Story by tammylc

We meet in the airport in Detroit. We’re flying somewhere together and
you’ve managed a stopover in Detroit so that we can be on the same
plane. A half hour before your flight is due to arrive, I go into the
bathroom and remove the dildo from my bag. I slide it into my cunt and
pull up snug black jeans to hold it into place. I’m wearing a red
button down shirt, and the lacy edges of a black bra peek out at the
v-neck. The black pants and the red shirt are nicely matched by the
red-bottomed pumps on my feet. As instructed, I begin the long walk
from the end of the terminal where I am to the far end, where your plane
will be landing. I remember what you told me - “No tram. No moving
sidewalks. Just you, walking the entire length of the terminal, while
that dildo torments your slut cunt.”

I’ve only passed a couple of gates, and my cunt is already dripping. My
breath is quickening. I look down the terminal - my destination is
still far out of sight - and I wonder if I should regret ever having
told you about this that first time, that first day I walked around like
a slut, with a cock in my cunt.

As I walk, the sensation builds, my cunt juice continue to flow. I try
to distract myself from the growing heat in my pussy. I think about the
time that you tied me face down on the bed, wrists and ankles cuffed to
the posts at the corner, and spanked me until my ass was as bright as
the fuck-me red on the bottom of these shoes, and even with the gag in
my mouth my screams threatened to wake the neighbors. I’d been bad that
time - disobeyed you, and needed to be punished. This time I wouldn’t
make that mistake - I was being sure to follow every instruction to the
letter.

My cunt pulsed in time to my steps, and I looked up at the signs
overhead. Gate 15. Only 60 more to go. Oh god.

Gate by gate, I walk along the terminal. I look into the shops as I
pass, looking for clothing that you might find appealing, or some
implement of pleasure or pain hiding in plain sight. Every time my
breath starts to come too quickly and I fear I might come, I remember
the consequences, remember what it’s like to have my cunt slapped, my
nipples clamped, or to be forced to urinate down my bound legs when you
wouldn’t let me get up or release them so that I could go to the
bathroom. I blush hard at that last memory, ashamed that I could be so
disobedient that you would have to punish me so harshly.

At last, long last, I get to your gate. Just in time, too - the plane
has just taxied up to the gate, and it won’t be long until the
passengers start to unload. My cell phone beeps. “Are you ready? Are
you wet and open and ready for me?” reads the text message. Hands
shaking, legs weak with desire, pussy pulsing relentlessly, I SMS three
letters back - yes.

And then the door opens, and there you are. You see me, standing in
front of the gate, trying not to make it obvious that I have a dildo
inside of me, that I’ve been on the edge of coming for a half hour, and
wet for days, that I’m on fire. Without stopping for a kiss or an
embrace, you grab my hand and tell me follow you. You pull me into one
of the private “family” bathrooms, lock the door, and bend me over the
sink. You pull my pants and underwear down to my ankles, and I step out
of them, pausing for just a moment to put my shoes back on. Then you
pull the dildo out of my cunt, and throw it god knows where in the
bathroom, and your cock slides into the wet, dripping space it has left.
You drive into me, hard, and my moans get so loud you need to clamp a
hand over my mouth. A few more thrusts, and I feel your cock spasm and
your semen fills my cunt. And then I’m empty again, as you pull out.
Your hands forcefully turn around, then push me down on my knees, where
I clean the mixture of your cum and my cunt juice off your cock. You step away and pull up your pants.

“Hurry up and get dressed, slut - we have a plane to catch.”

“I like to watch,” my girlfriend Elle said and stuck her chin up and out like she always does when she feels like she wants to challenge me or flirt with me or both.

“I’d like to watch you with another man,” she said to me her chin still up, her eyes going all sparkly. We were, I recall, making a late breakfast. Elle held a cantaloupe in her hand. I held a mug of coffee in mine. Elle’s chin jutting and her assertion, “I’d like to watch”; that was how it started.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t been with a guy before; it was just that I hadn’t been with one recently. Elle knew my history—the late nights of heavy drinking and minor drugging with my college theatre group that would inevitably devolve into the splintering couples of various configurations and sexes, each of us pairing—or sometimes tripling— with another and traipsing off all tipply into the night.

She knew that I’d been manhandled, that I’d done some manhandling, and that I liked it. She knew too that I hadn’t done it in a long time, not since leaving university and getting this straight job and this straight life and this straight relationship.

It wasn’t like I’d missed it—the scruff of beard, the rough of lips, the hard body, the hard cock—it wasn’t like I’d missed it. But when Elle lifted her chin and said something, I realized it wasn’t like I hadn’t missed it either.

The odd thing is this: as easily as the idea got planted by Elle, it was harder than I’d expected to find a guy. My college theatre group had grown up, gone straight and narrow—or gay and narrow—gone some way or another, just as I had. Plus, even with the ones I still talked to, the dynamic was gone, that glamour of youth had lifted and the Puckish magic that made it possible for us to shift shapes had drifted like a dream.

I realized that it would have to be a stranger, then; it would have to be a strange man who I’d fuck. And that felt weird to me. I’d always only been with men I’d known, guys who were mates well before we’d mated. Guys whose girlfriends I knew, whose voices were already familiar. I knew what their apartments looked like, what kind of underwear they favored. I’d crashed on their couches long before I’d ever fucked them in their messy college flats, trying to keep from banging furniture and waking roommates.

I’d never fucked a guy I didn’t know before. I don’t think I would have done it without Elle whispering sweet naughty nothings in my ear.

“I want to watch your face as you come with your cock down another man’s throat,” she said, gutter-talking below me, her hands on my hips, pulling them faster and harder toward her wide-spread thighs, my cock sliding in and out of her pussy.

“I want to see you fuck a man like this,” she’d say over her shoulder to me, her black hair pooling on her white shoulders like dark water.

“What about that guy?” she’d ask, pointing across the bar to a whip-skinny hipster in an ironic tee-shirt. “Too thin?” Elle would ask. “Then how about that one?” she said and pointed to a slightly grizzled Goldfinger-era Sean Connery type.

At Elle’s urging I started to see the world as a walking man buffet. Some of that, please, that slick Asian in the minimalist designer suit. Some of that, that man-sweaty construction worker with the tight shirt and loose jeans. I found I’d be standing in a market queue and I’d be undressing the man ahead of me. I’d see his ass naked; I’d see his cock spring free of his jeans; I’d see it go boing! and I’d feel its live weight in my hands.

I wanted him, whoever he happened to be. I just couldn’t seem to meet him.

I signed up for an dating services. I’d put up a profile and then I’d taken it down. I’d post pictures that Elle took of me: one showed my chest, mostly denuded of hair and slim with my swimmer’s muscles. Another of my cock tenting my boxers. Another of me lying prone on my sex-rumpled bed, my ass gleaming white against the sheets. All of them struck me as simultaneously goofy and hot. I tried to resist the narcissist song, but I had to admit when I looked at them that I’d fuck me.

Like my profiles, I’d post the pictures and take them down. I just couldn’t commit to the hot-and-cold running desperation-slash-excitation of the online dating thing. Elle would ask me if I saw anyone I’d liked, if I’d emailed, chatted, something. I looked, I told her, but I couldn’t. Online dating wasn’t for me.

But Elle’s urging, and her susurrations all demon-like in my ear while we were fucking in my big white bed, drove me. To be honest, I hadn’t realized I’d wanted to fuck a man until Elle gave me the permission to want it. And with all of her gentle orgasmic urging, my imagination was in overdrive. Which is exactly as Elle wanted it.

“I want to see your hand like this,” she whispered and gazed at her own hand wrapped tight around the shaft of my cock. “I want to see your mouth like this,” she said and took the tip of my cock between her opened lips.

I considered going to a gay bar. I’d been, of course, with friends—I like the energy of gay bars. Sticky with alcohol and sex, they’re practically humming with testosterone. I considered going to one not as a tourist but as a trepidacious native. I walked the street in front of one, and I found I could not enter.

And still…Elle’s voice, her slender-fingered hands on my cock, my image in the mirror obscuring her body, her voice hushed and husky h in my ear behind me. “Imagine my hands were rough,” she said, “imagine you could feel my cock pressing into your back.” I did, I could.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

Yes, I said,.

Then, just when I felt myself caught between the Scylla of my desire and the Charybdis of my reluctance, I met Guy, or to be more strictly correct, Guy met me.

It was at a party, a gathering, a work affair. Guy didn’t work with me—he was a peripheral client. The advertising company I wrote for had some celebration for some big account and there was Brazilian barbeque and there were free-flowing mojitos and there was Guy.

