Al studied the contents of box carefully, even daring at one point to reach towards whatever was inside, but stopping shot of actually touching. His eyes seemed to sparkle, as if the item inside the box was glowing; no actual light was eminating from beyond the lip of the box. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He realized after a time that he had been holding his breath. He inhaled deeply, taking in what must have been an intoxicating smell by his reaction, though Rosie couldn't smell anything.
Finally he spoke, barely above a whisper, "I don't approve."
Rosie, who had been straining her neck to get a peek at whatever it was he was holding, was taken aback. "You don't... approve?" She looked him in the eye with furrowed brow and pursed lips, "What's that supposed to mean?"
At this, he shrugged and handed her the box, turning away and looking back at the table and his gift to her. She gave him a confused look as he moved, but only briefly. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the purple in the box, and her eyes and then her head was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
The panties- to call them 'underwear' would have been a gross misnomer, as they were obviously intended to be seen and not worn 'under' anything- were low-cut, but not quite bikini-cut. There was no visible seam or stitching anywhere to be seen- it was as if they were made of a single piece of cloth. They looked smooth as silk, and such a vibrant shade of purple they seemed to want to jump right off of the black velvet backing they were laid upon. The color was unlike anything Rosie had ever seen before, as if the creators had created a rainbow of nothing but shades of violet. She turned the box slightly in her hands, and the panties responded by flashing new shades as she went. These were beautiful! Marvelous!
She reached out one finger and brushed it across the fabric. It felt… it was to her fingers what peppermint is to the tongue and mouth when you breathe in after eating it. Cool, exciting. Her finger tingled wherever she touched. Strangely, she could not feel any texture beneath her finger- no pressure, no resistance. It was as if her hand simply stopped moving, and she had no ability to press the issue.
She repeated, "What do you mean, you don't approve? These are gorgeous!"
Alphonse shrugged, still looking at his present to her on the table. "Some guy I don't even know just gave my wife a pair of panties. Pretty, purple panties. What am I supposed to think?"
Rosie stepped in front of him, putting the box down on the table next to his gift. She didn't realize it, but her hand still lingered, gently fondling the sensed-but-not-felt fabric of the panties. "What are you supposed to think? Al, I married you. You're all I ever needed."
"So you're not-" he blurted, almost too fast to be understood.
She was faster, cutting him off with, "EW! No! Al, no!" Her face soured and she shuddered at the notion of that old man being anything other than a creepy old man. "Look, he's European. You know how 'free' they are about this kind of thing…"
"You don't have to remind me of that," he replied.
"…he must not have realized it was an inappropriate gift. Al, I'm not your mother." Marie Cheques was the mother of seven children; Al was her first. Though she was and still is a happily married woman, none of her children had the same father.
Jon Cheques wasn't any better- he had a mistress in every city he went to all across France, and Al had at least fifteen half-siblings through those trysts. Al smiled and hugged her tightly, her face crushed against his rock-hard abs, "And I'm not my father." Al wasn't close to his parents, having come to America at 15 to a boarding school. They didn't often see eye-to-eye.
Rosie turned her head to one side so she could breathe. She smelled his work on him, in his clothes. It was a good smell. "It's just you and me," she said as she hugged him back, "all my heart has room for is you."
Satisfied, Al finished his bearhug and stepped back. "I'll get dinner started."
She peeled away and picked up the wooden box, her hand still on the panties. She walked over to the trash can, "And I'll fix this right now." She pushed the lever with her foot and the top opened.
Her husband's reaction startled her, "No!" he shouted, "Don't do that!" She gave him a confused look, so he went on, "I mean, they look too expensive to just… throw away. And they're gorgeous! I bet they'd look even better with you in them?"
For what it was worth, Rosie looked relieved at his gesture of good faith- she had no real desire to be rid of them. It was simply by her force of will that she had considered throwing them away to begin with. Something in her gut told her it was wrong thing to do, but her mind had won out. She smiled, came over and grabbed the collar of his shirt, and pulled him into a full-on face-sucking French kiss. She planned it, timed it, and gave it carefully; when she pulled away, she left him wanting more.
She picked up her portfolio with her other hand, then put his gift on top of this, and sauntered out of the room, turning her head and winking as she went. He stood, breathless, mutely watching her go. He closed his mouth to keep from drooling. He smiled and shook his head. He was lucky to have someone like her.
Ten minutes later, as he was hard at work condensing a light sauce, he heard her voice behind him, "I've heard a rumor…"
He didn't look up from his work, "About what?"
She scowled at him from behind, then answered sweetly, "I've heard that my hubby knows how to handle his hose." She put one hand on her hip, striking a pose in the doorway.
But he was too busy to notice. Instead, he simply replied, "I've heard that too. I'd love to show you sometime."
Now she smiled at him hungrily, "How about right now?" She licked her lips hungrily.
He still failed to recognize. He whined, "Rosie, I'm almost done with dinner. Y'all know how us Europeans are- we take pride in our sauce." His accent made her smile even broader- it was cute when he fell back into the French accent he was born into, mostly due to the fact that his American accent was decidedly Texan. To hear French-Texan, you'd smile too.
But God was he dense! "I'd like some of your 'special sauce'," she cooed playfully. "I love your sausage gravy…"
His reply was mind-staggering, "Nope. Steak tips and pasta with red and yellow peppers…"
"Oh, for crissake, turn around, Al!" she barked.
He spun around, frustrated and a little angry. "Wh-?" was all he managed to get out before he actually see her before him.
She was in her new pink sweatshirt, which was a little large on her and came down over her butt. She'd let her hair down and pulled it freely over one shoulder. Other than a little lipstick and her sweatshirt, she was naked, standing in the doorway, with desire in her eyes.
No, scratch that. She shifted her hips to strike another pose, and he saw a brief flash of purple under the sweatshirt. And as predicted, they looked oh, so much better on her than in the box. Her come-hither look was about as subtle as a brick. Which was what is needed, when his head sometimes seemed as thick as one.
"What about dinner?" he stammered out, his eyes glued to the beauty before him.
She pouted, "Fuck dinner." Then she turned and walked down the hall, pausing once to look over her shoulder, "Or me. You choice." Then she walked into the bedroom.
The half-condensed sauce was moved to a cold burner. But things in the Cheques household were just heating up.
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