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 6—The Fourth Week—Sunday Morning: How my wife felt after it happened

I slept pretty badly.  I had taken off my clothes, sleeping in my underwear.  Sleeping on the sofa.  In that humid heat.  And fitfully trying to sleep, but compulsively obsessing about what was happening, I kept sneaking down the darkened hallway to listen outside the door of our bedroom under which the ceiling light from above our bed seeped, and like a pervert, stroking on my dick, I listened eagerly to the two boys fucking my wife and her pathetic mewling and whimpering and yielding as they laughed at her, turned her and groped her, positioned her for various entries and egged her on obscenely, instructing her how to do it, slapping her—Her face? Her buttock?—slapping her so that she cried and complained but gave into them, gave in to repeated demands to suck their cocks.   I was up and down several times.  Listening.  Masturbating.  They went at her for hours.  I ejaculated twice onto the floor beside the door.   When it was finally quiet, I almost got caught when Frenchy came out to go to the bathroom.  I think he saw me run back to the living room.  Anyway I heard him laughing at me.

I finally drank enough or was exhausted enough that I feel into a stuporous sleep, and did not wake up until mid-morning when I heard the TV.  Jon was sitting in the easy chair next to the sofa in his underwear, holding a bowl of cereal and milk, eating it with a spoon while he watched cartoons.  Boing!  He laughed at the violence.  Bop! 

I sat up, feeling a little sick.  I looked out across the living room and realized my wife's clothing was still strewn on the floor.  Her skirt and blouse heaped beside the coffee table.  Her bra and underpants further out on the middle of the floor.  It was true.  I had really happened.  The chair she had stood on, showing herself naked, was still shoved up against the center of the window.

Jon looked over at me, seeing what I was seeing, and grinned without comment, but shook his head and finished his cereal.   When he was done, he took the bowl to the kitchen and tossed it from the doorway into the empty sink.  I heard it crash, breaking.

Returning to the living room, he stood in the archway between this room and the dining room and stared at me.  I glanced at him and pretended interest in the cartoon.  He finally said: "You got a hard-on." 

I did not.  I said: "No. . ." I leaned over.  I felt my penis thickening.

He said: "I seen it, man.  You got a hard-on seeing us strip your wife for those guys.  I seen it.  You like that.  You want guys to see your wife naked."

I said nothing, but I am sure I blushed with shame.  I am sure I looked like a creep to him.

"That's fucking sick, man," he shook his head.  He laughed: "But I know a lot guys who'd like to see your wife take off her clothes for them.  I can call 'em if you want."  

I sighed in spite of myself.  He laughed, shaking his head.

Frenchy came out of the kitchen with a bowl of cereal, also in his underwear.  The size of his cock, even soft, was large.  I could not help but glance at it.  Jon saw that I did and laughed at me.

"Maybe Dad's queer," Jon suggested.

I did not know what to say.  I have never done anything like that.  Frenchy, seeing the look on my face, started to choke, laughing, and spewed cereal and milk out of his mouth back into the bowl.

"You wanna suck my dick, Dad?" Jon taunted.

I think I looked sickened and disturbed, but my failure to respond brought them to conclusions I did not like.

Jon stepped forward and drew his underpants down to his mid thighs.  His penis, half-hard, thickening, was hardening and rising, pointing at me, rising to arch.  I stared at it.  My own penis, thickened, stirred, hardening.

Frenchy, eating his cereal, said: "Go ahead, Dad. Suck it."

I looked incredulous.  I couldn't do this. 

Frenchy repeated himself: "Go on.  Suck it."

Jon laughed.  His circumcised penis, rising, thickening, jerked, the glans of it looked swollen.  Jon said: "He's got a hard-on."  

Frenchy, cocked his head, looking under where I sat.  "Yeah. . . I see that." 

Jon moved closer to me, his penis nearing my face.  I leaned back. 

Jon said: "Look at that . . ." Frenchy nodding. They both saw my erection in my underpants. "He wants to suck my dick."

