Psychomental Complex Pt. 01

Psychomental Complex, pt. 1

Part 1 of 2

© 2025 Ribnitin

Maybe you're the one who was taken over by a spirit.

This story could have gone in Sci-Fi & Fantasy. Ultimately, the central issue is a loving wife, so that's where it is. Part 2 has been written and will be submitted a few days after part 1. If you hated my other stories, you'll despise this one. It gets weird.

++++++

"I don't like it either." I wasn't lying to my husband Oliver. The problem had started quite innocently ten years ago, when I realized I was no match for the twenty-year-old 'meteorologist' on our rival station. My body was just as nice as hers, but the fifteen-year difference in our ages gave her an instant appeal that I struggled to meet. We both were good looking, reasonably intelligent, and glib talkers. She had studied history; I had a master's in social work. It's hard to explain how either of us ended up as weather babes.

Oliver frowned. "You didn't like it ten years ago but changed your style anyways. Look where it led."

I knew where it led, and didn't think it was a bad place. "My ratings are good, my audience is loyal, and management loves me. Do you really have a problem with how I dress? I don't wear anything immodest."

He stared at me across the kitchen table. "No, but... you've changed, Carla. You enjoy being --"

Eight years ago, I finally tackled the danger from my young competition. My figure had gone from 36-24-36 to 36-26-36. I decided to lose weight and dress more fashionably to make the best of what I had. The hems of my skirts gradually climbed higher, my blouses became just a little tighter. My audience noticed. I enjoyed being admired, though I didn't appreciate the e-mails from fans who wanted to admire me up close. I showed those to Oliver and each one pissed him off. What upset him now was that my station recently announced a two-day retreat at a resort about an hour out of town. It was for station personnel only; spouses were excluded.

"It's not going to be anything sexual. There will be half a dozen cameras filming the retreat. I can't do anything risqué. It would hurt my reputation; it would hurt the station's reputation. Worst of all, it would hurt our children and my sweet husband, and I can't allow that."

He wasn't convinced. "The cameras are there to sell your body to the audience. They'll have you flounce around all day in a bikini, highlighting your--"

"The retreat is to show us as regular people the audience can identify with. If anything is immodest it defeats that goal. Besides which, I told Angelo I promised you no bikini."

"Angelo?"

"Yeah, Angelo. I told you about him before; the owner of Angel Fashion; the one who dresses me."

A trace of a smile came to his lips. "Don't put it that way, Carla. It doesn't sound good that another man is dressing my wife. I hope he's not doing it literally." He gnawed at his lip. "Yeah, I remember you mentioned him a while ago."

A couple of years into my personal program to dress more fashionably, the fashion boutique next door to our studio proposed that they provide my clothes, in exchange for being mentioned during the final credits. I got to wear the latest styles when on the air and take home one outfit every week. It paid off for Angel Fashion when people saw me out and about, wearing their expensive attire. I rejected clothes that were too revealing, though I enjoyed modeling them in front of Angelo. He talked me into skirt slits that went almost all the way up my thighs, but I rejected bra-less sweaters where everyone would see the jiggle of my breasts. I was uncomfortable with the strapless bra, especially when it fell off in front of him. Angelo taught me how to walk in four-inch spike heels and lent me comfortable thousand-dollar stilettoes. After much cajoling I got to keep them, mostly by letting Angelo put them on my feet while I was wearing a mini skirt. He's touched other parts of me, but never in an erotic way.

Angelo's wife Susan managed a high-end strip club. Combined with his being in the high fashion business he was quite used to naked female flesh. My occasional partial nudity with him was no big deal, though I never told Oliver about it.

"Have you discussed this retreat with Ivan and Kyle? Have you ever considered how they're affected by their mother--" Oliver stopped and shook his head. "Why am I arguing with you, Carla? It's part of your job and it's something you want to do. I have to trust you, but I worry, especially given the venue."

"Our sons are proud of me. Their dorm-mates have asked for racy pictures to hang on the wall."

He shook his head. "And you're happy about that."

"It's kind of sweet. Too bad for them, though. I'll never pose with anything immodest. Don't trust me because you have to, Oliver. Trust me because I deserve it."

He sighed, as if he knew that I didn't really deserve it.

I pointed at his supper plate. "You didn't finish your tuna casserole, honey. You're just shoving it around your plate. I should have told you about the retreat after we ate." I leered at him. "Do you want some desert?"

"Not at the moment." He got up, scraped the dishes into the garbage and loaded them into the dishwasher. He said nothing further as he went to his study, no doubt to plunk himself in front of his computer. I finished straightening the kitchen and went to see what he was up to.

I don't understand why this retreat is such a big deal to him. He knows I need to participate in our television station's promotions, and he knows that my looks play a large part in their success. I enjoy my work, and I enjoy being attractive. It's better than when I was a social worker getting cursed, spat on, and generally hated. I abhorred splitting up families, even when the parents were druggies or abusers. I resigned after I chose not to separate a particular family; two days later the mother beat her thirteen-year-old daughter to death. Peering through the slits in her face covering, she told police that the girl had dishonored the family by going out on a date.

I was devastated. I took a leave of absence and went into therapy for a month. Social work brought on many physical and mental issues, and my employer had a contract for the staff with a large medical clinic.

The waiting room at the clinic was unusually full one day, with some people having to lean against the waiting room wall. A man in an adjacent chair told me he'd been waiting for his therapist for forty-five minutes. We got to exchanging trivialities about the weather, Hollywood and television. I told him that I hated my job, and he suggested I change careers. I scoffed at the suggestion till he handed me his business card. Oliver Jansen was a head-hunter at one of the largest executive placement firms in the state. He had an opening for a job related to our chit-chat about television and the weather.

I could say I aced the interview, but it was more of an audition. Tara, the Station Manager was the same age as me. She and Oliver watched while I glibly recited a weather report as if it was my own words. I posed in a variety of stances to highlight the shape of my body and the length of my legs. The manager and Oliver were both sufficiently impressed. The manager asked me to come to the station to audition for and meet the news crew, and Oliver asked me out for dinner. The audition led to a successful career and the date led to a successful marriage. I didn't want either to end.

Oliver knew that my appearance was a large part of my career; He was the one who launched me on that trajectory. Why did it bother him so much now? We'd had retreats before, and he never had an issue. The station staff were the only guests for the coming retreat, so the resort's adult reputation was irrelevant. With all the cameras rolling, there'd be little opportunity for hanky-panky. Perhaps Oliver's concern was because this was the first retreat where spouses were not welcome. The manager explained to me, and I explained to Oliver that our publicity director wanted to increase recognizability of the entire staff, thus bringing us closer to the community we served and the viewers we wanted to cultivate. Spouses would be a distraction.

"Watcha workin' on?" I rested my hand on Oliver's shoulder as he gazed at his monitor.

He pointed to the screen. "This book. It contains amazing insights on how the human mind works, beyond the reach of contemporary platitudes about culture or psychology."

"Huh?"

"It's a book from the nineteen thirties about a particular brand of Siberian shamanism. I'm going to order it from Amazon."

"Since when are you interested in shamanism... Siberian shamanism?"

Oliver swiveled his chair towards me as his eyes seemed to cloud over. "A long-term interest of mine. I think it has some answers I'm looking for."

"What's the question?"

"I'm looking for that too."

"Are you getting weird on me, sweetie?"

He didn't reply but continued studying his screen. I was fast asleep when he came to bed. I hoped we wouldn't continue last night's argument when we had breakfast together the next morning.

+++++

My disappointment came as soon as I got dressed. "You're never gone on air wearing a sweatsuit. Are you going to work like that?"

I poured myself a coffee, grabbed a bran muffin and sat at the kitchen table. "Oliver, I've been going like this every Tuesday or so for years. You were with me when I bought this outfit. You must have noticed."

He shrugged. "Maybe I did and just forgot."

Oliver had a fantastic memory. Not quite photographic, but not far off. If my wearing sweats to work was new to him, it was because he never cared before. It was a bad sign that he did now.

"I've always been a little weird" he said, sliding right back into the previous night's conversation. He forced a smile, tilted his chair back and clasped his hands behind his neck. "Remember when we first met? I was at the clinic for some help with the answers. They couldn't help because I couldn't tell them the question."

The answer to my question was 'yes.' Oliver was getting weird on me. On the other hand, if he was looking at this Siberian stuff before we met, he was already weird; I just didn't know it. When I first met him at the medical clinic, I assumed he was there for a physical ailment. Maybe he was also being treated for psychological issues. I should have worked the question into our very first conversation.

"I'm meeting Angelo this morning to review the fashions for the next week's broadcasts." I knew what question was coming next. "Yes, he's going to be dressing me."

Oliver put his coffee cup down on the table, spread butter on his toast, raised his eyebrows and scowled.

I didn't let him get started. "Honey, I've been doing this for such a long time. Why is it suddenly an issue?" It was hard to keep the frustration out of my voice.

He reached for the peanut butter. "The context changed."

I wasn't sure what that meant. He was being deliberately evasive, but I didn't call him on it. I watched as he spread the peanut butter and took a couple of bites. His eyes followed me as I retrieved my oatmeal from the microwave and sat back at the table. I wanted him to know we were on the same side. "He wants me to try on a few bathing suits. I hope he's not going to try to get me into a bikini."

