Mrs Hot-Hot Honeycombe Ch. 01

Emma was left alone for six days in a strange city in a foreign country, away from her parents who were caring for her two children. It was understandable she was miserable about this but she was happy for her husband Paul who'd left excitedly that morning as a member of a five-person party on a charter fishing trip – a catch guaranteed, which Paul had said probably would be either a cold or perhaps an STD if a woman was onboard.

Meeting that last cynical comment with a brave grin, Emma kissed Paul goodbye and assured him she'd have a wonderful, busy time and would really enjoy not having him wanting her to move on to the next store, next counter or even the next street as he did when accompanying her shopping.

Paul had wanted to come to this country for the fishing, said to be fabulous, and to walk two of the world-rated tracks in the South Island of this place called New Zealand.

It had rained every day on those bush walks – amazing scenery yes – but scenery is not a priority when your legs are tired from sloshing through mud and you have a rain-wet ass for five to six hours a day. She didn't complain because whenever she had a mind to complain it was Paul's considered opinion she should keep her mouth shut.

Emma knew in some ways she'd be better off without Paul. She'd take control of her life and revel at laughing without being told she laughed too loudly, and wear dresses that allowed men and even interested women to see how she stacked up and to stay in the bath for two hours simply because the alternative to getting out was to stay in and at times that seemed the better choice.

Paul was a bully and she was a wimp. Emma was perfectly aware of that, but awareness does not change fact. Because of Paul she lived in a beautiful home in Chicago, they had two adorable children and Paul was always saying he loved her to bits and those bits he was talking about were on her chest and both sides of her lower middle.

There had to be more to life than generally having a lack-luster time living with Paul who was old before his time at thirty-two, Megan an impish six-year-old and she had Danny seven years ago when she was twenty and tearfully pregnant. She'd forever be grateful to Paul who did the decent thing and married her, partly because of his desire to see what his child would look like and partly because Emma's father loaded his shotgun in front of Paul but definitely did not point it at him or threaten him with it – though Paul always said those things were definitely implied. Oh, he confessed to her drunkenly one night five years ago that his insurance company bosses had let it be known to him that they preferred their senior executives to be married with children as that established those executives as solid, stable citizens.

Emma had thought about having an affair, but Paul never introduced her to any likely types and besides she was timid about indulging in such liaisons because in all the affairs she read about in books the guys administering to the women's loneliness always seemed determined to push their thing up the poor women's back passage. Is that what I really want, Emma would ask, almost gagging.

Prepared to suffer on-going days of boredom, Emma soaked for 135 minutes in the bath and emerged nude from the bathroom, her wrinkled skin from that long immersion in water making her look like at woman 129 years of age, rather than one not long into her twenty-ninth year. She then dressed in a half bra and a low neck sweater usually she wore over a silk shirt – thinking Paul would be less than impressed with this.

She wondered about going to a bar to see if there was a man she could be interested in; the thought of Paul sharing the one woman on the boat with five other men – well, he had implied that, hadn't he? – had not impressed her at all. But it was only 9:30 so the men in bars that early in the morning would unlikely be suitable for a clean-living female used to sex once a week and then only with her husband.

Walking to an intersection Emma saw a bus that carried a sign indicating it continuously circled the city centre. She stepped aboard and the driver said she couldn't do that – she'd have to board at the designated bus stop.

"You sound like my husband," Emma said airily, dropped a coin into the cash receptacle and sat down.

Before too long she became aware they were leaving the shopping district and worked out she'd prefer to be traveling in the other direction, so left the bus at the next designated bus stop, saying to the driver as she turned to go down the steps – "Be nice to your wife when you arrive home, do you hear?"

She thought the reply was 'Fuck off" but perhaps she was mistaken.

Right in front of Emma were the high walls of the rear of a supermarket. Though aware she'd not come to New Zealand to go to a supermarket there was not rule to say she shouldn't, so she walked around the corner and found an entrance.

She felt at home instantly, devouring all the 'special' signs and boggling at the prices that seemed unbelievable low to her.

The thought of amusing herself by trying to find a suitable male to invite back to her hotel room – well knowing that wouldn't happen as it would scare the crap out of her – Emma picked up a hand basket, rather than a trolley, because she had no intention of buying anything. But soon, forgetting she was thousands of miles from home – Emma had deposited into the small basket a box of rubber bands (42 percent off the normal retail price), can of fly spray (28 percent off), 4 inch paint brush (33 percent off), two lovely T-bone steaks (there were no cooking facilities in her hotel suite), a pack of AAA batteries (free from the passed use-by date bin) and eleven items from the skin and nail care aisle.

