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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Other Men's Wives (MF) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Sat, 20 Sep 2003 17:10:03 -0400
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Other Men's Wives (MF) by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin

--------------------------------------------------------- 

* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's
Club, where it appeared sensationally illustrated by Garv under
an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 80 more of my new
stories.

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is
invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care
to. That's all there is to it. Any reader who is offended should
not have been here in the first place.

---------------------------------------------------------

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife. And fair enough, too.
I certainly didn't covet the wife of my neighbour, Kurt Bichel,
and I'm pretty sure Kurt didn't covet her too much himself. She
had a moustache that Wyatt Earp would have been proud to grow.

As for other men's wives, well, that's a different story. A lot
of great women are married, and most of them never plan to stray
into the clutches of roving vagabonds. This makes them even more
desirable. Nothing quickens my blood like a recently married
woman built for sex who's only giving it to her husband. They're
not ever going to give it to anyone else. You can tell at a
glance. Don't even think about it. It's not going to happen.

Unless you set a devious trap. And for that you need help.

Tracy Tuddenham had a thing about other women's husbands. I knew
this because we'd been an item for a short time and we stopped
being an item because I could never get her to concentrate on me.
As long as a man was sporting a wedding band, Tracy would fasten
on him like a leech. She had no taste in matters of men. If they
were married, they were automatically attractive. This is
definitely an undesirable trait in a woman you're sleeping with.
And, of a sudden, I stopped getting invited to social events.
Women hated Tracy like women hate centipedes, scorpions,
long-legged spiders, and those slow-moving black beetles that
make clicking noises and won't stay away from your feet.

We kept in touch, though. We had discovered a mutual interest. As
a team, we were wicked.

I rang her. "Hey, Trace, I'm thinking about doing the wilderness
weekend thing again. How're you placed?"
"Mike, you bastard," she said. "You've lined up some
suckerbunnies again, you evil man." But she was available the
weekend after next, which meant I had to work quickly.
It helps when the husband is a goose, and Barry Hanrahan all but
honked whenever he opened his mouth. I'd met him at a sales
convention and would have forgotten him within hours if I hadn't
seen, at a distance, his wife pick him up at the airport. I
circled around for a better look. She was soft, lush, with that
special wide-eyed, shy, and vulnerable look about her. What a
juicy plum! Oh, yes. I had to have her.

I rang Barry at his office and we met for a drink after work.
Pretty soon, we were doing it regularly. We seemed like great
mates. He'd been married to Clare for nearly three years, but he
didn't talk much about her. I didn't let on I'd seen her. I
pretended no interest at all. But I had sounded him out on the
wilderness weekend thing, and he was receptive. It was time to
lock it in.

He took the bait at first cast. Camping on the beach in a
national park, twenty miles into nowhere, with me in my four-
wheel-drive. I had the tents, the gear, the lot. I'd even cook.
All he had to do was bring the beer and catch some fish. Just we
two good blokes together. Plus my occasional girlfriend Tracy to
keep Clare company. Great girl, Trace. I was sure Clare would
just love her.

As arranged, we met up with them at the service station just
before the sandy bush track into the national park. They
transferred to my car. I shook Clare's hand, formally, and
introduced them both to Tracy. Clare had soft, dark hair that
spilled down one side of her face. She had lovely, round tits
hanging low-ish on her chest. I love that. The fashion models
carry 'em high but the real women are slung heavy and low.

I didn't look long enough to make it seem like I was interested.
I barely said a word to her. Barry was my mate, not Clare. I did
all my talking to Barry. If all went according to plan, I would
get my chance later to gaze with proper appreciation at Clare's
tits.

After the usual slides and bumps, I wrestled the steering wheel
and ducked off the bush track, found a gap in the sand dunes, and
hit the beach. We raced smoothly along the waterline on the wet
sand, waves crashing a few yards away. The sky was a fierce blue
and the ocean stretched away over the horizon. Civilisation
dropped further behind with the hum of the tyres.

I stopped at the place where a sandy creek cut through the beach
and meandered to the ocean. There was a high dune that had been
stabilised by salt-tortured, wind-swept acacia shrubs and rampant
yellow-flowered hibbertia creeper, and it had a sheltered lee
perfect for pitching our tents.

