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Message-ID: <37309asstr$1026695406@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: PilloryHillary@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} XXPULP: MY WIFE, MARIHUANA WHORE (M+/F oral)
Date: Sun, 14 Jul 2002 21:10:06 -0400
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"An unsuspecting housewife seduced to the Other Side, a world of tripped-out 
drug parties and wanton sexuality!"

MY WIFE, MARIHUANA WHORE 
by Fresh Sto

Home early, I eased the front door closed and tiptoed across the foyer, 
holding a plate of bundt cake behind my back.  From the voices I knew that 
Elaine had company, but it was the strange aroma that gave me pause.  I 
peered around the corner.

An Amscay salesman sprawled on our couch, his briefcase and wares forgotten 
on the coffeetable.  His pecker stood through his open fly.  In a halo of 
refer smoke, my winsome wife lay with leaden eyelids against the corner of 
the couch, her fingers trailing down the buttons of her blouse.

Another man stood with his back to me, naked from his trousers up, dancing to 
the Mantovanni playing on our hi-fi.  "This grass is just the wildest--so 
free, man!" he said.  "Right, kitten?"

"Right, Daddy."  Her lipstick smeared, she purred as the blouse fell from her 
shoulders, and the tops of her rosy nipples became visible in her lacy 
brassiere.

The room spun.  Grasping the hair above my temples, I strained to think where 
this nightmare began . . .

Elaine and I married immediately after college, having saved ourselves for 
one another and the bright summer day of our wedding.  We made love that 
night, sweet and awkward and caring.

After our honeymoon, we moved into a new home near my new job at a 
prestigious engineering firm, and began the wonderful life we'd been planning 
together.  Once settled, we invited the neighbors to a cook-out, and were 
happy to find that we lived in a community of good, fun-loving people.  The 
merriment and laughter stretched into the night; we toasted marshmallows and 
drank wine while the children drowsed at their parents' feet.  Elaine and I 
looked into one another's eyes, knowing we had found the perfect place to 
start our family; after everyone had gone, we left clean-up for the morning, 
and I carried Elaine upstairs.

My career was on the fast track, exceeding our highest expectations.  I 
traveled routinely to the company's most important job-sites as the trusted 
proxy of my boss, Mr. Fontaine.  Meanwhile, Elaine kept our house a showcase, 
and even developed a mean game of bridge!  It's not such a bad thing to turn 
up at bridge-club meetings with the most capable and attractive player on 
your arm.  Then later, on those peaceful suburban nights, listening to the 
crickets chirping, we lay arm in arm, beginning our family together.

Occasionally after making love, side-by-side in bed, we heard rock-and-roll 
music in the evening air, coming from across the street, the house where Rod 
and sapphire live.  That sapphire insists on spelling her name with a 
lower-case "s," suits them.  Rod makes pottery in their garage.  They both 
wear graying ponytails--Rod with just a little kindling on top--and whispers 
were that the two weren't even married.  Plus, Betsy Clark told Elaine that 
she had spotted them a number of times naked in their yard; they were usually 
a bit loud, so that she couldn't help but notice.  You might call them free 
spirits, but let me state right here that Grant and Elaine Goodman are 
100-percent pro-free spirit, you know, if that's the way they want to be.

But one thing Betsy said gave me pause: she claimed that Rod and sapphire 
smoked marihuana.  Some nights, when she heard them skinny-dipping, a pungent 
odor wafted through the Clarks' bedroom window.  But again, I suppose, what 
you do in your own backyard is really nobody's business.

Or so I thought, until I returned early from one of my trips to Alamogordo, 
pitching our proposal for a government contract to some Pentagon officials 
there.  The presentation was a knock-out, so I was on Cloud Nine as I pulled 
into our driveway that night.  If we landed the contract, Elaine and I would 
be able to afford that cottage in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.  I couldn't wait to 
tell her and surprise her with a box of chocolate-covered cherries.

I walked throughout the house, puzzled.  It wasn't like my Elaine.  No note, 
no . . . Then I noticed the flickering glow of tiki-lamps in Rod and 
sapphire's backyard.  I crossed the street to see if they knew where she was, 
perhaps a Tupperware party she hadn't mentioned.

My calls at the gate were drowned by the music and festivities within, so I 
took a deep breath and let myself in, hoping Rod would not be too sore at me.

