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From: "First Name Last Name" <marchase@my-deja.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Consequences 2/2, a wife sharing story by Marc
Date: Thu,  8 Feb 2001 00:10:04 -0500
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"Shit" was the best I could come up with.     

"
Sounds like a concession," Joan said, almost 
victoriously.     

"Not quite."      

Her back was still to me. My hands found the clasp 
of her bra -- I knew it well, I had even fastened it for 
her earlier, it seemed days ago, we seemed to be 
here so long, and so much had been happening, 
and. . .      

I released the hooks, the ends moved apart, tension 
in the bra strap ended, and tension in the room 
increased.     

"Do that thing you do, Joan. Take it off from under 
your slip. Or, you could just say let's stop. Your 
choice."     

Joan looked at John, who was almost salivating. 
She was talking to me, though. "Want me to to say 
'let's stop,' Pete? Is that what you'd like?"      

John offered his opinion. "Hell, don't stop, Pete.  I 
like what's happening, I'd like to see you take it 
further. . ."     

And before he could finish she reached to her 
cleavage and with a single pull, extracted her bra.     

I knew the slip was shear, but black enough so it 
was still covering her better than most bathing suits, 
but still. . .     

She held the bra out at arm's length, holding it by 
the short strap between its cups.     

"Want this, John?" she asked, and he almost lept 
over the sofa to get his prize.     

Joan turned to me. God, she looked sexy. "Is the 
game over, Pete?"     

"Are you calling it off?"      

"No, you have to."     

"Then it's not over!"     

John was right behind her.     

I pushed her back the step or two it took to reach 
the sofa.     

She looked incredible, standing there.     

"Sit down," I commanded, at pushed at her 
shoulders to force her to.     

She did, primly, knees together. Her slip was as 
good as a dress in providing optical concielment, 
but the message it sent was incedible.     

"Come over here, John."      

I had knelt in front of her. John did too, beside me.     

I took one of her ankles, lifted her foot, and pulled 
off a shoe.     

"Now you, John. "John did the same thing to her 
other foot.     

Joan sat there, watching, her nylon covered legs 
held together, looking partly frightened, partly 
defiant.     

"Now what, guys? Have you gone far enough?"     

"No," I told her, "not nearly far enough, unless you 
say so."     

"That's up to you to say."     

I turned to John. "Wanna stop?"     

"Hell no."     

"Me neither. Do this!"     

I put my hand on the outside of her calf.     

John changed his position, so he could do the same 
thing.     

"Now this."     

I let my fingers move up her leg, to her knee, to her 
thigh.      

John's hand disappeared under her slip at the same 
time mine did, and soon both our arms were under 
her slip to about her waist. The slip was pulled too 
tightly. "My side first, then yours, John." I had 
gripped the upper edge of her pantihose, pulled at 
them, started them down, then withdrew my hand. I 
watched Joan's face when John's hand found what 
he was looking for, and he moved the down a 
couple of inches along her hip, too.     
"Your choice, Joan. Either say 'stop', or lift up your
 hips."     

She never broke eye contact with me, she just put 
her feet squarely on the floor, and with her back 
against the sofa, lifted her hips off the sofa,      

"Do it, Pete, or say stop." That was another 
challege, and I wasn't about to stop.     

My two hands moved up along those legs I've so 
often carressed, two hands on her hips, hips I often 
held, then fingers found the hem, and so help I 
couldn't help myself, I pulled at the pantihose, and 
as my hands got to mid thigh, she sat back on the 
sofa and extended her legs, so that I could continue 
in one smooth motion, down her calves, and pulling, 
watched as the hose turned inside out, moved over 
her knee, and down,      

and off.     

She sat down again.     

I went back to the chair I had been sitting on, and 
looked at her, and at John standing next to the sofa.     

"John, I saw you messing around with Joan before. 
Are you man enough to do that now, here? You 
don't have to sneak around."     

I knew she was still mad at me, and too proud to call 
an end to this.     

John looked at me, and at her. He went to the side 
of the room and turned off a floor lamp, leaving the 
room lit only with a low wattage table lamp. It was 
sexier somehow, not quite as in-your-face clinical.     

And he sat beside Joan.     

Turned toward her.     

In one smooth movement he moved her and himself 
so they were both prone on the sofa, her trapped 
between him and its back, being pressed there, 
being held, being kissed, being carressed there.     

I couldn't see well, so I walked over behind the sofa, 
and looked down at them, the two of them, in a 
tangle of arms.     

John, after the first kiss, reached down between 
them, I was sure to start fingering her, getting her 
ready, but I was wrong. He pulled at his belt, and his 
pants, until he had them open and unzipped.     

Then he pulled at her upper arm, and took her by 
the wrist, and moved that hand down between them.     

