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From: "First Name Last Name" <marchase@my-deja.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Consequences 1/2, a wife sharing story by Marc
Date: Thu,  8 Feb 2001 00:10:03 -0500
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"You just don't give a damn, do you?" When Joan is 
mad,  there's no stopping her.   

"Of course I do, I just don't think your getting kissed 
is such a tragedy, that's all."   

 It wasn't just a kiss, it was like a god damned  oral 
rape, he  shoved his tongue in my mouth, and 
grabbed my ass. He's  crude, and you don't care!"   

"No harm, no foul. Besides, I saw what happened. 
You were  coming on to him, and you sure as hell's 
hot weren't  fighting   him off very much, either. I 
think you liked it, and I think  you're protesting too 
much because you know I saw what  happened. But 
you know, I'm wondering about something.  Just 
before we came here, when I kissed you, you were 
very  worried I'd wrinkle your dress." She was 
wearing one of  those basic black minidresses, the 
ones with a pretty  neckine that was swooped low 
enough to be attractive  without actually showing 
cleavage, and short enough to  expose her legs to 
mid thigh. "You didn't seem to worry too  much 
about that when John was grabbing your ass."   

She was almost sputtering in anger. I think I hit the 
nail on  the head.   

"I don't think you care if John mauls me, I don't think 
you  care, not a little bit."     


"If I thought you weren't enjoying the attention, I'd 
have  stopped him, but face it, Joan, you weren't 
objecting, at least  until you saw that I was watching. 
Hell, you're the one who  followed him into the 
kitchen like that, anyhow."     

"What are you saying? That it doesn't matter what 
happens,  if I don't object it it's OK with you?"     

That was a challenge, and now I was mad, too. 
"Yeah.  Yeah, it doesn't matter. Do what you want!"     

Being married a long time means you know where 
each  other's buttons are, and no one said fighting 
had to be fair.  Fifteen years of marriage was a long 
time, and I was in no  mood to put up with Joan's 
idea that a strong offense is the  best defense. I saw 
what I saw -- it was a hell of a lot more  than a 
neighborly, "Hi, I'm happy to see you" bread and  
butter kiss. Well, it was John's house, we were his 
guests,  along with two other couples. He recently 
broke up with his  girlfriend, so I wasn't surprised 
that if it wore a skirt he was  after it.     


At least the evening was about over. One of the 
other  couples had just left, the other was making 
"We're gonna  go" motions. Great. Joan and I could 
go home and continue  the fight. What a way to end 
the evening. It would end In  private, where the 
decibel level wouldn't be constrained by  politeness.     

Soon enough, there were only the three of us left, 
finishing  off our drinks.     


John spoke: "Joan told me you saw me kissing her, 
and that  you weren't jealous. That's unusual for 
you, I remember you  being the most possessive 
guy around."     
I was still pretty pissed off at her, and for that matter, 
at him.  "Not any more. She can do whatever she 
wants. Besides,  what I saw as a cooperative thing, 
it looked like consenting  adults to me."     

John was standing behind Joan's chair at the 
moment. He  looked at me. "Well, I was consenting, 
at least. I haven't  held or kissed a woman since 
Nancy and I split up."     
   

"So you decided to hold and kiss mine?"     

"Well, yeah, and I liked it."     

Joan looked over her shoulder at him, then at me, 
not sure  what was going on. She didn't know if John 
and I  were  about to fight, or what.     


I was feeling a bit nasty.     
"Well, there's nothing there that'll wear out. Help 
yourself."     

If looks could kill, I'd have been Joan's victim right 
then.  "You really don't care what he does,  is that 
it?"     

"Whatever turns you on, kid. Or him." Glib, I was 
not.     

"Whatever turns me on?" John asked, staring at me.     


"You heard me," I told him. Did you, reader,  ever 
hear the  expression "If you find yourself in a hole, 
stop digging"?      

John bent over -- he was still behind her chair -- 
until his lips  were on her, where her neck meets her 
shoulder.     

It was as erotic as anything I had ever seen; Joan's 
face flushed, her mouth opened in surprise: well, so 
did mine, for that matter. My anger with her, and 
with him, for that matter, was distracted by that 
sight, and my realization that at least one part of my 
body thought it was very, very erotic.   John 
straightened up after a few seconds. "That turned 
me on, Pete.  You objecting?"     

"Not me. Are you objecting, dear?" I was dripping 
scarcasm. Talk about me being junivile!     

Her look was half defiant, half something else.     

"No."     

"Help yourself, John." My tone was challanging, 
almost daring him. And her.      

