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Message-ID: <35070asstr$1012871412@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Margery Pinchwife <mpinchwife@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Drawing It In(MF,wife,exch,voy,exhib}
Date: Mon,  4 Feb 2002 20:10:12 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Drawing.txt" begin>

Drawing It In 
           by Ovid 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/margery/www/ 

     -----------------------------------------------------
This is a story about sexual excitation.  It is for adults.  It
contains sexually explicit material.  If you are not
chronologically, emotionally, and intellectually mature, do not
read this story.

If stories explicitly depicting sex acts offend you or do not
interest you, to do not read this story.

However, it must be noted that this story does NOT contain any
violence, sadism, brutality, masochism, necrophilia, pedophilia
(children or teens), bestiality, gender transformations (literal
or figurative), incest, urolagnia, coprophilia, non-consensual
sex, or risley acts.  If a story without these activities offends
you or does not interest you, do not read this story.

What follows is a fantasy.  It takes place in a world where there
are no sexually transmitted diseases, and where the stranger who
comes to your door is not after your life or even your VCR.
     -----------------------------------------------------
                                                       
       Susan and Robert Hunter lived in England, in a small town
outside London. We had met them on a tour in Russia and
discovered that we all got on well with each other.  We shopped
and went to dinner together with them when we had free time from
the tour and really enjoyed each other's company.  After the tour
we corresponded with them.  When we wrote that we were coming to
England for a few weeks' vacation, they were delighted and
insisted that we spend at couple of days with them at their
house. 

           So one morning, after we had been in London for a
week, Susan and Robert picked my wife and me up at our hotel. 
Susan, her dark hair up in a bun and her face hidden in sun
glasses on one of the few English days for which it was
appropriate, was wearing jeans and a loose denim shirt.  Robert
had on a red, plaid flannel shirt and dark gray pants.  He had
light brown hair that must have once been blond, and it looked
like he had driven with his window down, for his hair was blown
every which way.  They suggested we do some sightseeing on the
outskirts of London, have lunch at a pub they liked, and then
continue sightseeing on our way to their home, which we'd reach
in time for tea.  Then, they had tickets for the local theater
production, after which we could have a late dinner.  It all
sounded great, especially as it was one of those warm, sunny days
that make you want to reread all that poetry about the English
country side.  We were looking forward to a wonderful day with
old friends. 

           The sightseeing was fun and the lunch was hearty,
fortified by a bit too much real ale, so we were in great shape. 
Throughout the day, Susan continued her sketching.  As in Russia,
she always had a little sketch pad with her - it was her way of
taking pictures.  They lived in a lovely little cottage in an
area that was as close to country as you can get that close to
London.  The cottage was made of yellow Cotswald stone.  In front
of the house was a small garden, a bit of lawn surrounded by
roses in full bloom.  My wife, the gardener in our family,
remarked to Susan on how beautiful it looked. 

           "Oh, Robert's the gardener," Susan said.  "You should
see what he's done out back.  He's got veggies and everything. 
He'll give you the tour later." 

           The house was decorated with Susan's oils and
sketches, which we both commented on and admired.  I told Susan
that my wife used to draw and paint.  She had also taken courses
in college in both drawing and painting.  When we were first
married, she made ink drawings for our Christmas cards and
invitations.  But as the quotidian demands of life increased, she
had less and less time for her art and had not picked up a
sketchbook in years.  When Susan heard this, she got out another
sketch pad and insisted that my wife try sketching again while we
were having tea. 

           We had tea in their sitting room, which doubled as a
dining room.  It was a small cozy room with windows looking out
on the roses in the front garden.  There was a small table and
four chairs in the center on a gray Axminster rug, with roses
around its border.  There was a couch upholstered in rose and
gray facing the window, a sideboard along one wall, and on the
opposite wall, what they called an electric fire - a fake
fireplace with an electric heater built into it.  Dominating the
room, over the sideboard, was a portrait of Robert that Sue had
painted. 

           So over tea, while Susan did a sketch of me, my wife
tried her hand at Robert.   My wife was rather discouraged with
her effort, but Susan was very encouraging.  "For someone who
hasn't sketched in years, that's very good.  There's a lot of
talent showing.  You just have to regain confidence in your line
and get your eye a bit more back in practice."  Following a few
of Susan's pointers, my wife managed to get quite a respectable
picture of Robert.  Then we looked at Susan's picture of me.  It
was wonderful.  With a minimum of lines she had somehow captured
me. 

