Message-ID: <28808asstr$981609004@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <200102071037.CAA26212@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 2/2, a wife sharing story by Marc Date: Thu, 8 Feb 2001 00:10:04 -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 "Shit" was the best I could come up with. " Sounds like a concession," Joan said, almost victoriously. "Not quite." Her back was still to me. My hands found the clasp of her bra -- I knew it well, I had even fastened it for her earlier, it seemed days ago, we seemed to be here so long, and so much had been happening, and. . . I released the hooks, the ends moved apart, tension in the bra strap ended, and tension in the room increased. "Do that thing you do, Joan. Take it off from under your slip. Or, you could just say let's stop. Your choice." Joan looked at John, who was almost salivating. She was talking to me, though. "Want me to to say 'let's stop,' Pete? Is that what you'd like?" John offered his opinion. "Hell, don't stop, Pete. I like what's happening, I'd like to see you take it further. . ." And before he could finish she reached to her cleavage and with a single pull, extracted her bra. I knew the slip was shear, but black enough so it was still covering her better than most bathing suits, but still. . . She held the bra out at arm's length, holding it by the short strap between its cups. "Want this, John?" she asked, and he almost lept over the sofa to get his prize. Joan turned to me. God, she looked sexy. "Is the game over, Pete?" "Are you calling it off?" "No, you have to." "Then it's not over!" John was right behind her. I pushed her back the step or two it took to reach the sofa. She looked incredible, standing there. "Sit down," I commanded, at pushed at her shoulders to force her to. She did, primly, knees together. Her slip was as good as a dress in providing optical concielment, but the message it sent was incedible. "Come over here, John." I had knelt in front of her. John did too, beside me. I took one of her ankles, lifted her foot, and pulled off a shoe. "Now you, John. "John did the same thing to her other foot. Joan sat there, watching, her nylon covered legs held together, looking partly frightened, partly defiant. "Now what, guys? Have you gone far enough?" "No," I told her, "not nearly far enough, unless you say so." "That's up to you to say." I turned to John. "Wanna stop?" "Hell no." "Me neither. Do this!" I put my hand on the outside of her calf. John changed his position, so he could do the same thing. "Now this." I let my fingers move up her leg, to her knee, to her thigh. John's hand disappeared under her slip at the same time mine did, and soon both our arms were under her slip to about her waist. The slip was pulled too tightly. "My side first, then yours, John." I had gripped the upper edge of her pantihose, pulled at them, started them down, then withdrew my hand. I watched Joan's face when John's hand found what he was looking for, and he moved the down a couple of inches along her hip, too. "Your choice, Joan. Either say 'stop', or lift up your hips." She never broke eye contact with me, she just put her feet squarely on the floor, and with her back against the sofa, lifted her hips off the sofa, "Do it, Pete, or say stop." That was another challege, and I wasn't about to stop. My two hands moved up along those legs I've so often carressed, two hands on her hips, hips I often held, then fingers found the hem, and so help I couldn't help myself, I pulled at the pantihose, and as my hands got to mid thigh, she sat back on the sofa and extended her legs, so that I could continue in one smooth motion, down her calves, and pulling, watched as the hose turned inside out, moved over her knee, and down, and off. She sat down again. I went back to the chair I had been sitting on, and looked at her, and at John standing next to the sofa. "John, I saw you messing around with Joan before. Are you man enough to do that now, here? You don't have to sneak around." I knew she was still mad at me, and too proud to call an end to this. John looked at me, and at her. He went to the side of the room and turned off a floor lamp, leaving the room lit only with a low wattage table lamp. It was sexier somehow, not quite as in-your-face clinical. And he sat beside Joan. Turned toward her. In one smooth movement he moved her and himself so they were both prone on the sofa, her trapped between him and its back, being pressed there, being held, being kissed, being carressed there. I couldn't see well, so I walked over behind the sofa, and looked down at them, the two of them, in a tangle of arms. John, after the first kiss, reached down between them, I was sure to start fingering her, getting her ready, but I was wrong. He pulled at his belt, and his pants, until he had them open and unzipped. Then he pulled at her upper arm, and took her by the wrist, and moved that hand down between them. I saw as he put his fingers over hers, and pushed them under his short's