The Scarsdale Six is how the six women humorously referred to their little group. Patricia, Joan, Kathy, Maureen, Carol, and Irene weren't a terrorist organization tucked away in an affluent bedroom community. They were six, attractive, college educated, well-to-do women, who didn't want to validate the lives that their mothers had lived by living their lives in the same way. Instead of closing their eyes to their husbands' indiscretions and sexual infidelities, rather than going through a costly divorce, they took their husbands unfaithfulness as their official invitation to have some sexual fun themselves.
Willing to do anything to break the mold, aside from letting go of the good life, they were all so bored and so lonely. Yet, because of social status, accepted and expected norms, and personal perceptions, somehow they stuck to their customs and traditions like glue. Sometimes expected and pretending to feel guilt by their enormous wealth, the more they revolted and riled against their lavish lifestyles and tried to tone down their spending, bewilderingly, the more they stubbornly adhered to it, spent, and immersed themselves in it.
With none of them admitting it but all of them, no doubt, knowing it, this CFNM party was their last hurrah, before sacrificing their wills to dote on their husbands, as their good and obedient wives. Still kicking and screaming, they weren't going along easy with the flow and submitting themselves to the lunacy of garden clubs, lawn parties, and political fund raising dinners. Fearful of losing their identities to charity events and eventually to grandchildren, they were just six liberated, albeit bored and sexually frustrated housewives. Aside from the jewels, the furs, the cars, the houses, and the vacations, they wanted more than what their mothers had. Looking for some adventure now that they could look back upon later with fond memories, they needed something to show that they had lived their lives in the way they wanted to live it without having to dance to the beat of their husbands' whimsy.
Other than shopping and spa services, sex was the common thread that all six women shared, not so much doing it but talking about doing it. Much in the way of college coeds living at the dorm, sex is what they discussed, laughed over, and gossiped about. With trips to the salon, the boutique, or the islands, they used their luxurious lifestyles to soothe their sadness. With all of them bored to tears, they were personal testimony that money doesn't buy happiness, yet none of them were willing to live without it, however.
As if their plugs had somehow become dislodged from their sensual sockets, there was an undercurrent of sexual frustration in all of their marriages. Positioned at that erotically heightened, sexually aware, and horny age, they silently suffered, while wondering if they could have done better, no so much financially, but better in bed with a spouse who wanted them, serviced them, and sexually satisfied them. They wondered not if their husbands were cheating on them but with whom. Still young enough that their sexual needs played a big role in their personal lives, they still wanted and needed to be sexually desired, too.
Just embarking upon that life changing age, they sadly, yet, realistically considered their choices. When looking in the mirror, surrounded by women with perfect bodies and ageless faces, they were confronted by the thought of plastic surgery. Should they try to look as good as their husbands' mistresses? How could they? How dare they? In comparison, the mistresses were so very young and they were, well, more mature. As did their mothers before them, closing their eyes to their husbands' affairs, would not only give their husbands carte blanche to cheat on them but also confess their affirmed knowledge that they couldn't compete with their mistresses. Not a pleasant one to confront, the reality that they no longer sexually appealed to their mates, at first made them angry then, now, made them want to give up trying.
Fortunately for them, there was another option. They could just lose their minds to a wine so fine that they wouldn't care what they looked like and what their husbands did behind their backs, so long as they didn't embarrass them publically. Without doubt, their husbands knew that an indiscrete affair would mean the end of their marriage, accompanied by an ugly divorce with a large divorce settlement. The only ones who wanted that to happen more than the wives were their divorce attorneys and the tabloid newspapers.
An easy life choice to make, deciding to age gracefully with their French friends, Rothschild's Chateau Lafite, Cristal champagne, and others, and not give a care to how they looked tomorrow, they opted for the wine, the conversation, the laughter, and the good times with friends over sex. That is, until now, when the six women sat in Patricia's living room sipping French wine and talking about nothing and laughing over everything. Now they all wanted to experience what their husbands were experiencing. Certainly what was good for the goose was even better for the gander, especially after when they had been so rejected and ignored.
Patricia, a Wellesley woman awash in old money and the matriarch of their small, select group, was tall, slender, and confident. In the way she walked and talked, she effused wealth. As if an advertisement to the silver mine she owned, her hair glistened with grey purposely left there to give her that wise oracle look. In her articulated enunciation, every time she spoke her perfect diction, she evoked the image of Diane Sawyer, when reporting the news and, because of her poised confidence, those in her small audience listened to whatever she said.
Especially proud of her long, sexy legs and shapely exercised thighs, always somehow making it appear accidental by slowly and seductively crossing and uncrossing her stems, she was expert in flashing her silk panties to admiring men and then acting offended and insulted, when one took her up on her open legged invitation. Never one to break and enter, yet she'd be the first inside with the alarm sounding, however, once the door was open. The CEO of the group, taking charge suited her and she did her job with clandestine mischievousness well.
