My first wife was just out of high school when I married her in 1971. We were married only a little more than one year and then I divorced her.
Figure 1 : My wife, a year after we
were married, when she worked for Mr. Miller. She was just barely twenty years
old at the time of the incidents in this story.
She had gotten so she could not help herself and I just could not stand it. I am thinking maybe it was the repressed up-bringing, being a Mormon, that made her the way she was, but I don't know. Even at the end she seemed so confused about her feelings. She was ashamed of it of course and very emotional when I found out and made her tell me all about it, but she just didn't seem to understand what had happened. She had not wanted me to be hurt. She had just wanted me to love her. She did everything she could to make me happy. She would do anything to make me happy, she said..
For that matter she just wanted to make Mr. Miller happy. Or at least that is how it started, she said. He had told her that he loved her and she had not wanted to hurt him. She just wanted to make him happy.
Mr. Miller was her boss at the Jewelry store where she worked. I should have guessed what was going on. I could see by the way he looked at her that he had a crush on her. I thought it innocent. I saw how Karen responded and blushed at his compliments that she was affected by it; it flattered her. She had had little experience with men before me. I should have gotten suspicious by the way she was kept late after work for hours and hours after closing and I should have wondered about the jewelry he let her "borrow." What she did, she said to me tearfully, she did because he loved her . . . it didn't mean that she did not love me.
But, I said to her bitterly, that doesn't explain what happened at the bar?
She confessed she had not refused what he wanted; she felt confused; she didn't want to do it but she had wanted to make Mr. Miller happy. They were his friends and they were nice to her. She really believed this, I think. She just wanted him to be happy. That is really what got her into the mess.
To think how often I met her after work, after things had happened with Mr. Miller, and he met me and talked to me and so on, all the while thinking about what he had done to her, and she -- I don't know what she was thinking -- I mean, thinking back on it, she must still have the taste of him in her mouth, even when she kissed me. She acted like nothing was wrong, although she often looked flushed, often smelled of booze, and was very quiet going home and was unresponsive to me in bed. I did wonder. I did begin to suspect things. Then finally the "big event" happened.
Mr. Miller had scheduled an inventory at the jewelry store on a Saturday, a day they were normally closed, and she said she had to work all day. She came home very late that day, exhausted, she was obviously drunk and went to the bedroom, put on her nightgown, and got into bed and went to sleep without a word. The next morning she did not want to go to work. I don't know why, but I looked in her purse and found a roll of cash, ten-dollar bills, one-hundred and ten dollars in all. I asked her where she got it from and she was evasive. Then she tried to tell me Mr. Miller had given it to her instead of paying her overtime. This made some sense but then when she got up and took off her nightgown to take a bath, I saw what had been done to her and now I had a very good reason to be suspicious and I asked her again and she broke down crying and confessed.
She told me a lot of it, but not all of it by any means. She confessed her "affair" with Mr. Miller and then as a I badgered her about the money and after much sobbing and tears she admitted that was not all, and the story unfolded how he had taken her to the bar in the afternoon after inventory for "lunch", and how they went into a backroom of the bar where she said some of his friends sometimes met in a kind of club, she said -- men I knew, men who were Mr. Miller's age, who were my father's age, some of whom knew my father for Christ's sake -- they were waiting there for her. "And Mr. Miller told me. . . he said that he wanted me to. . he said they all wanted me. . . to take off my clothes," she looked up at me pathetically through her tears as she sat naked on the bed.
I looked at her. Shocked. Blinking in anger and astonishment. I asked stupidly: "What do you mean? . . . You took off your clothes?"
She nodded sobbing and I raged
"They paid you for it?" I blurted.
She shook her head, "No, you don't understand."
"That's where the money came from. They paid you ... to take off your clothes!"
She protested that no, that is not it, she only did it because she Mr. Miller wanted her to do it. She did not want to do it.
"But you did it, didn't you?... Then what? What else did you do?," my mind was reeling.
"They said they only wanted to look," she replied naively. The tears now welling up again, she covered her face with her hands. But when she said that, seeing her naked sitting on the end of our bed--her peaked breasts, her bare (now hairless) lap, seeing what they had done to her--I saw in a sudden realization that this, exactly this was just the way they had seen her in that backroom, naked like this -- my wife completely naked for I don't know how many men, naked just like this. And then what? Was that all? She took off her clothes for them and then what? What happened after that? And I remembered how long she had been gone -- for hours and hours --six, eight, ten hours in that backroom with them from her lunchtime until long after midnight. Had they kept her naked with them in that backroom for all that time? What else had they done to her? I could see what they had done to her!
