CAUTION:

This is a story based on experience, and honestly told; some details and names are fictionalized to obscure identities of real persons and events. The ages of most of the persons told in the story were technically legal ages of consent in the state of Minnesota (for that matter in almost all states at the time). While the sexual activities described here involve "teenagers," these boys were not preyed upon by anyone, or coerced in anyway. If anything, these " boys" were predators to my wife.

I nstallment 2

The Fourth Week - - - Saturday Afternoon: My Mistake

So the next week would be very strange. Jon was contemptuous as I said and Frenchy insufferably fawning. He helped Karen with the dishes every night while the rest of us sat and watched TV on the sofa. Jon in his underwear. Now flaunting his hard-ons in my wife's presence. She tried to ignore it.

Steve, seeing Karen was uncomfortable with it, tried to be gallant, tried to say something to him, but Jon actually started to pummel him and I did not know what to do. Frenchy intervened and stopped Jon. Karen looked at me with some disappointment and I suppose I did seem the coward. But really this sort of behavior was beyond me. I had always been a loner and a bit of a nerd. Jocks annoyed me. Boys like Frenchy and Jon were intimidating to me, I suppose, but I avoided them in high school and looked down my nose at them. I wondered if Frenchy and Jon sensed this.

Frenchy for his part would put on a show of admiration for my "brains," saying he wished he had my "brains." Jon would laugh at this and Frenchy did overdo it.

I did not trust him. And I shouldn't have. On one of the nights late in the week while we were all watching TV and Karen and Frenchy were in the kitchen doing the dishes, I went in to get a beer and when I came around the corner I saw some shuffling and awkwardness between them, and I swore I saw that Frenchy had pulled his hand out from the back of Karen's shorts. It looked like he had been feeling her bare buttock. And Karen seemed embarrassed. Frenchy as usual made some comic remark, laughed and left, saying he'd be back to help her later. I asked her then whether maybe Frenchy was becoming a little too familiar. She shifted her eyes back to the dishes in the sink and said he was sometimes "naughty"—that was the word she used—but she shrugged and said: "He's just a boy."

I asked her if she wanted me to say something to him. She said she'll think about it.

Later we were in bed. I was fondling her breasts, toying with one of her nipples. I like her nipples—largish, swollen, something about them makes you want to put your mouth on it. She turned to look at me. She said: "Maybe you should talk to him." She turned over to sleep and said nothing more.

So, I think it was that next morning, that Friday, when I decided I had to talk to him. It was awkward for me. But of course he did not seem the least uncomfortable. We went out for lunch, crossing the street to the Red Barn for a hamburger and fries. Frenchy wanted a chocolate milk shake. He did not make it easy for me. He sucked his straw as I tried to bring up the subject. I told him that he need to treat Karen with more respect, and that I was counting on him to set the example. He asked if this was about what Jon had done. I said, yes, and other things too. He sucked on the straw noisily, grinning at me. I asked him what was so funny. He said: "You know, she's like a Mom to me. I love her. I really do. Like a Mom. I would never do anything to hurt her." He put down his empty shake.

"Well, sometimes, how you kiss her . . . you know . . . " He looked at me seriously: "Did Mom say something?" I shook my head, and said no, but he interrupted me: "She likes it . . . ." he started to say. Then he stopped and laughed. It was so weird.

Then he winked. "You think maybe . . . You ever wonder . . . " he started to say, and I asked him what was he trying to say. He shook his head grinning. "The boys think . . . " Then he laughed and said: "She is really pretty."

I looked upset, I suppose, but he added quickly: "I really do love her. Like a Mom."

He got up to go and I followed him. On the street back to the house, I asked him about seeing him put his hand down the back of her shorts. He laughed, and looked at me queerly, stopping in the street, and asked: "Is that what you think?"

He shook his head. He said: "We're running out of beer. Maybe you should get some." I nodded and oddly enough I did what he asked. He went back into the house. We spoke no more about it.

When I brought back the beer and put it in the refrigerator, Karen seemed to know I had talked to him. She said Frenchy came home and he was really upset and seemed to be angry with her. She asked me if I had said something to him that hurt his feelings. I tried to explain. We argued a bit. I said I was just doing what she wanted. She shook her head at me. She went to their bedroom to talk to him. I drank a beer standing in the dinning room watching the boys watch TV and got a little pissed off. I went to see what was going on. I found him sitting beside her on his bunk bed, holding hands. Frenchy grinned at me. Karen looked up at me harshly.

I left them and went to study in our bedroom. Karen later came in and said she was sorry she got upset. She said it's just that Frenchy has emotional problems and she worried about him. I listened, but I wanted to tell her that he shouldn't be trusted. I said: "He says he loves you." She nodded.

"Do you . . . ." I started to say. The way she looked at me—offended—stopped me.

