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.

What to believe? Who to believe? She told one story. Bob told another. I never heard Miller's version. But later a friend of mine who had been "planted" by Bob for her extra humiliation, he told me another version altogether and this one was corroborated by some who told me tales at the bar, drunk and enthused to tell me, though they knew I was her husband.

She claimed that Mr. Miller did not tell her what was expected for the day. Others said he had. At any rate she claimed that when she got to work that morning he had acted like nothing had happened the day before, like he always did. 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. She guessed it too. So he never gave her an opportunity to discuss her feelings. But as I have already said: this is the one thing—or well, the one of two things—which she did not readily herself confess to me and which she was ashamed about. Even after I found out, and asked her, she did not want to talk about it. She nodded or shook her head to the questions I asked. But from the look on her face I saw that she was not sorry she had done it; and she did not say she was sorry.

It was Miller's cruel suggestion that these unseen men fucking her butthole were my own friends, peers of our own age and familiar with 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 really. 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 and swallowed it as she was coaxed to do, had let herself be stripped of all her clothing in the presence of several men and fondled by them, naked, had presented herself naked to a stranger, had permitted herself to be fucked by several men repeatedly and had given them each 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, fucked in her rectum, to her own grunting orgasim, young men who knew her and knew me and she expressed not the least bit regret.

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. ACTUALLY, it was all part of Bob's plan to humiliate her into submission to all the things he wanted to do to her. Another part of her blackmail. And it worked.

She worried that perhaps he had been one of the unseen men of the night before. She was nonplussed by his cheerful small talk, what she thought was his knowing looks, 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. He later said he thought she seemed nervous and worried, but he did not know why.

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 told me that 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. Perhaps, in this way, she did know what was up. She felt the anticipation that Bob and Al had. There was a secret.

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‐ten 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 ten dollars meant at least those eleven paying customers had been at her (not counting Bob, and Mr. Miller and who ever else they gave a freebie to) and so that money had "bought" from her at least thirty, maybe forty or more sex acts — fucking her cunt, fucking her like a dog in tag teams, and then fucking her up her ass when her cunt was sloppy, or she down on her knees, sucking one cock after another, taking their cum in her mouth — not to mention the several degrading things she did in her "show" for them while they watched. So she was "bought" for as little as three dollars for a cock-sucking or a fuck, a cheap drunk giggly slut 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.

I am sure she did not know about the backroom. That part was probably a real surprise. 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. Like Bob, I had to believe she knew what they wanted. But she insisted she did not understand until it was plainly said to her. I think that this is also true. Part of her knew and wanted it. Part of her was ashamed and afraid and pretended it was not true.

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 about a dozen of them, not including Miller and himself. And with all the others coming and going: it really was a crowd; or so it seemed to my poor wife. So many strangers made her unaccountably nervous. Or rather it was because all of them looking at her, watching her keenly, as she was shepherded about the room by Miller who proudly introduced her to them as "my pretty little sales girl" and "John's pretty little wife." They shook her hand. They smiled, saying they had heard all about her from Al; she blushed at the attention. They teased her about her blush and then complimented her on her clothes, looking down at her legs as she was led away to another group of men to meet.

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 get up on top of the kitchen table and stand there under the light. 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 as 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 expectantly.

Now here is where the stories differ.

Bob tells how she pretended to be confused and uncertain, how Miller told her plainly that he wanted her to take off her clothes for his friends, how she was embarrassed and resisted but gave in to his coercion, the blackmail of the photographs and so on.

Karen herself supported this version and said she cried and complained and she felt ashamed and forced to do it.

But my friend heard or saw things differently and so did many of the other men who later wanted to tell me what my wife had done.

She had seemed out of it. That much is true by all accounts. She was drunk. She looked like "a deer in headlight" like Bob said as she was coaxed up onto the table and turned to face them all. Where the matter differed was by how willing she was. She said she was forced. Bob suggested she was coerced by blackmail. Both said she cried tears of humiliation. But the others said, while she looked ashamed of herself, she clearly wanted to do it.

They claimed she had been told by Miller that Friday night. One old guy in the bar took a lot of satisfaction in telling me the story he said he got from Miller's own mouth, and while he told it to me, surrounded by another four men in the booth who were there to commiserate with me about my wife (and brag about having been there that night), the others nodded or added details. Apparently, Miller had enjoyed telling them it all.

