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Loving wife changed into a bitch.

Mid-thigh would be my guess as I started to follow her, watching the actions of her undoubtedly precious buns under the robe as she walked. She was saying something and I was drooling. Concentrate, John, you idiot.

"... and so this back door really has me more worried than the front door." She had stopped at the kitchen door to the back yard and turned to me.

I asked if she minded if I opened the door so I could see the jamb. She motioned for me to go ahead by gesturing toward the door with her left hand. That particular left hand was holding the robe closed. The robe started to open, ever so slowly, too slowly. She realized her mistake and quickly reclosed the robe, holding it with her left hand again. I didn't get to see anything, but if I wore glasses my eyes probably would have pushed them off of my face. I know she saw my intent, mesmerized look that time, even though I tried to be nonchalant and open the door. Because of the over-sized strike plate, the dead bolt would have to be mounted about 4 1/2 inches above the doorknob set, but that wouldn't be a problem. I said so to Tamara.

After I relocked the back door, she took off into the dining room with me following (heh, heh). Boy, she was a really nice looking woman. No make-up and didn't really need any. She would probably think she did, of course, but she must actually know she is a doll. Again, I wondered if she knew the effect she was having on me. Wow! She stopped at the doorway between the dining room and the living room. Using her right hand (damn) she pulled the latch of a pocket door to close the door on that side of the opening. It screeched some but moved fairly smoothly.

"Can you lubricate that, John? And the other side, too?" I would swear by the way she opened her eyes more than normal that she was daring me to look anywhere but in her eyes. A tough test when the only lubricant I could think of was hers, and my tendency was to look toward its source.

"That shouldn't be a problem, Tamara." All of this usage of names seemed like a game of some sort, but my copy of the rules hadn't been delivered to me.

"Okay. Lets go upstairs", she said. She said that we were going up the stairs. Her first. Me second, below her above me. Up the stairs. It pays to fantasize. Then she went on, with, "Oh, that can wait a minute. I forgot to show you something in the kitchen."

No! Going up the stairs is important. Critical! We need to go up the stairs. It can't wait a minute! "Okay", I said calmly (I hope).

In the kitchen she opened one of the drawers just under the counter top and asked me to remove it. Then she bent down and looked and pointed toward the back of the cabinet saying, "That thingy back there is loose and the drawer sometimes comes off of the track."

I bent down and looked too. At least one of the screws was loose and probably none of the three screws was into a stud; just the drywall. I turned my head toward her so that I could reach to the back of the cabinet and wiggle the bracket when 'what to my wondering eyes should appear?' but a view of Tamara's left breast. No! Gorgeous left breast. Somehow, it seemed, when she bent over to show me the bracket problem, her left hand had slid up some from her waist creating slack in that side of her robe which gaped open when she bent over. (Trust me when I say that I didn't think of all of that physics stuff at the time. I just looked at her breast and slightly erect nipple and began salivating again.) Tamara seemed to realize her degree of dishevelment and stood back up straight. I told her I could tighten up that bracket or I could fix it permanently, with wall anchors. Which one I did was up to her. Now that I was standing upright again and looking at her she didn't seem at all embarrassed. But she must have known I was looking at her naked, dark brown, erect nipple on the whitest of firm breasts. Actually, judging by the extra bumps in her robe, both of her nipples were very erect. Hmmmm.

Saying, "I'd rather it was fixed the right way", she turned to l

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