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Message-ID: <38522asstr$1033254607@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Damnfool Husband (MF) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Sat, 28 Sep 2002 19:10:07 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

The Damnfool Husband (MF)
by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Sergio Hugo Castro under 
an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 40 more of my new 
stories. 

* 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 who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

Kevin Wigmore disappeared on yet another of those awful all-
together holiday tours he liked so much. All the guys and gals 
together on a big bus, singing songs, sharing rooms, eating at 
long tables, splitting costs, and being guided and hosted to 
all the sights and sounds in the tour book. He'd been on eight 
or nine of them, to all parts of the world. When those tours 
were over, he always kept in touch with everybody, sent out 
newsletters, and organised yearly reunions. But this latest 
trip was going to be Kevin's last tour. He was 35, and when he 
turned 36 he would be ineligible. He would be too old.

Maybe that's why he got off the bus halfway through the tour 
of eastern Europe and got lost. We contacted the embassy in 
Bulgaria when we were advised by the tour company. He had 
been missing for ten weeks when the embassy found him. He was 
okay. He was fine. He'd only got married.

Finally, another ten weeks after that, he brought his 
Bulgarian bride home. We were expecting the worst. Kevin was 
the friendliest person on the planet, but he was hopeless with 
and about women. To my knowledge, and I'd known him for many 
years, he'd never had a girlfriend. Lots of women friends, to 
be sure, but never a partner. Until they knew him better, 
most women assumed he was gay. But he wasn't. It might have 
been better for him if he was, because Kevin's big problem was 
that he was, we all decided, asexual. He had no sex appeal 
at all, to either sex, and no apparent interest in either. He 
dressed well, he had a good job, he kept fit, and he even 
looked almost semi-okay. But not quite. Something was missing.

He'd never had a partner. Nobody ever asked, but we assumed 
he'd never had sex. He showed no interest. It went right over 
his head. All he sought was company. People were friends, and 
he had a good time with them. But he didn't fuck them, and 
they didn't fuck him. He didn't even think about it.

Naturally, the sudden marriage was big news. We were stunned 
and amazed. What sort of woman would marry Kevin Wigmore? What 
sort of woman could he marry? And where the fuck was Bulgaria 
anyway?

A big crowd gathered at the airport to welcome him home. There 
must have been at least thirty of us. Nobody wanted to hear 
the story second-hand. It was an event, and you had to be 
there.

The arrivals started trickling through the Customs exit, and 
the excitement was palpable, so much so that when he appeared 
a great roaring cheer rang out through the terminal. And then 
died an instant death, trailing into mutterings of awe and 
disbelief. Good old Kev, still looking as much a harmless 
pudding as ever, waved one hand happily at his crowd of 
friends. He had the other arm around the waist of his bride... 
who was a fox... who was also a young fox, a lot younger than 
Kevin. She was taller than he was, and had a figure to make 
old men weep and dream of glory days long past. 

Her name was Radka, and she was a sex bomb. One small touch to 
the fuse and she'd explode. You could see it with the naked 
eye, you could read it in the body language, you could feel 
the tension in the air around her, and if you raised your nose 
to the moon and sniffed like a black dog with floppy ears, you 
could smell it.

She had wild dark hair that tumbled around her face, and dark 
nervous eyes that slid over our faces, calculating and taking 
notes. Kev was knocked out, over the moon, about the reception 
from his friends, laughing like a drain, whooping for joy. 
Radka didn't crack a smile. It was a new country and a new 
life. She was unsurprisingly wary.

I drove them to Kevin's apartment because I had a big pickup 
and there was a big pile of luggage. Kev sat in the front and 
happily rattled off his story. Radka sat in the back, and 
every time I glanced curiously in the mirror she met my gaze 
steadily. I tried not to keep looking, because she was Kev's 
brand new wife, but she was one of those women you kept 
wanting to look at.

He'd married her on her twentieth birthday in the city of 
Varna, where she lived with her mother, father, and three 
sisters. She was the youngest in the family, and was the first 
to break away to the West. That was a big part of Kev's 
attraction, of course. He was a bachelor, a man of some if not 
great means, and he was a passport to a life of comparative 
wealth and security. Her mother hoped she would have a swag of 
babies.

