House Play

It's now pretty late in the evening and the last of Billy Waller's muscle laden moving crew has left the building, leaving Micki and I alone in our swank new digs. Temporary, but still, what the hey, for a while anyway we're living in a pretty nice joint. I don't even know what the style of furnishings for this place would be called. I call it Rich People Shit. It's all overstuffed leather, deep colored wood and the like. The bed in the master bedroom is a large four poster number with a deep feather mattress. I think it's a king size. I dunno, it sure is big. I'm laying on it right now, watching cable while Micki takes a shower in the adjoining master bath. *Cable*. It comes standard with all the houses in the neighborhood. How *cool* is this place. And the women...Holy Toledo. I mean, they are a little on the medicated side, but there's not a plain jane among them. The women today looked at me like I was the most important man on Earth. It was a nice feeling.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not dull. I'm aware there's something twisted in this little burg, but I'm not ready to jump to any conclusions just yet. We've barely scratched the surface.
My lovely "wife" emerges from the bathroom in an ivory satin nightie, towel drying her hair as she makes her way to the bed and lands next to me on the mattress, "Ohhhh, heaven." she sighs, "We have a massaging showerhead. It's adjustable and awesome."
"Cool. I'm watching 'Kids in the Hall' on HBO. This place is *great*." I try to look anywhere but in her half-naked and damp direction. Even in a town full of insanely beautiful housewives, Micki glitters like a tempting jewel of lush curves.
I'd be kidding myself if I ever thought I had a chance with her. I'm so far out of her league we're almost not even in the same species. Then again, most men are out of her league. Beauty like hers is usually reserved for dignitaries or Rock stars, and *even then*, he'd have to be *some guy*. But I'm a fuckwad, and I had to fall in love with her, which has made things pretty hard on myself.
Double that now that she's begun to smooth lotion onto her impossibly long legs as she laughs at Dave Foley and Co. doing campy Canadian drag. I am momentarily hypnotized by her tractor beam of hotness, and cannot pull my eyes away from the spectacle. She applies a little to the closest upper thigh, raising her leg slightly. I catch a glimpse of panty and get rockhard with an immediacy that surprises myself, and only myself, seeing as that I've been tucking my erection up into my waistband as a preemptive strike.
She catches me staring at her and smiles, handing me the bottle of lotion, "Make yourself useful, husband, and rub my feet." Micki chuckles, hesitating like she's expecting me to say no.
I laugh, but comply. I guess, any excuse to touch her, with permission, even, is a gift from on high, "You sure are getting into character, *Catherine*." I point out as I squeeze some lotion into my hand, poised at her feet. I take the left one with both hands, massaging the lotion in and taking my time. I try not to look up because she's got a half-smile and she's nibbling slightly on her bottom lip. Plus, from this angle, I have a full shot of panty heaven. So I try to focus on her feet, but even *they* have a beauty of their own, soft and glowing white. Her toenails are painted red. I focus on each toe, not daring to look back up. I'll be cleaning my bellybutton if I do.
"Well, we *need* to be as convincing as possible, *Christopher*." Micki tells me in something that resembles a moan, "Have you ever heard of method acting?"
I move my thumbs to the sole and push in slow, deliberate circles, "Nope."
"Succinctly; oh wow, that's nice...Basically, the idea is if we're going to pretend that we're married, we have to *live* like we're married." she explains, "Whatever you're doing is fabulous; my other foot is extremely jealous."
"True to your character." I quip, obtaining more lotion and starting on her right foot. What she's saying is frightening, but I wouldn't say no even if you threatened to cut off my left arm, "So you're saying that we sleep in the same bed, and show the average married amount of affection?" I question her, making the mistake of looking up. Her cheeks are red, and her breathing is slightly on the heavy side.
Why is she blushing? "For our characters, affection should be pretty infrequent." she manages out, "Other than when Topher gives Catherine these wonderful foot massages. I believe she requires one every night." she punctuates this last statement with a happy little squeak as I focus again on her toes.
