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 14 - - - Paying the Grocery Bill

The last week of our subjugation began with the Sabbath, by which I mean Sunday.

The Saturday had been as Frenchy had promised, a day of rest for Karen. Jon had gone somewhere, and although Larry hung around in the living room or followed Karen like a dog on a bitch in heat, Frenchy kept him off her. He didn't even do anything to her. Instead he fawned and pandered to her all day. Got her drinks. Took a walk with her. Cuddled with her.

She ignored me. She was angry with me.

Frenchy talked to me about it, seeing my misery.  “You know, she wants it.  She likes it.  But you make her feel ashamed.  And she blames you for starting it, but you know that’s not the truth.”

He had told me this before.  He wanted to repeat it, to shame me.

I listened again to it all.

He then explained about the PO and about the plan for Sunday.

He said I would have to answer to the PO myself.

As for Sunday, that was Mr. Hansen’s payment for all the beer and cigarettes on account. 

“How much?” I asked.

“O, I dunno five, six hours I guess.  I dunno how many men.”

“No, I mean… how much do we owe him?”

“O… about $300 or so…”

“How…” It had not been that long since we had been there.  How was that possible?

“Yeah well there is a lot you don’t know about.”

I was thinking how I might raise the money but there was no way. Frenchy anticipated: “He don’t care about the money.  You can only pay him back is if you let him get your wife naked for him and his buddies and give them a night of butt-fucking her. That’s why he did it.”

Karen, if she overheard all this, did not seem to care.  Cuddled up against Frenchy, wearing one of his T-shirts, she watched TV absently and half-sleeping, nodding off and on again, his arm over her.

“I don’t know why the butt fucking. Although it does feel good…” Frenchy kisses her forehead and she snuggles against him, not hearing any of this, but unconsciously responsive to his affection, and he looks back at me, winking, and goes on speculating, “… and they all love how she’ll go from complaining to moaning—you know she will—and in the end she’ll get so hot she’ll be she fucking back on their pricks up her butt hole… I swear.”  He mused.  “Maybe it’s ‘cause it’s so humiliatin’ and cause she’ll start out crying.  I dunno.”

I sat on the far side of the sofa, and felt sad and jealous.

Steve looked at me contemptuously.

The Local UHF station was running old Depression era musicals, Golddiggers of 1933 or the like.  The girls in scant costumes, long bare legs, soft tits, no bras.  Joan Blondell in this one.  In lingerie in one scene.  

I remembered a photo of her, running naked in front of some reporters.  Bare pussy.  You can see her slit. That was unusual. I had never seen such a thing. 

Now my wife of course.

Just like that.

I could imagine her naked like that in front of men.

Actually I didn’t need to imagine it: I had seen. Again and again.

Frenchy told Karen she had the night off.  He told me to make dinner while he sat on the sofa with her cuddling up to him.

I fried hamburgers.  Put out a bowl of potato chips, a jar of pickles, bottles of beer.  Karen stayed where she sat; when Frenchy crawled out from under her, she just lay on the sofa, curled up.

After dinner Frenchy took my wife to bed.  A ceremony meant to mock me, in which Karen played the shy coquette, uncertain what his attention meant, while he leered.

He put her in bed and came back after half an hour in his underpants. Showing his boner.

We sat together and drank beers and watched TV. 

At about 10 or so Karen came out into the living room, wearing one of Frenchy’s T-shirts, her pouty nipples showing through, hair mussed up, sleepy; she asked Frenchy wistfully if he was coming to bed. 

He winked at me and said: “In a minute, Mom” 

She nervously glanced at me.  She looked ashamed but she preferred him now, I could see that, and for that she was embarrassed but not ashamed. She wanted it. She preferred his cock over mine.  She was obsessed with it, I think.  

