Chapter 3: The Saturday Invitation
The truck woke her before her husband's voice did. A big V8 with a loose heat shield, idling somewhere out front, then cutting off, then the creak of a door and boots on gravel.
Debbie lay still and listened.
Bob was downstairs on the phone. She could hear him through the floor, cheerful and low, saying something about a slab and a pour. Normal voice. Normal Saturday.
Then the doorbell didn't ring, and that was worse, somehow.
She threw back the sheet. The robe was still folded in its tissue on the chair by the window, the one she'd bought on a Tuesday and hadn't shown anyone. Ivory silk. She'd told herself it was for the summer. It tied at the waist and it stopped well above her knees, and in the mirror her nipples came up through the fabric like they'd been waiting for permission.
She brushed her hair, put on nothing underneath, and went down.
Bob was in the kitchen with the phone at his ear and a mug in his hand. He saw her on the stairs and raised his eyebrows, slow, all the way down her legs and back up. He didn't say a word. He just tipped the mug at her, which from Bob meant yes, go.
She got to the front door as the shadow shifted on the other side of the frosted glass, before the knock came. She pulled it open.
Bart filled the doorway. Black hair still wet from a shower, sleeves cut off a grey shirt, forearms thick as fence posts. He had a six-pack hanging from one hand, and when he saw her the six-pack came down slow to his side.
He looked at her breasts first. She knew it, he knew it, and he didn't bother to pretend otherwise. The silk went tight and thin against her, and she felt her nipples go hard enough to ache under his stare. Then his eyes came up, unhurried, and the smile arrived.
"Morning, Debbie."
"Morning."
"You going to invite me in, or is this a doorway thing?"
"You're the one with the beer."
He laughed and stepped past her, and the smell of him came with it, soap and diesel and something underneath. She shut the door and her hands weren't quite steady.
Bob hung up and crossed the room with his hand out. "Bart."
"Bob." They shook, that thick half-second squeeze men do. "You're pouring today?"
"Walnut Street, yeah. You?"
"Nothing that won't wait."
Bob got him a coffee without asking. Bart leaned on the counter and drank it and looked around the kitchen like he was pricing it, and Debbie stood by the sink with the sun coming through the window and the silk doing nothing at all.
"So," Bart said, setting the mug down. "I'm having some friends over on Saturday. Wondering if you'd like to come."
He let the pause sit. Wondering if you'd like to come. His eyes went from her breasts to her face and back, once, and the corner of his mouth pulled.
Debbie felt the heat climb from her throat to her ears. "What kind of friends?"
"Old football club. Few of the boys I played with before my knee went. They're loud and they drink too much. You'd fit in."
"And me?" Bob said.
"You especially." Bart grinned. "Someone's got to keep an eye on her."
Bob laughed. He looked at Debbie across the room, and there was a question in it that he didn't ask out loud. She thought about the blinds, and the note on her pillow, and everything since. She nodded.
"We'll be there," Bob said.
"Eight o'clock. Bring nothing." Bart drained the coffee, rinsed the mug, and put it in the rack like he lived here. At the door he stopped and looked her over one more time, slow, deliberate, and let her see him do it. "Wear something nice."
Then the truck started up and rattled off down the street.
Debbie stood in the hallway with her back against the door. There was a warm weight sitting low in her stomach, and it didn't go away. It stayed through the week.
The week went fast. She gave John his morning shows, three of them, and he stood in his doorway or sat on the porch with his coffee cup and his face doing that shy thing. She flashed a man at a gas station on Route 9 and thought about it for an hour afterwards. Bob fucked her on Tuesday night and Wednesday morning and they didn't talk about Saturday once.
On Saturday morning she went shopping. Bob saw her come in with a flushed look and a couple of bags.
She came down the stairs at ten to eight and Bob was on the couch in a clean shirt with his keys in his hand, and he stopped mid-sentence.
