Eve St. Albert

JULES: WHEN I WAS A BIKER CHICK

Minneapolis was probably one of the best things that ever happened to me, Chicago wasn’t. But in Minneapolis, finally, I made friends, I had a best friend, Kerry. We were inseparable. I found jobs, I made money, I took care of myself and other people.

I even stopped drinking as much, which was probably a good thing. Peer pressure. Most of the people I hung with were potheads, and as it turns out, I'm not the nicest person in the world when I'm blacked out. So, they tended to discourage my drinking and discourage my being so fucked up.

It was a good year. Of course, it didn't last, nothing does. After a while, the Kanadian Kolony began to drift. Some of us moved to Chicago. I went there, tried it, moved back to Minneapolis, then back out to Chicago again.

Anyway, towards Christmas, Kerry fell in love with this guy. Big mistake. I could see that right from the start. But she didn't appreciate that opinion. So, we didn't see much of her and I was pretty much staying in Chicago by then. Kerry and I had talked about getting our own place, but that never seemed to happen. So, I was living in this house with Floramel, who was a nice Caribbean lady with a four year old, and this guy from Africa and his sister, and a couple of other people.

I wound up dating the African guy, who turned out to be the biggest fucking asshole in the world. Incredibly sexist and controlling, absolutely lazy and entitled, his sister bullied me, and the relationship between brother and sister gave me weird vibes. Floramel stuck with him though. So, after him, I had to move out and find another place to live.

That fall kind of sucked. I remember the winter just seemed to be pure shit, and it was always cold in this house I'd moved into. I'd wake up in the morning, and I could see my breath. It was a wet cold that came off the Lake, and I always felt miserable and chilled to the bone.

The old gang had scattered, everyone seemed busy, and getting together or hanging out seemed like a chore. Things got stolen from me, so I wasn't thrilled with the people I was sharing the house with. So, I started hitting the bars again, this was probably by March. I mean, a warm place, friendly company, that whole thing.

I guess part of it was that I felt connected or disconnected enough from people, and comfortable enough to resume the lifestyle I had fallen into in Hamilton. Bars lead to drinking and fun and friends, they lead to parties, and strange men between my legs. I even had a few blackouts.

But, there were differences. If I had a blackout, they didn't seem as frequent as they had been in Hamilton, or as deep. I think I was holding back now. Some nights, I didn't drink all that much. And I didn't do trains, or at least not so I got a reputation for it. I mean, okay, I did a couple, they were fun. But I wasn’t crazy with it, you know. Sex was mostly one on one, and reasonably discriminating.

There were more drugs, especially cocaine at these parties, and that seemed to bring with it a harder nastier edge. I remember when I was in High School, coke was the holy grail of getting high. Here there was lots of it around. I did it a few times, but it didn't seem to mix well with alcohol for me. Besides, I started noticing that the people around coke had this harder nastier edge that I found unpleasant. Serious cokeheads were just toxic, and self absorbed to the point of disappearing up their own assholes. Even their sex was selfish.

Personally, if I have to hang out with a druggy, give me potheads over cokeheads or alcoholics. They're more mellow, less likely to turn and go all mental on you for no reason. The parties? Hey, I was welcome at any party. I even hit a few upper class parties, where I found my ability to listen hard and occasionally say something intelligent made me a hit. I even met some minor league celebrities.

On the other hand, I found I wasn't welcome at all bars. A lot of the strict bars tended to spot me as a minor and shoo me out when I couldn’t produce ID they liked or they didn’t like the fake ID that I did produce, or they'd take me for a hooker on the prowl. That had never happened in Hamilton, but in America there just seemed to be a default that a young pretty woman hanging out in a bar was a prostitute.

So the places where I could go safely tended to be punk places, or rough places. Which sort of redefined my social life, the people I saw, the parties I went to, that kind of shit. It was okay, I knew how to handle myself. But the thing with fucked up places, having to handle myself got tiresome.

The bottom line was that Hamilton wasn't really a dangerous place. Chicago was. And being young and pretty could protect me from some stuff, and being smart and cagy could protect me from some stuff. But, basically luck runs out sooner or later. That's just the way it is.

Oh that sounds so ominous, doesn't it?

But it wasn't really, I guess. Not for the most part.

It was rougher in Chicago, definitely. The drugs were harder, people were nastier. My impression of Chicago was people there were a lot more willing to cut your throat or fuck you over for a lot less reason. Sex was often rougher, although, looking back, I'm not sure, maybe I was gravitating towards rougher sex, or maybe it was just a consequence of where I was hanging out. Sex was also nastier, there was a lot less humanity to it, a guy was a lot likelier to just come inside me, zip up, and walk away without even saying thanks.

There were lots more guns around. That was one of the big differences, when you start to notice it. People had guns, all kinds of guns. Guys would come to parties, usually the nastier parties, with guns.

Once, this guy I went home with put a pistol in my mouth and made me suck it on my knees while he jerked off. Oh man, I was out of there so fast afterwards, some things are too fucked up even for me. He said he took the bullets out, they were in a bar in the handle, but I talked to a guy about this once, years later, and described it, and he told me that there would still have been a live bullet in the chamber, wherever that is. The guy had lied to me and made me suck a loaded gun.

That still gives me the shivers, and not in a good way.

I remember, a few years later, I'd moved back home and I was watching this late night movie, a Russ Meyer thing, Faster Pussycat or Valley of the Dolls or something, and there was a scene in it where the bad guy slides a gun into this sleeping girls mouth, and she starts sucking on it. Fuck! Since then, I've seen that kind of scene in a couple of other American films, mostly from the seventies I think.

I'm still not sure what to make of that. I mean, I'd like to think that the guy I met was just a weird fucking maniac.

But the thing is, if it's in those movies, it's like it's part of their culture, the way they think and look at the world. It's just sick. It's one of those little insights when you realize just how scary and fucked up some Americans are. No offense.

Anyway, that was what life was like back then. Just drifting along, not being particularly happy with anything, vaguely miserable and restless, getting fucked up and getting fucked, and starting to think maybe this whole scene wasn't a good idea. The writing was on the wall. But I didn't really have anyplace else to be. So bars, parties, drinking and fucking.

What happened was that I was at this bar with Mandy. I think that was her name. She wasn’t really a friend or anything, we'd just been at some of the same parties and we'd probably sucked some of the same cocks. So, once in a while, we'd hang out. I say she wasn't a friend because I think if I'd left my purse alone with her, she'd have gone through it for money or walked off with it. It was that kind of thing.

Things were pretty fucking dead, and we were basically looking for a party. The advantage of parties over bars was simple. 1) You didn't pay for drinks. 2) There were drugs.

Fair is fair, if you were a hot chick in a bar, and you were paying for your own drinks, there was something wrong with you.

But you know, like sometimes you were just out with your girls - Kerry and I killed a lot of pitchers out of our own pockets. And you know, in bars someone was expected to pay. But okay.

Advantage of parties over bars: Drugs. Happy now?

These two bikers came in, they were looking for girls to go to a party with. Good party, lots of cool guys, lots of action, important people. There was some sort of Biker thing going on, they had people from California, Duluth, the Rock Machine (Arkansas I think), even the coast. I don't remember much about what they said, it wasn't like one of those huge biker rallies. It was more along the lines of, "We've got VIP's, lets throw a party."

Well, we'd both been at parties with bikers, though not at biker’s parties. But a party is a party, so what the hell. We did know these guys, or at least, we'd seen them around. We went. It was at this clubhouse, I don't remember where. Big house, kind of run down. The place was full of bikers and their chicks. I remember being there, and saying to Mandy, I'd never felt so much like a cow walking into a slaughterhouse, it was that kind of vibe. We were very out of place and 'fresh meat' looking. Then someone gave me a drink, and I relaxed and got into it.

In a way, it was a lot like other parties, but it was harsher, stronger, it had a nastier edge. I remember people seemed to drink hard. I'm a hard drinker myself, but there was something unnerving about the way they drank. I saw a big fat bearded guy on the couch, just doing one hit after another of something, talking nonstop. I went to the bathroom, and there was blood on the sink. The music was too loud, everything felt too intense.

Then the guys who brought us came and got us, and took us downstairs to the basement. I'd noticed guys going in and out of the basement all night, but when I'd tried to go down, I'd been stopped, so fuck it.

Down there, moaning with pain on a filthy mattress, this young girl was getting gang raped.

All right, now I've done trains, before and after that, and I've had good trains and bad trains, and I've probably done hundreds of guys. So, it should just be like that, right?

It wasn't. This was fucking meat. This didn't look fun, this looked dirty and sludgy and exhausting. It looked painful and miserable and completely degrading. She wasn't having fun. They fucked her, but they didn't give a shit about her, whether it hurt or not, whether she was ready. She was just meat.

Mandy got it first, and tried to turn around and walk out. Not allowed. The guys were strikers, I think that’s the word, prospective bikers. Part of their thing was they had to each bring in a slut for a gang bang. I swear, that's so fucked up.

Mandy started crying. I think I was pale and shaking, trying to think of a way out. Now, like in the movies, I'd just come up with something clever to say, or pull the fire alarm, or grab a gun and bluff my way out. Sorry, I was dry, absolutely dry. And dry down there. I was watching this horrible sludgy thing happening, and knew it was going to be happening to me soon, because they were almost finished with her, and I was trying to get my head around getting through it, coping with it, and not feeling good at all.

It was just so nasty. Have you ever seen that movie, Fight Club? Like, where they're all hitting each other in the basement, it was sort of like that, all grim and crowded and claustrophobic. And you could smell it in the air, this heavy male odor, and under that, this scent of blood all hot and pungent filling your nostrils, and the whiffs of shit from loose bowels. This was the kind of place that fucked you up permanently, left your womb a hollow bloody mess, left your mind shattered and your soul bruised.

Then this biker started talking to me. The guy was huge. I'm 5'3" and he was like 6'7". His name was Jules and he was one of the VIPs.

He liked that I was from Canada, and asked more questions. It was surreal, like being in the waiting room of hell. There you are having a normal conversation, and a few feet away, someone is just screaming as she's fucked bloody. I said something that made him laugh. I can't recall what. He told me I was tough. Then he sort of took me by the elbow, told them he was taking this one, and suddenly, I was out. Oh man, you can't imagine the relief I felt walking up those steps. He'd rescued me, I was just about in love.

I don't know what happened to Mandy. I suppose they did her. I suppose this makes me not a good person, but I don't really care. I mean, if things had been the other way around, and she could have gotten out and left me behind, hell, she wouldn't have blinked.

I wasn't a good person then, I guess. But then, I never stole anyone's purse, or fucked anyone over. Something bad happened to her probably, and all I worried about was getting out of there myself.

I didn't think about it this way until a long time after, but let me put it to you now: What kind of a man can walk into a fucking biker gang bang, pick up the fresh meat, and just walk out with her, and no one said boo? Everyone was all friendly to him, as he walked off with their unused fuckholes. What kind of man can do something like that? Let me put it this way: How scary do you have to fucking be, to get away with something like that?

Yeah, right.

Of course, I wasn't thinking like that then. All I knew was I'd been rescued from the most fucked up situation I'd ever seen and the adrenalin and relief was kicking in, I was high as a kite from it, practically dancing.

So, of course, he took me back to his motel room, and he fucked me half blind.

Christ, the way I was feeling, if you'd shaken my hand firmly, I'd have had an orgasm.

But still, he fucked me wild. We were two animals, well, I was an animal, just going at it, angling at it and going at it. I remember, at one point, my throat was so dry it hurt to breath, and grabbing a beer, chugging it on top of him as I rode him, and just kept on going.

He was the biggest guy I'd ever been with, something like nine inches (I don't know, I never measured it, but at least twice the size of a regular guy) and thick. When he fucked me doggy style, no matter how wet I was, it hurt, but he didn't care he'd just fuck harder. He made me bleed. I can't remember whether I passed out from drinking and drugs and exhaustion, or just fell asleep.

It was morning, he was gone. I was exhausted and tired and sore, I just figured I'd lay there until the cleaning staff kicked me out.

Later on, he came back. He just got into bed and started fucking me again. I was willing, but I was dry. It didn't matter to him. I got wet quickly enough, he hurt, but it was exciting, kind of a roller coaster thing. Finally, he came in me, I was a quick afternoon fuck. He went and got a shower. I just laid back, letting his come ooze from me. He didn't believe in safe sex. Afterwards, he took me to eat with his friends. He told me he was leaving town, and he wanted me to come with him.

So I did.

That's so fucked up, eh?

The thing is, sometimes you have to be in situations, to really understand them. I told a girlfriend about this, and she just couldn't get it. But, the thing was, I guess, there wasn't a lot keeping me in Chicago. I wasn't really at ease there, I didn't like where I was living, I didn’t really like the crap jobs I was taking and getting fired from, I didn't even really like the lifestyle. I was drifting through, but I didn't actually have anyplace to go. So, I guess I was sort of rootless and just got pushed along by the first strong breeze.

And the thing with Jules, or at least at that time, I still had this romantic thing going on for him. He was the knight in shining armour, the guy who'd rescued me, and I think I was still a little blown away by the intense sex, by the whole thing.

So I went.

We stopped off at my rooming house, and I packed a laundry bag with an armload of clothes and essentials, gave away or abandoned the rest, and then I was on the road and I was a biker chick.

I think, six hours later, or maybe six days, I realized what a mistake I'd made. Of course, it was too late.

What do I remember the most about it? The noise, there was always the fucking noise, of the bikes roaring away, or the music too fucking loud, or bitches screaming at each other or guys yelling, or people getting beaten to a pulp. Even when there shouldn't have been noise, there was always something, dogs barking, sirens screaming, some factory hammering away next door. The fucking noise, it just never stopped.

And freezing cold on the back of those motorcycles. And the harsh sun. I knew biker mamas, their skin was like leather. And the crank, crystal meth seemed to be the drug of choice along with coke and crack. It was kind of a world all of its own, if you were inside, all the rules seemed different, the straight world was this weird angled place. But inside, it was like a fucking skating rink.

Everything you've ever heard about bikers, good and bad, its all fucking true. They were tight and loyal and generous and all that. They'd sit there and talk seriously about truth and freedom and patriotism, when they talked about it at all, usually when they were stoned, but that didn't take away from their sincerity. They'd swear to be your best friend, and you knew, you absolutely knew, this biker mama would face off her old man, would spit on the devil himself to save your ass.

But the same time, I'd watch guys profess their fucking love for one another, 'you're a brother too me, man, a brother!' And five minutes later, one would beat the other to death.

They were as fucking changeable as the wind, and as you watched, you'd fucking realize anything could set them off, any fucking thing. They'd fucking beat you to death if they had a funny bowel movement, you just couldn't tell. Complete psychopaths.

They were rootless, or they were during the time I was with them. They really didn't care about where they were. Hotel rooms, houses, where they stayed was just that, where they'd stay. They had no sense of place. The way you or I would think 'my house' or 'my apartment' just wouldn't click for them, they didn't live there.

Their world, their place, was each other. That's where they lived. Any time a couple of bikers ran across each other, it was like gossip. They'd start catching up on who knew who, and who was doing what, and what was happening here and there. They'd talk about shit they'd done, but mostly, it was shit other people had done.

When they were traveling together, it was all stories and talk about people they knew, other bikers, and the shit they pulled, sometimes violent, sometimes horrific, sometimes funny. A bank robbery or a knifing would be followed by some domestic spat. It was all the same. The thing was, that if you were part of this, you were part of their world. Sometimes I think that half the fucked up things I saw or heard stories of, were just so that their buddies could talk about them. Being talked about, I think, made you real in the biker world. The bigger the stories, the more they talked, that was what counted. Living large.

Just for the record, I’m going to say this: I never witnessed no fucking murders. Not one. No getting rid of bodies, no armed robberies, arsons, none of that fucked up stuff. I never saw any crimes at all. Maybe that went on when I was with Jules, but the men left the women out of it. They went off and did whatever they did.

So maybe I’m bullshitting and they were actually all good honest citizens who just lived an alternative lifestyle of freedom and camaraderie, and on Sundays they took up knitting. Believe whatever the fuck you want, but leave me out of it and don’t ask certain questions.

I didn’t see any big drug deals. If you were around for that stuff, you were a party favour. You shut your mouth, you didn’t see anything you weren’t supposed to see and didn’t hear anything you weren’t supposed to hear, just all guys doing men stuff, and afterwards you smiled and drank or toked or snorted and made nice and partied. Even paying attention was dangerous. Even them thinking you were paying attention was dangerous.

The closest I saw to anything was once this big meet at a campground, a few different clubs were there. Jules was heading up, right in the middle of it. There were guns everywhere and even the Mamas were scared, and they were never scared. You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. But it all worked out, because later, we partied. I remember, I was dancing with some other chicks naked on a picnic table, and there were these metal barrels that they were having fires in. I ended up drinking too much of something that made me throw up. And I remember seeing Jules and a few other guys, just sitting on lawn chairs lined up by an RV, quietly drinking beers. All of them, dead eyes.

What was that about? What happened? Fucked if I know. Some shit, you didn’t even ask. Jules didn’t keep me around for confidant shit.

As I was saying though, if you were part of this, if you were part of this world that they had, then you were real. You might be dead in ten years, shot to pieces by the cops, but in a weird way, you'd be real.

On the other hand, if you weren't part of this world, then you weren't real. Most people, most places, weren't real to them. Not in any way that mattered. That's fucking scary. These guys could cut your tits off, they'd burn your house down, and the next day, they'd hardly give it a thought, cause you just didn't fucking matter. Of course, most times they didn't bother. If you stayed out of the way, they'd give you no grief, not worth crossing a street for. And anyway, there were cops, and there was all the hassles. But most people, I think, never had a fucking clue how thin their ice was.

I was sort of in their world, sort of not.

There's biker mamas. I heard of a couple of guys who called themselves "Mother" or "Mom," but that’s not the same thing. The mamas were basically the steady wives or girlfriends, they were pretty much into that life, into the values, they were part of the culture. It seemed to me that they did most of the work while the guys laid around, but they did their share of partying and they gloried in the nastiness of it. They'd all gone through shit, becoming what they were, pulling sludgy gangbangs, or getting eaten out while menstruating, or getting beaten by their men, but it was like a badge of honour, a sign that they were fucking tough. They'd still get beaten, or have to pull some shit, but they acted like they didn't care, it was just another merit badge. And they were vicious all by themselves, I heard stories of a couple of them just beating on a third, or saw one talking her guy into pounding this little wimp.

Then there's Chicks, or Chics. I don't know about spelling. Chicks were like a can of warm beer. They'd pick them up, pass them around, spill them, crumple em up and throw them away. They'd think all of eight seconds about a chick, they were like kleenex. And I don't know why, but there was hardly any shortage of chicks. Or at least it didn't seem like that when I was with them.

There was always some girl who was being picked up and fucked around. Maybe it was the drugs, or the mystique of being a biker, or maybe they just wanted to party. Chicks weren't respected, they were just used when they came along. If a chick managed to hang around, she'd get passed around, maybe she'd hook up with one guy till he got bored with her, or maybe she'd be community property, guaranteed fucked up with drugs, and usually put out to turn tricks.

If she stuck around long enough, and the other mamas didn't get sick of her, and the boys didn't get tired of her, and she had the right attitude, she'd make it to being a mama. Or if not, she'd eventually go home, a bit more fucked up, or she'd wind up deposited a few hundred miles away, like a whored out Dorothy in a fucked up Wizard of Oz, and maybe put her life together again, or she'd be working for some pimp in some fucked up city turning out fucked up tricks and no one would give a shit.

Me, I wasn't a mama, not by a long shot. I was sort of a chick, but I was Jules chick, which kind of made me an honorary mama,be cause everyone was scared of Jules. Jules was a, I keep thinking the word is striker, but then, I think that’s the word for biker candidates, so that can't be. Hitter? Executioner? I don’t remember. The way he put it was that he ‘solved problems.’

It's been a few years, and I think I'm kind of fucked up on terms. Okay. One night, after we'd fucked, I remember laying in bed and asking Jules about his tattoos. He had a few. But he had these black marks on his knuckles. He told me those were for people he killed.

I don't remember being freaked or scared then. I'm not sure I believed him, after all, it's such a bizarre thing to associate with the man who is naked beside you, all relaxed. So, I wasn't scared, or concerned. I think I just went, 'oh' like I'd asked that one question you shouldn't. Kind of a faux pas thing.

Looking back, I fucking believe him, and he scares me. I'm probably more scared of him now than I was then, until practically the very end.

Anyway, Jules didn't just kill people, he killed people for bikers. He enforced the rules, whatever that meant. He worked people over. He sorted out disputes. He rode along for events or deals. He was a VIP like I said, he did VIP stuff. Part of that was just…The thing.

And killing people. I suppose that's like rival bikers, or business associates, or maybe just gang members who'd pissed enough people off. I don’t think he killed anyone who wasn’t in the life, or who didn’t cross them.

He was a huge fucking guy. Six foot seven, like I said, and massive. He was big enough and strong enough to literally pick me up with one hand, and hold me with his arm out. I remember sitting in his palm once. He was huge, he was strong, he was just a nasty brutal fighter, I saw him fight once, just a brawl and he wrecked a bar full of guys while I watched, shitting myself.

And absolutely insane. Not insane in a crazy way, but just in doing whatever he wanted kind of way. Like he had no limits and no restrictions, and he could and would do the most fucked up things if it occurred to him and if he wanted to, and no matter what he did, he just wouldn't care too much.

I remember, we were in this town, and we were at this party in this house. I don't know a lot of the details, I was pretty drunk. What I do remember is this white cat that lived in the house. I seem to remember she had pink eyes, and I'm not sure about that because it doesn't sound right.

But anyway, she was a really nice cat, her ears were all chewed up, but she had soft-soft fur, and she'd come right up and want to be petted.

She rubbed against Jules. He reached down and snapped her neck. Just like that. I don't think he even paused in whatever he was doing, drinking or talking or just relaxing. There's the cat with a broken neck at his foot.

I think the conversation stopped for a second, or maybe it was just me. I was shocked. Someone picked up the cat and dropped it in the trash. That was it, everything was back to normal. Until later in the night, when the woman who lived there found out what happened to the cat. Fuck, she freaked out totally. She started crying, then she started screaming at Jules. She even threw a beer bottle at him, although she was together enough not to lob it anywhere near him, it smashed on the wall.

Then she started ordering him out, ordering everyone out and threatening to call the cops on us fucking cat killers. Jules didn't say anything, all he did was look at her. I remember thinking as all this was going on, that he was looking at her just like he'd looked at that cat, and being really scared that something bad was going to happen. Nothing did though. Her boyfriend or whoever managed to get her out of there and calm her down. She did a lot of crying though.

Eventually, towards the end, Jules wandered in and said he was sorry for killing the cat, but he didn’t really care, and she said she was sorry for freaking out. She'd been drunk, and she was really scared, and then everyone was friends again. Yeah, my ass.

That was a thing with Jules. Sometimes there’d be something going on, like bad fucking shit, and you’d think things were going to turn ugly and bloody. Jules would walk over and everyone would calm the fuck down. It’s funny, but Jules often made things peaceful, just by being around.

Looking back, I think the thing was, Jules looked at everyone like he looked at that cat.

You see why Jules could just walk into a pit of hungry bears, pick up the meat and walk back out, and all the bears would be polite to him? I think everyone was scared of Jules.

And he was fucking me, which meant, you didn't pull the same shit on me that you'd do with chicks, I got treated sort of like an honorary mama. I didn't belong, but no one was going to say anything, so they all put up with me and pretended. I think I sensed from the start how precarious my situation was, and the longer I was around and the more I understood, the more scared I got. Jules scared me, not at first, but as I went along. And I was scared to be with him, but more scared by the people we were with, scared of what would happen if he got tired of me.

Because even if he left me alone and just stopped being interested, I knew I would be in a lot of shit with the other bikers and mamas. I wouldn't get treated with the contemptuous indifference they used with other chicks. No, I was this foreign body, too far in. I couldn't see anything good. I went out of my way not to piss anyone off, I tried to be shy, to sort of stay close to Jules. I tried to be nice and friendly. But not too much, because they hated suck-ups.

But every now and then, I'd hear something, or catch a look. It wasn't a good place to be. I remember being scared all the time, scared of all these things, that eventually just sort of worked into this kind of twitching, aimless fear and nervousness, and doing my best to hide it.

I lost weight that summer, fuck did I lose it. I think I was down to the nineties, and my period stopped. I didn't even notice.

My diet was just crap food, like nachos and pizza, I couldn't sleep well. It was hard to get wet, not that Jules cared, he just fucked me, indifferently, and I had to perform back for him. Every other day, or every few days, it seemed we were on the road again, driving along, strange faces, strange places, but everything looked the same always. Everywhere we went.

One thing we did early on, we’d fuck on the motorcycle, I’d be laid over the gas tank hands on the handlebars, and he’d have his cock in me, we’d go screaming down the road, seventy miles an hour. I’d be usually high as fuck. Him too. It was insane.

One time though, we were going along, just coming along this hill and he wiped out. We weren’t fucking, I was behind, holding onto his belt. He was so big I couldn’t put my arms around him. So just riding.

I don't know why or what happened. One minute, everything's fine, I'm holding on to him. The next, he's gone, I'm flying, and then I hit the ground on my side, 'whoof' all the air goes out of me.

Then the weirdest thing happens, it's like I can't stop. I'm just tumbling and tumbling end over end and I can't stop. It felt like I tumbled for an hour, but it must have been just a minute or two.

I wound up laying on my back on hot asphalt staring up at the bluest sky and thinking, 'Holy shit! I'm dead!' Then, I started breathing again.

Jules walked over, asked me if I was all right. I think he was limping a bit. I said, I thought so. He told me to get up and see. So, I stood up, and he helped me. I felt wobbly, kind of like my body wasn't tied down, like I might float away. Then Jules got his bike back up and got on. I got on with him. And we went.

No more fucking while riding after that. He found a limit.

I had nightmares about that for years. Not constantly or anything, but just every once in a while, I'd have this nightmare about tumbling and tumbling, and sometimes I'd just tumble right over a guard rail and off a cliff, or right into this oncoming semi. Once in a while, I'll have a nightmare about the cat. But mostly, if I'm having a nightmare, that wipe out is in it somewhere.

Didn't phase Jules though. Nothing bothered him. He fucked me extra-hard that night though, in some campground, hard even for him.

Oh the sex, that's hard to describe. Jules was pretty much indifferent to how I felt. Vomiting, passed out, crying, horny, didn't matter. Sex revolved around his erection, and when it was ready, he shoved it in, that was all.

I was sore a lot, and I bled a lot. As I got more stressed out and tensed, as I lost weight, it got harder to get wet. It didn't matter to him. I'd try to lubricate myself, but you know, it's hard to get yourself that way sometimes, and it's hard to keep a tube around. I'd get so desperate I'd use anything, hand soap, engine grease, fucking anything, I used salad dressing once. It didn't matter.

I never said no though. I was up for anything. I had to be. I showed my tits, showed my crotch. Jules wanted me to blow or fuck some pal of his, or just some guy he took a liking to, I did it. I danced naked on tables in bars. Got fucked on a jukebox once. Bent over a pinball machine. In public in front of everyone? Sure thing. Up the ass? I’m ready.

Sex on my period before they stopped? Having a stranger go down on me during my period? Whatever Jules said. I remember being high on acid, naked except for boots, dancing around a fire, my body smeared all over with my own period blood. That was before my periods stopped.

I got fucked up a lot. Less as time went on, I got more careful, because I was scared, I needed to watch. Beer was okay, American beer... like fuck, right. Back in Minneapolis, my friends were amazed at how I could put it away. But like, it’s just American beer. I could drink that, no problem. I got less interested in being drunk - blacking out, yeah, that wasn’t a good idea.

I started being careful about drinking or smoking or taking too much, but you know, making it seem like I still was. If you weren’t partying along with everyone - that wasn’t a good thing, they noticed and then they’d start to get suspicious. But if I got really fucked up and high, well, I might say or do something or fuck up somehow and that wouldn’t be good. So, I tried to walk this fine line where I wasn’t taking or smoking or drinking much, but not letting on, and acting and partying, but always paying attention. Because the longer I went, the more scared I was, and there was no way out.

I couldn’t say to Jules, ‘this has been fun, now I’m going to fuck off and leave.’ That wasn’t how it worked in the life. And especially it wasn’t how it worked with someone like Jules.

I was shaking a lot of the time, but I understood the only thing I had going for me, the only thing protecting me from big bad things, was the fact that I was a good fuck, a hot piece of teenage ass ready for anything…So, it didn't matter whether it hurt, I'd just go all mink in heat on him. I'd do anything he told me, anything I even thought he'd like, and I'd go like I was into it. He even fisted me a few times.

The weird thing was, I would come. I'd experience these weird orgasms, all tight and tense and stomach cramping, like a hard rock up inside me. Tension orgasms, like a guitar strung way too tight just snapping a string. He was big, and he fucked really hard, and that whole environment, that lifestyle you’d do a lot of crazy fucked up sex, so yeah.

