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 13 --- The Fifth Week --- Friday and Saturday --- a day of rest --- Frenchy ' s Friend.

When I woke up, Larry was sitting cross-legged on the floor watching TV, and Steve was eating a bowl of cereal at the table.  It was past nine and I wanted a shower and a change of clothes.

I knocked on our bedroom door but there was no answer.  I tried the doorknob and the door opened.  The curtains closed, the light was dim, but I could see Frenchy's long naked figure spooned against my naked wife, curled up against him, his hand laid over her waist on her belly, his crotch against her buttock in an obvious last sexual embrace.  They did not awaken as I went quietly through the room to find a change of clothes.  I glanced back at them often.  It hurt me to see my wife so tenderly held by this boy, and she so subserviently in this embrace.  But it served me right.

I showered and put on my fresh clothes.  I made myself breakfast.  They did not come out of the bedroom. It was after 11 and I told Larry and Steve I would be gone to school.  It had been over a week since I had checked in with my grad advisor.   I would have an excuse but I worried he would be unreceptive to it. 

I checked in with my school and spent most of the day in the library working on my thesis.  It turned out that my adviser had no concerns for my absence.  He presumed I had been working all along.

The difference between my two worlds---this academia and my sordid sex life---made me feel unreal.  I felt almost in a daze; while I tried to read, my thoughts kept turning back to the events of the week and the conviction that my wife was now lost to me, and though she was lost to me, the image of her naked in front of these boys and men, her sexual subjugation to them---a cock in her mouth, eyes closed, the startling ejaculations to which she mewled and which she eagerly accepted in her mouth, or witnessing the warm  pink flush that came over her whole body, especially coloring her shoulders and neck, while she was being so urgently fucked by these teenagers, her arms tightly clasping the one fucking her, embracing him passionately, to hold his dick in her for as long as possible, to take as much as he could put inside her. 

I was obsessed with these images.  I got hard-ons just thinking of it. 

Meanwhile, back home in my bedroom, while I was trying to read---but interrupted by my compulsive thinking---Frenchy was gingerly but persuasively trying to penetrate my wife's virgin anus.  Making her tuck up her legs, as she lay on her side in or bed, he gently but pressed the plump head on his penis against her anus.   And she, biting her lip, holding her breath, felt the thing pressure and push and then suddenly pop in, giving way to plunge her sphincter, the glans went in like a ball, clamped by her sphincter, holding the lump of it in her rectum, and now with a slow pressure she felt the thick stiff shaft of his penis deepen more and more into her rectum.  She moaned. 

He laughed: "You like that?" She did not reply, but she did like it. 

He pushed a bit more in and he asked her again: "You like that?"  She nodded sheepishly and moaned again.

He did not go very deeply this first time---not more than a couple inches---but he had got enough satisfying friction in pumping a few times that he soon could not help himself but ejaculated in her rectum, surprising her---hot spurts of sperm---and it was so exquisitely sexually intense that she gasped loudly and said: "O God, Frenchy. O God!" 

Frenchy thought this particularly funny to tell me---how she had an orgasm being butt-fucked.  It was so obvious that my wife would take to being butt-fucked willingly and depravedly.  He would tell her that a whole bunch of old geezers at the bar were going to take turns to butt-fuck her on Sunday and she would be sexually giddy all day in anticipation of it, he told me.  I doubted it, but we shall see.

Now well-lubricated with his slimy sperm, and still hard as ever, he now could more easily plunge his whole dick into her rectum, as deeply as it was long, and he instructed her to get up on her elbows and knees; her buttock thrust back invited his deeper entry; her flushed face, open mouth pressed to a pillow that she embraced.  She grunted responsively with his thrusts. 

She took six inches, then eight inches of thick dick in her rectum, in ever more rapid and forceful thrusts.  Frenchy looked down with satisfaction, withdrawing the length of his prick to see it violate her, and saw how his prick had caved her anus, forcing a gaping burgundy hole, shaped by his prick, and holding its shape between his thrusts, above her still seemingly swollen reddened slit. 

Another plunge, grabbing her tits, and both of them let out a groan and another spurting ejaculation entered her rectum, again hot shots she felt so sharply jetting into her, and my wife shed streaming tears in her own gratifying whimpering shaking orgasm.   Frenchy seeing her tears worried he had hurt her and kissed her, still leaning over her, still thrust inside her. He apologized.  But she shook her head and said: "NoÉ. it was good." 

He tells her that he loves her.  She tells him that she loves him.  She stretched out without uncoupling, his dick still in her rectum. He goes down with her.  They almost fall asleep that way.

So this was how, as Frenchy told it, and as my wife later confessed it too, that my wife had her anal cherry popped by a group home teenaged boy. 

She would remember it as loving and tender. 

