What happens when the laws of propriety no longer matter? When you're free, not from your primary responsibilities, but free from the normal bounds of society?
In one word... "Shameless."
As you know, after a half dozen trysts with strangers from the "Friend Finder" (FF) site and hook ups at both "Options" and "Eden Redux" there wasn't much that Elle wouldn't do within the realm of sexual promiscuity.
But every once in a while...
She'd been on me for some time to do something other than the above mentioned activities. While she knew nothing about FF, the planning that led to most of those trysts were what passed for normal activity for she and I.
So I had to come up with something.
When my wife announced that she was going to spend a week in Florida with her sister, at the end of August no less, I couldn't pass up the opportunity.
As luck would have it, I was talking to a buddy and he was going to be spending that weekend with a friend, who happened to be the third base coach for Chicago... the team staying in New York to play a weekend series. With my friend having the coach's itinerary it was just a matter of setting it up so that... if someone called the coach's hotel room looking for me, he would let my buddy handle it.
I wouldn't be expecting a call from anyone.
I then booked a room for the weekend in SoHo, a small boutique hotel on Orchard Street, very avant-garde, along with train tickets.
With less than a week to set it up... I suggested that Elle tell her husband she'd been invited to spend another weekend in Provincetown with Vic and Kathy, this time as a guest of their friend Leon.
Vic handled that, his call to Todd even offering, "Man... so sorry you missed that last weekend, we had a great time. You gotta come down this weekend!"
Todd didn't even bother with a hateful diatribe this time, just telling Elle he wished she'd spend less time them.
She ignored him.
Ours was a very eventful trip.
I picked Elle up early Friday morning and we caught the train in Providence, her first ride on the rails since she was a little girl. We got
on the "Quiet" car, neither of us needing to do any business, or use our phones on the way down, and she chose facing seats in the front of the car, but sat next to me in the window seat. Other than the fact that she was "over dressed," in the sense that she was wearing a very nice blouse, coordinating mini skirt and high heel shoes, we were pretty much anonymous on the train.
Now... I say, "over dressed," because no one else in the car was wearing anything other than jeans or something even more casual. In that regard she was "over dressed." By any other standard, "over dressed," would have been a misnomer, because in that regard... she was only wearing a very nice blouse, coordinating mini skirt and high heel shoes.
She wasn't wearing anything else.
The blouse wasn't completely see through, but it did have a button front and while it was only slightly opaque, the lack of translucence was more than made up for by the clinginess of the material.
Even though you couldn't actually see her breasts, only the dark outlines of her nipples, there was no doubt you could see more than enough to satisfy even the most demanding voyeur.
The skirt was about two inches longer than most of those she wore, demure by her standards.
The ride to the first stop, Kingston/Exeter, was uneventful, Elle seeing Rhode Island from an entirely different perspective. It was really quite scenic.
At the next station, Westerly, only a few people boarded, one climbing into the quiet car with us. The woman wasn't so much a "bag lady," as someone whose clothing was very wrinkled and seriously out of date.
And she didn't look happy!
She plunked herself down directly across from Elle, and seemed to be studying her, not looking at the passing scenery, just looking at her.
True to her nature, Elle didn't seem to be upset by the attention, finally nodding and then smiling at the woman.
That won her a smile in return and then..., "I like your kitty."
Since neither of us was holding anything resembling a cat, it was obvious that the woman was either delusional, or referring to Elle's perfectly shaved pussy!
Both of us knew it was the latter, as she'd thrown her right leg over my left leg, her vagina fully displayed.
And this time, she hadn't done it purposely to titillate. It was just a little something that she would do, a reflexive intimacy that meant nothing to anyone but her.
But meaning, "... nothing to anyone but her," is a vague concept, given the exhibitionist nature of the act!
"Thank you," she responded, with another smile.
She never moved or otherwise attempted to cover herself.
Since she hadn't been treated with a negative or hostile reply to her observation, the woman followed it up with... "Why do you shave it?"
Elle merely pointed at me.
"What about your husband? Does he like it?" the woman asked innocently.
"He is my..." she tried to answer, only to be cut off.
"No... you're far too obsessed with him. The two of you are lovers and you're off to New York for a lover's weekend."
Elle looked at me and then we both laughed, "Guilty as charged," I answered.
She lady smiled at Elle again and then patted the seat next to her.
"So no one will listen," she whispered.
Elle moved over next to her.
For the next ninety minutes we were treated to a story from the lives of the rich and famous. Clair was charming, intelligent and a downright ball buster when talking about her family.
She was the youngest daughter of a prominent political family, a family that boasted two former governors, two congressmen and a US Senator.
"My nitwit nephews are being groomed now," she confided, "I call us, "The Kmart Kennedy's."
That drew a laugh and then Elle asked, "Do you have children?"
"Three," she answered, "two daughters, one of whom I just left and the other I'm on my way to visit and a son who's gay and living very happily in San Francisco. That's how I knew you two weren't married. I've watched both of my daughters lose husbands because of infidelity, their own and their husbands. I was married for 48 years to a very good man and if Tom ever cheated on me... he died with his secret. I choose to believe he was faithful."
She'd moved to Philadelphia, his family home, "... to get out of the stupidity that is Rhode Island." She visited her daughters a couple of times a year, "Subjecting myself to their stupidity too," she observed, adding, "I must be a masochist."
Leaning over, she whispered, "That's why I dress like this... just to piss off my daughters, the idiots they call husbands and the little rug rats they call their children. I'd disown them all if I wasn't worried about them suing Tommy, my son, into his grave!"
She asked about us, how we came to be on the train, where we were staying and then offered a couple of restaurant recommendations, "If you like a romantic setting."
