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Subject: {ASSM} Jen's Titillating Behaviour (MMF exhib oral cheat)
Date: Wed, 15 Mar 2000 00:10:17 -0500
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Jen's Titillating Behaviour (MMF exhib oral cheat) 
by DrSpin
March 2000

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: 
drspin@newsguy.com

* Complex thanks to Ruthie, expert editor. She is 
ruthless, exact, and not for the faint-hearted. Note 
that comma placement, Ruthie. I concede yet again. 

===========================================================
DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. If any reader is offended, he/she should not have 
been here in the first place and only has himself/herself 
to blame. I will probably be pleased to allow this story to 
be archived at any ASSTR-approved location. Just ask me 
first. And if it is relocated, please leave my name intact 
as the author and please include my email address.
===========================================================

Organising people to be somewhere at the same place and 
time is no easy affair. Except at one another's houses, 
that is, because then it doesn't matter so much about 
precise arrivals and departures and kids can be picked up 
under the arm and packed away in a spare room to sleep or 
play, deposited in comfort and security. It was what we did 
on a Saturday night when nothing more exotic beckoned.

We were four couples, Jen and I (my name's Tom), Kay and 
Martin, Vanessa and Geoff, and Sandy and Steve. We did it 
most Saturday nights because, while inducements to do 
otherwise came around often enough, it was rare that they 
interested all eight of us simultaneously. 

This particular Saturday night was at our place and that 
was fine, because Jen and I enjoyed cooking and we liked to 
put heart and soul into the work of it. Plus we didn't have 
children yet and it was a big roomy house with a huge 
dining room that opened out into a rampant garden. And it 
was high summer and we could leave the french doors wide 
open and it was all very, very pleasant indeed. The few 
children we hosted that night were asleep upstairs. 

Like most Saturday nights, some of us had drunk too much by 
the time the last of the dinner was spirited away and, like 
some Saturday nights, somebody had produced some dope and 
some of us had smoked too much of it and the animation and 
high spirits the eight of us could generate was down to the 
embers. We were scattered around the big room in varying 
states of disrepair and the head counts were being done and 
nobody could come up with a driver who wasn't too drunk or 
too stoned or both to get behind the wheel of a car. By 
consensus we decided that everybody would stay over and go 
home in the morning. This wasn't usual but it wasn't 
uncommon. 

The eight of us got on famously. We were at that age, late 
twenties to mid-thirties, when you gravitate naturally 
towards mutually beneficial groupings and gatherings. I 
don't know why, but it was easy socially, economically, 
culturally, and intellectually. The mix of it seemed to 
work. I mean, you didn't adore and admire every single one 
of them and there was no way you could have been best 
friends with two or three of them. But in the bigger mix, 
irritations, defects, and potential personality clashes were 
largely washed away and what between two people could 
become a damaging lifelong dispute generally passed within 
the group as a fleeting stimulating discussion. 

Kay had been dozing sprawled in an armchair, showing an 
inviting stretch of her excellent legs extending from a 
skirt no longer arrayed in the most ladylike manner. She 
opened her dark eyes suddenly and blinked at the light. 

"I'm off to bed," she announced. "It's the only way to keep 
Tom from looking up my dress and I'm too spun out to do 
anything to stop him."

"Look, I'm just too drunk to turn my head in another 
direction," I said.

"A gentleman would have closed his eyes to it," Vanessa 
chipped in snippily.

"Can't do that," I replied. "Her legs are way too good." 

This was an established fact. Kay had the legs, Sandy had 
the butt, Vanessa had the hair and eyes, and Jen had the 
bosom. It had been agreed many times by all of us. It was 
also true I was drunk but not as much as I had been a while 
ago because I'd already stopped drinking. And I hadn't 
taken up a passed-around joint like I usually did because I 
was getting over a cold and I had something of a sore 
throat.

"Why pick on him?" my wife, Jen, interposed. "Have a word 
with your husband about the way he stares at my chest."