"Take off your underpants, dad. . ." said Frenchy, smiling, slurping from his spoon.

I don't know why I did it.  I am not a queer.  I have never had those feelings or that interest.  I don't know why except that I was obsessed sexually.  My wife's humiliation and my own made me sexually sick.  I would do anything. 

I did not stand up to do it but from where I sat I pushed my underpants off from underneath my butt and feeling my exposure to them, I felt ashamed.  Jon grinned.  I continued and I pushed my underpants to my thighs; my upstanding erection plain to see.  I sat back, showing them.

Frenchy said: "Feel yourself, Dad."  I could not look at him.  Or Jon. But stared at Jon's fully erect penis in front of me.  I put my left hand on to the shaft of my penis.  I felt it.  I stroked it.

Frenchy said: "Now go on, dad . . . put your mouth on his dick."  I hesitated.  I stared at it.  I thought about it.  I felt myself wanting to.  He repeated himself.  I sat up, still feeling myself.  I leaned near, his erect penis near my mouth. I could smell it.  I opened my mouth.

I said to myself afterwards that I did it because I wanted to know what it felt like for Karen. I wanted to know what it tasted like for Karen.  I was surprised at the feeling.  I was surprised how much it aroused me.

"Suck it, dad . . . Suck his dick . . ."

The feel of his cock in my mouth surprised me, firmer and softer and warmer than I thought, and I felt the texture of the foreskin with my tongue, tasted the salty tang of the skin; I felt the shape of the glans, the hole.  I closed my eyes just like my wife had done.  Having the head of his penis fully in my mouth, and sucking it in made me masturbate openly now.  I wanted to cum.  And in an poignant impulse I felt that I really wanted to make him to cum in my mouth. I wondered if this is what Karen had felt when that other boy had presented his penis to her mouth.  She had resisted, but she gave in.  She had taken pleasure in it just I was now taking pleasure, feeling his excitement, sensing that he would soon cum in my mouth.  Had she wanted him to cum in her mouth like I was now feeling? 

And when Jon did I was surprised just as she had been.  There was not so much as she had swallowed. Just a couple sudden spurts is all I got—a couple spoonfuls. I wished there had been more.  I wanted more. But I tasted it, felt it with a rolling tongue in my mouth—thickish, sticky, strongly flavored, really difficult to describe—and I instinctively nursed it, sucking and feeling about his glans with my tongue, feeling his slitted pee hole and the plump shape of it.  I teased another ejaculation--a sort of plentiful warm ooze flooded from the head of his penis---and I wanted to tease more. I was disappointed when he said, "Okay, dad, that's enough," and turned and withdrew from my mouth.  I blinked and gasped for a breath like Karen had, not realizing I had been so tensely holding myself, just like Karen had.  And in spite of my shame I wanted to keep masturbating until I came too. I looked up at him stunned, just as Karen had looked up so pathetically and sadly.

I looked at his wet bobbling dick as it was withdrawn with disappointment and longing I did not understand.  I masturbated. Jon pulled up his underpants, laughing, making me feel ashamed of myself.  The strong taste of him, the feel of it still in my mouth. 

Frenchy looked at me in amazement and shook his head.  He said to Jon: "Is he as good as Karen?" 

"Shit, no. . ." said Jon. "Doesn't suck enough.  No tongue."

"He swallowed it," answered Frenchy. 

"Sure.  He likes it. . ." replied Jon.

"So does his wife . . . " They both laughed.

My humiliation returned. I took my hand off myself. I was going to pull up my underpants, though I had not ejaculated.  But Frenchy raised a hand and said: "No, no, Dad. . . Don't do that. . . Stand up."

I looked at him quizzically.  He said: "Go on. . . Stand up."  I stood uncertainly, ashamed of myself, my erection as stiff as it ever gets, aroused in front of these boys.  I am not queer, I thought.

"Take 'em off. . . " Frenchy gestured. 

I said: "What?"  Stupidly.  I knew what he wanted. 