Right after the men had fucked my wife in the rectum, that Friday night before, he did not let her get dressed. She was upset anyway. He let the men out and came back and, as she sat naked on the stool, he played with her tits and comforted her, telling her how much he enjoyed watching them do that to her. He told the men in the bar how he also enjoyed telling her, as he fingered her and toyed with her nipples, teasing her sexually, what was going to happen at the bar on Saturday after inventory; he said he told her plainly because wanted her to know what she had to do, had no choice, wanted her to be "a good girl," and had told her "I don't want any trouble..." He looked her in the eyes with his fingers feeling her nipples and told her plainly that he had shown the pictures he and Bob had taken of her to a lot of the men at the bar and they had said they wanted to see her for themselves. He even told her they had given him money for her to do it. He explained how Henry and Harry and Bob and all the rest who'd been around that week would be there but so would a lot of other men from the bar--maybe a dozen of so other guys--and she asked him while he fingered her cunt just what he wanted. So he told her plainly what he expected: they'd go to the bar and and have some drinks and she'd get in front of them and take off all her clothes, just like she had for the other guys. And she said nothing to that. She did not object. She just sat there while he didled her. She did not even ask about what would happen then. She must have thought about it. And per usual Miller finished off by pushing her to kneel and take his ejaculation in her mouth. She did not clean herself, or rinse out her mouth. She let him dress her and take her to the bar where I was waiting.

So when Karen got up on the table top in that hot spotlight, she knew for certain what she was supposed to do, according to all these men. They told me how Miller had her introduce herself and the men listened as she did. And how Miller nodded as she went on telling them how old she was and answering his other questions. And while he asked her about if she was married and she nodded (and they both knew full well that most of these men knew me) and she told about when we met.

Then Al backed up and away from the table top where she stood, back into the dark to leave her alone in the spotlight. He folded his arms, looked about himself at all the men sitting and waiting, nodding his head in approval and appreciation, and turned back to look up at my wife, who saw him dimly, looked back at him, she also waiting, her hands clasped in front of her.

Al said it then, simply, plainly, quietly: "Take your clothes off."

And to everybody's great delight and smug satisfaction she did not refuse. She looked nervous and unhappy, but she did not look shocked or surprised, and she said nothing at all, but looked at Miller sort of blank in the face, sort of numb and dazed, and slowly undid her sweater buttons, looking at Al as she did and drew off her sweater and asked him softly to promise not to tell her husband about this. Al said no one was going to tell me.

She dropped the sweater and glanced quickly about at all the faces of the men, ashamed, and turned her eyes onto the front of herself, and began to undo the buttons of her blouse with both her hands slowly and deliberately. Al asked her questions about our sex life. And as she answered his questions, she went about taking off her clothes for them. Obviously self-conscious. Obviously worried. She looked really pathetically worried, like she might cry, everybody said. But she did what Miller wanted, what all of them wanted. She even answered Miller's increasingly intimate and embarrassing questions, questions he asked to make her uncomfortable and ashamed. "Do you ever suck your hubbie's cock?" She took off her blouse as she nods at this. Dropped the blouse onto the table top. "Does he comes in your mouth?" She looked up and paused and shook her head. "No...." she said wistfully. And they way she looked made the men laugh at her ,and that surprised her, and she blushed but went on when Al told her to "Go on, honey" and, twisting, looked at the side of her skirt and fidgeted at the zipper, her fingers fumbling, then let down her skirt to a liquid heap, as Miller turned and told the crowd how she sucked him off every night after work. She stepped out her skirt as she held it, looking up, ashamed, red in the face, for what he had just said about her.

She stepped to the side of the heap of her clothes and looked over at Miller, hands clasped in front of her, where she stood in her bra and panties for all of them to speculate on her nakedness. Miller grinned and told her she looked pretty. She blushed, as she stood there. The men oggled her. It was hot under that light. That showed. A little glow of sweat to her skin. Then Miller held up a glass of booze for her to drink and teased her for a bit, asking her if she liked taking off her clothes for men, did it make her pussy wet, and do on. She did not answer him but looked at him as she sipped her drink. Miller asked her again and again in more and more explicit terms about if she wanted to do it, and took the drink from her, and paused holding it, with that question in the air, "You like doing this, don't you?" And she sighed and begged him weakly not to tell me about it. "That all depends," he said, "... on how nice you are to my friends," and he gestured at her and told her to turn around: "... so they can see you from behind."

