Installment
13
I awoke to my wife taking another shower
again in the morning. I had no need to get out of bed. I did not have to work.
I was sorry she did, but it was nice to get the money. From the bed I watched
her get dress for the day: always the same practical J. C. Penny's white cotton
underpants, like her mother used to buy for her, and a plain white bra, and the white cotton bobby socks which she would wear with her
Penny loafers; simple neat short‐sleeved white cotton blouse; a plaid
pleated wool skirt. She also put on a light grey cardigan sweater, which she
buttoned at the bottom, to fit it snugly about her hips. She admired herself in
the mirror and put on her lipstick, a daub of rouge that she rubbed into her
cheeks.
As she dressed, seeming now more cheerful
than the night before—I wonder now: had she forgotten? Had she forgiven?
Why did she not guess what was going to happen? Or did she know?—she explained how she would be working on inventory
over the weekend, starting today, and I asked how long she would be working
tonight and she said she thought it would not be very long. She kissed me
goodbye and took the bus to work.
The pictures that Bob showed me and his own
graphic descriptions enhanced what I know about this day, for Karen had
confessed to me only a little of it. I had pressed her for details, myself feeling a
mixture of shame and sexual excitement at what she told me, just as she
confessed doing it, but she was not honest with me. After meeting with Bob, having seen the pictures, hearing
his details, I spoke to her again, once last time before I left her for good,
and she told me anything else I wanted to know. By then she was emotionally
spent and was resigned to my anguish. She looked at me sadly and told me
candidly what she did, how she felt, although still she was confused about her
feelings and conflicted in emotions. She had been sexually aroused by what she
was ashamed to be doing. She had sexually relished her humiliations and
coercion. She was submissive but also wanton in her response; she had felt
abused but she was also secretly intrigued and sexually craved her relentless
sexual stimulation and the rolling orgasms she obtained, such as she had never
before experienced. It was, as I have called it before, a sexual intoxication.
She was drunk with it the whole day, only dropping from time to time in her
exhaustion for a dreamless sleep. She was drunk as well with liquor for much of
the time.
Mr. Miller did not tell her what was expected for the day. He had acted like nothing had happened the day before. They never talked about how he had set her up, how she had been anally raped. He never asked her feelings about it. That was, of course, deliberate. She should submit without complaint. So he never gave her an opportunity to discuss her feelings. I have already said: this is the one thing—or well, the one of two things—which she did not herself confess to me. Even after I found out, and asked her, she did not want to talk about it. She nodded or shook her head to questions I asked.
It was Miller's cruel suggestion that these unseen men were
my own friends, peers of our own age and familiar with her, who had done this
to her, had seen her naked in that humiliating circumstance, willingly stripped
by her boss for them—her dress pulled up over her head—that is what
troubled her. It was this shame, which she had wanted to hide from me for my
sake. Otherwise, she had nodded to confess that she had gotten sexually
stimulated from it, and, yes, had experienced orgasms even then. Her deep and
blushing shame was evident. Especially keen for her because she believed these
were my own friends, young men whom she knew, whom she had had to our home to
watch TV and eat dinner, and whom she now feared had seen her abjectly naked
and had shamefully fucked her in her rectum without her resistance. I, as
cruelly as Miller, never told her that it was not true.
But as far as she knew, that Saturday morning, she had in the space of just a little more than two weeks been seduced by Miller, had given him fellatio day after day, taking his ejaculate into her mouth, had let herself be stripped of her clothing in the presence of several men, had presented herself naked to a stranger, had permitted herself to be fucked by several men repeatedly and had given them fellatio as well, swallowing their ejaculate too, several in a row, and had most recently been naked and humiliated for the pleasure of my own friends, young men who knew her.
She was tinder for flame. She was emotionally and sexually raw. Yet she maintained a timid attitude that day, not anxious, not distressed. She described her own feelings, that it was like she was in a dream. And that is how she had looked since the humiliation of the Friday night. That had tipped her.
Like a
victim to a kidnapping who had been terrified, or a political prisoner who had
been interrogated to exhaustion and threatened with torture, she had become
moody and docile; she had no more resistance to give them.
Mr. Miller actually engaged her in work
that morning. He made no overtures to her sexually or romantically. He tended
earnestly and seriously to business. They briefly paused for tea—actual
tea, no brandy—in the mid‐morning, but they talked of nothing in
particular. He had questions about her husband. He seemed interested
particularly in knowing details about me.