"Go for a walk," I told Barry and Clare. "Us old hands will set
the place up in no time. We've been here before and we know what
we're doing."

They wandered off, loosely together. Clare was the sort of woman
who liked to hold hands in a supposedly romantic setting but her
goose of a husband strode out ahead of her, honking about the
fish he planned to catch.

"Right," said Tracy, when they had disappeared. "Let's get this
show on the road."

"He's not too wonderful," I said apologetically, as she removed
her clothes.

"Oh, he'll do fine," she said, smiling wickedly. "I'm looking
forward to this."

The camp was set up when Barry and Clare strolled back over the
hill.

"Hi there," shouted Tracy, waving beer cans from the cooler.
"Time for a drink?"

They stopped dead. I watched them covertly, looking back under my
armpit. It was important that I act as if everything were
natural.

Tracy was naked, and no woman in my experience could get more
naked than Tracy. She had an all-over tan, light and even, and
her body was completely hairless. Smooth skin without a blemish.
Fit, lean-muscled, not a hint of a sag anywhere. No stretch
marks, no cellulite, and most of all, no hair. None. She'd kept
her cunt bare for so long it looked like she'd never had hair
there at all. It wasn't a shy cunt, either. It bulged out
aggressively, advertised itself, told you it was open for
business.

Tracy was pretty. She had short blonde hair on her head and deep
blue eyes. But she had no tits to speak of. She had the chest of
a twelve-year-old, except for sturdy, brown, bullet- like
nipples.

I pulled the smile off my face with a swipe of my hand and bent
back to the task of inflating the rubber mattresses with a foot
pump. Poor old Barry. Never in his life would he have seen
anything like Tracy. Barry was a dead goose.

Barry and Clare, looking stunned, came down the hill to the camp.

I straightened and acted as if I noticed them for the first time.

"Damn," I said. "I should have warned you that we tend to get
naked in the great outdoors."

I was still wearing shorts, deliberately. Now was not the time.

"Sorry," I said, with a pained expression on my face. "My fault
entirely."

I gestured at Tracy, who was bent over the cooler, legs apart,
smooth cunt on blatant display from behind.

"I can ask her to put some clothes on if you're offended."

"Uh, no," said Barry, almost choking on the words. "No, not at
all."

He smiled bravely at Clare, who couldn't tear her eyes away from
Tracy's protruding sex. "If that's your thing, by all means go
for it. Isn't that right, dear?"

"Uh, yes," she said stiffly. "Sure. No problem."

Well, they were jiggered, of course. What modern, progressive
young couple is going to run squawking in panic at the sight of a
mere naked woman on a beach when the nearest soul was twenty
miles away?

"Look, it's not compulsory, you know," I said. "If it makes you
more comfortable, keep your clothes on. It's not a big deal for
Tracy and me. We're all here to enjoy ourselves, and that's all
that matters."

"Right you are," said Barry uncertainly, glancing at Clare.
"Sure. No worries."

Tracy was now sitting on a towel putting on canvas shoes. With
her legs in the air and feet stretched, the sight was certainly
arresting, which she knew very well. She stood up.

"Time to search out some firewood for tonight," she said,
stamping her feet in the sand. "Come on, Barry. You can be my
pack horse."

Clare stood with her mouth slightly open, arms hanging by her
sides, as a woman as smoothly naked as a baby, except for the
shoes, took her husband by the hand and hauled him over the top
of the dune.

"Your tent's ready," I said to her, shoving the mattress inside
it.

"Oh," she said, looking at me blankly. "Thanks."

She fetched a sports bag from the car and carried it into the
tent. Five minutes later, she emerged in a dark-blue one-piece
swimsuit. I didn't look at her directly. There would be time for
that later. But I could see her body was what I hoped it would be
-- rich and lush, plentiful, occupying the suit to full
advantage, even spilling out of it like an overfilled cup.

"You want to see something beautiful?" I asked her. "It's not far
away and it's special." I took her by the hand. "Come on, I'll
show you."

She was as nervous as a tethered goat in a Kenyan wildlife
reserve, but she cried out with surprise and pleasure at the
rolling and waving sea of wildflowers stretching away toward the
black-water swamp. It was a good time of the year for them. Pink,
yellow, but mainly white, in profusion, countless tiny
star-shaped flowers making clouds of colour over stunted,
heath-like shrubs.

