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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: cons.txt (MF, wife-sharing, voy)
Authors name: Marc (marchase@my-deja.com)
Story title : Consenquences
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2001. Please
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Consequences (MF, wife-sharing)
by Marc (marchase@my-deja.com)
***
Comments to the author welcome.
***
"You just don't give a damn, do you?" When Joan is mad,
there's no stopping her.
"Of course I do, I just don't think your getting kissed
is such a tragedy, that's all."
It wasn't just a kiss, it was like god damned oral rape,
he shoved his tongue in my mouth, and grabbed my ass.
He's s crude bastard, and you don't give a damn!"
"No harm, no foul. Besides, I saw what happened. You
were coming on to him, and you sure as hell hot weren't
fighting him off very hard, either. I think you liked
it, and I think you're protesting too much because you
know I saw what happened. But you know, I'm wondering
about something. Just before we came here, when I kissed
you, you were very worried I'd wrinkle your dress."
She was wearing one of those basic black mini dresses,
the ones with a pretty neckline that was swooped low
enough to be attractive without actually showing much
cleavage, and short enough to expose her legs to mid
thigh.
"You didn't seem to worry too much about that when John
was grabbing your ass."
She was sputtering in anger. I think I'd hit the nail on
the head.
"I don't think you care if John mauls me, I don't think
you care, not even a little bit."
"If I thought you weren't enjoying the attention, I'd
have stopped him, but face it, Joan, you weren't
objecting, at least until you saw that I was watching.
Hell, you're the one who followed him into the kitchen
like that, anyhow."
"What are you saying? That it doesn't matter what
happens, if I don't object it's OK with you?"
That was a challenge, and now I was mad, too.
"Yeah. Yeah, that's it, it doesn't matter. Do what you
want!"
Being married a long time means you know where each
other's buttons are, and no one said fighting had to be
fair. Fifteen years of marriage was a long time, and I
was in no mood to put up with Joan's idea that a strong
offense is the best defense. I saw what I saw -- it was
a hell of a lot more than a neighborly, "Hi, I'm happy
to see you" bread and butter kiss. Well, it was John's
house; we were his guests, along with two other couples.
He'd recently broke up with his latest girlfriend, so I
wasn't surprised that if it wore a skirt he was after
it.
At least the evening was about over. One of the other
couples had just left and the other couple were making
"We're gonna go" motions. Great. Joan and I could go
home and continue our fight. What a way to end the
evening. It would end in private, where the decibel
level wouldn't be constrained by politeness.
Soon enough, there were only the three of us left,
finishing off our drinks in preparation for our
departure.
Then John spoke: "Joan told me you saw me kissing her,
and that you weren't jealous. That's unusual for you, I
remember you being the most possessive guy around."
I was still pretty pissed off at her, and for that
matter, at him. "Not any more. She can do whatever she
wants. Besides, what I saw was a cooperative thing, it
looked like consenting adults to me."
John was standing behind Joan's chair at that moment. He
looked at me. "Well, I was consenting, at least. I
haven't held or kissed a woman since Nancy and I split
up three months ago."
"So you decided to hold and kiss my wife?"
"Well, yeah, and I liked it a lot."
Joan looked over her shoulder at him, and then at me,
not sure what was going on. She didn't know if John and
I were about to fight, or what.
I was feeling a bit nasty. "Well, there's nothing there
that'll wear out. Help yourself."
If looks could kill, I'd have been Joan's victim right
then and there.
"You really don't care what he does, is that it?"
"Whatever turns you on, kid. Or him." Glib, I was not.
"Whatever turns me on?" John asked, staring at me.
"You heard me," I told him. Did you, reader, ever hear
the expression "If you find yourself in a hole, stop
digging?"
John bent over -- he was still behind her chair -- until
his lips were on her, where her neck meets her shoulder.
It was as erotic as anything I had ever seen; Joan's
face flushed, her mouth opened in surprise: well, so did
mine, for that matter. That sight distracted my anger
with her, and with him, for that matter, and my
realization that at least one part of my body thought it
was very, very erotic. John straightened up after a few
seconds. "That turned me on, Pete. You objecting?"
"Not me. Are you objecting, dear?" I was dripping
sarcasm. Talk about me being juvenile!
Her look was half defiant, half something else.
"No."
"Help yourself, John." My tone was challenging, almost
daring him. And her.
