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Jenny was really tired of it, but it had become so much of a routine, she had long ago quit fighting it. Jenny was forty. Her husband was in his sixties. She had married him after a disastrous first marriage.

Jenny was a late bloomer. She was fairly tall as an eighth grader; very skinny; no boobs; but could run like a deer. Her face was as good as any model. She was as good as the two youngest Jenner girls, only she had reddish brown hair. She was pretty insecure in junior high, but soon began to change. She kept her slender figure, but under that clingy track jersey, her breasts began to take shape; not big, but firm, proud and perky. They were small-to-medium melons, but had spectacularly long pink nipples that budded before she was ready.

Before she was aware of it, the boys at the track meets began to notice. Before her mother realized, her light, clingy blouses were telegraphing her budding adulthood. Suddenly she was very popular. Nobody might have noticed, but when a freshman breaks the KU Relays record for the 1600meter run, lots of pictures are taken; they show up in the paper and on YouTube.

Jenny was getting much more attention than she wanted. Jenny was gullible and taken advantage of. Longing for attention, she was quick to take up with the more popular athletes. By the time she got to college, she was burned out with the disappointments, hollow promises, and misleading romances she had been a part of.

While in college, she married the promising young quarterback. Before their four years were up, he had been caught with several other girls while playing football games away from home. Jenny divorced him and had a very bitter attitude towards men.

Jenny had a good job as a school teacher. She kept to herself for the most part. She felt comfortable with her present husband, Joe, because he was quite a bit older and she wasn't really looking for romance. They started out innocently enough. One thing led to another. Finally she had a choice. He was really too old for her if she wanted children, but he was relatively wealthy. She married him thinking that she would eventually fall in love with him.

Through the years, their sex life had been manageable. By the time she was nearing forty, Joe's sex life had began to deteriorate. He would subtly ask her to do different things.

One day he brought home some clothes she was not used to wearing. Joe wanted to celebrate an exceptionally good business deal he had made, and brought her some clothes to wear to dinner. Jenny had been given some very high heel shoes, a button-front dress that was very short. It was not her style, but since so many girls are dressing that way now, she reluctantly put it on.

Joe took her out for dinner and dancing at a new Blues Club. She got lots of admiring stares and lots of requests for dances. Jenny was reluctant, but went along so as not to offend the many black men in the audience. That night and for many nights to follow, Joe was a tiger in bed. Jenny didn't care that much for sex, but appreciated the renewed attention.

That lasted for a good six months or so. Then Joe came home with another outfit. It was a very short, clingy silk dress that barely came to the bottom of her thumbs. Thinking she was going out for dinner and dancing again, she was looking forward to the night out, however reluctant she was to be dancing with more strangers.

This time, Joe took her to a "Peep Show" theatre. The first floor had seats for dining and a stage. After the dinner had started, there were a number of beautiful young women who came out and danced on the pole centered on their table. Jenny was embarrassed, but figured that Joe would be hot after the evening was over.

That lasted several months.

The next time he took her out, he took her to the same place, with the same outfit. It was the same outfit, but he had forbidden her to wear anything underneath; no bra; no panties. This time, instead of going into the restaurant, they got in an elevator and went upstairs. Joe purchased two tickets and the attendant buzzed a door to let them in.

When they went in, Jenny was a little surprised at the light. Usually, she could hardly see when she tried to get to her seat. This theatre was a little different. There were three aisles; one down the center, and one each down each side. By code, there must be an aisle so nobody must go past six other people, which means you can have one center aisle and rows with thirteen seats in each row. This theatre only had seating for about fifty. There were only about six seats in each row.

Joe went in first and sat in a seat that left Jenny in the middle seat. No sooner than they sat down, several of the men who were sitting by themselves moved. Two came to sit in seats on each side of hers in the row in front of her. One sat next to her and several came to sit in the row behind her.