Thing was, being with Jules was like riding one of those bucking bronco machines you see in honkey tonks, except crazier. And if you fell off the bronco, you’d fall into this pit of knives and fire and snakes and scorpions, and you’d be all fucked up, but no way to tell how. So, you had to stay on the bronco as long as you could, but sooner or later, you knew you were going to get bucked off, but there was no choice but to ride.

Anyway, after a few months, we wound up in Tucson for a few weeks.

He’d picked up this little chippy, Jenny. She was just a 13 year old piece of white trash, a skinny frame built on wires, curly hair, bad teeth and a small narrow bitter little mind. I don't think Jules was her first guy, she already knew her way around the bad streets when she hooked up with him. I can't imagine what it took to make her into the little piece of garbage that she was, what had made her so bitter and predatory. She must have had it hard. I don't know. I didn't like her one bit.

The thing with Jenny, was that all the things that scared me shitless, she liked. She loved the capacity for violence in Jules. She loved his indifference. She loved that he scared everyone, and she loved the status that riding his cock gave her.

He hurt her.

I remember being in threesomes and he'd be pumping his cock in her and you could see the pain on her face. She'd be in agony. Skinny little thing like her, not built for what Jules did with his cock.

But she didn't care about that. Because while he was fucking her, while he was with her, she was someone. They had to respect her and look up to her. And she wasn't afraid to rub it in. I thought I was resented? Oh man, she cultivated resentment. And she knew it. She knew the Mamas despised her, and she enjoyed spitting on them for it.

I don't think payback ever occurred to her. Or maybe she'd been down on the bottom so long she just didn't care. She was just such a stupid stupid sad pathetic girl.

I don't even know if she's alive now.

Of course, she hated me. I was the turd in her bowl of ice cream. Jules was happy to have two skinny little sluts acting like they were in heat over his cock, he liked the idea of having a couple of women. That, by the way, seems to have been one of those things bikers didn't do.

Mamas didn't approve of polygamy, Jules didn't care. He made his own rules, which basically meant he didn’t have any, and no one ever said shit about it. Because no one said shit to Jules.

But for Jenny, I was her rival. She had no shortage of insecurities, and there I was.

I was first, I was around more, I was more accepted (or at least that’s what it looked like to her), I think she believed Jules liked me more. This was her chance big time, hooking up with Jules, and there I was spoiling it. She hated me for that.

Man, the shit she pulled to make my life miserable. Even now, I can remember that hatred and bitterness.

Of course, we were careful around Jules. We were both willing and wicked partners in his threesomes. Sometimes, he'd just sit back and have us put on a show for him while he jerked off.

That was probably the nastiest sex of my life, because every time we did it, she wanted to make it hurt, she was dedicated to it, and after a while, I was hurting her right back. The grossest time was when I was rimming her, and she deliberately shit right in my mouth. Fuck.

But she didn't have much time to enjoy it, because a little later Jules fucked her up the ass, taking that virginity. I remember, that was the only time I ever felt sympathy for her, because she cried afterwards. Just cried and cried her eyes out, bleeding into the toilet bowl, these huge sobs that would just contort her whole body.

I still tasted my mouthful of shit so I felt harshly towards her, I did the minimum though, to take care of her. Out in the bedroom, he snored away. Later on, the next day, I felt badly, cause she'd so obviously been torn open emotionally, she'd been so vulnerable. I thought maybe we could have reached, or connected or something, if not friends, at least get along.

But by then, it was too late, all her doors had closed again. Does that sound like wild shit? For my time with Jules, it was practically typical of shit that went on.

The end came out of the blue. It was a Tuesday morning. Jules was sleeping in, Jenny and I were arguing about something. It didn't matter, she was always picking a fight. I didn't think we were loud.

All of a sudden Jules came out, grabbed me by the hair, and fucking threw me across the room.

Literally, he threw me by my hair, my feet left the ground, I hit the wall, bounced and dropped. He was right there kicking me. I scrambled to get away as he kept advancing on me, kicking me like a dog. I hit the front door, scrabbling for the doorknob, and then all of a sudden I was falling down the steps. He was yelling at me to get the hell out of his sight, we were fucking finished. I was barefoot in cut offs and a T-shirt, and just trying to scramble it all together. I'd scraped my knee and it hurt.

Then my runner bounced off my head. Jenny was throwing my stuff out at me, screaming as well. Deja fucking vu. A big armload of clothes got scattered out on the lawn. I don't know where Jules was. I was scared he was looking for his gun or something.

I don't think I ever saw her happier.

I grabbed my stuff, as much as I could, a big unwieldy arm full, with stuff that kept falling out, then ran and staggered and limped down a back alley. Every few houses I'd have to stop and load back up again, cause it would be falling out of my arms. I was still terrified.

After a block, I got brave or desperate and I stopped to put my runners on. I emptied out a trash can for the plastic garbage bag, turned it inside out, and used it for my stuff. I walked, hit the street, thumbed, kept going, hit more streets, and finally got a ride to the Greyhound station. I don't think he was going there, but the guy who picked me up took one look at my face and just took me where I wanted to go.

By the time I got there, I felt like I wanted to vomit, but there was nothing to come up.

There I was at the fucking greyhound, and everything I had was in a trash bag. It was practically trash itself. I didn't have money for a bus ticket. I didn't even have change for a local bus fare. Fuck, I didn't even have socks.

So there I was, just sitting in this stupid Greyhound terminal, scared, nauseous, terrified that Jules would come walking through the door any minute, and just about all out of anything. I felt so fucking alone.

This guy checked me out. I watched him. He went into the bathroom, and I stared at the men’s room door for a minute. Thinking about something, thinking about it. Not seeing a lot of choices. Just desperately needing to be out of here.

Then I got up and took my bag and walked through the men’s room door. We were alone, thank god. He'd just pissed at the urinal and was leaving.

I stopped him and mumbled out my offer. A blow job for money. Ever since high school, I'd been called a whore, and that had made me madder than anything.

Back then, it had been the thing that hurt the most, it was the biggest most painful lie they told about me, that I'd just do it for money. No matter what I had done, that had always been my line in the sand, the point I wouldn't cross.

It was how I lived with myself. Even if, sometimes, it was a very thin line, it was still a line to me. It was my single, last, tiny shred of self respect in a sea of teenage angst and self loathing.

I'd never crossed it in Hamilton, I'd never crossed it in Minneapolis or Chicago, or even with Jules. That was the one point I'd stood up for myself around him, I think it amused him, and anyway, he liked keeping his meat to himself, so he never bothered to squash me.

But, I'd kept that line, never crossing it, right up until that moment.

It cost me to do what I did. You can't imagine how it cost me, or how desperate I was, or how I felt, my back up against the wall, desperate, terrified, out of options, with nothing left.

We went into a stall, and I sat on a filthy toilet and unzipped his fly. I sucked his cock for thirty six dollars and some dimes and nickles.

After he left, I just bent down and stuck my head between my knees, but I couldn't seem to cry.

Anyway, I got myself together and went back out and bought a ticket for the first bus going anywhere, which would be in about forty minutes.

I had some money left, so I bought a chocolate bar and went to hide in the women's bathroom with my feet up on the seat, just in case he had people out looking for me.

I only got a few bites before I really felt like vomiting, I held it back. That bar might be my last meal in a while. There wasn't enough change from the bus ticket to buy another one.

I couldn't see the time in the women's bathroom, there was no clock in there, and I was terrified that the bus would leave and I wouldn't hear the announcement. So eventually, I went back out to wait.

Jules and Jenny showed up.

I practically shit myself.

Jules came in and gave me a great big hug and told me how much he liked me and how special I was and how sorry he was that I was leaving, but it was all for the best, wasn't it.

Jenny came in lugging my suitcase, she'd packed the rest of my stuff in it. I was thanking them. But Jules had something special. He went back to his Harley and came in with this shoebox wrapped with string. He insisted that I open it. I wasn't sure what to make of it. I mean, knowing Jules, it could have been anything, a bomb, the severed breasts of his last girlfriend, cocaine, a live rattlesnake...

It turned out to be a pair of genuine snakeskin women’s cowboy boots. Fucking expensive ones. About a week ago, we'd been in this shop and I'd mentioned that they were nice, and he must have filed that away for future use. Of course, I was astonished. He was as pleased as a five year old who had a pony at his birthday party. They insisted I try them on, so off went the sneakers and on went the boots. I still have those boots by the way.

Then they walked me to my bus. Jenny gave me a sudden hug and told me how much she was going to miss me. You know, I think she was sincere, I could see it in her eyes. In that moment, she was just brimming with emotion and really believed that we'd been important to each other, that we'd been friends, and that she'd miss me. She really was a little psychotic.

And Jules hugged me again, he broke the hug, reached into his wallet and peeled off five hundred dollars.

I think I resisted for all of fifteen seconds. I took the money. I needed it.

He wished me well. Then, I got on the bus and that was that.

That was the way these guys were. They'd do these big overblown splashes of sentimentality, but in a twitch, they'd be rattlesnake murderous, and I could never ever tell just which way they'd go.

Like, Jules had come and given me a send off, like parents sending their daughter on to college. But you know, just as easily, he could have come and dragged me off kicking and screaming by my hair and taken me behind some building and smashed my face and pulled all my teeth out with pliers for daring to run away from him.

It could have gone either way.

The thing with Jules, is that it's amazing how little difference it would have made to him.

The first couple of hours of the bus ride was really tense. I kept flashing that he was following me, and getting these little panic attacks. But eventually, the tension exhausted itself and I was drowsing. When my bus ticket ran out, I think it was heading towards Des Moines, I got off, got a cab, and took a ride to this motel. I rented a room a couple of nights from this Mom and Pop thing, went in, and slept.

I'm not sure how long I was out, probably a long time. When I woke up, there was a ham and cheese sandwich wrapped in saranwrap by my bed along with a warm carton of orange juice. I didn't even wonder where it came from, I just ate and drank and went back to sleep.

But I guess I should stop now.

&&&

Life is funny. I did wind up seeing Jules again, years later. I was living by myself, with my dog, Rich, in Calgary. By this time. Trevor had been a few months ago, but I was still kind of putting it all back together. I was working as a busser for tables at one of the big halls during the stampede. It wasn't exactly the job I wanted, no tips. But the money was still better than my waitress jobs, so I took time off one job and took nights on the other.

Anyway, I'm clearing tables and...fuck, there's Jules and some bikers. I think I was just shocked.

Jules recognized me and called me over, they pulled out a chair. Staff weren't supposed to sit with the guests of course. But I think management took one look at these guys and decided to be elsewhere.

Jules treated me like an old friend, he introduced me around and reminisced about old times. He relived that time we'd wiped out and he talked about watching me bounce for what seemed like a hundred yards, and then I'd just gotten back on the bike with him, without even a whimper.

They all laughed at that. For some reason, somehow that had impressed him. They all got a kick of it. I was the hardest little firecrotch they ever saw.

He had marks on all his knuckles now. They'd had a few drinks. More than a few, actually, so they were full of boozy goodwill. He said he was sorry he dumped me, I'd been a lot of fun. Everyone liked me.

I didn't ask what happened to Jenny.

They asked him why he'd let me go. He told them my cunt got loose after a while. They all laughed. It seems it was a recurring problem for him. Just listening around the table, I kind of got the impression that Jules was fond of teenage meat. Young meat.

He asked me how I was doing. I said fine.

He asked if I had a boyfriend. I lied and said yes.

He asked who, I said Rich.

I was just reaching. It wasn't a name from the world he recognized though, so looking back, I think it was probably about the same as telling him I was single and waiting for him. Whoever Rich was, he was part of the straight world, which meant he didn't matter as far as Jules was concerned.

He said he was going to be in town for a few weeks and told me where he was staying. If I wanted to come by, for old time’s sake. Maybe pick up where we left off.

He asked where I lived, and I told him, too nervous to come up with a good lie. I didn't think he registered the address though.

Then one of them did his 'back to business' thing, which I suppose meant that it was time to discuss murder plots or coke trafficking or maybe something completely legit.

I said I had to get back to work and they let me. There were a whole lot of 'nice to meet you, Eve’ and 'keep in touch.'

I stayed on the job for another half hour and then went home and started packing. The next morning I quit my waitress jobs and told them I'd let them know where to send the severance cheques. I didn't tell the Stampede anything.

I blew about half my savings buying a second-hand beater car from this guy I knew, loaded up, including Rich, sold or gave away what I couldn't load, told my landlord she could keep the security deposit and anything I'd left behind, and then I hit the road.

I drove straight through til the car broke down in the early morning outside some place called Brandon or Headingley.

But luckily, this guy I'd known in Winnipeg, Danny, came to my rescue. I didn’t know him well, he was hanging with people then that I was hanging with. It wasn’t a sex thing at all. But, he was the only number I could find.

I needed help and he helped. It wasn’t money. I mean I had my own money, it was running out, but I had it. I was just fucked up and exhausted. He just helped me get my head together. I suppose I could have managed on my own, but I was pretty exhausted and fucked up.

In this world, as often as there are people that will hurt you, there are people in our lives, even strangers, that come and make a difference. They are in all our lives, and we don’t appreciate them enough.

He took care of me and Rich for a couple of days, found me a motel and paid for the first night, got dog food for Rich, and arranged with a garage to fix my car.

It was the alternator, which…I don’t know, re-charges the battery or something while you drive. I don’t know about cars. I knew how to drive, but I didn’t even have a driver’s licence. We stayed until we got the car fixed.

Then I kept on driving until I wound up in Windsor, where I eventually wound up staying with Floramel. The car was dying and I was running out of money to keep it going.

She’d moved back to Canada from Chicago. The Kolony had mostly kept in touch.

Oh, and that African guy and his sister - turned out she was really his wife, it was some kind of Visa thing, I don’t know. I remember he was hot to marry me, but he was already marreied in Africa. Anyway, turns out he robbed Flora blind - not literally, he just stole all her money and shit and saddled her with all these debts and screwed her over, so she had to leave the US.

She had completely changed her mind about me, because I was right about him and tried to warn her, but she picked the wrong side back then.

So big happy reunion. She was happy to put me up and have me back in her house. She kicked my ass and made me get a driver’s license. But she looked after me, and Rich. He was a good dog, everyone liked him, scary looking big ass German Shepherd mutt, but friendly as hell... Unless it was important to me that he not be. Fuck you, Trevor.

I got a job, not a good one, but it was a job, and I settled down. Later I got a better job, but not much better. It was a living.

I can’t say I liked Windsor, it was a bit like Hamilton, it felt familiar. Detroit was across the river, but I only went twice. Detroit was awful. Windsor was really quiet.

I had no sex life to speak of, beyond one night stands, once in a while. Flora didn’t like me taking men home, and she disapproved of pulling trains. So I kept all that stuff on the down low. But her kids were great, I loved them. I settled down for a while.

Floramel is another one of those people that make a difference in your life. I don't know what I would have done, if not for her.

There's bikers in Ontario of course, even in Hamilton. They're all over Quebec. I stay well away from that scene. Don't go near it. The nice thing about the life, is mostly, if you don't mess with them, they don't mess with you.

Every now and then I think about Jules, and sort of hope he's in prison for life, or dead or something, or far far far away. I don't hate him or anything, it would just be better that way.

Anyway, that's the last time I saw him.

SLIPPING INTO DEPRAVITY - Ch. 28, Romance and Semen in the Purple Sky

THE ROMANTIC INTERLUDE, PART FOUR OF FOUR

KAYLEY POV

I laid my head on Sam’s chest, just above the grape smear. It was purple-ish.

Well, that answered that. I played with his limp cock. Limp, hard, stiffening, coming, I just loved the damned thing. Hell, I’d even watch him pee with it. It was sort of purple-ish in parts, but not as much as I thought. I guess I’d licked the grape dye off most of it.

“Hey Babe,” I asked, “recovering?”

He took a deep breath.

“I’ll need a few more minutes,” he sighed.

I laughed. It was funny. Leroy was a pretty good sexual powerhouse, but he took forever to bounce back, and sometimes he had to work for it. Like an hour or more. That was probably his biggest weakness. I really wasn’t sure what that was about. Maybe he had some kind of condition?

“Oh, I know that silly!” I teased. “No, I was asking how you feel.”

I’d been a little worried that he might have stroked out or had a heart attack or something. Crazy

I know. Totally impossible.

“Oh,” he said. “I feel tingly, but tingly good. That was really intense.”

He chuckled.

“It was indescribable. I think my heart is still racing.”

It was. I could feel it.

I squirmed and cuddled against him, kissing his cheek.

“How about it,” I asked. “Hungry? Thirsty?”

I shifted position, pulling the cooler up on the other side of him, and peeked in.

“Looks like the grapes are done. But, we still have cheese, shrimp, crab.... ooh, chocolates!”

“Yeah,” he said. “That was the back up.”

I nodded in agreement.

“You’re right. Let’s save that. Hmmm. Bottled water.”

“In case of emergency.”

“Uh huh,” I said. “You left something out.”

He looked down at me, curiously.

“I’m really disappointed. You’re so thorough. It’s a nice spread. The wine glasses? Excellent touch. But, I’m amazed you left out something so obvious.”

I had him on the ropes, he looked genuinely concerned. Had he dropped the ball?

“What?”

I put on my most serious expression.

“Condoms,” I said, and nodded solemnly.

Here it comes, the big unforced grin, and then he tried to hold it back, but he couldn’t. He snorted, and laughed.

“Slut!” he chuckled.

“Bitch,” I corrected.

“Whore!” he whispered.

I kissed him.

“For you? Believe it, babe.”

I plucked a cube of cheese from the cooler, and held it in my lips, drawing close to his face. Our lips touched, and the cheese moved, to his lips, his jaws parted and it vanished. He chewed.

“Dry.”

“Fortunately,” I said, twisting and bending to pick it up from the floor, “there’s a nice Chablis.”

I felt him move, and when I turned back, he was reaching down for his wine glass.

“Baaaaaaaaaaaaaabe!” I drawled, pushing him back. “Don’t make any strenuous moves like that. You’ll hurt yourself. Besides, you should just drink from the tap...Like I just did.”

And to demonstrate, I wrapped my lips around the neck of the bottle and raised it up high, taking a mouthful. From the corner of my eye, I could see his eyes glitter.

“Do you ever stop?” he asked.

“Piffle!” I replied. “How long have you known me?”

“So... never.”

“Damned straight,” I drawled. “So... Do I need to show you again?”

“Give it here,” he suppressed a snort. I handed it over, and he put it to his lips.

“Thirsty?”

“Yeah.”

I glanced down and waggled his cock while he drank, just to see if I could make him spill some

so I could lick it off his chest. No joy.

“You know,” I said, “It’s been five whole minutes and you’re not hard again. I think you’re getting bored with me.”

“Not a chance!” he said. “I’m still recovering.”

“Mmm hmmm,” I said, I grabbed a couple of shrimp, squeezing off the tail shells. “See, I can be ladylike.” I tucked one between his lips. “All those bodily fluids of mine you devilishly

swallowed, I took them all back.”

“And then some,” he replied. I just stuck out my tongue and made clawing motions at the bottle so he’d hand it back.

We relaxed, saying silly things to each other, kissing, passing the bottle back and forth, working our way through the cheese and seafood. We had fun feeding each other, and giggling for no good reason at all, and just cuddling. I got his sweaty stupid shirt off, and then we were just naked together on top of the city.

“Evil,” I purred contentedly. I waggled his cock, it was filling out nicely. He was still recovering, I was very pleased with myself, I’d really flattened him. It felt like an accomplishment.

“Hey,” he said, I rubbed my face on his shoulder, hanging onto the bottle.

“Mmm?”

“Check it out.” He pointed. “Sunset.”

“Mmm?” I looked.

It was gorgeous, the sun wasn’t down yet, but it was closing on the horizon. Shadows were growing long, and it gave the buildings spreading out beneath us a new quality, a new texture. The skyline around the sun was full of soft clouds, golds further out, shifting towards pinks and reds, framed by pale blue growing darker and darker higher and higher into the sky, until it was just this sweet deep azure.

I gave a long sigh, “That’s amazing.”

“We don’t watch enough sunsets,” Sam said.

“I know,” I replied. “And they’re all over tiktok. Even more than cat videos.”

He didn’t laugh, but I felt his chest twitch and smile.

“I mean,” I said, “Where else would I watch sunsets, if not on my phone?”

“Good point,” he said.

That cock was coming along nicely. I sneakily began to go down, but he caught me and lifted me into a kiss. Still, I had my hand on it.

“So, Evil love of my life: Blow Job II, the Suckening?”

“Suckening?” We exchanged sweet little kisses. “Is that even a word?” he asked.

“It is now.”

I lowered my head.

“I have another idea.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh let me guess, you want to fuck me while we watch the sunset? Is that it, Mister Crazy Romantic? Mister Insatiable? Mister Too Good for My Blow Jobs Anymore?”

“Kind of, sort of.”

I stood up, keeping the wine bottle, and stretched, just arching my back and rolling my hips. I went up on tip toes for a second and then stretched my arms.

“I detect flaws in your evil plan.”

“Mmm?”

Sam stood up, moving behind me, to cup my breasts and nuzzle my shoulder. I loved how he touched me, it made me squirm with delight.

“Well first,” I said, “You would need to get me naked.”

“You are naked.” he stated.

His chin rested on my shoulder, I could tell he was looking out at the sunset and not at me.

But...it was gorgeous. His hands slid down my body.

“Darn!” I said, rubbing back against him. “Second, you would need to get naked, without me noticing.”

“I am naked,” he responded.

“Damn it!” I said, “I hadn’t noticed! Well, I’d have to be really really wet–Oooh.”

His fingers tapped my clit in a slow devilish rhythm, like I was a flamenco guitar. He’d picked up some tricks. My pussy clenched wetly.

“Well,” I said, “I guess the last thing, the impossible thing, the thing you’ll never achieve and therefore all your evil plans will be foiled.”

“Which is?” he asked.

“You’d have to be really super-duper-mega-hard, diamond hard, like pounding nails into two by fours with your penis hard, deflecting bullets with your erection hard. No common ordinary hard- on will do. I have standards, I want an erection capable of raising drawbridges.”

His erection pressed between my cheeks.

“Not good enough,” I announced and giggled.

“Oh yeah,” he said warningly.

I wiggled my butt, swinging it from side to side, then making this slow rolling motion with my hips that I knew turned him on like crazy. My breasts swayed beneath me, nipples rigid, and the sunset, the city and the sky stretched out before me.

But, I didn’t have the surging weightless vertigo of the earlier times. Instead, this felt...right. It felt like it all fit together. I didn’t feel like I’d fly weightlessly up into the sky. I felt grounded. No, I felt I was perfectly in my place, perfectly secure, as if I was anchored, as if I belonged here, that I was a part of everything.

I could feel Sam’s hands tightening on my hips, his fingers digging into my butt, his hardness and urgency, his need for me.

“Wait!” I said.

He paused. I straightened, kneeling on the chair, and twisted my body, turning to him. I reached for him with one hand, my other still hanging onto the bottle.

“One more kiss,” I said, and then our lips met, our mouths opened. Tongues touched, not wantonly, but gently.

That’s enough, I thought. This is it, I thought. It can stop now, as his lips pressed against mine, as our bodies touched, bathed in the warm light of the sunset, both of us luminous. It can all stop now. Time can stop. This is the moment I want to be eternity, the moment that I wanted to last forever. This instant between us, embedded in amber, forever, eternal, unchanging. This is it, the moment so sweet and perfect, I never wanted to leave it.

But of course it ended.

“Hey,” I whispered, and I didn’t have any other words. I felt tears in my eyes and turned away, hoping that he wouldn't see them.

Instead, I just turned, folding one arm on the top of the deck chair’s cushion, letting the other hand dangle while holding the wine bottle. I looked out at a breathtakingly beautiful sunset in front of me, feeling the breathtakingly beautiful man behind me, feeling his hands returning to my hips, adjusting me. The light was soft, the air was warm and cool at once. I arched my back, inhaled and let it out slowly.

I felt the head of his cock behind me, pressing gently against my pussy lips.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Sam surprised me. I thought he would lunge into me, thrusting hard, filling me instantly. But instead, he entered slowly. Not as slow as Leroy that night, but slow enough. My body welcomed him as he filled me. I gave this long sigh of deep deep satisfaction, brought the wine to my mouth for one last draft, and just surrendered my body to it all, to pleasure and contentment on every level, right down to my cells.

He didn’t fuck me, instead, we made love, his thrusts measured and stately. I moved back and forth slightly, bent kneeling over the chair, our bodies moving in time, moving in symphony. His hands felt like satin on my skin, as they moved along my back. We shifted, and I felt his breath on my neck as his erection arched upwards in me. We shifted again, and I rose up.

The sun slowly slid lower, the sky darkening, the colours in the clouds becoming more vivid. It was glorious. Everything was glorious, the sky was like a painting slowly changing, the landscape breathtaking, shadows were like silk blankets, and the air - warm and cool by turns, felt almost liquid and friendly. My skin tingled with the remains of the day’s excitement and arousal, and the flavours of drenching orgasms, and my body was warm with wine.

Perhaps it was a memory, but I swore I could still smell the lingering scent of roses, taste the residue of wine and semen and his sweat. My abdominals ached from the cat’s cradle, but even that was sweet, a reminder of my own aliveness.

Most delicious of all was him inside me, each movement was a slow wave of pleasure. He took his time, his thrusts measured and passionate, and as he went deep he ground into me, sending waves of ecstasy radiating through my clit, passing up into my body. I was in this state of hyper-awareness, blended awareness, the world everywhere around me. But most of all, him. I hungered for each moment when his hips flattened against my ass, felt so sated as our flesh pressed together. I ached and rejoiced for each touch of his hand. I listened for the sound of his breathing, the slap of our flesh.

I needed more of him. Twisting in the chair, I turned around, flattening my ass on the seat, my legs lifting in a whore’s prayer, beckoning him to come inside me. My hand lowered to my pussy, not to open it for him but to feel his cock, fingers tickling his shaft as he slid inside. We looked at each other, him down and me up, and then we kissed hungrily. My hands were all over him. The chair rocked, going up on its two back legs as he thrust harder and harder, and we ground into each other.

Sam wrapped his arms around my waist as he drove into me, fucking with building intensity. He pulled me to him, lifting me up off the chair. For a moment, he was standing, holding me, my weight sinking me hard onto his cock. I thrust my hips, fucking him as we stood, our arms tight against each other. He walked me to the loveseat, I dropped heavily on it, and he loomed above me before mounting, his cock pushing deep and full.

We fucked and made love, we devoured each other with our hands, our eyes, our mouths and hips. Sweat dripped, we sighed and gasped and spoke incoherent words. Sometimes I was on top, sometimes he was. Sometimes we fucked to the sunset, and sometimes seeing only each other.

We only came once, at the end, exhausted. I felt it shuddering and shivering up inside me like a tidal wave, and then his hit. We grabbed each other, our bodies merging as white light burst up inside both of us, and we clung like two flowers in a hurricane.

As it eased, we held each other, our bodies pressed together. I felt his cock go soft in me, but when he moved, I tightened my legs around him and held him closer.

“Just leave it,” I whispered, and kissed him, running my fingers through his hair.

We laid there, sprawled on the loveseat. It was broken, the legs on one side snapped off. When did that happen? I hadn’t noticed. Had it been like that from the start? I didn’t think so.

But, Sam’s sweaty body was joined tight against mine, so who cared. We kissed and relaxed, touched each other, and just let it come down. Beyond us, the sun dipped below the horizon, it got darker and darker, and we watched the city's lights come on. Window lights in the buildings, street lights next.

For a while, we didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. We just relaxed and watched, our hands joined, fingers twined, just enjoying being in each other’s presence. Sometimes you don’t need to talk - yes, I know - who are you and what have you done with Kayley? But it’s true, sometimes you don’t need to say anything. You just need to be there.

Finally, the sun was gone, the sky was dark, and the city was a maze of tiny lights. I guess the show was over. The air was a little cold, and I wished for a blanket, but he didn’t produce one. I guess there was a limit to his diabolical planning.

I supposed we’d get back into our clothes when it got cold enough, and go home. No hurry.

Fuck, I thought, what an epic amazing day. Just unbelievable. One for the record books. The memory of this day would keep me warm when I was ninety. Top of the top ten, and number two far below. Leroy was exciting, but he couldn’t even come close to this.

“Damn!” I said, exhausted. “The only thing Leroy has that is bigger or better than you is his ego.”

Sam laughed explosively, and I held him just a little tighter.

“I was wondering when he’d make an appearance,” Sam said, quietly. “It’s coming up fast.”

Oh fuck, I thought. I kicked myself for my heedless comment. His shadow loomed over us.

“Yep,” he said.

It occurred to me that maybe this whole day was some kind of reaction? That Sam was asserting his masculinity or his potency or something. Showing that he could be creative and virile too? Was he insecure? He didn’t need to be. Sam was perfect, or as perfect as I could imagine a man being. But maybe.

Men. I could never really figure them out. Even Sam, I knew him better than I’d known anyone.

But there were still depths and tender places I only vaguely understood. Insecurities and needs I could only respect and try to meet, when I encountered them.

Men were mysterious and complicated, even the simple ones like Leroy.

And there I went again. Goddamit!

Fuck, fuck fuck! He was like fungus, he just crept in. It was like that thing, try not to think of a pink unicorn, and once you’d told yourself not to, you couldn’t help thinking about him. Fuck, I wanted mind bleach.

