Your erotic stories

Something unusual has happened, and I no longer know myself. Whatever new thing I am has made me joyful and confused at the same time. John did it to me. When I look in the mirror, I look changed, though I can’t exactly tell what the difference is. People must see me differently. John surely sees it. Yesterday afternoon he sent me an email at work that changed everything. When I got it, I was in the middle of a project and only read the note quickly. Now I would pay attention.

From: John
To: Kelly _________
Subject: need a ride

After work, come to the MB dealer’s. I’m getting some work done on the car.

When you get there, park and come into the showroom. I’ll be waiting.

You should be there by 5:15. Be on time.

By the way, even though you believe you know me, act like you don’t. We’ve never met before.

Don’t forget!

John

The bossy tone was not like him. I read it again. He is the sort of man who would say ‘please’ if he was drowning, especially with me. There was no need for him to be pushy. And what was that about not knowing him? I wrote back: “I’ll be there when I can. Is everything okay?” I marked a reminder in my calendar and promptly forgot about it. He was probably just having a bad day.

When I got in the car after work, my mind was still full of the problems I’d left on the computer. I went several miles before I remembered that he’d never answered me. He is usually eager to reassure me and would have said something like “Thanks for asking.” I wondered if he got my reply.

As I drove, I began to think about him. He has been struggling with our life. We’ve been married long enough that we’re very used to one another. He’s mentioned our sex life several times lately, or rather the lack of it, and that he’d like something different, and more. He said to me once: “I love you. But I want to be in love with you again, too.” I’m not sure either of us has the energy for that. I know I don’t. Too much stress. Besides, what we have is pretty darned good. There is a lot to be said for old shoes.

Of course our life isn’t perfect, and I think everyone would like a little romance. I assume John’s had his chances, as I have.

A few years ago there was a client named, I think, Frank. He was interesting, and I went to dinner with him. The second time, he came on unmistakably, and it might have been good, but it was also clear that he would be high-maintenance. Anyway, I have never thought of leaving John. He is so good to me.

Of course we’re in a rut. Over the years we’ve gone through stages, like every couple. But he’s right, our sex has become predictable. Not very frequent, very predictable, and very mellow. He is gentle. I pretty much let him do what he wants. He is sensitive to the things I don’t like almost always. I often cum. He does, usually. There is a real peace that settles over us once we’ve made love, and that is very special. But I’d agree it’s not very exciting.

We both like foreplay, and a lot of it. And when I finally get sufficiently turned on that I’m wet and horny enough to maybe cum, sometimes I’ll tell him to get on top of me. I help him know what I want, like when I want him to stroke slowly and when to pick up the pace. More often, I’ll be on top. He’s always liked it when I take charge, and it’s always been best for me, but maybe that’s part of what he’s tired of.

Sometimes I can’t cum. Then he drives me nuts with his eagerness to find some way to help me, but the fact is that my desire just isn’t what it once was. And sometimes he doesn’t get very hard, and a couple of times he hasn’t cum either, and I know that frustrates him. Well, we do our best. We usually have sex on a weekend, when there’s time. Maybe once a month, or every other month, we’ll have a “date” during the week.

I like it that we’re happy together, and while a “romance” would be fun, our lives are full of stress and other people. Actually, there’s nothing I’m doing that I’m ready to give up. When he mentions more sex, in my heart I always hope he’ll just adjust and maybe, I don’t know, let it be.

When I got to the dealership, I had to drive around the lot twice, carefully because it was crowded with luxury cars, until finally I found a spot. I could see John in the showroom, talking with a saleswoman, and I decided I would wait for him because the car was cool and would be clearly visible to him from where I was parked.

Once, he looked out, and then looked again in a couple of minutes, right at me, but it was like he didn’t recognize me. I was expecting the usual, a big wave and a smile. But he made no sign of recognition, and then I remembered what he’d said in the email about not knowing him. Very strange.

What was up? Maybe he had a car he wanted to show me. I was tired and still frustrated from work and didn’t want to have to leave the air conditioning, but I also didn’t want to sit there and cool my heels all night. So I went into the showroom, a little irritated.

But now I couldn’t see him; he must have gone to the service desk or lounge or something; so I took a deep breath, and I let it out and went over to one of the new SUVs just to keep myself occupied.

The saleswoman who had been speaking with John came out of the hallway with him trailing behind her. They were chatting and laughing. I turned, and probably the irritation was showing on my face. The saleswoman said: “May I help you, ma’am?”

I could see John over her shoulder. He looked directly at me, but he was suddenly very stern, like he used to look at our son whenever he would come in late. He was reminding me about his note and not to show that we knew one another. I felt a little ridiculous, actually.

“No,” I said, “I’m just on my way home and decided to take a quick look at the SUV. My husband has talked about it.”

I glanced at John, he was approving.

“I’m tired,” I said, “maybe I’ll come in again when I’m fresher, for a test.”

When she gave me her card, I could smell her perfume, and I was sure John had enjoyed talking with her. He loves a musk aroma. He said good night, walked around her and stood face-to-face with me.

He said: “I don’t think your husband would care if you gave me a ride, do you?”

I sort of laughed. He has always been good at cloaked conversation. “No, it’ll be fine,” I said, laughing at the weird situation he had set up. In spite of being tired and grumpy, I enjoyed the surprised look on the saleswoman’s face. I could see her curiosity, suddenly alert at what could be a threatening situation for a potential customer, and she was surely wondering why I was so ready and willing to leave with a stranger.

As we walked to the car, John trailing me by a half step, the expression on her face was still in my mind’s eye and I thought: “What she must be thinking!”

John’s voice was suddenly hard, like I remembered it from the rare times he became angry about something: “She probably wonders what sort of married woman gives a complete stranger a ride.” John rarely yells. I can only recall once, years ago. Sometimes he is loud during sex, but of course that’s different, and he does get a really sharp edge to his voice when he’s irritated.

It was his tone, like in the email, that struck me. It was not John’s way of treating me at all. I didn’t want to ask what the problem was until we got into the car. He went around to the passenger side; I saw he was carrying the small duffel he uses to go back and forth to the gym. The saleswoman was still watching from the showroom, her left arm folded beneath her breasts and her right hand toying thoughtfully with her hair. When I backed out of the spot, she had turned and was already talking with another customer who was standing by the SUV.

“So, what’s this all about?” I asked. He had partially unzipped the duffel.

“Well, I’ll tell you, Lady. You’ve put yourself in a bad position.

“I want you to look in here,” he said, his voice still angry and threatening, and opened the duffel a couple of inches so I could see inside. There was a glint and chromium shine of something that looked long. Maybe a knife?

“It’s dangerous to pick up a stranger. Or to let yourself get picked up,” he said firmly.

I was stunned and, for an instant, felt a shadow of fear. I looked into his eyes, hoping to see a bad joke playing there. But he looked dead earnest. With the threatening way he was leaning toward me, I felt the physical presence of this man I had married in a brand new way.

“Do what I tell you, he said. “Unless you prefer really ugly consequences.” He pronounced each word clearly and evenly.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” he directed me.

He paused. “Do you understand?”

He was beginning to irritate me. “John, I’ve had a long day, I’m ….”

“Shut up,” he snapped in his tight and quiet new voice.

“No one cares about your fucking day. I’m no one you think I am…and I’ll have what I want from you.

“Your job is to shut up. You’ll do what I say to survive, and you’ll enjoy whatever I say.”

He continued: “In case you’ve forgotten already, I’ll ask you one more time – Do you understand?”

Now I was really rattled. It was clear he was serious, and I knew that even if he had a knife in the duffel, he wouldn’t cut me. But I didn’t know what he would do! He’ll play games. But he had never acted anything like this. I had no experience to work from and no clue what he might do if I ignored him, like when I want to do something different from what he wants. I kept thinking: “He’s never like this.”

“Yes,” I said slowly, “I understand.” There was a resignation in my voice that sounded strange and new even to me. After a couple of seconds I said: “Tell me why I want to do this.”

“I don’t care why you do it,” he said quietly. “Do it because you’re a tramp. You’ll enjoy doing what a stranger wants. Respectable women don’t let strangers pick them up…. Or do it because of what I showed you in the bag. I don’t care.”

