by Margery Pinchwife
mpinchwife@yahoo.com
(c) Margery Pinchwife, 2002
This is a story about an innocent and faithful wife of 25 years who
succumbs.
I play the part of the wife.
It begins, of course, with the description of the wife, her looks
(average, like
me), her innocence, her faithfulness through the years. I'm sure
that you are
familiar with such a wife (perhaps it's your own wife, or perhaps
it's you) and
can easily fill in the details. Nothing extraordinary, just a good
and true wife
who has lived happily with her husband for a couple of dozen
years or so.
Then, the actual story starts at a New Year's eve party we have gone to
at the house
of a friend of a friend, where we don't know most of the people.
We meet a lot
of people all at once, so the introductions become a bit of a blur,
except for one
that stands out. This is to a Greek named Dmitri, who is visiting
one of the other
people at the party. Dmitri is tall, athletic looking, with wavy
brown hair and
strong cheekbones, and speaks excellent English with a
thoroughly delightful
accent, one I hadn't heard for many years, since we had
lived in Greece
shortly after we were married.
There is, of course, a lot of drinking going on. I don't drink much
so
confine myself
to a few glasses of red wine, just enough to make me light-
headed.
My husband drinks only fruit juice. At one point, someone comments
on his abstemiousness,
and he explains that alcohol does bad things to his
digestive system.
Several people volunteer that it is unlawful to greet the new
year sober and
they suggest pot instead. However, this is not the 70s anymore
and no one has
any marijuana. So at midnight, I receive a sober kiss from my
husband.
Others have not been abstaining, so when the ball at Times Square falls
and the fireworks
start, everyone is kissing everyone else; a few are going even
further, drifting
off into the darker corners and greeting the new year with a
bang (so to
speak). Most of the kisses I receive are pecks on the cheek, except
for the Greek's.
Dmitri wraps his arms around me, bends me over at the waist,
and, with incredibly
soft, luxurious lips, kisses me full on the mouth. I'm so
taken aback
that my mouth opens and his tongue snakes its way in.
Whether it's the kiss, or the wine, or Dmitri, I don't know, but I
immediately
have some evil thoughts that a well-behaved wife shouldn't have.
On occasion,
over the course of 25 years of marriage, I've had such thoughts
before, but
I've always managed to suppress them and, as soon as I can get my
husband alone,
atone for them by acting them out with him, releasing all the
passion built
up in my system. Unfortunately, later that night when we get
home, it will
be very late and he will be too tired and will want to go to sleep
immediately.
So my evil thoughts will be left to fester in the back of my mind.
But, in the meantime, back at the party there's still plenty of drinking,
talking, and
whatever is going on in the dark corners. Eventually, we get to
talk a bit with
Dmitri and are delighted to learn that he comes from the same
city we lived
in when my husband worked there. We'd love to talk more with
him, but it
is now quite late and his host is waiting to drive him home, and,
unfortunately,
he has to go back to Greece in a couple of days. However, he
explains that
his last evening here will be free because his host as an
unavoidable
previous commitment. He offers to be our host at a restaurant
where we can
continue the discussion that night. We counter by offering to
feed him at
our home and, after some delicate negotiations, it is agreed that I'll
cook a simple
dinner and he'll bring dessert.
So several nights later, my evil thoughts still lurking in the recesses
of
my mind, I find
myself thinking more of my attire than of the menu. I debate
about various
possibilities, ranging from very informal (jeans, tee-shirt, bare
feet) to rather
formal (evening gown, jewelry, high heels) before I finally settle
on a compromise
- a full-length skirt of soft, brown wool, a man's-style white
blouse with
the faintest tan pinstripe, with only the collar unbuttoned, a thin
gold chain necklace,
and flats.
When Dmitri arrives and takes his coat off, I'm relieved that he has no
jacket or tie
- he wears what looks like a business shirt, except for the fact that
it is mauve,
with the top three buttons unbuttoned. He surprises me by kissing
my hand quite
formally and presents me with a huge bouquet of flowers and a
sinful looking
chocolate torte. Normally, he says, he would bring wine "to
expand the taste
buds for what, I am confident, will be your excellent cooking",
but being aware
of my husband's problems he brought to us, instead, a small
box that turns
out to contain two joints - something we hadn't seen in years.
One, he suggests,
before the main course, and one before dessert. One must, he
explains, "expand
the taste buds."
Between his pot, his excellent conversation, and his sinful dessert,
dinner goes
wonderfully. We talk about Greece, where we had stayed, the
changes since
that time, and generally have a delightful time. After dinner we
float on a cloud
of marijuana into the living room. A short time later, my
husband, who
has had rather more than his share of the pot, stands up and
announces he
will look in the cellar for the photographs we took in Greece. As
he vanishes
down the stairs, Dmitri tells me that he is a professional
photographer,
that he takes glamour pictures for Playboy. I greet this statement
with skepticism
and a bit of a giggle, but he protests and offers his business
card to me.
When this turns out to be entirely in Chinese, my giggle becomes a
laugh.
His translation, "Dmitri Papadopoulos, Glamour and Nude Photography,
Playboy Magazine,"
produces a marijuana laughing fit in me.
"No, no," he protests, "I'll prove it. I'll photograph you."
So saying,
he picks up
an imaginary camera, holds it up to his eye and points it at me.
