All Characters In This Story Are 18+ Years Old
Friday, December 21, 1962
Thirty-seven-year-old Roberta Maxon sat in her Westport, Connecticut kitchen and stirred a spoonful of Pream into her second morning cup of coffee. Sighing contentedly, she figured her husband, Phil, and her daughter, Trixie, were likely just now pulling into Grand Central Terminal for their father-daughter Christmas shopping trip to The City. The beds were made and the breakfast dishes were done. Life was good.
As the non-dairy creamer swirled in her cup, Roberta glanced through the archway to the dining room at the cherry china hutch and the triangular folded United States flag on its middle shelf. She had her share of grief when the Battle of Hoengsong widowed her from Phil's twin brother, Paul, on February 12, 1951. But by Valentine's Day, a year later, the generous family support given to her and Trixie by Phil had matriculated into a deeper personal love. She gladly accepted his proposal that they marry and thought it wonderful that he insisted they include Paul's spirit at their dinner table by prominently displaying his burial flag.
Paul and Phil were virtually inseparable, and hard to tell apart, when she met them at a mixer at the their parents' country club in 1942. Roberta went head-over-heels for the Paul, who was slightly more gregarious than his older twin. Phil was great fun, never butted in on Paul's and Roberta's budding romance. The three were soon fast friends. Of course, World War II had its own impact on their lives.
The Maxon Boys turned eighteen, registered for the draft, then were trained and shipped off to Europe. Miraculously, they survived to come marching home together. Paul met his year-old daughter, Patricia, for the first time and decided to stay with the Army as a career officer. Phil took his discharge and went off to Yale. Thereafter, except for holiday gatherings, the brothers seldom saw each other, though they were always in close touch by mail or telephone.
Roberta smiled into her coffee cup and brought her mind back to the present. It was Friday. That meant dusting and vacuuming while the Maytags did her laundry. Trixie would not be here to do the ironing in the afternoon, but that was alright since Roberta's bridge group had cancelled their weekly game because of the approaching holiday.
Just then the phone rang. Roberta walked to the wall unit by the Fridgidaire and picked up on the third ring. "Hi, Bobbie," she heard Phil say softly. "We're here, but there seems to be a weather alert..."
"Yes," replied Bobbie. "Here, too. It's snowing fat flakes right now and they say it'll move south... Oh, you're going to stay in New York overnight and be home tomorrow in the late afternoon? OK, but call again after you find a place to stay... The Plaza? Really? Well, that will be a treat for Trixie... No, I won't worry, and don't you, either... Yes, I'll stay cozy. I love you."
Phil said, "Trixie sends her love, too, babe. Bye."
Roberta disconnected, then carried her cup to the sink. Watching the thick wet snow fall outside her window, she rinsed the cup and set it in the rack on the counter to dry with the other morning dishes. "Well, crud," Roberta grumped internally. "Looks like no cock for me this week!"
Every Friday, for at least the past year, the Maxon routine had been the same: Dinner, drinks, Johnny Carson's monologue, cuddle, fuck and snore. Roberta dearly loved Phil, and had learned to accept that he had become a once-a-week lover, but her body did yearn for Fridays. She laid a hand on her tummy just above her mons and scratched at a deep internal itch.
Seeing the snow sticking to the sidewalk, Roberta perked up and said to the window curtains, "Maybe the weather will ruin his Sunday morning tee time and I'll get a make-up screw." She smiled at the prospect of two orgasms in the same week, even if it meant a thirty-six hour delay. Patting her hands dry on a tea towel, she hung up her apron and left the kitchen to get ready for her household chores.
Roberta's first task was to get dressed. Some women could lounge about or work around the house in a frumpy robe, slippers and their nightclothes, but not her. She did not need full make-up, however she did like to be presentable. Unzipping her peacock-blue velour bathrobe as she went, she moved toward the master bedroom.
After hanging her robe and nightgown in the closet, Roberta crossed to the bathroom. Sitting naked on the toilet seat, she put her left foot up on the tub rim and reached for her Nair. She swathed the cream evenly on her left armpit and then on her bent leg from the ankle high high up onto her inner thigh. As was her habit, even when swimsuit weather was far in the future, she spread a strip two fingers wide in the crease to the left of her vagina and along her broadly triangular copper bush's eastern edge.
Swiveling on the toilet lid, Roberta repeated the depilatory application to her right underarm and leg, then stood and bent forward to push an additional ounce over her perineum. Returning upright, she ran warm water at the sink and prepared her washrag for the final rinse. She was ambivalent about her hirsuteness: It was a weekly bother to deal with, but at the same time, she liked how the cream felt going on and she loved the sensations that accompanied cleaning it off.
After wringing out the cloth under the running faucet and watching the used goo with its dissolved cargo disappear down the drain, Roberta hung it to dry on its rack. With her hairbrush, she gave her Irish Setter-red shag-cut hair a quick fluff to slightly curl it around her neck and below her earlobes. Still staring into the medicine chest mirror over the sink, she dropped her hands to her full breasts and hefted them. Heavy though they were, they did not sag nearly as much as the boobs on some of her girlfriends at the Athletic Club.
The previous March, the Garden Society's Education Committee showed a film, co-sponsored by the American Cancer Society and the National Cancer Institute, which demonstrated breast self-examination. Since then Roberta had diligently palped and squeezed herself while hoping, of course, not to find any lumps. What she did find was that she enjoyed fondling and pinching herself. She sighed and silently rued through a half-smile, "Oh Phil, this is never as good as what you can do for me!"
Shaking away her rising tide, Roberta strode purposefully back into the bedroom where she pulled a bronze cotton-polyester shirt dress from her closet. Then, from her lingerie drawer, she grabbed a pair of clean cotton panties, a fresh Maidenform underwired bra, a straight no-frills silver rayon slip and a pair of white terry ankle socks. Quickly dressed, she stepped into a pair of brown low-heeled leather moccasins, then left the room carrying with her the hamper with her and Phil's amassed discarded used clothes. On the way to the utility room she stopped in Trixie's teen-neat room and added her stuffed muslin laundry bag to her load.
