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.

Installment 3 - - - Dinner and a Show

Frenchy announced dinner was served. Karen had made another hot dish. It really was too hot for this. Everybody sweat as they ate. Once again Frenchy elaborately complimented Karen's cooking, and we all knew he was talking about something else entirely. "I really want my friends to come over to get of some this," he said, winking at Karen.

She blushed. She knew what was up. So did I. I began to feel almost sick. I could not eat. I was too hot to eat anyway. I got another beer. Again, leaving them at the table with her alone made me feel queasy. What did I think was going to happen? I did not know. I felt already things were out of control.

When I came back they had been leaning in at her where she sat, whispering to her; they backed off when I returned. Karen was flushed and looked anxious. She was perspiring of course like the rest of us. Frenchy said: "I think she's too hot in those clothes, Dad."

I ignored him. Jon laughed, studying my indifference and Karen's anxiety with an evil intention.

I said I needed to study. Karen looked at me pathetically. She really was unhappy but she said nothing. Frenchy said he would help Karen wash the dishes. Jon said he would too.

I had to keep up the pretense, so I went to the bedroom, but ten minutes was an hour and a half-an-hour was long enough that I might have missed the whole thing. My mind was like a speedway. It roared with thoughts and images. I imagined things I wanted and things I said to myself I didn't, but things I probably did or I would not have obsessed on them. I got a hard-on that I tried to suppress but squeezed in spite of myself. On the need to get another beer I came out to go to the kitchen but took the long way 'round, and walked up through the dining room to go to back the kitchen and get another beer. And I saw they had not cleared the table. They were not doing dishes. The TV was on.

It was getting to be twilight. The living room was a little dark and the glow of the TV bathed the sofa where the two boys sat raptly looking at my wife who stood before them in front of the coffee table in the center of the living room.

I was certain what it meant. I stepped back so that I would not be seen. I listened but could not clearly hear. Frenchy was telling her to undress, I was certain. Jon said nothing. She was not arguing. She said something. She looked at the floor sadly, fixedly. Frenchy continued to talk to her, sitting forward on the sofa, his elbows on his knees. Jon sat forward. Karen turned to look at the side of her skirt, in my direction; I could see her intensity. She could have seen me. But she did not. She was undressing. I felt sick with anxiety and more than this I wanted her to do it.

Her skirt dropped to the floor, splashed about her feet, her bare legs bathed in the glow of the TV. She looked at them and then slowly she was taking off her blouse and revealing that she had put back on her bra, as I had told her to do. And in an instant she stood before him in her white bra and underpants, looking at them sadly but intently, while Frenchy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, speaking sweet encouragements to her.

Jon saw me. He laughed. Karen surprised, half-turned to see me, but she was not as surprised to see me, as I was to see her. She seemed more dazed, or confused. Jon leapt off the sofa and grabbed a chair from the table. "Just in time, Dad," he said.

Frenchy had got up and came around the other side of the coffee table to take Karen's hand and help her step out of the heap of her clothes. She had already taken off her shoes. She was in white stocking feet, white bra, white underpants, underpants like little girls wear, high-waisted cotton whites. She tripped and dragged her skirt as he drew her out of the heap of them. He drew her over to stand in the center window, the larger picture window. The curtains were drawn, daylight fading, the sky glowed with early dusk. The setting sun shining in on her gave her that glow.

John brought and turned the chair about so that its back was against the wall and underneath the window, right in the middle of it. Jon went to a side window and called out. He talked to some boys in the yard as I guessed. I recognized names he used.

Frenchy was at the other window talking down too. Karen folded her arms and peered down while glancing at traffic on the street. She could see the boys they were talking to. They saw her. They called out about it. 

Frenchy laughed at what they said, which I could not hear from where I stood. I stepped under the archway between the living room and dining room, behind my wife. Frenchy said to the boys in the yard: "Yeah, she's always taking off her clothes for us. You wanna see my Mom take off her clothes?"

