Message-ID: <23197asstr$953097017@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn From: DrSpin X-Original-Message-ID: <8amnt2$2d8@edrn.newsguy.com> Subject: {ASSM} Jen's Titillating Behaviour (MMF exhib oral cheat) Date: Wed, 15 Mar 2000 00:10:17 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: apuleius, Lambchop Jen's Titillating Behaviour (MMF exhib oral cheat) by DrSpin March 2000 * The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com * Complex thanks to Ruthie, expert editor. She is ruthless, exact, and not for the faint-hearted. Note that comma placement, Ruthie. I concede yet again. =========================================================== DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. If any reader is offended, he/she should not have been here in the first place and only has himself/herself to blame. I will probably be pleased to allow this story to be archived at any ASSTR-approved location. Just ask me first. And if it is relocated, please leave my name intact as the author and please include my email address. =========================================================== Organising people to be somewhere at the same place and time is no easy affair. Except at one another's houses, that is, because then it doesn't matter so much about precise arrivals and departures and kids can be picked up under the arm and packed away in a spare room to sleep or play, deposited in comfort and security. It was what we did on a Saturday night when nothing more exotic beckoned. We were four couples, Jen and I (my name's Tom), Kay and Martin, Vanessa and Geoff, and Sandy and Steve. We did it most Saturday nights because, while inducements to do otherwise came around often enough, it was rare that they interested all eight of us simultaneously. This particular Saturday night was at our place and that was fine, because Jen and I enjoyed cooking and we liked to put heart and soul into the work of it. Plus we didn't have children yet and it was a big roomy house with a huge dining room that opened out into a rampant garden. And it was high summer and we could leave the french doors wide open and it was all very, very pleasant indeed. The few children we hosted that night were asleep upstairs. Like most Saturday nights, some of us had drunk too much by the time the last of the dinner was spirited away and, like some Saturday nights, somebody had produced some dope and some of us had smoked too much of it and the animation and high spirits the eight of us could generate was down to the embers. We were scattered around the big room in varying states of disrepair and the head counts were being done and nobody could come up with a driver who wasn't too drunk or too stoned or both to get behind the wheel of a car. By consensus we decided that everybody would stay over and go home in the morning. This wasn't usual but it wasn't uncommon. The eight of us got on famously. We were at that age, late twenties to mid-thirties, when you gravitate naturally towards mutually beneficial groupings and gatherings. I don't know why, but it was easy socially, economically, culturally, and intellectually. The mix of it seemed to work. I mean, you didn't adore and admire every single one of them and there was no way you could have been best friends with two or three of them. But in the bigger mix, irritations, defects, and potential personality clashes were largely washed away and what between two people could become a damaging lifelong dispute generally passed within the group as a fleeting stimulating discussion. Kay had been dozing sprawled in an armchair, showing an inviting stretch of her excellent legs extending from a skirt no longer arrayed in the most ladylike manner. She opened her dark eyes suddenly and blinked at the light. "I'm off to bed," she announced. "It's the only way to keep Tom from looking up my dress and I'm too spun out to do anything to stop him." "Look, I'm just too drunk to turn my head in another direction," I said. "A gentleman would have closed his eyes to it," Vanessa chipped in snippily. "Can't do that," I replied. "Her legs are way too good." This was an established fact. Kay had the legs, Sandy had the butt, Vanessa had the hair and eyes, and Jen had the bosom. It had been agreed many times by all of us. It was also true I was drunk but not as much as I had been a while ago because I'd already stopped drinking. And I hadn't taken up a passed-around joint like I usually did because I was getting over a cold and I had something of a sore throat. "Why pick on him?" my wife, Jen, interposed. "Have a word with your husband about the way he stares at my chest." Vanessa waved her hand dismissively. "It's not only Geoff who stares. I have to tell you, Jen, I look at your chest and I'm not even a dyke." "Yeah," Geoff agreed, his over-the-top leer throwing his moustache akilter. "Show us your tits, Jen." This was not an uncommon request. Aside from the fact that Jen's breasts were uncommonly generous, it was the way the group usually dealt with sexual tensions, curiosities, and flirtations that fluttered about the place. The odd mock suggestion, rolling of eyes and exaggerated compliment took the place of real-time actions and events that everyone was sensible enough to know could not happen without great risk to situations that were