
LINDSEY - Part 1
by TitSlave


      After working sixty plus hour weeks for several years, with no
vacations, I had finally arrived at the upper middle class echelon,
an achievement I had thought was impossible when I first entered
college. I was now VP of Finance at the corporate headquarters of a
national retail giant, and making damn good money.  I was determined
to show the people that doubted me, or looked down at me, that I was
a success. I was climbing.  If people in the organization impeded me
I figured out methods to get them out of my way.  I was now a top
executive, I drove a brand new Mercedes, I had a closet full of
custom suits, and I had Lindsey.  Nothing could more dramatically
reflect my arrival than my wife Lindsey.

      I met her in Mexico on a Spring Break when we were both in
college.  I was in a loud, rather wild Spring Break type of club in
Acapulco, "Club Bonita", and I was half-full of Tequila.  I remember
this night like it was yesterday: I noticed this smashing blonde
participating, along with others inferior to her in looks, in a
"B&B" contest, i.e.,  a "Boobs and Booty" contest.  It was silly;
five chicks at a time came on to the stage and stuck their chests
out, then (or if there was not much to stick out) stuck out their
asses.  The crowd was partying in a cloud of alcohol and so were
most of those vying for first prize.  Everybody was getting wasted.
The winner of the B&B contest, I learned later, got a free night at
the Marriott or something, paid for by the club.  Some of the
contestants were all right on top or on the bottom, but Lindsey was
sensational in all respects.

      She had these piercing blue-gray eyes, that focused on one
particular guy for a full half minute, then switched to another
drunken goof for another moment, and so on. These stares were quite
something through that thick, long, curly strawberry blonde hair
that she tossed around.  The other contestants smiled or laughed
self-consciously; but she glowed with a high intensity  - with lust
in her faint smile and a predatory stare.  She was tall, very
fair-skinned, and with gorgeous, long legs that, when they decided
to meet, turned into this killer hind end. She had really wide hips,
with plump cheeks that stuck out behind her as much as they spread
across, and the whole package down there was oh so sexy.  She was
wearing very tight red shorts and acted like she had done exotic
dancing all her life.  Her rivals were trying to exude sex, through
the booze and their amateurishness, and some were sexy.  But Lindsey
WAS sex.  She was raunchier and dirtier, confidently shaking and
jigglin e a whore, and touching herself and showing her body
sinfully past the point of Spring Break drunken fun.

      After giving you that picture of her, need I say that the
first feature of her that I ever noticed was her ass?  Hypnotized, I
had managed to get close to the stage, and she was bending all the
way over, touching her toes, shaking her lucious can.  She was
pulling the bottoms of the shorts inward roughly, stuffing them into
her butt crack. Then, departing from the contest rule that she did
not have to show her naked ass or crotch, she pulled her underpants
down to her ankles, then spread her cheeks. She was burying the
competition.  "Let's hear it for --" the MC hollered coarsely into
the mike he was carrying as he strutted up and down the stage and,
mouth open, paused to admire her booty show.  He asked for her name
and she half stood up and bent forward toward him to answer, still
playing with herself in front of the increasingly hysterical
audience.  He turned to the crowd. "---LINDSEY!"   The crowd's roar
left no doubt who was the best.  

      Again she bent over with her legs spread, pulling her top down
(in the upside down sense) to her neck and that was when I saw what
I could only see some of up until then:  out fell two very large,
breathtaking breasts.  She was completely bent over,  her hands on
her feet, her ass sticking out, and her face looking mischievously
at the audience through all of that long hair and those shapely
legs.  But you couldn't see much of her face with those big tits
swinging back and forth pendulously.  She lifted them "up" toward
her middle then let one drop, then the other.  Then she managed to
stuff them in her top again and pulled her top back on, stood up,
turned, and the MC handed her some kind of a gift certificate.
"Lindsey! This night's winner of the B&B! And do you agree with me -
the winner of this whole Spring Break?"  The crowd responded with
gusto.   In gratitude she, her panties now in her hand, threw her
arms around him and gave him a deep, sloppy kiss.  What made this so
cative was that the other babes had left the stage or remained there
without sustaining any lusty attitude.  For them this was a fun
experience far away from home, and the instant the music stopped and
the dancing ended they were done with erotic teasing.

