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Message-ID: <34244asstr$1009084203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} First  Ever Repost (6): Sandy Says Oh God A Few Times (FMM semi-reluc) ~ by DrSpin
Date: Sun, 23 Dec 2001 00:10:03 -0500
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Sandy Says Oh God a Few Times (FMM semi-reluc)
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.
---------------------------------------------------------

You'd have to say we were a bright fun-loving couple, 
Sandy and me. Everybody said that. We were both 29, 
married six years, and since the day we met we were into 
having fun. We played any sort of game, any sort of 
sport, and if you put us to the test we were willing to 
take on any sort of physical challenge. We'd been hang-
gliding. We'd done bungi jumping. Free-fall parachuting. 
Abseiling. Water scooters. Anything.

Lucky genes, I guess. We were both fit and healthy, 
outgoing and gregarious. We liked to throw parties. 
People were always dropping round. We hadn't had the time 
for a family. We were too busy with a bigger and broader 
family of friends and acquaintances. Like peas in a pod, 
we were. We were totally into being busy and active. And 
having fun. 

We even looked a little alike. Nothing all that special, 
mind you. Classically blond when we were kids, now gone 
adult sandy. Open and friendly faces, good strong teeth, 
strong bodies without being in any way voluptuous (in 
Sandy's case) or overly muscular (in mine). Sandy turned 
the occasional head went she went past but that was 
usually because she looked trim, fit and healthy rather 
than strikingly attractive. We were just average people. 
But everybody seemed to enjoy our company.

Nobody's perfect, however. It has to be said that Sandy 
was not very into sex. She liked to cuddle and smooch but 
as for the dirty deed itself...well, she did what she had 
to do and she never complained, but it was duty and not 
pleasure. I knew that very well. We had barely spoken 
about it in the nearly eight years since we met. But I 
knew it very well. That part of our marriage had 
gradually drifted into the background. Because we worked 
different hours, we had even taken to sleeping in 
different rooms. Once you get used to that, it becomes a 
way of life. We still had sex. Occasionally. Randomly. 
Like when we went away on holidays and sometimes when we 
both got drunk at a party. Usually one of our own 
parties, because neither of us would ever drive drunk.

She never complained and neither did I. Like I said, 
nobody's perfect. We all have our faults. My biggest was 
my ultra-laidback attitude. I was never going to make a 
spectacular career because I could never summon up the 
motivation to really succeed. I just liked to roll along 
having a good fun time. Work was a thing you had to do to 
get a paycheck. I also didn't like problems, either my 
own or anybody else's. Faced with a problem, I usually 
gave up on it and did something else which was more fun. 

I could live with my big fault. Hey, I was happy with it. 
The sun shone more than it didn't, you know? There were 
always good things to do. It wasn't a huge issue. 

It was my smallest fault that caused me so much 
difficulty. You see, I think I might be the most ticklish 
man in the world. Sandy found that out very early in the 
piece and she has insisted, even eight years on, 
demonstrating it to all and sundry. I'd be standing 
around at a party with a drink in my hand talking to a 
bunch of people and up would sneak Sandy behind me, 
poking her fingers into my ribs and laughing hysterically 
when I screamed and jumped, cackled like a chicken, 
dropped my drink and alarmed everybody. This annoying 
habit of hers was the only thing, the only thing, I 
disliked about her. I begged her often not to do it but 
she persisted. She said I looked so much like a 
startled rabbit it was irresistible.

Today the bunny fought back. I'm sitting on the back 
porch now on my own, looking at a lawn that needs mowing. 
Sandy is having a bath. Or a shower. I don't know. 

Suddenly, in one day, in a space of a couple of hours, 
everything is different. And I don't know what to think 
or what to do. I'll have to face her any time now and I 
do not know what I'm going to say.

This morning we were busy around the house doing Sunday 
chores, like we usually did on a Sunday. Patrick and Pete 
turned up, like people often do on a Sunday, and we 
scrambled together a light lunch and sat around talking 
about this and that and having a laugh or two about the 
party at the Swinsteads last night. I was standing there 
doing a pretty good imitation for Patrick and Pete of 
Duncan Swinstead trying to sing Happy Birthday while 
impossibly drunk when Sandy came up from behind and poked 
me in the ribs. As usual, I screeched and flapped my 
arms about and everybody was laughing at me. And I did 
something I never do. I snapped.

I swung around in a fury and pushed her hard. She tumbled 
awkwardly to the carpet and sprawled, legs akimbo, 
looking up at me in astonishment. I dropped to the floor, 
grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms. 

"Hold her legs," I barked at Pete, because she started to 
wriggle in protest, and he took hold of her ankles and 
held them tight. 

"Now," I said to her. "Patrick is going to tickle you 
while you're helpless and then we'll see how much you 
like it."

"Okay," said Patrick, much amused. On hands and knees, he 
crawled across and started poking her provocatively in 
the ribs. 

Sandy bent her head backwards and looked up at my face 
scornfully. "I'm not ticklish," she said. "Only you are."

"Tickle her feet," I told Patrick.