He was a few years younger than I, very cool in his expensive jeans and jacket. He had creative facial hair and a top-of-the-line PDA that kept buzzing, ignored, in his pocket. He looked at ease. Me, I’m equally uncomfortable in a group and alone. Not Guy. He was confident.

Somehow we ended up talking, somehow we had a lot in common. Somehow I kept on looking at his tongue when he laughed. He had this habit of sticking it out between this teeth just as his eyes slitted with laughter. Somehow we exchanged numbers.

Somehow, it escaped me until I told Elle about it later that Guy was hitting on me.

The sound of his voice stayed with me, so did the vision of his triangular tongue between his full lips. When Elle, her saliva-slick finger circling the “O” of my anus, asked me how I’d like to feel a man’s cock, I thought of Guy, his pointy tongue, his pervert’s mouth, his expensive jeans, and said I’d like that very much.

Why, you might ask, would it surprise me that Guy texted me about a week later? Why, you might ask, what with all of my mind’s man-made fantasies, and all of the very twinkly conversation bouncing between me and Guy that night at the company party, why would I be surprised that I was meeting him for a drink one evening?

Why, you might ask, given the months of preparation and conversation and half-hearted but full-cocked plotting, would I be surprised that it actually happened? That I invited Guy to my apartment. That Guy accepted my invitation. That when he entered the door, Elle hid comfortable on a chair behind the slatted doors of my closet. That Guy took my hand in his when I gave him his second glass of scotch.

That Guy pulled my face close to his with his free hand and pressed his pervert’s mouth on mine. That we abandoned our glasses full of scotch and that we entered my bedroom together. Why, you might ask, would I be surprised?

Because I always am when I get what I want. I lack Guy’s—and Elle’s—unshakeable confidence.

I wanted it, and I hoped for it, but I was still surprised when Guy, his mouth still on mine, started peeling my tee-shirt from my body. “I have a girlfriend,” I said to him between kisses.

“I know,” said Guy. “I asked.” He palmed the back of my head, prised my mouth open under his mouth and swirled his pointy tongue against mine.

His scruff caught in mine. His smell mirrored mine. His cock strained against his jeans, as mine pressed for release against mine. His hands ran up and down my body, feeling my flesh, as mine groped his. It all returned, that feeling of a man—that hard and sinewy verisimilitude, that sharp musk, that same but different.

Guy stopped and pulled away. He looked at me, unbuckled his belt, popped one button after the next on his jeans, kicked off his loafers, and let his jeans fall into a puddle on the floor.

“Your turn,” he said, stepping naked and glorious as Michelangelo’s David out of his puddled overpriced jeans.

I untied the drawstring of my linen pants, unzipped, and let them and my boxers drop to the floor. My hard cock curved up toward my navel. Just a couple of feet away from me, I could see that Guy’s did too.

Guy ran a finger across my abdomen, turned away and laid himself on the bed so that his head dropped off the edge. I looked at him, his face upside down; we laughed. He told me to come closer. I did what he told me to.

You know, the weird thing was that it didn’t feel weird. I mean, it did and it didn’t. Because, let’s fact it, it was weird. There I was naked with my first man in over a decade, my girlfriend of a couple of years hiding in the closet watching us, and my cock quivering at this guy I’d met at a company party just a week or so ago. Weird. And yet not.

Guy reached out his hand; he took me by the head of my cock; he pulled me closer, and he put the head of my cock in his mouth. His mouth felt like a man’s—something about the pressure or the lips—I don’t know what it is, exactly, but a man’s mouth is never like a woman’s mouth. But a mouth is a mouth, so maybe it was just that I could see his body lean, almond-colored and masculine, laid out on my bed. His pecs jumping under his thin skin as he reached up both hands to guide my cock more deeply into his throat. His cock a bit thicker than mine pointing up towards me, tempting me.

I could feel that Guy’s head was completely off the bed, his hair brushing against my thighs, my cock deeply down his throat, my knees bent with the pleasure and the angle. It felt good, but how could I not feel like I was performing? Guy had unwittingly lined us up perfectly parallel to the closet where Elle was hiding. It was all I could do not to look at those nearly closed slatted doors; it was all I could do not to strain to hear Elle’s rustle over the slurping of Guy’s mouth on my cock.

The weirdness of the tableau, can you see it? My girlfriend seated in the closet, this strange and beautiful man on my bed, my cock down his throat, my secret awareness, and the exquisite pleasure of it all.

It kind of hit me, and sooner than I wanted, I felt that yearning burning of coming start to shoot from my balls up through my cock, but I didn’t want it, not yet. I pulled my cock out of Guy’s open throat with an audible pop! and bent forward. One hand on either side of Guy’s hips, I lowered my lips to his cock.

A tiny drop of pre-come stood beaded on its tip, and I licked it up. I swirled my tongue around the pulsing tip. I suckled on its velvet hardness, savored its mouthfeel, the porpoise-boiled-egg springy resiliency, the tiny pucker of rough skin below the head, the tiny-baby-bird mouth of its slit at the top. I let Guy’s wide cock slide into my mouth slowly and deliciously, taking it a millimeter at a time into my mouth like it was some delicate comestible. Fine chocolate. Truffles. Foie gras.

All the time, I knew that Elle was watching.

I heard Guy breathing and moaning behind me. I felt his hips writhing against my mouth. I felt him take my ass in his hands, and I felt him pull my cock into his mouth. His mouth on my cock felt like mine on his, his cock in my mouth felt like mine in his. His crazy-keening burn rolling up his cock from balls to tip was like mine. His hips pushing up toward my mouth pushed like mine. I felt Guy’s balls press high and tight into my nose, and this vertiginous circular pleasure rolled over me.

A hand on my mouth pulled me off Guy’s cock. “Stop,” he said, “or I’m going to come.” He pushed me off him and rolled over on the bed. He reached up and took my hand and spit into it, a long pearly strand of blow-job saliva. Splayed on the bed, he put my spit-covered hand on his cock. I rubbed the tip.

Guy spit in his hand and rubbed my cock’s tip. I kneeled above him, Guy below me, one of his legs between mine, one of my knees between his legs, each of us with a cock in our hand, the closet doors, slightly ajar and hiding my girlfriend as in a French farce, right in front of me.

I paused, turned and grabbed a bottle of lube from the table next to my bed. I squirted some into Guy’s hand and some into my own. Squirt. Squirt. Two hands. Two cocks, twins, hard and pressing against one another.

His hand felt like my hand, but not. It felt strong and hard, and it rubbed knowlingly, pausing and pressing, holding and pulling, drawing my cock away from my body at a pleasant angle. His cock in my hand felt like mine and it didn’t. I tried to listen to his breathing, to get his eyes to narrow in pleasure, to bring him closer to off.

Guy’s other hand rose to cup my balls, one finger pressed against my asshole, insinuating itself gently into my ass, burrowing. As I rubbed his cock faster and harder, I lost myself, lost the closet doors, lost the watching Elle, lost it all as I pushed myself onto Guy’s finger. I lost myself in his capable hands. I lost it, lost it all, lost it to pleasure, lost myself and lost control, lost in the swell and break of the pump-pump-pump of my pulse and the keening burn up and out of my cock.

Lost, I covered Guy’s belly with a white baker’s glaze of come. And Guy, watching me come, feeling my cock contract under his hands and my asshole around his finger, watching and feeling me come, came too, so as my orgasm’s meteoric rise subsided, his crescendoed. Like two well-timed fountains we came, first me and then him, shooting twin white streams of come.

And then, what? We kissed. I got a towel. We joked, said something banal. He dressed. I saw him to the door. We said we’d do it again. Post-coital platitudes. Hail, fellow, well met, that kind of thing.

The door shut behind Guy. In the narrow hall, I turned, and there was Elle, eyes blazing, face luminous, naked and white. She palmed my quiet cock, restive under my drawstring pants, and she said feverishly, “Fuck me now.”

How could I not? She was hot, wet-hot and waiting. She had been waiting for this, she said. She had wanted this, she said, she had thought of it. She had dreamt of it, fucking me after I had been fucked. She said she’d sat in the closet, her hand in her pussy, and she had watched. She had come, she said, she hoped she had been quiet.

I assured her she had been. She untied my pants, she slid them to the floor, she fumbled feverish.

She held my cock and she kissed my neck, biting it. She slipped her hands, more delicate than I’d ever remembered them feeling, around and under my cock;she tugged at my balls and she pulled at my cock and I felt it get hard.