"Done. Topher requires a mean pancake and bacon breakfast every morning. Oh, and a wake-up blowjob." I joke, although it would be nice.
She throws her head back on her pillow as she laughs loudly, "Your character can't require anything; but I think I can do breakfast. I don't want Catherine to be a total bitch, more strong and secure." I work on the ball of her foot and move into the arch, and she sighs, "Oh, and the morning blowjob is a No, by the way. A.M. gag reflex."
I give her a startled laugh, "Good to know." What is she doing? It's almost like she's flirting. Nah. It couldn't be. Micki could have almost any man in the world. Why would she want me? Would be great, but it doesn't make sense.
I finish with her right foot and she mock-pouts like she didn't want it to end. For me, I'm grateful. It was too metaphorically inclined for my tastes toward fucking, and I am relieved for the escape to the shower to jerk off. All I need for fuel to the fire is replaying Micki saying the word 'blowjob' in my brain on a continuous loop. Wham, bam, shortest session ever. Normally I can't help but take a while; but I was on the verge for an excruciatingly long time. Now I have to sleep in the same bed with her until we get the pan back? It's one thing sleeping a few feet away in seperate beds, it's quite another to share one (albeit gigantic) bed with the sexiest woman alive, whom you also happen to be hopelessly in love with. Dangerous territory, my friend. I pop another one off before I exit the shower, just to be on the safe side, towel off, and return to the bedroom.
She's fast asleep on what she designated as her side of the bed, still lying on top of the bedspread, tucked into an adorable little ball. The television is blaring some buddy-cop movie loudly. I'm surprised she can sleep. I manage to pull the spread out from under her and cover her with it before slipping into my side, switching the TV off with the remote and turning off the lamp on my side of the bed.
"G' night, Mrs. Silverman." I yawn, crashing instantaneously as my head hits the pillow.

*************************************************************************************

Morning arrives peacefully in Blissful Grove. As if it could do it any other way. I'm aware of birds singing and a warm arm curled around my waist, which temporarily throws me off. Last night's method acting conversation comes back to me, and I nod in sleepy understanding. That's right, this was all my idea. I figure it's safe enough: who ever heard of a married couple having sex? Just to be on the safe side, I practiced a little self-love (four of them, to be exact) while he was in the shower last night, blasting the volume on the television just for extra insurance in case he heard anything. Put me right out.
Hmm, this is comfy. I shift a little closer into his arm and feel his naked calves connect with mine. He still smells vaguely shower fresh. That foot rub last night was a doozy. I thought he'd brush me off, but he surprised me with the best pedi-massage of my life. Ryan's hands should be commemorated as a national treasure. Which is why I had to go there four times. He must be serious about this method acting thing, too, I suppose, but I feel a little masochistic toeing the line like this.
He lets out a sleepy yawn/groan noise, tightening his grasp, and his chest connects with my back. The torture has seemed to go up a few notches as his unconcious hand lands on my left breast and morning wood presses into my bottom. Good Lord. I know he has no idea what he's doing, and I'm not one for false hope, so there's no point trying to read into this. Still, I allow it for a few more seconds before releasing myself from his kung-fu grip and getting out of bed. I glance at him in slumber as he rolls over and hugs onto a pillow, the sunlight falling onto the bed and accentuating his bare olive back. This must be the first time in the history that I have known him that he chooses not wear a t-shirt to bed. Lucky me. I amble my way down our winding staircase and to our large island kitchen that's been prestocked with the basics. This community thinks of everything. I make coffee and am in the middle of preparing 'Topher's pancake and bacon breakfast when he walks in, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, still in just the boxers. The morning wood has thankfully gone away. Small favors.
"Aww, honey, you shouldn't have." he says, placing an arm around my waist and kissing my cheek, "Nice apron, by the way."