But for Frenchy it was just another means to an end.  He might say that he loved her---and perhaps for a moment, in his way, he did, but he could not help himself and the pleasure of her humiliation and her subjugation to him was his greater craving.  He would laugh to think of it.  How he cooed at her, coaxed and wheedled her; and then he would rise off her and hurry to open the door and call all the other boys into the room.

Frenchy would fetch all the other boys into the room---with her abject consent---to find her on the bed naked, posed in the same obscene position on her elbows and knees, pillow clutched to hide her face, hips thrust out, legs spread invitingly, presenting her buttery rosy cunt and her creamy reamed anus to all of them, and Frenchy of course made her say it aloud and clearly 'till everybody heard her well---"Fuck me in my butt"---and so one by one, one after the other they did.  First Jon (making derisive comments as he did it) and then Steve (who admitted that he had wanted this above all else) and even Larry (uncertain but eager)---all of them fucked my wife enthusiastically in her butt hole.  And she mewled and moaned and loved it, said Frenchy.

In the middle of Steve's thick dicking, she rose up on her hands and knees and started rocking herself, red-faced and urgent, shoving her butt to make him go deeper.  By the time Larry was fucking her, she was wild and gasping and whimpering and when he shot off in her anus she squealed like a pig. 

Larry, said Frenchy, had quite big load saved up for her.   The pig sounds she made caused general hilarity and now everybody, including Frenchy, started calling her piggy or pig.  And my wife took it as a private sexual joke of which she was both ashamed and shyly self-satisfied.   

They would each take a second go at anal sex with her, where she stood up on the bed, straddling them, while they held up their erections and she squatted down and took cock up her anus, pressing herself down onto it, down the full length of the shaft to their balls.  Her eyes got glittery and big.  She was teary-eyed but smiling.  And she did not stop until each had ejaculated again inside of her.

My wife would not admit to this anal gangbang she took. Frenchy told me, but she would not say what happened.  I suspected, however, that she did enjoy it every bit as much as Frenchy said she did.  She was just too ashamed to admit it.  But there would be worse to come.

Frenchy took pictures that he gave to the PO.  They were passed around to all the agents in the office, I am sure.

I did not get home until well after suppertime, after dusk in fact, having deliberately tried to put myself back on a work schedule and get back some of my lost dignity. 

When I came in they were all seated about the living room in the semi-darkness, basking in the glow of the TV; it was still hot and stuffy in the house though the windows were open, all of them in their underwear, my wife included---Frenchy with my wife cuddled against him in one corner of the sofa, bare-breasted, wearing only her panties, and Steve in the other end of the sofa.  Jon on the armchair in his underpants with his leg draped on the arm, in his usual tough-guy attitude.  Larry on the floor directly in front of the TV, also in his underwear, something he had been to shy to do before. 

It gave me a queer queasy feeling to see them all so casually in their underwear and my wife bare-breasted in front of them.  I might have presumed they had all been having sex except that Frenchy had persuasively insisted that she needed her rest and they should leave her alone, and she did look rested and not the least ashamed to be bare-breasted.

She did not look at me as stood at the edge of the living room.  Actually they all ignored me, watching the TV intently, except for Frenchy who smiled at me and winked, and getting up asked if I had money for pizza and took me to the kitchen and handed me a beer.  I went out the back door on my errand to the take-out pizza joint.

When I got back with the hot pizzas, they almost did not wait for me to put them down on the coffee table, they were ravenous.  My wife had put on one of Frenchy's T-shirts; she was not ashamed to show her tits to the boys, but evidently I made her uncomfortable.

Frenchy would take my wife off to bed after it was dark but still pretty early on that Friday night, calling her affectionately "piggy," and kissing her on the forehead, and tugging her by the hand---she shyly submitting.  But he would shortly return, without having engaged her sexually it seemed, and rejoined us as we drank beers and picked at the remaining cool slices of pizza.  The grease of the cheese and peperoni sweat on them.  He would tell then about the anal sex with my wife and my immediate reaction, apart from my stiffening dick, was disappointment that I had not been there.  Jon had promised me I could do it to her too.  I had wanted to do it, and now I began to believe she would not ever let me touch her again.  She blamed me for what had happened.  Rightly, I suppose. 

I sort of argued with her in my mind.  I thought resentfully how she obviously enjoyed this, at least that is the way Frenchy saw it and I had myself seen how she submissive she was and gave herself even to sucking on a dog's cock.  So it was not all my fault.  She was not altogether unwilling, not an innocent victim.  But none of this reasoning made me feel any better.  I knew she was submissive under the oppression of shame, she was yielding sexually because she felt hopeless and if she found the sex arousing, it was because she felt that she deserved the coarse treatment.  She felt herself a slut.  Her sexual responsiveness proved she was.

