Installment 3

So now we come to that Friday night. Mr. Miller was more certain himself and more determined to have his way. When he made their drinks that night, he made them very strong and when they began kissing he almost immediately unzipped the back of her dress, and this time unzipped it all the way to bottom so that her dress was loose about her shoulders and he could reach in and feel her back and the slip she was wearing, which he did, and which my wife did not resist.

She had come to expect this routine, but still she did not think anything would really come of it. She expected him to want her to masturbate him, but this was just a kindness really. He was as old as her father. She wanted him to be happy. She really did love him and he really did love her. It was just a kindness.

He already was in shirtsleeves as he always was afterhours. But he stood up and took off his tie and she smiled and asked him what he was doing when he started to take off his shirt. He wore an old-fashioned sleeveless undershirt, like those my father wore (I only wear the regular T-shirts myself so his sort of struck her poignantly).

"What are you doing," she repeated sheepishly. I wondered, even as she related these intimate moments, about how her naive expressions appeared to Mr. Miller, whether he took her to be coy. She was not. She was simply as confused and as clueless as she seemed, I think. If she subconsciously understood what was going on, or if she felt sexually intrigued, she could not have said it to herself, let alone to him or me. Was she really as innocent she appeared? He must have wondered. And yet the tension in her voice and the ambiguity of feelings that she showed by her awkward smile made her seem all the more vulnerable and enticing to him.

Mr. Miller smirked at her innocence: "You know what I want."

But she did not know, she told me. And I think she was genuine and truthful at this moment.

Then unexpectedly he took his pants off in front of her. She felt a sudden pang and an anxious uncertainty, staring at his legs and undershorts in embarrassed disbelief, but still meekly curious: "What do you want?"

She sat before him on the stool where they usually sat side by side and necked, or looked at gems, while he laid his pants on the work bench and stopped to stand before her in his undershorts, his penis swelling, bulged in it. And this being at eye-level where she sat next him, she could not help to glance at it, and partially see the swelling flesh of his penis through the parting gap of the vent of his undershorts, and wondered innocently what an uncircumcised penis must look like. She had never seen any penis other than mine, until this night.

He looked at her fixedly, seeing where her glance had gone, and without any misgivings he said to her: "Take off your dress."

She said she was surprised but not shocked exactly. She blushed genuinely, I would guess, or at rate she said she felt very confused at first and asked him: "Why?" Disingenuously, he might have thought. He supposed she knew what this was about—and I have my doubts now too—but truly she could not believe that this would be happening to her.

He did not reply but stepped up to where she sat, put his hands on her shoulders and drew the loosened dress forward easily and fully down her arms to lay loosely in folds at her lap about her forearms and to expose to him the whole front of her in her nylon slip.

She asked him again: "Why?" as he continued to smoothly draw her the sleeves of her dress over her arms and off her hands, and taking up one of her hands, he pulled her to stand, and crouching at her feet, reached up and with a firm tug at her waist and drew her dress down, so that it spilled to the floor about her feet.

She said she knew what he wanted, but still that she did not know what to say. So she said nothing. She did not know how to stop him. He stood against her, embracing her tightly, and began kissing her.

Mr. Miller is a short man. Not much taller than my wife is, just 5-foot-3 or so. He is a bit fat and he breathes noisily. I can imagine this as I think of this scene. He is kissing her mouth, their mouths open in their kisses; her eyes closed, his are not. One of her hands is on his shoulder and the other limp beside her, she is unresisting as he reaches behind her and feels her buttock through her slip and presses his fingers behind her between her legs, wedging back of her slip. He wants to feel more. Because she is kissing him back, he proceeds. And besides, he is thinking to himself, she has let me take off her dress; she will let me take off the rest of her clothes.

Karen is not thinking. She is feeling and responding, but still she is uncertain and confused. She still cannot believe this is happening.