Frenchy slapped my knee, smiled at me and said, “She likes how deep I go up inside her… Pushes up to her belly button, she says… And she likes sucking me off…. I cum a lotand she ahe really likes sucking up the stuff. Squirms and moans when I cum in her mouth and sucks on me like a baby bottle and feels herself, frigs herself as she sucks me up and then cums too.  I mean, really, she cums like a man, she gets all creamy in her cunt, I swear…. Well, you seen it…. and then she licks her own cum off her own fingers after she’s done with mine.  Jesus.  You should see the look in her eyes and her giggle and all. She’s some kind of nympho, I swear to god.  And I didn’t make her this way. But, God Damn, she’s changed since it all started. She wants it more and more.  I bet she could go on doing this a long time.  And that’s okay with me.  She’s a money maker.  Fucking dogs.  Sucking dick.  Hell, sucking dog’s dick!  Shit! Loving all of it!”

He paused and drank his beer and then added: “Yeah, man… I think she could suck me off all night if I didn’t want to get some sleep.  She wakes me up, man.  No shit!.  She wakes me up her head on my belly, feeling my prick and her mouth on my dick head, lolling her tongue around, and jerking me off and fooling with my balls and all and sucking and sucking and sucking and won’t stop ‘till she makes me pop a load off into her mouth again. Jesus. And just goes nuts with it.  A fucking nympho, man.”

He shook his head looking at my bewilderment:” Yeah….” is all he said and sighed and sat back looking at me.  “Never seen nothing like it. You’re one lucky fucker.”

Of course, she had never been this way for me.  I didn’t tell him that.  I think he guessed that I couldn’t handle her.  Still we both had to wonder: she had not started out this way.  She had been shy.  She had been embarrassed to be naked.  She had resisted sucking cock because she never had done it and it made her sick the first time.  She had been ashamed of herself.  She had fucked with some abandon, it is true. They saw it and she felt ashamed of herself.  She had shown a terrific orgasm for the boys when they were tag-teaming her.  And gradually she had let Jon and Frenchy do more and more to sexually humiliate her and had yielded to their instructions more and more abjectly.  And, I don’t know, something happened; she broke—I think it was that day with Slider and his Uncle, the boy and the dog.  I think it was that day.  She had looked all dreamy like she was drugged.  Maybe she was. Or she was in a trance.  And she was so obviously sexually aroused by all that happened and so flushed in her face and her neck and sprinkled on her chest and thighs like she had a heat rash; I thought she’d pass out at times but she kept going.

Frenchy then offered his opinion: “I think it was the dog.”

He went to bed soon after.

I watched some more TV in the dark with Larry without conversation.

**********

Next morning I was awakened by Jon who had been out all night and was till drunk when he came in.  He slapped my bottom where I lay asleep on the sofa.  He said he wanted me to suck his cock.  He said: “Actually I’d rather have your wife suck me off.”  He laughed.  I rolled to sit up wearily.  I did not want to do this.

“French says I can’t.”  He lorded over me.

A kid really. Not much more than five feet five but he sneered at me and clenched his fists with “FUCK” and “HELL” tattooed on his knuckles.  He demanded: “Strip and get your cock hard, Dad.”

Why did I do what he said?  He was such a little shit.  His menace was real but I was not really afraid.  His sexual dominance over me was like Frenchy’s over my wife.  I felt a sick anxiety but his abuse gave me the same sexual excitement I felt when my wife was told to strip or forced to suck cock. It was like I was her.

I was in my underwear already.  I took off my T-shirt and as I sat slipped my underpants to my feet and off my feet, my cock was already turgid. He looked at it and laughed. It swelled and lengthened.  He told me to touch it.  He watched me get it harder and erect. 

Like the girls he had brought to me, he enjoyed teasing me about it.  He made me stand and he slapped it so it waggled.  He grabbed it and pulled it down so that I had to bend over and then let it go to slap up against my belly. 

He knelt and put his mouth on my prick.  He knew what he was doing.  He had done it before.  Not to me.  I almost ejaculated.  I wanted to.  But he stopped and stood up, slapping my dick to waggle again and stiffen up to stop waggling.   He unzipped and shoved down his jeans in front of me, and stepped out of them. He said: “Do me…”

He looked at me mockingly.  He grinned and nodded.  “Go on…”

I knelt there.  At the sofa.  The Sunday sunlight coming in the window shining a patch on the floor.  Jon pushed his underpants down and his cock sprang out, pointing straight.  He smelled of sweat and booze.  I think he had been fucking girls all night.  I could smell the pussy on his penis.  I took it in my mouth. He took hold of my head and held it tightly and drew my mouth against his balls and pubic hair. His cock went to the back of my throat.