"I'd almost forgotten how nice it is to do things like
this," John said as he bent over my wife again, his
hands on her shoulders, until he was kissing at her neck
again.
Joan was still staring at me, her hands were gripping
the armrests of the chair she was sitting in, but her
head tilted a little, exposing more of her neck, making
it easier for John to gain access.
"Very nice," John offered his evaluation of her neck.
"Still not objecting, Pete? Still OK with you, Joan?"
Joan's look at me conveyed something other than
defiance, now. It was really a questioning look, an
uncertain one.
My own anger with her remained, but it was being
overshadowed by the just plain arousal that was over
taking me at what I was seeing.
"Until Joan stops you, I say, 'go for it, John.' Do what
you want." Digging my hole deeper and deeper, huh? But I
was also getting harder and harder.
So he did. He bent over Joan again, his lips at her ear!
He may have whispered something, I'm not sure, but I am
sure I saw a tongue touch an ear lobe. When that
happened Joan jerked almost upright in her chair, almost
as though she had been shocked. It was an incredibly
intimate sight!
"Are you going to tell John to stop, Pete?" she asked
when he stood upright again.
"No. Are you, Joan?"
"It's up to you," she said, passing the buck, or
offering a bigger shovel for the hole I was digging.
I put my feet up on the hassock in front of my chair,
crossed my hands in my lap, and leaned back. "I'm not
stopping anything," I declared, fairly sure the erection
I had was hidden by my ever so casual pose. "In fact
this could be interesting to watch."
John glanced at me, like Joan almost defiantly, then
down at the woman sitting in front of him.
He put his hands on her shoulders, began a gentle
massaging of them. Joan was still sitting upright, stiff
and rigid, sort of the way my cock was feeling, now that
I think about it.
His hands went from her neck to the inch wide straps of
her dress, and back again, back and forth, his fingers
almost touching around her neck, then tracing outwards,
again and again.
"Going to let him do that, Joan?" I asked.
"Yes!" It was a defiant tone of voice. Defiant, and
something else, too. A little bit afraid, a little
unsure of herself? I wasn't sure, either, except that it
was very arousing to see.
"Getting off on that a little, John, doing that to her,
with me right here?"
"Yeah, I am, more than a little."
"It looks like you're ready to, uh, what did we call
that when we were kids -- like, you're ready to cop a
feel?"
Joan almost jerked when I said that.
"What do you think, Joan? Do you think that's what he
wants?"
"I, I don't know." The defiance was gone now; she just
didn't know what to make of what was going on.
"The thought crossed my mind, sure," John knew what was
going on, that's for sure.
"She hasn't objected," I reminded him, "and neither have
I. Go for it."
The hands on her shoulders stopped their lateral
movement.
I waited expectantly, and saw the fingers on his right
hand move forward, over her shoulder, and down, until
they were just at the neckline of her dress.
Joan was absolutely rigid in the chair, her eyes were
wide, and her fingers were indenting the fabric of the
chair's arms because she was holding them that tightly.
His fingers were moving back and forth along that
neckline, caressing her, but it surely wasn't relaxing
either her, or me!
"She hasn't objected a bit, John, what are you waiting
for?" Was that a dare, or another shovelful of dirt out
of my hole, deepening it more?
The fingers on his right hand moved slowly across the
dress's neck line, across her chest, under the dress now
to the knuckles, moving down, over, towards her left
breast.
I watched her carefully as her mouth opened as though to
protest, as she held onto the chair arms for dear life.
I saw, though, some other clues. She was wearing a
strapless bra, a sexy flimsy one, and a slip designed
for such dresses, but neither of those garments, or the
material of the dress itself were able to conceal the
protrusions where her nipples were, where they were
hardening. The lumps caused by his fingers moved still
more, a couple of inches from the tip of her breast,
then less than an inch, then finally his hand was over
it, there was evidence of his fingers touching, rolling,
teasing that sensitive organ, causing it and its mate to
respond, causing me to respond, too.
"Still not objecting, are you Joan? I know what he's
doing, and you're just sitting there, letting him play
with you."
"It's up to you to tell him to stop," was her reply, her
challenge to me.
"That's not nearly enough for me to stop him, Joan."
John looked from the top of her head to me, and back
again. "I sure as hell don't want to stop. Was that an
invitation to do more?"