She clutched at my hand and I read her mind.

"Unfortunately, no," I said. "They won't grow in your garden.
They need exactly these conditions. It has something to do with
nematodes."

She turned her head to look at me and I suppressed a smile. So
Macho Mike knows about flowers? Gee, what a deeply sensitive
all-round good guy he must be. Yep. Too right, gorgeous. You can
bank your luscious tits on that.

Clare bent over to test the scent of the wildflowers. I could
have told her there was none, but I let her bend so I could see
the fall of her breasts. She lifted her eyes and saw me watching
her, and she knew what I was looking at. She turned away, her
shoulders stiff and awkward, and walked back up the dune.

"Come this way," I called out to her. There were things I yet
wanted her to see.

I led her in the direction of the creek, because I knew that's
where Tracy would be by now. I stopped, feigning an interest in
something under my foot, and let her reach the top of the dune
before me. She stopped stock still, and I lifted my head to see
Tracy and Barry cavorting in the knee-deep creek. Both were
naked. Barry was sporting an erection, and he was clutching at a
laughing, dodging Tracy.

I knelt down in the sand, out of sight again, pretending I'd seen
nothing. Clare came to me.

"Let's go back this way," she snapped, retracing our steps.
Excellent. Tracy was a champion. She had come through again.

I followed Clare back to the camp. Her back and shoulders were
straight. She would not say anything to me about what she'd seen,
of course. She didn't want to tell me my girl was playing up with
her husband.

At the camp, she sat on a tree stump and looked out at the ocean.
I busied myself around the site but I was watching her. She
slipped one strap off the swimsuit and then the other, and jerked
it down to her waist. Her back was bare and smooth, and her
substantial breasts flowed outside her frame. I could see the
side swell of them. She sat there for a little time. Then she
rose and turned around to face me.

"I thought I'd better get into the spirit of the occasion," she
said.

It was a sight worth printing and keeping. She was everything I
wanted her to be -- ripe, ready to be devoured. There was nothing
relaxed about her, though. She was tight, hurt, stiff, awkward.

"What are you looking at?" she asked with nervous, half-joking
embarrassment.

"Just trying to see past you," I said smoothly. "The sun is
starting to go down."

I tugged tentatively at the waist of my shorts.

"I will if you will," I offered.

She smiled gratefully. "You seem like a nice guy," she said,
slipping the costume down her legs and stepping out of it. I took
off my shorts. My cock was plumped a little but not erect. It
could wait. Events were progressing according to plan.

I turned away and began getting the fire ready to cook the
night's meal. But the image of her was stored in my brain. Wide
hips, a forest of pubic hair, heavy breasts with a fine pattern
of blue veins hinting beneath the slopes. Clare was all solid,
flowing woman, and the contrast with that hairless
muscle-and-bone sprite, Tracy, could not be more apparent.

Tracy arrived with Barry in tow. He had his shorts back on. But I
knew what Tracy had been up to. She'd been teasing him
mercilessly, giving him a bit of herself but not nearly enough.
Poor old Barry would be a pushover when we got down to business.

Barry was clearly amazed to find his wife naked. Nonplussed, he
stared at her and then at me. Then a look of cunning appeared in
his eyes. If shy Clare can go this far, I could see him thinking,
how much further can she go?  I could see mixed emotions swapping
and changing on his face. Dominating, though, was narrow-eyed
lust -- and not for Clare. Maybe, just maybe, he had a chance to
get his evil way with trim, taut, teasing Tracy. Hmm, I could see
him thinking. Could I get lucky? But what about Clare?

"Good idea," he said to his wife, and dropped his shorts.

Phase 1 completed. Four people naked in the big outdoors, with
the light fading as sunset approached. Four people, hungry, and
thinking about the night ahead, and one who can't stop thinking
that she saw her husband fooling around with another woman.

On to phase 2.

Nightfall among the dunes, and the breeze coming off the ocean
grew sharp and cool. We reclothed, more or less, but the essence
of sex hung in the air undisturbed. By the light of the fire and
a huge, cheese-coloured moon we ate and relaxed, drinking red
wine. Civilisation was far away. Anything was possible on such a
night.

