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 11—The Fifth Week—Wednesday: The Boys Get Paid and I Get Mine

Frenchy left in the middle of the night without saying a word to me. I did not see him go and I did not know when he would be back. 

Before he left he got Jon out of bed and brought him to Karen. He explained what he wanted her to do solemnly. She listened. Jon grinned. He said: "You do whatever he wants... I'll be back in a couple days." She looked worried. He laughed and kissed her. He told Jon to be nice to her.

Jon had no intention of being nice to her. No sooner than he left he pulled her out of bed. She was wearing only her underpants. Her hair uncombed, her face swollen with sleep. She blubbered but he hushed her and pushed her into the dark hallway. I did not hear them. I was exhausted and slept like the dead. Jon pushed her to the backdoor and down the back stairs to the door on the alley. It was cool outside. Moonless. But pools of lamp light in the alley showed them, as Jon shoved her along. She, holding her breasts with her hands, to cover them, and advancing only when pushed, hurting her bare feet on stones.

Jon brought her around the alley to the front of our street and the corner store where old man Hanson was still open, past midnight, with one of his buddies sitting on his stool in front of him, as he stood behind the counter.

Karen stumbled through the door into the well-lit store. Jon grinned at Hanson who looked at my wife happily. "Mrs. H****s, how nice to see you again?" He nodded toward her, glancing at his friend, "The little housewife I was telling you about..."

His friend grinned broadly and stood. "Yeah...." he looked her up and down, "Nice..."

Karen clutched her breasts, cowering. She refused to look at him. His eyes dropped to the crotch of her underpants and the hint of her sex.

Jon said, "Mrs. H****s here needs some cigarettes."

Hanson nodded. "Sure, sure..." He reached for the pack of Marlboros in the hanging shelf above his head.

"Two," said Jon.

"Sure..."

"You got money to pay for it?"

"Put it on account..."

"Sure..."

This was strange subterfuge, bringing my wife down to get the cigarettes he wanted. He wasn't afraid of abusing her, presenting her half-naked to the grocer. But he didn't dare to buy the cigarettes illegally. Hansen, though, said: "She ain't got to pay, if she'll strip for my buddy here."

Jon laughed and looked at my pathetic wife, whose head lowered in misery, half hid her flushed face in the curtain of messy fallen hair. He nodded, grinning, and said to Hansen he wanted a beer then too.

Hansen said: "Sure, sure..." He went down the aisle to the cooler. The old man, his friend, asked Jon: "Is she really your group home supervisor?"

"Mother..." said Jon.

"Mother?" said the old man."How old is she?"

"I dunno. Twenty-five? I dunno. Yeah, she's our Group Home Mother. Ain't you, mom?" He smirked at Karen who glanced away. Karen looked upset by the naming of herself, the exposure of her nakedness was worsened by being known for who she was. He explained it to the old man: "You know she does what any good mother does. She makes us dinner, washes our clothes,cleans the house, then if we want, we can tell her to take off all her clothes, and she does it whenever and in front of anybody we want, sucks till we cum in her mouth or lets fucks us any way we want. A good mom." Jon said proudly.

The old geezer shook his head. "And her husband knows?"

"Sure.." Jon grinned: "He likes to watch. When we make her take off her clothes for us, he sits and watches; he takes out his hard-on and jerks off... he shoots off just seeing her standing there naked in front of us. His idea...."

"Jesus..." the old man said, swigging his bottled beer.

"Yeah", said Jon.

Hanson came back and handed him a cold bottled beer of his own. "Okay," Hanson said. He winked at his friend: 'You're gonna like this."

Jon leaned at the counter with an elbow. "Okay..." He leered at my wife, then turned and looked at the old geezer and teased him "So, you wanna see her naked, huh?"

The old guy sat back on the stool. "She'll do it?"

"Sure," Jon bragged.

He looked back at my wife smugly. "Won't you, mom"

Karen said nothing.

"Drop the underpants, piggy."

Jon said my wife must be numb to it by now, stripped in front of so many now. She let go her breasts, dropped her hands and the old guy whistled at her tits and Hanson said: "Yeah, I told you..." My wife would later say it was like she was half-asleep. She felt no excitement, and felt only a little embarrassed. She did not hesitate but she was deliberately slow, pushing her underpants down, down her legs, bending over, to leave them lie on the top of her feet; then raised, looked up at the man for a glance to see his satisfaction and lust, and stood still, arms at her said, limply, fully naked for the old man to gawk at, who whistled another long whistle and commented in whispery voice: "Jesus, man... She ain't got no pussy hair... "

Hanson said, "Yeah I told you you'd like it..."

"I ain't never seen nothing like that... It looks like somebody just fucked her too."

"Yeah," said Jon, "She likes when we take turns."

"I'll bet," the old guy studied my naked wife, "It looks kinda sore."

"Nah..." said Jon, "We rub her cunt with some petroleum jelly... you know... Makes it feel better and easier to fuck her too..."

"Yeah, I can see that..." the old guy was astonished how pliantly my wife stood naked before them, underpants at her feet, face raised but eyes at the floor. She was aware of his gaze, but did not engage it.

"Maybe, she'd like to get fucked right now..."

"Yeah, sure," nodded Jon, "She sucks cock too...."

"No shit?"


"No shit," the old man said again in amazement.

"Yeah, really, no shit at all," Hansen laughed. It was a joke. He explained that Frenchy had promised to clean out her rectum with a douche and an enema before they brought her to the bar for her an all-nighter of repeated ass-fucking.

Karen shivered noticeably, folding her arms underneath her breasts; her nipples, as if cold, wrinkled and stiffened, aligning her forearms. The men commented again on her greased-up cunt lips. Jon downed the last of his beer. "Okay," he nodded at my wife.

Karen pulled up her underpants and clutched her bare breasts again. She glanced back at the old man curiously as she was turned when Jon shoved her toward the door.

On the way home Jon teased her about how she was just about known to everybody in the neighborhood, how he'd heard others talking about her. That's when they met these guys in the alley.

One thing led to another. There was no way they would let her go home without a little fun. Jon let them do somethings but not others. Mostly, they just expressed their surprise and delight at her humiliation. They called her a skank, although some said she wasn't bad. Jon said she was pig. He said she oinked when you fucked her butt. They took her to the park two blocks away. It was so late and so dark they were not to be seen.

In the park they stripped off her underpants for good and took turns kissing her and groping her and in the end they bent her forcibly over a park bench and spanked her. Hard. Smacking spanking. She made muffled whimpers but endured. They teased her nastly as they spanked her. Calling her "skank." Alternately spanking her and then finger fucking her with a wedge of fingers deeply. They spanked her untill her butt got hot and red from slapping it. "She cried real baby-girl tears," Jon would tell me. Then he told me how they stood behind her and finger-fucked her vigorously until she sobbed loudly and shuddered on their fingers. Collapsing to sidewalk when her knees gave out, they left her sobbing on all fours, laughing at the humiliation of her, taking away her underpants with them as a trophy. Jon said he helped her up and guided her out off the park when a car came by, catching her in its headlights. A horn honked and she suddenly frighted and ran off across the street in front of it. Jon chased her. She ran home. She did not lock the bedroom door. Jon found her under the covers and fucked her from behind while she lay on her side, covering her face with her hands.

I knew nothing about all this. I only learned about it when Jon taunted me later.

Everybody else got up late.  I made breakfast for myself.  I remember thinking, feeling sorry for myself,  that Jon was probably fucking my wife while I was sitting there alone, eating at the dining room table. Who did I have to blame for it, but myself?  But sitting there, obsessing about it, thinking of the days, I got an erection. Imagining his raw red boner poking her slick slit and she panting, she clasping the back of his head, she open-mouthed pulling him down to kiss her, and twisting, thrusting herself to take his erection harder and deeper.

Jon got up while I was doing dishes.  She got up right after him and went straightaway to the bathroom. I heard the shower run.  In my imagination I obsessed about her washing the cream of his cum out her swollen vulva.

Jon came out into living room in his underwear to eat his cereal—obviously still half-hard, obviously having fucked her; smug, he does not even look at me.  He turned on the TV.  He did not speak to me. 

 

He put down his bowl on the armchair and looked me over contemptuously.  He saw by my posture I was hiding my own erection. 

 

He demanded: "Who said you could get dressed?" 

 

I shook my head.  This was me, not Karen, he was talking to.  Why should he care? 

 

"Take your clothes off, dad."  He picked up his cereal bowl and began eating again as he watched me stand up. I knew what he wanted.  I felt I wanted it too.

 

I said: "I don't understand."

 

He said: "You will."

 

I took off my jeans.  I lifted the t-shirt over my head.  He stopped me.  He waved at me, gesturing.  "Go stand on the chair."

 

He meant the one in the window.  Stand there in my underwear.  My penis was thick, it was beginning to poke awkwardly.  He saw and nodded with a wicked grin.

 

But I didn't want to do it.  I was sure I would be seen.  I felt sick at the thought.  I didn't move.  I didn't reply.

 

Jon sighed: "If you do what I want, I'll let take a turn when we fuck your wife in the ass."

 

I was stunned.  My dick moved upright.  He laughed to see.

 

He repeated himself: "Do what I tell you.  When we do her in the ass, you can have a turn."

 

I looked toward the chair: "I can't do that. . ."

 

"Just go over next to it, dad. . . They won't see."

 

I saw that he was right or mostly right.  The window's frame touched my thighs below my crotch but from outside and below you could not see anything from that angle, except that I did not have a shirt on. 

 

He said with a whispering: "Take off your shorts, dad." 