      Not with Lindsey.  The MC, a short, well built guy with shades
on and a long ponytail, was visibly caught off guard. He was used to
giggly drunk chicks shaking his hand when they received their prize.
She told me later he thought she was a pro who had blown in from
Vegas to go slumming, and flipped when she told him she was studying
art history and graphic design at Ohio State.

      So on the stage he responded to her passionate kiss, pulling
her close to him, and when she pushed his hands onto her ass and she
turned her back to the audience again the crowd went nuts,
applauding wildly and cheering.  "Yeah baby!" "Give her a feel for
me!" the guys on either side of me yelled.  Then she said something
in his ear and he sat down in a chair that was facing at a right
angle to the audience.  She pulled her top off, slowly, looking hard
out at the audience, no smile, and roughly grabbed her breasts.  She
lifted them hard as high as she could, licking one, then the other,
all the while grinding her hips.  She pulled at her nipples
vigorously and bent over to aim a tit at somebody in the front row,
then mimicked squirting milk at the frantic member of the audience.
"Are you thirsty, honey?" she yelled as she worked her chest.  She
turned and faced the MC and slowly walked toward him, her hips
dramatically swaying to the high volume rap music.  The crowd was
yellin screaming at a fever pitch.  She stood over him, his face
looking up toward her chest, and, still holding them high on her
chest, with nipples fully aroused, she dropped one breast, then the
other, on his head. He began licking them and  sucking on them.

      She stared out at us, her hair in her eyes but hardly blocking
the sex rays emanating from her face. Then she smacked her buttock
so hard you could hear the contact of skin on skin through the
commotion. She was a sorceress, holding us in thrall.  The audience
was beginning to sound like a mob itching like mad to storm the
stage.

      Unfortunately two unhappy guys came out from somewhere and
told her and the MC that the show was over.  They were clearly angry
with a contest that had far exceeded the limits.  The music went to
half volume, and so did the crowd's yells. Then two Mexican
policemen showed up and the MC and Lindsey were ushered out of the
club, which now had gotten real quiet.  A wave of boos and taunts
erupted from the customers.  One of the policemen grabbed Lindsey -
who was taking her time and gesturing with a confused look for the
benefit of the fans - then gave her a shove. She stopped, turned
back at him and cursed him, and stared at him with a glare that seem
to come from the eyes of a madwoman. Several of us were afraid that
he was going to beat her, but, surprisingly, he was rather
nonplussed.  This girl had caught him off guard and kept him there,
by the sheer force of her blazing bitchhood.

      I found out that she was in jail. This girl was part of my
plan. I was willing to overlook her lewd conduct - it was just an
aberration - I felt like I was in love.  She was the Mercedes Benz
of all women and I saw my star rising with someone this beautiful as
my wife.  It took me three hours to find the jail and thirty minutes
to arrange her release.  They just wanted an exorbitant amount of
American cash, which it so happened I had.  She was so appreciative
of my bailing her out and getting the charges dropped that she
married me six months later.  

      I continued to have some apprehension about how wild she was
at that place in Mexico but satisfied myself that at the time she
was getting crazy at a Spring Break party bar south of the border,
and she would never see any of those people again.  She told me she
had gone through a stage of dating a lot of guys at the same time,
"exploring" exhibitionist sex, and being intimate with strangers,
but that she was "burned out".  She said this stage in her life had
begun when she was 14 and showed no signs of stopping by the time I
met her, and when I said "you must have been totally drunk at that
club," she said that in fact she had been drinking only ginger ale
all night.  That suggested she was willing to undress in front of
guys and get really wild in a sober state, without needing liquor to
get loose about it, and that bothered me too. But she convinced me
that her crazy phase was over.  Maybe I was naive.  

      We settled in my home town, San Diego.  We both worked and I
couldn't get over what a fast track she was on.  She never relaxed,
always was moving, slept four hours a night. Jogged at four in the
morning.  Took martial arts until she fought with her teacher -
practically got into it physically.  Always ahead of me in our
conversations, she figured out my political risks at my company long
before I did and practically mentored me on how to climb in the
organization.  She read the Wall Street Journal twice as fast as I
did.  

      But she was content to let me be the breadwinner and quit her
job in sales when I started to make really good money.  After just
two years we had the cash to buy an old, three bedroom brick house.
We had no kids and converted the third bedroom into an office.
Lindsey was active in community activities.  We entertained often
and went out two or three times a week.  I was so proud to have such
a fox for a wife.  It made me look so good.  She frequently got
compliments - and so did I, from co-workers - about how sexy she
was.  I had to chuckle to myself at my good fortune.  I bought her
daring clothes and eye-catching jewelry.  Having her was like having
the resources for traveling frequently to Europe on vacation, or for
buying a boat; the more stunning she looked, the more a reflection
of my success.  She helped put me on the map.

