CAUTION:

This is a story based on experience, and honestly told; some details and names are fictionalized to obscure identities of real persons and events. The ages of most of the persons told in the story were technically legal ages of consent in the state of Minnesota (for that matter in almost all states at the time). While the sexual activities described here involve "teenagers," these boys were not preyed upon by anyone, or coerced in anyway. If anything, these " boys" were predators to my wife.

Installment 2 - In Which the I Lose Control

The Fourth Week - - - Friday -- Discovery -- Saturday Afternoon: My Mistake

Suspicions and anxiety grew. And most certainly did my fantasies. My suspicions were my fantasies; my fantasies my suspicions. Frenchy was making moves on my wife. I could see it. I could imagine it. The more I imagined it the more I thought I saw it.

Then I found this polaroid of Karen without a shirt on. Karen in her bra. I found it on my routine search of the boys bedroom. Something I had to do. Looking for pot and so on. Usually finding just some smutty magazines. But then I found this polaroid.

Under Jon's mattress.

Who had taken it?

Where was the camera?

What had happened?

She had taken off her shirt. Had she taken off her bra too?

Had she taken off all her clothes?

There is no doubt of it. This is really her in her bra. Was she standing in her underwear?

What happened next?

Where was it taken? When was it taken?

I admit I took the polarioid into the bathroom and sat on the toilet and masturbated looking at it.

Thinking about it. Imagining. Imagining her taking her clothes off in front of the boys. In their bedroom. Or in the livingroom.

Jesus, I began to obssess about it.

I began to sneak about and peak at my wife and Frenchy.

Of course I had to put the polariod back under the mattress. But more than once I got it out and looked at it, took it to the bathroom. Then, it was gone.

I knew then that the coming week was going to be really strange.

Jon was contemptuous of my permissiveness, as I said, how I permitted Frenchy to use my wife. Or I supposed he was using her. I saw his contempt now in a new light. and Frenchy always insufferably fawning on wife. Making me very suspicious. He helped Karen with the dishes every night while the rest of us sat and watched TV on the sofa. Kisses in the dark and what else.

Jon and Frenchy both often sitting in their underwear to watch TV. Jon even flaunting his hard-ons in my wife's presence. She tried to ignore it, but it bothered her.

Steve, seeing Karen was uncomfortable with it, tried to be gallant, tried to say something to him, but Jon actually started to pummel him and I did not know what to do. Frenchy intervened and stopped Jon. Karen looked at me with some disappointment and I suppose I did seem the coward. But really this sort of behavior was beyond me. I had always been a loner and a bit of a nerd. Jocks annoyed me. Boys like Frenchy and Jon were intimidating to me, I suppose, but I avoided them in high school and looked down my nose at them. I wondered if Frenchy and Jon sensed this.

Frenchy for his part would put on a show of admiration for my "brains," saying he wished he had my "brains." Jon would laugh at this and Frenchy did overdo it.

I did not trust him. And I shouldn't have. On one of the nights late in the week while we were all watching TV and Karen and Frenchy were in the kitchen doing the dishes, I went in to get a beer and when I came around the corner I saw some shuffling and awkwardness between them, and I swore I saw that Frenchy had pulled his hand out from the back of Karen's shorts.

It looked like he had been feeling her bare buttock. And Karen seemed embarrassed. Frenchy as usual made some comic remark, laughed and left, saying he'd be back to help her later. I asked her then whether maybe Frenchy was becoming a little too familiar. She shifted her eyes back to the dishes in the sink and said he was sometimes "naughty"—that was the word she used—but she shrugged and said: "He's just a boy."

I asked her if she wanted me to say something to him. She said she'll think about it.

Later we were in bed. I was fondling her breasts, toying with one of her nipples. I like her nipples—largish, swollen, something about them makes you want to put your mouth on it. She turned to look at me. She said: "Maybe you should talk to him." She turned over to sleep and said nothing more.

