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 8—The Fifth Week—Monday: The Tease

Jon hung around naked on the easy chair long after Steve and Larry went to bed.  I think he wanted me to suck his cock again.  But I did not want to.  It did not appeal to me.  I had only done out of sexual compulsion.

Still I thought about it.  Seeing him sitting there and as I laid on the sofa I looked at his penis and my looking at it aroused him.  I saw it slowly thicken and rising.   Part of me wanted to do it.  And he was aware of my thoughts. 

I closed my eyes.  I ignored him.

He got tired of intriguing me.  He left, but did not turn off the TV.  I got up after I was sure he gone and found the whisky I had hidden and got smashed as quickly as I could.  Again Karen's underclothes in the living room reminded me of what had happened.

Drunk or sober, I could not stop thinking of it.  Images of it.  Seeing her from behind sitting on the floor, arms behind her, legs up, dropped open, their staring at her gaping cunt.  Tears on her downcast flushed face, Frenchy holding her arms tightly presenting her naked to the boys, her breasts, her erect nipples made to thrust this way.  Her eyes open, taking Larry's little cock into her mouth to suck.

I feel asleep eventually. 

When I awoke, the TV was still on, but nobody was up.  I got up to pee but found the bathroom door locked.  Someone was taking a shower.  Passing the boys room I saw that the three of them were still asleep in their bunk beds, Larry above Steve.  Jon above where Frenchy should be.  I peed in the kitchen sink.   Going back the bathroom, I listened at the door.  Frenchy was talking.  He was talking with Karen.  I could hear her soft replies.  She laughed at something he said.  They were in the shower together.  He was washing her naked body.  She was washing his.  Washing his penis.  Feeling it grow in her sudsy hands.  Of course all of this was imagination.   The shower stopped.

I hurried back to the living room.  I pretended to sleep.  Half an hour later, Frenchy came out.  He saw me sleeping.  He whispered to Karen.  She said: "I don't care."  She sat on the sofa.  From the motion, I guessed she was drying her hair with a towel. I could smell the bath on her.   Frenchy saw that I was awake.  I pretended to awake.

He smiled at me: "Morning, dad.  How you feel?"

Karen looked at the floor, her head leaning, her hair damp falling to the side; she toweled it.  She looked truly beautiful, radiant, fresh; she smiled mildly.  She looked happy.  I felt a poignant flood of love for her, a deep longing and intense desire, like that I had felt when I first married her.  This was the lovely little girl I had married.

Frenchy was fully dressed, but Karen was not; she wore her underpants and was barefoot, but she also had topped off with a man's T-shirt.  She used to wear my T-shirts when were first married, I remembered.  She tossed her hair back, to fluff it, her chest thrust, showed nipple tips.  She was not wearing a bra. 

Frenchy smiled at her with admiration and she smiled warmly back at him. She stood up. The bottom of the T-shirt dropped to her mid thighs, covering her underpants. It was not one of mine; it must be one of Frenchy's. 

She leaned over where she stood, feet spread, and bent at the waist, flipping her hair forward and shaking it to dry it in the back of it at her neck.

I love the smell of her freshly washed hair.  It gave me distressing jealousy, thinking of how Frenchy and she had bathed together like newlyweds, their shared intimacies.  Her intimacies no longer mine.  This was not what I intended. 

"I want breakfast, mom," announced Karen.  "Some eggs and bacon maybe and toast."  She dropped the towel and stood up, tossing her head to flip her her hair back behind her, smoothing it with her hands, as she stood, her face radiant and pink, and looked pleasantly at me: "You too?"

I could not fathom her cheerfulness.  Frenchy asked if the boys were awake.  I said no.  He said: "It's late.  They need to get up."  Karen was passing to the kitchen and Frenchy called after her: "Make breakfast for all of them." 

The boys came reluctantly from bed.  Jon naked.  Larry in his underwear.  Steve in his pants but bare-chested and bare foot.  Karen was sweet as she served them.  She kissed Larry on the head and patted him.  Steve, perplexed, looked at me with questions he could not ask.  I did not know how to answer them anyway.  She was overly sweet and strangely flirtatious.  Except to Jon.   She still did not like Jon.   But after she had cleared the table and washed the dishes she sat on the sofa next to Frenchy, tucking her feet up under her legs and leaned against him.  He put his arm around her.  He tipped his head to look at her fondly, she looked up at him, beaming.  They kissed warmly.  He felt her breast grossly through her T-shirt.  He said: "You wanna suck my cock?" She coyly smiled. 

