Loading...There comes a time in every woman’s life when she has to stop and say to herself, “Where am I now? Where am I going? How did I get here?” And then there are times that those are pretty darn dumb questions. Where am I now? I’m bent over the leading edge of a table. My hands are tied together and the nylon stocking used for that is looped over something on the far side. My stocking toes are barely able to touch the floor and I’m quite stretched out with my bottom in the air.
Where am I going? Absolutely no where until Randi (probably not her real name but then I’m not really named Allison either) whom I can see approaching me in the mirror with a big strapon and an even bigger grin decides I’m done. How did I get here? Now that’s the story.
I was horny and I had time on my hands, a bad combination. My husband was overseas, which accounted for being horny; and my children were at their grandparents, which is why I had free time. It was Friday night and I had made excuses which allowed me to be by myself until Sunday morning. I got dressed up and went to town.
“To town” meant traveling about an hour and a half to a nice size southern city. I was dressed in what I liked to refer to as my “hunting outfit”. It consisted of a black skirt two inches above my knees matched with a cream colored blouse cut low, the cleavage somewhat disguised to the casual eye by ruffles. Under them I wore a black lacey bra that unhooked in front (speed you know) with black panties over a matching garter belt and dark seamed stockings. Final touch was a nice pair of black heels.
I had never been to the club I was headed for but I had researched it and thought it was perfectly suited for me. Ostensibly a gay club, the drag shows on the top floor catered to the tourist trade. If someone I knew actually saw me there I could admit I had come there for that and wonder loudly where my out-of-town friends that I had brought to see it had got to. Actually my plan was to head down the stairs to the bottom floor, where I hoped to meet another nice female interested in the same thing I was.
Now don’t get me wrong. I like men. I like having sex with men. But having affairs with men tends to get sticky (pun intended), even casual ones. I am also attracted to women and have discovered that when my urges reach a certain point I prefer to look for another woman. It doesn’t happen often but it happens. Another married woman is best because there are no strings attached and when we part (happily one hopes) we can both head back to our husbands without worries of pursuit by flowers and love letters.
That may sound as if I have a high opinion of myself and my sexual desirability. On the contrary, while I would love to look like Cindy Crawford (or wake up with her for that matter) I am an average woman in her mid-forties in an average mid-forties body. I am 5’6″, weigh 10 pounds more than I should and have black hair and brown eyes. I have 36C breasts and a butt, that despite all efforts and exercises, is beginning to slide down the back of my thighs. I am still reasonably attractive. I get offers, both from guys and gals, and usually end up with someone when the night is over (I consider that time another women exited my hotel room at full speed alternately clutching her unbuttoned blouse and partially unzipped skirt to be a minor aberration).
I had previously removed my wedding rings. I thought, after all, no need appearing I was a complete slut (certainly didn’t help in THAT regard I was to discover). I entered the downstairs bar room and immediately headed for a stool. I had previously found that a booth provided less range for looking and showing off, and was also harder to escape from when cornered. I ordered a drink and started to survey the room.
I didn’t see anyone I particularly was attracted too. A number of gay guys, at least one femme I suspected was using a fake idea to get in the club and a group of women shooting pool was about all my eyes caught. I shrugged, after all, can’t expect to get immediately lucky (although I don’t know why not…and ONCE would be nice) and turned back to my drink.
“Hey there, honey,” came a voice beside me. I turned and surveyed the woman next to me. I crossed my legs, allowing my skirt to ride up a bit; casually lit a cigarette and made a witty remark to her. Yeah, sure I did. I looked at 6 feet of denim and leather, choked on my cigarette (I don’t smoke often, which helps explain that), and emitted several “Eeeek, eeekkkk, EEEKKKKK” sounds guaranteed to assure her I was not the least bit intimidated by her.
“I guess we’re here for the same thing,” she winked at me. I desperately wanted to respond, “No, I’m here to pick up a woman,” but thought better of it. Instead I surveyed her. Other than the “Mother” tattoo on one brawny arm and the “Death Before Dishonor” one with the pierced skull and dripping dagger on the other she looked perfectly feminine. Her leather wrist buckles and camouflage bandana nicely complimented her sleeveless denim vest. And certainly her combat boots went well with her leather pants. She emphasized her innocent intentions by putting her hand on my leg. “Nice,” she complemented me, adding to it by slipping her hand up under my skirt and gently squeezing, leaving a readable impression of her fingerprints on the inside of my thigh that stayed for a week. (I was to discover that was the least of my worries when it can to reminders in the week or two after.)
I realize from watching nature programs I was feeling the “fight or flight” syndrome. Since the latter was my only choice I should have immediately started running, even if it meant abandoning my favorite pair of high heels. However I was as paralyzed as a chicken facing a hawk (not an entirely inappropriate simile, especially considering my stuffing later on). “My name’s Randi and I sure am, Sweetcheeks,” she boomed. I almost fainted when presented with this display of wit. I doubt fainting would have slowed her down, although it might have saved me from walking to my own doom.
