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From: DrSpin <DrSpin_member@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} 'Sandy Says Oh God A Few Times' (F/MM wife)
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'Sandy Says Oh God A Few Times' (F/MM wife)
by DrSpin
(drspin@newsguy.com)
13 December 1999

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You'd have to say we were a bright fun-loving couple, Sandy and me. Everybody
said that. We were both 29, married six years, and since the day we met we were
into having fun. We played any sort of game, any sort of sport, and if you put
us to the test we were willing to take on any sort of physical challenge. We'd
been hang-gliding. We'd done bungi jumping. Free-fall parachuting. Abseiling.
Water scooters. Anything.

Lucky genes, I guess. We were both fit and healthy, outgoing and gregarious. We
liked to throw parties. People were always dropping round. We hadn't had the
time for a family. We were too busy with a bigger and broader family of friends
and acquaintances. Like peas in a pod, we were. We were totally into being busy
and active. And having fun.

We even looked a little alike. Nothing all that special, mind you. Classically
blond when we were kids, now gone adult sandy. Open and friendly faces, good
strong teeth, strong bodies without being in any way voluptuous (in Sandy's
case) or overly muscular (in mine). Sandy turned the occasional head went she
went past but that was usually because she looked trim, fit and healthy rather
than strikingly attractive. We were just average people. But everybody seemed to
enjoy our company.

Nobody's perfect, however. It has to be said that Sandy was not very into sex.
She liked to cuddle and smooch but as for the dirty deed itself...well, she did
what she had to do and she never complained, but it was duty and not pleasure. I
knew that very well. We had barely spoken about it in the nearly eight years
since we met. But I knew it very well. That part of our marriage had gradually
drifted into the background. Because we worked different hours, we had even
taken to sleeping in different rooms. Once you get used to that, it becomes a
way of life. We still had sex. Occasionally. Randomly. Like when we went away on
holidays and sometimes when we both got drunk at a party. Usually one of our own
parties, because neither of us would ever drive drunk.

She never complained and neither did I. Like I said, nobody's perfect. We all
have our faults. My biggest was my ultra-laidback attitude. I was never going to
make a spectacular career because I could never summon up the motivation to
really succeed. I just liked to roll along having a good fun time. Work was a
thing you had to do to get a paycheck. I also didn't like problems, either my
own or anybody else's. Faced with a problem, I usually gave up on it and did
something else which was more fun. I could live with my big fault. Hey, I was
happy with it. The sun shone more than it didn't, you know? There were always
good things to do. It wasn't a huge issue.

It was my smallest fault that caused me so much difficulty. You see, I think I
might be the most ticklish man in the world. Sandy found that out very early in
the piece and she has insisted, even eight years on, demonstrating it to all and
sundry. I'd be standing around at a party with a drink in my hand talking to a
bunch of people and up would sneak Sandy behind me, poking her fingers into my
ribs and laughing hysterically when I screamed and jumped, cackled like a
chicken, dropped my drink and alarmed everybody.  This annoying habit of hers
was the only thing, the only thing, I disliked about her. I begged her often not
to do it but she persisted. She said I looked so much like a startled rabbit it
was irresistible.

Today the bunny fought back. I'm sitting on the back porch now on my own,
looking at a lawn that needs mowing. Sandy is having a bath. Or a shower. I
don't know. Suddenly, in one day, in a space of a couple of hours, everything is
different. And I don't know what to think or what to do. I'll have to face her
any time now and I do not know what I'm going to say.

This morning we were busy around the house doing Sunday chores, like we usually
did on a Sunday. Patrick and Pete turned up, like people often do on a Sunday,
and we scrambled together a light lunch and sat around talking about this and
that and having a laugh or two about the party at the Swinsteads last night. I
was standing there doing a pretty good imitation for Patrick and Pete of Duncan
Swinstead trying to sing Happy Birthday while impossibly drunk when Sandy came
up from behind and poked me in the ribs. As usual, I screeched and flapped my
arms about and everybody was laughing at me. And I did something I never do. I
snapped.

I swung around in a fury and pushed her hard. She tumbled awkwardly to the
carpet and sprawled, legs akimbo, looking up at me in astonishment. I dropped to
the floor, grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms. "Hold her legs," I barked at
Pete, because she started to wriggle in protest, and he took hold of her ankles
and held them tight. "Now," I said to her. "Patrick is going to tickle you while
you're helpless and then we'll see how much you like it."

"Okay," said Patrick, much amused. On hands and knees, he crawled across and
started poking her provocatively in the ribs. Sandy bent her head backwards and
looked up at my face scornfully. "I'm not ticklish," she said. "Only you are."

"Tickle her feet," I told Patrick.

