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 ï>¿My First Marriage by FishMan

   Installment #12: Friday -- Porking the Pig

   Given what had happened to her the night before, the humiliation she had
felt, I should have expected her to be depressed and complain about having
to go to work.  She was not.  She even seemed eager to go to work.  Knowing
the story now, I think she had completely surrendered to her sexual
intoxication.  She must have known, must have expected that the new day
would bring the same exploitation which she had experienced every day that
week.

   Anyway, she woke up strikingly cheerful; she ate the breakfast I made
for her and suddenly she gushed and spoke excitedly about having seen Uncle
Henry last night, although she did not tell me the circumstance.  She
seemed oddly flushed as she spoke about it and did not want to look me in
the eye when I asked her questions.  She must have realized it was a
mistake to have mentioned him.  I wonder why she did.  Had the way he
treated her especially affected her?  I wanted to know why he had come to
the store and other details.  But now she evaded my questions and changed
the subject, announcing that she would probably have to work on Saturday.

   Once more she wore the blue dress, like she had all week, but now she
wore only her bobby socks and penny loafers; she did not wear pantyhose. 
Actually, as I later recalled, she had not come home with them.  (It amazes
me as I look back on it--how stupid I had been.)

   She has lovely legs.  She almost never needs to shave them, so her legs
look nice without pantyhose; it just didn't seem right for a business
office.  And I thought she wasn't wearing her brassiere.  I had thought
that before, but now while I embraced her to kiss her goodbye, I felt her
back and I knew for certain that she was not wearing it.

   She got out of the car.  I held her hand to stop her and to tell her I
would meet her at Bob's bar.  I knew that Mr.  Miller often went there
after work, so I told her to go with him and we would meet there.

   I did not want her to go to work, and I told her .

   She smiled and said she would me see later that night, and seeing that I
looked worried, she blushed for no reason that I understood, and said:
"It's alright."

   What did she mean by that?  I have since wondered.  That she thought
what she was doing was "alright"?  Or that she was not unhappy anyway?  Or
that she expected that none of this would ever affect me?  That I would not
find out?  That somehow it would end like an episode on a TV show with some
settling conclusion that left her and everyone happy?  I can't say.  Even
as we divorced, though she wept, and felt ashamed, she did not understand
why it ended as it had.  She thought she had not wanted anything but to
please others.

   Bob only knew about this day from second-hand, but he told me what he
could.  Karen did not admit to it until after I had learned the gist of it.
She never did tell me the full details.  She only said to me how nice Mr.
Miller had been to her that day.  She did not tell me what she meant by
that.  Bob told me.  What you read here then comes from largely Karen's
story and what Bob said she said.  I would learn a different version from
Henry later.

   When she got to work, Mr.  Miller was very glad to see her and kissed
her warmly almost before she got into the door.  They exchanged open mouth
kisses.  He immediately unzipped her dress, even though it was eight in the
morning; the front door was unlocked and she stood in the middle of the
shop and he drew off her dress even as she stood placidly and submissively
for him.  It fell to the floor.  He crouched before her and looking at her
belly as he did he drew her underpants slowly, teasingly off her buttock,
belly, down her thighs to let them slip to her ankles and then leaned
kissed her pubes, licking the lips of her vulva there.  Naked, she did not
resist him.  He stood and saying he loved her he unzipped his trousers and
immediately entered her as she stood facing him, while she, succumbing to
his embrace, his arms enfolding hers squeezing them against sides of her
breast, her hands tenderly at his face and neck, yielded to his kisses and
kissed him warmly in return.  They were like young lovers whose sexual
desires for each other were so hot and new as to be compulsive.

   This was not an act of lust; to her mind, it was the act of passion and
love.  He made love to her passionately, and she felt happy that she
pleased him.

   When he withdrew, having taken her standing where she was, he kissed her
mouth and whispered an endearment and put his penis back into his pants and
zipped them up.  She looked down at the wetness between her legs, put her
hand to her swollen vulva, wiping up the semen that had flowed from it
between her thighs, wiping the semen across her bare thigh, and pulled up
her dress with a sigh and sweetly smiling at him.  He went to the door and
locked it.  If anyone saw, they did not stay to ogle the two fucking in the
store.

   No words were exchanged.  She thought this must mean they were in love,
and the rest of the day seemed to confirm her feelings, despite how it
ended and what portended for the weekend by his intimations.

   The shop was opened, and traffic was light all day.  He often kissed the
back of her neck and spoke to her with affectionate compliments and
courtesies.  He told her he had something special planned for that day.  It
gave her a momentary pang, to think that it may be another group of men to
visit, to fuck her openly, severally again.  But the way he said it did not
seem to suggest that obscenity.

   At noon Mr.  Miller closed the shop.  Karen had gone to the back of the
shop to prepare for the inventory.  He invited her to lunch.  He took her
to an expensive restaurant, which was housed in the down town Sheraton
Hotel within walking distance.  They shared a bottle of wine.  They shared
a French pastry for desert.  They took more than an hour for lunch and he
seemed so happy that she felt very happy.  When they left the restaurant,
he held her hand and took her into the lobby of the hotel.  She had never
seen such an opulent hotel.  She felt out of place.  Mr.  Miller left her
to stand in the middle of its elegant extravagance while he spoke to a desk
clerk.  He returned and nodding toward the elevator and they went alone
into it and when the door shut he embraced her, kissing her, feeling her
breasts through her dress.  The door opened to the twenty-first floor and
he lead her by the hand, teasing her as she questioned him, to the door of
a room and unlocked it and held the door for her.  It was an ordinary
Sheraton hotel room, but to Karen it seemed a place of wealth and
privilege.

   Mr.  Miller removed her dress immediately, leaving it on the floor where
it had fallen, and stood as he was fully clothed, kissing and fondling her
as she stood in nothing but her underpants, he guided her backwards toward
the bed, as he kissed her and she back on the bed.  He leaned over and drew
her underpants off and tossed them away and shoved her legs up and spread
to show him her cunt.

   As she looked up at him fondly, he undressed himself completely, and
once naked he knelt between her legs and put his mouth on her vulva and
licked it, probing it with his tongue while she arched her back.

   He crawled up next to her on the bed and leaning to kiss her fondled her
as he affectionately examined her naked body.  She lay quietly for him. 
She obeyed his encouragements without shame, to raise her knees and let her
legs fall open, so that he might look closely and feel wantonly the flesh
and the opening of her vagina and she closed her eyes as he teased her
sexually.  Looking down between her legs she saw that she still wore her
bobby socks.  He had not taken those off.  Neither had she.

   So splayed and sexually vulnerable, without her eyes opening, he lay
over her body, between her legs and his erection entered her, slipping
easily and completely in one motion, and so he began to fuck her, gently,
and lovingly, or so she felt.  This was like the first time we had made
love, she told me naively.

   They made love in this way, leisurely, for more than an hour.  When he
finally erupted inside of her, there was but a little ejaculate, so much
had been spent in the morning, or at any rate she felt little, but she was
pleasured well and skillfully by him and felt sexually sated and so, as he
lay on his back, she cuddled about him affectionately, her head on his
chest, looking at and idly feeling his still half-tumid penis, wet with his
and her seminal fluids.  They talked small talk and tender feelings, I
suppose, as lovers do.  Her fondling aroused him again and on her own
motion she slipped her head along his belly, closer to the tip of it and
took the end of it in her mouth, feeling it with her tongue, tasting him
and herself when she did.  He put his hand on her head to let her know what
he wanted and without instruction she savored his penis in her mouth,
rolling her tongue about, and suckling until by her stimulations he
ejaculated lightly into her mouth.  Gladly and lingeringly tasting and
enjoying it, she felt very happy as she curled with her mouth on his spent
penis, semen leaking into her mouth as it remained, and she nearly fell
asleep, but Mr.  Miller stroking her hair told her gently that she should
get up and take a shower before they returned to work.

   When she came out of the bathroom toweling her refreshed naked body, her
hair a bit damp at the edges, although she had avoided wetting it, she
found he had dressed and had laid her dress on the bed and her socks.  But
not her underpants or bra.  She did not question this.  She understood. 
She sat on the bedside to put her socks back on, and then stood to put on
her dress.  He zipped it up for her.  She never asked about her underpants
and bra.

   It was nearly 4 o'clock when they returned to the shop.  She assumed
that they would have little time to work that evening and asked when she
might leave, explained that I had told her to meet me at Bob's bar.  He
said he would go with me.  That they will just do some tidying up and
tomorrow they would work in earnest on the inventory.

   She felt pleasantly tired from the lovemaking and she wished she could
just go home.  She almost did not want to meet me at the bar, and she hoped
they would not work very long.  Mr.  Miller seemed to be inclined to quit
early.  He was only readying books and things for the inventory process.

   He told her that they would be working on inventory all day Saturday
until late into the evening and that she should tell her husband, so he
does not worry.  And she might have to do the same Sunday.

   He said he wanted her to come to work in casual clothes.  He joked that
he would be on his good behavior and would not be undressing her as he
usually did, so she should wear underpants and bra and so on and not expect
to be molested.

   When she did not say anything, he pretended that she had offended him
for not objecting to being sexually neglected.  He grinned at her when she
fell for his trick.  They kissed.

   A mantle clock chimed gaily in the shop, sounding the hour.  It was 6
o'clock, closing time.  "Can we go now?" She asked.

   He shook his head: "Not yet.  Remember?  I said I had a surprise for
you."

   She was confused.  She thought the lunch and the lovemaking were her
surprise, and it had surprised and pleased her.

