The Secret Sex Lives of Wanda Mitty

Chapter Six

Wanda woke to find Teddy with her head on the floor and her hind legs up on the bed. She pulled her new friend up. ‘Teddy, how do you feel about anal sex?’ It was a reasonable question to ask a bear who might well be sharing her marriage bed one day. ‘Do you like to take big bare cocks up your tight bear bum?’

Teddy didn’t answer, of course. Wanda giggled. It had to be a healthy sign that she could joke to herself about her problem with fantasising.

It was a busy day. First, Dr Sullivan, who accepted her twenty-two-page single-spaced printout of a week’s worth of erotic fantasies without comment. He was hard to read. Wanda thought he approved of her fantasising about Henry, now, and he seemed to agree that her bear episode didn’t belong on her list of imagined perversions, as it wasn’t imagined. He didn’t say that it was a kinky thing to do but neither did he say that it wasn’t. His face was stone when she admitted to being attracted to Henry’s cousin Kitty. Perhaps that was the sign of a good therapist, that the patient had no idea what was right or wrong.

Finally, Wanda bitched about it having been so long since she’d had her hands on a nice erection – so Dr Sullivan let her spend the rest of her appointment playing with his.

After lunch, Wanda headed for her sartorial appointment.

Mr Pink, Bespoke Habits, had a tiny body and a big head. If his ears had been a bit larger and pointed, he’d have been a perfect elf. He pranced around his premises so lightly that his black patent shoes barely whispered against the thick carpet. His being such a flaming queen, Wanda had no qualms about him measuring her inside leg. She had to wonder, though, how Henry felt about having the same measurement taken.

Maybe one day she’d measure Henry’s inside leg. Both legs, to be sure. He ‘dressed left’ she thought. So when she measured his right leg, several times, she’d let the knuckles of her right hand run gently up the inside of his left thigh. Then she’d look up into his eyes, because he’d be looking down at her, and do it again, no longer pretending that it was accidental. He’d smile. She’d turn her hand and fondle the thickening length of his flesh through the cloth of his pants. Henry would put his hand on her head, giving her his blessing to continue. Her other hand would tug his zipper down. She’d reach in and fumble until she found his heat. His fingers would tighten in her hair. She’d pull the entire length of his magnificent erection out into the open and inspect it, carefully and slowly, making sure to breathe on it. Her lips would part. She’d lick her lips at him. She’d stretch out her tongue, desperate for a taste but Henry’s fingers would grip tight, pulling at the roots of her hair as he prevented her from reaching her treat – and then he’d relent. Her lips would stretch wide to fit over that smooth hard dome and her tongue –

‘Could you sit down please, Miss Mitty? I have to measure your head,’ Mr Pink said.

Head? Oh well, she guessed he knew what he was doing. She said, ‘Sorry. I guess I was daydreaming.’

Mr Pink smiled. ‘That’s natural, for a young bride.’

Had he read her mind?

Mr Pink was meticulous. Wanda had been measured for clothes before but never before had she had the distance between her nape and her left nipple taken, then the same to her right nipple. She tried to peek at Mr Pink’s notes, just to be sure those two measurements were identical, but his fluttering hands made that impossible. When it came to her feet, not only did he measure each one’s length and width but also floor-to-arch, floor-to-instep and two diameters. Those were followed by the distance around her ankles and around her calves at two different heights. Her boots, she was convinced, were going to fit with a capital ‘F’.

How deliciously sybaritic!

‘What will my outfit be like, Mr Pink?’ she asked. ‘What colour?’

‘I have my instructions from Mr Chandler,’ he replied.

‘But …?

‘That’s all I’m free to tell you, Miss. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise now, would I?’

Wanda felt like stamping one foot at that but Henry wasn’t there to see her being cutely childish, so she didn’t bother.

Chapter Seven

A stretch limousine arrived to take Wanda and her mom to the airport. Both ladies wore plain jeans and casual sweaters. As Martha explained, ‘Air travel is an ordeal. It ruins good clothes.’

They drove right past the airport. Martha tapped on the dividing window and told their driver, ‘You’ve made a wrong turn, young man. The entrance is behind us now. Can you turn around?’

‘No, Madam, sorry. I thought you knew. That was the public airport. We’ll be at our destination in a few minutes.’

Martha ‘humphed’. Wanda didn’t say a word. The limo turned in through tall gates and followed a private road to a small jet that was parked outside a hangar. The plane was dark green with a gold racing stripe. Ostentatious?

‘Here you are, ladies,’ their driver told them. ‘Don’t worry about your luggage. It’s being taken care of.’

They were greeted by a woman – oh, it was Kitty! She was dressed as a stewardess, not a ‘flight attendant’, but definitely a ‘stew’. Her uniform jacket was tight-waisted. Her skirt was two inches longer than her jacket. Even so, it had slits up the sides. She had very good legs, as Wanda already knew. And Wanda was wearing practical jeans. Damn!

Henry liked ‘dress up’. That was fine, but it should have been Wanda dressing up to cater to his whims, not cousin Kitty.

‘Welcome to Chandler One,’ Kitty told them. ‘This way please, ladies.’

There was a movable staircase up to the plane. Kitty went first, flirting her miniskirt with every step. Without making it obvious, Wanda tried to peek up but she didn’t manage to see whether Kitty was wearing anything under her skirt. Chances were she wasn’t, the little slut!

The cabin had heavy leather armchairs on swivel bases. Lucinda was sipping what looked like a gin and tonic. Wanda sat.

‘No, Wanda, not there,’ Kitty said. ‘You get to ride up front, in the pilot’s cabin.’

That seemed weird but it made sense when Wanda got there. Henry was in the pilot’s seat, in a sort of uniform with wings over his breast pocket. He did like to dress up!

Her fiancé was talking pilot-talk into a mic the size of a pinhead. It was all ‘Wind-speed, CAT, ceiling’, and similar things that meant nothing to Wanda.

He smiled at her but kept talking. His fingers flipped toggles and turned dials. The jets roared and rumbled. Henry began to ease back on the yoke. Wanda knew the name of that one from some movie or another.

‘What time’s take-off, Captain?’ she asked, and added, to show off, ‘ETD?’

He grinned and nodded towards the window. Wanda looked out. Oh! The airfield was dropping away.

‘That was smooth,’ she told him.

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