comfortably satisfactory. No marriage was unhappy. There wasn't a reason to jeopardise relationships. Sure, I could and frequently did imagine Kay's fine long legs wrapped around my waist but I wasn't going to risk disaster by trying to make it happen. "Well," said Jen, giving the appearance of considering his request, "I should definitely get out of this new dress before I clean up in the kitchen and stack the dishwasher. But I was thinking about doing that after I put my drunken husband to bed." "Good plan," said Martin, counting himself in Geoff's corner. "We'll wait until Tom's out of the way before we go ahead." Martin's a lawyer. Opportunistic. Never fails to sniff out a sporting chance. "Come on, then," she said, standing up and dragging me out of the chair. "You heard the deal, Tom. Time for you to go to bed, so Geoff, Martin and I can have some play time." She knew I'd know she was kidding, of course. That was the nature of the game. "I'm off too," said Sandy. "Coming, Steve?" "Sure sounds good to me," Steve agreed as he followed his wife. Steve was one of those amiable soft-spoken guys. He usually followed Sandy unquestioningly. The group trudged wearily into various rooms and Jen made sure of this and that and who was where and did they have enough pillows and I stood by the open window in our bedroom waiting for her and looking down at the garden. Martin and Geoff were out there, sitting and smoking a last joint together on a bench amongst the heady fragrance of the dark-red flowers of the riotous quisqualis vine. I could smell the powerful jasmine-like scent from the window, more pervasive by a long stretch than the coarse herb smell of the marijuana, and it made me light-headed. I called out a menacing warning to them not to urinate on the gardenias because it would upset the pH balance. The guys gestured in the time-old vulgar unambiguous way and I staggered off chuckling towards my soft and welcoming bed. I was under the sheets and at least half-asleep when Jen came into the room. I watched her through secretly slitted eyes. I have always liked to look at her when she undresses. She took off her dress and reached for the well- worn jeans slung over a chair. She was wearing lacy white underwear, new by the look of it, and as she leaned over to pull on the jeans the bra was working hard to keep her abundant breasts in harness. She wandered over to her dressing table to rummage for a tee-shirt. The dressing table was near a window, and I was thinking how those guys might be able to see her if they were still sitting on that bench. She glanced out the window and quickly jumped back. She retrieved her glasses, put them on, and peered around the corner of the window. Again she jumped back. She stifled a giggle, a hand shooting to her mouth. Then, after a quick glance at me supposedly asleep in bed, she walked slowly to the window and stood there, looking out. She placed her hands against each side frame and, there was no other way to describe it, posed deliberately and provocatively for the men to see. Lying on my back and watching through slitted eyes, I saw my modest wife standing immodestly at the open window. I heard her giggle, though quietly. She slipped a strap off her shoulder like a stripper but put it back, blowing a kiss into the garden. She stepped back, turned aside, grabbed a shirt out of the drawer, and came close to me, out of their line of sight. She looked at me for a moment, a broad smile on her lips. I could see, even from under my lids, her nipples poking hard and sharp through the lacy insets of her bra. She drew the shirt over her head and with a final glance at me, a smile still twitching on her face, turned off the light, left the room and closed the door. I was stunned. This was Jen? Like many other women with big breasts, she tended to avoid displaying them. They'd come to her as a young teenager and she'd spent many years putting up with whistles, taunts, and ribald comments. Ever since I'd known her, she'd dressed conservatively. She wasn't at all ashamed of her breasts, but she'd become accustomed to not accentuating them. What had come over her this night? I climbed out of bed and discovered my penis thrusting through the fly of my pyjama shorts like an iron bar. I tucked it away, opened the door quietly, and crept down the stairs. She was in the kitchen like she said she'd be, scraping plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. Geoff and Martin were with her. "Come on. Just one close look," Geoff was saying. "We were too far away in the garden." She stopped and looked at him, still holding that peculiar smile I'd seen upstairs. "I told you," she said. "Do a good job helping me here and I'll think about it." Martin was scouring a pot and he handed another to Geoff. "Do it, dummy," he said. I was in the dining room, flat against the wall. I could only see into part of the kitchen but I could hear everything. She'd think about it? What was she doing? Jen? You need to know about Jen. She just wasn't an upfront type of woman. She didn't go in for an aggressive display. But I already told you that. Looks had something to do with it. I mean, sure she had a generous bosom and she attracted attention because of it. But she had always been insecure about her looks. She thought she wasn't pretty. Which