I tried not to gag.  I breathed noisily through my nose and he started fucking my mouth.  He said it was good.  He said he liked it.  He did this dreamily for several minutes, not violently, almost lovingly.  I ejaculated.  He looked down and laughed.  He asked: “You want me to cum in your mouth?”  I said nothing.  I expected he would.

But he did not.  He withdrew, shoving me away, and said: “Crawl over to the sofa…”

I was confused but he instructed me to lay across the seat cushion, to spread my legs apart, and grab my ass.

Confused or not, I knew what he meant.  Again, although feeling ashamed and uncertain, feeling sick and excited as well, I thought about it, what it would be like, how my wife felt about it, what it felt like to her. 

Jon pressed the head of his prick to my anus. He put his thumb there.  He pressed it in. He pried at it.  I reflexively tightened.  He slapped my buttock.  “Relax and you’ll like it…”

I could not.  He pressed the head of his prick to my anus again and he pushed against me.  I felt my anus gradually accept him.  But he had to shove three or more times to get his cock mostly in.  But gradually I was accepting him.  I groaned involuntarily and he laughed.  He began fucking me in the butt. 

He reached under my belly and started to masturbate me. 

He let go and thrust his prick in as deeply as he could go and then I felt it: a jet of cum, like a squirt of something warm into my rectum.  Then another and another.  He withdrew, pulling out it felt like I had released some poop.  He stood up, pulled up his underpants, picked up his jeans and left me there. 

I was still hard.  I could feel the slimy cum in my rectum.  I was weird. 

When I went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, I farted a lot and his cum spewed into the toilet bowl.  I masturbated until I ejaculated and cleaned myself with toilet paper.  I felt disgusted with myself but this same humiliation of my wife made me hard again just thinking of it. 

And I remembered then what Frenchy said about how the meant to butt-fuck her repeatedly.

Frenchy liked to play this Rolling Stones song: “Bitch”:

I'm feeling so tired, can't understand it
Just had a fortnights sleep
I'm feeling so tired, Ow!, so distracted
Ain't touched a thing all week

I'm feelin' drunk, juiced up and sloppy
Ain't touched a drink all night
Feeling hungry, can't see the reason
Just had a horsemeat pie

Yeah when you call my name
I salivate like a Pavlov dog
Yeah when you lay me out
My heart starts beating like a big bass drum, alright

Yeah you got to mix it child
Ya got to fix it must be love
It's a bitch
You got to mix it child
Ya got to fix it must be love
It's a bitch alright

Sometimes I'm sexy, move like a stud
Kicking the stall all night
Sometimes I'm so shy, got to be worked on
Don't have no bark or bite

Yeah when you call my name
I salivate like a Pavlov dog
Yeah when you lay me out
My heart starts beating like a big bass drum...

He said it reminded him of my wife: “The Pavlov dog… juiced up and sloppy”

I worried most of the night about what Frenchy's intrigue with the PO meant to me and Karen.  How long had he known about this?  How many pictures had Frenchy sent him?

The PO had the one just like the one Frenchy gave to me after he came to the Group Home unexpectedly.  That one he had taken himself: the one of my wife completely naked standing in the living room.  "Pig" scrawled in lipstick on her tummy.  The same one he promised to the show to the officers who had "wondered" (he said) what my wife "... looked like without no clothes on." 

I guess I understood their curiosity.  But had this been planned from the beginning?  When they met her were they expecting her to get seduced by these boys? To see pictures of her naked? 

Was that what happened with the other Group Home parents?  She had left suddenly.  It was odd.  And she was older, almost forty.  I had supposed she and her husband just couldn't handle the kids.  Had Frenchy seduced her too?

This is nuts. Frenchy had not seduced her.  It was my fault. How is that possible that they might anticipate that?  How would they know that I would set this whole thing up—having made her strip for Frenchy and all?  Or was she so obviously vulnerable? 