           We asked to see the other sketches in Susan's book, so
she turned back to the beginning and showed them to us.  They
were almost all of Robert.  The first several pages were of his
head and upper body, dressed in a loose shirt, opened at the
collar.  Then there were pages showing all of him in various
everyday clothing, rapidly drawn, as if she had captured him in
snapshots as he went around the house. Then began a series of
nudes of him - standing, sitting, lying in various positions.
These sketches were extremely well done, with a lyric eroticism
pervading them. He was tall, on the thin side, but well-muscled,
and she had captured the three dimensionality of his musculature
with deft shading.  She also had studies of parts of him - his
hand, his elbow, but mostly his prick.  Her sketches showed the
loving effort she had devoted to his prick.  One sketch, in
particular, showed his prick and balls in full detail.  Susan's
three-dimensional shading that even indicated the veins running
along his prick.  Minute detail showed the crinkles in his ball
sack, the seam that nature had closed it with, and even a dark
birthmark on it.  Around all this was carefully detailed pubic
hair, which then faded off with the rest of him barely sketched
in with a minimum of lines, as if his body was an ethereal frame,
there only to support his more corporeal genitals. 

           "I just love Robert's cock," Susan said, turning to my
wife.  "Isn't it a lovely cock?  Not too big and not too small.
Cleanly circumcised, so the ridge is pretty. All in all, just
right." 

           My wife reddened a bit and finally agreed, "It's a
lovely cock."  She wasn't used to talking about her friends this
way. 

           Susan continued turning the pages.  Now the sketches
of Robert showed him with an erection.  Again, they were
surrounded by studies of his prick in full tumescence - studies
drawn from all angles, with a variety of techniques, but all
showing the adoration Susan had for Robert's prick. 

           "Robert is such a joy to sketch.  He's a perfect
model.  He can hold a pose forever.  Why don't you try sketching
him?"  Susan said to my wife.  "Robert, take off your clothes and
pose for the lady.  Come," she said, turning to me, "you can give
me a hand moving this the table out of the way and onto the
porch.  It looks like it will be a perfect evening for eating on
the porch when we get back from the theater."  And somehow,
before either my wife or I could say anything, Robert was
stripping and Susan was fussing about the lighting.  With Robert
standing naked in front of her, there was little my wife could do
to cover her embarrassment other than sit on the couch and start
sketching as Susan and I moved the table. 

             So I helped Susan move the table to the porch, and
then moved the chairs out, and then I helped her get some food
ready in the kitchen for our late dinner.  By the time we got
back, my wife was working on her third or forth sketch, and
Robert was standing there with a full-blown erection.  His prick,
stiff and sticking straight out from his groin with just a hint
of an upward curve to it, had a purple bulbous end.  A large vein
meandered along its upper length, while a fine mesh of blue
capilaries gave the shaft an overall bluish tint.  The birthmark
on his balls was clearly visible. 

           "Oh, that's lovely," cried Susan, whether in reference
to my wife's sketch or Robert's prick was not clear.  Susan
turned her attention to the sketch and then looked at the other
sketches my wife had done.  "I can already see improvement.
You're getting your confidence back.  You should do some more
later today and by tomorrow you'll be up to your old form.  Why
don't you let Robert show you his veggie garden now while your
husband models for me?  Robert, go put a bathrobe on and give her
the grand tour."  Then, turning to me, she added, "Get out of
your clothes and stand over there where the light is good." 

           Susan's take-charge way overwhelmed us.  Before I
really thought about it, I was taking off my clothes and Robert
had slipped on a bathrobe and slippers and disappeared out the
door with my wife.  Suddenly, I was alone and naked with Susan. 
For a while, Susan said nothing, except to change my position, or
to remind me not to move when holding a pose.  Then, without
looking at me, she asked, "Why do you suppose Robert had the
hardon?  Hmmm?"  She paused.  "Do you think maybe someone gave
him a little help?" 