Jon asked Frenchy about future plans.  Everything was about the sexual exploitation of my wife.  I still did nothing to stop it.  It would stop on its own momentum and crashing crisis at some point, I thought.

Frenchy said he left her to sleep alone and wanted everyone to leave her alone tomorrow.  She needed rest and relaxation, he said.  Sunday was the big day, he explained, birthday party for her at the bar.  I said it wasn't here birthday.  He asked when was her birthday.  I explained she'd turned 21 a month ago.  He said that's what this is for.  Jon laughed.  Larry was not paying attention.  Steve looked worried.  But then he always looked worried. 

Jon reminded Frenchy that they had plans for her tomorrow---Saturday---too.

Frenchy said, "Yeah, but we gotta let her just have a good timeÉ  They ain't coming here except to meet her anyway.  You know, having heard about it.  But I don't want them hitting on her.  Jesus, Jon, you made her awfully sore." 

Jon objected: "Wasn't me.  It was Craig and them kids." 

"Shit, you set it up.  And you did your own things to her too, yeah?"  Jon grinned.

"Yeah, dammit," Frenchy continued:  "And what was that when I came home?  Those guys in the living room?"

"Yeah," Jon shrugged; he was angry and went back to watching TV while Frenchy turned to me and offered some details to explain it all.  She was being set up for two parties they had planned.  I knew about the one on Sunday.  I knew what was expected.  But neither of us knew about the one going on Saturday night.  Frenchy said it wasn't going to be like when Slider and Uncle came over, nothing like that.  "No dogs either," he laughed. "Though that would be funÉ  Well, maybe one dog, okay?" his eyes glittered.  He laughed at my loathing.

"WhenÉ." I was going to ask him when was this was all going to end, but he thought I wanted to know details about the party.

He had tasks for me, so he explained his plans in detail. 

The next day Frenchy was true to his word.  He treated Karen with great care and attention all day.  Jon sulked.  Steve disappeared again.  Larry worshipfully watched her and Frenchy had him serving her all day.  In return for sweet kisses.  But nothing more. 

I went out shopping for them.  I was to buy a couple cases of beer and hot dogs and buns and all the fixins, and a bucket of potato salad and a gallon of pickles--- it was enough for maybe two dozen guys. This was insane, I thought.  This was too many.  They will hurt her.  I felt both frightened and excited.  I did not want it and I did want it.  But that was the plan, a party for all of his friends, Frenchy said.  Slider would be there (and his dog, he admitted) but Frenchy insisted: "It's not what you think. You'll see. Just some fun. She knows.  She's okay with it."

I did not believe she knew.  But on the other hand she was cheerful all day long.  She had slept well.  It was almost two in the afternoon before she got up and only then because Frenchy went in and woke her. I saw her get a cup of coffee, still in her underpants and Frenchy's T-shirt that she had slept in. She did not look at me.

She took a long shower.  Larry went in to "help" her.  He loved to wash her body, using his hands rather than a washcloth, and staring at her parts all soapy or rinsed all wet and gleaming.  She laughed at his obsession.  She kissed him merrily and he wanted to fuck her, he told her.  She shook his head.  He wanted her to suck his cock.  She shook her head, laughing.  He had his little stiffy in his hand, pumping it urgently, ogling her. And she, smiling affectionately at him, just let him masturbate while she rinsed herself, turning herself under the warm water beneath showerhead, then washed her hair and rinsed it.  He came just as she was rinsing her hair, facing him, watching it; he spurt his cum onto her leg and across ledge of the bathtub.

None of this I saw actually, but Jon told me---Larry had told him.  Jon delighted in telling me things to humiliate me.  He liked how my wife had become their willing sex toy and how obviously she loved doing it.  He liked to repeat to me how she squealed when they fucked her in the ass.

Frenchy greeted her in the bathroom and shooed Larry away. 

I was in the living room, keenly aware that the boys freely availed themselves of peeping at my wife in the shower.  My dick half-hard by the thought of it, Jon came in. I looked at him worriedly.

I heard our bedroom door shut.  Frenchy and Karen alone in there. 

Jon had got dressed and come to the living room to tell me the tale of what Larry had done, it amusing him to see me confronted with my cuckoldry. Otherwise, he left me alone.  I think Frenchy must have told him to leave me alone.  

Larry dressed and was hungry.  He told me like he expected me to feed him.  I wasn't sure when Frenchy wanted me to make supper.  But it wasn't long before Frenchy and Karen came out---despite my fantasies about what they were doing, I think they did nothing.  She looked really refreshed and lovely. It was hard to believe that she had been so victimized as she had been. 

He had instructed her on what to wear.  That same lovely blue dress she had worn when Slider had come over.  It was to become a kind of fetish for them.  Whenever she wore it, she knew she would be stripping or stripped.

