From redragon@interserv.com Mon Oct 16 13:48:27 1995
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: THE BEST WIFE
From: redragon@interserv.com
Date: 16 Oct 1995 21:48:27 GMT


               Nice Wife

 I woke in a daze, my bladder on the verge of exploding.  The combination
of pot and beer always does that to me.  After full two-minute piss, I
staggered back to bed and found that Karen was not there. It was 2:51 a.m.
 I was so groggy, I thought she must be in the bathroom.  She sometimes
gets bad cramps and diarrhea. "Kar?"

Then I knew that she couldn't be in the bathroom (since I'd just been in
there). Chris. Chris was downstairs.  Chris and Karen were downstairs.
Together.   I pictured Chris' dick, which was big by anyone's standards.
And although I hadn't seen it in over four years, I doubted it had gotten
any smaller.  The thought of Karen touching it (or any other part of him)
made me sick.  But then Karen has a strong aversion to sex, and an even
stronger aversion to people like Chris, so I doubted this was a
possibility.

 Chris Coleman and I had been brought together as juniors at BU by a
campus housing shortage.  I would never have chosen to room with him.  He
was a jock creep some shitty Boston suburb.  As a freshman, he'd led BU's
ice hockey team in assists and then quit during the off season, to fully
devote himself to being a full-time scumbag.

 He was the consummate piece of shit.  One beery night about a month after
we moved in together, he stumbled across a freshman Zeta Phi sister lying
inebriated and unconscious in the stairwell of our dorm.  He carried her
back to our room (I wasn't there), fucked her, then dragged her out into
the showers and left her there.  To this day, I still regret not having
turned him over to campus security.

The rest of our year together was an unpleasant blur.  He lied a lot,
stole every nickel, dime and quarter I left unattended and sold herb for
pocket money -- from our dorm room.  Looking back, I'm glad he never got
busted.  It might have made me look like an accomplice or something.
But worst of all was the way he leered at Karen (who I also met at BU)
whenever she came over.  Before the year was over, it was so bad that she
stopped coming to my dorm altogether.