"What happened then?" I demanded.
She looked away. She would not reply. Then she put her hands to her face and cried loudly and I insisted she tell me.
She shook her head. "It's not what you think," she sobbed.
She would not tell mewhat else happened. But I was sure there was more.
I got upset enough that I slapped her. I called her a slut. I said many terrible things to her. I don't know that I would have reacted this way once I was older. But what she had done really hurt and sickened me. An affair with a man old enough to be her father or my father was very hurtful, but letting herself be displayed naked to strangers -- and, I suspected, letting them do things to her -- I felt I could not forgive her. I left the house angrily. I went to my parents. I did not see her for more than a week. I called the apartment. But she was never home. I knew she had gone back to work. I could just imagine what was going on. I saw her only once more time, several week later to confront her with more painful details. We eventually divorced.
I wanted to confront Miller, but I did not have the guts. I drove by his jewelry store a couple times but could not go in. I thought I might find her there.
About three weeks later, out of spite or some twisted prurient curiosity, I went down to the bar where she had done her "show." The bar was Bob's bar. A bar that had been the neighborhood bar in the neighborhood where I had grown up. It had been my Dad's bar before he died. And many of my friends and I used to hang out at there before we went off to college -- Bob would let us drink beers in the backroom out of sight of the public. One of my friends sometimes worked there as a bartender.
I was certain she had not told me everything. I thought maybe Bob would tell me. He must know. It could not have happened unless he let it happen.
Going into the bar, knowing that these regulars -- some I recognized -- sitting around the place all knew me and also evidently "knew" my wife, may well have even been among those who had seen her do her "show;" it made me a little sick, the way they looked knowingly at me, commenting to each other so I could not hear. This was hard to do. But I had to know more.
I told Bob what I knew, not knowing the half of it really. He commiserated with me, called me "pal" (like my Dad used to) and gave me free liquor and got me very drunk. Then I asked him to tell me what he knew.
He said he had something to show me. He took me to the backroom of the bar where he kept his extra booze, and actually it was another part of the bar, closed off, a private club that used to be there during prohibition era, I guess.
He did not use it, he said. It was much smaller than his main bar and set up with a built-in bar on one side and a row of booths opposite it and in between maybe one half dozen or so small rounds with wooden chairs. At the back of the room was a kind of low rise, a sort of stage. He said they used to have strippers there; a couple round tables were pushed up close to it, a chair or two or three to each. But what was really odd. . . there was a Formica-topped kitchen table alone on the center of the stage and a single matching kitchen chair next to it. He turned on lights. Overhead lights lit up the kitchen table -- a hot harsh light -- while the rest of the room was lit in dim ambience by golden sconces above the booths and behind the bar. He made us drinks and I stood looking up near the stage looking at that kitchen table with the lights glaring on it.
He brought the bottle over and some glasses and we sat at a round table directly in front of the stage and he also brought out a big oblong ledger, except that it wasn't a ledger.
He put it in front of me and turned it about so I could see. It was a photo album.
He flipped open to the first page. Then I saw what he wanted me to see. Pictures of my wife right here in this room, this bar. Standing about with maybe a group of three or five or so different men in small groups, or some of her alone, looking like a deer in headlights or some with her sipping her glass while two or three of them teased her. Talking. Drinking. Posing in some pictures like a vacation snap shot. Or, it reminded me, like those photos of the guys out hunting with their dead doe hung up between them. Trophy photos. Later, there would be some real trophy photos in the album. Where she's made to stand again, doe-eyed and submissively posed, between between these same proud "sportsmen" after they had made real sport of her and had "dressed her down" (so to speak) to display how they had triumphed over her.
Both color and black and white snapshots were here, taken by a couple cameras, mounted into pasted photo corners onto the scrap paper. Some 5 inch by 5 inch snapshots, some larger but all taken by amateurs. Just guys who had brought their Kodaks for the purpose of remembering it. All taken with flash bulbs. I could see how the flash startled her sometimes.
They were all neatly fit, two or three along two rows, and laid it out sequentially, laid out to tell the lurid story.