"Sure. Go for it, John." My hole was another shovelful
deeper.
Joan was silent, breathing through her mouth as she was
being touched, caressed.
I addressed my next words to her: "Right, Joan?"
There was no answer -- that meant "yes" to John and to
me.
In a moment John withdrew his hand -- when he did Joan
sagged back in the chair, relieved that it was over.
It wasn't.
"Lean forward, Joan," he said.
She looked up and over at him quizzically.
I understood, though, I understood very well.
"Yeah, lean forward, Joan."
She did, tentatively.
John's hand was busy behind her, fumbling. "How does
this dress work, Joan?"
She looked up at me, startled. Now she understood.
"Tell him Joan, tell him how to open it!"
What was it Garth Brooks sung about? -- Something about
burning bridges?
"It's, uh, it's...."
She was stammering. I helped. "John, it's some kind of a
stupid fastener - you have to push the two parts
together to unhook them, then there's a little zipper."
He followed instructions well; I could see the tension
in the dress's shoulder straps relieve itself, although
I was feeling increasing tension in my crotch, and to be
honest, in my own emotions, too. This was my wife he
just unzipped.
"Are you going to tell him to stop, Joan?"
A small voice, with a vastly different tone, came out of
her now. It was no longer angry, no longer pissed off.
"It's up to you to tell him to stop, Pete, he'll stop if
you tell him to."
My anger was still right there, though, anger and lots
of other emotions, emotions I had never confronted
before. "Nope: you're the one who's going to have to say
'uncle'."
"Never!" It was a contest of wills, now, the original
fight forgotten. I stood up, went to her, and reached
for her hands.
She took mine, almost gratefully. She must have thought
I copulated. I didn't. "You have to say stop, Joan, I'm
not going to."
She looked at me and shook her head no. I pulled her to
her feet. It was a matter of pride, of ego. "Honey, you
have to tell him," she said quietly.
"Turn around!" was all I said.
She did, facing John, who was still standing behind the
sofa. I could see his pants were just as lumpy in the
crotch as mine were.
She stood there, and I looked down to see her bra strap
and the start of her little black slip exposed where
John lowered the zipper.
I reached out toward the zipper, and she felt me do
that, I could see she was expecting me to lift it, to
end this. There was almost joy in her body language.
Instead, I let my fingers trace up the exposed skin
towards her neck. "Are you going to tell him he's gone
far enough?"
Ego, pride, eroticism, everything was mixed up. "No,
Pete. You tell him. I think you started this, you should
stop it."
"Is this some kind of an ego thing with you two?"
John asked.
"Yeah, that, and some kind of dare, too," I told him.
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"Not at all, I like what's happening," he said: What a
surprise.
"Are you going to stop this?" Joan asked me, looking
over her shoulder. "Are you going to zip me up now? Are
you all talk?"
She was dead wrong about who had to stop it.
"If you don't tell him you've had enough," I assured
her, "this is going to go on."
"I won't!" It was almost as if the fight had become a
dare.
My fingers were on her shoulders, near her neck.
"You're just not going to say uncle, are you?" I asked,
hardly believing that we were both so prideful.
"I won't."
I moved my hands along her shoulders, to the straps of
her dress.
"I will not!" she said again.
And I pushed at the straps, lifting them free of the
slip, and out over the ends of her shoulders, and held
them there.
"You won't?"
"I won't."
Pride commeth before ...
"Then lift up your arms!"
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Either tell us you've had enough, or lift up your
arms."
She did, raising them above her head. "Go ahead, I dare
you," she told me.
I reached down - it was a short dress -- found the lower
hem, careful to avoid her slip, and lifted it, turning
it inside out, hiding her face with it as her slip was
exposed, then exposing her face, too, and pulling at it
until it was off her body, off her hands, and free of
her.
And she stood there wearing bra, slip, pantyhose, heels.
She was almost as concealed as before, but everything
was different, just as everything is different between a
woman in bra and panties instead of a two-piece bathing
suit, or in a dressing gown instead of a dress.
"You have the power to stop this," I reminded her.
"So do you," was her reply. Neither of us was backing
down.
"You have the power, too, John," I said, maybe looking
for a bridge not yet burned.
"I may have the actual power, but not the will power,
guys. You just go ahead and fight or dare or whatever,
I'll play my part." I guess there never was a bridge
there. Not many guys would say stop when they were
watching what he was.