He winked at me. 

He got up.  I expected him to pull down his pants but he did not.  He said he needed to make a phone call.  Karen sat back, closing her eyes.  We were alone.

I wanted to talk to her.  But what could I say?  I asked again, foolishly: "You okay?"

She did not open her eyes.  She was smiling strangely.  I asked again: "Really. . . you okay?"

She tipped her head and opened her eyes to me, not smiling:  "What do you care?"

I was nonplussed.  I paused too long to reply.  She looked hurt, then contemptuous, closed her eyes and leaned her head back again. 

I said: "I do care."

She smiled mockingly.  I repeated myself. She turned her face away.

Jon came into the living room naked, his dick half-thick, and flounced on the easy chair.  Seeing the TV off, he got up and turned it on, and returned to flounce on the sofa. 

He watched TV for a bit, his dick swelling up to an erection.  He looked at me grinning.  Then he looked over at Karen, who had held her haughty pose, eyes-closed, ignoring him, and said smugly: "Suck my cock, piggy." 

Karen looked over at him sheepishly. 

He said it again, slyly and cruelly: "Suck my cock."

She did not get up.  She said nothing. He got up and sat next to her with a heavy threatening attitude, took hold of the hand in her lap and put it down on his penis.  She looked at it and played with it idly and as it responded, as it stiffened up, she squeezed it with her fist. 

He shifted to sit up and raised his hand to the top of her head and said: "Suck it, piggy," forcibly drawing her reluctant mouth toward his lap and his erection.  She did as she was told.  As she did, Jon reached over her, grabbed the hem at the back of her T-shirt, and drew it up her back, exposing her and drew it inside-out over the top of her head, bagging her head and drapiing his lap, showing her drooping and dangling tits, which I could see from beside her and behind her.

He smirked at me as he felt her loose tits, tugging down on her distended nipples, while her head moved around under the T-shirt.  He said to me snidely: "Chubbies suck good."  He slipped his hand into the back of her underpants, slipping fingers around her hip and down under her belly, stretching out to find and feel her slippery slit.

Larry came in munching from a handful cookies and stopped short of the sofa, to watch her.  He stared at her tits.  Both of us heard when she started to swill and swallow Jon's ejaculate.  He waited for her to finish, telling her keep sucking until he was satisfied that she had sucked out every morsel of sperm, and all the last leakage.  Then he pulled the T-shirt off her head and tossed it across to the easy chair. Karen sat up, bare-breasted, her tousled hair, red-faced, eyes watery with tears of frustration or shame. 

Jon said: "Your turn, Larry."  Still eating a cookie, Larry sat between me and my wife.  He grinned at me.  He leaned back, smiling with cookie in his mouth.  "Suck his dick, piggy," Jon said, twisting one of her nipples hard.  She grimaced, he really hurt her.  Larry stopped eating, looking at her with worry.  But she nodded and sat up on her knees, her tits displayed like that drew Larry's keen attention, and Karen's painful self-consciousness; it still embarrassed her to girlish blushing to be naked in front of him.  It would always embarrass her, for him especially if only because of the naive intensity of his gaze; but for that matter in the days to come she would be forced naked in front of many boys and men and every time she showed embarrassment, awkwardness, and discomfort, if also private neurotic longing to be seen naked by them.  That was the secret I had counted on; what I always knew about her.

She turned about on the sofa on her knees, looking down at Larry's comic red-capped pecker, standing up like a miniature mushroom-topped bottle in the chubby wedge of his thighs and lap of bulging balls, out of his blubber by not more than six inches, but stiffly erect, already seeping pre-cum, looking raw and sore from his compulsive handling.  She wanted to put her mouth on it just to comfort the poor thing.

He looked at her meaty randy nipples the way he did at his delicious cookies, still clutched in both hands, while for her part—her parting mouth showing the pearly cream of Jon's unswallowed cum—her own fixed stare on his penis was vulgar and hungry and shameless.

