Installment Ten

 

Mr. Miller had watched my wife masturbate with his arms folded, nodding approvingly and coaching her quietly but insistently to her climax, while she stood naked before them humiliated but aroused and compulsively responding, spending tears emotionally at the moment of her wet orgasm. Bob had sat on his stool, staring with fascination and cynical astonishment, impulsively polishing the lens of the Polaroid camera though it did not need polishing, aching with his pent-up erection and grinning like a lunatic.  Miller smiled and when she came on her fingers and said she was a good girl and that he loved her.  Another shot flashed.  Miller stepped over to her and kissed her and she leaned into his enfolding arms, apologizing.  Miller soothed her nerves with reassurances.  Al shook his head, again in disbelief, disbelief that she could be so gullible.  Bob took a Polaroid of her gooey fingers, lifted up to show, at which she herself stared in embarrassed astonishment.

 

She wiped her fingers with the Kleenex that Al had handed to her and Al gently told her to kneel in front of him.

 

She looked up into his face with an innocent expression, as she knelt, but she understood what he wanted.  He unzipped his trousers. 

 

Bob told Al he only had a few pictures left.  Al nodded.  He drew his penis, half-stiff as it usually was, to feed to her open mouth.  She took it in her hand, feeling it with her fingers, and lifted it to her mouth.   She closed her eyes as she took it in.  She did what he had taught her to do.  Using her tongue.  Sucking lightly.  Al rocked on his heels, fucking her mouth. 

 

Bob had heard Al tell how meekly, how responsively she performed this oral sodomy on his uncircumcised penis.  Al had said he washed it before hand, for her sake.  Still, the face-to-face witness of the thing astonished him.  No married woman he had ever known did a thing like this.  Only sometimes some sluts might do a little bit, if they were desperate for a fix.  Only that poor German widow whom he had forced to do it for him and his friends during the war.  But Karen—who had never done such a thing for me and anyone else until Miller had persuaded her—did it willingly, did it warmly, did it affectionately, did not just put her mouth on it, which most women would think is disgusting at the very thought, but she obviously tasted it, relished it in her mouth; she  expected him, she actually wanted him to cum in her mouth.  And she would let him do it out of love for him, she told me.  Bob seeing it, seeing her eagerness to please him, said: "God Damn it, Al."

 

"Yeah," said Al, stroking her hair, like he might encourage a little girl who had done good deed, caressing her hot cheek tenderly.  Bob saw how the flush of her shame (or of her sexual arousal) had pinked her face; her eyes moistened.  Was she tearful?  Bob said she was not; Bob said it was just "nerves."  No, she did not breakdown; maybe she felt humiliated, but it was not like his Fraulein who had sobbed while they stuffed her mouth roughly with cock.  

 

Bob steadied the camera, tilting it, looking down at her, trying to take a close-up of her face at the moment when Al would feed her.  Al made a slight grimace, nodding.  He came in her mouth.  "Open your eyes, honey," Bpb told her and she did it even as she was swallowing the stuff, some of it drooled out the side of her mouth.  Al still had that picture.  "The bastards didn't get that one 'cause I took it with me.'

 

"Look at that face," he said.  He had it in his wallet. "Look at those eyes."  He laughed.

 

My wife did almost look innocent of what she was doing.  But as Bob assured me—and as I could plainly see in the Polaroid—Al filled her mouth with his cum and she swallowed it all just as she always did.  When she had finished—when Al had stepped back to draw his penis from her mouth, my wife still kneeling, wiped the drool of saliva and cum from her lips and chin, and smeared it on her thigh.

 

Al drew off his pants and his underpants, and Bob handed him the camera.

 

It was his turn, he explained, and he wanted a picture of sticking it to my wife from behind, his cock in her cunt while he looks off camera proudly and she hangs her head in shame.  That was a picture he would cherish.