Of
course, I assume
a "glamour pose" and he presses the button on his "camera,"
saying "click"
at the same time. He takes a few more such "pictures" as I vamp
for him, but
then he insists that my costume isn't right for glamour pictures.
Shoes and socks
will have to go, he takes off his own to demonstrate - one must
never wear shoes
in a glamour picture unless they are high heels. My blouse
must not be
tucked in, it must hang freely - he pulls out his shirt from his pants
- like so.
And the buttons, I must open another button. "Click." And another.
"Click"
A few more such pictures, taken from a variety of angles for a number
of poses, and
he convinces me to open all but one button on my blouse,
showing me which
one by unbuttoning his shirt. But then we can't have my
white cotton
bra showing, I must take it off. This doesn't seem right to me, but
while I ponder
the idea he slides his hand up my back, under my blouse, and
deftly unsnaps
the bra. Whether it is the pot or the confident smoothness of his
action, I acquiesce
by slipping one arm through its strap and pulling the bra off
through my other
sleeve, leaving my breasts scarcely concealed under my
almost unbuttoned
blouse. As he clicks away on his imaginary camera, I begin
to feel really
glamorous and sexy, something I haven't really felt in years.
The last button, of course, has to go, so we are standing there with both
our shirts untucked
and fully unbuttoned when my husband comes back saying
"I can't find
those pictures in the cellar." He looks at us. "What's up?"
"Ah, you are here, wonderful," Dmitri responds without missing a beat,
"I am taking
glamour pictures of your wife, but you must take a picture of the
two of us together.
Here," handing him the imaginary camera, "you look
through here
and press this button." Having instructed my husband, he comes
over and puts
his arm around me, in the process opening our shirts so that one
of my breasts
presses against his naked chest and the other looks boldly out
towards my husband.
My husband says "smile" and presses his finger down
and Dmitri says
"click."
Then, carefully putting the camera down, my husband says "I think I'll
look in the
cellar for those Greek pictures" and heads down the stairs again.
Dmitri continues his photographing. Now he wants me to pull up my
skirt to show
some legs, to bundle it between my legs, to pull it off to one side,
and, eventually,
to unbutton and lower it to reveal my hip, "like so" he says,
lowering his
pants. "Click" and another pose, "Click." A few poses later
and
my skirt and
his pants are lying on the floor in heaps. The next poses, he
insists, need
a different background. The living room isn't right. We need
a
bed.
So, wearing nothing but an unbuttoned blouse, white cotton panties, a
thin gold necklace,
and a marijuana haze, I lead him to our bedroom. When I
turn to look
at him, I can't help commenting on the bulge in his red jockey
shorts.
That is my beauty meter, he responds, it always sticks out like this in
the presence
of such beauty.
And so I stretch out on the bed and pose. "Click." I am a glamour
queen.
"Click." A Playboy centerfold. "Click." The obsession
of men.
"Click."
The envy of women. "Click." I am feeling glorious. "Click."
And it
is all so safe,
because there is no film in the camera. "Click." In fact, there
is
no camera.
"Click." All sorts of exotic, erotic poses. "Click."
It is wonderful.
"Click."
By this time my blouse (and his shirt) are long gone, "Click," and we
have each just
removed our underpants, when my husband reappears. "I can't
find those pictures
in the cellar." I am completely naked except for the thin
gold chain around
my neck. Dmitri's "beauty meter" is impressively sticking
up.
"Ah, just in time," Dmitri hands him the invisible camera, "you must
take a picture
of us in the pose of Rodin's famous statue, 'The Kiss.'" And he
sits down next
to me, embracing me and kissing me, as in the statue. I wait to
hear what my
husband says.
He says, "Click."
He says, "Maybe our Greek pictures are in the cellar."
He puts the "camera" down and leaves.
Dmitri continues the kiss. His hands stroke my arms, my back, my
breasts.
His mouth finds a nipple, which he takes between his soft lips. My
hands respond,
roaming over his muscular body, grasping his "beauty meter,"
which now seems
to be registering off the scale. Now I am on my back, his
head is between
my legs, the room is rocking from side to side, or is it me, as
his tongue enters
me. From the tip of his tongue, little pulses of electricity
burst outward
through my entire body. I can feel the pressure building up
within me.
And then it stops.
He repositions himself between my legs. I feel the tip of his "beauty
meter" begin
to slide into me when I see my husband standing in the doorway.
He stares for
a moment, then raises the imaginary camera to his eyes, presses
his finger down,
and says "Click."
Dmitri has now entered me an is sliding in and out, plunging down and
then rearing
up, his chest pressing against my breasts. I am losing contact, my
head sways from
side to side. My hands grab at his back, trying to pull him
further into
me. The room seems to be pulsing in and out. I am breathing
heavily.
And then I hear it.
"Click."
I look toward the door and my husband is standing there, naked, one
hand holding
the "camera" up to his eye and the other stroking his erect penis.
"Click."
I loose sight of everything. I no longer see the room. "Click."
I see
fireworks and
pulsing bursts of light. "Click." I am gasping for breath.
"Click"
My body begins to spasm. "Click." Volcanos begin to erupt.
"Click."
I feel them
within me and see the bursts of molten lava. "Click." Now I
am
shaken by an
earthquake. "Click." I can't breath. "Click." I
scream at the top
of my voice.
"Click. Click. Oh, God, Click!"