There was a general loud approval of this idea. Karen put her hands down. She looked at Frenchy who in turn looked at her and said, grinning: "Okay, Mom . . . Get up on the chair." Jon approached her for intimidation, I supposed; she put a hand up to resist him but he took it and pulled it and yanked her toward the chair. She complained: "Frenchy . . . .Please . . . . No. . . ."

This got to me then. I was in the room. She knew I was in the room. She had seen me. But it was not to me that she appealed. It was to Frenchy. He was in charge. Jon had an obvious hard-on. Frenchy's own dick was thickened and made a tent in his front of his underpants. I put my hand in my pants to shift my erection. I did not care if they saw.

Jon slapped Karen on her bottom. She flinched. "Please," Frenchy" she protested. But Frenchy said: "Get up on the chair, Mom . . . ." She put her hand to the back of the chair, looking down at the boys looking up at her. She stepped up onto the seat. She crouched as she stood, her hands clasped in front of her; her head turned to the street and the corner where the Red Barn. "They can see me . . . ." she whined. Frenchy said: "That's the whole idea, Mom."

"But . . . ." she protested. Jon stood behind her, his hand on the back of her legs. He insinuated his fingers into the crotch of her underpants. She looked at Frenchy, and back at Jon. Jon said to Frenchy: "She's already creamed herself, man."

Frenchy nodded: "Yeah . . . "

He called down: "See?. . . . I told you so . . . ."

They were not content.

"No . . . No . . . " he replied to them, "That's enough." Frenchy reached into the curtain and began to close them. The jeering got louder. He stopped when they were half-way. Frenchy was underneath the bobbling curtains taunting them. The room was darkened by the half-closed curtains, except for the patch where my wife stood on the chair in her underwear and bra, on display.

Jon was obviously fingering her vagina between her buttock, slipping fingers up into it from behind, while feeling his own stiff upright prick now pulled out over waistband of his jockey shorts, tucked down under his balls to free it. Frenchy was enjoying his tease. He turned inside the curtain and lifted it away. Seeing me, he laughed, then got a serious look on his face, almost a menace and looked up at Karen and said: "Turn around, Mom." He came out of the curtain and stood in front of her. She was half-crouched, covering herself with her hands.

He laughed at her and said: "We ain't gonna let you get down 'till you do it." He dipped down his jockey shorts now too and showed his prick to her. A long prick like his long body, and not yet half-stiff.

"Okay, Mom . . . You take off your clothes too . . . ."

Karen, whose gaze was on his penis, looked at his face now. He grinning, she sheepish, ashamed. She pleaded with him: "Frenchy . . . I can't . . . ."

He pulled his underpants back up and expressed his exasperation. "Why not? You did before . . . " He argued.

He was not going to quibble. He was tall enough and she was crouched so that he could easily reach up and taking hold of the straps of her bra he tugged slowly, grinning into her shocked and dismayed expression, while did not resist but mewled pathetically "Please . . . please . . . "

Frenchy coaxed her . . . . "Come on, Mom . . . you got nice tits . . . . The boys wanna see . . . ."

He was resolute and tugging firmly, her breasts spilled out and her bra was pulled forward drawn down her arms, she took her hands out of the straps as he complimented her, her droopy tits obviously teased up to sexual excitement. She straightened as he told her. He left the bra to dangle about her waist.

Jon stood aside to gawp at her. It is the size and color of her nipples that surprised him. Like those of a mom.

Frenchy looking at him said: "What did I say?"

"She's fat . . . " Jon said.

"No . . . well, maybe . . . but she's got great tits. . . . Look at 'em."

Karen looked at me now. I did not notice. I was staring at her "tits" too and the whole scene. Looking up I saw her expression. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Ready to cry. But also abject in her submission. Clearly she would do anything Frenchy asked. Frenchy looked up and said: "Now your underpants, Mom . . . Drop your underpants too . . . ."