“You were so fucking beautiful,” she said in my ear and she pulled me against her, flattening her back against the wall. Elle slid down the wall, her hands holding me like the clenched fingers of a drowning person. We fell to the floor.

She told me to fuck her. What choice did I have? What choice did I want? I slid my cock into her pussy like a hot knife into ice cream. I could feel her in, under and around me. She felt impossibly wet, impossibly swollen, impossibly open.

Elle’s hands gripped my hips, the same spot that Guy had touched just a little while ago. Her hands urged me on. Faster, her hands said, harder. More. The floor hard below my knees, Elle was soft under my body. Her hips rose to meet mine, again, again, more, and harder.

I could hear her begin to keen, that low mongrel-song that announced her coming. Her fingers dug into my ass with her urgency; she was below me, but she was fucking me, her hips bucking, hungry below me.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Elle intoned aimlessly in my ear, and so I did. She opened around me, she flowered, she flowed, she burst and she sang a long string of meaningless vowels into the echoing hallway.

And in her song, I joined, letting loose as I could with someone I knew, someone I loved, someone who was different from me, but someone with whom I could share so much.

It’s a gift she gave me, you see. She knew what I wanted. She put a word to it, and she gave me permission. I thought I was doing it for her, that sloppy seduction of Guy. But I was doing it for me, you know what I mean?

So that’s the backstory, how Elle and I started experimenting, how we really came to know each other. It began with Guy. Yes, Guy was the first.

And you? Are you interested?

Would you like to be next?

Kind of like that girl in the red dress against the gray-suited monochromatic wash of humanity in The Matrix, the moment she realized stood out against the crowd of memories. It was a normal day; she was at the supermarket picking up something for dinner, some chicken, some vegetable, some cookie or another. She was in the paper aisle and there was a man. She saw him and she realized.

He himself was not remarkable. Just a tired guy with the white dust of sheet rock or masonry covering his jeans and his t-shirt, coating his hands like confectioner’s sugar. His body had that hardness of manual labor and his face the bone weariness of his labor’s work. But she looked at him as he bent over to pick up a jumbo pack of Bounty and she felt it ripple up her body with the quick blue-white burn of an alcohol fire.

She wanted to get fucked. Hard. In a fleshy flash she felt this man’s calloused fingers prying apart the lips of her pussy, jamming themselves in the tender folds of her flesh, finger-fucking her with their hard tips as his tongue rammed into her mouth and she inhaled the brown musky scent of his unwashed body.

She had to steady herself against the cart for a moment until the crashing wave passed. And then she gently removed the box of cereal from her toddler’s ever-sticky fingers, brushed a stray hair from her temple, and pushed on.

The thing was—and she hadn’t expected it—when her husband left for Iraq all those many months ago, he seemed to have taken her libido with him. There, tucked quietly in his carefully packed martial rows of government-issued shirt and pants, amidst the family photos and his favorite books and among the small packet of personal items, must have snuck her libido. She didn’t remember giving it to him, nor did she remember his having appropriated it, but it must have accompanied him for she had not seen it for months.

Until the unknown laborer jarred it loose from its hideyhole, scared it blinking and wondrous into the sunlight, poked it into presence and made her realize she was horny as hell.

Thinking about the supermarket epiphany later in the wide empty expanse of her marital bed, she thought that perhaps there had been something about the guy, maybe his smell reminded her of her husband, maybe the cut of his jawline, maybe the curve of his hard ass barely visible in his baggy workman’s jeans, made her want to get on her knees and be pounded like a bitch in heat.

In the bed, her hand crept toward her crotch, and almost unaware of it, she began spreading her thighs wide and wider as her hand moved under her nightgown, between her legs, to her pussy that glowed ember bright. Her hand began gently pressing and tugging at her cunt lips, pressing and pulling, testing the flesh and its responsiveness, prodding the sensitive nodes, rubbing around the outside of her pussy, slapping lightly the four-inch-long still-sealed slit.

In her mind she saw herself on her knees in the bright white light of the supermarket aisle, cupping the laborer’s package with her deft palms, unbuckling his pants, unzipping his pants and watching his long brown cock spring out at her. She imagined the heady smell of him and her mouth watered.

One finger between her pussy lips, she circled to find wetness, dipped and retrieved it, rubbing her clit. Her other hand pushed her nightgown up roughly and pinched and prodded her small nipples, moving from one nipple to the other as the hand between her thighs maintained its steady brutal rhythm.

In her mind she was now pressed against the shelves of paper towels, her hands whiteknuckling the shelving as the man behind her pushed up her summer dress, pulled down her panties and began fucking her from behind. The man morphed from the laborer to her husband. She imagined seeing them reflected in the store’s convex security mirrors, in an act of carnivalesque sex, his desert camo fatigues around his ankles, his strong browned hands gripping her waist, his thick cock taking her as his own.

Her hand, having moved from the nastying with her nipples, fucked herself with a vengeance, while her other finger rubbing her clit. Her fingers plunging inside her, she came sharp and hard, her cunt ululating the primal cry she herself had to stifle in her pillow for fear her children would hear.

The next day, to her surprise, she was sore. She had fucked herself hard, harder than she’d imagined she’d ever really want to be fucked, and that realization stacked like cord wood on top of the one of the previous day.

Huh, she thought, and she felt the warm glow of excitement replace the cold creep of anxiety that had come with the news that her husband’s troop was returning in just under three weeks.

She’d felt guilty that she hadn’t been as immediately overjoyed about his imminent return as she’d expected. But the year had been hard for her too. There were the kids, the sudden responsibility of single parenthood. There had been the crushing boredom and loneliness there, near the base at which her husband was stationed. She hadn’t been able to find a full-time paralegal job there in that small Midwestern town, and she didn’t get along so well with the other Army wives. They were fine, but a bit catty and dull. They hadn’t read a book that hadn’t been on Oprah, for example, and even those they didn’t always make it all the way through.

Slowly, she’d adjusted. She’d made a schedule if not a life and the idea of readjusting to the husband’s presence felt a bit alienating. It was kind of nice, to be honest, not to have to think about his needs in addition to everyone else’s. And while she felt deeply guilty about this emotion, she still liked cooking what she and the kids liked for dinner without thinking about his manly needs. She liked not having to wash his clothes and pick up after him, even though as guys go he was pretty good around the house.

Of course she missed him too; his absence was palpable. It was an aching, keening, worried loss that she had to divert herself from or sometimes she felt like she was just going to implode with its importance. This unutterable loss only confused everything, this and the fact that at its core she opposed this war; she held as the sacredness of human life.

It was a big mess, really, but now, now for the first time, her cunt sore with her finger-fucking, she felt genuine excitement about his return.

Every—and any—moment, she found, could be interrupted from its regularly scheduled psychic activity of kids and cleaning and legal typing and worrying and missing and suddenly, inexplicably, and not unpleasantly, held hostage to her erotic memories and hopes.

Flash. She saw his face looking up at her from between her spread legs, his mouth, nose and chin shiny with her pussy juice. Flash. She saw him kneeling above her, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, pressing it forcefully into her opening mouth. Flash. She saw her body in the mirror over their bureau, her small breasts shaking as he fucked her from behind, their faces reflected together in their altered and private states. Flash. She heard in her ear the attenuated moan of his orgasm and the sudden wet-hot spurts of his come on her naked belly.

She felt hostage to her libido, and she liked it.

She liked it as much as she felt guilty, for it wasn’t always he who was in her mind’s eye thrusting her down into the cool worm-smelling earth of the cornfields she drove past when she picked the eldest kid from school. Sometimes it was a man she’d glimpsed at a traffic light who, in her imagination, pulled down her jeans and plunged himself in her with animal need. Sometimes, to her shock, the face she imagined kissing was another woman’s—the Latina girl who gave her her morning coffee had lips like ripe raspberries, in her mind.

In the middle of the day, she would find herself daydreaming and slightly shocked that she was leaning her pussy so hard against the corner of the high desk in her office, and she hoped no one was watching.

As the date of her husband’s return grew closer, she found herself looking at photos and remembering details about his body. The way his hair grew on his hands, the broadness of his palms, the strength of his fingers. The details would meld and shift and blossom into her imagining his fingers thrust inside her, his index finger first, next the middle, then the ring finger and finally his pinky; she imagined him stuffing her pussy full of fingers, all wriggling inside her, as she moved her hips, impaling her body on his hand, his fingers, his wedding ring.

