Message-ID: <28807asstr$981609002@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <200102071035.CAA26040@mail21.bigmailbox.com> Content-Type: text/plain Content-Disposition: inline Content-Transfer-Encoding: binary Mime-Version: 1.0 From: "First Name Last Name" Subject: {ASSM} Consequences 1/2, a wife sharing story by Marc X-Original-Subject: Consequesnces 1/2, a wife sharing story by Marc Date: Thu, 8 Feb 2001 00:10:03 -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: RuiJorge, newsman "You just don't give a damn, do you?" When Joan is mad, there's no stopping her. "Of course I do, I just don't think your getting kissed is such a tragedy, that's all." It wasn't just a kiss, it was like a god damned oral rape, he shoved his tongue in my mouth, and grabbed my ass. He's crude, and you don't care!" "No harm, no foul. Besides, I saw what happened. You were coming on to him, and you sure as hell's hot weren't fighting him off very much, either. I think you liked it, and I think you're protesting too much because you know I saw what happened. But you know, I'm wondering about something. Just before we came here, when I kissed you, you were very worried I'd wrinkle your dress." She was wearing one of those basic black minidresses, the ones with a pretty neckine that was swooped low enough to be attractive without actually showing cleavage, and short enough to expose her legs to mid thigh. "You didn't seem to worry too much about that when John was grabbing your ass." She was almost sputtering in anger. I think I hit the nail on the head. "I don't think you care if John mauls me, I don't think you care, not a little bit." "If I thought you weren't enjoying the attention, I'd have stopped him, but face it, Joan, you weren't objecting, at least until you saw that I was watching. Hell, you're the one who followed him into the kitchen like that, anyhow." "What are you saying? That it doesn't matter what happens, if I don't object it it's OK with you?" That was a challenge, and now I was mad, too. "Yeah. Yeah, it doesn't matter. Do what you want!" Being married a long time means you know where each other's buttons are, and no one said fighting had to be fair. Fifteen years of marriage was a long time, and I was in no mood to put up with Joan's idea that a strong offense is the best defense. I saw what I saw -- it was a hell of a lot more than a neighborly, "Hi, I'm happy to see you" bread and butter kiss. Well, it was John's house, we were his guests, along with two other couples. He recently broke up with his girlfriend, so I wasn't surprised that if it wore a skirt he was after it. At least the evening was about over. One of the other couples had just left, the other was making "We're gonna go" motions. Great. Joan and I could go home and continue the fight. What a way to end the evening. It would end In private, where the decibel level wouldn't be constrained by politeness. Soon enough, there were only the three of us left, finishing off our drinks. John spoke: "Joan told me you saw me kissing her, and that you weren't jealous. That's unusual for you, I remember you being the most possessive guy around." I was still pretty pissed off at her, and for that matter, at him. "Not any more. She can do whatever she wants. Besides, what I saw as a cooperative thing, it looked like consenting adults to me." John was standing behind Joan's chair at the moment. He looked at me. "Well, I was consenting, at least. I haven't held or kissed a woman since Nancy and I split up." "So you decided to hold and kiss mine?" "Well, yeah, and I liked it." Joan looked over her shoulder at him, then at me, not sure what was going on. She didn't know if John and I were about to fight, or what. I was feeling a bit nasty. "Well, there's nothing there that'll wear out. Help yourself." If looks could kill, I'd have been Joan's victim right then. "You really don't care what he does, is that it?" "Whatever turns you on, kid. Or him." Glib, I was not. "Whatever turns me on?" John asked, staring at me. "You heard me," I told him. Did you, reader, ever hear the expression "If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging"? John bent over -- he was still behind her chair -- until his lips were on her, where her neck meets her shoulder. It was as erotic as anything I had ever seen; Joan's face flushed, her mouth opened in surprise: well, so did mine, for that matter. My anger with her, and with him, for that matter, was distracted by that sight, and my realization that at least one part of my body thought it was very, very erotic. John straightened up after a few seconds. "That turned me on, Pete. You objecting?" "Not me. Are you objecting, dear?" I was dripping scarcasm. Talk about me being junivile! Her look was half defiant, half something