After the moving truck had departed and the furniture placed where we wanted it, we took to unpacking clothes and dishes, hanging curtains and the like. Partway through, the doorbell rang. Syd answered it, opening the door to a couple around our age. Terry and Bobbi Hanshaw introduced themselves as living across the corner. He was short and stocky, wearing a leather biker’s vest and jeans. She was a tall redhead, wearing tight shorts, a bandana and a sleeveless shirt tied under her breasts. Handing us a baking dish filled with a cooked dinner casserole, they invited us to come over after we were unpacked and share their hot tub. We were about as unlikely a match as you could imagine; a young upwardly mobile professional couple and a pair of rough and tumble bikers.
We thanked them profusely and accepted their offer, hurrying to finish our chores, chow down and find suitable clothing to wear to the neighbors. We walked across the street, clean casserole dish and a wine bottle in hand, not knowing what we were getting into.
Greeted at the door by Bobbi, still in her bare midriff shirt, we thanked her again for the dinner, and offered her the wine. “Riesling! My favorite!” she said. “We can drink it in the hot tub.” We were ushered to their back deck, where Terry was already sitting in the chest deep bubbling water.
“Come on in! The water’s fine,” he said.
We sat in the proffered seats, accepted full glasses, and got to know our new neighbors. Bobbi brought out some cheese and crackers before stepping into the tub, still in her street clothes. I was taken aback by this, not failing to notice how her blouse, sans bra, clung to her curves. A couple of hours and three bottles of wine later, we were still in the hot tub when Bobbi announced that she felt too confined and proceeded to take her top off. Sydney and I looked at one another, as Bobbi stated that if a man can appear in public without a shirt, why can’t a woman. This being their home, and us being their guests, we were hardly in a position to argue, but I must admit, Bobbi had a great figure. It was difficult not to stare. Her breasts were full, but still perky, seeming to float on the water.
Bobbi turned to Sydney and said, “You ought to try it sometime. It’s exhilarating!” We had consumed a lot of wine at this point, and much to my surprise, Sydney agreed. She reached around behind her back, unsnapped the top of her two-piece and shrugged it off her shoulders.
Almost apologetically, she said, “They’re not very big.”
To which, Terry, still leering at my wife’s small, but pointed breasts, added, “It’s not just the size that counts, it’s the taste!”
We all laughed. Then Bobbi stood up and said, “These are too confining!” and proceeded to strip off her shorts and bikini panties, before sitting back down.
I couldn’t help but stare. She was shaved, except for a thin, auburn racing stripe that stood out from her pale skin.
“Like what you see?” Terry said, giving me a playful punch, ending my trance-like stare.