It was not hard to see in the light, but it was obscure enough that it had an intimate feeling. Jenny looked around. She watched as another couple came in and sat closer to the front. The same reaction happened. Several of the remaining individual men who had not surrounded her gathered like vultures around the other couple. Like Jenny and her husband, the other couple was an older man with a middle aged wife. She had graying shoulder length hair.

Jenny was very uncomfortable with t he show, but it wasn't outrageous. It was a French film; more like a vintage porno film of an older man with a young maid. Through the course of the show, the young girl was ordered into a number of compromising positions. If this got her husband excited, so be it.

Jenny couldn't help but noticing movement between the people around the other couple. She could swear she could see one of the strangers fumbling with the other woman's clothing. Soon the woman's head disappeared. That started frenzy with the men around her. "What were they doing?" she wondered. Soon it became clear, the men were groping her and she was fondling them. She could swear one of the men disappeared out of sight in the space in front of her.

About that time, Jenny realized that several of the men were trying to get her husband's attention. He nodded his head almost imperceptibly, like a man making a bid at an auction. Jenny was gripping her husband's hand for all she was worth.

Suddenly, she felt the man to her left drop his hand in her lap. "Do you come here to meet other couples?" the man whispered in her ear as he turned to put his left hand on her thigh. Jenny was petrified. She looked at her husband, who seemed transfixed at the meaningless images on the screen.

Jenny was shivering out of control as the realization hit her that her husband surely knew what was going on. Her heart was in her throat as the hand to her left crept up her thigh, bringing her dress with it. He took her left hand and opened her clenched fist. He opened her fingers; extended her arm and closed her fingers around his shaft.

She felt her husband stroking her right hand and arm, trying to comfort and sooth her in her panic. "He knows. He has to know." Her mind screamed. Soon she felt him drop her right hand and move to her right thigh. He stroked her leg in an effort to sooth her. It was his way of letting her know she had his consent for whatever was about to happen.

Jenny was paralyzed with fear; with indignation; with humiliation. "Was this what he wanted? Was this what it was going to take to get him up? How far is this charade going to go?" she wondered as she felt another hand from behind slip down her front. Her left nipple stiffened; not in excitement, but in fear and terror.

She closed her eyes, trying to absorb what was going on. Her mind screamed a thousand different things; run, hit them, do something. She struggled with her humiliation and curiosity about her husband's diminishing sexual appetite. What was her responsibility to him? She was too numb to react. She had invested so many years with him, what was the appropriate reaction now? She wondered as she felt another hand slip down her front. The hand massaged her, and then withdrew. It started unbuttoning her front. The cold air-conditioning told her she was exposed as she felt the chill on her nipples as they were being tweaked.

Her hand that Joe had been holding was being raised by a man behind her husband. She felt it being wrapped around an exposed cock. It was hot and moist. It was so close to her face she recognized the familiar smell and heat. She was too paralyzed to react. The man closed his hand over hers and guided it back and forth. Her fingers were shaking under his. She refused to cooperate by squeezing down or moving on her own.

She felt the massive member being used to caress the side of her face as the hand to her left entered her. Jenny was starting to mew in humiliation now. It was a shuddering kind of whimpering.

She felt Joe's hand behind her right knee. She felt him raise his arm, lifting her right leg and bending it at the knee. He lifted it and pulled it to one side, exposing her to the view of the others in front, and widening access for the man to her left.

Jenny looked up at her husband, who refused to look at her. "P ... p ... p ... please, Joe. Is this what you want?"

"It's up to you honey," he whispered in her ear as he turned to her for the first time. He watched as the fingers of the man to her left slipped into her. It was too dark to see, but they could both hear the slurping sound as it slipped in and out of her. The noise seemed defeating to Jenny as she pleaded with her husband to end her torment.

He moved her right hand down to his own crotch, and positioning it at his belt. Jenny was desperate.

