Installment Nine --The Polaroids Bob Takes

But before she could leave, Bob came ino the shop. Mr. Miller nodded as he entered.  Karen felt sick with anticipation.

Bob said: "Hello, sweet tits," Bob said, giving my wife a look like he could see through her clothes. He looked at watch and said: "Okay, What you want, Al? I should get back to the bar."

Miller said: "I want to show you something."

Bob said: "Yeah?"

"Go in back. I'll be there in a minute."

Mr. Miller repeated to Karen that she should go for lunch and walked her to the door and whispered: "When you get back you can do what I told you, remember?"

She remembered.

She walked in a daze. She thought of how the man looked at her: his eyes drilling at her nipples when she walked out in front of him wearing nothing but her underpants and her bobby socks, holding his ring box, never lifting her eyes to his even as she held out the box to him, feeling his eyes on her bare breasts; and then turning, ashamed, coming into the backroom; how she stood up and how she dropped her hands again so he could see her breasts, and his eyes following her submission as she removed her underpants for him, to be completely naked for him, his eyes on all of her. She played the scene over and over in her imagination. This had been more intensely sexual even than the first instance when Mr. Miller had undressed her. Because this time she had taken off all her clothes for someone, in front of someone, whom she did not know. She did this to please Mr. Miller, she said to herself. But she also knew she had wanted this man to see her naked. She wanted to be naked for him. She felt a strange gnawing in the pit of her stomach. Her pulse raced. She felt like she might faint.

Someone actually stopped her in the street out of concern and asked her if she was all right. She went into the cafeteria but did not feel hungry and could not decide what to take from the line. She felt too anxious to eat, thinking about the scene compulsively, thinking of how she felt as his eyes fixed on her nakedness--that strange gnawing. She picked at the salad she had taken. She drank her Coca-Cola. She looked at her watch. She had been gone half an hour. Mr. Miller was always punctual. She did not want to go back.

This much Karen confided. She did not initially tell me about the rest of the day. And initially when she confessed this incident with the customer, she had only admitted walking out in her underpants, showing him her bare breasts. She had not admitted to me how she went back in the office and then stripped herself completely for this man until after I learned about it from Bob and went back home and confronted her with everything I had learned. Then she confessed to all the details I have told. But more importantly, she confessed her feelings.

Bob had told me about the visual and factual details of this incident with the customer because Mr. Miller had told him as soon as he came in, and Bob was a keen observer and had a vivid imagination. Bob had told me too about the rest of what happened that day and the next and the next. Those things that led up the "big event." And of course with pictures and graphic details he told me about the "big event."

But my real understanding and the way I am going to explain all that happened is based not just on what Bob said, how he saw it or what others told him, and of course the pictures he showed me, but how Karen said she felt and how she looked at these men doing these things to her. Their coercion and schemes were only half of it. What she was thinking is more important.

This is important in the difference of what happened with this customer too, and how he saw her. From his point of view, outwardly, she had been embarrassingly exposed in a state of awkward dress, but obviously she had meant to be displayed and humiliated in this way for some reason. Outwardly, it seemed to him, she had deliberately removed her dress and entered the open shop wearing nothing but her underpants and socks (and her wedding ring), because she wanted him to see her that way, but she had an ambiguous look on her face, a look at once pathetic and curious, unhappy and concupiscent. In short, he was not sure she really wanted to do this.

So in part because of that mystery, he had followed Mr. Miller into the backroom at his wink and coaxing, and admittedly he was himself sexually piqued and very curious even while a bit embarrassed for her sake. And when Miller told her that the customer wanted her to take off her underpants, he had wanted it, but in fact he had not asked for it, and he felt badly that the pretty young wife looked so distressed and yet she did drop her hands then to let him see her tits again; something was going on here he did not understand. The absurd notion that he would give her boss five dollars to take off her underpants must be a joke, but he did find the money in his pocket, and she did take off her underpants. And when she did, something in the way she looked at him showed that this was something she really wanted. If she was compelled, it was her own sexual compulsion. He had never seen anything like this look in a woman in his entire life. He had seen the look in the faces of teenage boys poring over pornography they found in the woods, but never in a woman. It was raw.

