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By Marc (marchase@my-deja.com)

"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 god damned oral rape, he shoved his tongue in my mouth, and grabbed my ass. He's s crude bastard, and you don't give a damn!"
"No harm, no foul. Besides, I saw what happened. You were coming on to him, and you sure as hell hot weren't fighting him off very hard, 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 mini dresses, the ones with a pretty neckline that was swooped low enough to be attractive without actually showing much 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 sputtering in anger. I think I'd hit the nail on the head.
"I don't think you care if John mauls me, I don't think you care, not even 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's OK with you?"
That was a challenge, and now I was mad, too.
"Yeah. Yeah, that's it, 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'd recently broke up with his latest 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 and the other couple were making "We're gonna go" motions. Great. Joan and I could go home and continue our 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 in preparation for our departure.
Then 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 was a cooperative thing, it looked like consenting adults to me."
John was standing behind Joan's chair at that 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 three months ago."
"So you decided to hold and kiss my wife?"
"Well, yeah, and I liked it a lot."
Joan looked over her shoulder at him, and 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 and there.
"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. That sight distracted my anger with her, and with him, for that matter, 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 sarcasm. Talk about me being juvenile!
Her look was half defiant, half something else.
"No."
"Help yourself, John." My tone was challenging, almost daring him. And her.
"I'd almost forgotten how nice it is to do things like this," John said as he bent over my wife 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 sitting in, but her head tilted a little, exposing more of her neck, making it easier for John to gain access.
"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 arousal that was over taking me at 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? But I was also getting harder and harder.
So he did. He bent over Joan again, 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 had been 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. "In fact this could be interesting to watch."
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 arousing to see.
"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, and 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, caressing 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 protrusions 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 challenge 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, caressed.
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, relieved 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 was 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 confronted before. "Nope: you're the one who's going to have to say 'uncle'."
"Never!" It was a contest of wills, now, the original fight forgotten. I stood up, went to her, and reached for her hands.
She took mine, almost gratefully. She must have thought I copulated. 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!" was all I said.
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 out 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 believing 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 us 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, pantyhose, 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 was 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.
"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 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 leapt 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, and pushed at her shoulders to force her.
She did, primly, knees together. Her slip was as good as a dress in providing optical concealment, but the message it sent was incredible.
"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 pantyhose, 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 challenge, and I wasn't about to stop.My two hands moved up along those legs I've so often caressed, 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 pantyhose, 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. And 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 caressed 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 waistband, 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 was straddling him, straddling his cock.
She lifted herself up, supporting herself with her hands on his shoulders, flexing her back muscles, 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 counter time, as he drove into her, as she moved on her own, still supporting herself with her arms.
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, descending, 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 pantyhose, 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 us 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."