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Message-ID: <34019asstr$1008342604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} First Time Repost(4): Connie, Dark and Mills (FMM) ~ by DrSpin
Date: Fri, 14 Dec 2001 10:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Connie, Dark and Mills (FMM)
By DrSpin (aka Neil Anthony)
(first ever repost - originally posted December 1999) 

---------------------------------------------------------
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neil@ruthiesclub.com

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

Bill speaks:

Those of us who are married or in long-term relationships 
have a common trigger. It will be a piece of music, a 
particular song or perhaps a singer or a band which or 
who evokes that special time when we met our partners. 
Corny but true. Regrettably sentimental but undeniable. 
That's just the way it is. 

So when Dark & Mills reformed after a nine-year break for 
a one-time-only nostalgic concert tour of the country, 
then naturally Connie and I had to go. Compulsory, it 
was. Dark & Mills. The memories came flooding back. Our 
singers. Our songs. Just a couple of chords and we were 
flushed clean in love again.

Not that we'd ever been out of love in our 10 years 
together. Rather, it was just that thing about getting on 
with your lives and moving beyond that special mushy time 
when every word, every move and every gesture seemed so 
unique. I mean, you can fall in love like that but you 
can't live like it. Humdrum happens, and it happens to us 
all.

It was an excellent concert, which was great because we'd 
had to drive 150 miles to see it. The illusion that we 
were still young lovers lingered and we were very ready 
to head back to our motel to consummate the event. But 
then I got talking to a guy on the way out of the stadium 
and he was with a bunch of people around our age and they 
were all heading off to a party on the edge of town at a 
farmhouse and they were all Dark & Mills fans and there 
would be that sort of music and it all sounded pretty 
appealing when he suggested we should go. I looked at 
Connie and she looked doubtful for a moment but then she 
shrugged her shoulders. We followed the convoy and went 
to the Dark & Mills party.

It was an excellent party. The music was our sort of 
music and the people our sort of people. And because of 
that we stayed too long and I drank too much and maybe 
Connie did too and that wasn't the worst of it. Joints 
were being passed around and I hadn't had one in years 
and because of the way things were at the party I smoked 
the stuff and Connie did too and next thing we were 
legless. No excuses. Connie and I hadn't done that stuff 
in years because we were both overly susceptible to it, 
and we knew that because of past experiences but we did 
it anyway. Stupid. Half-drunk, totally zonked and very 
stupid. 

We weren't the only ones. Somebody saw our plight and led 
us to a big barn and inside, scattered about in the 
gloom, were various people asleep on straw or sitting 
stupidly or curled up plain tired. We found a spot, 
settled down and drifted away.

In the way that you do under those influences, you don't 
drop into a dead sleep. You seem to doze a bit here and a 
bit there, and the rest of the time you lie with your 
eyes open but unable to move a muscle. But I was hearing 
fine; well enough to become gradually aware that over to 
my right and a bit behind me, two people were involved in 
intercourse heavier than social. I couldn't turn my head 
but I could see their legs out of the corner of my eye. 
Hers were bare, at least to the knee, which was as far as 
I could see, and his had trousers bunched around his 
ankles. They were getting stuck into it big time. It was 
of no concern to me in my dreamy haze but it did keep me 
awake.

I was awake but barely so, drifting between dream and 
reality, sounds of passion in my ears and the sight of 
writhing legs in the corner of my eye and thinking 
nothing about anything when a man dropped to his hands 
and knees, crawled across and stretched out beside us. 
Beside Connie, actually. She was curled up on her side, 
facing me, and he was behind her. Close behind her, 
actually. I shifted my eyes, which was all I could do, 
and saw how close he was. 

