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 ï>¿My First Marriage by FishMan

   Introduction This story is based on events of my first marriage in the
years 1971-1972.  We did not stay married.  I should have responded
differently if I was older, but I was as young as she was, and it hurt me.
In addition, it was the fact that it took place in the neighborhood where
had grown up, not long after my father had died.  And some of the men
involved were old army buddies of my dad, practically uncles to me. Not
that I blamed them in the end.  In a way my "uncle" Henry was looking out
for me.  He had stood in at my wedding like my dad and I would not have
thought he would get involved but he felt that she was getting what she
deserved. After our divorce I heard more things about her, and I will add
those stories now to the whole. I am thinking that that the whole thing
happened because of her repressed up-bringing, being a Mormon, which 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 didn't even think that it
was her fault.  She had not wanted me to be hurt.  She still wanted me to
love her.  But I just could not stand it. She must not have been happy in
our marriage.  She did not feel as loved as she should, I guess.  But what
was it she wanted? She did everything she could to make me love her.  She
would do anything to make me happy, she said. For that matter she just
wanted to make Mr.  Miller happy.  She just wanted him to love her too. She
would do anything to make him happy too.  Or at least that is how it had
started, she said. He had told her that he loved her, and she had not
wanted to hurt him.  She just wanted to make him happy. Mr.  Miller was her
boss at the Jewelry store where she worked. I should have guessed what was
going on.  She couldn't help herself, I guess.  Once it started it just
kept rolling --



   Installment #1: I find out about her "show" at Bob's Bar--my father's
own hang-out

   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.

   My wife Karen had gotten so she could not help herself.  She was in and
could not stop.

   I am thinking it was because of the repressed up-bringing she had, being
a Mormon, which 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 didn't
even think that it was her fault.  She had not wanted me to be hurt.  She
still wanted me to love her.  But I just could not stand it.

   She did everything she could to make me happy.  She would do anything to
make me happy, she said.

   For that matter she just wanted to make Mr.  Miller happy.  She would do
anything to make him happy too.  Or at least that is how it had started,
she said.  He had told her that he loved her and she had not wanted to hurt
him.  She just wanted to make him happy.

   Mr.  Miller was her boss at the Jewelry store where she worked.  I
should have guessed what was going on.  I could see by the way he looked at
her that he had a crush on her.  I thought it innocent.  I saw how Karen
responded and blushed at his compliments that she was affected by it; it
flattered her.  She had had little experience with men before me.  I should
have gotten suspicious by the way she was kept late after work for hours
and hours after closing and I should have wondered about the jewelry he let
her "borrow." What she did, she said to me tearfully, she did because he
loved her . . .  it didn't mean that she did not love me.

   But, I said to her bitterly, that doesn't explain what happened at the
bar?

   She confessed she had not refused what he wanted; she felt confused; she
didn't want to do it but she had wanted to make Mr.  Miller happy.  They
were his friends and they were nice to her.  She really believed this, I
think.  She just wanted him to be happy.  That is really what got her into
the mess.

   To think how often I 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, thinking back on it, she must still have the taste
of him in her mouth, even when she kissed me.  She acted like nothing was
wrong, although she often looked flushed, often smelled of booze, and was
very quiet going home and was unresponsive to me in bed.  I did wonder.  I
did begin to suspect things.  Then finally the "big event" happened.

   Mr.  Miller had scheduled an inventory at the jewelry store on a
Saturday, a day they were normally closed, and she said she had to work all
day.  She came home very late that day, exhausted, she was obviously drunk
and went to the bedroom, put on her nightgown, and got into bed and went to
sleep without a word.  The next morning she did not want to go to work.  I
don't know why, but I looked in her purse and found a roll of cash,
twenty-dollar bills, two-hundred and twenty dollars in all.

   I asked her where she got it from and she was evasive.  Then she tried
to tell 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 had been 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 by any means.  She confessed
her "mistake" with Mr.  Miller and then as a I badgered her about the money
and after much sobbing and tears she admitted that was not all, and the
story unfolded how he had taken her to the bar in the afternoon after
inventory for "lunch", and how they went into a backroom of the bar where
she said some of his friends sometimes met in a kind of club, she said --
men I knew, men who were Mr.  Miller's age, who were my father's age, some
of whom knew my father for Christ's sake -- they were waiting there for
her. "And Mr.  Miller told me. . .  he said that he wanted me to...  he
said all they wanted....  just wanted to see me...." she looked up at me
pathetically through her tears as she sat naked on the bed, holding her
hands at her knees, leaning, head down in shame.

   I looked down at her.  Shocked.  Blinking in anger and astonishment.

   I asked stupidly: "What do you mean? . . .  You took off your clothes
for them?  At Bob's?  At his bar?"

   She nodded sobbing and I raged.  I stared down at her bare breasts and
her obscene bare slit.  It looked puffy, chaffed.  Realizing how others had
seen her just so.  Perhaps touched her.  Perhaps much more than that.

   I was speechless.  She covered her face.  I stood angrily.

   "They paid you?" I blurted.  "You were naked?"

   She shook her head, "You don't understand."

   "That's where the money came from.  They paid you ...  to take off your
clothes!"

   She protested that no, that is not it, she only did it because she Mr.
Miller wanted her to do it.  She did not want to do it.

   "But you did it, didn't you?...  Then what?  What else did you do?," my
mind was reeling.

   "He said they only wanted to look," she replied naively.  The tears now
welling up again, she covered her face with her hands.  But when she said
that, seeing her naked sitting on the end of our bed--her peaked breasts,
her bare (now hairless) lap, seeing what they had done to her--bald as
little girl, not a speck of hair but pink, chaffed, puffy--I saw in a
sudden realization that this, exactly this was just the way they had seen
her in that backroom, naked just like this -- my wife completely naked for
I don't know how many men, naked just like this.  And then what?  Was that
all?  She took off her clothes for them and then what?  What happened after
that?  And I remembered how long she had been gone -- for hours and hours
--six, eight, ten hours in that backroom with them from her lunchtime until
long after midnight.  Had they kept her naked with them in that backroom
for all that time?  What else had they done to her?  I could see what they
had done to her!

   "What happened then?" I demanded.  "Who was there?  Who saw you?"

   She looked away.  She would not reply.  Then she put her hands to her
face and smeared away tears from her honestly apologetic eyes.  But I
insisted she tell me everything.  She could not do it.

   She shook her head.  "It's not what you think," she sobbed.  I got upset
enough that I slapped her.  and ran to the bathroom, shut and locked the
door

   I called her a slut.  I said many terrible things to her.

   I railed at her through the closed and locked door, but she would not
open it up and in a while she would not answer me.  She would not tell me
who was there.  Or what more had happened though I could guess.

   She would not tell me.  But I was sure there was more.  When I asked her
if I knew any of the men who had seen her naked, she would not reply. 
Exasperated I left the apartment.  I went to my parents.  I did not see her
for more than a month.  I called the apartment.  But she was never home.  I
knew she had gone back to work.  I could just imagine what was going on.  I
saw her only once more time, several week later to confront her with more
painful details.  We eventually divorced.

   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.  What else had gone on with
Miller?  I had had my suspicions, but it was absurd.  Miller was old enough
to be her father or my father.

   I knew what Bob did at his bar; my dad had told me stories.  Bob was an
old army buddy from the war and many of his buddies hung out there.  My dad
too.  And my "uncle" (not my real uncle but my father's best friend, who
had stood in to be my best man at my wedding after my dad died last year).

   And I went there sometimes too and some of my friends, guys in the
neighborhood I grew up with, went there sometimes.  Many of my friends and
I used to hang out at there before we went off to college -- Bob would let
us drink beers in the backroom out of sight of the public.  One of my
friends still sometimes worked as bartender.  Had any of them been there
that night?  Had they seen her naked?

   And what else had happened?  Just being naked, that would not be all.  I
knew that.  She must have let them do things to her -- I could not forgive
her doing that.

   Miller went to that bar too.  That was how she had met him and had got
her job.  Hell, I think I introduced her to him.  I remember how grateful
she was to get the job.  It was her first real job and we needed the money.
He was very generous in the pay he gave her.  I should have guessed.  I
could see he was attracted to her.  But a lot the men there flirted with
her and she enjoyed it and I teased her about it.

   I remembered how he flattered her on her "figure" as he called politely
called it and how she blushed.  I could see how he looked at her legs and
how she pretended not to notice.  I should have known.

   I was certain she had not told me everything.  And I wants to know it
all.  I wanted to confront Miller, but I did not have the guts.  I drove by
his jewelry store a couple times but could not go in.  I thought I might
find her there.

   I thought maybe Bob would tell me.  He must know.  It could not have
happened unless he let it happen.

   So, about three weeks later, out of spite or some twisted prurient
curiosity, in the middle afternoon on a non-descript Thursday, I went down
to the bar where she had done her "show." Bob's bar.  I guessed he would
not be busy.

   Going into the bar, knowing that these regulars -- some I recognized --
retired geezers, all WWII vets, sitting around the place; they all knew me
and got quiet when I came in.  They "knew" my wife too, may well have even
been among those who had seen her do her "show;" it made me a little sick,
the way they looked knowingly at me, commenting to each other so I could
not hear.  I nodded at them.  They gave me a nod back and one guy laughed
and smirked.  This was hard to do.  But I had to know the truth.

   At the bar, leaning over it to speak low to him, I told Bob what I knew,
not knowing the half of it really.  He commiserated with me, loudly called
me "buddy" (like my Dad used to) and gave me strong sizable Seven & Seven
and it got me buzzed.  Then I asked him to tell me what he knew.  And he
replied too loudly: "Wanna see the pictures?" Everybody heard.  They looked
away when I looked back at where some had laughed.

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

   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, with spot lights even, a curtained
backdrop..

   I knew the place.  My Dad had taken me here when I turned 18 (you could
drink at that age).

   Bob sometimes hired strippers.  I had seen a couple myself.  This is why
I was suspicious about what Karen had said.  Stripping was not the only
entertainment.

   My Dad took me one time a little after I turned 18.  Bob brought in a
middle-aged woman--forties, I think--who was just some plain ordinary
housewife.  The only woman present in a crowd of men about her own age.  It
seemed like everybody, including her new what was up.  But I didn't and my
dad hadn't told me.