After she had finished turning, she flipped the curtain of her falling hair back from her face with her hand, over and behind and on top her back, exposing tits nicely again, and settled with a long sigh, getting closer and kneeling near (her knees to touch his thigh) and leaning over it as she looked at it she gently touched his penis, which danced at her fingers, feeling the seeping head of it, her fingers lubricated with the seepage; she examined it with open curiosity and warm sympathy in the clear frank daylight—its little slitted hole on the mushroom cap and its generous liquorish seepage—just as Larry, mouth-open, gorged himself on the clear frank daylight view of her hanging tits, her wide mommy nipples grazing the tops her thighs with their plunging conical points, touching where she knelt—oh, god—so very wonderfully close to him.  He thought she was as lovely as I did.  He ached for her just as I did.

I had the birds-eye view of her dropping her head slowly now to take his penis into her mouth, opening her mouth for it, and with her slathering tongue extended out beneath it, feeling and tasting it's wetness as she did, closing her mouth on it lightly, and slowly sucking up his cock with some energy that the boy felt thrill him, then bobbing her head lightly on it as she sucked.  I saw why they called it cock sucking.  She really was sucking deeply for all the drink she might take from it.  Her right hand holding his penis, lightly feeling it with her fingertips, lightly and gently pumping the shaft, encouraging him to cum in her mouth.

As it always was with Larry, it was remarkably short work. I don't think she had her mouth on his penis more than a minute when Larry got a funny look and stiffened and breathing through his open mouth, made a little squeal of pleasure.  And Karen looking seriously stopped bobbing her head and held her mouth over his spouting cock, swallowing and swilling noisily.  And as usual it was a lot of cum.  She gagged on the flood of the second large mouthful, gasping and letting out a lot of it to spill out around his little dick and onto his balls.  Then she tried to just hold her mouth on it as it spewed more and more, and swallowed as much as she could. When he had mostly finished, or she had had enough, she drew up, gasping, drooling cum from her open mouth, looking back at the mess of cum and spit about this small red dick pointing up from in his chubby lap.

Jon laughed at her: "What a nice chubby cum-sucking piggy. Oink for us, piggy."

She looked over at me guiltily.  She was herself again.  I felt sick at heart.  But still I felt my obsessive passion for her humiliation.  She looked like she might cry.  She got up suddenly, snatched up the T-shirt, and ran from the room wearing nothing but her underpants.  Larry looked hurt but went back to eating his cookies and watching TV.

Frenchy soon returned.  "Damn it, Jon."  Jon grinned: "What?"

Larry munched cookies and watched the quarrel like a tennis match.  Frenchy didn't mind if she sucked his cock, but did he have to hurt her feelings?  She was going to get hysterical and then would be no good at all.  Jon shrugged.  Frenchy said: "Be nice, man."  Jon shrugged.  Frenchy said she felt sensitive about being called fat.  Jon insisted she was.  Frenchy said well, maybe she is, but we got make her feel beautiful so she'll keep doing what we want.  Jon shrugged.  Frenchy repeated: "Don't call her names."  Jon agreed, but pouted. 

It was true.  It hurt her.  It touched her vulnerable anxiety about herself.  She thought she was too fat.  She really wasn't.  A little baby fat left over from her awkwardly lingering adolescence—what she had in common with these boys, as I think of it; she's more like them than me in terms of her true age—but at the same time she had the ripened body of a woman about her, overpowering even the naivety of the little girl who was trapped within it, with her little girl's guileless heart.  It was the incongruity of these that tantalized me and the boys, tantalizing all of those who would see her naked: that little girl's shy simper and that woman's lush randy body beneath it.

Frenchy let her stay in the bedroom most of the day, napping, healing her hurt feelings, and like me, I am guessing, she was processing the jarring imagery of all the sex and humiliation of the last few days. These must be rolling around in her mind, as they were in mine.  Frenchy stayed with her and held her and fondled her. 

I poked my head in to see, with the excuse of looking for some of my graduate work.  But in fact I was too giddy to read and I just wanted to see if he was doing something to her sexually.  I could not turn off those thoughts. 

And too, I really cared about Karen.  I wanted her overwhelmed by the sexual obsessions, but not really hurt.  I wanted her to give way to what I thought her true feelings were.  And it seemed that she was, but Jon had distressed her. 