She wanted him inside her, everywhere. She began, in the dead of night, playing and plying, touching and prodding and imagining, She took things to bed with her: a long, smooth wax candle, a cucumber, a tall glass bottle that had once held grappa. One day, she impulsively bought a bottle of KY lube, shamefully grouping it in her usual health and beauty aid purchases of mascara, children’s Tylenol and contact lens solution. That night she brought the lube into her bed and used it to work the candle gently and slowly into her tight asshole while imagining it her husband’s finger, while imagining his voice whispering encouragement in her ear, while coming pop! pop! pop! explosions into the quiet night.

The days passed agonizingly slowly and then, finally, suddenly, as time has a habit of doing, it sped up, and the day he was returning was next. There had been broken nervous phone calls, the jittery reassurances of one another’s presence on earth. There had been the escalating and dizzy excitement of the children. There had been details—his parents were flying in and there was nothing she could do about it. She imagined lying to them about his return date to give them a day alone, but she couldn’t. It couldn’t be helped. They would be there that very evening in the Best Western down the road and she felt herself swearing under her breath whenever she thought about it.

She liked his parents, she really did, but their presence was really fucking up her fucking plans. Her mind saw her greeting him not with a kiss but with her naked ass, presenting it to him like a gift, like a baboon, like a prize for him to mount. She wanted, wanted with every fiber in her being, him to fuck her like a whore.

Which shocked her, frankly. The night-time fumblings in the bed had made her realize that she had wild, reckless and pungent desires. She wanted him to penetrate her everywhere. She wanted to him to rip her clothes, to pull her hair, to smack her ass, to bite her small pink nipples, to take her with all the violence of her past year’s loss of him, and this shocked her. She’d always turned away from violent sex scenes—she thought they were men’s fantasies.

Women, she had previously thought, wanted to be peeled delicately like a rare fruit and savored slowly. She now scoffed at that kind of gentle love-making. She wanted, in her heart, in her head, and in her loins to be fucked like an animal. She hoped he wanted the same.

to be continued…

The day before, she went to the local beauty parlor and demanded a Brazilian. She lay on the table, the blonde Eastern European matron with the beefy arms parting her legs and twisting her in improbable ways like a Barbie, and she imagined his sitting in the corner watching her. Watching as she flinched as each strip of linen was ripped off her coated with green wax and black hair, watching as she became as naked and as smooth as a prepubescent. She imagined suffering under his watchful and approving gaze and while still wrapped in the gauze of pain she found herself wet.

The day before, she laid out her clothing, a sheerish summer dress printed with flowers and a pair of cowboy boots. The outfit said proper slut and that was what she wanted. In the dress, her breasts were barely visible, the puffed sleeves and sweetheart neckline showed off her lovely chest and arms, and her nipples poked like reminders against the fabric. The hem grazed her kneecaps, so it was a demure sluttiness, but it was sexy, sexy as hell, and the cowboys boots, she felt, would tell him to fuck her now.

The night before she did her best not to touch herself. She tried, she really did, but she couldn’t sleep, and she’d found anyway that an orgasm, or handful, didn’t diminish her desire the next day. So in the black of night, while thinking about her husband on the transport plane full of tired, giddy, nervous and posturing soldiers, she fucked herself into a fitful sleep.

The day of she washed and brushed the children. She showered and carefully shaved her armpits, her calves. She saw that her freshly waxed red prickling pubic mound had quieted into a slick-smooth inviting series of folds and curves. And as much as she wanted to press her pussy with her fingers in the hot drip of the shower, she didn’t.

She dressed, she met the parents. She was polite and upbeat. She greeted the other wives. They airkissed and made small talk. She waited, holding hands with the toddler, trying to be composed. Trying to imagine and trying to not imagine at the same time what it would feel like to have him take her body in his arms and kiss her.

What would he look like, a year gone from her? Who would he be? What would the war have done to him? The things he’d seen, the people he’d encountered as he’d searched Iraqi villages, the women hiding in corners under their wraps, the fear a scent in the air as much as the unfamiliar spices of cooking and unbathed bodies? What would the boredom of camp life have done to him? The year away and his busy, busy mind. What doubts would the excess of time and space raised in his mind? Who would he be?

Would he still want her? Because oh god oh god she wanted him badly. She had, predictably, kept a dirty t-shirt of his when he left. She had, originally, kept it in a Ziploc bag; in the first few months of his absence she had taken it out and smelled it when she wanted to steep herself in his loss, when she wanted to lave herself with it like a penitent. Then she had put it away, tucked it in a corner of a closet and tried to forget about it, and immersed herself instead in all the logistical details of parenthood and working. Recently, she had taken the shirt out of its protective plastic. She laid it over her face and inhaled her husband’s scent as deeply as a high school huffer while she brought herself to come again and again, imagining his body pressing down on her face in rapacious intimacy.

There, in the center of the base, like everyone else waiting in small molecules all grouped around that one missing person, she felt these thoughts swirl and eddy in her head, even as she held the hand of the elder child, the one who remembered her daddy, and shifted the toddler who did not as he squirmed on her hip. There, in the center of the base, the lawn browning at the edges like a cookie too long in an oven, she felt herself, even in her anxiety, get just a bit wet.

As the small band and color guard upped the register of their pomp and circumstance, two buses turned the corner into the center of the base, drew nearer , and rolled to a stop in front of the families. The crowd’s excitement rose in direct proportion to the proximity of the buses, crescendoing in shouts and cheers and the tired wails of a few babies.

One by one the men and women exited the buses, and the crowd craned their necks, bobbing their heads like a bunch of chickens to get the first glimpse of their Loved Ones. They look tired, the wife thought, and brown. One by one, she saw them exit the buses, and as she could glimpse each new pair of feet dropping down the buses’ steps, she felt her heart race just a bit more.

And then, finally, there he was. Smiling, his arms out, as if he were welcoming the world, which in a way he was. He saw them, his little molecule, before she recognized him. His hair was so short, his skin was so brown, his body so…hard.

Before she almost knew it, he had wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body close to him. His lips were on hers, and she tasted his spit, felt his tongue, smelled his body, the smell that seemed to have become a part of herself over their years together.

She felt him ripped away from her too quickly. Too quickly his arms were gone. Too quickly his body went away. Too quickly he was greeting the others—his children (she had to remind herself to remind the toddler to kiss his daddy), his parents. Too quickly and too long.

Jealously, fiercely, she wanted to pull him to her again, she wanted to rub her hands over the hard, molded contours of his flesh. She wanted to rub her face against his naked body like a cat, inhaling him all over, the delicate scent of his neck, the tangy-sharp scent of his armpits, the musky pungent smell of his cock and balls. She wanted to know him again because right now, right now she felt as if he were still new, still unfamiliar, still changed, and she wanted to be one with him now.

But she couldn’t, not yet. With the pomp and circumstance playing around them, some short speech by some high-ranking military man, some choreographed flinging of rifles to the syncopated beats of some drums, she had to wait. He held her hand, he smiled. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. He ran his hand down her hip and she could feel its hunger through the sheer fabric of her dress,

His hand ran down her hip. It stopped. He leaned in to her and whispered, “No panties?”

She looked in his eyes and grinned her response.

And then it was over, the de facto military honors, and the families began to disperse, to make their ways back to their cars and their lives. She held his hand, guiding him to their car, not really listening to his answers to his parents’ questions about the flight, their children’s questions about his uniform and whether he’d brought anything back. Her mind was busy trying to figure out how she could get him inside her as soon as possible. Now, she thought, now would be good.

She imagined sitting on the back of that grey sedan right there, hooking her heels into its bumper, hiking up her dress, parting her thighs and pulling him in to her by his highly polished belt buckle, the sun beating down on them, the crowds dispersing around them, his parents looking on horrified, their children confused. She imagined him fucking her right there in the parking lot, while she laid back on the sunwarmed hood of the car, each thrust of his hips making her body slide to and fro on the car’s highly polished surface.

She laughed to herself and shook the image out of her head. She realized she just had to get home, and there, there she’d find a way. She looked at her husband, the soldier, walking beside her in his uniform, and saw that he felt the same.

She had wanted to take two cars to the ceremony, but his parents wouldn’t hear of it. They had rented an extra-big SUV just for the trip, they said, so that everyone could fit into the car. So reluctantly, she had buckled the toddler’s car seat into the third-row seat and had sat in the middle seat herself, anticipating the ride home, when the kids would be in the way back, leaving the middle seat to her and her soldier boy husband.