   But I knew that her husband was a well-known lush and owed Bob a huge
bar tab.  The room was full up.  Filled with smoke and loud talk.  But once
Bob brought her in it got quiet.  You could hear her heels click on the
floor.  She looked at no one.  No one said anything because this was not
the ordinary thing.  Bob pushed her up onto the little stage at the back of
the room and into the glare of the hot spots shooting off a rack on the
ceiling.  She raised her hand to shield her eyes.  Bob grabbed her
shoulders and turned her to face the room.  I recognized her.  Men stood
about with drinks in their hands or sat at the tables.  Not speaking or
speaking low to one another with glances at her as she stood on the stage
and Bob left her there alone.  She stood there peering out her hand.  Bob
said simply: "Okay, honey -- Let's do it now --"

   He called her" honey." Like he usually called my wife.

   I was perplexed but some men were gathering up closer the stage as she
stood there.  Drinking and schmoozing and she looked unhappy.  She did not
say anything.  No one else said anything.  Then without any prompt, she
unhurriedly and pathetically began to undress for them.  The men were
silent, watching her raptly, as she undressed herself, letting drop her
clothes, her blouse, stepping out of her skirt, her half slip, piece by
piece let go to her side where she had taken off her shoes.  I admit I was
both sickened and stunned and intrigued, or I should admit I wanted to see
it, I wanted to see what she looked like without her clothes.  And when she
took her bra, and dropped it, she paused in her underpants, and that was
the first time I myself had seen bare breasts, a woman's nipples. 
Strippers in photographs I had seen in those days always wore pasties.  Her
nipples seemed astonishingly obscene.  She was obviously uncomfortable and
ashamed of herself.

   She looked up and looked about the room for Bob and seeing him in the
dark she asked if that was enough.  Showing her tits to them.

   Some of the men laughed when she asked if it was enough.  Bob said:
"It's all or nothing, honey." So this would be the first time I ever saw a
hairy pussy and the first time seeing a woman completely naked head to toe
with all the lights on.

   After a moment of dreadful embarrassment and teasing, Bob let her run to
the bathroom and all cheered.  Tits flopping as she ran.  My dad and I left
a little while after.  But I did notice before I left that several men
lined up at the door of the bathroom and at turns were filing in and out as
one or in twos as one or more came out.  No one ever said anything about
it. Neither she nor her husband came around the bar after that.

   So I knew well enough what had happened to my wife.  When I asked him to
tell me what happened, Bob seemed especially solicitous and deferential.  I
think he felt genuinely sorry for me.

   Some round tables were pushed up close to the stage, two or three chairs
shoved up to each and he beckoned me to sit beside him there.

   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.

   Dressed in the clothes she had put on that morning.  Grey sweater. 
Plaid skirt.  Bobby socks and penny loafers.

   Bob admired the photos.  I could see there were many pages in this
single special photo album.  All her?  I wondered.  Bob must have seen what
I was thinking.  "She was the best --" he nodded at the picture on the
first page.

   Standing alone as she came in the door to the backroom, surprised by the
sudden flashbulb of a camera perhaps, or surprised by the presence of so
many men, turning to look at her, glad to see her, and she, looking like a
deer in headlights, sheepish and wide-eyed in her stupid innocence.  How
could she not understand what was going on?  She must have seen at once
that she was the only woman in the room.

   Bob started flipping the pages casually.  There were dozens of pictures.
In the nest pictures she seemed more relaxed, was conversing with maybe a
group of three or five or so different men in small groups.  Standing
before them as they sat at small tables.  Miller obviously was bringing her
around and introducing her.  Some more pictures of her smiling or sipping
her glass while two or three of them teased her.  Talking.  Drinking.

   But then most of the pictures were posed in the same place against the
brick wall by the piano.  Posed like a vacation snapshot.  Or, rather it
reminded me, like those photos of the guys out hunting take of their dead
doe hung up between them.  Trophy photos.

   She was positioned between two or three men who looked down at her,
leering at her.  Later, there would be some real trophy photos in the
album. Where she's made to stand again, doe-eyed and submissively posed,
between these same proud "sportsmen" after they had made real sport of her
and had "dressed her down" (so to speak) to display how they had triumphed
over her.  Caught the dear, if you will pardon the pun.

   Both color and black and white snapshots were here, taken by several
cameras, mounted into pasted photo corners onto the scrap paper.  Some were
5-by-5-inch snapshots, some larger but all taken by amateurs.  A lot of the
men had brought their own Kodaks for the purpose of remembering it.  All
taken with flash bulbs.  You could see how often the flash sometimes
startled her.  But there were also some really professional photos too. 
Taken in the natural light with excellent quality.  They meant to document
the night.

   They were all neatly fit, two or three along two rows, and laid it out
sequentially, laid out to tell the lurid story.

   In the first 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.  I thought she was pretty.  These men though
she was.  But she worried she was fat.  She wasn't fat, not hardly.  And
from the looks on their faces, all the men obviously liked the way she
looked.  They were solicitous to her, if not a little rapacious.  There
were some who were just plainly leering at her.

   Bob flipped pages.  Many more of the same.  The set up.  There were a
lot of men.  Many I recognized.  Friends of my father.  Hank, my father's
best friend, who I think of as an uncle, who had stood in for my father at
our wedding.

   Karen 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.

   Bob said it was just brandy, brandy and water.  "Scout's honor!  Nothing
more than good vodka.  What she done she done knowing what she done.. 
Swear to God!" and he made the sign of the cross over his heart for good
measure.

   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 after him
as he walked away but she was so intense and thoughtful, worried really.

   "Why did she stay?" I wondered openly.

   The date was printed on the white border of some photos.  So these had
to come from plain old Brownies and had to have been commercially
developed, which when I think of it now is almost scary.  I mean, the lab,
the store clerk must have seen what they were.

   The date -- last month and this year.  A Saturday like this one. 
Exactly three weeks ago.

   I remembered that day.  She had gone into work to do inventory, she had
said.  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 buttoned-up waist of the sweater fit snugly
to her hips.  A plaid pleated wool plaid 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.  It showed in the
photos Bob would show me.

   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 had a funny look and
nodded.  She looked a little sad to leave.

   I was shocked speechless to see these pictures of her; all these men in
the bar staring at her; I know what was coming and I asked: "You took
pictures of everything?" He grinned widely.  "What you think?"

   Even before he turned the pages, I knew what was coming.  And I felt
sick to my stomach that this man was going to show them to me: my wife
taking off her clothes for all these men.  How many?  Five or six.  No,
it's many more than that.

   "How many men were..." I could not finish it.

   He asked back: "How many seen your wife nekid: is that what you want to
know?" I did not reply.

   "O, Jesus, I dunno," he sighed, then chuckled, "I guess some more than
paid me to see her.  Shit!  There was the eleven fellas that paid for it.
Maybe a five or six more in the end.  I don't know.  Some out in the bar
kept sneaking in to peek at her once they heard about what was going on
back here.  Though there was only the eleven that paid and got to take a
turn with her."

   A "turn with her", he said.  It felt like knife.  I remembered the man
sitting at the bar giving me a salacious grin when I had come in and
confronted Bob, asking him what had happened.

   I wondered: ""Any of those out there?" nodding toward the bar.

   "Yeah, sure a couple of them.  You saw 'em when you came in.  They're
the regulars -- you know.  Then there was others you know -- Hank, Henry,
Arthur, and a couple friends of Al and me of course.  Oh yeah, and your
friend too.  You know, Mike, your buddy who serves bar here.  He saw her
too.  Had to.  Ask him yourself.  He was tending the bar for me that night.
But hey!" He squeezed my forearm resting on the tabletop: "It's okay:
nobody gonna say anything."

   He pretended to care about my feelings, patting my arm, but he was not
showing me photo album because he liked me.  He poured me another stiff
drink.  "And anyway, buddy," he said, "You're a real lucky guy. . .  She's
a real honey. . .  Everybody said so." I really did almost want to throw
up.

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

   "It was Al.  Al did it all.  He set it all up.  And he brought here her.
I just collected the money."

   He poured more booze into my drink.  I drank a big swallow.  He watched
me poking a finger at the page of the photo album.  "She really takes good
pictures, your wife."

   He lifted and fanned the pages.  There were a twenty-thirty pages under
this top one.  "Of course we all knew about what she and Al had been doing.
So what choice did she have . . .  I mean she was afraid we might tell you
. . .  And then there were the pictures.  Everybody'd seen them."

   "What pictures?" I felt sick again.

   "O, just some Polariods I took at the Jewelry Store a while back.  Got
one out by the cash register.  I'll show you later." He said: "Here.  Drink
some more."

   I did.  I wanted to be drunk.

   Bob continued as he flipped over several pages, looking for something, I
glanced to see what I could: more of the pages on the album--more of the
preliminary pictures--the before for the after: "Anyway we had waited a
long time.  It was hot in the room.  Most of the guys were pretty drunk and
so was she.  Some of guys said something to Al.  Complaining.  She must
have noticed.  She asked him about going back to work.  And Al said
sarcastically she'd get plenty of work here.  Al could be a real asshole
sometimes.

   "I have to admit she doesn't look like she got it.  I laughed at what Al
said.  And that worried her.  Your wife don't like me much." Bob confessed.

   I wondered why.  I wanted to ask.

   He flipped a couple pages and turned the album for me to see.  The
picture showed Karen beside Al standing on the riser --that little stage --
right next to the Formica table and the kitchen chair --- right where we
sat.  She looked sad.  She looked flushed.  She smiled weakly.  She looked
worried.

   Bob went on, touching that photo: "She don't look too happy, does she?
Anyway, Al moved her up over to the stage here, turned her about to face
us, like she was on auction, and told us all it was time and so we all came
up and sat down and Al told her, coaxed her to get up on top of the table
there.  She looked confused, but I think she was faking it.  I mean, he
kissed her and whispered to her and teased her.  He took her drink from
her. He held her hand to help her step up on the chair and then up onto the
table."

   That was the next picture.  Karen really looked confused.  Bob said she
asked Al why he was making her do this.

   "Al said: 'So everybody here can see you.' Which was the truth.  This
hot light on her like a show." Bob put his hand up into the pool of it
which shone on the tabletop with a glare.  It did look hot.  A flaming cast
to it.

   Bob said that Karen said she did not understand.  In the picture she
looked nervous.  But Bob said he did not believe her.  "Like I said, she
had to know."