Vanessa waved her hand dismissively. "It's not only Geoff 
who stares. I have to tell you, Jen, I look at your chest 
and I'm not even a dyke."

"Yeah," Geoff agreed, his over-the-top leer throwing his 
moustache akilter. "Show us your tits, Jen."

This was not an uncommon request. Aside from the fact that 
Jen's breasts were uncommonly generous, it was the way the 
group usually dealt with sexual tensions, curiosities, and 
flirtations that fluttered about the place. The odd mock 
suggestion, rolling of eyes and exaggerated compliment took 
the place of real-time actions and events that everyone was 
sensible enough to know could not happen without great risk 
to situations that were comfortably satisfactory. No 
marriage was unhappy. There wasn't a reason to jeopardise 
relationships. Sure, I could and frequently did imagine 
Kay's fine long legs wrapped around my waist but I wasn't 
going to risk disaster by trying to make it happen.

"Well," said Jen, giving the appearance of considering his 
request, "I should definitely get out of this new dress 
before I clean up in the kitchen and stack the dishwasher. 
But I was thinking about doing that after I put my drunken 
husband to bed."

"Good plan," said Martin, counting himself in Geoff's 
corner. "We'll wait until Tom's out of the way before we go 
ahead." Martin's a lawyer. Opportunistic. Never fails to 
sniff out a sporting chance. 

"Come on, then," she said, standing up and dragging me out 
of the chair. "You heard the deal, Tom. Time for you to go 
to bed, so Geoff, Martin and I can have some play time." 
She knew I'd know she was kidding, of course. That was the 
nature of the game.

"I'm off too," said Sandy. "Coming, Steve?"

"Sure sounds good to me," Steve agreed as he followed his 
wife. Steve was one of those amiable soft-spoken guys. He 
usually followed Sandy unquestioningly.

The group trudged wearily into various rooms and Jen made 
sure of this and that and who was where and did they have 
enough pillows and I stood by the open window in our 
bedroom waiting for her and looking down at the garden. 
Martin and Geoff were out there, sitting and smoking a last 
joint together on a bench amongst the heady fragrance of 
the dark-red flowers of the riotous quisqualis vine. I 
could smell the powerful jasmine-like scent from the 
window, more pervasive by a long stretch than the coarse 
herb smell of the marijuana, and it made me light-headed. 
I called out a menacing warning to them not to urinate on 
the gardenias because it would upset the pH balance. The 
guys gestured in the time-old vulgar unambiguous way and I 
staggered off chuckling towards my soft and welcoming bed.

I was under the sheets and at least half-asleep when Jen 
came into the room. I watched her through secretly slitted 
eyes. I have always liked to look at her when she 
undresses. She took off her dress and reached for the well-
worn jeans slung over a chair. She was wearing lacy white 
underwear, new by the look of it, and as she leaned over to 
pull on the jeans the bra was working hard to keep her 
abundant breasts in harness.

She wandered over to her dressing table to rummage for a 
tee-shirt. The dressing table was near a window, and I was 
thinking how those guys might be able to see her if they 
were still sitting on that bench. She glanced out the 
window and quickly jumped back. She retrieved her glasses, 
put them on, and peered around the corner of the window. 
Again she jumped back. She stifled a giggle, a hand 
shooting to her mouth. Then, after a quick glance at me 
supposedly asleep in bed, she walked slowly to the window 
and stood there, looking out. She placed her hands against 
each side frame and, there was no other way to describe it, 
posed deliberately and provocatively for the men to see.

Lying on my back and watching through slitted eyes, I saw 
my modest wife standing immodestly at the open window. I 
heard her giggle, though quietly. She slipped a strap off 
her shoulder like a stripper but put it back, blowing a 
kiss into the garden. She stepped back, turned aside, 
grabbed a shirt out of the drawer, and came close to me, 
out of their line of sight. She looked at me for a moment, 
a broad smile on her lips. I could see, even from under my 
lids, her nipples poking hard and sharp through the lacy 
insets of her bra. She drew the shirt over her head and 
with a final glance at me, a smile still twitching on her 
face, turned off the light, left the room and closed the 
door.