Sometimes when we have gotten into sex play, I have pretended to enjoy it when he told me I’m slutty. Hell, I really did enjoy it, a little, when he called me that. But he never said things like that to me otherwise, and I was a little miffed that he would call me a tramp right now. He suddenly barked: “Turn into the steakhouse driveway down here, and park.”

“Oh, am I getting dinner out of this little charade?”

“You have a credit card, I’m sure. You can buy dinner for me.”

My Lord, whatever happened to my perfect gentleman? When we got out of the car, he brought the duffel bag. I was putting my keys in my purse when he said: “Give them to me.”

He took them out of my hand and slipped them in his pocket. He grasped my free hand and held it up to my waist behind my back. “Don’t say anything to anyone but me.…Otherwise.” He twisted my arm and pulled it up. I cringed, “Ohh. That hurt me!” I said.

“Good,” he said, “that way you won’t want it for real.”

He told the hostess to give us a rear booth, somewhere where “we can talk,” and continued to grip my wrist behind my back. The hostess took us to the rear, away from most of the traffic, and asked, looking at me, if the table was okay, but when I started to answer I could feel the pressure increase on my arm.

“This is fine,” he said. I didn’t say anything.

The hostess looked at me with a puzzled look, a sort of concern like I saw in the eyes of the saleswoman at the dealership. When I turned to sit down, she left.

“You handled that well,” John said, as he slid into the booth across from me, and smiled his gentle smile.

“I thought you might hurt my arm,” I said.

“I would have,” he said, and laid his hand on top of the duffel bag where he’d put it on the seat next to him. I was being reminded of the shiny, long thing inside. He gave no explanation. I said nothing.

The booth was a circular one. Sitting across from one another as we were, there was room for another diner or two between us, but the table worked fine for two. When the waitress came in a few minutes, he moved his foot so that it rested on mine. She asked if I’d like a drink and, feeling the pressure against my instep, I understood I was not to answer. I looked to him.

“Yes, she would,” he said, and ordered a mixed drink that I often have when we’re out. “A double,” he said. “She’s had a bad day.” He ordered the beer he likes and told the waitress we would be ready to order when she came back.

I picked up the menu. “You don’t need that,” he said.

“But I don’t know what I want.”

“I do,” he said, and repeated, “You want what all sluts want. You don’t need a menu.”

I put it down. Truthfully, and strangely, in spite of being frustrated I was also enjoying the new attention and the forcefulness. I wondered if that meant there was something wrong with me. I usually am in charge, a habit of ours I guess, but this felt very different and, although I felt forced, and that irritated me, and I felt vulnerable, and that frightened me just a little, I also was enjoying something about not being in control.

Something else: because I know John so well, I actually felt his love in what he was doing more than I had in a long time, because I knew this was something he had worked at pretty hard. This wasn’t a part of his personality that I had seen before, and he had to have thought hard about it. Just how hard, I would find out as our evening became night!

He ordered my meal with the waitress, and his own, and a bottle of the pinot we like. The meal wasn’t what I would usually order, but it sounded good. I was starting to get into this a little. I thought: “I could get used to this.”

I said out loud: “So, hi, stranger. My name is Kelly. What’s yours?”

He surprised me again. He glowered at me, and the pressure from his foot was suddenly back. Apparently small talk wasn’t on the agenda.

“I don’t care what your name is,” he said with emphasis. “I don’t want to know your name, Slut.” This time it was an insult, an assault. I wondered what he thought I had done to deserve such an angry reaction. I think I just stared at him.

He continued: “If I had a wife, and she let a stranger pick her up, and if she was tramp enough to buy dinner for him and drink with him and share a bottle of wine with him, I’d be angry. Very angry. Just drink that drink, and thank god I’m not giving you what you deserve.” Well, I needed the drink.

I had been hoping the joke was pretty much over, and that now we could talk about our days and let things get back to normal. But it was clear that was not to be. The unusual feeling I’d had of being off balance, a sense of being opened up in public, was just a shadow at the dealership and was only a little stronger when we got to the restaurant, but now it was in my throat with emphasis.

I felt vulnerable, like a child with an angry adult, and I could understand why people who worked for him said they hated it when he was mad. When he put something hard in his voice this time, it was insisting that all the years we had spent learning each other so well had been suspended, and that was unsettling. For the first time I can remember with John, he was clearly in charge, and I was clearly to do what he asked. I don’t think the idea of not going along with him even crossed my mind

“In fact,” he began again, “I don’t know what you’re doing dressed respectably. People should know you’re a tramp.”

I was sure listening carefully now. This was a new development and it didn’t sound good. I had been drinking a little faster than I probably should, and it had started to get to me. What with the stress of the day and all of the tension of the moment, I had to focus. He reached into the duffel and I froze, but he only took out a plastic bag like you get with a purchase in a mall store. This one was strange, red with black print. I could see there was a box in it but couldn’t guess what else.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “I want you to finish your drink.” I needed it to steady me anyway. It went down easily.

“Now go into the bathroom. Go into the handicapped stall so you have some room.

“Take off your clothes, all of them. You can hang them on the door hook.

“There are fresh panties in here, and something for your tits.

“Put your skirt back on, and your blazer. Don’t bother putting your blouse back on; put it back in the bag. Put on the shoes I have in here; put the ones that you have on now into the bag.

“There is also makeup in here. I want your eyes lined and shadowed and mascara on, too. I don’t care that you don’t like to do it. Just do it.

“There is lipstick and gloss. Put it on.

“And put it on your nipples. Make them the same color as your lips.

“Do a good job. Bring the bag back to me. And I’ll give you dinner.”

He paused to see if I understood. “Oh, don’t forget that I have your keys,” he said. “Now, go.”

John had never done anything like this. I had never done anything like this. I was feeling tipsy from the liquor, or from the challenge to the world I thought I knew, or from the shock. I walked carefully on my way to the bathroom. A little boy looked up from his dinner and smiled at me. I blushed, thinking of what was happening to me and what I was doing and looked away.

Thank God there was no one else in the bathroom. I went into the stall, took a deep breath and started to take my clothes off. I suddenly remembered that John had told me this morning how much he liked this suit. It is more of a party outfit really with its short skirt, but it is okay for an occasional day at the office. In fact, I usually don’t wear a skirt to work, but he’d said “please, it makes you look so nice,” and I went along just to humor him. And that was the last kind, gentle thing he’d said to me

Actually I didn’t remove all my clothes. I left the skirt on while I changed. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, or me. When I opened the bag – it was from Frederick’s, a store where I’d never shopped – I could see the panties there among the makeup and stuff.

When I held them up, they were actually quite beautiful, diaphanous, sheer, and the palest green I could imagine. With my brown hair and the tone of my skin, he had really chosen well. I took off my usual, much more practical underwear and put on this lovely lingerie. It was like a breath of air against my hips and pussy. I swore I could feel the air moving across me, the panties were so light. I pulled the skirt up high and looked in the mirror at their high, French cut legs and the dip they took in the front down to the very top of my fuzz.

And I suddenly remembered how he’d asked me, when we’d made love last weekend, to please trim myself, to make it easier and more accessible for his foreplay. Now I was glad I’d done it and had done it carefully, so the hair was neat and all gone from my lips. The little strip of hair that I had left showed faintly through the panties. The pale green really did look good. Of course it was obvious that he would want to make love later, and I thought he would really enjoy these panties when he looked at me then.

I began looking for whatever he had brought for a bra. I knew how the jacket fit. It gives good coverage and I’d be okay as long as I sat up straight, and so long as he’d gotten a bra that wouldn’t glare out white or red or something too vivid. Maybe it was a matching pale green, but then I couldn’t see anything like that in the bag.

I looked again, wondering if he’d forgotten something, and then I found, in the bottom, a thin chain. I didn’t know what it was so I took it out. At each end was a little noose and a little clamp that I saw would be used to tighten the nooses. My God, the chain was a pair of nipple clamps. I began to giggle, and then I blushed. ‘No, I won’t do that. Not in public.’

But I remembered how serious he was and how important this must be to him. I could not even picture him buying these things with his quiet dignity intact. I knew he would be angry again if I didn’t do what he’d said, so I decided I’d try them on to see how they looked with the blazer and to see if I could get away with it.