“He takes up a lot of real estate in our heads these days,” I said, thoughtfully.

“Yep,” Sam agreed, “Living rent free.”

He paused, I could tell he was trying to shift our thoughts away from the upcoming session.

“Speaking of our friend,” Sam said “Do you remember when I told you he claimed to have been a porn star?”

I laughed.

“Yeah,” I said, “He has so many stories he’d have to be three different people for them all to work. I think the only reason he hasn’t told us about his time in the space program is that I made fun of it.”

“Well I did some searches, and looked him up,” Sam said, “And it turns out he really was a porn star. A real up and comer too.”

I sat up, turning to look directly at him.

“No fucking way!” I laughed. “You’re kidding! When was this? How did you find him?”

“Well he mentioned his porn star name so I decided to check it out. It turns out that the porn community is extremely well documented, lots of fan sites, lots of catalogs, directories, reviews.”

“There are porn reviewers?”

“Oh yeah, it’s a thriving community,” he said. “There’s a lot online and not just the actual fucking. So I found him. I found clips, scenes, it was him for sure. I was even able to research his career.”

“Holy shit,” I grinned. “I want to hear all about it!”

“Well,” Sam said, as he fed me shrimp. “He seems to have showed up in Los Angeles a couple of years after his music career ended.”

“How do you know when his music career ended?”

Sam smiled beatifically, like the cat that ate the canary.

“I looked that up too. I did a lot of searching. I was able to document his musical career, and that was for real. What I can verify anyway.”

“Well,” We knew that. “The album cover...and his fingering.”

We both blushed.

“Glory was where he peaked out. He was reasonably well known in the trade, not famous, but he worked with several bands. He just seemed to drift. He was almost on the edge of the big time with Glory but the band broke up, and after that fell apart, he disappeared.”

“Two and a half years later, he showed up in porn, and for a while he was like the next big thing. Very popular. He could actually act, had a lot of charisma, ready to go at the drop of a hat and worked really well with crews. He worked with a lot of people, popular with his...co-stars?”

“Any famous porn stars? Anyone we’d know?”

“I’d gather...yes? I don’t know who’s who in the porn star business. But, I gather he made his way into the top tier pretty fast.”

“You could be a porn star,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“No,” I said. “I’m serious. You’re hung, you can get an erection like that!” I snapped my fingers. “You can last. Amazing control. Usually.” I caught a quick blush. “And you can recover to go again in minutes. Also, you’re just a hotty.”

He blushed more deeply.

“Thanks. Anyway, Leroy...got involved in the business side, did some directing and seems to have connected with most of the major people around that time. He was one of those occasional porn stars that they talk about that has breakthrough potential.”

“He was even involved in a project to do a series - crossovers, the idea was he would work with non-porn, mainstream. Reality show stars, wrestling stars, influencers, b-list actresses whose careers had stalled out. A lot of names were getting thrown around, some we’d recognize.”

“And then?”

“Then out of the blue, he goes off to Europe. Works in eastern-bloc countries, Poland, Romania, Bulgaria. Some fetish stuff. Works under different names. Then zap, he’s gone. Vanishes.”

“Interesting, interesting,” I said, thoughtfully, “I wonder if something happened?”

“Possibly. No idea,” Sam said. “But whatever it was, it seems to have been abrupt. One day he’s apparently cruising along, nominated for rewards, and on the verge of being the next big thing. Then he’s gone. Maybe it was too much for him? Maybe he didn’t want to build a life around this?”

He paused.

“I can see that…you know. Being a porn star for the fun of it, but kind of wanting out when it got too serious.”

I shrugged.

“Would you want to be a porn star for the fun of it yourself?” I teased.

He smiled bashfully.

“I suppose a little bit, doesn’t everyone secretly want to be a star?”

“Well I have never wanted to be a porn star,” I said righteously.

Sam laughed.

“So that’s why we have a collection of videos of you naked? With you masturbating? Giving me blow jobs? Having sex with me? Having sex with Leroy?”

I stuck my tongue. “Oh! But that’s different.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“I’m photogenic,” I said airily.

“Ah.”

“It would be a crime against humanity not to have a record of how hot I am. Future generations will need this. I’m doing it for our children and grandchildren.”

“Uhm...” Sam held up a finger. I could see he was searching for words. I smiled innocently. The finger dropped.

“Anyway,” he said, changing the subject, “Interesting thing! I wondered what he was doing between Glory and Porn movies. So I poked around online and you know what I found?”

“He was commanding the International Space Station?” I guessed.

“Close!” Sam said. “He was in Wyoming, he was actually a cowboy!”

“You’re shitting me!” I laughed out loud.

“Nope. That was harder. But I poked around, I had a time frame, and lost a few crawlers. I turned up an H.L. Verne on the rodeo circuit. Zeroed in and hunted some more until I found a picture, and there he was: Our guy!”

“You’re kidding!”

He shook his head.

“Holy cow,” I said, “So he really was a cowboy? He wasn’t shitting us? Fuck, if he tells us he was an astronaut I might have to believe him.”

“There’s a limit to what I could dig up,” Sam said. “It looks like he worked for a couple of different ranches, he was in a few rodeos, different events, trick riding, Bronco busting. He wasn’t a big name or a headliner, by any means but yes he was there. And the next thing you know he is in Los Angeles doing a different kind of bronco busting.”

I spoke thoughtfully. “You know that the first time I was at his place, I saw an old magazine laying out. It was one of those airline magazines that nobody reads. But there was a feature in it about doctors Without Borders and ambulance drivers in Kenya, and there was a picture that looked like him.”

“Interesting,” Sam said. “Did you read it? Was his name in it? What did it say?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Do you even remember our first visit to his place?”

Sam blushed and laughed.

“Vaguely.”

“Uh huh,” I said smugly.

I paused.

“It’s really hanging over our heads,” I said quietly. “Over your head.”

He nodded.

“Yeah.”

I thought for a moment that he looked so sad and wistful. Then, I thought to myself, let’s cancel this. Let’s forget about Leroy, and be together just the two of us.

“I guess I just want it, you know. This. You and me time, you know,” he said thoughtfully “Just the two of us having fun together. Without our ‘friend.’

“We don’t have to do this, you know.” I said.

“Do you want to?” he asked. I looked away. Kind of, yes. If he needed it, yes. If he wanted to, yes. It was about him. I couldn’t make a choice for him.

“Do you want to?” I asked.

Say no, I thought, and it’s over, and we’ll never look back. Say yes, and ease my conscience. Leroy says you need this, to get this out of your system. He said so much bullshit about how you needed this. Is it true? Is it false? Say something.

He looked away.

“You’re bolder.”

A long moment passed.

“All you babe. It’s all you. You make me brave.”

“No,” he said, “I think we’ve both gotten a lot braver.”

He paused thoughtfully.

“Is that the word? More outgoing, more adventurous? That’s the word since Leroy. He’s kind of opened up doors. I don't think we would have done this before we met him. I suppose we’re not as innocent as we used to be.”

“Good thing? Bad thing?” I asked.

“Good thing,” he said after a moment. “What makes you stronger, braver, more adventurous. That’s a good thing. If you’ve grown, that’s a good thing. If you are fulfilled, more fulfilled, it’s a good thing.”

“What about you?”

He thought about it.

“Some parts are definitely rougher,” he said carefully. “But sometimes that’s how you grow... I suppose.”

“I asked him to go easier on you,” I said.

He looked down at me, cuddled in his arms.

“Did you?” he asked. “What did he say?”

“Honestly,” I replied, “He seemed kind of glad, as if he was nervous about going too far, hurting you.”

“It was pretty extreme,” he admitted.

“He agreed,” I said, licking my lips, trying to figure out how to approach this. “But, there was a condition...More of an ask, really.”

Except it hadn’t been an ask or a request, had it. That wasn’t the important part. It had been a promise, a promise I’d made with his cock buried in me, wanting it in me, wanting to feel his cum. It had been a promise full of certainty, like I’d been pledging from deep conviction.

The sort of promise you make passionately and fervently, binding yourself eagerly. And after, when you’ve cooled off, you wonder if you just made a deal with the devil. If you’ve sold your soul.

“Oh?”

“He said he’d go easy,” I chose the words carefully. “As long as I went hard. He figured we knew each other better, and I’d know how much you could take, how far I could go, and when to stop.”

I felt nervous butterflies rise up inside me, my heart sped up a little bit. I wanted to hold my breath, but instead tried to breathe normally. The silence behind me dragged on. I was glad we weren’t facing each other.

“Okay,” he said finally. “That makes sense.”

I tried to read his voice, read his body language, the tensions in his muscles.

“Does that bother you?” I asked.

He lifted his eyebrows.

“No, actually,” he said. “I’m actually pretty good with it. It makes sense. And I trust you. I’m actually intrigued. I think I feel safer if you’re the one doing it. The ‘hard’ stuff. If you’re up for it.”

Light as a feather, words drifted through my mind: Crush you, like a little cuck bug. I shivered involuntarily, a mixture of fear and anticipation.

“Watch out,” I warned him uneasily. “I can be pretty hard core.”

He kissed my forehead.

“Do your worst!” he ordered. “I double dog dare you!”

“Oh my! A challenge!” I said. “Famous last words!”

He laughed.

“Okay,” I said. “But listen, promise me. Promise me, if it gets too much, if you can’t handle it, you just say so, okay.”

He kissed the side of my head.

“Promise.”

“You’ll say uncle?”

He laughed.

“I won’t say uncle,” he assured me. “I can handle it.”

“But if you need to...” I warned.

“Then I’ll say it,” he reassured me again, “But I won’t need to. I trust you. Completely.”

I laughed, relieved by his absolute faith in me, in this deep abiding trust we had in each other. He was right, as long as we had that trust in each other, we’d be okay. I loved him so completely that at that moment, it was overwhelming.

“Careful what you wish for,” I almost giggled, squirming back against him.

“I think it’s what you are wishing for,” he teased. I felt a little shiver at this sign he understood my dark, deliciously cruel, side. “Happy to oblige.”

I laughed again with pleasure and relief.

“Oh I am so going to kick your ass,” I told him cheerfully. “See if I don’t. And I... we... will enjoy every moment of it.”

“Again, I dare you,” he laughed. “Do your worst!”

“I will!” I insisted. “I totally will!”

“You better,” he challenged. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

“Oh you are just asking for it, Mister!”

He chuckled.

“I’ll do it,” I said emphatically, “I’ll crush you like a little cuck bug!”

Shit, I’d said it out loud. I felt a moment of icy panic.

But he took no notice.

“As long as it’s you,” he said. “I know I’m safe with you.”

I nodded. You are, I promised myself.

“You are,” I told him. “Remember, it’s only a role play.”

“Got it.”

“After,” I said, full of conviction, “We go back to being our real selves.”

He nodded. I relaxed back against him, feeling deeply relieved, almost content. The knot of tension that had formed in me after I’d left Leroy had finally dissipated. Honestly, I hadn’t even realized it had formed, it had been so subtle. But now that it was gone, I felt lighter and happier.

Leroy guiding us through was one thing, he was good at getting us to trust him, and he took care of things. But it was better this way, when we worked it out between us, so that the two of us were on the same page: Team Kayley and Sam.

And somewhere, deep down, a dark little version of me, echoed the thing I had said to Leroy and instinctively repeated to Sam: Crush you, like a little cuck bug. And it laughed with an abyssal pleasure that made me shiver.

“Hey babe,” he whispered, his breath warm and most in my ear, “Look up.”

I gasped.

The sky was black, as black as I’d ever seen it, and full of stars, so many, so wondrous.

“My God,” I whispered, awed. I had never seen the sky so black. And the stars, they weren’t just pinpoints of light. I hadn’t really looked in years. But somehow, in that moment, it was magical, the sky was a dome all around us, not a dome, that implied flatness, a surface. But, there was no surface to the sky, no boundary, everything went on and on and on forever, each point of light was its own infinity. I was practically overwhelmed. “Look at them all. It’s...it’s...beautiful.”

“We’re above the worst of the light pollution from the city,” he murmured in my ear. “And it’s a moonless night. So you can see something.”

“It’s breathtaking!”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I guess you’re a city girl, don’t see them much? I grew up in a small town, and to get out in the country, it’s amazing. Ten times more than you’re seeing now. I’ll bring you out there sometime, we’ll have a midnight picnic in some farmer’s field.”

He reached out and pointed.

“See that? That bright one?”

“Yes?”

“That’s Polaris, the north star. As long as you can see it, you can always find your way. Over there, those three...”

His hand moved, pointing.

“Orion’s belt.”

We relaxed together, as he pointed out star after star, combinations and constellations, telling me the stories behind them. Half of them I didn’t get, but I nodded, living the sound of his voice and the way the words spilled out of him.

“That hazy patch there...”

“A cloud?”

“The Milky Way, that’s the galaxy we’re in.”

The finger moved.

“There...”

“The reddish one?”

“Good eye. That’s Mars. Let me see if I can pick out Jupiter for you...”

I could feel his cock against me, rigid against my bare back. Twisting in his arms, I reached up to kiss him.

“I want to make love to you,” I whispered. “Right under these stars. This is too beautiful, too perfect.”

I pushed him down on his back. He looked up at me, his eyes luminous.

“You’re hungry tonight.”

I laughed.

“You tease me with appetizers all day,” I told him. “You think I’d be happy with just the main course. I want the nine-course-Sam. I want Sam-dessert.”

“So now I’m dessert?”

“You’re delicious,” I said, straddling him.

His hands reached for my breasts, and as they cupped them, fingers splayed to hold as much as he could, I put my hands on top of his. For a moment, I saw myself the way I knew he must be seeing me, drenched in shadow, silhouetted by blackness, surrounded by the pinpoints of ten thousand stars, their light travelling for millions of years across half the universe, to come together for this moment.

I bent down, my hair sweeping forward, filling his view, and we kissed long and passionately, my hips hovering over him, feeling his cock battering at my pussy lips.

Finally, the kiss broke, and I straightened over him, staring up at the night sky as I sank down and let him fill me.

I glanced down at him, grinning, as I began to rock.

“Feel good?” I asked.

Goddamn, but he felt good. I don’t know what it was, but he felt perfectly seated inside me. He always felt just right, up inside me when I straddled him, but this felt especially, absolutely perfect, the slightest movement of his cock sending ripples of pleasure through me.

“Perfect,” he said. His hands slid across my breasts, down to my hips. He guided me just a little infinitesimal amount forward, rising up ever so slightly under me, and I felt a sudden delicate pleasure that seemed to emanate just under my clit. Goddamn he was good!

“You took the word right out of my mouth,” I moaned, and bent down to kiss him again.

This time our love making was unhurried. I just thrust up and down on him, with an easy rocking pace, holding each other’s hands, our fingers twining and interlocking, our gazes alternating between the stars and each other. The night air was cool and exquisite on my naked body, and sometimes I laughed with sheer pleasure and delight.

When I felt my first orgasm building, he seemed to feel it too, our tempo sweeping up together, until we were grinding furiously and I was squirting on top of him endlessly until I collapsed, boneless and breathless.

He held me in his arms, drenched and wet underneath me, his cock still rigid inside me, as I laid limp on top of him. Until finally I had the strength to raise my head and kiss him and whisper.

“I’m not done yet.”

I came a half dozen times. Every time I thought I was done, somehow I’d look at the stars above me and the man below, and I’d want him all over again.

When he finally came, his body went so stiff, he arched from his heels to his neck, lifting up like my weight was nothing. I could feel his ejaculation like a tidal wave inside me, a holy flood, a deluge that washed away any trace of the semen of all the lesser men who had come in me, including Leroy. The sheer intensity was like a contagion, and I fell into orgasm with him.

When it was over we just wrapped around each other, the sleeping bag loosely twisted around our bodies. We were both too hot and sweaty to be inside it.

As I drifted off, something occurred to me about our love making. He’d held off for me, he hadn’t come until the end, allowing me my pleasure, giving me my pleasure. He’d held back and restrained himself, delaying his orgasm, pushing it away, so I could have mine. He’d sacrificed his own pleasure for me. He always did that, every single time, always watching, the barometer of my pleasure dictating his own, my satisfaction, the permission for him. He always restrained himself, always denied himself, it was always for me and never for himself. That bothered me suddenly.

How many times had he come during that cuckold session with Leroy? A half dozen at least, without inhibition or holding back or restraining himself, without having to deny himself. It felt like an epiphany. As awful as it was for him, as humiliating and degrading, it had been liberating, it had freed him on some level to simply accept, to be, to experience. To be allowed to simply orgasm, without focusing on someone else’s pleasure.

Had I been so overwhelmed with my own excitement indulging in power and cruelty, that I’d simply failed to fully understand what went on within him. I was struck by how complicated it all was, how complicated the dynamics were within both me and Sam and with the two of us together.

Sam needed this, I understood that finally, he’d needed it all along, without either of us understanding or even suspecting. I felt reassured in my urges to cruelty and domination of him, they came from places of love. My insecurity and misgivings resolved. In the throes of this deep exhaustion I finally felt as if I’d figured it all out.

I wanted to talk about it with Sam, to spend the rest of the night just discussing it with him. After we’d rested. Maybe when we got home, and had gotten comfortable.

Thank God for Leroy, I thought randomly, he’d understood us, understood what we needed all along. Underneath that asshole exterior, there was someone good and decent, someone wonderful, even if he did act like an eight year old.

The thought drifted away, I nestled against Sam, looking up at the night sky. I was so tired.

“Let’s rest a bit,” I mumbled, or I thought I did. Just rest. I mean, we were soaking wet, I’d squirted to fill a swimming pool and we were laying in the middle of it, and we were on a rooftop, and we didn’t even have a blanket. We’d rest, recover and go home.

I fell asleep.

&&&

I woke early enough to see dawn’s light breaking over the horizon, half warm from where I’d pressed up against Sam, half cold and damp from the night, but somehow more alive than in years.

Then I moved, and ohhhh fuck! It hurt. I ached all over, especially my abdominals. It felt like someone had spent the night punching my stomach while I slept. Where did that come from? Then I remembered.

Sam slept on, his body so male and perfect in repose. No tension, no pretension, simply perfect unadorned maleness. He was so perfect I wanted a sculptor to come along and capture him like this. I watched him breath for a few minutes, just drinking him in. In the dawn’s tentative light, he almost glowed.

Even his cock, relaxed and limp, was perfect and male. I reached down, touched it gently, moving it from side to side, feeling it accept my touch. I tickled it just under the prepuce, watching its slow reaction.

Then, ever so carefully, I took him in my mouth, gently and carefully bringing it to erection. Just me and Sam’s cock, sans Sam, the two of us in communion. It was one of my favourite morning games, seeing just how hard I could get him, for how long, how much I could do before he finally woke.

I was delighted by his rigidity between my lips. All his fault, I decided mischievously, he’d addicted me to sucking his cock, and then failed to be on tap twenty-four seven, every minute of every day. What was a girl to do with cravings like that?

“Ohhh,” he moaned, his body shifted. I knew from the way his muscles tensed that he was waking.

“Ow!” he said as his stomach tightened. Yep, the cat's cradle struck again. He visibly relaxed and sighed.

“Morning sleepyhead,” I lifted my mouth off him for a moment. “Having that dream again?”

“Yeah, the one where I dream you’re sucking my cock,” he mumbled, “And then I wake up and...”

I didn’t bother to answer, I just dropped my head down, taking him between my lips, and letting myself go. No more need to be subtle or sly.

“Where are we?” he asked vaguely. “Why is it cold?”

Then he moaned suddenly, his body stiffening, because I’d done something really fast and forceful with my tongue and stuck a finger up his ass. Then he winced, because that triggered his already sore stomach muscles.

“Oh I remember,” he said, when he could breathe again. He reached down, putting a finger on my forehead.

I lifted off.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know you do, Hon,” I replied. “But I’m in the middle of something here...This cock isn’t going to suck itself.”

I lowered my head, pushing down against his finger on my forehead to get to his cock.

“Let’s watch the sunrise together,” he whispered. “On the other side. Just holding you in my arms, and watching it.”

That stopped me. I lifted my head.

“You’re a romantic,” I told him. “You know that?”

The first night that we’d spent together, we hadn’t slept at all, we’d just spent the whole time making love and eventually, spent, had watched the sunrise from his window. But this?

Atop a tall building, the city spread out around us, dawn breaking felt glorious.

I toed the wine bottle. Empty.

“Anything left?” I asked.

He checked the cooler.

“Just the bottled water. You want some?”

“Yeah, let’s bring it with us.”

We got up, dragging our clothes and the loveseat cushions to the other side of the antenna platform. He settled back against a metal box, some part of the ventilation plant I think, and I cuddled up beside him, so that I could play with his cock. We watched the sky get brighter and brighter, the stars fading away as the sky turned from black to dark blue and then to lighter shades, the clouds seeming to glow, more textured and detailed than I normally remembered.

Near the horizon, low hanging clouds lit up in reds and golds. The buildings of the city came into sharper and sharper relief, seeming more and more solid and textured, an artifact of the low angle of the light, and the shadows they cast against each other.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered as I slowly worked his cock, enjoying its heat and hardness in my hand, as the world unveiled itself before us.

“Yes,” he whispered, looking from me out to the horizon. I loved the feeling of his arm draped around me, the solidness and warmth of his body, the sheer physical presence of him, the calm that seemed to radiate from him. I felt this wave of tenderness come over me.

“I want to do something,” I told him. “I want to do something for you, as you watch the sunrise with me.”

I pulled myself up a little, so that I could look directly in his eyes.

“Let me do it, okay?”

I still had my grip on his cock, my hand wrapped tightly around it, so he knew what was coming. He stared into my eyes and nodded gravely.

“Okay.”

“And I want you to do something for me,” I said, looking grave and serious. “This is important. No games.”

“Yes?” he asked warily.

“I want you to let it happen,” I said. “Just let it. Don’t hold back. Get out of your head. Stop thinking of me or my needs or desires. Stop thinking. Just...accept it. Watch the sunrise for me, and enjoy the sensations. Let me do it, for you.”

I felt that I must sound a little bit crazy. But he just nodded.

“Okay.”

I moved around, folding my skirt over and over so that I could kneel on it. He spread his legs. I bent forward, hands on his thighs and took his cock in my mouth.

It had that special rigidity, that freshness that cocks had in the morning, shortly after waking. Before all the baggage of being a man, all the bullshit of the day started to catch up. Morning just after waking was when cocks were purest.

I kissed the head tenderly, and then just let my lips open, keeping it tight, my lips just wet enough to pass over his head, squeezing it as I went. My jaws parted, just barely enough to let him pass, squeezing again. And I kept my tongue flat, laying in wait until he fell into my trap.

Suddenly, I descended inches in a quick smooth movement, my tongue sprang, lashing out, curling and lapping against the back of his crown as I withdrew. A loud moan from him gratified me, as his body went rigid. If I could have grinned, I would have, I was so pleased. I went to work eagerly wrapping one hand around his scrotum, pulling his balls down, the fingernails of my other hand digging into his thigh.

He lasted only five minutes, and as I swallowed his come, drinking down each rope as it spurted hot and thick in my mouth, I thought to myself, he holds back, he always holds back, but not this time. This time, he just trusted me, and didn’t hold back. It made me deliriously happy.

Once I’d emptied him, I left his cock and crawled up to snuggle against him, making sure to keep a good hand around his deflating erection, just in case it tried something sneaky. He was still gasping, I could feel his muscles twitching uncontrollably under his skin, he was almost shaking.

Kissing his cheek, I snuggled against him. When he looked at me, his eyes were luminous. I smiled. This is what happens when you don’t hold back, I thought, when you just let go.

I looked out at the horizon.

“Oh look,” I said. “We still have plenty of dawn to enjoy together!”

He chuckled, and I giggled, the two of us just enjoying ourselves.

We watched it rise.

“Can I return the favour?” he offered.

I considered it. I was in a really happy accepting place, the sky was glorious. The idea of his face between my legs, his tongue lapping me was crazy tempting.

I shook my head. Don’t sacrifice for me, I thought.

“I want you to enjoy this too,” I said.

“I’ll enjoy it.”

I giggled.

“You know what I mean!” I paused. “I want us to watch this together. We can’t do that if your view is... pinker.”

“Ah,” Sam said, accepting. “It is my favourite view though.”

I snickered.

“Why don’t you do some magic with your fingers, while we watch the sunrise.”

“That works,” he said. “You’ll have to let go of my cock.”

“Oh pooh!” I complained and stuck my tongue out, but I let it go. Then we shifted around until I could throw one leg over his and get up where we could hold each other, but he could easily reach me. His fingers danced along my vulva, expertly finding and avoiding my clit, tapping and teasing, then dancing away. My lips seemed to part invitingly, and welcomed, his fingertips intruded, explored, then dived deep, bringing moans and shivers from me.

As he sent waves of pleasure though me, and I let my back arch, I thought about my advice to him, and decided to take it, deliberately letting go, forcing myself to not hold back, to release and surrender to his touch. I moaned, and then I moaned again, until it became impossible to think or concentrate on anything.

It wasn’t just his hand, his fingers. The heat of his body, the warmth of him, the feel of him against me, of my leg across him, the texture of his skin, all of it filled my awareness. The brilliant colours across the sky, the feel of sunlight warming my skin, the coolness and dampness of parts of me not exposed, it all came together in an exquisite sexual bath.

I moaned and the moan became a shout of joy, my body shook, trembled, felt like it was exploding, and then I squirted in breathless relief, like my orgasm was emptying me out. I’d never felt anything quite like it. And through it all, Sam held me loosely, offering no resistance, no constraint or constriction, only safety and protection. The orgasm coursed through me, and didn’t stop, I squirted again and again.

Finally, it passed, leaving me dizzy and elated.

“Wow,” I mumbled. Sam kissed me then, his timing perfect as always.

This is what it was, I thought, we didn’t think we had barriers. But we had them.

And with Leroy, because of Leroy, those barriers were breaking down harder and faster. It was exhilarating, and sometimes scary. But it was a good thing. Maybe it was harder for men, those barriers, those walls formed by a lifetime of masculine indoctrination. Maybe we had to work to break through them. Maybe Leroy was right.

“You know,” I said out of nowhere, staring at the sunrise, “I’m really looking forward to the cuck session.”

Sam looked at me, startled. Then he turned back to watch the sunrise. I watched him from the corner of his eye, I could almost see the wheels turning in his head. We were so close, sometimes it felt like we thought the same thoughts.

This felt almost like one of those times.

“It’s funny,” he said, “It was intense. I sort of am too. Maybe. I’m not sure I should. I’m a little nervous, but...it’s an experience.”

He sucked air between his teeth.

I kissed him on the cheek.

“Be afraid, be very afraid,” I teased him.

He laughed.

“Bring it on.”

Amber Intrigued - part two of two

“About the noise,” Amber persisted. “I came so hard, I almost had a stroke keeping it quiet.”

This pleased him.

“Worth it?” David demanded.

Amber shivered.

“Oh yes,” she replied. She didn’t need to say more than that.

David reached between her legs, pulling up the dress, to slide his palm against her pussy.

“Jesus,” he said. “I thought you were wet before. It’s sliding down your thighs, even your stockings are soaked. You’re going to leave a puddle.”

“OH JESUS is right,” she replied loudly, ignoring his off-putting vulgarity. Now that she knew she could be heard in the next room, it was weirdly exciting. Even if the men’s room was empty, as it was, it was kind of wild to know her moans could be heard there. A fleeting thought - even if nobody actually hears, if they could, is it still sexy?

She sighed. The answer was a definite yes.

She let David kiss her again, while his fingertips teased her clit. “Fuck but you’ve got good hands.”

“Oh,” he whispered, his body pressing against back against the work bench, his free hand clutched her breast, and she had to hold onto him, as he licked her collarbones, “you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Amber reached down for his cock, gripping it through his trousers. The erection was pleasingly rigid, running the length of her hand. It felt like it curved. It felt almost unfair she should be all but naked, while he hadn’t even got it out.

“You like that?” he demanded, even as his hands and mouth moved over her body. His head ducked to her nibble, and he bit down lightly, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp. “We’re only getting started.”

He licked the wounded nipple and then straightened up, taking her hand and pushing it back against his crotch.. David was not quite as tall as she was in her heels, she noted without caring. His free hand lay on her hip, pushing. He moved it up past the hanging fabric of her dress, running over an exposed breast, to rest on her shoulder. He applied a gentle downward pressure.

“Time to show me what a good little girl you are.” David’s smile was gleeful and hungry. The pressure on her shoulder increased, and he guided her hand back and forth across his erection under his trousers.

Gratefully, Amber sank slowly to her knees, noting that he was careful to hold her on the way down. It was a tiny gesture but it endeared him. Her knees sank into the cushioned rubber mats that covered the floor around the work bench.

Amber’s hand remained on his crotch, she could feel his cock pulse as she looked up at his gloating features. She could tell he was floating in some sort of domination-space. She didn’t mind, it pulled at something submissive in her. More importantly, kneeling allowed her to relax. After that orgasm, her body felt like rubber, all the joints loose, her nerve endings overstimulated. Standing was way too much effort, better to just swan down and feel like a puddle.

She smiled up at him, stroking him.