He met her at a restaurant when the tour group was passing 
through Varna. She was a waitress, a friendly waitress. She 
had just enough English to allow Kev to talk away for hours, 
which he loved to do, when she finished work. He met her again 
the next day, ducking away while the group was pretending to 
climb a small nearby mountain, and found himself back at the 
family home having dinner with all the relatives.

Kev was treated like a celebrity. He'd found the captive 
audience of his life. He stayed the night, bunked on his own 
in one of the sister's rooms, had a huge breakfast the next 
day, and never quite managed to rejoin the tour group. Six 
weeks later he got married.

Unusual, but why not? Good luck, I said to him as I shook his 
hand at his apartment, after I'd helped carry in the luggage. 
I turned to Radka, intending also to shake her hand. Her eyes 
were dark and smoky, and she flicked her unruly hair away from 
her face with a toss of her head without once breaking direct 
eye contact. It was the sort of look you hoped to get if you 
were out trawling for a woman. If you got it, you'd start 
making big plans for the night.

I didn't shake her hand. For some instinctive reason I 
couldn't come to grips with, I thought it best not to touch 
her.

Six days later Kevin knocked at my door. It was just after 
nine in the morning and I was moping about, not long out of 
bed. I'm a freelance pilot, and the work for me and my well-
used but faithful Beechcraft Baron is intermittent. I make a 
good living, mostly by ferrying workers to fly-in-fly-out 
mining camps, but it's famine or feast stuff. This 
irregularity had contributed to my divorce. I was currently 
seeing two women, on and off, but I didn't have a steady 
partner.

Kevin was alone and concerned. Radka was lonely and homesick, 
he said, and he had to go off for the day to a conference he 
couldn't avoid. Seeing I was at a loose end, couldn't I do him 
a big favour and look after Radka for the day? Maybe I could 
take her out to lunch or something? Everybody else was working 
or busy, and anyway, Radka seemed to like me. Could I? Would 
I?

A refusal would have been churlish. I agreed and asked when I 
should pick her up for lunch. No need, he said. Radka was 
outside in the car. She'd come straight in, he'd be off 
because he was already late, and he'd swing by about eight 
o'clock that night and collect her.

Only a man like Kevin Wigmore would do that. It wouldn't have 
crossed his mind that it was not a good thing to give his wife 
to a bachelor for the day. It certainly crossed my mind, 
however, and I resolved while he was fetching her that I would 
not abuse his simple, naīve, and good-natured trust. I was 
Kev's friend. He could rely on me.

Problem number one. Radka was wearing a short skirt that 
showed a long, long stretch of leg, and a long-sleeved roll-
neck top that covered her completely -- except she wasn't 
wearing a bra. Two nipples said hello and good morning. Bold 
nipples, too. They weren't going to go away all day.

Holy shit. It was going to be an ordeal.

She sat on my couch looking at me solemnly, knees together, 
which was just as well because the skirt was so damned short. 
I had no idea what to do with her.     

"Er, coffee?" I suggested politely.

She got straight up from the couch and went into my kitchen. 
What was she doing? Oh yeah. Right. She used to be a waitress. 
I followed hastily. "No," I said, putting my hand on her 
shoulder. "I will do it."

She spun around sharply and stood close, looking up into my 
face. "My husband hate me," she said.

"He doesn't hate you," I said automatically. "He adores you."

"My husband not make love to me," she said.

Problem number two. There were problems at home.

"My husband sleep in other bed, other room," she continued. 
"Not good, not right."

She had a point. In fact she had two points. Those damn 
nipples were very close to my chest. I could smell her hair, 
warm and clean. She had a full, soft bottom lip.

I snatched my hand away from her shoulder, but she reached out 
and grabbed it between two hands. She looked into my eyes 
imploringly.

"My husband make love three times in four months," she said. 
"My husband hate me."

Problem number three. She'd married Kevin Wigmore.

I broke free from her grasp. "I'll make coffee," I said. 
"We'll sit down and you can tell me all about it."