           I didn't know what to say.  Susan had a way of
catching me off-guard, asking a question or making a statement
that I was utterly unprepared for.  Unfazed, she went on.  "She
was awfully close to him.  Do you think maybe she reached out her
hand and ran a finger along his cock?  Maybe she cradled it in
her hand and helped it get stiff."  She looked up at me and
smiled.  "Maybe she even ran her tongue along its length, or gave
it a kiss on its tip.  What do you think?"  And she winked. 

           The image of my wife handling or licking Robert's
prick got to me.  My own prick responded by swelling up, so it
was as stiff as Robert's had been.  Unlike Robert's, mine stuck
out and up from the groin at a steep angle, and the head of my
prick was more conical in shape, less bulbous than his.  Susan
sketched rapidly.  I took a deep breadth and hoped that my prick
would soon subside, but Susan kept it up.  "He doesn't usually
get a hardon when he poses for me.  I have to get him started. 
Sometimes just a caress is enough, but sometimes I've got to take
it in my mouth to get him rigid enough for the picture I want." 

           Consequently, when my wife returned from her tour with
Robert, I was sticking up like a flagpole and thoroughly
embarrassed.  My wife looked a little embarrassed, too, even
before she saw me, and Robert looked a little different than he
had when he left.  As if his robe had been opened and hastily
retied differently. 

           "We better wash up and get dressed if we're going to
get to the theater on time," Robert said as he came in the door. 
"It's very informal, we can wear what we were wearing during the
day."  Susan put down her sketch pad and my wife and I were
bundled off to our room to get ready, but not before looking at
the sketch Susan had just done of me.  It was amazing.  Somehow,
in a picture that looked very much like me, without concealing my
bodily flaws, she had instilled an energy and vitality that I
didn't feel I'd had in years.  The man who's image stared out at
me from the page of Susan's sketch book was alive and sexy, an
adjective that I would never have thought to apply to myself. 

           "My, that must have been exciting," my wife said in
the privacy of our room.  "What was going on?" 

           I told her of Susan's comments that had elicited my
erection.  "What went on with you and Robert?" 

           She said she was just sketching him and not really
talking, when she noticed his prick beginning to move and expand. 
She didn't say anything and didn't know how to behave, so she
just kept sketching and he kept growing.  "Maybe he was
remembering some experience with Susan when he posed for her,"
she suggested. "Or thinking about having the same experience with
you,"  I thought but didn't say. In the garden, he had showed my
wife the various plantings.  It was a lovely large garden, part
formal with lawn and bushes and the ever-present roses and,
behind, a large vegetable patch.  They had discussed gardening
with her until they came to a little gazebo.  He told her that
Susan had found a dictionary definition of a gazebo - "An
erection in a garden" - and that got him on to the subject of his
prick.  "Susan's got a fixation about my cock," he'd said.  "She
loves to draw it in all its configurations.  If it's not hard
enough for her, she drops her sketch pad and makes sure it
reaches the rigidity she wants."  He'd gone on like this, to some
embarassment to my wife, when she noticed that he was getting
erect again.  First she could see the bulge under is robe, and
then his prick had stuck out through the robe's openning as if he
was unsuccessfully trying to conceal one of his large, long
zucchinis under his robe.  Robert had gone on discussing Susan's
cock fixation for a few minutes more and then suddenly realized
he was sticking out.  "Oh, excuse me, I'm sorry," he had muttered
while he retied his robe to cover his prick.  Then he had quickly
changed the subject, "We'd better be dressing for the theater. 
It's getting late."  My wife said she would have been even more
embarrassed had he not previously been standing naked in front of
her only a little time before. 

           All in all, this was a side of the Hunters we hadn't
seen in Russia, and we were pretty confused as to what to do. 
They were catching us off guard at every turn.  Well, at least at
the theater things should be normal, unless it was one of those
60s audience participation in the nude sort of thing, we joked. 
It turned out that the play was a perfectly normal play, but they
still managed to catch us, me in particular, off guard. 

           It was a small, local theater.  Robert said that they
wanted us to see how good community theater could be in England. 
The building was small, evidently a converted barn in which they
had installed a stage at one end and a number of straight rows
with an aisle on either side.  Our seats were in the first row on
the extreme right.  Susan insisted that my wife enter the row
first, so that she would have the best seat, closest to the
center.  Then Robert went in, followed by Susan, with me on the
aisle.  So, Susan was on my left, there was nothing in front of
me but the stage, and on my right was nothing by the aisle and a
wall.  This geometry is important for what followed. 