waist band, and in a moment I knew she was touching his cock. His hand came out -- hers didn't. His hand moved between them again, brushing her slip, pulling at it, pulling the material taut because of the way they were laying on the sofa, and I watched as she moved a little, lifting a little, until her weight wasn't holding the slip anymore, and he could pull it up, exposing her hips to me, and her vagina to his hand. Her leg moved over his hip, opening herself to him, making access easier, and his hand moved there, and his fingers moved along her, until I could see his hand moving over her hip, and closer, then two fingers bend, and disappear. "Uncle?" I asked. Actions spoke louder. She was no longer stoking his cock. Instead that hand was pushing at his pants, trying to force them down. There was urgency in his actions now. He stopped fingering her, and instead lifted his hips, and pushed too, until his pants were at mid thigh, and his cock was exposed. Joan looked between them, looked at him, so ready, and looked up at me while she reached for, and held him. "Uncle?" she asked. "No!" I was NOT going to give in. She pushed at him, and rolled, so that he was on his back, and she was kneeling over him. Her slip fell back over her hips, but that no longer mattered. She moved over this guy who was fully clothed except from waist to mid thigh, moved over him the same way she moves over me, moved over him until she she was straddling him, straddling his cock. She lifted herself, supporting herself with her hands on his shoulders, flexing her back, aligning herself while he held his cock, until its head was just at her lips, in fact pressing against them, in fact almost parting them, just barely visible because her slip had ridden up her thighs. She paused, and looked up at me, standing right beside her. "Uncle?" She was giving me one last chance. Instead I reached down, and put my hand on the small of her back, and pushed her down. And his cock was where only mine had been for 15 years. John slid his hands under her slip, held her by the hips, and lifted her, and pulled her down, he moved in countertime, as he drove into her, as she moved on her own, still supporting herself with her arms on her shoulders. It was almost perfect. I reached over the back of the sofa, and grabbed at her slip, pulling it up, over her head, and down her arms. She lifted one arm so I could pull it free, then the other. Then knelt upright over him, breasts exposed, cunt exposed, riding that cylinder, sometimes lifting too high, so that he was left all exposed and wet, then lowering herself until contact was made again, and he guided himself back into her. John, almost too soon, began changing the tempo of this fucking, holding in longer, pulling only a little out, then pushing in again, holding her hips tightly, driving himself into her, grunting in a way we all recognize as meaning he released himself in her. He stopped moving, but she was still lifting, decending, fucking him, fucking at him, even though he was spent. Finally, from an unexpected place, we heard what either of us would say. John whispered "Uncle!" . My wife, my fucked wife, lifted herself off him - how wet his groin was, did she produce all of that? -- and got off the sofa. She reached toward me, and I handed her the slip. Slip, dress, shoes. Somewhere in that room were bra and pantiehose, but we decided they weren't worth looking for. Half way home Joan turned to me. "You really don't care, do you?" "Actually, I care a lot. And I learned something today, about me and about you." "What's that?" "You're sexy. I'd rather fuck, or watch you fuck, than fight about it." "Oh?" She looked at me. "What happened was OK with you?" "That time, yeah. It was a turn on. You seemed to like it, too." "Come on, Pete. That was a spite fuck. It was getting even for the way you were acting towards me." "Oh? Well, next time, try to enjoy it as much as John did, or I did." "Next time? What makes you think there'll be a next time?" I pulled over, and stopped the car in a closed services station driveway. I looked carefully at her. "Joan, we crossed over a bridge tonight, and burned it. There's no going back. You're sitting there with your cunt still full of what John put there. My mind is full of those images, and I like them. I think next time, and I want there to be a next time, I want you to be sexy because it's fun, not to spite me. And next time, I won't be daring you because I'm angry, but because I'm horny. OK?" "Drive home, Pete." I started the car moving again. In a moment or two, Joan reached for my right hand, took it from the steering while, and held it in her lap. "Pete, what you just said to me, about next time?" "Yeah?" "If you always take me home and make love to me, there can be as many next times as you like." I can't call this the end. It's more like a new start. As always, comments are welcome. Marc ------------------------------------------------------------ -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+