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 10—The Fifth Week—Tuesday Night: Another Walk to the Store

At ten o'clock the door to our bedroom flew open and Frenchy and Jon exploded out like riotous clowns, laughing shrilly, joking crudely, and dragging my dazed doped-up wife behind them like a rag doll, her limbs quite out of her control.  It was only pot, but she looked completely "baked" as they say.  She was wearing one of Frenchy's t-shirts, which was so large on her it looked like an oversized white hospital gown, sloppy and soupy all about her body, her arms swam in its sleeves; it hung about her to mid-thigh. 

They wrangled her into the center of the room to present her to me and to Larry who had taken up the easy chair after Jon left it., though she did not seem aware of me.

Somehow I had been permanently assigned the farthest corner of the sofa, furthest from the TV and near the window, the spot from which I witnessed the daily and nightly sexual abuse of my wife for day after day and night after night.

From that very spot I had witnessed her, just a few hours earlier, kneeling naked, leaning over the belly of a black dog to suck up the length of his swollen pointy prick, her head bobbing, coaxing him to climax in her mouth.  Loudly slurping wet gulps of spouting dog sperm, her eyes-closed, tight in concentration, focused on her perverse oral service.  And she—hot, red-faced, self-conscious, aware of the leering men standing over her, mocking her and urging her cynically to keep swallowing and sucking—she was obviously deeply ashamed, but obviously trembling in her own sexual excitement—her indecent arousal taken from molesting a dog's cock, for Christ's sake!  In her mouth!  The dog cumming repeatedly in her mouth!  I looked down at that dog's sappy face; he lay out-stretched on his side, panting with his tongue lolling lazily in his open jaw, as he enjoyed her bobbing mouth on his prick, grunting with gratification he spent his sperm into her mouth freely and repeatedly, raising his head up to see her doing it.  And she swallowed all of it and swallowed eagerly again and again.  While above her the three men teased her nastily and taunted her to keep going, keep swallowing the stuff, and joked cruelly with each other about it.  The dog had ceaseless ejaculations.  Over and over again in her mouth.  Jesus God, she and the dog went on like what seemed a good ten minutes!  All of us watching her were astonished.  The sounds she made—whimpering pleasurably while sucking and swallowing dog cum—I will never forget it.

I can still get off masturbating on this scene.  It's still so vivid in my mind.  I don't know how long the dog could have continued—dogs seem to make more and more cum the more they fuck—but Karen must have got a stomach full or felt sick or felt ashamed of herself or just breathless and finally gasped and withdrew, sitting up, bracing herself, while the dog's jerking cock sprayed up, shooting sperm into her lips, dripping like syrup, and wet her neck, running between her breasts.  The dog leaned in and took to licking his own dick untill it stopped discharging, but still it wobbled above his belly, swollen and large and red and stiff and ready for more for her mouth.  For her part, Karen seemed exhausted and had laid out flat on her back and covered up her eyes with the forearm, catching her breath.  I could see her fluttering heartbeat throb in her diaphragm; her body a glow of sweat.  Of course they were not finished with her. With his brother and uncle each taking up an arm they hoisted my bewildered wife while Slider held the dog's prick upright, they lowered her down, legs spread, to straddle his belly and to take the dog's cock right up deep into her cunt.  She groaned.  They laughed, and began to help her fuck the dog.  And once again the dog ejaculated, now up inside my wife's cunt.  In the end they let go of her and she fucked the dog all by herself in stupefied sexual drunkenness.  Shamelessly climaxing, eyes shut, moaning with dog cock stuffed up inside her.  Slider's uncle said he wished he'd brought a camera.

Now, my wife stood in the living room again, brought before me dressed in Frenchy's T-shirt.  What would they do to her now?  

When they let go of her, she swayed a little.  Her eyes glassy, her gaze was distant, but she was smiling, happy. Goofy-looking.  High.  She giggled as she tried to keep standing up where they had left her alone.  She collapsed giggling to the floor, legs jumbled beneath her, the t-shirt splashed about her, her thighs showed.  Larry instinctively looked between her legs.  I did too.  But her t-shirt had not spilled up so far up to show anything he wanted to see.

She sat up, her head wobbling.  She said dreamily: "I feel so dizzy."  Frenchy laughed.  "Put your head between your knees."  She drew up her legs, embraced them, to give a rest for her forehead.  Then Larry and I saw what he wanted to see.

"What did you do?" I saw but I did not believe it.

Jon said: "Shaved her pussy."

Frenchy added: "Yeah, looks great."

"Just like when she was a little girl," Jon described.

"Yeah, except she's got real bouncy tits on top."  Frenchy laughed.

We all stared between her legs.  Between her buttocks, the pink scallop of moist bulbous lips.  The bare pump labia of her vulva, the star pucker of her virgin anus seen beneath it. 

Jon turned off the TV.  We weren't watching it anyway. We were watching my wife. We all watched her breathing. 

Frenchy said he had just wanted to see her cunt and play with it and got her to lay back on the bed after she got stoned and got the idea to cut away some of her pussy hair to get a better look and started clipping the tufted hair off the top of her pussy.  Well, then, one thing led to another.  He got more and more trimmed away and liked the way it looked, like the say it felt.  "I could see her slit.  I could see her hot clit sticking up." 

He came out and got Jon to show it to him then. "So I got dad's razor," said Jon.

"And his shaving cream," added Frenchy.