They worked until nearly one
o'clock without taking lunch and then he offered her tea again and declared
they would quit for lunch at three o'clock, that they still had a long day
ahead of them. This was, I suppose, all part of the general plan, to lull her
into a false security, and to keep her stomach empty of food until she was
given liquor to drink. For when they stopped working, Mr. Miller announced he
would take her to Bob's bar and they could get a sandwich and a beer before
returning to work. She had been to the bar before of course. I had brought her a
couple times, I am sure, even before we had married, and of course she had been
there and met me there just the previous night, after her anal fucking.
She did not know that Henry, Hank and
Harry had been the ones to fuck her in the ass. I had not known it then either.
They nodded to me when they came to the bar that night just before Miller came
in with my wife. I can imagine what they were thinking. I think they told some
of the other men at the bar what she had done. Karen did not initially look for
me when she came in. Even then, as I say, she seemed really out of it, dreamy,
like she was drunk, although she had not yet been drinking that much. She was
led by Mr. Miller from booth to booth to meet and greet "his friends"
(including Henry, Hank and Harry who seemed really smug in their secret). Some
men at the bar turned to ogle her. It satisfied me that they found her
attractive. The leering had no other meaning to me then, but I think that Karen
felt it differently. What I did not know then of course and what she did not
know is that these same men she was introduced to would be the ones who would
attend the "private party" on Saturday afternoon.
She hardly remembered that evening. She
seemed so dazed, that when Mr. Miller brought her to me where I had been
sitting at the bar next to the two Arthurs, chatting with Bob about basketball,
that she said innocently: "O, hi. . . " Glad
to see me, but apparently completely forgetting that I said we should meet
there. Mr. Miller bought her a drink. I asked her if she knew Arthur and
Arthur, intending to introduce her, and she looked at them strangely and deeply
blushed. Neither Arthur gave anything away, but one said simply: "Yeah, we
seen her..." Bob actually laughed at this, and handed Karen her drink. She
sipped her drink and looked away from the fixed gaze each of them had for her.
They stared at her chest. I saw her discomfort. I felt it for myself. Miller
her bought her and I drinks. I thanked him.
So, that Saturday afternoon when Mr.
Miller led her into Bob's bar she was hoping that none of the men who
"knew" her would be there, and she was pleased that the bar was
almost empty, being too early for the main crowd anyway. Even Bob was not in
the bar.
Mr. Miller seated her in a booth, asked her what she wanted and went to the bar to order.
By an odd (or
perverse) coincidence the bartender on duty was a friend of hers and mine, a
guy my age whom I had grown up with and whom we both had known since high
school. It worried her that perhaps he was one of the unseen men of the night
before. She was nonplussed by his cheerful small talk, when he delivered their
drinks. She wanted him to leave and could not look him in the eye. I suppose he
thought she was being stuck up.
She was hungry. But Mr. Miller seemed
inconsiderate of this and ordered her another brandy and water. She said she
was hungry and he said to drink her drink first. He would see that she eats
something soon. She drank a second strong mixed drink and was feeling warm and
woozy.
While they sat at the booth, business was
light in the bar, little traffic. By coincidence a second of my friends came
in for a beer and stopped at the booth to say hi to Karen, who again felt sick
to think that this one had been another of those who had fucked her in her
rectum; she remembered the feeling and involuntarily squirmed, remembering it; she blushed and was so embarrased she almost could
not speak to him. He left after a beer.
Because the bar is almost downtown, it is
busiest on weeknights for guys going home after work. But there were a group of
locals, like Bob's friends, whom Al came to know over the years, men who might
have once known my father from his old neighborhood, and who would come in
Saturday afternoon and evenings as a regular thing; oddly none of them were in
the bar that day. Bob closed up on Sundays, because of the local laws, unless
he was catering, which was permitted.
What had been planned had brought these guys to the back door of the bar; all of these "friends" had come there, as planned. They gathered early in Bob's backroom. My friend, who bartending that day for Bob, so he could be in the back, had brought rounds of drinks back for them already; Bob had got him to run tab for the whole crowd and told him that he would personally tip him for his service later that night; Bob explained it was a private party.
My friend was not told exactly what it was going on, but Bob had said with a sly wink that there would be some entertainment and he could slip in later and get a look if the bar was not busy out front. Al had deliberately dawdled in finishing work and then had kept her in the front of the bar drinking for longer than expected. Bob eventually came out anxiously looking for them and grinned to see them and came over to where they sat. He presumed that Miller had told her what was up, so he said "You're late. . . " Miller nodded.
"You
ready?" he asked, looking at Karen.