Tracy, my activist, stood up and stretched her arms beside the
fire. Her tee-shirt rode up and exposed her bare snatch,
glistening and glowing golden, just like she knew it would.

"Camping makes me hungry," she said. "Also sleepy. Also randy. Is
anybody up for some tent-swapping tonight?"

The question drifted away on the night air. Everyone knew it was
directed wholly and solely at Clare. Barry watched her anxiously.
He looked like he was holding his breath. She wasn't about to let
him get away free.

"So," she said to him with a distinct touch of bitterness. "You
want me to sleep with him?"

"Er." Concern flashed across his face. That wasn't a question he
wanted to deal with right then. He just wanted Tracy.

Clare laughed derisively. "Go on," she said. "I know you want to
fuck her. Just go and do it."

I could tell by the biting way she said it that "fuck" wasn't a
word she normally used.

Barry had a sickly grin on his face. "What the hell," he said.
"Everything's different out here."

"Just go," Clare said. "One thing only. Don't make a fuss about
whatever I might do. This is all your doing, your
responsibility."

It was a warning Barry should have heeded. But he didn't, and I
had known he wouldn't.

Tracy hauled him to his feet. "Come on, soldier," she said
breezily. "Last drinks and home to mother."

Which left me alone with Clare by the dying fire. "No
obligation," I said to her quietly.

She stood up. "I'm going for a walk," she said, setting off into
the dark. I let her go. She would be back and I would have her. I
would have her without once putting any pressure on her. Not
visibly, anyway.

She was gone a while. I had finished tidying up the campsite when
she appeared silently behind me. "I have a bad feeling about
this," she said quietly.

"Tracy will ditch Barry without a backward glance," I said.
"There won't be any lingering problems. She's like that."

"But I'm not," she said.

I took her hand and led her into my tent. It was roomy enough to
stand upright. The lamp was turned down low.

"You have a wonderful body," I said. "It's been bothering the
hell out of me all day."

"Compared to your girlfriend, I look fat."

"Tracy is just a friend," I said. "Nothing special. And you are
totally gorgeous."

She looked at me dubiously for a moment. Then, sighing, she drew
her tee-shirt over her head and let those big breasts tumble
free. With another sigh, she dropped the shorts and stood naked.
I got naked too. Strategic constraints removed, my cock stood out
hard and eager.

She stood with her arms at her sides, less than happy. "This is
crazy," she said, eyeing my cock. "I keep having this feeling I'm
making a big mistake, and that Barry is, too."

Yeah. I knew he was. Trading Tracy -- admittedly different -- for
this fabulous flowing flesh? "Barry has rocks in his head," I
said. "If you were mine, I wouldn't trade you for two yachts and
three racehorses."

Lies. But other men's wives do like to hear them before they get
fucked.

We snuggled together on the double rubber mattress under a light
sheet. I held her to me, heart singing. I love it when the plan
runs according to plan.

I held her for ten or so minutes, doing nothing but huddle and
cuddle. Clare was not from Hussyville. She needed time to get
used to this.

When her breathing was calm and she'd stopped shivering, I kissed
her, and she kissed me back. Time to get the show on the road. I
slid my lips over her body, heading south.

"You don't have to do that," she said when she realised my
intentions. But it was meaningless protest. She wasn't doing
anything to stop me.

"Oh," she said, startled, as I dipped my tongue into a moist and
aromatic pit. "Oh." Again. And again. "Oh, oh."

She came so quickly, pedalling her legs and rolling her hips, she
must have been primed for it.

"Holy smoke," she said, after I surfaced and she cradled my face
to her soft breasts.
My cock pressed hot and hard against her thigh. She snaked down
her hand and gripped it tight.

"This could be big trouble for me," she said.

She wriggled her hips impatiently. She was ready. So was I.

I gave her the long version, the director's special. Tracy was a
no-nonsense jackhammer fuck, but Clare was big, creamy, and
dreamy. I figured the smooth, unthreatening, long-stroking
variation was best. It took time, but she had a body that was
worth the effort.