“This is what you want?” she asked. “For me to be a good little girl.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And take that big hard cock out?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And then what?” she asked. “Do you want me to kiss it and make it better, or at least harder. Do you want me to lick it up and down, and take it in my mouth, and swallow it. Is that what you want? Me naked in front of you, sweaty and dripping and wet, worshiping your cock.”

Amber didn’t wait for an answer, she found his zipper and pulled it down, cursing that she hadn’t done it more slowly. She should have taken her time, made it slow and sensual. She pulled open the fold in his pants, and reached inside, finding his cock hard, the top wet, inside his jockey shorts.

Of course, jockey shorts. She’d have to start over. She reached for his belt. Amber loved oral sex, receiving it. Giving it was a matter of mood, sometimes affection, sometimes excitement, sometimes playfulness.

Sometimes it was frustrating. For a gender that worshiped getting blow jobs, and prized itself on being ready to go at the drop of a hat, men were maddening with the way they sheltered their junk. Instead of something sensible like a kilt or a skirt, there were entire layers of obstruction, belts and buckles, and then fasteners, buttons, even more buttons, sometimes suspenders, and trousers so heavy and stiff they sometimes felt like tree bark. Then once you fought your way past all of that, there’d be the final barriers, boxer shorts with their own frigging buttons, or jockey shorts, with a sick joke of a panel, practically painted on, except for all the elastics.

It was maddening.

Amber fumbled with the belt until finally he finally undid it for her. Grinning with what she hoped was more lust than embarrassment, she stroked his hardness with her free hand. Her other hand worked the clasp, finally loosening his pants enough for her to pull them down, until gravity caught the assortment of pocket items, and they fell to his ankles.

Holding onto the sensuality of the moment, Amber pressed her face against his underwear, mercifully clean, and nuzzled his crotch through the fabric, looking up to smile and make eye contact as she did. His hands reached down to stroke her hair, gathering it up in his hands.

Amber pulled down the waistband of David’s jockey shorts, finally exposing his cock. Lifting up on her haunches, she held it in place against his body, and gave a long lick of her tongue, starting from the exposed base of the shaft all the way to the head. It was moist on her tongue, lightly salty from sweat. As her tongue pressed against the head, the texture changed, shifting and she tasted the slick sweetness of precum. She pressed her face against it, feeling it throb against her cheek.

It’s natural inclination seemed to be to rear curving towards the sky. Carefully, she bent the cock towards her, pulling the shorts down by their elastic, working them down to his thighs.

Amber paused a moment to stare at it. Clean, so fresh and pink looking it almost seemed like it had just been uncrated, well formed, no blemishes or sores. He was longer than her husband, but not as thick, a bit more curved. He had a loose foreskin that she peeled back easily. She gave the head another examination, before she opened her mouth wide, and popped it in, sealing her lips around the glans. It tasted smooth, a silkiness that was almost polished, with a slick undertaste from his precum. She allowed her gaze to slide up his body slowly, until they made eye contact, then she blinked slowly in simulated ecstasy as she swirled her tongue and sucked so hard her cheeks sank inwards.

David moaned loudly, leaning back against the workbench for support. His hands tightened in her hair, guiding her mouth back and forth

She took her mouth off, leaving the head slick and shining. For an instant strings of saliva connected her lips to his glans. Amber was slightly disappointed that he hadn’t ejaculated instantly. It was a nice cock and exciting to play with but she’d had her orgasm, she didn’t want to spend an hour on her knees.

As David looked down, she smiled up at him, masturbating him hand over hand, squeezing and sliding with smooth, constant rapid motion. She loved the hardness of him, the way his thighs trembled, the fascination with which he stared down at her.

She took him in her mouth again, this time a little deeper, reaching under to cup his testicles. There was something fascinating in a man’s testicles, the way they just hung there, and you could swing them back and forth, or lift or play with them. When his cock was drenched with spit, she switched to rapid hand over hand, until the saliva began to dry, and then took him in her mouth.

“Time for the next step,” he said.

Amber looked up. David was holding a condom in his hand.

“I want you to put it on me,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “So I can bend you over and fuck you.”

He smirked, as she took the condom.

“I love you on your knees,” he said. “But did you think I’d be satisfied with a blow job when I had you work so hard to shave that pussy for me. I’m going to bury my cock deep, and fuck the hell out of you, and you’re going to love it.”

It was like he’d memorized the dialogue from a comic book. But his words, silly and hollow as they were, were effective. Even as she appreciated the ridiculousness of them, kneeling before him, her hand wrapped around his spit slick cock, they made her vagina clench had, sending butterflies up within, and what felt like a flood of wetness trickling down.

“Yes ... sir,” Amber breathed. She wanted to say something sexier, some inane line that would make his cock jump in her hand. “Do whatever you want with me, take me.”

It worked, his erection swelled, almost struggling in her hand. She kissed it, licentiously licking the shaft as he watched. She had to let it go to use both hands to tear open the condom wrapper, and carefully rolled it up his shift.

When she was done, David reached down a hand to help her up gently. It was an oddly sweet courtesy, a little at odds with the role he played. She let the dress slip down her shoulders, the fabric tangling along her waist. Her stay ups had rolled down, one all the way to her calf where it hung loose. Amber felt more naked than ever, but it was a glorious, wanton nudity.

“Just like before,” David whispered, guiding her into position, elbows on the work bench. His hand ran down her bared back. He stepped behind her, taps on her inner thighs parting her legs. David cupped her smooth pussy.

“Wider,” he ordered. She clumped her feet wider apart, her ankles suspended by heels.

“A little more.” She clumped again, splayed wantonly. “Good girl.”

His fingers slid inside her, first two, then three. His hand twisted, making her gasp loudly.

“I can’t believe how wet you are,” he said. “You’re just dripping, you’re flowing. I can feel it. You must really need to get fucked right now, don’t you.”

“Yes,” Amber hissed. “Oh god, yes!”

“Are you sure?” David replied. “Are you sure you want it?”

“Yes.”

“Then say it.”

“I want it,” Amber whispered.

“When?”

“Now.”

“Say it.”

“I want it now.”

“What? Say it. Tell me what you want. Explicit.”

“I want... to get fucked.”

David slapped her ass lightly.

“Not good enough. Try again. Who do you want to fuck you?”

“I want you to fuck me, hard.”

Another slap on her ass, three s fingers plunged deep into her wetness, spreading her wide, stroking her g-spot.

“Oh FUCK!” Amber cried out.

A hand reached out, she could feel his weight leaning into her almost buckling her knees, his hand slid up her back, to the nape of her neck, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back. His erection, sliding against her thigh.

“Not good enough. You just want it? That doesn’t feel committed.”

“I need it,” Amber replied. “I need it so much.”

The fingers left her vagina, she felt hands reaching under her, his weight heavier, his erection dangling under her. He cupped her breasts, one hand wet with her lubrication, pulling on them, seizing the nipples tight and making her moan.

“You can do better.”

“I need you,” she grunted, spitting out the words, “I need you, I need your cock. I need your cock in me. I need you to fuck me so bad.”

Another light slap on her ass. Amber rolled her eyes in frustration. Couldn’t he just go ahead and do it?

“I want you to beg for it,” David announced.

“I’m begging,” Amber groaned, a trace of irritation in the tide of her arousal. “Fuck me with that big hard cock.”

“Say please,” David demanded.

Amber’s eyes widened, that was the safe word. Too obvious in hindsight. She couldn’t say it. Her whole body was hot, she could feel sweat along her black, a tremble in her thighs. She was drowning in lust.

“I need it,” she whispered, “I need it so bad. I’m begging for it, gagging for it, fuck me with that big cock, I need to feel it. Take me, I need it, I’ll do anything for it.”

Suddenly, she felt him, the head of his cock, parting her lips, the tip opening her. Amber grunted, arching her back, feeling him slide further in. Then his hands were on her hips, fingers digging into her flesh and he was driving into her.

“Oh yes!” she cried out. “Oh fuck yes! Fuck me!”

His cock hammered back and forth, moving inside her, as Amber swayed back and forth, her breasts swinging beneath her. David reached for her waist, pulling her onto his cock. She lifted up, arching her back and grinding her ass on his hips. In ecstasy, she reached up, holding her breast, squeezing it.

Together, they settled into a hard rhythm, his cock gloriously thrusting again and again, as her body convulsed and knees shook. Amber ground her hips, rocking into him, as his cock swung wildly inside her, each new motion bringing soft grunts and groans.

“Aha,” she cried out loudly. “Right there! Right there! That’s the spot. Harder. Yes. Yes.”

She could feel it, the orgasm boiling inside her, about to ignite. It was close, so close she could taste it. Closer. Closer. Almost there.

“Hey,” came a voice on the other side of the wall.

“Quiet,” another voice stage whispered. “Some chick is getting fucked in the Women’s toilet.”

“Holy shit!”

Amber’s blood froze, she could feel her whole body going stiff. David halted in mid-thrust, Amber could feel her body rigid, pushing him out of her. Her heart was pounding so hard with shock, she felt like it was smashing against her ribs. They both stood paralyzed, rigid in the act of fucking. Someone had been listening?

How long? How fucking long, she wondered. What had they heard? Everything? She was blushing hot, with this almost irresistible urge to pull her dress back on and into shape, to hide her panties somehow.

They waited.

“Are you sure?” the first voice asked quietly.

“Oh yeah,” the other one stage whispered. “It comes and goes, I guess they’re fooling around a lot. But if you wait, you can hear her getting railed.”

“Fucking? Not playing with herself or something? Can you hear a guy?”

“I’m not sure. What’s it matter, you can hear her getting off.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Like I said,” the other hissed, “it comes and goes. Just wait, okay.”

“I came in here to pee.”

“Well, do it quiet. Don’t fuck this up.”

The voices dropped.

“Wait, can they hear us?”

“I don’t think so,” the second voice said.

Amber let out a long slow breath, she hadn’t realized she’d been holding it in. David’s hands moved from her hips to her waste. His erection dangled, pressing against her labia and clit, she could feel it almost thrum, but not in her.

The two of them moved very slowly, it almost felt like slow motion: David stepping back as he reached down to pull up his pants, Amber twisting around to look at him.

“Is the door locked,” she whispered.

“No,” he said finally.

Amber felt a moment of irony. In the beginning, the thought of the door being locked, of being trapped with David, had left an undercurrent of fear. Now, she’d felt uneasy at the thought of it being unlocked and accessible.

“Lock it,” she ordered.

Wordlessly, David pulled out. She could feel his erection, hard and wet and slick sliding back easily, falling out of her, and she felt a pang of regret at her sudden emptiness. Amber turned to look over her shoulder as David pulled his pants above his knees, and awkwardly stepped to the door, turning the lock. There was a satisfying click.

He turned back to her, his latex clad erection bobbing shining in the soft light.

“Nice ass,” she whispered, and grinned. She’d barely seen it, it was mostly covered by his shirt tails when he turned around, but she wanted to say something nice and encouraging. David smiled, surprised. It was endearing.

“Now come back and fuck me,” she whispered. She turned her face to the wall, because watching him frog walk wasn’t sexy, and wiggled her ass.

Staring at the wall, she waited, feeling David’s hands slide into place on her hips, his legs brushing against her thighs. Amber felt a weird wild excitement, spreading her elbows apart to lower herself, the newspapers on the bench moving smoothly. She arched her back to present her vulva, felt her lips open as if inviting.

Then he thrust up inside her with one clean smooth motion, no fumbling, no finding her. He just sank in to the hilt filling her as cleanly and simply as taking a inhaling deeply. The transition nearly took her breath away, as he filled her, she could feel his hips grinding against her ass, the texture of his pubic hair between her cheeks, his scrotum tapping lightly as it swung, his legs pressing against her thighs.

“OH,” Amber moaned loudly, far more loudly than she’d intended. “OH YES, that’s good!”

For a moment, she could feel David startled, his hands suddenly tight and loose on her hips in shock and reaction. His cock ceased its movement in her.

“There,” a voice on the other side of the wall whispered. “You hear her?”

“Holy fuck.”

Amber rocked her hips. David was shocked, she knew. She was surprised herself by the impulse. She turned her head so that he could see her nod to go on.

His grip tightened on her hips again. He slid back again, and after a pause, slid forward smoothly. It was an even tempo as he tried to fuck quietly, without the slap of hips on buttocks, just a smooth piston motion back and forth.

Amber’s breathing picked up, she began to pant loudly. There was no sound from the other side of the wall, but she knew they were there now. She moaned loudly, experimentally, thrilled with her boldness. Nothing, but she knew they must have heard.

She flexed her back, as if to encourage David to thrust harder. Could they hear that? If he slapped her ass, would they hear? Frustratingly, he showed no impulse to do so, but his hands gripped her tighter as they slid up and down her hips, and his thrusts steadily became harder and faster.

It wasn’t enough, even fucking harder. He was too fast, too rushed. She slid one arm down underneath her, reaching for her clit, leaving her precariously balancing on her other elbow. She leaned forward, her forehead inches from one of the wall studs. Body shaking with each thrust, she reached forward, fingers sliding along her own stomach, working their way down until finally...

“Oh yes!” she cried, her voice just a little above normal, and stroked her clitoris with two fingers, tapping back and forth. She could almost feel David’s shaft and balls moving down there.

On the other side, there was a creak. Door opening? Closing? Leaving or arriving. She grunted softly, listening hard, but couldn’t make out anything.

Behind her, David whined in his throat, his thrusts coming so fast that they were almost continuous, making a series of rapid slapping noises from his thighs smashing into her ass nonstop.

Abruptly David stopped pulling all the way out of her, gasping. Then he plunged back in.

“Oh yeah,” Amber cried out, exulting in being entered and filled all over again. “Give it to me hard.”

Her words seemed to throw him off his rhythm, his fucking was erratic and unbalanced, his grip on her hips shifting, the thrusts erratic, varying in speed and depth. She could feel him shifting stance, the angle of his entry changing. Had she thrown him off his stride, or was he struggling not to come? It didn’t matter. Amber’s hand worked against her clit, stroking herself, building her arousal, her fingers plunged down, feeling the sides of his shaft as he plunged into her. Amber moaned loudly, a deep guttural sound.

On the other side of the wall, there was something whispered, but she couldn’t make it out. Another moan almost pushed its way out of her, but she swallowed it down, concentrating on touching herself.

They were grinding together now, she could feel the lightning in her hips, a fire ready to burst. But it just wouldn’t. Her fingers brought her close again and again, almost to an edge. But then her balance would be off, or he’d move a certain way, the fingers would slip, the angle of his cock not quite right.

She alternated almost continuous soft moans and gasps, trying to focus.

“Are they still there,” came a voice on the other side.

“Oh Fuck!” Amber cried loudly, as if the only thing worse than being heard was not being heard. She pushed back hard on David’s cock, as he bent over her, clawing at her breasts.

David panted with effort, she could feel his sweat and urgency, the frantic way he touched her. He wouldn’t speak, his breath came in hisses. The voices intimidated him, even as they set her off.

It was all too intense, almost overwhelming, Amber was drowning in her own arousal, adrift, floating or falling, overloading and not able to focus on anything.

“Wait,” Amber whispered incoherently. She tried to straighten, and with an almost poignant sense of loss felt his cock slip from her. She had an impulse to grab it, feel it wet and slick in its latex sheath, imagined it’s hardness as she pulled it back inside her.

Instead, she turned, leaving David to grind against her hip, his erection sliding against her flesh. David’s hands found her breasts, and for a moment, he was almost falling onto her, their lips meeting, before she could turn around fully.

“This way,” she whispered, leaning back onto the workbench, pulling her ass to the edge, pushing newspapers aide and feeling a line of cold metal across her cheeks. Amber leaned back, bracing herself against one of the wall studs. For a moment, her right shoulder touched one of the metal pipes running between the studs.

Amber spread her legs, lifting one knee and reaching down to spread her lips. David nodded, understanding, his erection poking out from the bottom of his shirt. He closed the distance between

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

“Are you clean?” she hissed.

“Yeah.”

Amber grunted, holding his bared shaft in one hand, and pulling the condom all the way off with the other.

“Then I’m sure.”

David moaned deliriously, his hips thrusting involuntarily. His cock slid up against her lips, sliding along them, pressing against her clit hood and throbbing clit. The sensation was delicious, and Amber held his cock, guiding it to press a half dozen times against her clit before she pressed down on it and he thrust up inside her. She kept her fingers loosely around her cock, pressing to her pussy as he pounded up into her, while at the same time working her clit frantically with her other hand.

“Fuck yes!” Amber swore loudly. “That’s it, that’s it!”

Amber lifted her legs, rocking her hips, and David, instinctively, grabbed her knee and ankle, raising them higher, so he could push deeper into her. She could feel the curve of him, lifting up inside her. He was fucking with furious intensity, thrusting frantically, as if sprinting.

“Do it,” she cried out, aware that she was playing to her audience and loving it.

“Do me!” she cried. She was close, she could feel it, the energy, the heat and light boiling in her hips, like a cradle full of lightning, and intense whiteness, at the base of her spine. It was coming, it felt raw and strong, like a freight train unstoppable. She welcomed its relentless inevitability.

David stiffened, his frantic thrusting redoubling. Amber could see it in his face, before she felt it in his body. The tension in his jaws, the rigidity of his features told her that his own orgasm was crawling up him.

“Damn,” she cried, as weird rigidity a kind of spastic energy coursed through his body. She was so close, she needed hers first, she wanted her freight train. “Don’t stop! Don’t!”

Desperately, she wrapped her legs around him, pressing her heels into his ass cheeks. Frantically stroking her clit, she reached up with her other hand, pulling him towards her. Then for a moment, in his wild uncoordinated fucking, it all came together, the angle of his thrust into her was perfect, the fingers on her clit, the weight of him, the way their bodies were grinding together. Then the freight train burst through the gates, the lightning rushing up her spine, every muscle going tight, legs kicking, back arching.

“Yes, yes! That’s it, that’s it,” she cried, loud but with no thought of the listeners, simply responding to the intensity of what was bursting in her.

Amber was vaguely aware of David’s ejaculation, of his going boneless and his weight draping over her, but hardly cared as her own ecstasy receded like a slow tide.

For a few minutes, they clung to each other, sweaty and sticky, panting almost in synch.

On the other side, someone clapped in applause.

“Jesus Christ,” came a whispered rebuke. “What are you? An asshole? Do you want them to hear us.”

“I think they’re done,” someone else hissed.

***

They rested, listening to a whispered conversation about what to do next. Someone wanted to wait, but the consensus...

How many had listened, Amber wondered suddenly. Two? At least. Three? Maybe. Four?

The consensus seemed to be to go back out, or maybe loiter in the hall to see who came out of the woman’s washroom. Amber and David waited as they listened to them file out, marking the swing of hinges. Then they slowly dressed.

For David, that wasn’t much more than pulling up his pants and tucking in his shirt. Amber found herself resenting that slightly, she’d wanted to see more of his body, it was like he’d hid it from her. She hoped that his sweat made his clothes a little uncomfortable.

Her dress was a sweaty mess, rumpled, with a tear in one side. Amber regarded it critically. At least the tear was along the seam and could be repaired. Still, it was a sour note in the post orgasmic glow. Annoyingly, both of her stay ups now kept rolling down, something had happened with the elastic. That was why she hated stay ups. She did what she could to make herself presentable, a bobby bin could manage.

Pulling a mirror from her purse, Amber checked her appearance. Yes, she thought, that’s a ‘hard fucked’ look.

“Was it good?” David asked, while she fished around in her purse.

Amber looked up. Suddenly, David looked oddly vulnerable and insecure.

“Yes,” she said. A thought occurred to her. “Have you done this before?”

“Sure,” he said, with false confidence. “Lots. Online I mean. In real, not so much.”

First time, she thought. But that was okay, it was first time for her too.

“It was more than good,” she said. “Great.”

Now though, after the sex, the glow fading, she wasn’t sure what to say or do.

“We’ll go out like we came in, separately. You go first,” she said. “Just make sure it’s clear for me. I’ll come out in a minute, I just have to fix myself.”

“You sure?”

She smiled and nodded, fishing out her compact and a small hairbrush. “Yeah.”

He stepped up to her, and they kissed. It wasn’t particularly erotic, but she enjoyed the awkward affection of the moment. Then he was out the door.

Amber locked it behind him, and then took a long deep breath.

***

No one was waiting for her outside. Amber walked, loose hipped, down the short hall into the bar. David was gone.

The bar’s patrons looked her over. How much of it was just automatic attention, Amber wondered, and how many had actually heard her, listening from the men’s room. She walked, slightly unsteady out into the bar.

Paul waved as she walked by, his eyes and those of his friends, tracking her. She gave them a half smile and nod of acknowledgment of their lust. She had a momentary flash, not an impulse, not even a fantasy, just a sort of image of her taking him and his friends all into the men’s room with her. The thought gone as quickly as it came.

She walked over to where Steve was sitting. He pulled a chair out for her, and she slipped in, sitting with her back to the wall.

“My fucking stocking is ruined,” she said. In the short walk, it had slipped half way down her thigh. Self consciously, she pulled it back up her thigh.

“Bobby pin?” Steve asked.

“I tried that,” she replied. “It didn’t help that much. No big deal.”

She glanced at the goblet of wine.

“Is that for me?”

“I figured you might need it.”

Amber picked it up and sniffed it, and then swallowed a mouthful.

“God, I love you so fucking much,” she told him, and finished the glass.

“Worth it?” he asked.

Amber thought about it. Not just about the experience, but that he’d listened to it. How could she answer? What should she say.

“I guess,” Amber said carefully. “You heard everything.”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel?” she asked. “Are we okay.”

He nodded.

“You were looking out for me,” she said. “Standing guard. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He looked embarrassed.

“I...” he began, and then stopped. “I’m not sure what to say. What I’m supposed to say. It was... Incredibly hot. I didn’t know what to expect. But I was rock hard, through the whole thing. It was incredibly hot, so vivid. It felt like I was right there. I’m still hard.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. This man: The love of her life.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “For some reason, I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. And also, I have some ideas for blindfolds. “

***

Afterwards, after a spectacular lovemaking session, one with blindfolds, one where she whispered every thing that had happened, filling in all the details he’d listened to, after devouring each other again and again through a succession of orgasms, they laid together in sweat drenched sheets, sated and exhausted.

Steve laid spread eagled on the bed, his body hot. Amber sprawled across him bonelessly, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“He couldn’t tell the difference between four inch and five inch heels,” she said thoughtfully.

“Was that important?” Steve asked.

Amber shrugged. “I don’t know. It could have been. You never know with people. Sometimes something that seems like a complete nothing, and they go nuts over it.”

She thought for a moment. “Good experience.”

“So do you think you want to do it again?” Steve asked.

Amber chewed her lip thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I honestly don’t know. I mean, it was hot, it was amazingly hot. But... been there done that. Part of it, was just that it was an adventure, just a wild leap into unknown territory. Would there be a point to doing it again? The novelty is gone. I think that was an important part of it. Without that, maybe it’s just grubby and dirty.”

She thought a moment.

“Do it again? Probably not,” she said. “Who knows? If I do, we’ll talk about it. He may not want to. Guys like that, there’s a big difference between fantasy and reality, and I think they prefer fantasy.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “If I was David... I’d want more, I’d want everything I could get.”

“You know what’s odd,” she said thoughtfully.

“What?”

“The scene,” she said. “That was insanely hot. It was crazy how hot it was. I was going out of my mind. I was dripping. I was just in this crazed, overheated head space...”

Amber paused.

“But the actual sex? Like the fucking. Not that great. Isn’t that weird?”

Steve’s brow furrowed.

“Why?”

Amber shrugged.

“I’m not sure. His cock didn’t feel as good as yours. Maybe he needed to be a little thicker, or the curve or something. He was too fast, it was like he was running to catch the bus or something. Or the angle. It wasn’t awful, it just... It’s hard to describe.”

“But you did come?”

“Mmm... I helped myself along a little. I don’t think he noticed, or if he did, he didn’t mind. And the scene, the scene itself, that was amazing. His cock was... okay.”

Amber rolled her eyes, and giggled.

“I never thought I’d be critiquing cocks, like a sommelier,” she laughed. “Now this is a sparkling erection from Bordeaux, but we have some lovely lovely California hard-ons, try this mountain pine, with a satin finish, boutique foreskin and delicate aftertaste for the discriminating palate.”

Steve laughed.

“But his was okay?”

“Acceptable.”

“How about mine?”

“Northern hardwood, oak definitely, hot to the touch with a full bodied texture, stiff in the hand, sweet on the tongue, perfect for every occasion.”

“You should do reviews,” he said.

“I could make a career of it,” she replied. “I could get my own column in a newspaper. Men would line up for me to review them. I could hand out gold stars, like Michelin.”

Steve snorted.

“I think men would line up for you on general principles.”

“Vivid image,” she said. In her mind’s eye, a line up of naked men, all shapes and sizes, erections rampant, waiting their turn with her, stepping up one after the other. She shivered.

“I don’t know though,” he said.

“What?”

“You went bareback,” he said. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Oh Steve,” she laughed. “You should have seen it. It was so pristine, it looked like he’d just taken it out of the packaging.”

“That’s not really a guarantee against sexually transmitted diseases,” Steve replied.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have done it. But honestly, I’m sure he was clean. I’ll check though.”

“It’s interesting,” she said. “When it was happening, I didn’t really think about it. I was just experiencing it. But looking back, it was really... curated? Is that the word. It was all carefully set up and worked out. A utility room, you’d think it would be really bright light, he must have changed the bulb for forty watts or less, to soften it. Dirty? He must have put newspapers down on the bench. Concrete floor? Foam rubber matts.”

“Well, he had to have done some prep,” Steve pointed out. “You didn’t just walk into a random utility room after all. He had to have picked it out in advance. The door was unlocked - you don’t leave utility rooms unlocked.”

“He must have planned it all out,” she continued thoughtfully. “All that detail. Like how he wanted me dressed, that was obvious. But like, the matts, he planned to have me on my knees. I didn’t even get my stockings dirty.”

“He really wanted that blow job,” Steve joked.

“Maybe. But he didn’t push it in. I think he wanted to make sure to give me the chance to inspect. He gave me the condom, so that I’d be reassured he was wearing one. I think he left the door unlocked, because he wanted me to have the option to walk out, or to feel I had that option.”

“Through the whole thing,” Amber reflected, “it was a scene, he was in charge. But he kept making these spaces where I had some control, where I could make choices. Even that ‘beg for it’ stuff, it was about choice, about my saying ‘yes.’ Asking consent, while playing the role.”

She stared up at the ceiling.

“I suppose,” she said thoughtfully. “I guess, in the moment... if it’s done well, you don’t think about how carefully it’s all arranged. It’s like a magician, all the preparation and set up behind the scenes, for the great big flourish on stage, and you’re going... ‘Wow!’”

“Was it done well?”

Amber laughed.

“Oh my god. Yes! It was a rollercoaster!”

“A wild ride.”

“Exactly like a rollercoaster. You know, when he came into the room, that moment, I was so scared I was almost peeing myself. But I felt safe too. It was just like a rollercoaster.”

“You know, like if you’re driving, and you get into an accident, your car jumps, it goes rolling, with you inside. That’s sort of like a rollercoaster, physically, you’re just feeling everything going every which way? But it’s terrifying, because it’s out of control, bad things, really bad things can happen. You can get really hurt, you can die.”

“Yes.”

“But with a rollercoaster, same sensations, like I said. But it’s all on track, you know you’re safe and you’ll come out the end of the ride all right. Same sensations, but it’s wild.”

“Even the men listening?” Steve asked. “You know, I’m kicking myself that it didn’t occur to me to go there.”

“So you could jerk off with your new friends?” she teased, and punched his arm. “You got the best show, you were listening to the whole thing in your earbuds.”

Amber stopped.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t think he planned on that. That took him by surprise, I’m sure of it. He didn’t know what to do. I remember, there was a point, he just lost his momentum.”

“So much for the rollercoaster.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t necessarily think that’s bad. I liked it actually, just this spontaneous thing, and I was safe enough to go with it. I liked that it went a little off the rails, that was exciting.”

“As long as it didn’t go completely off the rails?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“I had no idea you were such an exhibitionist,” he told her.

Amber giggled.

“I’m not, really. Well, I guess I am, sort of. In a very narrow way.”

“It was hot that they could hear some of it, but they couldn’t see. If they could have seen, like if there’d been a peephole where they could spy on me, and they watched me having sex? I think that would have been awful. Creepy.”

“As it was, they couldn’t see me. They could hear a little, and imagine. And I knew they were there, but that was all they could have. Just to hear and wonder. That was hot.”

“It was just like out in the bar, being in a dress so short people could see the tops of my stockings sometimes when I moved. That was hot. I wouldn’t have wanted to be naked, or even dressed nasty, like some hooker. But as it was, it was just enough. That made it hot.”

“Hmm, sweet spot,” Steve reflected. “So a little is a lot, but a lot is too much?”

“Yes,” she said. “Sort of. I think it was about the tease, you know? The idea of the tease, just having all that attention, knowing its for me, and kind of measuring it out to them. That was hot. Flaunting it? I don’t think so.”

“There’s power sometimes in flaunting. In just going all out,” he observed.

She thought about it.

