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 CLICK



   by Margery Pinchwife

   mpinchwife@yahoo.com

   (c) Margery Pinchwife, 2002







   This is a story about an innocent and faithful wife of 25 years who

   succumbs.  I play the part of the wife.



   It begins, of course, with the description of the wife, her looks

   (average, like me), her innocence, her faithfulness through the years.
I'm sure

   that you are familiar with such a wife (perhaps it's your own wife, or
perhaps

   it's you) and can easily fill in the details.  Nothing extraordinary,
just a good

   and true wife who has lived happily with her husband for a couple of
dozen

   years or so.



   Then, the actual story starts at a New Year's eve party we have gone to

   at the house of a friend of a friend, where we don't know most of the
people.

   We meet a lot of people all at once, so the introductions become a bit
of a blur,

   except for one that stands out.  This is to a Greek named Dmitri, who is
visiting

   one of the other people at the party.  Dmitri is tall, athletic looking,
with wavy

   brown hair and strong cheekbones, and speaks excellent English with a

   thoroughly delightful accent, one I hadn't heard for many years, since
we had

   lived in Greece shortly after we were married.



   There is, of course, a lot of drinking going on.  I don't drink much so

   confine myself to a few glasses of red wine, just enough to make me
lightheaded.  My husband drinks only fruit juice.  At one point, someone
comments

   on his abstemiousness, and he explains that alcohol does bad things to
his

   digestive system.  Several people volunteer that it is unlawful to greet
the new

   year sober and they suggest pot instead.  However, this is not the 70s
anymore

   and no one has any marijuana.  So at midnight, I receive a sober kiss
from my

   husband.



   Others have not been abstaining, so when the ball at Times Square falls

   and the fireworks start, everyone is kissing everyone else; a few are
going even

   further, drifting off into the darker corners and greeting the new year
with a

   bang (so to speak).  Most of the kisses I receive are pecks on the
cheek, except

   for the Greek's.  Dmitri wraps his arms around me, bends me over at the
waist,

   and, with incredibly soft, luxurious lips, kisses me full on the mouth.
I'm so

   taken aback that my mouth opens and his tongue snakes its way in.



   Whether it's the kiss, or the wine, or Dmitri, I don't know, but I

   immediately have some evil thoughts that a well-behaved wife shouldn't
have.

   On occasion, over the course of 25 years of marriage, I've had such
thoughts

   before, but I've always managed to suppress them and, as soon as I can
get my

   husband alone, atone for them by acting them out with him, releasing all
the

   passion built up in my system.  Unfortunately, later that night when we
get

   home, it will be very late and he will be too tired and will want to go
to sleep

   immediately.  So my evil thoughts will be left to fester in the back of
my mind.



   But, in the meantime, back at the party there's still plenty of
drinking,

   talking, and whatever is going on in the dark corners.  Eventually, we
get to

   talk a bit with Dmitri and are delighted to learn that he comes from the
same

   city we lived in when my husband worked there.  We'd love to talk more
with

   him, but it is now quite late and his host is waiting to drive him home,
and,

   unfortunately, he has to go back to Greece in a couple of days. 
However, he

   explains that his last evening here will be free because his host as an

   unavoidable previous commitment.  He offers to be our host at a
restaurant

   where we can continue the discussion that night.  We counter by offering
to

   feed him at our home and, after some delicate negotiations, it is agreed
that I'll

   cook a simple dinner and he'll bring dessert.



   So several nights later, my evil thoughts still lurking in the recesses
of

   my mind, I find myself thinking more of my attire than of the menu.  I
debate

   about various possibilities, ranging from very informal (jeans,
tee-shirt, bare

   feet) to rather formal (evening gown, jewelry, high heels) before I
finally settle

   on a compromise - a full-length skirt of soft, brown wool, a man's-style
white

   blouse with the faintest tan pinstripe, with only the collar unbuttoned,
a thin

   gold chain necklace, and flats.



   When Dmitri arrives and takes his coat off, I'm relieved that he has no

   jacket or tie - he wears what looks like a business shirt, except for
the fact that

   it is mauve, with the top three buttons unbuttoned.  He surprises me by
kissing

   my hand quite formally and presents me with a huge bouquet of flowers
and a

   sinful looking chocolate torte.  Normally, he says, he would bring wine
"to

   expand the taste buds for what, I am confident, will be your excellent
cooking",

   but being aware of my husband's problems he brought to us, instead, a
small

   box that turns out to contain two joints - something we hadn't seen in
years.

   One, he suggests, before the main course, and one before dessert.  One
must, he

   explains, "expand the taste buds."



   Between his pot, his excellent conversation, and his sinful dessert,

   dinner goes wonderfully.  We talk about Greece, where we had stayed, the

   changes since that time, and generally have a delightful time.  After
dinner we

   float on a cloud of marijuana into the living room.  A short time later,
my

   husband, who has had rather more than his share of the pot, stands up
and

   announces he will look in the cellar for the photographs we took in
Greece.  As

   he vanishes down the stairs, Dmitri tells me that he is a professional

   photographer, that he takes glamour pictures for Playboy.  I greet this
statement

   with skepticism and a bit of a giggle, but he protests and offers his
business

   card to me.  When this turns out to be entirely in Chinese, my giggle
becomes a

   laugh.  His translation, "Dmitri Papadopoulos, Glamour and Nude
Photography,

   Playboy Magazine," produces a marijuana laughing fit in me.



   "No, no," he protests, "I'll prove it.  I'll photograph you." So saying,

   he picks up an imaginary camera, holds it up to his eye and points it at
me.  Of

   course, I assume a "glamour pose" and he presses the button on his
"camera,"

   saying "click" at the same time.  He takes a few more such "pictures" as
I vamp

   for him, but then he insists that my costume isn't right for glamour
pictures.