Oliver took another bite of his toast, tossed the rest of it in the garbage and put his plate in the sink. He headed upstairs.

"Oliver, why aren't you eating?" No response. "Where are you going?"

"To brush my teeth and get dressed for work. No sweatsuit for me."

"Oliver..." He disappeared into the washroom. Ten minutes later he was back downstairs in his best suit, heading for the door. I moved quickly to intercept him. "Do you want me to stay home, skip the retreat? If you insist, I won't go. I'll probably get fired for it, but if you want..." My declaration earned a smile and kiss on the cheek. It didn't get a response though, as he continued out.

Oliver occasionally gets into a funk, sulking quiet and unresponsive for an hour or so; never longer. When the kids lived at home, their presence would snap him right out of it. His mother told me before we married that he would occasionally get into a strange, silent mood, fixated on some idea. It could last hours or days. There was nothing to do about it. Was he starting one of these obsessions? I just had to wait this out. Hopefully he'd be finished sulking when he got home from work.

I cleaned up from breakfast and went back upstairs. Maybe the sweatsuit wasn't appropriate. Something thinner would be more suitable for early summer. The main criterion for my outfit for the try-on sessions was that my clothes covered my essential parts and were easy to take off and put back on. I put on a burgundy t-shirt, and white cotton pants with an elasticized waist. It wasn't high fashion, but it was sexy and practical.

The executive dressing room at Angel Fashion Boutique was the size of many people's bedrooms. There were mirrors everywhere, including the ceiling. A customer trying something on could see themselves from every possible angle. Randy, the showroom director swept me into the dressing room as soon as I walked into the boutique. He was an old boyfriend from before Oliver. He wished me luck as he left the room.

"We've got a lot of work today," Angelo said as he led me away from a rack of lovely silk blouses.

"Those are pretty. Are any for me?"

"They're see-through. Do you want to show everyone your chest?" He rubbed his hands together and pretended to leer. "It would do wonders for your ratings."

"Yeah, sure. I might as well do the weather from your wife's strip club or maybe work for Naked News. Umm..." I scratched my chin, pretending to ponder the idea. "Nope, no way in hell. I want to look good on TV, I want my appearance to be pleasing. But I am not selling my skin. Sexy but modest is where we're going."

Angelo nodded. "Of course." He wagged a finger, and I stripped down to my underwear.

"Do you want to start with the bras?" He pointed to a pile.

"Anything special about them?"

"Remember bullet bras? A new Italian company has started making them."

I smiled at the thought, unhooked my bra, put one arm over my breasts and extended the other towards him. Years of practice enabled me to get undressed and dressed in front of Angelo without being overly immodest. My modesty unfortunately didn't account for all the mirrors in the room.

I stood with the bra in position, my back towards Angelo. He dutifully hooked up the clasps, asking if it was tight enough. I shrugged. Angelo squeezed the tips of the bra's pointy cups, where there was no breast to feel. "Good?" he asked.

"Good," I said. "Will it stay in place under stress?"

Angelo yanked gently on the tips, and the clasps holding the bra together immediately came apart, the bra falling to the floor. We both laughed as Angelo bent down to pick it up. I gave him a hand standing up, no longer bothering to cover my chest.

"That was fun. Have any more from the same company?"

Angelo reached for the bottom of the pile and held up a bra with no straps, hooks, or any visible means of holding it up. It looked like something one would glue onto their chest, and it turned out that was the case.

"How much?" I held up the small tube that was packaged with the bra.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Don't use much; spread it thinly around. The brochure says the 'glue' creates a static electricity bond."

The glue spread easily, making my skin tingle. I rubbed it into my nipples, taking deep breaths. Angelo grabbed my arm, stopping me from arousing myself. "Don't. I can watch a woman masturbate when I visit my wife's club. But thanks for the show."

Playing with my tits wasn't exactly masturbating, but I got his point. Embarrassed, I took the bra and hurriedly placed it on my chest, smoothing the material over my breasts to make sure it was in contact with the glue. Angelo shook his head, and I checked myself in the mirror: it wasn't positioned properly, one side higher than the other. I tried to pull it off, but the glue was apparently fast-acting and had nothing to do with static electricity. I grimaced as it refused to respond to my efforts. "Help!"

Angelo's eyes were pointed at my chest but seemed focused elsewhere.

"Angelo, please do something."

"Um, the brochure says..." He went to the sink, wet his fingers and approached me.

"I can't get it o--"

He put his fingers at the edge of the bra and worked them slowly in between my breasts and the fabric. With anyone other than my Oliver, this should be considered sexual assault. It took a lot of finger work. I shivered and closed my eyes as he freed one nipple, then the other. At this point I didn't care what Angelo did, as long as he got the stick-on bra unstuck. My breasts weren't overly sensitive, but after fifteen minutes of relentless kneading by a man not my husband, I was almost over the top.

"Carla... Carla! Take your hand out of your panties."

I opened my eyes to see him hold the bra with his fingertips and carry it over to the garbage. I was still high from the boob massage. "Umm, Angelo, I'm kind of, well... can you?" I caressed my boobs. Touching a sticky breast broke my sexual tension and I came down from my almost-orgasm. "Ack; I've still got that glue shit on me!" My breathing went back to normal, and I washed myself off at the sink, totally embarrassed that I had been fingering my vagina while Angelo kneaded my chest. He handed me a towel, then ran his hands over me.

"There are still a couple of sticky parts." He touched a spot on my left breast and tweaked my right nipple. I cleaned and dried them, then stood facing him with my feet apart, hands on my hips.

He smiled, pulled out his phone and--

"No, no picture." I was horrified.

"I was going to call the importer. It can wait." Angelo leaned back against a counter. "You know, maybe we've become too relaxed with each other over the past few years. Today I almost made you cum. That's not right." He smiled. "You're a sexy woman, and sometimes these sessions are painful for me. My dick sometimes feels like it's going to rip through my pants. If we had a sexual relation, I wouldn't be able to be objective about your fashions. He pointed at the clothes he had prepared for me. "As much as I love when you're half naked, as much as I love touching you when dressing you, that's not why we're here. Ready to try on some bathing suits now?"

I groaned; the bathing suits were part of the agenda today. As I stood in front of Angelo wearing nothing but a damp pair of panties, I decided that I was no longer in the mood to show my skin. "Can we put those off till next week? I'm feeling kind of overexposed."

"You are overexposed. We don't have much time before the retreat. We have to make sure you aren't overexposed then." He pulled out his phone and checked his calendar. "Can you come in first thing in the morning Tuesday, say eight o'clock?"

"Why so early? What's the rush?"

"You may not like the clothes I offer you, or they may not fit properly and need tailoring. You don't want wardrobe malfunctions on the retreat, do you?" He picked a bright pair of gold slacks and a pale-yellow blouse from the counter. "Put your own bra back on, and let's have a look at this outfit."

We spent almost two hours going through my fashion selection for the upcoming week. There was nothing particularly exciting, except for one outfit which had me in a thin cardigan without a bra. I refused Angelo's suggestion that I leave the top two buttons open. I knew the fireworks would be at our next session, when we would finish preparing for the retreat. My fashions there had to attract and excite, without titillating.

I had some time till I had to get ready for the day's weather forecast. The station manager asked me to concoct a short talk on climate change to present at the first morning of the retreat. We weren't going just for fun and games. We needed to show we were serious, credible broadcasters and journalists. I used a few search engines to gather facts and then turned to AI to convert them into a short speech.

Oliver was quiet when I got home. Not in a funk, but not his normal self. Amazon had delivered his book, Psychomental Complex of the Tungus, and he spent a lot of time reading. I flipped through some pages while Oliver was occupied with household chores and concluded that he was indeed getting weird on me. The book described with scientific detachment alien cultural practices that had me shaking. Not from any violence or threatening behavior, but from the fact that my husband was captivated by this material.

We didn't make love that week. We didn't talk much beyond the necessities, like 'pass the salt,' 'did you pick up the clothes from the dry-cleaner,' or 'they should have accepted that answer' when watching Jeopardy together. He smiled and laughed at some jokes, so I wouldn't say he was in a funk. He went to work and came home at his normal hours, and took care of his appearance. We kissed, but nothing beyond that.

Oliver started having conversations without anyone to respond. Dressed in a strange tent-like long brown shirt, he would sit in the middle of the floor of a dark room, and talk. The first time I saw him doing this I tried to turn on a lamp, only to discover he had thrown the circuit-breaker. His phone was on the kitchen table, so there was no way he could be communicating in a manner I understood. Nonetheless, he told me after that his great-uncle in St. Petersburg was grief-stricken; he just lost his wife that morning. I didn't know Oliver had any family in Russia. Turns out he had Siberian ancestry on his father's side. "Jansen" is not a foreign name. I had never known him to be anything but pure American.

"Why don't we video conference with your family there, get to know them a little better?" Maybe seeing them would raise Oliver's spirits.

"They don't have internet access. It's not in St. Petersburg, but that's the closest city that you would have heard of. Even if they had Starlink it wouldn't help because they don't speak any language we understand."

"How do--"

"When you're communicating soul-to-soul, language isn't a barrier. Neither is distance."

++++

I found Oliver meditating on the floor again the next day. He was imploring Mudurkan, the water spirit, to unblock the downstairs toilet. I handed Oliver the plunger to finish the job, his Mudurkan having been no help whatsoever. Would any of these spirits distract Oliver from his obsession with the retreat? I implored 'to whom it may concern.'