In the first shots she seemed so self-conscious that it made her look really pathetic. She is like that. She does not like her photo taken; she does not think she is pretty. I thought she was pretty. These men thougth she was. But she worried she was fat. She wasn't fat, not hardly. And from the looks on their faces, all the men obviously liked the way she looked. They were solicitous to her, if not a little rapacious. There were some who were just plain leering at her.
Bob flipped the page. More of the same.
She looked like she'd already had drunk too much even before the "action" began. A little goofy in some of the shots. Her smile looked awkward or pretended and her eyes looked like she could not focus. None of the men looked as drunk. I wondered what they had given her to drink.
Bob said it was just brandy, brandy and water. "Scout's honor," and makes the sign of the cross for good measure.
In this snapshot she looked at a man who had turned away from her -- presumably after having given her another drink -- and her expression is like that of -- I almost can't describe it -- she looks anxiously after him as he walked away but she was so intense and thoughtful, worried really.
"Why did she stay?" I wondered openly.
Bob laughed, "O, she knew what was up. . . . Don't kid yourself."
The date was printed on the white border of some -- Kodak pictures. So these had to come from just a plain camera and even had to have been commercially developed, which when I think of it now is almost scary. I mean, the lab had to have seen what they were.
The date -- last month and this year. A Saturday like this one. Exactly three weeks ago.
I remembered that day. She had gone into work to do inventory, she had said. I recognized the clothing that she wore. A partly buttoned up light grey cardigan sweater over a simple short-sleeved white blouse, the button at the top modestly closed, the buttoned-up waist of the sweater fit snugly to her hips. A plaid pleated wool skirt. Her white cotton bobby socks, her penny loafers. She had taken the time after her shower in the morning to put on a little makeup, as she stood before the mirror thoughtfully combing her hair. I thought that a bit much, since she was just doing inventory, but I knew that Mr. Miller had a crush on her and so I thought it was to please him. She wore an old-fashioned candy-red lipstick, like the movie stars wore in glamor photos. It showed in the photos Bob would show me.
She seemed cheerful, if a bit preoccupied when she left, and stood at the door and hesitated to leave and actually said maybe she shouldn't go, but I kissed her and said we could use the money. She had a funny look and nodded. She looked a little sad to leave.
I was shocked speechless to see these pictures of her; all these men in the bar staring at her; I know what was coming and I asked:"You took pictures of everything?" He grinned widely. "What you think?"
Even before he turned the pages, I knew what was coming. And I felt sick to my stomach that this man was going to show them to me: my wife taking off her clothes for all these men. How many? Five or six. Maybe more.
"How many men were..." I could not finish it.
He asked back: "How many seen your wife naked, that what you mean?" I nodded.
"O, Jesus, I dunno. A lot more than paid for it. Shit! At least twenty fellas. Maybe a couple dozen or so in the end. I don't know. They kept sneaking in to peek at her once they heard about what was going on back here. Though there was only the eleven original ones who paid for the whole show and who got to take a couple turns at her."
I remembered the a man out at the bar giving me a salacious grin. I wondered: "Some of those out there?" nodding toward the bar.
"Yeah, sure some of them. A lot of others who came by while it was going on. And yeah, your friend too. You know, Mike, your old high school buddy who serves bar here. He saw her. Had to. Ask him yourself. He was tending the bar that night. It's okay: nobody gonna say anything."
He pretended to care about my feelings, but he was not showing me this because he liked me. Bob poured me another stiff drink. "And anyway, fella," he said, "You're really a lucky guy. . . She's a real honey. . . Everybody said so." I really did almost want to throw up.
I said: "How did you get her to do it?"
"It was Al. Al did it all. He set it up. He brought here her. I just collected their money."
He poured more booze into my drink. I drank a big swallow. He watched me patting the page of the photoalbum. There were a lot more pages under this one. "Of course we all knew about what she and Al had been doing. So what choice did she have . . . I mean she was afraid we might tell you . . . And then there were the pictures. Everybody'd seen them."
"What pictures?" I felt sick again.
"O, just some polaroids that I took of her at the Jewelry Store a while back. I'll show you later." He said: "Drink some more."
I did.
Bob continued as he flipped some more of the pages on the album--more of the preliminary pictures--the before for the after: "Anyway we had waited a long time. It was hot in the room. Most of the guys were pretty drunk and so was she. Some of guys said something to Al. Complaining. She must have noticed. She asked him about going back to work. And Al said sarcastically she'd get plenty of work here. Al could be a real asshole sometimes.