In the car, his parents in the front, them in the middle, the kids in the back, the generations stacked like a wedding cake, it wasn’t long before their hands found each other’s bodies. She sat there, upright on the outside, but heaving and swelling inside, as her husband laid his jacket across the seat and into her lap, giving cover for his hand as it moved up her naked thigh. His hand gripped her flesh, owning it, she parted her legs and felt like a teenager, afraid that at any moment a parent or a child would ask what they were doing, and also not caring if they did.

She moved closer to him, his jacket still over his lap, his hand still moving, pressing its palm, pinching gently with its fingertips, crawling slowly up her inner thigh. For once she felt happy that her mother-in-law could talk the ear off a goose; she was just prattling on and on about cousins and aunts, her garden and her hip.

Her husband answered politely, diligently seeming to pay attention to his mother’s chatter; his hand stole ever further up her thigh. She parted her thighs and scooted forward on the seat, welcoming him. His hand finally hit home, that warm and glowing center of her flesh, and she looked in his eyes when he touched her there, knowing that her wetness had welcomed him home.

He looked shocked and pleased. She looked at his crotch, wishing she could touch him, but knowing she could not—it was too great a risk, and she could see that he was hard, erect, his cock pressing against the fabric of his boxers and his uniform pants. She wanted to take it out, nuzzle it and comfort it in its moment of clear distress, but it would have to wait. Seeing him, though, in that state made her wetter, and she could feel her pussy wetness spread down the cleft of her ass.

His hand felt like a slice of heaven as his fingers knowingly touched her clit, flicking it gently up and down and then pausing to squeeze gently between his knuckles. She found herself gliding into that crimson state of just before coming, each movement of his fingers pushing her closer and closer to the precipice, her mind letting go of the danger, the parents, the prattling, the kids watching the Disney movie in the way back, and concentrating on the deft pinkwet pleasure that he was giving her, under his coat, beneath her summer dress, and between her legs.

She tried not to notice that they were making the series of turns leading up to their house. She tried not to notice anything but his fingers, the flicking and squeezing, the gentle rubbing, the frustration that he couldn’t in their seated position get inside her, nothing but the wet warm enveloping ever-pinkening presence of her coming, and she felt it flood over her, wave upon wave, the pleasure shuddering out from her center and flooding her whole body.

She coughed.

“Summer cold?” his mother asked, craning her neck to look at her. “They are the worst!” she said and chattered on as her son removed his hand from between her daughter-in-law’s legs, brought it to his mouth, and surreptitiously licked his fingers.

She hoped there wouldn’t be a huge wet spot on the back of her dress or on the seat. At least the car seat is dark, she thought.

Back at the house, everyone seemed to be clamoring for a piece of her husband. She felt annoyed at them, irritated that they had to be there, disgruntled that she couldn’t have him all to her self, angry that he wasn’t ripping her dress off right this moment and finishing what he had started on the drive home.

He seemed game to be part of the family, too. He seemed as if he wasn’t desperate to fuck her, and that made her angrier. He seemed totally fine, as if he was accustomed to making girls come in cars filled with family. As if his cock wasn’t needing the attention that she so desperately wanted to lavish on it. As if he didn’t need to fuck her like she needed to be fucked in short. He seemed fine, the fucker.

He listened and laughed, told a story or two, retrieved the briquettes for the barbecue, hefted the toddler in the air, kissed the top of the daughter’s head and got her gifts, he seemed fine, in short, and not as if he needed to get fucked at all, and this made her angry. She thought about all the hours she’d spent imagining their mutual ripping off of clothes, their frenzied mashing of body parts, the inexact coming together of coming together, the bodily expression of their missing one another for so long and so badly.

“I need to shower, if you don’t all mind,” she heard him say. “And change clothes. I can’t wait to get into civvies,” he said and laughed. She heard him ask his dad to start the flames, and she heard him tell them all he’d be ready in a half hour.

Then as he passed her, he took her hand, gripped it tight in his own and led her down the hall and into their bathroom. He turned the water up high, the steam would fill the room quickly. He turned to her and lifted the dress up and over her head.

Like an obedient child, she raised her arms and it slid off her in a swift silence. Her body naked but for her boots, she pressed herself against him; his hands were gripping her face and his tongue was searching her mouth, drawing her tongue in with a craving beyond hunger. Her hands wedged themselves between their bodies and she began unbuttoning his shirt, dragging it down his shoulders, drawing his t-shirt up over his head, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants and shucking them to the bathmatted floor.

And there in her hand she felt the velvet-steel of his cock. Its improbable weight, its shocking smoothness and unyielding hardness. She moaned and felt her weight start to drop to her knees. She wanted that cock in her mouth so badly, but as she dropped, she felt his hands gripping her ass and heard his laugh in her ear.

He lifted her up off the floor, depositing her on the sink before him. Bottles of moisturizer and tubes of toothpaste scattered as she landed. In a sweet swift second, she felt him part her legs and thrust himself inside her. She gasped and moaned.

“Shhh,” he said and put his hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened over the hand, and she arched her back towards him, opening her pussy to his cock and to her pleasure. Her boots locked behind his hips and drew him towards her with each thrust.

He was fucking her, she thought. He’s finally here and he’s fucking me. Their eyes locked and she could see his desire, his anger, his frustration, and his past year of missing her on his face, and she felt comforted.

She was not alone. And he was fucking her, and it felt so fucking good. His stomach muscles were taut; she could see each muscle tighten as he thrust his hips toward her, as he moved his cock harder and faster in-out-in-out-in-out of her.

Taking his wrist in her hand, she removed the hand over her mouth. She looked in his eyes.

Fuck me, she mouthed, a bare whisper over the sound of the shower. Fuck me, she said, and nodded. He looked at her, surprise on his face, quizzical almost.

Fuck me, she said again. And then, Harder. Harder, she mouthed, giving him permission. He didn’t need to be told again, and yet she said it again and again. Harder, she said, and he plunged his cock into her. Harder, harder, harder, she whispered under her breath, and he filled her completely, uncomfortably and ecstatically, over and over, and she smiled and encouraged him.

Fill me, she said and nodded her head, a small assent, a quiet submission. She saw his mouth open, wide and wider, she saw that momentary falter, that break in stride that always signaled his orgasm, and then she saw him shudder as she simultaneously heard him exhale the long quieted and ragged breath of his coming.

They held each other, there in the steamy bathroom. Her naked and dripping on the counter, her back against the mirror, her boots ankle-locked behind his back, him standing in the puddle of his pants and shoes. They laughed.

“Let’s clean up,” he said and picked her up from the counter, setting her delicately on her feet. They kissed, embracing, and shed their shoes and entered the shower.

“I missed you,” she said and made a pouting face.

“I missed you too, baby.” He said and ducked under the water’s stream.

She looked at him. He looked fucking gorgeous, there in the water, his body in gradations of tan—arms very dark espresso, chest the color of coffee with milk, legs the color of coffee with half-and-half, and only his ass and loins were their usual almond hue. His body had gotten hard, etched, muscular. He was a thing of beauty, she thought, and the tiny lines across his forehead and at his eyes only made him more handsome.

He was washing himself, one hand on his body, the other on hers, as if to let go of her would be to lose her again, which she found endearing. Watching him shower, she leaned in and kissed him, the salty taste of his mouth mixing with the sweetness of the water. She looked him in the eye, and keeping his gaze, kneeled in front of him, the water splashing around them.

She was now eye-to-cock. It was soft, now, vulnerable and curled in upon itself. She took the head in her hand and rubbed it on her lips as the water fell on her head, her breasts, on her eyelashes. His cock slipped easily into her open mouth, and she sucked gently, tenderly, flicking her tongue over the tip, as if she was getting to know it, formally.

He held the back of her head tenderly and groaned. Her mouth opened and she could feel him getting hard in her mouth. She used one of her hands to guide him in, to stretch the cock taut in her mouth, as she sucked the tip. He grew again, and she began edging him down her throat. She didn’t really know what was moving her—she’d never done it like this before. All she knew was that she wanted that cock in her mouth, and as the water beat down on her head, on her shoulders, on her thighs, as it pooled around her calves, she took him into her mouth farther than she’d ever done before.

Her head and her hand moved together as one, her other hand delicately cupping his balls. She wished she could fit all of it—his cock, his balls, his whole body, really—in her mouth. She felt herself gagging slightly and still she didn’t stop; she tasted her pussy on his pubic hair, and still she didn’t stop. She felt possessed, nearly, by how much she wanted this cock in her mouth.

She felt his hands gripping her under her armpits and pulling her up. His body was against her, his tongue was in her mouth again, wrestling against her own tongue, gratifyingly. He thrust her from him, and turned her against the shower wall.