 

As with all of the sexual things that I did or that Karen did, I cannot explain our humiliating submission.  It was not that Jon was so seductive or intimidating, although his instructions to us—nasty as they were, degrading as they were—felt forceful and compelling.  It was the extreme sexual tension of them, the gripping incessant concupiscence—what the dictionary calls "a compulsive desire of the lowest appetite contrary to reason." I think I had an erection more or less constantly, often as hard and urgent as I could stand it, or was in a state of immediate anticipation of an erection.  I think Karen felt the same, except when she was asleep, and even then restless in her sleep, she dreamt about it.

 

And so doing at last what Jon told me to, revealing my erection, so stiff, my scrotum tightened up, I looked out on the morning street and wanted someone—a pretty girl—to see it.  But there was no one there.

 

Jon said: "If you want them to see you, you have to stand on the chair."

 

If some girl had been out there, I would have.

 

Jon studied my hesitation.  He saw how I compulsively touched my erection, stimulating myself. 

 

He wondered as he watched me: "Can you lick your own cock?"

 

I turned to face him.  If no one else would see, he would see my erection.  And even that aroused me, I don't know why; perhaps because he looked at it so intriguingly, perhaps because he had an erection too and taken off his jockey shorts, feeling himself for me.

 

"Frenchy can lick his cock.  He can even get it in his mouth and suck himself off."  His eyes gleamed with the thought.  "I've seen him do it.  He likes it."

 

Feeling his penis tenderly, touching the head of it, he rubbed the slime of pre-ejaculate on his glans, causing it to look wet and inviting.  He asked me casually: "How 'bout you, dad?  Do you eat your cum when you jerk off?"  He licked his own fingers of the pre-cum he had rubbed on the head of his penis, his eyes gleaming, smiling seductively.

 

I made no reply.  "Come here," he said.

 

He lay sprawled on the easy chair, one leg draping the arm, his other on the floor, legs spread, feeling his erection.  I did not think how Karen might see this.  How Larry might come in.

 

He said: "Suck me and jerk off."

 

I knelt and took his penis in my mouth.  I liked it better than the first time.  The size of it.  Feel of it. I know I blushed like a girl. I felt ashamed but more aroused than ever.  I masturbated and getting more and more aroused was more and more passionate with my mouth on his penis.  I wanted him to come in my mouth and thinking of it, as I was feeling myself, I soon ejaculated.  He had been watching my masturbation and when I started to cum he pushed my head off his penis and told me to catch my cum in my hand.  I cupped my hand; I caught a pulse of it, the first having looped onto my knee where I had been crouched.   He said: "Eat it."  He said it urgently.  I was curious and still aroused.  I don't think I would have done it except for him and because of him.  I liked it.  It has a slimy cool feeling. Licking it, I tasted it and tasted the palm of my hand.  I was unsure of it.  But it tasted like his too.  He laughed at me.  He sat up and drew up his shorts.  I wanted to finish him, I wanted his in my mouth.  He saw my disappointment and laughed at me.  He got up. 

 

Karen was standing at the threshold of the kitchen fully dressed.  She had witnessed the whole thing, or at least, I saw by her expression, she had seen me sucking on Jon's dick, seen me masturbating, seen me catch and eat my cum while Jon beamed at her. She looked at me coldly.

 

She turned away when Jon approached her and went back into the kitchen.

 

I was more and more alienated from my wife.  My craven voyeurism of her humiliations, how she saw my obvious pleasure at her use by these boys, and now this—a second time—seeing me sucking this boy's penis and seeing my relishing my own masturbation, eating my own cum.  God, I do not know how we could stay married after this! Suddenly I felt profoundly ashamed and desolate. But even as I put my jockey shorts back on I still had an erection, and I trembled thinking of it all and I could taste my own cum in my mouth.  I put on my t-shirt.  I did not put on my pants. "I am as much their toy as she is," I felt.

 

I went to the bathroom; still steamy from her shower, I could smell the shampoo she had used and the talc she had put on her body afterwards.  I felt more poignantly in love with her at that moment than ever.  I felt more hopelessly lost from her than ever before.

 

I found her in the kitchen washing dishes. Jon sat at the breakfast table wearing nothing but his underwear.  She looked lovely.  Her face pink, hair freshly washed and brushed.  I sat next to Jon.  He was explaining to her the order of the day.

 

Frenchy would be back tomorrow.  He would be in charge until then.  He spoke matter-of-factly but he had a wicked glint in his eyes.  He liked to see our discomfort.

 

There would be visitors today, he said.  The boys were coming to be paid for the pot.  Since Karen liked the pot so much, he said: "I'm gonna give them you."  He laughed.  She did not turn.  She stopped washing the dishes.  She asked almost inaudibly: "How old are they?"

 

"Old enough to know what they want," Jon laughed.  He peeled a banana and started to eat it.  She washed dished.  He added: "I dunno.  Some are ten. Mostly in seventh grade.  What does that make them? Twelve? Thirteen? Some got hair on their dicks. Some get little stiffies.  Is that what you want to know?"

 

She sighed.  She said quietly: "I can't"

 

Jon laughed: "That's what dad said."

 

He looked at me mouthing his banana obscenely and biting it off to show the goo of it in his mouth.  Swallowed and replied to Karen: "You will do anything they want, piggy, or we'll strip you naked and spank your ass down the street."

 

"And send pictures to the PO," he added laughing, finishing the banana.

 

Karen did not reply.  My dick was hard at the thought.

 

Jon looked at me and said: "And I got something for you too."  I felt sick.  He meant me to do things with these boys?  I could not. I would not.

 

He winked, looking under the table to see my erection.

 

Finishing the dishes, Karen turned, her eyes teary.  She asked: "When are they coming?"

 

"I dunno," Jon shrugged, "When they get here."

 

Larry came in.  He wanted his breakfast, though it was nearly noon.

 

Karen set to her tasks as mother and housewife without complaint.  She was so kind to him and she looked so lovely just then, as I said; it added to my guilt to see her so sweet for Larry, though Larry told Jon as she was serving him again that he wanted her to suck him off.  He could not demand of it her.  He asked Larry or Frenchy when he wanted sex with her.  Then he did not look at her face.  He'd strip her of clothes without regard to her feelings, paw her tits, and did what he wanted, but he did not kiss her the way Frenchy did—Frenchy kissed her like a lover; but neither nor did he gloat wickedly over her embarrassed nakedness or smirk in satisfaction to raunchy sexual abuse he'd made of her, the way Jon did. He treated her like he might treat a cow he'd fuck.  

 

Finishing Larry's bacon and eggs, she stood by the table.  "Do I have time for a nap?" she asked.  Jon smirked, winked at me: "Kept her up."  Larry leered at her while eating eggs that dripped the runny yolk from the fork. 

 

"Sure, piggy," he said and watching her go, he said to me that he's not tired of fucking her yet and she can't get enough cock.

 

Everything he said was meant to make be feel small.  But I was preoccupied with his threat that I had to "treat" the boys too.   I did not ask him what he meant.  I did not want to know what he meant.  I considered leaving, but I wanted to see what the boys would do to my wife.  Sick bastard, that I was; I thought only of myself.

 

My wife went to bed feeling sick and exhausted.  In the days that followed, after the whole ordeal ended, she told me how she felt. The sex with the boys started out as a shock and humiliation, had progressed into a cynical self-abuse in which she relished how it humiliated me and even enjoyed the wild sex—as I could see for myself; she admitted how much she liked Frenchy fucking her, the feeling of his cock moving in her so deliciously obscenely full and deep, how senselessly and shamelessly she orgasmed, moaning the first time that he spent himself freely in her mouth, so warm and so much of it, tasting like milky gravy—she had wanted more and kept sucking till he laughed at her and stopped her—and then he and Jon took her off stumbling to our bedroom and tag-teamed her naked on our bed, fucking her every which way they could imagine, fucking her to the point of tearful exhaustion, so that she pathetically pled them to stop.  But it was that very first night that she was stripped of all her clothing by Frenchy in the living room for all the group home boys to see her naked—standing in the lewd lamp light naked in front of them—they grinning at her, leering at her—she will remember that night vividly, being completely naked to her bare feet for all them, breasts and vulva freely felt by all them; then, being taken repeatedly by all those boys in the living room, one after the other, so quickly, so urgently, so helplessly, had been a irrepressible passionate release of aching sexual longings that she had denied, which had been pent up since the first time she had had sex with me; our wedding bed, even some kinky moments, had only piqued her appetite and nothing had satisfied her sexually until that moment in the living room forced to fuck and suck all those boys; she described it as discovery of her self.  After that she was obsessed with the feelings of it.  She wanted more.  So the day after—when Frenchy had her stripped for Slider, his brother and his uncle, and then what she did with the dog, and later what Mr. Hansen did to her—she felt no restraint in herself, and she did not think I would stop them; they could do anything to her that they wanted to do and she would let them; she wanted them to force her.

 

She had seen my wallowing in her abuse; she despised me for it, though she felt ashamed and guilty for her own submissiveness.  She said she had been shocked seeing me suck off Jon, but thought that it was simply an abuse meant to match her own.  She had not thought I enjoyed it.  But when she saw me in the living room this morning, naked, crouching on the floor in front of the easy chair and sucking off Jon again, then receiving my own ejaculate into my hand and licking it off, eating it from my hand—she thought I was lost to her.  She thought she was alone and had no longer any escape, any way to refuse them anything; she thought I had become one of them.

 

I mention all of this partly to explain how isolated both of us were, how both of us had becomes victims of the boys, how both of us had become consumed sexually, compulsive to their whims, degradations, humiliations, and neither saw the other clearly. 

