for example, always found her spread-legged and naked on a park bench somewhere, her knees high and her bare heels pulled up on either side of her hips as she m*********d herself, showy and languid and unashamed. To expose herself in such a manner seemed just the height of naughtiness, a thought that never failed to thrill her. Mm, to flaunt her restless female flesh, to open it up all hairy and thick-lipped, and pink and glistening inside, to let everyone see the things she truly did—to make them see. For, oh, how long she once had touched herself in desperate, agonized secrecy, thinking it was wrong somehow! Her final year of high school, when the eighteen-year-old at last had begun to explore her own burgeoning body, had been torture, with the conditioning of the puritanical nuns of her early school days always shaming her so fiercely with what she did to herself under the covers at night. Elizabeth had tried to stop—she truly had. Guilty and forlorn and deeply repentant in the cold light of day, she always swore it off, and said she never would do something so unnatural and unladylike again. Even after a shower that cleansed her body of the sticky sweat of the previous night’s desperate exertions, she washed her hands again in scalding hot water, scrubbing compulsively under her nails with soap so that there would remain no hint of that telltale fishy smell. And then when she dressed, she did not even let herself look down as she clothed that recalcitrant white flesh into dutiful chastity once more. Eventually, though, the poor girl could not help but break down. All day long she would think of things—strange things, dirty things, things that excited her so profoundly even though she knew they were wrong. And then, of course, as soon as she could, after the endless torture of homework and dinner and chitchat and television, Elizabeth finally locked herself in her room at night, and she began to rub herself, down there. Yes, and in the secret darkness that seemed to invite any and all wickedness, and to cloak it from any chance of discovery, too, she would do wonderful, terrible things to her shivering virgin body. She simply could not stop—could not—until she convulsed in that sweet paroxysm whose name the sheltered girl did not yet even know. Under Bill’s patient tutelage, however, Elizabeth gradually had come to accept that her self-pleasuring was not really so dirty—why, her husband, red-faced, always assured her that it in fact was beautiful. She would never forget the time back when the two were going out in college, when they first really started getting serious, and Bill finally convinced the secretly curious girl into some heavy petting. He had driven them out into the country and parked along an out-of-the-way dirt road beside a swamp where bullfrogs croaked, and fireflies winked in the heavy night air, and water lilies shone pale beneath the silvery moon. It was so romantic and magical, and at the younger man’s urging she at last had taken out his p***s, and she began to touch it in a sort of awe. The thing was thick and bare in her hands, burning hot, and although one side of her mind told her that this was wrong, and that she should be offended, a lower and more dimly lit corner of her psyche whispered that maybe she was not being taken advantage of after all. Clearly what her inexperienced hands did excited him so much, and as she explored the throbbing pillar of flesh with an innocently wanton curiosity, she almost wondered if perhaps she was the one who wielded the real power here, not the supposedly swaggering male. And certainly the touch of his fingers in the desperately moist panties beneath her skirt had been heaven—how she squirmed in the seat, so embarrassingly wet and yet unable to resist! He did not know how to touch the thing as expertly as she did, she thought to herself dirtily, and yet it was good, so good, to feel those blunt male digits swirling with such endearing eagerness in her fearsomely juiced-up folds. And when after, all too soon, the poor boy had discharged all over himself—all over!—with a helpless whimper, shocking Elizabeth with the endless gluey mess, he had begged her to finish herself off as well…and, blushing and yet unable to resist, she had, and then as he watched, wide-eyed, he began to yank breathlessly again at his own sticky little organ. It was all so deliciously forbidden and yet completely irresistible as well. His feverish, almost helpless actions were the perfect counterpart to her own, and the way his unoccupied hand clutched hers was so incongruously yet endearingly tender. She simply loved Bill so much, and he made her feel as she never had before, and so she showed him everything—everything. It was the first time that, afterward, she had not felt bad about touching herself. Ah, and it was but the first of many, many gentle lessons. In Elizabeth’s naughty fantasies, however, exciting her beloved spouse in private was…just not quite naughty enough. If it was a wicked thrill to rub herself before one man, after all, why, would not even more viewers make the act even better? Oh, the thrill of flaunting herself without shame or hesitation or remorse, feeling wild and feminine and free as she demonstrated so wantonly both the desirability of her fluttering bare flesh, and its true erotic capabilities as well! How she might rub and rub and rub that hairy wet p***y of hers on the oft-imagined park bench somewhere… Some passersby might nod courteously, giving merely the brief, unconcerned, matter-of-fact smile with which one wordlessly acknowledges a stranger on the street. More often, however, people stopped and stared, wide-eyed—that was always particularly nice. Sometimes college-age guys gawked and pointed and dug one another in the ribs, chuckling to one another about what a slut she was, calling her a