"I have to admit she doen't look like she got it. I laughed at what Al said. And that worried her. Your wife don't like me much." Bob confessed.
I wondered why. I wanted to ask.
He flipped a page. The next picture showed Karen beside Al standing on the riser next to the formica table. She looked flushed. She smiled weakly. She looked worried.
Bob went on, touching that photo: "She don't look too happy, does she? Anyway, Al moved her up over to the stage here, turned her about to face us, like she was on auction, and told us all it was time and so we all came up and sat down and Al told her, coaxed her to get up on top of the table there. She looked confused, but I think she was faking it. I mean, he kissed her and whispered to her and teased her. He took her drink from her. He held her hand to help her step up on the chair and then up onto the table."
That was the next picture. Karen really looked confused. Bob said she asked Al why he was making her do this.
"Al said: 'So everybody here can see you.' Which was the truth. This hot light on her like a show." Bob put his hand up into the pool of it which shone on the table top with a glare. It did look hot. An flaming cast to it.
Bob said that Karen said she did not understand. In the picture she looked nervous. But Bob said he did not believe her. "Like I said, she had to know."
In the next pages, Bob showed me the sequence of events. He told how Al made her introduce herself, even though most everybody already knew her. But it was part of the show. And it embarrassed her to be under that light and to be made to talk about herself. She blushed and spoke too softy, Bob said. Al had to make her repeat herself, she was so hard to hear.
"But we were all giving her our attention, if you know what I mean."
Bob explained with graphic detail, as he liked to do, expecially when he saw I was uncomfortable, especially when it was about sex. Bob told how Mr. Miller made her tell the men about herself. "He made her tell about you too."
Miller made her tell about her sex life. He made her go into details. "First he made her admit she had never had sex with anybody but you -- before she was married, that is. They all laughed at this." Bob picked up the theme with a smirk: "Your wife blushed and Miller grinned when she admitted it. Then Al had her tell them how you were the first and only man to see her naked -- until you know, he did. And you were the only one to fuck her -- until he did. And she said she'd never ever sucked cock -- until . . . Well anyway, Al made her tell us, made her admit that she had never ever sucked your cock anyway."
"That really true?" he asked me. I did not answer. It was true. He shook his head, guessing my answer and went on: "Well, they all laughed to hear it and then applauded when Al made her confess that, yes, she had sucked Al's cock. Sucked mine too, for that matter." Bob looked at me for effect when he said that. I could not believe it. But still, he held that page, grinning at me. He told how Al handed up her the drink and made her take big gulps of it. The men cheered, he said. Karen said she felt dizzy and Miller held her hand to keep her steady and she smiled, resisting to drink the rest, but she did it for Al when he insisted, finishing she gasped and giggled. He said she giggled. "They loved it. She was just what they had all hoped she would be."
Bob held up the next page, poised to drop it, teasing me, looking smug. I knew for certain what was coming. Still he looked me in the eye and withheld the climax of his story, and asked if I was really sure I wanted to see all this, what I had come to him to find out:
I said: "Yes."
"She must have known what was coming. Al stopped talking. Was pacing in front of her. She was following him with her eyes. The men were restless. She was fidgeting with the buttons on her sweater, smoothing it. Pressing down her skirt and all. She felt like men were trying to look up under her skirt and of course they were trying to do just that and some of them said some things. One asked if she had on any underpants. She looked pretty embarrassed. One asked if she likes to suck cock . She closed her eyes and shook her head, biting her lip but she was half-smiling. She liked all the attention. It was really cute. Then some jerk piped up: 'You gonna swallow my cum, honey?' And she got afraid and she moved like she was going to get off the table. She might have tried. But a bunch of the men stood up and loudly complained and their protests surprised her and Al put up his hand to stop her. She backed up. Al explained her: 'You're not done. You stay up there 'till I say you can get down.' Again, she put on her little show of being innocent, folded her arms like she was cold and said, 'What do you want?' Looking all confused. But it was fake. She had a funny smile. She must have known."
Bob looked at me keenly, pausing for effect, wanting to see my reaction: "So Al just tells her then -- straight out: Take off your clothes.'"
"What did she say?" I asked, blushing as I supposed she must have blushed. Al must have thought so too.
He laughed. "What do you think she said? What could she say?"
"I mean, didn't she. . ." Not knowing how to express myself. And he dropped the page to show a photograph that must have been that very moment. And the look on Karen's face, I don't care what Bob thought, she looked like she was afraid, she looked like she was going to cry, she was hunched and looked at the camera with anxious worry.