A group sat in lawn chairs around the patio.  They laughed uproariously, as 
if watching a Jerry Lewis movie.  Oh, I felt like a Nosy Nelly, walking 
closer, wearing an apologetic grin.

Then, my jaw dropped.

Betsy Clark ran into view from around the pool, bare-breasted!  Her stomach 
rippled with laughter, and her breasts shook as she looked over her shoulder. 
 I tried to flee, but my feet were frozen.  And that wasn't the end.

Until Betsy had turned, I hadn't even noticed the woman chasing her, 
clutching Betsy's top in her hand.  Elaine!  My heart leapt to my throat.

Another emerged from behind the pool with her, Deirdre Tennis, who headed 
bake sale at church.  Deirdre caught up to my wife, hooked her fingers in 
Elaine's swimsuit bottom, and tugged it down.

The half-naked women squealed and toppled one another to the lawn.

While they wrestled, a group of men wearing only swimming trunks followed 
behind them.  There was Rod, Betsy's husband Clarke, John Tennis (without his 
toupee), and a couple others, crowding around.  They danced a crude ring 
around the writhing female bodies, stirring a fertile fragrance by pulling 
thick tufts of grass and drizzling them over the naked limbs and torsos 
below.

Faces in every direction contorted into masks of grotesque mirth, the 
curtains of laughter into a nightmarish fugue.

"Elaine Goodman!"  I stepped from the shadows. 

Striding across the silent yard, I draped my suit jacket over her shoulders 
and shepherded her away from there.

Safe at home, I tucked her into bed and fetched some Bromo-Selzer for her 
headache and nausea.  When I returned, she clutched my shoulder.

"I don't know, I don't know," she said, her jaw quaking like a little girl's. 
 "The terror."

I hushed her and closed her eyes, bringing the blanket to her chin and 
kissing her forehead.  Not a minute had passed before her breathing deepened 
beneath the hum of the humidifier.

My head swirled while I observed the darkened house across the way.  I had a 
mind to march right over and duke it out with Rod--one of a storm of thoughts 
about what had happened, about my poor wife, about how I should respond.  I 
decided to turn in, knowing that the answer would present itself in the 
morning.

It was a fitful night.  I awoke dog-tired but anxious to throw myself into 
the DOD proposal.  While I prepared an ice pack and a Bloody Mary for Elaine 
in bed, the doorbell rang.  "Seven-thirty!"  I tightened the belt of my robe, 
and ran my hands through my hair.

"Good morning, neighbor."  It was sapphire, holding a sweet-smelling pie.

"My!"  She declined my offer of a coffee, because she knew I worked early 
mornings and wished only to inquire after Elaine.  She explained how a few of 
their guests the night before had confused her "medicinals" with ordinary 
cigarettes.

"Glaucoma," she said, tapping a fingernail on her pearl-horned sunglasses, 
"and anxiety."

"Of course," I nodded gravely.  It was the first time I had heard of anxiety 
as an illness, and I thought she was going to show me some proof or 
manifestation as she raised her sunglasses, but instead she leaned forward to 
plant a kiss on my cheek.  I promised to tell Elaine she had called, and went 
whistling to the kitchen to prepare my wife's breakfast tray, including a 
slice of sapphire's aromatic pie.

"Thank you, bright eyes," Elaine said, dipping her finger in the dollop of 
whipped cream, "but can't I entice you in a little piece?"  Her robe fell 
open, exposing a breast jiggling like a cherry on custard.  She's so cute 
sometimes.

I sucked her finger clean, but shook my head.  "When I get home, pumpkin.  I 
have to get on this defense project; it's the ship we've been waiting for.  
I'll grab a muffin at work."

"Pookie"--she only uses "Pookie" during romantic moments--"I am the luckiest 
girl in the world."

I drove to work with a smile on my face, ready to conquer the world.

At the office, I was a tornado, plowing through the preliminaries and setting 
project parameters for our department.  I skipped going home for lunch, 
because once I got rolling, splendid tomato rice soup and grilled cheese 
sandwiches were the furthest things from my mind.

When I pulled into the drive at the end of the day, I was suddenly ravenous.  
Elaine was, too.

"Elaine?" I called, holding a bouquet of white carnations.  "Honey, Pookie's 
home!"