   While Karen took down the display windows and put trays of items into
the safe, Mr.  Miller turned off the shop lights and poured brandy in
teacups for them.  He waited for her to finish.

   She came to the workroom when she was done and asked him: "I thought
that lunch . . .  and you know . . .  was my surprise.  It was so nice."

   He said nothing.  He was not smiling.  She felt uncomfortable about
this. He required her to drink her cup of brandy and another.  This is
usually more than enough for her to feel drunk.

   He looked at the clock.  He said to her without addressing her: "They're
late." She said nothing to this.  She felt immediately that same sick
anxiety she had felt the day before.  She anticipated.  He meant her to
take off her clothes for more men.  He meant her to be used by them.

   The front door opened, a man called from the darkness of the front
toward the light showing through the doorway to the workroom where they sat
on their stools.  Mr.  Miller got up and went to greet him.  Karen stood
up. She did not know: should she go stand in the corner?  She heard voices,
asking about her.  How many were there this time?  She realized she had
been set up for this.  Obviously she had been set up again, deliberately
dressed this way, completely naked beneath her blue dress, and he had
probably planned that she was showered and fresh and cleaned up for them.
She felt suddenly unhappy, doubting Mr.  Miller's true feelings for her.

   She never saw their faces.  She guessed that there had been maybe three
or even five of them.  She could not believe that Mr.  Miller had done this
intentionally; it must be something he could not help; thinking of the
tenderness of their lovemaking all that day and seeing the anxiety in his
expression as told her to face the wall and not look at them, she was
certain it was not his idea.

   She did not recognize the voices but then again she was crying and very
distressed.  She had difficulty reciting the details, although she
remembered the incident vividly.  Again, it was Bob who sardonically
narrated much more of the sordid details that either she did not remember
or did not know, although he himself was no tone of these unseen men.

   Because she told me almost nothing herself, I cannot describe her
feelings.  I can guess.  I can imagine.  This was not most humiliating
event of the period, but it was the first of the things that she was
unwilling to confess to me.  Either from shame or shock.  I never
confronted her with the details that Bob and later Henry related.  Henry
even had pictures, but again, I did not learn any of this or see these
until after Karen had gone to live with Mr.  Miller -- or rather had gone
to be kept by him in a room down town.  Miller never did leave his wife and
I doubt she ever knew about the affair.

   Bob had no pictures to show to me, saying Miller took none this time,
but he did have graphic descriptions taken, he claimed, from first-hand
accounts; I will try to relate it just as he told me.

   The topic came up when I was telling him how I had become more
suspicious that Friday and I reminded him that I had come into the bar that
night.  He remembered that.  He had served me himself.  And I remembered
how friendly he seemed, impressed that he remembered my name, and my wife's
name; he asked after her.

   Of course he knew that even as we were speaking she was being prepared
by them and coaxed to submit and told to quit her crying about what, they
insisted, would not hurt her anyway; that she would enjoy it, if she just
relaxed.

   What they did to her shocked me, as I think it shocked her, and when Bob
told me I think he relished the look on my face, my own sense of
humiliation for her sake.  I guess I was almost as naive as my wife in some
ways.  Certainly I knew that men did such things to (or with) women, but it
seemed cruel to do it to her.  She was not just so young and innocent of
such things, but she was so tender in that way.  Perhaps it did not
physically hurt her, but it emotionally wounded her; she was utterly
debased, or so she felt.

   After this she felt herself more slut than woman for them.  And perhaps
also because she revealed a perverse pleasure for it, in spite of herself,
she believed she was a slut, that they could and would make her do anything
the wanted to do, for as many men as wanted her, and she would submit
abjectly, wantonly aroused even by her debasement, with or without her
pathetic tears.

   Bob said to me: "Didn't you notice how she was walking when she came in?
Didn't that seem funny?  Didn't you notice it when you went to bed with her
that night?  That is fucking hard to believe 'cause as much as they fucked
her like that, it must still have been swollen.  Her shitter must have been
full of cum.  You noticed none of that?"

   He shook his head, but I guess I noticed she seemed to walk a little
strangely, the lube of it between her legs, the crack of her butt still
gummy with what oozed out of her used anus.  And of course she had no
underpants on, so this added to her self-consciousness.

   She was very subdued as well.  Mr.  Miller took her around introducing
her to men at various booths in the bar and she was flushed or blushing, I
could not tell which.  I thought they must be teasing her but she did not
look like she was unhappy about it, she smiled awkwardly.  She seemed
dreamy, she did not seem to get a lot that was being said to her.  Like she
was stoned.  Although we never smoked pot.  I don't think she ever did. 
But that is how she acted.

   Bob said: "Al had set it up.  He had even gone out and bought some
Vaseline at the drug store the night before.  The more he thought about it,
the more he liked the idea.  He called down at the bar that morning and
gave me the go ahead, so I got the boys together.  They were ready and
randy as sailors on shore leave.  You know the ones: Henry, Hank, and
Harry. Anyway, Al told them to keep quiet in front while he went back in
the workroom and got her ready.  So she knew something was up, she had
stripped for other men when he asked her, so she had some idea.  Al said
she was not happy about it, but like usual she did not say no.  He just
told her, and she submissively got down on her knees and leaned over,
doggy-style, on her hands and knees.

   "That's the way we liked to fuck her, you know," said Bob with a grin
and wise-acre look at me, " 'cause that way you can spank your wife's nice
butt and watch your wife's titties dangle and swing about while you bump
her butt with your dick up her buttery cunt, or some other guy can get
under her and suck on 'em, or get up in front of her and fuck your wife's
pretty mouth while the first guy is fucking her from behind.  In fact this
way three or four guys can have some fun with your wife at the same time."

   Bob winked; he liked to see my discomfort at saying things like this,
especially not using her name but referring to her as "your naked wife,"
"your pretty wife," "your pretty naked wife," and so on.

   He continued: " So anyway, I don't know what Al says to your wife but
he's got her down on her hands and knees and he's saying sweet nothings and
I 'spose her legs are trembling, but what's she gonna do?  And he unzips
her dress---slooowly--- you know, and he tells her---he's getting her dress
unzipped and its falling down her arms and he tells her straight out what
he wants, what they're gonna do: these guys are gonna fuck you in your
'rectum' and that is the word he uses.  He's not crude.  He explains some
men like fucking women in the 'rectum' cause it feels good; he tells her it
feels good for her too, but he's got to get her ready and she should not
worry and so he tells her he's going to cover her face so they won't know
who she is, because 'they know your husband.' Now that is cold.  That is
wicked, telling her that.  She is afraid they will recognize her.  She
starts to cry.  They aren't even fucking her yet, but she's crying because
she thinks it's some of her husband's buddies, guys his age, whom she must
know too.  This is really mean.  Al didn't know she thought this.  It
wasn't what he meant, but hey, it really worked.  Al don't mind she's
crying.  He kisses her forehead and smiles sweetly at her and says 'stop
crying or they will get mad at you.' He takes hold of her loose dress about
her hips and pulls it up and over her shoulders, and turns the dress so
it's inside out, hanging from the back of her neck to the floor in front of
her, her arms and head inside of it like a bag, making her naked from the
back of her neck to her bare feet; 'cause she's completely naked
underneath, man.  Shit, man, your wife ain't been wearing any underpants or
a bra most of the week." [I nodded at this.] "You knew that?  Shit!  Well
anyway, here she is on her hands and knees naked, her head and arms trussed
up in dress, she's stiff sniffling and softly crying like a little girl,
and her arms trembling."

   Al gets up to motion the guys in and what they see they like a lot. 
Henry especially.  Al signals for them not to speak.  I am sure she heard
them come in.  I'm sure she's thinking about them seeing her naked, that
they know who she is even if her head is covered up.  It really is the most
shameful thing to be done to her so far because she is really certain these
are my friends--Mike probably and some others--that was why Uncle Henry had
mentioned him--but she had never had sex with him or let him feel her---but
now...,

   She feels someone's hands on her bare butt, feeling it all over smoothly
and then nudging her legs to spread wider and show her wet cunt and her
tight asshole to them.  She feels more hands roaming all over the butt
cheeks and some fingers going into and working on her cunt.  Then she feels
a finger feeling at her anus.  A little push.

   Bob goes on: "Al is down between her legs -"but she doesn't know it's
him, you know; she thinks it's one of her husband's college friends -"and
he starts pushing his finger into her asshole and then takes some Vaseline
on the end of his finger and pushed that in and pushes more of his finger
in.  He's lubing her up.  She is trying not to cry out loud but can't help
a sob or two when he's really got his finger all the way in; he pokes
Vaseline in her asshole until it starts melting and running out into her
gash.  Then he gives the Vaseline jar to Hank and nods and Hanks' already
naked, well they all are, and he goops up his dick and squats over her.  Al
holds her trembling shoulders and Hank starts to work his dick in."

   "She moos like a cow.  That's what they tell me.  They laughed to hear
it.  She makes this "mmmmmooooooooooooooo" sound, they said, like a cow, as
Hank works it in two inches, three, five, seven whatever it is he's got. 
Henry has the ten incher.  That really sent her off.  And the other boys
got down and milked her cute cow titties just for the joke of it, as she
moo'ed like a cow, moaning and shivering on the dick stuck up her butt. 
Anyway to make a long story short each of them takes a turn.  Some taking
more time fucking her asshole than others.  And she is really got hot, pink
all over and perspiring with effort of it -"they're all sweating and out of
breath, really porking her.  Hank himself got it in her twice.  Looked to
have a stroke but came inside her twice.  And even Al got to poke her in
the butt.  Much as he could.  Everybody got to blow some cum up her rectum
and watch it burp and burble out when he pulls his dick out and look down
at the raw hole he had punched in her anus with his big cock."