Somewhere along the way I put a "Food should be cooked with Butter and Love" apron on so I wouldn't ruin my pegnoir. I hand him a fresh mug of coffee and crack a smile, "Thanks. I'm a woman of my word; pancakes are ready, and I'm just finishing up with the bacon."
"If this is wedded bliss, I think I'll stay awhile." Ryan says, stealing a piece of bacon and chomping happily.
"Yeah, it's not bad." I agree loftily, like it's no big deal, "So today, hopefully you can get close enough to Spaulding to crack open this mystery. It seems like every woman in this town is on a steady diet of quaaludes, and he's suspect #1."
Ryan gives me a salute as I turn off the burner, "I'll do my best, Kitty, dear." he tells me while I set the bacon aside to cool.
I shoot him a look, "You're *not* calling me Kitty."
"I just thought it would be something Topher called Catherine in private." he argues, eyeing me up and down, "You sure look like a 'Kitty' right now. Domestic." he draws out the last three syllables in an approving way.
I smile inwardly, because it's been a while since I've gotten this kind of genuine attention from him. Or maybe it's the method acting. Either way, he's flirtatious and it feels good. "Do what you must." I say relentingly.
We finish up breakfast and get ready for the neighborhood picnic. Ryan dresses in a black polo shirt and tan chinos. I've decided on a just below the knee formfitting white sleeveless dress with a square cut neckline and wide red belt. I'm wearing my slouchy red ankle boots with my ensemble and large black round sunglasses. I think I did pretty good, I feel like this would be something a New York fashion designer wears to a neighborhood get together. I leave my hair down to lend Catherine an accessibility, so maybe some of the women will open up and spill pertinent information.
Ryan, excuse me, *Topher* and I arrive at the park two blocks around the corner from our house. Little intimate picnic, indeed. It looks like a carnival. Literally. There are rides and everything, not to mention people everywhere, tables of pies, tables of potluck food...
I'd hate to see what it would be like when these women go all out.
"So this is what it's like to live in a Norman Rockwell painting." Ryan whispers into my ear. I try not to laugh, instead nudging him slightly with my elbow and biting down on my lip.
"I agree with you." I tell him, feeling bad for the abuse, and soothing his arm. I peck at the place my elbow connected with and he looks at me with a question, "I just don't want to break character." I tell him, pressing my palms against his chest, "You were going to make me laugh. Catherine doesn't snicker in public." I smile sweetly, "Now be a dear and get us both a plate of food."
"Yes dear." he takes it further, smiling impishly while imitating Droopy the Dog as he leaves for the tables, and I have to bite my tongue a little to keep from cackling. Asshole.
"Len, ya fat fuck! I told you not to eat that last piece of pie, ya *fuck*." I overhear a woman berate her husband, "You're gonna die of a *Heart Attack*!"
So maybe not every girl's on Ludes, after all. The woman doing the yelling is a pretty, mid thirty-ish petite woman with a mop of curly brown hair and flashing light-brown eyes. She looks Italian. Len, the husband in question, is a bigger man with a kind face. He just shrugs at her, eternally jolly, "Sheila, what am I gonna do, huh? I love pie. It's delicious."
"Think of your children, ya Moron! Do you want them to wake up one day and find their father fuckin' DEAD because of cherry pie? You're a heartless bastard." Sheila berates him with second nature ease.
"You're blowing this out of proportion, but I'll cool it on the pie for you and the kids because I love you." Len laughs, taking her blows without flinching.
Nice to see that not every couple in this town is so one-note. Most of the women here are in full chiffon regalia, gazing dreamily at their husbands like they're gods, or made of chocolate.
"Catherine!" I hear a saccharine voice exude behind me. I spin around to Marissa and friends in a perfect line behind me. They look like a housewife Easter basket. "So good of you to come! I realized what a rude little ninnyhead I was yesterday; I didn't introduce you to the girls! Catherine Silverman, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Heloise Clark, Mrs. Mary-Beth Holston, Mrs. Beverly Bloomquist, Mrs. Charity Leonard, and Mrs. Madison Kelly. We're the official welcome committee of Blissful Grove. Charter."