My husband was getting too weird for me. He was functional, going to work every day... at least I assumed that he was going to work when he left the house at eight o'clock every morning, wearing a nice suit. Hopefully, if there were problems someone from his office would call me. Oliver ate normally, slept his usual hours, went to work, watched TV, and talked to spirits. Three out of four was a passing grade according to a psychologist friend of mine. She advised me to give it a couple of weeks, and if he deteriorated further or there was no improvement, to get him to a psychiatrist. "It could be something chemical or physical. If it doesn't clear up on its own, you have to follow through."

++++

"Angelo dressing you again?"

Tuesday had come too quickly, and once again the spirits were no help. "Yes. I want to look good, not overtly sexy. It takes work to achieve the right balance. I don't want any wardrobe malfunctions." I put my empty coffee cup in the sink, picked up my backpack and headed towards the door.

"You're leaving early."

I frowned. "I can't take time off my regular responsibilities. I want to get the fashion done before my regular workday starts."

"Take some pictures. Let me see what my wife is going to show the world."

"What!" I stared at my smirking husband, then walked out the door. My thoughts were a mixture of anger at Oliver, trepidation for our marriage, and excitement for the sexy haut-couture I was going to model. The thought of having it filmed at the retreat added to my excitement. The traffic jam that made me fifteen minutes late added irritation to the mix.

Angelo shared my irritation, interrupting my apology with "Let's get to work." He handed me a pair of short shorts that I thought were denim, but on closer inspection were spandex. A white blouse was a short-sleeve version of the see-through I liked the previous week.

"Turn around please."

"You don't have to take your panties off Carla, and I've seen the rest of you. Do you want to bother with such modesty? Your call."

I felt a sliver of the excitement left over from the anticipation of the drive. "I'm good." I quickly removed my sweatsuit and took the blouse from him. I hesitated. "Do I wear this with or without a bra?"

"Are you comfortable wearing it without?"

I didn't know the answer. "I'll try it both ways."

It really was see-through. At Angelo's direction I tied the corners of the blouse together, exposing my midriff. I unbuttoned a couple of buttons, exposing cleavage. The shorts were quite tight, highlighting my camel-toe. I took a close look in the mirror, and blushed. This wasn't me.

"We have a couple of cowboy hats in the showroom. Go pick one out."

"You expect me to walk in public like this?"

"The retreat is public, especially with all the cameras. Do you expect to be in public like that? Besides which, it's early now, and there's probably only one or two people out there."

I sighed and walked into the showroom. I didn't know where the hats were, so I strolled around, letting the few customers have a good look. It felt awkward. I greeted Randy, the showroom director. He smiled appreciatively. As soon as I spotted a cowboy hat, I grabbed it and practically ran back to the showroom. Angelo laughed at the embarrassment on my face.

"Could... could you take a modest picture? Um... with my phone."

"Why?"

"I, uh, Oliver wants to see what I'm going to look like... but please, don't show my nakedness."

Angelo had a corner of the dressing room set up as a small photo studio, with fancy lighting equipment and a few props, such as a day bed. He smiled. "Okay, I know what you want." He positioned me sideways, with my leg closest to the camera held forward. This hid the camel-toe. He set one light near the camera's position, and the other behind me. This way my breasts were in the shadow, effectively hidden.

"Now one for me," he said, picking his Leica. He positioned one light behind me and gave me a small stool to elevate the foot away from the camera. "Tilt your head slightly downward and look at me from under the hat brim."

I had just turned my head when I realized. "What the hell are you doing, Angelo? I don't want any cheesecake photos."

"Well, a man can try..."

"No, really! I trust you, Angelo. Am I wrong?"

He sighed. "Sorry. I won't betray your trust, Carla. You're too important a friend and colleague. I would like a sexy picture as a souvenir, a token of our closeness."

I never considered myself close to Angelo. Well, maybe at our last session, when I tried to masturbate in front of him. That's definitely not something you do in front of a casual acquaintance. Then again, if I don't want people to see me this way, why did I walk around the showroom? Why am I considering wearing this revealing outfit in public? I've worked with Angelo for a long time. When he dressed me, I felt like a million-dollar fashion model. "Take your picture, Angelo. Then I'm taking off this blouse. The picture is for you, and this see-through blouse is not for me.

"Hold on!"

I didn't realize Randy had come into the room.

He walked up to me. "May I?" Without waiting for an answer, he walked up to me and undid the remaining buttons on the blouse.

"What the hell, Randy?"

He pulled the sides apart, fully revealing my boobs. "If you want to be comfortable with people seeing you half-exposed, that has to be something you step down from. I don't know how far you're planning to dress on the retreat, but if you want to enjoy yourself there, you should get naked here."

Angelo didn't know my history with Randy. We had drifted apart after Oliver and I got engaged. He knew me well back then, including in the biblical sense. That's why I laughed off his effrontery, rather than slapping him. "You've got chutzpa," I declared.

"Go take a walk."

His directive made sense. I wouldn't get naked, but much to Angelo's surprise, I walked the showroom with my boobs partially out. When I found my news anchor standing in the aisle in front of me it suddenly hit me what I was doing. I turned red and quickly started to button myself. "Sorry, Peter. I don't know what came over me."

"Don't apologize, Carla. I've wanted to see your breasts for a long time." He put an arm around my waist, pulled me closer and kissed my cheek. "May I?" He moved his hand upwards towards my chest and I slapped it away.

"Don't push your luck, buddy." He lowered it. "We're both married. We don't play around like that. Now walk with me to the dressing room." As we approached a shopper browsing shirts, Peter reached over and tugged the blouse off my shoulders. The man quickly whipped out his camera. "No pictures. Just look and enjoy." He reached his hand towards me. "No touching, either."

"Tease."

"It's his fault," I said, pointing at Peter.

"True," Peter said, as he slapped my ass.

I spotted a UPS truck parking outside the entrance of the store. I quickened my pace, not wanting to also give the driver a show. It didn't help. As I handed the blouse to Angelo I realized that all the boutique staff was in the dressing room watching. The driver needed a signature for the package, so he went where the action was. I put my hands on my hips and with my nipples jutting out turned to face the UPS guy, Peter, Randy and Angelo. "Alright folks, take a last look and then please leave. Angelo and I have a lot to do." I realized something: "Angelo, stay."

Angelo nodded, then pointed to Peter. "I have to do his wardrobe too."

I tried to be angry, but kind of enjoyed exposing myself. "Okay. Angelo and Peter, stay. The rest of you, I hope you enjoyed the show. Now get the hell out." I practically spat the last part. Randy hesitated. "Scram."

He grinned as he headed to the door. "When's the next show?"

"In ten years, but you're not invited."

The UPS driver turned to go out but then reversed. "Can I ask you something personal? I think we've met."

"Will you leave after asking?" UPS never came to my house; just USPS, Amazon or the occasional Fedex. I've never seen the man.

"Promise." He took a step towards me. "Were you at a bachelorette party a couple of months ago? It was for a woman named... um... She's medium height, red hair, really stacked, with a nervous demeanor. It was at a huge house in the Valley Grove neighborhood."

I blanched. The only men at that party were the strippers. I recognized him now, and couldn't keep my eyes from looking downward at groin.

"Helen, her name was Helen. You were the lady who kept Helen from ruining her marriage before it started. She was going to take me in her mouth but--"

"Yes, it was me. Now leave."

He laughed. "You were staring at my dick the whole night. I was sure we'd end up having sex. Seeing your breasts now, I wish I had been right. You have amazing willpower. I quit dancing, in part because of you. That was my last party as a stripper." He scratched his chin. "I hope we meet again. My name is Boris."

"Leave!" I said it a little louder this time, exercising my fantastic willpower. Angelo and Peter moved closer. This wouldn't good. The UPS guy's stripper persona was "Rock," and he was built like one. He could probably crush Angelo and Peter with one hand. He kissed me on the cheek, then kept his promise. I sighed, relieved that he didn't try to fondle me again. It hadn't been easy to resist his advances when I diverted his attention from Helen.

The next couple of hours were spent dressing, undressing, measuring, adjusting... Peter had a lot less to try on, but he lingered. I suppose seeing me naked down to my panties and watching Angelo occasionally adjust my boobs was more entertaining than hanging around our broadcast studio next door. Peter had come in early for the fitting, so his time was his.

It didn't take long till we were too accustomed to being exposed to each other. I didn't notice my co-anchor's erection until he stuck his hand inside his briefs. From the blank look on his face, it was clear that he didn't realize what he was doing. My face, on the other hand, flushed with embarrassment.

Angelo smiled at my consternation. "Remember last week, your sticky bra?" Peter looked from Angelo to me, realized what he was doing, and stopped. He started to mutter an apology, but Angelo interrupted. "I'm going into the showroom. I think you two should take a few minutes to figure out what relation you have." He walked out the door, closing it behind him.

I plopped myself into an armchair, and Peter took a seat next to it. We were naked except for our butts and genitals. We both had nice bodies, but neither of us were sexually stimulated beyond a reflexive response to nudity. I giggled at the absurdity of the situation. Peter responded with a smile, and then a chuckle. I laughed, which prompted Peter's laughter. We were both soon laughing so hard that tears rolled down our cheeks. It took a couple of minutes till I recovered enough to fetch a box of tissues. Still giggling, we both dried our eyes.