She did not know what he meant. Bob somehow believed that she had been told or must have guessed what was up. But she always insisted that she did not. She was completely surprised by what happened.
She was feeling uncomfortable to see Bob.
Since the time that he had "fucked her mouth." as he had put it, she
felt frightened of him. And he was so suggestive in his comments the previous
night, when I met Karen at the bar after work, obviously intending to embarrass
her in front of me, and make me suspicious and put her on edge (as he saw it)
in order to help out their blackmail scheme, that she was also contemptuous of
him. His remark now - "Are you ready?" - gave
her that sick anxious feeling again.
Miller discretely shook his head to
indicate that Karen had not been told what was expected. Bob saw it and nodded and said:
"Oh. . . oh. . . okay. . . Listen.
. . well, listen. . . " And he leaned and spoke under his breath so Karen
could not hear, who was distracted anyway by my friend, the bartender, bringing
over her third drink, and did not hear him when he said: "They're all here. . . and a few more. . . and they are drinking and
getting impatient. . . "
Bob had taken fifty dollars from each of them. He would end up giving Karen a ten dollar bill from each fifty he collected. It was hardly fair, considering. But Bob said he had "expenses," which he would shortly explain.
In the end, my wife "earned" one‐hundred‐and‐seventy dollars, which I found in a wad of ten‐dollar bills in her purse, and that was the thing that got me to confront her that Sunday morning. That---and one other obvious thing that that these men had done to her body---finally got me to demand that she tell me what was going on, and she broke down and confessed.
By my calculations, her "earnings" of one‐hundred‐and
seventy dollars meant at least 17 men had been at her (not counting Bob, and Mr.
Miller and others) and that money had "bought" from her about
forty to fifty sex acts— fucking them, or sucking them—not to
mention the several degrading things she did for them while they watched. So
she was "bought" for as little as three dollars for a blowjob or a
sloppy fuck, a cheap whore if ever there was one. But of course she didn't do
it for the money.
Bob went back into the room to tell the
men that she had arrived. He set the stage. He set the lights to how I found
them.
Mr. Miller then helped Karen to get out
of the booth, telling her to take her drink, which she had only sipped, for
having drunk on an empty stomach she felt tipsy. She asked if they were going
to get something to eat and he smiled and said that Bob had something ready for
her in the backroom.
She did not know about the backroom. It
was dark. Her eyes went to the starkly lit low‐rise stage at the end of
the room, the garish stage light on the kitchen table and kitchen chair. That
was puzzling, and she could not immediately see that the room had tables and
chairs and men sitting at them and some men at the bar to the side of this
room, a second bar—a barroom hidden inside Bob's main barroom, but seedy,
dark, musty, and cluttered with boxes of liquor and other supplies near the
door they came through.
It was a small closed up room. The stage
is not more than thirty feet from where she stood at the doorway. The stage was
flush to the back wall; on one side of it was a restroom; on the other side of
it was a hallway to a door out to the alley, with an exit sign, lit red from
the inside, over the top of it.
The men turned to look at her and stopped talking when she and Mr. Miller came in. There was a TV droning from the main bar behind her—that was the only sound, until that door was closed. The air was stuffy. It already smelled like sweaty men, she told me. It would smell even more strongly later. Like a men's locker room, but also of booze.
I still
smelled that pungent mix of sweat and booze - and sex - when Bob showed me the
room even weeks later.
It was silent when the door shut behind
her. Mr. Miller stood beside her in the dimness. The men
staring, unabashedly leering. She felt immediately that anxiety in the
pit of her stomach, the anticipation.
Miller spoke quietly to her. Bob was behind the second bar, leaning on his elbows, grinning at her. The sconces over the bar behind him and on the opposite wall gave off enough light, that as her eyes adjusted she could see the faces of the men. They talked with one another. She recognized Hank, Henry, Harry, the two Arthurs, but most of these men she did not know. They were all about the same age of Mr. Miller. She thought perhaps some were other businessmen from near the jewelry shop. She thought she may have seen them come to the store recently. She said that all of them were about the age of her father or her uncles. She did not count them. She could only say that the room was almost crowded with them. Bob told me there were altogether seventeen of them, not including Miller and himself. So 19 men: it was a crowd.
Miller addressed them from the back: "Better late than never." Some laughed nervously. For a moment Karen wanted to turn and leave. She worried. I asked her directly what she thought was going on. She shook her head and looked at me through tears.