"So we shaved off all the little hairs and the beard around her asshole too.  Shaved her real close. Shaved three times.  Took turns.  It was fun. And she liked it too.  Kept feeling it herself."

"Yeah, she likes feeling herself," Frenchy laughed.  Jon laughed at the unstated joke.   Knowing glances exchanged.  I could guess.  Larry had no clue what they meant.

"Smooth as baby's butt." Jon looked in admiration between her legs.

"Pretty and pink," commented Frenchy.

Whether from lethargy or desire, I could not say but at that moment as all of us were staring there between her legs—and she heard our conversation, I am sure—she let her legs fall open.  The puffy labia parted with a moist gasp, the succulent center exposed for us, the inner fleshy folds looked chaffed by too much use or touching and within them her deep wet vaginal hole, red as beef steak, glistened with pearly ooze of what I had supposed had to be her own cum or the boy's cum or both.  Her aroused clit showed—a pink slice peaking out the top of the slit, peeking out of its swollen hood, shone pointed and pink and glossy like a bit of candy, like the end of a candy cane licked up to a sticky wet nub.  She got like this when she was really very sexually excited.  I had seen it a couple times—first during one of my early explorations of her body when I had insisted she let me examine her naked with all the lights on, but she was ashamed of it, and she had gotten so excited she complained she could not catch her breath and would sit up and cover herself and refuse to let me go on.  She had always tried to hide it after that, whenever I had seen it in the mess of her pubic hair during foreplay.   

She lifted her head and looked up sheepishly then and seeing our gaze closed her legs again and put her head down on her knees.

"Nice," hissed Frenchy. 

"Makes you wanna fuck her," nodded Jon.

Larry was chewing his lip.  He had his hand in his pants, feeling himself.

My dick was hard too.  God, I don't know how I can keep doing this.  I am not going to school.  I am losing her to these boys.  Where will this end?

"Taught her to masturbate," Frenchy said proudly.

"Yeah," said Jon, "Wanna see?"

He grabbed Karen's wrist and tugged on her arm, wanting to make her stand; Karen resisted limply, using her dead weight against him; she whimpered and shook her head. 

I felt sorry for her.  She looked tired.  Her hairless vulva looked swollen and sore.  Had she been rubbing it for them, like he said?  Really?

Frenchy saw my pity and shared it—at least for the moment: "Nah, Jon, give her a rest."

He let go of her arm. She looked up at Frenchy feeling her wrist where Jon had gripped it. 

"She looks sore," I said, looking between her legs.  Karen, seeing my gaze, drew the t-shirt down, covering herself, holding it to her lap. She looked away toward empty space in the dining room.  Thinking what, I wondered.

"Frenchy," shook his head, "Don't think so . . .  I put baby oil on her after we shaved her and she used it too. . .  you know, to rub herself off. . . " He shrugged but leaned solicitously, asked her sympathetically: "You're not sore, are you, mom?"

She looked up at him big-eyed like a poodle, wanting only to please him, and said nothing but taking his queue for her lead shook her head slowly.  He helped her now to stand with gentleness and care and speaking soothingly to her: "You tired?"

She nodded as he drew her up to stand in front of him and drew her warmly into his arms, put his hands onto her rump, and nodded back at her uplifted face, saying: "You did a lot today, mom.  We need to put you to bed, don't we?  But first I want you to go get us some beer and cigarettes. Okay? You do that for me?"  She nodded, not speaking a reply. 

Of course she would do anything he wanted.  She had given up. Or she was in love with him.  Or she was just wasted.  I don't know.  It gave me a strange pang.  Something of my usual sexual anxiety and craving for her humiliation that I felt, but also an unpleasant sickening feeling, like the misery of finding out that someone you loved no longer loved you.  I don't know that this was the case, that she no longer loved me.  But I felt guilty and ashamed for what I had made her do, and I knew that she saw how I watched it, how I obviously relished her sexual use and humiliation, and she for her part had been obviously sexually aroused despite her shame.  I had seen it. 

And she had seen how I watched her submission to them, understanding (even others did not) the secret embarrassed pleasure she took from having their cocks cum in her mouth, getting fucked to sweaty exhaustion, and all the rest of it.  And now seeing how she melted into Frenchy's arms like an infatuated teenager, though Frenchy mugged at us over her head on his chest, mocking her, and out of her hearing he would call her a pig, just as Jon did.  How could she not know what they thought of her?  Did she really believe it, when Frenchy said: "I love you"?  His cynical manipulation of her was creepy and obvious.  How could she not see it for what it was?

Of course her self-deception was the last emotional refuge she had.  I don't know how else to explain it.  How she would do whatever he wanted could only be explained by some passionate infatuation, naive as that of an adolescent crush, or no, really it was the passionate and compulsive as the cravings of a nymphomaniac.  It was really that sort of compulsive sexual craving that perverted her this way; she only lied to herself telling herself these were feelings of love for him, and so it was out of "love for him" (she told herself) that she gave herself up to any sexual idea that he conceived, to anything that he wanted her to do, as though it was for him that she did it—even sex acts with other men, even sex acts with a dog, for Christ's sake!

 And yet, hiding at the bedroom door, or watching her shameless displays in broad daylight, I could hear the real feelings in her mewling response to them.  I could see it in her flushed face, in guilty sidelong glances at me, how she only half-deceived herself. In the midst of some craven sex act, in the heat of her wet gasping orgasms, all pretense was stripped off and she showed, she showed nakedly how she was doing these things because she really wanted to do these things. 