   Then Bob vividly described it all in obscene details: how her rectum,
distended so deeply by thick dicks or long dicks that have pumped it,
gapes, showing a hot red hole; how her rectum slowly closes up, recovering
like a suffering wanting thing, shutting and going back to normal; how as
it slowly closes, like a reluctant thing, still wanting more dick, and how
it oozes the cum shot into her and how it drools, to run out in warm creamy
goo, to dribble down into her slit and then down between and inside her
thighs.

   "Man, O, man.  I wish I had been there," he rubbed his hands and licked
his lips, like she was something to eat.

   Bob was certain that she liked it.  They left her still trussed up in
her dress.  She never knew who it was.  She did not ask.  She did not want
to know.

   "Al said he wiped the cum out of her ass with Kleenex the best he
could," Bob finished, "but it kept leaking for a long time, even while she
came to the bar when you were here.  When she walked in with Al, you can
bet she had a gooey butt crack and it was gooey all night, I'll bet."

   That night Karen seemed very subdued.  She talked very little and
quietly as we drove home.  She said she was tired but she took a long
shower before she went to bed.  She and I did not make love.  Actually, we
never made love again.  The weekend swept her away, and my jealousy and
hurt made it impossible.



   Installment #13--The Day of the Show--I finally hear and see the whole
truth about my wife did for the men in Bob's Bar

   I awoke to my wife taking another shower again in the morning.  I had no
need to get out of bed.  I did not have to work.  I was sorry she did, but
it was nice to get the money.  From the bed I watched her get dressed for
the day: always the same practical J.  C.  Penny's white cotton underpants,
like her mother used to buy for her, and a plain white bra, and the white
cotton bobby socks which she would wear with her Penny loafers; simple neat
short -�sleeved white cotton blouse; a plaid pleated wool skirt.  She also
put on a light grey cardigan sweater, which she buttoned at the bottom, to
fit it snugly about her hips.  She admired herself in the mirror and put on
her lipstick, a daub of rouge that she rubbed into her cheeks.

   As she dressed, seeming now more cheerful than the night before -"I
wonder now: had she forgotten?  Had she forgiven him for the sodomy he had
forced on her?  She said that nothing had been more humiliating than how
she had been treated that night.  But given that, why did she not know what
might happen next?  Why did she not guess what was going to happen?  Or did
she know?

   She stooped by the bedside and explained how she would be working on
inventory over the weekend, starting today, and I asked how long she would
be working tonight and she said she thought it would not be very long.  She
kissed me goodbye and took the bus to work.

   The pictures that Bob showed me and his own graphic descriptions
enhanced what I know about this day, for Karen had confessed to me only a
little of it.  I had pressed her for graphic details, myself feeling a
mixture of shame and sexual excitement at what she told me, just as she
confessed doing it, but she was never completely honest with me.  After
meeting with Bob, having seen the pictures, hearing his details, I spoke to
her again, once last time before I left her for good, and she told me
anything else I wanted to know.  By then she was emotionally spent and was
resigned to my anguish.  She looked at me numbly.  and saddened, told me
candidly what she did, how she felt, although still she was confused about
her feelings and conflicted in emotions.  She admitted she had been keenly,
compulsively sexually aroused by what she was made to do even as she felt
deeply ashamed to be doing those things.  She admitted she had sexually
relished her humiliations and the coercion.  She was submissive but also
wanton in her response; she had felt abused but she was also secretly
intrigued and sexually craved her relentless sexual stimulation and the
rolling orgasms she obtained, such as she had never before experienced.  It
was, as I have called it before, sexual intoxication.  She was drunk with
sex the whole long time of it, only dropping from time to time in her
exhaustion for a dreamless sleep.  She was drunk as well with liquor for
much of the time.

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

   She claimed that Mr.  Miller did not tell her what was expected for the
day.  Others said he had.  At any rate she claimed that when she got to
work that morning he had acted like nothing had happened the day before,
like he always did.  They never talked about how he had set her up, how she
had been anally raped.  He never asked her feelings about it.  That was, of
course, deliberate.  She should submit without complaint.  She guessed it
too.  So he never gave her an opportunity to discuss her feelings.  But as
I have already said: this is the one thing -"or well, the one of two things
-"which she did not readily herself confess to me and which she was ashamed
about.  Even after I found out, and asked her, she did not want to talk
about it.  She nodded or shook her head to the questions I asked.  But from
the look on her face I saw that she was not sorry she had done it; and she
did not say she was sorry.

   It was Miller's cruel suggestion that these unseen men fucking her
butthole were my own friends, peers of our own age and familiar with her,
had seen her naked in that humiliating circumstance, willingly stripped by
her boss for them -"her dress pulled up over her head -"that is what
troubled her.  It was this shame, which she had wanted to hide from me for
my sake really.  Otherwise, she had nodded to confess that she had gotten
sexually stimulated from it, and, yes, had experienced orgasms even then.
Her deep and blushing shame was evident.  Especially keen for her because
she believed these were my own friends, young men whom she knew, whom she
had had to our home to watch TV and eat dinner, and whom she now feared had
seen her abjectly naked and had shamefully fucked her in her rectum without
her resistance.  I, as cruelly as Miller, never told her that it was not
true.

   But as far as she knew, that Saturday morning, she had in the space of
just a little more than two weeks been seduced by Miller, had given him
fellatio day after day, taking his ejaculate into her mouth and swallowed
it as she was coaxed to do, had let herself be stripped of all her clothing
in the presence of several men and fondled by them, naked, had presented
herself naked to a stranger, had permitted herself to be fucked by several
men repeatedly and had given them each fellatio as well, swallowing their
ejaculate too, several in a row, and had most recently been naked and
humiliated for the pleasure of my own friends, fucked in her rectum, to her
own grunting orgasm, young men who knew her and knew me and she expressed
not the least bit regret.

   She was tinder for flame.  She was emotionally and sexually raw.  Yet
she maintained a timid attitude that day, not anxious, not distressed.  She
described her own feelings, that it was like she was in a dream.  And that
is how she had looked since the humiliation of the Friday night.  That had
tipped her.

   Like a victim to a kidnapping who had been terrified, or a political
prisoner who had been interrogated to exhaustion and threatened with
torture, she had become moody and docile; she had no more resistance to
give them.

   Mr.  Miller actually engaged her in work that morning.  He made no
overtures to her sexually or romantically.  He tended earnestly and
seriously to business.  They briefly paused for tea -"actual tea, no brandy
-"in the mid -�morning, but they talked of nothing in particular.  He had
questions about her husband.  He seemed interested particularly in knowing
details about me.

   They worked until nearly one o'clock without taking lunch and then he
offered her tea again and declared they would quit for lunch at three
o'clock, that they still had a long day ahead of them.  This was, I
suppose, all part of the general plan, to lull her into a false security,
and to keep her stomach empty of food until she was given liquor to drink.
For when they stopped working, Mr.  Miller announced he would take her to
Bob's bar and they could get a sandwich and a beer before returning to
work.

   She had been to the bar often, not just the previous night, and she knew
many of the men there before of course.  I had brought her myself several
times, even before we had married, and of course she had been there and met
me there just the previous night, after her anal fucking.

   Henry, Hank and Harry nodded at me when they came to the bar that night,
just before Miller came in with my wife.  I can guess now what they were
thinking, though I knew nothing of what had happened, what they had done to
he, or what was planned for the next day.  I am sure they had bragged to
other men at the bar about what she had done for them.  And I suppose Karen
knew what they were thinking as they looked at her.  She did not initially
look for me when she came in.  Even then, as I say, she seemed really out
of it, dreamy, like she was drunk, although she had not yet been drinking
that much.  She was led by Mr.  Miller from booth to booth to meet and
greet "his friends" (including Henry, Hank and Harry who seemed really smug
in their secret).  Some men at the bar turned to ogle her.  It satisfied me
that they found her attractive.  The leering had no other meaning to me at
that time, but I am sure that Karen felt differently.  as their eyes
wandered on her body.  What I did not know then of course and what she did
not know is that these same men she was introduced to would be the ones who
would attend the "private party" on Saturday afternoon.

   She hardly remembered that Friday evening a the bar after her anal rape.
She seemed so dazed, that when Mr.  Miller brought her to me where I had
been sitting at the bar next to the two Arthurs, chatting with Bob about
basketball, that she said innocently: "O, hi. . .  " Glad to see me, but
apparently completely forgetting that I said we should meet there.  Mr. 
Miller bought her a drink.  I asked her if she knew Arthur and Arthur,
intending to introduce her, and she looked at them strangely and deeply
blushed.  Neither Arthur gave anything away, but one said simply: "Yeah, we
seen her..." Bob actually laughed at this, and handed Karen her drink.  She
sipped her drink and looked away from the fixed gaze each of them had for
her.  They stared at her chest.  I saw her discomfort.  I felt it for
myself.  Miller her bought her and I drinks.  I thanked him.

   So, that Saturday afternoon when Mr.  Miller led her into Bob's bar she
was hoping that none of the men who "knew" her would be there, and she was
pleased that the bar was almost empty, being too early for the main crowd
anyway.  Even Bob was not in the bar.

   Mr.  Miller seated her in a booth, asked her what she wanted and went to
the bar to order.

   By an odd (or perverse) coincidence the bartender on duty was a friend
of hers and mine, Mike, a guy my age whom I had grown up with and whom we
both had known since high school.  ACTUALLY, it was all part of Bob's plan
to humiliate her into submission to all the things he wanted to do to her.
Another part of her blackmail.  And it worked.