"Nice to meet all of you again, officially." I smile.
"Where is that delicious husband of yours?" Charity of the blonde hair and purple summer dress asks me in a voice that's almost tinged with helium.
"My ears are burning, is someone talking about me?" Ryan as Topher says as he returns with two plates of food. He plants a quick kiss square on my mouth before handing me my plate, which jolts me temporarily as the housewives giggle excitedly at his presence.
"Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Silverman." Madison of the auburn hair and yellow jersey summer dress says sultrily.
"You look so handsome today." Marissa showers him with praise as the other women nod enthusiastically. I think I'm gonna be sick. I mean, puh-lease. I'm in love with the man, so deeply that I crave his scent when he's not around, but I know that he's human, for cripes, and should be treated as such.
So why is his chest swelling with caveman-like pride? "Thank you, Ladies. You all look so stunning yourselves. I'm blinded by your beauty." Leave it to Ryan to flirt right back. Case in point, he kisses me and creates divebombing butterflies, then infuriates me by flirting with a group of beauties in the next breath. He's the ultimate tease.
"Why isn't anybody playing any fucking Janet Jackson?!" A slightly tipsy girl in her early twenties bursts into our circle and questions Marissa, "I wanna Dance!"
Our circle crasher appears to be what you'd call a party girl. She's wearing a full "Breakfast at Tiffany's" get up, black cocktail dress and the whole nine, but her short black pigtails are dead giveaway that errs on the side of classy. The girl is followed shortly by a young executive looking type with neat blond hair and glasses, "Honey, could you tone it down just a little? These are our *neighbors*." he pleads with her.
"Oh good, it's the Yorkes, Penelope and Donavan." Marissa says, unflappable to Penelope's aplomb, "They've also just arrived. Meet Christopher and Catherine Silverman."
"Don't be such a stuffed shirt, Donavan." Penelope chides him, pulling on his tie until their noses touch and giving him a quick kiss, "I can't help being me." She turns her attentions to Ryan and myself, surveying us, "Honey, you got *style*. I fucking love those boots." she slurs a little, taking a drag off a cigarette in an incredibly long holder, and tapping ash with elbow length gloved fingers, "Ladies." she smiles at Marissa and her garden party clique, then rolls her eyes knowingly at me.
I surpress a laugh and smile, "Audrey Hepburn, I like your style too. Did you two arrive last night, then?"
"Totally. The move was kind of a drag, but not as bad as most. I'm a semi-retired model, so I've moved a fucking ton." Penelope pulls me aside, leaning into my ear, "You know what else I like about you, Cat? You're *real*. All these other bitches are fucking robots around here."
Marissa gives a loud gasp from the sexy housewife Easter basket that surrounds our husbands and I fear we've been overheard. "Oh, what a treat!" Marissa exclaims, "Catherine, Penelope, *Gentlemen*: I would like you to meet my husband, Mr. Spaulding O'Clare." she says with a reverence reserved for the Pope.
"Whoop-de-fuckin-do." Penelope mutters under her breath as the crowd parts for a medium cute, slightly balding middle aged man wearing an outfit similar to Ryan as Topher's.
"Welcome to our wonderful community!" Spaulding says as he heartily shakes Donavan and 'Christopher's hands, "Gentlemen, you'll have to join us at the Men's Club tomorrow. It'll be a real treat."
"We'll be there." Ryan answers for the both of them, Donavan nodding in agreement.
"Look who found a friend!" Penelope heckles, "So what do you do at the Men's club? Measure each other's dicks?"
I almost choke on the celery I was eating, and the surprised gasping is bombarding. This woman has no censor button. Her husband blushes a bright shade of red, "Penelope, *please*.
"You've got a fiesty one there, Donavan." Spaulding laughs, echoed by an adoring female chorus.
"Sure shittin, Sherlock." Penelope laughs, "Just don't get on my bad side."