The dress was black and it was tight. It ended at the top of her thighs, so that when she moved it moved and when she didn't it clung. The front plunged in a deep V that the fabric only barely containing her breasts, and the back was cut low enough that there was nothing between her shoulder blades but skin and finishing just at the start of the cleft of her ass. The material had a sheen to it. In the bright kitchen light it went a little see-through, and Bob looked at her breasts, her nipple a hint rather than being visible and then at her face.
"Jesus, Deb."
"You said nice."
"I said nothing of the kind. Bart said nice."
"Same thing."
He stood up and walked a slow circle around her. She kept her chin up. He got behind her and put his thumb on her bare spine, just above where the fabric started, and dragged it down. The crack of her ass showing almost before the fabric moved.
"You've got nothing on under this."
"No."
He kissed the back of her neck. "Okay."
The walk next door took forty seconds. Music came over the fence, something old and loud, and there was a fire going in the pit on Bart's back patio. Debbie heard men's voices, a lot of them, and one of them yelling something about a ball.
Bob held the gate open for her. "After you."
She went through first, and seven heads turned.
Seven men, counting Bart. No wives. No girlfriends. Just a keg on a pallet, a cooler of ice, a fire, and a row of folding chairs dragged into a loose circle. Bart stood up from the cooler with a beer already in his hand and came over, and behind him the others went quiet in the way men go quiet when they're deciding how to behave.
He handed her the beer. "You found it."
She took a drink. It was cold and it tasted like nothing and it went straight down into the warm weight in her stomach.
"Debbie, Bob," Bart said, turning. "This is the boys."
They were friendly. That was the thing. They were friendly and they were loud and they asked her where she was from and what she did, and Bart kept her glass full, and every single one of them looked at her chest when he thought she wasn't watching.
Then somebody said photos, and it started.
The first phone came out of a back pocket before anybody asked.
A thick-necked man with a shaved head held it up and said, "Group shot, everyone in," and they bunched together around the fire. Debbie ended up front and centre with Bart's arm across her shoulders and a hand on her hip that wasn't his.
Bob stayed at the edge with his beer and watched the phone tilt.
Then the shaved one said, "Alright. One with just her."
Debbie laughed. "Just me?"
"Just you."
She posed. Hand on hip, chin up. Flash. Flash. Flash.
bob was sure the dress would go very see thru under the bright flash. He watched the face of the person taking the photos as he surveyed his work. From the look, the dress was see thru.
After that it didn't need asking. One at a time they stood beside her, then behind her, closer each time, and by the fourth nobody bothered to check whether the hand at the small of her back was welcome. Bob tracked it the way he'd track a loose barb on a job site. Photo, phone down, hand stays.
Bart offered her a fresh beer. She was only half-finished the last one she had so she down the remains and took the next beer.
"Beer ok, or can I get you something else," Bob said with a smile.
She looked at him. Half her face was asking him something and the other half had already answered.
The heavy one, Steve, the one who'd been feeding the fire all night, said, "Mind if I get one of us sitting down?"
"Sure."
There was one folding chair in the middle of the patio and she sat in it.
Bart said, "On his knee, love. Looks better."
She looked at Bob again. Bob took a pull of his beer and gave her the smallest nod he had in him.
She sat on Steve's knee. His hand came down flat on her thigh, high, up near the hem. Flash. Flash. Four of them, and the hand never moved, and on the last one the fingers climbed up under the hem.
"Hey," Debbie said, and lifted the hand off. She said it smiling. Another flash. The hand came back.
The second time she moved it slower. The third time it came back slightly lower on the thigh.
The youngest of them, Trevor, sat down on the grass next to Debbie, close, and put a hand on her other knee, and said nothing about it at all. She looked at the hand. Then at Bob.
Bob drank. He'd been hard since the second photo. She watched bob move and adjust his cock in his pants.
The thing he kept coming back to was that nobody was hiding it. Two phones, then three, then every man in the circle had one out, and it stopped being photos. It was video now, and they weren't being subtle about it.
Bart crouched at the cooler and topped her up. "You say the word and it stops, Deb."
"I don't want it to stop."
It came out of her before she'd decided to say it. Bob heard the moment it left her mouth.