Their quiet private conversations began to make a buzzing din and Karen felt a little less awkwardly self‐conscious. She stayed close to Mr. Miller who, pressing his hand to the small of her back, finally directed her over to the bar where Bob was and Bob asked if she wanted a drink. She still had the third one in her hand, unfinished. Miller said he needed another one. Several of the others wanted drinks. Bob wrote them down on a notepad. He used an intercom to call my friend to make them and bring them in.
Mr. Miller did not introduce her to anyone but some of the men approached
and asked her polite questions and made casual comments: "How are
you?". . . "Too bad you have to work today. . . " "I like your sweater.
. . " And so on.
Two men, who seemed to have brought cameras for the occasion and the purpose, were taking pictures of her. One man used a professional camera, but another man used just a plain Kodak Brownie, like her Dad used to take vacation snapshots, and because it was dark they had to put in flashbulbs. Their pictures were all aimed at her. Taking them repeatedly. She did not know if she should smile or not. Miller ignored the photographers. She kept cringing at the flashes and kept so close to Mr. Miller, that her body was touching his. Some of the men wanted pictures with her. She obliged sheepishly. She smiled self-consciously, awkwardly at the camera. She looked confused, a little anxious. In the some of the pictures Mr. Miller looks on at her, in some looking at the back of her legs.
My friend brought in the drinks that were
ordered. He found Karen the center of attention. The flashes of the snapshots
intermittently filled out the dark room, while various men whom she did not
know guided her to stand beside them and to pose with them for photographs. She
looked to be nervous and my friend thought the whole thing very strange and
even troubling, and she looked at him anxiously like she wanted to say
something to him, but she smiled also and in fact she said nothing to him; and
he in turn said nothing to her but left her there. The men obviously liked her.
He wondered once he was back at the bar. He began to guess at it. But it seemed
completely implausible. Karen, as he had known her as my wife, was so naive,
shy and even squeamish about things like what he thought was going to happen
here, what Bob had meant about entertainment, a stripper or the like; why, she
would blush at immodest teasing. It could not possibly be true, what he was
thinking. He expected her to leave. But she did not leave, at least not by the
door he watched, and so when he would return in less than an hour with more
drinks he was shocked (and intrigued) to see that he had been wrong about her.
It amazes me still that she did not leave, unless she really wanted it to happen, but she had been so well-prepared. She had been set up so completely. Still
she must have had a gut‐level feeling. Her naivete
was no pretense, but it was a self‐deception that made it possible to
survive the emotional distress of her sexual humiliation, even while she was being
dishonest in her own mind. For she was aware of the sexual tensions in the
room---she admitted that much to me---and she sensed her own intriguing sexual feelings, stirrings
she felt with the suggestive glances at her, the flirtatious remarks, and the casual but overly familiar proximity to
men's bodies to her own, as she posed with these men whom she did not know, who put their
arms around her shoulder or waist, and squeezed her into intimate group photos.
At any rate, Miller drank his drink
watching her from the bar, talking to Bob in some confidences, while Bob nodded
and looked at her, and finally, after she had been circulated through the room
and photographed in many groups and in some side‐by-sides and alone,
Miller came to get her and she supposed and was relieved to think that they
would leave.
She felt drunk. She did not want the
drink he held out for her. She asked as she took it: "Aren't we going back
to work?"
"We'll finish tomorrow," he explained, and he put his arm about her waist and turned her and guided her to walk across the open floor while she noticed the men were taking seats at tables or going back to lean against the bar. They were seating themselves before the stage, some turning to watch her approaching with Miller, and others looking up at the stage, where Miller was insistently pressing her to walk toward: "You see that stage?" She nodded as they walked toward it. The garish stage light gleamed on its odd tableau, an everyday Formica kitchen table with aluminum legs and a matching kitchen chair.
She stumbled a little over her own feet, as
he pressed her forward. "Are you a little drunk?" he asked.
She
giggled, a little silly: "Yes..."
He said:
"Good. . . "
She still claims she did not know what he
wanted. She still claims, crying tears before me when she confessed it, and
shaking her head, that she did not know what was intended. But she did admit
that she did nothing to resist it. She did not say no. Once she had been helped
by Miller to step up on the low‐rise and onto stage and into its bright
lurid light, she was turned by him at her shoulders to face them and she
certainly blushed and felt self‐conscious as he now assumed the role of
impresario to introduce her to the crowd of men who now sat back or straddled
chairs backwards and leaned in and leered and grinned and commented privately
to one another. Miller gave her name. He gave her full name. He told how old
she was. He told them that she worked for him. He told them that she was
married and how long she had been married. He gave them my name. He said that
many in the crowd had met him. He explained as Karen
looked he explain it that: "Her husband does not know about this and she
does not want him to know. So you must not tell anyone, or she won't do it. Is
that understood?"
