Winding The Room Tight

There's little more my wife can do to arouse me than to put herself on display at my request. When I met her, she was wearing a crop top so short that she couldn't raise her arms without it lifting up over her seemingly always erect nipples. I knew this was the case because late that night she was spreading her arms high and wide against the side of a delivery van while I was discovering that there wasn't any underwear at all under her short denim skirt. Her attire was a constant source of contention with boyfriends, until me. They were forever forbidding her to wear see through tops and dresses with fronts open down to her waist. "You look like a whore," was the reoccurring line. So, she would wear button front and zip up outfits that would slowly come undone as the night went on. Bras would end up in the bathroom trash can. Several left her for her dressing habits alone, sometimes with her cheek stinging and insults ringing in her ears. But she didn't cheat on a steady and wasn't taking money; some guys just don't know what they've got.

I told her that when we're out on the town there's no restrictions to what she wears. Oh my, what masturbation material she's supplied. Sometimes she's subtle. The deep cowl neck blouse that looks moderate until she leans over the jewelry counter, car window, or spare change can and shows everything to the shocked but highly interested viewer. Where am I in all this? Acting like everything's regular, but I'm loving the bug eyed choked up responses as the men try to maintain their poise and catch every second of the view. What do they see? A pair of tan natural breasts that fill a margarita glass and, usually, two upright nipples.

Seeing that we were on the same page, the inner fold-out section, we came up with more and more show-off opportunities. We worked clothes stores. My Cherrie would come out of the dressing rooms wearing unbuttoned dresses and vests and sweaters cut down to the belly that weren't meant to be worn without an undergarment. I'd drift over to the men's clothes and she'd need to come find me for "an opinion," passing men with her arms back as an invitation to look and enjoy. Macy's told her that she couldn't wear store clothes outside of the dressing rooms for "security" reasons. We took to hip used stores like "Buffalo Exchange" in San Francisco where nobody minds seeing skin. She'd come out of their dressing rooms modeling nothing but a mini skirt, holding her hands over her breasts and slipping between a couple of "dudes" with skateboards about half her age, who then proceeded to have more interest in T shirts than they ever had before while following her every move.

I asked Cherrie if she wanted to have sex with any of the men she was teasing. A few, she said, but mostly she would love to suck them to the point of coming and then walk away. "You're a nasty girl," I told her. "How about letting another man have you just once while I watch or join in? Knowing that he'll be craving you for months to come." This got her interest. "Go crazy on them and leave them forever wanting more."

It wasn't difficult to find willing participants. A man would complement her in front of me and I'd make the offer. Sometimes Cherrie would seduce them in the next room, the man not knowing that I was watching. Usually they looked at me like I was nuts not keeping her all to myself, but no one complained about getting his hands on her. We put an ad in the "alternative" personals for men to screw my wife while I watched. Had we charged $500 a piece we could have taken the year off; there were 127 men that responded from a two week classified. We sent pictures to most of them of Cherrie arching her back in a wet T shirt. We then chose candidates based on their normally remote chances at getting to enjoy a woman like Cherrie without paying a lot of money. We chose an overweight eighteen year old who she sucked dry. Next came a married man in his fifties who said his wife wouldn't have sex with him anymore; after two hours of keeping him on edge he came with such force I thought he was going to pass out. He still sends a letter every week or so begging for another round.

I started joining in. I found that I liked stretching her out and pinning her arms, even though she would offer her body in any position we requested. A couple of the guys got noticeably amped up when I held her down for them. One guy started pinching her nipples until she cried out, checked my non-response, and did it again. This got me thinking.