 

"And I did it," he told me, "Took off my pants and told your wife where to stand, to grab the stool and bend over and she looked back at me to see me strip my underpants down and my cock pop up, ready and randy for me, and Al got down crouching and his dick still half waggling hard too.  She saw that too.  And I got up behind her grabbed ahold of her two buttocks and did not even have to hold it to guide it in,  she was that ready, I just slipped it between those lips and it slides in easy like a greased pole... six inches... ten... And then she got that serious look on her face, like she's thinking of it, feeling it, she gasps and Al takes the picture just as I turn to mug for it and give the thumb's up—OK. "

 

He poured me more to drink:  "I gotta tell you, your wife's got a creamy cunt but it's a tight one, fits my cock like a golfer's glove, and I was shoving my cock head up hard against the back of it, deep into her belly, bumping into her hard, shoving her, and she'd grunt and whimper when I hit that spot."

 

He laughed to remember.  He liked telling me these details.  He leaned in with a confidential secret, almost whispering: "And she's got a kind of wrinkly edge inside her, or maybe it's the way her cunt lips cling about your cock, or I don't know what it is, but it rubs nice, like a kind of ribbing against your cock, makes you wanna fuck her and fuck her and fuck her some more and keep on fucking her.  You suppose she's made that way? So she likes getting fucked?  So men like to fuck her?  All I know is I never known a woman who loves to fuck more than your wife.  And I never seen so many men fuck a woman and she won't quit, can't quit; it's like every cock that got into her started her all over again. She's a special thing, man."

 

He paused, remembering.  He looked at me with a knowing smile.  I had to ask: "You got that picture?"

 

He shook his head sadly: "Nah, the bastards took that one too."

 

He sighed: "Anyway I fucked her a while, you know, to get her good and worked up, and then stopped and she looked up over her shoulder, like "why did you stop? You didn't finish...." All out of breath but wanting more.  So I told her to get up and come with me and took her hand and led her out to the front of the store and she saw herself naked in the dim reflection on the glass of the door, against the street at night, Al and Bob behind her grinning, admiring her too. 

 

Al threw on all the lights to the front and she saw herself starkly displayed; she turned away; she looked upset but I grabbed shoulders so she couldn't get away and I said to her: "I bet you'd like to strip for a bunch of men. Bet you'd love to have a dozen fuck you."

 

She looked horrified.  She reached for Al who backed away.  Bob took her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back and forced her to face the glass door again, her naked reflection now vivid in the light, and holding her like that with his other hand he guided and shoved his prick up into her from behind and fucked her; letting go, he grabbed her tits with his fists, fiddling with her nipples with his fingers, nuzzling her neck, and jostling her with his urgent fucking.

 

Whether anyone walked by to see my wife like this—fucked naked in the front of Al's store—I do not know. Bob said some cars passing may have seen her, and he claimed there were others out on the street too, but he couldn't remember for sure. "I was sort of busy," he winked.   Everything he said to me was meant to provoke my miserable jealousy and add to the sexual tension.  I swear I had a hard-on for the two hours that he told me the whole tale. 

 

Karen finally fought away from him before he could complete himself and ran back into the backroom.  Bob caught her in the corner where he had taken her photos stirpping for him, cowering, crouching nude; he took hold of her chin and roughly drew her to her knees, and then held her face and leaning over french-kissed her and pawed her breasts; still holding her chin he straddled her thighs and pushed his cock roughly into her mouth and fucked her mouth.  He fucked her mouth though she complained and coughed, gagging on the thing going into her throat; he fucked her mouth and came in her mouth just like Al had and she swallowed his cum too, although retching at it and making faces.  "I guess I choked her with my cock," he laughed.   

 

He said with smug satisfaction:  "She was all worn out after that. Just limp.  Lying curled up on the floor.  So Al and I got dressed.  She sat up in bit and watched us.  Al finished up putting things away.  Not speaking.  I picked up the Polaroids.  I picked up all her clothes where Al had laid them on the worktable. 

 

Al stood closer to her, told her to get up.  He embraced her.  He held her.  She laid her head on his shoulder and told her he loved her and all that shit.  Then he told her she should go home and said: "Tomorrow, come dressed like normal underneath—you know pantyhose, slip, everything."  She looked at him sadly.  He handed her a glass of brandy and water.  "We gotta go.  Bob needs to get to his bar."  

 

Bob said she saw that he had picked up her clothes.  She must wondered what he was doing but said nothing when he took them away with him out the door.

 

Al locked the door of the shop behind them.  The lights were still on.  Bob dropped Karen's clothes in in pile in the gutter along the sidewalk in front of the door.  Right under a streetlight. 