"God knows where our husbands really are and what they are really doing," said Patricia with an uncaring shrug, before taking another soulful sip of her wine and closing her eyes to allow the delicate bouquet to take her to a better place.
Having been down this road before, she refused to waste her time and energy on things not in her control. What she controlled now was to get drunk, so drunk that she no longer cared who her husband was with and what he was doing. She opened her eyes and paused to examine the full bodied yet silky color of her wine and smell the fruity bouquet mixed with the essence of leather, tobacco, and oak, before taking another thoughtful sip of her Bordeaux that she still was savoring from dinner. She had more important things to ponder than thinking about her husband getting sucked and fucked by some sweet, young thing who only wanted him for his money. Keeping a stiff upper lip, she didn't voice where she really thought her husband was and what she really thought he was doing. She didn't have to think about it, she knew and didn't really care.
The wine slowly coated her palate and lingered in her mouth in the way she wished her husband would lick her pussy and, as she inhaled and sucked in air to mix with the wine to lessen the bite of the alcohol, the liquor caressed her mouth in the way she needed her breasts caressed and her nipples sucked by her imagined lover. Experiencing the taste with a finish that lasted much longer than the last time she had intercourse with her husband, it was as if she had a mini fourth of July fireworks display exploding in her mouth. Only, this wine was so much better tasting than the last time her husband exploded the passion he no doubt had for someone else in her mouth. Who needed sex, when she had a well stocked wine cellar of this magical elixir?
Fashioning herself in the way of Delta Burke, when she played Suzanne Sugarbaker on Designing Women, Busty Joan, short and affable, laughed at most anything, especially at those doctors and patients who made passes at her, whenever she volunteered her time at the hospital. Obviously loving the attention, her sense of humor, quick wit, sense of fun, and laughter were her way of defusing a sexually volatile, albeit erotically tempting situation, no doubt. Yet, armed with sexual innuendoes and a heavy hand of teasing, she always fueled her sensual sexuality by wearing oh, so low cut, loose fitting tops that showed the abundance of her natural double D cup breasts with a long, deep, lingering line of cleavage.
She wore sheer, yet supportive custom made bras that showed the size of her nickel sized nipples, when excited. Directly in proportion to the size of her breasts, she loved the attention that men gave her because of her big tits. Always with a giggle, a jiggle, and a wiggle, she feigned surprise when, in a moment of out of their minds passion, male admirers found her alone in a hospital room or an elevator and lost control of their senses over the sensuality, sexuality, and pure adrenaline bursting eroticism of her.
Whether they were doctors, male nurses, patients, or orderlies, the horny men dared feel her big breasts, before sticking their horny hands down her blouse to grope what she so freely showed, while kissing her, trying to French kiss her, and force her to fondle their erections. Always she allowed them a kiss and a feel, until they tried to go beneath her blouse and lift up her bra. A transplanted southern belle finely filtered and slowly aged to perfection by generations of tobacco money, loving the horny, albeit desperate attention, if it wasn't for her volunteer work and the attention she received from her flirting, she'd be bored to tears.
"John told me last week that they were leaving late Wednesday evening for a hunting trip in northern, Maine. Hoping to bag a moose or a deer, they thought I was dumb enough not to know that the hunting season doesn't begin until the fall," said Joan with a honey oozing accent that made men say, do, and promise her anything to fondle and suckle her big breasts.
"Hunting my ass," said Kathy with a laugh. "The only game their hoping to bag is beaver."
"Of course, with John not being an outdoorsmen, never even having even camped in the woods, and with room service being his preference, I didn't believe for one minute that he was going hunting in the backwoods of Acadia National Forest. He doesn't even own a shotgun and has never even fired a pistol. I was raised with guns and my Daddy taught me how to shoot, before I had breasts, which was when I was nine-years-old," said Joan with a laugh.
"I agree with you, Kathy," said Patricia. "The only hunting any of them have ever done is hunting for pussy," she said with a laugh that made everyone laugh.
"I knew John was up to something," said Joan.
Kathy, naturally blonde and genetically beautiful, the wild child of the group, always stretched the envelope of appropriate behavior with inappropriate antics. If she wasn't so rich, she'd be working as a model or a spokesperson for a makeup or perfume line. To temporarily alleviate her boredom and make her feel alive, she'd shoplift items that she could well afford to buy, just for the dare and just for the fun of it. Aware of the silly games she enjoyed playing, the stores she shoplifted from just added the items to her monthly bill with a line item note that she forgot to pay.