   He told how Al made her introduce herself again, name herself and tell
us things about herself, even though most everybody already knew her.  But
it was part of the show.  And it embarrassed her to be under that light and
to be made to talk about herself.  She blushed and spoke too softy, Bob
said.  Al had to make her repeat herself, she was so hard to hear.

   "But we were all giving her our attention, if you know what I mean."

   Bob explained with graphic detail, as he liked to do, especially when he
saw I was uncomfortable, especially when it was about sex.  Bob told how
Mr. Miller made her tell the men about herself.  "He made her tell about
you too."

   Miller made her tell about her sex life.  He made her go into details.
"First he made her say she'd never had sex with anybody but you.  They all
laughed at this.  'Cause it was lie, you know."

   Bob picked up the theme with a smirk: "Your wife blushed and Miller
grinned when she admitted it.  Then Al had her tell them how you were the
first and only man to see her naked -- until you know -- And you were the
only one to ever fuck her.  And she said she'd never ever sucked cock --
until -- Well anyway, Al made her tell us, made her admit that she had
never ever sucked your cock anyway."

   "That really true?" he asked me.

   I did not answer.  It was true.

   He shook his head, guessing my answer and went on: "Well, they all
laughed to hear it -- "

   Bob looked at me for effect.  He held that page, grinning at me.  He
told how Al handed up her the drink and made her take some big final gulps
of it.  The men cheered each gulp, he said.  Karen said she felt dizzy and
Miller held her hand to keep her steady and she smiled, resisting to drink
the rest, but she did it for Al when he insisted, finishing she gasped and
giggled.  He said she giggled.  "They loved it.  Her little girl giggle. 
She was just what they had all hoped she would be."

   Bob held up the next page, poised to drop it, teasing me, looking smug.
I knew for certain what was coming.  Still he looked me in the eye and
withheld the climax of his story, and asked if I was really sure I wanted
to see all this, what I had come to him to find out:

   I said: "Yes."

   "She must have known what was coming.  Al stopped talking.  The men were
restless.  She was fidgeting with the buttons on her sweater, smoothing it.
Pressing down her skirt and all.  She felt like men were trying to look up
under her skirt and of course they were trying to do just that and some of
them said some things.  One asked if she had on any underpants.  She looked
pretty embarrassed.  One asked if she likes to suck cock .  She closed her
eyes and shook her head, biting her lip but she was half-smiling.  She
liked all the attention.  It was really cute.  Then some jerk piped up:
'When she gonna do it, Al?' And she looked afraid and she moved like she
was going to get off the table.  She might have tried.  But a bunch of the
men stood up and loudly complained and their protests surprised her and Al
put up his hand to stop her.  She backed up.  Al explained her: 'You're not
done.  You stay up there 'till I say you can get down.' Again, she put on
her little show of being innocent, folded her arms like she was cold and
said, 'What do you want?' Looking all confused.  But it was fake.  She had
a funny smile.  She must have known."

   Bob looked at me keenly, pausing for effect, wanting to see my reaction:
"So Al just tells her then -- straight out -- looking right at her and
smiling nicely, 'Take your clothes off, Karen'"

   "What did she say?" I asked, blushing as I supposed she must have
blushed.  Al must have thought so too.

   He laughed.  "What do you think she said?  What could she say?"

   "I mean, didn't she. . ." Not knowing how to express myself.  And he
dropped the page to show a photograph that must have been that very moment.
And the look on Karen's face, I don't care what Bob thought, she looked
like she was afraid, she looked like she was going to cry, she was hunched
and looked at the camera with anxious worry.

   "Didn't she what?  Say 'no'?  Not a word.  Never said no to nothing we
wanted.  O, she looked shocked at first and then embarrassed and maybe she
was, maybe she was surprised, but I didn't believe for a minute that she'd
refuse or that she didn't want to do it.  We all waited.  All of us
grinning at her.  And she just stood there, like a deer in headlights and
Al just grinned at her and said it again: 'Take off your clothes.'' Bob
admitted she looked like she was gonna cry.

   Finally Bob let the page drop and showed me.  Karen fully dressed but
for her shoes, in her stocking feet, standing alone on the table under the
glaring spotlight, the shadowy silhouettes of the audience below her,
looking up at her.

   For a moment Bob said, he thought maybe the whole thing would crash,
maybe she wouldn't do it, as she stood there looking so pathetic, clutching
her hands, almost crying.

   "She protested -- that's true -- a little bit anyway.  'Why are you
doing this?' she asked Al.  And she really did look hurt.  But Al reached
up and took her hands told her he loved her.  She nodded then.  Okay, maybe
she did maybe cry a little.  I don't know maybe because maybe Al hadn't
told her about it after all.  But what a stupid question, ain't it?  A
stupid question, eh?.  A bunch of guys laughed out loud at her then and she
looked sort of sick and Al just shook his head.  Maybe he did feel a little
sorry for her too.  But not really.  I know I didn't.  It was what she
wanted.

   "Al -- he could get her to do anything.  He could play on her feelings,
telling her he loved her and she should do it if she lover him too, and she
always just seemed to believe him.  I don't know why.  But now Al was
speechless for once.  So I spoke up.  I teased her: 'Why you think, honey?'
Everybody laughed at that too."

   In the adjacent picture, looking like a deer in headlights, she looked
dazed.  In a kind of dreamy way.

   Bob told how Al then got very close to her in front of her, put his
hands on the table, smiled up at her, and said simply: "For me, Karen.  I
want you to let them --.  Let them see you naked -- for me." And she looked
down at him like he had slapped her face and he added: "And you want them
to see you naked -- Don't you."

   He repeated it: "You want them to see you naked...  "

   In the photos in the album on this page she looked so defeated. 
Standing on the table.  Shoulders hunched.

   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 is really pretty, your wife, you
know?  She doesn't think so, but...." He shrugged.

   I felt an anxious pang, I admit it was also a sexual anticipation.  Bob
deliberately aggravated my feelings, sensing the sexual tension I felt.  He
nodded up at the hot overhead lights glaring on the tabletop where he said
she had stood posed for them.  "Nope.  She didn't really object.  Just
stood there.  Never really tried to get down, even after she got
undressed." shrugged Bob.  "Dazed.  I think.  Like a deer froze in
headlights.  Literally. . .  with that hot light on her . . ."

   I could see how the light must have blinded her, pointed at her, making
the room in front of her hard to see, except where here some faces looked
up at her in the reflected glow of it.

   He began to turn the pages slowly for me now.  One by one, slowly, just
pausing enough so that I could see where it was going.

   I saw her then, up on the table, staring wide eyed, looking like she
wanted to say something, Then she took off her sweater and seemed uncertain
as she held it.

   Then she looked up, holding the sweater and Bob said that is when she
asked: "You won't tell him -- "

   Bob elbowed me: "Meaning you, John.  Swear to god.  It's what she said.
She wanted us to promise not tell you she done it."

   Al pulled it from her hand lay in on the tabletop beside her.  She
looked down kinda ashamed.

   We never did promise that, you know.

   Bob laughed and said: "See this: all these old guys getting hard-on's
just thinking of your wife naked.  Now she was really undressing for them
and looking sweetly at Al all the time as she did it.  I mean, she was
doing it for Al.  Because it's what Al wanted.  And she always wanted to
make Al happy.  She'd do anything for Al.  Ain't love sweet?"

   Bob flipped pages slowly, showing me finally how she undressed, shot by
shot.  Not reluctantly.  Casually.  Embarrassed obviously, but pleased with
the attention.  I could see that.

   Somebody took many pictures as she undressed, so it was almost like
frames from a movie.  Bob turned the pages slowly.  I wondered if they had
taken a movie of it too.

   "To tell you the truth: I think the main reason she was so reluctant to
strip for them is because she thinks she's a little fat, you know.  I mean,
she always got so embarrassed when we took her clothes off in the store. 
Of course lights were all on and she was nervous about customers coming in.
We had to make her feel better.  Kissing her.  Telling her how she's
pretty. Feeling her up, you know.  Dumb cow."

   I had no idea what he meant by this: how many other times had she taken
off her clothes for Al and him?  I would have asked but I was anxious to
see what Bob was showing me.  He flipped a page.

   "...  so we was always kept telling her--all the guys were--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 bit chubby..."

   "Right there.  Right under that hot light." Bob said.  Pointing.

   Completely naked for all those grinning leering men.  I stared.  Bob
grinned.

   "We took a bunch of pictures." And he turned the pages to show me, how
she stood for them, abjectly, naked, Turned around.  Turning back, in a
half side shot.  Hands flat on the front of her thighs.  Looking into the
camera with a mouth half-opened.  Sexually aroused.  Clearly sexually
aroused.

   "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 actually
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 I have to admit that my dick was hard too.
"What happened then?" I asked again.  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.

   Bob answered my question: "So. . .  What happened after she . . .?"

   He flipped pages to show pictures of it.  "We took a lot of pictures. 
See.  Making her turn all about for different sides.  And some of guys
teased her.  Asked her a lot of dirty questions.  I got her to squat down
on the table and show us between her legs, her wet cunt, you know.  That
shot bothered her, but she was obviously really horny by then.  You could
see it.  After a while she was getting worried I think or maybe she wanted
to know what was going to happen next.  Anyway she was shiveing and said
she was cold; she asked Al for her clothes back.  But Al just told her flat
out she was going to have to be naked for the rest of the night and he
helped her to get off the table and then led her out among all the men and
told her to walk around the room naked for everybody.

   Bob flipped the page and showed me the shot.  Here she really was.  In
the picture you see here.

   A Kodachrome snapshot, from somebody's Brownie camera.  Nothing
professional.  A snapshot like you might get done at the local drug store.

   I wonder how they'd got away with it.

   Yes.  It was really truly her.  Completely naked.  She is wearing
nothing her wedding ring.  And her bobby socks.

   Bob grinned: "So there she is!  Your pretty little wife, showing herself
off, walking all 'round the room all naked for all the guys to see
...Turning about and posing....  Showing off like she was in the Miss
America pageant -- like in the bathing suit competition -- 'cept, 'cept of
course, she ain't got on no bathing suit..." he laughed at his joke.

   He turned the page.  He pointed where he had written her name in the
album.





   "How many took pictures?"

   He did not answer.  "Your wife's got nice tits, John," Bob nodded at the
picture.

