My Wife, Marihuana Whore

An unsuspecting housewife seduced to the Other Side, a world of tripped-out drug parties and wanton sexuality!

(M-voy, drug, M+F) caution

Chicago, 1962

Home early, I eased the front door closed and tiptoed across the foyer, holding a plate of bundt cake behind my back. From the voices I knew that Elaine had company, but it was the strange aroma that gave me pause. I peered around the corner.

An Amscay salesman sprawled on our couch, his briefcase and wares forgotten on the coffee table. His pecker stood thru his open fly. In a halo of reefer smoke, my winsome wife lay with leaden eyelids against the corner of the couch, her fingers trailing down the buttons of her blouse.

Another man stood with his back to me, naked from his trousers up, dancing to the Mantovanni playing on our hi-fi. "This grass is just the wildest—so free, man!" he said. "Right, kitten?"

"Right, Daddy." Her lipstick smeared, she purred as the blouse fell from her shoulders, and the tops of her rosy nipples became visible in her lacy brassiere.

The room spun. Grasping the hair above my temples, I strained to think where this nightmare began...

Elaine and I married immediately after college, having saved ourselves for one another and the bright summer day of our wedding. We made love that night, sweet and awkward and caring.

After our honeymoon, we moved into a new home near my new job at a prestigious engineering firm, and began the wonderful life we'd been planning together. Once settled, we invited the neighbors to a cook-out, and were happy to find that we lived in a community of good, fun-loving people. The merriment and laughter stretched into the night; we toasted marshmallows and drank wine while the children drowsed at their parents' feet. Elaine and I looked into one another's eyes, knowing we had found the perfect place to start our family; after everyone had gone, we left clean-up for the morning, and I carried Elaine upstairs.

My career was on the fast track, exceeding our highest expectations. I traveled routinely to the company's most important job-sites as the trusted proxy of my boss, Mr. Fontaine. Meanwhile, Elaine kept our house a showcase, and even developed a mean game of bridge! It's not such a bad thing to turn up at bridge-club meetings with the most capable and attractive player on your arm. Then later, on those peaceful suburban nights, listening to the crickets chirping, we lay arm in arm, beginning our family together.

Occasionally after making love, side-by-side in bed, we heard rock-and-roll music in the evening air, coming from across the street, the house where Rod and sapphire live. That sapphire insists on spelling her name with a lower-case "s," suits them. Rod makes pottery in their garage. They both wear graying ponytails—Rod with just a little kindling on top—and whispers were that the two weren't even married. Plus, Betsy Clark told Elaine that she had spotted them a number of times naked in their yard; they were usually a bit loud, so that she couldn't help but notice. You might call them free spirits, but let me state right here that Grant and Elaine Goodman are 100-percent pro-free spirit, you know, if that's the way they want to be.

But one thing Betsy said gave me pause: she claimed that Rod and sapphire smoked marihuana. Some nights, when she heard them skinny-dipping, a pungent odor wafted thru the Clarks' bedroom window. But again, I suppose, what you do in your own backyard is really nobody's business.

Or so I thought, until I returned early from one of my trips to Alamogordo, pitching our proposal for a government contract to some Pentagon officials there. The presentation was a knock-out, so I was on Cloud Nine as I pulled into our driveway that night. If we landed the contract, Elaine and I would be able to afford that cottage in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. I couldn't wait to tell her and surprise her with a box of chocolate-covered cherries.

I walked thruout the house, puzzled. It wasn't like my Elaine. No note, no... Then I noticed the flickering glow of tiki-lamps in Rod and sapphire's backyard. I crossed the street to see if they knew where she was, perhaps a Tupperware party she hadn't mentioned.

My calls at the gate were drowned by the music and festivities within, so I took a deep breath and let myself in, hoping Rod would not be too sore at me.

A group sat in lawn chairs around the patio. They laughed uproariously, as if watching a Jerry Lewis movie. Oh, I felt like a Nosy Nelly, walking closer, wearing an apologetic grin.