Because something happened to Karen when she went to lunch—or really becasuse something happened to her when she was presented naked to that customer, when she willingly took off her underpants for him—Karen herself confessed something inside of her changed. She felt a craving fascination now with her own sexual feelings, and now she would have a period of several days where she saw herself and everyone intensely sexually. She would look at men's crotches and wonder about what their erections looked like. She would think of being seen naked by a man whom she saw sitting opposite her on the bus. She would think that boys who watched her walking by near our apartment, boys she knew from the neighborhood, would want to see her undress, like Mr. Miller said his nephew would. She would think about what she would do if they asked. Sitting at the lunch table she had a compulsion to put her hand between her legs and squeezed her hand between her thighs and pressed on her mons and felt a strong sharp shivery twinge and a warm rinsing pleasure and she wanted to feel it again. It may have been the first time she really had an orgasm by masturbation, though still not in any abandonment, after all she was in a public place. But it was the first.

And her orgasm surprised and was special in another way. She had not felt this sensation before; she felt herself wet between the legs, like she had soiled her panties. She went to bathroom and found when she wiped herself after peeing that she had produced a viscous fluid, creamy as sperm. She was shocked. She had never remembered this. When she cleaned herself after we had intercourse she had assumed it was my ejaculate she saw on the toilet paper. She smelled it. It smelled different than a man. She tasted it and it was mild, not pungent like a man's sperm, which was tangy and salty; her own cum, she thought, tasted like exotic mushrooms, like oyster mushrooms or something wilder.

I should tell you about Bob. I met Bob even before this all happened. He has a neighborhood bar in a part of town that the suburbs left behind. The men who go to it had been going to it since they came home from the war. Bob himself had been in Germany and had stories. He had told me about going into German towns and taking the frauleins and doing things to them. I had felt uncomfortable. He figured they deserved it. The other men around him thought so too. All vets, and all of them were my father's age. But unlike my dad who had made it in the world, these guys had gotten left behind, stuck in the old neighborhood in dead-end jobs, which even then were getting shipped overseas; some of them already on disability or early retirement. They spent most days talking about the good times of the past and what was wrong with kids and "niggers"—I know that is offensive but that is they way they talked. And they were fat and aging and balding; and some of them were mean unhappy men. Bob could be really mean.

The irony of this whole story is that I knew Bob, and I knew some of the men who got involved, although I had not known Mr. Miller until after Karen was hired to work for him. I had come into the bar a few times because it was in the neighborhood where my own Dad grew up and my uncle lived, and not too far from the high school I had attended and met Karen. At least once I had taken my wife with me and some had met her before this all happened, although I don't think many recalled that. They had treated her politely and shyly, like men of that age usually do, like a little lady. But her blackmail would change all that and I think only a few remembered having met her.

By the time that Saturday rolled around, they all knew me, and they all knew it was my wife they were going to "see." I had, just by chance, been by the bar that Friday night, waiting for my wife. But I will tell you about that in due course.

Bob is bigger by a foot over Miller and my wife, and burly like a football player. And if his shoe size hints at the size of his dick, this guy wore size 14. When I found out he'd doggy fucked her, I felt jealous, because I could never shove such a length and girth up her cunt as I know he did—and I saw pictures—and so I believed it when he said it made her grunt, and he bragged that she "lost her goddamn mind" with unremitting orgasms when he'd pounded her ass. So he advertised.

Bob makes a good measure of people, as bartenders often do; he can size up all types. My wife, he told me, as he was thumbing through the pictures of the men fucking her to exhaustion, was "really a good girl" who just came to be a slut by something she could not help, not because she was not a good girl morally, but because she thought she was in love. And she loved Mr. Miller, he told me: "Maybe as much as she loves you."