      Gradually we stocked the house with high end furniture and
other attractive furnishings. Lindsey took up painting again and did
some very fine watercolors and chalk drawings of seascapes and
Mexican villages we had visited.  She just plunged into it and came
up with these handsome depictions.  She became a genuine expert on
wild flowers and planted them in our spacious back yard, along with
standard garden varieties.  She wallpapered practically every room
in the house in a matter of days. Slowing down was death to her

      To me the crowning touch was my entertainment center, a solid
oak piece that I paid a fortune for.  It was enormous - filled an
entire wall in the family room - and  housed a 42" television, state
of the art stereo equipment, very expensive loudspeakers, a DVD
player and a VCR, a kareoke system,  a Mac high-end computer with
Internet access, and other goodies.  Lindsey thought it was a big
pain in the neck, too big, self-indulgent, etc.  She just didn't get
it.  There was nothing about it she liked.  I totally loved it and
we had fights about buying it, before and after.  Once she told me I
should marry the "piece of shit" since I loved it so much.  This
disturbed me no end.  I wouldn't speak to her for days after she
said that about the entertainment center.

      As I made a name for myself at the company two things
happened, one bad, one good.  The bad news was that I gained a good
deal of weight.  Lindsey began to kid me about it, assigning me two
pet names that I usually took light-heartedly:  "chubby" and
"butterball".  But the more important, good news, was that last
month we were able to buy a large, recently built home, 3,500 square
feet on an acre, adjacent to county park land that would never be
developed.  Price: $875,000. We were excited about this big step up
and I made a point of letting everyone know that we were trading up
to a palace.  

      Obviously there were numerous arrangements to be made, and
near the top of the list were movers.  A company someone had
referred to me canceled at the last minute so Lindsey asked around,
avoiding the big name outfits for some reason, and narrowed it down
to a local outfit named "Macho Moving".  We spoke about it on the
telephone; I was concerned about an organization with such a name.
"Honey, we're getting moved by 'Macho Moving'?"  She answered, in
her characteriscally rapid fire style: "I checked around.  These
guys are very dependable and not too expensive. I spoke to the head
guy.  When I gave him your name he said he knew you from high school
and college."  I asked, "what's his name?"  "Greg Tucci."  I
laughed, and repeated his name. "Tucci?  That clown?  I remember
what a jerk he was!  Came from money and always had smart ass
comments for me about my side of the tracks. Well, this is great!"

	"You seem like you want to make a point," she chuckled.

      "Oh do I," I said.  "Ask him to come out to give us an
estimate. I want to show that lardass that I turned out just fine."

	"Lardass?" she asked.

      "Oh, he was pretty fat in high school.  Lost a few tons in
college but the last time I saw him he was definitely off the charts
for his weight class."

      "Well, butterball.....," she said.  I was beginning to dislike
that word.  I ignored it.  "Ask him to stop by tonight and give us a
quote."  She was ahead of me. "We only have a week, so I already
did.  He'll be here around 7."  She hung up before I could say
another word - as usual.

      I thought about Tucci the lardass and called her back.  "One
other thing, honey.  I have to ask you a favor."  "You want me to
look really good for this guy," she said, reading my mind.  "Yeah.
Please.  Put on something a little daring, a little sexy.  And tease
him till he can't stand it. I want to really rub it in."  "Well why
don't YOU get into something sexy, and tease him till he can't stand
it?" she snickered.  "Lindsey, do this for me."  I heard her sigh.
"I have done this kind of thing for you so many times," she said,
"maybe one of these times I'll wear nothing but a bra and
stockings."   "Very funny," I said.  She was all mine and she knew
it.  I really wanted to make him pay for the shit he gave me in the
old days, and showing her off was going to make him damn envious.

      I got home around 6:30 and discovered that Lindsey had taken
me seriously, maybe too seriously. She was made up with extra eye
shadow and liner and wore some intense lipstick that turned her
mouth into that of a burning serpent.  She was wearing red high
heels, dark hose, a very short, tight black skirt - I don't know how
she managed to squeeze her big sexy round ass into it - and a light
beige tank top that clung snugly to her body like a coat of paint.
Her nipples were boldly right out there, and her rather sizable
breasts were clearly, in detail, on display.  She told me she had
deliberately skipped a brassiere and her chest seemed to jiggle
every other second, with the slightest movement.     

