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"She takes my wife and shows us the possibilities"

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Famous Story
"I don't swallow," Linda blurted drunkly.

"I do," Denise countered with casual frankness.

I watched Linda make ‘her’ face, the one she always made when discussing aspects of sex that disgusted her. I'd seen it so frequently in the last ten years that it was too familiar, almost her natural state. The nose wrinkled and the brows crunched in, the mouth grimaced in revulsion. She never missed an opportunity to express her revulsion. "E-ew," she spat.

Denise looked at me with arched brows. "She do that a lot?" she asked, smirking a little.

"All the time," I said, lifting my drink in resignation.

"It's gross," Linda blurted, unasked. She never was able to resist the impulse to offer her opinion on any aspect of sex she thought was disgusting, and there were a lot of them. It was a reflexive reaction, as though she believed that not objecting vehemently every time was somehow an endorsement of the activity. I'd gotten used to hearing it, but it always irritated me, as it did now, and I reacted in my customary fashion.

"Yes, dear, I know where your boundaries are, no need to rebuild your fences for us." I was a little drunk too, but not as much as Linda. Denise, for her part, seemed more sober, and she inclined her head at me, and gave me a once-over, even though we were all seated. Interesting.

"Well, that seems like a tired and well-worn conversation," she observed wryly. She glanced at Linda. "Too bad for you," she exaggerated with a small sneer, then turned back to me. "She have a lot of limits?"

The question was inviting and open with a complete absence of accusation. An honest curiosity, feeling oddly appropriate despite the setting. We were attending a wedding, one of Linda's school friends, held at a large hotel. Around us the party swirled and danced. We'd been seated at the 'friends' table, but they were all up and dancing and mingling save the three of us. Denise was there alone and had latched on to us early in the evening. We didn't know her; she was a friend of the bride from her work. But we'd gotten along well, and the conversation had flowed and grown and eventually drifted to sex. Denise was single and curious about married sex in light of her fiend getting married.

I considered blowing the question off, deferring with a shrug, but for some reason decided not to. Maybe it was Linda's insistent declaration, or her resistance to discussing sex with me at home, alone, or her lack of inhibition at voicing her opinion to a relative stranger. She’d done this before, when she got a few drinks in her, but always in the negative. My good sense broke down.

"You have no idea," I bemoaned with a resigned smile.

"Too bad for you, too, then," Denise responded.

"What?" Linda interjected belligerently. "I like sex!" Denise made a mock surprise face and laughed.

"Yeah, right. What, you spit it out?" she jeered.

"E-ew, no, I don't let him, you know, in my mouth."

Denise looked at me, and I blushed, feeling a little shamed. "Really?" Never?"

"Never," I admitted.

"Shame," she quipped. She sipped her drink and looked at Linda. "You should. It's fun." She cocked her head at my wife. "I would."

"I'm not a slut," Linda countered. Then, as if realizing she might have insulted Denise, she stated proudly, "I'm a lazy lover." It was her badge of honor; I'd heard it before, too often, and always let it slide. The liquor and easy conversation, along with a sudden odd need to defend myself to Denise made me heave a sigh and shattered my reservations.

"You know," I said, turning to my wife, "that's not as complimentary as you seem to think it is," I said with a little more venom than I intended, but less than I felt.

Denise guffawed. "Lazy lover? What the fuck does that mean?" She dropped to a chuckle and shook her head. "What is that," she joked, "you just offer yourself and then 'receive' sex; make him do all the work?" she joked, but her laugh was greeted with silence, mine and Linda's. Around us the party pumped and thumped, the band calling everyone to the floor, and picked up the pace. Denise looked at me and I dropped her gaze, admonished in her jest. I glanced at Linda and she glowered at me. The receiver of sex, I thought, and my injured pride rebelled.

I ignored Denise's astounded stare, turned to Linda. "When you say that, out loud," I motioned with a wave, "in public, it doesn't sound that way you think it does." I leaned on the table, inclining my head towards her and she leaned back, maintaining the previous distance. Her eyes were a little unfocused. "Inside your head I'm sure you mean to sound like you appreciate sex as much as the next person, and I know you think your limited range of permissible experience is normal," I said after too many years of holding back, relief flooding me at my opportunity. "But to everyone else it sounds like you can't be bothered putting in any effort. That the sex is just something that happens to you." I narrowed my eyes and felt my lips tighten in a grimace. "It implies that I'm not that good; that sex with me isn't good enough to really enjoy."

Linda's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. The tension between us, so long unspoken and now laid bare on the table, sat poised like a snarling dog, tightening its haunches, preparing to leap. Her expression switched rapidly from shock to confusion and back to shock before settling at unspoken detachment. I'd pushed too far, I thought, said too much. This would bristle at home for weeks, simmering like a silent covered pot, and would eventually boil over in a sudden shouting match. It had happened too many times in the ten years we'd been together to not recognize its potential.