But Mr. Miller knows what he wants and is determined to get it; his hands, caressing her as he does, slip up the sides of her body along the silky nylon to the straps of her slip and he is kissing her with an open mouth, her mouth open to his, and hooks his fingers through the straps of her slip and her bra and begins to bring them both off her shoulders at once. She knows what he wants, and moves her mouth from his and asks again falsely: "What do you want?" She tries to dissuade him; the sorrowful look she gives him is meant to discourage him.

But he does not respond, and he has drawn the straps of her slip and her bra off of her shoulders and is looking into her eyes intently then drops his gaze down to the front of her at the moment that he has tugged firmly and her breasts pop out of the cups of the brassiere, exposed to him. He draws the slip and bra to her waist and puts his hands on those breasts and kisses her mouth with passion.

She wants to say something, and she begins to speak when he takes his mouth off of hers and puts it on one of her breasts, feeling the nipple with his slathering tongue, then kissing, sucking on the other one while his fingers feel the wet one, erect, exposed.

He looks down to see them. Her nipples as keen as he had so often fantasized, but so much more lurid than he expected and he finds them even more exciting than he had imagined; he leans and kisses them and sucks them repeatedly and eagerly, while my wife looked down at his balding head and once more tried to tell him: "We shouldn't do this."

But now she feels his hands are feeling at her naked waist as he sucks and rolls his tongue on her nipples, and his fingers are finding and gripping the top of her slip and digging into the tops of her panty hose and the elastic of her underpants, and he is stretching them, tugging them, drawing them down, exposing her hips to one side and then the other, revealing, freeing the soft bulge of her stomach, and bringing into view the top of her pubic hair, the elastic waists of her clothing, bunching at, pinched across her buttock and slipping.

He withdraws his mouth from her wet breast, the nipples lurid and randy. And he pauses, looking at them, and then down where her pubic hair shows below the band of bunched clothing he was pushing down, and she spoke and so he looks up at her face, and she asks again, quite flushed now, quite disingenuously: "What do you want?"

He says plainly with warm breath: "I want to see you naked." And she says nothing, as he kneels in front of her to finish stripping her and looking up at her, from the underside of those lurid tits, into her flushed and ironically smiling face, he jerks the bunch of her clothes down in few swift tugs to the middle of her thighs, staring at her belly and the revealed thatch of public hair at the level of his face. Her hands drop, her brassiere dangles about her waist, still fastened.

He straightens up and steps back to look at her, now naked in front of him, her slip and underpants bunched with her pantyhose, binding the middle of her legs, hanging, her skirt at her feet, her bra limply like an obscene belt. She smiled self-consciously, flushed, but did nothing to cover herself, and now said nothing. If she was unwilling, he did not see it, and she did not say it, my wife naked for this man.

She glanced down to see that his uncircumcised penis had poked out the vent of his undershorts, half-turgid, thick, red at the end of it, the slit at the bulbous head of it seeping pre-ejaculate freely. He saw her curiosity and so he drew his undershorts down so that they slipped to his feet, so that she may see him naked as well. She looked at him naked as he looked at her naked.

The way a woman looks the first time you see her naked is always much different than you expected; anytime you undress a woman what you discover will surprise you and intrigue you. The shape of her tits, of her hips and belly's swell, the colors of her—her skin, her nipples, her pubic hair. Especially the color, shape and size of her nipples, and how they form on her tits—some like hard little buttons, some like suckling teats. All different.

What Mr. Miller saw pleasantly aroused and surprised him.

I should describe what Mr. Miller saw—what my young wife looked like naked.

She worries she is fat. But she is not fat. She is not skinny either. She has an ordinary body mostly.

Nipples are often the same color of a woman's mouth, and the more sensuous the mouth, the more lurid her nipples are. My wife's mouth was soft and full and has the dark red of a stain of wine, and so her nipples are wide and full with puffy areoles which draw out her breasts to points, look laden with the size and ripeness of them. And they are the color of that wine stain like her mouth. Her nipples almost always looked sexually swollen.

That is your most vivid immediate impression seeing my wife naked, a sense that her naive expression masks a secret concupiscence simply because of the swollen appearance of her breasts and nipples; the most striking thing about her—how those nipples draw out the tips of her breasts so expressly with weight and ripeness and intense sexual yearning.

