She stared at herself as she counted, satisfied with what she saw.But was Art?Tonight he would be, she grinned salaciously at her mimicking image. Against her better judgment, she smeared on an extra thick coating of mascara to make her eyes look even bigger, deeper. That turned on Art, she knew. After watching that movie with all the intonated but never consummated sex, all the vibrancy of youthful energy, she wanted to fix herself at her seductive best, hoping that the allurement of her long- denied body would calm her jagged nerves. She'd been rather fidgety lately, jumping at the slightest sound, and she'd chalked it all up to lack of sex. Those were the symptoms peculiar to her chemistry; after eight years she'd learned to recognize the signs of abstinence.With a dab of cotton she dosed herself with the faintest and most expensive of her perfumes. Art likes to buy me all these sexy things... nighties, panties perfume... but I never get a chance to try them out on him. It all. I was just a few yards from this classy, sexy woman. My heart was beating more quickly and I felt a bulging in my shorts. She seemed to be messing about with one of the carrier bags, and, as she lifted it, one of the handles must have snapped. The contents fell to the ground. A bag of sugar and a bagof flour burst and shed their contents. A cabbage rolled away and under an adjacent car.“Oh, shit!”The expletive shocked and excited me. Although I didn’t know her, it seemed at odds with her classiness, and, in my imagination, it hinted at another, less lady-like side to her. She squatted on her haunches to pick up some of the items. Her skirt rode up her nylon-clad thighs. To my shock – and delight – I saw a darker band just below her skirt hem, and realised immediately that she was indeed wearing stockings and not tights.I gave a low cough to avoid startling her, and tried hard to avert my eyes from her well-toned thighs and stockingtops.“Can ... can I help you?” I offered.She looked up.
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