It took a couple of tries to get them right. I have large nipples and they become erect easily. Fresh air will do it! John has always loved that. I thought the nooses might slip off, so I tightened them another notch on the clamp. There was a new sensation, one that was not confined to my nipples. Oh my, I was getting turned on. It was like when John would take my nipples in his teeth or in his fingers. Somehow those nerves connected to all of my other pleasure centers. How sensitive I am!

And how strange to be pushed around and abused like this and yet to find it arousing. The filmy panties on my trimmed mound had started me feeling sexy. The tension on my nipples, with the weight of the little chain tugging at them, and of course the double drink, and also the tension of the situation with John being so intense and angry, was all having an effect. And then I thought of going out into the dining room full of customers and walking past them, and of that little boy smiling with his big, bright eyes. I knew I would feel conspicuous and embarrassed, and I became even more aroused. It was new to me. I thought: “How interesting.”

I wanted to do it. I hoped the jacket would cover enough. I put it on, and did up the buttons, and looked in the mirror. My cleavage was very evident, and the swell of my breasts, and the chain was clearly visible! Just above the bottom of the ‘V’ where the jacket came together, the chain for the nipple clamps showed just a bit, maybe a couple of inches. It was easy to see my breasts curving to disappear beneath the jacket. I felt more aroused.

The weight of the jacket was pressing down on the clamps and pulling at my nipples. With all my moving around to fit the clamps and then adjust them to the hardening little nubs, the filmy green panties had crept up into the crack of my ass and were pressing into the cleft between my legs. When I moved, I could feel them move too and put pressure against my sensitive skin. It felt very good, and oh so very improper. It was thrilling. I didn’t think anyone I knew would be in the restaurant. I told myself that I wanted to try it for John. Finally, I put on the four-inch slingback heels he’d bought.

I started to leave the stall, but then I remembered the makeup. So I had to go back in, and as I leaned toward the mirror to do the eye makeup, I could see my breasts hang free inside my jacket. I was aware of the tug of the nipple chain as it swung with each move I made. It felt so good, and I felt sexy. I put on the lipstick and combed my hair – I really did look good. Then I remembered to take off the jacket so I could put lipstick on my nipples. Really, this was overkill. But in for a dime, in for a dollar! Whatever made me think of that? I giggled as I touched my areolae and nipples with the lipstick. Oh, that made my nipples even tighter.

Then I added two things John hadn’t told me to do, just because I was having fun. I tightened the clamps a little more on each breast; the tingle made me close my eyes and inhale softly. The second thing I did was to roll the waistband of my skirt enough to raise the hem another couple of inches, right to the edge of anything useful in public. Then I put my jacket on, checked myself over once more in the mirror, picked up the bag, and went to join John.

I remembered to stand very straight. Surprisingly, I did feel good about myself, beautiful and confident in a way I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. I could get used to this feeling. The little boy smiled at me, and his stare gave me a pause as he looked down my length. I smiled back at him this time and at his mother. I noticed a couple of men following me with their eyes, and one or two women were looking daggers at me. Bitches.The thought made me grin.

When I got to the table, John had moved, damn him! He had moved our settings so we would be sitting in the back of the round booth, next to each other. To get to my place, I had to slide the length of half of the booth. I was careful to hold the jacket and the hem of my skirt as I sat down and slid in, and I made it without any of me ‘falling out.’ I asked him how I looked. He was indeed checking me out, and I could see the cloud of desire that I know so well settling on his eyes. I looked good and felt in charge again and even a little smug.

But the waitress, who probably had been holding our food for my return to the table, picked that moment to rush up with the trays, and she placed the dishes in front of each of us. As she sat mine down, I could see her eyes go to my skin. She had a perfect view of the nipple chain, but I’m sure she couldn’t see my nipples, just the chain. She could see that I had nothing on like a bra. I was suddenly embarrassed and feeling in over my head, and I looked away from her.

Of course she didn’t say anything, but when she left I could not help but notice that I had a different, new reaction to the eyes I’d felt watching me. The tingle in my breasts, and the moist feel of being turned on between my legs, and the flush that kept rising to my face made me aware for the first time that there was an exhibitionist streak in me. I was loving this!

“You look like the slut you are,” John answered the question I had asked.

“Well, thanks a bunch,” I said warmly.

“Fabulous,” he continued, “but like a slut anyway.” He poured wine, first for himself, then for me. Once again, he was pushing my buttons. So much for any idea I had of taking charge. “Do you like the way you feel?” he asked.

I nodded. He put pressure against my back with his right hand so I would lean forward a couple of inches. As I moved, I could feel the heft of the chain, and I could feel his eyes. “Your breasts are stunning,” he said. “I can almost see your nipples.”

Then he said: “Show me” in that demanding tone.

I looked around. No one was watching. The people who were nearest had their backs to us. I looked into his eyes. I opened the jacket just enough for him to see, just for a second. And behind him I could see our waitress coming our way. I closed the jacket again.

She came up with her bright, shiny waitress smile. “How is everything,” she stated.

John surprised me again. He said to me: “How is everything so far?”

Surprised to be asked, I said: “Just fine.”

“Is that all?” he asked, his hands folded in a triangle in front of his face.

‘Actually, this is very good,” I said looking at the waitress and then at him to see if I was okay. She didn’t know I wasn’t talking about the food.

The waitress was ready to leave, but as she turned to go, John once again surprised me, and this time surprised her. “Tell me…,” he said to her. She stopped, her eyebrows raised in her professionally polite expression of concern. I wondered what was coming.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” he said to the waitress.

“Sir?” she asked, taken aback.

“I think she is stunning,” he said, looking at me. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, “she is lovely.” Now she was smiling solicitously.

I wanted to crawl beneath the table and started to say something, but I suddenly felt the pressure of his foot on mine and his hand suddenly tight on my bare thigh. I just looked at the waitress and smiled. “Is this your anniversary?” she asked.

“Oh no,” John said. “We just met. I picked her up.”

The waitress was even more stunned than I was. I at least had felt something coming and, though mortified, was not entirely surprised.

He chuckled as the waitress beat a hasty retreat. Now I was actually feeling angry, and he would know it, not that he was concerned. That would have been the old John. He said: “Don’t say a word,” and “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

He refilled my wine. Once in awhile he would lean into me and say something about my breasts, or about how the chain made him wonder if my nipples were hard, and once – he knows I love this – he moved my hair to the side and teased my ear with his tongue. I looked around, and there was no one liable to see nearby, only a woman at an adjacent table who was engrossed in a conversation with her husband.

He touched my breast with the back of his hand, not caressing me but with enough pressure through my jacket that I was aware of my nakedness. Each time he told me I was a slut, I felt something stir inside. It was like he reached me in a private place. Near the end of the meal, his hand was on my bare thigh, or at least his finger tips were lightly touching my skin, tickling but also teasing my leg. He said, whispering into my ear so I could feel his breath: “Does your husband know what a slut you are?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, he does.”

“I’ll bet he likes you like that.”

“He loves it,” I said, smiling at him. The waitress ventured near again, and he asked her to take the plates. “Can you handle another drink?” he asked. Usually I can handle quite a bit to drink, but I’d had the double cocktail before dinner, and I’d had most of the bottle of wine, and was feeling tipsy. “I don’t think I probably should,” I said.

He ordered two coffees with a chocolate liqueur. When the waitress had turned to go, he said quietly to me: “Lift your skirt from underneath your ass. Bring it as high as you can.” I looked around. No one was looking, and the woman across from us had her head turned. I swear I’ve never done anything like this in my entire life. I raised my hips from the seat and moved the hem of my skirt up and behind me so I was sitting with my nearly bare bottom, except for the thin strip of the gauzy green panties, directly on the vinyl cover of the booth seat. I smoothed the skirt on my lap and made sure to adjust the table cloth so that it hid my thighs.

I noticed a man in a booth diagonally across from us. He was talking to his wife, who had her back to us, except he was looking at me. I wondered if he could see, if he had seen, or if he was just wondering. After all, my cleavage was still very visible, but he surely could see nothing below the tabletop. I felt John’s touch on my thigh again. This time it was a gentle, soft touch as he stroked the pads of his fingers down the outside of my leg. When he got to my knee, I said “That tickles.”