In the hallway lay a torn box of snack cakes, with a trail of wrappers 
leading to the bedroom door, where I found a crumbled potato chip bag.  
Inside the darkened room, lit by a lone candle, I kicked an open box of 
breakfast cereal.  On the corner of the bed I saw the chocolate cherries.

I squinted at the piles of pillows and blankets on the bed.  "Elaine?"

The voice was hoarse, languishing.  "Pookie-bear."  Her limbs emerged, 
stretching like a cat's.  "Lainey's been so lonely, waiting, saving the last 
piece of pie for you."

Reaching in her direction, I grazed one of her breasts, and pulled back.  
"Honey?  You're not wearing clothes.  You're naked."

She drew a snake-like breath through her teeth.  "Come . . . have a bite."

Thrusting out the flowers, I said, "I brought you a present."

She purred.  "Hold them for me.  Both hands, now."

I opened my mouth to reply, but it was immediately filled with a loamy 
forkful of pie.

She said, "Mm, have another."

I did what I could to placate her illness.

"And more," she said.

It was chewing that third mouthful when I became drowsy, daydreamy.  I 
squeezed the flowers, struggling to maintain balance.  I felt a tugging on my 
trousers, and looked around the bouquet.

My little wife had wrested my penis through my fly, stroking it with both 
hands!

Unable to utter an intelligible word, my shock registered as: "Ahh ahh . . ."

"Oh Grant, it's so beautiful and thick.  Just look."  To cap each stroke, her 
fingertips fluttered beneath the tip.  In response, my crimson erection 
bobbed twice each time: ONE-two . . . ONE-two.

"I think you had better be lying down," I said.

"No, dearie," she said, "I think it's you who had better be lying down."  
Grabbing my waist, she pulled me to the bed, where she made short work of my 
trousers.  She snatched away the flowers and flew through the buttons of my 
shirt, running my chesthair between her fingers.  With a flick of her 
fingernail, she flipped my glasses above my head.

She straddled my stomach, her blond hair tickling my face, her lubricated sex 
grinding against my torso.  "Waiting all day.  Waiting for my man."

"Yes?"

"Oh yes.  Hot, horny wife, wanting her man."  It was all rather alarming.  
"Grant?"

"Uh, here," I said from between her breasts.  She settled on my hips.  I 
groaned at her wet embrace.

Elaine bit her lower lip, nodding.  "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I said, "your pupils are as big as saucers."

"Here!"  She threw the flowers over my face, and before I could protest, she 
began riding my body, pinning me under her wild exertions.  I closed my eyes, 
hearing her moans and the bed creaking, inhaling the floral scent, watching 
the colors flashing on my eyelids.

When I next opened my eyes, it was morning.

We both felt honeymoony.  While handing me my sack-lunch, she grabbed my 
bottom, a bit close to the door but endearing all the same.  "Hurry home."

At work, nothing could have been better.  I assembled a crack team that 
labored diligently day after day, sweating the extra hours to put our 
proposal just right.  I just knew we would get the contract, that my handsome 
year-end bonus was only the shape of things to come.

The big day arrived in early June: Mr. Fontaine, so nonchalant, dropped it on 
me as I was leaving for lunch.  Our team went berserk, and we celebrated with 
a bundt cake.  I tore out for home, thinking the entire way about how we 
might do the nursery, about buying Elaine a new vacuum cleaner.  I eased 
through the front door, chuckling under my breath.

Stopping in the foyer, I got my first whiff of the sweet and oddly familiar 
odor, probably Elaine burning that crazy incense stuff again!  I peered 
around the corner to check if the coast was clear.

There was my wife losing her blouse, reclining on the couch.

The guy standing with his back to me said to the salesman, "This pot sends 
her straight to Hornytown, man.  Just lie back and enjoy the ride."

He did, the eager arc of his prick visible outside of his pants.  Unclasping 
her brassiere, Elaine bent to take him in her mouth.  I hugged the wall for 
balance.

The other man knelt and guided her head.  He lit a marijuana cigarette.  She 
pulled back, and he blew a stream of smoke into her mouth.  Elaine rolled her 
eyes, and settled again to her task, sucking with abandon.  She hasn't done 
that for me once!