Yes, I remembered.   Yes, Frenchy had said he had undressed her in the livingroom, right here on the sofa in dark with Jon peeping at her—What? When? It had to have been in the second week or so.  Incredible! 

He had persuaded her to let herself be kissed by him and then touched by him, then undressed by him.

Jon, in hiding, had seen it all, had seen her completely stripped of all her clothing by Frenchy, then saw her completely naked in the light from the street flooding the living room—and then saw how Frenchy guided her hand her to touch him, his erection, and then had drawn her head to look at it, and further to draw her to bend over and coax her until she licked his penis and almost surrendered to full fellatio. Putting her mouth on it.  Taking it into her mouth. His hands holding her head. My wife, sucking him for time. Sucking a man for the very first time, though he did not know it.  How near to ejaculating into her mouth, had he been? She must have sensed it.  Frenchy knew she really wanted to do it. But Jon saw how she withdrew her mouth at the edge of the very moment, shaking her head, backing away and starting to cry, cupping her breasts with her hands, hunched over. Frenchy had almost wanted to force her to do it. But he had his plans and she resisted and she got up, scooping up up some of her clothes, pressing them against her body in embarrassment; she shook her head, tears streaming on her face, glancing at his erection, then looking forlornly at his face, saying “Please, no, I can’t.” And ran out of the room.  Went to dress in the bathroom. Weeping there.  She would not come out, though Frenchy went to the door and whispered that he was sorry.

It was all planned, of course. 

But still, all of this? How did this happen?  Was it really my fault? I had not started it. Really.  No.  What had happened was beyond the wildest imagination.  Karen had become obsessed with sex, with her own sexual arousal.  And I admit I was cravenly obsessed with her humiliating sexual surrender.  I did nothing but think about it all day, masturbate, and wait to watch. Jesus, I had no idea how this would end.  But the fact that the PO knew was certainly going to be bad.  I wondered if we would be arrested.  What would they do?  What would they do with the pictures Frenchy was giving them?

Why wasn't Karen worried? 

She seemed either oblivious and happy to play Frenchy's girl friend or like last night, it seemed to me she was drugged.  Perhaps she was but it also seemed to me she was intoxicated with sexual cravings.  I had read of such perversions—compulsive concupiscence—books on abnormal psychology and some pornography I had read.  I never would have guessed my wife was capable of it.  She just seemed to have had a breakdown.  It must be drugs.  They must have drugged her.

I have this picture from this time.  I am not sure when or where it was taken. I think it must be the bar.  I think the night when she was fucked in the ass by all those men at the bar.  Frenchy gave it to me with some others on the last day at the Group Home.   He said he thought I might like to have it to remember him by.

The photo is of him and my wife together as a sort of erotic portrait; they are both naked.  You can see for yourself why my wife was so infatuated with Frenchy.  He had a certain "charm" I could never match.  His cock.  His big long dick.

Frenchy had slept with Karen.  She had let him even after her humiliation in the street.  She never seemed to hold against him the humiliations he put her through, but she obviously had not forgiven me.

That is the reason that I often felt she did the things that she did out of spite for me, to hurt me, to tease me—as if to say: "Is this what you wanted? Do you like watching this?"  And yet as I said she was so obviously consumed with compulsive sexual feelings also.  She wanted this. 

The odd thing is that in all years after this all this happened—and I know I am giving it away, but we are still married—she never talked about her feelings.  She put the whole thing behind her and our sex life was always common place and unspectacular afterwards.  She never showed much interest in making love, although she never refused me.  For my part I felt such guilt that for a long time I did not think I should dare touch her. 

Now I don't think I could ever bring up a discussion of the matter, and so that is why I write this memoir and publish these photographs.  It even now seems unbelievable to me. 

On this fateful Sunday morning at the Group Home—for this thing must be coming to its crisis and conclusion, I was certain—Frenchy was his most solicitous self.  He brought her breakfast in bed.  He walked to the store with her.  Carried the groceries home.  Helped her put them all away.  Helped her cook Sunday afternoon dinner. He never mentioned the night before.  He never discussed the party planned for tonight.  He wanted her to be happy, and she was happy.