By the boys began to arrive, it was already almost dark.  I had been put in the kitchen to tend to making the food.  To hand out beers.  To keep out of the way.  The boys arrived in couples, in threes and fours.  They were hungry.  They were none of them 18.  Most of them Jon's age, I guessed, 16 or so.  They ducked into the kitchen to grab beers, to make hot dogs, to take out plates of food into the living room.  I don't think there were ever as many as I had expected but they came and went all night.  There may have been twenty or so after all, but at the peak there weren't more than ten or eleven in the house besides Larry, Jon and Frenchy.  That was a lot. They had the TV on and a radio. 

A couple times Jon would bring in a group---three or up to five at a time---to meet me.  Simply to say: "This is himÉ. That's her husbandÉ."  "JesusÉ." they might say or "No shitÉ" My willingness to let my wife be stripped naked for them perplexed them and they wanted to see me out of curiosity or contempt.   

"When's she gonna do it?" one in the last group asked Jon.  He shrugged: "Ask Frenchy."  The boy glanced at me guiltily, embarrassed.  But others among them sneered at me, and made comments to each other as they passed out.  I turned back to dishes in the sink.

I heard them soon. Like a gutteral chant.  "Pig-gee!" "Pig-gee!" "Pig-gee!" The chants grew in volume and participants. A chorus of teenaged boys taunting my wife.  Then a cheer.

I understood now what Frenchy had in mind.  I followed the group into the living room.  The TV, now muted, was the only light on in the room.  They had turned off the dining room light as well. 

In the bluish glow the boys were looking up from the sofa, or sitting on the coffee table watching or leaning against the window watching, as Frenchy standing in the center of the room with my wife, had his arm around her.  She had just taken her dress off and it lay puddled on the floor behind her. 

She stood in her bra, panties and bobby socks, facing him, leaning against him, her cheek to his chest, looking toward me but not seeing me. She was pretty obviously drunk.  Smiling in a goofy way, eyes half closed, like she was going to sleep. Drunk or drugged.  She looked the way she had looked the day Frenchy led her out to the living room for Slider, his uncle and his dog. 

He was speaking softly to her.  She was tying to kiss him, he was moving away.  He was trying to persuade her to take off all her clothes.  She was coyly, if insincerely, refusing, shaking her head.  But he kissed her then, whispering to her, squeezed her breasts, put his hand between her legs and rubbed her there.  She kissed him back.  The boys cheered some more.  They took up the chant again. "Pig-gee!" "Pig-gee!"  He backed away from her and looking at her bra and panties, told her again.  "Strip, piggy.  Strip for the boys." And she looked up at him, wobbly, vacantly smiled and nodded.

Frenchy leaned over and picked up her fallen dress.  She covered her face as he left her to stand alone in the middle of the room, the TV light bathing her.

Frenchy, held her dress and came over to me.  He grinned seeing my dismay.  "It's not my idea, dadÉ Mom wants to strip for them.  They teased her and so she did it.  She took it off herselfÉ."

He turned to look and Karen had turned to face the boys; the light of the TV showed her in stark relief.

The boys lost patience.   Two by the window, who had been from the last group to come and meet me, the ones who sneered at me, looked at each other and then approached her.   They would do it to her if she would not do it herself. Enough bullshit.

It was rudely done.  Nothing of foreplay or teasing.  Nothing of seduction.  Nothing of kindness.  The attitude toward her was demeaning and the interest in her was simply prurient: "Strip the bitch.  Lets see her tits, dammit.  We wanna see her cunt."

The one behind her easily and expertly unfastened her bra and yanked it away, her tits flipping out, nipples jutting, her eyes widening, and just as quickly the one in front of her jerked her underpants to her stocking feet and she looked up at them with her goofy smile, and made no complaint and gave no resistance.  Passive.  Stripped.  Naked for a dozen teen-aged boys she'd never seen before. Willingly. Wantonly.  This was the fantasy I had had always had.  Even this way she looked---her shameful docility.

They walked away, tussling for possession of her bra.  They left her standing naked with her underpants at her ankles, wobbling, looking bewildered and uncertain.

 

Some one of the boys complained: "Turn on the lights... I can't see her...."  The table lamp lights quickly went on from both sides of the sofa.  The floor lamp by the easy chair was turned up three notches.  She almost looked surprised to see them all there, to be standing naked in front of them.  And she closed her eyes and seemed like she might fall, her head rose and dropped to her chest, she put her hands on her stomach, she felt her bare belly.  She sighed.  Her hands dropped.  She looked over at Frenchy and seemed to have lost track of why she was here.  She looked at him quizzically.  Frenchy laughed. 

