That night, at the end of another of Melville Tatum’s house parties, when Melville finally finished with Angela, she marched naked down the stairs, grabbing up someone’s forgotten glass of beer to wash the taste of his dick out of her mouth.

Never stopping on her way to the front door, she leaked semen, leaving blotches on his white shag carpet as she went.

Everyone would be glad they could all go home now, and you were glad it was over, glad for yourself. Melville hadn’t chosen one of the husbands like he’d done that other guy for his Opposite Day party. You weren’t ready to go that far—yet.

Angela didn’t bother to stop for the clothes she’d been forced to remove when Melville tapped her as his evening’s sex toy. That left you to gather up the pile of everything she’d stripped off.

Dropping it all where she stood as everyone watched—dress, panties, bra, garter belt, shoes—she’d marched up the stairs where he waited, not giving Melville the satisfaction of seeing any hesitation from her. He savored the looks of chagrin and reluctance. Made his asshole tingle, he’d said.

Now, you hurry to catch up to her as she walks naked from the house, across the lawn, to where you’d left the car parked.

Your own house wasn’t that far from here, walking distance, but those stilettos Angela wore were meant for show, not strolling. So you’d driven over, parking your car on the street directly in front of Melville’s house.

On display in the streetlight overhead, she pays no mind to her nakedness. Why should she? Anyone who might see her—bare-assed, trim thatch, and tan lines gleaming in the light—were still in Melville’s living room, relieved it had been Angela who’d been chosen by him to ‘empty his balls,’ his favorite phrase.

Standing stony and cool, she waits as you struggle with the armful of clothing and fish your keys from your pocket.

Unlocking the door, you pull it open for her. She slides in, her wet skin squeaking on the seat.

You wince at the idea of Melville’s semen smeared all over the new upholstery of your Chevy Impala.

Circling around to the driver’s side, you drop one of her shoes while getting the door open. A two-door sport coupe, you have to tip the seatback forward to lay her things down on the rear seat, grabbing the dropped shoe off the asphalt and tossing it in.

Sliding in behind the wheel, you twist the key in the ignition. She’d pulled her spare pack of cigarettes from the glove box, pushing in the lighter on the dashboard. She waits, her arms folded over her bare breasts, her cigarette perched and ready. When the lighter pops out, you reach for it, hoping to make some small gesture of chivalry. But she flicks your hand away and pulls it out for herself, touching the glowing hot coil to the cigarette. She spits a hard, thin stream of smoke and puts the lighter back.

For a moment’s pause, you try thinking what to say. You turn to speak and she gives and impatient flick of her hand to get moving.

You shift the car into gear.

It was the usual Melville Tatum house party—the stereo turntable stacked with LPs on the changer, lots of alcohol and canapés, then Melville finishing out his night by choosing one of the wives to receive his undivided attention. Tonight it was Angela. Her first time.

The evening’s music was all calypso and steel drums, a Caribbean theme, instead of the usual Perry Como and Ray Conniff. Guys in straw beachcomber hats, women in long skirts or pedal-pushers, knotted-up shirts or bra tops, bandanas or gaudy turbans. Everyone tossing back rum drinks in tiki-shaped tumblers, decorated with tiny umbrellas and fruit on bamboo spears.

A tweedy little guy with salt-and-pepper hair and a pencil-thin moustache, Melville made ample use of his leverage as the homeowners association president-for-life and the generous financial ‘help’ he offered to you young couples fleeing to the brand new subdivisions springing up within commuting distance of the city.

All of you jumped at the chance to own a piece of the suburban post-war housing boom you saw played out on your television sets, in all those dramas and sit-coms. Like everyone else in this neighborhood, you and Angela were into Melville for a big chunk of change—help with the down payment and closing costs to keep the perfect little starter house from slipping out of reach.

Melville’s offer came with conditions—you knew it would. It wasn’t at all about ‘helping you kids.’

Face it, you both had champagne tastes on an RC Cola budget.

The other wives had given Angela the heads up on what to expect when you two first moved into your new house, the place smelling of fresh paint and new carpet. Angela was all for it. Didn’t bat an eye when you both learned what was expected at one of his house parties. Angela assured you she knew how to suck cock. She’d done it more than a few times in college and guys said she was exceptional. She didn’t think it was likely Melville would choose her. She didn’t consider herself attractive like some of the other wives. And then he started choosing from the husbands, she figured her chances of getting picked were slim if that. Until tonight.