   She worried that perhaps he had been one of the unseen men of the night
before.  She was nonplussed by his cheerful small talk, what she thought
was his knowing looks, when he delivered their drinks.  She wanted him to
leave and could not look him in the eye.  I suppose he thought she was
being stuck up.  He later said he thought she seemed nervous and worried,
but he did not know why.

   She was hungry, but Mr.  Miller seemed inconsiderate of this and ordered
her another brandy and water.  She said she was hungry and he said to drink
her drink first.  He would see that she eats something soon.  She drank a
second strong mixed drink and was feeling warm and woozy.

   While they sat at the booth, business was light in the bar, little
traffic.  By coincidence a second of my friends came in for a beer and
stopped at the booth to say hi to Karen, who again felt sick to think that
this one had been another of those who had fucked her in her rectum; she
remembered the feeling and involuntarily squirmed, remembering it; she
blushed and was so embarrased she almost could not speak to him.  He left
after a beer.

   Because the bar is almost downtown, it is busiest on weeknights for guys
going home after work.  But there were a group of locals, like Bob's
friends, whom Al came to know over the years, men who might have once known
my father from his old neighborhood, and who would come in Saturday
afternoon and evenings as a regular thing; oddly none of them were in the
bar that day.  Bob closed up on Sundays, because of the local laws, unless
he was catering, which was permitted.

   What had been planned had brought these guys to the back door of the
bar; all of these "friends" had come there, as planned.  They gathered
early in Bob's backroom.  My friend, who bartending that day for Bob, so he
could be in the back, had brought rounds of drinks back for them already;
Bob had got him to run tab for the whole crowd and told him that he would
personally tip him for his service later that night; Bob explained it was a
private party.

   My friend was not told exactly what it was going on, but Bob had said
with a sly wink that there would be some entertainment and he could slip in
later and get a look if the bar was not busy out front.  Al had
deliberately dawdled in finishing work and then had kept her in the front
of the bar drinking for longer than expected.  Bob eventually came out
anxiously looking for them and grinned to see them and came over to where
they sat.  He presumed that Miller had told her what was up, so he said
"You're late. . .  " Miller nodded.

   "You ready?" he asked, looking at Karen.

   She told me she did not know what he meant.  Bob somehow believed that
she had been told or must have guessed what was up.  But she always
insisted that she did not.  She told me that she was completely surprised
by what happened.

   She was feeling uncomfortable to see Bob.  Since the time that he had
"fucked her mouth." as he had put it, she felt frightened of him.  And he
was so suggestive in his comments the previous night, when I met Karen at
the bar after work, obviously intending to embarrass her in front of me,
and make me suspicious and put her on edge (as he saw it) in order to help
out their blackmail scheme, that she was also contemptuous of him.  His
remark now - "Are you ready?" - gave her that sick anxious feeling again.
Perhaps, in this way, she did know what was up.  She felt the anticipation
that Bob and Al had.  There was a secret.

   Miller discretely shook his head to indicate that Karen had not been
told what was expected.  Bob saw it and nodded and said: "Oh. . .  oh. . .
okay. . .  Listen. . .  well, listen. . .  " And he leaned and spoke under
his breath so Karen could not hear, who was distracted anyway by my friend,
the bartender, bringing over her third drink, and did not hear him when he
said: "They're all here. . .  and a few more. . .  and they are drinking
and getting impatient. . .  "

   Bob had taken fifty dollars from each of them.  He would end up giving
Karen a ten dollar bill from each fifty he collected.  It was hardly fair,
considering.  But Bob said he had "expenses," which he would shortly
explain.

   In the end, my wife "earned" one -�hundred -�and -�eighty dollars, which
I found in a wad of ten -�dollar bills in her purse, plus a couple dozen
ones and fives for tips, and that was the thing that got me to confront her
that Sunday morning.  That---and one other obvious thing that that these
men had done to her body---finally got me to demand that she tell me what
was going on, and she broke down and confessed.

   By my calculations, her "earnings" of one -�hundred -�and eighty dollars
meant at least those eighteen paying customers had been at her (not
counting Bob, and Mr.  Miller and whoever else they gave a freebie to) and
so that money had "bought" from her at least thirty, probably fifty or more
sex acts  -" fucking her cunt, fucking her like a dog in tag teams, and
then fucking her up her ass when her cunt was sloppy, or she down on her
knees, sucking one cock after another, taking their cum in her mouth  -"
not to mention the several degrading things she did in her "show" for them
while they watched.  So she was "bought" for as little as two dollars for a
cock-sucking or for a fuck, a cheap drunk giggling slut if ever there was
one.  But of course she didn't do it for the money.

   Bob went back into the room to tell the men that she had arrived.  He
set the stage.  He set the lights to how I found them.

   Mr.  Miller then helped Karen to get out of the booth, telling her to
take her drink, which she had only sipped, for having drunk on an empty
stomach she felt tipsy.  She asked if they were going to get something to
eat and he smiled and said that Bob had something ready for her in the
backroom.

   I am sure she did not know about the backroom.  That part was probably a
real surprise.  It was dark.  Her eyes fell on the starkly lit low -�rise
stage across the end of the room, a garish stage light flooded it and on it
was the kitchen table and kitchen chair.  That was puzzling, and she could
not immediately see that the room had tables and chairs and men sitting at
them and some men at the bar to the side of this room, a second bar -"a
barroom hidden inside Bob's main barroom, but seedy, dark, musty, and
cluttered with boxes of liquor and other supplies near the door they came
through.

   It was a narrow closed up room.  The stage is not more than thirty feet
from where she stood at the doorway.  The stage was flush to the back wall;
on one side of it was a restroom; on the other side of it was a hallway to
a door out to the alley, with an exit sign, lit red from the inside, over
the top of it.

   The men turned to look at her as soon as she entered and strangely they
stopped talking when she and Mr.  Miller came in.  There was a TV droning
from the main bar behind her -"that was the only sound then, until that
door was closed and secret murmuring conversations began, men glancing at
her.  She felt a little sick.  Mr.  Miller squeezed her hand..  The air was
stuffy.  It already smelled like sweaty men, she told me.  It would smell
even more strongly later.  Like a men's locker room, but also of booze.

   I could still smelled that pungent mix of sweat and booze - and sex -
when Bob showed me the room even weeks later.

   It was buzzing indistinctly when the door shut behind her.  Mr.  Miller
stood beside her in the dimness.  The men staring, unabashedly leering. 
She felt immediately that anxiety in the pit of her stomach, the
anticipation.  Like Bob, I had to believe she knew what they wanted.  But
she insisted she did not understand until it was plainly said to her.  I
think that this may be basically true true.  But still I think part of her
knew they wanted.  She knew and was ashamed and felt afraid and so
pretended it was not true.

   Miller spoke quietly to her.  Reassuringly.  What did he say?

   Bob was behind the second bar, leaning on his elbows, grinning at her.
The sconces over the bar behind him and on the opposite wall gave off
enough light, that as her eyes adjusted she could see the faces of the men.
They talked with one another.

   She recognized Hank, Henry, Harry, the two Arthurs, but most of these
men she did not know.  They were all about the same age of Mr.  Miller. 
She thought perhaps some were other businessmen from near the jewelry shop.
She thought she may have seen them come to the store recently.  She said
that all of them were about the age of her father or her uncles.  She did
not count them.  She could only say that the room was almost crowded with
them.

   Bob told me there were altogether about at least twenty or so of them,
not including Miller and himself.  But with all the others coming and
going: it really was a crowd; or so it seemed to my poor wife.  So many
strangers made her unaccountably nervous.  Or rather it was because all of
them looking at her, watching her keenly, as she was shepherded about the
room by Miller who proudly introduced her to them as "my pretty little
sales girl" and "John's pretty little wife."

   They shook her hand.  They smiled, saying they had heard all about her
from Al; she blushed at the attention.  and the knowing insinuation.They
teased her about her blush and then complimented her on her clothes,
looking down at her legs as she was led away to another group of men to
meet.

   Miller addressed them from the back: "Better late than never." Some
laughed nervously.  For a moment Karen wanted to turn and leave.  She
worried.

   I asked her directly: "What did you think was going to happen?" I was
incredulous.  But she shook her head and looked at me pathetically through
brimming tears.

   Their quiet private conversations began to make a louder din and Karen
felt then a little less awkwardly self -�conscious.  She stayed close to
Mr. Miller who, pressing his hand to the small of her back, as he finally
directed her over to the bar where Bob was and Bob asked if she wanted a
drink.  She still had the third one in her hand, unfinished.  Miller said
he needed another one.  Several of the others wanted drinks.  Bob wrote
them down on a notepad.  He used an intercom to call my friend to make them
and bring them in.

   Mr.  Miller did not introduce her to anyone but some of the men
approached and asked her polite questions and made casual comments: "How
are you?". . .  "Too bad you have to work today. . .  " "I like your
sweater. . .  " And so on.

   Two men, who seemed to have brought cameras for the occasion and the
purpose, were taking pictures of her.  It startled her, but she tried to
smile.  One man used a professional camera, but another man used just a
plain Kodak Brownie, like her Dad used to take vacation snapshots with, and
because it was dark they had to put in flashbulbs.  Their pictures were all
aimed at her.  Taking them repeatedly.  She was confused.  Miller ignored
the photographers.  She kept cringing at the flashes and kept so close to
Mr.  Miller, that her body was touching his.  Some of the men wanted
pictures with her.  She obliged them sheepishly.  She smiled
self-consciously, awkwardly at the camera.  She looked confused, a little
anxious.  In the some of the pictures Mr.  Miller looks on at her; in some
leering men can be seen looking at the back of her legs.  Anticipating.