The next day, Saturday, Steve and Larry left early for their weekend visits home. As usual Frenchy and Jon slept in late. Later that day, Jon got dressed and was going to leave. I reminded him about the curfew and he said: "Fuck you." I felt angry but said nothing. Frenchy heard it and took Jon aside as they went down the stairs to leave. I saw them speaking out the window. They saw me watching them. They turned away as they spoke and then Frenchy came back upstairs and said Jon was sorry he got mad, and that he'd be home when he was supposed to be.

So Karen and Frenchy and I would be home alone all day. I studied quietly in the bedroom, but came out now and then for a beer and checked to see what they were doing together. In spite of myself I was thinking things I should not.

Karen, barefoot in her short shorts and shirt sat with her legs tucked up, sat next to Frenchy curled up on the sofa. He had his arm across the sofa behind her. He grinned. He had me get him a beer. I asked her if she wanted one. She seemed very happy that day. She said no.

When I came back to the room with Frenchy's beer I saw that his hand had dropped to her shoulder and she had leaned up against him. I went back into the bedroom. I couldn't study for thinking what I was thinking.

As I look back on it now, I know it was just the pressure of all the circumstance, and maybe something in Frenchy's manner, but also the fact that I was hung-up sexually speaking. The whole fantasy about my wife being sexually humiliated, reluctantly submissive. It was an obsession. I had even taken to writing about it. I masturbated about it. I thought about it often and it even disturbed my sleep.

And that fact that she seemed to be easily manipulated by Frenchy added to it, I suppose. Still I cannot really explain how Karen responded as she did. You have to wonder if she had such fantasies too. How else do you explain it?

Anyway it was getting late in the afternoon. Jon was supposed to be home by eight o'clock. Karen was supposed to make dinner soon. I acted on the impulse. I came out to find her nestled under his arm though it was pretty hot to sit so close. She seemed a bit nonplussed that I "caught" her but Frenchy was cheerful and confident and asked for another beer. I said I'd have to go get some more. I told Karen I wanted to see her, to come to the bedroom.

I closed the bedroom door as she sat down on the bed watching me. I explained what I wanted. She responded exactly as I had hoped. She sat on the bed quietly. She was not shocked; she flushed as I explained what I wanted her to do. She nodded when I asked her if she was okay. She only asked me if this was really what I wanted. She seemed to be more sad than worried. She did not say she was worried, though both of us should have been; what did we think was going to happen after this happened?

I reassured her as I unbuttoned her blouse. She looked at my eyes. She seemed almost tearful. She asked again if I was sure as I removed her blouse and standing, holding it, looked down at her, and nodded and asked her if she wanted to do this too? She looked up at me and said: "do you want me to?" I said I loved her. She nodded.

I went to the door and opened it. I turned back and said: "Okay?" She nodded. She stood. She unfastened her bra, and let it drop to the floor. I nodded. She unzipped the front of her shorts let them drop to the tops of her feet and stood, hesitating to take off her underpants. I told her to do that when he comes in.

 She nodded again. She sat down on the end of the bed. She held her hands at her lap. She looked at the floor.

I went to the living room and asked Frenchy what kind of beer he wanted. I then pretended to leave out the back door. Making noise to that effect, while I crept back into our bedroom and hid behind our open door. Karen looked up at me. I wanted to ask her again if she was okay. I almost could not do this. But I persuaded myself it was almost innocent, contriving for Frenchy to see my wife naked like this. Like it was an accident.

Frenchy did not disappoint me. He did what I thought he would. When Karen did not return, he came to look for her. I heard him approach. Karen looked up as he came to the open doorway. I spied him through the gap along the doorjamb. He grinned. He said: "Mom!"

Karen stood up, as I had asked her to do, and looking into his eyes, which fixed on her hands, she pushed her underpants to her ankles, presenting herself naked to him, and dropping her arms at her side. She looked at him sheepishly, searchingly, a flickering anxiety, but revealing a yearning, but said stupidly: "I was going to take a shower." And looked down at her own nakedness, her nipples showing her true feelings, and put an arm across her chest out of a ineffectual shame. She did not look up until he spoke.

He took time looking her over, grinning.

Finally, almost stepping into the room, he said with a gesture toward her nakedness: "You ought to go with no clothes on all the time."

She looked back at him sadly, then glanced at me, and her glance gave me away.

Frenchy saw me in the gap along the doorjamb, but quickly looked back at my naked wife and said: "You want to come out and play, Mom?"

Karen shook her head. She covered herself with both hands now. "Okay," Frenchy said. "Later . . . ."

He glanced back at me through the crack of the door and winked. He left. I shut the door. I took Karen in my arms and walked her backwards to lie on the bed and fucked her. I fucked her twice.