I was stunned. This was Jen? Like many other women with big 
breasts, she tended to avoid displaying them. They'd come 
to her as a young teenager and she'd spent many years 
putting up with whistles, taunts, and ribald comments. Ever 
since I'd known her, she'd dressed conservatively. She 
wasn't at all ashamed of her breasts, but she'd become 
accustomed to not accentuating them. What had come over her 
this night? I climbed out of bed and discovered my penis 
thrusting through the fly of my pyjama shorts like an iron 
bar. I tucked it away, opened the door quietly, and crept 
down the stairs.

She was in the kitchen like she said she'd be, scraping 
plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. Geoff and 
Martin were with her.

"Come on. Just one close look," Geoff was saying. "We were 
too far away in the garden."

She stopped and looked at him, still holding that peculiar 
smile I'd seen upstairs. "I told you," she said. "Do a good 
job helping me here and I'll think about it."

Martin was scouring a pot and he handed another to Geoff. 
"Do it, dummy," he said. I was in the dining room, flat 
against the wall. I could only see into part of the kitchen 
but I could hear everything.

She'd think about it? What was she doing? Jen? You need to 
know about Jen. She just wasn't an upfront type of woman. 
She didn't go in for an aggressive display. But I already 
told you that. Looks had something to do with it. I mean, 
sure she had a generous bosom and she attracted attention 
because of it. But she had always been insecure about her 
looks. She thought she wasn't pretty. Which she wasn't, I 
guess, in the way we all think about that. But she wasn't 
unpretty, either. She was smallish, she wore glasses 
because she was short-sighted, she kept her hair cropped 
short because she said it was untidy long and, to be 
honest, she had a small bird-like mouth and a weakish chin. 
That's being overly critical, though. She was hardly plain, 
for God's sake. And she did have those bountiful tits.

I pressed my back against the wall thinking about all this. 
Within a few minutes they'd just about finished in the 
kitchen. "Well, I think we did pretty well," Martin said.

"I suppose you did," she said. "Go into the dining room and 
sit on the couch, both of you. I'll be with you as soon as 
I get the dishwasher going."

I slipped silently out the french doors and crouched behind 
a big and bushy potted golden cane. I could see into the 
dining room perfectly. The guys sat side by side, looking 
pleased with themselves. Shortly she came into the room and 
switched off the main overhead lights, leaving the room lit 
by two standard lamps. She stood a few steps away from 
them, hands on hips. "So," she said. "You really expect me 
to do this?"

"We really do," said Geoff. "I'll go stark staring mad if 
you don't."

"I doubt that." But she took off her glasses and put them 
aside.

"You said you would," said Martin.

"I said I'd think about it."

"Don't torture us, Jen. Have mercy." 

Abruptly she whisked the shirt over her head and dropped it 
to the floor. I was watching from an angle but I could see 
her rigid nipples poking through the bra. She shifted her 
weight and stood calmly in front of them. A silence 
lengthened and grew.

"Jen?" It was Geoff.

"What?"

"Take it off."

"Definitely not."

"Please?"

Martin joined in. "We won't tell anyone. Promise."

"You'd better not," she said. "I'd deny it anyway and 
nobody would believe you."

"If you take it off I'll give you my new car," Geoff 
wheedled. "Here," he said, fishing in his pockets. "Take 
the keys."

She laughed. "You adore that car."

"It's worth it."

"I'll die of grief if you don't," Martin said, only half-
teasing, I suspected. "This is my biggest fantasy. I can't 
get so close and be denied. It will be the end of me."