           No sooner had the lights gone out and the play
started, than I felt Susan's hand on my crotch.  At first I
thought it had happened by accident, but when I tried to move
away, she got a grip on my prick and wouldn't let me move.  I
looked at her and saw that she had placed her large purse in her
lap in such a way that no one on her left could see what she was
doing.  She was looking straight forward at the play, as if she
had no idea what her right hand was up to. 

           I tried to move her hand, but she wouldn't let me. 
Any stronger attempt on my part would create a fuss and call
attention to what she was doing.  That was the last thing I
wanted to do in the theater.  I couldn't say anything while the
play was in progress.  All I could do is resign myself to her
groping.  But it was soon more than groping.  With amazing
dexterity, she had unzipped my pants and her hand dove into my
fly.  A moment later she had my prick out and was rubbing it up
and down. Whatever I thought, my prick is always beguiled by a
woman's hand, and was promptly sticking straight up.  Well, I
thought, at least no one can see. 

           However, I was mistaken there.  Although the lighting
keeps the actors from seeing much of the audience, we were in the
first row and enough light from the stage leaked out that we were
visible from that corner of the stage.  As one actor came over,
he must have noticed us, for he suddenly forgot his line.  He
stuttered through it finally, all the while staring at Susan's
hand massaging my prick.  Then he tried to position himself so
the actress he was playing against would have to move in our
direction.  Evidently that wasn't what the script called for, so
she resisted. Eventually, however, he managed to maneuver her
close to us.  The effect was startling.  Her mouth dropped, she
stared at us, and she completely ignored the speaking cue he had
given her.  Susan's hand went rapidly up and down, her face
looking at the actors with apparent rapt attention, while he
repeated the cue. Finally, the actress responded on the third cue
and then stumbled through the rest of the first act. 
Fortunately, the end of the act came before I did. 

           As soon as the curtain started down, Susan removed her
hand and I immediately zipped up my fly.  When the lights came
on, Robert rapidly ushered us to a table they had reserved for
tea.  Susan's only comment was "My, wasn't that an exciting first
act."  I, of course, had no idea what the play was about. 

           They served us tea and cookies on dainty English
china, and the Hunters managed to keep the discussion on the food
and the English tea habit and how it was giving way to coffee. 
When we returned to our seats, I instantly crossed my legs,
covered my crotch with the program, and folded my hands over
that.  Susan wasn't getting in there during the rest of the play
if I could do anything about it.  In fact, she didn't even try. 
All her attention seemed riveted on the play, which I now tried
to figure out.  So the only thing unusual about the rest of the
play was that the actors kept passing though our corner of the
stage and looking in our direction, no matter what the script
called for. 

           Driving home, Richard driving in the front with my
wife, and Susan in the back with me, we discussed the play.  We
agreed that the level of acting in England, even in this small,
local theater, was much better than what we usually saw in the
U.S.  My wife said the acting really amazed her, but wanted to
know what was going on during the first act when the actors seem
to forget their lines.  I was thinking of what to respond when
Susan candidly answered, "Oh, I was playing with your husband's
prick and they noticed."  My wife turned around sharply, and
Susan went on with a smile, "It's incredible how they can keep
the play running no matter what you do.  It's sort of like the
royal guards at the palace of St. James, who stand stiff and
unsmiling no matter what kind of faces you make at them." 

           Robert took Susan's admission as if it were perfectly
normal, while my wife seemed to be struggling for words.  She
looked questioningly at me and I all I could do was shrug my
shoulders as if to say, "That's Susan."  The discussion went no
further, for by then we had pulled into the driveway of the
Hunter's home.  We all washed up and Susan brought out a lovely
cold supper onto the porch.  There was smoked salmon, followed by
a cold quiche and a salad of fresh vegetable from Robert's
garden, with a chocolate mousse for dessert.  We ate listening to
the quiet noises of the English countryside, with the smell of
the roses seeping in.  By the time we had finished supper, along
with a bottle or two of white wine, and were working on the
brandy, we were all pretty relaxed. 