   Then, impulsively, with a little chuckle, he suddenly ripped the entire
pageout of the album and handed it to me: "Here ya go...  Now she can't
deny any of it."

   Bob flipped more pages and sighed at the pictures: "Yeah, she was real
good sport.  Did everything we asked her to do.  Never said no.  Only cried
a little a couple times.  Didn't want to do some things, but never said no.
Hell, I think she enjoyed it all as much as we did."

   Bob said Al had picked up all the rest her clothes and tucked them away
under the bar, hid them from her, and told her she couldn't get dressed
until "...the boys get a good look at you naked and all."

   Bob laughed to see me wonder.  "She said she was cold, so Al let her put
her socks back on."

   "But that was it...  she stayed naked after that 'till we were done with
her..."he grinned.

   She looked nervous maybe, but she was obviously not fighting it, I could
see that.  Hell, you can't look at this picture without seeing that she was
willing to be naked for them.  She may have been ashamed of herself.  She
may have been unhappy or worried about what was going to happen.  But she
was not crying or resisting, like she had told me she had.  No.  She had
taken off her clothes willingly.  I could see that.  She was enjoying the
attention.  I could see that too.

   And now she paraded herself naked all around this room full of old
guys--how many?  Almost two dozen of them!  I recognized a lot of them in
photos, men who always came to this bar, some of whom were sitting out in
the bar when I came in, who had given me looks.  Men who knew my dad, who
had come to my wedding.  I will bet none of them ever thought they'd see
her like this.  O, they may have thought about it.  Men always do.  They
may have wanted it.  But they could not have believed she'd do it for them.
But she she did.  She did it for Al, she told me.  But down deep she wanted
to do it for her own reasons.  Because she was "horny" like Bob said.  I
could see that.  I wondered if they had thought that about her all along.

   Bob watched me closely as I looked at the photo with shock and
embarrassment, while he grinned nastily at my discomfort; Bob winked me,
"You think she looks fat?"

   Turning the pages.

   I was right.  They didn't just get her to take off her clothes.  They
didn't just "want to look." I repeated my question: "How long you keep her
like that?"

   He grinned: "Oh, I dunno, six or eight hours, I guess.  She was
popular."

   I felt sick: "What did you do to her?" I knew the answer.

   "What do you think?" He sighed with a sarcastic scoff and added looking
me straight in the eye: "Hey, she didn't do nothing she didn't want to do.
John"

   He poured another drink.  Again holding the next page up so I could not
see it.  Another step in all this.

   "We took trophy pictures for every guy....You know, like hunters do. 
They kill the deer, hang it up, get it ready for eating...  They call it
"dressing it." Then they pose with it.  Proud of their kill.  Everybody
gets a trophy shot with it.  Like this here.  But this here dear is not
dressed....  She's un-dressed.  Got it?  Good joke, yeah!  "He laughed at
his joke.

   I looked down where he put his finger on annother photograph.

   She was naked with a man I knew.  Bob went on to make me feel ashamed
for her: "But its all the same idea.  Know what I mean?  Look-see what I
caught!  See my huntin' trophy!"

   He saw my horror, I think, and so plucked out the photograph from the
album and tossed it to me, spinning toward me on the table top.

   "Recognize this guy?" he taunted.

   Yes, I did.  I picked it up.  It was Henry, one of my dad's VFW buddies,
really his best friend.  The man I called "Uncle" who had stood in for my
Dad at the wedding.

   Showing off his trophy--his arm around my naked wife--while some of his
friends, other guys I knew, looked on.

   I can see and just imagine how he is making some smart-ass comment like
he always does.  Teasing her about seeing her bare naked, about her tits or
her hairy pussy.

   He was always the one to flirt with her.  At the wedding he had said
something to her that made her blush and several of the men around them who
had been listening were looking very uncomfortable.

   This was probably what he had always wanted.  Getting her naked like
this.

   And as it turned out I only knew the half of it.  In fact this was not
the first time.

   Bob dropped open the photo album and swivled it on the table to show me
the page of "trophies," a dozen or so photos except for the space where
Henry's trophy had been.  There were many different guys in the photos with
my naked wife.  Most them men I knew.  In several photos it was two men on
either side of her, my wife naked head to toe in the middle, and them just
standing there like a pair of proud hunters who had just bagged their
prize. In another one of the series Henry, dressed in an actual hunting
outfit --just for the effect I thought--my own "uncle" Henry--was posing
with his arm around her naked waist and one hand on a tit, lifting it for
the camera.  I wondered if he had fucked her that way, just pulling his
prick out of his trousers to do it to her.  Or did she suck his cock?

   All the men were smiling.  But she was not.  She looked stunned, like
the proverbal "deer in the headlight."

   I held the photo you see here in my hand.  Beside getting a twinge in my
erection from her nakedness, it was the look on her face that got to me:
she was shy or ashamed maybe, but she was oviously not resisting.  This was
no rape.

   Bob went on, turning the pages, admiring the row after row of
photographs: "Everybody had got a chance for getting a trophy picture with
your wife...  this one here...  you recognize this guy, don't you?  Friend
of your fathers?  And the others too...  you know them.  She was sort of
ashamed of herself but they were nice to her.  They told how pretty she
was. How much they liked seeing her naked.You want this picture?  I got
lots."

   "Is this the only copy?" I asked.

   "No, Henry's got his copy and a lot more besides and Al of course got
'em too...  he has a complete set."

   He flipped the other pages of "trophy pictures" -- most of them with a
hairy pussy.  But there were a few others taken later after they had shaved
off her pussy hair.  Her pussy shaved, like I found her coming out of the
shower.

   Then the shock: there was one with my one of my own high school friends,
Mike.  It surprised me.  It embarrased me.

   Bob saw my shame and shock, smirked, noddiing, and explained: "Yeah, I
guess you didn't know that.  Don't suppose he told you.  Yeah, Mike was the
bartender that night.  He begged for the job, after he heard about what she
was gonna do."

   I stared at the photograph, this added to the complications of it all.

   Bob flipped through the other pages to show me more of the "trophy
pictures" taken of her naked -- most of them came from the beginning of
their "date" with her, after she had undressed in front of them and come
off the table, possing with all sorts of men.  Mostly color photos like
this one.  Some fonding her.  Some kissing her.  Some with arms around her.
Some with two men and her in the middle.  All of these with her hairy pussy
showing.

   But there was several taken later after some one had shaved off her
pussy hair.

   Her cunt bald and bare, the way on Sunday morning I had found her when
she came out of the shower.

   And that was another shock: a picture of her naked with one of my own
high school friend Mike.

   It surprised me.  It embarrased me.

   My wife naked head to toe naked now.  Mike happy as a hog.  No socks
now.They'd stripped her even of her socks now.  Mike squeezing one of her
tits to make her nipple pop out.  Her bare cunt showing.

   Bob saw my shame and shock, smirked, noddiing, and explained: "Yeah, I
guess you didn't know that.  Don't suppose he told you.  Yeah, Mike was the
bartender that night.  He begged for the job, after he heard about what she
was gonna do."

   I stared at the photograph, this added to the complications of it all.





   "Yeah, Mike got his just before he quit for the night...  she...  well,
you can see...." He went on pointing at Mike's "trophy".

   And her smile.  If she wanted me to believe, she did not do this because
she wanted to, she would not have posed like that with Mike.  Jesus!  Had
she stripped for my other friends too?

   I wanted to ask him for the photo but didn't dare and Bob did not offer
it.

   Bob said everybody also got pictures of her getting fucked or her
sucking cock as souvenirs too.

   I wondered if Mike had fucked her too.  If she'd sucked his cock.  Why
not?  Others had.  He would tell my friends.

   "And they made lots and lots of copies of the pictures too," Bob
explained.

   "Did he?" I asked of the photograph of Mike.

   "Did he what?" said Bob, "Get a picture?  He got a couple copies. 
Sure."

   I am sure he showed them to my friends, I imagined at the time, feeling
a little sick in my stomach at the thought, at what it might mean.  And
well you can guess where I got my copy from.

   "No....  I mean, did he...  you know...  did her fuck her too?"

   "You gotta ask her, I guess.," said Bob, flipping more pages, "I don't
remember.  There were almost twenty men there, you know."

   "Well, at first I 'spose she didn't know what was going to happen.  I
think she thought after she'd just take off her clothes and let everybody
see her naked, then it would be all over.  So, after everybody got pictures
taken that wanted pictures, Karen asked to have her clothes back.  I
remember it: her standing there...Stood right there naked (Bob pointed to
the center of the room)...  said she was cold.  Had her hands cupping her
her titties, hunched over a little, and she looked cold, I admit.  But I
said I didn't believe her -- nobody did, or really nobody cared.  I said:
'You just feeling ashamed of yourself 'cause you wanna get fucked.'
Everybody heard me."

   Bob described how they all laughed at her.  She looked heart sick.  But
Bob explained how several of the guys had copped a feel of her titties or
tried fingering her cunt while she stood next to them and she had not tried
too hard to stop them.  Just asking them to stop and pushing their hands
away, but they kept at it.

   She crouched down to the floor in the center of the room, clutching
herself like she was cold or ashamed and begging us to let her get dressed.
She looked about for Al, but he was back at the bar beside me, in the
half-dark and laughing at her.

   It was Henry who spoke up, Bob explained, telling her to stop her
whining.  He wheeled about in this chair and pointed to the middle of the
floor in the middle of the room where she sort took it as a menace and back
up.  It was quiet.  No one spoke.  Henry stood up and she backed up a
little more -- but where was she gonna go -- she was surrounded by all
these men -- all of them turning about their chairs to see this now or
standing between the tables.  She really had no where to go.

   Henry got up right in front of her, looking up and down at her naked
body with a big shit-eating grin on his face and put his hands out and
started feeling both her tits....  she looking up pitifully into his eyes
and looking like she was gonna cry -- maybe she did cry -- but it was just
nerves.  Henry says: 'Okay, Karen...You just relax and enjoy it.' and of
course she said nothing so he leaned in and kissed her and while he was
kissing her he started working his hands all over her bare body, feeling
her butt, spreading her butt cheeks to show her to the men behind her,
feeling her all over -- while everybody egged him on.  And I tell you she
was kissing him back.  Then he got his hand down to her cunt, putting his
fingers inside her, started rubbing her juicy.  Then turned her about to
face us and with one hand on a tit, feeling it, he began to frig her.  You
should have seen the look on her face.  I don't care what she tells you--
she wanted it!"