“I know,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”

His fingertips moved to the inside of my leg and moved steadily up the soft, inner skin of my thigh. When he came to the front of my skirt, he lifted it and folded it so it would be hiked even higher than the top of my panties. I moved my hands to put it back down, but he said firmly: “Don’t.”

That voice was new this evening, and I was finding it undeniable. I put my hands back on the table and wondered how I felt about what was happening to me as his fingertips rotated outward on my thigh and began their maddening move again back down my leg.

He never changed his pace. He moved up the inside and back down the outside again, and again, I have no idea how many times. His hand gradually went further into the inside of my thigh, and inevitably went further up, to my panties. And then his hand pulled my right leg closer to him, so my legs were spread.

On each circuit the side of his hand started brushing, just barely, the green, transparent threads that separated his touch from my pussy. It was electric. It was a tingle of energy and a melting of my soul. I was so turned on, and getting more turned on each time he came so close to actually touching me there. I had started to want him to. “I could get used to this,” I thought. It was like there was no one else around and like I didn’t have to think about being in public.

Then he moved his hand up, deep in between my legs, and I spread a little more to make it easier for him to reach wherever he wanted, and he laid his fingers gently on my mound, his finger tips between my legs and one finger gently tapping, like a heartbeat, on the very sensitive center of my sensations, my clitoris, or at least on its hood.

And then the damn coffee arrived. The waitress was bending over me to serve it. I froze, not wanting to give myself away, and I suddenly wondered if the aroma of my sex was noticeable. God knows, I was turned on. I could feel him tapping insistently at my clitoris even while she added whipping cream in big dollops to each cup of coffee. I wondered if she knew.

She had made our check out and was ready to place it in front of John. “Give it to her, please,” he said.

“Here you are, Ma’am,” she said, and I had to reach out to take it from her across the table. His fingers had not moved from my pussy. There was almost nothing between his flesh and my pussy hair and clitoris and all of my sparkling nerve endings. I took a deep breath. “Thank you,” I said. When she left, as his hand began to move, very deliberately stroking up and down on my sex, I said to him, “You shouldn’t do that.”

“You’re wet,” he said, ignoring me. I rummaged in my purse for my wallet and credit cards. “Spread your legs a little more,” he said.

I felt him push the cloth of the panties away from my cleft, and then his fingers slid over my bare sex. At last he was touching me. I was so turned on that it was all I could do to keep from moaning out loud, but something perverse in him wanted me to keep acting like I knew what I was doing and he kept up the incessant teasing while I paid for the dinner. I left my credit card with the bill in clear view on the table.

His finger was dipping down into my slit, spreading slick moisture all up and down my labia, and he began to do that thing I love so much where he takes the labia between his thumb and forefinger and gently slides up and down, close to going inside of me but not doing it, close to touching my clitoris but not doing that either. I knew my clitoris would be swollen. It did not happen every time we had sex, but only when I was tremendously turned on, and I was very turned on. The waitress came for the card and said she would be right back.

He moved to my clitoris again, but this time his touch was direct. I slouched to give him access, and his finger and thumb gently grasped my swollen clit and twisted. He made me gasp. Through my half-closed eyes the room was hazy, the people a blur. He began to insistently rotate my clitoris back and forth with his fingers, and with each rotation the pressure of his thumb and forefinger increased.

I bit on my lower lip to keep from making noise. I could hear my breath becoming ragged, short, shallow, and suddenly there were stars and I was cumming.

His touch slowed, and as my senses settled I could see the woman across from us now looking past her husband and looking at me. Strangely, I didn’t care. John’s hand left my pussy and moved the fabric of my panties back over my sex. I could feel how wet the cloth was, how wet I was. He brought his fingers to his mouth.

“You are a slut,” he said, “and you’re delicious.”

When the card was returned, I added a tip and signed the receipt. I remember he picked the receipt up. I was going to have a hard time getting my balance when I stood up. I felt like I was glowing. Suddenly he was all business. He came around the table and took my arm. I remembered to smooth my skirt back down as I stood up, and to adjust my jacket, and to stand straight. I could feel a little moisture trickle down the inside of my right thigh. I looked at the woman who had been watching and smiled when I met her eyes. I really could get used to this.

He had the duffel and guided me to the door of the restaurant and to the car. As the cool breeze of the night air chilled the moisture beneath my skirt, I wondered if he was done with surprises. Clearly, he needed to be the one who drove. It was dark out now, and as he started the car, I told him dinner was good.

“Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to speak. Or give you something to suck.,” he said.

“A slut like you needs to get fucked,” he said. Oh, I thought, now we go home and go to bed.

“Move your seat all the way back,” he said. I fumbled with the buttons, but the seat gradually moved back. “Now lower the back part way.”

“Are you going to fuck me right here?” I asked, playfully. He grabbed my arm so hard it hurt.

“Have you forgotten what’s in the bag?” he asked. “Do you want to get fucked with that?

“Be very careful….” This was John, but I shivered. He wouldn’t really hurt me, I reminded myself, but this voice was so serious and, in the dark, it was easy to find fear.

“Put your feet up on the dash,” he said. “Pull your skirt the rest of the way up.” He was pulling out of the parking lot now. “And play with yourself. Make yourself cum.”

I just looked at him, my hands still on the hem of the skirt. I was about to refuse. We were on a public street, and my legs weren’t under a table this time. But he reached over between my legs, grabbed me, and roughly massaged my mound, pressing his middle finger hard into the cleft between my legs so his finger and the panties rode up inside of me. “I’m not joking,” he said. “Do it.”

I was still very stimulated from the restaurant, and I really did want to cum again. Actually what I wanted was to fuck. I put my feet on the dash, I lifted my hips to pull up my skirt, and I tentatively touched my lips for him. The sensations took over almost immediately, and I could feel my body begin to respond. The urge to cum moved from the back of my mind to the center of my body. It occurred to me that I hadn’t cum twice in a night since just after we were married.

The streetlights going overhead were soothing and provided a rhythm. I moved my hand down beneath the waistband of the panties and dipped my finger just inside my entrance. I felt slutty doing this for him, and I wanted him to watch, too. This was far from the kind of thing I had been raised to do, but I was very much enjoying it. I looked, and his eyes were moving from the road to my hand and looking back again, and his own hand was moving slowly against where his erection filled the front of his pants. It occurred to me that he had not cum yet and he must be very hard.

One advantage a man has as he gets older is that he lasts longer, and John had always had good discipline anyway. Otherwise, he probably would not have put up with my crap for this many years. I dipped two fingers as deep inside of me as I could. I really wanted to fuck. Oh well, if he was dissatisfied he couldn’t say it was due to my “lack of interest” tonight at least.

We came to a stoplight. I guessed there were kids in the car next to us because their music was shaking our car. “Should I stop?” I asked. “No” he said, “I want you to cum.” I glanced over and it was three young men. I decided they couldn’t see anything beneath my shoulders other than that my feet were on the dash because of the side of the car. One of them looked at me and he must have guessed. He said something to his friends. The driver was looking over when the light changed. I could feel the wetness gathering on my fingers. I looked in the side mirror, and the young men’s car was turning, thank God. It was time to focus on an orgasm.

I touched my clitoris and felt electric again. I was still sensitive from the restaurant. The motion of the car was providing a soft rhythm. My fingers were bringing me higher, and I started to raise my hips off the seat to hasten the orgasm, but the car suddenly swerved into the turn lane and went into a parking lot. “Stop,” he said.

“I want to cum,” I whispered.

“You were too slow,” he said. “We’re here. Maybe we can find someone here to make a slut cum.”

“Where am I?” I asked.

“You’re where you’re going,” he said. “Get out of the car.”

He came to my door; I could see that the duffel was already in his far hand. I looked around. We were in the parking lot of the damned Connecticut Yankee, a luxury Radisson next to the expressway, and he was holding my wrist behind me again. He was guiding me to a side entrance. “Why aren’t we going home,” I said.

He said, “Your husband hasn’t done anything but put up with your shit. You’re the only one I want.” The role play was still on I could see.

