“Come on in,” she said, backing up into the house. As Peter stepped forward to shake my hand, I sensed Erika behind me take her turn to pause. Peter was wearing loose, knee-length gray cargo shorts, but the pause had to be for the shirt. It was a white cotton, button-down, short-sleeved camp shirt that looked about a size too small. At least the arms and shoulders were too small. It was unbuttoned halfway down, giving a broad view of a waxed smooth chest. ‘Jesus, he waxes his chest?’ I thought with a sudden competitive twang.
Erika and Sara shared a quick hug and I offered the bag I held to Peter. “Thanks for inviting us. I brought a bottle.”
Peter slid the bottle of Whistle Pig out of the bag and whistled in turn. “This is better than anything I have in the house right now. Can I pour you a glass of your own offering?”
“Please,” I said happily.
“I’ll take one too,” put in Erika. I looked at her. She had mostly been drinking wine lately. She shrugged and smiled at me playfully. Her look told me that since Peter and Sara were still new friends, she was ready to roll with their groove a little. She was also nervous about making new friends, just like me.
“Four glasses it is,” declared Peter, not asking Sara. I followed him into the kitchen while the wives discussed the house. Peter pulled four huge ice cubes from a bag in the freezer, four large square glasses from the cabinet, and then proved himself to be a heavy pourer, filling each glass full.
“Whoa, man! Don’t try to empty the bottle in one round!” I laughed.
“It’s been a long week at work,” grumped Peter.
“Hey, that soccer game was a long week all by itself,” I prodded good-naturedly.
Peter smiled, “Yeah, that too. Drink up!” We carried the glasses in to the women.
“Peter Estherhazy, you are trying to get me drunk!” exclaimed Sara upon being handed the glass.”
“Of course! If you dress like that, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do!” replied Peter, kissing her briefly on the side of her neck.
Erika and I exchanged glances. “They flirt like newlyweds,” whispered Erika.
“I know. And I think they’ve been married as long as we have,” I whispered back.
We shared another look, half sheepish, half jealous. Erika broke the mood by standing on tiptoe and kissing me just a hair longer than was really proper in the present circumstances. “So,” she asked brightly to Peter and Sara who had been looking at us in turn, “what’s the plan?
This time is was Peter and Sara’s turn to look at each other and smile. But Peter just swept his hand toward the back of the house. “We thought, heat wave or no, it was time for some good steaks on the grill.”
At their invitation, we ditched our shoes and we followed Peter and Sara out to their back yard, which turned out to be much smaller than ours and hemmed around by one of those high privacy fences. It did have a nice pool shoe-horned in that kept the whole yard cooler than it might have otherwise been.
Peter and I did the Man-Fire-Food-Talk act while Sara and Erika split their time between hanging out by the pool and working in the kitchen, finishing up Sara’s baked potatoes and broccoli casserole. We all sat and enjoyed a truly excellent meal, our giant drinks, and then got to work on a second round of giant drinks. In fact, the second round was even bigger. The ice cubes had melted down a good bit, so there was more room for whiskey in each glass. When pouring for Erika, Peter told her merrily to just say when. Erika just smiled up at him, whiskey still pouring until the glass was full. “That’s a dangerous game,” said Peter, who stopped just before the delicious brown liquor reached the rim of her glass. “If this was a bottle of Jack, I’d have just kept pouring until it overflowed and you had whiskey all over you!”
“Chicken!” taunted Erika, sounding for a moment like her college self.
As the sun set fully, the ladies gathered up the plates while Peter and I sat and talked companionably. The wives returned fairly quickly and I surmised that the plates has simply been removed, scraped, and stacked. Washing them was apparently going to be left to Peter, and perhaps me, later.
“So you’ve never had a pool?” asked Sara as they re-emerged. “You should put one in, they are amazing.”
“I don’t know,” replied Erika. “Don’t you worry about Felicity all the time?”
“She was a handful when she was just learning to move around on her own, wasn’t she Peter?” Sara said, raising her voice to momentarily include us in the conversation before she turned her back to us again. I didn’t mind. At least not the part where Sara turned her backside to us. “But she now understands that the pool rules are hard and fast, like roads and hot ovens.”
“Maintenance seems like a chore.”
“That is what men are for! Besides, an after dinner dip is the best. Want to try?”
“It does look good, but you should have told us to bring suits!” laughed Erika, “And I’m afraid a suit of yours would not fit me.”
“Ha! I wish they would,” replied Sara, giving her sweet retort an edge that was just a bit envious, and a little bit raunchy. “But I wan’t thinking of wearing suits.”