Hers are not big breasts, but a good full handful. Your whole cupped hand could cup one whole, or at least mine could cover one and hold its fleshy body like a round fruit.

As I said, you cannot help but stare and she is so self-conscious of them (and of the gaze they attract) that her nipples respond and the flesh is sensitive to touch anyway, like one of those leaves that move when you touch it.

The size and the way they are expressed from her breasts can be suggested best by the way that later, as Karen told me herself, Mr. Miller playfully teasing and exploring her when she was completely naked for him once, took one of the china tea-cups that they drink brandy from and put it neatly over first one and then the other breast, amused to see how the round rim of the tea cup went to match rim of her round pouting nipple, how the flesh of her pronounced nipple, pushed to its tip, grazed the bottom of the tea cup and a drop of brandy clung to its point when he took the cup away.

As I say, although I did not think was the least fat, she feared men saw her as too plump, and she seemed embarrassed by her nakedness, at least in front of me. She is self-conscious about how she looks without her clothes on and says she is ashamed to be seen naked, but she is also certain that men will like to see her naked, or at least she wants to them to like seeing her naked.

The baby fat about her body will pinch where her bra and underpants bind her and will leave a slight pink mark on her skin. So when Miller looked at her stripped for him he could see where those articles of clothing had been.

She is high waisted, and not curvy. Her hips are slight but proportional. She has longish, lovely, completely hairless legs; she almost never has to shave them. Her belly swells from her waist, and there is a fold, a crease and a roll, which shows when she sits, leans over or squats. Just a little baby fat, just a typical girl for her age, her soft body otherwise supple and firm for her youth. Her breasts thrust out and bear their weight when freed from her and sag only slightly, to tantalize you with their fullness.

Turn her around and Mr. Miller would find soft roundly formed buttock, full, not flabby, but fleshy. Spank them and see them shimmer. Her soft skin easily chaff pink.

Turn her back again to look at her cunt and Mr. Miller would see how it shows an unkempt darkish triangular tuft of pubic hair—she is a true brunette—but thinning where a deepening slit emerges from between the tops her legs, cleaving her belly, revealing plump labia, slightly parting and hinting color.

She wears the hair on her head hair shoulder-length, combed in the middle, straight, falling with a little slight wave at the end, the way her mother taught her to dress it. Her hair is not so long that it will hide her shoulders or her breasts from our view, nor her face unless she bends over so that it falls in her face. And if she does, your eyes of course are drawn to how her breasts hang, the cones of dark wine tips of them drawing them down like a ripened fruit

If he made her sit or squat, as ultimately he would do because he wanted to examine it, and so spread her legs wide for him, he would see above the cute star of her clean puckered anus, the florid scalloped folds and the fleshy mouth of vagina, the same wine-colored flesh of her nipples and her lips, but obscenely wet and open for him. And if he could, and I know sometimes he would, he might kiss and tongue her there and for him it would be just as warmly receptive for him as her other mouth, and the hole of it would quiver and would wantonly receive his tongue to feel and taste it, just as she did with her lips and tongue.

So she stood. Flushed as I imagined. Confused as she said may have been, but certainly disingenuous about the uncertainty the she expressed to him. She knew what this was about. She felt his fingers entering her and feeling her vagina; she felt his mouth upon her suckling her nipples; she was aroused, even if she was naive, and both of them knew now that having done this for him, she would have to yield to what he asked for again, even if naively she told herself that she would not.

So after standing against her nakedness, kissing her, feeling her, his up-turned erection rubbing against her, against her belly and her pubic bone, he positioned it with his hand and pressed it between her legs, and it insinuated between them and he wanted to enter her where she stood, but she said: "No please." She shook her head and pushed at him. She said no again, when he almost forcibly pressed it so that she felt it entering her. She pushed him away, not too forcibly, but she resisted enough, shaking her head, that he looked up from his kisses. He saw that it seemed she might begin to cry; perhaps she did cry, I do not know.