So one night four years later, I'm clearing the dishes away from a roast
turkey dinner I'd made for Karen.  The phone rings.  A familiar voice on
the other end knows my name.
 "David?"
 "Coleman? Chris?
 "That's me." He sounded good natured and surprisingly adult.
 "Holy, shit.  How are you?  Where are you?"
 He laughed.  I'm about 10 miles from your house, if this map is right."
There was some static.  "I'm in the car on my way down to Philly."
 "What a surprise,"
 I looked into the living room.  Karen, exhausted from work, was fetal on
the couch.
 There was no way I could not invite Chris to stop by for a quick drink.
On the other hand, Karen was in one of her IEMMs (indefinitely extended
miserable moods).  This could be bad, especially if Chris roving eye thing
hadn't changed over the years.
 There was no way out.  And besides, I was curious about what had become
of my old roommate the sleaze king.  After giving directions and hanging
up, I put the kitchen together and did a little general housecleaning
while Karen finished her nap.
 Two hours later, Chris and we drinking beers and smoking a joint rolled
with some really strong weed he'd brought with him. Karen (who has never
even smoked a cigarette) watched us, looking surprisingly placid
considering who was sitting on the other end of the couch from her.
 I however, was feeling surprised.  Chris had turned out to be a pretty
decent guy.  His affection for dope hadn't changed, but he had gotten his
CPA after all (I'd never thought he would stick it out) and was working
for a big accounting firm in Boston.  From the look of the brand new Jeep
Cherokee in the driveway, I judged they were paying him pretty well.
 He also looked good.  I'd always been jealous of his hockey player's
body.  And unlike me, he hadn't totally stopped working out after college.
 Leaning back on our couch with a loose fitting t-shirt and faded jeans,
he looked like a sports star relaxing after a big game.  I even thought I
saw Karen looking at him with a strange kind of interest.
 He was also nothing of the pervert we had known him to be.  Not only did
he refrain from foul language and tasteless comments of any kind, he only
glanced once or twice at Karen's breasts, even though they were swinging
loose under her black sweatshirt.  Overall, he was laid back and kind of
fun to be with.
 Certain that I would find Karen and Chris, if anything, at the kitchen
table drinking a cup of herbal tea (her favorite midnight activity), I
threw on some pajamas and went downstairs.  Even though Chris had turned
out to be pretty cool, there was just no way Karen would ever let him
touch her.
 It was actually  Karen's disinterest in sex that made our relationship
possible in the first place.  If she had been into sex, she probably never
would have been into me.  What I am (low self-esteem yet still confident
with a slightly flabby body and a not gorgeous but still sometimes
boyishly charming face) is what brought us together: I am safe, and this
is what she needs.  My job is to make Karen feel comfortable, protected
from the shit of life.  From the pain, poverty and perversion.
 As you would expect, Karen's problems for sex stem from her childhood.
Making a long story short, she was molested over a period of three years,
between the ages of 10 and 14, by a neighborhood girl (and her boyfriend)
who occasionally baby-sat for Karen.  I don't know all the details but
from what I've been able to gather (from Mr. and Mrs. Lerner, Karen has
never talked about it to me), she was never raped.  The damage took the
form of unwanted touching in the form of massages, some "forced"
masturbation, and if I had to guess, some oral sex.
 Anyway, whatever happened, it turned Karen off of sex forever.  To make
things even worse, she grew up incredibly sexy.  Karen looks like a model
in a high end clothing catalogue, like J. Crew or L.L. Bean.  Only she has
extremely large breasts, on a slender, athletic frame. This combination
makes it literally impossible to look at her without thinking of sex.  I
know it sounds horrible, but Karen's body is actually pornographic; naked,
on her back, her breasts spread and spill slightly outward.  Her deep pink
nipples are so obscenely large I can barely fit one in my mouth.
 From the neck up, though, Karen looks like a college girl working as a
summer camp counselor in New England.  A trim, blonde sports babe with a
big, friendly smile.
But still, because of her breasts, she grew up with men (and women)
constantly being sexual with her.  And it's made her feel repulsed by sex.
 What a world.
 I'm deeply in love with Karen but I often think that she's never going to
be able to work through this thing, and it's hard for me. Karen's anger is
so bad, we sometimes go months without having intercourse.  And when we
do, the ecstasy of seeing her naked breasts wobble (or as is more often
the case) sway a few inches in front of my face, usually makes me shoot my
load (into a condom; my semen has never and will never touch any part of
her body) within a minute or two.  It isn't like she minds, though. For
Karen, sex is all about intimacy. When we make love, she wants to be held,
stroked, and loved.
 I listened around the corner before looking in the living room but heard
nothing.  I also peeked in the den.  I wondered if maybe that they hadn't
gotten hungry or something and taken a ride to 7-11.  But that just wasn't
Karen.  And besides, Chris' jeep was in the driveway.  They were in the
basement.
 It now occurred to me, with a sickening finality,  that it was very
likely that I was going to find them together --  in some capacity.  There
just wasn't anything else they would be doing down there besides having
sex.  Hot tears spring to my eyes and I felt like sitting down.  This just
made no sense.  Whatsoever.
 Strange thoughts as descended the stairs to the basement.  The whole
thing was unreal.  Lacking the nerve to kill them, I decided I would
punish her with shame.  And refusing to forgive her -- ever.  I would
divorce her.
 They were in the guest room, where Chris was supposed to have stayed --
by himself.  All we had down there was a cheap cot, and I heard the box
springs squeaking lightly.  I inched the door open and waited while my
eyes adjusted to the darkness.  Although I steeled myself for the worst,
there is nothing -- no thought, action or comforting word of wisdom that
could have prepared me for what they were doing.
 In a few seconds, I could see them almost as well as if the lights had
been on.  Karen, my sweet, miserable wife, sex-hating wife was lying on
top of my old roommate who was now an accountant, her head in the crook of
his neck as he fucked her from underneath.  He was holding her ass cheeks
so far apart I couldn't believe that she wasn't screaming in pain, and
(this made me sick) sliding his finger in and out of her asshole. His dick
was even bigger than I remembered it from college.  Slamming upward into
my wife's pussy, it was the cruelest, sexiest, nastiest thing I'd ever
seen.
 She sat up on him, his finger still sliding in and out of her ass, and
guided his free hand to her right breast.  He groaned, "God, you're tits
are so fucking big.  I've got to fuck them."
 She giggled and rocked on him.  He found a new rhythm, pulling his finger
out of her ass as she sat on him, then shoving it back in on her upstroke.
 I could tell Karen was loving it.  She was not my wife anymore.  She was
someone else, a strange, hopelessly complicated woman.
 "If you keep doing that for another minute, I'm going to come," she said,
matter-of-factly.  "I'm definitely going to come."
 He began slapping her right tit, and pulling and twisting the nipple.
True to her word, in a few seconds Karen ground to a standstill on his
huge cock, let out a brief muffled cry, her whole body spasming.  I never
knew women could come like that.
 "Fucking whore," he said up to her.
 "You're a....pig," she groaned back.  "I hate you....always have."
 After a few seconds, she collapsed besides him, giggling, and reached
down to the floor.  I watched with disbelief as she pulled up a joint and
lit it as Chris scooted down to eat her.
 "Chris?"
 He made a throaty, indiscernible as he tongued lightly at her clitoris,
something she's only let me done once or twice since in all our years
together.  She shut her eyes.  "You don't think he'll wake up, do you."
 Chris didn't answer.  He took the joint from her, dragged deeply, then
stubbed it out in an ashtray on the floor.  In the meantime, Karen rolled
over onto her stomach, raised herself up on her knees, and spread her
cheeks.  He kissed her asshole lightly.  Without warning, he slapped her
left buttock violently.  She quivered.
 "You're a cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt," he told her.
 "Hmmm," she cooed. "I'm really stoned."
 I had no intention of moving.  I was going to watch but not interfere.
Even if I had, I was sure Chris would beat me and then leave, and Karen
would go with him.
 Chris spit into her ass crack and began lapping at her hole like a dog.
Although I couldn't see her face too well, I could see that she was
smiling.  She reached back to play with his hair, to push
against her semen soaked breasts a few times, and then pushed them
together for him to fuck.  He slid his mammoth dick between and began to
thrust.  I turned and went upstairs.


 At some point before dawn, Karen slipped into bed with me, warm, freshly
damp and smelling of soap.  She'd showered.  From outside, I heard Chris'
Jeep start up and back out of our driveway.  Pretending to be asleep, I
reached for a breast.  She guided my hand to where it wanted to go and
held it there for safekeeping.