   "Then Al left me and went to where she stood and Henry stepped aside and
Al handed her another drink and she sipped it and asked again if she could
get dressed -- obviously insincerely -- and Al laughed at her 'You don't
want to get dressed.  We're just starting.' He told her she should know
better than that and he shoved her her up close to stand in front of one of
the tables, pushed her to stand up close to the man sitting on a chair and
he held her tightly by the shoulders while he let his friend take a turn
feeling her up, and she just stood there and she let the whole table of 'em
take their turns feeling her tits, sucking on them, finger-fucking her,
getting her all worked up and gooey wet, you know what I mean.  Al moved
your wife from man to man and table to table holding her naked in front of
each of the men so he got his turn.  Everybody got to feel her up."

   Bob anticipated my question: "She never said no.  Never complained.  Not
a word.  Not a whimper.  Hell, it seemed to me she liked it. . .  what they
were doing to her."

   He flipped the pages.  "She did anybody whoever wanted it...  and some
she didn't want, I suppose.  Everybody got a turn.  Some got ore than one."

   Now were photos of her in various sexual acts.  Pages and pages of them,
pasted into the book, taken that one Saturday night, in this same room,
right here where I was sitting.  There were dozens, maybe a hundred
pictures.  He flipped ahead and showed me 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.

   Still, as I saw her in some of the pictures, she was not very happy once
they really got serious about using her for sex.

   She looked upset and even afraid, and in several of them she she must
have been crying.  Bob saw that it bothered me to see her looking so
distressed, especially on the next page where clearly she really was crying
tears or had been.

   He winked at me and reassured me, "Well, okay, maybe she was a little
unhappy sometimes, somd of the guys treated her, you know, like a slut...
but mostly she liked it; it was just nerves.  And I swear she never said
she didn't want to do it.  Anything they wanted.  She did it.  She said
yes, if we asked . . .  and mostly we asked.  We were nice.  She liked
doing it."

   My pathetic naked wife, squatting 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 pushed was down to the floor, to kneel between his
bare legs, looking at his half-hard penis, flopping at her mouth, while
some other old guys were were grinning, obviously teasing her, and guiding
her head toward his penis and coaxing her to lean in closer to his lap,
shoving her face toward his lap and his penis, and telling her to open up
her mouth for it.  "Suck it, sweetie..." I guessed they told her.

   And in the next set of pictures I saw that, yes, she really did.  She
really had this old guy's thick dark penis in her mouth.  Her eyes closed
like in prayer and his penis in her mouth, then shots of her lollipopping
his penis, all wet, mouthing it, then really sucking, sucking hard on this
old guy like she was sucking up, you know, with a straw, And I had to
wonder did he cum in her mouth?  Did she let him cum in her mouth?  Her
eyes tightly shut...  I think she did it.  Like Bob said.  Something she'd
never done for me, but here she was doing for it for this old man.  And she
was not fighting.  They were holding her.  But she was not fighting them. I
could see that.  She looked ashamed or flushed, but she was doing it
because she wanted to do it.  I could see that.  Just like Bob said.

   They took dozens and dozens of pictures.  As they all--each and all of
them--several took turns with her.  On her knees sucking more cock.  One
man after another.  Bent over a table, getting fucked.  One after another.
Holding the seat of a chair, getting fucked from behind.  On her back on
the table top, getting fucked by one man while two held her legs, another
kissed her and fondled her breasts.

   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."

   I left Bob's after more than hour.  Seeing several men grin at me and
give me a knowing nod as I went out, I understood they had been there and
had seen my wife naked.  She had probably let them fuck her or had sucked
them off or both.

   I went back to the apartment to confront Karen.

   In the coming episodes I will describe what she told me when I went home
to confront her.  After her stories I checked it with Bob.  I'll tell you
more of what Bob told me as we go along.  Karen did not always tell me the
truth.  And then later I got a letter from my Uncle Henry.  And much later
my friends told me their stories.  All and all it took some months to get
the truth out.  And in the end I got a collection of photos, incredible
photos.  I would not have believed any of it but the photos do not lie.



   Installment #2: Mr.  Miller Says He Loves Her

   Mr.  Miller had hired her though she had no experience.  He was
attracted to her, I suppose, for the same reason I was.  She had a kind of
lurid innocence.  She was barely twenty when he started working for her.  I
had been married to her for almost a year, but she really was still quite
awkward about sex and men, and still unsure of herself and her attraction
to men, even though, as Bob said, she was pretty.  She did not think she
was pretty; her mother had never told her she was pretty, nor had ever
encouraged her to prettify herself.  She wore little make-up most of the
time.  If she put on lipstick, it was only on very special occasions.  Like
the one I told you about, I guess.  Her clothes were very modest; she
preferred to wear, like her mother wore, dresses or skirt-and-top outfits.
Rarely wore blue jeans.  She was sort of old-fashioned like this.  When I
first knew her, she still wore a girdle and the stockings you fasten to
them, because that is what her mother wore.  But she did not need a girdle,
and I liked the swell of her tummy under her dress, it was sexy.  Pantyhose
were the new thing, so she started wearing those and it gave her a more
natural shape under her clothes.  She always wore a bra.  She was not one
of those liberated females of the day.  She was inclined to blush at dirty
words and did not like to talk about sex, although she liked to think about
it, as it turned out.  She was a natural brunette.  Pretty, if plain. 
Pleasingly shaped, but ordinary in the main.  I loved her. Actually, all of
this made her the more alluring, because in spite of this repressed
attitude and this uncertainty about her femininity, she was sexually
curious.  Naive, but curious.  In fact, her naivete made her curiosity the
keener.  For she would end up doing things that a more self-assured woman
would refuse to do.  She would be willing to these things, because she
wanted to please, because she was uncertain of herself, where another might
be repulsed or ashamed.  She would submit because she did not know she
should not do such things. And somehow this showed in the way she looked at
me, or at any man, for that matter.  She deferred to men and she was meek
and wanted to please.  The Mormon's call it the woman's duty to serve. But,
at the same time, as I say, she shamefully and privately took an intense
sexual pleasure from what they made her do, and while she was not certain
of her feelings, she was easily sexually aroused, and while abashed by her
sexual arousal she was overwhelmed by these feelings.  Sexually
intoxicated. She blushed so easily and deeply that I could see it even in
these black and white pictures.  She flushed so warmly and so readily when
sexually touched, flushed on her checks and down, even to the tips of her
breasts, like a heat rash.  s Bob said she did not resist what was wanted
of her, even if she was often tentative and uncertain and anxious.  She
seemed to feel awkward about what was expected unless she was guided, but
she would do what she was guided to do .  Again, this submissiveness was
part of what made her so appealing to them and, I admit, to me also.  It
had always seemed to me that she wanted to do even what she seemed
uncertain to do.  She was hesitant, but never reluctant.  She was timid,
but not unwilling.  She was shy and embarrassed, but not repulsed.  And if
she felt humiliation in any of things she did, if she felt embarrassed,
truthfully, she could not distinguish between the warmth of that blush and
the warmth of the sexual flush that she also felt at the same time. 
Perhaps, because her mother had repressed her feelings and taught her to be
so uncertain of herself sexually, she actually needed and even craved the
anxiety of humiliation; the sense of coercion made her more sexually
aroused.  I don't know.  But the way she responded to what happened to her,
I think this is true, even if she would never admit it.  How they treated
her, the humiliation of it, made her want to do what she did, even if she
would never admit it. Anyway, I think Mr.  Miller saw all of this in her
instantly, just as I did.  I thought about it right after I met him when he
had hired her.  I saw it in the way he looked at her.  I said something to
her about it, but she did not understand me.  She said he was a nice man.
And he paid her very well.  Too well, as I should have known. He had a
small jewelry shop downtown, had had it for years.  Never made much money
at it and had been robbed more than a few times and was barely hanging on,
really.  His wife was a bitchy nag.  I only met her once and I could see
why he preferred to work all the time.  So, I was not surprised when
Karen's hours begin to get longer.  I asked her about it -"what are you
doing so late? -"and so on.  And she said they talked.  He was teaching her
about gems.  And it was true.  At least at first.  He would make tea after
he closed the shop, and they would sit side by side on stools at his
workbench, and he would take gems out of these little packets and give her
a loop so she could examine them with him while he explained them to her.
She really did learn a lot.  Well, that turned out to be true in lots of
ways. This long evening work became more and more frequent, and then one
day he had her stay on a Friday night, although the shop was always closed
on weekends.  She explained to me later that his wife had gone out of town
and he was lonely. She did not get home until almost ten and I could tell
she had been drinking.  That was not quite the first-time things happened,
but it was the first serious incident. Actually, she'd been coming up with
a bit of booze on her breath for a couple of weeks, and she had admitted
that he had started putting brandy in the tea that the two of them drank
together.  Later, as I pieced together the whole thing, after Bob had told
me more, I understood how it happened.  A slow seduction. He had started
with an arm around her as he showed her things.  This progressed to a kiss
goodnight.  It went from this to his sitting beside her and telling her
about how unhappy he was with his wife and intimating things about a lack
of a sex life, which embarrassed her, but which she permitted.  She tried
to make him feel better.  She felt sorry for him.  And he would ask her if
she liked him and she would say she did. Then, inevitably, he confided that
he was falling in love with her, that she was so beautiful, and that he
knew she was married and that he would do nothing to hurt her, that he
wanted to help her, that he wanted her to have things, he wanted to give
her things.  He gave her a ring.  He insisted she take it, although she
knew it was a genuine diamond.  She must have known this was wrong, because
she hid the ring from me. He wept when he gave her the ring, and she had to
accept it, she said.  That was the first night that he kissed her mouth,
and she was docile to him at first, and then when he kept up, she felt
sorry for him and kissed him back.  They kissed for a while.  Warmly, I
think.  She said nothing more happened, but I wondered if he did not put
his hands on her too.  But she insisted nothing happened. But now this
became the common thing.  Drinking and then kissing and he puts his hands
onto her.  He confessed to love her more than his wife.  His kisses tongued
her open mouth.  He became more and more insistent with his fondling.  And
tried to put his hand up her skirt.  She let him feel her crotch, even
while she said she tried to discourage him.  Just how she discouraged him,
I wonder.  Because he took encouragement from her submissiveness. Then one
night, after more than the usual brandy, she said he took her hand and put
it on himself, on the front of her pants, and she rubbed his erection
through his pants.  She said this happened just once, but she did not say
no to him and that encouraged him, and she said she thinks he ejaculated in
his pants.  She remembers they were now French-kissing and he was squeezing
her breasts through her dress and he groaned.  She had not really held his
erection.  She had not even closed her hand on it.  She just rubbed it a
little.  But it was obvious, what had happened.  He actually thanked her
afterwards and was crying a little.  They kissed a while longer and he got
another erection and when he put her hand on it, she did not rub it very
long but said she had to go. I can see it from his point of view.  She was
not resisting.  Of course, she was just trying to be nice, to make him
happy.  She had no interest in him sexually, although knowing her I am
guessing she was already feeling more than she admitted.  But she did not
think anything more would happen.  After all, in her naïve thought, they
were both married; nothing should happen.  He was old enough to be her
father anyway.  And nothing had really happened anyway.  This was really
just like necking in a car in high school, although this rubbing his
erection was not something she had ever done even then.  So, I think he
felt encouraged and maybe he had convinced himself that he was actually in
love with her.  He certainly was infatuated with her, and at his age to
have young girl like to kiss, to let you touch her (even if only through
her clothes), and to masturbate you, that was really a big turn-on.  She
should not have been surprised then when just the very next night, he
unzipped his trousers and put her hand inside them to touch his penis
directly.  She found he was uncircumcised.  She had never felt an
uncircumcised penis, and she found the way the foreskin slipped off the
glans unexpected, and she felt it slippery with pre-ejaculatory fluid and
now he unzipped the back of her dress and put his hand into the back of her
slip and felt for the back of her brassiere.  He wanted to unfasten it. 
She did not deny him, but she stopped kissing him and told him they should
stop.  He said nothing and went on kissing her.  He did unfasten her
brassiere and slipped his hand into the top of her shoulder, under the
strap of it and under the strap of her slip, obviously intending to feel
the front of her that he hoped to expose, when he began to ejaculate.  He
ejaculated into her hand as she felt the tip of his penis with her fingers
from where it came, and he shuddered, and then as his ejaculation subsided
and he sighed and kissed her deeply, she withdrew her hand, trying to wipe
his semen onto his undershorts as she did so, but not fully successfully;
she ended up smearing the side of her dress with some of it that wet her
fingers.  She leaned back and he let go of trying to feel her.  He had not
succeeded in fact in either feeling her or exposing her; the neck and
sleeve of her dress was fallen forward and off her shoulder; her slip and
her bra straps to that side had slipped off her shoulder too and she sat
without fixing herself, looking serene and warm and sexually inviting.  He
stared at that bare shoulder and the curve of how her breast began to
shape, as he drew down her brassiere, but he was embarrassed (it seemed to
her) and apologized for ejaculating.  She still did not draw her dress up
-"so that he took a message from this -"and she smiled warmly and said she
understood, that he shouldn't feel bad.  Still she made no immediate
attempt to pull up her dress, and so he said she was so beautiful and said
awkwardly: "I'd like to see you, if you will let me.  I won't do anything
you do not want me to do.  I just want to look."
She told me she did not know what he meant.  He leaned and started
kissing her again and put his hand to her bare shoulder and slipped his
fingers down and inside her brassiere and with his fingers he found and