"P ... p ... p ... please honey. Please stop them. I will ... will ... will relieve you if you make them stop." Joe looked defeated. He didn't know how to respond. Sensing a hesitation in his response, Jenny brushed the phallus against her cheek aside, and slowly started to unfasten his belt. Slowly, she opened the brass button at the top of his jeans and pulled the tab of his zipper.

Jenny was humiliated to be doing this at all and exponentially more so with an audience. "Anything; she thought. Anything to get out of this hand in her vagina and the phallus on her cheek."

Jenny parted the sides of his fly and exposed his flaccid penis. She leaned over and kissed him tenderly as she placed his right hand on her exposed left breast. She was determined to bring him to a climax as soon as possible. She tried to slide her left hand up and down him in a circular motion, but that didn't seem to be enough.

She felt his right hand move to the back of her head. She recognized the movement; the endless struggle between them in their first year together. He knew what her reaction had always been to this point, but he was determined to try again.

She had struggled indignantly for years. Now, she was desperate. "Do this to him. Do this for him, or do it to the strangers around her." It was a terrible dilemma with no decent outcome. She considered looking into his eyes and imploring him for some sort of preservation of her dignity, but didn't know what else might happen.

With her spirit more or less broken, she lowered her head. Her eyes were almost completely closed by the tears blurring her vision, but she could see that a number of cell phones had been turned on, illuminating the scene between her and her husband.

She tried to turn her mind off as she lowered her lips to meet him. She wet her lips and kissed the tip softly. She looked up to see if that was enough. She felt a flash go off. She was helpless to maintain any dignity as she felt the hand on the back of her head. She shook her head to remove the hand. "Please don't force me. Please give me time to get adjusted to the idea."

She mewed.

Jenny lowered her head. She used the sides of her cheeks to caress his shaft as she moved her head from side to side. Despite her humiliation, despite her terror, despite her anguish about the situation, Jenny had a tender and motherly manner about her that was instinctive. She extended her tongue and lathered the end with an act of passion she did not really feel.

The cell phones continued to flash as cameras and video recordings were made. Jenny was not really in much of a position to control what happened to herself when her husband stiffened; his legs straightened out; his head went back and thrashed from side to side. She did not have her hands around it. They were supporting her on the armrests when the thing went off.

Jenny flinched when she felt the explosion. She wasn't sure what to do. She hadn't been through it before; at least not since high school; not since those nights in the back seat of her boyfriend's Camaro. At the time, she was caught in the curiosity and newness of sex. She had been a fourteen year old in love. This was different. This was in the presence of strangers with cameras and video in a public place. The humiliation and embarrassment washed over her as the blasts of semen filled her mouth and covered her face. "What now?" she thought as her husband reluctantly buttoned himself up. "What now?" she wondered as she moved to button up the front of her dress. Somebody handed her a towel and helped her wipe the muck out of her hair and off of her face.

Men behind her rubbed her shoulders and tried to sooth her shuddering and calm her sobbing.

To some, this was the ultimate use of evil power over an innocent victim. To others who saw it, it was the performance of a beautiful woman trying to hold together a questionable marriage. You had to have been there.

A number of men followed the couple out of the theater that night. Everybody tried everything they knew to see if they could meet up with them again. Joe had had enough. Another day would be another idea. He was done with this one.

For months after that, Joe was a monster in bed. He was a monster every night and three times a day on Saturdays and Sundays. Jenny felt she had paid a huge sacrifice, but maybe it had all been worth it. She felt now that she had her old husband back. Little did she know it would not last.

Finally one day he had come home with a big smile on his face. He was beaming when he guided Jenny to the front door. There in the drive, was a brand new coal black, Bugatti Veyron.

"Oh my God. What did you do?" Jenny whispered as she held her hands up to her mouth.

"I cashed out my retirement fund early. I know I can drive it several years; sell it and get my money back out of it." He beamed. Jenny was crushed. He had spent a million and a half on a fucking car.