   My friend brought in the drinks that were ordered.  He found Karen the
center of attention.  Literally in the center of the room with most of the
men encircling her.  The flashes of the snapshots intermittently filled out
the dark room, while various men whom she did not know guided her to stand
beside them and to pose with them for photographs.  She looked to be
nervous and my friend thought the whole thing very strange and even
troubling, and she looked at him anxiously like she wanted to say something
to him, but she smiled also and in fact she said nothing to him; and he in
turn said nothing to her but left her there.  The men obviously liked her.
He wondered once he was back at the bar.  He began to guess at it.  But it
seemed completely implausible.  Karen, as he had known her as my wife, was
so naive, shy and even squeamish about things like what he thought was
going to happen here, what Bob had meant about entertainment, a stripper or
the like; why, she would blush at immodest teasing.  It could not possibly
be true, what he was thinking.  He expected her to leave.  But she did not
leave, at least not by the door he watched, and so when he would return in
less than an hour with more drinks he was shocked (and intrigued) to see
that he had been wrong about her.

   It amazes me still that she did not leave, unless she really wanted it
to happen, but she had been so well-prepared.  She had been set up so
completely.  Still she must have had a gut -�level feeling.  Her naivete
was no pretense, but it was a self -�deception that made it possible to
survive the emotional distress of her sexual humiliation, even while she
was being dishonest in her own mind.  For she was aware of the sexual
tensions in the room---she admitted that much to me---and she sensed her
own intriguing sexual feelings, stirrings she felt with the suggestive
glances at her, the flirtatious reMikes, and the casual but overly familiar
proximity to men's bodies to her own, as she posed with these men whom she
did not know, who put their arms around her shoulder or waist, and squeezed
her into intimate group photos.

   At any rate, Miller drank his drink watching her from the bar, talking
to Bob in some confidences, while Bob nodded and looked at her, and
finally, after she had been circulated through the room and photographed in
many groups and in some side -�by-sides and alone, Miller came to get her
and she supposed and was relieved to think that they would leave.

   She felt drunk.  She did not want the drink he held out for her.  She
asked as she took it: "Aren't we going back to work?"

   "We'll finish tomorrow," he explained, and he put his arm about her
waist and turned her and guided her to walk across the open floor while she
noticed the men were taking seats at tables or going back to lean against
the bar.  They were seating themselves before the stage, some turning to
watch her approaching with Miller, and others looking up at the stage,
where Miller was insistently pressing her to walk toward: "You see that
stage?" She nodded as they walked toward it.  The garish stage light
gleamed on its odd tableau, an everyday Formica kitchen table with aluminum
legs and a matching kitchen chair.

   She stumbled a little over her own feet, as he pressed her forward. 
"Are you a little drunk?" he asked.

   She giggled, a little silly: "Yes..."

   He said: "Good. . .  "

   She still claims she did not know what he wanted.  She still claims,
crying tears before me when she confessed it, and shaking her head, that
she did not know what was intended.  But she did admit that she did nothing
to resist it.  She did not say no.

   Once she had been helped by Miller to step up on the low -�rise and onto
stage and into its bright lurid light, she was turned by him at her
shoulders to face them and she certainly blushed and felt self -�conscious
as he now assumed the role of impresario to introduce her to the crowd of
men who now sat back or straddled chairs backwards and leaned in and leered
and grinned and commented privately to one another.  Miller gave her name.
He gave her full name.  He told how old she was.  He told them that she
worked for him.  He told them that she was married and how long she had
been married.  He gave them my name.  He told her, turning to look at her,
that many in the crowd knew me.  He turned back to the men and explained as
Karen looked on: "Of course he does not know about this and she does not
want him to know.  You must not tell anyone, or she won't do it.  Is that
understood?" They laughed.  Someone said: "Of course.." More laughter.  My
poor wife blushed responsively.  Did she know why?

   Then Miller turned looked at Karen affectionately and said endearingly:
"...and anyway she's never done this before. . .  (he kisses her cheek) . .
.  not for so many....  ( laughter again) ...  so she's a little nervous
... Right?  (looking back at crowd seriously) and a little scared....  So
be nice."

   Karen told me she still did not understand but then Miller looked at her
sternly: "But she will do it, won't you, honey.?"

   I am certain now she must know what he intended and yet she claimed
-"crying, shaking her head as she told me -"that she still did not know
until he said it out loud plainly.

   She said she actually asked him: "What do you want?" Everyone was
silent. This was too good!

   Miller did not immediately reply.  He smiled and so she smiled at him.

   Miller asked for and took her drink from her and put it on the table.

   Then Miller, gesturing, insisting, made the strange request for her to
get up on top of the kitchen table and stand there under the light.  He
said it twice before she seemed to understand; she was uncertain but she
did not refuse.  He helped her, holding her hand, as she took hold of the
back of the chair, to stand up on the chair seat and from there to step up
onto the table.  She felt particularly embarrassed by this.  It was silly.
She felt "on display" and the man with the camera took more photographs. 
She thought that the men in the front, from their tables, probably looked
up her skirt.  She instinctively put a hand to her skirt to hold it against
her thighs for modesty sake.

   Mr.  Miller turned back to the crowd.  "She will stay for you as long as
you want her.  Her husband does not expect her home until late, and of
course he has no idea." They said nothing.  She looked at Mr.  Miller
expectantly.

   Now here is where the stories differ.

   Bob tells how she pretended to be confused and uncertain, how Miller
told her plainly what he wanted, how she was pressured by blackmail of the
polaroid's Bob had taken and so on.

   Karen herself supported none of this; she cried and said she felt forced
to do it.

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

   She looked really out of it, like she was dazed and anxious, flushed,
unhappy.  That much is true by all accounts.  She was obviously drunk
Everybody agreed.  She said so too.

   She looked like "a deer in headlight" said Bob as she stood there,
coaxed up onto the table and turned to face them all under that harsh
light. Self-conscious.  Some the men commenting impatiently.

   Where the matter differed was by how willing she was.  She said she was
forced.  Bob suggested she was coerced by blackmail.  Both said she cried
tears of humiliation.  But the others said, while she looked
embarrassed--blushing, looking away with shame--she never said no.

   Al backed up and away from the table top slowly--leaving her
dramatically in the spotlight--standing, beseechingly alone, watching him
retreat into the darkness.

   There, he folded his arms, looked about himself smugly at all the men
sitting and waiting, nodding his head in approval and appreciation, and
turned back to look up at my wife, who saw him dimly, looking back at her;
he paused.

   She also waiting, clasped in her hands in her lap.

   Al said: " Good.  You look lovely."

   She smiled.

   "How do you feel?"

   She said something pleasant.  Miller said: "Are you happy?"

   She nodded.  She smiled not entirely sincerely.  She was confused, a
little suspicious; but she wanted to please him: "What do you want?"

   "I want you to take your clothes off." He said it simply, plainly.  She
was shocked, she said.  Bob said she did turn red in embarrassment.

   No one else spoke.  No one else muttered or remarked.  The silent room
intimidated her.  But they expected she would refuse.  They expected Miller
would not succeed.  But Miller looked up at her and she at him, while they
watched attentively.

   To everybody's amazed satisfaction she did not immediately reply.  She
blushed.  She looked anxious.  But she said nothing at all.  She did not
object; she did not refuse.

   She looked at Miller, sort of numb and dazed,--blank in the face--and
then asked him softly: "Why?" Only those near the stage heard her.  But the
others saw her worried look, she raised her hand to her throat, feeling top
button on her blouse.

   Al turned and grinned at the men, winked at them, then turned back and
replied to her.  He said simply, plainly: "We want to see you naked."
Making a sweeping a gesture at the men at the bar and the men sitting all
about the room.  Many laughed.

   She looked up at the men looking at her, laughing at her.  Ashamed of
herself.  She knew many of them.  She knew many of them knew me.  She
looked like she might cry.

   "Take off your clothes, Karen" he repeated.

   She fidgeted with the buttons of her sweater, her eyes only fixed on
her. He repeated himself: "Take your clothes off."

   Did she object?  She said she did.  She said she resisted but all who
saw it tell me that she responded without comment or complaint.  She simply
began to undress.

   She unbuttoned her sweater so that it openned from her hips, and leaned
over, looking up into Miller's eyes, and took off her shoes, slipping them
off by the heel.  Miller held his hand out for them and she handed them to
him.

   She stepped back in her stocking feet to the center of the table. 
Miller nodded at her, holding the shoes.  She looked down at him.  No one
said a thing.  She blinked.  Some of the men made some remarks.  They were
actually surprised that she was doing this.  They had not really believed
Miller would get her to do it.  She looked out into the crowd toward those
voices, but it was difficult to see the faces in the glare of the
floodlights on the stage.

   She looked at Miller in front of her, beneath her.  He nodded.

   Looking down at Miller's reassuring smile, she drew off her sweater
without prompting, but as she dropped the sweater to the tabletop and
reached for the buttons of her blouse and began to open them, and expose
her bra, she asked Miller softly to promise not to tell her husband about
this.

   Al replied loudly: "I promise.  No one was will to tell your husband."
Some men laughed, a few made comments.  Al suppressed them with a gesture.

   She looked momentarily alarmed by the comments.  She did not know if she
could trust them.  But she did not speak.  She undid rest of the buttons of
her blouse with both hands carefully, looking at her hands as she did it,
not really slowly, nor reluctantly.

