Resistance

Resistance

My original intention was to place this in the Loving Wives category, alongside most of my other stories. It could also fit in NonConsent/Reluctance. My thanks to my editor Mormon Jack for all his corrections and suggestions, including the idea of putting this story in the Mature category. I take full responsibility for all errors, omissions, and lack of clarity.

The FTDS crowd will be tempted to jump on this story, due to the inconclusive conclusion. If that will bother you, I suggest you skip this tale. It's deliberate. Life doesn't always (or even often) wrap things up in a neat package. I will not repeat the mistake of tacking on a second chapter.

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The rumble of distant thunder took my mind off the concert video I was engrossed in. I pictured my wife driving home in a thunderstorm at night and knew she wouldn't be a happy camper when she arrived. A second rumble sounded more distant and then was replaced by knocking. That couldn't have anything to do with the weather. Nobody should be knocking on my door at ten in the evening. Nobody should be ringing my doorbell... and then knocking again at my door. For one thing, it was late. For another, whoever it was should have been intercepted by the doorman. I looked through the peephole, surprised to see Andrea, one of my wife's close friends. She looked rained on, or maybe she was in tears. It was hard to tell through the tiny peephole. I wasn't dressed for company, but opened the door and gestured for her to come in.

"Hi Allan, I need to speak to Sarah. Is she back from her dance practice?" She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed under her eyes.

My wife enjoyed the line-dancing program in the park near our building. The weekly sessions were led by a half-dozen college-age kids, members of Radical Footsteps, a semi-professional dance troupe. Performing in the park was a way for them to give back to the community, and to meet one of the criteria for the grants that kept them going. They were impressed by the strength of Sarah's dancing and invited her to join: a woman in her late sixties, dancing with a group of youngsters in their early twenties. I suspected, but never mentioned that she might have been a diversity dancer- allowing them to check off another DEI box on their funding requests.

It usually took Sarah forty minutes to drive home from her weekly session at their studio. "She's home by now, isn't she?" Andrea took small steps as she entered, and I closed the door behind her. She looked at the living room couch, where my wife often reclined while watching TV. She peered into the kitchen, but Sarah wasn't there either. Andrea turned towards me, eyed me up and down, and blushed.

"I was getting ready to take a shower. You didn't look very happy when I saw you, so letting you in took priority over getting dressed. I often walk around the house in my underpants."

"I... I can wait while you get dressed."

I shrugged. "I'm not going to. I still want to shower, and my briefs cover everything that urgently needs to be covered." I did a little pirouette. "You've seen almost everything anyways, so..."

Andrea smiled. "Is--"

"No, Sarah's not home yet. She should be soon, but it's never the same time. They want her to stay later for a new project, but she's refusing." I led Andrea to the couch. "Are you okay? Do you--"

"I'm wet."

"Wet?"

"I went for a walk to clear my head, but then realized I was almost at your place, so I came over. It rained on and off. The heavy stuff started just after I got in the front door." She ran her hands over her skirt. "Dry enough."

I touched my hand to her shoulder. It was indeed wet. "We have to get you out of the clothes and into something dry." I motioned her to follow me to the bedroom and handed her one of my t-shirts. "Put this on and I'll throw your stuff into the dryer. I'll go to the living room while you change." As Andrea started to unbutton her blouse I handed her a bath towel and left the room, closing the door behind me.

She soon came to the living room and handed me her bra and blouse. My eyes dropped to her chest, and we both blushed. I pointed to the couch. "Have a seat while I throw these in the dryer. Would you like a drink? Tea, soda, anything?" Andrea was able to drink tea or coffee in the evening, without the caffeine interfering with her sleep.

"Whiskey would be in line with my mood, but I never drink anything stronger than wine."

"I can open a bottle. Red or white?"

She shook her head, then shivered. "A tea would be nice. I should keep a clear head."

I sat down at the opposite end of the couch. "What's bothering you, Andrea? What brings you here with tears in your eyes, and a mood for whiskey?"

Her eyes locked onto my chest. Her mouth fell open as she stared.

I touched the swollen red lines on my chest. "The scars? I got them in Vietnam."

"You were in Vietnam?"

I grinned. "Just kidding. I'm no hero. I got them at the hospital when I had cardiac surgery."