I asked Cherrie if I could rape her with another man. My plan was to call an unused man from the classified list, meet him at a bar where Cherrie would enter, have a drink and leave. She would then walk into the woods where we'd pounce on her and give her a rough fuck. Cherrie was quiet for a moment, but I knew she was intrigued. We had already roll played a rape, just the two of us and she relished being the safe victim. She said as long as I was there... My accomplice and I watched from opposite ends of the bar as she entered in a red nylon dress that just stretched over her butt with an oval cut-out in the front from her neck to her navel. My guess is that everyone in there thought she was a hooker. She had a drink and a cigarette, made a "phone call" and left fast. Cherrie said that she was terrified walking the few blocks to the woods, afraid that other men would follow her. I slipped out the back with the other guy and we took a shortcut to the other side of the woods where we jumped her. She struggled admirably. We threatened her, punched her once in the stomach, held her mouth and took turns. After so much build-up, it was amazing how short the rape was. I gave the man her torn dress as souvenir and returned fifteen minutes later with a robe and found her curled up under a bush. She just wanted to be cuddled back in our hotel room and I worried that this night had been too scary for her, but she insisted the next day that she had been very excited and was really most worried about other men who might find her. "I'm getting off on this too, darling," put my mind at ease.

We tried a reversal of sorts where I picked up another woman to join us, but I could see the shift in Cherrie from the start. The woman was in her late twenties at most, about ten years younger than Cherrie. She was at least a cup-size bigger in the chest than my wife, large surgically perfect breasts that dwarfed Cherrie's little handfuls. Even though I didn't think she was any sexier than my girl, our third party saw Cherrie's insecurity and took it to her with comments like, "Let me show you how your man likes it" and "Every man wants a younger model now and then." I could have given more attention to Cherrie, but I wanted to take advantage of our guest. Cherrie was hugging and kissing my back while I was wrapped around the other. Had I saved my cum for Cherrie, it might have been enough. Our third party gave me a long wet kiss at the door and flipped a victorious smile at Cherrie who looked six inches shorter than her real five-foot nine. With the phone number of our new friend in my hand, I gave my girl a long hug. "I'll do anything you want with other men, if you give me that phone number." I handed over the slip of paper and she swallowed it right there.

I've told you all these things so that when you read the following story, you won't think that this was some isolated incident perpetrated on an unwilling partner. Cherrie didn't verbalize boundaries. She knows that I love her and don't want to lose her or see her get seriously hurt. Still, the greater the risk, the greater the rush. I imagined a number of scenarios with my vulnerable Cherrie at the center and an ever increasing amount of dangerous unknowns. Can a woman really write a consensual "blank check"?

"Take all your clothes off." Cherrie hesitated for effect and then pulled her half shirt over her head. I kept my eyes on the road for the most part; we were almost there. I took her top and threw it in the back seat floor. Her mini-skirt and panties followed. She arched her back and smoothed her hand over her belly. I stopped the car and she straightened, looking around for a sign of what came next. We were parked on a back street of light industry on a warm Friday summer evening after all the businesses had closed. Nobody visible in the twilight. One other parked car a quarter-mile off was the only sign of life.

"Am I going to reward some hard working man for staying late in the office?" I didn't answer her question, just looked her slender body up and down, noticing the slight signs of age in her dimpled thighs and first wrinkles, not that this slowed my erection down. We were parked parallel to a short drive-way that disappeared between two buildings.

"Down that alley to the right is a small parking area and a dumpster. Behind the dumpster is a brown bag with your instructions for the evening. Walk there naked. Stop in view at the end of the alley and make sure no one is there. Once you walk out of sight, I'm driving off." Cherrie's lips twitched and her eyes searched mine. I knew her heart was racing.

"Do you love me?"

I leaned over and kissed her. "More than all other women combined." She started to get out and I pulled her back. "Do exactly as the instructions say. You're alone and naked."

"Even if I'm scared to death."

Cherrie stepped carefully on the rough asphalt to the end of the building and peered in both directions with a slight lean of her lanky frame. She turned towards me, circled her fingers around her nipples and disappeared behind the building. I drove off in a queasy aroused stupor. What if a man found her in the next few minutes? Or worse yet, had discovered the bag and the note and was waiting? In the bag was a purple velour dress open in the front to her belly, except for one button just under the rib cage. She would pull the dress down to mid-thigh, slip on the pair of two-inch heel sandals, clutch the little purse with nothing but a hairbrush and a twenty-dollar bill inside, and read the note, the last item in the bag. The note said:

Memorize this note and then tear it up and throw it in the dumpster. Do exactly as it says. Put on the dress and shoes. Walk to where you got out of the car and turn right. Go one block again and turn right. After two blocks, at the signal, turn left and walk about a quarter of a mile to the next light and turn right. About midway in the next block on the opposite side of the street is a bar and dance spot called the "Pump House".