He stepped back and sat on his stool and feeling his erection idly which he held in his hand, he told her to get out of her clothes completely. She looked at his penis, seeing how the glans, popped from its sheath, as he masturbated. She told me it looked exactly like a cherry lollipop, and I thought to myself what this intimated.

She no longer asked him what he wanted, or made any ineffectual irrelevant remarks, expressing the confusion that she claimed she still felt. She had given away to show herself naked and she wondered now what he thought of her. She wanted to please him, she did not like what she looked like naked, and she felt pleased when she said how beautiful she was when she leaned over to work her clothing down her legs, showing how fleshy her tits hung and bobbled as she worked her clothes off her feet.

Still smiling sheepishly, and now plainly blushing, she held the bunched up clothing at her feet and awkwardly, almost tipping in a stumble, grabbing Mr. Miller's hand for support, pulled out one bare foot and then, leaning with his support and looking at him as he stared at her nakedness, pushed the bunched clothing off her other foot and freed herself. She stepped back and straightened and brushed her hair from her face and looked down at him. She bit her lip like she does when she nervous, I imagine. At any rate she told me she felt more nervous than ashamed then. She wanted to know what he thought of her.

He asked her turn herself around for him. He had her turn around slowly three times. Again, he told her she was beautiful and he stroked his penis and she saw that it was even larger, more engorged, and she wondered if she might see him ejaculate. She had never seen a man ejaculate, but instead she felt anxious and she said she thought about me at home and looked at the clock and it was after eight and so she said: "I should be go home."

He said nothing for a moment. Then she thought he would ejaculate but he took his hand away and his penis jerked about, throbbing, and he was very red in the face but staring at her nakedness intently. She did not know what to do and what he wanted now. She felt embarrassed by the intensity of his staring. She wondered what he wanted and asked: "Can I get dressed?"

He looked at her now strangely and now said: "What would your husband say if he knew about this?"

She felt frightened then. She worried. She had never thought of this. She asked him: "How? I mean . . . What do you mean?"

"What if he knew you took off your clothes for me?" He smiled.

He sat back and his prick looked inflamed to her and he leered at her nakedness now. This was new. She did not like this look.

"If someone told him, what would happen?"

"No," is all she said.

He said: "Let's make sure he never knows." He smiled and was feeling the end of his penis again and looking at her face. She watched.

He said: "Come here." And she hesitated but took a step or two closer to him, but pausing before she was so close that he would reach out and touch her, asked: "What do you want?"

He said again simply for her to come, and then, when she was close enough, he stood and took her in her arms and kissed her and grabbed her buttock and pressed his prick up against her belly, and kissed her and felt her body, her tits, her buttock and then put his hands on her shoulders and pressed, and she knew what he wanted.

She would swear to me she did not really understand what he meant by it, but when she was leaning, crouching, even as he was forcing her to go down to her knees, she was still unsure what it was he wanted; her head was at his waist level and his prick as stiff as his ever got, stuck straight out from his fat belly, waggling near her face, he said: "Go on . . . get on your knees for me, Karen."

And when she did, she guessed what this meant, but truthfully she had never done this. She had heard about it. Some girl had once told her she had done it and she was shocked to hear about it and did not understand it, why anyone would do it. She did not know about it from me. I had never asked her to do it. I was too timid myself.

So, she looked up at him and she said he must have seen how upset she was, that she felt like crying, feeling anxious misgivings, and she begged him: "Mr. Miller, please."

But he sat and spread his legs and leaned and reached out for the top her head with one hand while with his other held his prick, drawing down the foreskin, so that the obscene red glans popped out, like the round wet sticky cherry lollipop in her imagination. And he drew her head toward it firmly but gently toward it, and when she resisted, tremulously, and said pathetically again: "Please."