We passed from the mercury vapor light of the parking lot through the shadow of a large tree. He stopped me suddenly and he turned me roughly to face him. He pulled hard at the front of my jacket so it opened. Fully half of each breast was now bare to the night air and to his sight. I began to feel panicky again. I looked down. The lapels still covered my nipples, but barely. A breeze, or even a sudden motion of my body, and I would have my very own “wardrobe malfunction.” I giggled from nerves at the joke.

He yanked sharply on the nipple chain. I had become used to the clamps, and they hadn’t been hurting so much anymore, but his yank stretched the rigid nubs away from my body with sudden pain. “Ohhhhh,” I groaned. Then the pain fell into the background of the experience. In my advanced sexual state, even the hurt felt…interesting. It was a new experience for me, pain as pleasure. I’d heard of it, but John had never been anything but gentle. I think I already said that.

He was guiding me again toward the side door. I was anxious to get there, my jacket loose across my breasts, my nipples aching. I could fuck him here as well as at home, and I was ready to climb on top of him like usual, except the energy level would be higher, a lot higher. I was in a big hurry. He used a room card to open the door. I wondered when he had had a chance to rent a room.

The silence of a motel, all the sounds soft behind doors, took over.

We turned left and walked down the hall, and he steered me past the elevator. When I tried to keep going, he twisted my wrist to force me to follow him beneath an exit sign. He turned me into a stairwell. He started me up the stair in front of him. But when we came to the first landing, he grabbed me suddenly, spun me back into the corner, grabbed my hands by the wrists and pinned them to the wall high above my head. Again he tugged at the chain hooked to my nipples, but this time he also kissed me, heavy with passion, and forced his tongue far into my mouth. Then he reached down beneath the hem of my skirt and brought his hand up again to my pussy, hurriedly reaching under the panties he had bought.

This was his own passion speaking. He pressed his fingers into me hard and moaned. He was hurried and rough, and his sudden violation was a shock. I would have thought it would hurt to be grabbed and penetrated like that, and it sort of did, but the passion of it was pretty amazing.

He had me up against the wall and I heard myself moan. He pulled his fingers from me. I caught a whiff of our sex, and he grabbed my panties and pulled, hard. The elastic bit into my skin, but the material stretched and then gave way, and the panties tore free, and I was virtually naked in the stairwell, at least beneath the short skirt and the unbuttoned jacket.

He balled the panties up and put them into the pocket of my jacket. “Go,” he said, nodding toward the rest of the flight of steps leading up. He grabbed my wrist again, but this time he remained next to me. Then he put his hands on my hips to stop me and put his right hand beneath my skirt. I felt his fingers pressing against the bottom of both cheeks of my ass, and one of his fingers moved into my crack, and he pressed it against my anus.

I have never been very interested in anal sex, even the idea of it, and John has always been willing to limit himself to rimming me with his finger or thumb. In fact, I had gotten past my aversion to that particular tease and had come to think of having his thumb or finger gently touching, and then massaging, my hole as a nice part of the pleasure during sex. All of those extra nerve endings getting involved seemed to make everything else more intense. But in a public stairwell the pressure he was putting on my asshole was a violation and a violence as well as feeling erotic. Someone could be in the stairwell at any moment. I have no idea if he would have kept it up if someone had appeared.

We went through the door at the top of the stairs, his finger still pressing up against my anus beneath my skirt, and the breeze that swept past my legs when the door opened reminded me not only that I had no panties on but that I was continuing to leak fluid.

The hallway was quiet. He turned me to the left again and, when we came to the first door, he used the full length of his body to back me against it. He pressed his very hard cock firmly against my abdomen. But he kissed my lips with a surprising new softness, holding the kiss, just brushing against my lips and caressing them with the very tip of his tongue. I wanted him badly.

He took from the half-open duffel a blindfold, a sleep mask he uses when I want to watch TV at bedtime, and he gave it to me to put on. I did. I could see light faintly around the edges but nothing else, and I felt even more vulnerable with my sight taken away in a public hallway and with my back against the door of an unknown room.

I was half naked, more than half, blindfolded, and under the control of a man who was like a stranger and refused to know me. He pressed his length against me, and the door behind me slowly opened so I had to back into the room. I was still tipsy from the alcohol and not too steady backing up in reverse on high heels, either. He was holding my waist tightly, both to steer me and to steady me, and when the door behind me bumped against the wall and we quit moving, he brought the cold, plastic cloth of the duffel up against my arm and then touched it to the side of my throat and cheek. “Do you recall me showing you this bag?” he asked. I was being reminded in many ways that I was at his mercy.

I swallowed. I remembered. “Yes,” I said, “What about it….”

He snarled. “If you say anything, I’ll give you what-about-it.”

I was now frightened. “John …” I began. I could hear my voice quaver.

“Hush,” he said, this time more gently. “If you do what I say, everything will be fine.”

He said: “I need you to be my slut again.” He held my face between his hands and kissed me softly.

His gentle voice and touch was calming, but the threat was still in the air. The room was unusually warm, and I could hear him open or close the drape. Then I realized he must have been opening it because I could hear street sounds and someone talking in the parking lot. I wondered if anyone could see into the room where this weird, horny, frightened woman was at the mercy of a stranger. He moved me closer to the window, steering me by my elbows, and turned me to him. It was like he was reading my thoughts.

His kiss was warm, his tongue probed my mouth. I could feel his cock, rock hard, pressing eagerly against me through his pants. He still had not cum. I went to put my arms around his neck in an embrace, and he snarled again: “Don’t.” He took my jacket off roughly and gripped my breasts, mashing and probing them. Then he pinched my nipples and I felt the chain swing and keep constant the pull teasing at them.

He tugged my skirt down over my hips and helped me to step out of it. What an outrageous picture I must have made in front of that window in nothing but heels, a nipple chain and clamps, and a blindfold. Oh, and the lipstick coloring my nipples.

Suddenly he moved me to the right. My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and I went over. He has always been a strong man, and he moved me around on the bed, lifting me so he could put pillows beneath my butt and then – another surprise — he grabbed my ankles and pulled first the right across the bed and snapped some sort of gizmo around it, and then he attached the left to the opposite side of the bed. Now I couldn’t move my legs, and I was spread wide open to him. I had never been this way before either, and I wondered why the hell not. Being so helpless was tremendously erotic, I thought, but thank God no one could see me but John.

I moved my hand to lift up a corner of the blindfold. He caught me and slapped my hand away from my face and gripped my wrist fiercely. “Sluts don’t get to see,” he barked, and he grabbed my wrist and wrapped something around it. I felt and heard a lock snap shut on it, and just as quickly he grabbed the other wrist and stretched it up, too, and locked it. I was spread with my four limbs aimed at the corners of the bed and my back arched over the pillows holding my ass in the air and my pussy open to anything he wanted.

“If you say a word, I swear I’ll gag you,” he threatened. “Either that or introduce you to what’s in my bag.”

I heard his clothes coming off. I thought I knew what was coming next. John liked to climb between my legs and kiss all up and down from my knees, and to lick my nipples and eventually to put his penis in me and slowly, gently come to orgasm. This was the way John made love to me, unless of course I was on top.

Instead, my hair was jerked and pulled to twist my head toward the side of the bed. I yelped. I felt the mattress move as he came toward me, and he put his hand behind my head and lifted it up.

“Open your mouth,” he said. “Suck my cock.” Although I would suck him briefly sometimes, usually putting him in my mouth didn’t do much for me. But this time was different in every way. I felt him push, not at all gently, his cock past my lips. This was so different. I was actually getting more aroused by the feel of him against my tongue and by his control over our sex, by his not trying so hard to please me with every touch. “Lick it,” he was saying. “Lick it like ice cream.

“Show me how good it tastes.” And so I told myself I would act like it was exciting to have my hair pulled, and to be made to suck cock…, and that was easy because it actually was exciting me! I was getting very turned on again, for the umpteenth time. Of course it helped that I had been so stimulated at the restaurant and had masturbated on the ride over here.