   Al smiled at her kindly and told her she was pretty and she looked up at
him almost wistfully now, sadly perhaps.

   Miller looked over shoulder and said aside to the crowd that she was
really not as innocent as she looked.

   And then as if to prove the point, he asked her provocative questions
about her sex life.  She had drawn open her blouse for them, showing her
bra, bare midriff, shoulders.  Obviously self-conscious.  O

   She took off her blouse and held the blouse in her hands at her waist.
She awaited his encourgment, perhaps, hesitating, but he said nothing.  She
dropped her blouse to her left, onto the table top.  ATanding now in her
bra and skirt.  She lowered her arms and paused.  Mr.  Miller now spoke:
"Do you suck cock, honey?"Some men laughed.

   She looked shocked.  Everyone said so.  She would not reply.  She looked
hurt.  He changed the question: "Do you suck your husbands cock?"

   She dropped her head; she shook her head.   -œNo? -� Miller grinned, 
-œOther men?

   Miller winked at the crowd and asked: "Do they come in your mouth?" She
looked up and shook her head.

   "No?" Miller expressed disbelief.  Some of the men laughed.  She looked
unhappy and confused.  "Why was he doing this to me?" she later confided to
me.  She loved him.  She could not understand.  For my part I could not
understand why she had not expected this and all that would follow.

   But still she wanted to please him and so she smiled at him and said:
"He (that is, me) has never wanted me to."

   Miller gently encouraged her, gesturing, and then, as if reawakened,
startled, she glanced back at him, nodding, and then looked down at her
skirt, twisting to the side, looking for the zipper,and fidgeting with her
fingers and realizing the zipper was on the other side, confused by
nervousness (Bob thought); her fingers found the zipper on the other side
where she had turned and she drew it down and let her skirt, to fall like
liquid heap to her feet, showing herself now in her underpants and bra and
socks.

   She paused as she looked up at them so exposed.  Miller allowed her
stand like this for humiliation, and then turned to the men to see their
attention fixed on my undressed wife and now told the assembly that she
likes to suck cock; how she had in fact sucked him off several times after
work.  And added: "And she swallows it too."

   There was no unrestrained laughs and comments.  My poor red-faced wife
flattened her hands on her thighs and looked away.

   Miller let her stew in her shame but then once again came up closer to
the stage and the table, put his hands on the table, and looking up at her.

   Looking down at him, she stepped to the side, pushed the heap of her
skirt away toward her blouse and sweater with her foot; being wool and
heavy it began to slip off the table.  Miller caught it and laid it atop
her other clothes.

   She backed up to stand in the center of the table now-- wearing only her
underpants, bra and socks.  She dropped her arms.  I

   t was at this point she would see Mike coming in as bartender.  She had
not expected this.  She must have felt then that he would now want what the
others wanted.  She believed at any rate that he had violated her anally on
the night before.  It was now a point of no return.

   The men oggled her drunkely and made whistles and cat calls.  She felt
both humiliated and flattered.  It was hot under that light.  That showed.
A little glow of sweat to her skin.

   Midst some raucous cat calls, rude comments, laughter., cming into the
room now with a tray full of drinks, Mike saw my wife just on the stage, on
that table top, standing in her underpants and bra.  Obviously she was
taking off her clothes.  She must the "stripper" for the night.  He knew
what that meant.  He wondered if she did.

   Now, as it happened, Mike had not really been one of the mysterious men
who had fucked her in the ass the night before.  Karen was wrong to suppose
it.  As I would soon find out.  And Mike was sutnned and astonished to see
her standing there.  All the more stunned and astonished that she had
obviously spied him coming in yet did not stop out of embarrassment or
shame in what she was about to do.

   He just stood there staring in disbelief first.  He had to be told by
Bob to do his job.  He later told me he was happy to linger.  He passed
drinks slowly.  Watching to see.  Would she really take off her clothes for
them?  She had done this much.  She must.  He wanted to see her naked.  I
am guessing he always had.  I think all my friends had wanted jus the same
and more.

   As he went around the room passing out drinks, he watched her there on
that table under that light in her underpants and bra while Al told his
incredible story about her sucking his cock, about he and others fucking
her, about the customer that saw her naked; he could not believe it, but
there she was; he just stood in the darkness in the back to watch with his
mouth open and Bob nodded that it was okay.

   So he was transfixed with the rest of the crowd and watched how Miller
went on for while teasing her and then finally told her to take off her
bra. And how he could not believe it but when Miller then commanded her:
"Take off your bra, honey." She just reached behind her back, twisting, and
unhooked her bra, again asking them pathetically again not to tell her
husband.  She had not seen Mike at this point.  Mike was too far back in
the dark.

   Miller replied to her again: "I dunno.  Depends how nice you are was to
my friends." They laughed, and she looked up at the crowd as she held her
unfastened bra in her hands against her breasts.  She blushed.

   Miller coaxed her, gesturing: "Okay, Karen....  Show 'em your tits."

   She looked at Miller as she let down her hands, letting her bra dangle
from her left hand and then fall to clothing she had dropped on the table.
Aware how they could all see her breasts now, obviously conscious of and
responsive to their stares, she brushed back her hair, slightly smiling,
and gazed out across the room anxiously, looking a little embarrassed but
clearly willing to completely do it, to strip naked in front of these men.

   Still she did not see my friend among the men in the room, she was aware
only of the span crowd of men and all their eyes on her and she looked away
shyly when she was caught looking into someone's face, if he eyes turned up
from her tits to her eyes and she was aware of their thoughts.  Bob laughed
about it.  Shook his head.  "It may have been an act, but it made my dick
hard to see her."

   Miller looked out at the crowd and nodding looked for approval: "Nice
tits, huh?"

   Bob said the men teased her.  Complimented her tits.  Crudely.  And she
just stood there.  Silently.

   My "pretty little wife" up there just above where I am sitting now. 
Here with Bob, showing me the pictures.  My wife.  Standing completely
naked on this table.  Under stage lights just like a one of Bob's Sunday
Night skanks.  He was famous for it.  This was a custom.  Been goign on for
as long as I had lived here.  As teenagers we had talked about it, wanting
to see it.  And as it happened, I had seen it myself a couple times.  My
dad took me....  to give me an "education." he said.  But it made me
uncomfortable.  Some of the women were paid, I suppose.  Some were
"blackmailed" somehow.  Some were just sluts, I guess.  The women I saw
were all older than me, but not as old as my dad, could be a school teacher
-- that age -- maybe what?  Forty?  Plump and stretchMikes.  Chubby tits.
Pale.  Hairy pussys.  They'd cover it with a hand.  Standing there in their
shame.  Some got drunk to dull the shame.  I remember thinking how pathetic
they looked -- naked and humiliated as they were -- but still I got a
hard-on looking at them.  I imagined how her husband never gave her any
anymore and that is why she did it.  But sometimes they cried as they
undressed and covered their faces as they stood there naked under that
spotlight.  I saw one like that.  I was sitting right up close.  Like I am
now.  Seeing her swelling tits from underneath, big nipples.  She looked
down at me sadly, so miserable and ashamed, tears on her cheek.  Still,
even then, I got a hard-on; I figured she deserved it.  I never joined in
sex acts that usually followed the "show".  I heard about it.  I saw it one
time.  Several men around her, holding her legs, mauling her tits, while a
buddy fucked her.  Looked like dogs on a bitch, I thought.  Like I said:
the whole thing made me feel very uncomfortable; I felt sorry for the the
woman.

   Now my wife.  Guys looking at my naked wife -(TM)s bare tit, wearing
just underpants.  In theglaring light..  For all of Miller's friends.  In
front of my friend Mike.  And other guys I knew, for Christ's sake -- old
buddies of my dad -- guys who I had invited to my wedding, who'd danced
with her at the dinner afterwards, who'd told me how lucky I was and all
that bullshit.  They'd given her the once over, I 'spose even then,
wondering what she looked like with no clothes on, and probably had wanted
it in their imagination, but never in a million years expected to see her
really without no clothes on.  And nobody, not nobody, least of all me, or
even that pervert Bob, would ever have thought she'd actually do it -- take
off all her clothes for these men.  Willingly.  But there she was.

   So now they all got to see her bare tits.  Getting hard-ons.  Like I
did. What did think of her?  What did think of me?

   So finally Miller said, seeing that my buddy was lingering at the door,
wanting to see what was going to happen, came up to the table put his palms
down on it, looked up at her sympathetically and asked her:  -œAre you
cold? -� She folded her arms under her breasts, causing them to thrust out
provocatively and shyly assented.  He said:  -œYou can keep on your socks,
Karen --.  But take off your underpants. -� No one said anything.  She did
not reply.  She stared down at his face, her mouth open slightly, she
looked at his face as she put her hands to the waistband of her underpants,
and kept her gaze on his face as she lowered her underpants, exposing her
belly, her untrimmed girlish pubes, and leaning now to see as she did,
raised one foot and then the other to step out of her underpants, letting
them lay beside her and then straightened up.  Completely naked now.  Arms
down.  Standing so all could see her.

   Self-conscious in her nakedness, perspiring under that glaring hot
light, while for several minutes the room was just silent, staring at her.
She now saw that my friend Mike was moving about putting down beers and
drinks in front his customers.  But still she stood naked for them without
speaking.  How long was that?

   Bob said: "Dunno...  maybe five minutes, maybe more..." She fidgeted. 
Not knowing how to pose.  She looked innocently childish, though aware of
what she had done.  Lots of flash bulbs popped, lots of pictures were
taken. Many men had their own cameras.  Bob had brought one guy to take the
"official" photos for the scrapbook.  But he added others that other men
gave him.