And I was sure Frenchy certainly saw it too.  He commented on this to me to tease me and to shame me for her sake: "Mom really loves what we're doing to her."  No, what she did was not just for love of Frenchy, even if she half-believed it was. 

Still, couched in his enfolding embrace, small in his arms, she looked a little girl in love.  Truly, she did.  And I felt hurt by her tender submission to him, her obvious affection for him, even though I thought it must not be really believed.  Frenchy kissed the top of her head sweetly, then looked up at me, and asked: "You got any money?"

He did not need to ask. He knew he had taken all my money.   He grinned. 

Jon reminded him he had the money from Slider and his friends.  But Frenchy objected: "We need that to pay the boys for the pot."

"Why pay 'em?" said Jon. "We can give them piggy."

Karen hearing this must have felt anxious.  I could see no change in her expression as she pressed her head against Frenchy's chest and he looked down at her and shook his head: "No, you can pay up tomorrow.  I got the money for that."

Frenchy then explained he would be leaving in the morning to go see his Parole officer and might be gone until Saturday, but Jon would take care of everything.  I saw Karen's eyes open.  We both worried about this—intuitively.

Frenchy said: "We'll have to ask old man Hansen for credit, I guess."  He winked at me.

"Come on, mom," he said and swept her sideways toward the door.  She looked confused.  "Where?"

"To the store," he said, "You gotta buy some beer and cigarettes. We're out."

"But I don't have any . . ." Karen protested—I thought she was going to say "money" but actually I think she meant to say "I don't have any shoes;" she was in her stocking feet.  Just like the last time she visited the store. Frenchy pushed her ahead of him, and Jon went after laughing.  Larry hesitated as they reached the door, Karen shoved ahead, but then Larry lumbered after when Frenchy stuck his head back in and invited him: "You gonna come or not?"

I was alone in the house again.  Imagining things.  Watching TV and imagining things, waiting for their return and all the tales Frenchy would tell.  I looked out the window and did not see them.  I went to the front door on the first floor and looked out the yard and down the street, the Red Barn across the street, the traffic light changing red to green to red again before I went back up.

They did not get back for more than half-an-hour.

Almost what I expected:  the crowd of them together clambered up the stairs, joking and tussling.  Karen came through the door with Frenchy, Larry and Jon right behind her.  She was clutching the t-shirt in front of her, obviously stripped naked somewhere out in public.  Even her socks were gone.  She was barefoot and naked, and they were laughing at her.  She looked distressed—teary and flushed.  Frenchy snatched at the t-shirt, exposing her to me and to the rest.  Her eyes widening welled with tears as she looked at me. And looked down to see her plainly then, completely naked with her shaved randy sex.  Standing before me for a moment.  Wanting me to see.  The bare wedge of her sex between her thighs beneath a bare rounded belly, making a pronounced slit between puffy labia plumped at the swell of her thighs.

She ran out of the room, blushing in her face, the blush radiating across her chest to the tips of her pointy tits, her tits bobbling obscenely as she ran into the hallway.  I ached to see her so, so self-conscious in her nakedness.  I mean, I ached pleasurably to see her that way, to see the boys leering after her.  Our bedroom door slammed shut.  Frenchy laughed.  Larry wanted to go after her and stood looking down the hallway, considering his chances at pursuing her and winning a fuck or a suck.

Jon carried a couple six-packs to the refrigerator and Frenchy, tossing a carton of Marlboros on my lap, began his story. Larry gave up the chance and took up the easy chair to hear the story, though he had been there.  Jon returned with beers for the three of them. 

Frenchy had planned it and on the way had confided to her that she would need to cooperate, to do what he asked.  She had asked him to explain, but he only laughed and said for her to be nice.  He kissed her outside the door of the place. 

This corner store, at the corner of Hennepin and 26^th, has its entry on the corner of the building.  The windows along the front are blocked by the back of shelves that stand behind the counter and cash register at the head of the aisles.  The doorway under a little alcove is all glass and passersby might see in that way, but otherwise there is no line sight into the store.  Frenchy, Jon and Larry stood out under the alcove while they sent Karen in with instructions.  Frenchy had told her to go to the cooler at the back of the store to get the beer, put it on the counter, and ask for the cigarettes.  He had explained that when Hansen asked for money, she should ask him to put it on account. 

She had supposed that Hansen must have made that kind of arrangement with the group home, with previous group home mom's and dad's.  But that was not the case.  Frenchy knew what to expect.  Karen was surprised.

She asked for credit and he looked her over without replying.  He went to the front door, he nodded at Frenchy knowingly, and he turned the bolt-lock on the door.

He came over beside Karen who had turned to face him, looking anxiously beyond him toward Frenchy who was laughing.  Jon had crowded up against the glass door to watch.  Larry fidgeted behind him to get a place to peer over his shoulder. 

Mr. Hansen folded his arms and looked at her stocking feet.  He said: "Where are your shoes, Mrs. H?" 

Karen told him she had left them at home.  Hansen nodded and said simply: "Take off those dirty socks."

Karen was confused by this, said Frenchy, and looked uncertainly and hesitated but when Frenchy nodded at her she did what he wanted and never asked why.  Now holding her socks in her hands she glanced around Hansen out at Frenchy who said "I love you, mom" soundlessly through the glass. 