“You know I’m not going to let you swallow, and I’m not going to cum in you,” he said. “Do you know why?” He had never cum in my mouth, probably because he knew I would not be willing, but the rules seemed to be changed tonight, so I didn’t know …. “Because you don’t deserve me in your mouth or cunt, that’s why.

“Instead, I’m going to tit fuck you and cum all over you.”

More new experiences! I heard a vibrator begin to hum and felt it being pushed into my pussy. It felt like it was on low, and it felt small like the vibrator I carry in my purse when I’m on a trip. He connected it somehow to the nipple chain. I could feel the vibrator being held into my cunt by the nipple chain, and I could feel the vibration in my pussy and very faintly the hum was carried through the chain to my nipples, too. It felt soooo good. I crooned: “Mmmmm.”

He was suddenly straddling my chest, pouring warm liquid into my cleavage, pushing my tit flesh up and around his cock with his thumbs adding pressure to the clamps on my nipples, and he was thrusting, not at all gentle, not at all like John. It was intense, it was powerful. I could feel how hard his cock was. It was more rigid than I had felt it in a long while, too long. He moved faster and harder, and I lifted my head so my face came up and his cock slapped into my chin and mouth with each thrust he made.

I opened my mouth and tried to tongue him. I was so turned on, and I could feel my orgasm beginning to rise from everywhere in my body. The tension curled my toes, and the need for release rapidly grew intense, almost painful in that space between my legs where the vibrator hummed and sent tremors to my nipples. The moisture in my pussy was running hard. My cunt was rippling and sucking at the little vibrator and I was chanting: “Oh fuck. O fuck. O fuck me. Fuck me. Tit fuck.”

My mouth was hungry for him, too. I didn’t care about anything except cumming and making him cum. I pulled against the bonds that held me to the corners of the bed and could feel an orgasm take hold, and I started to squeal. I hardly recognized my own voice. I became inarticulate and shrill, and John grew even larger between my breasts, his cock so hot and I knew its head would be nearly purple and flaring. It was striking against my mouth, and as my own cum trailed off he reached an orgasm and cried out “Oh Fuck” every time his cock would spasm.

His sperm splashed off my chin and ran on my face and my throat, hot. I thought I could feel his cock pulsing through my breasts. I wanted it to last all night.

But as soon as he was done he wiped the last oozing of his cum on my chin, and he didn’t rest or recover at all. He pulled away from me and left the bed, although I was still extremely turned on. The soft, insistent whirr of the vibrator went on in my pussy, and the ache and tingle as it pulled against the nipple chain felt so good. Little orgasms were lapping somewhere inside of me, not waves yet but always lapping in little ripples. Oh, my breasts would be so sore, but this did feel good.

And then I heard the door to the room open. I froze. Where was he going? The door stayed open for far too long. What was he doing? I heard him say something. And then I thought I could hear whispering. “Who’s there, John?” I wondered if I would scream. The door closed. I couldn’t hear anything. But then I thought I heard another whisper. I was desperate. “John?!!” I said, barely in control. I was no longer thinking of any fear but this. He surely would do nothing to hurt me, or humiliate me, or destroy our reputation. Surely, he wasn’t going to go out of control.

A hot breath came next to my ear and rasped “Who’s John?” I began to panic. “Ohhhh my God,” I moaned. “Who is it?” I tried to think. Was it John’s voice? Was he disguising it? Yes, it was surely a disguised voice. That rasp definitely sounded like someone talking through cloth. But was it his voice? Would he really do that to me, let someone watch me? Had I been such a bitch that he wanted to use me and wreak awful public humiliation on me? Or was this another frightening but unreal part of the elaborate tease and control he was bent on carrying out?

I enjoyed being his slut, I had loved the evening, but I didn’t want to be used in public. I could hear another vibrator begin, and the bed started to move. I felt a tongue begin at my knees, and I instantly knew it was John with the way his tongue moved on my skin. Once I knew it was him, my body relaxed. He kissed his way up my thigh, and now the lust followed my fear in a rush, ever so much more intense than it had been. I thought that was so strange: for such strong emotions to charge back and forth roughshod over one another.

When the tongue reached my pussy, it stopped, and began at my other knee, and stopped again. I was in a sexual agony, wanting to cum even more than I had wanted it earlier if that was possible. Mind you, I haven’t cum more than once in an evening since we were first married, but I wanted sex more than I could ever remember wanting it in my past. “Oh, please…,” I whispered.

“My goodness, is that a Please that I hear?” This time it was definitely John’s voice. I could feel the vibrator release from its connection to the nipple chain. It buzzed louder as it was slowly slipped out of my cunt and then just as slowly slid around my wet pussy lips. Briefly it paused on my clitoris, that spot which is always at the center of my orgasms. “Oh Please, please ….” I was ready to say please or anything else he wanted.

“Now, I’m going to truly fuck you senseless,” John said. His voice sounded strange but I recognized it as his passion. “They can just watch,” he said. I thought I heard another whisper.

“Who, John? Who?” I was bolt alert again and back into my fear. Through my lust, the possibility of strange voices had leaped back into my mind. I was being bounced between fear and lust and each seemed to make the other more powerful. He was doing this to me deliberately. He knows I would never allow that. They could see the cum on my face where I was feeling it beginning to dry.

Something began to slide into me. It felt like a cock, but it seemed harder and I was being stretched so wide that it couldn’t be John! It was far too big! My fear rushed ahead, and then, through the fear, I recognized the aroma of his familiar flesh and sex pressing down against me. It suddenly dawned on me, as I was being stretched and filled, that there was also vibration that was violating my tender inner flesh, and I realized that he must be wearing some kind of vibrator, a cock extension. He moaned. Of course, he could feel the vibration, too.

He began to move. He felt huge, not only much wider but longer. He plunged deep inside of me on each thrust. It was not the long, slow fuck I was accustomed to. He was pounding into me fast and passionately. I was stretched and bound and being rammed further up the bed against my bonds with each of his fast, violent thrusts.

“Oh my God, John. Fuck me,” I said. “This feels so good. So good.”

For a fleeting moment, I wondered if someone really was watching, and then I didn’t care. If they were, they were getting a great show. I was thrusting back at him in overwhelming lust, trying to push his vibrating cock deeper inside of me with each push. I wanted to feel it split me in half. Sweat rolled across my skin, and I felt cold sweat drip onto me as John held himself above me. We were on a mission together.

The thing he had inside of me hummed and throbbed, and he kept thrusting like he would break me in two. My pussy flooded with more wetness, and I could feel it seeping out of my lips past him and dripping down the crack to my ass and onto the mattress.

When the orgasm came, it surprised me. It didn’t rise or grow. It exploded in my cunt. I could feel my pussy walls pulsing and grasping at the thing he had pushed inside of me. The fact that his cock was inside of it … the fact that he was determined to use my pussy for his pleasure seemed to throw me over the top. I heard myself yelling “Fuck me. Fuck Me.”

Just at the peak of my orgasm, John took me even further, to places I didn’t know I could go. I had forgotten the nipple clamps. He pulled them free from my breasts, and the pain was intense for a second, but it quickly mixed with pleasure. I screamed and didn’t know whether it was pain or orgasm. I know I was incoherent.

“Fuck MEEEE. Oh Fuck. My. Cunt. Ohh.. Ohhhhh.” There was a lot I no longer knew, but I do know the orgasm didn’t stop. I don’t know what made it keep going. I often cum when we have sex, and I had expected the usual emotion and release, but this began like waves, big waves breaking, and then it became a tide that lifted everything in its path. My cunt throbbed. Maybe it was a series of orgasms, I don’t know.

Maybe I passed out.

I realized the vibrator had stopped. Nothing was in my pussy, thank God, and it was very sensitive. I could feel little ripples of pleasure still moving up my thighs all the way to somewhere near my cervix. My God, he had felt big. And my nipples were so tender and sore now that he had pulled the clamps from them and the blood had rushed back.

Something cool and wet, probably a wash cloth, was being applied to my breasts and soothing the ache and tingle still rippling through them. I certainly knew I had cum. I couldn’t remember if he had. “Surely we are done,” I thought. “I can’t do any more.”

“Did you cum, John?” I asked.

“No,” he said quietly.

What a terrible shame, but how could I expect him to be able to cum twice in a night? That never happened for him. I asked if we were going home. “Sssshhhh,” he said, his voice both soothing and warning me.