“Ah, ah, ah, ah, Allison,” I finally managed to get out. I thought about adding either “Pleased to meet you,” or “PLEASE don’t eat me,” but decided the first was not true and the second a waste of time.
Randi (I still cringe at that name) idly picked up my left hand and inspected it. “Married,” she commented. “Left your rings off but I can tell.” I was floored. I had never expected meet a female Sherlock Holmes in size 12 boots. “Oh well, you’re probably not the greatest fuck around but hell, I’m horny and you’ll do.” (Be still my beating heart!) She lifted me off the bar stool, told the bartender “Put her drink on my tab Danny,” and clamping one hand to my ass we left in the glorious pursuit of romance.
I was astounded to find her mode of transport was neither a motorcycle nor a pickup (I drive a pickup myself so no sneers please). It was a Camaro, about a 1988 model in yellow with racing stripes. When she got in the driver’s side I thought I had an escape window as I walked around the back of the car. This was dashed when she reached out, jerked me into her lap and with a muttered “Watch your feet there girlie” slammed the door. We drove to her apartment, my arms around her. This seemed to make her think I was inspired as she answered by jerking my skirt up and reaching under it, searching for mushrooms no doubt. In actuality I was terrified by her driving while trying to gnaw through my blouse and bra and wanted to be holding on to something sturdy when we crashed. She qualified as that.
We reached her apartment in about 10 minutes, although it felt like it was no more than 2 days. She led me to the door, still squeezing my ass as though she expected to knead it into bread dough. She also entertained me with a recital of exactly what fun we were going to have. It reminded me I should have taken on the whole Sigma Delta fraternity when asked in college. It would have been a warm up for this. We entered, she kicked the beer cans out of the way and I was alone with my seductive temptress.
Randi spun me around and pressed me against the wall. She took both my hands in one of hers and trapped them above my head. Bending her head she kissed me. Actually I’ve seen assaults that were gentler than her kissing but something in me was calling (ET phone home doubtlessly) and I opened my mouth to her demanding tongue. As it explored the inside of my mouth I felt her other hand unbutton my blouse to the waist. In one quick move she opened the front catch on my bra and took a rapidly hardening nipple in her fingers. Her body continued to pin mine to the wall as she began to roll my nipple, then pinch it. As I moaned into her mouth she shifted and released my wrists so she could capture my other breast. The nipple of that breast immediately came under attack. She stopped kissing me and leaned back a little, staring in my eyes as she suddenly twisted both my nipples as though they were threaded on and she wanted them for souvenirs.
“Good,” she said. “I think you’ll do.” (Just my luck to finally pass a test after flunking them ever since grade school.) “Only two things femme’s are good for. Lets see if you can do both.”
She pushed on my shoulders, dropping me to my knees. Not that I was unwilling to go there but she was insuring I knew who was in charge. She ordered me to unfasten her jeans (fine, but does everyone always insist I use my teeth to take their panties down?) and pull them off her. In contrast to outside appearances I saw her dark bush was short and neatly trimmed. Grabbing my hair she interrupted my examination by pulling my face right up to it.
“MMMmmmmmmmmmmm, lick it you little slut,” she commanded. “Put your tongue right in my pussy.” (What else did she think I was planning on doing down there, singing for my supper?) “That’s all you femmes are good for.” (I am SO flattered when I get compliments like that) I actually was enjoying myself, the barrage of insults not withstanding. I had burrowed through the forest and was sucking her swollen lips into my mouth. Tasting them I then wiggled my tongue into her rather juicy pussy. I followed by lapping up and down, dragging my tongue in broad strokes in her opened slit. As do all artists I endured the comments and criticisms.
“Oh yessssssssssssss, You do that so well. This isn’t the first cunt you’ve had that married tongue up is it slut?” (of course it is, that’s why I was cruising a gay bar.) She grabbed my hair and pulled and attempted to insert my entire face inside her by humping with her hips. I found that little movement on my part was needed as she simply pulled my tongue up and down her by raising and lowering my head alternating hair pulls and shoves on the top of my head as required. “Oh yeah, tongue fuck me.” I responded by drilling her with my tongue, rapidly stabbing it in and out of her. She slammed her hips into my face, depositing any makeup I had left on her and then washing it down river (so to speak). “Come on you cuntlicking little whore, make me cum. And swallow every drop you femme tramp.” (shades of my high school boyfriend!). I fortunately secured my lips on her swollen clit and sucked and tongued it until I was rewarded by her cries and shivers announcing her orgasm.
Randi dropped my hair (fortunately without removing too much by the roots) and complimented me. “For a little married harlot (where the heck did she learn that word?) you’re a pretty good cuntlicker.” She lifted me to my feet and pushed me over to a large desk. “Let’s see if you’re worth a shit as the OTHER thing a femme is good for.” She bent me over the table (what? You expected me to argue with her?) and proceeded to use an old pair of stockings to tie my hands together and then to the far edge of the desk. She inspected her handiwork and politely asked me “Loose the heels, slut,” and readjusted the bonds until I was on my tiptoes. I heard her fumbling in a desk drawer.