She let out a breath. "Your surgery was a long time ago. When did the scars get so um..."

"Big and red? Pretty much as the incisions healed. You've seen them before, when we were all in Florida. You just didn't notice."

"I don't remember. Do they hurt?"

I rubbed them with my knuckles. "Sometimes they get super-itchy. I can't scratch them properly because I don't want to tear the skin.

"I must have been too upset to notice them when I walked in this evening." She moved closer to me on the couch. "Can I touch?"

"I would enjoy that but it's not appropriate."

She nodded and reached out her arm to bump fists. "Agreed. I'll behave."

"I'll bring you a tea. I know how you like it."

"You're a good husband, Allan."

I stood up.

"It's sweet that you let Sarah be in the dance group without complaint."

"It's not a matter of me 'letting' her. She's old enough to do what she wants."

"But dancing with a bunch of kids... Collin would have a fit if I tried to do something like that. He'd stand at the window waiting for me to come home and then yell at me." A smile crossed her face. "He's probably standing there now."

"I don't always agree with what Sarah does, but it's her decision. She enjoys dancing. It makes her feel good, so I don't object even though some projects make me uncomfortable. Line dancing is pretty straightforward, but this group wants to synthesize it with Irish and modern dance. The project they are wrapping up this evening has all the women losing their blouses at the end of the dance. Their boobs are first covered by their partner's hands, then uncovered for the world to see."

Andrea flinched. "And you're okay with that?"

"Yes and no. Let me get your tea, and we'll continue." I went into the kitchen, put up the kettle, and pondered the answer to Andrea's question. Was I okay with Sarah having a group of twenty-year-old guys fondling her tits? I brewed the tea. A ding told me I had a text message from Sarah: "Staying 2 days 4 next dance project, love u." I trembled, wiped my eyes, and tried to send a reply; my message wasn't delivered. Her phone was off, it seemed.

I placed Andrea's tea on the coffee table and sat beside her. She blew, took a sip, and put it back down. "Are you upset that your wife is having her breasts touched?" she asked.

I had hoped I could escape her questioning with my diversionary tea tactic. "Other men holding her boobs bothers me. But it bothers her also, which is why I'm somewhat okay with it. Sarah dressed modestly for as long as I've known her. Her skirts are always to her knees; her blouses are never tight, and never reveal much cleavage. She's always been a beautiful woman, and showing off her breasts in a dance legitimizes being proud of her appearance. It makes her feel better about herself, and that makes me feel good."

Andrea squeezed my thigh. "You're a wonderful husband, to give her that."

"I didn't give it to her. I'm uncomfortable but happy. Well, not quite happy she's doing it." I took her hand off my leg and held it. "Now, tell me what's got you so upset."

Andrea's chest rose and fell as she took a deep breath. I could see the movement of her nipples against my t-shirt, and she could see the movement of my eyes as I followed them. I held her left hand and looked at her face.

She took a couple of sips of tea, tilted her head slightly, and gazed back at me. "Collin."

I should still have been friends with her husband, but he had changed a lot in recent years. When Sarah and I first became close with Collin and Andrea, he was the go-to guy in the community. If you needed something done, if you needed a problem solved, Collin was the one to turn to. Not anymore. A rich relative died, and since then Collin solved all his problems by throwing money at them. At the same time, he lost interest in helping with other people's problems. He also grew lazy and fat. In recent months, every time Andrea chatted with Sarah, she recited a litany of complaints about her husband. I didn't want to hear them but often got a recap from my wife after she came home or hung up the phone. "What about Collin," I asked. "Is he sick?"

Andrea shook her head. "I'm sick; of him."

"Oh, jeez." I stood up and paced. "You've been with your husband for decades. What's going on?" I sat back down.

She sighed loudly. "He's not the same person and he's getting worse. When I complained about his lack of affection, he said I should find a stranger to have sex with, and then send him the video so he could get his jollies. The lazy bastard often goes to bed at eight o'clock, which is why we never have sex."

I crossed my arms over my chest and remained silent. This was not a subject I wanted to discuss with her. I certainly was not going to be her "stranger."

"He'll take the car to drive a block to the corner store. He'll put the laundry into the washing machine, but someone else has to bring it there." She looked at her watch. "Where's Sarah?"