"I forgot how nice it is to do things like this," John 
said as he bent over again, his hands on her 
shoulders, until he was kissing at her neck again.     

Joan was still staring at me, her hands were 
gripping the armrests of the chair she was in, but 
her head tilted a little, exposing more of her neck, 
making it easier for John.     

"Very nice," John offered his evaluation of her neck. 
"Still not objecting, Pete? Still OK with you, Joan?"     

Joan's look at me conveyed something other than 
defiance, now. It was really a questioning look, an
 uncertain one.     

My own anger with her remained, but it was being 
overshadowed by the just plain sexiness of what I 
was seeing.     
"Until Joan stops you, I say, 'Go for it, John.' Do 
what you want." Digging my hole deeper and 
deeper, huh?     


So he did. He bent over, his lips at her ear! He may 
have whispered something, I'm not sure, but I am 
sure I saw a tongue touch an ear lobe. When that 
happened Joan jerked almost upright in her chair, 
almost as though she was shocked. It was an 
incredibly intimate sight!     

"Are you going to tell John to stop, Pete?" she 
asked when he stood upright again.     

"No. Are you, Joan?"       

"It's up to you," she said, passing the buck, or 
offering a bigger shovel for the hole I was digging.     

I put my feet up on the hassock in front of my chair, 
crossed my hands in my lap, and leaned back. "I'm 
not stopping anything," I declared, fairly sure the 
erection I had was hidden by my ever so casual 
pose.     

John glanced at me, like Joan almost defiantly, then 
down at the woman sitting in front of him.     

He put his hands on her shoulders, began a gentle 
massaging of them. Joan was still sitting upright, 
stiff and rigid, sort of the way my cock was feeling, 
now that I think about it.     

 His hands went from her neck to the inch wide 
straps of her dress, and back again, back and forth, 
his fingers almost touching around her neck, then 
tracing outwards, again and again.     

"Going to let him do that, Joan?" I asked.     

"Yes!" It was a defiant tone of voice. Defiant, and 
something else, too. A little bit afraid, a little unsure 
of herself? I wasn't sure, either, except that it was 
very sexy.     

"Getting off on that a little, John, doing that to her, 
with me right here?"     

"Yeah, I am, more than a little."     

"It looks like you're ready to, uh, what did we call 
that when we were kids -- like, you're ready to cop a 
feel?"     

Joan almost jerked when I said that.      

"What do you think, Joan? Do you think that's what 
he wants?"     

"I, I don't know." The defiance was gone now, she 
just didn't know what to make of what was going on.     

"The thought crossed my mind, sure," John knew 
what was going on, that's for sure.     
"She hasn't objected," I reminded him, "and neither 
have I. Go for it."     

The hands on her shoulders stopped their lateral 
movement.      

I waited expectantly, and saw the fingers on his right 
hand move forward, over her shoulder, and down, 
until they were just at the neckline of her dress.     

Joan was absolutely rigid in the chair, her eyes were 
wide, her fingers were indenting the fabric of the 
chair's arms because she was holding them that 
tightly.      

 His fingers were moving back and forth along that 
neckline, carressing her, but it surely wasn't relaxing 
either her, or me!     

"She hasn't objected a bit, John, what are you 
waiting for?" Was that a dare, or another shovelful 
of dirt out of my hole, deepening it more?     

The fingers on his right hand moved slowly across 
the dress's neck line, across her chest, under the 
dress now to the knuckles,  moving down, over, 
towards her left breast.     

I watched her carefully as her mouth opened as 
though to protest, as she held onto the chair arms 
for dear life. I saw, though, some other clues. She 
was wearing a strapless bra, a sexy flimsy one, and 
a slip designed for such dresses, but neither of 
those garments, or the material of the dress itself 
were able to conceal the protusions where her 
nipples were, where they were hardening. The 
lumps caused by his fingers moved still more, a 
couple of inches from the tip of her breast, then less 
than an inch, then finally his hand was over it, there 
was evidence of his fingers touching, rolling, teasing 
that sensitive organ, causing it and its mate to 
respond, causing me to respond, too.     

"Still not objecting, are you Joan? I know what he's 
doing, and you're just sitting there, letting him play 
with you."     

"It's up to you to tell him to stop," was her reply, her 
challange to me.     

"That's not nearly enough for me to stop him, Joan."     

John looked from the top of her head to me, and 
back again. "I sure as hell don't want to stop. Was 
that an invitation to do more?"     

"Sure. Go for it, John." My hole was another 
shovelful deeper.     

Joan was silent, breathing through her mouth as she 
was being touched, carressed.     

I addressed my next words to her: "Right, Joan?"     