 

But I also tell you this by way of explaining how I did not see what the boys would do to my poor wife, because Jon separated us and busied me while she was abducted by them to another place.  I only learned about what happened to her several weeks after we both escaped and had had some time to heal, and rebuild out trust.  Of course she never completely healed and she never would love again, but I shall explain all that later.

 

About six in the afternoon a group of the boys arrived.  Five or six or seven clambering noisily up the stairs.  They did not all come in.

 

I was sitting in the living room. In the my underwear as Jon insisted.  No shirt. No socks.  The leader, Curtis, whom I had heard described to me, looked even younger looking than I expected, skinny, in white t-shirt and dirty jeans; his hair was a blond mop; he had fine pimples on his cheek. 

 

"That her husband?" he asked, seeing me.  "He knows what we're gonna do?" Curtis looked amazed, looking back and forth between us.  Jon laughed, nodding: "Yup." 

 

"You know what we're gonna do, mister?" he paused between the sentences, waiting to see my response.  "To your wife?" (Pause) "We're gonna take off her clothes. "(Pause) "I mean we're gonna take off all her clothes, man."  (Pause)  "In front of these boys here."  (Pause, gesturing at the grinning gang.)  "Take off all her clothes and keep her naked so we can all get a good long look at her without no clothes on."  (Pause) "Play with her titties and like that."  (Pause)  "Don't you care?" (Pause) Studying my face, I remained impervious.  Cool.  But I am sure I looked as sick as I felt.

 

"What's wrong with you, man?" he sneered at me.  Almost all the boys in the group looked at me contemptuously, like I was some old drunk on the street.  Some looked worried.  Some looked like they were afraid they'd get in trouble for this.  But who was going to tell? And who would they tell?

 

"Where is she?" Curtis asked.  Jon took him to our bedroom to wake her. 

 

The other boys waited.  I had no desire to do anything sexual to or with these boys.  I would not do it.  For their part they were not interested in me.  They self-consciously ignored me, looking about the room, though there was little to see.  A couple came in to stand and watch the TV while they waited, a cluster of others talked among themselves near the front door.  They were, like Jon had said, not more than twelve, eleven years old, but had a hardened look about the eyes, like street kids do.  They thought of adults as enemies, but this was a chance they would take.  Frenchy had told me that they'd seen Playboy pictures and the like, but none of them had ever seen a woman with all her clothes off, face-to-face and in person in front of them; and none had ever even seen a woman's bare tits until my wife had been forced to show hers to them the other day.  So this was a big event for them.  It was worth the $75 dollars that they would have gotten for sale of the pot they gave Frenchy.

 

Curtis came out and spoke to the cluster and the two in the living room joined them to huddle up and scheme.  Karen came out with Jon behind her, holding her shoulders, guiding her like a robot into the room.  Bewildered, a bit damp from lying in the heat of the bedroom in her clothes, she looked sleepy, uncomfortable and unhappy. 

 

She was dressed as she had been, skirt and blouse like she might wear to her parents house, her hair a bit tousled from sleep, a sleep mark on her face where she had laid, so exhausted that she had not moved for hours.

 

Curtis stepped out of the huddle: "Tell her to take off her blouse."

 

"You heard 'em," Jon told her. He shoved her forward into the room.  She stumbled.  Her rude mistreatment—a model for how they should handle her which they quickly learned—caused the boys to snicker and poke each other and comment and caused her to feel her humiliation afresh, causing her a vivid blush, and causing for me a sharp pang of sexual anticipation. 

 

It had been how long now since I had coaxed her to present herself naked to Frenchy? Saturday. This was Wednesday. Just four days?  And now here she was commanded by an insolent little twelve-year old boy to take off her clothes.  And she would do it too!  

 

She did not reply to him, but unbuttoned her blouse slowly as they eagerly watched.  She drew it off slowly, as they made comments to each other, and dropped her blouse to the floor.  She faced them frankly, looking at them without emotion but revealing her humiliation, her hands inanimate at her sides trembled, waiting for the inevitable instructions to take off all her clothes for them.

 

"Do the skirt, lady," said Curtis, pointing at it, grinning, enjoying his power over her. She looked up at him poignantly—if he could have felt pity for her (which he did not).  And again without resistance or reply, if a little hesitant, she fingered about to find and, taking in a breath, twisted to unbutton the waist, unzipped the side of her skirt, and lowered her skirt to step out of it, leaving it to drape on the floor at her side, falling from of her hand.  She stood, brushing back her hair, looking over the tops of there excited faces; standing in her white cotton big-girl panties, her plain white J.C. Penney's bargain-basement bra, her white bobby socks—and once again no shoes; she looked like some high school girl.  In that fantasy they had all had.  Shoved out from the girl's locker room in front of the boy's gym class.  With the teacher gone.  Trapped.  Prey for them.

 

Her skin had the gleam of sweat on it.  She pressed her hands to the front of her thighs.  Curtis nodded: "Okay... that's good.  Come on...."

 

She did not understand.  Neither did I.  He held open the door.  "Come on..." he repeated with annoyance.   He looked to some boys standing by, who had not gone out ahead of him, also looking uncertain: "Go on... Grab her and let's go."

 

Karen was taken by her two hands, pulled by four, arms drawn out, not resisting but not cooperating, to the door and then out of it.  I heard them on the stairs.   Jon went after and called down the stairs: "Bring her back by morning."  He returned and shutting the door, laughing, said to me: "They're gonna have a good time with her."

 

He changed the TV channel from what I was watching and said: "I 'spose you're sorry you can't watch 'em.  I kinda wanna see what they'll do to her too." 

 

I was sorry to miss the show, but I was also relieved that I had not been included in the sex games.  It had made me nauseous to think of it.  But I was not to be neglected.  Jon had other plans.

 

It was past suppertime.  Jon said no more but called for Larry who came out of the bedroom (where I 'spose he had been jerking off to magazines—later he would have Polaroids of my wife).  Jon gave him ten bucks and said: "Go see a movie."  Who knows what he did? But he left the house and I did not see him until the next day.  Jon left the living room, left me alone; I heard him on the phone.  When he came back he had dressed in his jeans, still bare-chested and barefoot, but it made me wonder.  Who had he called? Why did he get dressed? 

 

After eight o'clock it was beginning to be twilight.  Karen still was not home.  They had had her now for two or so hours.  I began to worry.  I asked Jon if he knew where they had taken her.  He shrugged. 

 

A little after that came the noises of the kids climbing the stairs.   I assumed—I guess I hoped—that it was the boys with Karen.  But when the door opened it was group of girls.  One, who was taller than the others, I recognized, it was Jon's girlfriend.  The others were younger.  Three of them: teeny-bopper—too old for dolls, too young for dating.  Spent their days in fantasy on over-sweet romances and barely disguised curiosity about sex.  Not like the boys who had my wife, who were explicit in their fantasies.  These girls would hardly speak the words out loud, even if they had the thoughts.

 

They collected at the door.  They were looking at me cautiously.  They were whispering behind their hands while glancing at me. In shorts and short-sleeved shirts, pony-tails that held back their hair for the heat.  One was a bit tubby with dimples, shapeless, shy and blushing, almost seemed to try to hide behind the other two, though she was too big for that.  The other two were shorter than her, skinny legged, cute, also shyly spying at me while I tried to ignore them.  High small breasts in cupless training bras.  The tubby one was plainly flat but also obviously wore a training bra to be like her more sexually mature skinnier friends.  But her hips were widening, while the two skinny ones still looked like little girls about their waists and hips.  All of them, except Jon's girl, had tan legs from hanging out at the pool most of the summer.

 

Giggly. All of them giggling.  Including Jon's girl who said something about me, I was sure.  But the way she looked at me, looked at me sitting in nothing but my jockey shorts.  Seeing me in my underwear was funny to them.  And awkward and embarrassing for me.  I put a throw pillow over my lap.

 

Jon's girlfriend joined Jon at the threshold of the hallway when he got up to greet her and he pulled her by the hand down the hall way as she was about to speak.  Out of sight, I could hear them talking but could not make out what they said.  The girls at the door were clustered there just as the boys had, looking at me from the same space that the boys had looked over at Karen.  It was unsettling. 

 

I tried to ignore them, though I was self-conscious.  When I reached for a beer on the coffee table, the throw pillow slipped off to the floor in front of the sofa and they giggled.  They were watching me.  I did not want to call attention to it, so I did not pick up the pillow.  I felt uncomfortable.  I guessed that Jon was hooking up with his girlfriend.  When he came back in, he introduced her to me, or actually, he nodded at me and said: "That's him."   She looked back at her girlfriends and nodded at them and toward me and said: "Come on, you wanted this . . ."  

 

Jon said by way of explanation: "Her sister.  Her sister's got a pajama party tonight."

 

They giggled stepping awkwardly into the pool of the floor lamp by the TV.  The short one was quite pretty.  They all smiled with embarrassment.  Jon's girlfriend, Shelly, referred to me as "that man."   No name.  No explanation of who I was.  Just "that man."  Her sister's name was Vicki.  I did not learn the names of the others.  They never learned my name, unless someone told them later.  It was not important.  They knew who I was by reputation.  They knew who I was by what was happening in the house.  Jon had told Shelley and Shelley had told her sister and her sister had told her friends and so they had got this idea to have a "pajama party" and to sneak over to the Group Home after dark.  It was their idea, Jon later insisted.  

 

"Stand up," he told me.  "Let them sit on the sofa."  Confused and embarrassed by his request, but after all it was the better manners to let them sit—I was going to leave the room but he insisted that I stay.  He said: "They came to see you."