We all ate regular Sunday dinner at about one o’clock in the afternoon, just like it was after we had all gone to church, all us siting around the table like a regular family, all the boys and she and I. 

I recalled that it was just this last Sunday, just one week ago, when Frenchy had coached her to undress at the table for the boys—first her shirt, then her shorts—and had her sitting there blushing and ashamed in her underpants and bra.  Then as I cleared away the dishes, Frenchy led them all to the living room and the boys sat in a row on the sofa. Sitting up straight.  Anticipating. The TV was on but they weren’t watching at the TV.  They were looking at my wife standing there in her underpants and bra in the center of the room and Frenchy beside her talking. I hurried at clearing the table. When I came back from the kitchen, I stopped in the dining room and saw how Frenchy had taken her by her shoulders and positioned her to step up closer and to face them square and was teasing her.  I saw Larry grinning eagerly.  How Steve looked serious, almost worried, but he wasn’t going to leave; Jon smirked at his end of the sofa.  He knew what was going to happen.  The other two were simply nonplussed; it was all so incredible.

Standing behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, Frenchy told the tale of the previous two days and all they had done to her, and then, without much introduction, Frenchy looked over at me and told me in very specific terms that they wanted her naked now --"...'cause Larry and Steve wanna see what she looks like without no clothes on too... they been waiting for it..." And so, smirking at me, then how she had turned and was looking backward and up at him, he kissed her fully on her lips, surprising and somehow reassuring her (I supposed), and as he looked into her eyes intensely, he deftly and obviously unfastened her bra at her back. It went slack, it slipped a little forward, showing the slope, dropping the heft of her breasts, and then he just swept it away and out bobbled her chubby tits, exposing her nipples to view.. Teasing her about her tits and her nipples especially, then feeling them for the boys, just to show how this thing was going to go, Frenchy gestured at her underpants, and said something I did not hear, but Karen, acknowledging, looking at his face as she did, slowly pushed her underpants all the way down her legs, leaning over, right down to the tops of her stocking feet. Then with downcast eyes, not wanting to look at the boys, whose eyes had gotten bigger and bigger, fixed as they were on her tits and pussy, she straigthend up and stood stiffly, arms at her sides, with all the lights on, blushing, showing herself completely bare naked to all our group home boys. Ages 14 to 19. 

Just like I had fantasized.  Just like I had wanted it. But this was so much more intense in it’s clear reality than I had imagined it.  Her complete nakedness.  How their eyes went to her body. The flushed and anxious look on her face; how her gaze averted in faux shame—hell, it was obvious she wanted them to see her naked.  How they looked at her: the eager and astonished look on their faces. Especially Larry and Steve who were seeing her naked for the first time. They could not believe it.

I cannot stop thinking about it.  It is all still so vivid in my memory.

In the end Frenchy fondled her and teased her, and then egged on each of the boys to do whatever they wanted to her. And she never once said no; she never refused to let any boy touch her, never refused to suck any boy’s cock put into her mouth, nor refuse any boy fucking her howsoever he wanted. She even let Jon feed her cum on a teaspoon, dished out from the cavity of her seeping cunt, and she ate it, as he said, like it was ice cream.

She was quiet and docile, maybe dejected, maybe feeling sorry for herself, but feeling also that she deserved all this somehow. Feeling her humiliation was deserved, even while she took pleasure in her sexual submission.  I could see it in her pathetic glittering eyes. The look she gave me: ashamed of herself but wanting to please me, glancing at me for reassurance, even as she hungered for the sexual stimulation this brought to her. At this point it seemed to me she was still doing this for me. Because I asked her.  That is how it had started anyway, or so I had thought.  But it was too incredible. Soon it would be Frenchy whom she wanted to please: she would do anything he asked of her; she was his slut.

I expect that everyone at the table was thinking about last Sunday as much as I was, especially Karen, but Frenchy was playing “father” and he was keeping all the conversation carefully in check.  He wanted a quiet soothing respite for her.  He had not told her about the intense evening to come, not yet. 