      We stood in the kitchen. "I am surprised at how far you went
with the outfit," I said, "when you have dolled yourself up for me
to impress people in the past it has not been quite this
provocative....maybe you should tone it down a little, get on a long
sleeve blouse, and a longer skirt."  I expected her to comply but
got the wrong answer: "You said 'daring' and 'sexy'", she smiled,
"you wanted to rub it in."  The doorbell rang - Tucci was early - so
it was too late to cool down her outfit.  

      I was interested to see how this overstuffed brat had tumbled
into the moving business. What did he weigh now, 300?  It would be
sweet to parade my success before him.  And he would be on my
payroll, taking orders from me!

      Lindsey got the door, her heels making her legs and ass roll
enticingly.  Standing on our porch was a guy who had dropped the
pounds, hit the health club, bought a smart wardrobe, and moved from
fatso to a stallion.  I barely recognized him. He extended a large
hand, part of a bulgingly muscular arm. "Hey, how are you, dude?" he
said to me.  He held a clipboard and looked very well groomed in
khaki slacks and a "Macho Moving" jersey. Then he turned to my wife,
who was gaping at him, smiling, totally impressed.  "You must be
Lindsey," he smiled back at her, taking her hand. "Greg Tucci."  "Hi
Greg," she said, "my husband has told me so much about you, but
skipped over how very attractive you are."  She held his hand and
looked him over some more.  Her coquette act was so convincing - for
a moment I was afraid that she genuinely wanted this guy's bod.

      We relaxed briefly in the living room - to the extent my wife
could ever get laid back. She let one of her shoes drop to the floor
and sat half kneeling on the couch, one of her long legs curled up
so that her skirt barely covered her thighs, and gestured that he
sit down next to her.  The tops of her stockings were black and were
half peeking at him from under the skirt.  As I sat at a chair next
to them it became obvious to me that her posing was working
immediately and that he was quite impressed with her.  He and I
chatted about the past and I was taken aback at how he had changed.
He had become a very handsome, almost imposing, fellow with
prominent Mediterranean features in his now chiseled face and a
sense of confidence and an earthy, masculine presence that seemed to
appeal to Lindsey.  

      Her voice was getting very soft and suggestive with him as we
talked. She was doing just as I had asked, teasing him.  "You must
do a hell of a lot of lifting, Greg," she smiled, "your arms are
just huge. Some guys are big," and she pointed at me, puffing air in
her cheeks and stretching her hands at either side of her waist,
then winking at him, "and some guys are --- big," she said, staring
at his arms,  her tongue on her upper lip and her eyebrows raised.
Did I say she should show me up while she was showing off?

      He smiled back, "Thank you.  But this is turning into flab.
I'm more in the office and selling the company now. I'm actually out
of shape."  She cooed at him, "do you mind?", and rubbed her hand on
his biceps. No one spoke for what seemed like a few moments. They
looked at each other.  "Flab my fat ass. More wine?" she practically
whispered.  "Are you having more?" he said, "I will if you are."
"Oh, yeah, I want to toast to this incredible body of yours," she
chuckled.  

      He turned to me, "Tim, hats off. You obviously are a
successful guy and that certainly applies in the marriage category.
If this lady were unattached I would be ---," he turned back to her
and stared at her breasts.  "On my trail?" she said, "or on my ---
big fat ass?"  He just looked at her and then said: "You keep
referring to your 'fat' - uh - ass," he smiled, "but I really don't
think 'fat' applies."  She stood and turned her back to him, bending
over. "Is it attractive?"   "Very," he said, staring at her butt and
then glancing over at me. 

      I took that at his recognition of my accomplishments,
including the ravishing female catch that he wanted and could never
have.  Although his transformation from fatso to hunk threw me off,
and I was getting a tad concerned that she was more zealous about
the teasing act than I wanted, I was confident that she was getting
to him and to facilitate this further I stood up to get the wine
from the kitchen.  

      The phone rang and as I was fetching the chardonnay I noticed
Lindsey was too involved in her teasing to answer it, so I did.
Still posing with her behind aimed at Greg, she was gabbing away
about her efforts on the Stairmaster at her health club to work her
gluteal and hamstring muscles.  