Her hands braced herself as his hand groped between her legs, beginning to rub her clit again. She turned and looked over her shoulder.

I’ll do that, she told him. He looked surprised again, but removed his hand. Raising one foot and balancing it on the edge of the tub, she raised her ass to him, finally presenting it to him, her husband, her lover.

His cock entered her pussy again, a new angle, a new sensation, and she moaned, her right hand busily rubbing her clit. He bit the back of her neck and she moaned into the arm that was braced against the shower wall.

His hands held the curves of her hips, slipping on the porpoise-wet skin, as his toes dug into the shower-daisies at the bottom of their tub. He thrust into her, more slowly this time, but no less fully—his more acute need abated by the orgasm he’d had just minutes before, he could listen to his wife’s body.

He slowed down his fucking; he could feel as he entered her the pleasureshudders that ran through her body. He could feel her pussy tightening, clenching like a delicate fist, around his cock. He paused when his cock was nearly out of her, and he could feel her cunt give a subtle hiccup, a dainty contraction, then—just then—when he was nearly out of her.

His right hand crept down her hips, and he leaned forward, spread her ass cheeks, and drooled a thread of spit directly onto her asshole. Careful to shield her ass from the shower with his body, he moved his hand closer to her ass, and slowly began rubbing her little cherrybrown asshole in circles.

Over the water’s rush swish rush, he heard her moan. Dropping more spit, he paused in his fucking and carefully inserted his forefinger into the tight opening of her ass, slowly, slowly, until it was buried to the second knuckle in her ass. The sight was a beautiful one—his wife bent and spread, her hair wet-plastered against her shoulders in snaky strands, her legs open and welcoming, her ass tilted up, her back arched to him like a cat in heat, his finger and his cock buried in her.

His cock could feel her get wetter and tighter.

Fuck me, oh please, fuck me, she whispered over her shoulder. Fuck me, please please please just fuck me, she said and her body nearly shimmered there in the wet with her desire.

He did what she asked, leaning back, the water splashing off her back, and ass, his finger solidly, stolidly in her ass, pressing every so slightly down, his cock took a steady, relentlessly deep rhythm. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Relentless. Even. Hard and gentle was the fucking and the sound of the shower, the water and the falling, the steam and the smell of fresh washed hair the sound of the body slapping and the tighntesses around finger and cock her pussy the delicate clenching the fucking and the goodness the presence and the pleasure

and at the same time the ecstatic convulsions, the tender contractions, the pleasure washing over them in them around them in each other around each other together and loving it them and all

They came together, at last. We came together, she thought, at last.

The secretary was bent over the desk with her skirt bunched up over her back and her panties pooled by her feet. Her breathing was strained and she tried to look at the wall clock by her left side, praying that her lateness wouldn’t be noticed. Her cheap rayon H&M blouse was pushed carelessly up her chest, exposing her breasts, which had been pulled out and over the top of her beige bra.

Binder clips were cruelly pinching her nipples.

“Keep facing forward,” she heard from behind her, and then the soft whoosh of the rolling chair’s wheels on the industrial carpet. She flinched in blind preparation; she knew something painful was going to happen, but she wasn’t sure what.

There was the clank and rustle of something to the right and behind her. The metal cup and rack that held her office tools. She knew the sound well.

The scratch of the open stapler. The bite of the staple remover. The relentless nip of the binder clips. The smack of the ruler. The poke and scrape of the letter opener. The smooth hardness of the “Received” stamp in her asshole. She knew them all, knew them well, wore the memory of the perverted use of these quotidian implements on her flesh like shameful, naughty undergarments.

“Lift your ass toward me,” said the voice behind her. Not angry, not passionate. Not anything. Its tone could be requesting her to pass the salt.

Swack! She jumped involuntary when the ruler hit the back of her thigh. A purple stripe of pain illuminated her head for a moment and faded, though her right thigh still rang with the hurt.

“What do you say.” The voice intoned.

“Yes, Sir.” She intoned and felt her face flush a bit pink. She had forgotten the complex linguistic rules. When she heard “ass,” she had to respond “Sir.” When she heard “pussy,” she had to respond “Master.” When she heard “you,” she had to respond “Boss.” When she heard “whore” or “slut,” she had to respond “Daddy.” And when she heard none of these words, she had to keep quiet.

It was hard to remember, sometimes. It was meant to be hard. It was made to trick her and trick her it did. It had been created to make her err, and err she did. She often needed correction.

The secretary lifted her ass, tilted it up and back, just a little bit, for that was all she could move. Her pantyhose had been cut from stem to stern; they now hung in tatters around her thighs. Her ankles had been bound to the legs of the desk with packing tape and her long legs spread a wide V on the acrylic desk mat, her hands leaned far forward on the desk’s laminate surface. She had been placed such that she could only move a little bit.

She felt the desk’s center drawer open against her thighs, a cool sliver of metal. She wished she could turn and press her burning thigh against its smooth, chilly surface. She knew she couldn’t, and froze her body, uncomfortably spread and tilted, and felt warm breath on her thigh and the metallic rustle of hands rifling through the drawer’s contents.

“You know,” the voice said, hot breath on her thigh, “your pussy is very wet.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, gulping a bit on “master” as she felt cold air blowing on her slit. The breath continued, a sibilant stream up and down the length of her pussy, and its coldness illuminating exactly how excited she was. The blood in her nipples beat a slow tattoo of pain that seemed to pool, collect, and transform to pleasure in her clit.

“Such a dirty little whore.” The drawer clanged shut underneath her.

“Yes, Daddy.” She said, her voice faltering just a tiny bit. She felt something hard pressed against her pudendum, just at the crux of her slit. Something hard and cool pressing there, waiting. She didn’t recognize it, exactly.

It could be the letter opener, she thought, but then she remembered that she hadn’t put it back in the desk after opening the day’s mail—she remembered seeing it on the desk’s surface as she was getting ready to leave, packing her magazine and her empty lunch containers in her totebag, preparing to switch in to her drive-home sneakers, looking forward to an evening of television and take-out with the boyfriend, a date for which, if her internal clock was at all correct, she was now horribly late.

She felt the metal implement slowly inch its way down her pussy, pressing with an excruciating pleasurable precision. Slowly down her slit it moved, down down down the center of her cunt, pausing deliciously over her clit, passing it, descending to her cunt’s opening, slipping in for a moment, drifting out, sliding with her wetness across her perineum, to her asshole, and back up again. Over and over. The gliding smoothness of the unknown instrument told her how wet she was. The secretary could feel her pleasure burgeon and swell, she could almost smell her orgasm.

Which she knew, from experience, would be delayed, possibly denied, depending on the capricious malice of her Dominator. Almost without her awareness, the secretary arched yet a bit more to meet the touch of the metal, now grown warm with her body heat; she willed it to linger on her clit just a moment more, just a moment, just there, just now.

“You’re not going to come.” The voice said low and casual.

“No, Boss,” she responded with just a hint of sadness. She knew that she wouldn’t be allowed to come, she knew it with every memory of these little experiences, and yet she had hoped, perhaps, that this time it would be different. They had been meeting like this for several months now. It had started when, as a punishment for the secretary’s habitual lateness, she had been summoned into her boss’s office and told that she would be kept late, two minutes for every minute that she had been tardy, and that perhaps this lesson would teach her the meaning and the value of time.

It had begun with her sitting at her desk, not working, just sitting, under the Boss’s watchful eye. A week later, she was late again, and again the punishment and again the sitting, this time with the Boss behind her, standing, and this time the Boss made her sit especially upright. When the secretary’s head dipped, a ruler rang thwack! loud on the laminate beside her hand.

The next time, she had to stand, bent over on the desk. After serving her twenty-four minutes exactly, she went to the ladies’ room to relieve her self; to her surprise, her panties were delicately glossed with her own eggwhite wetness, the soft sea pungency of her desire wafting up to her from between her parted thighs.

And so it had progressed, slowly. From sitting to standing, from standing bent over to this same bent position, ever more exposed, ever more open, supplicant and willing, a slow and slippery slope of submission that inexorably led her to this moment, the close of a day when she had been not-quite-but-almost willfully late, and her present position: kowtowing on the desk, nipples exposed and tortured, panties down, hose rent, her pussy drippy wet from the touch of an unknown office tool, and riding the knife’s edge between fear and desire for what would happen next.

“Put your face on the desk, and turn your eyes to the window.” She did as she was told, feeling the cool laminate under her flushed cheek and seeing that outside the large plate glass windows that it was dark and that the city was lit up like a starlet’s mirror.