           Susan turned to me and said, "Why don't you and Robert
clean up?  I want your wife to model for me."  So Robert and I
cleared off the dishes and began washing them, and Susan and my
wife disappeared into the dining room.  During one of my trips
between the porch and the kitchen, I looked in and saw Susan
sitting on the couch sketching my wife, who stood totally nude in
the middle of the room. The electric fire had been turned on
against the cool of the evening, and the red light that it cast
on her seemed to emphasize my wife's nakedness.  Seeing her nude,
with all the rest of us dressed, gave me a funny feeling in my
stomach, so I quickly returned to cleaning up. 

           After we had washed the dishes, Robert sent me back to
the porch to get the chairs. On the way, I looked in again.  Now,
no doubt at Susan's instigation, Susan was posing nude and my
wife, clad loosely in a bathrobe, was sitting on the couch
sketching.  I stared at Susan.  Although not exactly thin, she
had a lovely form.  Her breasts were fuller than they had seemed
in the loose shirts she wore.  They sloped gently down from her
shoulders, like giant tears running down her chest.  They had
large pink areolas, each crowned with a nipple of a slightly
deeper red.  Her waist was perhaps thicker than ideal, but her
hips were beautifully rounded.  Her thighs were smooth and solid,
and at their juncture lay a bush of dark, thick, curly hair.  All
her pubic hair seemed to curl in one direction, giving her a
slightly asymmetric look - the hair all ran horizontally toward
the right, and then curved and flowed down to her cunt.  It
looked like an artist might have done it as a way of drawing
attention to her cunt, and I wondered if Susan had trained her
hair to do that.  She had unpinned the bun on her head and let
her hair fall freely.  It hung to just below her shoulders, and
she had tilted her head so it all hung on one side, over her
shoulder and curved slightly so that it drew your eye to her tit. 
It was a splendid sight. 

           "She is quite lovely, isn't she?"  Robert had silently
come up behind me and almost scared me out of my wits with his
question.  "Quite," I gulped in response, and we went out to get
the chairs. 

           When we finished straightening up, we rejoined the
women.  My wife had just finished her sketch, and you could see
the strength and confidence of her line improving with each
sketch she made.  It was an altogether satisfactory sketch of
Susan.  But Susan's sketch of my wife was something else again. 
It was incredible. She had drawn a picture of my wife that was
both accurate and blatantly erotic.  She hadn't made her a
Playboy centerfold, but the slight spread of her legs and the
look in her eye that stared up at me from the page gave an
overall impression of sensuousness, and made me look at my wife
with new eyes.  It gave me a feeling about her that I hadn't felt
since the time when we were first discovering each other's body. 
It was breathtaking. 

           When I told Susan how erotic I found the picture, her
response was, "You like erotic?  I'll show you erotic.  Here,"
she pulled the robe off my wife and had her pose again. "Robert,
get off your clothes and pose with her.  He wants me to do an
erotic picture."  As always, when Susan wanted something done, it
got done quickly.  Almost immediately Robert and my wife were
standing naked in the middle of the room.  Susan put them in a
loose embrace and then kept changing their positions.  The effect
was that Robert's prick kept rubbing against my wife's leg and
every time it did so it got a little harder.  At the same time,
my wife's tits would brush against his arm or chest, and her
nipples were getting firmer and firmer. 

           By the time Susan had settled on a position, Robert
was fully erect.  Robert's left arm was around my wife's
shoulders and his right hand rested on her hip.  Their bellies
lightly touched each other, with his stiff prick sandwiched in
between.  My wife's right tit was pressed against Robert's chest,
while her left nipple barely kissed it.  I could see how enlarged
that nipple was and how puckered the areola around it had become. 
Her hands were gently touching the sides of his chest, the right
hand higher than the left.  Looking at my wife in this pose gave
my stomach the feeling it gets when the elevator drops.  My
breathing threatened to stop. 

           "I found all this nudity terribly exciting," my wife
told me later, "so when Robert was rubbing his prick up against
me, and I could feel it growing, I began to get very stimulated
and damp between my legs.  I was thinking that you and I were
going to do some serious fucking when the sketching was over. 
Then, when we were pressing his rigid prick between us and I
could feel it throb and feel the slick wetness seeping from its
tip, the fucking dominated my mind, but who it was to be with got
less and less clear." 