She looked at him when he spoke. She did not respond. She looked like he'd slapped her face. Mouth-open. Speechless.

Jon said: "What the fuck, lady" and reached up and grabbed the waistband of her underpants and jerked her down to mid thighs, exposing her hairy pussy to us and her bare butt to the boys below. They cheered.

She began to shed tears from eyes open wide, looking at the floor. They felt no pity for her. And I am ashamed to say that I didn't either. I believe, in fact, for all her tears and whining she wanted this. She did not fight them. She wanted this.

Frenchy looked at her and nodded slowly with great self-satisfaction and turned to me and said: "She's real pretty, Dad . . . . I can see why you married her . . . ."

He looked back up at her where she had covered her face in shame and said: "Don't cry, Mom. I love you. I really do. I want you to be happy."

He looked back at me: "She like to suck cock?"

 "Chubbies are good cock-suckers," he told Jon, who had come back, feeling his dick inside his underpants, and nodded and added: "This is gonna be good." Looking up at my wife who pathetically looked at me, Frenchy agreed with a nod in return, and then looked at me where Karen was looking and asked: "You like this, Dad?" Karen looked angry then and turned her face away from me and would not look at me for the rest of the day, as a sort of punishment. Obviously she blamed me, but she had started this now; I had not asked her to do this; I'd found her stripping in front of them—so, what did she think was going to happen then? She was responsible for this too.

Frenchy winked at me and ducked his head back under the curtain and went back to taunting the boys below.

Karen wiped her eyes, sniffling, and put down her hands. She did not look at me. Flushed. Obviously aroused. She avoided my eyes. Ashamed of herself. Jon was looking at her from the side, studying her pointy nipples, the messy nest of pussy hair, masturbating himself. She knew this. She glanced nervously at his raw prick. I thought he was going to ejaculate. I think she did too.

The boys were still shouting and I heard some one say they wanted to see the rest of her. Frenchy went on teasing them. "What you think? Nice ass, don't you think? You guys wanna fuck her?"

They threatened to storm into the house. Frenchy looked at Jon and whispered: "Go lock the door." Jon went off to do as he was told, while Frenchy, stepping back and drawing the curtains wide again, looked up at my wife and said: "Okay, Mom . . . Turn around and show 'em all you got. Tits and all."

She hesitated. So Frenchy made a sharp slap to her buttock that startled her, and sounded with a crack, and made the boys below all cheer and laugh. She put her hand to where it stung and looked at me with an accusation of fault, and turned to face them, eyes closed, to show them.

For what seemed like several minutes, she stood on the chair in the window, facing her audience in the yard, almost naked—her bra pulled off her tits, her underpants at mid-thigh to expose her pussy. Her hands trembled at her thighs. But her ordeal lasted just a minute, if that.

When she opened her eyes, she looked down to see the crowd of boys grinning and gawking at her, and saw for herself how anyone else in the street below, any of the several cars passing, anyone walking by, even some across the street, as far away as the Red Barn on the corner, could see how she was naked in the window.

A car horn sounded. She reflexively covered herself and crouched on the chair below the window's edge and peered at the street.

Frenchy bent over in laughter. Jon tried to force Karen to stand up and display herself again. But she stepped off the chair and stayed crouched and when there came knocking at the door, Jon left her and Karen pulled her underpants back up and clutched her breasts with her hands to cover them and moved away from the window to the center of the living room where Frenchy came and put his arm about her waist. She turned toward the door as Jon let in a crowd of boys, all about the same age, all boys that we had met, friends of Jon's and Frenchy's. Frenchy grinned, to show off his naked "Mom."

With cheesy grins and wisecracking remarks, they shuffled in like boys who had been caught doing something wrong, but were not ashamed. Some looked plain astonished and bug-eyed, their eyes going up and down my wife's body. There were five or six of them; I did not count, but they filled the half of the living room where they stood craning to see my wife, muttering.