she wasn't, I guess, in the way we all think about that. But she wasn't unpretty, either. She was smallish, she wore glasses because she was short-sighted, she kept her hair cropped short because she said it was untidy long and, to be honest, she had a small bird-like mouth and a weakish chin. That's being overly critical, though. She was hardly plain, for God's sake. And she did have those bountiful tits. I pressed my back against the wall thinking about all this. Within a few minutes they'd just about finished in the kitchen. "Well, I think we did pretty well," Martin said. "I suppose you did," she said. "Go into the dining room and sit on the couch, both of you. I'll be with you as soon as I get the dishwasher going." I slipped silently out the french doors and crouched behind a big and bushy potted golden cane. I could see into the dining room perfectly. The guys sat side by side, looking pleased with themselves. Shortly she came into the room and switched off the main overhead lights, leaving the room lit by two standard lamps. She stood a few steps away from them, hands on hips. "So," she said. "You really expect me to do this?" "We really do," said Geoff. "I'll go stark staring mad if you don't." "I doubt that." But she took off her glasses and put them aside. "You said you would," said Martin. "I said I'd think about it." "Don't torture us, Jen. Have mercy." Abruptly she whisked the shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor. I was watching from an angle but I could see her rigid nipples poking through the bra. She shifted her weight and stood calmly in front of them. A silence lengthened and grew. "Jen?" It was Geoff. "What?" "Take it off." "Definitely not." "Please?" Martin joined in. "We won't tell anyone. Promise." "You'd better not," she said. "I'd deny it anyway and nobody would believe you." "If you take it off I'll give you my new car," Geoff wheedled. "Here," he said, fishing in his pockets. "Take the keys." She laughed. "You adore that car." "It's worth it." "I'll die of grief if you don't," Martin said, only half- teasing, I suspected. "This is my biggest fantasy. I can't get so close and be denied. It will be the end of me." She had that smile on her face, the one I didn't know. She reached tentatively around her back. I couldn't believe my eyes. She had her hands on the clasp and she stopped. "I don't believe I'm doing this," she said softly. Then her hands moved and the bra was undone. She held it against her chest for a moment, then let it fall to the floor. Geoff and Martin inched forward on the couch, staring at her breasts. Her breasts. It had been a while since I'd stared at them myself. I guess when you live side by side with somebody you stop paying attention after a time. She had big breasts, sure, but not super-big like those porn star mammary queens with beachball appendages. They were just full, round and heavy, completely natural. Now that I was looking, I could see she'd lost a little shape to gravity. Not much, though. She still pointed directly out in front but the whole weight of her was sitting, at the age of 28, just a bit lower. Geoff spoke into the long silence. "Sensational," he said. "Do I live up to the fantasy?" Jen asked with a broad smile. "Better. Way better," Martin replied. Her smile became even broader. "You know, we all have fantasies," she said. Huh? What was this? She had always told me she didn't. "Yeah?" It was Geoff. "What's yours?" She giggled. "I couldn't possibly tell you." This was patently untrue. She wanted to be coaxed. Geoff began the process. "We have a pact tonight, remember? This stays among the three of us. It's our secret." "I just couldn't," she said shakily. She looked nervous and sounded a little breathless. She was, I could tell, deeply excited. "It's, well, embarrassing. It's a bit, I don't know, I guess a bit wild." "What do you call wild?" "Oh God. You expect me to describe it?" But she went straight on without pausing. It came out in a rush. "Well, I sometimes dream about being bare-breasted in front of a group of men and they're, like, masturbating and I'm kneeling in front of them and they shoot their stuff all over my chest." She stopped and covered her eyes with her hands. "I can't believe I told you that." "Hell, we can do that," said Martin. "Hey, I wasn't asking. I was just telling you, that's all." Martin looked at Geoff. They reached a simple understanding. "Jen," said Martin, "why don't you get down on your knees?" "No way. I couldn't do it. Definitely not." "Get down on your knees," said Geoff firmly. She sank straight to her knees, her back straight and her breasts like a veranda deck. She looked up with wide eyes as the two men, friends, her good friends who were married to her good friends, got up from the couch. They unbuckled, unzipped, let their trousers fall to the floor and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. "Now," said Geoff to Jen. "Take down my briefs." She looked at his crotch close to her face, then up at his eyes and back to what was confronting her. She reached out and did what he asked, pulling out and down to free the erection that bounced out before her eyes. "Now him." She shuffled across on her knees and repeated the process with Martin. They looked reasonably sized without being remarkable, in similar