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Message-ID: <34987asstr$1012356602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Margery Pinchwife <mpinchwife@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Click(MF,wife,voy)
Date: Tue, 29 Jan 2002 21:10:02 -0500
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<1st attachment, "click.txt" begin>

CLICK 
by Margery Pinchwife 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/margery/www/                   
(c) Margery Pinchwife, 2002                            
          --------------------------------------- 
Don't read this story if you are not an adult, don't like erotic
stories, or are somewhere where they are illegal.      
          ---------------------------------------  
  
               This is a story about an innocent and faithful
wife of 25 years who  succumbs.  I play the part of the wife. 

               It begins, of course, with the description of the
wife, her looks  (average, like me), her innocence, her
faithfulness through the years.  I'm sure  that you are familiar
with such a wife (perhaps it's your own wife, or perhaps  it's
you) and can easily fill in the details.  Nothing extraordinary,
just a good  and true wife who has lived happily with her husband
for a couple of dozen  years or so. 

               Then, the actual story starts at a New Year's eve
party we have gone to  at the house of a friend of a friend,
where we don't know most of the people.  We meet a lot of people
all at once, so the introductions become a bit of a blur,  except
for one that stands out.  This is to a Greek named Dmitri, who is
visiting  one of the other people at the party.  Dmitri is tall,
athletic looking, with wavy  brown hair and strong cheekbones,
and speaks excellent English with a  thoroughly delightful
accent, one I hadn't heard for many years, since we had  lived in
Greece shortly after we were married. 

               There is, of course, a lot of drinking going on. 
I don't drink much so  confine myself to a few glasses of red
wine, just enough to make me light-  headed.  My husband drinks
only fruit juice.  At one point, someone comments  on his
abstemiousness, and he explains that alcohol does bad things to
his  digestive system.  Several people volunteer that it is
unlawful to greet the new  year sober and they suggest pot
instead.  However, this is not the 70s anymore  and no one has
any marijuana.  So at midnight, I receive a sober kiss from my 
husband. 

               Others have not been abstaining, so when the ball
at Times Square falls  and the fireworks start, everyone is
kissing everyone else; a few are going even  further, drifting
off into the darker corners and greeting the new year with a 
bang (so to speak).  Most of the kisses I receive are pecks on
the cheek, except  for the Greek's.  Dmitri wraps his arms around
me, bends me over at the waist,  and, with incredibly soft,
luxurious lips, kisses me full on the mouth.  I'm so  taken aback
that my mouth opens and his tongue snakes its way in. 

               Whether it's the kiss, or the wine, or Dmitri, I
don't know, but I  immediately have some evil thoughts that a
well-behaved wife shouldn't have.  On occasion, over the course
of 25 years of marriage, I've had such thoughts  before, but I've
always managed to suppress them and, as soon as I can get my 
husband alone, atone for them by acting them out with him,
releasing all the  passion built up in my system.  Unfortunately,
later that night when we get  home, it will be very late and he
will be too tired and will want to go to sleep  immediately.  So
my evil thoughts will be left to fester in the back of my mind. 

               But, in the meantime, back at the party there's
still plenty of drinking,  talking, and whatever is going on in
the dark corners.  Eventually, we get to  talk a bit with Dmitri
and are delighted to learn that he comes from the same  city we
lived in when my husband worked there.  We'd love to talk more
with  him, but it is now quite late and his host is waiting to
drive him home, and,  unfortunately, he has to go back to Greece
in a couple of days.  However, he  explains that his last evening
here will be free because his host as an  unavoidable previous
commitment.  He offers to be our host at a restaurant  where we
can continue the discussion that night.  We counter by offering
to  feed him at our home and, after some delicate negotiations,
it is agreed that I'll  cook a simple dinner and he'll bring
dessert. 