"Okay" he said, and took off her canvas shoes. He stroked 
his fingers along the length of her feet. She wriggled 
uncomfortably but did not even come close to breaking out 
into hysterical laughter.

"Lenny, give it up," she said. "I'm just not ticklish. 
There's nothing you can do to me."

Having gone this far, I was determined to extract a 
measure of revenge. I looked for inspiration at Patrick 
and then to Pete, who was still holding her ankles 
pinned. Sandy was wearing a light cotton summer dress and 
the tumbling and the grappling had caused it to ride high 
up on her thighs. I could see the edge of her white pants 
and so could Patrick and Pete, because I could see they 
were looking, and looking very closely. In a flash I had 
it. Brilliant. Sandy would pay big. 

I moved so my knees pinned her arms and I reached down 
and pulled her dress up. She squealed with indignation 
and thrashed about trying to escape. 

"Okay boys," I said grimly. "Let's just show her what we 
can do. Patrick?" The dress was bunched up to her waist. 
He could see the hint of pubic hair around the edges of 
her pants. He tore his eyes away and looked up at me 
questioningly. 

"Take her pants down," I ordered.

He blinked at me and exchanged a fast glance with Pete. 

"Really?" he asked.

"Do it," I said confidently. "She has to learn a lesson 
and by God, she will remember this one."

"Lenny, I'll kill you for this," Sandy shouted furiously.

"Do it," I said again to Patrick.

He hesitated, looking first at me and then at the 
juncture of her legs. Then he shrugged. "Okay," he said, 
and he did, dragging her pants over her hips and down her 
legs, past her knees while she bucked vigorously but 
ineffectually.

Sandy lay pinned, helpless and panting with her exertions 
and the three of us looked at her bare crotch. She was 
not a hairy girl; never had been. She was an outdoor girl 
but she barely needed to trim to fit into tight shorts 
and swimming costumes. Her slit and her puffy lips could 
be seen through the sparse brown hair.

"You will die for this, Lenny," she said to me with 
extreme menace, her eyes narrowed. "Now let me go."

Of course, that's what I intended. Pull her pants down, 
humiliate her in front of Patrick and Pete and let her 
go. But there was an unintended consequence. There I was, 
pinning her arms with my knees, looking down at Patrick 
and Pete who were staring at her exposed pussy with fixed 
interest. Suddenly I didn't want to let her go. My mouth 
had gone dry. It was very interesting. 

Without thinking about it, I reached out and reefed the 
dress up to her neck and face, hooked my fingers under 
the bottom of her bra and lifted it off her breasts, 
exposing them to the air. 

Her face was half-covered but I could see her eyes, and 
they were brimming with wild uncertainty. All I could 
hear was people breathing. Everybody was still. It was a 
tableau; me, pinning her arms with my knees; Sandy, most 
of her face covered by her bunched-up dress, bra round 
her neck, breasts rolled slightly out, ribcage flexing 
with her breathing, legs apart and pants stretched across 
just below her knees; Pete, holding her ankles and 
looking directly up at her crotch; Patrick, off to the 
side, crouched, looking and waiting like the opportunist 
he was for what might happen next. 

She wasn't struggling any more. I thought I must be 
hurting her with the weight of my knees on her arms, so I 
sat back and let her go. She was just lying there, 
breathing, her eyes looking up at the ceiling almost 
vacantly. She couldn't see Patrick or Pete because the 
dress prevented it but she could see me behind her. But 
she wasn't looking at me. Just up at the ceiling. I stood 
up and nobody took any notice. I moved to the side and 
nobody even looked. Sandy was virtually free from 
restraint. Pete had only a token hold on her ankles. She 
could have pulled her dress down, sat up, got up, gone 
away, baked a pie and danced a polka. But she just lay 
there, naked and exposed.

Suddenly and quickly Pete leaned forward, dipped his head 
and kissed her on the inside of the thigh. His hands were 
moving and he brushed his lips in long sweeping movements 
along the top of her leg. Then Patrick moved in, grasping 
one breast and plucking at the other with his mouth. 

"Oh God," Sandy moaned audibly, and it was a sound of 
dread, but she didn't move a muscle. 

Standing two or three paces to the side, I watched 
paralysed. Whoa, I thought. This could get out of hand. I 
knew I could and should stop it but I couldn't seem to 
get around to it.

I stood there wavering and watching as Pete moved his 
mouth into her pubic hair and then directly to her slit. 

"Oh God," Sandy moaned again as he worked her with his 
tongue. I knew Sandy. I'd been married to her six years. 
She didn't much allow this, even though it was the only 
real way she could get herself an orgasm. That and direct 
manipulation with the fingers, which she didn't often 
allow either. I suspect she preferred to do it herself 
rather than allow somebody else to intrude. In fact I 
knew it because she'd told me so in a frank moment some 
time in the past. And never orgasm through vaginal 
intercourse. Never. Not once in eight years with me, and 
according to her, not once ever.

These were cool, almost clinical observations. I watched 
Patrick kissing her standard average tits and Pete 
tonguing her sandy-haired box and I mused about her 
general lack of sexual appetite as she lay passively 
under their double attention. 