           Looking over Susan's shoulder, I could see the sketch
rapidly forming as she sketched with quick, sure motions.  The
sketch wasn't erotic, it was downright pornographic.  It didn't
take her long to get just enough lines in just the right places
to convey exactly what was going on.  Then she put her pad down
and turned to me. "Alright," she said, "you can't be the only one
dressed.  Get out of your clothes. You and I are going to pose
for your wife.  Here," she said, turning to my wife and handing
her the sketch pad with her finished sketch, "you try your hand
at some pornography." 

           As usual, Susan's wish was our command.  My wife
settled down with the sketch pad at one end of the couch without
even bothering about the robe.  Robert, his prick still sticking
out, stood beside her so he could look over her shoulder at her
sketch.  Susan had me lie on my back on the Axminster rug and, on
all fours, she straddled my legs, her head just above my prick. 
She looked around at the lighting and then made me turn a little
so the electric fire would illuminate her face.  I was to look at
her face while she looked down at my prick. 

           I was in a state of only partial erection, but Susan
quickly cured that.  She dipped her head down just a little so
that her dark hair fell on my prick.  Then, turning her head
slowly from side to side, she dragged her hair back and forth
across my prick.  This "hair job" felt as if she were caressing
my prick with a feather.  It didn't take long for my prick to be
sticking up rigidly, precum oozing from its tip. My breathing
started to catch again.  Susan then flipped her head back so the
hair no longer blocked the view, and began staring at my prick as
the pose demanded.  The admiration in her eyes, however, seemed
more than was required.  Holding the pose, I guiltily looked over
at my wife.  If any of this bothered her, she didn't show it, for
she was busy sketching with a rapid, confident motion of her
pencil. 

           But of course Susan, being Susan, wasn't satisfied. 
She rapidly lowered her head and took a quick lick with her
tongue across the head of my prick.  In an instant her head was
back up in the pose, but now her eyes seemed to be laughing.  I
cast a glance at my wife.  She still held the pencil to the
sketch pad, but it wasn't moving.  She stared at us.  Again,
Susan's tongue flicked across my prick head.  She did this three
or four times.  By this time, my wife had lowered both the pencil
and pad and was just staring at us.  Robert's hands had begun a
slow massage of her shoulders.  Then Susan ran her tongue the
length of my prick, from my balls up to the tip.  My wife
continued to stare. 

           What was happening to us? I began to think, but
immediately stopped thinking as Susan's mouth engulfed the head
of my prick, her tongue swirling around it, licking off the
precum that it continued to emit.  Then, she took a little more
in, so her tongue could circle around it on the ridge of my
prick.  I felt the urging in my balls, impelling me to thrust my
prick all the way into her mouth, but I resisted.  I looked
toward my wife, giving up all pretence of maintaining a pose. She
had dropped the pad and pencil and continued to stare.  By now
Robert had leaned forward and his hands were on her breasts.  His
left hand was gently clutching and squeezing her left tit, the
tit just filling his hand.  With his right thumb and index
finger, he was rolling her right nipple back and forth.  It stuck
out hard and red.  But my wife seemed to be concentrating on
Susan's head, which had now captured half my prick and was
sliding up and down on it, her lips pressing tightly. 

           My hips were now responding to Susan's cocksucking. 
My ass tightened and I began to thrust my pelvis forward to get
my prick further into her mouth.  But Susan placed her hands on
my hips and held them.  As always, she was going to control the
action.  Maintaining her own pace, she raised and lowered her
head, gradually taking in more and more of my cock.  She almost
had it all in now.  My hands were now on her tits, kneading them
and pulling on the hard nipples. 

           Again, I looked toward my wife.  Robert had moved
around in front of her and was kneeling between her legs, his
head at her snatch.  I could see his head go up as his tongue ran
along her thighs, and then down as he licked around her labia.
The red light from the electric fire illuminated her cunt and
made the swollen labia seem ever redder than they were.  The
juices on her cunt glistened in the light.  His tongue caressed
her labia.  Then he pushed his head further forward, and although
I couldn't see, I had no doubt that his tongue was delving deeply
into my wife's cunt. Still, she stared at us. 

           Susan's head was now moving rapidly up and down my
entire shaft.  Her tongue swirled along the length of it and
then, when her head was up, flapped back and forth across its
tip.  I was pulling and rolling her nipples, and thrusting my
prick up as high as I could, trying to keep it deep in her mouth. 
I could feel the pulse in my balls and felt ready to cum. 
Sensing this, Susan slowed her pace. 