The bedroom door was not locked. When I looked in the curtains were drawn, it was dark. They lay spooning on the unmade bed.  She was asleep.  Frenchy hushed me. I fished in the dark for a book I did not really want.  I whispered: "Is she okay?" 

"Yeah," he whispered, "Just worn out."  I 'spose he winked at me but I did not see.

Near five o'clock in the afternoon they both got up.  I was sitting at the dining room table trying to read the book I did not want to read and waiting to see what would happen. I heard one after the other go and take a turn in the bathroom.  When Karen came out of the bathroom after a good half-hour alone, her hair was brushed, her face washed, teeth cleaned—she looked like nothing had happened at all.  She even was cheerful with Jon who had finally fully dressed (on Frenchy's insistence) and was glowering at some boring TV show. Larry was still eating cookies.  Steve had gone out. 

Karen was wearing Frenchy's T-shirt.  Dressed like that, I wondered—and I 'spose so did Larry—had she anything else on underneath?  Certainly, probably not a bra.  But underpants?  She had put on bobby socks too.  Maybe she had on underpants, I thought.

Frenchy announced they were going down to the corner store to buy some cigarettes and asked if anybody wanted to come.  I did, but I said nothing, and I would not go of course.  Larry did but did not want to get up, and besides he was only wearing his underpants and would have to go to the trouble of getting dressed.  Jon pouted in his selfish grouch and refused to answer.

Frenchy shrugged.  Karen looked happily at him and took his hand when he reached out for hers.  She started to go with but stopped with a laugh at herself, saying that she did not have her shoes on.  Frenchy reassured her: "It's okay. . . nobody cares."  She laughed at the lark and out the door they went.  I heard her giggling as he chased her down the stairs and out the door.  The screen door swung shut with a slam.

Jon announced shortly after that he was going for a walk.  He left by the backdoor.  Larry and I watched TV.  It was getting on toward dinner time and so I asked Larry if he wanted a pizza. 

He had not changed his attitude toward me.  Though he'd seen me let my wife get stripped naked for all the boys, though he'd seen me suck Jon's cock, though I let him fuck my wife and watched while my wife suck him off—despite all these humiliations and sick perversions, he still expected me to be "dad."  He would obey me.  He expected me to care for him. His was a simple mind with simple ideas.  He did not think any of this was wrong; he was just glad to be included as one of the guys.

I wondered on the other hand whether Steve would forgive me. He liked using my naked wife, but he felt sick at heart about it.  When she was sexually degraded and personally humiliated by Jon, he felt especially sick, and yet, as I saw in his abject leer, he also relished her mistreatment.  He liked it when Jon was fucking her so hard that she cried out or whimpered, and he even enjoyed it when he abused her physically or shamed her by calling her "fatty" and "piggy."  I saw that in him.  I saw it in myself.

Once the oven timer went off, half an hour later, I brought the pizza in and put it on the table.  He got up to get a piece.  I sat on the sofa with him eating pizza and drinking a bottle of beer.    We watched a couple reruns of Laverne and Shirley.

At about six-thirty or so, the back door opened and someone ran down the hall, our bedroom door slammed.  I got up to see.  Karen had locked herself in the bedroom. I asked what was wrong.  She said to go away.  Frenchy came into the darkness of the hallway, laughing, shaking his head.  He said to leave her alone and asked me if I wanted a beer. I was ready for another. 

I want back to the living room and Frenchy came in and handed me a beer and lounged across the easy chair, swinging a long leg out over the arm of it.   He said: "You shoulda been there."  He took a long gurgling suck at his beer.

He belched. 

"What happened?"  I played the straight man every time, feeling that familiar giddy anxiety again.  My imagination made things up that were impossible, or so I thought.  But what Frenchy conceived for her in reality, how they mistreated her was beyond my imagining.

He said they went to get cigarettes and the old geezer shop keeper at the corner store—Mr. Hansen, he says he thinks his name is (actually he knows very well that is his name—the same old geezer saw immediately who she was. 

Actually he knew her very well.  Frenchy may not have known this.  But I knew because on more than one occasion, buying beer or cigarettes, he has asked politely after the missus, as he called her, saying how much he admired us for taking on the task of helping these delinquent boys and intimating that he knew just how bad they were.  Truth is he knew Frenchy very well, though I did not know it.  For her part Karen said how nice he was to her, how often he held open the door for her when she was burdened with a sack of groceries, and the kind and complimentary things he said to her.  She thought maybe he ever had a crush on her.