Steve slid his hand under the hem. She flinched and drew a breath. His hands moved slowly, bringing the hem of the dress with them. Debbie stared at the hands, the dress as it rode up, slowly exposing her pussy. He stopped when his fingers found the crease of her hip and stayed there, and there was a wet gleam in the firelight where her her pussy lips were visible and parting.
The Toby said, "Jesus. Look at that."
The video kept rolling. The camera moving closer focusing on her pussy.
Bob walked around to where he could see her face. Flushed from throat to ears, mouth open, breathing through it. He put his hand on the side of her face lifting to raise her so she was looking at him.
"You good?"
"Yes," She said her voice faltering. He saw the look of lust in her eyes.
Started to stand, lifting her on his arm like she weighed nothing, He flicked the shoulder strops off her shoulders and pulled the top of the dress down. Bob felt the heat go through his chest and straight down.
Then there were hands everywhere and she stopped tracking them. One at her breast. One at her hip. One up between her legs under the fabric, and the wet noise of it carried over the fire.
She came first on a stranger's fingers with a phone six inches from her cunt and four men standing around her, and Bob watched all of it.
"Alright," the Steve said. "Enough of that."
He stood her up, walked her two steps to the low picnic table, and put her on it on her knees. Then he unzipped and shoved his jeans down to his boots and his cock came out thick and dark and already wet at the tip. He lifts the bottom of her dress up over hips.
Debbie looked over her shoulder at Bob. Her hair was stuck to her cheek. She didn't say anything and neither did he. She put her palms flat on the table and arched her back, with the dress gathered at her waist and left her ass high with her arched back. Someone added more wood to the fire. Every phone was pointing at Debbie on the table.
He lined up and pushed in slow, and she took all of it with a sound that wasn't pain.
Bob watched his wife get fucked on a picnic table in another man's back yard. The Steve settled into a rhythm, hard, the table legs knocking on the patio stones, and Debbie's tits swung under her with every stroke and she was gripping the edge of the table and pushing back into it.
"That's it," Bart said, from somewhere behind Bob. "Look at her go."
The Trevor had his phone right up under her belly. Toby was filming from the side. Nobody asked it to stop.
Bob got a hand on himself through his jeans and adjusted himself again. He wasn't going to do anything with it. He wanted to feel this all the way to the end of the night.
The Steve finished with a grunt and pulled out and stepped back, and there was a shine between Debbie's thighs that had nothing to do with firelight.
"Next," somebody said.
She stayed where she was. Palms flat, knees spread, she dropped her head onto her arm on the table, breathing hard.
The Trevor got on the table behind her before she'd caught her breath. He was in her in one push and she moaned into the tabletop, and Bob saw her reach back and grab his hip and pull him in harder.
Bart came and stood beside Bob with a beer in each hand and watched.
"You're not going to stop this," Bart said.
Bob took the beer. "No."
"There's five more after this one."
"I know."
Debbie lifted her head off the table and found Bob across the yard through the smoke. Her mouth was open and her eyes were black, and she didn't look away from him while another man fucked her.
Then she stopped watching him and started making noise.
It came up out of her chest and carried across the patio, loud enough to cut through the fire and the music and the low talk around the cooler. Trevor's rhythm broke for half a second. He caught it and drove back in, and Debbie's mouth opened against the tabletop and the moan came out long and thick, with no words in it at all.
"Say that again," Toby said, phone pushed in under her hip.
"Harder," she said.
Trevor gave it to her harder. The table legs knocked on the stones, and her tits swung under her with every stroke, and every time he bottomed out she made that sound again, louder, like she was learning it as she went. Bob heard it from twenty feet away. That wasn't a noise a woman made by accident.
"More," Debbie said. "Please. More."
Bart laughed into his beer. "She's asking now."
Trevor got both hands on her hips and fucked her the way she'd asked for, fast and mean, and she took all of it and asked for it again. When he finished he pulled out and stepped back, and the shine between her thighs caught the firelight.
