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Message-ID: <27464asstr$974344205@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Shufflespeare" <webmaster@eroticpages.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 14 Nov 2000 22:06:41 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} STORY: My Wife the Porn Flick Queen (voy, video, masturbation)
Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2000 22:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

My Wife the Porn Flick Queen

I take a left at the end of Baxter Street and drive past the old textile
mill where I used to work until it closed almost thirteen years ago. The
building is nearly falling apart and I am surprised to see movement behind
the broken windows.

I am in no hurry to get home to an empty house. My wife, Emily is working
evenings this week. After the overtime cutbacks at my work, Emily
volunteered to get a part time job to make up the money coming into the
house.

I pull the car over to the side of the road and switch off the engine. Maybe
it was just my eyes playing tricks on me, but now it seem empty again. I
wind the window down to get a better look. The time is getting on for eight
o'clock and the light is disappearing fast.

I get out of the car and make my way across to the window where I first saw
the movement. Shards of glass in the frame make it too risky to get close.
The window is quite high up in the wall, and even though I am six foot plus
I still have to stand on my tip toes to see in. I look into a big room. I
say it is big because I can only see the walls at one end of it. The only
light in the room comes from the end I can't see.

What I can see is a man, holding a camcorder at chest height. The viewfinder
is flipped up so the guy can see what he is filming. Most of the time he
looks straight forward, directing what ever he is filming with the
occasional "that's it" and "oh yes!"

The floor boards creak as he moves around. Crouching down, he gets a
different angle on what he shooting. I get a better look at the guy when he
moves further into the light. It looks as though he has been wearing the
same jeans for a month and his hair is so greasy you could scrape it off and
fry chips in it.

Whatever the guy is filming, has his full attention because he still doesn't
know I am watching him.

I want to find out what it is he is filming so I look around me for
something to stand on. An abandoned shopping trolley makes a great step and
it takes me up to just the right height.

By the time I get another look through the window, the guy with the camera
is operating it with one hand. I can't believe what he is doing with the
other hand. The zip on his trousers is down and he has taken his cock out. I
nearly fall off my trolley. It is not the sort of thing you expect to see.

I want to know what he is wanking over. I have to crane my neck a bit to see
further in. I see a framework of metal poles with white sheets hung over
them like a makeshift set. I am disappointed though. I cannot see who is
behind them.

I am dying to know who it is behind the curtain so I set about trying to
find a way in.

The rotten wood over a boarded up doorway takes no effort at all to get
through. I squeeze through the gap I've made and creep into the building.
Luckily, it turns out I am just one room away from where the action is
happening and I can't wait to get a better look. I creep through, really
quietly and stay in my crouched position while I stick my head around the
door to take a good look.

 From my new position I have no problem seeing the woman being filmed.

It is Emily, my wife.

It takes me about three seconds to sprint the distance to the guy with the
camera and wrap it around his face. A scuffle follows but I manage to get
him pinned up against the wall. The guy looks scared and I relax my grip on
his throat. He escapes.

I turn to look at my wife. We are alone. She is sitting in the middle of the
set on a chaise longue, wearing very little. Only a pink PVC basque covers
her body. It does not have any cups to hold up her tits. Her legs are
covered by black self supporting stockings. They are laddered and may as
well not be there.

"What are you doing here, doing this?" I ask, knowing that I am not going to
get an answer.

I persist.

"You told me you were at work tonight; at the supermarket."

Still no reply.

Resigning myself to the fact that Emily doesn't feel like talking, I wrap my
jacket around her shoulders and take her out to the car. She is silent the
whole way home.

When we arrive home I splash water over my face at the kitchen sink in an
attempt to reset my mood. It doesn't work.

In the sitting room, Emily sits naked in the middle of the floor with the
underwear she has removed, beside her. She looks sombre and still doesn't
speak.

I go to bed.

The next day at work goes by as a blur. As I drive home, I think about what
awaits me.

The house is deathly quiet as I hang up my coat and make my way through to
the kitchen. Maybe she has left me. Maybe she has had enough and decided to
leave. The thought scares me. I love her and hate the thought of being
without her.

As I pass through to the dining room I can see a bottle of wine on the
table. Either side of it, are two of the glasses, Emilys' Aunt Sylvia bought
us as wedding presents.

I look around the room, expecting to see Emily but I am alone.

In the sitting room, a video cassette sits on the coffee table. The label on
the front reads: PLAY ME.

I look around again to see if Emily has appeared yet. I am still alone.

I put the tape in the VCR and hit "play".

The date in the corner of the screen reads the ninth of March. That's today.
The screen fades from black and shows our kitchen. Emily walks into view
from behind the camera. A see through body stocking is all that she is
wearing. The material is white and doesn't hide a lot. I suppose that's the
idea. The cheeks of her arse jiggle and bounce as she reaches the far work
surface.

The thought crosses my mind that this is Emilys' way of telling me that she
is not bothered by what I think. She will do what she wants.

On the TV screen, Emily perches her self on the far bench and looks into the
camera. She begins to talk.

"Dave, you are standing in our front room looking at an image of me in
underwear I bought as a treat for you. I know you like to see me in things
like this but I am afraid to wear them in front of you." I am shocked at how
frankly my wife is talking. We do talk but it usually about things like how
my day at work went or what we should have for dinner. Never like this. Not
in years.

Emily continues.

"You see, I am still the woman you married. My drive has not gone. I still
need love- your love, Dave. In the past few years, I feel like you don't
appreciate what you have in me. I want to enjoy my body before I'm old and
it is too late. It is no secret that ladies tend to sag as they get older
and I want to enjoy these," Emily looks down to where she is pushing her
tits together.

"There is no part time job, Dave. Except for the one you caught me at. And
NO, I DO NOT allow touching of any kind. That guy was having a wank in front
of me. So what? I like that I can still have that effect on men. I am YOUR
wife Dave. You are the only one with access to my body. But that is the
point, you rarely bother these days."

I can see what Emily is trying to say and can't help thinking she is right.

"If you have kept the tape playing this long, then you have heard my side of
the story. Round about now, I should be standing behind you in the sitting
room as you watch this. DO NOT TURN AROUND."

Staying perfectly still, I feel warm breath against the back of my neck.

"If you understand what I have said and want to make amends, do nothing when
I reach around for the zipper on your trousers and take out your cock. If
you are convinced that I am a slut and not worth listening to then stop my
hand before it reaches your zip."

Emilys' hand reaches around me, perfectly on cue.

I think for a moment.

Hitting the stop button on the VCR remote, I take Emilys' hand and help her
to release my cock.

With a few controlling strokes to get herself started, I watch our
reflection in the dead TV screen as Emily wanks me to climax. Spunk shoots
onto one of the cushions on the settee. The last of it drips onto the carpet
between my feet. Emily keeps hold of my cock until it goes limp.

I have always loved my Emily.

But never as much as I do now.

<><><><><>
Shufflespeare
eroticpages.co.uk

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