Then he turned looked at her
affectionately and said: "And besides she's never done this before. . . (he kisses her cheek) .
. . so she's a little nervous
(looking back at crowd seriously) and a little scared. . . So be patient."
He looked at her sternly: "But she will do it, won't you, honey.?"
I am certain now she must know what he
intended and yet she claimed—crying, shaking her head as she told
me—that she still did not know until he said it out loud plainly.
She asked him: "What do you
want?" He did not immediately reply. He smiled and so she smiled at him.
Mr. Miller asked for and took her drink from her and put it on the table.
Miller made the strange request for her
to she get up on top of and stand on the kitchen
table. He said it twice times before she seemed to understand, but she was uncertain
but she did not refuse. He helped her, holding her hand, as she took hold of
the back of the chair, to stand up on the chair seat and from there to step up
onto the table. She felt particularly embarrassed by this. It was silly. She
felt "on display" and the man with the camera took more photographs.
She thought that the men in the front, from their tables, probably looked up
her skirt. She instinctively put a hand to her skirt to hold it against her
thighs for modesty sake.
Mr. Miller turned back to the crowd. "She will stay for you a long as you want her. Her husband does not expect her home until late, and of course he has no idea." They said nothing. She looked at Mr. Miller quizzically.
He looked at her seriously. He paused. He
said firmly: "Take your clothes off."
She felt immediately and furiously
ashamed. She felt herself hot, obviously blushing— it was so natural for
her anyway—and no one in the crowd spoke, no one moved; it was completely
silent in the room; some chairs shifting startled her; she had not responded
when Miller repeated himself. She looked truly frightened, Bob said, but she
said nothing. She told me that she felt sick to her stomach. The men fidgeted
and murmured. Bob said some of them later told him that they had felt sorry for
her. Her hands clasped anxiously in front of her, where she had put them, to
press her skirt; she touched her wedding ring, turning it. She looked at Mr.
Miller as though she might cry. He reassured her then, smiling, and said
gently: "He won't know."
He turned away from her and left the
stage, leaving her to stand alone in its light on top of the table. She watched
him leaving her, looking at him plaintively, as he walked away. He went to
stand next to Bob and pick up another drink. The photographers took more shots.
In one Bob showed me, Karen had cast her face down, its expression could not be
seen, her shoulders drooped, but her hands tightly clasped, suggested her
misgivings. Still she said nothing.
Miller addressed her by her name. Twice.
She looked up at him. As if he had not made it clear, before he took a gulp of
his drink, he gestured with his hand with a wave over her body instructed her
testily: "Take off your clothes."
Now she made the only objection that she
made all night long, or so Bob told me. She did not refuse to take off her
clothes. She did not resist them this or anything else. All night long she did
whatever was asked, sometimes sadly, sometimes tearfully, sometimes reluctantly
or hesitantly, but she never refused and she never fought their hands when they
reached for her or forcibly guided her.
She had folded her arms to herself across
her stomach, still a bit hunched, and looked pathetically at Mr. Miller; she
seemed to be shivering; she said: "Please. . . "
Mr. Miller
repeated: "They will not tell."
She shook
her head and said: "But I'm cold."
Some of the men laughed. She blushed to hear them. Miller said sarcastically: "Then you can keep your socks on."
Several men laughed again. She herself did not hear it for sarcasm
and in the end she sadly nodded, as if assuaged.
AL leaned in and helped her remove her shoes. She did not resist.
She did not object further. She did not
cry at this point either. She felt frightened and nervous, as she said, but she
never thought to refuse them, and she made no more objections.
I asked
her, stunned: "Why did you do it?"
She looked confused and uncertain; her eyes flickering, wondering how to answer me in a way I would understand. But I don't know that anything she said could have satisfied me.
What she did say gave me a strange pang. She sobbed: "They promised not to tell you. . . " And she wept into her hands, covering her shameful face.
How I heard these words did not suggest to me that she had been coerced to take off her clothes, although she had intended me to take that meaning—in her mind she was telling me that she felt helpless—but how she said it made me think she took her clothes off for them and let them to see her naked, if they promised not to tell me she did.
How she said it gave me a such a gnawing pang of jealousy and sexual longing, that I thought to myself she wanted to take off her clothes for them, she wanted them to see her naked, and what she meant was that she was worried I would find out; but if they "promised not to tell," she would take off her clothes for them. Perhaps I am right. And perhaps she is right. Perhaps both of us are right.