I tried to give her what I thought she hadn't had -- slow
strokes, patient, smooth, long, but full and to the hilt, pushing
upward and grinding against her pubic bone. For a long time she
did nothing, but a storm was gathering. First, it was her hands,
reaching out and clasping my arms, shoulders and neck. Then her
hips started to roll, and she was pushing back at me, matching
the rhythm. Finally, she lifted her legs. I looked over my
shoulder, and they were high in the air, stuck straight up.

I picked up the pace, and she was with me now, behaving like a
woman who wants and won't be denied. Meaningless nonsense spilled
disjointedly from her mouth. Her breathing seemed to stop and she
locked dead still. Then she let it out, threw back her head, and
wailed at the roof of the tent, shaking me violently. Enough,
enough. I took the cork from my own bottle and released all I had
been holding back for so long.

Her breathing seemed to be stopped. She was deathly still. Then
she gasped, and shook with another writhing spasm, an
after-shock. She calmed and was still. A long, drawn-out sigh
followed.

"Damn you," she said softly. "Now I'm really going to be in
trouble."

"You keep saying that," I said.

"Barry's an amateur," she said bluntly. "I thought he probably
was, but now I know."

"He won't feel like an amateur after Tracy," I assured her.

"But I'm not as clever as she is," she said.

Not my problem. I turned out the light. I get sleepy early in the
great outdoors.

As you do in the great outdoors, you wake at irregular intervals
because the surroundings are unfamiliar. I woke and found Clare
awake. She was on her back and her breathing was shallow. It was
pitch-dark, but I just knew her eyes were open. I slid my hand
across her stomach.

"How come you're not married?" she asked, as though I was some
sort of prison escapee.

"Nobody ever invited me," I said.

She rolled over to face me. I swallowed her soft lower lip as we
kissed, and she made a noise deep in her throat. She was eager,
hungry. She bent her head and looked at close range at my cock.
Then she urged me aboard.

I eased between her legs and she lifted her arms and placed them
loosely around my neck. I positioned against her entrance. She
was slick, ready. I pushed in smoothly and easily, and pressed
firmly into her. She thrust against me and dropped her hands to
my back. She interlaced her fingers in a possessive locking grip.
I pulled partly out of her but rammed back hard and she groaned
softly. Her breath was coming in pants. "Yes," she said.

I made it hard and fast, figuring she wanted urgency. She
clutched, wriggled, gurgled. I figured right. It was what she
wanted. Hips rolling, she picked up the pace. I rammed home hard
and ground vigorously into her pelvis, and her head lifted from
the bed. Then she fell back and loosened her hold on my back. I
paused, waited, and started the rhythm again. Now she shut her
eyes and turned her head to the side.

"Good Christ," she said jerkily, her hips bucking. When she
calmed I rolled away from her. She followed me, smothering my
face with little kisses.

I woke at first light, ready and keen to fuck her again, but her
mouth was turned down and her face was showing worried lines of
guilt. I kissed her breasts instead and rolled away to leave her
with her doubts. But I wasn't finished with her yet. No, not yet.

Outside, the air was crisp and the sun was climbing. I rebuilt
the fire and put water on to boil. Barry appeared beside me,
looking sheepish. He stretched, looked about.

"Nice day," he said, saying it in a way that meant he didn't want
to talk about complicated things.

Clare appeared and stood beside her husband, but they didn't look
at each other. I could feel the tension between them.

"I'm going for a walk," she announced. Barry watched her go,
undecided whether to follow or not. Eventually he did, but too
reluctantly and too late.

Tracy bounced out of the tent. "Standard average," she proclaimed
brightly. "And he's feeling guilty as all hell."

"She's not too bad at all," I said, poking the fire.

Tracy laughed. "We heard," she said. "She made noises like a
steam train."

Clare and Barry returned, not quite together. The barrier between
them was almost visible. Her face was stony with controlled
anger, and he looked uncertain and troubled. She was blaming him
for the situation, and she was almost right. It couldn't have
been engineered without Barry's blind co- operation.

I cooked breakfast. The day warmed up but the mood didn't. Nobody
was saying much, and people looked into the middle distance and
not at each other. Tracy broke the pattern. She was good at that.