"A woman like this would strip naked and kneel naked for 'em and suck cock and let 'em cum in her mouth and swallow cum too; she'd do all that and more; she'd do anything he wanted, if only he'd just tell her that he loved her," Bob observed: "But I guess you know that now. That don't make her a slut, really."

"Your wife is just that kind of woman," he explained. "A woman like her would let a man she loved do whatever he wanted to her, even though and maybe especially if she was afraid he's lying to her, if she loved him and wanted him to love her. Why, for him, she'd do anything. . . Why he could get her to suck his cock . . . hell, he could get her to suck all his friends' cocks. . . . he could get her to fuck them all at once. They could make her cunt a fuck bucket; they could use her mouth for a toilet and stuff her puckered butthole with mop handles, nigger dicks and dog's peckers until she squealed like pig for them. And afterwards she could sob with regret and shame, but still she would beg the one she loved who had been the one let her be abused, who watched it all for his own pleasure, crawl to him naked across the floor, to cuddle up to him, whimpering for the love he'd swear he had for her, just to keep her sucking all those cocks, taking dog dicks in her ass, and fucking every man in the room."

He sized up Karen this way from experience, he said. He had a fraulien, a young Nazi war widow, just like her in Germany during the war. He treated her badly. She was content to be fed cock and take cum for food. She gave him several blowjobs a day. Every night she fucked and sucked off the buddies he brought home. "Now she was not a slut really," he said. "So I don't mean to compare her that way. I mean, what choice did she have? Suck dick or starve. That was it. Your wife, now, I think she's slut 'cause she can't help herself. Something about her gonads. Oversexed, I think."

There was some truth to what he said. But none of this would have happened to her except for the coincidence of things. Mr. Miller. Bob. All of it.

Anyway, that's Bob's story. He came by sexual cruelty from his war experience. Does not excuse it, but explains it. If any one of these men was really depraved, it was Bob. Much of what happened was his idea.

Mr. Miller, for his part, also treated Karen contemptuously. He only pretended to love her. Just like Bob said, he told her he loved just to coax her to "strip and kneel and suck his cock and let him cum in her mouth and eat it."

When Karen returned from the cafeteria she was in a heat, a state of stunned sexual arousal in which she felt herself almost dreaming, everything at once vivid and vague. The ordinary things, like time of day, were gone from mind, she thought about what Mr. Miller wanted. She thought of Bob waiting for her. She remembered how different his penis felt in her, how much larger it was, how it surprised her, how much she liked it when he fucked her. She felt again that sensation in the pit of her stomach and a warmth and wetness flooding her vaginally, and she realized she wanted him sexually. She was surprised by her feelings, she had never felt this before, this craving to be fucked by someone, and she thought about the feeling of his penis in her, its size, how he came inside her; she felt this way about Bob even though she did not love him, even though she was afraid of him and did not like him. It made no sense to her.

When she saw the Jewelry shop down the block, she felt queasy, and she remembered with nausea what was expected of her. What Mr. Miller wanted: how she was meant to go to the back room and undress herself and masturbate for Bob. She wanted to please Mr. Miller but at the same time this made feel sick. She wanted Bob to fuck her, she knew that, but at the same time she dreaded this humiliation.

" I can't do it, " she said to herself: "I can't do this . . . I am married and I am Mormon and I . . ." But then she recalled what she had already done, even though she is married and a Mormon. She thought about the customer and of being naked in front of him. She thought of Mr. Miller's lollipop penis drooling in her mouth and how she had enjoyed when he came in her mouth. She thought about Bob's cock poking her. Again, she felt the pang in her groin.

In the shop she felt faint and giddy. Mr. Miller was waiting on a customer. It was a good sale for an expensive item. He said curtly: "In the back, young lady. Bob has been waiting for you."

Bob was sitting at a stool. He stood up when she came in. He said merely: "You look a little sick. You okay?" She nodded. He nodded, but did not believe her. He said: "Go over there."