      The call turned out to be a business call I had to take
anyway.  I brought the cordless and the open wine bottle into the
living room and said to her: "Why don't you show him the house. I
better get this call."  They disappeared toward the second floor,
Greg following her swaying, lucious ass up the stairs. This is
great, this is killing him, I thought.  
	
      The call lasted longer than I thought, almost twenty minutes,
and so did their look at the upstairs. They were very congenial with
each other as they finally came down, her arm in his, and headed for
the basement at the tail end of my call, then wound up in the
kitchen.  I pressed the button on the cordless when I was finished,
and heard a few words from the kitchen.  I decided to let the
chatting go on without them thinking I was in earshot.

      "Well, I wish there was a Lindsey at every house we moved," he
said.  They were silent for a moment.

      "Did you like my tour of the house? Did I give you an eyeful?"
she asked  in a low, soft voice, giggling.

      "Definitely.  Too bad there isn't another stairs for us to
climb."   More of a pause.

      "Oh, you liked that?" she chuckled tenderly.  "You liked the
view? Were my hours on the Stairmaster in vain?"

      "Yes I liked it, and no way have you wasted your time at the
health club. And I think you approved of me looking up at this
lovely behind.  This wonderful piece of feminine architecture, right
here.  And the best was you on that ladder into the attic."   

      "You should have moved out of the way when I tried to climb
back down," she laughed.

      He laughed back, raising his voice with enthusiasm: "I noticed
you started climbing down without letting me get out of the way!"
They both laughed and I heard what sounded like a smack.  "Take that
you animal!" she said, giggling.   "Oh yeah well how about this!" he
said.  "You ticklish?" he said.  

      I decided this was crossing some kind of line so I made some
noise in the living room and walked loudly into the kitchen.  Greg
was standing with his back to a counter and had Lindsey, her back to
him, in a gentle half nelson with one hand.  With his other hand he
was tickling her waist and the arm pit under her free arm.  She was
swatting at him with her free hand, her chest sticking way out and
shaking more than it should.   Their faces were red and they were
laughing like little kids.  She had such a lusty, chesty, gritty
laugh.  So many of us laugh on cue, with no spontaneity, no
outpouring.  She let it out pour out like a waterfall.  No one could
laugh like Lindsey.

       "So, what's the estimate?" I said soberly, sitting at the
kitchen table.  I am used to people getting serious when I do but
was surprised when neither one of them seemed to notice my question
and my glare. I repeated the question, with an official grin.  The
horseplay continued.  Greg then said, through a bawdy laugh: "$3,000
for the whole job, $2,500 if we leave that nine ton entertainment
center behind," then returned to the tickling.  My wife squirmed and
squealed as his hand tickled her.  "Let me go so I can smack you,
you son of a bitch!" she yelled.

      "OK, kiddies," I said, standing up and walking over to them.
He stopped tickling her and released the half nelson but kept his
hands on her shoulders, pushing her in front of him so her hand
couldn't reach him.  I said: "Greg, you have to be joking about that
entertainment center."  "It's going to be a tough piece to move," he
said. "it must weigh nine tons," he said.   Lindsey turned to him
and laughed: "So does he!"  They both started snickering.  Her eyes
were getting that flamed look, iridescent, cosmic.  His look of
fascination - fearful fascination - meant that she was ahead of him
too, and me, and I was beginning to tremble.  Her sexiness, her
laugh, her games, her posing, her energy - were in gear and I sensed
that for the first time in our marriage it involved my deferring to
her pushing things with another man.  She was taking my request to
play the flirt around the block but not coming right back. 

      Greg then looked at his watch.  "Oops!  Gotta go.  We'll see
you on Saturday. I'll have five guys with me,"  then he turned to
Lindsey, with a twinkle in his eye and a subtle grin,  "and they'll
have the qualifications you specified."   He grabbed his clipboard
off the kitchen table and began to hustle toward the front door.  He
and I exchanged good-byes.  "Let me walk you out," Lindsey said. She
chased him out the door and I watched from the window.  I noticed
her handing him something while she kissed him on the lips, then
kissed him again on the lips.   