Then, my jaw dropped.

Betsy Clark ran into view from around the pool, bare-breasted! Her stomach rippled with laughter, and her breasts shook as she looked over her shoulder. I tried to flee, but my feet were frozen. And that wasn't the end.

Until Betsy had turned, I hadn't even noticed the woman chasing her, clutching Betsy's top in her hand. Elaine! My heart leapt to my throat.

Another emerged from behind the pool with her, Deirdre Tennis, who headed bake sale at church. Deirdre caught up to my wife, hooked her fingers in Elaine's swimsuit bottom, and tugged it down.

The half-naked women squealed and toppled one another to the lawn.

While they wrestled, a group of men wearing only swimming trunks followed behind them. There was Rod, Betsy's husband Clarke, John Tennis (without his toupee), and a couple others, crowding around. They danced a crude ring around the writhing female bodies, stirring a fertile fragrance by pulling thick tufts of grass and drizzling them over the naked limbs and torsos below.

Faces in every direction contorted into masks of grotesque mirth, the curtains of laughter into a nightmarish fugue.

"Elaine Goodman!" I stepped from the shadows.

Striding across the silent yard, I draped my suit jacket over her shoulders and shepherded her away from there.

Safe at home, I tucked her into bed and fetched some Bromo-Selzer for her headache and nausea. When I returned, she clutched my shoulder.

"I don't know, I don't know," she said, her jaw quaking like a little girl's. "The terror."

I hushed her and closed her eyes, bringing the blanket to her chin and kissing her forehead. Not a minute had passed before her breathing deepened beneath the hum of the humidifier.

My head swirled while I observed the darkened house across the way. I had a mind to march right over and duke it out with Rod—one of a storm of thoughts about what had happened, about my poor wife, about how I should respond. I decided to turn in, knowing that the answer would present itself in the morning.

It was a fitful night. I awoke dog-tired but anxious to throw myself into the DOD proposal. While I prepared an ice pack and a Bloody Mary for Elaine in bed, the doorbell rang. "Seven-thirty!" I tightened the belt of my robe, and ran my hands thru my hair.

"Good morning, neighbor." It was sapphire, holding a sweet-smelling pie.

"My!" She declined my offer of a coffee, because she knew I worked early mornings and wished only to inquire after Elaine. She explained how a few of their guests the night before had confused her "medicinals" with ordinary cigarettes.

"Glaucoma," she said, tapping a fingernail on her pearl-horned sunglasses, "and anxiety."

"Of course," I nodded gravely. It was the first time I had heard of anxiety as an illness, and I thought she was going to show me some proof or manifestation as she raised her sunglasses, but instead she leaned forward to plant a kiss on my cheek. I promised to tell Elaine she had called, and went whistling to the kitchen to prepare my wife's breakfast tray, including a slice of sapphire's aromatic pie.

"Thank you, bright eyes," Elaine said, dipping her finger in the dollop of whipped cream, "but can't I entice you in a little piece?" Her robe fell open, exposing a breast jiggling like a cherry on custard. She's so cute sometimes.

I sucked her finger clean, but shook my head. "When I get home, pumpkin. I have to get on this defense project; it's the ship we've been waiting for. I'll grab a muffin at work."

"Pookie"—she only uses "Pookie" during romantic moments—"I am the luckiest girl in the world."

I drove to work with a smile on my face, ready to conquer the world.

At the office, I was a tornado, plowing thru the preliminaries and setting project parameters for our department. I skipped going home for lunch, because once I got rolling, splendid tomato rice soup and grilled cheese sandwiches were the furthest things from my mind.

When I pulled into the drive at the end of the day, I was suddenly ravenous. Elaine was, too.

"Elaine?" I called, holding a bouquet of white carnations. "Honey, Pookie's home!"