 

Bob said he wanted to see her come out and get them and they waited at the end of the block to see, but when several minutes passed, Al insisted that they leave and they did not see her do it.  But she must have. She certainly came home dressed that night.  Late, I remember, and she looked unhappy, but she said nothing about the whole thing of course.

 

Bob's bar had been on this corner and in this neighborhood when this had been a near suburban part of the city.  Working men had come to it since before prohibition, during prohibition and after it. It was still frequented by men who belonged to the World War II generation, soldiers almost all, like my dad, who used to bring me here when I was kid and let me sit and listen as they all drank beers and talked politics.

 

I never heard any talk about sex.  I don't think I ever hear a dirty word.  Maybe it was because I was there with my dad.  But his friends watched over me too.  Henry and Hank in particular were always there for me; they were pallbearers at my dad's funeral and both had sat with my side of the family when Karen and I got married.  Henry had done the toast, saying how pretty my wife was and what a lucky guy I was and all that.

 

And there were others.  Men who had seen me grow up.  Men who had bought me my first drinks when I turned 21.  Men who had bought drinks for my wife just a short time ago when she turned 21.  There was Harry who was always with Henry or Hank or both.  Never came to the bar alone.  And there were the two Arthurs—one tall, one short, both taciturn and moody, who listened to everything and said little, but were good for a round or two.  These five were at the bar nearly every day. 

 

There were more men that shifted in and out, men whom I did not know well but who knew about me and whom I had probably met once or twice and could not remember their names.  All of them my father's age. All of them prematurely retired because of plant closings, or living on VA benefits.  Sour and cynical guys, for the most part.  I did not like going to bar after my dad bar, in part because of how gloomy these men were.

 

Then there was Bob—the owner of the bar.  Actually Bob was a newcomer.  He had bought the bar just before I got married.  He had a reputation for being an alcoholic.  He may have been.  But he managed the bar tightly and made a living on it.  It was also rumored that he did some illicit business in the backroom—which I have described.  The stories about strippers were told by my college roommates, one of them being a young guy, who tended bar there, and was in fact there that night, while Bob was off fucking my wife.

 

Miller had been an old friend of Bob's.  He never used to come to the bar until Bob owned it.  Some said he had put up the money for Bob to buy it.  Certainly he never had to pay for his drinks or sandwiches.  Bob always put it on his "tab."

 

Because of this unexplained "relationship" and perhaps because Miller, being a little younger, had not served in WWII, the crowd at the table—Henry, Hank, et al—did not trust him much.  And for over a month Bob had been intimating that something was going on with my wife.  They did not like to hear it.  But they had kept their mouths shut.  They could not think how to tell me anyway, I suppose.  And besides it was just too hard to believe.  Still, said Hank shrugging, where there's smoke there's fire.  And Henry himself had always thought my wife had been too flirty with some of my young friends, her dresses sometimes too short; and one time a couple months ago he had seen the bartender here kissing her and pawing at her in the dark next to the restroom.

 

Now in the last week Bob had come in later than usual and went straight up to their table with a free pitcher of beer and announced that now he too had seen my wife with all her clothes off, not a stich (he swore), naked in Miller's workroom, and that he'd felt her up and she'd let him fuck her from behind.  Much as they loathed him, they tended to believe him; and when Al came over to the table that night, Bob wheedled Al with several brandy and waters to reluctantly admit that—yes, he and the pretty little wife had been playing around with each other—wink, wink—and he made a gesture to indicate she had taken his penis into her mouth and Bob blurted out that she'd let him cum in her mouth.  They were speechless, jealous, shocked, and intrigued.   Henry did not believe it and said so.  He said that Karen was a nice girl. 

 

Miller said yes, she was.  She couldn't help herself.  Bob said he'd bring proof.

 

So whatever else the intentions were for those obscene Polaroids—some of which would end up like French Postcards taped to the register behind the bar and shown to causal patrons for a laugh and a story—Bob had it in mind at least to show up Henry with his "proof" and by this Bob would then set up that chain of events that would lead to her "show" on Saturday afternoon.  Al knew what Bob was scheming of course, said Bob; hell, he liked the idea.  But Bob confessed—haughtily—that it was mostly his doing.