"Shit," was the best I could come up with.
"Sounds like a concession," Joan said, almost
victoriously.
"Not quite."
Her back was still to me. My hands found the clasp of
her bra -- I knew it well, I had even fastened it for
her earlier, it seemed days ago, we seemed to be here so
long, and so much had been happening, and...
I released the hooks; the ends moved apart, tension in
the bra strap ended, and tension in the room increased.
"Do that thing you do, Joan. Take it off from under your
slip. Or, you could just say let's stop. Your choice."
Joan looked at John, who was almost salivating. She was
talking to me, though. "Want me to say 'let's stop,'
Pete? Is that what you'd like?"
John offered his opinion. "Hell, don't stop, Pete. I
like what's happening, I'd like to see you take it
further..."
And before he could finish she reached to her cleavage
and with a single pull, extracted her bra.
I knew the slip was shear, but black enough so it was
still covering her better than most bathing suits, but
still...
She held the bra out at arm's length, holding it by the
short strap between its cups.
"Want this, John?" she asked, and he almost leapt over
the sofa to get his prize.
Joan turned to me. God, she looked sexy. "Is the game
over, Pete?"
"Are you calling it off?"
"No, you have to."
"Then it's not over!"
John was right behind her.
I pushed her back the step or two it took to reach the
sofa.
She looked incredible, standing there.
"Sit down," I commanded, and pushed at her shoulders to
force her.
She did, primly, knees together. Her slip was as good as
a dress in providing optical concealment, but the
message it sent was incredible.
"Come over here, John."
I had knelt in front of her. John did too, beside me.
I took one of her ankles, lifted her foot, and pulled
off a shoe.
"Now you, John." John did the same thing to her other
foot.
Joan sat there, watching, her nylon-covered legs held
together, looking partly frightened, partly defiant.
"Now what, guys? Have you gone far enough?"
"No," I told her, "not nearly far enough, unless you say
so."
"That's up to you to say."
I turned to John. "Wanna stop?"
"Hell no."
"Me neither. Do this!"
I put my hand on the outside of her calf.
John changed his position, so he could do the same
thing.
"Now this."
I let my fingers move up her leg, to her knee, to her
thigh.
John's hand disappeared under her slip at the same time
mine did, and soon both our arms were under her slip to
about her waist. The slip was pulled too tightly. "My
side first, then yours, John." I had gripped the upper
edge of her pantyhose, pulled at them, started them
down, then withdrew my hand. I watched Joan's face when
John's hand found what he was looking for, and he moved
the down a couple of inches along her hip, too.
"Your choice, Joan. Either say 'stop', or lift up your
hips."
She never broke eye contact with me, she just put her
feet squarely on the floor, and with her back against
the sofa, lifted her hips off the sofa, "Do it, Pete, or
say stop." That was another challenge, and I wasn't
about to stop.
My two hands moved up along those legs I've so often
caressed, two hands on her hips, hips I often held, then
fingers found the hem, and so help I couldn't help
myself, I pulled at the pantyhose, and as my hands got
to mid thigh, she sat back on the sofa and extended her
legs, so that I could continue in one smooth motion,
down her calves, and pulling, watched as the hose turned
inside out, moved over her knee, and down, and off.
She sat down again.
I went back to the chair I had been sitting on, and
looked at her, and at John standing next to the sofa.
"John, I saw you messing around with Joan before. Are
you man enough to do that now, here? You don't have to
sneak around."
I knew she was still mad at me, and too proud to call an
end to this.
John looked at me, and at her. He went to the side of
the room and turned off a floor lamp, leaving the room
lit only with a low wattage table lamp. It was sexier
somehow, not quite as in-your-face clinical.
And he sat beside Joan. Turned toward her. And in one
smooth movement he moved her and himself so they were
both prone on the sofa, her trapped between him and its
back, being pressed there, being held, being kissed,
being caressed there.
I couldn't see well, so I walked over behind the sofa,
and looked down at them, the two of them, in a tangle of
arms.
John, after the first kiss, reached down between them, I
was sure to start fingering her, getting her ready, but
I was wrong. He pulled at his belt, and his pants, until
he had them open and unzipped.
Then he pulled at her upper arm, and took her by the
wrist, and moved that hand down between them.