Satisfied with her haul, the trawling for which had completely removed boredom from her mind because she'd been operating in familiar territory, she went to the check-out where reality struck.

The chewing gum cashier, aged about 20, looked at the $100 bill offered by Emma and said: "Sorry love, we don't take that foreign stuff".

Emma: "Oh, what can I do?"

Cashier: "Put it all back or wait aside until my supervisor comes free.

Voice behind Emma: "Here's the money."

Emma: "Thank you but you certainly cannot do that. I don't know you."

Cashier: "If you two have finished may I have the money."

Voice: "Certainly – here it is."

Emma: "Stop, you can't do that."

Second voice: "Take the fucking offer, lady."

Third voice: "Go home Yank."

Fourth voice: "You're holding everyone up."

Supervisors: What's going on here?"

Emma walked out greatly embarrassed and by mistake rode the moving walkway to the top level of the basement car park instead of walking out the way she'd entered. In the car park she looked about vaguely attempting to figure out why she was in a car park.

"Lost your car, love," said the same male voice of the man who'd paid $34.27 for her purchases.

"No, my car is back in Chicago," Emma answered, bottom lip trembling.

"Oh dear," said the voice which then introduced its owner as Harry. "You better come along with me. We can't have Mrs America wandering about confused in this strange city of Auckland, and I'm telling you it can be strange."

"I'm not Mrs America – I'm Emma."

"Hullo, Emma," smiled the tall man in jeans, T-shirt and sandals and in need of a shave. However, Emma immediately judged him as trustworthy because he looked very much like Pastor Luke and was about the same age (42 or 43), height (a little over six foot) but without the nasty side effects (bad breath, balding, squinty eyes and yellow teeth).

"You are gorgeous," she said.

"No, I'm Harry – Harry Pybus."

The name sounded romantic enough, encouraging Emma to think this could be the man who'd sweep her into an affair. But if she was expecting to be driven away to his castle in a silver and maroon Rolls Royce she was a little out with her visualization – what they stood alongside was a sad-looking car about the same age of its owner, rusted throughout, dented and the tire she looked as was as balding as Pastor Luke.

"Emma, may I introduce you to The Rust Bucket," Harry said, tapping the roof of the vehicle fondly but not so hard as to pierce through the rusted metal.

"My car doesn't have a name," said Emma, bottom lip trembling again.

"Oh dear. Into the car, Emma, but enter through my door as the passenger door was welded permanently shut when the door opening mechanism disintegrated."

He threw everything into the trunk and arrived at the open door just in time to see Emma's ass high in the air as she negotiated the shift stick and brake lever, wondering if either of those worked.

"Lovely stocking tops," he said softly, having a great view right up to her floral panties.

"Yes, bought them at Macy's sale on the day we flew out."

"That 'we' being you and your husband?"

"Yes, he's away on a five-night fishing trip."

"Leaving you in the company of others on your tour party?"

"No, there is no-one else."

"Jesus."

"Are you a pastor?"

"No, I'm an insurance company marine claims inspector."

"I'm not sure I've ever heard of that category of insurance company person."

"As the relevancy of question rates practically at zero, I'll not bore you by answering your question fully."

"Pardon me, but I need to know; my husband works in insurance."

"Oh well, I inspect boats and interrogate people probably trying to cheat the company out of its money through lodging false claims – like claiming for storm damage on a day when the sea was too calm for sailing."

"Oh, like burning a hole in the middle of the table so we can get it resurfaced free."

"Yes, exactly. How did you know about that particular swindle?"

"Because I did it once."

"Oh yes, what is the name of your insurance company?"

"As the relevancy of question rates practically at zero, I'll not bore you by answering."

"You're awfully cute Emma," Harry said, switching on the motor, which started at the first attempt and to Emma's inexpert ear appeared to be running like a dream. "Where to now?"

"A bedroom or have me across the table if you wish."

"What!" cried Harry pushing the manual shift into first gear instead of reverse and the sad little car hit the wood barrier just in front of its front wheels which stopped it from ramming the concrete wall.