   Shoes and socks will have to go, he takes off his own to demonstrate -
one must

   never wear shoes in a glamour picture unless they are high heels.  My
blouse

   must not be tucked in, it must hang freely - he pulls out his shirt from
his pants

   - like so.  And the buttons, I must open another button.  "Click." And
another.

   "Click"



   A few more such pictures, taken from a variety of angles for a number

   of poses, and he convinces me to open all but one button on my blouse,

   showing me which one by unbuttoning his shirt.  But then we can't have
my

   white cotton bra showing, I must take it off.  This doesn't seem right
to me, but

   while I ponder the idea he slides his hand up my back, under my blouse,
and

   deftly unsnaps the bra.  Whether it is the pot or the confident
smoothness of his

   action, I acquiesce by slipping one arm through its strap and pulling
the bra off

   through my other sleeve, leaving my breasts scarcely concealed under my

   almost unbuttoned blouse.  As he clicks away on his imaginary camera, I
begin

   to feel really glamorous and sexy, something I haven't really felt in
years.



   The last button, of course, has to go, so we are standing there with
both

   our shirts untucked and fully unbuttoned when my husband comes back
saying

   "I can't find those pictures in the cellar." He looks at us.  "What's
up?"



   "Ah, you are here, wonderful," Dmitri responds without missing a beat,

   "I am taking glamour pictures of your wife, but you must take a picture
of the

   two of us together.  Here," handing him the imaginary camera, "you look

   through here and press this button." Having instructed my husband, he
comes

   over and puts his arm around me, in the process opening our shirts so
that one

   of my breasts presses against his naked chest and the other looks boldly
out

   towards my husband.  My husband says "smile" and presses his finger down

   and Dmitri says "click."



   Then, carefully putting the camera down, my husband says "I think I'll

   look in the cellar for those Greek pictures" and heads down the stairs
again.



   Dmitri continues his photographing.  Now he wants me to pull up my

   skirt to show some legs, to bundle it between my legs, to pull it off to
one side,

   and, eventually, to unbutton and lower it to reveal my hip, "like so" he
says,

   lowering his pants.  "Click" and another pose, "Click." A few poses
later and

   my skirt and his pants are lying on the floor in heaps.  The next poses,
he

   insists, need a different background.  The living room isn't right.  We
need a

   bed.



   So, wearing nothing but an unbuttoned blouse, white cotton panties, a

   thin gold necklace, and a marijuana haze, I lead him to our bedroom. 
When I

   turn to look at him, I can't help commenting on the bulge in his red
jockey

   shorts.  That is my beauty meter, he responds, it always sticks out like
this in

   the presence of such beauty.



   And so I stretch out on the bed and pose.  "Click." I am a glamour

   queen.  "Click." A Playboy centerfold.  "Click." The obsession of men.

   "Click." The envy of women.  "Click." I am feeling glorious.  "Click."
And it

   is all so safe, because there is no film in the camera.  "Click." In
fact, there is

   no camera.  "Click." All sorts of exotic, erotic poses.  "Click." It is
wonderful.

   "Click."



   By this time my blouse (and his shirt) are long gone, "Click," and we

   have each just removed our underpants, when my husband reappears.  "I
can't

   find those pictures in the cellar." I am completely naked except for the
thin

   gold chain around my neck.  Dmitri's "beauty meter" is impressively
sticking

   up.



   "Ah, just in time," Dmitri hands him the invisible camera, "you must

   take a picture of us in the pose of Rodin's famous statue, 'The Kiss.'"
And he

   sits down next to me, embracing me and kissing me, as in the statue.  I
wait to

   hear what my husband says.



   He says, "Click."



   He says, "Maybe our Greek pictures are in the cellar."



   He puts the "camera" down and leaves.



   Dmitri continues the kiss.  His hands stroke my arms, my back, my

   breasts.  His mouth finds a nipple, which he takes between his soft
lips. My

   hands respond, roaming over his muscular body, grasping his "beauty
meter,"

   which now seems to be registering off the scale.  Now I am on my back,
his

   head is between my legs, the room is rocking from side to side, or is it
me, as

   his tongue enters me.  From the tip of his tongue, little pulses of
electricity

   burst outward through my entire body.  I can feel the pressure building
up

   within me.



   And then it stops.



   He repositions himself between my legs.  I feel the tip of his "beauty

   meter" begin to slide into me when I see my husband standing in the
doorway.

   He stares for a moment, then raises the imaginary camera to his eyes,
presses

   his finger down, and says "Click."



   Dmitri has now entered me an is sliding in and out, plunging down and

   then rearing up, his chest pressing against my breasts.  I am losing
contact, my

   head sways from side to side.  My hands grab at his back, trying to pull
him

   further into me.  The room seems to be pulsing in and out.  I am
breathing

   heavily.  And then I hear it.



   "Click."



   I look toward the door and my husband is standing there, naked, one

   hand holding the "camera" up to his eye and the other stroking his erect
penis.

   "Click." I loose sight of everything.  I no longer see the room. 
"Click." I see

   fireworks and pulsing bursts of light.  "Click." I am gasping for
breath.

   "Click" My body begins to spasm.  "Click." Volcanos begin to erupt. 
"Click."

   I feel them within me and see the bursts of molten lava.  "Click." Now I
am

   shaken by an earthquake.  "Click." I can't breath.  "Click." I scream at
the top

   of my voice.  "Click.  Click.  Oh, God, Click!"