“Sara!” gasped Erika. She stared wide-eyed at Peter’s wife, then flashed a significant glance at us, blushing the whole time so deeply that I could see it in the dusk.
Sara calmly looked both of us over, then held Erika’s gaze again. “Because they are here? They ARE our husbands, you know. We’ll just reap the rewards of their gratitude later.”
Erika stared at Sara for a moment, then took a big gulp of pure whiskey, set down her glass and whipped off her blouse! She then turned away from Peter and me and slipped off her bra as well. She seemed to be stripping as quickly as possible so that she could run and hide in the water. Still turned away, she undid her fly and pulled both shorts and panties off as one. With a shriek, she turned and leapt into the deepest part of the pool, popping up in water up to her neck.
My eyes snapped back to Sara, whose shirt was long gone and who had apparently not been wearing a bra to begin with. Her breasts were so damned pert, and at just barely less than half the size of Erika’s, were still damned tasty-looking. She pulled her shorts and a minuscule red thong down as one, just like Erika, and strode smoothly but wonderfully slowly to the pool’s edge and slipped in after my wife. She surfaced in much shallower water, her nipples barely hidden beneath the surface.
“So,” I said with outward calm barely concealing inward raging turmoil, “that just happened.”
“Yeah,” said Peter, sounding more relaxed, less surprised, but just as appreciative, “that just happened.”
And just like that, our conversations resumed as if nothing had transpired. The girls kept on about the benefits of the pool, Erika sounding much more on board, and Peter and I kept on chatting. I don’t remember what he and I were talking about, as I was concentrating pretty hard on the naked women bobbing around in the pool in front of us.
But then Peter, just in the normal course of conversation, observed, “That is a really spectacular pair Erika has. How did the conversation go about getting them done?”
I thankfully had not just had a sip, or I’d have choked on it. I checked the reality warping field around me again. Yep, my friend had just asked me about my wife’s boob job while said wife was buck naked in said friend’s pool, cavorting with said friend’s also buck naked wife while trying to keep the aforementioned boob job below the surface of the water. Checked out. Just another day in suburbia.
Peter filled the pause in the air as I remained silent. “I’m just asking because I sometimes think Sara might be interested in enhancements herself. I think, especially right now, that I would be on board with the idea… But I’d like to know how to navigate that conversation without being fed my balls….”
I thought back in a flash. Breast-feeding then weaning Meredith, along with a ruthless commitment to losing her baby fat, had left Erikas ‘girls’ in what she felt was a sorry, diminished state. For my part, I thought they were still lovely (if slightly diminished) and made an effort to ensure I demonstrated my continued admiration regularly. But Erika kept moping about them and I’ll admit I lost patience eventually with her lack of self-confidence. One evening, after half a glass too much rum, Erika saw a particularly nice pair of tits being featured on the TV show we were watching, and went into her mopey, self-pitying routine.
“Listen,” I had grumbled, “I’ve got a bonus check in our account that we can’t spend on a vacation this year. Use it get get yourself the pair you want. Hell, use it to get THAT pair,” I said pointing to the screen where the catalyst for the conversation was currently bobbing.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she exclaimed, slapping me on the arm, but with surprisingly little heat in her anger. The show moved on from the bobbling tits, and so did our conversation. I forgot about the whole thing. Too much rum, remember?
Two days later, I came into the living room to find Erika watching Merry watch Baby Einsteins and reading her iPad. She looked up at me seriously, and flushed a little as she blurted, “I’ve been thinking about what you said about your bonus check. She turned around her iPad to show me a lovely woman pictured on a medical practice website. “I just booked an appointment to see what they can do to restore my girls. Want to come along?”
Did I want to come along? That’s like asking a guy did he want to go shopping for Ferraris, except it was for tits. Who could say no? Who could think no?
“Sure, I guess,” I said slowly. “When?”
We met with the doctor three days later. Each day in between I was mildly surprised that Erika did not back out. I also had to admit to myself that I was more excited each day when she didn’t. That was how I found myself in a well-lit doctor’s office, with the man examining my wife’s naked chest and showing her a book of breasts. After fairly brief deliberation, Erika settled on a modest 200cc implant that would get her back to her original, perky, buoyant, small C-cups. I was largely ignored throughout the process. The doctor seemed content with our thinking, and left to do paperwork and to let us talk it over. After he left, however, one of his nurses, a pretty woman a little older than us in dark blue scrubs came in. She did some additional diagnostics on Erika and chatted about what she was thinking. Erika told her her tentative decision and I actually saw the nurse frown a little. She picked up the chart and looked it over.