So, I think it was that next morning, that Friday, when I decided I had to talk to him. It was awkward for me. But of course he did not seem the least uncomfortable. We went out for lunch, crossing the street to the Red Barn for a hamburger and fries. Frenchy wanted a chocolate milk shake. He did not make it easy for me. He sucked his straw as I tried to bring up the subject. I told him that he need to treat Karen with more respect, and that I was counting on him to set the example. He asked if this was about what Jon had done. I said, yes, and other things too. He sucked on the straw noisily, grinning at me. I asked him what was so funny. He said: "You know, she's like a Mom to me. I love her. I really do. Like a Mom. I would never do anything to hurt her." He put down his empty shake.

"Well, sometimes, how you kiss her . . . you know . . . " He looked at me seriously: "Did Mom say something?" I shook my head, and said no, but he interrupted me: "She likes it . . . ." he started to say. Then he stopped and laughed. It was so weird.

Then he winked. "You think maybe . . . You ever wonder . . . " he started to say, and I asked him what was he trying to say. He shook his head grinning.

"The boys think . . . " Then he laughed and said: "She is really pretty."

I looked upset, I suppose, but he added quickly: "I really do love her. Like a Mom."

He got up to go and I followed him. On the street back to the house, I asked him about seeing him put his hand down the back of her shorts. He laughed, and looked at me queerly, stopping in the street, and asked: "Is that what you think?"

He shook his head. He said: "We're running out of beer. Maybe you should get some." I nodded and oddly enough I did what he asked. He went back into the house. We spoke no more about it.

When I brought back the beer and put it in the refrigerator, Karen seemed to know I had talked to him. She said Frenchy came home and he was really upset and seemed to be angry with her. She asked me if I had said something to him that hurt his feelings. I tried to explain. We argued a bit. I said I was just doing what she wanted. She shook her head at me. She went to their bedroom to talk to him. I drank a beer standing in the dinning room watching the boys watch TV and got a little pissed off. I went to see what was going on. I found him sitting beside her on his bunk bed, holding hands. Frenchy grinned at me. Karen looked up at me harshly.

I left them and went to study in our bedroom. Karen later came in and said she was sorry she got upset. She said it's just that Frenchy has emotional problems and she worried about him. I listened, but I wanted to tell her that he shouldn't be trusted. I said: "He says he loves you." She nodded.

"Do you . . . ." I started to say. The way she looked at me—offended—stopped me.

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The next day, Saturday, Steve and Larry left early for their weekend visits home. As usual Frenchy and Jon slept in late. Later that day, Jon got dressed and was going to leave. I reminded him about the curfew and he said: "Fuck you." I felt angry but said nothing. Frenchy heard it and took Jon aside as they went down the stairs to leave. I saw them speaking out the window. They saw me watching them. They turned away as they spoke and then Frenchy came back upstairs and said Jon was sorry he got mad, and that he'd be home when he was supposed to be.

So Karen and Frenchy and I would be home alone all day. I studied quietly in the bedroom, but came out now and then for a beer and checked to see what they were doing together. In spite of myself I was thinking things I should not.

Karen, barefoot in her short shorts and shirt sat with her legs tucked up, sat next to Frenchy curled up on the sofa. He had his arm across the sofa behind her. He grinned. He had me get him a beer. I asked her if she wanted one. She seemed very happy that day. She said no.

When I came back to the room with Frenchy's beer I saw that his hand had dropped to her shoulder and she had leaned up against him. I went back into the bedroom. I couldn't study for thinking what I was thinking.

As I look back on it now, I know it was just the pressure of all the circumstance, and maybe something in Frenchy's manner, but also the fact that I was hung-up sexually speaking. The whole fantasy about my wife being sexually humiliated, reluctantly submissive. It was an obsession. I had even taken to writing about it. I masturbated about it. I thought about it often and it even disturbed my sleep.

And that fact that she seemed to be easily manipulated by Frenchy added to it, I suppose. Still I cannot really explain how Karen responded as she did. You have to wonder if she had such fantasies too. How else do you explain it?

Anyway it was getting late in the afternoon. Jon was supposed to be home by eight o'clock. Karen was supposed to make dinner soon. I acted on the impulse. I came out to find her nestled under his arm though it was pretty hot to sit so close. She seemed a bit nonplussed that I "caught" her but Frenchy was cheerful and confident and asked for another beer. I said I'd have to go get some more. I told Karen I wanted to see her, to come to the bedroom.