began feeling the nipple of her breast. As he kissed her more warmly, she
felt how carefully, how tenderly he drew the dress down to lap, while
kissing her; then still kissing her drew down her slip, then tugged her
brassiere to her waist, to expose her, and he had exposed her, if he had
but yet looked, and she felt herself exposed and said again, what she
always said: "We shouldn't." She opened her eyes as he drew back to look at
her breasts and she glanced down and saw his hand fondling her right
breast. Seeing her anxiety, he leaned to kiss her mouth and she turned away
from his kiss and said again: "We shouldn't." This time she meant it and
she drew back and pulled her brassiere, then slip, then the dress up over
her shoulder before he could do anything more.  Still she did not zip up
her dress.  He begged again: "Is it okay?  May I see you--just look at
you?" Again, she did not really understand what he meant and smiled, and
she nodded and said "Please, Mr.  Miller, it is late." He said: "Of
course." And that is when he turned away, zipped his pants up and went and
got a bracelet to give to her.  While he was out of the room, she fixed her
disheveled brassiere and zipped up her dress the best she could. I say
again: I can see what he was was thinking, even while I know what she was
thinking.
She said she told him it was alright because he said he felt so bad
about it and again he insisted she take another gift, a little bracelet,

not worth all that much.  Now even she should understand what this meant.
Certainly, now he was thinking that she would give him what he wanted, and
I suppose he began to plan out all that he might want.



   Installment #3: She Does Something for Mr.  Miller that She had Never
Done For Me

   So now we come to that Friday night.  Mr.  Miller was more certain
himself and more determined to have his way.  When he made their drinks
that night, he made them very strong and when they began kissing he almost
immediately unzipped the back of her dress, and this time unzipped it all
the way to bottom so that her dress was loose about her shoulders and he
could reach in and feel her back and the slip she was wearing, which he
did, and which my wife did not resist. She had come to expect this routine,
but still she did not think anything would really come of it.  She expected
him to want her to masturbate him, but this was just a kindness really.  He
was as old as her father.  She wanted him to be happy.  She really did love
him, and he really did love her.  It was just a kindness. He already was in
shirtsleeves as he always was afterhours.  But he stood up and took off his
tie and she smiled and asked him what he was doing when he started to take
off his shirt.  He wore an old-fashioned sleeveless undershirt, like those
my father wore (I only wear the regular T-shirts myself so his sort of
struck her poignantly).  "What are you doing," she repeated sheepishly.  I
wondered, even as she related these intimate moments, about how her naive
expressions appeared to Mr.  Miller, whether he took her to be coy.  She
was not.  She was simply as confused and as clueless as she seemed, I
think. If she subconsciously understood what was going on, or if she felt
sexually intrigued, she could not have said it to herself, let alone to him
or me.  Was she really as innocent she appeared?  He must have wondered. 
And yet the tension in her voice and the ambiguity of feelings that she
showed by her awkward smile made her seem all the more vulnerable and
enticing to him. Mr.  Miller smirked at her innocence: "You know what I
want." But she did not know, she told me.  And I think she was genuine and
truthful at this moment.  Then unexpectedly he took his pants off in front
of her.  She felt a sudden pang and an anxious uncertainty, staring at his
legs and undershorts in embarrassed disbelief, but still meekly curious:
"What do you want?" She sat before him on the stool where they usually sat
side by side and necked, or looked at gems, while he laid his pants on the
work bench and stopped to stand before her in his undershorts, his penis
swelling, bulged in it.  And this being at eye-level where she sat next
him, she could not help to glance at it, and partially see the swelling
flesh of his penis through the parting gap of the vent of his undershorts
and wondered innocently what an uncircumcised penis must look like.  She
had never seen any penis other than mine, until this night. He looked at
her fixedly, seeing where her glance had gone, and without any misgivings
he said to her: "Take off your dress." She said she was surprised but not
shocked exactly.  She blushed genuinely, I would guess, or at rate she said
she felt very confused at first and asked him: "Why?" Disingenuously, he
might have thought.  He supposed she knew what this was about -"and I have
my doubts now too -"but truly she could not believe that this would be
happening to her. He did not reply but stepped up to where she sat, put his
hands on her shoulders and drew the loosened dress forward easily and fully
down her arms to lay loosely in folds at her lap about her forearms and to
expose to him the whole front of her in her nylon slip. She asked him
again: "Why?" as he continued to smoothly draw her the sleeves of her dress
over her arms and off her hands, and taking up one of her hands, he pulled
her to stand, and crouching at her feet, reached up and with a firm tug at
her waist and drew her dress down, so that it spilled to the floor about
her feet. She said she knew what he wanted, but still that she did not know
what to say.  So she said nothing.  She did not know how to stop him.  He
stood against her, embracing her tightly, and began kissing her.  Mr. 
Miller is a short man.  Not much taller than my wife is, just 5-foot-3 or
so.  He is a bit fat and he breathes noisily.  I can imagine this as I
think of this scene.  He is kissing her mouth, their mouths open in their
kisses; her eyes closed, his are not.  One of her hands is on his shoulder
and the other limp beside her, she is unresisting as he reaches behind her
and feels her buttock through her slip and presses his fingers behind her
between her legs, wedging back of her slip.  He wants to feel more. 
Because she is kissing him back, he proceeds.  And besides, he is thinking
to himself, she has let me take off her dress; she will let me take off the
rest of her clothes. Karen is not thinking.  She is feeling and responding,
but still she is uncertain and confused.  She still cannot believe this is
happening. But Mr.  Miller knows what he wants and is determined to get it;
his hands, caressing her as he does, slip up the sides of her body along
the silky nylon to the straps of her slip and he is kissing her with an
open mouth, her mouth open to his, and hooks his fingers through the straps
of her slip and her bra and begins to bring them both off her shoulders at
once.  She knows what he wants, and moves her mouth from his and asks again
falsely: "What do you want?" She tries to dissuade him; the sorrowful look
she gives him is meant to discourage him.
But he does not respond, and he has drawn the straps of her slip and her
bra off of her shoulders and is looking into her eyes intently then drops
his gaze down to the front of her at the moment that he has tugged firmly,
and her breasts pop out of the cups of the brassiere, exposed to him.  He
draws the slip and bra to her waist and puts his hands on those breasts and