Denise defused the tension. "Oh, shit, you two are hilarious!" she laughed, and my anger suddenly turned to her, wanting an outlet that didn't include sex withheld for weeks. "Listen to you!" But a look at her easy, welcoming smile relaxed me before my outburst and I felt suddenly lightened, her tone giving me permission to see the humor in my situation.

"Oh, it's funny to you?" I asked with a smile. "You think my frustration is funny?" My tone was light, self-deprecating without hostility and I found myself laughing with her, continued. "You think a man who can't get what he wants married to a woman who doesn't know what she's missing is a joke?" I felt my face stretched in a broad grin, matched by Denise's. I tipped my glass to her. "It's a fucking riot, yeah." I glanced at Linda. She stared back and forth between us, expressionless.

Denise chided me right back. "It's like you bought a race car but can only drive it thirty miles an hour, on side streets!" she poked.

"And not very often either!" I added.

"And you," she said, turning to Linda. "You, you're living in a fifty-room mansion, and you only go in three rooms!" I laughed at the image. "What, you pretend they aren't there?" Her shoulders bounced with a lighthearted chuckle.

"No, she knows they're there," I added to her analogy. "She walks the halls, makes sure the doors are locked, and sneers at them for my benefit!" We both laughed out loud, and Linda's face finally broke into an embarrassed smile, and I felt my connection to her renewed. This was our situation, hers and mine, no matter that we were sharing it with this comfortable and confident younger woman.

"I try to show you those rooms, though, don't I, Linda," I said, seizing the opportunity to drag my wife back into the conversation. "Constantly suggesting this room or that, eh?" I continued, drawing her in. She rolled her eyes and smiled at my effort.

"All the time," she said. "Like a museum tour that never ends."

"But we don't go in, do we?"

"E-ew, no, never" she repeated, scrunching her face again, but with a satisfied smile. "I hate those rooms. You know that." She had a half-smile that belied her alcohol intake. "But not for lack of effort on your part." She made a silly face that I guessed was supposed to express exasperation, but only made her look pretty and fun.

"Not so much anymore," I finished, turning back to Denise in confidence. I grimaced a half grin. "It gets old and frustrating. These days the tour stops after one or two closed doors."

"I like my rooms," Linda interjected. "They're comfortable and nice." She sounded a little defensive. Of course she did.

"But you've never been inside those rooms, have you?" Denise asked her intently, head lowered. "How do you know you wouldn't like them?" She leaned in towards Linda and this time my wife didn't pull back. "You don't have to live in them," she explained slowly. "But an occasional visit...? See what's inside." She angled her head to the side, trying to catch Linda's lowered eyes. My wife's head, lowered, slowly rose, met the other girl's gaze. "Check out the decor?"

Linda stared at her, hesitant to speak. I rescued her. "Most of them are locked, permanently," I offered, but they didn't break their locked eyes. "The doors I try to open get closed hard, fast."

"I'd take that tour," she told Linda; a statement, not advice. "Twice if it was fun." She glanced at me, then sat back in her chair. "I've probably been in most of those rooms at least once." I felt my cock murmur as my chest tightened. Nothing aroused me more than the idea of a woman discussing her love of sex. "Hell, I could probably give the tour!" she finished, and looked at me over her drink, her eyes different, narrowed, as if evaluating me. My chest tightened again and my cock responded appropriately. It'd been many years since a woman had come on to me and I wasn't prepared, mentally or emotionally. But my body climbed right back on the horse. Denise smirked at me with a knowing expression, assuming correctly the response she was provoking. She turned back to Linda.

"You should let him show you those rooms, Linda," she said wistfully. "You seem to have a good man here, and you wouldn't want him visiting someone else's house and seeing their rooms." Linda's eyes went wide.

"He would never," she defended. "We're married."

"Believe me, plenty of married men have been in other women's rooms," she said, turning to me and winking. "Especially if the rooms in their own house are locked up tight. You don't want your man wondering what someone else's furniture looks like, right?" She turned back to Linda, lifted one shoulder for emphasis. "You wanna keep him home and happy, you should let him use the whole house."

"Only sluts do those things," Linda defended. "I'm his wife, not some cheap whore."

Once again the conversation froze, and Linda's last words hung in the air, a Hindenburg about to burst into flame. But once again it was Denise who deflected the tension.

"Maybe," she said, "he wants to give me the tour," she said, as if poking my wife in the shoulder, her words a stiff pointing finger. "Or maybe he wants to see MY rooms," she added. "Maybe he's thinking right now if my rooms," and this time she really did poke her finger into Linda, "look like those rooms he dreams of." She glanced over at me, her eyebrows lowered with mischief and deviousness, one corner of her mouth turned up. Straight white teeth glistened at me before she turned back to my wife and leaned over, and whispered into her ear. I watched Linda's face express shock, panic and fear, overlaid with something else, something I barely recognized. Was that desire?