"I'm sorry," Emma said, patting his arm, amazed at this sudden flow of adrenalin-boosted wickedness. "I apologise for distracting your from your driving but you did ask."

Enlightenment appeared on Harry's confused face; he grinned. "A natural misunderstanding of two people from different cultures speaking the same language: The expression I used was a shortened version of 'Where would you like to go now, Emma?' meaning where can I drive you and let you out and hand over your shopping."

"I see – well the alternative was rather long-winded, wasn't it? The Rex Hotel please."

They drove sedately to the Rex Hotel where the doorman hurried over and said: "Please remove that heap of junk from our frontage immediately."

"Up yours," snarled Harry.

The doorman blew his whistle – two sharp blasts. Two cabs came off the waiting rank to the entrance, not being wanted of course, and out came the responding day manager.

"Trouble Fergusson?"

"Yes, he's refused to remove this heap of shit from our premises."

"Call the cops, Fergusson."

"Wait," called Emma. "I'm a guest of his hotel."

"Oh yeah," laughed the day manager, and I'm President Eisenhower, you Yank."

"Here's my room access card."

"Christ," said the manager, looking stunned at the gold and black card issued only for penthouse suites. "Has this rogue kidnapped you, ma'am?"

"No, quite the opposite – he's saved me from abandonment."

"Please remove yourself from the car and come into the safety of our hotel, ma'am."

"That was our intention."

"Yes, ma'am."

"She had to evacuate through this door," said Harry. "This is the only door that works." Harry, the manager and the doorman stood back and watched Emma back over the gear shift and brake handle and out the door. It was only the second time Harry had even seen floral panties and the manager and doorman probably had never seen them before. There was a minor melee as all three rushed forward to help Emma stand upright as her feet touched the ground, ending one of the best shows in town.

"Park my car between those two Mercedes, thank you," Harry ordered.

"Have it parked in the darkest corner or the underground parking area," the day manager whispered to the doorman.

"Oh, we forgot your shopping," said Harry, as they entered the most luxurious hotel room he'd seen. "I'll fetch it."

"Leave it, Harry – just dump it. I scarcely knew what I was doing – going through a confidence low, I suppose. But shopping and then you normalizing me have made me determined to have my way with you. Go to that wall screen over there, press five and a woman will come on-screen – order me American style coffee, three soda crackers and a cream cake – you order anything you wish, a full meal if you want to build up your strength. Just say you're ordering on behalf of Mrs Honeycombe."

"Who's she?" Harry asked, pretending to look bewildered.

"Me, you dope. Make yourself comfortable – I'm off to have a long bath."

"Your coffee and food have arrived."

"Goodie – bring them in, Harry."

The heavy tray appeared around the door, but no sign of Harry except for his hands and forearms.

"Enter Harry – you are free to look but I'll disappoint you as I don't have three boobs."

Harry entered, demonstrating bravado or was it sophistication: "Lovely bathroom; quite palatial in fact, eminently suitable for a princess like you."

"Look at me Harry when talking to me – you don't wish to be adjudged rude, do you?"

Harry looked. She was well down in the water and two of the loveliest orbs that he'd seen in a very long time seemed to float on the foam. Her slit was not in view.

She pushed up her hips. "Was this what you were looking for, Harry?"

It was a shaved pussy with fat cheeks and ever so inviting, or so he reckoned.

"That is classic," Harry breathed.

"Have a shave and then join me after you've had your food, Harry.

Harry gulped down his tomato, parsley and peach omelet – the woman taking the order thought she could tempt the assistant chef to add peaches – and took his green tea into the bathroom.

"Goodie, you're back. Have a shave before you come into the bath, Harry. My skin is a little sensitive to whiskers as is the case with all but hardened women I suppose."

The doorbell chimed. Harry went out and returned with a bottle of French champagne and a card. "It's from the day manager with his compliments and an apology for not treating you impeccably."

"Oooh. Put it in the cooler, Harry. We'll get into that when we are resting."

Harry lifted up the water-proof rechargeable shaver and was about to put it against his face when he drew it away and stared at it.

"What's wrong, Harry – a slight tang of pussy. Don't be such a baby – your face is going places where you'll definitely recognize that fragrance – I guess calling it a fragrance is acceptable."

Harry began shaving, wishing the device had a super speed option...

TO BE CONTINUED...