"Didn't she what? Say 'no'? Not a word. Never said no to nothing we wanted. O, she looked shocked at first and then embarrassed and maybe she was, maybe she was surprised, but I didn't believe for a minute that she'd refuse or that she didn't want to do it. We all waited. All of us grinning at her. And she just stood there, like a deer in headlights and Al just grinned at her and said it again: 'Take your clothes off, Karen.'' And he swept his hand around all the room and all the guys now staring up at her and she seen their hungry looks and explained: 'I want you take off your clothes for my friends... You can't get down, 'til you do."
Bob admitted she looked like she was gonna cry -- I could see it in the picture as All walked away and she left alone under the ligtht, the silhouettes of the audience below her, looking up at her. and for a moment Bob thought maybe the guys in the room would lose heart, as she stood there looking so pathetic and sad, clutching her hands, almost pleading.
"It really wasn't Al's fault. It wasn't even Al's idea. It was mine. Al maybe felt sorry for her. She could see that. She tried to play on it. She whimpered -- I kid you not -- she whimeperd. 'Why are you doing this?' She said. And she really did look hurt. Al told her he loved her. She sobbed then. Okay, maybe she did cry some. I don't know maybe Al hadn't told her about it after all. But what a stupid question, ain't it? 'Why?' she said."
Bob mocked her simpering voice.
"A stupid question, eh?. Everybody laughed out loud at her then and she looked shocked and sick and Al just shook his head. Maybe he felt sorry for her too. Not really. But he could trick her everytime. He could play on her feelings and she always believed him. I don't know why. But Al was speechless for once. So I spoke up. I teased her: 'Why you think? We wanna see you without no clothes on...' Everybody laughed at that too."
In the photos in the album on this page she looked so defeated.
My hands were trembling.
Bob was fingering the page, ready to turn it. He looked at Karen in the photographs.
He sighed, remembering, and added, "She is really pretty, your wife, you know? She doesn't think so, but...." He shrugged.
I felt an anxious pang, I admit it was also a sexual anticipation. Bob deliberately aggravated my feelings, sensing the sexual tension I felt. He nodded up at the hot overhead lights glaring on the table top where he said she had stood posed for them. "Nope. She didn't really object. Just stood there. Never really tried to get down, even after she got naked." shrugged Bob. "Dazed. I think. Like a deer froze in headlights. Literally. . . with that hot light on her . . ."
I could see how the light must have blinded her, pointed at her, making the room in front of her hard to see, except where here some faces looked up at her in the reflected glow of it.
Bob went on, still holding that page, and described how Al walked away and left my wife standing alone on the table under that hot light as the men leered at her. She, up on the table, staring wide eyed, looking like she wanted to say something, all of us anxious for her to do it. Then some one called out impatiently: 'Come on, girlie, take your clothes off!' She nervously pathetically stared back at him.'You will tell him...,' she said.
Al nudged me: "Meaning you. She wanted us to promise not tell. Al called out from the back. They won't tell."
Some of the men laughed, he told me. He described how she touched the buttons of her blouse. Al sitting apart from it all, on a chair in the shadows looking at the floor. She looked at him anxiously, uncertainly. Avoided looking at the men. Everybody sat quietly. He walked back up to the front of the room. He stood under her. She looked down sheeplishly. He said it one last time: "Take your clothes off."
Bob laughed and said: "Picture this: all these old guys getting hard-on's just thinking of your wife naked and getting impatient. And finally she looks down at the front of herself and sighing she takes off her sweater. She was looking at Al all the time as she did it. She was doing it for Al. Because it's what he wanted. She wanted to make him happy. She'd do anything for him. Ain't that sweet?"
"Do you buy that?" Bob laughed, then shook his head when he saw my dismay: "No, really. She did it because she's a slut. She dropped her sweater and everybody scooted up closer now to see her. She tugged her blouse out of the waist of her skirt and was feeling at the buttons on bottom of the blouse, undoing them one by one, biting her lip. Avoiding their eyes. It got real quiet. They saw her for what she is. She closed her eyes and we all watched as your wife slowly and completely unbuttoned her blouse.
