My first wife was just out of high school when I married her in 1971. We were married only a little more than one year and then I divorced her.

Figure 1 : My wife, a year after we were married, when she worked for Mr. Miller. She was just barely twenty years old
at the time of the incidents in this story.

She had gotten so she could not help herself and I just could not stand it. I am thinking maybe it was the repressed up-bringing, being a Mormon, that made her the way she was, but I don't know. Even at the end she seemed so confused about her feelings. She was ashamed of it of course and very emotional when I found out and made her tell me all about it, but she just didn't seem to understand what had happened. She had not wanted me to be hurt. She had just wanted me to love her.

For that matter she just wanted Mr. Miller to like her or love her. Or at least that is how it started, she said. He said he loved her and she wanted him to love her. He was her boss at the Jewelry store where she worked. And I should have guessed by the way she was kept hours after closing and the jewelry he let her "borrow." What she did, she said to me tearfully, she did because he loved her. . . it didn't mean anything. But, I wondered bitterly, why did she do it for the others?

She said to me, sobbing, that it was only because she wanted Mr. Miller to be happy. And he had wanted her to do those things. And then a few of his friends got involved, and he said they only wanted to look, but she nodded that there was more. She was not sure why she did what she did for them, men she did not love, but she confessed she had not refused; she had wanted to please Mr. Miller, she said, and they too told her that they loved her and said they were lonely like Mr. Miller had said, and she thought what she was doing would make them love her. She just wanted to be loved. She believed it, I think. That is really what got her into the mess.

To think that I often met her after work, after things had happened with Mr. Miller, and he met me and talked to me and so on, all the while thinking about what he had done to her, and she—I don't know what she was thinking—I mean she must still have the taste of his cum in her mouth, but she acted like nothing was odd. She looked flushed, and she was often very quiet going home and unresponsive in bed. I did wonder. I did begin to suspect things.

Then the "big event" happened. She started inventory at the jewelry store and had to work a Saturday. She came home very late, exhausted, was obviously drunk and went to the bedroom, put on her nightgown, and got into bed and went to sleep without a word.

They next morning she did not want to go to work. I don't know why but I looked in her purse and found roll of cash, ten-dollar bills, one-hundred and seventy dollars in all. I asked her where she got it from and she was evasive. Then told me Mr. Miller had given it to her instead of paying her overtime. This made some sense but then when she got up and took off her nightgown to take a bath, I saw what they had done to her and now I had a very good reason to be suspicious and I asked her again and she broke down crying and confessed.

She told me a lot of it, but not all of it. She confessed her "affair" with Mr. Miller and then with much sobbing and tears she admitted that was not all, that he had persuaded her to take her clothes off in front of some men at a bar. That is where the money came from.

The bar, as it turned out, was Bob's bar. A bar that I and many of my friends used to hang out at, and where one of my friends still worked as a bartender.

I was certain she had not told me everything. There had been several late nights, as well as that Saturday. More than just stripping for some of Miller's friends had taken place. But she just wept when I pressed her and said how sorry she was.

I got upset enough that I slapped her. I called her a slut. I said many terrible things to her. I don't know that I would have reacted this way once I was older. But what she had done really hurt and sickened me. An affair with a man old enough to be her father or my father was very hurtful, but letting herself be displayed naked to strangers—and, I suspected, letting them do things to her—I felt I could not forgive her. I left the house angrily. I saw her only once more to confront her with more painful details. We separated and divorced.

I wanted to confront Miller, but I did not have the guts. But out of spite or some twisted prurient curiosity I ultimately went down to the bar, to see what Bob knew.

Going into the bar, knowing that these regulars knew me, who also evidently knew my wife, and may have even been among those who saw her "show" was hard to do. But I had to know more.

I told Bob what I knew, not knowing the half of it really. He commiserated with me, called me "pal" (like my Dad used to) and gave me free liquor and got me very drunk. Then I asked him to tell me what he knew.

He said he had something to show me. He took me to the backroom of the bar where he kept his extra booze, and actually it was another part of the bar, closed off, a private club that used to be there during prohibition era, I guess.