In the hallway lay a torn box of snack cakes, with a trail of wrappers leading to the bedroom door, where I found a crumbled potato chip bag. Inside the darkened room, lit by a lone candle, I kicked an open box of breakfast cereal. On the corner of the bed I saw the chocolate cherries.

I squinted at the piles of pillows and blankets on the bed. "Elaine?"

The voice was hoarse, languishing. "Pookie-bear." Her limbs emerged, stretching like a cat's. "Lainey's been so lonely, waiting, saving the last piece of pie for you."

Reaching in her direction, I grazed one of her breasts, and pulled back. "Honey? You're not wearing clothes. You're naked."

She drew a snake-like breath thru her teeth. "Come... have a bite."

Thrusting out the flowers, I said, "I brought you a present."

She purred. "Hold them for me. Both hands, now."

I opened my mouth to reply, but it was immediately filled with a loamy forkful of pie.

She said, "Mm, have another."

I did what I could to placate her illness.

"And more," she said.

It was chewing that third mouthful when I became drowsy, daydreamy. I squeezed the flowers, struggling to maintain balance. I felt a tugging on my trousers, and looked around the bouquet.

My little wife had wrested my penis thru my fly, stroking it with both hands!

Unable to utter an intelligible word, my shock registered as: "Ahh ahh..."

"Oh Grant, it's so beautiful and thick. Just look." To cap each stroke, her fingertips fluttered beneath the tip. In response, my crimson erection bobbed twice each time: ONE-two... ONE-two.

"I think you had better be lying down," I said.

"No, dearie," she said, "I think it's you who had better be lying down." Grabbing my waist, she pulled me to the bed, where she made short work of my trousers. She snatched away the flowers and flew thru the buttons of my shirt, running my chest hair between her fingers. With a flick of her fingernail, she flipped my glasses above my head.

She straddled my stomach, her blond hair tickling my face, her lubricated sex grinding against my torso. "Waiting all day. Waiting for my man."

"Yes?"

"Oh yes. Hot, horny wife, wanting her man." It was all rather alarming. "Grant?"

"Uh, here," I said from between her breasts. She settled on my hips. I groaned at her wet embrace.

Elaine bit her lower lip, nodding. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I said, "your pupils are as big as saucers."

"Here!" She threw the flowers over my face, and before I could protest, she began riding my body, pinning me under her wild exertions. I closed my eyes, hearing her moans and the bed creaking, inhaling the floral scent, watching the colors flashing on my eyelids.

When I next opened my eyes, it was morning.

We both felt honeymoony. While handing me my sack-lunch, she grabbed my bottom, a bit close to the door but endearing all the same. "Hurry home."

At work, nothing could have been better. I assembled a crack team that labored diligently day after day, sweating the extra hours to put our proposal just right. I just knew we would get the contract, that my handsome year-end bonus was only the shape of things to come.

The big day arrived in early June: Mr. Fontaine, so nonchalant, dropped it on me as I was leaving for lunch. Our team went berserk, and we celebrated with a bundt cake. I tore out for home, thinking the entire way about how we might do the nursery, about buying Elaine a new vacuum cleaner. I eased thru the front door, chuckling under my breath.

Stopping in the foyer, I got my first whiff of the sweet and oddly familiar odor, probably Elaine burning that crazy incense stuff again! I peered around the corner to check if the coast was clear.

There was my wife losing her blouse, reclining on the couch.

The guy standing with his back to me said to the salesman, "This pot sends her straight to Hornytown, man. Just lie back and enjoy the ride."

He did, the eager arc of his prick visible outside of his pants. Unclasping her brassiere, Elaine bent to take him in her mouth. I hugged the wall for balance.

The other man knelt and guided her head. He lit a marijuana cigarette. She pulled back, and he blew a stream of smoke into her mouth. Elaine rolled her eyes, and settled again to her task, sucking with abandon. She hasn't done that for me once!

Not a minute later, the salesman grunted, "My gosh, she can suck cock." His hips jerked, and Elaine swallowed what seemed like a never-ending stream of his semen. I had a mind to end it right there, but something made me hesitate to see just how far they would take this preposterous thing.