I did not press the point to her any further; I do believe she felt truly helpless. Later I understood how the circumstance were much like the time when she was ten years old and her cousins forced her similarly; like this time she had been promised they would not tell, she said. But at that moment standing on the kitchen table under that light, with Mr. Miller, stepping off the stage and leaving her, to walk back to the bar and watch from where Bob stood also, so that it was for these men in front of her she was doing this. Undressing for them. Not for Mr. Miller. Undressing for men she did not know.
She unbuttoned her sweater and drew
it off her arms and held it uncertainly, not knowing what she should do with
it. Mr. Miller called from the bar: "Just drop it on the table,
Karen..." She looked at him, still seeming confused. Miller reinforced it:
"Leave your clothes on the table."
She looked at him a moment uncertainly, and then let go of the sweater, looking where it fell beside her. Still looking down at it, uncertainly, she began to unbutton her blouse, brushing the hair from her face, looking away nervously and again hesitated.
All this, the photographers recorded: her every deliberate hesitant action,
the slow motion stripping, her ambiguous expressions, her uncertainty and
reluctance, her submissive moody glances across the faces of the men leering at
her and encouraging her with lwed and friendly comments. She unbuttoned her blouse slowly from the top, looking at her own trembling fingers as she did,
down several buttons so that it parts and shows bare midriff and her bra, then
she changed her mind and tugged the blouse out of waist of her skirt first,
leaving her blouse partly unbuttoned. Her blouse now loose about her waist, she
thought she would take off her skirt first and twisted to look for the zipper at the side, feeling for
it, then lifting the blouse on her right and then twisted at her
waist, she found and unfastened the waist button and lowered the zipper. The
skirt sloughed sideways, showing the side of her underpants, as she looked up.
She let the skirt down with one hand, as she stood straight now looking
furtively across the upturned faces of the men who are fixedly gazing on her
bare legs and her underpants, and especially the crotch of it. She let the
skirt fall to her feet. She looked down as she stepped out of it. She looked up
and sighing brushed her hair from her face and pursed her lips. Several more
photographs as she teased them this way. Finally she finished unbuttoning her
blouse and in an achingly slow series she left the blouse open to show her
belly above her underpants and the front of her bra. Then drew off her blouse,
and dropped it.
The two photographers circled her eagerly, crouched for lurid angles, took repeated pictures while she undressed, and paused her with commands to pose as she stood with one more item of her clothes removed. They shot her at many angles. The flashes made her blink. She did not look into the camera as she undressed. She looked over their head of the men toward the door at the back of the bar. She told me later that she worried that my friend might return and see her.
Now Bob turned another page in the album:
now my wife stood on the table wearing only her underpants and bra and socks.
There was a whole page of pictures like this, taken from several angles and
side views. In all of them she is staring dreamily into empty space, her hands
brushing her hair from her eyes or limply hanging at her sides. On display.
Mr. Miller now came back into some of the
pictures, to stand below her next to the table looking up at her, his drink in
his hand or then holding a drink up for her, where she had turned her head,
when he spoke: "There. . . You see? You can do
this. You look very nice. . . "
He stepped up onto the front of stage
into the light and held up her drink for her. "Here. . . Go on. . . "
She had hesitated, but she deferred to
him. She took the drink. He insisted she drink it. He asked her: "Do still
feel cold?" Holding her glass with two hands as she sipped it, she peered
at him and shook her head. "Good. . . Bob turned up the heat.
. . We want you comfortable.
. . "
She drank about half and handed the glass
for him to take. Miller took it and said: "Good.
. . Turn around. . . "
She nodded and turned herself so that her back was to the men. "Like this?" she asked shyly.
Miller said: "Yeah... now take
off your bra. . . "
She said nothing.
She told me she said nothing when he did. She did what he asked.
The picture shows Miller holding
two glasses looking up at her, her hands twisted behind her unhooking her bra.
She reached behind her back to find the hooks and unfasten them. As her bra popped loose, Mr. Miller put their drinks on the table and standing in front of the table. He said: "Let it go, honey..."
She put both hands to her shoulders and drew the straps of her bra forward, so that the cups slipped off her breasts, and then the garment slid down her arms to the fall away to the table top.
Karen dropped her head, ashamed, looking at her own erect nipples.
Miller grinned at the me. She stood in her underpants turned away from the crowd but the photographers had slipped behind the table, taking pictures of her. Miller jerked his head for them to step off the stage and they stood on the floor with the other men, many of whom now stood up from the chairs, and poised their cameras.