I didn't want to talk about my wife's current activity. "I don't know. Talk to me instead, I'm a good listener." I needed to be distracted from what Sarah was doing.

Andrea gnawed on her lip. "He says I'm a lousy cook."

This was hard to believe. Many people in the community admired her culinary skills.

"He says I make unhealthy foods. He refused to eat a cake I made him, saying he has diabetes. Then he chowed down half a package of store-bought cookies."

"I didn't know he's diabetic."

"He's not. His blood sugar is a little high, but easily controllable by diet. Eating ten chocolate chip cookies is not the way to control it."

"He's going to have to start taking medication if he's not careful. It looked like he put on some weight last time we came over for dinner."

"Did you see how much he ate? You and Sarah shared a large steak. He ate one by himself, along with a hamburger and a baked potato stuffed with bacon and cheese."

I had noticed then how hard it was for Collin to get up from his chair, propping himself with both arms. "He sounds like a heart attack waiting to happen. I enjoyed the meal. You both outdid yourselves."

"Oh, come on. Collin put the meat on the barbeque. I did everything else, from setting the table to running the dishwasher." She downed the rest of her tea. "Did you finish the cookies I gave you when you left?"

"They're in the freezer."

"They came out really good. I gave them to you so Collin wouldn't eat them all that night. He yelled at me after you and Sarah left." A sparkle came to her eyes. "Do you mind? I only had two."

I stood up and headed towards the kitchen. "Sure. If you behave, I'll let you have four this time."

"You want to make me as fat as Collin."

I laughed.

The cookies had stuck together in the container. I pulled one off without breaking it but was having trouble detaching more. Andrea came up beside me, took the container, and broke off a few pieces, not bothering to separate them. "You're taking too long, Allan. I'm hungry."

I gave her a plate to put the fragments on. "You cheated."

She smirked and put her hand on my forearm. "Not yet."

Collin was an asshole. There was no doubt about it, given the way he treated his wife and the way he treated himself. But I wasn't ready to be an asshole myself, regardless of what he had done, and regardless of what my wife was probably doing at the moment. "Um, maybe I should get dressed now."

She giggled. "No, I'm enjoying looking at your cute butt. Like you said, I've seen almost everything of yours."

Nobody had called my butt "cute" for decades. "Well, just to keep you interested..." I turned my back to Andrea and pulled down the back of my underpants. Just as quickly, I pulled them up. Andrea's slap hit the cloth, rather than my skin. I turned quickly, grabbing her wrist as she wound up for another try. She had a grin pasted on her face, but I saw the unhappiness in her eyes. I brought her hand to my lips, kissing it gently instead of reprimanding her.

Andrea wasn't beautiful. She was pleasant-looking, largely a consequence of her warm personality and easygoing demeanor. "Andrea, I'm having a hard time behaving appropriately. I apologize for flashing my ass. Please, work with me to keep us from doing something we'll both regret."

Her eyes grew darker. "Collin says I'm fat and ugly. You're practically naked but not aroused by my presence; it seems he's right." She sighed. "I should probably leave."

"No! You can't!"

She furrowed her eyebrows, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why not?"

I could only think of one effective way to convince her. "Don't take this wrong." I pulled down the front of my briefs to just above my dick and ran my finger across a short, light scar. "I really want to make love with you. I would love to penetrate you, cum in you... but I can't." I looked up at Andrea and braced myself for a slap. I couldn't believe I had spoken to her that way, never mind exposed myself even more.

"Yeah, I know. You're married to my friend."

"Even if I wasn't married. Hardly anyone knows this, and you'll keep it to yourself: a procedure I had a while ago rendered my dick non-functional. See the scar?" She looked, and then gently ran her finger across it. I put my underpants back in their regular position as she removed her hand. I was both relieved and disappointed that she didn't run her fingers lower.

"What about Viagra, that kind of thing?"

I shook my head. "Doesn't work. I even had Sarah inject medication right into my penis. It gave me an immediate erection, but it disappeared as soon as I positioned myself for sex."

"I wasn't aware..."