I felt warm oil trickling across my tender breasts and his soft palms gently rubbing it in. I was amazed. In spite of the heat and hurt of my nipples, it still felt good, not just comforting but also sexual. I could feel the start of another pleasant pulse within me. His hand rested at my groin. He used a fingertip on the hood of my clit and around it. Unlike much of the rest of me, that spot had not been abused, and I could feel myself begin to respond. “Oh,” I said. “I could get used to this.

“Was there someone else here?” I asked.

“You are such an incorrigible slut,” he laughed. He was right; the thrill and risk of the suggestion of someone watching had made everything else more intense for me, frightening but powerful. And I again felt him gently smoothing the juices from my pussy down to my asshole. I never knew I had so much lubricant to work with.

Then he added a trickle of warm oil. It did feel good. Actually, I don’t know whether it truly felt erotic at that point or if it just felt good because it was such a contrast to the tenderness of my cunt and my poor, sore tits. I lifted my knees as far as the bonds would allow to give him access.

I wasn’t complaining. It was no longer my choice in any case. His fingers massaged the oil against my anus, and pressed. I felt him probe then at my asshole, and his finger pushed inside a little, and he remained still until I got used to it. Then he slowly massaged me there. Although I had never let him go up my ass before, and he had always stopped with a little light rimming on the outside, I quickly got used to what he was doing. It didn’t feel so bad.

And then his finger left me and something else, a little harder, was slowly coming into me, and spreading me wider. “What is that,” I asked abruptly. I had never wanted anyone to penetrate me there, and what he had just done with his finger was farther than we’d ever gone. This was clearly a big step up even from that.

“Hush,” he said. I started to protest again. “Shut up!” he barked, and this time he slapped my sore left breast. Oh, the sting leapt into it, and I yelped. With the focus of my attention on my poor nipple, he pushed whatever the hard thing was so that it went up my asshole. I heard it pop into a space inside of me, and I could feel how it spread me wide. It was lodged there, it wasn’t moving, and I felt amazingly full.

I tried to catch my breath, thinking it would hurt. “Relax,” he said. “That’s a butt plug. As you get used to it, you’ll probably like it.” He paused. “If you don’t, it’s not important.” I didn’t know whether I would like it. I wasn’t at all sure about it. I recall thinking that I hoped he didn’t ruin the wonderful evening that we’d had so far.

I wondered what had happened to my husband. The gentle man he was wasn’t going to give me a break at all. I was tired, sore, and now my ass was stretched open. But like he said, I gradually noticed that the feeling was not unpleasant. It was nice to feel full. It felt like his cock in me, or that big cock extension, except this was not in my pussy.

And now John moved the bonds on my ankles and had me raise my knees higher. My legs were still bound wide apart. He wanted to caress my ass cheeks. With my legs drawn up so far, he could have access to as much of my flesh as he wanted. I was overexposed again.

It began to feel as if the plug was connected to the nerve endings in my pussy, too, and I was starting to get turned on yet again. There seemed to be no end of surprises, both in what happened to me and in how I responded.

His hand brushed me back there, and I heard something click. The butt plug began to vibrate. It was a gentle hum. I think I moaned. I felt the small vibrator return to my vagina. Neither vibrator was intense, but they were working against each other, and I could feel the motion of the universe slow as everything seemed to point to my center.

In the room I could hear moving around and the motion of cloth, as if he was getting dressed. I thought I heard whispering again. This time I tried to pay attention to see if I could make anything out. I couldn’t

“Think about getting fucked really deep, Kelly,” John said. It was the first time he had used my name since I’d picked him up from the dealership! I felt so grateful and happy to hear him say my name again. But then I heard him walk across the room, and the door opened.

“We’re going down for a drink. I’ll be back later. So whaddya think, folks?”

“John, who is it?”

He didn’t answer me, but I could hear people answer him in the hallway.

“When, John?” The door shut. “Don’t leave me like this.”

I heard him talking with someone as he moved away from the room. I heard a woman’s voice, and then another man. Had they been here, or had he just seen people in the hall and used them as another way to keep me on edge? I wondered how he knew that I would not only be fearful but would also enjoy taking risks with my body in public. I certainly had not known it.

It had been a night of discovery. Right now I was rediscovering, beyond the soft hum of the vibrators teasing my anus and my pussy, and beyond the silence of the room, more of the parking lot noises that I had noticed on the way in. I wondered again if there was anywhere I could be seen from, and if anyone was looking at me.

I was certainly, and increasingly, discovering things about my friendly vibrators! They were on low, and I found that if I remained very still, I could separate their feeling.

In my ass, the hum was muffled because it was inside of me, but it was insistent, and it felt very, very good to have it pressing not only against the outside of my anus but all the way up inside of me to where I felt so full. It wasn’t going to be enough titillation to make me cum, but as sensitive as I was from all the sex earlier in the evening, it was plenty to keep me on edge and wanting release. It reached through my anal wall and into my pussy.

I discovered that if I rolled my hips in a circle slowly the butt plug stimulated other nerves, and the vibrator in my pussy pressed against spots that seemed even more sensitive. They were very pleasant sensations. I wondered if I could make myself cum.

If not, by the time John returned I would be ready to do anything to cum or, especially, to have him make me cum. Maybe he could make me cum with his cock once more before we went home.

The blindfold forced me to focus on the sexual need in my body: the tingling of my nipples, and my chafed pussy becoming aroused, and the vibration in my ass. It felt as if all of the other stimulation of the evening, not only John’s passion and everything he had set up, but all the people, real or probably imaginary – the whispered voices, the little boy and the waitress and the woman and man in the restaurant watching, the kids in the car, the saleswoman and the hostess, the people in the parking lot – had not been separate experiences but were accumulating as part of the most powerful sex I have ever experienced.

It felt like we were building toward some point that was still ahead. I hoped John knew it was time to cum again, to make me cum again.

When I heard the door open softly, I don’t think I even thought about other people. I started asking “Ohhhh, where have you been? Please? Please let me cum? Pleasepleaseplease.”

The thought crossed my mind of what someone would think if it wasn’t John. Actually, I don’t recall actually caring what they would think but only caring that he or someone would actually fuck me again. Hard would be nice. I heard clothing being removed. I felt and heard my bonds being released.

“Don’t do anything, anything at all.” It was John’s voice. “Unless I tell you.”

He picked me up, and the motion made the butt and pussy vibrators touch places that they had not touched before, and I moaned. He turned me over onto my stomach. He got behind me, he spread my legs again, and he dragged me so that my legs, from just below my knees down, were off the edge of the bed. He stood behind me and told me to get up on my hands and knees.

He was fondling my ass and slid his finger down as if he was going to push it into my ass along with the butt plug. He stopped for a moment. “You have the most magnificent ass,” he said. I was nearly out of my mind with lust, panting in shallow breaths and enjoying how my abused breasts were swaying beneath my chest, the pull of their weight adding to their sensitivity and to my arousal.

I wondered if he were going to fuck me in the ass. I would certainly try, but it was my pussy that really wanted attention. I love it doggy style. Even though it doesn’t touch my clit, he gets so deep inside of me that I feel completely full. With the butt plug I had been imagining how complete the experience would be. I flexed my cunt muscles, trying to perform that exercise that often felt good when I came, but I wasn’t getting myself over the edge. He slowly removed the vibrator from my pussy and ran it around my lips.

“Your pussy is winking at me,” John said. “Put your face on the bed. And hold on.”

He dropped the vibrator onto the mattress. He pushed his cock into my cunt from behind, not rough this time but not hesitant either. It was doggy style, the position I have always loved most, and he began a smooth, regular motion, not slow, just a man determined to fuck me good. But he was also determined that we would climb and cum together.

“How did you get so hard again,” I moaned.

“Remember? I didn’t cum last time,” he said. “I saved it for this. I hope you’re ready to go for awhile.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Oh very fucking yes.”

I didn’t realize, because I have almost always been the one on top when we have sex, that when he stands on the floor to thrust into me, he has more control and stamina. He moved steadily in and out of me, going deep on each inward thrust and then pulling out almost completely each time and then pushing himself back in. In my lust, I tried to make him go faster. He slapped my ass, hard, and ordered: “Follow me, slut.”