There were a series of photographs of this. Like one of those frame by frame studies. Turning. Sadly. The side of her breast showing. The jutting nipples. Never looking up. And finally, abjectly posing, her arms at her sides, she faces them. Those wide burgandy nipples, obscenely puckering, pointy. Obviously aroused to be seen naked by these men. Her deep blush was also not shame but a sexual heat that revealed her feelings, spreading like a rash on her cheek. They liked her lurid nipples. They liked her pouty tits. They commented. They teased her.
Milled grinned proudly at her. She glanced at him. For a moment Bob said it looked like she might start to cry, but Al gestured at her, looking at her underpants.
"Take off your underpants, honey." She looked up at the back door.
Bob had set this up deliberately. At the moment she had turned to face them and show her tits, Bob had pressed the intercom and told my friend to come it to take some orders for drinks. Karen saw him enter and stop at the door when he saw her on the table, standing with nothing on but her underpants and socks. He looked shocked. But inspite of himself he began to grin.
"Your underpants, honey..." Al said, smiling at her, "Take off your underpants..."
Now, looking away from the men, away from my friend, who stood stock still in shock, my wife slipped her fingers into the waistband of her underpants and slide her hands down sides of her hips, slipping her fingers along the sids of her thighs, drawing down her underpants, until loosened at her knees, she let go and straightened up and her underpants fell liquidly to her ankles, and lay atop her stocking feet. She looked up. She could not help herself but glance at my friend who in turn saw her glance.
My friend later told me that he found it incredible, but he got a hard-on like everybody else in the room. and like everybody else he wanted to fuck her and believed she would do whatever they wanted. Even while he felt ashamed for her, and bewildered, and worried for my sake, he wanted to look, to see her naked.
Like all of the other men in the
room. And I suppose that it is normal for any of us to want to see women
we know naked, even wives of our friends, maybe especially
wives of our friends. I admit I have thought of it.
Al nudged her to step out of her underpants. She looked down as he held them and lifted her feet out of them.
He let her underpants lie on the table nex to her feet, next the pile of all her clothing.
Caption: After taking off her underpants my wife straightened up and now stood completely naked for the crowd of men ogling her, grinning, teasing her, as she looked sheepishly into the wide eyes of my old high-school buddy who paused in his bar tending to stare at her. It seemed to him, as he told me later, that she wanted to do this.
Bob said without any resistance or objection she faced them naked now, standing on top of the kitchen table, under that garish light. Her wine‐colored florid nipples thrusting at the tips of randy breasts, and beneath the plump swell of her girlish belly nestled a dark brown thatch of hair above rounded thighs, plump labia peeking at the base of it showing a deep cleft between her legs.
Her face flushed, warm, eyes
moistened and vague, mildly anxious, darted. Her expression, seen in those
pictures, revealed both shame and submission. She looked a little drunk. It was
all that they wanted and more than they had imagined. For my friend it was a
revelation. He immediately believed that although she seemed coerced and looked
reluctant, she was not distressed to be naked in front of them, and when she
looked up and caught his eye and saw him seeing her naked too, she caught a
breath in her surprise, but did not show unbearable embarrassment (which she
claimed she felt) and she did not cover herself, but held her arms as she had
them, hands placidly on her thighs, so that he, so that all of them might see
her naked; and he saw how her mouth parted sensually and her head demurely
turned to avoid his looking into his eyes; she seemed therefore self-conscious
and keenly aware of how eagerly he—and all of the men in the room—
looked upon her as she stood naked for them under that lurid vivid light. He
felt as I felt: she wanted to be naked in front of them.
Mr. Miller said:
"Feel your pussy, honey. . . Show them how horny you are. . . "
This was incredible to me. She had always
been unwilling to do such a thing for me. Now she did this in front of this
crowd of men—with one of our friends watching—and she did it with
obvious pleasure and shameless exhibition. My friend said she lifted her head
and her thighs tightened as she rubbed herself passionately and quickly
shivered in an obvious orgasm in front of them. Her fingers, he said, looked
wet with herself; you can see them looking wet in the photographs. She knelt
and leaned over the table top to catch her breath;
the way her tits hanging seemed especially sexually poignant in those pictures,
her eyes closed, mouth parted.
Mr. Miller helped her down off the table and she leaned
against it, looking flustered, nervously holding his hand. Bob handed a bottle
of beer to Miller. Miller raised it, looked at its contents, quickly downed
what was left, and said to her quietly: "Again, honey, do it with this." He handed her an empty beer bottle. She
looked uncertainly at it. Miller said: "Fuck yourself with this."