“Stay there, slut,” said the voice, behind her and farther away, moving perhaps into the office, perhaps down the corridor of the reception area for her boss and into the open area of the lesser, general office assistants.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said.

She heard footsteps approaching her, coming around her side to the front of the desk; she felt a hand slide through her hair. Soft breath on her ear and the whispered words, “So lovely,” and the feel of lips on her ear. A hand snaked under her chest, pulling gently on the painful clip and then removing it, first one and then the other.

“Your nipples are sore, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“You’d like me to kiss them, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Boss.” She gulped. Fingers tenderly rubbed her nipples, and exquisite mix of pain and relief coursed through them, down her solar plexus and directly into her clit.

“I’m not going to.” Her nipples were dropped. Footsteps again, stopping with the Boss behind her. She heard it before she felt it: a swooping cut through the air that ended in a flash of pain on her ass. Then a relentlessly gentle tapping of blows covering her behind with the dull brutal kisses. A punctuation of a thwaking blow, a pause and a delicious scrape of the letter opener’s blade. The ruler rained down on her ass, her thighs, and she could feel them glow and heat, the blows causing her to inhale sharply. And then stopping.

“Take your hands and spread your ass cheeks,” she heard.

“Yes, Sir,” she said, slightly unsure how to respond and fearing retribution, and she did as she was told, taking her round ass in her manicured fingers and spreading it wide, aware that she was exposing the dusky rose of her anus and both shamed and excited that she was doing so.

“Very nice,” she could hear her boss say and then heard footsteps that came closer, then stopping to obscure her view of the window. Before her was her Boss’s waist, a belt, an expensive shirt tucked into even more expensive slacks. Broad hands holding a golf club. A driver.

“You can imagine what this is for.”

“Yes, Boss.”

On hand balanced the club against the desk, directly in front of the secretary’s eyes. Another dipped into the slack’s pocket and withdrew a condom. The Boss unwrapped the condom and slid it down over the handle of the club, retrieved a rubber band from the caddy on the desk and rubberbanded the condom in place. Picked up the club and walked back to the rear of the secretary.

The secretary felt frozen. She did not want the club in her. It looked long and menacing. Her mind raced with what the Boss could do to her insides with it. She may be a tall woman, the Secretary thought, but she had a rather small pussy. And her ass…she willed herself to keep her ass cheeks spread apart with her hands, but she felt herself tense up, nearly to the point of shaking on the table.

A hand smoothed her lower back, rubbing gently over the cleft where her lower back swelled into her butt, tenderly cupping her ass cheeks, soothing her flesh as a trainer would a trembling mare. The hand dipped between her thighs, slipped between the wet-slick folds of her labia, and knowingly rubbed her clit for a few moments.

The secretary felt her body start to relax a bit and to surrender to the pleasure. The voice behind her was whispering sweet nothing, and while the secretary listened for words that she had to respond to, she heard none, and let them wash over her, causing her to relax.

“I’m going to fuck your pussy with this club.”

“Yes, Master.” She responded.

“You want me to, don’t you, whore?”

The secretary paused. “Yes, Daddy,” she admitted as much to her Boss as to herself.

The club entered her pussy, shocking and cold and hard, the boss’s fingers still on her pussy. Her face on the desk, her hands spreading her ass cheeks, her weight on her chest, she had a hard time pressing into the hand, but she pressed nonetheless. Despite the ungainliness of her position—or perhaps because of it—despite the fact that anyone from any office tower could see her illuminated in this position—or perhaps because of it—she felt intense pleasure rush through her, the club so hard that she clenched her pussy muscles around it. Once more, she could nearly smell her cum, her orgasm shimmering before her, a pulsating pleasurecloud, fulsome and ready to release.

The hand stopped, the club withdrew.

“I’m going to fuck your ass now.”

“No, Sir,” she said, starting up, almost before she realized it. “Please. Don’t.”

She felt a hand on her head, she felt her hair yanked and her neck snap back. She felt the warm breath of her boss on her cheek, she heard the voice menacing, no longer dispassionate in her ear.

“You will get fucked in your ass.” The voice said. “You want it. Tell me you want it, slut.”

A pause. The secretary’s breath ragged. “No,” she gasped.

The hand pulled further back on her hair, craning her head uncomfortably. Another hand grasped a nipple between a cruel forefinger and thumb and pinched.

“You will get fucked,” the voice repeated. “You want it. Tell me you want it, you dirty whore.”

Another pause. A lifetime of pauses and the infinite eternal moment that stretches through the barest flicker of time. The sound of two humans breathing ragged and taut. A palpable susurration of wills.

Her body slumped slightly. “Yes, Daddy,” the secretary’s voice small and acquiescent, “I want you to fuck my ass.”

She heard herself being called a good girl, she felt herself being pushed into her previous position, she felt her hands being placed onto her ass, her own fingers pressing into her butt cheeks and spreading them.

She felt something cold splatter on her ass. She felt the slow pressure of the golfclub handle entering her ass, pushing slowly, inexorably, blindly past her sphincter. She felt it glide in, in, in her ass. She felt the pain.

And then she felt the glimmer of pleasure.

“So beautiful,” her boss said from well behind her, standing, the secretary guessed, far enough away to watch the club penetrate her ass, watch her asshole slowly and, almost against her will, open up for it.

A hand crept between her thighs, slipping onto her clit and began rubbing. Rubbing and rubbing as the club entered her ass, paused at its apex and then again as it was almost all the way out of her. The secretary felt the club’s flanged tip brush past her g-spot in each movement, the pleasure-laden pain of fullness and the pleasurable near-absence.

She felt herself very close to coming. She had to hold on not to come. The hand on her cunt was rubbing so well and so effectively. She felt her body wanting to drop down down down into orgasm, to collapse upon itself shuddering and inexplicable there on the desk, but she dare not.

“Would you like to cum?” The Boss asked, the Boss knew—the Boss always knew when she wanted to come.

“Yes, Master,” she moaned, nearly inarticulate, pleasure-pushed almost pre-verbal.

“Push down,” said the Boss, “push against my finger, push against the club, push down as hard as you can, whore.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she moaned, pushing, willing her pussy to reject the orgasm, to expel it out of her, and as she did, she felt it swell, and grow, this tremendous wall and swell, like a tsunami, and she gushed, a slick of girl cum spurting out of her, drenching the hand of her boss, and pooling on the acrylic carpet protector beneath her.

She collapsed on the desk and felt the club being gently removed from her ass. She felt the cool blade of a pair of scissors slicing off her stockings and the packing tape binding her legs to the desk. She felt hands grasping her and pulling her up off the desk, holding her and she felt her boss’s lips on her own.

“That was a good orgasm, wasn’t it?” Her Boss asked. The secretary nodded weakly, more vulnerable now than she had been before, splayed and impaled on the desk.

“Very good,” the Boss said and kissed her tenderly. “Now get on your knees and thank me properly,” The secretary dropped to her knees, pushed the thought of her undoubtedly pissed-off waiting boyfriend out of her mind, unzipped her boss’s pants, pulled them down, her panties too, and happily buried her tongue in her boss’s wet, aching, and swollen pussy.

“Very good,” the Boss said, “very good work…”

A most interesting thing happened this weekend at the library.I had gone in to get the password changed on my library card, since the nincompoop who “fixed” it a few weeks back actually put in the wrong password and I couldn’t renew any of my books online, making for a whole shitload of late fees. Damn.

I went in, and noticed that there seemed to be a whole hell of lot of people milling about, and a sene of unease in the air. I walked up to the librarian and started to tell her my tale when I heard a guy behind me yelling, “Y’all are a bunch of fucking pussies!”

Wow. Not your usual library experience, that’s for sure. The librarian was obviously angry as hell, and the little old lady that had come in behind me looked very frightened. I scanned the room and noticed a large group of younger black guys all kind of laughing and standing close together, and the one guy who was breaking every cardinal rule of libraries was an older (my age) black guy, waving his arms around and weaving and ducking to avoid the security guard who was trying half heartedly to escort him out.

To avoid any potential feelings of racism here, let me clarify- I have no problem with black people. I have no problem with black men. I DO have a problem with a drunken asshat yelling obscenties in a public library where children and elderly people are about, causing extreme distress to a whole hell of a lot of people, myself included.

The security gaurd was a tall white guy who was quite obviously frightened of the man. It was obvious he had issues with black people, because the man himself wasn’t being very scary, just a lot of huffing and puffing, doing that thing that all men do when they want to put on a show of bravery- beating their chests and making a lot of noise.

