Ball It was empty. I heard sounds from somewhere else in the building, like showers: I figured they must be done. I backed out and looked down the hall, and heard the sounds become momentarily louder as a door further down the hall opened briefly and a man walked out. It was Jerry, one of Tim's friends. "Oh, hi," he said, with a little laugh, approaching me. I didn't know what was funny, but I believe I smiled, an unconscious reaction. "Tim's in the shower?" I asked. He laughed again. "Yes, I'd say so. Listen: you've got to see this." Then he was returning down the hall, waving me to follow him. I hesitated, but then went along. He briefly paused for me to catch up, then continued, speaking: "Tim's team was in a game they were *sure* they would win," he said. I still felt like there was something he wasn't telling me. After another little laugh, he repeated: "yeah, they were *so sure*." We'd reached the door where he'd come out. The boy's locker room. He opened the door and signaled me to go in. Go in while the men were showering and changing? I didn't know what Jerry was thinking or why he thought I'd do this. I heard voices echoing in the room. "Go ahead, take a look," Jerry cajoled. I barely stepped in: just to where I had a view of a lot of the room. I nearly gasped: there were men having sex! Three men were doing three other men in the rear. All, completely naked. I stood stock still for a second, not believing my eyes. Tim was bent over, his elbows on a bench, completely naked, another man's cock right in his rear! The only way to describe the scene was *lewd*. I backed away and Jerry let the door shut. "Yep, your husband is a man of *honor*, if a bit too cocky." I had so many questions, but I couldn't get words out. Finally I managed: "Is this every week?" I felt so embarrassed: it was something I couldn't possibly talk about in there, but I was indeed talking to Jerry. Or trying to. He must have gotten my drift. "Nope: first time I've seen *anything* like this." "Did you...?" He laughed again. "No, I sat out that game. No interest in *that*," he said, pointing back toward the locker room with his thumb. Then he looked at me--an interested look: "You seem intrigued. You want to see again?" "No!" came out of my mouth like lightning. "Are you sure? Those men, getting it like that?" "Of course not!" "What do you think of those men? Making a bet like that? Forced to pay up?" I was tongue-tied. It seemed that Jerry thought I was interested in a way that I wasn't, and that embarrassed me. But I had no idea how I was going to get up the courage to say something to disabuse him of the notion. He went on: "Of Tim messing around like that?" I had to walk away. I'd be a little rude, but it wasn't in me to manage to untangle myself from this conversation with any diplomacy. But before I left, he spoke up again: "Well, I feel *I* missed out on the fun." I still didn't leave. Why didn't I leave? I still just strolled along the hall with him. "You and I could play a little one-on-one." he offered. I looked at him quickly. He wasn't grinning or anything: just a questioning look. He had a basketball in his hand. "Just a couple points, for fun. Tim'll be a little while, I'd say." It was silly. Ridiculous. He towered over me: there was no way it was anything like a game. We'd both kicked our shoes off. Three points, he'd said. He basically gave me the ball and let me make my first two--but during my third try, he neatly blocked my shot, captured the ball, took it back, and dribbled it right around me for a layup. And in about thirty seconds, he'd done it two more times. He smiled at me: "Game's over." We slipped our shoes on and went back to the hall. No one. The girl's locker room was right across the hall. He went over and pushed the door open and held it, looking at me questioningly. We hadn't said anything about it. Not a thing. But the idea had been there as soon as he brought up the game, and we both knew it even though we weren't saying anything. He didn't do anything to indicate that I'd promised anything. Just looked at me as if he were wondering whether I'd go in there. He followed me in, pulled soap out of his bag and told me to get in the shower and soap up. Tim was in the car when I got out, surely wondering what had happened to me. He didn't ask though: I think he had worries about what *he'd* been doing and didn't seem to want to press any such issue. It had been so lewd, completely wet and soapy, kneeling on that bench: I'd come so hard. Tim had never done me back there: I'd never done that before: thank God for that soap. My hair was obviously still wet: I hoped that in the dark Tim wouldn't notice. And my underwear was in Jerry's bag. I lay there that night next to Tim, my mind racing. What was going on with us? But somehow I wanted him badly that night. In me. I stared at the woman, standing at the front door. It was morning and Tim was off working. He'd been up and out of the house before *anything* happened. Not a thing. I didn't know the woman. "I'm Stella: I'm dating Jerry," she said, walking into the house uninvited. "Hi," I said tentatively. She held out my underpants and bra. "Care to explain these?" "Uh..." She had this sardonic smile. "Jerry reported some interesting goings-on." She laughed: "Don't worry: I'm not going to bite you. I *like* a good story." She pushed the underwear into my hands. I stood there looking at it . "But I *do* claim license to *your* husband." My head jerked up to see her face again. She still smiled: "Only fair, don't you think?" What do you say in response to something like that? I just stood there tongue-tied. "Say, Jerry *said* you were the quiet, submissive type." Suddenly she grabbed my wrists. Startled, I dropped the clothing. I was so scared, looking at her: I had no idea what she'd do. I was on my back on my own living room carpet, naked. She was kneeling astride me, just as naked. She still smiled as she looked down at me. "Are you ready to be a good little girl?" she asked. She scooted up so that she was astride my head. She looked straight down at me as she lowered herself toward my mouth. My fingers, on myself, were *very* busy.