He said: "Yes." And she closed her eyes as he drew her head near his penis and she felt it rub her lips and she did not open her mouth until, as she was beginning to quietly well-up in tears, he forced it to her mouth; she felt the warm wet head of it between her lips, then, against her teeth and slipping between her teeth and cheek, warm, firm, and he said: "Open your mouth, honey. Open, sweetie." And when she did the penis pushed in, glided smoothly and filled her mouth; it was not as large as she thought it looked; he rocked; it slipped in her mouth; with her tongue instinctively moving on it, she felt the shape of his glans and the shaft as it moved, and she tasted it, her tongue in the little hole of it, his pee hole, as she thought of it. It tasted salty. She had closed her eyes like she does when she is kissing. He rocked and it slipped easily in her mouth.

He held her head with both hands, rocking, his erection pumping in her mouth, and then let go of her head and she let him pump it in her mouth without forcing her to do it.

Then he spoke to her, and she opened her eyes, looking up at him, and he smiled at her and caressing her face told her: "Suck on it, honey. Suck on it like candy. Your husband need never know."

He took her head in his hands again and moved it on his prick. She closed her eyes, breathing through her nose. His prick stroking in her mouth. She still cried softly, the welling tears now trickled on her cheek, and he leaned and kissed her tearful eyes and said kindly: "Don't cry, honey. It's okay. I love you. I really do. I'll take care of you. You take care of me and I'll take care of your. That's good. Move your tongue on it. That's nice. You like that? Do you?"

She mewled and she had to slurp noisily on his prick and he said: "I really do love you. I really do." He let go of her head and reached under her arms to feel her breasts and play with her nipples.

She opened her eyes and leaned back and gasped and he said: "Don't stop."

She looked sadly at his penis and at his face and asked again: "Why? Why, Mr. Miller?"

"Because," he laughed at her, still reaching out and playing with her tits. "I want you to suck my cock."

"Yes, but . . . " she sobbed.

"Yes, yes . . ." he replied, ". . . and then."

She stared at his penis which one hand now held, pumping, showing the enflamed glans, popping in and out and dew of pre-ejaculate seeping from slit in the head of it and running—a clear syrup—down the shaft of his erection to his fisted hand.

He put his other hand on the back of her head and asked her out of plain astonishment: "Have you never done this to your husband?"

She shook her head still looking at the penis as he held it for her. He drew her head to it.

"Then, my darling Karen, I shall be the first. I am going to cum in your mouth. I am going to cum in your mouth, and you are going to swallow it and tell me how much you liked it."

She stared at his penis, then into his eyes, and he said again he really loved her and he wanted her to enjoy this. So he sat back and holding his penis up, he said: "Go on. You'll see. No one will tell your husband, if you do. I promise."

Karen then described for me how she put her hands on his knees as he guided her head and she closed her eyes and opened her mouth and took his penis into it and she licked and slurped and sucked it like it was lollipop, she said, not knowing how she was supposed to do it or how to let him fuck her mouth. But he did not need much more stimulation.

He held her head very tightly. His jerked. He made noises which she recognized.

When he ejaculated, it startled her. It jet into her mouth, a warm flood; her mouth half-filled with a warm pasty stuff. I happened so quickly and unexpectedly that she whimpered in surprise.

He held her head tightly so that she could not take her mouth off it, but she did not really try to resist what he wanted. She held his hips as he ejaculated into her mouth. He saw how her eyes fluttered open and she mewled and she herself seemed to sexually shudder. She tasted it as it warmly spilled into her mouth, feeling it's sticky texture with her tongue, and instinctively she licked at it the head of his penis, slurped and swallowed what she tasted, and her suckling and the movement of her tongue seemed to prompt more spasms of sperm to spurt into her mouth, a second and then a third. She mewled as she swallowed and he laughed at her though he was catching his breath.

She swallowed licking about the softening penis and felt then a flow of warm soupy fluids from his penis. And in a momentary dread she wondered if he was peeing in her mouth. But she decided he was not, though there was so much to swallow.

She said, when I asked her to describe it, that it was sticky and sort of gooey at first and it tasted like and felt like swallowing raw egg white; later what seeped out was more fluid like gloopy gravy, and it tasted salty but also had a tang; it tasted like nothing she had ever tasted.