It stunned her when Melville stood at the top of the stairs—in his velvet dressing gown and blue opera pumps—and singled her out from among the anxious faces looking up at him. He invited her to leave her clothes behind and come up the stairs to join him.

Angela stripped down, all business, no wasted movement that might tantalize the husbands, or irritate the wives. Strictly business.

She kicked off her sandals and stepped out of her capris, holding onto the back of a nearby chair for balance as she slid them off. She untied and unbuttoned the shirt, one of your oxfords she’d borrowed, whipping it off and dropping it onto the pile of clothes on the ottoman.

Of course, all the men were straining to keep their eyes locked on Angela even as they kept their heads turned away. Wives were trying to keep their eyes on their husbands and Angela.

Angela being the center of attention as she stripped, especially for the men, had you breathing harder and your crank firming up.

With her jaw set and an arch of her eyebrow, her eyes still fixed on Melville, she unhooked her bra and held it for a moment out over the pile of clothing, her breasts doing a little shimmy of release. She dropped the bra, then shoved her panties down to her ankles and stepped out of them, tossing them onto the pile as well.

Fully stripped, she strode to the bottom of the stairs, and with a casual deliberation she made her way up the stairs to where Melville stood waiting.

He looked her over, smiling at what he saw, then led her toward his bedroom, calling back to the rest of his guests to drink up because he and Angela might be awhile.

People avoided looking at you and went back to their drinking and their small talk about jobs, and recipes, and cars, and furniture. You busied yourself folding her clothes.

The first crack of a paddle on bare buttocks made you jump. They’d mentioned the spanking bench Melville had up there—a kind of padded sawhorse. Something one of the guys in the neighborhood built for him.

Another crack of the paddle.

The swats sound worse than they really are, they said. A two-piece leather strop that makes a hellish snap when it lands.

Another crack of the paddle, but no sound from Angela. Even if it really did sting, she wouldn’t yell. She was stubborn that way.

Then another.

It was easy to picture Angela rigged up—the wives seemed to take a peculiar delight describing it—straddling the sawhorse contraption, face down on the padded cross-beam, wrists and ankles cuffed to the spreader bars on either side, ass pushed out so she would hang off one end, a perfect, unobstructed target.

Another crack of the paddle. And then another.

Even if the sting wasn’t as bad as they said, you still imagined Angela’s face twisted up, wincing against the impact, the slap of the paddle lightly catching the lips and hair of Angela’s puss, a bit of a panic that the next one would land hard on that most tender bit of flesh. Trussed as she was on the spanking horse, legs forced apart, ass exposed, she would be so very vulnerable.

Your crank tingled with sympathy and delight. It may not be all that painful, like they said, but it would leave her ass laced with hot, red streaks.

It would still make her grunt as the paddle landed, jerking forward, her breasts shaking, dangling on either side of the crossbeam. Melville favored a right-hand swing of the paddle, they said, leaving his left hand free to squeeze and pinch and pull and twist and stroke whatever might catch his fancy.

You were breathing harder, your crank straining in your pants. A ridiculous turn-on.

You looked around at the other guys. They made a show of ignoring it, but were they trying to listen, pretending to fix their attention on their conversations, their drinks, their cigarettes? Were they picturing Angela’s predicament like you were? Sneaking rubs of their erections bent crooked by their underwear?

That idea had you breathing in short, sharp chuffs, and wishing you could masturbate right then and not waste the inflamed tenderness of your penis, thighs, and belly.

The wives who’d gone into such detail about what Melville favored, described how Melville would stroke her butt cheek, like spreading butter, and then whapp—land a shot. The anticipation makes your legs buzz, they said, knowing where it’s going to land, and then whapp—Melville lands another smack.

Another crack of the paddle. Then another. Slow. Rhythmic.

Still no sound from Angela.

There were some, they said, who would whimper, small, puppy-like. Melville seemed to like that.

Angela was not one to whimper—even as a turn-on.

Your crank was so hard, tight against the crotch of your pants, you were afraid you’d come anyway, leaving a dark, wet spot obvious to anyone who happened to be checking.