The boys leered at my naked wife with mocking smirks and many commented on her shaved cunt.  That particularly seemed to degrade her. That and her lurid puffy nipples. Somehow these made her look horny to them.  And too she seemed to obviously enjoy this.

And she did.  She stood naked like that, underpants at her feet, smiling drunkenly, coquettishly, and reflexively touched her own slit, caressing it, mouth open, looking at them lewdly looking at her naked.  Was she going to masturbate for them? 

No one said anything but two got off the sofa then a third came from the coffee table and came over to feel her and then there was a swarm of boys around her.  Several kissing her in turns, hands all over her body, fingers slipped into her slit, cupping and grabbing her buttock, pinching and pulling her nipples.  And all the while, yes, kissing her and she kissing them.

Frenchy had set ground rules.  He told me as we watched her molestation.  "You can kiss her. You can feel her up---that's okay too.  But no fucking.  And she ain't gonna suck your cock either."

They did everything but fuck her.  She never got the satisfaction of their cocks, although she was obviously craving it; they all had hard-ons---she could see heir hard-ons in their jeans---and she would rub them as they kissed her, but Frenchy would not let anyone take his cock out naked for her, even if she tried to unzip him.  It was a night of constant sexual peak without a climax.  She looked like she had been in too much sun.  They loved it.  They loved working her up and degrading her.

If they could not fuck her, they could find ways to enjoy her and she went along with it with a sluttish craving for her sexual use.  They took turns to suck hard on her nipples, sucking them till they looked long and stretched out, wet with spit. They teamed up to tease her clit, the rubbing of her cunt, masturbating her while she was held on weak legs between two, rubbing her until she begged them to stop so she could catch her breath.

In one breathless break, Frenchy demanded they give her some air and took her aside to sit, leaning over like she felt faint.  I saw then that someone had stripped her underpants away I the melee---or rather had torn it into pieces like a rag---and all she wore now was her bobby socks and her wedding ring.

She looked so flushed I worried for her.  Can people get strokes from too much sexual excitement? But she also looked happy, if sort of bewildered, or drugged.

Frenchy said she should play the naked maid for the boys and go get them more beers.  He helped her stand; the boys all still fixedly gazing at her tits and cunt.  Frenchy spanked her bare butt and sent her off:  "Go on, piggy.  The boys are thirsty."

She made girlish complaint at the smart sound of the smack on her butt and ran off like a little girl.

The boys watched her almost skip to get them more beers bringing them in four or five bottles in a bunch, holding them out to be taken, while hands toyed with her tits, slipped about her thighs and belly, another feeling her buttock.  She laughed a skipped away for some more.  When she came in with the next delivery, I saw how she waddled, legs clamped as she walked, as though holding something between them, and boys were following her, looking at her butt and joking; I saw they had put a hot dog up her cunt, the whole thing stuffed up; she waddled in with the tip of it, a brown thumb protruding from her bare slit like a fat little pecker.  As she leaned over to deliver the beers, hands on dangling tits, the hot dog slithered out, slathered by her liquid cunt, and plopped to the floor between her legs.  They laughed.

The boys following her made her stand up straight, legs together, and worked it back into her slit like it was a rubbery dildo, and once lodged again, asked her if she'd ever been fucked by a hot dog before. 

Frenchy said: "She did.  She fucked Slider's dog."  This would have been a great pun, if it wasn't also true.  The boys laughed.  She waddled out to get more beers.  Frenchy told the astonished boys how in fact she really had fucked a dog.  

When she returned she no longer had the hot dog in her cunt.  Frenchy took off his shirt and gave it to her to put on.  Oddly no one complained.  Karen drank a beer too.

Through all of this I watched as an almost invisible spectator.  Karen paid no attention to me but seemed preoccupied with the attention of the boys.  When she did seem to notice me, her face darkened and saddened and she looked away, becoming intoxicated again with the sexual attention her nakedness brought, or going to Frenchy to lean into his protection, naked in his arms.

After she put on the T-shirt she sat on the floor with it hiked up to her waist, sitting indian style, shamelessly exposing a raw wet cunt for the boys who sat or stood looking down at her (or looking at her cunt in fact) and talking to her.  She sipped at her beer from a bottle and seemed to enjoy the attention and seemed completely oblivious to her filthy exhibition.  And while her cunt was obvious object of their attention, they didn't talk about her or her nakedness or her exposed cunt.  They made small talk--about what music she liked and things like that.  It was so surreal. 

Often the boys looked over at me, suddenly aware of my presence, and regarded me with obvious contempt, the way Craig had.  They looked at Karen with a kind of pity.  They looked at me like I was the whore here.

As it was approaching midnight, Frenchy escorted a group of boys out to the lawn because they needed to leave and they about stood drinking beers in the yard, talking about things, the night, my wife and so on.  The party had dwindled down to perhaps four or five stragglers, the oldest ones or the most depraved whose parents no longer cared what they were doing. 

