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Archive name: cons.txt (MF, wife-sharing, voy)
Authors name: Marc (marchase@my-deja.com)
Story title : Consenquences

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2001. Please
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Consequences (MF, wife-sharing)
by Marc (marchase@my-deja.com)

***
Comments to the author welcome.
***

"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." 

THE END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 13