 

They seemed just as embarrassed as I, blushing, taking their seats hesitantly.  Shelley, looking at me, looking at my half-swollen cock in my jockey shorts, whispered to her sister who looked at me—looked at the same place—and whispered back.  I saw then that all the girls were fixated on my protuberant penis and my jockey shorts.  But I still did not understand.  And I felt largely more embarrassed and awkward than anything sexual.  I did not anticipate.  I did not guess.

 

Jon then just said it plainly: "Shelley says her sister and her friends want to see your boner."

 

The word was funny to them.  They burst out laughing and Shelley hit Jon's arm for telling it to me.  

 

I did not respond.  I could not comprehend.  It was a joke.  He meant to tease me.  To embarrass me. I was going to leave.  Jon stepped up into the archway, blocking my way, although I did not step his way; but I had turned and for that reason he had moved to discourage me.  But again I was mostly confused until again he just said it plainly: "Take those off." He pointed at my jockey shorts.

 

"Go on..."  He directed me.  "Stand over there." He pointed to the center of the room in front of the coffee table, where I should face the three girls squarely.  "They wanna see."

 

I did what he said uncertainly.  I did not say anything.  Again, I cannot explain myself.  But seized again by the pang of sexual urges, gnawing craving for feelings of it.  Thinking back on it now, I feel ashamed.  But at the time I rationalized even as I felt the anxious urge to submit to this; again, not thinking of consequences or of the succession of cause and effect that I was falling into.

 

I drew my undershorts down in front of these girls; my penis, already swelling, snagged on the elastic of my jockey shorts and snapped up, bobbling half-hard and pointing out toward them.  Jon's girlfriend, Shelley, laughed out loud, her hand to her mouth.  The three younger ones gasped and giggled, all goggle eyed. I took my underwear all the way off, stepping to the side of them.

 

Now thickening and hardening, my penis lengthened and now slowly rose, getting larger. Like a thing with its own mind.  Its own life.

 

As my penis swelled it rose and moved oddly.  Sideways, and upwards.  It jerked and bobbed, causing the wide-eyed girls to comment with embarrassed realizations that it was their attention that was arousing me.  And it is true that I as I followed their gazes fixed on my penis it did arouse me, hardening my erection, rising up in steady throbbing from my tightly clenched scrotum, so that soon it arched stiffly upwards, standing up at an acute angle against my belly, wooden, straight, larger by three times.  My circumcised knobby glans darkened, thick, swollen on the head of it, like a plum.  They were fascinated.  They were also deeply embarrassed. They covered their faces to not look at it, but they parted their fingers and could not take their eyes off it

 

I was not sure what to do.  I wanted to touch myself.  My cock tensed and bobbed reflexively and they laughed to see it moving teasingly, like it was sensitive to their gaze, which in fact it was.  Seeing these girl's naive stares study at my penis so keenly made it involuntarily tense and bob, jerking for them as they giggled in shocked amusement, they pretended disgust at the sight of the obscene thing, and Shelley teased them to get closer. I could not help but touch myself. 

 

Jon told me to get up on the coffee table, to stand closer them. 

 

Again, I cannot tell you how I gave in to these things.  I was enslaved to my own sexual cravings.  I would let him make me do anything. 

 

The girls sat back in the sofa and bunched together as I stood up on the coffee table.  Feeling my penis with my hand instinctively.  Feeling the edge of ejaculation approaching, wanting it and wanting to prolong it. I faced them, looked at them; they huddled together on the sofa staring up at me, at my erection. Glittery eyes.  Mixing wonder with embarrassment.  Mixing desire with repulsion.  By the expression on their  faces I saw that they could not decide if my erection was attractive or disgusting. 

 

Shelley knew of course that her sister was innocent about sex.  She had told her things.  She had told her about erections.  She had told her about ejaculations, but she knew her sister had never seen such things, even in pictures.  And how can you imagine such things?

 

Shelley saw and understood my readiness to ejaculate.  She said: "Don't do that."  I took my hand away from myself.  The little girls of course laughed, thinking she was reprimanding me for my naughty touching. 

 

My erection jerked.  They saw the bead of pre-cum seep from the head of it.

 

Jon said: "What's that?" Mocking me. 

 

Shelley laughed.  The girls looked at me almost anxiously. Shelley tilted her head and teased me: "Eat it." I did what she said. The girls looked shocked. I did it a second time when more appeared.  I did it a third time. The girls were speechless. 

 

Shelley took charge.  She commanded me to get on my hands and knees on the coffee table, sideways to the girls, so that my erection hung, but stuck out beneath me, and of course it reflexively stiffened and relaxed, stiffened and relaxed so to amuse them, again their hands to their open mouths, and again the pre-cum seeping out glistened on the head of my penis, but now some ran the slitted hole of it along the underside of my erection part way and a clear drop dripped off to the table top.

 

Shelley sat down on the sofa between her sister and the two others and joined them to study and mock my erection.   She told them I was not as big as many, but bigger than some.  She asked them if they wanted to touch it.  She said they should.  They shook their heads in pretended horror but. fascinated, watched as Shelley leaned forward and I felt her small cool hand pulled down my erection and let it go so that it sprang back and slapped against my belly, and waggled. 

 

Repeating this, Shelley laughed and the girls leaned closer also laughing. 

 

Now taking hold of my erection she drew it out sideways and let go of it so that it sprang back sideways; of course causing it waggle and stiffen to stop and then jerked reflexively.

 

Turning sideways to her sister Shelley said to her: "Go on..." 

 

She was hesitant and at first merely feeling me with her fingertips.  Then the chubby one did it also, taking her turn, very gently but curiously touching me.  I felt her fingers feel the head of my penis, she felt the wetness there with her fingertips. The other girl sat back with her hands pressed between her legs, watching the game intently.  Then I felt Vicki, the younger sister, pull my erection sideways toward her and let it go and again it waggled and again stiffened up.   They each did it.  They laughed as they did it.  They did it several times now excited in girlish laughter so see how it waggled so silly and stiffened up in response.

 

I could not help myself.  When they had toyed with it this way for several minutes, when it waggled back and stiffened, I suddenly ejaculated.  My erection seemed to explode my cum; I gasped; the first of it spurt a shot, spattering a line of cum across the table under me; a second spurt came quickly after; the girls squealed and jumped back in astonishment. Then my cum flooded out of my erection in several repeated pulses, flowing from the head in gooey masses of the stuff, drooling off the head of the penis in syrupy lengths to the tabletop. Pooling there. Pulse after pulse.  Making a pearly, viscous puddle of it, contrasting to the dark faux wood grain.  And I with my eyes shut milked myself for them, hands free, my cock rising and droping with the cum I tried to give them.  Red-faced.  Ashamed.  And never more aroused.  And as my dick softened and shrank and the last of cum oozed at the head and dripped off,  I openned my eyes and turned to look at them and I saw that they had all watched my ejaculation eagerly, not with disgust but astonished pleasure.  Shelley's eyes shone.  The three girls fixed on the creamy ooze at the head of my penis, mouths agape, eyes-wide.  So I did not get soft.  The attention kept me aroused.  I was soon stiff again. 

 

Jon told me: "Lick it up!" I did not need to turn to see his face.  I knew that grin.  Shelley glanced at him with a wicked knowing look.  The girls seemed confused.  I had lost the edge of my excitement; I would have to do it coldly.  Still, my erection remaining, the excitement of the audience of girls teasing me sexually, I did it for them.  Shamefully.  Edging off the end of the coffee table.  Kneeling over it, lowering my face to it. Looking as I did it. I put my mouth where it had pooled.  I slurped it.  Cold.  Tasting also of the tabletop.  The girls whined: "Eewww!"  Mocking me in disgust for what I did, but also pleased to see me do it.  I licked the rest with my tongue.  I have never been more humiliated nor more excited.  I would stand up then again.  Too ashamed to look at them but aware how their eyes darted to my mouth and back to my erection. 

 

Shelley said: "Do it again."

 

 

 

Meanwhile, my wife in her ordeal felt much the same as I did, she would later tell me.  I never did admit to her what I had done, but I think that Jon told her.  In fact I am sure he did.  He would want to.  But she never asked me about it. 

 

On the other hand I was obsessed to know all that happened to her and in the days that followed our escape I insisted that she tell me everything and I was so fixed on knowing details I think—well, I know—she must have understood that I had not given up my compulsions to see her sexually enthralled and humiliated by these boys.

 

They forced my wife in her underpants and bra and stocking feet out of our front door, into the sunlight, blinking, and moved her by the mob of boys shoving her around to the side of the house, not really wanting the neighborhood or the passing cars to see what they were doing with a women in her underwear in broad daylight.  It was funny for them.  They were laughing but they did not want to get caught or get in trouble.  They knew this was a naughty thing to be doing. 

 

Holding her in the cool shadows between our duplex and the apartment building next door, some went ahead to scout out the alley, to make sure there were no people or cars.  She shivered.  She told them she was cold.  They laughed at her.  Some pitied her.  Some felt uncomfortable about what they were about to do.  But Curtis told her she ought to be glad they didn't strip her. The scouts came back and said the way was clear.

 

I would have thought they'd take her to their clubhouse—the old garage they had but they had other plans.  There was another group waiting.

 

They led her quickly down the alley to a nearby apartment building on the same side of the block and guided her down some back stairs into the basement and down a dark hall into a laundry room where there was a crowd of boys waiting. She said there were twelve or fifteen altogether.  All boys of our neighborhood, all boys of the same grade in school, except for a few older brothers who had been invited.  The oldest was fifteen, as old as Larry.  A couple of these were that old.  But the rest were twelve or thirteen. 