If that was the worst thing that he would do, that would have been o.k., but Jenny was in for much more than she realized. His personality began to change. He became much more boastful and quite a braggart. He always wanted to race somebody. Of course, most people with a hotrod know enough about cars to have enough sense not to try to stay with a Bugatti. Never-the-less, it spruced up their sex life quite a bit. "Maybe this is better than getting him excited in an adult theater." Jenny reasoned, thankful not to have to be a part of it.

Finally, one day Joe had decided to take a trip. There is a cross country trip that is not announced. The fastest cars in the world get together for a race from somewhere on the east coast to the west coast. It is never announced. If anybody is caught, the police will follow it and arrest everybody when they come through, making anybody who slipped through the speed stop virtually guaranteed to win.

Joe knew about the trip, and was trying to get to a spot in the Midwest to watch it. He ended up in the rocky mountains in a little and obscure ski resort. When the cars went by; over about a twelve hour span, he was upset that he had not been a part of it.

The resort they were staying in had several hundred rooms. It was not during tourist season and most of the rooms were vacant. The time share sales staff was not there. The ski rental offices were closed. About the only thing open was the bar. The bar was hard to find. It had a door which almost seemed like a side door. You had to know it was there, because it did not have a large expanse of glass to advertise itself.

Joe had been drinking. Since the race had gone by, he had been drinking a lot. "I can beat any motherfucker in here." He was shouting between drinks. "Put up your fucking money. I will race your fucking car against mine; Pink slips. I will race that $ 1,500,000.00 car against anything you got; any of you."

The bartender did not say anything. He just kept mixing drinks and handing them out. If somebody wanted food, he had to go back into the kitchen and make up the hamburger or fried mushrooms; whatever they wanted. It was a small bar.

As the night continued, the bartender started to make some calls. A number of biker-type of young men came in to listen. They talked quietly to each other.

Finally the bartender came up to Joe. "Mister, I would like to take that bet. You have the best car by far, so I will accept the race under certain conditions."

"I'll race you under any fucking conditions; day, night, rain, I don't care. You name the conditions. What are you driving?"

"I've got an old Toyota." The man said.

Jenny was sitting with her husband. She looked up at the big black bartender. "This is a ridiculous joke." She told herself, and tried not to smile.

"Name your conditions and name your bet." The drunken old man said as he waived his half empty glass.

The huge black man produced a typewritten letter. "Here are the conditions. Here is a map. We are to race tonight from Coal Creek, through Dentonville, Cassville, and Snyder. It's about seventy mile in a loop. The first one back to this bar wins. You have to sign this letter approving all the conditions."

Everything seemed clear. The map was clear. It was a loop around the river at the bottom of the canyon. The only thing that was not filled out was the slot for "Wager Amount."

Alright, young man I don't think that damned Toyota piece of shit is equal to my Bugatti. What are you willing to wager?"

"I own this fucking hotel. It's my building against your fucking car." The huge black man stood back and leaned against the table. He looked over at Jenny. Jenny had on a set of dark brown chocolate colored high heeled boots that stopped just below her knees; dark boot cut Levi's, and a blue, oxford men's dress shirt that was starched and tucked into her waistband.

"Wait a minute. Fuck that car of yours. I will wager this building against your wife. I don't want your fucking cheap ass car."

Joe looked up at the big black bartender. He looked around the room. "Show me your ride first." He said.

The crowd of about twenty walked out of the bar and into the parking lot. The parking lot was dimly lit, but there was no mistaking the "Toyota."

"I lied about the Toyota," the bartender said. "The nameplate on the tank says "Toyota," but it's really a Yamaha. It's a 1985 Yamaha FZ750. Surely you're not afraid of an old motorcycle?" the bartender said with a smirk.

"You're on." the half-lit Joe said as he turned and thundered back into the bar. He signed the letter and filled in the amounts:

"Wife for Building."

They both signed their names; it was notarized, witnessed and dated. The sun was going down. Without any talk, about half of the motorcycle riders silently disappeared. They took off to position themselves at various positions around the course; both just before each town and just after each town. Some took up positions at critical turns.