“I don’t know. That’s not really me,” Amber said finally.

“I think you’re right,” Steve offered. “I remember being in this strip club-”

“You were in a strip club?” Amber pulled a stern face. “I’m shocked! It’s like I don’t even know you.”

For a moment, Steve looked surprised. Then they collapsed into giggles.

“Okay,” Amber said, “the strip club. Where was this?”

“Chicago, business trip a few years ago. A bunch of us ended up there, late lunch kind of thing. Anyway, this strip club, there was a dancer, and she was doing her thing, her strip.”

He paused.

“Practically no one was watching. Not the group I was with, they were all just talking business. The place was mostly empty. There were men off having drinks, or hanging out. It was as if no one was paying attention. There she was, up on stage, dancing and no one cared. I thought it was kind of... I don’t know. Rude? Sad? Tragic?”

Amber gave a small laugh.

“You are so sweet. You realize, she probably didn’t care. This was just nine to five for her? Clock in, clock out. It was like factory work, making widgets something. She probably appreciated the lack of drunken dickheads acting up. I think if I was doing that job, I’d appreciate an asshole-free room.”

“I suppose. There’s just something sad about the idea of performing for an audience that doesn’t seem to care,” he replied.

“I get that,” she said. “But she’s a professional, she was getting paid, it was just a job. For me, I loved the tease. I loved making them pay attention to me.”

“Mm hmm,” he agreed.

“But no stripping,” she said. Amber reached down and ran her hand over his scrotum, tracing the outline of testicles against her fingertips, and then wrapped her fingers around his semi-rigid cock. “Got to save something for the home team.”

“That’s teasing?” he asked.

Amber laid her head on his chest, looking down at his firming erection, squeezing it in her hand.

“Do you feel teased?” she replied.

“I feel something.”

“I can work with that.”

***

Amber’s hand was trembled just a little as she dialed the number. There was no avoiding David, he was online, frequenting the same chats. He was on there now. So she decided it was time to bite the bullet.

He picked up on first ring. Eager, she thought. Too eager.

“Hey,” Amber said casually.

“So you enjoyed yourself?” David asked. He tried to project confidence, but she could smell the nervousness.

“I did,” she agreed, her voice was smooth and confident, lush with sexuality.

“So...” he hesitated. “Want to do it again?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Not the same scene of course. We’ve done that. I have a lot of ideas. Really hot ideas.”

“I bet you do. I’ll let you know.” She was careful to give no sign of commitment, her voice was as reserved and neutral as an automated message.

There was a long pause. She could tell David didn’t know what to say next. He desperately wanted to persuade her, but had no idea how. Was there resentment? He couldn’t let that out, not as long as there was a chance she might say yes later on.

“Can I ask a question,” he said finally.

“Sure,” she said carefully.

“Remember when I wanted you to beg for my cock?”

“And I begged.”

“You wouldn’t say ‘Please.’ Not even when I told you to. I wondered about that.”

Amber waited.

“That was a safe word, wasn’t it? Someone was listening for it.”

“Clever boy,” Amber breathed. She was genuinely impressed. “Yes.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes.” Again, impressed.

“He was there. He was listening in the men’s room.”

Amber smiled, so close and yet so far. But it did no harm to salve his ego.

“Yes.”

“I knew it. And when you had me lock the door, that was when you decided you needed my cock, and you didn’t want him coming in at all.”

Amber smiled at the fragile ego, his obvious insecurity, struggling for validation. It was so obvious what he was asking for. It would be so easy to shoot him down. But where was the harm in his little fantasy of masculine dominance? She might never see him again.

“You chose me,” he finished. “Over him.”

“In that room,” Amber said, “in the heat of that moment... yes.”

“So he knows,” there was an oily satisfaction in David’s voice that annoyed her a little. “He knows I fucked you. He listened to me fuck you. And he knows you chose me.”

What was between her and Steve felt well beyond him or anything she’d discuss with him. It seemed better, simpler to feed his fantasy, let him see it the way he wanted. Still, she didn’t really want him to continue his masturbatory self-aggrandizement. She decided to nudge him a little, not shut him down, but just shift him on his track.

“He was the one that shaved me,” Amber said. “For you.”

There was a long pause, and then a low laugh.

“I get it,” David said over the phone. Amber was certain that he didn’t, that what he thought was wrong, it didn’t describe what was going on. This was David’s fantasy-scape, not hers or Steve’s.

“I understand,” he repeated.

“Do you?” she asked.

“You’re going to say yes,” he told her, she could feel his rising confidence, as he rushed on, the words tumbling over each other, building intensity like an avalanche. “You chose me, and you’ll choose me again. Both of you know it. You and your cuck. Maybe not now, but sooner or later. You’ve had the taste. You need me, you need me to take you. And he needs you to be taken, to do what he can’t. So you’re going to say yes. Not right now, but sooner or later. You won’t be able to help yourself. Neither of you.”

Amber’s mouth had gone dry, her pulse speeding, an unsteadiness in the pit of her stomach. She was certain that he was rock hard right now, and equally certain that if she asked, he would tell her. His insecurity and need for validation had been fed, and it had smoothly built into naked confidence and unalloyed lust.

She swallowed, suddenly unsure of herself.

“Maybe,” she said, her voice betrayed the slightest tremor.

He chuckled.

“That’s going to be his job now. To shave your pussy, so it’s smooth every time I fuck it. That’s his role, to prepare your body so you can give it to me. Every time I have you, I’ll know he shaved it for me.”

He was wrong, it wasn’t like that at all. But strangely right in a way as well, it was just different from how he thought. Still, there was an intensity to it. It was dark words literally from a different reality, a darker sensuous reality, a realm of perversion and desire. Even unreal, it’s effect was intense.

“All right,” Amber whispered. Then she winced, realizing the words implied commitment, more than that, they implied concession, surrender. It was like falling, not wanting it, not choosing it, but somehow welcoming it.

“Good girl,” he sounded so satisfied. “I have such plans for you, the things I will do... When you’re ready.”

The call ended.

Amber put down the phone, her hand trembling. Her heart was pounding. That had gone off the rails.

She was wet.

Drenched.

***

The surprise, if it even was a surprise, was that it did not change her relationship with Steve in any way. He remained exactly who he was. And she remained exactly who she was. And everything between them, the comfort and trust, the shared moments, the affection and jokes, the chemistry and the way they sparked off each other, that was exactly the same.

The encounter had meant no more to their relationship than if she’d simply played a game of squash with a co-worker. Something had taken place within narrowly confined rules, she’s enjoyed herself, he accepted it, and they’d simply continued as they were.

It had happened though, and things were different. Their sex was often hotter, the experience had blown a wind through their lives, sweeping away dust, changing things.

They talked about it now and then. Amber told him about her conversation with David. They laughed at his misread of their relationship, and at the fragility of his ego, the insecurity beneath his dominance. They had truth - Amber acknowledged curiosity, Steve was secure and unthreatened.

And if sometimes, they played with ideas in bed... well, they did a lot of things in bed. They were lusty and imaginative, and more so now than ever.

The tension and temptation of the open door though, that was in the back of her mind. She did not hide it. Not especially.

David, to his credit, never phoned. She wondered if he would, how she would feel, what she would say. Amber supposed it all depended on the moment, it could be anything from irritation, to disinterest to... capitulation.

She wasn’t sure which she would prefer, that too depended on the moment when she paused to wonder.

She saw David online from time to time, and there he did engage. There were offers and temptations, even hints at scenes to come, subtle demands, some of which she complied with.

Once, in a particular mood, he persuaded her to take off her panties while sitting at the computer and masturbate to orgasm. The experience left her satisfied, bemused and guilt free. But there was no hunger to repeat it, and he was unable to persuade her again.

So that was where it was left - the offer hanging in the air, or in the back of her mind. Perversions, infidelities, transgressions.

Sometimes she was tempted, sometimes repulsed, but found herself thinking of it often. More often, perhaps than she told Steve. But he never demanded every passing thought.

It never quite went away though. It returned again and again.

Finally, a few weeks later, the temptation that rose and fell, rose again. This time, she acted.

She called the number, her hand shaking. It picked up on the forth ring.

“It’s me,” Amber said unnecessarily. He would have call display.

“I know.”

She swallowed.

“Yes.”

SLIPPING INTO DEPRAVITY - Ch. 27 - Romance, Secrets and Semen

ROMANTIC INTERLUDE, PART THREE OF FOUR

KA

Amber Unveiled - a little background

I thought I'd talk a little bit about Amber, and what I want to do with her.

I don't want to do another Kayley and Sam. I think if I do a long story, or any kind of multi-part story, I want to do something different each time.

I like stories about women discovering themselves. That's Blue Movie and Cuffed for sure. In some ways, it's Catfish, although in that one, Kate traps herself in a doomed relationship and a doomed alter ego. Even one offs have that going - Lizabet is the story of a young African woman desperate to escape repression and claim her sexuality. Even Eve's Cage is a story of love and discovery.

Kayley and Sam, so far is my odyssey. It's love struggling with corruption. And as has been pointed out, they're changing.

So what do I want to do with Amber. Something lighter.

So here goes: Amber's husband is Steve, they have a healthy marriage, they love each other. He's not a cuck. He's just allowing Amber to explore and have adventures. If you love something set it free, and if it loves you, it will return. That's Steve. He trusts her to return.

David - he has imagination, a meticulous kinky quality, and a nice but not perfect dick. He's a little controlling, a little insecure, he's not as good at sex as he wants to be, he's not as smart as he thinks he is. He'd like to think he's the bull in a Cuckold threesome - he's not. Steve isn't threatened, and Amber will kick his ass if he gets out of line. But what he is, is he's creative and detail oriented, and he played online with Amber, spinning wonderfully elaborate scenarios.

Well, they're experimenting with live action role play. Kinky live action role play. Like Kayley and Sam, they're doing role play. This time, it's real role play, as compared to Leroy's using it as a trojan horse to deconstruct the couple.

David is a little bit (a lot) of a nerd, and he's in charge of setting up these elaborate scenes and scenarios and making them work. Which also means making them feel real enough that Amber loses herself in them. But also carefully managing them so that she's never jarred out of them, that her suspension of belief doesn't snap because something hurts too much, or is too dirty in the wrong way, and so on. He's good at that.

Amber loves it. David loves it, because he gets to tap a stunningly beautiful, stunningly hot chick. Otherwise, he probably doesn't get laid a lot.

They do a scene, they fuck, David gets laid, Amber has an adventure. Then she goes home to Steve, tells him all about it, and they have their own.

David just has to keep coming up with role play scenarios to keep Amber's motor running. As much as they play Dom/sub, it's all about entertaining Amber. The minute she's bored, David fears, it's over. Amber plays sub, but she's not, not even a little bit. No pulling rank here.

This is the thing for David. He's getting laid with this incredible hottie. But only as long as he keeps coming up with scenarios to get her going. No pressure!

And of course, these experiences open Amber to getting laid - to a Chinese convenience store owner, to a Bar owner, probably others. And maybe through David, multi partners.

There's no darkness, no corruption. David isn't Leroy, or Lester, or Jake etc. This is just going to be fun.

And wicked kinky sex. Suggestions welcome.

Right now, there are two Amber stories, published in Perversions and Infidelities Trois, that I'll run here. Approx 10k words, each posting, so four chapters. One's already down.

While I want it to be superficial, I might deepen the characters. Explore David's insecurity and neediness, his loneliness, Amber's compassion and adventurousness, Steve's confidence and acceptance.

I think it will be open ended, it's just a matter of David coming up with things to do to Amber that will spark her. Hopefully, it will never involve her in the woods dressed in robes and pointy ears, and David dressing up as an Orc.

Mainly, this is about characters that trust each other, are sometimes annoyed or pulled into emotions regarding each other, that have kinky fun.

I'll save the angst for Kayley and Sam. It's going to get really dark for them soon.

Amber Intrigued, part one of two

Amber sat on a stool at one of the high table i

TRAMPIRE!

So the idea here is a sex story / adventure story about a succubus which we will call a "Trampire" or Sex Vampire.

In terms of the story the succubus is kind of a low level vampire , devouring spiritual energy through sex and having similar qualities and weaknesses to a vampire just not as strong or dangerous. For instance she can’t shake shift into a bat but she can change shape (boobs, hair colour, etc.) genders or even races. She is strong and fast , more than human less than a full vampire or werewolf , sunlight won’t kill her but it will hurt a lot .

Anyway, Kevin Keith, paranormal researcher/monster hunter comes across the Trampire and captures her because she’s an extremely rare supernatural creature. Succubi have been all but extinct for generations, there aren’t a lot of her kind left, if any. So he wants to study her and question her before putting her down.

When he interrogates her he finds that she’s been living kind of half life existence of just drifting and feeding, with barely any awareness of the world passing by, or any awareness at all. She thinks that FDR is still the president, because he was when she was turned. A lot of the 20th and 21st centuries just kind of went by her, half aware and not really understood, like a garbled story on the radio on low volume in the next room. She’s even forgotten her own name, it’s been so long since she needed it. Her whole existence has been endlessly cruising for men to seduce and suck their souls and bodies, taking pieces of their lives and moving on.

And as it turns out she doesn’t even really understand what she is or what she can do. So the Keith, in trying to talk to her, actually sort of wakes her up. With her new self-awareness She manages to escape.

But now the genie is out of the bottle and she is looking around add a world that she can barely understand, and is beginning to explore powers she never realized she had, and is discovering a supernatural world of ghosts and vampires were wolves and demons that are actively dangerous to her and others.

With no place else to turn she begins to stalk the researcher, Keith, who woke her up from her half life, Not because she wants to hurt or kill him, although that’s what he believes. But because he is literally the only person in the world that she thinks she can talk to. She begins to have a crush on him despite his commitment to destroying supernatural menaces like her.

Meanwhile both their lives begin to get complicated. On her side the fact that she’s become aware a dangerous supernatural creatures started to pay attention to them results in them becoming aware of her. Some are relatively friendly, some are actively predatory, but there’s nothing precisely like her, which allows her to escape.

On his side he is already contending with dangerous menaces and evil cults. A lot of his colleagues are dripping like flies, he’s forced on the run only her interventions keep him alive.

The two an alliance and even a romance.

Along the way There is a werewolf sex, vampire sex, zombie sex, regular sex in as many combinations as you can imagine , Monster sex as weird as I can imagine and a careful journey of friendship , love and self discovery as the trampier makes your way back to humanity.

Keith and the Trampire go on a journey together, with her fucking everything in sight, him planning to kill her and continually forced to postpone it in the face of more dangerous threats, and her slowly falling in love with him.

Basically it’s a sexual kinkfest with romance, horror and thriller elements. This would be really different than anything I’ve tried to do before, basically a real story with sex, rather than sex with story elements. I’m not sure I could manage, but...

What do you think?

SLIPPING INTO DEPRAVITY - Ch. 26, Romance, Lies and Semen

ROMANTIC INTERLUDE, PART TWO OF FOUR

KAYL

BLUE MOVIE, part four

“I’m glad you’re here,” Roscemi said, wringing his hands together. “I mean, I knew you’d show. I’d seen what you do back there in the theatre. I thought to myself, that’s the girl for us. But you know, you can’t stop worrying. There’s a lot riding, we got people here. So you know, I’m glad you showed.”

She’d met Christian at a diner just up the street, wearing an overcoat and yet feeling very exposed. They’d walked up to the club together.

At first, she’d thought there was a mistake. The exterior lights were off. A sign on the door read ‘Closed for Water Main Break.’ But a gentleman had escorted them to the side door.

Inside it was business as usual, people went back and forth. They stood in the lounge while Roscemi scurried out to meet them dressed in a tuxedo. The place was cleaner than she expected. Nicer than she expected, with an old fashioned opulence. She understood now what Chris had meant when he said ‘Vegas Chic.’ It was all red leather and velvet and shiny black enamel, the sort of place you might imagine Dean Martin or Sammy Davis Junior passing through.

It reminded her a little of her movie theatre. Less seedy and run down, better repair, better kept, but the two places shared something of an aesthetic, perhaps even the same designer. She found herself smiling slightly.

“We’re going to have a full house tonight,” Roscemi muttered. Over his shoulder in the main lounge, she could see the tables were already filling up, white tablecloths everywhere contrasting with the muted red decor. She could see little beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. He was nervous.

Faith marveled that she wasn’t nervous. She felt she should be, but she wasn’t. Rather, she felt expectant.

“This is Chris,” she said. “Christian.”

Roscemi shook his hand, Faith watched to see if he picked up on the resemblance, but he didn’t. Was it just her?

“Your boyfriend?” Roscemi asked.

“He’s just my friend,” she clarified.

Roscemi nodded. “I get that. You want me to put him close to the stage, where you can see? We’re full but...”

The idea made her a little uncomfortable. It was odd, she was going to be watched by strangers, but the idea that she’d be watched by someone who knew her, someone that she could see watching, felt weird.

“It’s not necessary,” she said. “He can sit further back.”

The club owner shrugged indifferently.

“I’ll take you around the room, show you the stage, then we can put you in the green room until showtime. Tom’s already there.”

He lead them past tables, pausing occasionally to chat with some of the guests. Once or twice he introduced them, and she smiled and said something polite, not wanting to focus on them.

The lounge was series of levels descending to the main floor, where a small stage was erected. On it, luminous in stage lights, was a mattress, and just behind the mattress a love seat, both covered with cream coloured sheets.

“White sheets are too blinding,” Roscemi said. “But I guarantee you, everything is fresh and laundered. Clean and classy.”

For the first time, staring at the stage, Faith felt butterflies in her stomach, a nervous trepidation. It came home to her that she was going to be up there, naked, on her back, a complete stranger thrusting into her. The lights would be in her eyes, she wouldn’t see them, but she’d know they were there.

What the hell was she doing? It felt like her previous nonchalance, her calm acceptance was some sort of dreamlike state, that she hadn’t really grasped that this was real.

Faith found herself blushing, her face and skin running hot. For a moment, she wanted to simply turn around and walk out.

Instead, they went to the green room where Chuck awaited them. He was taller than she expected, but slender. His hair was somewhere in that indeterminate space between brown and blonde, fine as corn silk. He sported a mustache, the hairs too fine for any sense of presence.

He looked, ordinary, just another face you’d see on the street, dripping with average, not good, not bad, not even bland. A person you’d pass by with no particular impression, forgetting the minute you saw them.

Maybe he had a big cock? Should she ask? Would that be rude? Could she see it?

They shook hands, and she was conscious of the awkwardness of the gesture, vividly aware of what they’d be doing later.

Roscemi pulled a vial from his suit. “You’ll be up in forty,” he announced. “I gotta get back, things don’t run themselves. Before I go, you want some blow? Good stuff.”

Surprised, but not really surprised, Faith shook her head. Perhaps because of her refusal, Chris and Chuck declined.

“Awkward to snort alone,” Roscemi said, but he did it anyway, as they watched. It was the first time Faith had seen anyone do cocaine. She’d seen it on television and movies, but this was the first live demonstration. She felt that perhaps she’d lived a sheltered life.

“Oh,” he said finishing up, “you probably want a stage name. Unless you go up on your real name, but that’s not a good idea. Everyone has a stage name.”

“Hope,” she said. It just popped into her mind. She thought for another second. “Hope Springs.”

Roscemi grinned.

“Hope Springs... eternal? I like that.”

“And he’s Slater.”

No one got it.

&&&

The stage lights shone in Faith’s eyes. Sitting next to her co-star, Chuck, on the couch on the stage she was acutely aware of the lights, she could barely see the audience, they were little more than shadows and shapes, a soft murmur of whispered voices.

The lights were too bright. They weren’t uncomfortable, it wasn’t that they hurt her eyes. They exposed her, this wasn’t like the theatre where she could be a goddess in shadow. She was on display all her ordinariness and drabness illuminated for everyone to see. She could feel Chuck sitting beside her, see him from the corner of her eye.

The music started, and as they had worked it out, they were supposed to start making out. Then would come undressing, then oral sex, naked fondling and finally coitus. It had been pretty simple in the dressing room.

Chuck leaned in to kiss her. Involuntarily, she turned her face away, rejecting him. One hand tapped his thigh. That was the signal to wait.

Faith was blushing, she found herself looking up, out, everywhere but at her companion. This had definitely been a mistake.

He tried to kiss her again, and again, she turned her face away nervously, tapping his thigh.

She just didn’t want to kiss him. His face was too bland. His mustache too silky, the hairs too fine, like a caterpillar. She just wasn’t attracted. The thought of his lips against hers, his mouth, it seemed awful. There was an intimacy there that she just didn’t feel.

Her face was hot, she didn’t want to leave the stage, but didn’t want to stay. She didn’t want to sit there and do nothing, that felt excruciating, but she didn’t want to kiss him. If only they could just go straight to the sex, but she felt frozen, unable to see the way. She had to do something.

She thought back to the theatre, where sometimes, she would touch men without ever acknowledging their existence.

Experimentally, she looked away from him, up towards the ceiling of the theatre, affecting to study with great interest as her gaze wandered. She whistled tunelessly.

Then, without any of the rest of her acknowledging it in any way, her right hand crept onto Chuck’s thigh, stroking it.

Chuck put his hand on Faith’s thigh. She froze. With exaggerated motions, she looked directly down at the hand on her thigh glaring at it.

“Let me go with this,” she whispered.

Then her head darted up, staring at him. Outraged, she lifted her free hand to her heart, and then raised it as if to slap him, making an angry “Oh!!!” sound.

Chuck cowered and pointed at her hand. Faith gasped and jerked it away, as if his thigh was suddenly a hot stove top. She waved it, shaking it at the end of her wrist, as if to get cooties off. Then she primly pressed her knees together, folding her arms, and turning her body slightly away from him.

There was a titter through the audience, a chuckle here and there. Something inside Faith leaped up, they were laughing for her, it made her feel this odd lightness, an elation. She wanted to play to it.

She resumed her seat next to Chuck, sitting primly, knees forward. She glared at Chuck, admonishing with a finger. He shrugged. But as their eyes met, his sparkled a little, he nodded ever so slightly. Her lips quirked in a smile as they exchanged unspoken communication. He would follow her lead.

It was all she could do not to grin. But she maintained a stern expression, as once again, her arm, completely unbidden crept its way onto Chuck’s thigh. Chuck didn’t try to touch her or kiss her, he just looked down at her hand, working its way up his thigh, and then her, pointedly ignoring him, and gave an exaggerated shrug.

Her hand found his crotch. It leaped into the air like a trout, and then dived down. Chuck was at best only half hard, and it was in his loose fitting trousers, so there was nothing too exciting to find, but the audience couldn’t see that.

Instead, Faith allowed an expression of absolute astonishment crawl over her features. She looked down at Chuck’s crotch in surprise, her free hand leaped to her mouth, closing over it in horror. Appalled, she pressed her hands to her bosom, pressing her knees together, turning her body away from it... but unable to look away.

Whatever was in Chuck’s pants, her body language said, it was fascinating. Apparently despite herself, Faith clearly couldn’t help her curiosity. She needed to investigate further. First one, then both hands made their way into Chuck’s cock. She began to stare, her expression a mixture of curiosity, disgust and... excitement.

Her face turned a little from the audience, she winked at Chuck. He gave the slightest nod ‘go ahead.’

Faith’s apparent fascination grew, she played with his pants, displaying childlike glee. Almost accidentally, she found his zipper and opened it, giving the audience an exaggerated gasp of surprise. Chuck was becoming genuinely hard. Faith played with the zipper for a moment, zipping it up and zipping it down, grinning broadly, almost laughing with glee.

Then her brow furrowed, as if a new thought had occurred to her. The audience saw a mischievous, even sneaky look come over her features, and she reached inside the unzipped fly.

Again, a titter of mild laughter. Faith ran through a series of expressions, intensity, confusion, curiosity, amazement as she felt around in there. Finally, her hand closed on Chuck’s cock, and she allowed herself to frown, as if trying to figure out what it was she was holding. Puzzled she reached in with both hands, arms moving back and forth, as if trying to work out the shape. She squinted looking thoughtful, tongue clenched between her teeth, clearly fascinated and devoted to unraveling the mystery she’d found. She leaned over Chuck, over his crotch, almost hypnotized, her head beginning to descend.

Chuck tried to kiss her once again. She pushed his face away, unwilling to be distracted.

Although Faith couldn’t see it, Chuck gave the audience a suffering ‘what the hell!’ look, threw up his hands, and laid back, leaving Faith to the object of her admiration.

Faith lowered her face almost to it, hands digging in.

Quickly, she looked directly at the audience, eyes and mouth wide in an exaggerated pantomime of shock. She bent forward and down, digging so that her nose almost touched his cock. Then she looked out at the audience with a huge grin, like a little girl unwrapping a present and discovering a live unicorn under the Christmas tree. She pulled Chuck’s erect cock out of his trousers holding it up straight, obediently, Chuck lifted up his hips, to enhance the expression.

Faith grinned wildly at the audience, pointing at it with over the top gestures.

There was a ripple of applause, with a smattering of cheers and laughs.

Faith turned back to it, dropping her mouth over it, taking the head between her lips.

What now, she asked herself. She wasn’t undressed, he wasn’t undressed. Where were they going to go with this? Sucking his cock with him simply laying there wasn’t very exciting for the audience, she needed to do something else.

Letting it drop from her lips, she crawled up Chuck, until she was facing him. He lifted his head to look at her.

“I want to suck your cock on my knees, with you standing,” she whispered.

He nodded and tried to get up. “Sounds good.”

Faith pushed him back. It wasn’t good enough, they needed more. “Okay, but we’ll keep doing it right. I’m crazy for your cock, but not for you. So when you stand, you don’t want to let me have it. You want me to kiss you. Then you wrap your arms around me, loose, and I duck out, and then I go down.”

His eyes were luminous. “Got it,” he whispered.

Chuck stood up, his erection rampant as his trousers slid down his thighs. On the loveseat, Faith made pawing motions, like a kitten, as he took it out of her reach. He stood proudly, pants half off, butt exposed, arms folded.

Faith climbed off the loveseat headed towards his erection. Chuck turned his back. She pressed up behind him, reaching around. He grabbed her wrists and put her hands on his upper chest. The minute he released, she laddered hand over hand rapidly down towards his cock. But he caught her just before she reached it, and laddered her back up. Faith gave the audience a frustrated expression.

Then she smiled at Chuck coquettishly, even though his back was turned, the audience could still see.

“Kiss me,” she said loudly.

“About time,” Chuck replied loudly. He turned and took her loosely in his arms.

Faith gave him a little peck on the cheek, and then dropped out from inside his arms, falling to her knees, grinning broadly, his erection in her hands.

A round of applause.

Faith’s grin widened, she pointed at it, milking the moment.

“Suck it!” a male voice yelled from the audience.

Faith looked confused. She pointed again at the erection in her hand. This?

“Yes,” voice came again, “suck it!”

Faith looked even more confused. She pointed at herself. Me?

“Yes! You!”

Faith looked disgusted, and shook her head. No!

“Do it!”

Faith got an inspiration, she grinned enthusiastically, pointed at the place in the audience the voice had come from, with the stage lights she couldn’t see anyone clearly, then she pointed at Chuck’s cock.

The audience roared. Faith went red, not with embarrassment, but elation. She was doing it, they were responding to her. Chuck’s body was shaking. She glanced up and could see he was struggling not to laugh. It added to her warmth, they were in it together.

“I’ll suck it!” a female voice called from somewhere else.

Faith looked in that direction, nodding rapidly, pointing at that area and at Chuck’s cock with delighted enthusiasm.

“Maybe later,” the voice called.

Faith nodded and shrugged. She turned to eye Chuck’s cock critically, stroking her chin, tilting her head this way and that as she examined it.

Then she opened her mouth and dived on it, taking half of his length into her mouth, her hand wrapping around the base so it looked like she took it all. She’d never done that in her life and her gag reflex kicked in immediately, but she slid her lips back off almost as rapidly, and gave no sigh. She turned her face to the audience giving them her proudest smile.

A strong round of applause. Faith was elated. She felt excited, full of energy, she wanted to dance. It was this easy, she thought. They loved it, they loved her. All she had to do was practically nothing, and they loved it. They laughed and cheered for her. Why hadn’t she ever done this before? Why had she hesitated and debated. This was great! This was a better feeling than any of her lovers.

She put up a stern expression, holding up her palm. The audience quieted down.

They do whatever I want, she exulted.

She nodded soberly at them, turning to the erection, looking it over thoughtfully, her face a mask of concentration.

Holding Chuck’s erection, she ran her lips and tongue along the shaft, keeping it clearly visible.

Out of nowhere, she remembered the two gay men and watching her first live blow job, and how distressingly dull it had been. She’d watched so much technique up on the big screen, so many ways lips and tongue and mouth could be used, in gargantuan close up. Of course, real blow jobs were meant to be felt and not watched. The stuff in the movies was performance.

She was in front of an audience, and she’d watched all this technique, she could do it all. The idea of it excited her. She was wet, her nipples were hard, but more than that, she was just excited. She glanced at the audience and licked the head like an ice cream cone, pulling back the foreskin and swirling her tongue around it.