He did not need to say it.  I nodded then.  I leaned and lowered my underpants to my feet and stepped out of them.  My prick waggled as I stripped for them.  When I straightened up, to be naked for them—just as Karen had stood naked for them, I thought—Jon was looking at it, grinning.  My prick reflexively responded, reflexively repeatedly stiffening and bobbing, stiffening and bobbing in uncontrollable twinges of sexual excitation; his eyes on it made it do this, I thought. I felt ashamed but I could not help myself.

Jon laughed at my sexual humiliation and excitement.  Just as he had at Karen's.  Frenchy winked at him.

Frenchy, taking a last spoonful of cereal, walked over in front of me and tipped his head to gesture me to follow him and he went to the window.  He stopped, standing and looking down at the chair in front of the window.  He glanced out the window, then back at the chair.  He nodded at the chair, eating his cereal.

I knew what he wanted.  I could still taste the boy's cum in my mouth, now an aftertaste a little bitter, metallic.  I understood why Karen had asked for a glass of water. 

Again I don't know why I did it. Again it felt like a kind of sympathy for my wife.  Like I wanted to know her feelings.  I wanted to feel her sexual humiliation.  Was she aroused doing this?

When I stood up onto that chair, standing fully naked, facing the window, exposed to people in the street, just as Karen had done, I felt trembling anxiety and great sexual excitement.  My erection seemed harder and stiffer, even larger than normal.  I wanted someone to see it.  I wanted a woman to see it.  A car slowed to stop in traffic; I saw a woman, a middle-aged woman in the passenger side of a car look up.  She saw me, giving me a stab of anxious excitement to see her face upturned, seeing me naked, seeing my erection. Frenchy saw this too.  The car stopped.  Frenchy said: "Jerk off for her."  I pulled down on my prick, its head like a candy red lollipop, seeming enlarged and lurid.  I stroked just twice more, my grasp around the shaft tugged it down, and I pressed my hand against the base of the shaft, against my scrotum, making my dick rise up, to seem to stiffen and lengthen out, and crouching, like I was presenting her with the view of it, I gasped and jerked and a jet of cum squirt out the tip of my penis in a milky gooey rope and splat against the glass of the window, oozing down; another spasm and another shot of cum, a spurt and glop dropped onto the back of the chair against the window and dripped off it to the floor.  More cum pulsed out of the head of my penis and trickled down the shaft dripping off of it onto the chair seat.  The woman had watched me, fixedly at my ejaculation. The intense look in her eyes as they looked up now into mine: her mouth slightly open.  Had she wanted to watch? She must have wanted to watch.  The car drove off.

But I felt immediately sickeningly afraid and ashamed.  I suppose I felt just as Karen must have felt, getting off the chair after her naked humiliation, aroused but anxious.  The moment after my ejaculation I felt deeply ashamed, foolish and worried.  What if some one saw me?  I might be arrested.  I could lose my appointment to school.

And yet the compulsive sexual situation that I was in remained with me.  I turned toward them, once again standing on the floor, facing these boys naked, my erection still unrelenting—naked and humiliated before these laughing boys who schemed to worsen the sexual humiliation of me and my wife, thinking of the days to come, and all I could think of was: what else will they want?  There was no question of stopping it.  I must do everything.  Karen must do everything they wanted too.  The taste of the boy's cum was still in my mouth.  Frenchy left the room to put his cereal bowl in the kitchen.  Jon asked me if I wanted to suck his dick again.  I shook my head.  He left the room too.

I put on my underpants.  I put on my pants. I put on my shirt.  My socks.  They did not come back.  I fell asleep on the sofa. I slept for two or three hours out of exhaustion. 

When I woke up I could still taste the boy's cum in my mouth, or thought I could, so I went to kitchen for a glass of milk.

As I walked toward the kitchen I saw Frenchy, fully dressed now, sitting on a kitchen chair, leaning on his elbow on the table, talking with some one.  He nodded at me as I came in to go to the refrigerator behind him.  Karen was at the sink.  She was washing carrots and potatoes.  She was making dinner. 