By the time the two men were ready, the sun had set. Joe did not know that the both the Yamaha and Bughatti had been fitted with GPS devices. The men at the turns and ends of the small villages would know where each vehicle was. The bartender could also tell where Joe was.

It wasn't much of a race. The Bugatti could close the distance between them on the straight-aways, but couldn't keep up on the corners. With no knowledge of whether there was sand on the road in the curves, Joe had to use some caution. Going through the towns, he could not tell if other cars were in the intersections or close by. Joe had no choice but to keep to the 25mph posted limits posted in town. Marcel, the bartender, blazed through at 110mph because his accomplices would pull their own motorcycles into the intersections or adjoining streets to block traffic.

Jenny was sitting there in the lounge when she heard the high scream of the Yamaha and the lights come into view in the parking lot. Her heart went into her throat; the blood drained from her face as the huge black man put down the center stand on his bike. He walked in slowly; grinning and holding his helmet under his arm as he kicked open the door.

When Joe came in several minutes later he knew. He had seen the Yamaha, still smoking, but with the center stand down. When he came through the door, he saw the fright and terror in his wife's face as she was now sitting on his lap.

When Marcel had come in, he tossed his helmet to one of his friends, and sat down in a large oak captain's chair next to Jenny. He reached over, grabbed her hand and yanked her up and into his lap.

When Joe came in he could see the despair in her eyes. "How could you have done this to me?" her eyes seemed to be pleading back to him. Words weren't really necessary. They had both seen the document. Jenny had not been asked for her approval. Had she been asked, she hardly thought there was any chance the Bugatti could have been beaten. It was an unbelievable opportunity to get the hotel for nothing.

Win or lose, Jenny was devastated with her husband's brash audacity to use her for a wager. Even if he had won, she would have been crushed to have been considered in this way. Now it was even worse. This was the Adult Theatre all over again.

At least in the theatre, she didn't really know what was coming. Now she knew. This would not be an opportunity to just "relieve" her husband. This was going to be a real humiliation.

Even without having Marcel's clothes off, she knew any kind of "fit" was unlikely. "This is truly going to hurt." Her mind screamed at her.

"Let's start off the celebration with a round of drinks, Marcel said as he put one hand in the air and the other wrapped around Jenny far enough to cradle her breast. He eased her off of his lap in an obvious effort to get her to serve the drinks. Thankful to get away from him, Jenny headed gratefully towards the kitchen.

"Wait a fucking minute, young Lady." You can't serve drinks to our customers like that." He said as he leaned over and reached out to keep her from getting away. He grabbed her hand. She stood there, refusing to face him or shorten the distance between them by returning. Since she had at least stopped, Marcel said: "Young lady you need a costume that is in keeping with the bar theme in here. Oh, wait; we have no theme; we have no costume or uniform."

"Since we don't have a costume, you aren't dressed properly." He tugged on her arm, forcing her back between his legs. Jenny looked desperately over at her husband as she felt his fingers tug her shirt out of her jeans. Her lip started to quiver as she saw him lean forward and pull up the pant leg of his jeans. She saw him pull out a long white ivory stick. The stick was the 12" long pearl handle of a switch blade.

He held it sideways, but vertical. Her mind watched in slow motion as she saw the button being pressed. She saw the 12" blade swing slowly in an arc and snap open. It only took a millisecond to happen, but her mind was going a thousand miles an hour. She flinched when she heard the "click." It sounded like two boxcars being chocked together.

With his left hand wrapped around her thighs, his right hand pointed the glittering tip against her throat. He lowered it and stopped at the top button. He placed the tip between the two pieces of shirt fabric. Like a magic wand, he twisted it almost imperceptibly and the top button skipped across the worn oak floor. The sound was deafening; not because it was heavy, but to Jenny it signaled what was to come. The buttons were coming off. They would not go back on. This was a one way street.