 

The room erupted with yelling when she was brought in. It frightened her.  Perhaps it was meant to.  Some jeered her with obscene comments and teasing but others were complaining to Curtis and his gang.  They all had been waiting a long time in the basement, it turned out.  It was supposed to have started hours ago. But Curtis had come late because he had sales of pot to make and these had delayed him.  He shouted back at them, he gave as good as he got.  He shoved my bewildered wife ahead of him toward a darkened corner of the room that had been prepared for her. 

 

A plain kitchen chair sat there, against the corner, its back touching the two walls.  And a bare 100-watt light bulb overhead was unlit; it had dangled over a workbench that the boys had moved aside.  An old woolen army blanket lay on the end of the workbench, folded neatly, and on top that, arrayed like instruments of surgery, several objects were placed beside each other—two plastic flashlights, a wooden chair leg, a wooden spatula with a rubber blade like she used with a mixing bowl.  She was so rushed to her place and turned so roughly for presentation to them that she did not see at once what they were. 

 

The boys had only quieted when Curtis said to their complaints: "Shut up.  She's here.  What the fuck do you want?"

 

Several groused they had to go home soon.  It was late.  He said:  "You'll all get a chance."

 

She felt cold.  The floor was cold.  Though it was hot outside, it was chilly in the basement and there were no window.  Curtis tugged hard on the pull-chain and snapped on the light overhead.  It swung like pendulum, making silhouetted shadows to rock on the walls.

 

Curtis was annoyed and grabbed her arm, squeezing it hard enough that she said: "Ow!" He did not explain he just shoved and nodded.  He wanted her to stand up on the chair. 

 

She had no resistance left in her.  She felt ashamed of herself but did not know how she could refuse him.  She put her hand of the back of the chair and as she stood up on it the boys in the room became silent.  She turned toward them.  They had sat on the floor like school kids for storytelling, cross-legged, all eagerly look up. Except the two fifteen year olds, who stood back the door, smirking, speaking secrets to one another, or perhaps watching the hallway for intruders.  Curtis looked up at my wife with self-satisfied pride.  She was his prize.  She was his to use. He saw she looked cold.  She clasped her arms across her belly.  Hunched, because she was cold, she seemed more vulnerable this way to all of them.   Curtis was pleased.  He could bully her.  She saw that look in him.

 

The boys were quiet as church.  Curtis looked her up and down: "Put your hands down."

 

She saw the threat in his half-raised hand if she did not do what she was told.  He had the same nasty look that Jon had.  Somehow he seemed even more ruthless and mean, because he was that much inferior in size and so he put on a haughty belligerence to keep his place. He swaggered.  He bragged.  He hurt people and liked it. 

 

He wanted to hurt her.  She saw that. He looked at her like he thought of her as someone he disliked.  She did not know why.  He would later say that she looked a lot like the female student teacher he had had last year, who had made him feel so stupid, who had called him stupid. This would be vicarious revenge.

 

When she dropped her hands, feeling intimidated by his manner, he said: "You gonna do anything we tell you to do."

 

She felt like she might cry.

 

He said: "First of all... We wanna see what your husband married you for..."The boys tittered. My wife was confused. "I don't understand."

Curtis grinned. The boys crowded him.getting closer to her bare legs. He had to shove them back. He turned back and looking up cocked his head and explained: "We wanna see you without no clothes on..." The boys tittered again and would not back away. They could touch her; they were that close. She clutched herself defensively. Visibly edged away.

"Yeah.. Show us... Take it off (pulling on the elastic of her underpants) ... socks too..."

My wife was shocked. But Curtis grinned maniacally at her. Nodding. "We already seen your tits, you know..." He turned to acknowledge the approval of the boys."Right?" The boys vocalized rudely. She was obligingly shocked and dismayed. The boys loved it. They jeered. Curtis said, "Strip, lady..." He liked the word. "Strip for the boys..." She hesitated. "You shown some of us your tits... So, it ain't nothing now. Show us the rest... we wanna see all of it... what you look like... with all your clothes off... tits and pussy... and all... naked ... We just gonna look, you know... just wanna see you what you look like... then, you can go..." The boys tittered again. Curtis reached up for her underpants and tugged them so her hip exposed. She resisted, pulling it up.

"Really," he said, "You gotta do it... We paid for it... You gotta do it... they paid too... (he gestured at the eager boys)... you know, to see you, without no clothes on, that's the deal... Come on... Let's see it..." He touched the crotch of her underpants.

 

She looked uncertainly at him, cowed and worried; she looked plaintively at the boys. She asked absurdly, "But why?" They laughed. Curtis wisecracked:"Why you think?"

 

"Oh, come on, they ain't never seen a real live woman like you, naked and showing it all. They just wanna look at it. You know." Then Curtis stepped back and told the boys to sit; they did, like a classroom of students. Curtis stood among the sitting boys, standing among them where they sat, like the teacher above them, he laughed at her sneeringly, then gestured at her and said: "Come on, lady. It's okay. Just take them things off ... Let'us get a good look... Okay?""

 

She felt a hot flush of shame and anxiety.  She hesitated in response.  She looked at him as if to beg but could not speak; there was no point. One twelve-year old boy took up the menacing chant, menacing as he urged: "Make her strip, Curtis! Make her strip..." Not loudly.  But insistently.  Hissing.  "Yeah, you gotta make her strip!" Another said from another quarter. The boys crowded her where she stood on the chair.

 

For reasons of sheer emotion, feeling suddenly so helpless and frightened, or so ashamed and debased, or because she wanted to take off her clothes, she closed her eyes and let trickles into tears—literally she said—tears trickled down her cheeks as she looked out at the boys leering like animals, complaining. Threatening her.

 

She shook her head but Curtis put his hand up.  The boys stopped.  Curtis looked at her seriously.  He said it quietly and firmly: "Do it, lady. Take your clothes off."

 

Her hands felt cold on her own skin as trembling and nodding at him, sobbing a silent assent, sniffling tears that she tried to stop by will.  Looking up at the bare light bulb (so as not to see their leering expectations) blinking tearfully at it's harsh glare, she reached behind herself and she unfastened her brassiere and first hesitating as it popped loose, she drew the right strap of it off with her left hand crossed in front of her, with a slow deliberate stroke, and felt it slide sidewise and loosely down one arm and then the other arm, dropping away, exposing her breasts for the boys.  Her brassiere fell limply to the floor in front of her.  The boys said nothing.  Silence.  They stared at her tits.  She held her hands in the air while they stared, eyes glittering tears.

 

Curtis smugly approved: "Nice tits."  A titter of agreement rolled through the boys looking up at her, whose angle of view gave her tits and her florid nipples the more large and lewd appearance and sexually aroused them.

 

Curtis then looked down at her crotch and said: "Now . . . Your underpants, lady. Take off your underpants... " He laughed. The boys laughed too.  She saw his leer, the leer of others too; it gave her a sexual pang. Sighing and looking down at herself as she did it, she nodded and slipped fingers into the waist band of her underpants at both sides of hips and drew them down, frontwise to the tops of her thighs, tugging to show them what they wanted to see, glancing up to see how their eyes followed her hands to see her shaved vulva revealed for them, heard their surprise, their whispers, and leaning pushed her underpants to her feet and stepped out of them, stepping on them as they lay on the seat of the chair.  She straightened brushing back the hair from her flushed face and again her tears flowed on her cheeks. Sobbing she bent over and stripped off her socks as well and threw them angrily at the floor. To be completely naked for them. Abject in her surrender to them, but feeling offended, ashamed and debased. She said: "Okay?" Curtis said: "Yeah!" The boys giggled. She glared at them through tears.

 

She brushed back her hair, still crying, sniffling, wiping her tears. She looked at out them, their eager gaze on her nakedness, and shuddering a last sob, she closed her eyes. She said she stood naked on the chair this way, catching up a breath, wiping her cheeks of tears, not wanting to see their leers anymore. But still she did not cover herself, and she stood this way self-consciously for what must have been a long time, facing them, aware of them, but not opening her eyes to see them staring at her nakedness.  They for their part they gazed with fixation on her tits, on her shaved slit and her plump cunt lips, the whole of her naked torso with its soft protruding belly, rounded thighs, her navel deep as a thimble: all of her pretty pudgy nakedness from blushing face to stocking feet. Completely naked for them but for her wedding ring on the hand that touched her naked thigh which reminded them of who she was—someone's wife, not some slut, a woman reluctantly surrendering to take off her clothes for them.  They gossiped indecent remarks about my wife's nakedness.  They spoke without regard to her embarrassment or shame to each other—commenting obscenely about the parts of her naked body that they liked or thought curious.  Her breasts, her warmly colored nipples appealed to them.  Her shaven sex, the labia showing pink and plump, hinting what was hidden, especially fascinated them.   Several wanted to touch her.  They began to agitate.  Curtis saw and motioned.

 

Several near the front got up and she felt before she opened her eyes that they wanted her to get off the chair, they guided her, someone touching her bare bottom, some taking her hands, to draw her and force her to step off, to step into the group of them who had stood up, mostly shorter than her, and they all began reaching and feeling her. Hands went immediately to her breasts.  Teasingly circling them. Fingering her nipples.  Plucking, pulling on her nipples.  She was guided into the crowd of them where they swarmed about her.  Surrounded by boy's hands touching her all over her body. Hands over hands.  Hands underneath those hands reaching for her.  Touching, feeling, cupping breasts, fondling buttocks and groping thighs, fingers thrust between her thighs, between her buttocks. Her breasts were squeezed and laughed at.  Fingers found the wetness between her legs and boys shouted.  She was made to straddle several probing hands between her legs.  She felt warm now in their midst, with their bodies pressing against hers, pushed about and manhandled by them, as they competed to feel her, groping her all over, exclaiming their pleasure.  Warmth aroused by her feelings. So many hands on her, so many fingers slipping into her vulva, poking her, roving her buttock, cupping flesh; many many hands gliding on thighs on belly, squeezing her breasts, plucking her nipples, pulling them. She admitted she felt giddy with the sexual excitement.  Her shame, their naive eagerness to see her naked, to feel her nakedness in such innocent curiosity and delight, gave her warmth of blush and concupiscence. This showed on her body in color. This showed in her face.  Her mouth opened half-smiling.  Her eyes darting, astonished at lust of boys who may not have yet felt the pleasure of an ejaculation, for whom she was the first true sexual adventure—apart from childish games among themselves.