Go inside and straight up to the bar and order a hard alcohol drink (there's a twenty in your purse). Check out the room from the bar. Make eye contact with lots of guys. Talk with whoever approaches you, but don't get stuck with just one guy at his table. Dance with whomever asks you. Accept all drinks. Get drunk and stay drunk. Flirt. Keep your chest out and visible. Get as many guys hot on you as you can. Let them dance as close as they want, but no lip kissing on the floor or off. Look interested in all propositions, but don't accept any. Don't take the advice of any jealous girl friends. I'll show up after you're inside and check in now and then. Don't act like you know me or prefer me unless I tell you to.

Nothing is supposed to happen on your walk to the bar, so check the first couple of streets carefully and avoid contact with men until you're at least on the bigger streets. No woman could ever mean as much to me as you do. Tease, but don't be stupid.

I parked the car where I could see her turn the corner at the first light and then walk the length of that street. I figured she only needed ten minutes to come in view and at fifteen I'd go looking for her, though so much suffering could happen in even a couple of minutes. I thought I would enjoy this first part with her negotiating the deserted back streets alone, but I was terrified that someone would jump my hooker look-alike wife and hurt her terribly. She didn't make me sweat for long though. She rounded the corner after only seven minutes at a brisk pace, her dress clinging to the edge of her nipples and her butt rippling under the thin velour. I kicked myself for not bringing the video camera to catch the sight of her strutting along the back-lit sidewalk. A couple of guys honked and shouted at her out the window of a pick-up, but Cherrie smartly didn't turn her head. She crossed the last street, now only a few feet from the Pump House.

I had planned to give her fifteen minutes on her own in the bar, but after ten I couldn't stand it anymore. I locked the car and headed down the street. It was just about nine o'clock. A hot Central Valley sundowner dried the sweat that was popping out all over me. I had only been in the Pump House once to check it out for tonight's escapade. One entered looking down the long wooden bar which faced shelves of liquor with nothing fancier than Johnny Walker Red or Bacardi Rum. Behind the bottles was a tall faded mirror. Small wooden tables lined the street wall which contained only one frosted glass window. Then came about a twenty-foot square dance floor, a triangle stage for the band, another ten tables, some with booths against the wall, and a pool table in the back. After the hallway to the bathrooms, a small door led to the dark parking area out back.

I pushed the slab of wood that served as the door and entered to the crack of pool balls and Stevie Ray Vaughn on the jukebox. My eyes didn't need to adjust since the joint maintained a perpetual twilight. I wasn't going to look for Cherrie, just head to the bar for a beer, but there she was, facing the dance floor and leaning against the bar with both elbows. One guy in a stool was engaging her in conversation while two others stood in front of her looking down her dress. Even from fifteen feet away I could see half of one breast, white and glowing like the teeth of a black person. If that wasn't enough, her belly pushed through the opening under the button right at the navel, not because her belly was full, but because the dress was so tight. I should have bought a size bigger.

I sat at the end of the bar by the door and surveyed the room. About thirty people, two thirds of them men, were scattered about the place. Four women sat at a table with a pitcher, the rest appeared to be with dates. One woman in her twenties, holding a long-neck and her bo's shoulder, wore tight jeans that rose just above her crotch with a cropped leather top that exposed a good eight inches of a scrumptious flat stomach. The rest of the gals were very casual, levies and tee shirts and button-up blouses. One wore a moderately short denim dress. Some vee necks and an open button or two revealing the tops of fine prizes, but nothing close to the exposure that I had chose for my Cherrie. She was a spectacle.

