Installment 10

Mr. Miller told Karen to kneel and he unbuckled his pants and let them drop and shoved his undershorts down to mid-thigh. She looked evenly at his erection pointing at her.

Bob took a picture. He showed me the picture of her kneeling naked, resting on her haunches, staring at his erection. Miller was grinning. She looked flushed and serious and her gaze fixed.

She flinched when he took the shot and looked up at the camera. She asked plaintively: "Why are you taking pictures?"

Miller said: "Put your mouth on my penis, honey." She leaned slightly, her hands on her thighs, and leaned forward and put her mouth over the head of it. "Look at me," he said. She looked up. Bob took that picture too. He still had that one. He showed it to me. That picture gave me an erection. I think Bob knew. I felt ashamed for myself and for her. She looked so abject.

Miller put his hand on her head and said: "Might as well finish what you started " She closed her eyes. She obediently performed as he liked it, the light mouthing, the licking around the glans to stimulate him. He soon ejaculated. She slurped and swallowed and sat back, looking up at him and as he drew up his undershorts and pants, told her to stand.

Meanwhile Bob had taken of his pants and pulled his underpants down and Karen saw his erection again, large as it was, even though not so stiff as to stand up like a young man's, like mine, but it was so much larger Karen stared at it and Bob nudged Miller and said: "Here," and handed the camera to Miller.

Miller took up the position to photograph and Karen was stunned.

Bob said: "We want two more pictures. One with my cock in your mouth. And one my cock in ass."

"I don't think you can get that thing in her ass," said Miller with a wink at Bob.

"Not her asshole, you shit."

He pulled her up forcibly by the hand and positioned her roughly, turning her, slapping her buttock: "Bend over dammit." She was confused. "Put your hands on your knees." She felt his cock slip up and deeply into her and she held her breath instinctively. Miller told her to look at the camera. Flash!

Bob pulled out and slapped her buttock—hard—and said menacingly: "Turn around . . . Get down. . . Down. . . Suck this." Flash!

That was the last of it.

When Mr. Miller put the last picture down, she let Bob's prick fall from her mouth. But Bob grabbed her head and said: "Hold her arms, Al. I wanna fuck her face." She looked at Mr. Miller pleadingly and he shrugged and she struggled and crawled away from Bob's grip and pleaded: "I did what you wanted."

Bob grabbed her shoulders and twisted her violently. She cringed. He slapped her face. She was shocked. It hurt. She wanted to cry. Bob said cruelly: "Cry if you want. I'm still going to fuck your mouth."

Miller gripped her arms firmly. "You're hurting me," she whimpered.

Bob took her head in his hands and drew it and her mouth forcibly toward his prick. It literally popped in and grabbed up her hair to hold it tightly, like a pony tail, and started pumping his prick in her mouth. He forced as much as she would take into her mouth. She complained with moaning and resisted, and gagging was briefly released and coughed. Her eyes welled with tears.

Bob was not deterred, and Mr. Miller was not sympathetic. He told her: "Just relax, honey."

Again, Bob forced her head onto his prick and resumed pumping, but now more carefully. Choking her impeded his objective.

They both grinned. She struggled but submitted passively, her hands clenched on her thighs. Tears tricked from her eyes. She breathed noisily, rhythmically to the pumping prick in her mouth.

My wife's face-fucking was mercifully quick. He pumped faster as he approached his ejaculation and when it came, he stiffened and held her head firmly by the tail of her hair in his fist and Bob said it went right down the back of her throat—her cheeks puffed—she got red in the face—and choking, with a cough, she gulped; some she let overflow and run out of her mouth and, slobbering, even while she gulped, she drooled his ejaculate, the viscous slime of it stringing and dripping from her lips, off her chin to wet the tops her thighs and the floor.

She swallowed more than she wanted. She swallowed several times as he demanded her to do, and held her head until she did what he demanded. The taste of him, acrid, disgusted her. She nodded plaintively.

When Bob withdrew, Miller let go of her arms, and she collapsed forward to all fours drooling his ejaculate, catching her breath.

Bob said: "Too bad we don't have a picture of that."

Bob pulled up his shorts but did not put on his pants.

She stayed on all fours, spitting his cum from her mouth. They both ignored her. They stood by the workbench in their undershorts and examined the pictures, arranging them, dividing them into a few groups. Karen looked up and turned about to sit on the floor, looking up at them, her legs folded, her hands in her lap. Bob seeing her looking up, leaned over and held for her and showed her the series: standing in her blue dress, expectantly; her dress fallen from her shoulder, as she undressed, looking anxiously at the camera; her dress fallen to her waist, bare tits, looking resigned; her dress on the floor in her underpants, looking serious; her underpants pushed to her ankles, completely naked, looking ashamed.