kisses her mouth with passion. She wants to say something, and she begins
to speak when he takes his mouth off of hers and puts it on one of her
breasts, feeling the nipple with his slathering tongue, then kissing,
sucking on the other one while his fingers feel the wet one, erect,
exposed. He looks down to see them.  Her nipples as keen as he had so often
fantasized, but so much more lurid than he expected and he finds them even
more exciting than he had imagined; he leans and kisses them and sucks them
repeatedly and eagerly, while my wife looked down at his balding head and
once more tried to tell him: "We shouldn't do this." But now she feels his
hands are feeling at her naked waist as he sucks and rolls his tongue on
her nipples, and his fingers are finding and gripping the top of her slip
and digging into the tops of her panty hose and the elastic of her
underpants, and he is stretching them, tugging them, drawing them down,
exposing her hips to one side and then the other, revealing, freeing the
soft bulge of her stomach, and bringing into view the top of her pubic
hair, the elastic waists of her clothing, bunching at, pinched across her
buttock and slipping. He withdraws his mouth from her wet breast, the
nipples lurid and randy.  And he pauses, looking at them, and then down
where her pubic hair shows below the band of bunched clothing he was
pushing down, and she spoke and so he looks up at her face, and she asks
again, quite flushed now, quite disingenuously: "What do you want?" He says
plainly with warm breath: "I want to see you naked." And she says nothing,
as he kneels in front of her to finish stripping her and looking up at her,
from the underside of those lurid tits, into her flushed and ironically
smiling face, he jerks the bunch of her clothes down in few swift tugs to
the middle of her thighs, staring at her belly and the revealed thatch of
public hair at the level of his face.  Her hands drop, her brassiere
dangles about her waist, still fastened. He straightens up and steps back
to look at her, now naked in front of him, her slip and underpants bunched
with her pantyhose, binding the middle of her legs, hanging, her skirt at
her feet, her bra limply like an obscene belt.  She smiled
self-consciously, flushed, but did nothing to cover herself, and now said
nothing.  If she was unwilling, he did not see it, and she did not say it,
my wife naked for this man.  She glanced down to see that his uncircumcised
penis had poked out the vent of his undershorts, half-turgid, thick, red at
the end of it, the slit at the bulbous head of it seeping pre-ejaculate
freely.  He saw her curiosity and so he drew his undershorts down so that
they slipped to his feet, so that she may see him naked as well.  She
looked at him naked as he looked at her naked. The way a woman looks the
first time you see her naked is always much different than you expected;
anytime you undress a woman what you discover will surprise you and
intrigue you.  The shape of her tits, of her hips and belly's swell, the
colors of her -"her skin, her nipples, her pubic hair.  Especially the
color, shape and size of her nipples, and how they form on her tits -"some
like hard little buttons, some like suckling teats.  All different. What
Mr. Miller saw pleasantly aroused and surprised him. I should describe what
Mr.  Miller saw -"what my young wife looked like naked. She worries she is
fat.  But she is not fat.  She is not skinny either.  She has an ordinary
body mostly. Nipples are often the same color of a woman's mouth, and the
more sensuous the mouth, the more lurid her nipples are.  My wife's mouth
was soft and full and has the dark red of a stain of wine, and so her
nipples are wide and with full puffy areoles which draw out her breasts to
points, look laden with the size and ripeness of them.  And they are the
color of that wine stain like her mouth.  Her nipples almost always looked
sexually swollen. That is your most vivid immediate impression seeing my
wife naked, a sense that her naive expression masks a secret concupiscence
simply because of the swollen appearance of her breasts and nipples; the
most striking thing about her -"how those nipples draw out the tips of her
breasts so expressly with weight and ripeness and intense sexual yearning.
Hers are not big breasts, but a good full handful.  Your whole cupped hand
could cup one whole, or at least mine could cover one and hold its fleshy
body like a round fruit. As I said, you cannot help but stare and she is so
self-conscious of them (and of the gaze they attract) that her nipples
respond and the flesh is sensitive to touch anyway, like one of those
leaves that move when you touch it. The size and the way they are expressed
from her breasts can be suggested best by the way that later, as Karen told
me herself, Mr.  Miller playfully teasing and exploring her when she was
completely naked for him once, took one of the china tea-cups that they
drink brandy from and put it neatly over first one and then the other
breast, amused to see how the round rim of the tea cup went to match rim of
her round pouting nipple, how the flesh of her pronounced nipple, pushed to
its tip, grazed the bottom of the tea cup and a drop of brandy clung to its
point when he took the cup away. As I say, although I did not think was the
least fat, she feared men saw her as too plump, and she seemed embarrassed
by her nakedness, at least in front of me.  She is self-conscious about how
she looks without her clothes on and says she is ashamed to be seen naked,
but she is also certain that men will like to see her naked, or at least
she wants to them to like seeing her naked.  The baby fat about her body
will pinch where her bra and underpants bind her and will leave a slight
pink mark on her skin.  So when Miller looked at her stripped for him he
could see where those articles of clothing had been.  She is high waisted,
and not curvy.  Her hips are slight but proportional.  She has longish,
lovely, completely hairless legs; she almost never has to shave them.  Her
belly swells from her waist, and there is a fold, a crease and a roll,
which shows when she sits, leans over or squats.  Just a little baby fat,
just a typical girl for her age, her soft body otherwise supple and firm
for her youth.  Her breasts thrust out and bear their weight when freed
from her and sag only slightly, to tantalize you with their fullness.  Turn
her around and Mr.  Miller would find soft roundly formed buttock, full,
not flabby, but fleshy.  Spank them and see them shimmer.  Her soft skin
easily chaff pink. Turn her back again to look at her cunt and Mr.  Miller
would see how it shows an unkempt darkish triangular tuft of pubic hair
-"she is a true brunette -"but thinning where a deepening slit emerges from
between the tops her legs, cleaving her belly, revealing plump labia,
slightly parting and hinting color.  She wears the hair on her head hair
shoulder-length, combed in the middle, straight, falling with a little
slight wave at the end, the way her mother taught her to dress it.  Her
hair is not so long that it will hide her shoulders or her breasts from our
view, nor her face unless she bends over so that it falls in her face.  And
if she does, your eyes of course are drawn to how her breasts hang, the
cones of dark wine tips of them drawing them down like a ripened fruit If
he made her sit or squat, as ultimately he would do because he wanted to
examine it, and so spread her legs wide for him, he would see above the
cute star of her clean puckered anus, the florid scalloped folds and the
fleshy mouth of vagina, the same wine-colored flesh of her nipples and her
lips, but obscenely wet and open for him.  And if he could, and I know
sometimes he would, he might kiss and tongue her there and for him it would
be just as warmly receptive for him as her other mouth, and the hole of it
would quiver and would wantonly receive his tongue to feel and taste it,
just as she did with her lips and tongue. So she stood.  Flushed as I
imagined.  Confused as she said may have been, but certainly disingenuous
about the uncertainty the she expressed to him.  She knew what this was
about.  She felt his fingers entering her and feeling her vagina; she felt
his mouth upon her suckling her nipples; she was aroused, even if she was
naive, and both of them knew now that having done this for him, she would
have to yield to what he asked for again, even if naively she told herself
that she would not. So after standing against her nakedness, kissing her,
feeling her, his up-turned erection rubbing against her, against her belly
and her pubic bone, he positioned it with his hand and pressed it between
her legs, and it insinuated between them and he wanted to enter her where
she stood, but she said: "No please." She shook her head and pushed at him.
She said no again, when he almost forcibly pressed it so that she felt it
entering her.  She pushed him away, not too forcibly, but she resisted
enough, shaking her head, that he looked up from his kisses.  He saw that
it seemed she might begin to cry; perhaps she did cry, I do not know.

   He stepped back and sat on his stool and feeling his erection idly which
he held in his hand, he told her to get out of her clothes completely.  She
looked at his penis, seeing how the glans, popped from its sheath, as he
masturbated.  She told me it looked exactly like a cherry lollipop, and I
thought to myself what this intimated. She no longer asked him what he
wanted, or made any ineffectual irrelevant remarks, expressing the
confusion that she claimed she still felt.  She had given away to show
herself naked and she wondered now what he thought of her.  She wanted to
please him, she did not like what she looked like naked, and she felt
pleased when she said how beautiful she was when she leaned over to work
her clothing down her legs, showing how fleshy her tits hung and bobbled as
she worked her clothes off her feet. Still smiling sheepishly, and now
plainly blushing, she held the bunched-up clothing at her feet and
awkwardly, almost tipping in a stumble, grabbing Mr.  Miller's hand for
support, pulled out one bare foot and then, leaning with his support and
looking at him as he stared at her nakedness, pushed the bunched clothing
off her other foot and freed herself.  She stepped back and straightened
and brushed her hair from her face and looked down at him.  She bit her lip
like she does when she nervous, I imagine.  At any rate she told me she
felt more nervous than ashamed then.  She wanted to know what he thought of
her. He asked her to turn herself around for him.  He had her turn around
slowly three times.  Again, he told her she was beautiful, and he stroked
his penis and she saw that it was even larger, more engorged, and she
wondered if she might see him ejaculate.  She had never seen a man
ejaculate, but instead she felt anxious and she said she thought about me
at home and looked at the clock and it was after eight and so she said: "I
should be going home." He said nothing for a moment.  Then she thought he
would ejaculate but he took his hand away and his penis jerked about,
throbbing, and he was very red in the face but staring at her nakedness
intently.  She did not know what to do and what he wanted now.  She felt
embarrassed by the intensity of his staring.  She wondered what he wanted
and asked: "Can I get dressed?" He looked at her now strangely and now
said: "What would your husband say if he knew about this?" She felt
frightened then.  She worried.  She had never thought of this.  She asked
him: "How?  I mean . . .  What do you mean?"