I think I tried to form an opinion about this situation 
but I think I drifted off into a doze again. I woke and 
it may have been seconds later or minutes later or maybe 
much longer. The couple on the right had stopped doing 
it. No noise. On my left was Connie, curled up and facing 
me, and behind her was the man. Connie's dress was pushed 
up her legs and around her thighs. I could see her legs 
in the faint light coming in through the barn door, and I 
could see a man's hand between her thighs. Wait, it was 
his forearm, and her legs were apart a little and there 
was no doubt about what he was doing.

Well, hell. That wasn't right. I tried to move but 
nothing happened. Not even a muscle twitched. I might as 
well have been paralysed. Hell, I really was paralysed. 

Like a paraplegic I watched the movement of his hand 
under my wife's dress. No doubt about it. He was 
fingering her while she was drugged, drunk and fast 
asleep. I looked at her face and I thought I saw her eyes 
flash in the light as she blinked. No, maybe she wasn't 
asleep. Maybe she was awake while being fingered by a 
complete stranger.

Well, hell. That wasn't right either. It wasn't like 
Connie at all. I mean, at all. She had always been a 
relatively modest woman to the point of being shy until 
you knew her really well. Connie was small in a neat and 
tidy way, prettyish but not extravagantly so and she was 
certainly not a girl to draw attention to herself. Some 
would describe her unsympathetically as mousy but I liked 
her fine. And tonight, about one metre away, another man 
was liking her fine too. 

I watched as a detached observer, unable to muster 
strength or emotion. It seemed not real, even when I saw 
the man put a hand on her shoulder and roll her on to her 
back. She rolled acquiescently. He guided her without 
force. Her eyes were open. I could see that clearly now. 
She was looking at the man looming above and beside her. 

He was moving away from her, down the length of her 
stretched-out body, and again his hands were moving under 
her bunched-up dress. He was pulling her pants down her 
legs. I could see the lower half of her body raised to 
allow it but I didn't know whether he did that or she 
helped. Her pants came off, drawn over her feet. He 
dropped them aside on the straw. He picked up her feet 
and spread them apart, moved slowly between her legs and 
lifted the hem of her dress. Like a submarine submerging, 
his head disappeared. It looked like her dress was trying 
to hide a football. Her eyes flickered and her mouth was 
open. After not long at all she came to a silent orgasm. 
I knew it because I knew her intimately. Her hand next to 
me scrabbled and clutched at straw, her body went rigid 
and she lifted her head for a moment. Then she relaxed. 

She turned her head and, for the first time, looked at me 
directly. But she couldn't see me watching because my arm 
was across my forehead, putting my eyes in deep shadow 
and I was watching through semi-closed eyes anyway. I 
felt lifeless and I must have looked it.

Well, hell, it was all very peculiar. As far as I knew, 
and I would be amazed if it were any different, Connie 
had not had any sort of relations with any man since 
first we started going out 10 years ago. We were, she and 
I, a close unit. Sure, the passion may have faded but we 
were as close as any couple in the circumstances. I knew 
I ought to have done something. Or be doing something. 

But I had no energy and, strangely, no emotion to 
motivate me. There had to be a word to describe my 
situation and I searched for it. Yep. Passive. That's 
what I was. 100 per cent passive. I knew not why.

The man had withdrawn and he was sitting back on his 
heels between her spread legs. The dress was now pushed 
up high on her stomach and I could her white skin and her 
dark pubic vee. I couldn't see the guy clearly because 
his back was to the light of the bonfire outside but he 
looked a bit younger than us, maybe seven or eight years 
younger. He had short close-cropped hair but I couldn't 
see his face at all. Connie was looking at him, though, 
and watching as he eased his jeans down over his hips. 

Well, hell. Now he was going to fuck her and I didn't 
have any doubt she was going to let him. His stiff cock 
waved in front of him. I saw it silhouetted for a moment 
as he moved closer. He covered her body and leaned his 
weight on his forearms, one of them right beside me. He 
was penetrating her, slowly and quietly. I could tell 
because I saw her head go back the way it does when I do 
it to her. 