"I think I'll put these up over the urinals in my men's room," he cracked to Miller.

"You're a dog," Miller said.

"Why do you . . . what will you do with them?" she asked.

"Put them over my urinals," Bob laughed.

She looked searchingly at Mr. Miller: "Mr. Miller. Please. Why? Are you angry with me?"

He said soothingly: "I don't want to hurt you." He reached for her hand. She did not take it.

She whined, not looking at Bob, but meaning him: "He hurt me."

"No, no, no. he didn't mean." Miller looked at Bob with annoyance. Bob said: "Shit." And pulled on his pants.

Miller said something privately to him. Bob sat on the stool, hung his head. "I know . . . I'm sorry."

Miller reached out again for Karen and she took his hand and stood. Miller embraced her but did not kiss her. "You have some of his . . . on your mouth. Right there . . . " She licked her lips. He kissed her forehead and she cuddled against him. He cupped her buttock with her hands, fondling her, bringing her against him warmly. She asked quietly: "Why do you want the pictures?"

Bob leaned back on the stool, his elbows back on the edge of workbench, and smirked and said sarcastically: "Tell her, Al. she's a big girl."

Miller rocked her and spoke softly and explained: "If your husband saw those pictures, if Bob were to put them on the wall of the restroom in the bar—where they all know your husband—where he sometimes goes . . . Or if he got one in the mail . . . Or if your father got one in the mail."

She did not lift her face from his shoulder. He stroked her hair. She said: "I don't understand." She felt that queasy again. She knew what he meant.

Mr. Miller said softly, gently: "I have some friends . . . They know about you . . . Do you understand?"

She said nothing. He continued stroking her hair. He kissed the top of her head. He slipped the fingers of one of her hands between her buttocks and into her vagina and diddled her as he spoke. "And they know your husband too. But your husband doesn't know about these things, does he. And he must never know. You don't want that. I don't want that."

She listened. She asked softy: "Who knows?"

Al kissed her cheek. She breathed warmly into his chest. He said: "Friends of mine. Friends of Bob's "

She listened. She finally asked: "What do you want?"

"They have heard things . . . . They just want to see you for themselves . . . ," Mr. Miller paused:

She said nothing. He said softly: "Okay?"

"What?" she said again.

He let go of her and looked down at her face. She was flushed but calm. She no longer cried. He kissed her mouth. She did not close her eyes.

He held her hands and looked down at her naked body and repeated: "Tomorrow. Some of them are going to come here."

He nodded to the room and looked at her seriously. "I want you to take your clothes off for them."

Bob said: "I need to go, Al. I will see you later." Miller nodded. Bob went out the door. The jingle of the bell on the shop floor told them that he had gone.

Miller sat and looked at Karen still standing naked before him. She looked unhappy. He explained: "These pictures . . . Don't worry. Bob is just teasing you. I will put them in my safe."

He smiled at her. "Tomorrow," he said, "Tomorrow, I want you wear the same dress you are wearing now and make up pretty again—I love that lipstick—and put on your underpants again like today." He laughed to see how dismayed she looked, and kissed her. He looked into her eyes and laughed again: "Your husband must wonder."

"He doesn't know," she said, crossing her arms under her breasts.

"No, of course not," Miller replied, "and I don't want him to know. Or to ever see these pictures." She shook her head.

"So tomorrow some of my friends will come." He kissed her forehead. He looked into her eyes. She nodded.

"And you will undress for them . . . Yes?" She looked away from him.

"Yes?" he repeated.

"Yes," she said softly.

"I do love you," he reassured her, and kissed her one last time in a long embrace.

Then abruplty Miller released her and turned to the work table and gathered up the pictures and looked at his watch and said: "I need to leave for an appointment. Will you lock up?" and he left her standing naked in the room.

She sat for a time thinking, and then dressed and came home. She did not speak much that night. I knew she was unhappy about something but she would not tell me.

Of course Miller took the pictures to bar and joined his friends where they were sitting in a booth sharing their seventh pitcher of beer. There were five of them: Hank, Harry, and Henry, and two named Arthur. All white men about his age. Like him, men whose ship never came in and were left stranded on the shore wondering why, men who have not had a woman sexually other than their wife since they were boys in the army, unless they had given in and bought some skank for a cock-sucking out back of the bar in the alley.