Once on her wedding night, again two nights after that, and 
finally one time about one month ago. That's all Kev had 
managed, and from the way she talked, he hadn't managed those 
efforts too well. As soon as the week-long honeymoon at a 
Black Sea resort was over, he started sleeping in another bed. 
He went out of his way to avoid sexual contact. Radka thought 
he didn't fancy her. For some reason, she didn't turn him on.

"Despite his age, Kevin is not experienced," I said. "I think 
you have to take the lead."

"I try," she said. "I walk naked in front of him, try hard, 
bend over. He look away. He hate it. He hate me."

The image was a little painful spike at the front of my brain. 
Radka naked, bent over. Call for the paramedics.

I tried to say it carefully. "Maybe Kevin is one of those men 
to whom sex is not very important."

She already looked sad, but that made her face truly 
miserable. She said something in another language, presumably 
Bulgarian. It sounded like an ancient prayer to ward off Count 
Dracula. A lone, fat tear rolled slowly down her left cheek. 
"I think so, yes," she said desolately. "Not good, not right."

"Radka, do you want to go back to Varna?"

She looked at me fiercely. "No. Must stay here, be good wife, 
have babies. Must get better looking, make husband want me, 
find best way."

"Radka, you can't get better looking. You are already too 
beautiful."

She didn't smile. She never smiled. But her eyes glinted. "You 
want Radka? I not ugly? You want make love?"

"Yes," I said definitely and supportively. And hypothetically, 
and theoretically. "You bet I would."

She studied me in silence for a moment or two. Then she stood 
up quickly, and in a flash ripped the pink top straight over 
her head and dropped it on the couch.

"Okay," she said, bare breasts swaying gently. "We do."

No. That's not what I meant at all. Yes, I meant, she was 
highly desirable. Any man would fuck her, given the 
opportunity. Now I was being given the opportunity, but that's 
not what I meant. What I meant was . . .

Oh, fuck it. Too late. Her beautiful breasts were winking at 
me seductively, nipples broad and erect. That damnfool Kevin 
had done this to me, done it to her, done it to himself. You 
idiot, Kevin. Now I would have to bonk your Bulgarian bride.

I took her into my arms, and her breasts pressed into my 
chest. The girl wanted to be loved, and her nincompoop husband 
didn't know it, and didn't know how to do it anyway.

Her soft lower lip swallowed mine as we kissed, and she made a 
noise deep in her throat. She was super-eager, hungry. I half-
towed, half-danced her into the bedroom, where she drew away, 
kicked off her tennis shoes and dropped the skirt and her 
pants in a fast blur. She sat on the bed and attacked the 
button holding up my jeans. In a flash she had me naked from 
the waist down. Then she paused, and muttered to herself in 
Bulgarian, nodding her head, as she looked at very close range 
at my bone-hard penis. Yes, she seemed to be saying, that's 
what they're supposed to look like.

She flopped back on the bed and looked up at me expectantly. I 
got rid of my shirt slowly, giving myself time to look at her 
body. It was worth looking at. There were those fine breasts, 
round, full, topped by those stubby nipples, and there were 
those long legs. And at her bullseye centre, a lush crop of 
black and wiry hair. As I looked she wriggled on the bed to a 
better position, and opened her legs in an unmistakable 
invitation. Her eyes were large and her face expressionless. I 
got on the bed and she shifted her hip against me impatiently. 
I'm ready, she was saying. Get on with it. 

I eased between her legs and she lifted her arms and placed 
them loosely around my neck. I positioned against her 
entrance. She was slick, ready. I pushed in smoothly and 
easily, and pressed firmly into her. "Hold on," I said, as the 
warning bell went off in my head. "I have to get a condom."

She thrust against me and dropped her hands to my back. She 
interlaced her fingers in a possessive locking grip. "No," she 
whispered. "Not need."

I pulled partly out of her but rammed back hard and she 
groaned softly. "Radka, we do need," I said. "You could maybe 
get pregnant."

Her breath was coming in pants. "Yes," she said.

"You don't want a condom?"

"No." 