Again she looked across at me and, apparently assured, 
snaked her arms around his back, accepting him inside 
her. He settled against her body and started to fuck her 
slowly, quietly and rhythmically. They made barely a 
sound, apart from shifting the hay about. It went on this 
way for a bit and I caught myself almost dozing again so 
I wasn't sure how long. I blinked myself awake and he was 
hunched, no doubt shooting inside her because there had 
never been sight of a condom. She didn't get off on it 
this time which was not surprising because she rarely did 
that way. Pretty soon he was backing away. He stood up 
and dressed himself, looking down at her while she looked 
up at him. He bent down and picked up her pants, held 
them out so she could see them for a moment and tucked 
them into his shirt pocket. He stood for a few seconds 
more, looking at her with her legs spread and her dress 
rucked up against her stomach, then turned and left, 
going outside the barn. 

Connie sat up, smoothed down her dress, looked at me for 
a long moment and settled back to lie beside me. Soon I 
slept.

In the morning we were thick-tongued and dull, barely 
able to talk. We found our way to the car and set off for 
home. I needed coffee and food, so I stopped at a service 
station cafe. 

We were reviving. Connie looked at me blearily across the 
bench table. "When will we ever learn not to smoke dope?" 
she asked.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I was totally wasted."

"Did you sleep okay?" she asked.

"Tell me," I said, cutting short the long slow verbal 
dance that was beginning. Connie was like that. She was 
never never never going to able to hold the secret to 
herself for too long. "How come you're not wearing pants 
under that dress? You were wearing them yesterday."

She stared at me across the lip of the coffee cup she had 
brought up to her mouth. And she blushed. It started at 
her cheeks and spread to her neck and to her upper chest, 
plainly visible. The cup remained near to her mouth. I 
could almost see the questions and the options running 
through her brain. 

"Jesus," she said, slowly and distinctly. "You saw."

"Everything," I said flatly.

"Jesus." She put the cup down in the saucer, clattering 
it. Her hands were shaking and she was looking down at 
the table, not meeting my eyes. "Why didn't you say 
something? Why didn't you stop it?"

"Because I was too stoned to do anything but watch. Why 
didn't you?"

"Ditto."

"Connie, I saw it all. You participated. Actively."

She was still looking at the table. "That was later," she 
muttered sheepishly. "When it started I couldn't seem to 
stop it and then it got way too late to stop anything." 

She fiddled with the cup. "All morning I've been trying 
to pretend it was a dream. It's not much of an 
explanation, I know, but it's sort of meaningless. I have 
no idea why it happened and no idea why I let it happen. 
It just didn't seem real." 

She looked up at me suddenly, fearful. "Can you ever 
forgive me?" 

"Who was he? Anybody we know?"

"No. Nobody we know."

"Would you recognise him again?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't know."

"Another question, Connie. Did you enjoy it?"

"I..." Her voice tailed off.

"Come on. Be honest."

She thought about it for a while. "It was different," she 
said.

"And therefore exciting?"

"I guess so. Yes."

"You came when he ate you out. I saw it."

"Yes."

"You had sex in public with a stranger. Anyone could have 
seen you."

"A man and a woman behind you sat up and watched."

"Did that turn you on?"

"God, yes."

"And what about having sex with a stranger while I was a 
metre away?"

"God. Yes, that too."

"So, do you regret it now?"

Again she took her time considering. "Yes and no," she 
said. "I'm being totally honest. I didn't want it to 
happen and I didn't make it happen. But, my God, it was 
completely thrilling. Even now I can't believe it 
happened. I've never done anything remotely like it in my 
whole life. But it was a unique set of circumstances, 
with the drink and the drugs and the setting and the fact 
that we were in a strange place. I promise it will never 
happen again."

"No need to promise anything, Connie. It's okay."

She blinked in astonishment. "That's it? You forgive?"

"Sure. I forgave you last night. I understand what 
happened and how and why."

"That's...incredibly good of you."