I saw as he put his fingers over hers, and pushed them
under his short's waistband, and in a moment I knew she
was touching his cock.
His hand came out -- hers didn't.
His hand moved between them again, brushing her slip,
pulling at it, pulling the material taut because of the
way they were laying on the sofa, and I watched as she
moved a little, lifting a little, until her weight
wasn't holding the slip anymore, and he could pull it
up, exposing her hips to me, and her vagina to his hand.
Her leg moved over his hip, opening herself to him,
making access easier, and his hand moved there, and his
fingers moved along her, until I could see his hand
moving over her hip, and closer, then two fingers bend,
and disappear.
"Uncle?" I asked.
Actions spoke louder. She was no longer stoking his
cock. Instead that hand was pushing at his pants, trying
to force them down.
There was urgency in his actions now. He stopped
fingering her, and instead lifted his hips, and pushed
too, until his pants were at mid thigh, and his cock was
exposed.
Joan looked between them, looked at him, so ready, and
looked up at me while she reached for, and held him.
"Uncle?" she asked.
"No!" I was NOT going to give in.
She pushed at him, and rolled, so that he was on his
back, and she was kneeling over him. Her slip fell back
over her hips, but that no longer mattered.
She moved over this guy who was fully clothed except
from waist to mid thigh, moved over him the same way she
moves over me, moved over him until she was straddling
him, straddling his cock.
She lifted herself up, supporting herself with her hands
on his shoulders, flexing her back muscles, aligning
herself while he held his cock, until its head was just
at her lips, in fact pressing against them, in fact
almost parting them, just barely visible because her
slip had ridden up her thighs.
She paused, and looked up at me, standing right beside
her. "Uncle?" She was giving me one last chance.
Instead I reached down, and put my hand on the small of
her back, and pushed her down.
And his cock was where only mine had been for 15 years.
John slid his hands under her slip, held her by the
hips, and lifted her, and pulled her down, he moved in
counter time, as he drove into her, as she moved on her
own, still supporting herself with her arms.
It was almost perfect.
I reached over the back of the sofa, and grabbed at her
slip, pulling it up, over her head, and down her arms.
She lifted one arm so I could pull it free, then the
other.
Then knelt upright over him, breasts exposed, cunt
exposed, riding that cylinder, sometimes lifting too
high, so that he was left all exposed and wet, then
lowering herself until contact was made again, and he
guided himself back into her.
John, almost too soon, began changing the tempo of this
fucking, holding in longer, pulling only a little out,
then pushing in again, holding her hips tightly, driving
himself into her, grunting in a way we all recognize as
meaning he released himself in her.
He stopped moving, but she was still lifting,
descending, fucking him, fucking at him, even though he
was spent.
Finally, from an unexpected place, we heard what either
of us would say. John whispered "Uncle!" My wife, my
fucked wife, lifted herself off him - how wet his groin
was, did she produce all of that? -- And got off the
sofa.
She reached toward me, and I handed her the slip.
Slip, dress, shoes. Somewhere in that room were bra and
pantyhose, but we decided they weren't worth looking
for.
Half way home Joan turned to me. "You really don't care,
do you?"
"Actually, I care a lot. And I learned something today,
about me and about you."
"What's that?"
"You're sexy. I'd rather fuck, or watch you fuck, than
fight about it."
"Oh?" She looked at me. "What happened was OK with you?"
"That time, yeah. It was a turn on. You seemed to like
it, too."
"Come on, Pete. That was a spite fuck. It was getting
even for the way you were acting towards me."
"Oh? Well, next time, try to enjoy it as much as John
did, or I did."
"Next time? What makes you think there'll be a next
time?"
I pulled over, and stopped the car in a closed services
station driveway. I looked carefully at her. "Joan, we
crossed over a bridge tonight, and burned it. There's no
going back. You're sitting there with your cunt still
full of what John put there. My mind is full of those
images, and I like them. I think next time, and I want
there to be a next time, I want you to be sexy because
it's fun, not to spite me. And next time, I won't be
daring you because I'm angry, but because I'm horny.
OK?"
"Drive us home, Pete."
I started the car moving again.
In a moment or two, Joan reached for my right hand, took
it from the steering while, and held it in her lap.
"Pete, what you just said to me, about next time?"
"Yeah?"
"If you always take me home and make love to me, there
can be as many next times as you like."
THE END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 13