She did not understand what he wanted. She was confused. He said again, pointing: "Over there . . ." Indicating the far corner, where the walls were bare on either side of the corner, and the stool she usually sat on had been set for her. She was still confused but she did as she was told.

Bob went out and talked in an aside to Mr. Miller. She sat down as she waited, she folded her hands in her lap; she felt almost like she might throw up.

Bob returned and shut the door to the workroom. He turned and grinned at her. He nodded. "You ready?"

Karen nodded but and then in a breaking voice said: "Yes." Karen stood up, and began thinking about what she would do.

Bob said: "Good." He took something off the workbench. She didn't understand what he was doing. Then flash bulb popped. He held a Polaroid Land camera: the camera wheezed and the picture was shed from its slot into his hand. He laid the picture down on the workbench for its instant development. He watched it develop into view. He took a second and laid it next to the first for development, and satisfied that they were what he wanted he looked my wife and said: "Okay . . . Go on."

She did nothing. He aimed the camera, focusing, waiting. She was confused; this was not expected. He peered through the finder. She hesitated. "Go on " he repeated. She reached over the back of her shoulder with her right hand and unfastened the hook at the nape of her neck. With her left hand strained awkwardly to draw her zipper down, she unzipped half way. She crossed her right arm across her chest to draw the sleeve and top of her dress off her shoulder. Exposing her shoulder, Bob snapped the picture. "Hold it," he said. She paused as he took the next fed into his hand and laid it on the workbench.

"Okay," he said and she looked into the camera warily as he focused and she drew the sleeve down to let her dress fall by half exposing her left breast, then reached with her free left hand to draw the sleeve off her right shoulder and down her arm, and as she held the dress at her waist, now both breasts exposed, he took another picture. She let the dress fall. He told her again to wait until he was ready. He laid the fourth picture on the workbench. Then put his camera up to take the picture of her standing in her underpants with the dress splashed about her feet. That picture out, and put on the table, he aimed again and said: "Okay."

There was no question that she would do this. She had never had a picture of her in the nude. I had never done this. She pushed her underpants to her ankles. The flash popped. She straightened up as he grinned and took the next shot out and laid it on the table.

She paused. He quickly took a second shot. He put the photo down and quickly took another. Then another. Each time she had blinked at the flash, each time the flash had left spots in her vision.

Then he as he refilled the camera he told her to step out of her clothes and take off her socks. As she lifted her leg and took off a sock she asked him: "Why do want you the pictures?"

He laughed as he slapped the film cartridge in and aimed it at her took another as she faced him and another again, then said: "Turn around." He took two of her naked from behind.

He put the camera down and studied the pictures, went to the door and peeked out, then opened it wide and called: "Al, she's ready." Mr. Miller called back that he would just close the shop and be back.

It was early to close the shop. It was barely four in the afternoon. Karen saw, however, that he turned off the lights in the front and he appeared at the door and paused to says: "Socks too?"

"Completely naked.... barefoot and naked," said Bob, "And not a complaint."

"Good girl," Al said.

"Look here," Bob nodded to the pictures, and Miller nodded his approval: "Good...  good."

Bob went over to where Karen stood. She almost cringed. Nervous. He said: "I ain't gonna hurt you.... I just want these..." He bent over and scooped up all her clothes and brought back to Al who openned a drawer to let him stuff them in.

"What you say, Al?" Bob grinned, "We should call the guys to come get a look..." Karen looked worried. Al laughed.

"In due course..." he nodded. Karen looked at him with pathetic sadness.

Bob aimed the camers at her again and said: "Smile." But she did not. She would not look at the camera.

Miller sat on his stool and Bob stepped back a few steps. He explained: "I want to take her in head to foot and keep a good focus on her face."

"Yes," replied Miller.

Another flash. He handed the polaroid to Al.

Al scribbled something on the Polaroid and put it in an envelope and tossed it in drawer.

"Insurance," Al told Bob, who laughed and shook his head.

"Poor son of a bitch," he sighed.

They both looked back at Karen.  Naked. Nervous. Pathetically sad.