I closed the bedroom door as she sat down on the bed watching me. I explained what I wanted. She responded exactly as I had hoped. She sat on the bed quietly. She was not shocked; she flushed as I explained what I wanted her to do. She nodded when I asked her if she was okay. She only asked me if this was really what I wanted. She seemed to be more sad than worried. She did not say she was worried, though both of us should have been; what did we think was going to happen after this happened?

I reassured her as I unbuttoned her blouse. She looked at my eyes. She seemed almost tearful. She asked again if I was sure as I removed her blouse and standing, holding it, looked down at her, and nodded and asked her if she wanted to do this too? She looked up at me and said: "do you want me to?" I said I loved her. She nodded.

I went to the door and opened it. I turned back and said: "Okay?" She nodded. She stood.

She unzipped the front of her shorts let them drop to the tops of her feet and stood, hesitating to take off her bra.

I stopped her. I told her: "No, take it off when he comes to the door."

She nodded in understanding. She sat down on the end of the bed in her bra, underpants and bobby socks.

She held her hands at her lap. She looked at the floor.

I added as I leaving: "And then take off off your underpants." She looked up at me forlornly. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Do you want to?" I asked. She looked confused. "Do you want me to?" I could not say it. I said: "I'll be right back."

I went to the living room and asked Frenchy what kind of beer he wanted. I then pretended to leave out the back door.

Making noise to that effect, while I crept back into our bedroom and hid behind our open door. Karen looked up at me.

I wanted to ask her again if she was okay. I almost could not do this. But I persuaded myself it was almost innocent, contriving for Frenchy to see my wife naked like this. Like it was an accident.

Frenchy did not disappoint me. He did what I thought he would. When Karen did not return, he came to look for her. I heard him approach. Karen looked up as he came to the open doorway. I spied him through the gap along the doorjamb. He grinned. He said: "Mom!"

Karen stood up, as I had asked her to do, and looking into his eyes, she smiled sheepishly.

Frenchy asked wickedly: "What you doing, Mom?"

She unfastened her bra, and lowered it to expose her breasts to him. I nodded.

Holding her bra in her hands, uncertain what to do next, she smiled at Frenchy foolishly, a flickering anxiety in her eyes, but also revealing a kind of yearning for him, aware of his eyes on her breasts.

She said stupidly: "I was going to take a shower." And looked down at her own nakedness, her nipples showing her true feelings.

She did not look up until he spoke. "You ought to go with no clothes on all the time."

He took time looking her over, grinning. She fidgeted.

Finally, stepping a little into the room, he made a gesture toward her, and said: "Why don't you take off your underpants too, Mom?"

I squezzed my hard-on. I really wanted her to do it. But she hesitated.

She glanced at me anxiously, and her glance gave me away.

Frenchy saw me hiding, through the gap along the doorjamb, but quickly looked back at my naked wife and said: "You wanna come out and play, Mom?"

Karen shook her head.

Embarrased now, she covered her breasts with both hands. "You should go." She looked genuinely ashamed.

"Yeah," he nodded, "Before Dad comes back and finds out..." He laughed.

He glanced back at me through the crack of the door and winked. He left. I shut the door. I stripped off her underpants and pushed her back on the bed.

Karen embraced me and we fucked and kissed passionately. She was as turned on as I was.

I fucked her twice.

I do not know why it did not occur to me what was going to happen next. The immediate thrill was the titillation of seeing my wife stand almost naked in front of another man, in this case almost a boy, who stared at her pouty pointy tits excited for him. And she, not altogether reluctant, hiding how she wants him to see her naked. I was certain she did. She wanted to fuck. Soupy wet between her legs. She held me tightly as I fucked her. She came when I came. She said nothing when I was done. She went to the bathroom to clean up, going out the hall naked as she was.