Hansen looking at her feet said she had pretty feet.  He held out his hand toward her and she did not understand the gesture at first or his implied wish but realized after a moment of silly half-spoken discussion with him that he wanted her to hand him her socks, so she did it after he insisted with a second imperative gesture.

He looked at the socks smiling, folded them, and laid them neatly on the counter. 

She should have expected what he wanted.  But Frenchy had not told her.

I did not anticipate it. Frenchy had prompted the whole thing with a careful plan.  He had an understanding with Hansen, going back a long time.   He told me that yes there was arrangement.  Yes, there had been "credit" given for the previous group home mom and dad too, the one before us who had left so suddenly (and conveniently for us, I had thought).  Yes, in much the same way that Karen now was in debt to Mr. Hansen and his friends, the previous Mrs. So and So (the previous Group Home mom) had been debt and the debt had been satisfied in much the same way.   

"Your debt," Frenchy explained, "will be paid off Sunday night. But mom don't know about that yet." 

"You don't tell her," he warned all of us. "It's a surprise." 

What was happening in the store that night was the deal was being made.  Hansen had told Frenchy: "I ain't gonna buy a pig in a poke."  Meaning he wanted to see what he was going to get for all his beer and cigarettes and snacks and cash.  Because, Frenchy explained, Hansen had been giving Frenchy beer and cigarettes since a week ago and even when Frenchy or the boys had taken money from me for food or milk, Hansen had been putting the cost on account and had let the boys pocket my money.

Hansen asked her if she knew what she had to do.  My wife was confused and glanced at Frenchy who nodded and repeated that he loved her.  She looked back at Hansen; she shook her head.  Hansen said: "He didn't tell you how much you owe me?"  She shook her head.  "Nearly sixty-five bucks now, seventy with this here..." he gestured at the counter. 

"How you gonna pay for all that?"  She shook her head. Now Frenchy and the other boys--Jon and Larry--came in the door. She heard the bell on the door knock. Mr. Hansen got up from his stool and stood at the end of the counter, looking her up and down.

"What we gonna do about that then?"  She stared up it him.  He dropped his eyes from her anxious expression and stared at the front of her, leaned to admire her bare legs. He sighed and asked her plainly: "What you got on under that shirt, Mrs. H? Hmmmm?"  He grinned.  He glanced up to her face, and she turned her eyes away.

"You ain't got nothing on underneath that shirt, do you?"

She stared and understood.

He grinned: "No bra?"

She did not respond. She blushed.

"I can see your titties, Mrs. H. The boys can too. I wonder..." He cranned to look over the counter at her bare legs. "I'll bet you ain't got no underpants on"

She did not respond.

"So the boys can feel you up, I bet," He said: "Am I right, Mrs. H? Hmmm?"

At this the boys laughed. Frenchy winked at Mr. Hansen.

Hansen watched to see her response to his insinuations but she averted her eyes from his.  "Well, Okay.  You don't have to say."

He stepped out from behind the cash register and appraoched my wife, who backed up and into the boys blocking the doorway. Mr. Hansen, coming closer, nodded at her distress and bent over and reached out to her, to touch her leg and to traced bare skin of her exposed thigh, where her hands clutched the hem of the shirt. He tried to lift the hem, lifting the side of it and seeing a bit of her bare buttock, then ducked as if to peek at her exposed thighs, then smiling, shaking the hem slightly: "Come on, now. Mrs. H. Let's take off this shirt. . . Let's just have a look and see what you got under there, Mrs. H. . .  Hmmm? Okay by you?"

He gestured, sweeping his arm toward the center aisle and saying that she should go stand there... "So no one can see you from the street."

Karen told me later that Hansen did not look at her face as he said it.   He looked at her chest and her legs. She backed up, away form him, into the middle of the aisle. Hansen said: "That's good... Right there."

He leaned back against the couner and folded his arms and stared at her, looking her up and down, like he was sizing her up, like he was buying her. 

He said it again: "Take it off, Mrs. H. Show me what you got to offer."  She looked at Frenchy plaintively who nodded solemnly, who knew what he meant by it all, but she did not know, and she did not want to do this. Mr. Hansen had been a neighbor, a nice old man. He had always been so nice to her. Why was he doing this? Why was Frenchy doing this?

So, why did she do what he asked, if she was so unhappy to do it?  This was over the top now.  I mean, yes I had set it up in a way.  I had allowed her to be abused.  But the other situations were different.  She was stripped by the boys then.  Against her will.  If maybe complacently, I guess.  Or she was forced to undress in one way or the other.  But now this was her own choice.  She knew what was expected.  But she didn't have to do it.  Did she?  Not really.  Frenchy said he didn't threaten her.  Frenchy appealed to her nicely, he said.  She did not have to do it, he said.  

I asked her later why she did it and she did not reply; she could not explain it herself.  Or she was ashamed to say it.  She looked away sadly.  She said she didn't remember what she was thinking.  And when asked how she felt, how she felt standing naked in front of Mr. Hansen—who now would remember her like this always, who would see her everyday and see her standing there naked like that—she looked at blankly at me but blushed, then shook her head in confusion or denial.

The boys, intensely watching from the door, saw her slowly lift the t-shirt up over her head and let it down, holding it in her left hand loosely where it touched the linoleum floor, and finally she just let it drop. Looking away from the gaze of Mr. Hansen. Ashamed of herself. But not unwilling. Obviously not unwilling. This was the story.