Not a minute later, the salesman grunted, "My gosh, she can suck cock."  His 
hips jerked, and Elaine swallowed what seemed like a never-ending stream of 
his semen.  I had a mind to end it right there, but something made me 
hesitate to see just how far they would take this preposterous thing.

"You want the roach, baby?" said the other, patting the back of the couch, so 
that I thought he was killing a bug or something.  But my wife responded by 
wriggling until her panties fell from beneath her skirt, and bending over the 
couch where he indicated.

He flipped up her skirt, and threw off his cap.  It was Rod!  He lit the end 
of the cigarette and passed it forward to Elaine, who puffed merrily while 
Rod dropped his trousers and entered my wife.

The salesman recovered enough to sit up and share the reefer cigarette.  
"This stuff really blasts me into outer space," Elaine said, and they started 
necking.  I was horrified beyond belief, and worse yet, about to soil my 
business clothes, so in the nick of time I jerked my erection free.  My sperm 
splashed harmlessly on the plate of cake on the floor, while my wife 
vocalized her orgasm into another man's mouth.

My mind was clouded by a thousand emotions.  I needed time to think, and the 
reefer smoke was ready to choke me, so I sneaked away to the car.

Untethered, I drove about town in a daze.

When I again put the car into park, I found myself in the parking lot at 
work.  I wandered into the office building, absently showing my pass to the 
security guard.

Sulking the darkened halls toward my office, all I could think about was 
immersing myself in the myriad preparations for the new project.  But 
something caught my eye, a single light off to my right.  Curiosity got the 
better of me, and I changed direction.

It was the office of Dr. Powers, the company psychiatrist.  Daring a peek, I 
saw him writing at his desk.

He looked up from his work.  "Grant!" he said.  "Congratulations on that DOD 
contract!  My, you don't rest, do you?"

"Yes, Dr. Powers, sir."

"Otto," he said, "please call me Otto."

"Otto."  I waved my hat in the direction of my office.  "I was just picking 
up some blueprints."

"Nonsense, Grant, you step right in," he said, patting my back.

"No, you don't understand," I said, as he pushed a chair under me, "I don't 
see doctors like you.  I mean, I haven't a need, and I . . ."

"Grant, are you getting enough potassium and niacin?  Here, why don't you try 
one of these?"  He pushed an orange tablet between my lips.  "I developed 
them myself.  K-Nines.  They're chewable.  Go on."

I chewed stiffly and smiled.

"Tangerine."  He beamed.  "Now, as you were saying?"

"I actually didn't intend to take up any of your time."

Behind his desk, Dr. Powers' friendly features solidified, his arched 
eyebrows hunkering down to a dark line of professional discrimination. "But?"

"But," I parroted, shocking myself, for now I was committed to completing the 
thought, "but, and you're a young man, Doctor . . ."

"Otto."

"Dr. Otto."  I took a deep breath and blurted, "But have you had any 
experience with marihuana?"  He cocked his chin.  "Professionally, I mean!"

"Ah, marihuana, cannibas sativa, the devil's weed.  I know it well, I'm 
afraid."  Dr. Powers sat back, packing his pipe, his voice dreamy, all its 
own, as if recounting a war story.  "Bad for your immune system, Grant, and 
depletes the potassium."

"No, Otto, Doctor, not me," I said.  "There are suspicious . . . goings-on 
around my house."

"Pot hoodlums," he said, puffing sagely, "the worst kind."

"What does this crazy stuff do?" I said.

"Marihuana, native of central Asia," he said.  "We're dealing with a 
hallucinogen here.  One that lulls the unsuspecting user with a relaxing 
euphoria, then fires him hurtling into phantasmagoric delirium: 

he sees sounds, 

he tastes colors, 

he experiences a world transformed by delusions, 

believing he is Jesus Christ, 

or that he can fly, 

jumping out of second-story windows, 

or walking into traffic, prisoner of his own drug-induced trip."

"Oh my god."

"Yes, God," he said, "the only Refuge of the dope-fiend."

"And, are there, uh, sexual side effects as well?"

Arching an eyebrow, he regarded me.  "There have been cases of hormonal 
imbalances.  For instance, abnormal breast development on male addicts."

Abomination!