 

Behind her Curtis threw the army blanket up into the air, to settle out wide on the concrete floor.  She saw him over her shoulder while jostled by the many molesting hands of boys.  With help of another two boys Curtis folded the blanket over for her comfort, to make it a sort of bedding and then told her to get down on it, on her hands and knees.  He took her hand and drew her from the crowd of boys who reluctantly parted and drew back their hands from her body.

 

She saw the two boys had taken up the two flashlights.  She knelt facing the wall, dropping to her hands; Curtis told her to spread her legs.  She did but he was not satisfied.  He slapped her buttock and said: "Grab your ass and show your cunt."  The beams of flashlights were brought to the attraction.  The grip of her hands on her buttock pulled them wide.  But still Curtis wanted her more abjectly displayed and pushed her to lean over, to lay with her cheek on the blanket, her ass in the air; and so her cunt gaped and the flashlights aimed to show her parting vulva, wet folds opened and exposing the deep hole of her vagina, dark and moist and ruby inside, looking like the inside of a mouth; they moved the light to illuminate inside of it.  The boys gathering astonished and one put his finger into it and she murmured.  Curtis laughed.  He took his finger out.  The gleaming wetness seemed indecent; she should be ashamed of herself; for without knowing why, they knew this wetness meant she wanted them to fuck her.

 

Without knowing why they were transfixed.  Another boy moved in behind her, holding one of the other "instruments" from the workbench.  It was what they could find for the purpose.  They had looked around the workshop and had found several possible things to use but they had decided on this because of its shape.  A wooden chair leg that was found in the wood box.  Long, slender and straight with baluster turning, balls of wood enlarging in series above the tapered foot.  It would feel bigger as it got deeper inside her.  They had washed it well in the laundry tub.  They'd even used soap.  And Curtis had seen that they had rubbed lots of three-in-one oil on it.  It gleamed.  She did not know what they were about to do.

 

When it entered her, she knew it was not one of their penises because it was cold.  She did not however complain. She closed her eyes.  She held her buttock.  And they fucked her with the chair leg—without really knowing what they were doing.  But the humiliation of it was so funny that they laughed.  Especially as Karen moaned at the pressure of it.   One ball of wood had popped into her, the second ball pushed against her clitoris, her labia caved in about it.  "No," she begged. 

 

But they did not believe her. She admitted to me it was more anxiety than discomfort she felt.  She felt herself also wanting to say yes.

 

She let go of her buttock, her hands trembling in the air.  Curtis nodded at the boy who pressed the chair leg so that it pushed past the straining tightness of her vulva, the lips of it sucking in with the second wooden ball and my wife groaned like a cow.  The boys laughed merrily.  My wife cried tears.

 

Curtis then nodded to stop the boy.  It was enough.  It was not so deep as offensively large in her.  But she was not hurt; it was not even uncomfortable so much as humiliating.  Especially now as Curtis and the boys took hold of my wife and drew her to stand, so that the chair leg still stuck inside her, stuck out between her legs; Curtis held it to keep it in the front of her, and the boys turned her to face the crowd who were wide-eyed and amazed while my wife covered her face with her hands in shame.

 

Standing so, Curtis then began to manipulate the chair leg, fucking her with it, where she stood straddling it. He ordered her to put down her hands.  He said: "We wanna see your tits.  We wanna see your face when you cum."

 

 

 

Shelley said: "Do it again."

 

I stood at the end of the coffee table.  My erection rising upright as they stared.  All hot blushes and girlish whispers.  They had clutched each other, legs tucked up on the sofa, like they were afraid I would touch them.  But I could not even look at them for my own shame.  Still I was compulsively aroused, and their whispering and their own embarrassment only made my erection thrill.  The thrilling showing in involuntary humiliating jerking up and bobbing. Which only amused them the more and caused more blushing and whispering.

 

Shelley said: "Do it again."

 

I understood what she wanted even if the girls did not.  It was what Jon had told me to do in the morning. This was why.  He had been preparing me. 

 

And truthfully now I wanted to do it.

 

And so I began to masturbate for these teenage girls on the sofa.  Sideways to them.  Until Shelley told me to face them.  To step closer.  She pushed the coffee table aside to let me step in front of them.  The girls shrank back but stared wide-eyed.  I watched their eyes as they watched me masturbate.

 

I wanted it to last.  I wanted myself to linger on it.  They were not impatient.  They were fascinated.  They watched the changes of the color, the swelling glans.  They saw the pre-cum.  I tasted it for them.  Rubbing it to wet the head.  Tasting it with my fingers.  They said nothing.  They smiled watching me, watching me taste it.  One—the other skinny one—smiling bit her upper lip, eyes dancing.  She liked this.  I was masturbating especially for her.  She saw that I did.  I watched her reactions as I realized I would soon ejaculate.  I held my erection tightly, letting it strain upwards and out toward their faces, and as Jon would have wanted when I felt the jism ready to pop I put out my other hand, cupped for it, and shot the creamy discharge into my palm, catching it, with a gasp and involuntary whimper.  They also whimpered and gasped involuntarily.  The girl whose face I had been watching turned beet red.  If she had been older, I would swear she had orgasmed too.  Perhaps she did.  I think she did. 

 

I did not feel the same uncertainty as before.  And my erection softened but was still hardened by the girls' attention.  I brought my cupped hand to my mouth and ate my cum.

 

Shelley looked triumphant.  Jon grinned.  The girls astonished did not make noises of disgust as they had the first time.  The skinny girl whom I had focused on smiled at me warmly.

 

But the fat girl made a face at me and commented: "That is so icky... why does he do it?"

 

Jon said: "He likes the taste.  You wanna taste it?"

 

Now all the girls squealed and squirmed. 

 

 

 

Standing with her legs spread for it, several boys clutching her by the arms to help her (or to force her), one groping her tits, my naked wife stood awkwardly straddling the chair leg shoved up her cunt, as Curtis in front of her manipulated it teasingly, fucking her with it, twisted it and pumping it easily, Curtis hissed into her flushed face: " We wanna see your face when you cum."

 

"Cum for us," he hissed. The boys who stood got in the way of those sitting, so now all were standing and craning to see.  Curtis got angry with them because they jostled him; he made them all sit again which they obediently did, like school kids cross-legged on the floor as before, for story time, for seeing my naked wife forcibly sexually climaxed in front of them.  Better than any story. Better than any movie.

 

Curtis saw my wife was docile and responding sexually to the teasing and poking of the table leg so he made faces at the boys holding her, told them to let her go and sit.  They boys around her were sorry to take their hands off her.  They liked the sense of power and feeling her flesh.  But Curtis saw she was ready to go it on her own and he wanted her to do this thing all by herself, all by herself in front of them--to do it because she wanted to do it, not because they had forced her. When they had stepped away, leaving her naked and hers arms spread helplessly and foolishly, seeming astonished as they looked up at her, perplexed by their avid stares but obviously sexually aroused by their attention and her submission Curtis grinned and held the chair leg fixedly thrust up her cunt and stoked her and teased her with it, but added instructions for her to copulate with it by grinding against it, which she did, shuttering, and obviously taking lewd pleasure in it herself. He leered at her; she gasped; he looked into her flushed sappy face, her swimmy drunk eyes and hoarsely commanded:  "Squeeze your titties, lady." And she did it. Shamelessly. Making her lurid nipples poke out of her fists like squirts of dough.

 

She looked back at them, staring up at her sexual humiliation, with such sexual craving showing in her eyes, her mouth wet and open: yielding servile surrender, she cupped her breasts for them; and seeing their approval she squeezed them, popping out her nipples, thrusting, seeming larger and more colorful.  Held for him like this by her, Curtis leaned and slathered first one with his tongue and then the other. Then looking back at his friends, grinning, then back at her, he drew attention her gleaming pointy nipples.

 

He said:  "Play with your nipples, Lady."  And Karen, aware of all the eyes on her, yet focused her gaze on his eyes—his eyes focused on her fingers—used her fingers to feel and to arouse her nipples for them, scissoring them, rubbing the nub of them, plucking them for them. 

 

Curtis withdrew the table leg from her cunt slowly as my wife looked at him with surprise and disappointment.  (She said she had been near orgasm and did not want him to stop.)  But of course he saw this and he wanted her to linger in the tantalizing torture of sexual climax teased and denied to her.  He held the chair leg like a trophy, admiring its wetness.  He saw the pearly discharge of her own cum on it, and showed the goo to the boys.

 

Karen had reflexively put her hands to her crotch as he withdrew the obscene dildo they had crafted for her.  Feeling how it had left the cavity her vagina enlarged, and she soothed her chaffed labia with her own caresses.  And seeing this Curtis grinned and commanded her then: "Rub yourself off, Lady." 