"You want the roach, baby?" said the other, patting the back of the couch, so that I thought he was killing a bug or something. But my wife responded by wriggling until her panties fell from beneath her skirt, and bending over the couch where he indicated.

He flipped up her skirt, and threw off his cap. It was Rod! He lit the end of the cigarette and passed it forward to Elaine, who puffed merrily while Rod dropped his trousers and entered my wife.

The salesman recovered enough to sit up and share the reefer cigarette. "This stuff really blasts me into outer space," Elaine said, and they started necking. I was horrified beyond belief, and worse yet, about to soil my business clothes, so in the nick of time I jerked my erection free. My sperm splashed harmlessly on the plate of cake on the floor, while my wife vocalized her orgasm into another man's mouth.

My mind was clouded by a thousand emotions. I needed time to think, and the reefer smoke was ready to choke me, so I sneaked away to the car.

Untethered, I drove about town in a daze.

When I again put the car into park, I found myself in the parking lot at work. I wandered into the office building, absently showing my pass to the security guard.

Sulking the darkened halls toward my office, all I could think about was immersing myself in the myriad preparations for the new project. But something caught my eye, a single light off to my right. Curiosity got the better of me, and I changed direction.

It was the office of Dr. Powers, the company psychiatrist. Daring a peek, I saw him writing at his desk.

He looked up from his work. "Grant!" he said. "Congratulations on that DOD contract! My, you don't rest, do you?"

"Yes, Dr. Powers, sir."

"Otto," he said, "please call me Otto."

"Otto." I waved my hat in the direction of my office. "I was just picking up some blueprints."

"Nonsense, Grant, you step right in," he said, patting my back.

"No, you don't understand," I said, as he pushed a chair under me, "I don't see doctors like you. I mean, I haven't a need, and I..."

"Grant, are you getting enough potassium and niacin? Here, why don't you try one of these?" He pushed an orange tablet between my lips. "I developed them myself. K-Nines. They're chewable. Go on."

I chewed stiffly and smiled.

"Tangerine." He beamed. "Now, as you were saying?"

"I actually didn't intend to take up any of your time."

Behind his desk, Dr. Powers' friendly features solidified, his arched eyebrows hunkering down to a dark line of professional discrimination. "But?"

"But," I parroted, shocking myself, for now I was committed to completing the thought, "but, and you're a young man, Doctor..."

"Otto."

"Dr. Otto." I took a deep breath and blurted, "But have you had any experience with marihuana?" He cocked his chin. "Professionally, I mean!"

"Ah, marihuana, cannabis sativa, the devil's weed. I know it well, I'm afraid." Dr. Powers sat back, packing his pipe, his voice dreamy, all its own, as if recounting a war story. "Bad for your immune system, Grant, and depletes the potassium."

"No, Otto, Doctor, not me," I said. "There are suspicious... goings-on around my house."

"Pot hoodlums," he said, puffing sagely, "the worst kind."

"What does this crazy stuff do?" I said.

"Marihuana, native of central Asia," he said. "We're dealing with a hallucinogen here. One that lulls the unsuspecting user with a relaxing euphoria, then fires him hurtling into phantasmagoric delirium:

he sees sounds,

he tastes colors,

he experiences a world transformed by delusions,

believing he is Jesus Christ,

or that he can fly,

jumping out of second-story windows,

or walking into traffic, prisoner of his own drug-induced trip."

"Oh my god."

"Yes, God," he said, "the only Refuge of the dope-fiend."

"And, are there, uh, sexual side effects as well?"

Arching an eyebrow, he regarded me. "There have been cases of hormonal imbalances. For instance, abnormal breast development on male addicts."

Abomination!