proportion to what she was used to with me. She looked from one to the other. She was mouth-breathing. "Start me off," said Geoff. It was an order and he'd judged her correctly. She wanted to be told what to do, to have the burden, responsibility, and guilt of decision removed. She reached out to grasp his penis but he held her hand. "Not like that," he said. She looked up at his face. "You mean...?" She left the words hanging. "You know what I mean." She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. I could hear it plainly from six metres away. She bent her head and took him in her mouth, holding him with her left hand. I watched bewildered as she applied herself, her head bobbing slowly and evenly. This was Jen? My Jen? I mean, we'd done this plenty of times but it was by no means her favourite activity. It was always something of a gift she made to me, certainly not a wanton act of lust on her part. Geoff gently pushed her head away. "Whew," he said. "I'm close already. Go to Marty." She turned her head and grabbed Martin's outthrust cock in her right hand, pulling him towards her. Still holding Geoff with her left hand, she dipped her head and opened her mouth wide to enclose him. His head jerked back and he looked briefly at the ceiling as she worked on him with her mouth and tongue. In a couple of minutes he was ready. "Jen, back off now," he said. She drew away and straightened her back as they both pumped furiously, their hands over hers. Martin pointed his shaft urgently at her breasts and she thrust her shoulders back, lifting her breasts forward. His first spurt landed directly on her right breast and he clutched himself, jerking, as he sprayed her in four or five powerful bursts. Geoff was adding his contribution before Martin was finished, sending ribbons of semen across her chest. She fell back suddenly, hands free and weight on her heels, her chest area smeared with their sperm. Her head slumped forward and I thought she'd lost her balance. It looked as though she been knocked over by the primitive force of ejaculation. Then I realised. Both her hands were kneading at the crotch of her jeans and she was in the throes of orgasm. A minute or two passed in silence. Then she raised her head. "Holy smoke," she said. "Jen, you look amazing," said Martin. She looked down at herself. Her breasts were daubed and besmeared and she had been sprayed from neck to waist. "Holy smoke," she said again. "I don't know what came over me." "I do," said Geoff, and the three of them laughed together. I could see it was all over. I got out of there, retreating carefully, shorts wet and messy with my own emissions although I couldn't recall it happening. Via the back door I made my way to the bedroom, changed shorts, and climbed into bed. She came in quietly a few minutes later and I heard her running the shower in the bathroom. I watched under my eyelids when, fresh and clean, she stood in the dark beside the bed. She looked down at me for a minute or so, lingering, and then slipped under the sheets and backed her body into mine. Of course I could have intervened at any stage. I was aware it was in my power to stop it. I made no move because I couldn't stop wanting to know what was going to happen. I had a hard indigestible lump of jealousy in my stomach but it was not going to be impassable. I didn't blame Geoff or Martin. I knew absolutely, because I saw it all, who had led this dance from go to whoa and she was sleeping beside me like an artless woman. From that day to this I never said anything to her about her behaviour that night. That would have opened up a whole new zone of uncertainty in our comfortable and secure marriage. I don't know why she behaved so uncommonly and I doubt she does either. Not with certainty, anyway. I do know it didn't happen again, or at least I think I know. I'm pretty sure of it because I kept an eye out for the signals. The dynamics of the group changed from that night. A month or so later, I ran into Kay in a dark corridor at a party and, on a whim and because I felt free to do it, I kissed her with fire and passion. She fell like a shot duck. We met for a luncheon tryst the next day and during that same afternoon, just as I had imagined, she clasped her long legs around my waist. We had a relaxed affair that lasted over 12 months and she was the best fuck of my life. Her husband Martin, the other half of the duo with my wife, never knew a thing about it. Quiet Steve, of all people, ran off out of the blue with an Asian girl who spoke little English and I wound up sleeping with his wife Sandy for a bit. And so did Martin and Geoff, I discovered later. I never fucked Vanessa but we had a hot grope one night in her car. I figured her husband Geoff deserved a little tit- for-tat, so to speak. She apologised for her small breasts which I found off-putting. Not her breasts; the apology. All in all, too many secrets, betrayals and lies. The innocence of the group dissipated under the strain. But then work got serious and time-consuming and people didn't seem to be available for simple fun and friendly Saturday night gatherings any more. Ah well, life's like that in your thirties. ENDS * The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com The Stories of DrSpin at: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+