"Surf's up and I need a wash," she said, peeling off her tee-
shirt and dropping her shorts. Naked once more, she grabbed
Barry's hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Come and splash me," she said.

He allowed her to tow him over the dune to the beach. He didn't
look back.

"Let's have one last look at the wildflowers," I said to Clare.
She nodded distractedly, and we trudged off.

The mid-morning light was brilliantly harsh, hard on the eyes as
it bounced off the hot sand. But over the crest of the hill six
acres of wildflowers suddenly appeared, and once more, she caught
her breath. Her hair could do with a brush, and she was not
wearing the make- up -- or enough of it -- that big and soft
women need to look their best, but with her lips parted and her
hand at her neck she looked sensationally fuckable.

I led her over the hill and into the swamp basin, up close to the
brackish water the stunted shrubs needed to survive. From behind,
I slid my hands under her tee-shirt and reached around to hold
her bare and heavy breasts.

"Oh no," she said, but she didn't move or shrug my hands away.

I brushed my lips across her neck, below her ears. I felt her
nipples harden in my hands.

"This is not me," she said, almost absently.

"It is, you know," I murmured. "I thought so from the moment I
first saw you."

"Not here," she said. "We can't do it here."

"Here," I said. "Right here, right now."

She swivelled and hung her arms loosely over my shoulders. "It's
not me," she said again. "I don't do this."

"You do now, Clare."

Of course she did. She trembled with the need of it, and her
denials were not about me, but about herself. Down on the sand, I
took her from behind. She looked back at me, under her armpit,
amazed it should be happening like that, but she did whatever I
wanted her to do with complete compliance.

Sand, you know, is not really for fucking in. Doggy-style fucks
were invented to counter the effects of sand. I'm dead sure of
it.

I fucked her deep. Head down between her forearms, she thrust
back at me.

Away to the left, I saw heads and shoulders over the top of a
dune: Barry and Tracy. I looked away quickly, pretending I didn't
see them. When I looked back they were gone.

I fucked her deep and it was great. She came wailing and I came
laughing. My triumph was complete.

Back at the camp, nobody was saying much. I rustled up some lunch
and Barry drank a lot of beer quickly. Save carrying it back, he
said. Yeah, Barry, whatever.

We packed the gear into my 4WD and drove back along the beach. A
gusting wind whipped the breakers white. The tyres hummed on the
wet sand, and I hummed quietly in tune. In the back, Barry and
Clare didn't talk. They sat by either door, a long and hard space
between them.

At the service station, we said our goodbyes. "We must do this
again soon," said Tracy, but she didn't mean it. She'd had Barry.
She didn't want him again. He was just another married man she'd
fucked, another score.

A week and a half later Clare rang me at my work from her work.
"I have to talk to you," she said.

I knew this scene. "Meet me for lunch tomorrow," I said.

"Where?"

"At my apartment," I said.

There was a long silence. But she agreed.

She was on time. In fact, she was waiting for me on the footpath
when I pulled my car in.

"Hi," she said brightly. She looked terrific. She knew how to
dress. I took her up and told her to take off her clothes.

"No," she said. "I didn't come here for that."

Yeah, right.

I fucked her on my bed. Afterwards she held me close. Didn't want
to let me go.

"I have a meeting with a client," I said.

Two days later she rang again. She was a good fuck, and quite
beautiful, but the time had come. I knew the scene all too well.

"I'm calling this off," I said into the phone. "Mrs. Hanrahan," I
added for emphasis.

"You can't make it today?" she asked, hoping I didn't mean what
she thought I meant.

"It's over," I said flatly. "Kaput."

"But," she said, and stopped. I hung up.

She called again, twenty minutes later.

"Don't call me," I said, and hung up again.

Four days later, she was waiting outside my apartment when I got
home. She was dressed to kill but she looked worried. I gave her
a hard stare and didn't stop.

It's been two Clare-free weeks since then. Barry Hanrahan is
probably going through hell.

Meanwhile, there's a long-legged blonde who wears sexy glasses,
whose husband leaves her alone too long while he goes on fishing
trips with his buddies. Her name is Ganymede. Odd, but I like it.

ENDS

Edited by Nat and Ruthie. Illustrated by Garv.

* Neil Anthony/DrSpin can be contacted at
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au 

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