I saw as he put his fingers over hers, and pushed 
them under his short's waist band, and in a moment 
I knew she was touching his cock.     

His hand came out -- hers didn't.     

His hand moved between them again, brushing her 
slip, pulling at it, pulling the material taut because of 
the way they were laying on the sofa, and I watched 
as she moved a little, lifting a little, until her weight 
wasn't holding the slip anymore, and he could pull it 
up, exposing her hips to me, and her vagina to his 
hand.     

Her leg moved over his hip, opening herself to him, 
making access easier, and his hand moved there, 
and his fingers moved along her, until I could see 
his hand moving over her hip, and closer, then two 
fingers bend, and disappear.     

"Uncle?" I asked.     

Actions spoke louder. She was no longer stoking his 
cock. Instead that hand was pushing at his pants, 
trying to force them down.     

There was urgency in his actions now. He stopped 
fingering her, and instead lifted his hips, and pushed 
too, until his pants were at mid thigh, and his cock 
was exposed.     

Joan looked between them, looked at him, so ready, 
and looked up at me while she reached for, and held 
him.     

"Uncle?" she asked.     

"No!" I was NOT going to give in.     

She pushed at him, and rolled, so that he was on his 
back, and she was kneeling over him. Her slip fell 
back over her hips, but that no longer mattered.     

She moved over this guy who was fully clothed 
except from waist to mid thigh, moved over him the 
same way she moves over me, moved over him until 
she she was straddling him, straddling his cock.     

She lifted herself, supporting herself with her hands 
on his shoulders, flexing her back, aligning herself 
while he held his cock, until its head was just at her 
lips, in fact pressing against them, in fact almost 
parting them, just barely visible because her slip 
had ridden up her thighs.     

She paused, and looked up at me, standing right 
beside her.     

"Uncle?" She was giving me one last chance.     

Instead I reached down, and put my hand on the 
small of her back,     

and     

pushed     

her      

down.     

And his cock was where only mine had been for 15 
years.     

 John slid his hands under her slip, held her by the 
hips, and lifted her, and pulled her down, he moved 
in countertime, as he drove into her, as she moved 
on her own, still supporting herself with her arms on 
her shoulders.     

It was almost perfect.     

I reached over the back of the sofa, and grabbed at 
her slip, pulling it up, over her head, and down her 
arms.     

She lifted one arm so I could pull it free, then the 
other.     

Then knelt upright over him, breasts exposed, cunt 
exposed, riding that cylinder, sometimes lifting too 
high, so that he was left all exposed and wet, then 
lowering herself until contact was made again, and 
he guided himself back into her.     

John, almost too soon, began changing the tempo of 
this fucking, holding in longer, pulling only a little 
out, then pushing in again, holding her hips tightly, 
driving himself into her, grunting in a way we all 
recognize as meaning he released himself in her.     

He stopped moving, but she was still lifting, 
decending, fucking him, fucking at him, even though 
he was spent.     

Finally, from an unexpected place, we heard what 
either of us would say. John whispered "Uncle!" . My 
wife, my fucked wife, lifted herself off him - how wet 
his groin was, did she produce all of that? -- and got 
off the sofa.     

She reached toward me, and I handed her the slip.     

Slip, dress, shoes. Somewhere in that room were 
bra and pantiehose, but we decided they weren't 
worth looking for.     

Half way home Joan turned to me. "You really don't 
care, do you?"     

"Actually, I care a lot. And I learned something 
today, about me and about you."     

"What's that?"     

"You're sexy. I'd rather fuck, or watch you fuck, than 
fight about it."     

"Oh?" She looked at me. "What happened was OK 
with you?"     

"That time, yeah. It was a turn on. You seemed to 
like it, too."     

"Come on, Pete. That was a spite fuck. It was 
getting even for the way you were acting towards 
me."     

"Oh? Well, next time, try to enjoy it as much as John 
did, or I did."     

"Next time? What makes you think there'll be a next 
time?"     

I pulled over, and stopped the car in a closed 
services station driveway. I looked carefully at her. 
"Joan, we crossed over a bridge tonight, and burned 
it. There's no going back. You're sitting there with 
your cunt still full of what John put there.   My mind 
is full of those images, and I like them. I think next 
time, and I want there to be a next time, I want you 
to be sexy because it's fun, not to spite me. And 
next time, I won't be daring you because I'm angry, 
but because I'm horny. OK?"     

"Drive home, Pete."     

I started the car moving again.     

In a moment or two, Joan reached for my right hand, 
took it from the steering while, and held it in her lap. 
"Pete, what you just said to me, about next time?"     

"Yeah?"     

"If you always take me home and make love to me, 
there can be as many next times as you like."     
   






I can't call this the end. It's more like  a new start.    
  
As always, comments are welcome. Marc    



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