So, my wife stood under the floresecent lights of the store. Arms dropped, hands at her sides. Looking down at the linoleum floor absently. Completely naked in front of Mr. Hansen. Wondering what he wanted.

She could hear the boys looking on and remarking to her. Hansen stepped out from behind the counter and this silenced them. He leaned against counter and folded his arms. He looked my naked wife up and down.

"Very nice, Mrs. H," he approved.

Too ashamed to look up into his eyes, while he looked her up and down; he nodded at Frenchy, smirking smugly,then looked back at her approvingly: "Yes, she's everything you said..."

He commented that she had nice tits--like Frenchy had told him---and added that he was obviously surprised but also "...very very pleased" to see how Frenchy had "... made her snatch nice and bare... That's very nice too. Very very nice. So the guys can see it...."

He told Frenchy he liked her "that way." He said she looked real pretty "that way."  He stepped away from the counter and approached her. She fidgeted. She glanced at him anxiously, then quickly looked away again. The boys tittered; she stood absolutely stiff and still, like an animal that was terrified.

He leaned over his six foot frame and peered down at her flushed face and asked her some very personal insinuating questions.

It embarrassed her because she remembered how in times past, before this all began, even just last week, when she had shopped there, he had been so respectful and solicitous, like men of his generation had been raised to treat the fairer sex; he had even said how much he admired her for taking on the job of group home mom "for a bunch of bad boys like these delinquents."  She thought he was sincere. 

He had called her Mrs. H then out of respect or admiration.  He liked addressing her formally. 

But now?  Now what did he think of her? He saw her shame and he said her name with sarcastic formality now to tease her.

Now he called her Mrs. H with sarcasm and irony, as he smirked at her naked body, nodding his appreciation. 

"I can see why the boys like you, Mrs. H." He joked.  "I sure can." 

Frenchy said they all moved in the doorway. Standing before her, smirking. She saw them out of the corner of her eye.

They heard her reply quietly uncomfortably to the four questions from Mr. Hansen, nodding or shaking her head, murmuring: "Yes;"  "No;"  "No;" "Yes."

Frenchy told me that the four questions that Mr. Hansen had asked my naked wife were these. First he asked: "Have all the boys fucked you, Mrs. H? Hmmm.  Many times?"  She nodded.  He asked her to respond so he can hear her.  She did, though weakly.  Answering: "Yes." Then he asked her the second question: "How 'bout sucking cock? Do you suck their cocks too?" She denied it.  He did not believe her but he sighed: "Too bad."  Then, stepping closer to her to touch her, he examined her left nipple with the forefinger of his right hand, circling the wide aureole, teasing the tip of it; she looked at his hand, watching him.  He asked his third question then as her nipple responds: "And have they... have you ever been fucked in the ass, Mrs. H?"  He looked at her eyes when she shook her head.  The look of anxiety she showed persuaded him she was telling the truth about this.  He grinned and nodded: "Okay."

"This is good, Frenchy," Hansen said, turning to him, nodding his satisfaction, "She's really pretty. She's better than that old fat lady you got us before. She'll be fun to fuck dizzy."

He looked down (and her own gaze followed) as he put his hand flat onto her bare belly and slipped the fingers downward, feeling it, down to feel the bare slit and down to slip his middle finger slip inside of it. He asked his last question then, peering up into her eyes for her honest response, as he diddled her gently and she tried awkwardly not to show her response:

"And your husband, Mrs. H." Mr. Hansen asked her the last question, "Does your husband know you're here at the store? Hmmm?  Does he know you're down here? Naked like this??" She nodded.  She said: "Yes." Softly.

"And he don't mind?" he asked, genuinely perplexed.  She shook her head, saying, "He wants me to do it."  He could not fathom her look.  He could not believe it.

Later, on Saturday in fact, I would have to go down to the store for cigarettes, and I felt sick at heart to see this man who had seen my wife naked and soon would get her to do God knows what to pay the "debt."  When I came to pay for them, he raised his hand to refuse my money, and then looked at me quizzically, and said, "..you don't know?"  I was embarrassed but I said: "I don't understand." He looked at me pointedly, puzzling it out, and then said: "Never mind." And took my money.  He didn't believe I knew what she was doing.  He thought she was acting on her own.

Hansen leaned over took the t-shirt off the floor; with a glance he tossed it back onto the counter. She watched. She stood stiffly without protest as he looked her over again. She did respond when he touched her breasts. Her eyes blinked. She was stiff and attentive but she she did not move, did not raise her hands. He grinned and stepped in front of her. He embraced her, pressing her to his body, and she did not resist; he kissed her; he felt her buttock with a second roving hand while the front of her he felt with his other hand, feeling about her bald smooth plump mons, curling a middle finger up into the warmth and wetness of her slit, while kissing her warmly.  She did not close her eyes, she looked up at the ceiling as he felt her and kissed her.

Frenchy said she liked it.  He said she could not help herself---old man Hansen stood there fully dressed and making out her as she stood naked, feeling her up---when he tongued her mouth and she closed her eyes and kissed him back, raising her hands to his chest. Frenchy said she kissed him back and I suppose she did. 

But when Hansen stopped in the midst of it, and turned away, she stood watching, hands raised, to see him go to tdoor and let the boys in. She backed up anxiously into the aisle, covering herself with her hands, moving to hide against the food shelves, aware now of the window on the door and aware anyone passing in the street could see her.