"What's so funny?"

I shook my head. "I have no clue."

I laughed again as I leaned over to offer him a tissue. A boob touched his shoulder as he took it. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "We don't want to have a physical relation, but if we're too paranoid about it, it will highlight sex despite our intentions."

"So..."

"We just stay cool, Carla. We're cool when we're broadcasting live to tens of thousands of viewers. We're cool when we're naked by ourselves."

"Naked by ourselves?"

"Inadvertently, not planned by us, like right now." Peter stood up; I followed his lead. He put his arms out and we hugged each other, arms around each other's waist, not any lower. I kissed his face cheek, squeezed his bum cheek; he squeezed and kissed mine, and we both stepped back.

"Let's get this over with." I stuck my head out the door and summoned Angelo. "What's next?"

He handed matching bathing suits to Peter and me. They were both conservatively cut, not showing an undue amount of skin. Angelo raised his eyebrows as neither of us bothered to conceal ourselves as first Peter, then I stripped completely. We both struggled to avoid laughing as we put the suits on.

"What's so funny?"

Peter shrugged. "We don't know. We just know that it is."

"You're both loons, you realize. What do you think of the suits?"

"We can go with these. Right, Carla?"

I nodded. "We should see what they look like wet." I pointed to the spray bottle near the sink. "Mist our bathing suits."

It didn't take long to discover that our swimwear was virtually transparent when damp. Angelo handed us each a towel as we removed the suits. He offered Peter a Speedo to try but he refused it, instead selecting conventional shorts. I in turn refused the skimpy bikini Angelo suggested, reminding him of my earlier instructions.

He pulled out a gold-striped swimsuit for me, one that seemed to have a lot of cloth. He had matching shorts for Peter. "This retro bikini covers more than a conventional one-piece swimsuit. The bottom shorts go a third of the way down your thighs, your midriff is barely exposed, and the top doesn't show any cleavage. What do you think?"

"I told you no--"

"I know, though judging the way you're so casual about being naked, a retro two-piece shouldn't be a problem." Angelo held it out, displaying the generous amount of fabric. He turned to Peter and handed him a pair of matching swim shorts. "Try it on- both of you."

It fit well, it looked good and hid more of my vital areas than any of my swimsuits at home. I handed it back to Angelo. "I promised my husband... What else do you have for me?"

"Just this." He held out a dark swimsuit with a funny shape and tangled straps. "This one covers your front completely, from your neck to your crotch. The back, well not so much. You and Peter won't match."

Peter looked suave in his gold-striped swimsuit. It took about ten minutes for him and Angelo to figure out the straps on mine. I got touched and groped accidentally as I put it on. Well, I presume it was accidentally. I wasn't aroused. Judging from the lack of rigidity in his dick, Peter wasn't aroused either.

The modest front of the swimsuit met the dissolute back at my crotch. The two sides were joined by a narrow strip of cloth between my legs that went most of the way up my ass crack without getting much wider. It took some effort, but we finally managed to get everything in their proper position with those infernal straps. The guys apologized for the inadvertent touching.

"Well," said Angelo. "It's very alluring, though technically modest."

I looked over at Peter. His crotch bulged now. He pulled the front of his swimsuit out a couple of inches, looked downward and said "down boy."

We all laughed. "That bad?"

"No," Peter said. "That good. Turn around slowly, let me see... Yup, it will be hard, I mean difficult to keep away from you. Angelo?"

"I love it."

I loved it too. "I can't. It's not me, and Oliver would not be happy." I began to undo the straps holding it in place.

"Thousands of fans will be thrilled if you wear it."

Some of the clips for the straps were out of reach behind my back. Angelo looked through a pile of swimsuits on a table while Peter helped me undress.

"There's nothing else, Carla. All the other swimsuits are quite run of the mill. You need to wear something at the cutting edge of fashion."

I stepped out of the tangle of straps and cloth. "For once I'll wear something ordinary."

"No! The boutique relies on you to show the local populace what we're carrying. This retreat will be our advertising highlight of the season. You have to wear something extra-ordinary."

"Not at the cost of being indecent. I'm too old for that."

"Wear the retro bikini."

"I can't. Verbal contract with my husband."

"You have a written contract with Angel Fashion Boutique."

My heart and shoulders sagged. It was true; I signed the document when we started our arrangement. I couldn't wear a bikini, I couldn't wear the transparent swimsuit. Most importantly for the boutique, I couldn't wear anything run of the mill. That left... Angelo tried to conceal a smirk. Peter didn't try to hide his dick, which was now sticking out the top of him swim shorts.

"I'll wear the dark suit with all the straps. Let me try it on again." I pointed at Peter. "Keep your penis off me, please."

"I'll try my best."

I don't know whether it was dick or fingers, but getting the suit on this time around required even more contact, more blatant groping. This wasn't what I signed up for when I became a weather babe so long ago, but I admitted to myself that I enjoyed it... a little.

It was a complex bathing suit, and I practiced putting it on and taking it off a couple of times. I needed help at first, warning against wandering fingers and dicks. The second time I proudly dressed and undressed on my own. Angelo collected the suits from Peter and me. We stood next to each other, fully naked, with Peter fully rigid.

"I think both of you for your cooperation this morning. I know it was somewhat of an ordeal, but you'll look terrific when wearing these fashions."

"Don't you mean that the clothes will look terrific on us?"

Angelo wrapped an arm around each of our waists. "You're both terrific." He pulled us into a very uncomfortable group hug.

"Angelo!"

He kissed my cheek, tweaked my nipple, and then stepped back. Peter ran for the box of tissues, the smell of cum in the air. "I'll have everything packed up and ready for you in a couple of hours. Angel Fashion thanks you."

Sitting in traffic on the drive home, I decided that I wouldn't volunteer that I had spent the morning showing off my tits and twat, having my ass and pussy 'accidentally' groped. Oliver would undoubtedly question me about my day, and I would have to say something.

'Undoubtedly' was wrong. I found Oliver changing into his brown tent shirt when I came home. He gave me a kiss on the cheek, commented that supper was in the oven, then seated himself on the living room floor. "I want to speak to the spirit Garlu. He, well she is two that is one, male and female."

"What's gotten into you, Oliver? Why are you doing this?" My thoughts started racing on how I could get him into treatment. I could consult... No, I was leaving for the retreat in three days; there was no time to accomplish anything. It would have to wait for after.

He stood and placed his hands on my shoulders. "There's something off-kilter between us, my darling. Other spirits have said Garlu is the one to work with."

"What are--"

"Please don't go to the retreat, Carla."

"I have to. Watch the live feed. You'll see that nothing bad is happening." My husband bit his lip, sat back on the floor, covered his eyes with a blindfold and began to chant in a strange language. I burst into tears.

+++++

I doubt that Garlu gave Oliver any useful advice, but he did calm down after supposedly consulting with the spirit. I hoped that it would last, that he would remain in control of himself at least till I got back. The boys were in the middle of exams, so neither of them could fly back to stay with him while I was away. I had a hard time getting across to them how serious this was. Ivan said that if it was that bad, I should skip the retreat.

++++

I didn't. As I sat in the limousine on Friday afternoon, I prayed that no harm would come from this weekend. A smile crept onto my face. Who was I praying to? Certainly not Garlu, or... whoever that other spirit was. Again, "to whom it may concern--" I leaned my head against the window and dozed.

The sound of the car door opening jolted me awake. "Mrs. Jansen?" I nodded at the valet. "Welcome to Pleasure Island Hideaway Resort. I'm Boris. Let me grab your bag and bring you to your room." I remembered him. He was a UPS driver as well as an adult resort valet. So much for my prayer.

He led me to a luxurious suite, with a huge picture window overlooking a verdant valley. Boris gave me the layout of the resort, how to find the dining rooms, pools, saunas, massage rooms... Anything I needed to know to enjoy my stay. He gave me a little beeper to clip discretely onto my clothes. "If there's anything you need, anytime, just press the button and I'll be up ASAP." He gave me a wink. At that I realized that "anything you need" could mean more that carrying bags or bringing fresh towels. After all, this place was an adult resort. He didn't say anything, but I was sure he recognized me.

Dinner was sumptuous. As we finished desert a representative of Pleasure Hideaway explained all the features of the resort, including the pool, game room, and so on. There was a dance floor in the club, and if we lacked a partner, our personal valets would be happy to dance with us.

Tara then stood and told us the evening was ours to explore, do as we wish. "But," she concluded, "make sure you're in the main conference room by nine-thirty tomorrow for the presentations, and that you're sober enough to participate." Her assistant whispered something in her ear. "Oh, yeah... Please remember that our stay here is for our public. We have cameras with microphones recording scheduled and spontaneous events. Most cameras shut down at ten in the evening. An edited version will be made available to our viewing audience while a livestream is available to close friends and family of the participants. You've been given the access codes to share with them. Remember: the only place you have privacy is in your own room." Tara giggled as she said, "Behave accordingly."

It was easy for me. I went to my room, made some minor changes to my presentation, and called Oliver. He didn't answer. I called our sons; neither of them had tried to reach him. Damn this retreat. Something was askew with my husband, and I had prioritized a promotional stunt for my employer. At that moment, I had no interest in being part of it.