else. "No." "Help yourself, John." My tone was challanging, almost daring him. And her. "I forgot how nice it is to do things like this," John said as he bent over again, his hands on her shoulders, until he was kissing at her neck again. Joan was still staring at me, her hands were gripping the armrests of the chair she was in, but her head tilted a little, exposing more of her neck, making it easier for John. "Very nice," John offered his evaluation of her neck. "Still not objecting, Pete? Still OK with you, Joan?" Joan's look at me conveyed something other than defiance, now. It was really a questioning look, an uncertain one. My own anger with her remained, but it was being overshadowed by the just plain sexiness of what I was seeing. "Until Joan stops you, I say, 'Go for it, John.' Do what you want." Digging my hole deeper and deeper, huh? So he did. He bent over, his lips at her ear! He may have whispered something, I'm not sure, but I am sure I saw a tongue touch an ear lobe. When that happened Joan jerked almost upright in her chair, almost as though she was shocked. It was an incredibly intimate sight! "Are you going to tell John to stop, Pete?" she asked when he stood upright again. "No. Are you, Joan?" "It's up to you," she said, passing the buck, or offering a bigger shovel for the hole I was digging. I put my feet up on the hassock in front of my chair, crossed my hands in my lap, and leaned back. "I'm not stopping anything," I declared, fairly sure the erection I had was hidden by my ever so casual pose. John glanced at me, like Joan almost defiantly, then down at the woman sitting in front of him. He put his hands on her shoulders, began a gentle massaging of them. Joan was still sitting upright, stiff and rigid, sort of the way my cock was feeling, now that I think about it. His hands went from her neck to the inch wide straps of her dress, and back again, back and forth, his fingers almost touching around her neck, then tracing outwards, again and again. "Going to let him do that, Joan?" I asked. "Yes!" It was a defiant tone of voice. Defiant, and something else, too. A little bit afraid, a little unsure of herself? I wasn't sure, either, except that it was very sexy. "Getting off on that a little, John, doing that to her, with me right here?" "Yeah, I am, more than a little." "It looks like you're ready to, uh, what did we call that when we were kids -- like, you're ready to cop a feel?" Joan almost jerked when I said that. "What do you think, Joan? Do you think that's what he wants?" "I, I don't know." The defiance was gone now, she just didn't know what to make of what was going on. "The thought crossed my mind, sure," John knew what was going on, that's for sure. "She hasn't objected," I reminded him, "and neither have I. Go for it." The hands on her shoulders stopped their lateral movement. I waited expectantly, and saw the fingers on his right hand move forward, over her shoulder, and down, until they were just at the neckline of her dress. Joan was absolutely rigid in the chair, her eyes were wide, her fingers were indenting the fabric of the chair's arms because she was holding them that tightly. His fingers were moving back and forth along that neckline, carressing her, but it surely wasn't relaxing either her, or me! "She hasn't objected a bit, John, what are you waiting for?" Was that a dare, or another shovelful of dirt out of my hole, deepening it more? The fingers on his right hand moved slowly across the dress's neck line, across her chest, under the dress now to the knuckles, moving down, over, towards her left breast. I watched her carefully as her mouth opened as though to protest, as she held onto the chair arms for dear life. I saw, though, some other clues. She was wearing a strapless bra, a sexy flimsy one, and a slip designed for such dresses, but neither of those garments, or the material of the dress itself were able to conceal the protusions where her nipples were, where they were hardening. The lumps caused by his fingers moved still more, a couple of inches from the tip of her breast, then less than an inch, then finally his hand was over it, there was evidence of his fingers touching, rolling, teasing that sensitive organ, causing it and its mate to respond, causing me to respond, too. "Still not objecting, are you Joan? I know what he's doing, and you're just sitting there, letting him play with you." "It's up to you to tell him to stop," was her reply, her challange to me. "That's not nearly enough for me to stop him, Joan." John looked from the top of her head to me, and back again. "I sure as hell don't want to stop. Was that an invitation to do more?" "Sure. Go for it, John." My hole was another shovelful deeper. Joan was silent, breathing through her mouth as she was being