"Nah. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to 
us in years. Yesterday you were Connie. Now you're a 
woman sitting at the table with me wearing no pants 
because a strange man took them from you. I'm seeing you 
in a new light, and I find it...stimulating."

"You were turned on too?"

"Not last night. I was too wasted. But I am now."

She smiled slowly. "Yes," she said. "That is 
interesting."

"Anyway," I said, "I never managed to get you an 
anniversary present last week. Let's say you've now had 
it."

* * *

Connie speaks:

I thought it was a dream and it was only the painful part 
of it that woke me to the fact that it wasn't. The man I 
dreamed was invading me was, in fact, invading me. I 
dreamed that I was helpless. Awake, it seemed as though I 
was indeed helpless. Now, looking back at it clinically, 
I don't know that I was. It seemed so; but I just don't 
know for sure.

It was pain that brought me to reality and the 
consideration of my peculiar circumstances. A blunt 
stubby finger in your vagina, clumsily directed, will do 
that. It was only a stab of pain, though, and it followed 
a dream pattern of cat-like sensual acceptance of a warm 
hand on my legs and between my thighs. 

In my dream I sighed and opened my legs for the hand. But 
it wasn't a dream. I did that. I did it willingly, 
dreaming of it and coming to the reality of it gradually, 
slowly, like a swimmer coming to the surface from a deep 
dive. I let him in. I opened the door and let him in.

This is not an account of the event. I guess it's an 
explanation. You see, I knew who it was. I didn't tell 
Bill that. I didn't know who it was until I saw his face 
a little later, but I knew as soon as I saw him and I 
knew why. I taught him once. I remembered him as a 
student who gave me aggravation when he was 15 or so and 
who I gave a certain amount of trouble in return. Jeff 
Wilton, that was his name. The kid, no longer a kid, 
fucked me in the barn beside my sleeping husband. Who 
wasn't asleep at all, as it turned out.

Somewhere in the course of it, at some time, I crossed 
the boundary between dreamlike acceptance and active 
participation. I don't know when. But I do remember 
seeing Jeff Wilton's hard curved penis and I do remember 
wanting to take it inside me. I do feel guilty about it 
because I know full well I could have stopped it, and 
because I know it was thrilling because Bill was beside 
me, supposedly asleep, and I know it was thrilling 
because my illicit partner was a former student. It's 
still thrilling just to recall it. These things don't 
happen to a 34-year-old part-time teacher and happily 
married housewife. But they did.

And more. Jeff Wilton had been a difficult rebellious boy 
and I should have guessed he would not have changed too 
much. A couple of weeks later I was sitting in an almost 
deserted cafe, with my second cup of coffee when somebody 
paused beside my table. I looked up and recognised John 
Hassett, a young man I taught a few years ago. I wouldn't 
have forgotten him because he was an outstanding student 
on whom I spent a lot of time and effort. He asked if he 
could join me and I was pleased to allow it.

"I'm glad I saw you here," he said after a while and idle 
gossip. "There's something I need to clear up."

"Yes?"

"Something...ah...awkward."

"Yes?"

John took a deep breath. "That idiot Jeff Wilton is 
telling people he...ah...had sex with you a couple of 
weeks ago."

I was amazingly calm. "Is he?"

"He's waving around a pair of pants and claiming they 
belong to you. I threatened to punch him out if he keeps 
saying it."

Still calm. "You'd better not do that."

He looked at me with wide eyes. Clearly he was aghast. 

"You're kidding," he said slowly. "They do belong to 
you?" I nodded, affirming it. "You mean," he said, 
grasping for words, "he..."

"He did." I finished it for him. 

I was so calm, so relaxed, almost amused by it. I ought 
to have been running down the street screaming in panic. 
But something about me had changed. What was done was 
done and there was no point denying it. A silence was 
developing in length. John's face was showing a range of 
emotions, mostly incredulity but also a plain measure of 
sheer jealousy. He'd always been sweet on me, which I 
knew very well in that female teacher/young male student 
way. 