 

She had never done anything like this in front of me. In fact she masturbated rarely, and always in private and never standing up naked, always half-clothed in bed alone with a blanket over her in the dark, always ashamed.  Now she was masturbating completely naked before a dozen boys, wanting them to see her do it, and seeing them watching her aroused her to do it for them.

 

One hand drew apart her labia and her other rubbed her clitoris.  Or one hand felt a breast, pulled a nipple hard, as the other hand rubbed her clitoris or dipped into the soupy juices of her cunt.  She had closed her eyes.  She felt her knees give and she trembled to stand and could not help but bend her knees, straddle her own fingers so that she fingered herself more rudely and deeply.  But then taking a breath, biting her lip, she straightened herself and stood stiffly, legs clenched, and three fingers on one hand on her slit rubbing vigorously, her other hand spreading her labia to expose the swollen clit, her thighs flexed, tightened, hard, and she gasped loudly and shuddered strangely and again and almost lost balance a moment and whimpering came on her fingers.  Her fingers coated with an unexpected glossy creamy flow that was spent on them, pulsing warmly from her vagina as she came for them.  It was something she had never seen, though she had felt it before—and I remembered that Frenchy had made her show it to the boys that first night, spreading her legs for them on the floor.  But I had not seen it, being behind her; and it had never happened when we were making love.  Now she saw it herself in disbelief.  She looked down at herself breathlessly.  She told me it felt like and looked like a man's cum on her fingers.

 

She stood before them stunned.  Beautifully naked: a woman with a little girl's pubes, but pubes swollen with her desire and oozing sexually.  Someone's wife.  Someone's wife who had surrendered to be naked for them. Obviously aroused to be seen naked by them. These boys would never forget this.  They would probably obsess on it all their lives.  And they were all aroused themselves.  Some who had never ejaculated would that night.

 

The two fifteen year olds at the door could not wait any longer.  This had been fun but they had to leave.  It was nearly ten o'clock.  Most of the boys were late getting home and would be in trouble.

 

But they would all stay to see this part of the show.  One of fifteen year olds, a boy from the neighborhood whom my wife knew, who had talked to her when we first moved in,  chatting her up nicely, never dreaming of this moment, even if he had had a passing sexual fantasy like all teenaged boys do, told Curtis they had to go and so Curtis looked at my wife and explained:  "They're gonna fuck you."  She looked over at them with a flash of anxiety.  She would speak but Curtis spoke and told her to get on her hands and knees on the blanket.  He leaned and positioned her so that her rear end was angled for best view by the crowd of boys who wanted to watch.  They could see it all this way.  Her dangling tits, her wet open cunt and boys cocks slipping in and out of that cunt.  All they could not see was her face. 

 

Before anyone else spoke she felt the first boy kneeling behind her, his jeans and underpants shoved to bunch at his calves; she felt his dangling penis being held and probing her between her legs.  She closed her eyes as he leaned and pushed it into her cunt.

 

Humping and thumping her, his thighs slapped hers noisily, and she grunted with his thrusts.  And so several giggled and she felt ashamed but could not help herself.  

 

Her tits swayed beneath her as he fucked her hard.  Leaning over her he fondled them. 

 

 

 

The girls squealed in their disgust at me; and, no, they certainly did not want to taste it.  But they liked seeing it happen; they liked seeing it suddenly spurting out of penis, nasty as it was, it excited them to see that. 

 

Shelley asked them if they wanted me to do it again and they agreed excitedly, and though I stayed half hard, and stroked myself for them to get it to stand up stiffer, she grew impatient and told me: "Let us do it."

 

I dropped my hand to my side.  She sat down by her sister, squishing in amongst the clutch of them on the sofa, and reached out and took hold of my erection and drew me closer, pulling on it like a handle.  Shocking them, titillating them, intriguing them: they covered their faces and squirmed.  But none of them got up.  None of turned away.

 

Shelley showed them, delighting in the response of my erection to her fingers, lurching. And again to amuse the girls and humiliate me she played with it and teased it.  She slapped it so it waggled.  They giggled.  She pulled it down and let it go to snap up and slap against my belly, then jerk as it stiffened up.  They giggled at it.  She invited them to do the same.  Her sister was the first to slap it.  Then the fat one took a turn.  And a second time too.  The skinny other one did not, shaking her head.  Then Shelley's sister felt it as her sister had—with her fingertips, curious and teasing, and she put her fingers on the glans to feel it; then seeing a clear bead of pre-cum emerging in the slit, she bravely put her finger on it and rubbed it around on the shape of the glans; my penis jerked when she did but she did not stop.  She put her fingers around it and squeezed and commented: "It's so hard." The fat one felt my scrotum, making my cock bob, and laughing at this and feeling the hair about it said it was messy, and they all laughed again.  Shelley told them: "You'll all get pussy hair too."  Her sister shook her head objecting, "eewww."  The fat girl, however, blushed.  A second bead of pre-cum oozed out of the slit and ran down the shaft, and Shelley's sister removed her hand before it touched her. 

 

Letting go of my penis it danced for them.  They pushed at it, gingerly, ashamed to touch it,and to made it wobble and dance. They giggled and squirmed. The two of them now both felt it with their finger tips, feeling the shaft lightly to see it jerk, touching about the glans to see how it tensed. And said ewww. My prick jerked, it was like a living thing.  A thing they beckoned.  Being excited and stiff because of them. 

 

"I think he's going to cum again," said Shelley.  And she stroked my cock a few times.  Then told her sister to do it.  And she did, and as she did it, I began to ejaculate, but less forcibly than before; the cum rose up inside and overflowed in spasms and trickled down the shaft in creamy runs, but she removed her hand before it reached her and the cum dribbled to my scrotum.  With the other girls she watched keenly as my penis throbbed and spent again and again; cum pumping out of the slit as my cock jerked in ejaculation; cum running down, cum dribbling off the head, cum drooling onto the carpet.  Shelley and the girls watched closely and this time I did not eat it.  I let it freely flow.  That is what they wanted to see. 

 

When it was done, they had me sit on the coffee table facing them, the semen in a goo in my pubic hair, or glistening the shaft, and they wanted me to sit there naked for them and keep myself hard for them as long they might want to look at it or play with it.  They did not insist that I ejaculate for them again, but neither did they let me relieve myself, but they kept me sitting there, hardened and randy for an hour or more, and put me in various positions—squatting, kneeling—so they could see it in various ways.  On my hands and knees again, John thought it funny to put pencil in my anus, and having gotten laughter for this, he put the handle of a wooden spoon into my anus.  They liked making it jiggle in my anus.  They snapped my erection to make it dance and snapped the wooden spoon to make it dance.

 

Eventually without my hands on it but with their teasing and toying I ejaculated again and then they let me alone and gradually my penis became flaccid and shrank and yet still the girls did not let me put my underwear back on and wanted me to stay naked and kept me standing before them until they decided to go home. 

 

 

 

Humping and thumping her, his thighs slapped hers noisily, and she grunted with his thrusts.  And so several giggled and she felt ashamed but could not help herself.  

 

Her tits swayed beneath her as he fucked her hard.  Leaning over her he fondled them. 

 

He was not long in fucking her.  And she felt his ejaculation jet inside her and when he withdrew some ran down the inside of her thigh to the boys excited response; they clapped their hands.  The next boy had taken off her pants and undershorts and got behind my wife squatting and pointing his erection toward her soupy cunt he easily entered her and she groaned to take it.  Fucking her hard the boys leaned in and gathered to see her tits swing, his slick wet cock poking it's length in deeply and drawn out teasingly, the ooze of juices about the shaft, her face with her eyes tightly closed and open mouth, her hand to it like a baby sucking on her knuckles. 

 

The descriptions of much that happened as she gave herself over to them sexually, I take more from Jon's nasty stories, what he said that Curtis said.  And he liked to add the details about my wife groaning as they fucked her or mooing like a cow. He liked using terms that humiliated her. But I did not doubt what he said was true in fact because Karen later admitted to me the same sequence of things in much the same way and confessed to feelings that Jon's chosen words mocked. 

 

She felt a slut.  She acted a slut. 

 

The first fifteen year old who had fucked her too fast now wanted a second turn and he was ready when the second finished so he got behind her again and this time he took longer but his second ejaculation, like his first, was another strong jet that she felt inside her, hot and sharp.  When he withdrew the mixtures of boy's cum (and her own) oozed out of her and drooled from her chaffed cunt to the floor. My demoralized wife, leaning on her elbows, her face hidden between, caught her breath but did not move until she was told she could move.

 

The two older boys pulled up their pants and complained about having to leave.  Their younger brothers left with them but still more than a dozen remained.  She did not know.  She did not count those who used her nor remembered the numbers of time one or another used her. 

 

Curtis left her to wallow in her shame and catch her breath as he saw his friends out and Karen remained obediently crouched, waiting for more.  The boys standing around her in a circle looked down at her, watching the creamy drool of cum onto the blanket with fascination and amused sneering.  She heard their nasty comments.  She felt the coolness of the wet cum on her genitals.

 

Curtis was up to something but she did not look up to see.  The boys were laughing at her again.  She felt it before she was told about it and when she felt it she rose up on her outstretched arms, and turned to see.  Looking back between her arms, her dangling breasts, she saw boys crouched behind her sniggering, as one of them had put the handle of the spatula into her cunt and twisting it.  She lifted her head and braced as he pushed it in further.  It did not hurt.  It felt like it was a hard and pointy thing, not warm and supple like cock; it did not fill her so much as it poked her.  Still she did not complain. She would do anything they wanted, just as Curtis said she would. She did not want to show her emotion to them but she made involuntary physical responses and murmured at the surprising feelings.  Then Curtis took the spatula from the boys and slapped her bare buttock with it so that smacked loudly and smarted.  She involuntarily yelped.  The boys thought it hilarious to spank her with it and Curtis continued and she did not try to stop him.  The welt of the spanking rose on both buttock and she whimpered but did not object.  When she came home her buttock still showed rosy on each cheek.