So seeing my wife, dressed as she was, intrigued him.  Frenchy guessed what I had been thinking and what Mr. Hansen must have been thinking to—what was she wearing underneath that T-shirt? No underpants, maybe.  Certainly no bra.  He could see that—wide dark spots, her nubby nipples, showed beneath the wash worn cloth of the T-shirt.  I had not seen it when she was at home, but Frenchy said it was really obvious once she was in outside in the sunlight.  

And he saw with amusement that she had come in in her stocking feet and as it turns out he and Frenchy has a special relationship concerning certain interests he had (a relationship unknown to either Karen and I).  He had an inkling about this, about Karen, and so he made a remark to her about her stocking feet.  "Lose your shoes, honey?"

His informal intimacy with her, his prurient look aroused her embarrassed response: "I forgot." 

He did not believe her. The way that Frenchy lead her in, telling her what to do and so on, gave him the idea perhaps.  He asked Frenchy:  "That your T-shirt?"

The question shocked Karen.  Frenchy's unabashed pride offended her.  The two seemed to exchange an unspoken conversation as she waited for him to hand over the cigarettes. 

"I don't suppose you're wearing anything with pockets."

And of course she was not.  She had not given him any money and she felt foolish.  Frenchy laughed and fished some coins out of his jeans pockets. 

"O, that's the way it is . . ." said old man Hansen, looking at my wife up and down, undressing her with his eyes (she felt), "His money, but your cigarettes?"

He took the money, smacked down the pack of Marlboros onto the counter, but put his hand over top of hers when she reached out sto take it.

"Maybe you'd like to check out my backroom?"  

Did he say it to my wife or to Frenchy? I don't know but this is he way that Frenchy told me the rest of the story. In his own words, as I best as I can recall them:

"So I'm thinking.  This can be fun.  What's this old fucker thinking?  Wants to cop a feel of mom?  Wants a strip show? I don't know but I see how worried Mom is about it all but I'm thinking, let's see what happens.  Why not?  So he goes to the door and actually locks the front door and I says, you got maybe some extra beer back there.  He nods maybe, depends. And I know what he's thinking, the old horn dog.  Shit.  Mom knows too.  She whispers she don't want to.  I says, 'Lets see what he wants.  Maybe get some free beer.'  She's worried and when we get to the back she's hunched over and got her arms folded like she's cold and it is a little cold back there, that's true, near the door to the walk-in cooler. Hand truck.  Stacks and stacks of cases of beer.  Mostly empties but some that aren't in the cooler yet.  And so I says what you want for one of these cases of beer?  He says: 'What she go on under that T-shirt?'  I said: 'You know what she's got.'  'Yeah,' he says, 'You wanna show me?'  Well, that spooks mom for sure and she sees the back door and just runs out.  I wave to the old guy and he looks really frustrated, coming to door, holding the door jamb and gawking at us, calls out, says, 'Come back here.'  I shout back: 'Later, man.'  Poor slob, came just an arm's length from grabbing her tits.

"Well, Karen is out in the alley heading back to the house and I run up after her and she turns on me, angry, 'Why do you do that?'  I didn't do nothing, I says. I try to kiss her.  She pushed me off.  I says, 'Free beer. . . Why not? What's your problem?' She says I won't.  Okay, I say, and hold her and kiss her. Right there in the alley.  Feeling her butt under her shirt and she slaps my hand when I try to lift her shirt and she says she's going home but stops. 

"Seeing Jon come up. 'Hey' says I.  He says he guessed I'd be there.  Thinking the same.  Always.  O, we are good. . ."

Unknown and unseen Jon had returned at well.  Standing at the archway between the living room and dining room, he was holding the T-shirt that Karen had been wearing. He said: "Yeah, we're very good. . ." A sneering smile.  

I felt apprehension but my  compulsive sexual thinking got the best of me: "What did she do?"