      When she took her time getting back into the house - she waved
to him from the porch - I looked at the entertainment center,
thinking about how the movers would have to handle it to avoid any
scuffs or damage of any kind.  She walked over to me and gave me a
very passionate kiss.  "Let's go upstairs and fuck," she moaned.
She had never spoken like this to me before.  "Yeah sure," I said,
caught by surprise, "you in the mood?"  "I'm soaking wet," she said.
"How'd I do? I gave him that video we made of this house at that
party" she asked.  "Well," I replied to her question, "maybe too
well.  And you have to cut out the ribbing about my weight -
especially in front of others."  "Yeah yeah," she said, then, softly
as she kissed my neck:  "you told me this guy was a 'lardass'?  He's
a total babe! "  I  could feel her heart pounding.

      "You gave him what video?" I asked, puzzled.   She looked at
me closely. "The video we made when we moved into this house."  I
panicked - totally panicked.  "You mean the one where you -?" She
smiled at me with kind of a spooky expression on her face.  "You
told me to tease him," she chuckled, "that should get things
rolling."  I sat down, my head spinning.  "I can't believe you gave
him that. I'm going to call him at home and flag it. He can't see
that video."  Lindsey snickered some more, and puckered her lips,
raising her chin at me.  "Now now, chubby," she whispered loudly,
her breathing agitated.  "I told him this was going to help him
prepare for the move.  He'll be so hot and bothered after he sees it
he won't see straight."   

      I raised my voice.  "Don't call me 'chubby' when I'm upset.
Well, he's not going to see it.  What's his number?"  I reached
frantically for the business card for Macho Moving.  I grabbed the
phone and called his number and got an answering machine.  "Hey
Greg, it's Tim. We gave you that video by mistake. It has some
sensitive family footage on it and PLEASE don't look at it. Call me
as soon as you get this message.  555-7890.  Repeat. DON'T watch the
video!  Call me! I need to come by your place and pick it up.
ASAP!"   

      I was shocked that she had done this, along with the request
for five guys to help Greg move. When I asked what he had meant when
he said his helpers would have the "qualifications" that she had
"specified", she was evasive.  "I figured you wanted to show how
successful you were and that you could afford so many guys because
money was no object," she said, looking away from me. "But what
'qualifications' did you 'specify'?" I persisted.   She said she
wanted to make sure there was diversity, i.e., racial diversity.
This sounded like crap, but I was too perturbed about the video to
pursue it.  Later she shifted her reasoning and said: "Oh the real
reason for six people is because of your entertainment center.  It's
impossible any other way."  This didn't wash either because three
guys (with my help and supervision) had moved it in when I bought
it.

      And what video was she referring to?  Allow me to elaborate.
On the night we moved in to the house we were now moving out of
Lindsey and I had a little too much to drink to celebrate and at the
end of a house warming party for those who helped us move in, she
insisted on my making a tape of her showing the house off.  There
were only three guests left, all guys from work. They were half
bombed also.

      I had mixed emotions about the way she was acting because she
was acting flirtatiously with them and I absolutely will not
tolerate such behavior - unless I have control of it and it has some
business objective to it.  But on the other hand her awesome body
was all mine and I crowed to myself that she was completely
unattainable and I was the proud owner of this beauty.  Let them eat
their hearts out, I thought.  

      She changed into a pink blouse, a flimsy French woven
brassiere, a black skirt, very sexy red hose with garters, a very
sexy thong, and spike heels.  We were all in a party mood.   I made
up a title card "LINDSEY SHOWS OFF" and cranked up the video camera.
The video focused on the card while someone's drunken voice tooted a
trumpet call. Then the video showed a  view of the kitchen. The
camera panned in slowly on her sitting on a high stool, her legs
crossed provocatively.  Everybody else stood behind me.  I couldn't
wait to use the camera because for my own private enjoyment I could
aim at her bod and zoom in on her charms.  No one else would ever
see this video.

      She sat smiling, and a designated narrator, Ron, my now former
friend, for reasons that will become clear,  said: "Hello there, are
you the lady of the house?"  "Hi there. I am indeed."  "So this is
your new home?" the voice asked. The camera went to her chest, and
then moved to get a close-up side view of her big tits. "This must
be the kitchen," the voice said.  The camera stayed on her upper
body, and she responded  to the situation by placing lazily her arms
behind her and sticking her chest out.  "You're very observant," she
laughed.  We skipped a few beats and I kept the camera on her
breasts, congratulating myself on having this knockout sexy woman
that I could dangle in front of guys.  "Those are really big tits,"
the voice went on.  "Right again Sherlock," she smiled.  I stopped
the tape. "All right Ron, let's keep it clean.  And Lindsey, don't
go along with it, OK?"  Ron saluted me.  She looked at him, smiling,
and said: "But I do have really big tits. They are hard to right
guys?"  The three lustily agreed.   I snapped at her: "Just keep it
clean. I thought you were going to do a serious tour of the house we
have finally come to own."  I turned the camera back on.