Oh, she knew that she was supposed to go to the bar. She knew that she was going to “pay back” Mr. Hansen on the debt somehow. She had guessed that it involved sex.  She guessed that the very least she must get naked in front of them. But she really had not understood or heard all that had been said.  Oblivious or doped-up or in denial, I don’t know which.

Frenchy told Karen that Larry and Steve would give her a bath after dinner.  They were also going to shave her pussy again so she would be really smooth and pretty, said Frenchy..  Frenchy announced that he would pick out her wardrobe for the evening.  He looked at me and winked: “It’s her birthday party. She’s going to be 21 soon, so Mr. Anderson has rented out the bar for a party in her honor. Ain’t that nice of him?  Landlord is going to be there too.  And some others I think you might know, Mom. Lots of men. Maybe Slider’s dog.”

She smiled sheepishly.  She asked if she could take a nap.  Frenchy stood up and helped her out of her chair, like she was royalty.  He said: “Larry will come and get you after your nap.”  He kissed her and she skipped off to our bedroom.  The boys settled in on the sofa to watch TV. They left the dishes for me. 

Frenchy came and watched me washing the dishes.  He told me then that I was not allowed to come to the party, in case I wondered. It wasn’t up to him.  He didn’t mind at all.  “After all,” he smirked, “You watched us strip her naked for lots of guys, watched us fucking her, watched her sucking cock and all that…” He laughed: “You like watching it…”

But, he explained, some of the men in the group said they felt uncomfortable with my being there, thought it might intimidate Karen from doing what they wanted her to do, or that I might get upset if I saw her crying and getting unhappy about what she had to do for them.

“What is it that they want to do to her?” I did not look at him as he spoke to me. 

He grinned: ”Hey, nothing that really hurts her.  Like I told you before, man.  They get off on gang-fucking some poor girl in her butt—especially a dumb one like your silly wife who ain’t never been fucked up her butt before… They like the power it gives ‘em, seeing her whine and tremble with some dick shoved up her ass…. And they take a lot of pictures, you know, for… well, you know… to keep you and your wife honest, you know… and to make money… it’s a business… lots of men out there pay a lot of money to see this sort of thing… abusing and humiliating naked girls and all that…”

“Does the PO know?”                                                                                             

“Sure.  He’s in the business.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out…”  He nodded knowingly and walked out.

I finished the dishes myself, obsessing. I could not guess what was happening but I knew I had completely lost control of events.  I wanted to see what happened at the party and then again I did not.  I was worried for Karen and she seemed, as I said, oblivious or in denial. 

Of one thing Frenchy would assure me: there would be no drugs.  They wanted her aware and awake and in the moment.  They wanted her to remember everything.  If before—with Slider and his uncle and his dog—she had been blissed out on some sort of jacked-up marijuana, but not this time: they would give her nothing but a few sips of vodka and not much of that.  They wanted her genuine response.  They wanted her true emotions.  And they would get it.

Still, as the day went on, Karen seemed oddly serene.  I was giddy and the boys were excited.  Frenchy was high on being the impresario of the whole show, I think, and Jon, like he always was, was cynical and sarcastic.

She woke up from her nap about five o’clock and Frenchy immediately organized her bath.  Not that Larry and Steve needed any encouragement.

They bathed Karen with the bathroom door wide open, steam pouring out from the warm shower.  Larry was standing in the tub with my naked wife in his underpants—his boner poking unashamedly—while Steve stood outside the tub.  Both enjoyed lathering her up, using their hands to feel and cleanse her breasts, her buttock, her pussy, between her thighs with great care and slow deliberation.  She would be well washed.  They washed her three or four times before they rinsed her. 

Karen for her part smiled sweetly and indulgently at them, letting them fondle her as they washed her, noticing their erections. And they attended her nipples and her clitoris, she shampooed her own hair, eyes closed dreamily.

I felt a pang of sexual urgency watching it all and I admit I went to the bedroom and masturbated in the closet, shooting semen onto the floor.

When I came back out, Frenchy was in the hallway leading my naked wife, still dripping wet from the shower down the hall to the living room.  He said: “What you doing, Dad?”  Like he knew what I had done.