So I picked up his rhythm and prayed I would cum soon. His motion was smooth and continuous. “Please. Cum. Please Please Cum Cum.” I moaned into the blankets on the bed. He was gradually stroking harder so I had to hang onto the covers, onto the mattress. I tried not to move away from him but instead to push my butt back into his groin with each of his thrusts.

There was no vibrator in my cunt this time, just manflesh, hot and rigid, and I could feel him moving and imagined the purple cockhead flaring and creating friction the entire length of my pussy. The blindfold was still over my eyes freeing me to concentrate on each sensation fully.

The wetness we both were secreting was combining to make me slick and warm. The thought came into my head of a river we know where round stones rise above the surface and warm in the sun but are always covered with damp, slippery moss and a sparkling spray of water-in-sunlight that rushes past and swirls in dark pools.

I used my pussy exercise again, tightening my muscles and trying to time my grasp to each of his thrusts. It was not just for him but also for me. Each bit of tightness made the sensations more powerful. I was trying to suck his cock with my pussy, to milk it and to pull his cum into myself.

He began to let himself go. He crooned: “This is sooo good, Kelly. You’re so good. So fucking gooood. Goooooood.” All I could do was moan.

He picked up his pace, making his fucking more insistent, more powerful. He reached around me to squeeze my tender breasts but then held to my hip bones so that I would not slide away. Then he grabbed my hair again with one hand because, I found out, he needed his other hand free. He had picked up the little vibrator from the mattress.

I heard it even before he touched me with it. I felt myself coming closer to orgasm, and he was beginning to tense like he might be ready to cum too. The vibration in my ass was keeping every nerve in the center of my body stirred, and the little vibrator in his hand rose between my legs and suddenly landed, first on my mound, then on the inside of my legs, and then it came to rest on the hood covering my clit.

“Ohhhh my Fucking Gawd,” I was calling out, over and over and trying to catch my breath.

He was thrusting into me as hard and deep as he could. I could hear his groin and his balls slapping against my thighs and butt cheeks. I raised a hand behind me to touch him, and as I held his balls they felt huge, and they tightened and drew up tightly against him, and I could feel, as his cock thrust deeper into me, him getting still harder and more swollen. He ground down his cock into me as far as he could make it go, trying to split me in half I think. When he hit my cervix I was so turned on that it mixed with my passion instead of hurting me. I came and came.

I could hear myself whining with the intensity of my pleasure. I heard and felt him start cumming. He pounded into me with a groan, and then he held his breath. Then I heard him roar from deep inside, and I could feel his hot sperm flow on the inside of my cunt, filling me more and more with each of his thrusts. Oh, the heavenly, gross noises our fucking made! He timed each thrust of his cock into my cunt so that he would be deep inside me for each spurt of his cum. And it felt to me like he would cum forever.

His sperm mixed with my own juices, and I could feel it seeping from my cunt. There was a trickle on my leg, and I knew it would be dripping onto the bedding. He had stopped moving, but he was still throbbing inside of me. The way he had cum made me feel like I was having sex with some guy in a porn movie, not John. It was fantastic, and our orgasms didn’t quit but seemed like they had joyfully taken possession of us.

The last I recall, he was still inside of me with his cock still pulsing in my pussy, the butt plug humming, cum seeping out of me and the little vibrator caressing my labia. I’m sure I lost consciousness again.

Probably it was only a few minutes later I became aware that the vibrators were gone. The blindfold was off. My inner flesh was so sensitive, but the little aftershocks of lust were still trickling through me. We were both lying on our sides.

He had his head between my legs, and my head was resting on the inside of his thigh, and I placed my fingers and lips around his wet, shining cock. He was kissing me and gently licking all of the tender flesh he could reach until that, too, became so sensitive I just couldn’t stand to be touched for awhile, even with such tender love. I licked him clean – another thing I had never, ever done – and kissed him, feeling so much love for him. I felt like crying and would have, maybe, if I’d had the energy.

He got up then. I could hear water running in the bathroom. I was exhausted. He picked me up and carried me, and I put my arms around his neck and my face in the place between his collarbone and cheek. He had started the whirlpool. He lowered me, ever so gently, into warm water. He had put bubble bath in it, and I could feel oils. He washed me. I could think of nothing to say. He washed me and rinsed me with warm spray from the hand shower. He helped me to stand, and he dried me with towels that smelled fresh. He left for a moment and I could hear the microwave running on the in-room bar. He returned, picked me up again. I sensed purpose again in him.

“Now what, John?” I asked.

“Now I let you know how much I love you,” he said. The covers were turned down on the bed where he had spread a large bath towel. He laid me on it. Oh my, it was warm. He had warmed it in the microwave. He reached into the microwave and took out another big towel. He placed it over me, and it was actually hot. What a pleasure!

The microwave ran again. He took a small bowl of warm oil from it, and he began to massage my temples, my shoulders, and he folded the towel down that he had covered me with. He very gently massaged the oil into my neck and breasts, and over my stomach into that soft skin that he loves to caress so much.

Each time he moved to a new spot he said: “I love you, Kelly.” And then he moved the towel back up to cover me and began rubbing my feet with the warm oil. When he folded the bottom of the towel, he massaged my legs and finished once again with my pussy. He was caressing me again! Incredibly, I felt my lust begin to move, but I was so very tired.

He helped me roll onto my stomach, and he used the warm oil on the backs of my legs and on my shoulders and on my ass, and I actually fell asleep as he softly massaged me. When I woke up, sun was streaming in the window, and street noises were coming in behind me.

It all came back. I remembered where I was. I felt John’s body spooned against my back; his cock – which is usually semi-hard in the morning – was nestled between the cheeks of my ass. He too was awake and was gently stroking my back and around to the soft flesh where the bottom of my breasts swell from my chest. I love it when he touches me there and, more, he loves it. The gentle man I had lived with for so long was back.

I rolled over and took his face between my hands and felt tears come to my eyes: “Thank you,” I said. “For last night. For everything.”

Now it was his turn to look surprised. “I like hearing you say thank you,” he said.

“I don’t say it enough.” I lifted my leg so the angle would be better and slid his cock into the cleft between my legs. I felt him harden. I wanted to love him then. Even though I knew I was plenty sore, I wanted to give something back to him, and I thought it should be my turn. He kissed me warmly, then with passion, his tongue flicking over my lips, but he pulled out of me. “We’ll wait,” he said. “You’re not to be in charge again for awhile.”

He even had fresh work clothes hung out for me, fairly plain things, a blue man-shirt blouse with a button down collar, the mid-calf black skirt I like, a pair of comfortable shoes, fresh bra and panties, my makeup. There were no hose, though.

“You don’t need them,” he explained. Oh well, I could get by for the day. Odd, that’s the sort of thing I usually would complain at him about, but it seemed so utterly trivial and I didn’t feel like complaining at him after last evening. I wondered if he noticed a difference. I was going to try not to forget what he had made happen. We ate breakfast in the restaurant, I dropped him at work, I went on to my own office.

As I got out of the car in my parking space, I saw that he had left the duffel bag on the back seat, by accident or intention. I looked at it. I began to reach my hand toward it.

No, I no longer needed to know. It was John’s business. He had done it for both of us.

Shortly after noon today, I got another email.

From: John
To: Kelly ________
Subject: After work

I know you’re busy. That does not concern me. You will have to make time between now and 2:00 to go out to your car.

I have left a package on the driver’s seat. Take it into the bathroom. Put on the lace thigh-hi hose and the shoes I have left.

Take off your bra and panties. No, there is nothing to replace them. This will give you three hours, or more, to feel your naked slut body beneath your clothes and wonder if your nipples or wetness are apparent to anyone else. Don’t worry. I will be thinking of you.

I have to pick up the car so you will arrive at the house before me. When you get there, do not go beyond the front hallway. Take off all of your clothes, except the stockings and shoes. Wait for me there.

Open the front door and stand in front of the screen so I can see how beautiful you are when I drive up. When I come in, be on your knees.

Don’t tell me you forgot.

John

Oh my.

I could get used to this.