There was no answer -- that meant "yes" to John 
and to me.     

In a moment John withdrew his hand -- when he did 
Joan sagged back in the chair, releaved that it was 
over.      

 It wasn't.     

"Lean forward, Joan," he said.     

She looked up and over at him quizzically.     

I understood, though, I understood very well.     

"Yeah, lean forward, Joan."     

She did, tentatively.     

John's hand were busy behind her, fumbling. "How 
does this dress work, Joan?"     

She looked up at me, startled. Now she understood.     

"Tell him Joan, tell him how to open it!"     

What was it Garth Brooks sung about? -- something 
about burning bridges?     

"It's,  uh, it's. . . ."     

She was stammering. I helped. "John, it's some kind 
of a stupid fastener - you have to push the two parts 
together to unhook them, then there's a little zipper."     

He followed instructions well, I could see the tension 
in the dress's shoulder straps relieve itself, although 
I was feeling increasing tension in my crotch, and to 
be honest, in my own emotions, too. This was my 
wife he just unzipped.     

"Are you going to tell him to stop, Joan?"     

A small voice, with a vastly different tone, came out 
of her now. It was no longer angry, no longer pissed 
off. "It's up to you to tell him to stop, Pete, he'll stop 
if you tell him to."     

My anger was still right there, though, anger and 
lots of other emotions, emotions I had never 
confrunted before. "Nope: you're the one who's 
going to have to say 'uncle'."     

"Never!" It was a contest of wills, now, the origional 
fight forgotten.      

I stood up, went to her, and reached for her hands.     

She took mine, almost gratefully. She must have 
thought I capulated.       

I didn't. "You have to say stop, Joan, I'm not going 
to."     

She looked at me and shook her head no.     

I pulled her to her feet.     

It was a matter of pride, of ego. "Honey, you have to 
tell him," she said quietly.     

"Turn around!"     

She did, facing John, who was still standing behind 
the sofa. I could see his pants were just as  lumpy in 
the crotch as mine were.     

She stood there, and I looked down to see her bra 
strap and the start of her little black slip exposed 
where John lowered the zipper.     

I reached there, toward the zipper, and she felt me 
do that, I could see she was expecting me to lift it, to 
end this. There was almost joy in her body 
language.     

Instead, I let my fingers trace up the exposed skin 
towards her neck. "Are you going to tell him he's 
gone far enough?"     

Ego, pride, eroticism, everything was mixed up. "No, 
Pete. You tell him. I think you started this, you 
should stop it."     

"Is this some kind of an ego thing with you two?" 
John asked.     

"Yeah, that, and some kind of dare, too," I told him. 
"Do you have a problem with that?"     

"Not at all, I like what's happening," he said: What a 
surprise.     

"Are you going to stop this?" Joan asked me, 
looking over her shoulder. "Are you going to zip me 
up now? Are you all talk?"     

She was dead wrong about who had to stop it.     

"If you don't tell him you've had enough," I assured 
her, "this is going to go on."     

"
I won't!" It was almost as if the fight had become a 
dare.     

My fingers were on her shoulders, near her neck.     

"You're just not going to say uncle, are you?" I 
asked, hardly beleiving that we were both so 
prideful.     

"I won't."     

I moved my hands along her shoulders, to the straps 
of her dress.     

"I will not!" she said again.     

And I pushed at the straps, lifting them free of the 
slip, and out over the ends of her shoulders, and 
held them there.     

"You won't?"     

"I won't."     

Pride commeth before ...      

"Then lift up your arms!"     

"You wouldn't dare!"     

"Either tell John and me you've had enough, or lift 
up your arms."     

She did, raising them above her head. "Go ahead, I 
dare you," she told me.     

I reached down - it was a short dress -- found the 
lower hem, careful to avoid her slip, and lifted it, 
turning it inside out, hiding her face with it as her 
slip was exposed, then exposing her face, too, and 
pulling at it until it was off her body, off her hands, 
and free of her.     

And she stood there wearing bra, slip, pantihose, 
heels. She was almost as concealed as before, but 
everything was different, just as everything is 
different between a woman in bra and panties 
instead of a two piece bathing suit, or in  a dressing 
gown instead of a dress.     

"You have the power to stop this," I reminded her.     

"So do you," was her reply. Neither of us were 
backing down.     

"You have the power, too, John," I said, maybe 
looking for a bridge not yet burned.     

"I may have the actual power, but not the will power, 
guys. You just go ahead and fight or dare or 
whatever, I'll play my part." I guess there never was 
a bridge there. Not many guys would say stop when 
they were watching what he was.     



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