      "Tell us about your kitchen," the voice resumed.  She stood up
and walked to the counter that extended  from the sink down to the
refrigerator, her high heels making a wonderfully feminine sound.
She placed her hands on the counter with her back to us and looked
at us over her shoulder through her hair, arching her back and
bending her left knee.  "I just love this counter space, " she said,
putting her left hand on her hip.  The camera moved slowly down from
her smiling face to her back and then to her outthrust behind, then
to her legs.    Her bedroom voice was disconcerting but I knew that
it was meant for me and only me.  "I can do all kinds of things in
this kitchen. I can't wait."  Then she turned around, and in a
complete surprise to me she raised her skirt above her garters,
which she was wearing very high on her thighs, and hopped up
backwards onto the counter.  She crossed her legs and stopped
looking at the camera and just looked at our guests, mostly Ron.
"So what e an I show you?"  More silence.  "Give me a minute to
settle down, babe," the voice said. The others were whispering
enthusiastically.  I had to admit it was great fun having her show
her legs almost all their entire beautiful length to these tortured
goofballs.  The camera toured her body and she looked at the lens
and said, kind of sing-songy: "I'm, uh,  going to stick 'em out
again."  She extended her arms on the counter behind her and we all
sighed watching her big tits stick out under that thin blouse.
"Keep it clean," I reminded her.  "But I didn't mention my big
tits," she said in a little girl voice, looking straight at Ron.
Then she hopped off the counter.  "Let me show you my upstairs.
It's huge," she smiled.  "Your upstairs is definitely huge,"  the
voice said.  They laughed.  "Yeah, show us your upstairs, honey,"
one of the others said.

      I stopped the camera, frustrated with the way it was going.
"Look I don't like this."   She ambled into the dining room and
observed: "You're the one who is turning this into a porno movie."
"Maybe they don't realize it, but you're aiming the camera at my
tits and my ass all the time."  "That's for me," I said, feeling my
face turn a little red.  "Let's go upstairs," she said, touching my
nose with  her extended index finger.  The others followed me as I
followed her up the stairs to the second floor. As she slowly
mounted the stairs she pulled the skirt as tight as possible around
her buns, then pulled it up over her ass.  The guys got real quiet.
We poked the camera in the home office and in the second bedroom,
without incident, then entered the master bedroom and she stood on
the bed and announced: "Here's the master bedroom, and this" - she
turned around and stuck her butt out at the camera - "is where my
husband gets satisfied."  Ron said: "You mean in your butt?"  Befor
ould answer she said, very suggestively: "You tell me," and pulled
her skirt up again, then this time she pulled down some black weave
panties she had on and collapsed on her stomach on the bed, arching
her ass up in the air. She looked back at Ron and began rubbing her
ass crack and grinding her body into the bed.  I was shocked. I had
thought this side of her died in Mexico.

       "All right, show's over," I said, royally pissed, having lost
control of my home, and I shut off the camera.  But Ron, the other
two applauding,  climbed up on the bed and practically dived on top
of her.  

      "Ron!" I yelled, "Get the hell out!"  I pulled him off of her
and he left, they all did.  I was furious with her, how she had made
me look like an idiot.  "One day you'll learn that you have no power
over me," she laughed through tears.  She had very strong hands and
held my wrist like a vise.  "You think you're my chief executive,
but you got it backwards," she smiled.  The next couple weeks were
kind of rocky.  She wanted to talk about "us" but I refused.  She
talked for both of us and told me what I was thinking and what an
imperious idiot I was.  Everything she said was accurate.  When she
finished she went into the basement and  "I feel like I'm in a
straightjacket," she complained.  I put the tape away and watched it
occasionally, late at night.  I always became aroused watching her
on camera like that.

      And now, in the present, this relatively short but intimate
video was in the hands of Greg Tucci. And what if he showed it to
others?  The situation was fraught with danger.   Lindsey and I
ended the evening with some very intense sex - I could have sworn,
however, that she half spoke another name when I was licking her
pussy - and afterwards I said to her: "Look babe, the tease thing is
all done.  When Greg shows up on Saturday it's strictly business."
She said nothing.  