"She openned her eyes after she drew open her blouse, showing her bra. Now I could see that look in her eyes. Maybe her shame and tears were not completely fake, or maybe it had been just the shock of the thing and the anxiety she felt -- what with their being so many men in the room and so many men whom she knew and who know you. But now I could see she wanted to undress for us, she wanted us to see her naked, don't you kid yourself. Al knew it, he saw it too, grinning and giving us a nod now.. She showed the feeling. We all saw it. She must have seen how we saw it. She looked down at us as she pulled off her blouse and Al had got up and gotten closer to the table again speaking soothing and encouraging words to her, and he said something I could not hear but she smiled at him, biting her lip, and nodded as she dropped her blouse to the table. Smiling, sniffling, wiping tears from her eyes, she brushed back the hair from her face. Paused to look at the men around the room. Then as Al coaxed her to continue and had reached over to try to pull off her socks, she bent over and stopped him, and said something else I did not hear. Anyway, Al sighed and replied, smiling up at her: 'Okay, you can keep your socks on'. He turned to us, winked, and explained: 'She says she's cold . . . " In the end, however, she would give in and strip these off too.
Bob dropped the page, showing me finally how she was undressing for them. They took pictures as she undressed herself for them. He turned the pages slowly to show me how she undressed for them, like a series of still shots in sequence from a movie. I wondered if they had taken a movie of it too.
"To tell you the truth: I think the main reason she'd didn't take her clothes off when he first told her to was because she thinks she's fat, you know. I mean, she always looked so embarrassed when we took her clothes off. And we got to make her feel better. Kissing her. Telling her she's pretty. Dumb cow."
I had no idea what he meant by this. How many other times had she taken off her clothes for men? I would have asked but I was anxious to see what Bob was showing me. He flipped a page.
"... so we was always kept telling her--all the guys were--you know, how pretty she is and that we liked how she looked" -- he nodded at her photo, grinning -- "you know, to keep her going." Bob winked at me. "I don't know, maybe she is a little bit chubby..."
Bob sighed while I studied the pictures. Karen in her bra and skirt. Glancing up. Looking guilty. Looking nervous. Then, Karen twisting to undo the zipper of her skirt. Karen dropping her skirt. Stepping out of it. Looking into the camera. Stopped when she was standing in her underpants and bra. Looking so sober and serious. Paused with her arms folded like she was cold. Now reaching behind her back now, hands on the back of her bra. Preparing to undo it. To take it off. Now awkwardly and nervously smiling. Smiling with tear-moist eyes and a little tender embarrassment but obviously showing that she was willing. There was no more resistance in her now. I think Bob was right. She wanted to do this.
She reached behind herself, shaking the hair back behind her, so that when she finished they would have an unobstructed view, no hair to fall in front of her, and she strained to pinch the clasp of her bra, pursing her lips, and when it popped open she gave a warm welcoming look and let her bra cups slip down, let the bra slip off the front and fall onto the table and then just stood there showing off her tits. She rubbed her pinched skin beneath them, like she did when she came to bed.
"Right there. Right under that hot light." Bob said. Pointing.
There was the picture. Bare breasted. In her underpants. Looking out. Abashed. But she was enjoying this. She was flushed. She was flattered by the leering.
"Some guys whistled," Bob said, "Some laughed. Some guy teased her about her tits."
She looked embarrassed in the poses she took. But she just stood there perspiring in that light, letting them oggle at her tits. Arms at her side, like she was in some sort of police interrogation. The room got quiet again when Al walked back up to the table and looked up at her and she down at him, sheepishly, and he nodded and said her: "Underpants too, honey."
He pointed at the next picture. My wife standing naked on the table with her underpants shoved down to the tops of her feet. Al looking up at her. She looking down at Al. Eyes half-closed. And blushing. She liked the men seeing her naked. Just like Bob said. I could see that.
They took a lot of pictures then: Eyes closed. Closed to the flash I think. . Standing in the glare for all to see her naked. Bob stopped at that page, then gestured up at the table, the light glancing off its Formica top, "So here ya go, pal. . . Your pretty little wife. . . right up there . . . Naked for all my buddies." He gestured I looked up and I looked up and could almost see it in my imagination. But I didn't need imagination.
Bob flipped the page and showed me the final shots. There she really was. In the picture. On the table top. Under the light. My wife. Naked. Her clothes on a heap aside on the table. Her underpants now removed and lying in front of her. Completely naked for all those grinning leering men. I stared. Bob grinned.