You tried to distract yourself, building a fresh drink with whiskey, mixer, and ice.

The paddling had stopped.

He might now be sliding his dick into her tenderized ass, her reddened buttocks warm against his belly. With the spanking horse pointed at the mirror on the wall, he could watch her face as he entered her, pushing in past the squeezing muscles of her anus, defending her rectum against his intrusion. He was keen to see the looks of resigned determination on the wife’s face, willing herself to take him in.

Or he’d moved her to the padded block. You tried to remember how the neighbor described it.

An upholstered crate with eyebolts along the bottom on all four sides. Only enough room on the top for her back, leaving her head dangling off one end and her ass dangling off the other end. Lying face up, her wrists and ankles would be tied to the eyebolts. Snugged in place like that, he had easy access to her from either end.

With her head dropped back like that, he’d cradle her head, his fingers twined into her hair, permed and sprayed stiff. He’d slowly press himself down her throat, and if she could manage to take him all the way down her gullet, he’d watch her neck, fascinated at the sight of his dick filling out her throat, marveling at the biological wonder—at least until she’d have to give up. He’d wait until she started to struggle, and then he’d let himself climax and spew, leaving her to cough herself free of the slimy jizz he’d left behind.

Or he might save it, and mount her like a pony, straddled across her pelvis, and riding her like a Belmont jockey. The wives assured Angela that Melville was long enough to manage it from that position. It helped with him being a slight fella, they said, so he didn’t weigh much sitting across her like that. He’d grip her breasts for leverage and ride her raw.

Whatever it was he had Angela doing right now, the only noises at the moment were the music and the chatter, the rattling of ice in glasses, everyone pretending indifference to what may or may not be happening upstairs.

You’d sucked your drink down to the bare cubes and then fixed another.

No one would leave, the wives had said, they all want to be gathered there in the living room when Melville reappeared, so he could see they’d stuck it out. Melville would wave his thanks as the wife chosen for the evening would slink down the stairs, hurry into her clothes, and slip out.

Angela wasn’t one to slink, either.

The wives had said Melville was vigorous and inventive. They warned her to be ready for anything. One look at his ‘playroom’ would tell her that.

Angela wasn’t the type to give in to any discomfort from Melville’s unwelcome attentions. She might not have actual first-hand experience with the whole buffet of sexual adventures a guy like Melville could dream up, but she still considered herself sophisticated.

You couldn’t help picturing Angela bound to the block, Melville straddling her, squeezing her breasts like handholds, his cock—probably something long and thin, pale and wiener-like—piercing her as he sweeps his hips up and back, gripped with an unnatural vigor.

Then you did hear her. Getting vocal, her voice rising. Having an orgasm.

You heard someone say she was faking it.

Another said she’d have to, or he’d keep it up until she did. Then one asking the other if he’d ever seen Melville’s toy collection?

“No, but the wife sure has.”

“He can go all night.”

“Yeah, she’s faking it. Wants to get it over with.”

Angela finished with a long, drawn-out groan. Like she might have actually enjoyed whatever it was he’d been doing to her. You can’t tell if you’re jealous or disappointed.

It went quiet again upstairs. Downstairs, the steel drums played through the stereo and the small talk burbled through the living room.

A wood-on-wood knocking started.

“He’s using the rack now,” said one.

“For a little guy, he’s got stamina.”

“In her ass,” said another.

“No hole goes unpunished, right?”

“Wife says he likes to pretend he’s a Martian, experimenting with earth girls, trying to figure out their anatomy,” another said.

“I saw that movie.”

“So did he, apparently.”

“You think he puts on a helmet and goggles?”

They laughed and you wanted to slug them both. Instead, you knocked back your drink and built another.

The knocking got harder and louder, a rattling of metal fasteners, then slowing, steady, then harder and louder. Then slowing down, an even tempo. He must be getting close and then holding back, was all you could think.

This time it was Melville making the noise as he finished, calling out.

Damn, damn, damn it to hell, he cried, drawing it out, finishing in a long, loud gut-straining groan.

Another silence, this one longer.

Then Angela was striding out of the bedroom, marching down the stairs, not hurrying, but not dawdling either, snagging the drink on the way, straight past you, headed for the car.