touched, carressed. I addressed my next words to her: "Right, Joan?" There was no answer -- that meant "yes" to John and to me. In a moment John withdrew his hand -- when he did Joan sagged back in the chair, releaved that it was over. It wasn't. "Lean forward, Joan," he said. She looked up and over at him quizzically. I understood, though, I understood very well. "Yeah, lean forward, Joan." She did, tentatively. John's hand were busy behind her, fumbling. "How does this dress work, Joan?" She looked up at me, startled. Now she understood. "Tell him Joan, tell him how to open it!" What was it Garth Brooks sung about? -- something about burning bridges? "It's, uh, it's. . . ." She was stammering. I helped. "John, it's some kind of a stupid fastener - you have to push the two parts together to unhook them, then there's a little zipper." He followed instructions well, I could see the tension in the dress's shoulder straps relieve itself, although I was feeling increasing tension in my crotch, and to be honest, in my own emotions, too. This was my wife he just unzipped. "Are you going to tell him to stop, Joan?" A small voice, with a vastly different tone, came out of her now. It was no longer angry, no longer pissed off. "It's up to you to tell him to stop, Pete, he'll stop if you tell him to." My anger was still right there, though, anger and lots of other emotions, emotions I had never confrunted before. "Nope: you're the one who's going to have to say 'uncle'." "Never!" It was a contest of wills, now, the origional fight forgotten. I stood up, went to her, and reached for her hands. She took mine, almost gratefully. She must have thought I capulated. I didn't. "You have to say stop, Joan, I'm not going to." She looked at me and shook her head no. I pulled her to her feet. It was a matter of pride, of ego. "Honey, you have to tell him," she said quietly. "Turn around!" She did, facing John, who was still standing behind the sofa. I could see his pants were just as lumpy in the crotch as mine were. She stood there, and I looked down to see her bra strap and the start of her little black slip exposed where John lowered the zipper. I reached there, toward the zipper, and she felt me do that, I could see she was expecting me to lift it, to end this. There was almost joy in her body language. Instead, I let my fingers trace up the exposed skin towards her neck. "Are you going to tell him he's gone far enough?" Ego, pride, eroticism, everything was mixed up. "No, Pete. You tell him. I think you started this, you should stop it." "Is this some kind of an ego thing with you two?" John asked. "Yeah, that, and some kind of dare, too," I told him. "Do you have a problem with that?" "Not at all, I like what's happening," he said: What a surprise. "Are you going to stop this?" Joan asked me, looking over her shoulder. "Are you going to zip me up now? Are you all talk?" She was dead wrong about who had to stop it. "If you don't tell him you've had enough," I assured her, "this is going to go on." " I won't!" It was almost as if the fight had become a dare. My fingers were on her shoulders, near her neck. "You're just not going to say uncle, are you?" I asked, hardly beleiving that we were both so prideful. "I won't." I moved my hands along her shoulders, to the straps of her dress. "I will not!" she said again. And I pushed at the straps, lifting them free of the slip, and out over the ends of her shoulders, and held them there. "You won't?" "I won't." Pride commeth before ... "Then lift up your arms!" "You wouldn't dare!" "Either tell John and me you've had enough, or lift up your arms." She did, raising them above her head. "Go ahead, I dare you," she told me. I reached down - it was a short dress -- found the lower hem, careful to avoid her slip, and lifted it, turning it inside out, hiding her face with it as her slip was exposed, then exposing her face, too, and pulling at it until it was off her body, off her hands, and free of her. And she stood there wearing bra, slip, pantihose, heels. She was almost as concealed as before, but everything was different, just as everything is different between a woman in bra and panties instead of a two piece bathing suit, or in a dressing gown instead of a dress. "You have the power to stop this," I reminded her. "So do you," was her reply. Neither of us were backing down. "You have the power, too, John," I said, maybe looking for a bridge not yet burned. "I may have the actual power, but not the will power, guys. You just go ahead and fight or dare or whatever, I'll play my part." I guess there never was a bridge there. Not many guys would say stop when they were watching what he was. ------------------------------------------------------------ -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+