   "What if he knew you took off your clothes for me?" He smiled. He sat
back and his prick looked inflamed to her and he leered at her nakedness
now.  This was new.  She did not like this look. "If someone told him, what
would happen?" "No," is all she said. He said: "Let's make sure he never
knows." He smiled and was feeling the end of his penis again and looking at
her face.  She watched.  He said: "Come here." And she hesitated but took a
step or two closer to him, but pausing before she was so close that he
would reach out and touch her, asked: "What do you want?" He said again
simply for her to come, and then, when she was close enough, he stood and
took her in her arms and kissed her and grabbed her buttock and pressed his
prick up against her belly, and kissed her and felt her body, her tits, her
buttock and then put his hands on her shoulders and pressed, and she knew
what he wanted. She would swear to me she did not really understand what he
meant by it, but when she was leaning, crouching, even as he was forcing
her to go down to her knees, she was still unsure what it was he wanted;
her head was at his waist level and his prick as stiff as his ever got,
stuck straight out from his fat belly, waggling near her face, he said: "Go
on . . .  get on your knees for me, Karen." And when she did, she guessed
what this meant, but truthfully she had never done this.  She had heard
about it.  Some girl had once told her she had done it and she was shocked
to hear about it and did not understand it, why anyone would do it.  She
did not know about it from me.  I had never asked her to do it.  I was too
timid myself.  So, she looked up at him and she said he must have seen how
upset she was, that she felt like crying, feeling anxious misgivings, and
she begged him: "Mr.  Miller, please." But he sat and spread his legs and
leaned and reached out for the top her head with one hand while with his
other held his prick, drawing down the foreskin, so that the obscene red
glans popped out, like the round wet sticky cherry lollipop in her
imagination.  And he drew her head toward it firmly but gently toward it,
and when she resisted, tremulously, and said pathetically again: "Please."
He said: "Yes." And she closed her eyes as he drew her head near his penis
and she felt it rub her lips and she did not open her mouth until, as she
was beginning to quietly well-up in tears, he forced it to her mouth; she
felt the warm wet head of it between her lips, then, against her teeth and
slipping between her teeth and cheek, warm, firm, and he said: "Open your
mouth, honey.  Open, sweetie." And when she did the penis pushed in, glided
smoothly and filled her mouth; it was not as large as she thought it
looked; he rocked; it slipped in her mouth; with her tongue instinctively
moving on it, she felt the shape of his glans and the shaft as it moved,
and she tasted it, her tongue in the little hole of it, his pee hole, as
she thought of it.  It tasted salty.  She had closed her eyes like she does
when she is kissing.  He rocked and it slipped easily in her mouth. He held
her head with both hands, rocking, his erection pumping in her mouth, and
then let go of her head and she let him pump it in her mouth without
forcing her to do it. Then he spoke to her, and she opened her eyes,
looking up at him, and he smiled at her and caressing her face told her:
"Suck on it, honey.  Suck on it like candy.  Your husband need never know."
He took her head in his hands again and moved it on his prick.  She closed
her eyes, breathing through her nose.  His prick stroking in her mouth. 
She still cried softly, the welling tears now trickled on her cheek, and he
leaned and kissed her tearful eyes and said kindly: "Don't cry, honey. 
It's okay.  I love you.  I really do.  I'll take care of you.  You take
care of me and I'll take care of you.  That's good.  Move your tongue on
it. That's nice.  You like that?  Do you?" She mewled and she had to slurp
noisily on his prick, and he said: "I really do love you.  I really do." He
let go of her head and reached under her arms to feel her breasts and play
with her nipples. She opened her eyes and leaned back and gasped and he
said: "Don't stop."
She looked sadly at his penis and at his face and asked again: "Why? 

Why, Mr.  Miller?" "Because," he laughed at her, still reaching out and
playing with her tits.  "I want you to suck my cock." "Yes, but . . .  "
she sobbed. "Yes, yes . . ." he replied, ". . .  and then." She stared at
his penis which one hand now held, pumping, showing the enflamed glans,
popping in and out and dew of pre-ejaculate seeping from slit in the head
of it and running -"a clear syrup -"down the shaft of his erection to his
fisted hand. He put his other hand on the back of her head and asked her
out of plain astonishment: "Have you never done this to your husband?" She
shook her head still looking at the penis as he held it for her.  He drew
her head to it. "Then, my darling Karen, I shall be the first.  I am going
to cum in your mouth.  I am going to cum in your mouth, and you are going
to swallow it and tell me how much you like it." She stared at his penis,
then into his eyes, and he said again he really loved her, and he wanted
her to enjoy this.  So he sat back and holding his penis up, he said: "Go
on.  You'll see.  No one will tell your husband, if you do.  I promise."
Karen then described for me how she put her hands on his knees as he guided
her head and she closed her eyes and opened her mouth and took his penis
into it and she licked and slurped and sucked it like it was lollipop, she
said, not knowing how she was supposed to do it or how to let him fuck her
mouth.  But he did not need much more stimulation. He held her head
lightly. His spasmed.  He made guttural noises which she recognized.  She
knew what it was Still when he ejaculated, it startled her, popping into
her mouth suddenly, flooding her mouth like she had taken a drink, and
seeming to fill her mouth, she reflexively gulped; her mouth half-filled
with his sperm, she tasted it for the first time. It happened so quickly
and unexpectedly that she looked shocked and she and pathetically protested
but to Miller it sounded like a whimper and he saw that she swallowed it,
swallowed twice. He was smugly satisfied and stroked her hair and called
her a "good girl." She looked up at him confused and ashamed. He held her
head tightly so that she could not take her mouth off it, although she did
not really try to resist what he wanted.  She held his hips as he
ejaculated more into her mouth.  He saw how her eyes fluttered and she
murmured something that sounded like pleasure to him and he thought that
she herself shuddered sexually. She noted the strange flavor, as again it
warmly spilled into her mouth, feeling it's soupy texture with her tongue;
instinctively she licked at it the head of his penis, slurped and swallowed
again what she tasted; her feeling tongue seemed to prompt more spasms of
sperm to spurt into her mouth, a third and then a fourth spasm. Now she
drew away her mouth and gasped and his penis still spent and sperm flowed
onto her lips, her open mouth, and flowed out of her mouth and onto her
chin and dribbled off it.  Miller laughed with delight at the witness,
while she was catching her breath. He pulled her head back to his penis. 
Her open mouth took it back and she swallowed yet again. At last still
feeling the head with her tongue as he told her to do, his penis softened
in her mouth and she felt a final flow of warm fluids from his penis.  And
in a momentary dread she wondered if he was peeing in her mouth.  But she
decided he was not, though there was so much to swallow.  She said, when I
asked her to describe it, that it was sticky and sort of gooey at first and
it tasted like and felt like swallowing raw egg white; later what seeped
out was more fluid, like gravy, and it tasted salty but also had a tang;
but it tasted like nothing she had ever tasted.  I asked her sarcastically:
"Did you like it?" She did not answer me.  She felt the offense I intended.
But I think she would have said yes. After these spurts of cum and after
she had tasted them as he told her to do and swallowed them as he told her
to do, he just held her head firmly, to keep her mouth on his penis. But
she gasped for a breath and his viscous cum dripped from her lips, down her
chin, off her chin in a drool. "Thank you, Karen," he said stroking her
hair brushing the tears from her eyes which now had ceased tearing and he
sighed at her and laughed lightly, telling her he loved her. "I really do,"
he told her. "Lick it," he said, and she closed her eyes and licked the tip
of it, still oozing upwelling jism.  He watched her. She opened her eyes
and looked up at him with shy uncertainty. He told her again he loved her.
It seemed sincere.  Maybe at the moment, it was. Seeing the ooze forming on
the tip, she licked his penis again. He stepped forward, pushing his penis
back into her mouth, and while he stroked her hair, smiling at her, holding
her head, his penis softened and the dregs of his semen drained into her
mouth as it went limp; she, for her part, looking up into his eyes,
caressed the receding glans with her tongue and tickling and tasting the
slit of it; she gave him such pleasure that he let her just keep sucking
him and told her she was doing it very well; she nursed and swallowed all
that she could tease from his penis, until so spent and sucked off so that
she could not taste any more fluids coming into her mouth. He let go of her
head, and lifted her hands up, kissing her hands repeatedly, telling her
that she was a "good girl" and stepped away from her, his penis slipping
out of her mouth.  Her mouth and lips and chin all wet, smeared with cum.
She dropped her head.  He picked up his undershorts and pulled them on
hurriedly; he said it was getting late.  She remained naked, head bowed,
where she knelt, the taste of his semen still in her mouth, as he looked
her over with smug satisfaction.  She looked flushed, I am sure, as she
does when she is sexually aroused, but in the aftermath of her own
excitement, she truly did feel ashamed, and wanted reassurance.  At the
same time, she told me, she felt tingly all over. Finally he commanded:
"Stand up." She staggered a bit as she stood, and he helped steady her:
"You okay?" She nodded.  Then he sat in the chair again and looked at her
and studied her naked for a while more and talked to her while he dressed.
He even retied his tie.  She was still naked when he put on his suit coat
and took out his keys. He asked her if she liked what she did, and she did
not know what to say.  She nodded, shyly looking away from his great grin.
"You like it?  You like how it tastes?" "It's okay " she nodded, and then
added: "Was I okay?"
"Yes, sweetie...  you did it just right..." He stroked her cheek and
touched her mouth and asked her to open it and saw, I suppose, the creamy

coating of his sperm in her mouth, on her tongue. "You want more?" He
teased her. She looked at the clock anxiously but said nothing as he looked
into her eyes. Now as he watched her face for her reactions, he put his
hands onto her breasts, and felt them and teased her sexually, and repeated
how pretty she was and let his hand to drop her cunt and inserted fingers
into her rubbed her so that she began to express herself to him and asked
him finally, her hands on his shoulders to brace herself, her legs
trembling: "Stop.  Please."
I expect he grinned to find how easily she was worked up, because he

said, he was sorry and that next time for sure she can pleasure herself. He
pulled on his pants and asked her again: "But you like sucking cock.  I can
tell." She did not know what to say.  He put on his shirt and, buttoning it
up as he faced her, repeated: "Tell me you like it." She nodded because it
was what he wanted her to do, she said.  I thought that scene especially
poignant.  My wife still naked, half wet in arousal, the taste of his cum
her mouth, abjectly nodding that she liked him to cum her mouth. I asked
her about nodding at him.  I asked her if she really did like it -"having
him cum in her mouth -"because even by then, when she had to tell me all,
she seemed still reluctant to do that for me, and she did not reply but she
looked away and did not reply. She said he got fully dressed and she stood
there naked while he looked at her dressing himself and talked to her and
told her how glad he was she had come to work for him, and how much he
wanted to help her, and "help your husband too." (winking).  He told her he
had plans for her and she was going to be very good for his business.  And
as he put on his overcoat and she still stood naked in the center of the
backroom, he again said to her: "But we don't ever want your husband to
know, do we?  That would be so bad for you.  You don't want that, do you?"
He looked her up and down again and said again how she pretty she was and
said: "We can work it out, so he never knows." He approached her one last
time kissed her and fondled her, putting his fingers into her vagina from
behind.  And she kissed him back.
Then he buttoned up his overcoat saying: "I will see you on Monday. 
Right?  See you just like this, honey.  Monday.  Tuesday.  Wednesday " and
turned around and left the store, his voice trailing off.  "Thursday,

Friday, Saturday, Sun." The door shut. She sat down naked on her stool and
thought about herself and what had happened and what it meant, without
coming to any conclusions.  She cleaned herself with Kleenex.  She drank
cold tea to get the taste of his semen from his mouth, but it did not
disappear.  All the way home in the bus she could taste it and she would
think of it.