               So several nights later, my evil thoughts still
lurking in the recesses of  my mind, I find myself thinking more
of my attire than of the menu.  I debate  about various
possibilities, ranging from very informal (jeans, tee-shirt, bare 
feet) to rather formal (evening gown, jewelry, high heels) before
I finally settle  on a compromise - a full-length skirt of soft,
brown wool, a man's-style white  blouse with the faintest tan
pinstripe, with only the collar unbuttoned, a thin  gold chain
necklace, and flats. 

               When Dmitri arrives and takes his coat off, I'm
relieved that he has no  jacket or tie - he wears what looks like
a business shirt, except for the fact that  it is mauve, with the
top three buttons unbuttoned.  He surprises me by kissing  my
hand quite formally and presents me with a huge bouquet of
flowers and a  sinful looking chocolate torte.  Normally, he
says, he would bring wine "to  expand the taste buds for what, I
am confident, will be your excellent cooking",  but being aware
of my husband's problems he brought to us, instead, a small  box
that turns out to contain two joints - something we hadn't seen
in years.  One, he suggests, before the main course, and one
before dessert.  One must, he  explains, "expand the taste buds." 

               Between his pot, his excellent conversation, and
his sinful dessert,  dinner goes wonderfully.  We talk about
Greece, where we had stayed, the  changes since that time, and
generally have a delightful time.  After dinner we  float on a
cloud of marijuana into the living room.  A short time later, my 
husband, who has had rather more than his share of the pot,
stands up and  announces he will look in the cellar for the
photographs we took in Greece.  As  he vanishes down the stairs,
Dmitri tells me that he is a professional  photographer, that he
takes glamour pictures for Playboy.  I greet this statement  with
skepticism and a bit of a giggle, but he protests and offers his
business  card to me.  When this turns out to be entirely in
Chinese, my giggle becomes a  laugh.  His translation, "Dmitri
Papadopoulos, Glamour and Nude Photography,  Playboy Magazine,"
produces a marijuana laughing fit in me. 

               "No, no," he protests, "I'll prove it.  I'll
photograph you."  So saying,  he picks up an imaginary camera,
holds it up to his eye and points it at me.  Of  course, I assume
a "glamour pose" and he presses the button on his "camera," 
saying "click" at the same time.  He takes a few more such
"pictures" as I vamp  for him, but then he insists that my
costume isn't right for glamour pictures.  Shoes and socks will
have to go, he takes off his own to demonstrate - one must  never
wear shoes in a glamour picture unless they are high heels.  My
blouse  must not be tucked in, it must hang freely - he pulls out
his shirt from his pants  - like so.  And the buttons, I must
open another button. "Click." And another.  "Click" 

               A few more such pictures, taken from a variety of
angles for a number  of poses, and he convinces me to open all
but one button on my blouse,  showing me which one by unbuttoning
his shirt.  But then we can't have my  white cotton bra showing,
I must take it off.  This doesn't seem right to me, but  while I
ponder the idea he slides his hand up my back, under my blouse,
and  deftly unsnaps the bra.  Whether it is the pot or the
confident smoothness of his  action, I acquiesce by slipping one
arm through its strap and pulling the bra off  through my other
sleeve, leaving my breasts scarcely concealed under my  almost
unbuttoned blouse.  As he clicks away on his imaginary camera, I
begin  to feel really glamorous and sexy, something I haven't
really felt in years. 

               The last button, of course, has to go, so we are
standing there with both  our shirts untucked and fully
unbuttoned when my husband comes back saying  "I can't find those
pictures in the cellar."  He looks at us.  "What's up?" 

               "Ah, you are here, wonderful," Dmitri responds
without missing a beat,  "I am taking glamour pictures of your
wife, but you must take a picture of the  two of us together. 
Here," handing him the imaginary camera, "you look  through here
and press this button."  Having instructed my husband, he comes 
over and puts his arm around me, in the process opening our
shirts so that one  of my breasts presses against his naked chest
and the other looks boldly out  towards my husband.  My husband
says "smile" and presses his finger down  and Dmitri says
"click." 