He did not use it, he said. It was much smaller than his main bar and set up with a built-in bar on one side and a row of booths opposite it and in between maybe one half dozen or so small rounds with wooden chairs. At the back of the room was a kind of low rise, a sort of stage. He said they used to have strippers there; a couple round tables were pushed up close to it, a chair or two or three to each. But what was really odd. . . there was a Formica-topped kitchen table alone on the center of the stage and a single matching kitchen chair next to it. He turned on lights. Overhead lights lit up the kitchen table—a hot harsh light—while the rest of the room was lit in dim ambience by golden sconces above the booths and behind the bar. He made us drinks and I stood looking up near the stage looking at that kitchen table with the lights glaring on it.

He brought the bottle over and some glasses and we sat at a round table directly in front of the stage and he also brought out a big oblong ledger, except that it wasn't a ledger.

He put it in front of me and turned it about so I could see. It was a photo album.

He flipped open to the first page. Then I saw what he wanted me to see. Pictures of my wife right here in this room, this bar. Standing about with maybe a group of five or six or seven different men in small groups, or some of her alone, looking like a deer in headlights or some with her sipping her glass while two or three of them teased her. Talking. Drinking. Posing in some pictures like a vacation snap shot. Or, it reminded me, like those photos of the guys out hunting with their dead doe hung up between them. Trophy photos. There would be some real trophy photos at the end. Where she stood again between these "sportsmen" on real display.

Black and white and color snapshots, taken by more than one camera, fixed into pasted photo corners onto black construction paper. 5 inch by 5 inch snapshots and some larger but all taken by an ordinary camera. Taken with flash bulbs. They were all neatly fit, two or three along two rows, laid it out sequentially, laid out to tell a story.

I could see how the flash startled her sometimes. She looked like she'd already had drunk too much even before the "action" began. A little goofy in some of the shots. Her smile looked awkward or pretended and her eyes looked like she could not focus. None of the men looked as drunk. I wondered what they had given her to drink.

In some shots she seemed so self-conscious that it made her look really pathetic. She is like that. She does not like her photo taken; she does not think she is pretty. But she is pretty. She worries she is fat. But she is not fat. The men obviously liked the way she looks. They are solicitous to her, if not a little rapacious. There were some who just leered at her.

Bob flipped the page. More of the same.

Bob said it was just brandy, brandy and water. "Scout's honor," and makes the sign of the cross for good measure.

"No, she knew what was up " and nodded at a picture, "That there is just her . . . what you want to call, anticipation . . . she just figured out what was going on, is all, see . . . lookee here . . ."

In this snapshot she looked at a man who had turned away from her—presumably after having given her another drink—and her expression is like that of—I almost can't describe it—she looks anxiously at him as he walks away but she looks also so intense and thoughtful. Bob said, "She knew what was going on. . . Don't kid yourself."

The date was printed on the white border. So these had to come from just a plain camera and even had to have been commercially developed, which when I think of it now is almost scary. I mean, the lab had to have seen what they were.

The date—a month and year—just last month. She had gone to work on a Saturday afternoon to do inventory, she had said. I remembered that day.

I recognized the clothing that she wore. A partly buttoned up light grey cardigan sweater over a simple short-sleeved white blouse, the button at the top modestly closed, the waist of the sweater fit to her hips. A plaid pleated wool skirt. Her white cotton bobby socks, her penny loafers.

She had taken the time after her shower in the morning to put on a little makeup, as she stood before the mirror thoughtfully combing her hair. I thought that a bit much, since she was just doing inventory, but I knew that Mr. Miller had a crush on her and so I thought it was to please him. She wore an old-fashioned candy-red lipstick, like the movie stars wore in glamor photos. And she seemed cheerful if a bit preoccupied when she left and stood at the door and hesitated to leave and actually said maybe she shouldn't go, but I kissed her and said we could use the money. She nodded. She really looked a little sad to leave.

I was shocked speechless to see these pictures of her and all these men in the bar. Even before he turned the pages, I could easily guess what was coming. And I felt sick to my stomach that this man was going to show them to me. My wife with these men. He was not showing me this because he liked me. Bob poured me another stiff one. "Hey fella," he said, "Nothing to be ashamed about You're a lucky guy." I really did almost want to throw up.