"Don't stop," she said. She was still bent over the table, still spread, still breathing through her mouth. Her hair was stuck to her cheek and she didn't push it away. "Don't stop."
"Nobody's stopping, love," Bart said.
Toby set his phone down on the table, screen up, still recording, and got his jeans open. He was younger than the rest and he didn't waste any time being clever about it. He lined up and pushed in and Debbie's back curved and she moaned into the wood, and the sound rolled right through the yard.
"Fuck," Toby said. "She's so wet."
"That's because she wants it," Bob said.
He hadn't planned to say anything. It came out flat and certain, and a couple of the men looked over at him. Bart just nodded, slow, like Bob had finally said something worth hearing.
Debbie turned her head on the table and found him. Her eyes were black and wet at the corners and she didn't look away while the Toby fucked her. She held his gaze and she moaned for him, deliberately now, loud, and Bob felt it in his chest and straight down his legs.
"You hear that?" Toby said. "She's getting louder."
"Louder means more," Simon said. "Someone get her something to hold onto."
Toby finished quick, hips stuttering, and when he pulled out Debbie pushed herself up on her hands and looked around the circle with her mouth open.
"Who's next?" she said.
Nobody answered with words. Al was already unbuttoning, and he took Toby's place and shoved in without ceremony. Debbie cried out and dropped her head, and then she lifted it again, and her voice came out over the fire in a long, rolling moan that made two of the men standing at the keg stop and turn around.
"That's it," Bart said. "Let them all hear you."
She did. Every stroke pulled the same sound out of her and she gave it up freely, mouth open, chin up, no shame left in her anywhere. The bearded one got a hand in her hair and she let him. The phone kept rolling in somebody else's grip, six or seven inches from her cunt, and she didn't care who was holding it.
Bob moved around to the side of the table where he could see her face and her tits at the same time. He'd been hard so long it ached. He put his hand on her back, flat, between her shoulder blades, and she arched up into it like a cat.
"More," she said to him. Not to the man inside her. To him. "Tell them more."
"More," Bob told the yard.
Al laughed and gave her more. He was heavy and slow and he went deep enough that she grunted on every push, and she stopped asking in words and just made noise, over and over, loud enough that someone down the street could have heard it if anyone was listening.
"This slut's loving it," Trevor said.
Before Bob could react, Bart squared off at Trevor. "Talk like that again and your leaving in an ambulance." His voice was loud but remained calm, he locked eyes with Trevor an angry dangerous look on his face. His fists bunched. Ready, just needing the excuse. Simon patted him on the back about to say something. Bart's head moved to look at Simon, "Fuck off Simon or you'll join him." He seemed to get bigger. Both men looked a little scared and they seem to shrink away from Bart.
The fucking had stopped, everyone looking at Bart and the two men. Trevor put his hands up, "Sorry, I . uhh, sorry."
Bart moved quickly grabbing Trevor's phone. He easily snapped it in half.
When he finished she was shaking and still talking.
"Come on," she said. "Come on, keep going. Don't you dare stop."
The quiet one, the one who'd barely said a word all night, stepped up last of the four and turned her onto her back on the table. He pulled the dress the rest of the way off her, over her head, and tossed it on the grass. She lay there naked on the picnic table with her knees up and her arms open, and Bob saw all of her, every inch, in the light of another man's fire.
The quiet one climbed on. Debbie wrapped her legs around him and pulled him in and moaned straight into his ear, loud, right against his face, and every man standing in that yard heard exactly what she was asking for.
Bob adjusted himself through his jeans and didn't move.
"That's five," Bart said, coming up beside him with a fresh beer. He set it on the table next to Debbie's hip, cold, sweating, just out of her reach. "There's me left."
Debbie turned her head toward the beer. Then toward Bart. She was breathing hard and her thighs were wet and the fire was going and her voice came out rough.
"You're last," she said. "I want you last."
Bart crouched down so his face was level with hers, and he looked at her the way he had in the doorway that morning, unhurried, all the way down and all the way back.
"You'll get me last, love," he said. "First I want to watch you come on that one. Loud."