I do not know why it did not occur to me what was going to happen next. The immediate thrill was the titillation of seeing my wife stand completely naked in front of another man, in this case almost a boy, who stared at her naked, her pouty pointy tits excited for him, her hairy cunt showing a randy slit ready for him. And she, not altogether reluctant, hiding how she wants him to see her naked. I was certain she did. She wanted to fuck. Soupy wet between her legs. She held me tightly as I fucked her. She came when I came. She said nothing when I was done. She went to the bathroom to clean up, going out the hall naked as she was.

I went out and down the back stairs and hurried to get the beer from the corner store as I had promised and I returned in maybe ten minutes by way of the front door, pretending I had just got back. Frenchy was watching TV on the sofa. He kept up the pretense too. I gave him a can of beer as I passed into the kitchen to put the six-packs into the refrigerator. Karen was making supper. She was dressed again in her short shorts and had put on one of my T-shirts; I could see she had not bothered to put her bra back on. She looked at me guiltily. I wondered about that look, but I supposed it had to be because of what I had just made her do. I had not been gone so long that something else could have happened while I was gone? Was I gone that long? But then how long would it take to give her a quick fuck if he'd caught her going naked down the hallway?

I had to know. I asked her: "Did he touch you?" She looked at me with shock and indignantly. She shook her head but she also obviously blushed and she looked away: "You know." I was confused but then Frenchy sauntered in and sipping his beer asked what was for supper. She smiled at him, still blushing, and said: "What do you want?"

He said: "You know what I want."

She looked away and said: "I mean, what do you want for supper."

He winked at me. I ignored it. I got myself a beer and sat and watched them. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned and trying to kiss her mouth, because she turned her face away, he kissed her cheek. "Anything you want," he told her. She dodged away from his caress as his hand fell on a breast, and he saw what I saw and said: "You aren't wearing a bra . . . ." He came over to where I sat and whispered so as to be half-heard: "I can see your wife's nipples." He stepped back to see my reaction. "Don't that bother you?"

I still pretended nothing had happened, that I had not heard him, or did not know what he was talking about. He turned and cupped and squeezed a cheek of her bottom, slipping his fingers up underneath her shorts, to feel the naked crease of it, and walked away, throwing me another wink.

I asked her again: "What happened?"

She turned and looked at me with a red-face, obviously very angry and obviously incredulous. She said: "It's what you wanted . . . ." And she began to cry, and turned away, and when I tried to comfort her she shrugged me off. She sniffled and washed a head of lettuce in the sink: "Leave me alone." She sulked. So I left her and went to sit with Frenchy.

It was an awkward long time sitting there. But not that long, because Jon came home and he announced that he had seen a couple guys that Frenchy knew down at the Red Barn and wanted to know he wanted to come out with them.

Frenchy said it was almost dinnertime, and Jon said: "Shit."

"No really," Frenchy said, "Mom's making dinner." Karen had heard Jon come in and was setting the dinning room table.

"So-the-fuck-what?" Jon said.

Karen looked exasperated and was picking up the place settings in a pique, but Frenchy came in and said: "Mom. . . Mom . . . it's okay . . . "

He motioned to Jon. Jon cursed and followed him. They went into their bedroom and had a talk. I can guess what he told him.

Meanwhile, I got worried about the whole thing and told Karen she should put on some different clothes. She almost threw a spoon at me, but she went to the bedroom and slammed the door.

Jon and Frenchy came out, joking, and grabbing beers before they came back to the living room. Frenchy asked: "Where's Mom?" Jon piped in: "Yeah, I want to see her too." Frenchy winked at him.

I said: "She's changing her clothes."

Karen did as I asked. She always would. She'd decided to give me what I wanted and put on a blouse and skirt, as well, looking like she was dressed for work.

Seeing her, Frenchy asked: "Where are you going?"

She looked at me, peeved, and then replied sharply: "He thought I was not dressed decently."

Frenchy laughed. "Hey, Mom, I liked you better the way you were before . . . You know . . ." He winked at me. She blushed. I suppose I blushed too. Jon got the joke; he laughed with Frenchy.

"What's for dinner?" I changed the subject.

Frenchy said he would help "Mom." And Jon and I sat on the sofa to wait. Actually it made me nervous, Karen being alone with Frenchy, and Jon sat looking at me wisely and nodding and saying things under his breath. He said: "I don't believe it." I said: "What?" He said: "You know."

"What?" I said again. He laughed, " That don't bother you?"

 I said again: "What?"

He shook his head. He sat forward on the sofa. He leaned to look at me closely. "Guys seeing your wife without her clothes on . . ." He squinted at me, cocked his head. "Or maybe you like that."

I did not know what to say. "What guys?"

"Any guys . . . my friends . . . You want them to?"

I pretended I did not understand. He shook his head.