There was a knock on my door. I just took off my top to get into PJs, so I was ticked off at the intrusion. I slipped my top back on and opened the door to Boris the valet, stripper and UPS driver. I stared silently, not saying 'yes, hello," or any kind of normative greeting.

"Good evening, Carla. Is there anything you need assistance with; anything I can do for or with you?"

"I was about to go to bed."

"I can help you with that." He deftly stepped around me into the room and began to turn down the blanket and fluff the pillows."

I scowled. "I can do that mys--"

"Can I draw a bath for you?"

"I can do that my--"

"Or would you prefer I draw you in the bath?"

What the hell was Boris talking about?

"I'm a skilled sketch artist. I was able to support myself with it during tourist seasons."

"Valet, driver, stripper, and now artist. You're a talented young man, Boris." I hoped my sarcasm was clear.

"Thank you." He blushed. "We've seen each other naked. I could sketch you in the bath, with your lovely breasts just at the waterline. It would make a nice souvenir. What do you think?"

"No. Please leave."

He laughed and took a step closer. "That's what you said last time we met." He looked at his watch. "It's only nine o'clock now. How about a tour of the facilities?"

It sounded innocent enough, but I didn't believe him.

"I won't touch. You can trust me."

I looked at the clock on my night table. He told the truth; it was indeed nine o'clock. I decided to trust him, kicking myself at the same time for doing so. I tucked my blouse back into place. Boris offered his arm, and I took it.

The gym looked like any ordinary gym, with weights, and a variety of exercise machines. The massage room was a collection of raised beds, with dividers that could be lowered or raised for privacy. I turned down Boris's offer of an oil massage. The large outdoor pool had a couple diving boards. I won a few diving prizes when I was a teenager, giving it up after a member of my college team injured herself. Adjacent to the pool were co-ed showers and saunas. Once again, I refused the offer to try them out.

Boris was frustrated by my lack of interest in any of the highlights he promoted. "How about The Club? There's a nice dance floor."

"Who will I dance with?" Boris grinned in response.

It was modeled after a 1940's era watering hole, with wooden stools, long Formica bar, small stage and dance floor. A replica of a juke box stood near the entrance, and Boris punched some buttons.

"There's nobody here."

"We've got less than a third of our regular number of guests this weekend. The ones who are here..." he lifted his eyes at me," don't seem too interested in trying out our features." He stepped onto the dance floor as a fast song began to play. He held out his hand, and we danced. One fast song... a second fast song... "Would you like a drink?" He returned quickly with my gin and tonic. A song came on that I liked, so I downed the drink and returned to the dance floor, to his arms. I shouldn't have downed my drink so quickly; it was heavy on the gin, rather than tonic. A few numbers later and we had our arms wrapped around each other. He got me another drink, and his hands slipped down to my ass.

"I think I've had enough, Boris. Bring me back to my room. Thank you for the dances and please take your hand off my bum."

My suite was at the opposite end of the resort from The Club. Boris kept his arm around my waist as he escorted me. Being slightly tipsy I leaned into him as we walked, bringing a smile to his face. The smile disappeared when we stopped at my room door, and I shook his hand rather than inviting him in. I had a rare talent; I could get a little drunk and then use willpower to sober myself up. Boris looked like a lost puppy, so I kissed him on the cheek, slapped his ass, then closed the door in his face.

"Wait!"

"What?"

"Uh, how do you like your coffee?"

"What are you talking about, Boris? I don't drink coffee right before I go to bed."

The lost puppy look disappeared. "I'll bring you a Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee first thing in the morning. Have you ever tried it?"

I shook my head.

"It's a special treat. So how do you like your coffee?"

"Uh, a bit of milk, no sugar."

"Great. I'll see you bright and early." He kissed my cheek, gently pinched my bum, and closed the door. I was confused.

I tried again to call Oliver, but again there was no response. I left a voicemail message, not having high hopes that he would call back. I was fidgety as I got undressed and put on my nightshirt. I tried Oliver again, this time from the room phone. I got the same response. I finished by bed-time preparations, climbed under the cover, closed my eyes and fretted about my husband. It was ten-thirty at night.

++++

I was staring at the bedside clock by six in the morning. By seven I gave up on falling back asleep, not that I had slept much. I grabbed my cel phone and called home. He should have been up by then, but once again there was no answer. OIiver was a light sleeper. The phone should have woken him. I was on the phone to Kyle explaining why I was worried when there was a knock at the door. I continued the discussion as I looked through the peephole, then opened the door for Boris, who proudly entered bearing a tray with two coffee mugs. I pointed to a little table with two chairs. He put the tray on it and sat on one of the chairs. I sat on the edge of the bed and quickly finished my discussion with my son.

"I'm impressed. I woke up ten minutes ago and you're already here with your fancy coffee. How did you know I'm up? Are you spying on me?"

"In a way. Come have your coffee while it's hot." Boris chuckled and pointed to the other chair. "The resort can't use hidden cameras; we'd get our asses sued off. But all the rooms have motion detectors. When they log enough activity they send a notification to the guest's valet. As soon as I got the notice..."

"What? As soon as you got the notice..."

"You're quite beautiful, Carla."

"Oh. Thanks." I stood at the table, within arms' reach of Boris. I was wearing a simple nightshirt, that reached maybe four inches below my privates. If I reached or turned the wrong way, they wouldn't be 'private' anymore. I told myself not to panic and turned towards the bureau with my clothes.

"Don't let your coffee get cold. Jamaican Blue Mountain is best enjoyed piping hot. Sit." He ran his hand down the back of my thigh, and I sat.

The coffee was as good as he promised, but I was hungry. "What are we doing for breakfast? I have to give my presentation at ten o'clock." Why did I say "are we" instead of "am I?" It was the wrong signal.

"The breakfast buffet is open now. You might want to dress a little more."

I finished my coffee and walked over to the bureau. I turned and looked him in the eye. "Are you going to leave, or at least turn around?"

He smiled and stood up. "I'd rather not."

I shrugged, deciding to play it casual. "Suit yourself." I put a pale blue skirt and white short-sleeve blouse on the bed. Boris looked quizzically at the outfit. I turned my back to him and selected a very ordinary pair of white panties. I was unsure of what he could see as I bent to put them on.

"I don't think that outfit's suitable for giving a lecture. Dark colors have more gravitas."

"I thought your talent was in removing clothes, not putting them on. What do you think I should wear?"

Boris came over to the bureau and selected up a charcoal grey dress with sky-blue stripes down the sides. "What about this one? It's low key but grabs your attention."

"Angelo included it because the material across the chest is elasticized. It highlights my boobs, and if I don't wear a bra, will highlight my nipples."

"Try it on, no bra."

I grabbed the bottom of the nightshirt, lifted it off, threw it on the bed and started to tremble. I chided myself for being so casual about exposing my private areas. I crossed my arms over my chest. Boris took my hands and gently pulled them apart. I didn't resist. "You're doing fine," he said. "You're a beautiful woman. Use it, let your body stir up a hurricane for your audience." He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed gently, holding me till my trembling abated. He stepped back and handed me the dress. I slipped it over my head, struggling to get it on properly.

"I don't see your nipples." He laughed as he reached for my boobs; I pushed his hand away. "Make them protrude, so your audience can get the full benefit of the dress." I didn't know whether to laugh with him or kick him out of the room.

"This is getting ridiculous," I said, pulling the dress back off. "I shouldn't be naked with a hunky male stripper. It's not supposed to be a strip show." I put on a bra and followed it with the dress. Boris had a cartoonish pout on his face. "Deal with it," I said. His eyes lit up. "Not that way," I replied.

Boris brought me to the buffet and left. I had a buzz from my nakedness with him but managed to tamp it down and interact normally with my fellow station employees.

"There is one constant in the climate of the earth, over the last four and a half billion years since it came into existence: change. All the geological, archaeological, all the evidence points to protracted periods of extreme warmth or extreme cold. Cities like Detroit and Chicago were covered by two miles of ice a little more than ten thousand years ago. Scientists found tropical pollen in the High Arctic. Short term climate change appears severe. But the melting glaciers, the tropical arctic are not mankind's doing..."

I grinned at my dumbfounded audience. Everybody expected a plea for electric cars, reduced power consumption, less comfort, less joy. As a weather babe, I was expected to proclaim the usual gospel. Instead, I preached heresy. There was an uncomfortable murmur, a shifting in their chairs as people listened, surprised to hear something substantive, different. I had planned to take questions at the end of my talk, but Tara cut that off. Good thing, actually. I was a weather babe, not an expert, and would have difficulty if any of the questions went beyond my limited knowledge.

Boris' recommendation for my outfit was spot on. The men seemed to be listening to my words, while at the same time not taking their eyes off my body. Tara herself showed a lot of cleavage that morning. She looked good, but not good enough to pass as a babe.

Peter spoke mostly about the muddled political situations in the country and in the world at large. He was careful not to take any positions; he had been instructed not to alienate the Republicans or Democrats who watched our newscast. Other talks covered our programming schedule, broadcast media's burden of responsibility, and so on. I listened politely to the other speakers, surprised that most of them were encouraged to take questions. The opinions expressed bore little resemblance to what we said to each other when the cameras were off. This reminded me that the retreat was for our audience, not for us.