"But more typically," and here Dr. Powers sat forward, grasping both sides of 
his desktop, "pure debauchery.  Many are lured to the reefer for its reputed 
aphrodisiacal qualities, and once ensnared, are seized by fits of 
hypersexualization, ruled by uncontrollable urges and nymphomaniacal 
behaviors of the darkest, most depraved sort, reduced to rutting slavering 
zombies.  No act is too terrible, no perversion too grotesque, to the hapless 
fool in the grips of marihuana."  He pulled off his glasses and leaned 
forward with a solemn nod.  "I've seen it, Grant.  I've seen it."

"Elaine!"  Bolting to my feet, I toppled a cup of pencils.  "I must get home 
to my wife!"

"Fly, Grant, run to your wife," he called.  "Never leave her alone when 
marihuana is afoot."

My fingers white about the wheel, my temples pouring sweat, I gunned the 
Mercury until the streetlights of cruel night smudged to a blur.  Seventy, 
ninety, one hundred . . . I buried speedometer at one-twenty, and cuffed the 
wheel with the heel of my hand:

"Hold on, baby, I'm coming for you."

A few blocks from home, I hit a traffic snarl.  I rolled down my window.  
"Get a move on, I've got an emergency here!"  But even after laying on my 
horn, the cars remained at a standstill.  "Damn it!"  Not even bothering with 
the ignition, I bolted from my car, weaving through the people milling about 
the sidewalk.

The crowds grew denser.  Pushing through, I halted in my tracks.

A line of men wound around the hedges of my home, up the sidewalk and stairs, 
past a flashing red arrow mounted outside our front door.  Shoving past, 
ignoring curses and blows, I muscled my way inside.

There, a bald man clicked the counting machine in his palm with his thumb.  
"What'll it be?"  A gambler's visor shaded his eyes, so that I needed to peer 
to see if he was talking to me.  He rapped a knuckle on a blackboard behind 
him.  "What'll you have?"

"Clarke?" I said.  "Clarke Clark?"

"Hey Smitty," he called, and a granite-shouldered giant in a black satin 
jacket emerged from behind a curtain of hanging beads.  "We got a gentleman 
here who's having a hard time making a decision."  The giant cracked his 
knuckles through fingerless gloves.

"No, no, that's all right," I said.  My fingers trembled as I pulled some 
paper from my billfold and crumbled it into Clarke's hand.

He reached for one of three ink-stamps, pressing it to the back of my hand.  
In green, it read: GREEK.

Clarke said, "Next," and the black hulk booted me through the curtain.

My living room was lit murky red, through clouds of pungent smoke.  
Immediately I unfurled my handkerchief, holding it to my face.  Over blaring 
psychedelic music I discerned faint human voices.  A strobe light flashed 
into my eyes as I stumbled forward.  I was halted by a firm hand on my chest. 
 A short man shined a flashlight over my hand.

"Rod!" I said through my hanky.

"I don't want to know you, Greeky, just do your business and move along," he 
said, and then called toward the couch, "Roll it over, baby, it's another 
pervert."

In the background, a man shuffled away holding up his pants, and there lay 
Elaine on the couch, her hair akimbo.  She turned on her hands and knees, 
looking over her shoulder.  "Come on up, honey, don't be shy."  She slapped 
her bare bottom a few times.

Sidling tentatively behind her, I looked around and made like I was 
unzipping.  "Elaine," I said, "it's me, your husband, Grant."

"Hm?"  She turned, her eyelids heavy, painted bluish-white.  "Is it in yet, 
honey?"

"I'm here to rescue you."  I coughed behind my mask, my eyes tearing in the 
tarry smog.

"Do your best, big boy," she said.  "Hey, do you got any weed on you?"

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I've written a phone number on your back," I said.  
"As soon as you can, go into the bathroom and get the number by looking in 
the mirror."  Below the number, I wrote: EIKOOP ,EVOL.  "Elaine, sweetie?"

"Elaine?" she said, "Elaine is nowheresville, man.  Can we get a little 
reefer over here, huh?"

"Beat it, Happypants, you sick fuck!"  I was hustled out to our back door, 
where a sign announced

** Tomorrow 8:00 P.M. sharp
** Lesbo Threesome w/ Betsy & sapphire
** $100

I glimpsed my wife clutching a smoldering pipe, with Mr. Fontaine unzipping 
behind her.

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