Faith used everything she’d ever learned, reproduced everything she’d ever seen, she licked his balls, suddenly looking guiltily at the audience as if caught, popping a testicle out of her mouth and returning to the shaft. She teased and licked, sucked, suckled. Along the way, they got his pants off completely. Once she deep throated him all the way down, holding it there for a count of ten, unsure of how she managed that. When she tried again a moment later, she gagged right away. All the while, she’d constantly look to the audience, putting on different expressions, licking her lips again and again, and mixing it with every technique she could think of.

“You’ve got to stop,” he whispered.

That was the second time, he’d said it just before, but she hadn’t listened.

“What?” she whispered. She moved her head forward, opening her mouth wide so that his cockhead was just between her lips, but not touching. She battered at the urethra with the tip of her tongue.

“I’m going to come,” he whispered urgently.

“Right now?” she whispered back. She turned to the audience and licked her lips broadly. “You can’t, it’s too soon.”

“I know!” he hissed. “But you’re going to make me. We have to stop and do something else, or I’m going to blow.”

Faith knew with absolutely certainty, that she didn’t want to leave the stage. She nodded. Pretending a moment of distraction, she cupped her ear, and then gazed searchingly at the audience, as if someone had said something, the cock temporarily forgotten.

When she turned back, Chuck’s hand was covering his erection. Angrily, she batted it away, from her place on her knees, she looked way up, giving him a fierce look. She shook her finger warningly. Don’t do that again!

Then she jerked her thumb towards her. Mine! She reached for Chuck’s erection, but he stepped back.

Chuck pulled off his shirt. Faith, on her knees, reaching for his erection, glanced up, looked back down, and did a blatant double take. Slowly, she got up off her knees, stepping towards him, obviously fascinated by the exposure of his hairy, manly chest. She approached, hypnotized as Chuck puffed out his chest, obviously preparing to take her in his arms and kiss her passionately.

Faith put his shorts on his head, covering it like hood, and passionately began licking his chest hair and nipples.

Head covered, Chuck’s shoulders slumped in dejection. He pushed Faith away. She stepped forward. He held up his hand.

“Get naked!” he ordered.

Faith made a show of looking confused.

“You’re already naked!”

“What about you?”

She shrugged.

“I’m fine,” and tried to advance.

“Take off your top,” he ordered.

Faith rolled her eyes and pulled a ‘gee mom, do I have to?’ expression. She pulled her blouse off, glancing down at her bra, and did a double take.

What’s this! She looked out at the audience, jaw dropped, eyes wide, and then looked down at her cleavage, as if she’d noticed it for the first time in her life.

Immediately, she began struggling futilely with her bra, pulling and twisting at it, hopping around. She squirmed up towards Chuck, twisting against him.

“It won’t come off, help me get it off! Get it off!” Faith was growing frantic, as if her bra, formerly unnoticed, had become a python choking the life out of her.

Wrapped in Chuck’s arms, she kept twisting around, so that he couldn’t unclasp it easily. Finally, it pulled off, and her breasts were free! Once again, she stepped forward, wide eyed, jaw dropped, utterly fascinated, as if she’d just discovered her breasts.

Tentatively she reached round in broad gestures touched her nipples with the tips of two fingers, and flung her hands away wildly, with an ecstatic surprised inspection. She cupped her breasts, rubbing them sensuously, proudly showing them to the audience.

Chuck approached, reaching for them. Suddenly possessive, she held them away from him, shaking her head. She looked back out at the audience, grinned and pushed them out. Chuck took another step.

Faith giggled and ran off the stage, thrusting her bared breasts, almost as if she was inviting the nearby tables to cop a feel. The audience was roaring with applause and laughter. Faith had half a mind to do it, she wanted to thrust her breasts into the hands of complete strangers, feel their fingers, their palms, enjoy their surprise and pleasure.

But some part of her shied away, she wasn’t sure what the rules were or how strict they were. She didn’t want to get arrested for felony bosom thrusting with intent to nipple. She’d overstepped, she thought, it would be better to get back to the stage.

She scampered up, and halted as she approached Chuck. Clearly uninterested in him, she shifted from foot to foot, swinging her shoulders, and pulling another ‘Gee Mom, do I haaaave to?’ expression, as Chuck reached for one of her breasts.

The minute Chuck’s hand curled around one of her breasts, Faith’s expression shifted. She gasped, offering the audience a wide eyed look of surprise, and then a growing catlike pleasure as his hand moved, she rolled her eyes and smiled like a Cheshire cat, pushing her breast into his hand. Abruptly, she grabbed his other hand, pushing it onto her other breast. She squirmed ecstatically, pushing back into Chuck standing behind her, as he kissed her cheek.

The two of them played like this, rubbing up against each other, Faith squirming with ecstasy, as if she’d never been felt up before, and it was the greatest sensation she’d ever experienced. Their hands were all over each other, and she all but purred.

Chuck unzipped her skirt and slid down her panties as she stepped out of it.

Now as naked as he was, she stepped forward, hands on hips, and thrust her pelvis boldly. An expression of confusion came over her. Faith looked down, and reacted as if startled by an absence. Eyes wide with fake panic, she looked at the audience, and then quickly cast glances at the floor, as if something might have fallen off.

Faith started to scurry about, when Chuck put his hand between her legs. Faith went rigid with astonishment and surprise, a look of orgasmic pleasure stealing all over her, she went physically wobbly, her knees shaking.

Eyes lighting up with the apparent dawn of comprehension, Faith’s mouth opened wide. She looked out at the audience, pointing to Chuck’s erection, then between her legs with her other hand, and smiled slyly.

Faith turned to the audience, wide eyed, and gave an elaborate shrug, spreading her arms, hands open, as if to say innocently: Well how about that! Who knew!

They climbed onto the loveseat together, side by side on it, kissing passionately, their tongues sliding against each other, lips pressing.

God, she hated that mustache! She hated it passionately! It was like kissing a caterpillar. She throttled back the impulse to tell him so right away, it would hurt his feelings. But surely, she couldn’t be the only one.

“That was wild,” he whispered, as the kiss broke. “That was a lot of fun. But it’s my turn, all right. I’m going to fuck your brains out. Understand? I’m in charge!”

She grinned wildly. It was perfect, he was perfect, as long as he wasn’t actually kissing her. He was right out of a porno, back at the theatre. Even his dialogue was perfect. For a second, it all blurred, and she felt like she was back at the theatre, except that it was her up on the big screen, she was the star, and it was wonderful.

“Yes,” she told him loudly, so everyone could hear, “fuck me! Fuck my brains out! You’re in charge! Fuck me with that big hard cock!”

They were on their sides. Conscious of the audience, she lifted her outer leg, pulling it up and bending the knee, grabbing her ankle so that her pussy was fully visible, completely on display. She could feel the motion parting her vaginal lips. She felt a delicious surge of wetness. They could see her, she was completely on display.

Awkwardly, Chuck lifted and twisted, getting into position, thrusting his cock up into her pussy in glorious full view of everyone, it was perfect. As much as Faith loved it for what it showed the audience, neither she nor Chuck could maintain that position for very long, nor could Chuck thrust deep.

They folded up, climbing over each other on the love seat. Chuck got his feet on the floor between the seat and the mattress, and pulled Faith until she was on her back. She looked up at him, realizing the audience couldn’t see her with him in the way. She splayed her legs wide, as if doing the splits, moaning loudly so they could hear her. Chuck grabbed her ankles as he thrust into her.

“This isn’t working,” Faith told Chuck, thinking of the audience. With his hands grabbing her ankles, she couldn’t even wrap her legs around him or do anything. As far as they knew, she was making shadow puppets out of sight.

“Yeah,” he grunted, “it’s too low. I can’t fucking get deep.”

“Sit down,” whispered between loud moans, “I’ll get on top. Then we’ll move to the mattress.”

“Okay,” he said. He shifted, releasing one ankle, pushing her over on her side and plopping himself on the loveseat. Where was the style, she wondered. It was like he was just moving sacks of potatoes.

Still, Faith climbed on top of him and sank down, moaning in genuine ecstasy at how good he felt inside her. Faith was soaking dripping wet, she felt an overwhelming sense of arousal, accompanying and rolled into the general excitement of performing, the thrill of being watched.

He was too far up, she thought. It would be better, so much better, if his butt was closer to the edge of the love seat, the audience would see it better, she could roll through a full arc of motion. She bit back the suggestion, and rode him, thrusting up and down on him, enjoying the clenching of her thighs as she rose and fell, feeling the delirious rush of him lunging up inside her.

As she rode him, he grabbed her breasts, thrusting his face between them, biting and pinching her nipples. She arched backwards, offering her breasts, making sure he didn’t try to kiss her.

It felt good, but sort of wasted. The audience couldn’t see him doing it, couldn’t see his hands, or her breasts. They saw nothing but her twisting back, glistening sweat dripping off, and heaving ass and maybe his cock shaft between her legs

Grabbing his wrists, Faith leaned back on him, arching so far she could toss her head back and see the club upside down, her glistening sweat and saliva slick breasts catching the light, rising into view. Look at me, she thought. Watch me, she thought, her arousal coursing through her with every beat of her heart, as if her blood had been replaced with some fluid of divine ecstasy. She was made for this, she thought.

Chuck heaved, and for a second, her stomach fluttered in vertiginous motion. With the strength of his thighs, he’d lifted up off the love seat, lifting her into the air, her ass cradled in his hips, his cock deep in her, holding each other by their wrists. For a moment, she felt herself suspended in the air, and that sense of being in the theatre, but being up on the screen instead of the audience was overwhelming.

Faith just had time to be sure she’d actually seen this position on screen, had watched someone do it. Then the bottom fell out, she fell, back, Chuck’s cock slipping out of her, and there was an instant of free fall before she hit the mattress and bounced, the surprise making her laugh.

Chuck was on top of her. Mounting between her legs, he kissed her passionately, and then raised his head. “Get ready for round two, baby!” he whispered. “I’m going to fuck you, bowlegged.”

Why was he whispering?

“Yes,” Faith cried out loudly, “fuck me hard with your big cock. Oh god, I need it, I want it. I’m hungry for you.”

Disappointingly, he didn’t reply. Instead, he thrust into her, and she lifted her legs up, spreading to give him access, pulling her knees back, to get him deep and wrapping her legs around him because it looked good. She wiped her upper lip with one hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice, and reached out with both arms, running her hands over his shoulders and chest.

On top, bracing himself above her, thrusting into her with a steady powerful rhythm, she watched the sweat roll off him. The sex was good, it was very good, his cock was hard and thick, with just enough bend in it so that you could feel it move.

Chuck was a potent lover, thrusting relentlessly, his body lean and muscular. He had an awareness of her, of her body’s responses and responsiveness, and adjusted to it, slipping into her own rhythms and driving them to greater and greater intensity. It took her breath away, she’d never had that from her brief history of regular lovers, men who knew their cocks but not her body. It enhanced her pleasure immensely, and they writhed together, their bodies synchronizing in pleasure as she reached her first orgasm.

With her on her back, with him in control, he seemed in his element, prepared to fuck her forever.

But there was something missing. Where was the audience, Faith wondered? He seemed oblivious to them.

To Faith, it felt like she knew exact where the audience was, where they were sitting, how many, who they were. Even if they were in the dark beyond the studio lights, she still held that sense, that sense of being watched, of knowing she was watched, loving being watched. When she fucked, she knew what they were seeing, how they were seeing, she wanted them to see, they were part of her pleasure.

But Chuck didn’t play to them, he seemed blind to them. When he moved, he didn’t feel like he was moving for them, or that he was aware of how they saw or what they watched. When he fucked her, he was in her, aware of her, almost in communion with her body, but unaware of them.

It felt incomplete, Faith was not just aware of the audience, she wanted them, hungered for them. Wanted to be watched, needed their attention, their affirmation for her further pleasure. She wanted the excitement and ecstasy of fucking, but also to be seen, to have their excitement.

On her back, as Chuck pounded her, she had an epiphany. As he slacked off, she rolled over on top of him, riding him once again, this time facing the audience. She rode him like a pony, sliding up and down, consciously fondling her breasts, running her fingers through her hair, vividly aware of the shine of sweat on her skin, the way her body looked and moved in stage lights. Chuck’s cock moved up inside her, she reached down pulling his hands onto her breasts.

Faith looked out into the darkness seeing indistinct shapes at their tables, here and there a lit cigarette. She could see the contours of the club, people standing at the back. At the nearer tables, the suggestions of clothes and colors. No one moved, no one breathed, they were all watching her, hanging on her every gasp and moan, enthralled by the beauty of her fucking. They were hers, to laugh when she wanted, to gasp when she spread, to seduce and hypnotize. She gave them her passion, her arousal, her secrets. They took everything, and gave her fulfillment.

She remembered Plato’s people in the cave, watching life as shadows. Faith felt like she’d emerged into the sun, into life. She wondered how she’d never done this before, her existence felt like shadows, marking time before she finally found... this.

Chuck’s powerful thrusting picked up speed, she could feel the awareness of his orgasm building through their shared communion. His head lifted to her ear.

“Change position,” he grunted, “or I’m going to come.”

Faith nodded, understanding. This was his thing, when he approached orgasm, he’d change position, to interrupt his flow. It was comforting, at least he wasn’t a machine to pound her into oblivion.

She slipped off him, returning to the love seat, kneeling sideways on it with one foot on the floor. He joined her there, focused on her, while she looked out, aware of the audience and how much they loved this position, how much was on display, and that excited her wildly, taking her to her second orgasm.

They changed position, she took him in her mouth, showing off technique, positioning him to best effect. His lack of awareness of being watched allowed her to guide him, to shape him and present him. All he wanted to do was to fuck, which she loved, but her greater awareness made him her puppet.

She straddled him as he briefly licked her pussy, showing the limits of his ability as a lover, but she didn’t mind. She went to hands and knees on the mattress, vividly aware of how her breasts swayed, looking out into the darkness, arching her back to make her ass stand out. When he entered her from behind, she cried out in raw uninhibited pleasure, feeling his hands on her hips, feeling him fill her, looking out into the darkness and loving the fact that they were seeing her like this. She didn’t know which was the greater pleasure, the audience in front, or the man and his cock behind, and she didn’t care, they both worshiped her, there was no difference, no boundary, she felt glorious.

In the end, they were drenched with sweat, buzzing with sex. She could tell Chuck was tiring, that he was passing to that place of orgasm denied too many times. Faith guided him onto his back feet to the audience, straddling him and lowering her pubic mound until it hovered over his face “I’m going to make you come, all right?” she leaned back, to say. He nodded.

She preferred this position, fully on display, the cock rising up beneath her. The soles of his feet presented badly, with barely a thought she guided his knees up until his feet were flat. His thighs framed his erection like pink pillars. Faith loomed above, her breasts swaying magnificently.

He wasn’t touching her pussy, she wasn’t being stimulated in any way, but straddling him like this, Faith’s arousal was undimmed. She was so wet, that she thought she might drip on him, that her lips would open to his touch. Her skin tingled, her heart raced. They were racing towards the finish, and she felt utterly in control and absolutely reckless. She had the feeling of elation she’d experienced when she’d made them laugh, when she’d torn applause from them. This was a performance, and she was bringing them all to the climax.

Faith descended, taking his cock in her mouth as far as she dared, working up saliva. When she lifted from it, threads of spit connected her lips to his erection. She looked out into the audience and then down, deliberately spitting on his erection again and again moving her hand up and down until it glistened and shone.

Staring out into the audience, her grinning, smiling, her expression alive with excitement, she glanced down at the cock, rapidly masturbating it, and then back out again. It was silent out there, she could feel them, everyone on the knife’s edge, heart pounding, hardly daring to breath. All eyes were on her, all attention focused on her, as her fingers played with the wet cock, as Chuck moaned and his hips flexed, as she took it in her mouth.

Faith was the first to feel his orgasm, she felt the sudden rigidity in her hand, a pulse of heat in the body under her. She felt a sympathetic response, her own body heating up, her sense of arousal and excitement. Dropping her head she took him into her mouth, closing tight, scraping lightly with her teeth to take him past the point of no return. In return, he bucked hard, his whole body seeming to levitate as she straddled him, she wobbled off balance. Chuck’s gasps, turned to loud grunts, and then a bear-like roar. Faith braced herself one palm on his knee to steady him, and grabbed his cockhead firmly, stroking furiously.

Chuck ejaculated flinging white spurts into the air. Faith was briefly astonished at how high his ejaculate flew, how much of it there was. Under her fingers, she could feel his penis pulse hot and rigid, the channel at the underside pulsing uncontrollably.

Then it was over, Chuck collapsed under her going limp. His cock still in her hand, continuing to pump semen in slowing pulses, the fluid running all over her fingers.

Theatrically, Faith released his cock, it fell, slowly deflating, and smeared his semen across her breasts. She opened her mouth wide, sticking out her tongue, and licked her fingers, grinning out into the darkness.

Faith had not had an orgasm, although it felt like it had come weirdly close. But now she felt the deep primordial satisfaction that comes with the most powerful ones, except that those left her drained, and this one left her almost sizzling with excitement. She felt alive, electrical, almost vibrating.

“It’s like,” she thought, “I’ve spent my whole life asleep, and I just woke up.”

How could she ever go back to sleep again?

They were still watching, still waiting on her, the mistress of ceremonies, the main attraction, the star. She stood up from Chuck, stepping forward, naked and not caring, loving being naked and sweaty in front of them. Faith, stood proudly, put a hand over her stomach, her other hand out, and bowed deeply.

That was the signal. Suddenly, everyone could breathe again, could move and think again, the spell broke. Someone started clapping wildly, and then everyone was, and there were hoots and cheers. Faith found herself grinning, she couldn’t stop. She waved and bowed again.

Chuck climbed to his feet, visibly drained, she took him by the hand and they bowed together. They were all applauding her and she loved it. Someone came up and handed them robes. She shrugged into hers, flashed the audience one last time, giving a little wiggle dance.

The lights came on, and one of the staff led them from the stage to the back.

Roscemi was ecstatic. Faith smiled, but only half listened.

“That was fucking amazing,” he was saying. “I’ve never seen anything like that. Fucking brilliant. You got to come back again. We’ll make it a thing, a regular thing....”

“I really enjoyed working with you,” Chuck was saying.

“Likewise,” Faith replied. It just didn’t seem like the time to complain about the mustache.

“You threw me,” he said, “that stuff you did early on. But it worked. Where did you learn to suck a cock like that...?”

She said polite things, tuning him out. The massive surge of energy had passed through her, she felt tired. She was glad for the warmth of the soft robe, she almost felt chilled. Where was her Slater?

There he was, hanging back. She reached out to him, nodding, and he came. Faith wanted him close by. There was something reassuring about him, he was a rock, quiet, unassuming and eternal.

“Listen,” Roscemi said, “his cigar smoke was in her face. I know you want to relax. But I’ve got some guests, they really want to meet. It’s not sex or propositioning, they just want to meet you.”

Faith thought about it and shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Some other time, but not tonight. I just want to get away someplace quiet.”

She squeezed the Slater’s wrist to make sure that he understood she didn’t want to get away from him, that she wanted him close by, so they could be quiet together. She didn’t want to fuck him and hoped that wouldn’t disappoint him. Her sexual energy had dropped to zero. Faith just wanted him close by.

“Maybe get something to eat,” she said. “Some quiet little place.”

Roscemi beamed. “We’ll bring a table into the green room, table cloth, candle, the whole nine yards. You and your boyfriend. It’ll be romantic, like Lady and the Tramp. We’ll have the chef do something special.”

Faith laughed gently. Lady and the Tramp? Would they push a meatball around with their noses? She thought about correcting him, the Slater wasn’t her boyfriend. She didn’t even know his last name. It occurred to her that she should ask. She just wanted him close.

“Thank you so much, Gus,” she said. “I’d love it, I really would. But this is just... huge. My first night. I loved it. But now I need to go somewhere and you know... just come down.”

He nodded.

“I get that.” He shrugged. “Another time.”

Impulsively, she kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you for respecting me,” she said, which seemed inane and ridiculous, but in that moment, it was sincere. For a second, he almost seemed to blush like a little boy, smiling.

Someone thrust clothes into her arms. At first she didn’t recognize them, but then it clicked. They were what she’d been wearing on stage. She decided to leave them behind. She’d brought a change in the green room, something casual and comfortable.

“Are you okay,” the Slater asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Some coffee, a hot meal, that’s all I need. Just... you know, some quiet out of the way place, no one around. I think I need some quiet.”

“Like that place we went to?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

&&&

Christian leaned over her, resting his chin on her shoulder for a moment, and nuzzled her neck in that way that never failed to send shivers up and down her spine over the last forty years. Faith laid her hands off the keyboard, and waited while he read the screen in front of him.

“You know,” he told her. “I don’t actually look like Christian Slater. I’ve never seen the resemblance. No one else sees the resemblance. It’s just you.”

He wrapped his arms around her, cupping her breasts through her top, she clasped his hands, pushing them onto her, feeling her nipples harden.

“I see it,” she said. “I’ve always seen it. You know, I don’t think I would have let you touch me, otherwise, that first time. But the resemblance was there, and it made you seem weirdly familiar, and that was... reassuring.”

“I’ve put away the swing,” he said. “And all the awards are covered. We’re safe for the grandkids.”

“I don’t see why we have to cover them,” Faith said. “It’s not like they’re going to be climbing around in the bedroom. They probably won’t even go in there.”

“You know how Claire is,” Christian said. “She’s just protective.”

“We raised a prude.”

“Protective,”

“We were protective too, when she was their age. You remember.”

“I remember we didn’t have to hide the swing.”

“No, we just told her it was for insomnia. She’s never forgiven that once she realized,” but Christian smiled.

“Donny’s not a prude,” Faith said. “He didn’t mind the swing.”

“Just the same, I think he’d prefer his kids don’t play on it,” Christian said. “It’s grandma and grandpa’s special toy.”

“Is everything set up,” she said. “The turkey, the fixings. The cookies.”

He nodded, his chin nuzzling her shoulder.

“There’s always something, but yeah, we’re good.”

Christian took one last look at the words on the screen.

“You know,” he said, “I loved you. I loved you right from the first moment you walked in there. The bravest, most amazing woman I had ever seen. From the very first sight, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“But you settled for a hand job.” she teased.

“It worked out. As it turned out, I settled for the rest of my life,” he kissed her neck.

“It was different for me, I guess I was on a journey, finding a path,” she said thoughtfully.

“Any regrets?” he asked.

“Not a single damned one,” Faith said.

“What a wild strange trip,” Christian said. “I wouldn’t give up a second of it.”

“Me neither. But that love at first sight... it didn’t feel like that. For me, it wasn’t right away, but you were there, and somewhere along the way, I just realized that I wanted you in my life forever, that you were the best part of me, and I never wanted to let you go.”

“I’ll take that,” he drawled, just like Christian Slater.

“You see!” she accused.

“What?”

“You’re fucking with me,” Faith laughed.

“I’m not!” he protested.

They snuggled together.

“Grandkids,” Christian whispered.

Faith smiled.

“Right,” she said, “let’s go.”

She saved her files and closed down her computer as he waited. When she rose, he took her in his arms.

“About that journey,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Something just occurred to me. About that Journey, the first step...”

Faith turned in her seat, they’d been together the so long they could practically read each other’s minds. She put her hand on his cheek.

“That first step was you,” she said, and kissed him. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The End

BLUE MOVIE, part three

After that, more blow jobs followed. The men who frequented the porno theatre openly invited her to perform on them, some were annoyingly persistent. Some of the offers she accepted, even from some of the annoying ones, her consent dictated as much by her mood at a particular moment, as by the invitations and wares on offer.

Of those she declined, a few responded rudely, but typically no more than a bitter comment. There was something about the inside of the theatre, the dark illuminated space, that kept them on their better behavior, something sacrosanct about the space.

Once or twice, it was intimidating, but she pushed back and they would fold. The other men clearly on her side.

But this flurry of interest and invitation, of expectation, all subsided, and the mood shifted back to the way she liked it, where they focused on the movie and she could quietly watch and choose. It seemed to be understood that she did as she wished, and that was enough.

Faith began to swallow, which was simpler and easier than fumbling with tissues. She had to like the cock, to feel comfortable with the person, before committing. Often she began with masturbation, gauging the qualities of the erection and her own whims, and finished with her lips. Sometimes if she didn’t like the taste, or the feel of it in her mouth, or they whispered something or tried to force her head, she’d stop and simply finish with her hand.

Or if they were rude, she would just walk away. If they complained or swore, she’d push back, they inevitably backed down.

Faith was surprised to find she enjoyed doing them, for the reasons articulated, but also for the feeling of power, for the intensity of their reaction, their pleading desire.

She enjoyed masturbating men too, the reaction not as strong, but on the other hand, she could watch the movie as she did it, which she often preferred. It made it all that much more abstract.

It was entirely the product of her impulse. Sometimes she didn’t do anything, she might attend the gay theatre, watch boys consorting with each other, or sit in one of the straight theatres doing nothing and allowing no one near until she was bored, and go home.

On another night she might do one, or two, or even three or four encounters.

On one particular randy night, there had been seven - two blow jobs, three episodes of masturbation, twice allowing her breasts to be felt up including one of those she’d masturbated, and fingered to orgasm by the Christian Slater look-alike, she’d counted them up in her head after she got home that night, oddly thrilled.

She saw the Slater look-alike once in a while, and sometimes made point to avoid him. Faith didn't want a relationship in here that defeated the whole point of coming here. After a while, inevitably, you’d get to notice the recurring visitors and get a sense of their habits and frequency.

She supposed she was a regular now. Regulars respected each other’s privacy, this was not the place to make friends or form relationships. Typically, if she played with someone, she would avoid them for the next few visits, or entirely after that. But of course, there were, over the nights, repeats. If anyone tried to tell her their name, or if they asked for hers, she’d shut them down immediately.

The Slater was one of those, notable for good hands, he was the only one who could masturbate her to orgasm, so she allowed that once or twice, or more. She could tell he was always aware of her presence, but never intrusive.

&&&

Fucking was the next threshold. Or perhaps the original threshold, since she’d been fucked on her first visit. But as exciting as it had been, she refused to allow things to get that out of control again, even though she fantasized constantly and masturbated at home to exactly that.

Again, she was well aware of the contradiction, but didn’t care.

But fucking happened at the porno theatre, if not usually in the seats. Early on, she’d come to realize, that the boys in the gay theatre would leave together and return fifteen or twenty minutes later. They were sneaking out to fuck or have drugs in the toilets upstairs.

This intrigued her. They always departed so excited, two boys thrilled to be on an adventure, and always returned elated. Watching the departures and returns, she found herself intensely curious. She wanted to follow, to listen in, in her mind, she’d seen gay sex on the screen, but in her mind, up in the bathrooms, there was a livelier, bubblier, more intimate real life version.

But she felt intimidated and unsafe. The women’s washroom was on the main floor, a single toilet stall and sink, and a door with a lock. She used it only when she had to. But upstairs... she couldn’t quite nerve herself to go on her own.

So it wasn’t surprising that sometime after her first blow job, she’d allowed herself to be coaxed and cajoled by an attractive slender man she’d sat next to. He’d been almost aggressive, feeling her thigh, moving it as high as she allowed. She’d unbuttoned her blouse for him to play with her breasts, as he leaned towards her, releasing his cock into her hands. In hurried whispers, he asked and invited her upstairs to the men’s rooms for a real fuck, made promises, begged and wheedled.

In the end, excited by frantic mutual groping, far more like making out in the back seat of a car, than her usual, more impersonal, hand-jobs, she’d agreed.

He lead her by the hand, she’d felt weightless and buoyant going up the stairs, so excited her panties had soaked, breathless with anticipation, and feeling like she’d stepped into one of the movies she watched.

The fantasy started crashing almost immediately. The men’s washroom was much too bright and much too large. Paint was peeling from the walls, the ceramic tiles were cheap and broken, it all looked decrepit and decayed, the place stank of stale urine and bleach. She knew it was a mistake. He led her by the hand to a toilet stall, but the minute the door opened, she was disgusted by the unflushed stained toilet.

They went to the next one. Faith was bent over a toilet, bracing herself on the tank at the back, while he pulled her skirt up and panties down. He wanted to enter without a condom, but she argued, he protested. Eventually with poor grace, he bought one from a scratched vending machine and slipped it on while she watched.

She was still wet when he thrust into her, so he went in easily, the sudden penetration bringing a grunt from her. He fucked hard and fast, their hips slapping, the motion forcing a series of gasps. He slapped her ass, and mumbled obscenities nonstop, but the longer it went on, the less into it she was, until finally she was just waiting for him to finish.

Afterwards, she left and went home and made supper, consciously putting the sour experience out of her mind. She did not visit the theatre for a few days, and never ever went up to the men’s room again. A lot of her adventures at the theatre would fuel her late night sessions with the vibrator. But she never ever masturbated to that one.

There were times when she was willing to have sex in the theatre. To have a repeat of that experience when she’d sat way low in her seat and the man had tried to mount her, never getting his cock deeper than half way in.

The memory of the experience had improved in her fantasies and burnished in hindsight, so sometimes there was a willingness to try it again if the conditions were right. But they were never quite right, it never came off.

The closest it came was a man who, in a particularly passionate session, climbed on top of her and between her spread legs, and thrust into the space between them as she tried to decide whether to have him in her. But before she could choose, he ejaculated, spurting on her skirt and blouse.