Frenchy laughed and finished his story:

"What did we do to her?  Well, we was talking.  She wanted to go home.  And some of the neighbor boys come along.  You know the ones?  The two little nigger kids and that white trash that hangs out with them. You know.  And the cocky one says: hey, what's up, Frenchy.  Standing doing his attitude thing, you know, tough looking.  But just a little fucking kid. And he's looking Karen over.  And the other kids hanging back are giving her a good look.  He says: 'Who's the hot mama?' So tells him: 'My mom.'
'No really.' So I have to explain it to him.  And mom's getting really nervous with the boys now surrounding her, the whole of gang of them now coming out of nowhere.

"But shit, they ain't but fucking twelve or so.  Punks, but they think they're hot shit, 'cause they smoke and drink and talk shit.  But they done things for me, you know. Look out and a couple got sisters I like, you know what I mean. [Jon grins and says "Yeah."] So I cut them some slack.  And the leader, Curtis, speaks up: 'What you say we go to the garage?'

"Yeah? Says I.  He's got some weed for me he tells me.  He says he thinks he can work out a deal.  I said I don't mind if I do.  So we go to the garage. It's that old junky place down at the end of our alley, you know the place.  Two car garage?  Brick? Built long time ago when they still had horses? No body owns it or takes care of it now.  The boys made it their club house.  Spliced a wire to run electricity in it.  Little stove.  An old refrigerator.  Some ratty old couches.  Table and chairs for poker games.  The windows covered up with old newspapers so nobody can look in.  Curtis even put a padlock on the door at the side so nobody can get in.  He carries the key on a string around his neck.

"We walk over there.  Mom's almost surrounded by the whole gang of the little shits.  Being pushed some.  I back them off with a stare.  She walks close to me.  Curtis pulls the key on the string out of his T-shirt and opens up the place and we all go in.  Karen's almost shoved in by the crowd of them behind her.  Three or four of them shut the door.  It's dark except for the sunlight cracking through holes in the newspaper over the window.  It smells like cigarettes.

"Curtis turns on a big shop light over a work bench, and the kids settle into the sofas that all face that way.  He opens the refrigerator next to it and gets a beer for me and one for Jon.  He takes one too.  The other kids can't have one unless he says so.  He doesn't offer one to Karen either.  He just ignores her. 

"We talk shit for a while.  The boys all oggling mom, making comments.  She's standing next to me, sort of hiding beside me.  Jon finally gets down to it.  'Where's the weed? What you want for it?'  The little fucker had a bag of it. He rolled a joint and let us sample it and it was good shit. You can try it yourself.  Mom did.  [This surprised me.  Frenchy said she took two tokes and coughed a lot, but got stoned for sure]

"I passed the joint to the boys on the couches.  They passed it along.  Jon said we'd take it.  He asked him how much? And the little shit just grinned at us and said: 'Her.' I looked under my arm at Karen who was hiding up under me now and laughed at her. 'Really?' and he says 'yeah.'  I says: 'For what?' And he says: 'For all of us.' "Yeah?'  He says, 'Yeah.' So I says, 'What you going to do with her?' He sort of shrugs and says: 'Play with her.'  I nod.  I understand says I.  'Tell her,' he says, 'Tell her to take off the shirt.'

"I looked at mom and she looked up at me with big sad eyes and whines about it.  And I shake her off my arm and says: 'Take off the shirt.'  Now everybody is paying attention.  And she's standing by herself up under the light and I says again: 'Take it off. Or they'll take it off.'

"So when she did, she showed she wasn't wearing nothing but underpants underneath.  Jon swiped the shirt away from her.

Curtis made her turn all around slow in the light so everyone got a good long look at her hot titties and then of course he wanted her to take off her underpants. 

And that's when she ran to the door and somehow pushed the boys away and they grabbed at her underpants and half-pulled them down, showing most of her bare butt, but she got away and, no shit, she ran all the way home, running done the alley half-naked with all those boys shouting and chasing after her.  Jesus, it was great! They might have catched her too, but she got into the door of the house and I got there and stopped them from going up the stairs after her."

I think I looked incredulous.  He crossed himself like a catholic and said: "Swear to god."

Karen stayed locked in our bedroom for the rest of the night.  Frenchy finally persuaded her to open the door for him and once again I slept on the sofa.  I considered taking Frenchy's bunk in the boys room but when I looked in Jon was sleeping on it.  Steve did not come home and Larry slept in his bunk.