Miller poured himself a brandy in his tea cup. He sipped it and smiled at her, "Do you want a drink first?" She shook her head and did not reply.

"Then we will watch and Bob will take pictures and you must continue until you have finished. Feel your breasts, dear. start with that." He sipped his teacup.

Bob showed me the pictures, so I know what she did, how she looked, the expression on her face. Actually, Bob said, he hoped I'd see these pictures someday.

Bob said she sighed as she began and looked directly at the camera and began with both hands on her breasts, squeezing, feeling them whole, then feeling her nipples with her fingers. Her mouth parted. Flash! She slipped the fingers of her right hand between her legs; you can see how she has straddled her hand, her fingers, three fingers feeling inside of herself. Her eyes closed. Flash! She holds her labia parted and rubs with two fingers with her other hand against the mons, her legs are slightly bent at the knees. Flash! She tastes herself, her wet fingers, as she rubs herself more rapidly. Flash! Her fingers are plunged as deeply as she can. Her head is bent down, her hair obscures her face, her legs bent at the knees more deeply and spread, almost like she is buckling. Flash! She looks wistfully, flushed at the camera, brushing her hair from her face. Flash!

Bob said that makes it look like she did it in just a few minutes. It took more like fifteen minutes. He pointed out how red in the face she became, how her hair was damp at her neck, how she actually started tearing up out of frustration, but how even while sniffling her tears he began to sense her rising orgasm. "She worked for it," Bob said.

Some of the pictures were stolen by someone, Bob told me. "My favorites " Bob described one just before she had her cum. Where she had stood facing the camera, staring intensely at the men's eyes fixed on her masturbation and her nakedness, rubbing herself hard and breathing fast and catchy breaths; her legs were stiff, her arm stiff, feeling herself urgently, rubbing herself to cum, when she and suddenly got twitchy and gasped.

"I got a hard-on watching your wife get off on her fingers, man. That shot, that look she gave. Jesus! I nearly came in my pants too!" He tried to take a second of the same shot but she had lost her legs, and had put her free hand on the stool to hold herself, his fingers inside of her, still gasping and twitching, then dropped to a knee, her eyes shut tight.

"And made her little mooing sound like she does," he smirked (actually I had never heard her do this but I believed him) "and she came all over her fingers. I mean her fingers were covered in goo from her own cunt. like real cum. I've never seen anything like it."

She took her trembling hand out of her crotch as knelt, panting, and looked at what she had done, at the goo on her fingers. She looked as astonished as they were. Bob said he had a picture of that and he swore that you could see the stuff on her fingers—"Just like she'd got a load of my cum," he said—but that picture was another one that was stolen.

Bob said: "Me and Miller almost jumped her and fucked her right away. She was trembling and looked at us so, so, so — Jesus, so fucking hot. I took that shot too. Son-of-a-bitch stole that one too."

Bob said, "Miller made her lick it off her fingers. Had a good picture of that too. Also stolen. Sorry."

Karen had caught her breath, wiping the tears of stress from her face, blinking at the camera and simpering like a little girl, as Bob took a shot of her looking up from underneath her tits, as she looked down with a flushed shy glance. She looked so stunned and so pretty, so naive, and the obvious randy tips of her breasts, her swollen nipples, looking more so from the angle of the shot gave me a sexual pang to look at it. And for moment I wanted her and did not want her to leave her. But the things she did. And the fact is I could not trust her to stop. She had lied to me. And so many of these men had seen her naked, like in this pictures, and had fucked her and been sucked off by her; they knew me and they saw me as a joke. All that was too hard for me to live with.

Bob said that after she had masturbated for them she started to cry--maybe ashamed, maybe emotionally spent--and looked at Mr. Miller sadly and softly apologized: "I'm sorry."

She thought she had disappointed him, for some reason. It made no sense.