Eventually he got around to the question. "Why?" he 
asked. "Why him? He's such a jerk."

"It was an accident. I was drunk and stoned at a party 
after a concert. I barely knew it was happening and I 
didn't know it was him until it was too late." Not quite 
true but truthful enough for the occasion.

"He took advantage of you?"

Damn. He was persisting. "Look," I said to make it clear. 
"I wasn't raped. It was very confusing, that's all. I 
didn't really know it was happening until it happened. 
And then it was too late to stop it."

"You let him fuck you." It was not a question but a blunt 
and angry statement and I didn't answer. "And you let him 
take your pants as a trophy."

Now I dropped my head. "I wasn't myself," I said.

"You, of all people," he said, shaking his head in 
disbelief. "Mrs Stanton. Who would believe that?" And 
then, quickly, as it occurred to him: "What about your 
husband?"

"He knows." John was looking concerned. "And forgives," I 
added.

His face darkened. "I don't understand." He was still 
angry.

"John," I said, appealing to him. "We can't talk here." 
And indeed the tables had filled and a couple of people 
were looking at us curiously. "I have a class to go to, 
so come around to my house tonight and we'll talk 
further. You obviously require a complete explanation and 
I'll do my best for you. Bill's away at the moment so it 
will be suitably discreet. Will you come?"

He looked wary but then nodded. I recalled him as a 
middle teenager, eagerly accepting my praise, trusting 
me, putting his faith in me. Basically a shy boy.

But he was a boy no more, and this was brought home to me 
when I showed him in that evening. Tall, broad-
shouldered, flat-stomached in a tight cotton shirt. How 
old was he now? Maybe 22 or 23, I supposed.

He was immediately apologetic. "I'm sorry about today," 
he said. "It's not my business what you do. But I thought 
he had to be lying and it was eating me up."

"Sorry to let you down," I said. "But I'm hardly 
perfect."

"I always thought you were."

"You want to know what happened with Jeff Wilton?"

"Mrs Stanton, I really have to know."

So I told him; simply and bluntly but without 
description. I told him about the concert, the drink and 
the dope, the half-sleep dream and then the reality of 
Jeff Wilton, saluting mockingly and stuffing my pants in 
his pocket. And of my husband who saw and, understanding 
it, forgave.

"What about you, John?" I asked, concluding. "Do you 
forgive me?"

"It's not up to me to forgive you," he said flatly. I was 
looking at his eyes. It stood out like a neon sign what 
was in his mind. "I think you just wish it had been you," 
I said.

He blushed deeply. I stood up, knowing what to do. "Can 
you stay the night?" I asked him.

He did. His long-muscled body was a delight; so strong, 
so young, so attentive. I hadn't had such a night since 
the early days of my marriage; so long, so exhausting, so 
little sleep. Absolute wet sex and lots of it. He was my 
ardent boy and I luxuriated in it. He kept calling me Mrs 
Stanton and that was wickedly erotic.

In the morning I made it clear it was a once-only thing. 
The town wasn't big enough for such an unbalanced affair 
and I loved my husband anyway. He accepted that and he 
forgave my indiscretion with Jeff Wilton. He said he did 
anyway, after I gave in to his request and allowed him to 
take a couple of Polaroid snaps of me sitting up in bed. 
His own special trophy, he said, for his eyes only. I 
shouldn't have done that, I know. But I wanted his 
forgiveness and by then I was very mellow about him. I 
hope I don't have cause to regret it.

About Bill. I didn't tell him I knew who it was that 
night in the barn. So now I couldn't tell him about John 
Hassett, because that happened because of Jeff Wilton. If 
I wanted to tell him about John, that is. But now I 
couldn't. Oh hell. I don't know.

I know something for sure. This sort of thing is going to 
have to stop.

ENDS

* DrSpin/Neil Anthony is at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

* also at neil@ruthiesclub.com and at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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