I said: "How did you get her to do it?"

"It was Al. Al did it. He just told her. Of course we all knew about what she and Al had been doing. And I'm sure she knew what was up. She had to know. He brought here her and there was all these old guys just oggling her. She knew."

He poured more booze into my drink. I drank a big swallow. He watched me patting the page of the photoalbum. There were a lot more pages under this one. He said: "Drink some more."

I did.

Bob said: "So anyway, I'm pretty sure she knew. Al got her up onto the stage, turned her about to face us, like she was on auction, and told us all it was time and so we all sat and he introduced her. He made her tell about herself. She told us about you too. Then Al looked at her seriously and said everybody here liked her and said we had all promised not to tell you what she did here. She looked confused, but I think she was faking it. I mean, he kissed her warmly, whispered to her and then he coaxed her and teased her to make her get up on top of the table. He took her drink from her. He held her hand to help her. She really looked confused but how could she not know what was expected. She asked him why. He said: 'So everybody here can see you.' Which was the truth. The light on her like show. She must have known. He handed her the drink and made her take big gulps of it. They men cheered. She smiled. How could she not know?

My hands were trembling.

Bob was fingering the page, ready to turn it. He looked at Karen in the photographs.

He sighed, remembering, and added, "She's pretty, your wife. She doesn't think so, you know."

Bob continued talking as he lifted the page to turn it. "Well, anyway Al turned and said, 'You know what?' and he looked out at the crowd and announced 'Karen wants to do a show for you.' Cheers again. She looked shocked. She knew, I'm certain.

Bob held the page up, but I knew what was coming. He looked me in the eye to tell me the climax of his story, what I had come to him to find out: 'She just stood there waiting. I mean, how could she not know. She said nothing.

'So then Al said to her: '... They've all seen the pictures anyway.'

"What pictures?" I asked.

"Oh, some Polaroids I took... I'll show you later... but anyway, that cinched it. She must have known what was coming next.

She knew what was up, she knew what he wanted, but she asked him, like she did not know, 'What do you want?'

So Al said it to her straight out: 'I want you to take your clothes off for them...' She blinked. She blushed. Al said it again. 'Take off your clothes, Karen... (and he gestured around at all of us, grinning up at her, craning to see her reaction)... for my friends.'

"What did she say?"

"What could she say?" Bob said, "O, she looked or pretended to look like she was confused, you know. Being embarrassed, I 'spose. Feeling ashamed of what she was going to do, I 'spose."

" I asked: "Didn't she object?"

"Not much," shrugged Bob, grinning.

Al said it again: "Take off your clothes . . ." And she stood there. Deer in headlights. Literally. . . with the spotlight on her . . . He nodded at the hot overhead lights glaring on the table top where he said she stood.

Al told her plainly that that's why they had all come, to see her take off her clothes for them He pointed around the room at all of us and said: 'My friends wanna see you. . . without your clothes . . . Like you did for me . . . Like you did for Bob . . . And that man who came to the store . . . You know? They only wanna get a look. Take your clothes off for them, like you did for my other friends. Then you can get down.'

"What man does he mean? What others?" I asked. Bob grinned and went on to say that my wife did not cooperate right away, but she did not argue either, did not object, did not try to get off the table.

She asked him pathetically why are you doing this? I understood, even if Al didn't. She thought Al loved her.

But Bob said Al replied sarcastically: 'Stupid question,’ The men laughed a little but they were not sure she would do it, so they were careful not to upset her.And she fidgeted. Al sighed: 'Come on... Why do you think? '

Al added then, 'Anyway they've already seen the pictures. . .' She looked shocked.

He shrugged at her and she shook her head. 'But a picture's not the same thing' he went on, 'Is it guys?'

Everybody shook his head. Some of them spoke up and that frightened her. She saw they all wanted her to do it; she saw that is why they had come here, and that is why Al had brought her here. To do this. To take her clothes off for them.