 

Angry, I might have left then or hit him.  It seemed he wanted to provoke me.  He had told me all of this carefully, deliberately—detail on detail to lead me on.  I had never guessed that of all the men at the bar, Henry and Hank might have been involved.  I should have thought they would have stopped it.

I felt my own nauseous shame, that they must have seen my wife too.  I had to ask: "Were they here?"  Meaning that Saturday at the show.

 

Bob smiled wickedly but did not reply and continued his story.  I probably would have missed him if I had tried to hit him anyway. Or I might have never found out the truth.  I wanted to know.  I listened.

 

"They were here when Al and I got to the bar.  You know where they sit.  They're probably out there now," he said, looking at his watch. 

 

I knew the spot, actually just outside the door to the backroom here, a large corner booth where all five could cozy into the upholstered curve and the table would collect beers they had drunk, pitchers of caked suds, glasses of booze and ice, napkins, empty bags of potato chips. 

 

Al pulled up a chair from one of the rounds to sit facing them in the booth.  They acknowledged him silently.  Then Bob brought over a fresh pitcher of beer, beaming but he said nothing either.  Not like him.  He usually ran his mouth.  Henry, who always sat in the middle of the booth, looked up, put his hands on the table.  He poured the beers from the pitcher that Bob set down.  Bob pulled up a chair too, sat, looked like the cat who ate the canary.

 

Nobody said anything.

 

Then Bob took the polaroids out of his pocket and holding them like cards in a hand of rummy, he sorted them, keeping them close so no one else could see.  He looked over the cards and put them down in a stack, face down, and said: "You wanted proof?"

 

He turned the first one over and put it in the center of the booth table, directly before Henry.  Karen.  In her blue sheath dress.  The one she always wore to work.  Standing in the corner of a room.  A work stool beside her, behind her at bit.  She looked at the camera curiously.  Not smiling.  Worried maybe.

 

Henry stared down without a word.  Hank and Harry leaned in from one side.  The two Arthurs on the other side did not move but turned their heads toward the Polaroid.  Bob, still not speaking, turned over the next one and put it top of the first.

 

A series.  Like shots of slow motion.  Frames at the same angle and same distance.  The same scene.  My wife Karen in the center of the picture, head to toe, standing now in front of that stool in the corner of the room.  The only thing really different in this shot from the first: she was taking off her clothes for the camera.  She had crossed her right arm across her chest to draw the sleeve of her dress down, the top of her dress tugged off her shoulder.  Exposing her bare shoulder.  No bra strap.  Looking at the camera with the same expression of vague anxiety.

 

Bob laid down the third Polaroid: My wife holding her dress at her waist, naked from the waist up, both breasts exposed.  Bob grinned and could not restrain a satisfied tease: "I told you..."  

 

Bob laid down the next picture. Her dress fallen down to the floor. The picture of her standing in her underpants with the dress splashed about her feet.  Her look was not worried.  Her look was resigned.  Or was she feeling something else?

 

Then Bob laid out the coup de grace:  Number five.  Same frame.  Same scene.  My wife looking up at the camera.  Head to toe.  Arms limply at her sides.  Her underpants pushed down to bunch up about her ankles.  Now showing the men everything.  Showing her lurid-tipped tits.  Showing her hairy bush, hint of cunt lips.  Naked for them to see it all.

 

"What did I say?" Bob said.  They said nothing.  Henry picked up the last picture.  Hank and Harry nudged closer.  Henry looked closely, then handed it to Hank who huddled up with Harry to study it. 

 

Bob smugly laid out the last of the series of my wife stripping in the workshop, one card at a time in a row before Henry, like he was laying out a winning poker hand.  1: Stepping out of her clothes in her stocking feet.  2: Leaning and awkwardly removing her socks, tits dangling, looking up ashamed.  3: Facing them completely naked now, head to toe, chin up, vaguely smiling, hands behind her back. Showing off her naked self but glancing away from the camera, looking away from their eyes on her body.   4: Turned about now and seen naked from behind, her head slightly turned aside and downcast where they can still see her expression.  She was not forced to do this.