"It's just that this is so new " she sniffled. Al handed her a Kleenex. She blew her nose. "No, dear. For your hands." She looked at them and the both laughed. She cleaned her fingers and gave the Kleenex back to him. Mr. Miller helped her to stand and kissed her warmly and himself put his fingers into her cummy cunt and expressed his amazement and she blushed and put her head on his shoulder to hide her feelings.

"I've never done that before," she said quietly. Mr. Miller said she should not be ashamed of it.

Bob said he wished he had made more pictures but he was almost out of film and for practical reasons he had to stop—in order to take the last few shots that Miller wanted —"for the blackmail, you know."

After Bob had told me everything and had shown me the photoalbum of the "big event," Bob took me back into the main bar and gave me one more for the road. The fellas at the bar looked at me with commiseration. I asked Bob if they had been there that Saturday. He nodded. Three men I did not know giving me sidelong glances, making remarks to one another, giving me nods. All of them had seen my wife take her clothes off. All of them had fucked her. I felt sick.

Bob openned the cash drawer of his register and took out a stack of polaroids. I saw then that he had actually put one of them up against the side of the register as a "pin-up". He dealt them out in sequence, like playing cards. The Royal Flush. Some of the guys leaned to see the polaroids he had laid out. I got up and left.

I never went back to the bar. Never saw Bob again.

Eventually, after everything was over— after my wife and I split up, and I guess after Al had got all he had wanted out of her — almost six months later I got an envelope in the mail and all that was inside of it was this picture with Al's dirty little note. Just as he had intended.

Just to prove the point, I think, that what she did that Sunday night in the back of the bar was something she did willingly. The poloraoid was originally intended for souvenirs perhaps--Bob kept some like this one on the mirror next to his cashregister on the bar--he showed them to customers and told them the story.

But then these polaroids became something for potential blackmail. Since she cooperated, Miller never needed them for that. Having left her, Miller sent this one to me to mock me, I am guessing.

"Something to remember her by," he wrote in an unsigned note.

Beneath the picture of my completely naked wife Al had written on the polaroid itself: "Your wife -- Took off ALL her clothes" Emphasis on "ALL." Underlined. As if that was not really obvious in the picture.

And then Al had written how "She sucked our cocks" and they "came in her mouth" and how they had "FUCKED her like dog..."

Bob enjoyed telling me how she reacted when he came in her mouth, startling but flushed and whimpering and eager to swallow all his cum as quickly as he spent it into her mouth.

She didn't try to take her mouth off it, he said, "And she swallowed all of it... didn't even try to spit it out."

He added, looking at me closely: "I think she liked it."

He paused to study my reaction. I am sure I looked upset, although I tried not to react.

Then he added: "She said you'd never done it to her. That true?" I did not reply.

He swore she got off on it too. "Couldn't help herself," he laughed and said he liked the look on my face when he told me that.

Miller had intended to send me more pictures if I didn't get the message from this one.

When he mailed me this Polaroid snapshot from that evening, he wrote on the back of too: "Thanks. . . She gave us all a good time."

Seeing this picture of her, looking so vague and distant, caught up in her submission, I 'spose,-- but how? I mean she had stood there and taken off all her clothes for Bob and stood there letting him take pictures of her completely naked -- what was she thinking? She was did anything he asked -- the look on her face -- it brought it all back again, and I confess, when I first got it in the mail, I masturbated looking at it, thinking of all the things she was about to do with Al and Bob. Like he said: sucking their cocks till they came in her mouth. Swallowing their cum. Getting fucked like a dog.

Bob explained that how she looked in this polaroid was just the way she stripped for the others too.

"Who else? How many others did she do this for?" I asked, pointing a the picture. I was impatient to know it all. He just grinned. He would tell me all soon enough.

Somehow the thought of her naked like she was in this polaroid--knowing how she had willingly taken off her clothes for these two men--and for many other men, apparently--to let them see her completely naked, and then to willingly let herself be abjectly sexually humiliated and be roughly used by them--her mouth especially their favorite hole--aroused me, even then as he told me about it. And I have to admit I have masturbated looking at this picture many many times since then.