Al walked away and left her standing alone. Staring in disbelief at him. Wide eyed. All us staring up at her. She did not say a word. He turned back to her, folding his arms where he leaned against the bar. 'Go on . . .' he said.

All us guys getting hard-on's just thinking of it and getting impatient. Some guy started to complain. He mentioned the money he'd paid to see her take off her clothes. She heard that and I think that hurt her feelings, to find out that Al had taken money from them to see her take off her clothes, since she had thought he really loved her and that was the real reason for her doing this, to make him happy and all. But now she knew. He was using her. He wanted to humiliate her. He wanted to show her naked to his friends, not because he loved her, but because he thought she was a slut. Hell, she is a slut. She must have figured that out then. She began to cry.

She started to whine at him not to make her do this. But He shook his head. I think he was getting pissed off.

She begged pathetically, crying. None of them felt sorry for her. Hell, it was just nerves anyway. She was just anticipating.

Al just watched her as she cried and stalled for time. He didn't feel sorry for her either. Al said it again, firmly: "Just do it, honey."  I think the guys began to think she wasn't going to do it. Some of them got out of their chairs and were ready to just do it to her themselves.

She looked scared. But Al waved his hand at them and and they all sat back down. The impatient one said angrily: "You gonna make her strip or not?" Another said it: "Strip her, Al."

I think she finally understood that she really had no choice, like he said, and was feeling at the buttons on sweater and Al nodded when she undid the buttons and started to take off the sweater, drawing off one shoulder, but stopped and whimpered: "My husband will find out . . ."

"Nobody here's going to tell him . . . RIght, guys?" And nobody said anything, and she looked very anxious but she was giving up now. We could see that. Al looked at us and winked. He turned back to her said firmly. "Take your clothes off, Karen. No ones gonna tell. . ."

As he spoke this, he was walking back to the table where she stood, to stand beneath her and repeated very softly up to her: "Take off your clothes. . . Take your clothes off and I swear . . . I swear. . . your husband will never find out about any of it. . . "

Karen looked down at Al, tears on her cheeks, but she had stopped crying and she said something I couldn't hear, but we could see she was going to give in. She wiped the tears from her eyes and took off her sweater as she looked at him. She was nodding at something he said.

As she took off her sweater Al reached across the table, and helped her out of her shoes, he took them in his hands. He coaxed her kindly then to do all the rest, and was trying to pull down her socks, when she bent over and reached for his hand, to stop him, and said something else I did not hear. Anyway, Al sighed and replied, smiling up at her: 'Okay, honey, you can keep your socks on . . .'

He stepped back, smirking triumphantly when she at last, with tears still welling in her eyes, she looked out at us pathetically, the poor thing, holding her sweater in her hands, confusedly looking at Al, sniffling. He instructed her, "Just drop it."

She did and Al gestured. "Go on . . . Everything, but your socks, honey. You can keep your socks on."

He turned to us and explained: "She says she's cold . . . "

"I think she was worried," Bob flipped the pages, showing me how they watched and took pictures as she undressed herself for them.

"I think she worried they would think she was fat--she always used to ask Al and me if we thought she was fat, you know, when she did it for us--and so we kept telling her--all the guys there--you know, how pretty she is and that we liked how she looked"—he nodded at her photo, grinning—"you know, to keep her going." Bob winked at me. "I don't know, maybe she is a little chubby..."

Bob sighed while I studied the pictures, "And she asked us again when she was standing in her underpants and bra, to promise not tell you. But she did it.' He pointed at the picture. "Poor thing," he said.

Bob gestured up at the table, the light glancing off its Formica top, "Your pretty little wife. . . right up there . . . right there. . . under that light.. . ." And I looked up and I could imagine it. "Naked for all to see . . . 'cept for those silly bobby socks.

Then Bob flipped the page and showed me the picture I had anticipated and said: "And there she is . . ." My wife. Naked. Her clothes on a heap on the table. Her underpants bunched at her ankles. Naked.

"What happened then?" I asked.