But wait. Maybe not so passive. She started to roll her 
head from side to side, slowly at first but then faster 
until she was almost thrashing. The veins in her neck 
stood out and her teeth were clenched. No doubt about it, 
I observed. I hadn't seen it happen all that many times, 
but I knew that Sandy was hitting an orgasm.

She was quiet and still again. "Oh God," she said 
indistinctly through the clothes still bundled across her 
mouth. She sounded embarrassed. Even regretful. 
Reproachful, even. Patrick and Pete had drawn away from 
her. She could have moved easily now. Nobody was touching 
her, let alone restraining her. But she just lay there, 
legs apart and arms flung out on the carpet. 

The clear and unmistakable sound of a zip broke the 
silence. "Oh God," she said again, and Pete was unbelting 
his jeans. I watched, frozen and fascinated, as he stood 
up to step out of them. His stiff dick waved in front of 
him as he bent down to her again. 

Jesus. It came to me in a shock that he was intending to 
fuck her, and I was still grappling with the concept of 
it when he knelt down between her legs, poised himself 
above her on his hands and pushed it straight on in. 

"Oh God," she said. Jesus. Pete was fucking Sandy. He was 
in there. Inside. All the way.

Everything had been happening slowly. I had become quite 
detached. It had all seemed like some sort of 
hypothetical experiment which had you pondering about the 
outcome. But now it was happening at the speed of light. 
The outcome was occurring right in front me. Pete was 
sawing away at her regularly and we could all hear the 
friction of it. 

Seconds or minutes later, I couldn't tell because time 
had become blurred, he was hunching and shooting into 
her, his face a tight mask of effort and concentration. 
He collapsed himself gently on her body and lay with the 
side of his head on her breasts, panting. But only for a 
moment, because Patrick tapped him on the shoulder and he 
instantly withdrew back from her, his half-limp penis 
coming out of her with a plop. 

Patrick was replacing him, his ready-to-go erection 
already pointing eagerly. I hadn't even seen him undress. 
And now Patrick was pushing inside, sliding into her. My 
wife. Sandy. Already being fucked again. He was a 
sprinter, quickly into his stride and running hard, up-
and-down in-and-out like a piston engine. Noisy, too. He 
grunted. She already had a dump from Pete inside her and 
the fucking was noisy as well. Wet. Sloshing. I watched 
in a stupefied daze. 

"Oh God," said Sandy. I watched amazed as she lifted her 
legs and locked her ankles around his back. Her arms 
grabbed his head and she pulled Patrick down to her body. 

"Oh God," she said, shouting it loudly. And then a funny 
noise, like "djinnnnn...". 

Well, fuck me. I'd seen a lot today I had not expected to 
see, but what I was seeing took the gold medal. There she 
was. Sandy, flat on her back on the living room carpet 
being fucked in rapid succession by two old friends of 
the family, wracked in orgasm.

"Oh God," she said, her voice cracking as she came down 
from it. But Patrick was still going hard at it and she 
clung to him. The dress was now around her neck and away 
from her face and she looked across at me, her eyes wide. 

She kept looking at me and I kept looking at her as 
Patrick pounded away. And then he lifted his head and 
grimaced and he too was unloading into her, and still 
looking into my eyes, she said it again and with startled 
surprise. 

"Oh God." She squeezed her eyes shut and lurched into 
another shaking spasm. She'd done it again. Who would 
believe that? Sandy? My Sandy? What the fuck was 
happening? 

Nothing whatsoever, going by the body language coming 
from Patrick and Pete. They were both zipped up and fully 
dressed in microseconds. And sheepish, avoiding my eyes, 
already leaning in the direction of the front door. 

Well, hell, I knew that stuff. "You guys had better go," 
I said quietly. 

They nodded very quickly, still avoiding eye contact. I 
trailed them to the door and they were down the path at a 
fast walk and away into Pete's car and gone at a speed 
only fractionally less than breakneck. I knew that stuff. 
They'd turn the corner and start shouting JESUS CHRIST 
and punch each other in the shoulder. Of course they 
would. That's what I'd have done if I were them. 

But I wasn't. I was only the husband and I went back into 
the event room feeling blank. Sandy was still on the 
floor but she had rolled on her side. An uneven stain was 
in the carpet. She struggled slowly to her feet as I came 
into the room and the dress rolled down her body of its 
own accord. She bent and pulled up her pants, shifting 
uncomfortably and I knew what from. Without looking at 
me, she walked slowly down the hallway and into the 
bathroom. I heard the door shut. 

I'm sitting here on the back porch looking out at the 
garden. I've run through it all in my mind. I know what 
happened but I can't work out why I let it happen. Pretty 
soon now Sandy will come out here and find me. She'll 
have to say something and I'll have to say something 
because we can't say nothing, either of us. 

I have no idea what she will say. I have no idea what I 
will say. I'm trying to get some words together but it 
ain't working.

Fuck the lawn. Maybe I'll just go fishing.

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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