Now they all lined up in front of her, giving her the once over; she straightened, as Jon drew the hand away from her breasts, but she kept a hand over her sex reflexively, hiding it, embarrassed at what showed.

Hansen had boys on either side of him.  Frenchy was nearly as tall as him on the outside.  All of them grinning like horny cats at my poor naked wife, who stared at floor, whose feet were cold and who felt cold and shivered, and wanted to hunch over, but who stood as she was, her hand over her shaved sex.

Frenchy said: "Stick you finger in your slit, mom." 

Karen did not look up to acknowledge his command but without reply she put her index finger obediently inside her vagina. The labia spread over it.  Plump lips about it, like a bun, her finger like a hot dog in a bun. Frenchy told her to wriggle her finger, he had her slip a second finger into herself, and he had her rub about and finger-fuck herself.  He got her to do it fast and vigorously, and when she was getting worked up, when he saw the wet slick on her fingers, he told her to take her fingers out and to lick them.  To taste herself.  She did what she was told.  He repeated this instruction.  Three times.  Then stopped as she looked up at them sucking on her fingers, tasting her own cunt juices, and liking it, he said.

On his own motion now Mr. Hansen stepped closer to Karen, and she put her hands up as if to fend him off, holding them up, but he said: "I ain't gonna hurt you, Mrs. H."  And he knelt and said: "I just wanna get a little taste of your quim myself."  He took hold of her thighs and stuck his tongue into the slit of her, pulling her against his open wet mouth, and she stepped forward awkwardly but submissively, her hands still raised, and her eyes widening.  He wriggled his tongue up into her, and sucked noisily on her slit and she made a start and a gasp at the sharp thrill to her clit when he sucked on it.

He continued while the boys watched.  Larry masturbated.  Frenchy beamed. Jon sneered.

Hansen stopped, looked up at her, wiped her mouth with his hand, and stood, wiping his wet hand on his trousers and unzipped his pants, and drew out a long uncircumcised dick like limp hose, plumping up slowly and lengthening as she looked at it.

My wife had never seen an uncircumcised penis until she had seen Slider's uncle.  Now this one too.  And this one was longer, dangling, but like the other had loose skin down to the tip of it, like a sleeve of flesh.  But as he got more erect she saw the red glans bulging, his pee hole poking out of end of it.  She felt his hand on the top of her head and pressing her to kneel or lean over and heard him say: "Suck it." 

As she was pushed to lean or kneel, he lifted his penis for her mouth.  She dropped to her knees without a word and sat back on her haunches and opened her mouth for it, and felt it forced into her mouth.  Mr. Hansen sighed and said, "Call this payment for your beer here, if you like."

He held her head.  She was bent at the waist, her hands on her knees.  He fucked her face.  She closed her eyes. 

"Your husband know what you're doing, Mrs. H?"  He asked again.

She sighed.  She listened to the boys shifting around her.  She felt hands about her, feeling her breasts.  She felt fingers on her buttock, her legs being spread, fingers wedged into her vagina, sloppily fucking her.  Hansen stopped fucking her mouth and withdrew, stepped back and masturbated as she watched.  She looked up, closed her mouth. 

He put his hand on top of her head again. Without command she did what he wanted, her mouth opening for the penis that he held for her.

She put her mouth on it, sucking, moving her tongue.  Little enough happened but then Hansen grabbed her head and held it and he had a feeble ejaculation which she later told me tasted acrid and strong—I don't know why; I was obsessed with her telling me about what these men tasted, like how she felt about their cumming in her mouth, if she liked it and so  on.  She liked most of the boys, some more than others; she liked Frenchy; she didn't like Jon.  She hated Hansen's penis. 

He held her head telling her to keep sucking and then more stuff seemed to seep out into her mouth, quite a lot more than she had expected, tasting not so acrid and thin, almost watery, and she wondered then if he must be peeing in her mouth. She felt certainly that he was.  He did not do this for long.  But still she was sure that is what he had done by the strength and the duration and the strong taste of the hot stream that squirt into her mouth. 

Disgusted, she spat out his sagging penis, spat out urine, yet he peed onto her teeth, into her partially open mouth, on her chin, as she still held his penis towrd her mouth.

Until she averted her head and then his pee splashed urine on her tits and ran over her bare belly, and trickled onto the floor.

Fumbling to stop himself,  grabbing his prick, apologizing and laughing  "O, I'm sorry. . ." he waved his penis about, soaking her front and her thighs and said chuckling.

"I really didn't mean to do that. Really. Really." He wet her thoroughly with his pee while the boys laughed.  

When I asked incredulously if this was really true, Frenchy shrugged. 

But Jon blurted: "Sure he did it.  He peed right in your wife's mouth, man; and she let him to. She held it open for him, I swear, man. Pissed right into her mouth." 

Frenchy grinnned" You are a real bastard, Jon." 

But he did not contradict him.  

Jon told me for emphasis: "Go kiss her, if you don't believe me."

Frenchy said Hansen told Larry and Jon to help her get up while he stroking his cock, or pinching it to stop his pee, and staring at her tits.  

He took hold her tits with both hands and looked at her face while he fiddled with her nipples and told her: "You got lovely nice nipples, Mrs. H." 