Caption: she fucked herself with the beer bottle, ashamed and aroused. She knew my friend watched.
She did it. As my friend watched. She closed her eyes as she did. She obviously and wantonly orgasmed. Bob then sent my friend from the room and turned on overhead lights. Disappointed to leave, I would guess. He did not get to come back until much later.
Then Miller told her to walk around the room naked. To go from table to table. So as Bob had described she went about the room, from table to table, and was groped by each of the men, was finger fucked. And eventually the liberties taken were without any restraint. The first man to take down his pants and with help from his friends, guiding her to kneel and suck his cock, led to the others to undress as well. They were well pleased to see that she let the man cum in her mouth.
Her cunt worked to a lather, she had yelped and mewed in her pleasure to this, she was on her knees on the floor, spent and panting, and from there several men helped her to stand, turned her and positioned her to lean over the Kitchen table, her backside in the stage light, and now the first table of three took service of her.
The crowd was oddly solemn in sexually using my wife, Bob said. They had no music on. The men talked softly away from the action. The only loud sounds were from her or when the men ejaculated. The sounds of thighs slapping. The sounds of her swallowing jets of cum. The wet sound of her cunt and cocks slopping in it.
A table of three took her.
Then another table of three took her. Then another table of
three. Then the table of five. She was moved
about the room as each finished with her. Laid on the tabletops. Sat in a
chair. Kneeling before a chair. Leaned over the chair. The bottle came in handy
to ply her anus and make her ready for those preferred her rectum. She
swallowed so much ejaculate that she drooled it, that the drinks they gave her
to refresh her went milky with it. . A creamy goo
matted her pubic hair; it oozed from her vagina. She had so much ejaculate
inside of her vagina and coming out of her anus that it dribbled from them
between her legs and dripped onto the floor. She stepped in some in her
stocking feet.
They rubbed what overflowed from her cock‐sucking
around her mouth, over her lips, on her cheeks, onto her breasts, massaging her
nipples with it, teasing her for not swallowing it all. They rubbed what they
took with their fingers from between her legs onto her belly, into her navel,
over her buttocks. They rubbed this also on her face and enjoyed force‐feeding
her sticky gooey fingers to lick.
She glistened with smeared ejaculations
on her cheeks, her buttock, her belly, her thighs. Her
lips were glossy with the last one to cum in her mouth, sometimes strings of it
hung from them when it is more than she could swallow or she caught her breath
between pricks put into her mouth and it spilled out. Her face was spattered
with premature ejaculations, flecks of semen in her hair.
Bob had ultimately laid down several
overlapping wool army blankets onto the middle of the floor, and intermittently
she had been lead there to lie down on them, to be rested, and there she curled
up from sheer exhaustion between frenetic sexual episodes, only to be roused
from time to time by men rolling her to be fondled or fingered, or to be taken
up wearily to her next table to be fucked again and again by the men taking
their turns or second helpings, or coaxed to sit up and take another penis into
her mouth. She could not count the orgasms that she had. She had them so
frequently and repeatedly that she sometimes begged them to let her catch her
breath and felt her heart would fail or she would pass out.
My friend came into the middle of this,
almost two hours having gone by, though much more was to come, and she was at
the fourth table of men, naked, crouching over, tremulously holding the seat of
a chair, and one of these middle aged men, also naked, was fucking her hard
from behind, a glow of sweat on both of them. His thighs slapped against her
buttock as he fucked her, gripping her hips, while another naked middle-aged
man to her side was peering under her belly and reaching in to fondle her
vagina, watching her dangling flopping breasts, the nipples of which yet
another naked man was fingering from the front of her while he masturbated
looking down at the taut expression on her pretty flushed face. When he put the
beers down on the table, he saw that the fat man behind her had obviously entered
her rectum with what seemed to my friend to be a long, very thick, dark‐red
erection, which vividly contrasted with the paleness of her buttock and her
bare back, and she grunted like an animal, meeting his strokes with her
thrusts, and was oblivious to interruption. He could not take his eyes off her
naked body. But he looked up from it as he stood by the table to see that her
eyes had opened wide and were fixed intensely on him, as if to ask him
anxiously what he thought of her, but then she closed her eyes in her woozy
absorption of being fucked, and so he wondered if she had really recognized
him. She squealed like a thrilled little girl, when the man loudly exclaimed
his penetrating ejaculation. Two men squabbled over whose turn was next.
He did not come back again. His shift
ended at six and she was still being fucked. She did not get home until
midnight.