The running joke about the three "H's" was that you could not tell them apart, all short chubby balding men like Miller. The running joke about the two Arthurs were that they could not be more different in the way they looked (short/tall; fat/skinny) but they were best friends and so taciturn that they were almost not seen when present.

None of them had believed Miller. Even Bob's testimony did not persuade them. But the pictures were proof.

Miller drew up a chair from a table and like the dealer in a poker game laid out the first photograph of Karen, dressed, standing in the corner of his workshop. He had two copies; he positioned them to face the "boys" seated in the semi-circle of the booth. They leaned to peer at it. Bob came over to bring a fresh pitcher of beer and to watch.

Miller put the next photograph down. Clearly she had begun to take her clothes off. They were astonished. Miller gloated in satisfaction. Next he laid the photograph of her dress fallen from the front of her, holding its waist, as it slipped at her hips, the top of her underpants showing beneath the drape of her falling dress. This one of course showed her naked from her waist up, her bare breasts coming to swollen tips at those florid nipples that fascinated them so.

Now Miller laid the last two: first, Karen with the dress dropped to a pool about her feet, standing only in her underpants. Then, the proof—Karen with her underpants pushed all the way down to her ankles, showing herself completely naked.

"Jesus," said Henry. They were speechless.

Finally Harry said: "Look at those tits!"

Hank asked: "You got any more pictures of her tits?"

Bob said: "Wanna see 'em for yourself?" Miller grinned.

This is when the sexual fantasies all coalesced into hard action, and Bob naturally took charge. The immediate desire was to bring Karen to the bar the next night, but Miller said that would frighten her. One step at time, he told them and said they should first come to the shop after closing and she will strip for them. But they must not force her to do anything. Not yet. "She isn't ready."

Some objected but Al interjected: "Saturday. We'll do her Saturday afternoon. In the back."

They discussed when to come and again Miller said he wanted them one at a time. But that would mean she would strip five times that day and that did not seem like something they could make her do and besides Bob figured: "She's gonna be more intimidated if there are a couple or three of you making her strip."

"And more scared." Hank argued.

"Yeah," said Bob, "That's the point."

Hank wanted to know: "Does she know about this?"

Miller folded his arms and lied smugly: "Nope "

"She won't do it," Hank worried and Harry agreed. The two Arthurs looked doubtful too.

Miller explained about me, her husband. They remembered me. They talked about that. A young wife. The looked at pictures and thought about me. Hank said: "Jesus Christ. Look at his wife here. Jesus." "Yeah " agreed Harry. Henry added: "What a dope." They laughed.

Bob leaned over the table and issued with authority: "She has no choice."

Miller nodded: "She'll do it."

Hank still shook his head: "I don't know."

Now Miller played the rest of his hand. One after another laying them down. Spanning the tabletop. Karen masturbating: the whole series to her obvious climax,. And then—the coup de grace—slapping down the last three—Karen kneeling naked sucking Miller's cock, looking submissive; then Karen bent over fucked by Bob from behind, looking surprised by his dick; then Karen sucking Bob's cock, looking distressed, tears showing.

Miller closed: "She'll do it "

They talked about how they would do it, how they would get her to take her clothes off. Miller reassured them she would do it without much resistance. They doubted it. Miller said: "Just tell her to take her clothes off." Bob nodded.

Then they negotiated about who and when they would go to the shop. Finally it was settled: Art and Art would come during lunch when Miller closed the shop at noon, and the three H's—Hank, Henry and Harold—would get their turn at 5, when Miller closed the shop for the day. Everybody was satisfied. Miller said: "You can look but you can't fuck her " They looked disappointed. Bob piped up: "You can do that next time." They all laughed.

The plans for Saturday then went forward in earnest. Bob said they could use his backroom, where the old stripper stage was. They liked that idea a lot and that was a great ferment. Because they had so many ideas and so many friends they thought to include in the "fun," they wanted to start in the afternoon, and not wait till night. Surprisingly, Miller had no problem with that.

Miller left the pictures with them at the bar when he went home, because they kept passing them around among themselves, and that is how some were stolen, Bob guesses.

When Karen came home she was especially sullen and quiet. She wanted to go to bed early. I wanted to go out. I wanted to go to Bob's bar in fact. She looked like she felt sick when I said it. I made dinner at home for the two of us, and had a few bottles of beer. She took a long hot bath. I watched TV.