   Now, completely naked, she looked out across the room to see at all of
those who stared at her and in the far back of the room, beside the door to
the front bar, she saw my friend Mike, standing dumbstruck, with drinks on
a tray, staring at her nakedness.  When she saw his gaze, he acknowledged
hers with a wicked grin and little wink.

   Karen would admit that she felt suddenly ashamed of herself, embarrassed
to be standing completely naked like that with all those men gawking at
her, and Miller now leaning next to Mike, telling him things she could not
deny, and my astonished friend Mike, seeing her naked and hearing now all
of the things she had done with Miller.

   Especially Mike, she said, made her feel ashamed of herself because Mike
had been to our apartment so often.  He was nearly my best friend and of
course she worried that he would tell me what she had done.  But afterall
he already had done something much more humiliating to her than just see
her naked.  She wondered what this might mean and who were the others?

   So, she says she was unhappy, she was anxious, she was nervous.

   But look at her for yourself: in the picture Bob gave me does she really
look really upset?  Nervous, maybe I can see.  But does she look like she
didn't want them to see her naked?  I mean she's not trying to cover
herself!  She is showing herself naked willingly.  She wants them to see
her naked.

   Seeing her naked must have been something my friend Mike had always
wanted, as I said.  She must have known that too.

   "She always got wet..  between hers legs ...  you know...  really
soupy...  ready to fuck and all...  Taking off her clothes for men...worked
everytime..." Bob said.

   Miller now sauntered back to the front of the room and she looked down
at him sadly as he approached.  He asked her: "Is this what you wanted?

   He taunted her: "You like standing there naked in front of my friends,
don't you?"

   She told me later that she was confused and hurt by his question; she
thought that Mr.  Miller truly loved her and that she'd do anything to make
him happy, but she didn't understand why he made her do things like this.

   "Why do you think?" I asked her, not altogether without some pointed
sarcasm.  But she answered me with a an innocent reply: "He said he liked
seeing me doing things like that...  that he saw how much I wanted it when
I did it and, you know, when they did things to me..."

   "Did you want it?" She did not reply but began to cry again and she
said: "I don't know."

   "But you did it..." I replied and she cried some more more.

   In the picture Bob showed me as she stood naked for them on the table,
she looked timid and apprehensive like she had been stripped for an
interogation.  She looked like they had taken her a helpless prisoner. 
Perhaps she had.  But she was willing victim.

   "She's been taking off her clothes for me for a couple weeks," Al
explained to the crowd.  "Anytime I asked." Looking up at her, he accused
her: "Her husband...  John...  he don't know what she's been doing."

   She looked at him hurtfully.

   He said: "It's true.  You didn't tell him.  You don't want him to find
out, do you?"

   She shook her head.

   "So then last week, in the shop, you took off all your clothes for me
and Bob came by the shop and he found you naked and you let him see.  Ain't
that right, Bob?"

   Heads turned.  From the bar Bob called out brightly: "Damn straight!"

   "And the very next day you took off all your clothes for him again and
now you let him take pictures of you naked, didn't you?"

   "I got 'em right here," Bob waived the polaroids from the bar.

   Miller continued: "Yes, and you took off your clothes for Hank here--
you know, John's uncle--and for some of the other guy too."

   He looked up at her and said this pointedly: "Some guy came into the
store to buy something for his wife and you was already half dressed.  e
seen you in your bra and panties and flirted with you, so I said to
him,"Give her five bucks and she'll strip for you.' And you did...  you
took off everything but your bobby socks and then stood there like that in
front of him...  naked...  just like you are now...  For five bucks!"

   It was all true.  Put this way--she seemed such a slut.  But in reality
of course she had only done any of it because she loved Miller and wanted
him to love her.  Now here he was -- throwing it all back in her face. 
Why? She still loved him.Didn't he love her?  Lower lip quivering.  She
dropped her head.  "She looked like she was going to cry," Bob said, "for
sure."

   "So, taking off your clothes here for my friends....  that's all you,
honey -- you want it.  It's what you want."

   "So long as we don't tell your husband John.  Right?" She looked down at
Al pleadingly.

   "No, I won't tell him.  Why should I?  Long as you are nice to me." He
turned to the crowd.  "You guys ain't gonna tell him, are you?"

   "Hell no!" someone yelled.  And that made them all laugh.  Miller turned
back to Karen and looked up at her and said: "So, you gonna be nice to my
friends?"

   "I mean, you're already took off your clothes for them.  So....what you
say, honey?  (Reaching out he caressed her foot on the table)...  You gonna
let 'em feel you up?"

   She did not reply.

   "Play with your tits some?"

   He paused and reaching up her bare leg, caressing it: "Feel your cunt?
Stick a finger up your ass?  Finger fuck you?"

   She did not reply.

   "I'll bet you're horny now and I am sure they can make you cum, honey...
if you let 'em" More laughter again.  Nasty tittering.  Some asides and
jokes; some promises made.  Karen heard them.  She must have known now what
was in store for her.  She looked at the floor.  She looked dejected.

   The men were eagerly following Miller's obscene interrogation.  Fact is
that only a few of them had been told the stories; only a few had seen the
polaroids.  When they set up the show, Al and Bob had just told them that
she was "John's wife" -- they all knew me -- may of them had seen her
around.  They told them she was in trouble -- would do it because she was
afraid they might tell me what she had done -- so they said she needed the
money and if they paid, they could make her take off her clothes for them
and more.

   "You let me fuck you." Still no reply.  The men grinned and murmmured.

   "And you fucked Bob.  And Hank fucked you.  And the three others too. 
Four men at once it was.  And more than once" Al paused for effect.  Karen
shook her head and said something to Al but he replied: "Yes, you did..."

   "And I'll tell you what else, my friends.  She sucks cock." Karen shook
her head.

   "Well, she sucked my cock," contradicting her.

   "Many times." Al added.  "Many times.  And I even came in her mouth."

   She did not reply.  She looked at Al pathetically.  He added, smiling at
her: "And she swallowed it.  Every time...."

   Al put his hand on the table.  He was right beneath her: "She liked it."

   He stopped smiling.  He said seriously: "She sucked Bob's cock too. 
Couple of times.  And took his cum in her mouth too.  She sucked off Hank
and how many others?  Three, I think, it was.  And they all came in her
mouth.  Right?  She swallowed everybody's spunk.  Like good little girl. 
Eating her vegetables.  You know why?  Cause she likes it.  Tell the guys
how you like it..."

   She sighed heavily, looking dejected.  Al stepped closer and she looked
down at him intensely.  Then, gesturing to the crowd, he insisted: "Tell
'em."

   She looked down at him and said softly: "Why are you doing this?"

   "Tell 'em how you like it, Karen..." Al repeated.

   "Yes," she said looking out at the crowd furtively and then dropping her
gaze.

   "You wanna suck cock, honey?"

   The men softly chuckled.  She looked at them--surprised and hurt.

   "You gonna suck cock?" One of the men called out.

   She fidgeted.

   "Why?" she pleaded to Al.

   "Because you like it..."Al said and then he slapped the table.  It made
her jump and the men laughed again.  They liked intimidating her.

   She looked up.  She looked afraid.

   He stood back and, twirling his finger in the air, he commanded: "Turn
around...."

   She looked uncertain.

   "Turn around.  Show 'em your back side."

   He explained to the crowd, looking over his shoulder.  "I like her ass.
She's got a nice ass.

   Al backed up and turned to look at the men: "Maybe you wanna fuck her
ass?"

   He turned back to Karen: "Lean over, honey.  That's right.  No, all the
way over.  Down.  Put your hands down on the table top.  That's it.  Let
'em see your cunt and your asshole.  Yeah, like that." Karen had bent over
and awkwardly mooned the crowd with her legs spread, her tits hanging down,
her hair hanging down.  She looked out at them from behind her legs.  The
photographer took his shot then Al motioned to the crowd and the main
photographer stepped away and others got up with their polaroids and
brownies.  Lots of pictures of her were taken in this pose.  Bob said it
was one of his favorites too.

   Flashes popped from all over the place.

   So, it was not for the money, she did it.  And she didn't do it because
she was afraid, I would find out.  She was swept away.  Miller was like her
sexual Svengali.  He had some way of arousing her sexually to such a point
that she was drunk with her sexual excitement, and like any drunk she kept
drinking to keep that drunk feeling going.  She drank a lot.

   It was obvious and I was pretty much certain what would happen next. 
She must have known it too.  She must have wanted it.  She never said no,
as Bob said.  And when I told her what Bob said, she just covered her faced
and sobbed and said she was sorry.

   "You know" Bob confided in me her secret, "she don't think she's pretty.
She thinks she's fat," Bob explained, shrugging, "But I think she looks
pretty good."

   Bob grinned at the shame I felt, he put his hand on my arm as I looked
at the photo and said "Your wife was really a good sport about everything."
He went on, getting ready to flip the page, "She got a little scared and
upset when things started to happen, you know, looked like she might start
to cry...  well, she did cry some of the time...  but that was just
nerves....  and maybe she worried what you might think." He said it, like
he was consoling me.  "But everybody treated her real nice, standing so
obligingly for them, taking all their comments.  Some of the guys were
jerks and teased her some.  But most gave her compliments and sometimes she
even smiled a little.  Like here.  Don't she look like she wanted to do it?
I mean, they really liked her; they really liked seeing her naked and told
her so, you know?"

   Looking at the pictures I could see all this for myself.  Her nakedness
aroused me as much as it did them, I suppose, and I could not help staring
at the same things they did.  But it was her face, her expression I really
focused on.  I think I saw that she wanted to be naked for them.