 

Curtis pressed the handle of the spatula back into her cunt, pumping it a few times, causing Karen to flinch when once it poked her, and he withdrew it but now she felt the tip of the handle at her anus.  This she did not want.  This frightened her.  Mr. Hansen's thumbs had felt uncomfortable and she remembered him saying that she would bleed if they tried fucking her there. 

 

She tried to get up.  The boys grabbed her.  They held her tightly.  She did not struggle but she begged: "Please . . ."

 

Curtis pressed the handle of the spatula into her anus and after a puckering resistance at the surface it slipped easily in with little effort.  But letting go, her anus tightened and forced it out.  He thought this amusing and repeated it for the boys who were watching.  Curtis slapped her buttock with the spatula and said: "Quit fighting."  He told the boys to let got of her and said: "Be good, lady.  You like it." He slapped her buttock again, three smacks across each butt cheek so that she whimpered and nodded and said: "Okay, okay."

 

My wife said she did as she told. Eyes-closed, holding a breath, she dropped her head and submitted, mildly groaning as he now put more and more the handle into her asshole, pushing more and more as more and more her asshole accepted it, until he had put seven or eight inches up and letting go the spatula stuck out of her ass into the air.  The boys again thought all this hilarious.  To emphasize the humor of it, Curtis helped my wife to stand up, the silly spatula still sticking out of her ass, and he made her to put her hand behind herself and hold it to keep it in and to turn to face them, clench her legs and buttock and stood while they came behind to see the thing sticking out between her buttock and laugh at her.  He tried to make her walk with it inside her, and this was good joke while it lasted, but after a while it naturally slipped out and fell to floor. 

 

No one picked it up but it lay there, like a plate of an unfinished meal; maybe someone would pick it up and stick back up her butt later.

 

Curtis then told her to kneel on the blanket and he and another boy used some duct tape to bind her wrists behind her.  Why they thought she'd resist, she did not know.  Perhaps it had nothing to do with her resistance, more a pleasure of their dominance, again a matter of humiliation.  She saw then that all the boys were taking off their pants and shirts and everyone was soon standing about in his jockey shorts.  Curtis as well.  Curtis then explained: "Everybody wants to stick his dick into your mouth."  He had supposed she would fight this.  And as he had supposed she would fight, he had boys crouch beside her holding her head and arms (and they took the chance to feel her tits and finger fuck her too), while each boy stepped up and cheered on by his buddies pulled down his undershorts to let his stiff little hairless prick wag in front of her face and taking hold of her head mashed it against her lips, and forcibly pushed it between them to pop into her reluctant mouth and then coaxed her to suck and tongue the thing.  Which she did.  Obedient to the boy's every instruction, indecent though they were.  Then watched her avidly as she was so pretentiously shocked—poor innocent girl—by his unexpected ejaculation into her mouth, her head held by boys who laughed at her and demanded her swallow it, goading her abusively to "suck him off "—as they degraded her shamefully by the expression, convinced of her disgusting pleasure in eating the goo, listening for the sound of her swallowing—until they were satisfied she had got all of it and had not refused to eat it all and would not spit out any.  Obedient to explicit instruction.   Flushed.  Ashamed.  Aroused.

 

Karen said that surprisingly almost all of them, while hairless and small, spent substantial amounts of semen into her mouth.  And several did it more than twice.  Curtis did it five times, he told proudly. They took turns like this with her mouth for more than an hour.  Diddling her as they did it. Fondling her tits, sucking on them, and all the rest; at last sticking the handle of the spatula into her rectum again, up six or seven inches, as they fucked her mouth, finger-fucked her, fondled her tits.  One after the other poked his prick into her mouth and fucked her mouth, vigorously or lightly according to each one's pleasure, until he spent himself and she swallowed each, as each demanded that she do.  They took a lot of pleasure in looking at her face as they shot off and commanded her to "Eat it, lady," imitating Curtis's taunt.  They thought her degraded by the command, but also believed she relished it.  And it is true, she admitted, she orgasmed several times to the sexual treatment of mouth, tits, cunts, hands all over her, defenseless to them because she was trussed up and naked.  One penis after another was poked into her cum-slimy mouth  and spent itself in her mouth, and she swallowed all, and they never thought once to give her water to cleanse her mouth; they liked seeing the cream of their cum in it as she gasped between boys.

 

Their penises were especially pleasing because they were small, my wife would later admit, ashamed but graphically describing her experience to me.  None of them so large as to gag her like some the older boys and men.  Like sucking thumbs, she said it was. And in one case she took one boy's whole penis and scrotum together in her mouth and sucked on the whole of it at once and when he spent himself she could lick about his testicles, feeling how they moved with her tongue, and his penis poured his ejaculate into the back of her mouth and down her throat like a cup of warm milk.  She said the pleasure of it made her weep.  They of course thought she wept because of humiliation.  This boy, who as it happened was also the smallest and youngest, was then prized by them to repeat it while they watched.  And he did: three times!  And they gathered to watch how my wife closed her eyes and swallowed the whole of his genitals and suckled and slurped and tongued it hungrily like a baby on a milk-filled tit, knowing she was provoking him to ejaculate in her mouth, wanting him too, tearful and ashamed as they ridiculed her and coached her in demeaning details to suck it and swallow it, but she herself moaning and gasping and gulping when triumphantly he once again ejaculated while all the boys cheered him on and slapped his back.

 

It was after midnight before they stopped, wearing out finally, but even after that one of two might get up after ten or so minutes and present his penis for her to suck off again.  This went on intermittently until nearly one-thirty and by then only Curtis and his best friends remained, only five or so boys and she asked them then to unbind her hands and Curtis asked why and she said she had to pee.

 

Curtis wanted to watch.  He and his friends, giggling, helped her stand and placed her near a drain in the floor, legs spread apart, straddling it, and waited until she simply let herself go and they laughed to see it spurt out twice from cunt, spatter the floor between her legs, and then trickle down the inside of thighs to drip off and puddle. 

 

Afterwards she was permitted to lay down, her hands still bound behind herself.  Curtis covered her with another blanket.  Exhausted she slept without dreams.

 

 

 

I slept in my own bed for the first time since Friday.  The sheets were a smelly mess.  Stained with semen.  Smelly with sex and sweat. Tangled.  I took a shower and I changed the bed before I got in.

 

It was dawn before they brought Karen home.  Bringing her running through the alley, some geezers in the neighborhood going to work must have been surprised.  I wondered who might have recognized.  Jon got me out of bed and brought me to the living room where my pathetic wife stood, still completely naked, not even the socks, her arms folded under her pointy breasts, obviously cold, her bare feet dirty, her hair a mess.  Dried flaky cum spatters on her thighs and tummy where it had dribbled from her mouth.  I saw how they had spanked her.

She could not look at me for shame.  The boys who had taken her were the same who returned her, standing with Jon in the living room giving her one more self-satisfied last look over.  It gave me a pang to see her cowering and how she could not look them in the eyes.  Jon got another bag of pot from Curtis in appreciation, who said she'd paid for it all and then some more than enough by her show and he did not want more money from Jon.

 

Curtis declared they had put a penny in in an old jelly jar for each time she'd taken a dick in her mouth.  He'd brought the jar. It looked nearly half-full.  He handed it to Jon smirking. Even Jon looked astonished at the trophy.

 

He poured clattering pennies out on the coffee table. They scattered. He'd leave them there to remind her. As if she might forget.  He looked at Karen: "You really are a pig, mom. Jesus, look at that."  My wife blushed.  How did she have any shame left in her?  But later she admitted to me that she was more ashamed of this incident than anything else that had happened because they were just boys, and it was so wrong, yet she had been so unresisting, so compliant to what they wanted and had responded sexually so wantonly.

 

He counted the pennies after Curtis left and he'd sent her off to go to bed.   I tried to follow her but at the bedroom door she shook her head sadly and shut it in my face and locked it. 

 

"Thirty-eight," Jon told me when I came out. "Thirty-eight cum-sucking blow jobs." Grinning at my response: "Jesus God, she must love to eat it."

To be honest I doubt it was that many. It was what was said. They liked to repeat the allegation, especially in front of her. They liked to gross out Steve with the number. But it was an exaggeration. Still there had been a dozen boys more or less and some must have cum in her mouth more than once. I asked her in the days afterward, while she would still talk about it, before she left me, how many there were and could not remember. I asked how long it had gone on, being bound at the wrists behind her back, fondled and finger-fucked by groping giggling boys while naked on her knees and mouth-fucked by one after another. She shook her head; she only remembered how ceaseless it had been. How many different boys. How they taunted her. I asked her if she had enjoyed it.

At length she reluctantly and guiltily confessed that she had never been more sexually aroused by anything else that had happened and she had not been drunk or stoned like Frenchy had got her so often when she was being sexually humiliated. Like the time with the dog which she could not remember very well. Or the time to come with all those old men at the bar.

Yes, she said, this she remembered well and she told me, yes, she had liked it. She liked how it felt in her mouth when they came. She liked the taste of it. She wanted more and more of it and looked for them to do it again. They saw this, they saw her slimy mouth, her wet shiny lips, the cream of cum coating her tongue, smear of it on her cheek, her flushed face, her darting desperate but eager eyes, they heard her whimper her satisfaction and pleasure as they ejaculated. They wanted to do it as much as she wanted it. So, how many, is not the question.