"Okay" he said, and took off her canvas shoes. He stroked his fingers along the
length of her feet. She wriggled uncomfortably but did not even come close to
breaking out into hysterical laughter.

"Lenny, give it up," she said. "I'm just not ticklish. There's nothing you can
do to me."

Having gone this far, I was determined to extract a measure of revenge. I looked
for inspiration at Patrick and then to Pete, who was still holding her ankles
pinned. Sandy was wearing a light cotton summer dress and the tumbling and the
grappling had caused it to ride high up on her thighs. I could see the edge of
her white pants and so could Patrick and Pete, because I could see they were
looking, and looking very closely. In a flash I had it. Brilliant. Sandy would
pay big. I moved so my knees pinned her arms and I reached down and pulled her
dress up. She squealed with indignation and thrashed about trying to escape.
"Okay boys," I said grimly. "Let's just show her what we can do. Patrick?" The
dress was bunched up to her waist. He could see the hint of pubic hair around
the edges of her pants. He tore his eyes away and looked up at me questioningly.
"Take her pants down," I ordered.

He blinked at me and exchanged a fast glance with Pete. "Really?" he asked.

"Do it," I said confidently. "She has to learn a lesson and by God, she will
remember this one."

"Lenny, I'll kill you for this," Sandy shouted furiously.

"Do it," I said again to Patrick.

He hesitated, looking first at me and then at the juncture of her legs. Then he
shrugged. "Okay," he said, and he did, dragging her pants over her hips and down
her legs, past her knees while she bucked vigorously but ineffectually.

Sandy lay pinned, helpless and panting with her exertions and the three of us
looked at her bare crotch. She was not a hairy girl; never had been. She was an
outdoor girl but she barely needed to trim to fit into tight shorts and swimming
costumes. Her slit and her puffy lips could be seen through the sparse brown
hair.

"You will die for this, Lenny," she said to me with extreme menace, her eyes
narrowed. "Now let me go."

Of course, that's what I intended. Pull her pants down, humiliate her in front
of Patrick and Pete and let her go. But there was an unintended consequence.
There I was, pinning her arms with my knees, looking down at Patrick and Pete
who were staring at her exposed pussy with fixed interest. Suddenly I didn't
want to let her go. My mouth had gone dry. It was very interesting. Without
thinking about it, I reached out and reefed the dress up to her neck and face,
hooked my fingers under the bottom of her bra and lifted it off her breasts,
exposing them to the air. Her face was half-covered but I could see her eyes,
and they were brimming with wild uncertainty.

All I could hear was people breathing. Everybody was still. It was a tableau;
me, pinning her arms with my knees; Sandy, most of her face covered by her
bunched-up dress, bra round her neck, breasts rolled slightly out, ribcage
flexing with her breathing, legs apart and pants stretched across just below her
knees; Pete, holding her ankles and looking directly up at her crotch; Patrick,
off to the side, crouched, looking and waiting like the opportunist he was for
what might happen next.

She wasn't struggling any more. I thought I must be hurting her with the weight
of my knees on her arms, so I sat back and let her go. She was just lying there,
breathing, her eyes looking up at the ceiling almost vacantly. She couldn't see
Patrick or Pete because the dress prevented it but she could see me behind her.
But she wasn't looking at me. Just up at the ceiling. I stood up and nobody took
any notice. I moved to the side and nobody even looked. Sandy was virtually free
from restraint. Pete had only a token hold on her ankles. She could have pulled
her dress down, sat up, got up, gone away, baked a pie and danced a polka. But
she just lay there, naked and exposed.

Suddenly and quickly Pete leaned forward, dipped his head and  kissed her on the
inside of the thigh. His hands were moving and he brushed his lips in long
sweeping movements along the top of her leg. Then Patrick moved in, grasping one
breast and plucking at the other with his mouth. "Oh God," Sandy moaned audibly,
and it was a sound of dread, but she didn't move a muscle. Standing two or three
paces to the side, I watched paralysed. Whoa, I thought. This could get out of
hand. I knew I could and should stop it but I couldn't seem to get around to it.

I stood there wavering and watching as Pete moved his mouth into her pubic hair
and then directly to her slit. "Oh God," Sandy moaned again as he worked her
with his tongue. I knew Sandy. I'd been married to her six years. She didn't
much allow this, even though it was the only real way she could get herself an
orgasm. That and direct manipulation with the fingers, which she didn't often
allow either. I suspect she preferred to do it herself rather than allow
somebody else to intrude. In fact I knew it because she'd told me so in a frank
moment some time in the past. And never orgasm through vaginal intercourse.
Never. Not once in eight years with me, and according to her, not once ever.

