Or: Fatal has a taste for the vintage
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FATAL enters the study and is greeted by SIR who gives her hair a tug and compliments her dress. She wears a little blue number that must be straight from MADEMOISELLE magazine; the buttons on the bodice are shiny black, the sleeves are bell, her nylons are nude and end in rather sensible black pumps, her hair is in a high and tight ponytail, and what dress would be complete without a black and white checked apron, notched ’round her waist with her trusty feather duster. FATAL is every bit the sensible housewife on the outside, but if she leans over too far you’ll see her lacy garters!
SIR is fresh from work and awfully tired from a day at the office. He asks his sweetheart to fetch him a drink and something to read while he eases into his chair by the picture window. FATAL moves gracefully to the wet bar and prepares a Whiskey and Ginger for SIR. She grabs the day’s newspaper and a slim tome from the bookshelf near the bar and presents all three items lovingly. He takes them in turn but raises an eyebrow at the drink. Has FATAL forgotten the coaster for the table?
Ah! But the Clever girl pulls it from the folds of her skirt and flashes a winning smile–of course she hasn’t forgotten.
SIR: Good girl.
SIR pats FATAL on the rump and tells her to give the study a good once over. FATAL has neglected to do so recently. Once making sure her sweetheart is settled in, FATAL goes about dusting SIR’s study. She meticulously moves through the room, wiping down the desk and the wet bar, making sure his book shelves are organized, and the very tops are dusted. FATAL hums a quiet tune while she goes about her work, content as a clam.
FATAL passes by SIR and he swats her rear with the newspaper.
SIR: Throw this away.
FATAL is a bit ruffled and makes an indignant noise, which causes SIR to chuckle and return to his book. While cleaning near SIR, FATAL notices a smudge on the picture window, on the uppermost pane. Not to be deterred, the little lady stretches up to reach it, only to find herself falling short. She reaches higher still, nearly on her tip-toes in her pumps, leaning over so far that the very tops of her nylons have begun to show in the back. Unbeknownst to her, SIR watches intently.
Finding that she still cannot reach the smudge, our heroine places a knee on the picture window seat to make up for the last few inches. Consequently her skirt rides up higher, showing off those lacy garter straps; SIR watches on, leaning in for a closer look. FATAL freezes, tilts her head to the side and turns it back, only to catch SIR staring at her indecently. He smirks and gives her the once over. FATAL blushes, wipes the smudge, eases off the seat and goes quickly back to dusting. SIR has another chuckle at FATAL’s expense and goes back to reading.
Seemingly bothered from the encounter FATAL finishes the dusting in haste.
SIR spares nary a glance but murmurs: Don’t miss anything.
FATAL places her hands on her hips.
FATAL: I didn’t. Unless you’d like a little dusting off.
FATAL giggles with childish glee.
SIR: You wouldn’t dare.
FATAL: A bit ticklish, eh?
FATAL waves the duster threateningly. SIR glowers. FATAL leans in very close. SIR closes his book and makes to stand. FATAL backs down. SIR smirks.
SIR: I thought so.
FATAL leaps in and tickles SIR on the tummy with the duster. SIR tosses the book on the end table with a loud thud and stands quickly.
SIR: That’s it. Go get a bucket and a brush. You’re scouring the floors.
FATAL: It was just a joke!
FATAL grumbles on her way out. When she returns she has a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush in hand. FATAL tosses the bucket to the floor and makes a mess.
SIR: Get to it. And don’t get your dress dirty. It was expensive.
FATAL hikes up her dress around her thighs, again showing off her racy underclothes, but stops short of getting to the ground. A taciturn SIR looks on. FATAL fidgets.
SIR: What’s wrong?
FATAL: I don’t want to soak my nylons.
SIR: Get a towel.
FATAL leaves and returns again in a huff, with a folded towel, which she throws to the ground to kneel upon as she goes about her task. SIR watches and inspects her job.
SIR: Don’t miss anything.
FATAL: I won’t.
SIR: You better not.
FATAL: I said I won’t. I clean this house quite often, thank you.
SIR: I notice that you try.
FATAL put her hands on her hips: Try?
SIR: Yes, try. So keep on trying.
FATAL moves and takes the bucket with her, making quick work of the floors, which are already, in her opinion, quite clean. FATAL uses the towel beneath her knees to soak up the water as she goes, making sure not to leave too much on the ground. SIR stands near the doorway, tapping his foot as he observes his incensed little housewife.
FATAL stands up near SIR, bucket in hand and observes her work. Deeming it satisfactory she takes the bucket to be dumped, and straightens herself up a bit in the kitchen. FATAL returns to SIR, looking a bit more put together.
SIR: Aren’t you a good girl? I think you deserve a break.
FATAL: How very sweet of you, dear.
FATAL plops herself down in SIR’s armchair, kicks off her pumps, sticks her feet in the picture window seat and steals a taste of SIR’s Whiskey and Ginger with a delinquent finger. FATAL smiles coyly and SIR watches, amused, before sitting down in the picture window seat and pulling FATAL’s feet into his lap. SIR begins to massage FATAL’s feet, ankles and calves, which causes her to squeak. SIR raises a brow but continues, watching her closely. As his thumbs press firmly over the pad of her right foot and down into the arch she squirms in the chair.
FATAL: Oh gosh.
SIR looks at her with a bemused expression but continues, rubbing in between each of her toes, very careful not to rip her nylons. SIR’s hands massage around her delicate ankles and up the firm muscle of her calf and back down again. SIR switches feet and FATAL squirms anew.
FATAL mumbles: It’s just one of those things…
FATAL blushes and is embarrassed.
SIR: One of those things.
FATAL: I have… sensitive feet. Sometimes they are very ticklish… sometimes it is… well… something else.
SIR: Something else?
SIR runs a firm thumb down FATAL’s arch and she whimpers.
FATAL: You know what I mean, mister.
SIR pushes his thumbs into the pad of FATAL’s foot and massages it, letting his fingers move just against her Achilles tendon. This draws another whimper from FATAL and she writhes in the armchair.
FATAL: My feet are sensitive. Just…
FATAL whispers the next: It turns me on a little.
SIR gives FATAL’s sensitive feet a pat.
SIR: I’ll have to remember that. It’s time for bed now though.
SIR stands and helps FATAL to her feet. They make their way to (the same!) bed.
SIR: Make sure you dress properly tomorrow too. It’s a Saturday but that’s no call to be lazy.
FATAL: Yes, Sir.
SIR pats FATAL on the rump one more time. FATAL steals a chaste kiss.
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