               Then, carefully putting the camera down, my
husband says "I think I'll  look in the cellar for those Greek
pictures" and heads down the stairs again. 

               Dmitri continues his photographing.  Now he wants
me to pull up my  skirt to show some legs, to bundle it between
my legs, to pull it off to one side,  and, eventually, to
unbutton and lower it to reveal my hip, "like so" he says, 
lowering his pants.  "Click" and another pose, "Click."  A few
poses later and  my skirt and his pants are lying on the floor in
heaps.  The next poses, he  insists, need a different background. 
The living room isn't right.  We need a  bed. 

               So, wearing nothing but an unbuttoned blouse,
white cotton panties, a  thin gold necklace, and a marijuana
haze, I lead him to our bedroom.   When I  turn to look at him, I
can't help commenting on the bulge in his red jockey  shorts. 
That is my beauty meter, he responds, it always sticks out like
this in  the presence of such beauty. 

               And so I stretch out on the bed and pose. 
"Click."  I am a glamour  queen.  "Click."  A Playboy centerfold. 
"Click."  The obsession of men.  "Click."  The envy of women. 
"Click." I am feeling glorious.  "Click."  And it  is all so
safe, because there is no film in the camera.  "Click."  In fact,
there is  no camera.  "Click."  All sorts of exotic, erotic
poses.  "Click."  It is wonderful.  "Click." 

               By this time my blouse (and his shirt) are long
gone, "Click," and we  have each just removed our underpants,
when my husband reappears.  "I can't  find those pictures in the
cellar."  I am completely naked except for the thin  gold chain
around my neck.  Dmitri's "beauty meter" is impressively sticking 
up. 

               "Ah, just in time," Dmitri hands him the invisible
camera, "you must  take a picture of us in the pose of Rodin's
famous statue, 'The Kiss.'" And he  sits down next to me,
embracing me and kissing me, as in the statue.  I wait to  hear
what my husband says. 

               He says, "Click." 

               He says, "Maybe our Greek pictures are in the
cellar." 

               He puts the "camera" down and leaves. 

               Dmitri continues the kiss.  His hands stroke my
arms, my back, my  breasts.  His mouth finds a nipple, which he
takes between his soft lips.  My  hands respond, roaming over his
muscular body, grasping his "beauty meter,"  which now seems to
be registering off the scale.  Now I am on my back, his  head is
between my legs, the room is rocking from side to side, or is it
me, as  his tongue enters me.  From the tip of his tongue, little
pulses of electricity  burst outward through my entire body.  I
can feel the pressure building up  within me. 

               And then it stops. 

               He repositions himself between my legs.  I feel
the tip of his "beauty  meter" begin to slide into me when I see
my husband standing in the doorway.  He stares for a moment, then
raises the imaginary camera to his eyes, presses  his finger
down, and says "Click." 

               Dmitri has now entered me an is sliding in and
out, plunging down and  then rearing up, his chest pressing
against my breasts.  I am losing contact, my  head sways from
side to side.  My hands grab at his back, trying to pull him 
further into me.  The room seems to be pulsing in and out.  I am
breathing  heavily.  And then I hear it. 

               "Click." 

               I look toward the door and my husband is standing
there, naked, one  hand holding the "camera" up to his eye and
the other stroking his erect penis.  "Click."  I loose sight of
everything.  I no longer see the room.  "Click."  I see 
fireworks and pulsing bursts of light.  "Click."  I am gasping
for breath.  "Click"  My body begins to spasm.  "Click." 
Volcanos begin to erupt.  "Click."  I feel them within me and see
the bursts of molten lava.  "Click."  Now I am  shaken by an
earthquake.  "Click."  I can't breath.  "Click."  I scream at the
top  of my voice.  "Click.  Click.  Oh, God, Click!" 
          -------------------------------------------
Comments to mpinchwife@yahoo.com will be appreciated.
<1st attachment end>


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