These were cool, almost clinical observations. I watched Patrick kissing her
standard average 34B tits and Pete tonguing her sandy-haired box and I mused
about her general lack of sexual appetite as she lay passively under their
double attention. But wait. Maybe not so passive. She started to roll her head
from side to side, slowly at first but then faster until she was almost
thrashing. The veins in her neck stood out and her teeth were clenched. No doubt
about it, I observed. I hadn't seen it happen all that many times, but I knew
that Sandy was hitting an orgasm.

She was quiet and still again. "Oh God," she said indistinctly through the
clothes still bundled across her mouth. She sounded embarrassed. Even regretful.
Reproachful, even. Patrick and Pete had drawn away from her. She could have
moved easily now. Nobody was touching her, let alone restraining her. But she
just lay there, legs apart and arms flung out on the carpet. The clear and
unmistakable sound of a zip broke the silence. "Oh God," she said again, and
Pete was unbelting his jeans. I watched, frozen and fascinated, as he stood up
to step out of them. His stiff dick waved in front of him as he bent down to her
again. Jesus. It came to me in a shock that he was intending to fuck her, and I
was still grappling with the concept of it when he knelt down between her legs,
poised himself above her on his hands and pushed it straight on in. "Oh God,"
she said. Jesus. Pete was fucking Sandy. He was in there. Inside. All the way.

Everything had been happening slowly. I had become quite detached. It had all
seemed like some sort of hypothetical experiment which had you pondering about
the outcome. But now it was happening at the speed of light. The outcome was
occurring right in front me. Pete was sawing away at her regularly and we could
all hear the friction of it. Seconds or minutes later, I couldn't tell because
time had become blurred, he was hunching and shooting into her, his face a tight
mask of effort and concentration. He collapsed himself gently on her body and
lay with the side of his head on her breasts, panting. But only for a moment,
because Patrick tapped him on the shoulder and he instantly withdrew back from
her, his half-limp penis coming out of her with a plop. Patrick was replacing
him, his ready-to-go erection already pointing eagerly. I hadn't even seen him
undress. And now Patrick was pushing inside, sliding into her. My wife. Sandy.
Already being fucked again. He was a sprinter, quickly into his stride and
running hard, up-and-down in-and-out like a piston engine. Noisy, too. He
grunted. She already had a dump from Pete inside her and the fucking was noisy
as well. Wet. Sloshing. I watched in a stupefied daze. "Oh God," said Sandy. I
watched amazed as she lifted her legs and locked her ankles around his back. Her
arms grabbed his head and she pulled Patrick down to her body. "Oh God," she
said, shouting it loudly. And then a funny noise, like "djinnnnn...".

Well, fuck me. I'd seen a lot today I had not expected to see, but what I was
seeing took the gold medal. There she was. Sandy, flat on her back on the living
room carpet being fucked in rapid succession by two old friends of the family,
wracked in orgasm.

"Oh God," she said, her voice cracking as she came down from it. But Patrick was
still going hard at it and she clung to him. The dress was now around her neck
and away from her face and she looked across at me, her eyes wide. She kept
looking at me and I kept looking at her as Patrick pounded away. And then he
lifted his head and grimaced and he too was unloading into her, and still
looking into my eyes, she said it again and with startled surprise. "Oh God."
She squeezed her eyes shut and lurched into another shaking spasm. She'd done it
again. Who would believe that? Sandy? My Sandy? What the fuck was happening?

Nothing whatsoever, going by the body language coming from Patrick and Pete.
They were both zipped up and fully dressed in microseconds. And sheepish,
avoiding my eyes, already leaning in the direction of the front door. Well hell,
I knew that stuff. "You guys had better go," I said quietly. They nodded very
quickly, still avoiding eye contact. I trailed them to the door and they were
down the path at a fast walk and away into Pete's car and gone at a speed only
fractionally less than breakneck. I knew that stuff. They'd turn the corner and
start shouting JESUS CHRIST and punch each other in the shoulder. Of course they
would. That's what I'd have done if I were them. But I wasn't. I was only the
husband and I went back into the event room feeling blank.

Sandy was still on the floor but she had rolled on her side. An uneven stain was
in the carpet. She struggled slowly to her feet as I came into the room and the
dress rolled down her body of its own accord. She bent and pulled up her pants,
shifting uncomfortably and I knew what from. Without looking at me, she walked
slowly down the hallway and into the bathroom. I heard the door shut.

I'm sitting here on the back porch looking out at the garden. I've run through
it all in my mind. I know what happened but I can't work out why I let it
happen. Pretty soon now Sandy will come out here and find me. She'll have to say
something and I'll have to say something because we can't say nothing, either of
us. I have no idea what she will say. I have no idea what I will say. I'm trying
to get some words together but it ain't working.

Fuck the lawn. Maybe I'll just go fishing.

ENDS  
drspin@newsguy.com

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