“Rape me,” she said. “Just tear my panties off!”

I was offended. I'm no rapist. Furthermore, as a writer, I wanted to lecture her. It's not rape if you request it. But my mouth was full of a bulky sweater, and a padded bra underneath that, and a breast somewhere under those inches of fabric. She wanted to play-act. She was my wife. We were in the privacy of the farmhouse, half a mile from any other human, as best I knew.

She PLANNED This

I flipped up the skirt. She planned this ahead of time, I thought. She never wears a skirt, even when we go to a nice restaurant. She always wears jeans or slacks.

We'd initiated every room in the house. The living room sofa was no place new. Never the less, it wasn't spacious and comfortable. I reached down with my right hand and found the elastic of her panties around her left leg, and inserted a thumb under it, and then the other four fingers, grabbed the gusset, and yanked.

“That's it,” she cried. “Just shread them suckers!” I yanked – and nothing gave. I jerked as hard as I could, and a few threads screamed blood murder, but nothing gave.

Lie There, Wench!

“Lie there, wench, or it'll be your life!” I cried. She giggled. Yeah, I didn't believe it, either. I got up on my knees so I could get better leverage. I pulled and nothing gave. I got to my feet, grabbed with both hands, and the panties proved up to the challenge. They didn't give a bit. I had lifted Em's entire weight by the gusset of her panties, and they weren't about to surrender.

“What the fuck are those romance novelists thinking,” I demanded. “The Department of Defense doesn't need Star Wars missile defenses, we just need to put our cities in panties, and the Russian nukes will bounce right off!

“So quit your bellyaching, ye lusty pirate, and ravage fair damsel,” she argued, as she pulled down her panties, “Or I'll have to find someone else that can do the job.”

+++++

We Weren't Exactly Dating

Debbie and I, strictly speaking, weren't exactly dating. She had been dating a jerk for about six months, and I'd been biting my tongue for at least five and a half months, but she finally said “Good Riddance” to him, and I told her it was a smart move.

I had been dating a variety of really nice women, some exceptionally nice, but somehow, none of them were people I wanted to spend the next decade with, much less the next hundred years. Debbie and I had been talking about life and love over coffee workday mornings for about a year, and never dated before.

She was a bridesmaid at her cousin's wedding, though, and she needed an escort to replace The Jerk. Would I care to fill in? It was 200 miles away, but she had cruise control, she said, and she'd already paid for a room with two king-size beds.

She Looked Really Nice

Come morning, she dressed, and she looked nice in her bridesmaid dress. That never happens. Brides deliberately choose dresses that make sure there's no competition for the bride's own gown. Debbie was a farmer's daughter type, study enough to pick up an 80-pound bale and throw it across the barn, and shapely enough to make any traveling salesman swoon.

I reached out to feel the satiny fabric as it passed over her butt. “No panties,” she said. “None of us are wearing underwear, including the bride. She didn't want any VPLs - visible panty lines - or any bra straps peeking out. The other bridesmaids are all married, and they say their husbands are really turned on. You might position yourself carefully when the groom reaches for her garter. She says she isn't going to warn him. You might get an eyeful.”

I laughed, and she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me, pressing her bosum into me, Thank you so much for bringing me. I would have been so embarassed to come stag.”

Reception At The House

Her cousin's parents must have been rich; the reception was in a huge white tent at their home, which was huge and nicely appointed. The bridesmaids were pouring champagne down their throats by the gallon, which struck me as odd.

Most wedding receptions I'd attended were dry, although a few got a keg of Sunday beer. They say that 3.2% beer isn't an intoxicating beverage under Ohio law, and that's because it makes you sick before it makes you drunk. Not so for this champagne.

They were flirty, too, pulling their long skirts up to their knees. One of the husbands said something about his wife having the best legs, and another one objected. A third one demanded that they all stand up and raise their skirts, so we could do a fair judging. They raised their skirts to five or six inches above the knee, and one of the husbands complained that he wanted to see more, so they raised their skirts to within an inch or two of their crotch.