"But more typically," and here Dr. Powers sat forward, grasping both sides of his desktop, "pure debauchery. Many are lured to the reefer for its reputed aphrodisiacal qualities, and once ensnared, are seized by fits of hypersexualization, ruled by uncontrollable urges and nymphomaniacal behaviors of the darkest, most depraved sort, reduced to rutting, slavering zombies. No act is too terrible, no perversion too grotesque, to the hapless fool in the grips of marihuana." He pulled off his glasses and leaned forward with a solemn nod. "I've seen it, Grant. I've seen it."

"Elaine!" Bolting to my feet, I toppled a cup of pencils. "I must get home to my wife!"

"Fly, Grant, run to your wife," he called. "Never leave her alone when marihuana is afoot."

My fingers white about the wheel, my temples pouring sweat, I gunned the Mercury until the streetlights of cruel night smudged to a blur. Seventy, ninety, one hundred... I buried the speedometer at one-twenty, and cuffed the wheel with the heel of my hand:

"Hold on, baby, I'm coming for you."

A few blocks from home, I hit a traffic snarl. I rolled down my window. "Get a move on, I've got an emergency here!" But even after laying on my horn, the cars remained at a standstill. "Damn it!" Not even bothering with the ignition, I bolted from my car, weaving thru the people milling about the sidewalk.

The crowds grew denser. Pushing thru, I halted in my tracks.

A line of men wound around the hedges of my home, up the sidewalk and stairs, past a flashing red arrow mounted outside our front door. Shoving past, ignoring curses and blows, I muscled my way inside.

There, a bald man clicked the counting machine in his palm with his thumb. "What'll it be?" A gambler's visor shaded his eyes, so that I needed to peer to see if he was talking to me. He rapped a knuckle on a blackboard behind him. "What'll you have?"

"Clarke?" I said. "Clarke Clark?"

"Hey Smitty," Clarke called, and a granite-shouldered giant in a black satin jacket emerged from behind a curtain of hanging beads. "We got a gentleman here who's having a hard time making a decision." The giant cracked his knuckles thru fingerless gloves.

"No, no, that's all right," I said. My fingers trembled as I pulled some paper from my billfold and crumbled it into Clarke's hand.

Clarke reached for one of three ink-stamps, pressing it to the back of my hand. In green, it read: GREEK.

Clarke said, "Next," and the black hulk booted me thru the curtain.

My living room was lit murky red, thru clouds of pungent smoke. Immediately I unfurled my handkerchief, holding it to my face. Over blaring psychedelic music I discerned faint human voices. A strobe light flashed into my eyes as I stumbled forward. I was halted by a firm hand on my chest. A short man shined a flashlight over my hand.

"Rod!" I said thru my hanky.

"I don't want to know you, Greeky, just do your business and move along," Rod said, and then called toward the couch, "Roll it over, baby, it's another pervert."

In the background, a man shuffled away holding up his pants, and there lay Elaine on the couch, her hair akimbo. She turned on her hands and knees, looking over her shoulder. "Come on up, honey, don't be shy." She slapped her bare bottom a few times.

Sidling tentatively behind her, I looked around and made like I was unzipping. "Elaine," I said, "it's me, your husband, Grant."

"Hm?" She turned, her eyelids heavy, painted bluish-white. "Is it in yet, honey?"

"I'm here to rescue you." I coughed behind my mask, my eyes tearing in the tarry smog.

"Do your best, big boy," she said. "Hey, do you got any weed on you?"

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I've written a phone number on your back," I said. "As soon as you can, go into the bathroom and get the number by looking in the mirror." Below the number, I wrote: EIKOOP ,EVOL. "Elaine, sweetie?"

"Elaine?" she said, "Elaine is nowheresville, man. Can we get a little reefer over here, huh?"

"Beat it, Happypants, you sick fuck!" I was hustled out to our back door, where a sign announced

Tomorrow 8:00 P.M. sharp

Lesbo Threesome w/ Betsy & sapphire

$100

I glimpsed my wife clutching a smoldering pipe, with Mr. Fontaine unzipping behind her.