A light lunch followed the morning program, and we were ready for the next part of the retreat by one-thirty. We were now to show the audience that we we're fun people. There was music, drinks and snacks by the pool. I grabbed Peter's arm as we headed out of the dining room. "I need you. I can't put on that bathing suit by myself."

"Give me twenty, thirty minutes."

"We're supposed to be at the pool deck ASAP."

"I know that, Carla. I have to call my wife. Go get everything ready. I'll be there as soon as I can."

There wasn't much to get ready. I prepared the strappy bathing suit, got undressed, lay down on the bed and tried calling Oliver. There was a knock on the door as I finished leaving a voicemail. "Come in." I was glad Peter was early. I was shocked when Boris, rather than Peter entered the room. He looked at my nakedness, at my legs open on the bed. Peter had seen, had touched all of this when we first put the bathing suit on me. My previous exposure to Boris had been more modest. I was too shocked to do anything.

He wasn't. Boris stripped before I could even move a hand to cover my genitals.

"Boris, I--"

His head was between my thighs, his tongue on my slit. I pressed on the back of his head, pushing his tongue to go deeper. I shuddered at what I was doing. "No, Boris, no." My excitement grew. I pushed his head again. "No, stop, stop... I can't do this... Oh, yes, yes." I shook as a small orgasm washed over me.

He lifted his head and smiled. "I've wanted to do this ever since that bachelorette party."

I grinned in response. I wanted him to do that ever since the bachelorette party, but couldn't tell anyone; not him, not even myself. He slid his body up mine and grasped his dick to position it for entry. I grabbed it too, nudging his hand out of the way. "I'm married, Boris. I'd love to, but I won't do this. It would be wrong."

His disappointment was palpable. "I understand, but you can't leave me like this. My balls will explode."

"I'll relieve you. Cum on my chest." He closed his eyes as I started to stroke him. The more I did, the harder it was for me to resist. He was well endowed, and I was getting into the experience. I felt his organ throb; it made my pussy throb. I slid downward and took him into my mouth. It didn't take long, and I was soon swallowing what felt like a barrelful of cum. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I don't know if they were from sexual excitement, or misery over what I had just done. Boris wiped my tears with the tip of his penis, and we both chuckled.

I looked at the bedside clock. "Shit! Peter will be here any moment to help me get dressed. He can't find us like this. Put your clothes back on." I lay back down on the bed.

"Is that how you want him to find you?"

"He's coming to help me put on my bathing suit. It's complicated. I have to be naked."

"Does he also eat you out?"

"No, it's not that kind of relation. We work together, that's all." Boris finished dressing. You couldn't tell that a few minutes ago he had been shooting his cum down my throat. "I had to take you in my mouth and swallow, Boris. Otherwise Peter would have smelled that we were having sex."

"Right." We both smiled at the absurdity of my statement. I wiped the dampness from my pussy just as Peter knocked on my door.

I wanted to pretend that two guys putting the bathing suit on my naked body wasn't a sexual activity. I couldn't always tell whose finger was inflaming me. Boris kept his pants on, but Peter was in his swimsuit; the one where his dick stuck out of the waistband. I felt it rubbing against my ass and understood when Peter suddenly ran to the bathroom. At least I didn't have to swallow again. I was breathing heavily when he returned, and Boris insisted that I also deserved relief. Once again, he gave it to me with his tongue, as Peter stared and I weakly protested. We took the opportunity to coat each other with sunscreen, which was an adventure in itself.

Oliver was right. I shouldn't have gone to the retreat.

It took longer than it should have to finally secure me in the bathing suit. I covered myself further with a translucent wrap. We walked separately out to the pool deck; Boris showed me to my reserved lounge chair; I wasn't surprised that Peter's was next to mine.

Tara sat down at the end of my lounger. "You stirred up a shitstorm with your lecture, or should I call it 'sermon.' We're not including it in the abridged presentation version. We can't cut it from the livestream, but the fewer people who see it, the better."

"I thought we wanted to show ourselves as intelligent, thinking people who--"

"Carla, you're a weather babe, not a climate scientist. Not even a climate journalist. Make nice this afternoon, show people you're a fun girl, flaunt your body, and everyone will be happy." Tara walked off. I didn't feel like a happy, fun girl at that moment.

Peter turned towards me, a frown on his face. "Got to keep management happy." He turned to his other side. I pulled my hat over my closed eyes and tried to chill. I wasn't successful. I didn't want to be at this retreat. My husband didn't want me to be at this retreat, and he turned out to be right. I came for the good of the station. We weren't even getting paid overtime. When Tara first mentioned it, she proclaimed the good news that we wouldn't have to pay for our accommodation; the station would cover all our costs.

A shadow stood over me, and I opened my eyes. Good old- well young, reliable Boris. He wore knee length bathing shorts and an open short-sleeve shirt. The muscles on his chest glistened with the sunscreen I had rubbed into it. I squeezed my legs together and he smiled. "What can I get you to drink, Carla?"

"Hey, Boris. Surprise me."

"Oh, I'd love to do that, in more ways than one. How drunk do you want to get?"

"Not at all, my friend. I just want to take the edge off."

"I'll go get your drink. Why don't you wander around a bit? Your boss seems to want you more visible. Do your sexy walk."

"I don't have a--"

"Don't hunch over or slump your shoulders, smile, and your walk is very sexy." He turned to Peter. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Peter looked at me without responding. He had a small smile at the corners of his mouth as Boris went off to get my drink. I put my wrap back on, and went for a little walk, making small talk with other station staff. Mostly about the weather, but also about my outfit. One girl asked me to take off the wrap. When I hesitated, she needled me whether I was going to swim with it. She was right; it made no sense to keep it on. I lay the wrap on my chair and waited for Boris, who was approaching with my drink. I took a few sips of my margarita, then walked over to the water, climbed in and did a few laps. The few other people in the pool stopped to watch me; most of them had just been chatting, rather than swimming. Once I finished my laps, they resumed their conversations. I was a little annoyed that no one moved to include me.

It was time for more. I had been Captain of my high school dive team, and the resort had a decent diving board. I climbed out of the pool, feeling everyone's eyes on my uncovered back. Once I was at the end of the board, I put everyone and everything else out of my mind. I did some stretches to warm up, offering a great view of my butt and locking more eyes onto me.

I started up with simple forward dive. A few conversations seemed to stop, a few heads turned towards me as I surfaced. I immediately climbed back out and did another forward dive, this time with a somersault. This increased the silence and the number of people turning to watch me. The "weather babe" was doing okay. I was certainly entertaining the viewing audience.

The diving board wasn't full height, but it was enough. At least I hoped it was enough. I wasn't as flexible as I had been in high school, and I hadn't practiced in a long time. A backward double somersault was a challenge, but I was so pissed off at Tara that I had to blow off steam somehow.

In actuality, I knew that I was more pissed off at myself for having sex with Peter and Boris. We hadn't actually fucked, but passionate groping and oral sex with multiple orgasms was too far over the line. All eyes were on me as I walked to the end of the diving board and turned my back to the pool. I'm not sure if the silence that ensued was from people stopping their conversations or me concentrating my thoughts on the dive. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and jumped.

It wasn't right; something was off, but I didn't know what. I tested my limbs; they all seemed to be working, I could see the sides of the pool and the daylight above. I swam over to the ladder and popped my head above water. My audience exploded with applause, cheers, and people calling my name. I pushed my hair off my face and climbed out of the pool. The audience imploded into silence. Everybody stared; nobody spoke. A cool breeze enveloped me as I headed towards my lounge chair.

"Mrs. Jansen," a voice urgently whispered. It was one of the hotel staff.

"Hmm?"

He held his towel out to me. "You're naked!"

I looked down at my body, horrified. I looked up again and saw the cameraman a few feet away, his lens scanning me from neck to toe. They young resort worker wrapped a towel around my chest; it left my genitals uncovered. Tears formed; I stood frozen in place till Boris ran over with a second towel and walked me back to my lounge chair. Peter's valet had the remains of my bathing suit in his hands; Boris glared, and took it from him.

"Lookin' good, Carla." I ignored Peter's crude remark as Boris put my wrap over me. It didn't cover much. I carefully lay down on the lounger, facing upward. Boris grabbed another towel and draped it over me. The camera was now focused on my face.

"Be careful, mister. She's connected to a mean lawyer. You don't want to antagonize her." The cameraman sneered at my valet's advice. Boris shucked his shirt and flexed his biceps. "You don't want to antagonize me either." The man pointed the camera down and walked quickly away. "Come," Boris said. "Let's get you to the shop and find you another suit."

"I don't want to stay here. I don't want to face these people." We both looked at the torn suit. Many of the straps had detached from the fabric, others were literally held by a thread. "I want to get into street clothes and leave."

"This bathing suit wasn't made for swimming; certainly not for diving. It's made to look pretty in. It's like they set you up. You should talk to a lawyer."

"That will make this into a public event; more like a circus. Anyways, I don't have a mean lawyer."

"My mom's quite vicious. She's been winding down her practice, but if I asked, she'd be happy to take you on."

"I'd rather everybody forget this happened."

"Okay. But you should still put something else on. The towels won't stay in place when you stand up, and you'll have to do that eventually. How about I pick you up and carry you to the shop? Gravity should keep you covered."