"We took a bunch of pictures." And he turned the pages to show me, how she stood for them, abjectly, naked, Turned around. Turning back, in a half side shot. Hands flat on the front of her thighs. Looking into the camera with a mouth half-openned. Sexually aroused. Clearly sexually aroused.
"What happened then?" I asked.
Bob didn't seem to hear me. He was admiring the pictures. He pointed. "See here. She's actually blushing . . . See that? She was actually ashamed of herself . . . But I think that's because really she liked these guys seeing her naked. She just didn't want you to find out about it . . ." He laughed. "Makes my dick hard just thinking about again. . ."
I was actually trembling and I have to admit that my dick was hard too. "What happened then?" I asked again. I really did want to know. I really did want Bob to tell me everything. I wanted to know what I imagined happened. Bob saw that look. He saw how I felt. He laughed at my expression and slapped my back and grinned at me.
Bob answered my question: "So. . . What happened after she . . .?"
He flipped pages to show pictures of it. "We took a lot of pictures. See. Making her turn all about for different sides. And some of guys teased her. Asked her a lot of dirty questions. I got her to squat down on the table and show us between her legs, her wet cunt, you know. That shot bothered her, but she was obviously really horny by then. You could see it. After a while she was getting worried I think or maybe she wanted to know what was going to happen next. Anyway she said she was cold and asked Al for her clothes back. But Al just told her flat out she was going to have to be naked for the rest of the night and he made her get off the table. He told her to walk around the room naked for everybody."
He flipped a page: "So here she is, your pretty little wife wife showing off , walking all 'round the room for all the guys to see her, turning about and posing and showing off like she was in this Miss America pageant -- like the bathing suit competition -- 'cept she ain't got on no bathing suit," he laughed at his joke.
He turned the page. He pointed where he had written her name in the album.
"How many were taking pictures?"
He did not answer. "Nice pictures, ain't, they?"
Bob said the photo album was a popular attraction at the barnow . Here she is -- my pretty little wife, as Bob called her. Naked in front this crowd of men, men I knew, for Christ's sake.
"Wearing nothing her wedding ring and maybe her socks," Bob laughed. "She said she was cold, so Al teased her and told her she could put her socks on, if she'd be a 'good sport.'"
Bob nodded at the picture.
Then, impulsively, with a little laugh, he suddenly tore the whole page out of the album and handed it to me: "Here... Now she can't deny any of it."
Bob flipped more pages and sighed at the pictures: "She did everything we asked her to do. Never said no. Only cried a little a couple times. Didn't want to do some things but never said no. Hell, I think she enjoyed it all as much as we did."
Bob said Al had picked up all the rest her clothes and put them away under the bar and told her she couldn't get dressed until "...the boys are done with you."
She looked nervous maybe, but she was not fighting it, I could see that. Hell, you can't look at this picture without seeing that she was willing to be naked for them. She may have been ashamed of herself. She may have been unhappy or worried about what was going to happen. But she was not crying or resisting, like she had told me she had. No. She had taken off her clothes willingly. I could see that.
Bob watched me closely as I looked at the photo with shock and embarrassment, while he grinned nastily at my discomfort; Bob winked me, "She looks a little fat at that."
Turning the pages.
I was right. They didn't just get her to take off her clothes. They didn't just "want to look." I repeated my question: "How long you keep her like that?"
He grinned: "Oh, I dunno, five or hours, I guess. She was popular"
I felt sick: "What did you do to her?" I knew the answer.
"She didn't do nothing she didn't want to do."
He poured another drink. Again holding the next page up so I could not see it. Another step in all this.
"Took trouphy pictures.... Everybody got one. You know, like hunters do. They kill the deer, hang iit up, dress it. Pose with it. Proud of their kill."
"Like this here. But this here dear is undressed. Right? But the same idea. What I got. My trophy."
"Recognize this guy?"
He tossed a photograph at me from the album.
He explained: "Yeah, Mike was the bartender that night. He begged for the job, after he heard about what she was gonna do."
He dropped open the photo album and two pages of "trophies were displayed, except for the space where Mike's picture had been.