	"Did you hear me?" I said.   

      "You did ask me to drive him crazy. That's what you told me to
do," she said, rolling over in the bed with her back to me.  "Well,
I changed my mind," I almost pleaded. Her tone was uncooperative.  I
was getting nervous.  "Let's just say on Saturday  I am going to do
what I want to do.  If I feel like it, I am going to pick up then
where I left off tonight."    She was challenging me. I did not know
what to say.  To my discredit I said nothing and had a sleepless
night, anticipating Saturday fearfully.

      Saturday morning found me with mixed emotions. I was eager to
get us into our new home but was apprehensive about my wife's
defiant attitude.  Her outfit for the day only somewhat mollified
me.  She had made her self up like it was time to leave for a dance
club:  deep red lipstick and purple liner, alot of cosmetic
attention to her eyes, and flashy earrings.  She wore a sleeveless
blue T-shirt with a reasonable neckline but the material was two
sizes too small. This item of clothing was full bodied;  when I
suggested it was way too tight on her she explained that it was kind
of a leotard, and tapered into a narrow band at her crotch.  "But
that top is way too tight," I insisted, "It's automatically,
intensely, drawing attention to your chest."  "Cool!" she said in
this perky voice that made me homicidal.

       Whatever brassiere she wore under her top pushed her very
full breasts up and out, and, with the tightness of the jersey
material over her chest, every stitch of her brassiere cups was
obvious, outlined clearly.  This totally dramatized the size and
roundness of her F cup bust.  Any man who appreciated well endowed
women would immediately be aroused. I mean the look was
intimidating.  

      She wore white shorts that were not as tight as her top.  On
her hind quarters overly tight shorts would obviously be whore-ish
but she looked real sexy anyway, in shorts that suggested her ass,
not advertised it. And she knew how to walk and stand in poses that
called out Lindsey's pelvic and gluteal wonders.

      Her shorts, however, were not exactly subtle. They had the
look at the top of being undone - I supposed they were designed to
have open space between the fabric and her skin all around the top -
and when she came downstairs carrying a box of books and wearing
these shorts I noticed they were, in fact, undone. There was this
openness around them of about a half inch from the fabric to her
skin and it stopped you right off the bat, holding your eye there,
insisting you fall into some kind of trance and ponder what was just
beyond the space.  It was bold of her and because the hems of her
shorts were loose fitting this looseness at the top and bottom gave
a sense that at any second the shorts were about to slide down to
her knees. It was as if this item of her wardrobe, which only came
up to a spot just above her hips, was about to fall off, except for
their snug fit around her hips and her bubble ass.

      I refrained from a comment about her top because she would
just say that she was wearing a jersey and she was quite large on
top anyway so what would be the point of trying to hide her bosom.
But staring down at the shorts I said: "Uh, honey, your shorts are
unbuttoned."  She glanced casually at them and then kept walking.
"Yeah, I know."  "Well, don't you think you ought to finish getting
dressed?" I said.  "I am dressed, honey," she said,  "what's the
problem?"  "There's this space all around the top of your shorts,
and it looks like they're about to slip off.  You can see down into
them."   She laughed: "Exactly!  That's the way they're supposed to
look!"

      Between these precariously positioned shorts, her jutting,
to-die-for breasts, her dolled up face, and the way an apparently
brand new pair of shiny white high heels fit eye-catchingly on her
gorgeous feet, I feared I saw a prowling man-eater, and it made me
damn nervous.

      We were very well organized by the time the movers arrived.
Lindsey had worked hard. Practically everything that could be was
boxed, the boxes each marked as to what room and the category of the
contents.  All the prints, other wall items and drapes were down.
With the packing up done the soon to be former house was giving us
an echo sound when we spoke.  A large moving van rolled to a stop in
front of the house at 10, and an Econoline pulled up behind it.  The
weather was perfect: sunny, around 70.  I mentioned their arrival
and my wife swayed out to the front door.  I watched her - if the
devil is a she this would be devil's enticing ass - and a deep
apprehension settled over me, like the fear of going out on that
first date - only this was much more profound. She was a second
sexual self now, and as she changed so did her husband. Lindsey was
beginning to turn me completely inside out.