She walked back around in front to me to do two things. First was to adjust the freestanding mirror so I could see the entire proceedings (not unlike placing a mirror under the victim at a guillotine to afford him the enjoyment of seeing the blade fall). The second was to step up to me and slap both cheeks with her strapon. Great, all the butches in the world and I had to get picked up by one who spurned “extra large” in favor of “mammoth” when she shopped for strapons.
Now that I had the treat of seeing a latex horse cock she whistled as she went back behind me and jerked my skirt up over my back. She reached down and tore my panties off, tossing them back out of the way with a nice “I’ll keep these as a souvenir.” Then Casey stepped up to the bat.
She began the festivities by slapping my right ass cheek with a mild swing that didn’t move me down the table sideways more than a foot or so. Seeing I was getting out of position she repeated the favor by slapping the left cheek even harder. My attempts to reason with her by crying out “Ouchhhhhhhhhh” and “THAT HURTS!” where met by harder and harder spanks till my ass was burning and I’m sure quite red. Standing right up to me she thrust her womancock between my legs and opened my slit, which was already dripping from the combination of excitement and pain. She rocked it back and forth, sliding along it. At the end of each push the head contacted my clit and rubbed over it. My breath was beginning to come faster and faster and I closed my eyes as the stimulation had me gasping. Finally some sweet loving (assuming you discount my ass being barbqued).
Okay, so I’m an idiot. At that point Randi said, “Okay, that’s enough lube,” and took one step back. With a hearty “Here we go you fuck slut,” she positioned the head of the strapon against my anal ring and began to push. I cried out, never having had the end of a baseball bat shoved up my ass, “Oh GAWD, stop it! I can’t take that.”
“Ah shut up bitch,” was her encouraging reply. “I wasn’t asking you.” She leaned over and shoved a small pillow in my mouth. “Chew on that while you get what’s yours. Besides,” I heard a swish and then noted my eyeballs tried to pop out as a leather belt hit each ass cheek once, “You wouldn’t want to piss me off would ya’?” Faced with that inescapable logic I stood as high as I could on my tiptoes and simply clamped down on the pillow as Randi entered my ass. “Ohhhhhhhh mmyyyyyyyy GAWDDDD,” I moaned as the head of the dildo finally popped into me (Memories of my face in the mirror have kept me from ever stuffing a turkey again. I know just how they feel)..
“Oh good, got THAT part over,” Randi smiled. She settled her hands on my hips and proceeded to slam the whole thing into me. I reared and bucked and tears flowed down my face as I attempted to get away from being completely split in half. She took this as another compliment and returned them in her usual jovial manner. “Take it you little bitch. Yeah, I know you’re loving my cock in your whore ass. TAKE IT. Never gonna want your husband’s weenie anywhere when I get done fucking you. Married slut, you’ll be back here begging for me to treat you like all femmes should be.”
Amazingly, my ass somehow was adjusted to her thrusts and beginning to feel good. Her powerful hip crushed my pussy against the desk edge, mashing my clit. The back and forth scraping of my nipples over whatever was on top of the desk all served to suddenly arouse me to the point I had hoped I would be when I left the house that evening. Spitting out the pillow I screamed “Fuck me you dyke bitch. Make me think you’re a woman back there.”
I have never known when to just shut up. Rand’s eyes widened and she grabbed my hair with one hand and raked my ass with her nails (what the hell she was doing with long nails I never asked). Her hips blurred as she drug the strapon till only the head was lodged in my anal ring and then used her weight to bury it back in me. She fucked me, gasping and moaning now to match me, until I heard her, “OH YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS, what a fuck you are you slut bitch.” She screamed. I screamed. We both screamed, if just for cream (I know that’s so bad, but heck) and shared a tremendous orgasm.
After passing out momentarily I regain my sense to feel cold air blowing up my ass where Randi had removed the dildo. She untied me and helped me get my clothes almost in some order. Making sure I had my pocketbook in one hand and my heels in the other she mumbled something about a shower and got on the phone to summon me a cab. Figuring it was over I was astounded when she stopped me as I started to leave. She slipped one hand around my waist and kissed me, gently but with deep feeling. “Thanks honey,” she whispered and then I was gone.
I staggered out of the cab and handing the driver some money. “Thanks for the show, honey” did NOTHING to improve my opinion of my looks and my clothes, or lack of them. I plopped down in the seat and stifled a yell as my butt reminded me of what it had been through. I put on my seat belt (yeah… NOW I’m being careful) and studied my reflection and considered my situation. I was going to be sleeping on my stomach for a few days I knew, assuming I could pad my nipples enough to lay down on them. Probably I was going to have to find a reasonably large cork to stick in my ass till things unstretched. I had lost my best satin panties, had massive runs in my silk stockings and buttons torn off my blouse. My legs ached from supporting myself on my tiptoes and I knew I would have to dress very modestly till the bites and bruises faded. I smiled, I wonder when I could do this again?
(I really started out writing this story seriously. However, as some stories do, it took the bit in its teeth and ran away on its own. I enjoyed chasing it down and writing it when I caught it, and hope if you enjoyed it you’ll let me know.)