Jenny's mind went numb as the rest of the buttons dropped, one at a time and rolled across the floor. The room was silent.

Marcel stuck the blade between her leg and the denim of her jeans. He was going to slit the fabric from the inseam clear up through the belt so it would part to reveal her crotch.

"Please don't." she sobbed. "I ... I ... I'll do it. Please leave me something." she sobbed as she reached for the belt. She was trying desperately to salvage some sense of dignity. "She had to have something to cover herself when this was over." She tried to tell herself.

It probably wasn't all about the clothes. She was trying subconsciously to create some kind of struggle for power; to wrestle some sort of initiative away from him. By removing her own clothes, perhaps she could salvage least some modicum of control over the situation. She knew she had no way to prevent the removal of her clothes, but perhaps if she did it herself she would preserve some sort of dignity; maybe.

Jenny tried to bend over to remove her boots. "Forget the boots, lady. Lets leave those on. Jenny tried not to sob. She tried to summon some sort of smile she did not have or feel. It was pretty useless as the quivering of her lower lip gave her away when she bent over to zip open the lower part of her boot cut jeans so they could slide off over her boots. Jenny opened the belt; brass button at the top, and pulled the tab of her zipper. The cool air hit her abdomen. She slid the tight garment down her thighs and stepped out of them. Jenny leaned over to pick them off the floor, fold them and placed them on the end of Marcel' outstretched steel wand. It wasn't just a knife. The long thin blade was being used like a septor; a symbol of his authority over her. He pulled the garment up to his nose and inhaled. He flicked his knife over his head, tossing the garment to somebody behind him. They chuckled and passed the price on. Jenny was too humiliated to run after them.

She stood there, not knowing whether to continue or wait for a command. The men's shirt covered her to her thighs, but was open in front. Jenny crossed her hands self-consciously for cover.

Marcel's glaring eyes and the devastating stares from the other men told her she could not hold on for long. Reluctantly, she arched her back and slid the shirt off of her. She brought it around in front of her, trying desperately to shield herself. Marcel held out his arm with the sharp septor extended towards her. His arm looked like it was ten feet long; the knife another three. She placed the shirt on the point.

Instead of just using the point to bring the shirt to him, he used it to twist the fabric around her wrist. He used it to drag her over to him. She stood again, shuddering between his legs; sideways. He unwound the shirt from her wrist. He inhaled and tried to suck the perfume out of the shirt before he flipped it behind him to one of the others.

With his left hand wrapped around her thighs, he stuck the point between her breasts and under her crossed arms. He used the knife to force her to uncross her arms. Humiliated, she stood there with her arms at her sides. Her bra was the sheer, transparent fabric that was used in pantyhose. It did nothing to hide her long-stemmed coral pink nipples. They were twice the length of anything Marcel had ever seen before. They looked like the pink pearl eraser tips on the end of a number two lead pencil; only much longer. They shuddered to reflect the terror and humiliation that was roiling in her abdomen.

Joe was caught up in the moment. He was transfixed by the scene in front of him. In spite of his indignation over his wife's embarrassment, he was also intrigued with her fight to keep some sort of dignity.

Jenny glared for a second at her husband, in despair for what he was putting her through. When she felt the tip of the knife between her breasts, she closed her eyes. It was so sharp, she did not feel it slice through the fabric holding her cups together. She did not have to have her eyes open to know that it was open. The chilled air from the ductwork above told her she had been exposed. She reached up in a futile effort to hold the transparent fabric over her. It was too late. The elastic fabric had snapped around and was trapped between her ribs and arms on the sides. Never the less, she instinctively reached up to cup her breasts. She felt the knife against her wrists. She moved her hands to cover her face; to hide her tears. When she felt the steel point again, she reluctantly lowered her arms to her sides.

She opened her eyes and saw the men starring; transfixed with her physique. She tried to maintain some sort of dignity by fixing her gaze at a point on the wall above her husband.