One the older boys who had lots of pimples sat down on the floor next to Karen and because Frenchy was gone he took the chance to lean in and kiss her and put his hand down between her legs and slipped his fingers deeply into her wet cunt.  Another boy, watching this while, came up behind her and reached over top her of her from behind and pulled the T-shirt off her to strip her naked again, looking down on her nakedness as she looked up at him, eyes swimming in lust; dropping the t-shirt, he leaning over to kiss her and grab her tits; the two them together molested her in front of us without shame or restraint, urgent because they thought Frenchy would come back and stop them.  Leaning her back to lay on the floor, each taking a knee and spreading her legs wide, they were openly and freely finger fucking her, both of them at once; both boys lay next to her on the floor, and took turns kissing her, sucking up her nipples, and both of them finger fucking her, while she warmly responded to them, kissing them with eagerness and open mouth.

Soon the first boy got up onto his knees beside her and as she avidly watched he popped open his jeans, shoved them and his underpants down to his knees and exposed his upright erection to her, he leaned, kissing her nipple and his prick touched her naked belly; she raised her hand to feel it, feeling the slippery knob of it with her fingertips, looking at it hungrily.  He rolled over on top her and his prick slipped inside her in one dip. She gasped and widened her legs to receive him and embraced him, closing her eyes, murmuring pleasure. 

She fucked the both of them on the carpet right in front of me and all the others under the bright lamp light, her hands clasping their backs tightly as they made rapid strokes and quickly came inside her. I watched with fascination their dark pricks poking her hole between her pale legs, the flesh of her vulva clinging, sort of sucking on the pumping shaft, lathering with goo. When the second one rolled off her, she looked up at me in a dreamy far off way, sat up and leaned for the t-shirt, slowly putting it back on, drew her legs up, and resumed sipping her beer like nothing had happened. Undoubtedly seeping cum onto the carpet. 

The two who had fucked her quickly dressed, went off to the kitchen talking excitedly; they each took another beer or two and left without saying anything to her or to me or to Frenchy, having stolen the lucky fuck they could brag about.  Jon and Larry and a couple more were the only ones left.  Larry turned up the TV.  Frenchy returned.  Nobody told him how the two had fucked her.  I don't think she confessed it to him either.

Grinning, Frenchy stretched his hand out for Karen and hoisted her up dramatically to spring romantically into the fold of his arms:  "Love you, mom." And it seemed to me he really truly meant it.  And for Karen's part she fairly sparkled with happiness, flushed with affection for him and also with the supreme satisfaction of her self-conscious sexual prowess.  She had never felt so beautiful. She had never felt more desirable.  It seemed to me she never looked more happy.  

Frenchy embraced her and kissed her warmly, his hands cupping her bare buttock, pressing her to his crotch, grinding against her. She felt wonderful.  She responded; I think she wanted him inside her.  Or at least this is how she seemed to me, the lascivious way she looked at him. 

Frenchy leaned back, his head raised, looking down at her, asking her skeptically: "Do you love me?" She smiled and nodded convincingly, though knowing that I witnessed this and knowing it must hurt me.

"Do you trust me?"  She nodded without hesitation.

"No matter what I ask?"  

"Yes," she said softly. He kissed her again. 

"Go get your lipstick, mom"

She looked at him uncertainly, withdrawing from his embrace with her head cocked and a questioning look.  "Go on," he laughed and turned her like she was little girl and spanked her.  She actually ran off, like a little girl. 

"What are you going to do?" I asked.  Frenchy winked at Jon who nodded back.

Karen came back with two lipsticks.  "I didn't know which one you wanted."  Frenchy picked the most red one---a rich move-star scarlet, the same lipstick that Jon had used to write "PIG" on her body the day before.

He handed the selection back to her.  "Do your lips? And bring it back."  And again she ran off.

When she returned, she had not only put on her lipstick; she anticipated; she put on some fresh underpants too.  Had she guess what he wanted?  I don't know.

But when she came back and handed the lipstick to him, he saw what she had done and frowned and said: "Lift up your shirt."  She seemed momentarily worried that she had done something wrong but she did as she was told.

Once again exposing her breasts to all of us---but now in underpants---she held the shirt with two hands above pressed to her throat.  "Okay?" she asked.

Frenchy nodded and Jon shrugged.  Frenchy made a show of opening the tube of lipstick to a long length of its waxy red length, and with a tongue at his lips, like a child drawing a picture, he applied the color to her nipples, painting them about the puffy aureoles, daubing it thickly on the nubby points.  Then as the boys watched and laughed sarcastically he painted lipstick letters on her bare belly.  He printed the phrase in blocky letters: "I suck cock."