I drank half of my brew without a breath. The guitarist was tuning and the drummer sending some base vibrations into my chest as he got situated. One of the guys handed my wife a dark drink in a tall glass. Rum and coke? Was this the first one they bought her making it her second or was she already on her second when I walked in? A guy standing near the pool table wasn't taking his eyes off of her. I couldn't see her front from my angle at the side of the bar, but she was keeping her shoulders back. I was sure that the four gals at the table had already slapped a bag full of degrading labels on her. If there was trouble, they'd probably cheer the guys on, or take her on themselves.

The band launched into their first number, a fast shuffling blues. Several more couples had come in. Guys heads fixed on Cherrie's chest, then pretended not to be looking while their women followed the line of sight to the whore at the bar, throwing a dagger into her soft belly. Another two guys had joined Cherrie. They all five appeared to know each other. Occasionally I saw Cherrie smiling wide and tossing her long brunette curls out of her face.

By the third number, couples were getting up to dance. One of the guys took Cherrie out on to the floor. They started in open style, not touching. Cherrie twisted her hips and rolled her shoulders while taking small steps to the beat. Don't overdo it sweetheart, I willed a message her way. The velour slipped up and down her chest, breasts hiding and then nearly popping out of the long front slit. I asked one of the women at the table for a dance and she accepted. I took the floor with a well-endowed woman of about thirty with a western shirt and levies. I gave my dance partner smiles and attention taking her through a couple of turns. Her ample bosoms pushed against the sparse buttons like they wanted out. If Cherrie was as big as this gal, her tits would have pushed right out of the dress she was wearing tonight. I held my partner close enough to look over her shoulder, without her knowledge, at my wife. She gave me a discreet flash of her eyes to acknowledge me. Like everyone else, I dropped my eyes to the advertisement for sex that her open front dress proclaimed.

Like a "good girl," Cherrie thanked her partner and walked back to the bar. The sight of her tilting her head back to drain her drink was an invitation to check her out. And man did they. When she finished, another guy immediately took her back out to the floor. Meanwhile, I had thanked my partner and asked the only woman left at the table of four for a dance. She was short and at least thirty pounds overweight. After her, I ordered another beer and found a vantage point to keep track of my girl. They danced her and kept the drinks coming. The music was so loud that whatever talking was done had to be shouted near the ear. Leaning close to her cheek, guys appeared to keep complementing her, judging by the thank yous that she mouthed in response. I had told her to not get stuck with one guy at a table, but here she was standing by the bar. After the fourth or fifth dance, she thanked the guy and exited to the other side of the floor near the pool table. I didn't hesitate and barely got to her before another guy. I took her to the floor and leaned in while we danced.

"What's your name?"

"Leslie for tonight."

"How's it going?"

"Not many of the guys know my eye color, but they could sure pick my chest out in a line-up."

"You can't blame them the way you're dressed."

"I've only had three drinks and I'm already a little drunk."

"Have three more. And keep moving around the room like you just did."

"You better not leave me here alone."

"Not a chance."

I only danced one song with her and she moved on. One of the pool players took my place. The original five guys looked on dumbfounded, wondering, I suppose, if they been taken for a couple of drinks. When they talked though, I expect they were plotting how to get her back. This was the last song in the set and the band took a break. Once again you could hear voices. Her last partner tried to get her to go back to his table, but she refused. He ended up walking her to the bar and bought her a drink. Meanwhile, her original crew handed her one. Before long, Cherrie had a drink in each hand. She tried to look surprised and give them back for a moment, finally accepting. The last guy didn't like the arrangement of suitors she was gathering, but he didn't look like the type that smiled much anyway. I sauntered over and stood a few feet off.

The place was packed now and I couldn't make out conversations from more than three feet away. What must these guys be thinking as they stared at the outrageously dressed woman in front of them? Whenever I got a glimpse of her, I was amazed at her exposed breasts. I suspected that most of them were sizing her up like a piece of meat to skewer and thrust into the barbecue.

The band started the second set. One of the original five took her hand and pulled her out on the floor. I joined the group and shouted in one of their ears.