I could take that guy down. For real. Security guard, you are a wuss. I guess that’s why you work at the library.

Anyway, he’s trying to escort the guy out, but the guy would get outside and then spin around, come back in yelling and the crowd of teenagers would all pack up and laugh at him again. I realized later they were taunting him, but I had missed the whole interaction up to that point.

The librarian did whatever to my card, and I just sat right down next to the show, wanting an easy access seat in case things got out of control. With a “guard” that was worthless, I wanted to be nearby. Yah, I’m severely damaged, but if it came down to that guy randomly smacking people or worse, I was staying close to that little old lady. If he got too close I wouldn’t have minded taking his ass out, no matter if it landed me in the hospital with a morphine drip. The pain and agony of the last month have been hellish, and if one unfortunate bastard became the deserving target of my pent up rage and frustration, so be it.

The librarian barked at the guard to get the guy out, and the guard lamely said, “I’m trying, I can’t get a hold of him.” I don’t know who he thought he was fooling, but I’m betting he doesn’t have a job anymore. Another guy came out of nowhere, a short stocky Italian looking guy with a Brooklyn accent, walking like a bulldog and told the yelling guy to get the hell out. The guy kept yelling, “Don’t you fucking touch me! Don’t none of y’all fucking touch me!” and ducking away from them while trying to get closer to the pack of teenage boys.

He finally walked towards the door again. BINGO- I jumped up and followed directly behind him, and just as he got to the doorway he spun around again to come charging back in but instead found himself face to face with a pretty girl.

Me. He nearly walked smack into me. I gave him my biggest, most charming smile ever and said, “Hi,” in that coy way that makes all men, regardless of whatever was happening in their brain a second ago, suddenly switch into their primal base urges and think, “I could fuck her.” And just like that, he was disarmed.

He startled, smiled, and I kept walking, turning my head to look at him, urging him to walk on with me. And being the predictable man that he was, he grinned and followed me.

We got a few more steps and he stopped. He remembered he was pissed and said, “Did you see that shit?!” He looked back into the library so I reached out my hand and gently touched his arm. “No,” I said, wide eyed and supportive, “what happened?” I moved further out the door and he got pulled along, the magic of the gentlest of touches on his arm.

Once we were outside I let go of his arm and said, “I just came in. What happened?” He gave me the story, although I can’t say I understood half of what he said. Some of it was the lingo I was unfamiliar with, and some of it was the fact that he was pretty drunk. He was doing the crab side-step that drunks do to maintain balance.

He told me his tale and started getting worked up again, so I once again touched his arm and said, “They’re just kids. Nothing is going to happen to them but get kicked out of a library, YOU, however, are a grown man.” (He gave a bashful smile) “YOU will end up in jail. The cops are right up the street and I heard them calling them. If you go back in there, they’re going to arrest you. Are a bunch of punk assed little kids worth that?”

He looked like maybe he thought they were, and said something about “popping a cap in they ass” and some more macho crapola, and I moved so that he was facing the parking lot, not the doors anymore. Then all he had to look at was me. (laughs) I’m so slick.

Without the reminder of the library, he was suddenly all smiles and started laughing. I talked to him for a good ten minutes, laughed when he started laughing because he realized he was staring at my boobs, and kept being just flirty enough to not be making any sort of promises but enough to keep his attention. I could see the security guard walking around the outside of the building, trying to make it look like he was watching out for ME. Ha. I slyly waved him away. He left.

After a few minutes the guy remembered he was pissed off again and just spun on his heel and went marching back to the doors. I yelled, “DUDE!” He spun again (a good spinner, for a drunk guy) and just stared at me, grinning. “Did you just…call me….dude?” he said. I laughed, because it was important to keep him laughing. He started walking back to me. He started laughing, too. He asked me again, once he was closer. “For real, did you just call me dude?” I just laughed and laughed, oh isn’t this a good time we’re having, and said, “Well, I mean, DUDE. You were about to walk back INSIDE the library! Where you will get arrested! What else was I supposed to say? Dude.”

He laughed and laughed, and I turned to walk towards my car. I smiled over my shoulder, “Just stay out of that library, ok?” and I shook my ass in the way that only girls with ass can do, I swung while I walked even though it caused me excrutiating pain to do so, but I did it for the good of the library. It’s for the good of the library, damn it! How often can you say you shook your ass for the good of the library and a sweet little old lady? I mean, really? Dude.

“Hey!” he yelled after me. I turned, smiled, and walked back. I knew we weren’t done, oh no. He hadn’t left the sidewalk yet, so he was still a threat, and I knew seeing the pretty girl shaking her fine ass as she walked away would bring his attention back to where it belonged. My ass. His optimisim at getting laid. Most importantly, his brains ability to over rule his own anger and refocus on something it found FAR more important than his ego. The desire for pussy.

I got back up to him and he said, “So, uh….” and grinned like a bashful schoolboy. “Yes?” says I, ever smiling. “So, um, you wanna be friends?” he asks.

I cocked one eyebrow at him saucily and said, “Define….freinds.” He laughed, and then looked at his feet. Finally he looked up and said, really fast, “You know….” and something about “sexual participants”. I cracked up, not at his question, but because he was BLUSHING. It was so cute. The whole fucked up situation aside, it was just so damn cute.

“No can do,” I said. He looked hurt. “What, you don’t like black guys?” (Oh, leave my fantasies out of this!) I smiled at the thought I wasn’t speaking out loud and said, “Oh, I have nooooo problem with black guys. It’s that,” I held up my left hand and showed him my oh-so-blingy-in-the-sunshine wedding rings, “I’m married.”

His answer? “Me, too.” He laughed. I laughed, although totally repulsed, and said, “Well, obviously you don’t take that very seriously. I do.” He said, “Oh yah?” and I said, “Yah! I’ve got a damn good thing, and I’m not about to fuck it up.” I leaned it, confidentially, and said quietly, “I am HOOKED UP. I don’t even have to work. I’ve got it MADE, baby.” Like, I got me a sugar daddy, see? You see all those rocks? You think you can compete with all that?

He lowered his head, knowing he was beaten, and said, “Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying.” I smiled, sincerely, and said, “No. No, you can’t. Now…stay out of the fucking library, you here?” and turned to walk away.

As I got in the car, I saw another guy come out of the library and grab onto the guys arms, friendly-like, and they walked off down the street.

Oh, yah. Getting to use The Power of Ass for good. It was fucking great. I wanted to go back in and tell the security guard I had something he didn’t: ASS. But I didn’t.

Nor did I correct the guy every time he called me, “Shorty.” I was taller than him by a good three inches at least.

I mean, DUDE.

Where’s all the hot sex stories, Jill? I’ll tell you where. They are either in my archives or on someone else’s site, but they sure aren’t happening around here lately.

What is happening around here lately seems more like a pornographic episode of Benny Hill and Monty Python mashed together. It’s hot, it’s comical, and sometimes just ridiculous.First, there’s the problems with my neck and back. Most positions are out of the question, and I’m beginning to think that maybe ALL positions are out of the question but hell if that’s going to stop me. A randy slut like myself does not give up that easily, oh no.

Then my husband screwed up his ankle, really badly. Now we’ve got a couple where one can’t lay down and one can’t stand up.

Ok, yes. Just try to imagine a sex position that works with that, because really, if you can clue me in, I’d love it.

A lot of our exploits lately have been a lengthy warm up for Moi, since I’m in so much freaking pain it’s hard to get past that and get the mind focused on purely sex. Once I get there, it’s a matter of, “Ok, let’s try this….yah, that’s working, oh, oh, oh yah, that feels good, oh, oh, (SCREAM) BAD BAD BAD NO!” while I hobble about or thrash around, sometimes sobbing in pain.

Start over.

Same thing, different position, same scenario.

Start over.

Jack, in the meantime, is usually working hard to not get frustrated and just maintain an erection long enough for his wife to stop whimpering and initiate sex again. Most of the time he’s terrified he’s going to hurt me. Since he fucked up his ankle, I’m scared I’ll hurt him AND me.

There IS some great sex going on, don’t get me wrong. It’s just taking a lot more staging now, and I’m not a big fan of staging, more of a fan of spontaneity myself. Alas.

Maybe if one of you came over and filmed it, then put it all in high speed and added the Benny Hill theme, and perhaps someone else would be willing to dress up as the Minister of Silly Walks, and just walk through the scene once or twice, that would be great.

At least we could have some hilarious home movies to remember this time by. Hell, maybe we could make some money off of it, and go into business selling comical porn.

Oiy.