She had that smile on her face, the one I didn't know. She 
reached tentatively around her back. I couldn't believe my 
eyes. She had her hands on the clasp and she stopped. "I 
don't believe I'm doing this," she said softly. Then her 
hands moved and the bra was undone. She held it against her 
chest for a moment, then let it fall to the floor. Geoff 
and Martin inched forward on the couch, staring at her 
breasts. 

Her breasts. It had been a while since I'd stared at them 
myself. I guess when you live side by side with somebody 
you stop paying attention after a time. She had big 
breasts, sure, but not super-big like those porn star 
mammary queens with beachball appendages. They were just 
full, round and heavy, completely natural. Now that I was 
looking, I could see she'd lost a little shape to gravity. 
Not much, though. She still pointed directly out in front 
but the whole weight of her was sitting, at the age of 28, 
just a bit lower.

Geoff spoke into the long silence. "Sensational," he said.

"Do I live up to the fantasy?" Jen asked with a broad smile.

"Better. Way better," Martin replied. Her smile became even 
broader.

"You know, we all have fantasies," she said. Huh? What was 
this? She had always told me she didn't.

"Yeah?" It was Geoff. "What's yours?"

She giggled. "I couldn't possibly tell you." This was 
patently untrue. She wanted to be coaxed.

Geoff began the process. "We have a pact tonight, remember? 
This stays among the three of us. It's our secret."

"I just couldn't," she said shakily. She looked nervous and 
sounded a little breathless. She was, I could tell, deeply 
excited. "It's, well, embarrassing. It's a bit, I don't 
know, I guess a bit wild."

"What do you call wild?"

"Oh God. You expect me to describe it?" But she went 
straight on without pausing. It came out in a rush. "Well, 
I sometimes dream about being bare-breasted in front of a 
group of men and they're, like, masturbating and I'm 
kneeling in front of them and they shoot their stuff all 
over my chest." She stopped and covered her eyes with her 
hands. "I can't believe I told you that."

"Hell, we can do that," said Martin.

"Hey, I wasn't asking. I was just telling you, that's all."

Martin looked at Geoff. They reached a simple 
understanding. "Jen," said Martin, "why don't you get down 
on your knees?"

"No way. I couldn't do it. Definitely not."

"Get down on your knees," said Geoff firmly.

She sank straight to her knees, her back straight and her 
breasts like a veranda deck. She looked up with wide eyes 
as the two men, friends, her good friends who were married 
to her good friends, got up from the couch. They unbuckled, 
unzipped, let their trousers fall to the floor and stepped 
out of them, kicking them aside.

"Now," said Geoff to Jen. "Take down my briefs."

She looked at his crotch close to her face, then up at his 
eyes and back to what was confronting her. She reached out 
and did what he asked, pulling out and down to free the 
erection that bounced out before her eyes.

"Now him." She shuffled across on her knees and repeated 
the process with Martin. They looked reasonably sized 
without being remarkable, in similar proportion to what 
she was used to with me. She looked from one to the other. 
She was mouth-breathing.

"Start me off," said Geoff. It was an order and he'd judged 
her correctly. She wanted to be told what to do, to have 
the burden, responsibility, and guilt of decision removed. 
She reached out to grasp his penis but he held her hand. 
"Not like that," he said. 

She looked up at his face. "You mean...?" She left the 
words hanging.

"You know what I mean."

She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. I 
could hear it plainly from six metres away. She bent her 
head and took him in her mouth, holding him with her left 
hand. I watched bewildered as she applied herself, her head 
bobbing slowly and evenly. This was Jen? My Jen? I mean, 
we'd done this plenty of times but it was by no means her 
favourite activity. It was always something of a gift she 
made to me, certainly not a wanton act of lust on her part.

Geoff gently pushed her head away. "Whew," he said. "I'm 
close already. Go to Marty."