I made it hard and fast, figuring she wanted urgency. She 
clutched, wriggled, gurgled. I figured right. It was what she 
wanted. Encouraged, I slammed into her. She started babbling 
in Bulgarian. Her dark eyes stared at me fixedly and, hips 
rolling, she picked up the pace. I rammed home hard and ground 
vigorously into her pelvis, and her head lifted from the bed. 
Then she fell back and loosened her hold on my back. I paused, 
waited, and started the rhythm again. Now she shut her eyes 
and turned her head to the side. Her hips moved languorously 
and I ground my way to my own climax. 

I rolled away from her and she followed me, smothering my face 
with little kisses. "Good," she said. "Radka is a woman 
again."

We stayed in bed, and the small details, the important parts 
of her story, emerged as we talked. Kevin had trouble 
maintaining an erection. It got up but was inclined to go down 
when the serious business got under way. He gave every 
impression he was performing under sufferance. He never spoke 
during intercourse, and after, he couldn't hide his haste to 
get away.

Radka did not come to the marriage bed a virgin, and she 
thought she was being punished for it. She'd had three lovers, 
one of them a married man. The fallout had been scandalous, 
and it was one of the reasons her family had wanted to get her 
away from Varna, where her reputation was tarnished.

No worries, I told her. I was pretty sure the real virgin on 
the wedding night was Kev, and he wouldn't know whether she 
was or wasn't. But she didn't consider it was Kevin handing 
out the punishment. It was, she believed, a higher all-knowing 
authority handing out her just desserts.

She'd been bad, but she'd got lucky with Kevin. She'd stick 
with Kevin, no matter what. Maybe, though, she'd look 
elsewhere to get the baby she wanted. Maybe, if she handled it 
the right way and didn't embarrass him, Kevin wouldn't even 
mind. She'd be a good wife to him and a good mother. Apart 
from the sex, they got along just fine. If Kevin didn't want 
sex with her, then he would have to accept that she'd have it 
with somebody else.

I offered no advice. I just listened. And I fucked her again, 
and twice more as the day lengthened. I'd been right the first 
time I saw her -- she was a sex bomb. She wanted it, needed 
it, thrived on it, glowed with it. Poor old Kev. He didn't 
know what he was missing.

Poor old Kev. He returned two hours earlier than he said he 
would. Fortunately, I was out in the kitchen, poking around 
for a snack. Radka, though, was asleep in my bed, finally 
fucked less than twenty minutes previously.

He walked past me breezily when I opened the door. "Where's 
Radka?" he asked.

"Asleep," I said. "She was tired."

"She had a good time today?" he asked anxiously.

"I believe so, yes."

He clapped me on the shoulder. "Good man," he said. "I knew I 
could count on you to turn things around."

At that moment, the door to the bedroom opened and Radka 
emerged. She was wearing her skirt and her tennis shoes. She 
smiled brilliantly at her husband, her bare breasts swaying as 
she walked towards us. 

"You get back early," she said. "Good. I will cook a big, 
happy dinner for us tonight."

She picked up her pink top from the couch where it had been 
discarded many hours earlier, and slipped it over her head. 
"We go now?" she asked Kevin.

Kevin had watched her all the way. He turned back to me. His 
eyes were strangely blank and empty. I said nothing. He said 
nothing.

"We go now?" Radka repeated.

"Uh, yes," Kevin said, absently. "Sure. We go now."

She took his arm and cuddled it like a good wife should. 
"Everything is good," she said to him. "No more crying. You 
are my husband, he is our friend. Radka is lucky."

He turned his head and looked at me once more. He had a little 
frown on his face. He wanted to say something but didn't know 
the right words. Things weren't the way they were supposed to 
be. It was all a mystery to him.

"It'll be all right, Kev," I said.

His frown deepened. "You think?"

"I'm on your side," I said. "Don't worry, you'll work it out."

His brow cleared and he shrugged. "If you say so. You know 
more about women than I do."

He could say that again. 

ENDS

Edited by Ruthie and Nat

* DrSpin is at drspin@newsguy.com, or Neil Anthony at 
neil@ruthiesclub.com, or 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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