I asked her sarcastically: "Did you like it?" She did not answer me. She felt the offense I intended. But I think she would have said yes.

After these spurts of cum and after she had tasted them as he told her to and swallowed them as he told her to do, he just held her head lightly, to keep her mouth on his penis and stroking her hair brushing the tears from her eyes which now had ceased tearing and he sighed at her and laughed lightly, telling her he loved he: "I really do."

He lifted her hands up, kissing her hands repeatedly, telling her that she was a "good girl" and he stroked her hair while his penis softened and his semen drained warmly into her mouth as it went limp; she, for her part, lookjing up into his eyes, caressed the receding glans with her tongue and tickling and tasting the slit of it; she gave him such pleasure that he let her just keep sucking him and told her she was doing it very well; she nursed and swallowed all that she could tease from his penis, until so spent and sucked off so that she could not taste any more fluids coming into her mouth.

He let go of her head and stood up slowly, his penis slipping from her mouth. She dropped her head. He picked up his undershorts and pulled them on hurriedly; he said it was getting late. She remained naked, head bowed, where she knelt, the taste of his semen still in her mouth, as he looked down at her.

She looked flushed, I am sure, as she does, and now she truly did feel ashamed, and wanted reassurance. But, she told me, she also felt tingly all over.

Finally he commanded: "Stand up." She staggered a bit as she stood and helped steady her: "You okay?" She nodded. Then he sat in the chair again and looked at her and studied her naked for a while more and talked to her while he dressed. He even retied his tie. She was still naked when he put on his suit coat and took out his keys.

He asked her if she liked what she did and she did not know what to say. She said nothing.

"Do you like how it tastes?"

"It's okay " she said, and added: "Was I okay?"

"Yes, sweetie " He got up and stroked her cheek and touched her mouth and asked her to open it and saw, I suppose, the creamy coating of his sperm in her mouth, on her tongue.

"You want more?" He teased her.

She looked at the clock anxiously but said nothing as he looked into her eyes.

Now as he watched her face for her reactions, he put his hands onto her breasts, and felt them and teased her sexually, and repeated how pretty she was and let his hand to drop her cunt and inserted fingers into her rubbed her so that she began to express herself to him and asked him finally, her hands on his shoulders to brace herself, her legs trembling: "Stop. Please."

I expect he grinned to find how easily she was worked up, because he said, he was sorry and that next time for sure she can pleasure herself.

He pulled on his pants and asked her again: "But you like sucking cock. I can tell." She did not know what to say. He put on his shirt and, buttoning it up as he faced her, repeated: "Tell me you like it."

She nodded because it was what he wanted her to do, she said. I thought that scene especially poignant. My wife still naked, half wet in arousal, the taste of his cum her mouth, abjectly nodding that she liked him to cum her mouth.

I asked her about nodding at him. I asked her if she really did like it—having him cum in her mouth—because even by then, when she had to tell me all, she seemed still reluctant to do that for me, and she did not reply but she looked away and did not reply.

She said he got fully dressed and she stood there naked while he looked at her dressing himself and talked to her and told her how glad he was she had come to work for him, and how much he wanted to help her, and "help your husband too." (winking). He told her he had plans for her and she was going to be very good for his business. And as he put on his overcoat and she still stood naked in the center of the backroom, he again said to her: "But we don't ever want your husband to know, do we? That would be so bad for you. You don't want that, do you?" He looked her up and down again and said again how she pretty she was and said: "We can work it out, so he never knows." He approached her one last time kissed her and fondled her, putting his fingers into her vagina from behind. And she kissed him back.

Then he buttoned up his overcoat saying: "I will see on Monday. Right? See you just like this, honey. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday " and turned around and left the store, his voice trailing off. "Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sun." The door shut.

She sat down naked on her stool and thought about herself and what had happened and what it meant, without coming to any conclusions. She cleaned herself with Kleenex. She drank cold tea to get the taste of his semen from his mouth, but it did not disappear. All the way home in the bus she could taste it and she would think of it.