"You weren't supposed to be. Andrea, you're very attractive. You wouldn't believe how horny I am now; how much I want to fuck you. I can't though, and even if I physically could, I wouldn't because, well... I can't help you or me that way, but there is something we can do for each other. I need you to tell me what's wrong in your life that brought you here. I want to listen to your troubles, and I want you to listen to mine. We can do that together." Andrea opened her mouth when I mentioned 'my' troubles but thought better of saying anything. She gave me a hug instead, which concluded with her squeezing my bum. I struggled to keep myself from returning that gesture and instead rubbed her back. We pulled apart and she ran her fingertips over the scar on my chest.

She picked up the cookie container and handed it to me to put back in the freezer. "You said you were about to take a shower when I got here. I've messed up your evening already, but why don't you go ahead with that at least."

I didn't respond, so she continued. "I'll watch TV while you take a shower. I won't interfere or embarrass you. I won't join you, as much as I'd like to."

I took my robe into the bathroom, stripped off my briefs, and stepped into the shower. Away from the distraction of Andrea, Sarah slammed back into my thoughts. It seems she decided to take part in Radical Footsteps' new project about rape. She had talked about the piece when she advised me about going topless and being groped in the dance that they finalized. There was no way she would participate in the new project she said, as even the rehearsals entailed actual penetrative intercourse with a bunch of the male dancers. The project was to simulate rape, omitting only weapons and physical violence from the act. We both found the concept appalling. I felt it was bizarre to oblige dancers to have sex with each other to promote rape awareness. Sarah is a feminist of a generation that was very clear in its values: rape is not about sex, whatever her troupe may say. Rape is about power.

When I mentioned STDs and AIDS to her, Sarah said that all the participants had blood tests a couple of weeks prior, and had sworn off sex until the dance piece was done. I couldn't fuck her regardless of whether she swore off sex, but thinking back, we had barely cuddled for some time. Did she have a blood test in anticipation? I had noticed a little bandage on her arm but never thought to ask about it. I wondered whether Sarah had lied to me about refusing to be part of this rape dance. Or maybe she had lied to herself. The preparation and performance would all take place within an intense two-day span to minimize disruption of the dancers' domestic lives.

I finished rinsing the soap off my ass when I saw Andrea's shadow through the frosted glass shower door.

"Was this for me?" she asked.

"Was what for you?"

"You left the bathroom door ajar. Was that for me to come in?"

It wasn't. I always left it open during a shower so the bathroom wouldn't get too humid.

"Maybe." I could see her shape just inside the door. She seemed to be looking at me, but it was hard to tell. "The translucent glass protects my modesty, and this way I can continue chatting up a beautiful woman."

"A beautiful woman? Where?"

Sarah hadn't lied when she said the rape project was appalling. I had assumed it meant she was not going to participate. But she was there now, undoubtedly showing more than her tits, getting from a bunch of twenty-year-olds what she couldn't get from her old, decrepit husband. Maybe being part of the rape project was premeditated, maybe not. "Just on the other side of a thin glass from where I'm washing my genitals," I answered Andrea.

"Well, perhaps that beautiful woman could help you with that."

"Aha! You admit you're beautiful, regardless of what your ass of a husband thinks." Facing the wall, I reached behind me and slid the shower door open. "You could help by washing my back." I handed her the body wash, trying not to expose myself completely as I did so. I didn't give her the washcloth, obliging her to use her hands on me. It felt good.

"I can do your whole body, not just your back."

"That would be wonderful, but I don't think it's a good idea."

"It's no worse than what Sarah is doing with her dance group, letting guys fondle her."

The shower washed away my tears but couldn't stop my nose from running. "Could you give me a couple of tissues, please," I said, pointing at the box. I blew my nose and stepped sideways out of the shower enough to throw the tissues at the toilet. I missed. Realizing I was completely exposed I mumbled an apology and went back under the water. I turned my back to her once again, but after just exposing myself, that gesture at modesty was silly.

Andrea stared at me for a moment. "It seems there's more going on with your wife, Allan." I didn't reply, just stood facing the wall. I felt her soapy hands on me again as she did my buttocks and legs. It felt even better. She turned me towards her, but I resisted, ending up sideways. "Tell me about it, Allan." She soaped my chest as she spoke, working her way downward from the neck. She spent some time tracing the scars on my chest, then moved to the scar on my groin.