 

Henry asked, scanning them: "Does she know?"  He was flummoxed: "She knows you're showing us these pictures?"

 

Bob shrugged: "What you think?"

 

Now Bob laid down the top of this straight flush: Karen looking up coyly at the camera's flash. A close-up.  Full face.  A bit blurry.  Miller's short plump dick in her mouth.  Red-capped dick-head showing.  Cum in her mouth. Henry's eyes widened.

 

 

Finally, Bob played his ace of spades: Karen leaning over the stool. Completely naked, while Bob, bare-legged himself, his pant's off but still wearing the same shirt he was wearing right then as he sat before them grinning like a piss-smelling cat, fucked my naked wife from behind. His large slick dick poised between her legs, half or more than half inside her ruddy cunt, and he mugging at the camera, giving a thumbs-up.  She, bent over, clutched the stool top with both hands tightly:  her eyes shut; her mouth slightly open.  You could see his dick slipping up into her.  You could see her hole taking it in.  You could see how her swollen tits hung and swung. Henry picked this photo up.

 

Now all the photos were scooped up by Hank and passed about the table between themselves, down to the Arthurs too—where one held them up and the other looked on.

 

Bob motioned for the bar tender to bring another pitcher of beer.  Because Henry recognized him as one of my friends, he insisted that all the pictures be gathered up and he was going to hold them so that he would not see, but then in kind of perverse notion, when the young college kid—my friend—brought over the pitcher of beer, he tossed the pack onto the table and they spilled out and spread to show him some girl undressing, some girl naked.  He was curious, he saw what they were, but he did not stay to look.  They watched his reaction.  He did not recognize her, Bob thought.  Bob laughed at Henry's notion.

 

After he had gone, Henry let the pictures pass again.  They went from hand to hand.  Bob poured more beer.  

 

"I want to see her," said Henry seriously. 

 

"I want to fuck her," added Hank eagerly.  They laughed. They all had the same thought. 

 

Henry looked at Bob.  He knew his mind.  "What you thinking?" he had guessed there was a plan.

 

Bob shrugged: "How 'bout Saturday?  She could do a show. In the backroom."

 

Miller then broke in and expressed his misgivings.  He said she wasn't ready for that.  He said she didn't understand about the pictures.  He had them taken for insurance, but he said: "She won't do what you want."  They were disappointed.

 

"I want to see her for myself," Henry said again.  He was stone-faced, said Bob, "I could not tell what he was thinking." 

 

"How much do I have to pay her?" Henry asked Bob. 

 

Miller shook his head.  Bob laughed.  Bob explained she does it because she loves him, tilting his head toward Miller.  Henry was surprised. 

 

"Would she do it if you told her to do it?" Henry asked Miller.

 

"Maybe," said Miller. 

 

"Suppose we come to your shop tomorrow..." Henry did not have to finish.  Miller took up the thought: "Not all of you.  Not all at once."

 

"Okay," agreed Henry.  The bargaining began.  Miller said they should come in small groups.  They decided who would go with whom and when. 

 

"But you only get to look.  No touching.  And no fucking," Miller insisted. 

 

"How 'bout she sucks cock?"  Hank asked, only half-kidding. 

 

Miller shook his head.  No sex, he stipulated.  No touching.  She just takes off her clothes.  Let's them see her naked.  That's it. "Agreed?" Miller asked. 

 

No one would refuse the offer.

 

Henry said: "She won't do it."

 

"She'll do it," said Miller, "But she'll be nervous; she'll be worried, seeing who you are.  She'll be worried her husband will find out.  You can't tell anybody about this."

 

"She won't do it," said Henry again.

 

"She'll do it if I tell her to," Miller replied. 

 

Miller felt triumph.  Bob gloated.  Henry, Hank, and Harry felt horny.  But Henry also looked sort of unhappy, Bob said.

 

I never spoke to Henry about this, about his seeing my wife naked or the things he did to her.  I saw him a couple times afterwards but we never spoke again.  When I came out of the backroom after Bob had told it all to me and showed me the photo album from Saturday, I saw him and Hank and Harry in the booth.  He looked up at me.  He knew that I knew.  Hank could not look at me.  But Henry gave me a look of pity and contempt.  He nodded, but he did not speak.