I Had To Judge

One of the wives insisted that I had to do the judging, as I was the only one not married to a bridesmaid. “Go ahead,” another one said, “check the closeness of the shave. That counts.” She grabbed my right hand, and stuck it between her thighs. I was half afraid that a husband might be upset at me. I hemmed and hawed, and the women raised their skirts high enough that I could tell that all of them had shaved their crotches. Suddenly, I heard a couple of kids playing tag running towards us, and skirts immediately dropped to knee level or lower.

“I guess with all the kids around, a taste test is not going to work very well,” said one of the husbands. They all laughed, and I decided that I didn't need to worry about the husbands. I don't know what things were like once everyone sobered up, but right now, these guys were quite happy to let their wives do anything they wanted to, with anyone.

So Who's The Winner?

“So who has the best legs?” demanded the redhead.

“You're all winners,” I said. “Not a cough in a carload.” She pressed me again. “Well, a gentleman can't hardly be expected to name anyone except the one that brung him, right?”

“Thank you,” she said, and she came over and gave me a whole-body hug, pulling my hands up to her breasts, and french-kissing me. The other bridesmaids vied to be next in line to attack me.

“Whew,” I said. “You guys better take care of your wives, and quick, or they're going to knock down a waiter and rape him.” The guys all laughed. Debbie whispered into my ear. “Want to see the house?” It wasn't really a question.

Touring The House

It was a really nice place, I admit. “He must own a railroad,” I said. She said railroads weren't profitable enough; he owned an auto parts factory. After seeing the downstairs and about three bedrooms upstairs, she grabbed me by the tie, pulled me close to her and said, “Remember the Godfather? Want to do some play-acting?”

“You want to wake up with a horse's head in your bed?” She laughed, and said, “No, silly. I want you to nail me to the door.” She pulled me into position, wrapped her arms around my neck, and jumping up, wrapped her legs around my torso.

Debbie wasn't a 60-pound waif. She was strong and sturdy, and probably weighed 165, maybe 180. The strain on my neck was impressive. I pressed her against the door, reaching down and grabbing a thigh in each leg to hold her weight. And that's where it stopped.

What's The Matter?

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“Well, for one thing, I'm wearing my pants, and I haven't got a hand free to do anything about that,” I replied. She removed her right arm from around my neck, and tried to reach down to unzip me, or failing that, to unbuckle my belt. Her arm wasn't long enough to do the job.

What's more, I was having trouble supporting her weight. She was sliding down the door. Her dress wasn't. Her dress was accumulating in her armpits, making it harder and harder for her to breathe. Speaking of which, I was having trouble breathing, too.

It's Not REALLY Steel

“You know,” I said, “Guys talk about steel, but it's really not. That bone is only flesh, and it can't support you. And you might even snap it off.”

She started to laugh, and that was the end. We collapsed in a fit of laughter on the bed. “If I'd known we were going to screw, I'd have done the gentlemanly thing last night,” I said.

If I Had Known

“If I'd known we were going to screw,” she replied, “you'd have been doing it for months now. It's all those other women that did it to me.” And then we proceeded with the kind of really satisfying calisthenics that are only possible when you really know, trust, and care for each other.

Marriage isn't about sex. It's about spending your life with someone. We continued to have sex with each other while we dated other people, for another six or eight months, when she decided that the guy she was seeing might be the right guy. I thought so, too, and was happy for her.

They say these things never happen except in the letters column of the magazine. They're wrong. God made women insatiable sluts and guys incurable romantics, so these things will happen until the end of the earth. It's just that when they happen, they tend to go wrong.

Other Bloggers On Related Topics:
3.2% beer - bridesmaid - champagne - going commando - mishaps - padded bra - panties - pirates - rape fantasy - romance novels - The Godfather