He kept up his patter, telling them the whole story about how she had walked out in her underpants in front of a customer and then gone to the backroom and dropped her underpants for him for five bucks, and while he was telling all this Bob buzzed for my friend to come in and bring more drinks.

And now my friend came in, and eveything he said matched what the other men had said. But he himself was more astonished. Coming into the room with the drinks, just as my wife was turning on the stage, standing on that table top in her underpants and bra. Obviously taking off her clothes. He had to be told by Bob to do his job, he'd just stood there staring in disbelief first.

Then, as he went around the room passing out drinks, he watched her there on that table under that light in her underpants and bra while Al told this incredible story; he could not believe it, but there she was, after he'd picked up all the empties he just stayed to watch and Bob nodded that it was okay.

So he watched how Miller went on for while teasing her and then finally told her to take off her bra. And how he could not believe it but how she just reached behind her back, twisting, and unhooked her bra, asking them pathetically again not to tell her husband she had done this. How Miller said again how it depended how nice she was to his friends and then as she stood with her bra in her hands he told her to turn around: "Show 'em your tits, Karen." Then how she turned to face them, fidgeting, holdin the bra, but not covering herself. Obviously aware of, responsive to their stares. Gazing out across the room anxiously, but dazed, embarrassed but clearly willing; she did not see my friend among the men in the room, she was aware only of the span crowd of men and all their eyes on her and she llooked away, ashamed, when she was caught looking into someone's eyes. How flushed she looked.

Then Miller said: "Now... Your underpants, honey..." (gesturing)... Take off your underpants," and she let down her hands like she surrendered to him; she let drop her bra onto the heap of her clothing and paused with her hands limply at her sides, looking up over the tops of their heads, her mouth slightly open, and then as she put her hands to her underpants to remove them, suddenly saw my friend and hesitated, but then looking him right in the eyes, she pushed her underpants down to her feet and stepped out of them. stepped back and straightened up, brushed back her hair where it had fallen in her face, then put her arms down, hands on her thighs, and stood there, like she was facing an interrogation, facing them completely naked now, except for those silly socks, and pathetically asked once more for all of them not to tell me "about this." Facing them all. Stiffly. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Naked. Hot under that glaring light. Aglow.

So there my wife stood... naked... surprised to see my friend immediately below her, among the table near the stage, to see him looking at her, and at what he was looking. But she did not try to cover herself. She did not want to. She wanted them to see her naked, my friend said. She was doing this because she wanted to do it. She could not help herself. That is what he believed. That is what all the other men said too.

My friend did not want to leave. Moving about the crowd to pass out the drinks. Coming so close to her, that she stood but a few yards away from him up on the table, under that garish light, she did move her hands from her sides, did not cover anything he might want to see closely. She looked ashamed, he said, but plainly sexually aroused.

As my friend stared at her, and she flushed, now avoided his eyes, but was obviously self-conscious, aware of him immediately beneath her, so close, he thought to himself that someday he would get her to do this for in front of all my other friends--how could she refuse? And then they would take turns fucking her, because he was certain that is how this would end. Stripping her was not the game. Fucking her. Yes. Her sucking them off. Yes. That is where this was going to go. And it was obvious that her innocence was false. She might tell herself that this was all that would happen: showing herself naked, but in the way she stood so abject, as they leered at her, she felt what they wanted. And my friend said: "She wanted it too..."

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 serving the drinks and stared at her in astonishment. And she smiled girlishly, embarrassed but also not hiding her nakedness from him. 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.

After my friend had collected the orders for drinks, he lingered at the back of the bar to watch, and looked up to see my wife now idly touched herself, her genitals, reflexively perhaps feeling herself, fingering her slit , rubbing herself there as she looked out at the men, at my friend particularly. Then lifted her other hand to feel the nipples of her breasts. Miller said something to Bob. Bob laughed.

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.

It was several hours of this.

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.