The other boys followed with towels.  Jon brought my safety razor and a can of shaving cream. 

Out in the living room my wife shivered, nipples crinkled, and her teeth chattered, though it was really quite warm.  Frenchy did not allow the boys to dry her off.  They backed off, looking at my naked wife, and Jon stepped up with shaving equipment.  Frenchy squirt a cloud of lather into his hand and knelt down in front of my wife and touched it to her pubes.  To tell the truth she did not need much of shave, only a little stubble showed, but Frenchy said he wanted he cunt to be smooth as her butt.  He masterfully used the safety razor, flicking off the lather as he drew the razor across the bump of her pubes, first one side from the inside of thigh to the plump labia and then on the other side and then delicately from the top, deftly edging up to clitoris.

He told me to go and get a dining room chair, which I did, and he had Karen sit on it and hold up her legs, grab them at her knees, and then daubed some more lather on the inside of her thighs and around her anus and again deftly shaved the stubble there, neatly shaved up to the fleshy cleft of her cunt.  He gestured for a towel from Larry who was eager to help and Frenchy wiped the excess stands of lather off her cunt and thighs, and stroked a few places close to her labia carefully, just a little more with the razor, before stopping, cocking his head and admiring his work, her pink cunt standing out between her legs, looking swollen, and saying to me: “Go get some lotion or oil or something.”

I was not sure what he wanted or where to look. I ended up getting some hand lotion that Karen kept by the bedside.

Karen still held up her legs in that obscene pose while Frenchy squirt lotion onto her labia and dribbled some on her belly and used the fingers of both hands to rub the lotion in, including inserting fingers into her cunt, and finger in her anus. 

Karen picked up the towel as she put her feet down and rubbed her hair to dry it.  She had largely dried off in the air by now except for her hair.  The boys just stood around looking at her.  She did look beautiful.

It was getting on toward seven o’clock before Frenchy motioned Karen to go get dressed.  We all followed.  Frenchy had carefully selected her clothes.

The normal white cotton underpants she always wore.  Nothing sexy, just plain JC Penney's little girl underpants. And the same for her white cotton wash-worn brassiere. 

She dressed herself as Frenchy handed her each article of clothing.  Then the panty hose.  She only wore these for dressing up. She had to sit to put these on and stand to draw them over her hips..  

Frenchy took a nice white blouse, not dressy, short sleeved, from out of the closet, and handed her a navy blue skirt, pleated, zippered at the side, knee length. 

Seeing her dressed, Steve and Jon wandered out to watch TV while Larry stayed to watch Karen pick out earrings and then looking into the dresser mirror, do her make-up.  Red lipstick.  Like she wore at our wedding.  Then blue eyeshadow, eye-liner.  She tamped her mouth on a Kleenex to remove lips stick.  She smiled at me and went out to the living room.

Frenchy did not dress up.  Neither did Jon.  Larry and Steve were not allowed to go either but in the end they would go out somewhere else, and I was left alone.

Frenchy, Jon and Karen left about eight o’clock.   

They did not return until after 3 in the morning.  Like the other times she was taken out of doors, she came back stark naked, having lost her clothes somewhere and scampering barefoot through the streets, chased by the shouting taunting boys.

Karen was exhilarated, wild eyed, breathless, and Frenchy and Jon were cheerful.  Before answering me they insisted on large drinks of vodka and 7-up.  Karen stayed naked, curled up next to Frenchy on the sofa, his arm draped over her shoulder, his hand holding and idly feeling a tit, teasing her aroused nipple.

But once they had gulped down a glass or two, no one wanted to go to bed until they had told me all that had happened.

They would not immediately volunteer; they made me prompt them: “What happened?”

Karen laughed and blushed and kissed Frenchy’s cheek gaily and got up on her knees on the sofa, and turned to thrust her buttock at me, grasping her buttock cheeks and spreading wide; she showed me her rosy gaping anus, still distended from the many cocks that had plunged into her. It would slowly close even as I stared at it.

Frenchy laughed and she pivoted back to sit in his lap, giggling also, her arms about his neck; she kissed him warmly.