She did not see what he wrote.  She blushed with shame.  He admired his work as she stood for us holding up the shirt.  Jon fell in his easy chair with laughing.   She looked at Frenchy pathetically.  He nodded at her and said: "Okay. Put it down."  She looked at what was written as she drew the shirt over her breasts carefully so as keep the lipstick from smearing.  I think she read it as she did.  But she said nothing about it. 

Frenchy reached out and squeezed one of her tits at the nipple.  The lipstick under the shirt smeared against the inside it; the stain of it showed. Actually the scarlet color of both her painted nipples showed through obscenely beneath the fabric of the t-shirt.   

"You look so pretty, mom" 

I think for a moment she felt he was kidding her, making fun of her. Especially because of how the boys seemed to know that there was some joke here.  She looked hurt.  For a moment I saw in her crestfallen look that she no longer felt she was beautiful and doubted that he loved her, and understood that she was just being used by him.  But Frenchy had such a effectual charm about him, he could just look at her so warmly---I think he even believed it himself---that she would melt for him.  She bit her lip and clasped her hands, and looked anxiously at the boys mocking her, and Frenchy turned, stepped between her gaze and these insolent expressions and shielded her from those feelings, embraced her, kissed her eyes, told her she was beautiful and her eyes moistened with gratitude.  I could not understand how she was such a fool for him.  She wanted to believe him, perhaps.  Perhaps, it was all that could sustain her in her sexual degradation, to think she did this for love of him; if she did what he wanted, he would love her.  I don't know. It was insane.

But he led her out and some of the boys, chuckling in the know, followed, as my hapless dopey wife was walked barefoot out the door and out into the midnight darkness.  It was in fact a little after 1 AM.  The presence of these two she did not know troubled her. To put her at ease, he made it clear that they should leave.  They did not want to. They wanted to know what would happen.  They guessed that Frenchy was up to something dirty.  But they did what he said, if reluctantly, if lingering to see what he was doing.

In fact nothing had been planned.  It was just one of Frenchy's wild notions.  Jon had guessed.  But he was depraved.  He would guess.  Jon and Larry and I watched them in the front yard talking from the picture window.  Frenchy's arm around my wife, whose bare legs should have made people wonder---I mean the t-shirt was long enough, but Frenchy kept lifting it to tease her and show her underpants.  The two boys wandered down the street, walking backwards, talking, trying to persuade Frenchy to let them stay.  But he ignored them and they were soon out of sight. Frenchy turned and embraced Karen and spoke to her who looked up at his face, hands held by his hands and pressed to his chest in some serious conversation.  She nodded.

Frenchy would eventually confide what he wanted her to do, like it was some private guilty craving, something he of which he was ashamed but which he longed for and begged her to satisfy.  In this way he was making an intentional mockery of my own perverse sexual ideas of her humiliation, that same ones that had brought her to this end; but she did not see the irony in it.  She loved him and wanted to make him happy---just as she had for me.  So she did not see the joke that he was playing on her and me, coaxing her to degrade herself for his voyeuristic sexual pleasure, just as I had done, coaxing my wife to present herself naked before this horny teenaged boy, who now shall plead her to do the same thing for him.  She was just flushed with romantic feelings (and private sexual feelings), and she would do anything for him that he wanted; although, to tell the truth, I think that in her heart (and in her sexual self) she knew full well the humiliation she was about to submit to and she really wanted it; it aroused her, even the shame of it.

So Frenchy took her, mocking her, tugging her along against her shy protests and her twisting girlish resistances, coaxing her to go barefoot on a summer night down the warm sidewalk, wearing nothing but her underpants and Frenchy's t-shirt into the flood of the street light, then turned her at the corner and guided her forcibly across the street at the stoplight, before the headlights of amused half-drunk motorists, to the fast food restaurant at opposite corner, called The Red Barn, while she asked without true innocence but in genuine misgivings and embarrassment of anticipation, "What is it? What do you want?"  She affected disingenuous bewilderment---she knew what to expect, I was sure. 

Jon laughed to see how Frenchy pushed my confused wife through the glass door to the Red Barn.  All the lights inside were on.  All was easily seen through the plate glass windows from the front of the place where were a row of now empty booths and through neatly spaced aisles of plastic tables and chairs up to the store-length counter where customers normally queued for hamburgers and fries. There were in fact two customers---both older men, probably just out of the bars--waiting for delivery of some food and three teenaged boys in uniforms and paper caps stood ready to take my wife's order, obviously intrigued by how she was dressed.

We witnessed the whole thing from the front window of our duplex. 