"Everybody had got a chance for trophy pictures, and your pretty little wife asked for her clothes again, asked us if we were done, asked she could have her clothes back. I remember it: standing there..." He turned on his chair and pointed to the middle of the floor in the middle of the room. "Stood there naked, begging for her clothes back, said she was cold -- I didn't believe she wanted her clothes back -- nobody did -- she just said it 'cause she was ashamed of herself, like she suddenly felt herself naked with all these men and ashamed of herself and she had a worried look and she had cause to be worried, ' cause a lot of the guys had been copping a feel of her tits -- so she had reason to worry. She said it again to all of us. Miller was just watching. She wasn't asking him. She was asking the men leering at her. Please, said she, I'm cold. And she looked a little cold. Hunched up. Puckered up nipples, you know. But that was bullshit. Then one of Al's buddies got up -- you know the one, Harry -- got up and put her arms about her and started kissing her and started working his hands all over her bare body, tits, butt, rubbing and feeling her all over -- to warm her up, he said -- while everybody egged him on. Got his hand onto her cunt, fingers inside her, started frigging her juicy. And I tell you she was kissing him back, and loving those fingers -- I don't care what she says -- and she was not cold anymore, pal"
"Then Al got up and Harry stepped aside and Al handed her another drink and she sipped it and asked again if she could get dressed -- obviously insincerely -- and Al laughed at her 'You don't want to get dressed. We're just starting.' He told her she should know better than that and he shoved her her up close to stand in front of one of the tables, pushed her to stand up close to the man sitting on a chair and he held her tightly by the shoulders while he let his friend take a turn feeling her up, and she just stood there and she let the whole table of 'em take their turns feeling her tits, sucking on them, finger-fucking her, getting her all worked up and wet, you know. Al moved your wife from man to man and table to table holdng her naked for them so everybody had got a turn. Everybody got to feel her up."
Bob anticipated my question: "And she never said no. She never complained. Said not word. Not a whimper. Hell, it seemed to me she liked it. . . what they were doing to her."
Still, as I saw her in next set of the pictures, she was not very happy once they really got serious about using her for sex.
She looked upset and even afraid, and in several of them she she must have been crying. Bob saw that it bothered me to see her looking so distressed, especially on the next page where clearly she really was crying tears or had been.
He winked at me and reassured me, "Well, okay, maybe she was a little unhappy at first, you know -- nerves. But she never said she didn't want to it. She said yes, if we asked . . . and we asked. We were nice to her. She liked doing it."
My pathetic naked wife, squatting on that cold linoleum in front of some old guy who had taken off almost all his own clothes, wearing only a white dress shirt that he had unbuttoned and had spread back from his fat belly where he sat and she pushed down between his bare legs at his half-hard penis, flopping in her face, while some other old guys were were grinning, obviously teasing her, and guiding her her head down toward his penis and coaxing her to lean closer toward his lap, shoving her face toward his lap and his penis, and telling her to open up her mouth for it. "Suck it, sweetie..." I guessed they told her. And in the next set of pictures I saw that, yes, she did. She really had this old guy's thick dark penis in her mouth. Her eyes open wide and his penis in her mouth, then shots of her lollipopping his penis, all wet, mouthing it, her tongue rolling on it, then really sucking, sucking hard on this old guy like she was sucking up, you know, with a straw, And I had to wonder did he cum in her mouth? Did she let him cum in her mouth? Her eyes tightly shut... I think she did it. Like Bob said. Something she'd never done for me, but here she was doing for it for this old man. And she was not fighting. They were holding her. But she was not fighting them. I could see that. She looked ashamed or flushed, but she was doing it because she wanted to do it. I could see that. Just like Bob said.
They took dozens and dozens of pictures. As they--all of them--all took turns with her. On her knees, sucking more cock. Bent over a table, getting fucked. Holding the seat of a chair, getting fucked. On her back on the table top, getting fucked by one man while two held her legs, another kissed her and fondled her breasts.
Bob said everybody got some pictures of her fucking or sucking as souvenirs too.
They'd made lots and lots of copies.
More photos, pages and pages of them, pasted into the book, taken that Saturday, in this same room, right here where I was sitting. There were hundreds of pictures. He flipped ahead and showed me other pictures, pictures of things she had not told me about.
And as we looked at the pictures together, he told me about what happened, about what she did and what was done to her, with a certain ironic and mean-spirited attention to shameful and sexually explicit details. That is how I learned about all the rest of it.
She had told me almost none of this. What she had told me was insignificant compared to what he showed me and told me.
"Hey, she did it 'cause she liked it, son. What can I say? It's just how she is." Bob said to me, shutting the book. "She did it 'cause she wanted to. No matter what she tells you."
But I will start where she started and explain it her way first. Then I'll tell you what Bob told me.