Not one of the better moments, she decided ruefully.

In other moments, she tended to dismiss the whole thing as impractical and near physically impossible. The rows of seating simply weren’t made for fucking, the armrests were in the way, there wasn’t enough room. To get even half way there you had to contort like a pretzel, and no other position seemed feasible.

&&&

The man was sinfully good looking, she noticed him the minute he walked in. He looked like a younger Travolta with a porn star mustache, and a loose hipped way of walking that made her think of some of the patrons of the gay theatre, but also made her clit tingle. He was slender like a dancer, and wore a denim outfit with a cowboy hat, which he doffed as soon as he found a seat.

She watched him watch the movie for ten minutes, utterly distracted from the acts performed onscreen, before she made her move.

Faith got up, walked down eight rows and sat beside him.

He acknowledged her presence, but didn’t otherwise respond. She waited a few minutes, and then let her hand rest on his thigh.

“Are you a tranny?” he whispered. “I don’t mind.”

Transvestites and transsexuals did come in now and then, mostly they were obviously masculine forms in female clothes, obvious to her. Astonishingly, some of the men couldn’t seem to tell the difference.

In answer, she took his hand and guided it across to her breast. Her heart was racing. He unbuttoned her blouse, baring her breasts and groping her with more than the usual finesse. She stroked his pants, feeling the shape of his erection in his tight jeans.

Faith had one major rule when she played, it was no kissing. But she wanted to kiss this man, she wanted to lick him, he looked so delicious. They twisted in their seats, half facing each other, separated only by the armrest, and she could almost press her face to his neck. He even smelled good.

She played with his pants until he freed his cock for her, letting it fall into her hands. She stroked it between her fingers. In turn, he opened her blouse fully, sucking on a nipple, while reaching under her skirt, between her legs, probing at her panties.

They played like that, sometimes fondling each other together. Sometimes, Faith just sat back, and let the Cowboy explore her body, enjoying the growing wetness in her panties as he fumbled there, loving his hands on her breasts, the way he teased her nipples.

In turn, he sat back and let her play with his cock, running both hands up and down, cupping the head in a cage of exploring fingers. A bead of pre-cum appeared on the head, he smelled of male arousal, and boldly she dipped her head to take him briefly, wetly in her mouth.

She thought of doing more, of blowing him. But she didn’t like to suck cocks that curved sharply upwards like a bow, they had a knack for stroking the soft spot at the back of her throat and making her gag a little.

Maybe just the head though, no deeper? She considered it. Not now though, later, she decided, if she did it at all. Maybe she’d only jerk him off, but that would be later. She was having way too much fun right now, playing and being played with.

“Let’s do it,” he said. “Right here.”

The men’s room upstairs, her skin crawled at the thought. She didn’t want to go up there.

“We can’t.”

“Yes we can, right here, take off your panties.”

Having her panties off, giving him access to her bare pussy was insanely exciting at that moment. She lifted her hips, working them down, but continued to protest.

“We can’t, there’s no place...”

“Right here.”

His fingers were on her, touching, teasing, before the panties were half way to her knees.

“Out in the open?”

“Sure.”

“People will see.”

“No one’s looking.”

“We’ll get arrested.”

“No we won’t.”

Faith’s hands wrapped tightly around his cock, his fingers playing at her labia. She was panting, she wanted him badly, half ready to be convinced.

“We can’t.” Maybe the bathroom wouldn’t be so bad? No, it was gross. Could she bring him home? That could be risky. She didn’t want to bring anyone home. “Do you have a place close?”

“No,” he whispered, breath on her neck, sending shivers through her body. “Look, we’ll do it here.”

“How.”

“I’ll get really low, so no one can see me, you just hop on. It will just look like you’re watching the movie. No one will see. It’s dark in here.”

It was stupid and ludicrous, but just barely feasible enough that in her excitement, she decided to go for it. The idea of blowing him flashed through her mind, but his cock was the wrong shape.

She decided to fuck him instead, it was much better for a cock like that between her legs than in her mouth.

“Okay.”

He slid down in his seat until his shoulders were level with the arm rests, peeling down his tight jeans. His erection stood out proudly from the thatch of ungroomed pubic hair, and the pale expanse of his belly and thighs. She scrambled for one of the condoms that she always carried and never used, and rolled it on him, her hands almost shaking.

Faith could hardly believe she was doing this, she felt this freewheeling breathless excitement, the sense of wild possibility, and this sense of rushing headlong, as if on a roller coaster. As soon as the condom was on, she straddled him, bending over his hips as they maneuvered his cock back and forth until it entered her.

She grabbed the seat in front of her as she slowly sank onto him, she could feel him curving up and back as he slid inside, touching her deliciously, shaping her to him, and grinned with the pleasure of it. She felt his hands on her hips and reached back to adjust her skirt to cover them, hoping that at least it wouldn’t be obviously visible that their bodies were joined. Her blouse was wide open and her breasts swayed with motion, nipples rigid, but she didn’t care.

Faith rocked back and forth and side to side in small motions, loving the way he felt inside her, the way with each motion, his cock head would rub against the back of her pussy in an utterly amazing way. At first, they fucked with small motions, and she tried to hold her weight off him. But as the thrusts became more intense, he pushed back until his ass was on the edge of his seat. She leaned forward strongly, hands on the seat in front of her, as he guided her up and down.

After a few minutes, she needed to stop, the position was difficult, straining her thighs. She shifted to squirming back and forth on him, and then leaned back towards him, laying into him so that he could fondle her breasts. She loved the feel of his big hands covering and clutching her breasts as she squirmed on the cock moving in her.

Recovering, Faith leaned forward, again bracing herself with hands on the seat in front of her, as her lover moved his ass back. In this new position, Faith could ride him more easily, sliding up and down, sometimes leaning forward, sometimes upright. In the reflected light of the movie screen her bare breasts shone.

No one was watching the movie. As she looked out, all the men in the rows in front of them had turned in their seats and were watching her. Some were standing. She turned to look, everyone was watching. Some were moving to sit closer. There was a cluster by the door.

In her excitement, riding the cowboy’s cock, feeling his hands on her, she didn’t mind. It added to the excitement, all these men watching her. She’d taken them away from the movie. There was an exhilaration to it. It was thrilling.

“We have an audience, Baby,” she whispered, not sure if he could see them from his position.

“Fuck em,” came the response.

She laughed.

“Just you, Baby.”

She rode and rested, leaning back. He cupped her breasts and licked the back of her neck, making her giggle and squirm with pleasure. There were men standing in the aisle down from them. More than she thought there should be, and after a moment realized that word must have gotten out to the adjacent screening rooms, that there was live fucking going on. She wondered, vaguely, if some of the men watching were from the gay theatre. She was an attraction.

Faith wondered if she should worry. But while some were openly masturbating, no one came closer than a few seats from her. Although they were slowly encroaching, they kept their distances from each other. They seemed more transfixed, more interesting in watching than anything more overt.

He moved under her, raising his hips and lifting her.

“Let me do some of the work, Babe,” he told her.

The cowboy pushed to a standing position, bending her forward, as he rose up, his cock staying in her. She was bent over, legs widening, to take him in this new contour of saddle, steadying herself again on the back of the seat in front of her, breasts swaying under her. His hands were tight on her ass, guiding and controlling.

The cowboy rolled his hips experimentally, his cock sliding back and forth, up and down inside her. He flipped Faith’s skirt over, exposing her bare ass, and slapped it, shocking her with the stinging pins and needles sensation.

He leaned forward over her back, and whispered in her ear, as his cock slid back.

“Hold on tight,” he said. “I’m going to ride you hard.”

The excitement, the exhilaration, the arousal was overwhelming. She’d never been so wet, so aroused. She couldn’t think about anything but his cock moving like a live thing inside her, about being fucked, and being fucked in front of everyone. Conscious thought was lost in this sense of wild, delirious free fall.

“Do it,” she whispered back. “Do it hard.”

He rammed into her so hard and fast, that her body lurched and she squealed almost losing her grip on the back of the seat ahead. He waited a moment, pulled back quickly, and rammed again, bringing another lurch and squeal. He slapped her ass, pulled, rammed.

Faith found herself slammed back and forth, crying out. Every thrust was ecstasy, like a car crash, sudden and impactful, sending a wave of pleasure through her. She’d heard the phrase ‘hard fucking’ but had never truly appreciated it until now.

The interval between thrusts shortened, the thrusts became shorter and less bruising. The surges of pleasure smoothed out, becoming more continuous, more of a rhythm as he pounded into her from behind. His cock became a piston instead of a battering ram, it’s curve arcing upward in a smooth motion inside her, stroking her g-spot with each thrust.

The watchers, and there were a lot of them, were gathered around. Some sitting, many standing. Further back, some were standing on the seats. She looked up, and met the eyes of a nondescript balding man, just a few feet from her. For a second, there was a weird deja vu sensation, watching a man watching her getting fucked.

“Go ahead,” she grunted defiantly, thrusting her hips back, and rearing up, “watch me.”

Faith liked it, she liked them watching her, she liked the fact that she’d emptied the other theatres, that she’d taken them away from the movies, that she was the center of attention. She was acutely conscious of her bare breasts swaying beneath her, her rigid nipples, the way her body swayed for them with each thrust, the sight of the man behind her, hands on hips, jeans around his knees, pounding bare-assed into her. It was exciting and transgressive, and it fed her arousal.

Some of them were talking, to each other or just calling out encouragement or admiration. But there were also words like ‘bitch’ and ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, phrases like ‘fuck her.’ The words, crude as they were, just rolled off her. Beneath shitty contemptuous comments was jealousy and desire. She felt defiant, larger and more forceful. She didn’t care, they could bark, but they still focused on her.

The random notion popped into her head that any one of them would have traded places to be in her position, not the Cowboy’s position, but hers, to be bent over and receiving pleasure, to be the center and the star.

Fucking watch me, she thought. Bear witness to me, worship in my presence.

The tempo increased, the cock inside her pistoning back and forth like an engine, punctuated by slaps on her ass and catcalls from the watcher. There was a smell of semen in the air. In front of her, beyond the crowd of watchers, a dark haired woman was performing exactly the same act that she was. The scene shifted to a gigantic cock plunging between cheeks. The woman’s cries echoed her own.

Faith came, the orgasm building and building up relentlessly until she was screaming, arching her back, her whole body tensing. She reared up like a stallion, clutching at her breasts, and the Cowboy had to hold her in place. And then she was left breathless, all her muscles turned to water, and only the Cowboy holding her up. It was too much.

“Stop! Stop! Okay,” she cried, “okay, stop. Give me a minute.”

“Are you all right,” Cowboy asked, his thrusting slowing and stopping.

“Oh yeah,” she gasped. “Great. Just... I need a minute, okay. Just to catch my breath.”

“Should I pull out?”

“No, no. Stay right there, I love it. I just need a break. We can go again in a minute.

Faith waited, trying to catch her breath. Tremors ran through her thighs, her knees shook. She could feel the sweat pooling down her spine, dripping from her breasts. Her heart jack-hammered against her ribs. She took deep breaths, stretched, arched her back, shifted her weight, careful not to dislodge him from inside her.

Faith nodded.

“Ready for round two?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, and just started pounding her even more ferociously than before. Her back arched and bucked, and she tossed her head crying out.

His pace if anything, became even more intense, the fucking rougher, bouncing her like a rag doll. It was good, the sensations incredible, leaving her gasping and breathless. But despite the intensity of her passion, she found it hard to climb higher to orgasm. He’d needed to start slower, to let her build. But instead he just rode hard.

The Cowboy’s thrusts became brutal and convulsive, swinging her back and forth so that she could barely maintain her grip on the seat in front of her, then he stopped, froze, and from his bear-like rasp, she knew he was coming in her. Faith accepted it, panting, nowhere near her orgasm, but somehow relieved it was over.

Faith felt the Cowboy’s cock drop out of her. As the roaring in her ears faded, she could hear the Cowboy’s panting. His hands were still holding her hips. She felt wet drops on her ass and realized he must be sweating. He pulled her back, and they fell into their seats. The Cowboy lifted his hips to pull up his pants but didn’t bother to zip up or button.

Instead, he felt around in his jacket pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, taking a long drag. He glanced at her and held out the pack.

“Want one?”

She waved it away.

“No thanks.”

He glanced at her breasts.

“Suit yourself.”

The Cowboy put his heels up on the seat in front of him and took another drag, letting it out slowly. He seemed to notice the watchers for the first time, all standing patiently.

“Show’s over folks,” he announced loudly. “Thank you for coming, now go back where you came from. Nothing more to see.”

As if that was the signal, most of the watchers started to drift away. A few remained, standing at a distance, or taking seats but leaning to watch.

Faith noticed the back of her hand was slick, and realized that at some point, someone had ejaculated on it. She wiped it against her skirt, too tired to care, and did up a couple of buttons on her blouse.

“That,” the Cowboy said, “was a good ride. You’re a hell of a piece of ass.”

Faith wasn’t sure she liked the way he said it. It seemed indifferent, impersonal, like she was an object. But she was too exhausted to read deeply into it, or to be offended.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t have much else to say, and truthfully, neither did she. Given what they shared, it was almost awkward. He finished his cigarette, smoked another one and finally stood up to zip up his fly and button his pants. He definitely had a nice ass, she thought.

The Cowboy fished in his back pocket, and handed her a card.

“Call me sometime,” he told her. “We’ll do it again.”

Nodded and accepted it. She watched him saunter off.

When he was out of her frame of sight, another man came forward, his erection in his hands. She held out her arm, palm up.

“No.”

The man stopped.

“Can I be next?”

“No. I’m done.”

“How about you jerk me off?”

“No.”

“How about you watch me? It won’t take long.”

She almost rolled her eyes, but sighed.

“Okay.”

“Can I sit down next to you?”

“No!” She paused a bit. “Not next to me. One seat over.”

Patiently she watched him sit the required distance and play with himself. It was not interesting or arousing in any way. It was like watching hamsters mate. As promised, he finished quickly, tucked himself away. Another man moved to take the seat. Again she held up a hand.

“No. No more. It’s done. Save it for another time.”

The one who looked like Slater approached.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, just tired.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Fuck off.”

They got the message and left her alone. After a moment, she got herself together, and moved to the back row, away from everyone to allow herself to unwind. She felt safer in the back row, no one could come up behind her, there was no one in nearby rows, and she had a clear view of the theatre.

Slowly the excitement faded, the place returned to normal.

When she was ready, she went home.

She threw Cowboy’s card away without even looking at it.

&&&

Faith avoided the theater for a couple of days after that, just in case Cowboy came back looking for her. Or the police were waiting for her. When she returned, the regulars were much more excited, waiting to see what she would do next, but she didn’t feel like engaging them. She hung at the back and watched, dividing her time between the gay and straight theaters, touched no one, and allowed no one near her.

On the fourth evening, a heavy set man in the suit walked into the theatre. He looked around deliberately until he spotted her, and then made a beeline for her row.

Faith wasn’t thrilled, she preferred to sit back, watch and choose. She didn’t like pushy guys who homed in on her. She glared at him, but that didn’t slow him down.

“I don’t want company,” she said loudly. “Sit somewhere else.”

Usually that ran them off. If they persisted, she’d get up and move. Either way, they got the message.

“I’m not here for that,” he said brusquely, sitting next to her.

Her alarm bells were going off.

“Are you a cop?” she asked suspiciously.

“Cop?” he laughed at that. “No. My name is Alberto Roscemi, call me Gus. I heard about your little show, thought I’d come over and talk to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You like to ... show off? Perform? I’m good with that.”

“Strip club is down the street.”

“I run a little club myself,” he said. “Private shows sometime. Invitation only. Very classy. I’m always looking for talent. I like what I heard about you. I’m thinking you could do a show like that for me. Live sex show?”

Faith stared. Suddenly, her heart was pounding.

“The money’s good,” Roscemi said, mistaking her silence for consideration. “We pay top dollar.”

He hesitated.

“You got a partner you like to work with?” he asked. “Bring them in. Or I can supply talent, trust me, you’ll be satisfied.”

“Why not just get a stripper?” she asked.

She couldn’t keep track of her emotions. Tension, nervousness, yes that was overwhelming. The man was a great black void of pregnant questions, an abyss of possibilities. More than anything, she was astonished.

The world had become neatly divided for her, there was real life, mundane and comfortable, and then there was the theater, her personal playground, a womb of carnality, a world of its own where she came and went as she willed, and picked and chose at her leisure.

This man and his proposition didn’t fit into either of her worlds. She stared at him as if he was a Martian. He seemed almost as if he belonged on the screen, one of the shallow characters in the porno, spouting ridiculous lines, an awkward, out of place figure there to move the story along.

He shrugged.

“I get strippers,” he said. “A few. But most don’t do this kind of performance. Not everyone can handle it. Not everyone is good at it. I hear you are.”

He glanced at his watch and looked around.

“Look,” he said, “this isn’t my kind of place. Not enough life here. I heard about you.”

“How did you hear about me?”

Roscemi jerked a thumb towards the back of the theatre, towards the source of light.

“The projectionist?”

He shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter. I heard about you, I wanted to see you. I’ve seen you. I figure, you’re interested, or you’re not interested, think it over. Up to you.”

He handed her a card.

“If you’re interested, give me a call.”

She took it. It seemed like a deja vu moment, Cowboy had given her a card, and she’d thrown it away. Now here was another card. She couldn’t make it out in the light, but she could feel the embossed lettering, it felt expensive.

She sat there for another hour, trying to think of what to do. Ignore it? Pretend it never happened? Go on like before?

Walk out, walk away, and never ever come back? She’d thought she was anonymous. But now that was shattered. She thought this was a world away from the world, a playground. But that was shattered too.

Call the number?

An abyss opened up, terrors and possibilities. She absolutely should not call. No good outcome there.

&&&

The next day was a Thursday. She attended late in the evening.

Faith had some idea of the schedules of some of the regulars, the preferences for showing up early evenings or late evenings, particular days, such as when the wife was at bridge, or after poker night. She didn’t know the reasons, just a feel for their tendencies.

The Christian Slater look-alike was there. He was watching the movie, a girl was being roughly fucked on a pool table by what looked like a young gardener, and didn’t notice her come in. It looked vaguely familiar. Had she seen it before?

He jumped when she sat down beside him, not having noticed her approach.

“Let’s go for a drink,” she said. She stood up and walked away.

For a second, he was astonished.

Then he got up and hurried after her.

&&&

“Live sex show?” the Slater asked, looking at the card. He hadn’t touched his beer.

She shrugged and sipped her wine.

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t know. Probably not. I mean, its crazy right. What if this guy is a rapist or something? A crazy serial killer? I don’t want to be cut up in someone’s basement. Or a gangster, or a pimp? Or kidnaped and shipped down to Mexico?”

“I could see your point.”

“There are bad people out there. Drugs, guns, violence. I don’t want to be near any of that.”

“You don’t want to take risks,” he said. “You don’t want to get hurt or killed.”

“Exactly.”

She was thankful he didn’t mention that she regularly visited a porno theater where she occasionally jerked men off, or sucked their cocks, or even allowed total strangers into her, and that might seem like taking a risk. He himself was a denizen of that space, but she still appreciated him not throwing it in her face. The theatre was a completely different thing, even if she would have been hard pressed to explain why. But she knew he understood.

“So...” he drew it out. “If it was safe, would you do it?”

She regarded him levelly.

“Honestly?” she said. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. No? Maybe? Probably not? Depends? But I have to know if this guy is dangerous?”

“So why come to me?”

She shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I needed to talk to someone about this. I can’t talk to anyone in my real life. It has to be someone from the theater.”

“So why me?”

She stared at him and shrugged.

“Because I see you around. You seem nice. You have good hands.”

He blushed at the mention of hands. Faith didn’t mention she’d found him easy to remember because of his resemblance to a celebrity.

“Okay,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose. We have a name, and the information on the card. That’s a start. I can go there and check the place out in person, maybe talk to some people...”

He looked up at her.

“What is your name anyway? I feel we should at least be on a first name basis.”

For a moment, she thought about refusing. Then she thought about lying. Giving him her real name would be a tear in that careful wall she’d built between her life and the theatre, perhaps the beginning of the end. But she’d asked him for his help.

“Faith,” she said.

“Chris,” he told her. He extended his hand to shake. “I’m pleased to meet you, Faith.”

“Christopher?”

“Christian.”

He had no idea why she found that funny. She refused to tell him, because she thought it might hurt his feelings.

&&&

“Legitimate,” Chris told her. “I talked to some guys at the news desk, and they talked to some cops. I had the secretaries in the financial section run...”

“You’re a reporter?”

“Entertainment,” he said. “But you get to know people.”

“Oh.”

“As far as we know, he’s not mobbed up. No more than most of these nightclub and restaurant types. Drugs floating around, but that’s typical. High end, does a lot of legitimate acts. Some stories about ‘private shows’ for select audiences.”

“So not dangerous?”

Chris shrugged.

“Doesn’t seem to be. I mean, it’s a fucked up proposition by definition. But he doesn’t seem to connect to the really dangerous people.”

Chris paused and drank his beer.

“You’ve talked to him?” he asked.

“A couple of times,” she said. “On the phone.”

“What about?”

“His pitch, the money, he talked money a lot. The venue, safety, Co-star.”

“I’ve been to the club,” Chris said.

“And?”

“Fifties style. Vegas chic. There’s a stage. He had some legitimate names on the wall.”

“I see.”

Chris took another drink.

“So what are you thinking? Do it? Or walk away?”

“I don’t know,” Faith replied. “I still don’t know. But...”

“But?”

“If I do it,” she asked, “would you come with me?”

&&&

She said yes, of course.

Chris had looked confused and uncertain, but he’d said yes. That decided it for her.

Afterwards, she could never quite put her finger on how or why she made the decision. It was insanely, breathtakingly reckless, that she knew. There was so much that could go wrong, including getting arrested. It would be so much safer to remain in the theatre, in her own room with its velvet curtains and silver screen. It was safe, it was her space.

But the idea of it called to her. There was an allure. In a sense, it felt like crossing over, from the dark room to the silver screen, it felt powerful, or joyous, or alive. Not furtively scurrying in the darkness, but stepping up onto that screen, being the center, the performance, the show.

In high school, she’d sat bored and distracted one evening, as the English teacher droned on about Plato’s cave. It had been stupid, a group of people stuck in a cave, watching shadows on a wall, and thinking it was real life, until one day, one of them ventured outdoors into light and color and shapes.

It felt like she was one of those shadow people, but if she did this, she’d graduate into light, to be real, the way those women up on the screen were real and vivid. In her mind, she remembered fucking the cowboy, everyone looking at her and not the screen for a change.

It was intoxicating and terrifying all at once, so much it made her dizzy. She felt like she was at the top of a very tall building, and the view was breathtaking, but when she dared to look down vertigo took hold

Chris going there with her decided her. In a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on, he was a thread from the world she knew and ruled, from her normal kinkiness. Would he make her feel safe? She wasn’t sure. But having him there, gave her comfort.

&&&

To Faith’s surprise and disappointment, it didn’t happen right away. Roscemi was thrilled, but his after-hours shows were special occasions. They needed to be arranged, a select audience recruited, reservations taken, bribes made, a co-star recruited. It would take a week.

He offered a down payment. Faith, sensing a trap, declined politely. He cautioned her about changing her mind, but she’d already committed. The conversation was pleasant, even professional.

In the week that followed, she was often distracted, caught by flights of nerves. Sometimes this translated to arousal late at night, and furious masturbation. Mostly it amounted to nervousness and distraction.

She went back to the theatre a few times, but found it only half satisfying.

Faith wondered if, in having said yes, she’d suddenly outgrown the place. What she was about to do was so much bigger than simply sitting in the dark, watching a movie, a stranger’s erection in her hand.

She saw Chris there one night, and avoided him. The next day she called and apologized. The day after, she called him again, to confirm his attendance, suddenly lonely for him, but once he was on the phone, she didn’t want to talk to him.

She wondered what to wear, or not wear, tried on all her clothes over and over, debated going out and buying something. What sort of clothes do you wear to have them taken off so you could get fucked on stage? Something elaborate, to undress slowly? Or would it be better to wear something to pull off quickly and get down to action? Tight? But that might get in the way. Loose? But she didn’t want to look frumpy. What would look best on stage?

And wait, whatever she wore, she could never wear it again. Any outfit, a dress or a slip, a skirt or a blouse, it would be marked with the experience. Faith knew she’d never be able to put it on again, without thinking of what she had done.

Once, later on in the week, her co-star phoned her up, surprising her. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, Roscemi had asked. His name was Chuck. He sounded average, a little hesitant. They passed a few minutes pleasant conversation, as he reassured her he wasn’t a creep, and she declined to meet for coffee. The conversation floundered as apart from the act they were going to engage in, there wasn’t much in common. They exchanged polite goodbyes.

The week passed eventfully. But long after, when she looked back on the experience, there was one thing she noticed that surprised her.

Not once did she ever think about changing her mind.

Update - Bad News

Hi wonderful people. I have some bad news. Last Friday, I was in an auto accident, not my fault and everyone is fine, sort of.

Except that I find myself disabled from writing too much.

Problem.

Next Chapter due is Kayley and Sam C. 26, and it's not ready. It's a few thousand short. Plus K&S c.27 is also half written and short. The 2nd cucking of K&S is about four chapters and 85% complete. But nothing is ready to go up.

So this week, instead of K&S 26, I'm going to put up Blue Movie Pt 3, and if necessary, Blue Movie Pt 4 the week after.

Sorry for any disappointment.

Chapter Comment, Kayley and Sam, c. 25

Okay, this is a comment I made in discussions of Chapter 25. I thought it was intelligent enough to be worth posting.

With Chapter 25, a three parter before the cucking, here's what I want to establish: Kayley and Sam are adventurous.

Before Leroy, they were becoming adventurous, and had started a game of Kayley or even Sam flirting but not doing anything. But they were getting closer and closer to crossing boundaries. In fact, Sam tells Kayley to take her panties off and go back to see the man who had propositioned. Their game was already ready to escalate.

Leroy opened that door, and the first thing after opening the door was Derek. Then Leroy swooped in and made it all about him.

But Kayley and Sam are a couple, they're adventurous and happy together. They love each other to pieces, and they trust each other. I've shown a lot of scenes where they bond and have fun sexually.

Chapter three where Kayley is laying in the car and showing her pussy and giving Sam a foot job. There's the scene where Sam puts a ball gag in her mouth and fucks her every which way.

This current three part scene is all about their relationship, where Kayley is going, and Sam's character, how he thinks, what he does, how he works.

The earlier scene with Blaze shows Sam's character: Did you notice, through the whole thing with Blaze, and even after, Sam constantly insists on seeing her as a human being, relating to her as a person, even when he fucks her, he's treating her as a human person. Leroy has to work constantly and relentlessly to try to make Sam see her as just a cunt.

That's how Leroy sees the world - Everyone else is just a cunt to fuck. He conceals it, because that makes them easier to fuck. But that's his view.

Sam sees people. In the park, before he gropes Kayley, he teases out the life story of some random street musician. He gropes Kayley at the park, in the street, in the bar, but he picks his moment. As wild or adventurous as he is, every minute he's picking his moment, every minute, he's making sure he's taking care of her.

She feels safe because she is, and its liberating. Think back to their ball gag scene, as much as he put her through, all the things he did, all the borderline torture, he was watching her every minute, he was being careful, and he was taking care of her. He wasn't being a control freak, he was just taking care of her while running an improvised scene, always making sure of her. That's Sam.

See, look at it this way: Leroy is a Four Eff guy. Sam could never be a Four Eff guy. Rather, he's the guy that goes "Hey, I just snagged the keys to the candy store, let's go in and have fun!" He doesn't take, he invites. He's not about control, he's about opening the door.

Sam isn't weak, he isn't stupid. His vulnerability is that he's nice. He's a fucking Canadian. He let Leroy mess around in the bathroom, he let Leroy take the lead in the threesome because he's nice, it seemed like Leroy wanted it a lot, so Sam let him. Leroy's leveraging that niceness into domination and cuckolding, and Sam is letting him for a number of reasons - Leroy's pretending to be a friend, Leroy wants this, Leroy is trying to convince him he wants this, that it's in him, and Kayley seems to want and need it. He's not entirely happy, he's conflicted, he's being put in a position to lie to Kayley. And he doesn't quite understand what's going on, because Leroy is a master gaslighter. So its working.

As much as Leroy wants to break Kayley, he wants to break Sam. He wants to break the love between them.

But for the story to work, I need to show you Sam. And I need you to believe in Sam. To see not just a loser, or a weakling or a fool, but someone with a perspective, talent, ability.

Sam's the hardest one, the narrative is mostly Kayley, she's the star.

Leroy's the villain.

Sam is kind of caught on the edge. So, as we're coming up to the Second Cuckolding Session, which is going to be incredibly destructive and damaging for Sam... I felt the need to showcase him with an adventure with Kayley. We see that he's got a plan for the day, in how he insists she dress, in taking her to the park, the street, the bar... In how he handles her. He doesn't tell her what he's going to do, but she trusts him. He knows what he's doing. He's flexible and fluid, willing to let events happen. In the glory hole session, when Leroy sees Kayley go into her cock trance, he's astonished and he really doesn't know what to make of it. Sam just takes things in stride.