Denise sat back and looked at me with a satisfied smugness akin to victory. "Kyle," she said, "why don't you get us fresh drinks, and meet us out in the lobby?" Thoroughly daunted, I stood, wondering what was happening here, and extremely curious to see where it would lead. I went to the bar, got the drinks and carried them gingerly out to the lobby to find Linda and Denise waiting for me; my wife cowed and silent, the younger girl confident and proud, both beautiful and well dressed in their wedding party dresses. Denise turned to Linda as I approached, took Linda's drink from me and handed it to my wife.

"Stay," she said, then took her own drink and grabbed my elbow with her other hand, pulling me a few steps away. She leaned into my ear.

"I want you to know what's going to happen now, so you're not surprised. I don't want to mislead you or let you think there’s something here that's not," she said with blatant clarity. "I am going to give you a gift tonight. I am going to give you the wife you've dreamt of." I was looking at Linda as Denise spoke, seeing her eyes wide, her shoulders slightly slumped, her lips parted just a little. Denise took my chin and turned me to face her. The intensity in her eyes burned into mine until my soul felt seared, sizzling. "This is not about you, it's about her. I am going to show her those rooms you imagine, walk her through them, make her see the furniture and decor. I will do things to you and to her that you have only dreamed of, but make no mistake." I felt a power emanating from this girl, an authority so strong it was tactile, and my skin tightened. I felt my erection begin again. "This is about me, and about her, and what she wants, but is afraid to find." Her voice lowered to a whisper and she hissed into my ear. "I will turn her tonight. I will make her my bitch, for me, tonight. But for you, forever."

My head was swimming and I wondered briefly if this was more than I wanted, but my lust quickly flashed a potential future where all those previously closed rooms were opened and visited and enjoyed; I imagined my wife willingly entering, imagined her standing at the open door, inviting me in, relaxing on the furniture.

"Say yes, and we do this thing. Say no, and it stops here, and we all go back inside, and pretend nothing ever happened," she hissed. "But if you say yes, there's no backing out. We do this. I do this. You live with the results. Got it?" My fear remained, but took an unwilling back seat as my libido grabbed the controls, slammed on the gas and screamed in joy at the rush.

"Yes," I squeaked.

Those beautiful straight white teeth glistened in her smile that held more than delight, more than satisfaction. "Good," she intoned. "I hope you won't be sorry." She pulled my arm and I followed her back to where my wife stood, then released me and took Linda's arm. "It's all set, dear," she said to my wife, and led us to the elevator. We were silent as we went up and walked the hall to the rooms, but every glance at Denise showed me a feral, hungry look. I could smell her appetite leaching from her, and my nerves jangled alongside my growing excitement. She took us to her room and opened the door, but stopped Linda from entering after ushering me inside.

"Not yet, sweetie," she said with a lecherous grin. She took Linda's drink from her hand and gave it to me. I stood inside the open doorway and watched my wife look up at Denise with the eyes of a doe who has just seen the wolf and knows the end is near. I was torn between wanting to save her and an overwhelming desire to see her taken and devoured, all my years of frustration welling up for retribution. I wanted this, despite my better judgment. I wanted all the denials erased, reversed. I wanted to see this conversion, wanted her to twist against the rules as I had, share my pain, feel my anguish. I wanted to see things not go her way. I wanted to see her bend against her will, to give in, to be defeated. It would be bad. I had been molded slowly, over years, until capitulation was my natural state. This would be extreme.

Denise stood slightly behind Linda, out of Linda's sight, and so Linda looked to me. Denise leaned into her ear, one hand resting just off her shoulder, gripping my wife's upper arm. "Do you remember," Denise whispered just loud enough for me to hear, "what I told you before?"

Linda's lower lip trembled. Was she going to cry? I saw her gulp air and nod.

"Say it. Say you remember."

"I remember."

"He's your man, Linda. He’s a good man, isn't he?" Denise moved behind her, walking, came around the other side, looked at me from under lidded eyes, grinning. "You want to keep him, don't you?"

"Y-yes."

"I'm going to take him from you Linda. I'm going to take him inside, and close the door, and leave you out here, and you can scream until security comes and takes you away for the police," she goaded, "or you can wait until I'm done, but when this door opens he'll be mine, all mine." Linda's eyes flared with anger and fear. Denise pulled back behind her and made a face at me, a smirking conspiratorial head shake that told me she wouldn't do what she'd just said, and I felt a pang of regret.

"So you're going to have to fight me for him," came the venomous challenge, still looking at me as though we had planned this together. "Are you gonna do what...

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