My thoughts were confused and strange. She was fully dressed too.  In clothes very much like she wore the day before.  In fact, if I had not seen her clothes were still laying out in the living room, I would have thought she had got them and put them on again.  But she did not have on shoes or socks.  And her blouse was untucked.  And the skirt was  not on correctly.  Meant to be zipped in back, it was skewed over to one side, like someone had dressed her badly.  But she looked refreshed. She looked like she had taken a bath.  Her hair washed.  She said nothing to acknowledge my presence. I did not know what to say myself. 

Frenchy was chatting her up about cooking.  Frenchy liked cooking.  She was listening and not replying.  I drank my milk.  I went to put my glass next to the sink to be washed, and took the chance to look at my wife's face.  She was flushed. She looked angry..  She still did not acknowledge me.  I asked her: "You okay?"  Sympathetically, I thought.  She did not look at me. She did not reply. 

When Frenchy asked if she was going to braise the brisket before she baked it, she said yes and asked him to help her.  I watched as he came beside her, stepping between us, made me back away and he slipped his hand up under her blouse and I could see he felt her breast.  She stopped washing vegetables as he caressed her.  She closed her eyes, her wet hands trembling.  He leaned in to kiss her and she turned her face toward him to receive his kiss.  He stopped kissing her and slowly unbuttoned her blouse as I watched.  She was not wearing a bra, I saw, as it parted to view bare flesh.  He drew the blouse off her from behind and let it fall to the floor.  She turned, blushing, showing her randy-tipped breasts to both of us; then, as he reached out and began grossly feeling her breasts, she looked into my eyes with ironic lewd surrender, flashing anger and contempt for me; when he stepped forward to embrace her she bent her head and closed her eyes and opened her mouth for his. 

It was a show meant for me.  I understood the message.  I went out of the room.

Frenchy came out shortly as well.  The message he meant to give, he told me explicitly.  He told me that my wife understood the circumstance.  He had explained it to her.  That it was my fault this had all happened, that I had started it with my own behavior, and she was guilty too.  

He said: " She's worried, Dad. You know?  She's scared too.  But hey, what did you think was going to happen? Under the law us boys are all minors and you are adults and this is sexual perversion and you can go to jail.  I told her she might not.  But you can.  And anyway everybody would find out.  The P.O.  Newspapers. All your friends.  Your parents.  And she does not want that.  She blames you, of course.  But I told her she was to blame too.  I reminded her that she had gone along with it.  She must have wanted it.  She took off her clothes for me.  She stripped in front of Jon.  So I told her what to expect from now on.  She cried a little.  She begged a lot.  But I said it's too late.  I told her: 'You gotta do whatever we want.'  We fucked her two ways at once. Tag-teamed her on your bed.  Jon in front, me behind.  Me in front and Jon in back.  All night.  Jesus. She cried and moaned.  We came and she came too.  And when we weren't fucking her, she was sucking cock to eat cum.  Damn. I only wish I'd let all my friends had a go at her.  Maybe I will.  Maybe more.  She never says no.  She'll do anything we want, man.  What do you want, Dad?  I can think of lots of things to do to her.  This is gonna be fun."  He laughed.  Wickedly. 

I asked him: "Where is she?" 

"I took off all her clothes, so she ran back into the bedroom to get dressed again.  After all the other boys are getting home soon." 

I looked at my watch.  Yes, Larry and Steve would be back from their home visits in time for dinner.   I said: "Whatever you do, don't tell them.  You can do what you want but Larry's just 14 and Steve wouldn't understand."

Frenchy said: "Larry's not to young to look. And Steve will be upset, I know.  He almost thinks you guys are really his mom and dad, but shit, he'll wanna fuck her once he gets to see her naked.  Any guy would.  Larry will too."

"Jesus, Frenchy," I said, "What are you going to do?"

He shrugged.  "Nothing you don't want.  Nothing she ain't ready for."