Frenchy said my wife stood for him silently as he sucked on her nipples, sucking them up and biting the tips of them in his teeth, and said: "Hold her tight, boys."

They each took an arm, turning her back to Hansen.

Hansen easily slipped his swollen prick into her from behind. He commented how easy she was to fuck. "She must like it." 

Hansen fucked her a bit. 

He added: "You guys fuck her a lot?"

They laughed. Karen's mouth open. Hansen took satisfaction in pleasuring her. Several hard shoves moved her up to her tip-toes.  She whimpered as she was jostled and poked by his prick.

And then, Frenchy said, Karen's eyes just lit up wide and shocked, and she gasped out loud. 

Jon could not restrain himself.  Before Frenchy could say it, Jon burst out that Hansen had peed right up inside her cunt, and swore she moaned but did not fight it; they hardly needed to hold her. 

"She liked it," Jon insisted.  Frenchy shrugged.  Larry looked away when I looked to see what he thought.

Frenchy said Hansen peed steady and nonchalantly inside her, his pee leaking out, ran down the inside of her legs to her feet and puddled on the floor.  He stared at her intently as he did with a sardonic grin, a look of contempt and satisfaction. 

Jon added with satisfied venom: "Poor piggy began to boo-hoo."  He mocked the shame she felt, the emotional blubbing she made.  Hansen pissed in her like she was a urinal, Frenchy said.  "Funny really. You should have seen the look on her face."

Then, like a water hose bursting from the pressure, his limp penis popped out of her vagina, and urine gushed from her vagina, down her legs, onto the floor.  The boys thought it hilarious.

Hansen stepped back, holding his limp dick, and peed some more onto her belly, aiming at her slit deliberately, and soaked her thighs for good measure, and then finishing off, nodded as he looked at her crying into her hands, shook the drips off his dick, and tucked it back into his pants, and zipped up.

Hansen looked her over again and asked once more: "Never fucked in the ass?"

She did not respond. 

He went around behind her, shoved her forcibly forward to lean, to put her hands on her knees.  Using both hands he spread her buttock, she looked at Frenchy pathetically, sobbing.  Frenchy said again without saying the words aloud: "I love you, mom," while he watched as Hansen pressed his thumb onto her anus and pushed it in to the knuckle.

She took in a breath, closing her eyes tightly, tears streaking her face again. Frenchy insisted: "It didn't hurt. She just felt ashamed of liking it.  I swear she came." 

Jon nodded.  I did not believe it.  Larry, remembering it, revealed worry in his face about what he'd seen too but he was not going to stop them.

Hansen said: "Our business partners love the girls you bring 'em, especially the young wives, like Mrs. H here, that have no choice and never been butt-fucked. They're gonna love the look on her face when they do it to her. [He smirked, nodding at my wife's shame.] We don't mind her crying some.  She can cry 'cause she's ashamed. That's okay.  And it feels uncomforatable at first.:

Hansen paused, thinking about, looking at my wife's bewilderment and fear--did she understand what he was saying?

"It's good" he contineued, "if she whimpers some. Complains at little. Tears are good--maybe she's a little scared.  But then they wanna see her getting hot... getting fucked in her butt... You know.... So put some butter in there... Some vasoline and then stick a carrot up there so she knows what it feels like... Fuck her a little with that.... But, Frenchy, you keep your monster out of her butt... We want her virgin. You too Jon... She's ours. She belongs to the business."

He tried prying the tip of other thumb into her anus, but she sobbed and went down at her knees to escape him. "She's really tight now.  Get her used to something up her ass. But not too much.  We wanna see her scared like this."

He let go of her, smacked her bare buttock and went back to the counter where he made a note to himself.  He wrote a very long note.  They waited, Jon and Larry still clutching Karen like they feared she'd run away.  She gripped at them, squirming.  

Hearing her, Hansen turned back at last and looked up as though he was surprised to see them all still there.  "Sunday then, right?" he said to Frenchy and then addressed my wife saying: "Very nice to see you, Mrs. H. (leering at her nakedness one last time).... Looking forward to seeing you again.... Don't forget your beer, son" Addressing Jon.

Larry and Jon let go of Karen.  Jon took up the package.

He took Frenchy aside, telling him she was gonna be real good, looking back at my chagrined wife.  They talked, speaking of her and of their business, while eyeing her nakedness approvingly.

Larry stood to the side of her feeling her tits and she stared at the floor passively.  Jon got a carton of milk out of the cooler and opened and drank it, smirking at Karen's flushed face.  Jon offered her a sip of milk but she looked away in shame. 

Frenchy finished his business with Mr. Hansen.  They shook hands. 

He took her t-shirt off the counter and tossed it on the floor into the pool of his pee. He said: "Clean that up, Mrs. H." 

Karen went down to the floor, hanging her head. Hansen directed her to the places to mop up his pee.  She did what he said submissively.  This pleased him. 

He said: "Frenchy, I don't know how you do it."

Hansen would later explain himself to me.  When he did he said that of all the others Frenchy has gotten by his games and blackmail, none had been so sexually cowed as my wife was. He said out loud then as he gave Frenchy the compliment: "She really wants it, don't she?"  Frenchy grinned.  He looked down at my naked wife, as she looked up leaning back on her knees, her hand letting go the wet t-shirt: "You really do love him, don't you, Mrs. H?  You'd do anything for him? Hmmm?"  