I went out and down the back stairs and hurried to get the beer from the corner store as I had promised and I returned in maybe ten minutes by way of the front door, pretending I had just got back. Frenchy was watching TV on the sofa. He kept up the pretense too. I gave him a can of beer as I passed into the kitchen to put the six-packs into the refrigerator. Karen was making supper. She was dressed again in her short shorts and had put on one of my T-shirts; I could see she had not bothered to put her bra back on. She looked at me guiltily. I wondered about that look, but I supposed it had to be because of what I had just made her do. I had not been gone so long that something else could have happened while I was gone? Was I gone that long? But then how long would it take to give her a quick fuck if he'd caught her going naked down the hallway?

I had to know. I asked her: "Did he touch you?" She looked at me with shock and indignantly. She shook her head but she also obviously blushed and she looked away: "You know." I was confused but then Frenchy sauntered in and sipping his beer asked what was for supper. She smiled at him, still blushing, and said: "What do you want?"

He said: "You know what I want."

She looked away and said: "I mean, what do you want for supper."

He winked at me. I ignored it. I got myself a beer and sat and watched them. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned and trying to kiss her mouth, because she turned her face away, he kissed her cheek. "Anything you want," he told her.

She dodged away from his caress as his hand fell on a breast, and he saw what I saw and said: "You aren't wearing a bra . . . ."

He came over to where I sat and whispered so as to be half-heard: "I can see your wife's nipples."

He stepped back to see my reaction. "Don't that bother you?"

I still pretended nothing had happened, that I had not heard him, or did not know what he was talking about. He turned and cupped and squeezed a cheek of her bottom, slipping his fingers up underneath her shorts, to feel the naked crease of it, and walked away, throwing me another wink.

I asked her again: "What happened?"

She turned and looked at me with a red-face, obviously very angry and obviously incredulous. She said: "It's what you wanted . . . ." And she began to cry, and turned away, and when I tried to comfort her she shrugged me off. She sniffled and washed a head of lettuce in the sink: "Leave me alone." She sulked. So I left her and went to sit with Frenchy.

It was an awkward long time sitting there. But not that long, because Jon came home and he announced that he had seen a couple guys that Frenchy knew down at the Red Barn and wanted to know he wanted to come out with them.

Frenchy said it was almost dinnertime, and Jon said: "Shit."

"No really," Frenchy said, "Mom's making dinner." Karen had heard Jon come in and was setting the dinning room table.

"So-the-fuck-what?" Jon said.

Karen looked exasperated and was picking up the place settings in a pique, but Frenchy came in and said: "Mom. . . Mom . . . it's okay . . . "

He motioned to Jon. Jon cursed and followed him. They went into their bedroom and had a talk. I can guess what he told him.

Meanwhile, I got worried about the whole thing and told Karen she should put on some different clothes. She almost threw a spoon at me, but she went to the bedroom and slammed the door.

Jon and Frenchy came out, joking, and grabbing beers before they came back to the living room. Frenchy asked: "Where's Mom?" Jon piped in: "Yeah, I want to see her too." Frenchy winked at him.

I said: "She's changing her clothes."

Karen did as I asked. She always would. She'd decided to give me what I wanted and put on a blouse and skirt, as well, looking like she was dressed for work.

Seeing her, Frenchy asked: "Where are you going?"

She looked at me, peeved, and then replied sharply: "He thought I was not dressed decently."

Frenchy laughed. "Hey, Mom, I liked you better the way you were before . . . You know . . ." He winked at me. She blushed. I suppose I blushed too. Jon got the joke; he laughed with Frenchy.

"What's for dinner?" I changed the subject.

Frenchy said he would help "Mom." And Jon and I sat on the sofa to wait. Actually it made me nervous, Karen being alone with Frenchy, and Jon sat looking at me wisely and nodding and saying things under his breath. He said: "I don't believe it."

I said: "What?"

He said: "You know."

"What?" I said again.

He laughed, " That don't bother you?"

 I said again: "What?"

He shook his head. He sat forward on the sofa. He leaned to look at me closely. "Guys seeing your wife without her clothes on . . ." He squinted at me, cocked his head. "Or maybe you like that."

I did not know what to say. "What guys?"

"Any guys . . . my friends . . . You want them to?"

I pretended I did not understand. He shook his head.