           Robert wasn't slowing his pace.  He had moved my wife
so she lay along the couch and was kneeling on the couch between
her legs.  His left thumb was rapidly rubbing small circles
around her clit, while he slid two fingers of his right hand in
and out of her cunt.  She was no longer staring at us or, indeed,
at anything.  Her eye's were closed, her right arm thrown across
them.  Her left arm trailed off the side of the couch.  Her head
whipped from side to side while he pumped his fingers in and out
of her cunt, and her breasts flowed from side to side across her
chest in rhythm with the motion of her head.  She was thrashing
up and down, pushing her pelvis up as if trying to force her cunt
further onto Robert's fingers. 

           Seeing my wife so completely given over to another
man's actions gave me a strange feeling in the pit of my chest,
almost akin to terror.  The adrenalin coursed through my body. 
Wait, I thought, she's mine.  But it was precisely because she
was mine that her reactions were so exciting.  I could share in
her pleasure, I could watch her body taken over with sexual
passion in a way I never had before.  This feeling of shared
pleasure, this passion, this terror, all combined with the
excitement that Susan was eliciting with her lips and tongue on
my prick to drive me to a level I had never felt before and that
I almost feared. 

           Somehow aware of this, and not fully ready herself,
Susan released my prick from her mouth and, together, we watched
how Robert was driving my wife wild. Robert now moved up between
my wife's legs and inserted the purple, swollen tip of his prick
between her labia.  My wife's pelvis thrust upward, trying to
grab at that prick, trying to clutch it.  It seemed somehow
bigger, fatter, and more alive as he slowly began to sink it into
her. 

           As if to avert any qualms I might have about watching
another man's prick being driven into my wife's cunt, Susan
suddenly prevented me from watching by covering my eyes with her
tits, which now hung pendulously above my face.  She had mounted
on top of me, her wet, warm cunt was fully ready and slipped down
easily, drawing in the head of my prick.  This was no longer the
time for slow teasing and tantalizing foreplay.  I quickly
grabbed one nipple and started sucking it, while I thrust my
prick further into her cunt.  I could feel the muscles in her
cunt clutching and grasping my prick as she lowered her pelvis
and completely engulfed my prick. 

           Now the room was filled with the sounds of sex.  I
could hear Robert grunting and my wife moaning as his prick
slammed into her over and over.  I could hear the slaps of
Susan's thighs as her downward motion slapped them against mine.
I could hear my own breath coming more and more rapidly as I
sucked Susan's tit into my mouth and ran my tongue around the
nipple.  And I could hear my heart beating more and more
forcefully as I listened to my wife's passion.  Over and over I
heard her moaning louder and louder.  Then she suddenly let out a
yell, an inarticulate cry that she screamed again and again as
her body spasmed.  This was soon joined by Robert's yell of "Yes,
Yes, Yes, Yes, YESSSS." 

           Susan was next.  With a series of loud "ungh"s, her
head whipping from side to side, her dark hair flying across her
back, she repeatedly raised her ass and thrust down.  Then she
began to cry "Oh, oh, oh," and her eyes closed, her mouth
grimaced, and seismic tremors raced through her body.  I
responded by thrusting my whole body upward, from my toes, trying
to force my prick deeper into her body. My arms wrapped around
her back and I could feel the explosion starting to rumble in my
balls.  Two more thrusts and it ran through my prick and erupted
into her. Wave after wave roared from my balls up my prick as I
pumped load after load into her cunt, which now ran with our
juices.  I have no idea what sound came out of my lips, but I
heard a cry of "Aaaaggh!" echoing and reverberating around the
room. 

           Then all was silent. 

           All four of us lay there still.  The only motion in
the room was the silent flowing of the sweat, cunt juices, and
cum across our bodies, glowing in the red light of the electric
fire. 

           When we left two days later, Susan presented us with
two of her sketches. They are now framed and mounted on our
bedroom wall.  They are the two erotic nudes that Susan had drawn
and we had admired so much, one of me and one of my wife.  They
look at each other and at us down on the bed, and they serve to
remind us how to look at each other. 

THE END 

     -----------------------------------------------------
Comments to mpinchwife@yahoo.com will be appreciated.
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