milf, and commenting on the worth of her plump, matronly titties compared to the perky handfuls of some little nineteen-year-old wenches they had used just the night before. Now and then some upright and irreproachable members of society such as the retired older couple down the street, or the director of Human Resources at her work, or perhaps the principal of her children’s high school would step up and in a very neighborly fashion encourage the spread-legged thing to a panting frenzy, and as her red-nailed hand moved faster and faster in a glistening nest of squelching curls, then she would show them— Another favorite fantasy was the idea of picking up some cute, playfully flirtatious college girl in a noisy dance club. Elizabeth was not by any means a lesbian, of course. Why, she was not bisexual either—she knew that! Only sometimes, every now and then, it just excited her so powerfully to think of getting some pretty woman in her clutches, of stripping the shivering thing bare, and doing things to her…bad things, but things she could not help craving nevertheless. Yes, she would use her hands, and her mouth, and at last the seemingly staid wife and mother would let herself perform the sweetest, most shocking indignities imaginable upon a fellow female’s lovely bare flesh, and somehow everything would be all right. Back when she was eighteen, Elizabeth sometimes had sneaked away a stray copy of one of her father’s secret stash of Playboy magazines. Oh, how excited she became whenever a new issue came, and how desperately she plotted, just waiting until she finally was alone in the house so that she could pounce! At first she told herself it was simple curiosity, and in a way perhaps it was. Eventually, however, as she looked in frank curiosity through those artfully arranged and rosily lit pictorials—only three per issue! she mourned sometimes, wishing there could be more, ever more—the girl began to realize the true meaning of the strange, nervous, confusing sensations she felt somewhere deep within her breathless young body: she was aroused, sexually. Elizabeth knew that she should not be excited by pictures of other girls—why, she liked boys, after all. And yet still…oh, how pretty they were! The models were young and smooth and curvy, sometimes teasing and coy, sometimes smirking and spread-legged, but always fresh-faced and beautiful, with eyes that glowed, lips that seemed to promise fulfillment unbounded. It always gave her the kinkiest thrill to look at the vital statistics of the centerfolds and see that their birthdates were just a couple of years ahead of hers. And the first time that she finally broke down and m*********d to the sight of one of those beckoning nudes, her eyes gazing longingly as her hand rubbed faster and faster in the fishy curls between her thighs…ah, the terrible bliss of it! But sometimes it was worse. Now and then those photographers even showed two girls together… Ooh, that was the best—maybe a pair of long-hipped models lying naked and lovely in the red silk sheets of a sumptuously appointed bedroom somewhere, sleek bare limbs twined sensuously as they snuggled, or gazed heavy-lidded into one another’s eyes, or pressed their puckered lips so prettily together, shining hair tumbling all about their beautiful flushed faces. And once…it was probably nothing now, compared to the almost unimaginable perversions which the internet now portrayed with but a few mouse clicks, yet thirty years ago there was a particular issue of the magazine that showed a layout of candid pictures from Spring Break down in Fort Lauderdale or some such, and even now Elizabeth remembered the particular little photo that showed two eighteen-year-old coeds kissing laughingly upon a public beach, one of them pushing aside the bikini top of the other and pinching directly at her friend’s bare n****e—you could see everything. Oh, how desperately poor Elizabeth had m*********d to that one, again and again and again! In naughty daydreams now, though, the poor woman did not just watch—no, now it was she who performed such sweetly inflaming acts upon another girl’s forbidden white flesh, she! What fun it would be to hook her possessive arm about a supple young waist and lead some hesitant, bi-curious wench from the noise and jostle of some crowded and yet anonymous dance club and out the ill-lit back-alley! Yes, for there the older woman would kiss that girl right on her bright-glossed lips. The thrill at long, long last of that sweetly intimate contact, the flavor of the girl’s mouth within hers, and the feel of those soft, moist lips and lively tongue finally reveling in a breathless delight that made her kittenishly youthful form all the more desirable… Perhaps the younger woman, flattered, imagined that the more mature stranger was well experienced at this sort of thing, and she might surrender herself happily to the urgent caresses that thrilled her so wickedly. Of course, Elizabeth was just as new to the joys of the plunge into Sophism, oft-anticipated though they were, and she could only revel in the intoxicating freedom. Breathing heavily, the formerly shy wife and mother would grope and fondle that slinky pale body, her eager hands almost more for herself than for the younger girl as she excited unnatural passions with the feel of that once-forbidden female flesh. The sinuous, beautifully feminine curve from shivering flank to curvy hip to delightfully tucked-in waist, the whimpering little sounds of the co-ed’s passion, the cool jiggling apples of her petite, unrestrained bosoms in the seductress’s wondering palms! How firm and high bobbled those little handfuls, and how beautifully upthrust their points of jangling pink sensitivity, so ready to be compressed between her curious fingertips, pulled and twisted and stretched to absolutely impossible lengths!