She turned her head and grabbed Martin's outthrust cock in 
her right hand, pulling him towards her. Still holding 
Geoff with her left hand, she dipped her head and opened 
her mouth wide to enclose him. His head jerked back and he 
looked briefly at the ceiling as she worked on him with her 
mouth and tongue. In a couple of minutes he was ready.

"Jen, back off now," he said. She drew away and 
straightened her back as they both pumped furiously, their 
hands over hers. Martin pointed his shaft urgently at her 
breasts and she thrust her shoulders back, lifting her 
breasts forward. His first spurt landed directly on her 
right breast and he clutched himself, jerking, as he 
sprayed her in four or five powerful bursts. Geoff was 
adding his contribution before Martin was finished, sending 
ribbons of semen across her chest.

She fell back suddenly, hands free and weight on her heels, 
her chest area smeared with their sperm. Her head slumped 
forward and I thought she'd lost her balance. It looked as 
though she been knocked over by the primitive force of 
ejaculation. Then I realised. Both her hands were kneading 
at the crotch of her jeans and she was in the throes of 
orgasm.

A minute or two passed in silence. Then she raised her 
head. "Holy smoke," she said.

"Jen, you look amazing," said Martin. 

She looked down at herself. Her breasts were daubed and 
besmeared and she had been sprayed from neck to waist. 
"Holy smoke," she said again. "I don't know what came over 
me."

"I do," said Geoff, and the three of them laughed together.

I could see it was all over. I got out of there, retreating 
carefully, shorts wet and messy with my own emissions 
although I couldn't recall it happening. Via the back door 
I made my way to the bedroom, changed shorts, and climbed 
into bed. She came in quietly a few minutes later and I 
heard her running the shower in the bathroom. I watched 
under my eyelids when, fresh and clean, she stood in the 
dark beside the bed. She looked down at me for a minute or 
so, lingering, and then slipped under the sheets and backed 
her body into mine.

Of course I could have intervened at any stage. I was aware 
it was in my power to stop it. I made no move because I 
couldn't stop wanting to know what was going to happen. I 
had a hard indigestible lump of jealousy in my stomach but 
it was not going to be impassable. I didn't blame Geoff or 
Martin. I knew absolutely, because I saw it all, who had 
led this dance from go to whoa and she was sleeping beside 
me like an artless woman.

 From that day to this I never said anything to her about 
her behaviour that night. That would have opened up a whole 
new zone of uncertainty in our comfortable and secure 
marriage. I don't know why she behaved so uncommonly and I 
doubt she does either. Not with certainty, anyway. I do 
know it didn't happen again, or at least I think I know. 
I'm pretty sure of it because I kept an eye out for the 
signals.

The dynamics of the group changed from that night. A month 
or so later, I ran into Kay in a dark corridor at a party 
and, on a whim and because I felt free to do it, I kissed 
her with fire and passion. She fell like a shot duck. We 
met for a luncheon tryst the next day and during that same 
afternoon, just as I had imagined, she clasped her long 
legs around my waist. We had a relaxed affair that lasted 
over 12 months and she was the best fuck of my life. Her 
husband Martin, the other half of the duo with my wife, 
never knew a thing about it.

Quiet Steve, of all people, ran off out of the blue with an 
Asian girl who spoke little English and I wound up sleeping 
with his wife Sandy for a bit. And so did Martin and Geoff, 
I discovered later.

I never fucked Vanessa but we had a hot grope one night in 
her car. I figured her husband Geoff deserved a little tit-
for-tat, so to speak. She apologised for her small breasts 
which I found off-putting. Not her breasts; the apology.

All in all, too many secrets, betrayals and lies. The 
innocence of the group dissipated under the strain. But 
then work got serious and time-consuming and people didn't 
seem to be available for simple fun and friendly Saturday 
night gatherings any more. Ah well, life's like that in 
your thirties.

ENDS

* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) 
comments and opinions from readers and is invariably 
motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com

The Stories of DrSpin at: http://www.asstr.org/~DrSpin/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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