He could see the consternation on my face. "Some people will make a big deal about me carrying you. They're the same people who think you intentionally displayed your naked body. Sorry, your naked voluptuous body..." He leaned close to my ear... "with breasts to die for."

His grin made me feel better. "Lead on, MacDuff." He scooped me up in his arms; one under my knees, and the other supporting my back. I laughed, my arms around his neck as he rippled the muscles on his chest. The towel over my legs slipped off, exposing my ass and pussy to anyone at the right viewing angle. We kept on going. I decided to enjoy the few wolf-whistles, despite the tears pouring from my eyes.

Boris unlocked the shop and brought me over to a rack of bathing suits. It wasn't a big shop, and there wasn't much of a selection. They were all two piece.

"I promised my husband 'no bikini.'"

He chuckled. "Would your husband prefer no bikini or no clothes?"

I glanced around the shop. "No changing room?"

"You're in it, sweetie. It's an adult resort, remember?"

I chose a moderate pastel green bikini, dropped the towel and tried it on. Peter poked his head in the door just as I positioned the top. I glared at him as I tucked my nipples into place.

"Uh, are you okay, Carla? Sorry about my remark before. I should have been more sensitive."

I ignored him as I took the suit off. "Too large." I chose one with less fabric that seemed to fit better; all my private parts were concealed. I did a few jumping jacks, touched my toes, twisted, and stretched my arms high over my head. The bikini stayed in place, everything still covered. Peter was still watching. "Forget about it, Peter."

"Are you two a number?"

"What!"

"You and uh, Boris seem quite comfortable with each other."

"Yes, because Boris is consistently there to help me out when I need it, so I'm 'comfortable,' as you put it. And anyways, anyone who watched you and me together would make the same observation about us."

His eyes lit up. "You're comfortable with me?"

"No, I didn't say that. I can't rely on you that way. I can trust you as a broadcaster, as an acquaintance, but that's about it. Letting you touch me intimately was a mistake, and I apologize for leading you on. But at least you got off from it, so you didn't do too bad."

His face flushed. "Should I leave?"

"I don't care." I grabbed a tube of sunscreen. "Boris, please put it on me. I want to go back to my chair and finish my drink." Boris understood what I wanted. He made an erotic show of coating my legs, working slowly up. He did every uncovered millimeter of my chest, brushing his fingertips over the covered bits. He squeezed my body against his as he rubbed the lotion deep into my ass. Peter had his hand in his shorts as he watched. I could feel Boris' arousal. They could probably both smell mine. He kissed my neck and then pulled back.

"You should probably get back out there and do your job."

"Looking pretty, being a babe? That job?"

Boris grinned, scooped me up and carried me back to my lounge chair. "I'm at my post when you need me."

Peter returned to his chair a few minutes later. It wasn't hard to figure out his delay. "Friends?"

I looked at him quizzically, then stretched out my arm and extended a finger. "Yeah, friends."

He touched his finger to mine, then lay back on his chair.

I shmoozed a bit with the people around me, then took a little walk. A few of the lower-level staff were playing shuffleboard. Off to the side the night announcer and his sidekick were deep into a game of pickleball. I watched for a few minutes never sustaining a back-and-forth.

Henry, a set designer was sitting off to the side, rubbing his ankle. "It's a dangerous game if you're playing competitively. Much safer to take it easy."

"Dangerous?" It looked like a kiddy's version of tennis. "How?"

"I twisted my ankle going after the ball. People can do serious damage to their knee or ankle if they actually care about hitting the ball."

I strolled over to the pool's diving board. A few people were in line, but they were all jumping, rather than diving. Reesa, the station's receptionist smiled at me and said that she wanted to keep her bathing suit on, so she wasn't doing any dives. I wasn't sure if she was ragging me or just being friendly. She got her job at the station through Angelo. She had been stripping at his wife's club and decided to quit to have a normal family life. Someone was singing and playing guitar at the far end of the pool deck. I headed over till I realized it was Tara, and turned around.

The shadows were getting long, the air a little cool. I headed back to my lounge chair, grabbed my wrap and returned to my room.

Oliver still didn't answer. His phone went straight to voicemail without even ringing. Did he block me? Given what I had been doing on the retreat, it would probably be justified. I tried calling his office number, but of course no one was there on Saturday. I called Ivan, and he picked up right away.

"Mom, you're the best! I didn't know you had it in you. That was fantastic. The dives were terrific, but then when you climbed naked out of the pool, everybody in the student lounge was drooling. They all wanted to kill Joey when he gave you that towel."

"What are you talking about... what student lounge... who's Joey?"

"You've been crowned number one MILF. Everybody wants to be introduced to you. They're even offering me money. I see why Dad didn't want you to be there."

I had been horrified when I realized I was naked after climbing out of the pool. That horror grew exponentially as I realized what Ivan was telling me. "You're not supposed to have access to the livestream. It's just for close friends and..." Ivan was family.

"Dad said we should watch and be proud. We are."

"Ivan, son, I was not supposed to be exposed to everybody like that. It was more than a wardrobe malfunction. It was a wardrobe disaster. I stood naked outside the pool because I was frozen by shock. Then this Joey... Who is Joey? Do you know him?"

"You know him. It's Joey Carapace, my friend from high school. He's been over at our house so many times. You told him he's always welcome."

I didn't think I could feel worse, but I did. Joey, sweet good-looking Joey rescuing me from nakedness. This was too much. I lay back on the bed, my eyes closed.

"Ma, Joey wants to apologize but is afraid of embarrassing you. Do you mind if he talks to you?"

"I can't be more embarrassed than I already am. He's my rescuer. He's always welcome."

"Thanks, Ma. I'll tell him. By the way, where's Dad? I tried to call him to thank him for the livestream access, but he's not answering."

"I don't know Ivan, and I'm a little worried. Keep trying, and if you speak to him tell him to call me." We said our goodbyes.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. My body was not supposed to be a public commodity, an object of lust. I felt a twinge of pride that so many young people were interested in my nakedness, but that pride was overwhelmed by remorse.

It would soon be time for supper. I started to undress for a shower, but there was a knock on the door. I would shoo whoever it was away.

It was 'always welcome' Joey. Instead of sending him away I opened the door and invited him in. "You've seen it all up close," I said to his beet-red face.

"Mrs. Jansen..."

"Joey, we've gotten beyond the formal stage." I took his arm and guided him into the room. "I want to thank you for that towel. Nobody else bothered to help me. I was too stunned to do anything. You're the man!" I touched his cheek, trying to assuage his embarrassment.

His eyes darted around the room, searching for something to focus on. I took his chin and turned him to face me. "Look at me."

"Mrs. Jansen--"

"Carla."

"Okay, Carla. I' wanted you since I first came to your house." He scratched his chin. "Every time I um, did it by myself I was thinking of you. You sometimes walked around in a bathrobe, and I could see the top of your breasts. I couldn't sleep those nights. I wanted to, you know, I wanted to..."

"Tell me what you wanted, Joey." Could I make myself feel I was in control by teasing him?

"I wanted to touch your breasts. I wanted to see more of them. I wanted to see your, um pussy, kiss your bum. Those kinds of things."

I did a little pirouette. "And now Joey, now that you see all those and more, tell me what you want."

Who the fuck was I, talking like this to my son's classmate? I shouldn't have been startled when he answered by putting a hand on my breast and squeezing gently. I closed my eyes and moaned. He bent down and kissed a nipple, then looked up in alarm.

"It's fine, Joey. You're always welcome with me but--" I was going to say that's as far as we can go. He smiled at his old standing invitation, grinned, and mashed his lips against mine, his tongue penetrating my lips. He grabbed my ass and desperately squeezed it against his groin. It felt good to get a young man so aroused. I tried to tell him we had to stop, but I was also getting aroused. "Supper," I croaked. I had to go to supper. So much for control.

He misunderstood, carried me to the bed, lay me on my back, stuck his face between my legs, and ate. His tongue on me was delicious. I still managed to eke out the words "no, stop," though I really didn't want him to. He did stop long enough to slide his body up mine, long enough to slide his penis into me and pump frantically. That didn't last more than a minute before I felt him ejaculate inside me. He tensed up.

"I didn't use a condom!" He pulled out slowly.

I laughed bitterly. "Don't worry about it."

"Give me a minute or two. I shoot fast the first time, but I recover just as quickly and then I can go on and on."

I looked at the clock on the bedside stand. "I have to take a shower and go down for supper, and then the evening program." Joey kissed me, then moved over so I could climb out of bed. I had barely started the shower when he climbed in with me.

"I'm always welcome," he grinned.

I couldn't deny it. We washed each other quickly, and I resisted his attempt to enter me once again. His recovery had been remarkably fast. We dressed and I sent him out ahead, refusing his demand to set up our next rendezvous. I finished touching up my makeup, put on my shoes and tried unsuccessfully to call my husband. If he answered I would I tell him that I just fucked our son's classmate. Hah!

A bunch of us went to the Club after supper. Most of the songs were slow. I danced with half a dozen different men, though most of the songs were slow and romantic. I put up with most of them touching, some of them squeezing my ass. I seemed to have developed a reputation for being easy. Maybe I should have removed the hands of the first dance partner, and the others wouldn't have followed his example. Maybe I wouldn't have received all those invitations to have a massage after the dance.