   She told me later that they talked about her like she was something for
purchase---well, I guess she was.  And in fact during the several
minutes--ten or fifteen minutes of her display on the that table top under
that light-- she admitted that she did nothing at all to hide her nakedness
as they lewdly ogled her and lewdly discussed her tits and pussy and told
her what they thought of her and what they wanted to do to her.  In most of
the pictures she looked vacant or turned her face away from the men looking
at her; she could not look these men in the eye, and perhaps pretended not
to hear what they said, but my friend's astonished sappy grin and intense
stare as he went about the room especially unnerved her.  Bob said, that
especially when he came up to the table where we sere sitting, close up
beneath her gathering up empty beers and glasses, he just looked up at her
for a long time so frankly, so boldly, so studiously, just a few feet away
from her bare nakedness, that she got very fidgety and nervous and looked
away finally toward Miller pleadingly.

   Now she was blushing and embarrassed for real.  And afraid he might tell
you about seeing her take off her clothes.  So Bob told me how she asked
Miller sheepishly once again: "Make him promise..." Miller saw how she
glanced anxiously at my friend when she said it.  She looked at him herself
and begged: "Don't tell him you saw me..." For a moment she looked like she
might cover herself but Miller approached and took your friend away.

   "Miller smiled up at your naked nervous wife and nodded reassuringly. 
He told her it was going to be okay and told her he'd take care of it and
he brought your friend over to me.  I gave him a twenty buck tip from the
gang and told him he better keep his fucking mouth shut about what he'd
seen."

   Bob paused and guessed:"He never told you, did he?"

   I had to admit that he had not told me.  Bob nodded, smiling.

   Bob nodded at the picture you see.  She was too ashamed to see my friend
immediately below her, looking up at her, as he picked up empties among the
table near the stage, so ashamed to see him looking up at her, and at what
he was looking, that she would not acknowledge him.  "Funny as hell," said
Al, "Look at her expression." But she did not try to cover herself.  Bob
said: "She stripped because she wanted us to see her naked.  She can't help
herself." That is what he believed.  That is what all the other men said
too.

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

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

   After my friend had collected the orders for drinks, glancing
compulsively at my wife who seemed to be more and more flushed and nervous,
he lingered at the back of the bar in the dark to watch, and looked up to
see my wife now idly touched herself, her genitals, reflexively perhaps
feeling herself, fingering her slit, rubbing herself there, as she saw that
my friend was watching her.  Looking away from him, but aware of him, as
she fingered her cunt, she lifted her other hand to feel the nipples of her
breasts.

   Miller said something to Bob.  Bob laughed.  She closed her eyes.  My
friend reluctantly left when Bob nodded at him sternly.  Disappointed to
leave, I would guess.  He did not get to come back until much later.

   Bob said my wife then continued to masturbate under the light for all
these men.  This was incredible to me.  She had always been unwilling to do
such a thing for me.  Now she did this in front of this crowd of men and
she did it with shame but obvious sexual excitement.  She would have
climaxed, she was ready to do it.  Her fingers, he said, looked wet with
herself; you can see them looking wet in the photographs.

   But Miller suddenly stopped her, stepping up to the table, raising his
hand up to her.  Karen suddenly crouched, covering her breasts, looking for
my friend.

   She asked Miller quietly: "Can I get dressed now?"

   Miller shook his head: "You're just starting, honey."

   Miller reached out his hand and she understood and rose a little to step
off the table.

   Miller helped her down off the table and she leaned against it, her
hands clasped at her lap, looking flustered, nervously looking up at the
audience which was commenting, saying things she did not clearly hear.

   Bob handed a bottle of beer to Miller.

   Miller raised it, looked at its contents, quickly downed what was left,
and said to her quietly:

   "Do it with this." He handed her an empty beer bottle.

   She looked uncertainly at it.

   Miller said: "Fuck yourself!" He backed away to let her stand alone in
the stark light.

   One of the photographers got up on top of his chair to take this
picture.

   She did it.  As the men eagerly watched they were utterly silent .  No
one said anything.  They were simply fascinated.  They could not believe
it. None of them had seen a woman masturbate and now seeing this young
woman abuse herself with a beer bottle, like she was some kind of nympho:
it was incredible.  They were speechless.  She closed her eyes as she did.
When finally (and fairly quickly) she obviously and wantonly orgasmed; they
all started talking at once and my wife sheepishly leaned back against the
table in the light and dropped her head.  Miller took the beer bottle from
her and embraced her.  She clung to him, her face hidden against his chest.
Bob then turned on overhead lights.

   Then Miller told her to walk around the room naked.  To go from table to
table and persent herself to each of the men.  That's picture that Bob gave
me.

   So, just as Bob had described, she went about the room, from table to
table, and was groped by each of the men, was finger fucked.  And
eventually the liberties taken were without any restraint.

   The first man to take down his pants and with help from his friends,
forcing her to kneel and guiding her head to pu her mouth onto his cock,
led the others to undress as well.  They were well pleased to see how she
let the man cum in her mouth and willingly swallowed his cum.

   Her cunt worked to a lather, she had yelped and mewed in her pleasure to
this, she was on her knees on the floor, spent and panting, and from there
several men helped her to stand, turned her and positioned her to lean over
the Kitchen table, her backside in the stage light, and now the first table
of three took service of her.

   The crowd was oddly solemn in sexually using my wife, Bob said.  They
had no music on.  The men talked softly away from the action.  The only
loud sounds were from her or when the men ejaculated.  The sounds of thighs
slapping.  The sounds of her swallowing jets of cum.  The wet sound of her
cunt and cocks slopping in it.

   It was several hours of this.  Repeated frenetic sexual episodes of many
men.  Table by table.  At one point Karen complained that she felt cold. 
Miller thought it meant she wanted to get dressed but then she explained:
"Can I put on my socks?"

   Al kissed her, cummy mouth though it was, and was delighted: "Of
course!" He said and helped her to put them on while yet two naked men
fondled her from beside and behind.

   She got no rest.

   A table of three took her.  Then another table of three took her.  Then
another table of three.  Then the table of five.  She was moved about the
room as each finished with her.  Laid on the tabletops.  Sat in a chair. 
Kneeling before a chair.  Leaned over the chair.  The bottle came in handy
to ply her anus and make her ready for those who preferred to use her
rectum.  She swallowed so much ejaculate that she drooled it, that the
drinks they gave her to refresh her went milky with it. .  A creamy goo
matted her pubic hair; it oozed from her vagina.  She had so much ejaculate
inside of her vagina and coming out of her anus that it dribbled from them
between her legs and dripped onto the floor.  She stepped in some in her
stocking feet.





   They rubbed what overflowed around her mouth from her cock -�sucking,
over her lips, on her cheeks, onto her breasts, massaging her nipples with
it, teasing her for not swallowing it all.  They rubbed what they took with
their fingers from between her legs onto her belly, into her navel, over
her buttocks.  They rubbed this also on her face and enjoyed force
-�feeding her sticky gooey fingers to lick.

   She glistened with smeared ejaculations on her cheeks, her buttock, her
belly, her thighs.  Her lips were glossy with the last one to cum in her
mouth, sometimes strings of cum hung from them when it is more than she
could swallow or when she gasped for breath between gulps; it spilled out
and onto her chest or dripped on her belly or thighs.  Her face was
spattered with premature ejaculations, flecks of semen in her hair.  Her
chin was wet with cum.  Her chest and belly had dollops of the glistening
goo.

   Bob had laid down several overlapping wool army blankets onto the middle
of the floor, and intermittently she had been led there to lie down on
them, to be fucked or to be rested, and there at last, after hours of
continuous sexual use, she curled up from sheer exhaustion, only to be
occaisonally roused from time to time by men rolling her over to be fondled
and kissed or finger-fucked, or to be taken up wearily to her next table to
be fucked again and again by the men taking their turns or second helpings,
or coaxed to sit up and take another penis into her mouth.  She could not
count the orgasms that she had.  She had them so frequently and repeatedly
that she sometimes begged them to let her catch her breath and felt her
heart would fail or she would pass out.

   My friend came into the middle of this, almost three hours having gone
by, though much more was to come, and she was at the fourth table of men,
naked, crouching over, tremulously holding the seat of a chair, and one of
these middle aged men, also naked, was fucking her hard from behind, a glow
of sweat on both of them.  His thighs slapped against her buttock as he
fucked her, gripping her hips, while another naked middle-aged man to her
side was peering under her belly and reaching in to fondle her vagina,
watching her dangling flopping breasts, the nipples of which yet another
naked man was fingering from the front of her while he masturbated looking
down at the taut expression on her pretty flushed face.

   When he put the beers down on the table, Mike saw that the fat man
behind her had obviously entered her rectum with what seemed to my friend
to be a long, very thick, dark -�red erection, which vividly contrasted
with the paleness of her buttock and her bare back, and she grunted like an
animal, meeting his strokes with her thrusts, and was oblivious to
interruption.  He could not take his eyes off her naked body.  But he
looked up from it as he stood by the table to see that her eyes had opened
wide and were fixed intensely on him, as if to ask him anxiously what he
thought of her, but then she closed her eyes in her woozy absorption of
being fucked, and so he wondered if she had really recognized him.  When
the man loudly exclaimed his penetrating ejaculation, shooting hot inside
her anus, she squirmed and squealed like a thrilled little girl.  Two men
squabbled over whose turn was next.

   He did not come back again.  His shift ended at eight and she was still
being fucked.  She did not get home until 3 AM.