Bob didn't seem to hear me. He was admiring the pictures. He pointed. "See here. She's actually blushing . . . See that? She was ashamed of herself . . . But I think that's because really she liked these guys seeing her naked. She just didn't want you to find out about it . . ." He laughed. "Makes my dick hard just thinking about again. . ."

I was actually trembling and actually my dick was hard too. "What happened then?" I asked agin. I really did want to know. I really did want Bob to tell me everything. I wanted to know what I imagined happened. Bob saw that look. He saw how I felt. He laughed at my expression and slapped my back and grinned at me.

"We took a bunch of pictures." And he turned the pages to show me, how she stood for them, abjectly, naked, arms at her sides, looking out over their heads, all eyes on her nakedness, or glancing nervously at up-turned grinning faces. Naked for them. Ashamed and aroused to be naked for them, at the same time; I could see it in her face. Just like Bob said. He was right about her.

"And then she wanted to get dressed but Al told her she was going to be naked for the rest of the night and he made her get off the table and walk around the room for the guys."

Al showed me those pictures too, and then said: "Here..." and peeled one of the pictures out of the photo album and gave it to me.

Figure 2 : My "pretty little wife" took off her clothes for Mr. Miller's friends in Bob's backroom bar.

So that is this picture. My wife. Naked but for her dirty bobby socks and her obvious wedding ring: nervous maybe, but ambiguously smiling, I thought.I still have it. My "pretty little wife" as Bob was calling her had taken off her clothes and there she was, parading herself naked around the room for these old guys, a dozen of them, maybe more; many were men I recognized, men who always came to this bar. Some of them would be out in the bar when I went back in. They would look at me and think about how they got my wife to take off her clothes for them. I felt sick at heart.

Bob explained: "She walked around for a while and then Al stopped her in front of one of the tables, and told her to stand up close to 'em and she just stood there and let 'em take turns kissing her, feel her tits, finger-fuck her, getting her worked up, you know, until Al drew her away and made her to go stand in front of another bunch of guys. And they got their turn to do it. They all got turns with her."

Bob anticipated my question: "And she never said no. Not once. Hell, seemed to me she liked it. . . what they were doing to her."

Still, as I saw her in the pictures, she did not look happy about it.

She looked worried and even afraid, and in some of them she looked like she'd been crying. Bob saw that it bothered me to see her looking so distressed, especially on the next page where clearly she was crying.

My naked wife, down on her knees on that cold linoleum in front of some old guy who had taken off almost all his own clothes, wearing only a white dress shirt that he had unbuttoned and had spread back from his fat belly where he sat and she looking down between his bare legs at his erect penis while some other old guys were were grinning and guiding her and obviously teasing her and coaxing her lean closer, shoving her toward his lap and his erection, and telling her to open up her mouth for it. And in the next set of pictures I saw that, yes, she did. She had this guy's penis into her mouth. Her eyes open and crying tears, sucking on his penis. And she was not fighting. I could see that. She was ashamed and crying. But she was doing it because she wanted to do it. I could see that. Just as Bob said.

He winked at me and reassured me, "Well, okay, she cried a litle at first, you know, but she never said she didn't want to it. She said yes, if we asked . . . and we asked. We were nice to her. She liked doing it."

They took dozens and dozens of pictures. As they--all of them--all took turns with her. On her knees. Bent over a table. Holding the seat of a chair. On her back on the floor.

Bob said everybody got some pictures as souvenirs.

They'd made lots and lots of copies.

More photos, pages and pages of them, pasted into the book, taken that Saturday, in this same room, right here where I was sitting. There were hundreds of pictures. He flipped ahead and showed me other pictures, pictures of things she had not told me about.

And as we looked at the pictures together, he told me about what happened, about what she did and what was done to her, with a certain ironic and mean-spirited attention to shameful and sexually explicit details. That is how I learned about all the rest of it.

She had told me almost none of this. What she had told me was insignificant compared to what he showed me and told me.

"Hey, she did it 'cause she liked it, son. What can I say? It's just how she is." Bob said to me, shutting the book. "She did it 'cause she wanted to. No matter what she tells you."

But I will start where she started and explain it her way first. Then I'll tell you what Bob told me.