Damn! It wasn't my fault that my bathing suit fell apart, that I stood naked in front of all the station staff, that every private part of my body was livestreamed to god knows how many people, including my children and their friends. This wasn't me! Maybe I should speak to Boris' mother Lana.

What would I tell her about opening the door to Joey while naked? About letting Peter, Angelo and Boris have turns groping me? Maybe it wasn't me when it started, but it's what I was turning into. I decided to leave before finishing my second drink.

"I owe you an orgasm." Joey was at my side as soon as I left the club.

I grimaced. "Joey, what is wrong with you? You don't owe me an orgasm. There's no such thing as owing an orgasm." I stopped walking and turned, hands on hips, to face him. "I want to be alone."

"Of course we'll be alone. You'll lock your door and we'll make passionate love through the night. You'll be amazed by my stamina." He was on a roll. "When your pussy gets sore, we can try your back door. I want to possess every part of you. Have you tried an--"

"Joey, stop it! When I say alone I mean 'by myself.' Just me, no one else. I am not making love with anyone tonight."

"If you prefer, we can just cuddle."

I've known Joey for a long time, when he would come over to our house after school to hang out with Ivan. He never struck me as being stupid, but at the moment he was acting like a moron. I took his hand in mine. "Joey, Ivan's coming home in a couple of weeks for a four-day break. Why don't you come visit me then?"

He took my other hand, closed his eyes, and pretended to concentrate. He opened them and smiled, still holding my hands. "I'm always welcome?"

"It will be nice to see you and Ivan hang out together. It will make me feel young."

"That would be great. I'll walk you to your room now."

I rolled my eyes at him.

"But I won't come in." He held out his arm and I took it. I was actually surprised that he didn't try to come through my door, satisfying himself with a kiss on the lips and a squeeze of my boobs. "See you soon, sexy," were his parting words as I locked the door behind me. I opened it two seconds later to hang a "do not disturb sign."

Like that would stop someone like Joey. I threw the latch as well and put a chair in front of the door. The latter was for my sake, to slow me down, give me a chance to change my mind if I wanted to open it for anyone.

I took off my dress, washed off my makeup and flopped down on the bed before calling Oliver. This time I couldn't even leave a message. His voice mailbox was full. I called Ivan, wanting to tell him some of my troubles with his friend. I wasn't going to tell him everything, such as Joey going down on and then fucking me. Just that his friend was too amorous and clingy.

I didn't have to tell him anything.

"Hi, Mom. You were terrific. Joey's madly in love with you. He said you taste terrific and you're a fantastic fuck."

I was in shock.

"A couple of other friends want me to set them up with you. One of them even said he'd pay--"

I hung up. My son was pimping me out to his friends. My chest hurt; my mind was spinning. I ran to the bathroom and threw up, remaining on my knees for I don't know how long. I crawled out of the bathroom, sweating like a pig till I reached the bed. It wasn't cardiac; it was a worse kind of pain. I spotted Boris' buzzer on the night table, clicked the button and again collapsed on the bed, face down.

Most of the employees had a master key. I don't know how Boris got around the latch or moved the chair out of the way, but he was soon sitting beside me in the room, concern etched on his face. "What's wrong? What can I do for you, sweetie?"

I sobbed and gave him a brief recap of my last conversation with Ivan.

He sat down on the bed beside me. "I'm sorry, Carla, but your son is a jerk. Has your husband called you yet?"

I shivered and shook my head. Boris caressed my back in response.

"How did this happen, Boris? I'm not like that. I mean, I dress to entice, but I never let it go anywhere near this." I sat up angrily on the bed, grasping my knees. "And my son..."

Boris knew what to say: nothing. He continued his soothing movements on my back, gradually calming me down. I turned and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then loosened my robe onto the bureau. Boris had already touched everything it concealed.

"You're upset because Joey was pushing you for sex. Is sex with me your answer?"

I blinked. "I don't know what it will answer. I don't know what I want." I reached over again, this time touching his shaft through his pants. I remembered admiring it at the bachelorette party "What's good for me, Boris? I mean, not just for the moment, but... you know. What do I need?"

"Tell me a bit about Oliver."

"The last time I saw him he was reading a book about Siberian shamanism. Some tribe called the... I don't remember their name."

"Um, Chukchi?"

I shook my head.

"Koryak... Yukhagir... Tungus... They're all aboriginal tribes of northern Siberia. Sort of like American Indians, but without the popular or government recognition."

The last one sounded familiar.

Boris exhaled slowly. "My grandfather was from Siberia, but I don't know what group we are. His brothers still live there. One of them lost his wife recently. My father wanted to go to her funeral but couldn't afford the airfare."

Something caused a gnawing in my stomach. I inhaled deeply. "How did your father find out? By mail? Oliver told me there's no internet there."

"Depends where. A few of us can talk to other people by thinking intensely about them, soul to soul. It doesn't matter how far away they are. The talker and the listener both must have the talent."

"I, uh, I think Oliver is one of... I think he's related to you. He said his Russian great uncle just lost his wife. When I asked him how he found out, he shrugged. He communicates without any way of communicating."

Boris's eyes grew dark, his expression clouded. "Let me make a phone call." He spoke to his father for a few minutes in some strange language before hanging up and shaking his head. "Nope, my father says there are no people with our blood that he can touch. He reached out and came up blank."

"What should I do, Boris? I'm lost."

"Are you?"

"I'm asking someone I barely know, a stripper, UPS driver and Siberian shaman for sex advice. I think that proves that I'm lost."

"I'm not Siberian; I'm American. I'm not a shaman, though I'd like to learn. My grandfather was extremely powerful." He closed his eyes, grinned and pressed his fingertips to his temples. "The spirits say we should not fuck or eat each other out tonight." He opened his eyes and chuckled.

I laughed for a few seconds, then cried. I lost my husband. I lost my son. I was alone, despite all the people who wanted to sleep with me. I looked at Boris' eyes, trying to see into his soul. Ha! Souls aren't visible. You can only see them through a person's deeds.

"Tell me what you want, Carla. I'm here for you."

"Yes, I know... My valet"

"I care for you, Carla. I want to make you happy, in a way that you won't feel bad afterwards."

It sounded good. I lay on my back, straightened my legs, stretched my arms over my head smiled and then rolled onto my side. At least I intended to smile, but judging from Boris' reaction, that's not what was on my face. He rested a hand on my hip, lifting it when my phone rang. Kyle wanted to know what was going on with his family: where was his father, why was his brother talking about pimping out his mother, and why was his mother naked at the pool.

"I don't know, Kyle, I don't know. He may be on his way to Siberia. Your brother... I can't talk now. It's... I don't know. I need help." I disconnected the call.

"When's the last time you saw or spoke to your husband?"

I turned back to Boris. "Friday morning... No, Thursday evening. He left the house Friday morning before I got up. Oliver must have slept in one of the kids' rooms; he didn't come to bed with me."

"Did he say anything special on Thursday?"

"He asked me again not to go to this retreat. It was very strange." Boris arched an eyebrow. "Oliver had a small hand drum and was wearing this long brown tent-like shirt that he wears when he's trying to talk to spirits."

Boris stood up from the bed, walked over to the bureau, and threw me my robe. "Put it on." He started to pace.

"What's wrong?"

"You," he glared. "From the way you were talking, I thought your husband had disappeared a long time ago, but it's only a couple of days!"

"But I can't reach him. He won't answer the phone."

"When I first met you Carla, I was awed by your willpower in resisting my seduction. What the hell happened to you? Two days? Maybe he's mad at you for ignoring his request."

"But--"

"Maybe he's so angry he's not answering the phone for anybody, including your kids. He was worried about you being put in a difficult position. Guess what? He was right to be worried. How many people have touched your tits or ass since you arrived? How many guys have been in your pussy, with a finger or a dick?"

Joey had been the only dick inside me; I expected Boris would be this evening. I couldn't bother counting how many fingers.

"Go home, Carla. Go to your program tomorrow morning, then hang out in the reading room in the afternoon. Do not go to the pool or put on a damned bathing suit. Wear one of your high fashion outfits that covers everything."

"An adult resort has a reading room?"

A smile made a brief return to Boris' face. "Used more for orgies than reading. Don't stay if one's going on. Watch where you sit."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I couldn't believe what I had done. Why was I alone in a hotel room with a stripper? I wanted to throw up, but my stomach wouldn't cooperate.

"Use your willpower, Carla. Go home and wait for your husband, whenever he shows up."

"Can we exchange phone numbers at least? In case your father gets any, what do you call it, Boris? Soul-to-soul phone calls? Can we stay friends?"

He pulled a business card from his pocket. "I don't know if 'friends' is a good idea. If you want my mother to represent you, let me know. Signal when you're all packed up tomorrow, and I'll bring your suitcase to the limo."

I trusted Boris. Now he too was against me. My chest heaved as he walked out the door. I went straight to bed, too confused, too agitated to wash up or brush my teeth. Oliver, what happened to me?

I was in a daze for the rest of the retreat. Tara was displeased, but I didn't care. I couldn't wait to get home, to sit with my husband. Maybe he could explain it to me.

When I got home, Oliver was gone.

+++++++++

Footnote:

Psychomental Complex of the Tungus, by S. M. Shirokogorov. Originally published 1935, currently published by Hassell Street Press. This is an incredible book. I do not recommend reading it unless you have an academic interest in shamanism, or aboriginal peoples of Siberia.