Frenchy took my wife by the arm to one of the booths against the front window and he hammed it up to show us that he knew we were watching.  She did not seem to see this or was so self-conscious she was too preoccupied or worried to wonder; at the booth he would tell her plainly what he wanted.  They talked intimately and seriously. Even from the distance, at which I could not clearly see her facial expression, it was clear from her attitude in response that she was unhappy and reluctant.  He had his arms around her. He kissed her.  She kissed him. They were basically necking and Frenchy obviously had his hand down in front of her underpants as he pleaded his case. He was patient and persistent.  The two customers left, one giving them a side-long glance.  One of the teenaged workers went to the door with them, letting them out, locking the door.

Another of the teenaged boys came over to tell Frenchy that were closing up and to ask if they wanted to make an order.  Frenchy shoved Karen out of the booth to go up to order at the counter.  The teen boy followed behind her, obviously looking at the back of her legs, wondering, I suppose, what she was wearing underneath that t-shirt.

Frenchy, meanwhile, mugging up at us, raised up his hand, holding something for us to see.  "He got her underpants," Jon laughed. "He got her underpants off. . ..  This is gonna be good. . .."

One of the teenaged boys took her order at the counter.  The other two had gone to the back, cooking or cleaning.  When the teenaged boy at the counter turned away to tend to tasks, my wife lifted the t-shirt up over her head, tossed her hair, and looking up where the boy had been saw she was alone. She looked back at Frenchy who said something I think and she looked back as the boy was returning to the counter and dropped the t-shirt to the floor, presenting herself naked to him. I have seen her strip for boys several times now, but it always gives me an intense pang; that moment she is exposed naked to them and their eyes fall on her breasts, nipples, cunt, belly.  The feeling that I imagine she has, exposing herself to them.  Lowering her hands she stood completely naked at he counter waiting for him to come closer.

He turned.  He stared, astonished, eyes-wide and fixed on her front as he approached.  Then loudly, laughing (I think) called out for the others to come up from the back. The other two equally astonished, hesitated in disbelief and then stepped up the counter. The three now crowded at the counter and leaned over it to look over my naked wife, head to toe.  Grinning.  Speaking to her bashfully or stupidly or crudely.  She herself seemed completely cowed.  One of them went back out of sight.  The lights in the front went out one after the other rapidly until the only light was that shown came from the back and glanced off the counter top and onto my naked wife, putting her in illuminated silhouette.  The other two meanwhile had come around the counter.  One had a hand on her bare bottom, stroking it.  The other must be touching the front of her.  She was guided by them to the back and the kitchen. I saw them pass her through a patch of light into the back and out of sight. Frenchy got out of the booth in the darkness and went to the back as well. Nothing more was seen for a long while.  Jon went to watch TV.  I was up and down to catch the scene but saw nothing more.  Larry kept look out.  About 20 or 30 minutes later, almost 2 AM, figures were moving about in the darkness in the front.  My wife, still naked, faintly seen, retrieved the t-shirt, clutching it to herself, she was let out the door by the boys, still reaching out for her.  Frenchy, had come behind her now, and had a hand on her shoulder, holding her from leaving without him and he turned back talking to the guys; my poor naked wife uncomfortable and nervous peered down the street where traffic still passed, barely covered by the shirt she kept in front of her body.

Frenchy would not let her put the shirt on, or for that matter she did not want to lift it over her head in the street.  So she awkwardly ran across the street ahead of him and he, laughing and calling her name "Mrs. H*****s --- come back!", he ran after her and caught her at the corner in front of Mr. Hansen's little grocery store and tore the shirt away from her, so that once again, now the third time this week she ran home stark naked. Horns honked.  Some man called a jeer out the windows of his car.

Once she was home, she ran off to the bedroom and Frenchy came in merrily while Jon held out a beer he had gotten for him. 

He sat next to me but ignored me.   He knew what I wanted to know but all he would say was:   "They read what was written on her tummy and just helped themselves."

"I don't understand."

He laughed at me. Jon shook his head: "She likes sucking cock, man. She likes to eat cum. . . . "

Frenchy showed me the Polaroid shots he had taken of it. One by one, one after another, they dropped their pants and presented their cocks and one by one, she sucked, she slurped, she sipped, she swallowed.  Frenchy would claim she really liked the feeling of a cock squirting cum into her mouth.  She always made cute little girly sounds when it happened, exactly like the squirmy whimpers she made when a cock entered her cunt.

 "And she likes the taste of the stuff." He saw my disbelief and contradicted me. "Really. She does. Lookee here. See for yourself." 

You could see it in her face.  I saw it. She liked it in her mouth.

"Yeah, she gets her rocks off on it, man," nodded Jon. 

Then laying the Polaroid out on the coffee table in front of me he sent Jon off for a ballpoint pen and squatted forward and wrote on it.  I read it. 

Seeing how confused I looked, he explained that he was going to mail this one to the PO for his collection.

I asked him: "Why?"  Feeling both sick and afraid.

"He's my PO," Frenchy shrugged.