Karen's bullied surrender caused him to laugh at her touching expression, he told me, and he commanded her to mop pee that she had missed; she did as she was told then stood as all watched her without giving her a hand, clutching herself with folded arms. 

Hansen chastised her to pick up her "goddamn" t-shirt.  She picked it up, dripping pee, holding it uncomfortably, cringing and reluctant to let the cold wet thing touch her body.

Frenchy guided her naked to the front door and pushed her out into the pool of the street light and before a crowd of cars that had stopped at the corner for the light.  Despite her disgust with it, the only thing to cover her nakedness was the nasty wet cold t-shirt.  So shielding herself with it, she ran away, off up the sidewalk and they all chased her after her, her bare feet smacking on the sidewalk; and catching up to her, spanking her, teasing her, they laughed at her all the way home and chased her up the stairs into the house and through the door where I had seen her run in.

She had dropped the filthy t-shirt on the carpet.  I could see how sopping wet it was. 

Frenchy finally asked me if I wanted a beer and sent Jon to get more beers all around.  Handing me mine, he said again that he would be going to see the PO tomorrow.  He seemed to wait for me to respond.  I did not know what he meant me to think. 

"He wants to know how things are going..." he sipped his beer.

I understood.  I did not want to tempt the matter.  Frenchy would not say anything that would stop the fun.  Still, I wondered what he was up to. 

Frenchy turned to Jon and told him to make sure the boys got paid for their pot.  Jon had the money he said.  He said he would take care of it.  Frenchy asked Larry if he was going to go home for the weekend.  Larry did not want to.  Frenchy said he should.

It was like Frenchy was the real Group Home dad, not me.  He told Jon that he expected Steve to come back.  He said he'd talked to him on the phone, that he was upset about what they were doing to mom, but he had explained to him that wanted to do it, and had told him what she had done today with Slider, his brother, his uncle and his dog.  He winked at me: "That was really something, dad."

Jon asked about Sunday.  I did not know what they meant but Frenchy and he exchanged details.  Then Frenchy told me he was going to take mom out to celebrate her twenty-first birthday down at the local bar.  Several things about this were wacky: first of all, bars are closed on Sundays and then too both Frenchy and Jon were underage.  But he said that old man Hansen had arranged it all and then he added the name of our landlord to the discussion.  He explained how our landlord—Mr. Levinson—who owned a lot of buildings around, including Hansen's corner store and the bar he was talking about—had said he'd pick up the bar tab. 

"You wanna come too?" he asked me.

I did not reply.

"Really?  Gonna be a great party."

I shook my head, fool that I was.  I had met Mr. Levinson only once before.  A short chubby Jewish lawyer, who lived out in St. Louis Park, and invested in real estate around here. I remembered how he complimented my wife on her clothes, although she was not really well dressed that day.  She was wearing shorts.  He liked looking at her bare legs, I think.  We had signed the lease at the dining room table and he had stood up when Karen excused herself to leave the room and had watched her walk away looking at her legs, still white from the winter, and he said to me: "You're a lucky guy.  You have a pretty little wife."  

Larry got up and turned on the TV, bored with all our talk.

"What is this debt you are talking about?"  I asked.

Frenchy laughed, and looked at Jon who said nothing but grinned back at Frenchy.

He sat on the sofa and told me it was a long story.  Jon said he was going to bed.  Frenchy gave him a nod, then begin with the tale.  While he explained, I heard Jon going into our bedroom where, I supposed, he roused my naked wife to fuck him before he went to sleep.

Frenchy said that Hansen gave credit to the last Group Home mom and dad, as part of a deal he had with him.  It had started a long time ago, when Frenchy had brought him his sister.  "She was just twelve and had no tits, but he liked to look, you know, and she'd give him hand-jobs."

The relationship he had with Hansen surprised me.  I said that I didn't know he had a sister, or that he ever had lived around here.  He replied that he didn't live around here and laughed and added that he didn't have a sister either. 

So the debt started to build and build, and it became something that was really a bigger problem for Hansen than Frenchy, given the trade that the old man was taking for the debt; but Frenchy ended up putting the burden on the Group Home, telling the last Group Home mom and dad that it was their debt.  Then he admitted with smug satisfaction how he had seduced that Group mom too, the previous one, but that the dad never did know about it, and so he had got the mom to worry about how her husband might find out and then one thing led to another and that mom had gone down to the corner store too and had done pretty much the same thing that Karen had; only in her case, she had stood in the aisles and taken off all her clothes for both Hansen and Levinson and both of them had fucked her with coke bottle while she leaned over and sucked them off, first the one and then the other.

Hansen himself had made the comparison, thanking Frenchy for Karen, 'cuase Karen was so young and so stupid and the last one had been middle-aged and chunky fat. Karen was a pleasure to see naked. And how she acted naked, so self-concious, so embarrassed but secretly aroused--that was much better than the last one too who was just ashamed of how fat she was and it was head to get her aroused so that she liked getting fucked. No, Karen obviously liked gettig fucked; she wanted it. 

"They had a party for my last mom at the bar too," Frenchy said archly and asked me if I wanted another beer.  Larry got up at last and went to bed.

"I got pictures if you wanna see," he told me, handing a beer when he came back from the kitchen.  

We drank our beers.  I did not have anything to say.  We watched TV.  I wondered about those pictures.  I wondered if they would take pictures of my wife. Well, of course, they would. Maybe even movies.