He didn't bring her to the bar to get her felt up by strangers, but he brought her knowing the possibility was available to her, and gave her permission and encouragement - he gave her the safety to do it if she wanted.

He didn't insist she fuck Bruno, but if something like that came up and she wanted, he made sure there was a condom - both license and permission.

And frankly, he's not really bothered and wouldn't feel cuckolded that Bruno got his cock in her for ten seconds and ejaculated. For him, it's just another part of the whole scene, Bruno and even Bruno's ejaculation in her, is just all part of building up to his main event, just foreplay. He's not threatened by a guy who comes in ten seconds.

He'd be curious about what's going through her head that she'd want him to ejaculate in her after her own orgasm when she no longer needed him.

But he wouldn't be Judgmental. Kayley doesn't explain it, because she's not fully understanding herself.

I've got a storm coming up, a big dark Storm - The Second Cuckolding Session. I have an insidious, gaslighting nemesis pretending to be their friend and guide, but with Dark Plans.

Before that Storm, I felt a really had to show a summer's day, a picnic. I had to show Sam being his best Sam. Kayley loving him, but showing traces of corruption. I had to show the couple in love and in light having an adventure on their own, outside of Leroy's control.

So that's what I'm doing. I'm doing what feels natural and authentic and necessary for the stories and characters. My decision. You have two more chapters of this, and I hope that when it's finished you'll see what I was trying to do, understand why I felt it was needed, and enjoy it. Because after that? Buckle your seat belts, hold onto your hats, put away all open drinks and belongings, because if you thought the first cuckolding was brutal... this is going to be rocket powered!

BLUE MOVIE - part 2

Faith didn’t return to the porno theatre quickly. But she thought about it constantly.

During the day, during the mundane details of existence, work, speaking on the phone, driving, shopping, watching television, it was as if her mind would suddenly leap of its own accord, and some part of the incident would burst into her consciousness. She would vividly relive some moment, sometimes the trepidation of walking into a theatre, or the uneven mixture of emotions of watching the ginormous figures copulating on screen to the silent watchers, or even that delirious, exciting impulse of being mounted by the dark form of a complete stranger.

Sometimes, in particular mundane moods, she could hardly believe it. It felt ridiculous and stupid Sitting in a Doctor’s waiting room, hoping that she could just get tested for sexually transmitted diseases without any awkward questions, it seemed unreal, and more than that, it seemed ludicrously dangerous.

She almost wanted to believe that she was raped, but her own desire and excitement was too vivid in her memory, somehow she’d entered a state of willingness that she couldn’t grasp.

The experience, every part of it, was so far outside her normal life, so novel and wild, she couldn’t help but return to it again and again, examining her emotions and impulses as she’d experienced them, dissecting her choices. It was like a missing tooth, she couldn’t help but returning to it again and again, tongue probing into the space where there had been something, but now, was something different.

At times, it was exhilarating, an adventure in the vein of going bungee jumping or some thrilling roller coaster, a wild unpredictable ride full of sensation and recklessness. Not something to be guilty about, but at the same time, common sense suggested never doing it again.

And arousing. Especially at night, safe in bed. She’d start thinking about it, and then she’d have to get the vibrator from the dresser and spend a breathless hour replaying random images and memories of the event as she teased herself

It wasn’t just at night in bed. Sometimes sitting on the bus, there’d be a flash of memory, and a wet tingle, and she’d look out the window and press her thighs together hard. Or sitting at home watching television, she’d start thinking about it, and slip her fingers beneath the waistband of her panties. Even at work, in some unguarded moment. In a washroom, she might touch herself for as long as she dared.

There were points she was desperate to talk about it. She had these overpowering urges to just blurt it out to a friend or even a stranger. To call up someone and say ‘I did this.’ But who do you talk to about something like this?

Faith didn’t want someone to think she was a nymphomaniac, or to be classified or categorized as any other kind of deviant. She didn’t want to be judged, or condemned, not admired or turned on, no moralistic lectures, or warnings about STD’s, didn’t want to be considered reckless or slutty.

As much as she wanted to talk about it to someone, she didn’t want any reaction. The ideal would be someone who would shut up and listen and would just not say anything and not have any opinion at all. She certainly didn’t want the story getting around. But she needed to share it, perhaps as part of making sense of it, or simply to have it outside herself.

But there was no one to tell.

And here was the thing she longed to tell, but that she knew no one would understand:

Faith felt powerful.

That was the puzzling thing. She couldn’t put her finger on why she felt that or where the feeling was from.

But it was there. When she drilled down, she remembered trepidation and anticipation, curiosity, excitement, even a little fear, definitely arousal, serious arousal. But deep down, beneath it all, she felt powerful.

Had she felt that in the moment? Or had that feeling come later?

Breaking down the sequence of events, despite all the uncertainty and unpredictability, the sense of things unfolding without her really thinking about it, it seemed to her that she had been the one making choices.

So yes, powerful. And adventurous.

This line of thought, this odd tenuous epiphany left her thinking about her life. She’d never felt powerful. Or perhaps, more accurately, she’d never thought of feeling powerful.

Faith had always just been, she existed, drifting along on the tide, existing on a cushion of complacency, navigating her way through life, through childhood and school and the rigors of jobs and friendships and debating. Her life had always been, about just being there, just one of the leftover people.

She’d never felt bad about it. Sometimes it might bother her in a vague way. But she’d just felt ordinary, which had always been fine.

But this. This was so odd, so intriguing.

So of course she went back.

&&&

In some ways it was more nerve wracking. The first time, Faith had kind of fallen into things, simply taking each step as it was, without any particularly understanding of what came next or where it would lead, an unconsciousness of the immediate future that had made it easier to simply be in the moment and keep going forward.

Now, she couldn’t help but be completely aware that the last time she’d been here, she’d been groped by two complete strangers, masturbated one and had sex with the other. That experience was fully in her head as she entered the theater.

Crazy thoughts flitted through her head. Perhaps the police had the theater staked out against her return. She dismissed that immediately. But maybe there were police from the vice squad here, looking for easy arrests? It made her uneasy.

What if there were men here from that night? What if they remembered her? She didn’t want to be remembered. She didn’t want to seen by the same men. She didn’t want expectations or the burden of having to say yes or no, or to negotiate. She didn’t want a relationship, or expectations or even familiarity.

Faith wanted anonymity. This was for her alone.

Oddly, once she stepped into the actual theatre, her tension eased, it was simply anticlimactic. All the second guessing and half formed concerns that had been building seemed to dissipate. There was a disarming ordinariness, a familiarity without glamour. The room was just a room, the screen just a screen, there were different people up there fucking, but she’d seen that kind of thing already. There was nothing to be intimidated by. Even the smell was familiar this time.

Undecided about what to do, or even why she was here, Faith took a seat near one of the back rows and decided to wait, contenting herself to watch the screen, acutely aware though of the others, of the men, in front of her.

Up on the screen an athletic couple were having nasty sex on a pool table. There seemed to be some antagonism, some tension between them fueling their encounter. They were in lust, but in some way, not enjoying it.

She had adapted to it, there wasn’t the disorientation of bodies blown up to gargantuan proportions filling the screen, the size of the images made them intense but no longer overwhelming.

Still it was weird coming into the theatre with a couple in the middle of fucking onscreen. Faith needed more context: Why were they in that room? On that pool table? Why they were fucking? And what drove their dynamic. Even the perfunctory hook up scenes in a porn movie, the few minutes of dialogue and conversation that established place and relationships was something she wanted.

The scene eventually ended with the same breathless intensity, and the screen shifted to two women talking about the encounter in an outdoor café. She wondered if the women would have sex. But instead, their conversation seemed merely designed to set up the next scene. The camera shifted from the athletic brunette to the statuesque blonde walking down the street, and looking over a construction worker... who looked back, and smiled.

Faith liked that: The exchange of looks, the sense of chemistry. It was simply a prelude to fucking onscreen, of course. But somehow, that small moment of interaction made the onscreen sex more real, less weirdly impersonal and disembodied.

She allowed herself to be drawn in by the seduction up on screen the mannered progression from making out, to undressing, both as perfunctory as possible. Then the exchange of oral sex, with the man going down, and then the blonde showing every evidence of delight as she placed her lips to the head of his erection.

Faith found herself aroused, her clitoris throbbing, a delicious wetness between her legs. This couple shared a tangible enthusiasm for each other, she wondered if they were lovers off screen as well, wondered about the characters, was this a spontaneous encounter or was there history? When his hand cupped her breast, was there an extra sense of possession? When she moaned, was it especially for him?

A man sat down in her row, several seats away, drawing her attention. At first, she felt butterfly flutters in her stomach, thinking it was one of the men from her previous encounter. But no, this was a taller man, visibly heavier with a belly. He had a pug nose and thinning hair. He wore a T-shirt and even in the dim light she could see hairy forearms.

Not one of the men from before, someone else, that calmed her oddly, which left her vaguely surprised. She didn’t want to see anyone familiar, especially not someone familiar from here.

The man did not even glance at her, watching the screen. No expectations. That was good.

She returned her attention to the screen. But she remained aware of the man, turning her head to catch him with peripheral vision.

The scene changed, straight to two people having sex. They were both young, the man and the woman sporting lithe catlike bodies. The woman barely had breasts. They were on a couch in the middle of what looked like a sitcom living room, the woman on hands and knees the man thrusting into her.

The scene was referred to in narration before it cut in, but she found it jarring anyway. Worse, it was unaffecting. There was no context to the scene, no sense of intimacy between the characters. The man didn’t even look at his partner.

The man in her row was more interesting. There were plenty of seats. Why had he chosen her row? Because of her? Or was it just a coincidence. Coming into the dark theatre from the bright outside, it could be hard for eyes to adjust. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her?

Watching him from her peripheral vision, stealing glances when she could, he seemed to pay no attention to her. His attention was clearly focused on the screen, almost fixated. Many of the men were like that, she noticed, almost hypnotized by the giant figures coupling up there, the luminosity, of them, their moans coming through loudspeakers. Some would scan when they came in, or take furtive glances about, but once they sat they became quiet.

She could tell by the rhythmic motion of his shoulder, that he was touching himself. It was almost fascinating, the face staring up at the screen, illuminated by it, transfixed and oblivious to the word, the body motionless except for the shoulder and arm moving steadily, almost as if the two were separate and unaware of each other.

Abruptly, on impulse, she stood up and moved down the row, sitting right next to him. She watched him register her presence, intruding on his zone of privacy. His attention shifted to her, reflecting something like amazement to realize she was a woman as she sat down.

He stared. Faith ignored the stare, looking straight ahead.

“I’m just here to watch the movie,” she said coldly. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

She hadn’t seen a ghost-pale erection peeking out from his pants as she’d approached. That was oddly disappointing, in the sense that something was better than nothing. He must, she decided, be masturbating in his pants, which struck her as oddly cowardly.

What could a man offer life, if he was so fearful he jerked off in his pants?

He wasn’t masturbating now. Her presence had unraveled him, and he kept stealing glances at her, apparently intimidated. He’d look up at the screen, and look away, apparently nervous to be watching porn in the presence of a real woman.

Faith found herself dissatisfied. She was clearly making him uncomfortable. But he’d been masturbating, practically in front of her, so clearly, she owed him no courtesy. She thought of moving away, returning to her seat. But she’d just moved here.

Casually, she let her hand fall on his thigh. He looked at her.

“Don’t,” she warned. “Don’t talk. Don’t look. Don’t do anything. Just watch the movie.”

He wore bulky workman’s trousers, not fitted, the fabric was coarse. She let her hand glide back and forth, sometimes rolling the palm, sometimes, trailing fingernails against the fabric. The flesh of the thigh beneath was thick with firm muscle tone. The man shifted in his seat, he gasped, his thighs spread wider.

She thought he was faking it, he hadn’t made nearly such a show when he was masturbating. It made her dislike him a little.

When he reached to touch her, she just said firmly, “No.”

His hand dropped.

There was a weird thrill, not just in touching him, but in setting his boundaries so firmly. She felt powerful again.

Up on at the front of the theatre, the scene shifted again, back to the couple she liked, now in progress. The scene seemed better shot and lit, the sense of chemistry between the performers was clearly there. Still, the abrupt shift, the fact that it was straight fucking, took something away.

Or perhaps it was the distraction of the man whose thigh she was stroking? She thought she’d enjoy the movie more without his presence. But at the same time, toying with him was exciting - doing something rather than simply watching. She reached further up, to his crotch, eliciting a grunt. She could feel his erection, a shape muffled by the fabric. Nothing to play with here. She returned to stroking his thigh.

After a few minutes, she ordered, “take it out.”

She refused to look, feeling him lift up in his seat, fiddling with his pants, a zipping sound, and then he settled back down. Paying no attention to him at all, she felt upwards. It reminded her of his masturbation, as of their respective arms and hands were acting on their own, the rest of them unaware of the misdeeds of this rogue body part.

She felt around until she touched warm flesh, shifted in her seat to make it easier, and then wrapped her fingers around it.

The cock turned out to be the most interesting thing about him, she decided.

At first, she gripped the shaft tightly, it was slightly damp, just short of being slimy. The skin felt loose, but it was also rigidly hard. She loosened her grip, letting her fingers explore. She felt veins and ridges, a rough spot where the skin was oddly coarse. At the base, was a remarkably thick sweaty forest of pubic hair. It wasn’t particularly huge, but it bent forwards - she was surprised by that, her experience included cocks that curved upwards, but this was the first one with a pronounced down curve. There was a prominent foreskin it completely covered the head extending out further. She explored that, working it backwards until she’d exposed a round dome-like head already wet and slick.

Had he already ejaculated? Was this foreskin sweat? She didn’t know enough about men’s penises to decide. Loose in a cage of her fingers, it definitely arced left. She’d never thought about men’s penises having a direction, she just assumed that they dangled and that was it. Another mystery to ponder.

She found it did not arouse her in the least at all.

But somehow, it was fascinating. It was such a strange member, she found she wanted to play with it, to explore its properties. She had to resist the urge to turn her head and look directly at it. There was more, she felt powerful, in control, and she kind of liked the feeling. And there was an excitement in doing something so transgressive.

He was utterly rigid, panting in her hands. He reacted to her touches, sometimes twitching, sometimes gasping. It increased this sense of power, the feeling that she could play him like an instrument. She could have made him come very quickly, but chose not to. Instead, she entertained herself with his erection, like a cat playing with a mouse she’d caught. She smiled, she liked that metaphor.

Finally, she wrapped her fingers around the exposed head, and began to move her wrist in a corkscrew motion that he’d seemed to respond to. She did it faster, applying more pressure. Then suddenly, he ejaculated. His gasps were loud enough to attract attention as he half rose out of his seat. Her hand filled with goo, and she quickly withdrew it. But he kept ejaculating, and she glimpsed gobs flying through the air, something she’d never seen in real life.

She reached into her purse for a tissue to wipe her hand while he was coming down, and then, as he panted softly, she was moved by some friendly impulse, and handed him a couple of tissues.

“Thanks,” he whispered. She wasn’t sure if that was for the tissues or the hand job.

“Don’t talk to me,” she replied. She stood up, crossed past his legs, and walked out the theatre, leaving him behind, astonished and confused.

&&&

It would not be fair to say that Faith began to haunt the porno theatre. She was not there constantly.

But she did return again and again, when the mood took her.

She told herself that boredom drove her. On the nights when she wasn’t out with friends, or taking care of personal matters, when there was nothing good on television, no conventional movies, no concerts. When it was a quiet evening and there was nothing to do really, except stay home and be bored, that’s when the impulse would take her, and she’d go.

Sometimes, she would expressly decide not to go. Faith would think about it, and then admonish herself - the place was deeply sleazy, the decor appalling, the smell of it was disgusting once you thought about it. Even without the movies, it was a run down, low class venue. And the movies themselves were garbage. The audience were deeply creepy masturbators of different varieties. Really, if you thought about it for five minutes, it was the sort of place you should stay well away from.

On a restless evening, she would entertain the thought, and then deliberately call a friend, or go out and do something, or sit at home watching a particularly boring television program. That worked, sometimes.

And sometimes she just said ‘fuck it’ and went, hating the idea, but going anyway.

On other occasions, she’d cancel dates with friends, ignore whatever was on television, and just go, drawn by compulsions she chose not to examine closely.

Often it was a whim, but sometimes, she thought about it all day, counting down the hours and minutes until she was finished work, or free of some tedious social engagement.

It was the sex of course.

Even if she wasn’t actually having it herself, the porno theatre, with its red velvet finishings, the great dark room filled with light and moans, and the smell of semen all represented sex to her, the allure and mystery of sex, its endless promises and potentials. The whole place was like some metaphysical incarnation of the idea of sex. Openly, endlessly tempting

Oddly, she didn’t find that allure in other venues. She went into peep shows a couple of times and was always repelled by the cheap claustrophobic boxes. They felt nasty and unsafe, and she couldn’t help but worry about the stains on floors or seats, the reek of disinfectants or male sweat and crotch funk, alcoholism and despair, and the conviction of someone or something disgusting and dangerous just beyond the door or in an adjoining booth.

Strip clubs, well-advertised, with bright signs, neon bent in women’s shapes, intrigued her at first. They were alluring. But the allure faded instantly when she went inside. It was invariably too busy, too raucous. Even taking a seat alone at the back, it was just too noisy and vulgar. She didn’t like the way the staff took her order, or the too loud music, or literally anything about it. The real life dancers were too much, too glossy, too perfect, their legs too long, breasts too big, bodies too toned and tanned, hair and make-up too perfect. They made her feel colorless and drab by comparison, something that their celluloid counterparts projected on a screen never did.

Strip clubs pretended at class, or if not class, then enthusiasm, but beneath the gilding and sequins, its pretensions were all cheap and tawdry, and beneath that tawdriness, they were simply dive bars. They disgusted her.

At least the porno theatre had an honesty to it, it might be cheap and tawdry, but at least it was unpretentious about its trashiness.

And she felt safe there. Or at least, safer than she did in a peep show box, or in a bar filled with drunken perverts there to cheer on the dancers and make assumptions about any other woman they saw. In the theatre, no one intruded on her without her consent, and if they did, all she had to do was raise her voice. She could come and go as she pleased.

Sex was laid bare there for her in the theatre. Up on the screen every act, every position, everything was laid out in larger than life detail.

Sometimes it was a revelation, a position, an act she’d never imagined. She’d had lovers, some of them had dutifully and inexpertly gone down on her, but up there, it was ubiquitous and greeted with enthusiasm by performer and recipient. Positions came up, some looked unappealing, others intriguing. There were locations, both prosaic and ambitious. Sometimes it felt like the blow job scenes were like an instruction manual of techniques she’d never thought of, if only she had a partner to experiment with. Sometimes sexual antics and positions looked ridiculously unappealing, even crass and anti-erotic.

Admittedly, the movies were often dull - dreary loops of thrusting and moaning going on for minutes at a time.

The male audiences were fascinated, but she’d find herself growing bored and watching the audience. But even there, sometimes, just sometimes, there was something about an actor or actress, or some spark of chemistry between them, that would fascinate or even excite her.

Normally though, what she liked most, what was most arousing, were the entrances, the appearance of characters, their build up, whether long or short to the point where they had sex. She enjoyed the idea of lust, of looks and touches, the approaches, invitations, kisses, disrobing, each step promising something more wonderful next.

And even if she found it particularly hard to explain, she liked the men there in the theatre with her.

Or perhaps it wasn’t hard to explain after all: They left her alone.

Often, they weren’t even aware of her, fixated to the images on screen, masturbating if they dared. She could watch them with anonymity, a silent presence, witness to their fascination, their perversion. There was something thrilling to that. It was like knowing a secret.

The ones that were aware of her were generally respectful.

Some were exhibitionist, gleefully masturbating, getting off on the idea of her watching, but harmless for all of that.

There was one disgusting old man in a raincoat who would stand up to masturbate, looking directly at her. She was shocked initially, then bemused - why stare at her, when on a twenty foot screen behind him, giants were fucking in full color with stereo sound? But he never came closer than a dozen or so seats, and so although he made her uncomfortable, he seldom appeared, and never for very long.

Other ‘performers’ were more circumspect. They simply sat in their seats to masturbate, some looking to make sure she was watching, some oblivious to her presence.

She liked the oblivious ones, the ones who focused on the screen and not her. They were at once unthreatening and intriguing, they made no demands of her, not even to witness, and at the same time, they revealed some inner world of male sexuality. She liked to watch them masturbate, particularly if they weren’t particularly aware of her. She liked the ones that took their cocks out so she could see. It was like watching some exotic animal play at the zoo.

Sometimes, she’d even change seats for a better view, moving as close as she dared. There might be nods of acknowledgment, subtle consents, and she would sit almost next to them, watching.

Or sometimes doing more.

It was like a playground to her.

So of course, she played.

&&&

One of the theatres showed gay porn. For her, in her developing fetish as a voyeur, this was by far the liveliest. She found she didn’t respond strongly to gay porn. The male actors were probably better looking, but it often lacked the spark she looked for. In gay porn, the characters simply being in the same room with each other was sufficient justification to have sex.

There was a fascination of novelty, but as it wore off, she was less and less engaged. But the audience? That was a different thing.

Every time the door opened to admit someone, heads turned to check them out. Sometimes the response was a wave or a call to join. There was a steady movement as men changed seats to sit with or near someone else or to get a better view. There was whispered conversations, sometimes giggling. With a group of men in a row, she sometimes watched as a message or remark passed from lip to ear in a chain. Sometimes two or three men would leave together, sometimes even holding hands, only to return fifteen or twenty minutes later.

If the straight porno theatres were exercises in isolation, the gay theatre was practically a social venue.

Despite this, she was more intrigued than threatened. The gay men were clearly aware of her, but left her strictly alone. She didn’t make herself approachable, and so was not approached, her distance was respected.

She was allowed to be a voyeur.

She witnessed her first porno theater blow job. Two men, one older, Asian and in a suit, the other was young, white, bearded, in casual clothes. They came in together, looked around and sat in a back row, one ahead of hers. She stared openly, they were aware of her gaze, but not concerned.

Moments after sitting, she noticed the young Caucasian man bending over the waist of the Asian, who looked down, watching him. She hadn’t spotted the beginning of the blow job, simply became aware, during a scene change, that it was happening.

She was fascinated. After the first two or three visits to the theatre, she was very used to the idea of men masturbating, or in the gay theatre of even men masturbating each other.

But this was new. There was something casual and unashamed to the act that surprised and fascinated her. Obviously unself-conscious, if they were doing it in an open theatre where anyone who looked could watch.

Faith watched the shoulders of the young man heave, glimpsed his bobbing head, and after a moment, she changed seats to get a better view. The Asian man glanced at her, but seemed indifferent to her presence.

She changed seats again, now only two seats removed from theirs in the next row. If she craned her neck, she could glimpse the Asian man’s shaft as the young man bobbed his head on it.

Abruptly, the young man left his seat, to position himself kneeling in front of the Asian man, who spread his legs wide to accommodate. He laid a hand on the young man’s hair, but otherwise did not force him. The bobbing sped up, becoming rapid. Then the Asian man shifted slightly, as if momentarily uncomfortable, the only sign of his ejaculation. The young man slowed and finished between the Asian’s legs, clearly swallowing. Then he returned to his seat, while the Asian tucked himself away and checked his watch. They stood up together, and with barely a glance at her, left the theatre.

Faith was utterly astounded. She had done oral sex, some of it. She’d seen a lot of it up on the screen. But this was her first witness of a real life live blow job. She was amazed at how casual it had been, how indifferent they’d been to being watched.

She was struck by the utter lack of technique on display. That had been something she’d paid attention to on screen, had found actually sensuous. But this? This was just head bobbing with no art that she could see. It was a little disappointing.

But she was stunned by the enthusiasm. This was oral sex solely for itself, not as a prelude, not a warm up. It was a blow job for the sake of a blow job, its own ultimate purpose. She was struck by the obvious enthusiasm of the younger man, he’d clearly wanted to do it, but more than that, he’d enjoyed doing it, loved doing it, had needed it, found it satisfying. She’d seen that on the screen, but it hadn’t really made an impression, not until she saw it in real life.

It made her want to do it herself, to touch and own whatever sensuous pleasure, whatever fulfillment it brought, to know the need or craving that she’d witnessed. Except, maybe, use some of the technique she witnessed on screen.

After that, it was as if she had been sensitized. She became much more aware of blow job activity in the porno theatres. The motion of one person going down on another, the tilt of a head watching, sometimes the mysterious disappearance of a companion. Blow jobs happened a lot in the gay theatre.

They occurred in the straight theatres as well, she realized, now that she knew what to look for. They weren’t nearly as common, and typically between men. Were these gay men offering? Slipping into the straight theatres to perform their services? If so, she thought that was kind of them, an act of generosity.

Or were they straight men, surrendering to an impulse. She wasn’t sure. She wanted to ask, but thought it might be intrusive.

&&&

Faith carried condoms in her purse or pocket whenever she visited. She never went with the intent of using, them, or of carrying out any specific act. How could she? She could never know until she got there what the movie was like, or how many men there were, or how appealing anyone was.

She wasn’t the only woman who visited the porno theatre. The first other woman had been a prostitute coming in with a John. The John had been nervous, the hooker polished. Her head vanished from site, the John tried to watch the movie. It had taken less than ten minutes.

From time to time, other prostitutes came and went, but at best, it seemed an occasional thing. A last minute improvisation rather than a regular practice. What was going on? Did management intervene if hookers came here too frequently? Or were they indifferent, and hookers preferred other locations? She almost wanted to ask someone.

Other women attended with their boyfriends, exhibiting varying degrees of discomfort or enthusiasm. Sometimes they stayed only ten or fifteen minutes, sometimes for the whole movie.

She noticed that invariably, they tried to ignore the rest of the audience. Someone sitting near them would trigger them to relocate or even leave. Sometimes they watched the movie. The bolder couples might even play, making out in the theatre or even masturbating each other.

Faith was the only woman who came alone to the theatre, or at least, the only one that came frequently.

&&&

Faith decided to suck a cock.

Honestly, she’d been thinking about it since witnessing the two men in the theatre. She often masturbated about it at home in bed, visualizing herself picking out some man in the theatre, bending over her seat, kneeling between the rows.

Sometimes in fantasies, it was totally alone. Sometimes she was watched avidly by one or two men, or a dozen. In her wildest fantasies, they stood up from their seats like sentinels to get a better view as she knelt, and they jerked off, finishing as her partner exploded into the air like a fountain.

Going to the porno theatre, it turned out, was very good for Faith’s masturbation. Often the theatre experience was not terribly exciting in and of itself. The sort of uncontrolled and uncontrollable lust and sexual permissions she’d experienced in her first visit was a rare thing.

The movies, some of them, or at least some of the scenes could be arousing. Watching men masturbate or service each other was exciting. But the arousal was manageable. The occasional time she dared masturbate in the theatre, she found herself unable to reach the level of deep arousal needed for orgasm. Even masturbating a complete stranger, that was often exciting, but it was only partially a sexual excitement.

Still, it was as if she picked up a sexual charge, and later, when she was safe and alone, in her home, in her bed, the vibrator buzzing away, that was when the charge built up into something explosive.

She was sitting next to a man, half way down the thirteenth row, the two of them watching a blonde starlet on screen having sex with two bodybuilders. She had no idea who he was. She wasn’t even looking at him.

She had his cock in her hand, gripping it loosely, moving her hand up along the shaft to the head, rotating her wrist and then back down.

She would do that from time to time, when the mood was there. Just sit next to a man and toy with him.

It was a nice cock, rigid and hot in her hand, ramrod straight, the shaft smooth, not veiny, circumcised, the head proportional and nicely shaped with elegant curves. His pubic hair was trimmed, not a thick wiry thatch. And it smelled nice, or perhaps didn’t smell at all, It wasn’t especially large, which she liked, average or on the lower side of average, not thick. Something she could easily put in her mouth.

Some of them weren’t nice, weirdly shaped or disproportionate, some crotches dense with thick thatches of curling hair, and hair crawling half way up the shaft. Some felt sweaty or even greasy to the touch to the point she’d want to wash her hands after.

The worst ones were the ones that smelled, usually rancid male funk, stale semen, sometimes with an after-odor of sour urine, or the more general stench of an unwashed male body. It wasn’t common, but it wasn’t rare either.

Some men were just pigs, that was all you could say.

But this guy? Good looking, clean clothes well kept, nice body, nice cock, and well mannered, not pushy.

Sometimes, when Faith walked into the porn theatre, she felt like a goddess. It was like another world in there, leaving her humdrum life of ordinariness behind, and entering a realm of pure sex. She might sit there almost invisible, watching the movie, watching the audience, wise to all their subtle nuances.

Or she might manifest, go among them, sit down next to or near someone, overwhelm with her female presence. She might grant them permission to play with themselves, even watch them do it. Or simply reach over take someone in her hand.

There was a genuine power and excitement to bringing a complete stranger to orgasm. She loved it, and found herself increasingly willing to do it. One night, she masturbated four men in a row. Her choices. The rule was that she always chose, they didn’t.

Sometimes, she allowed herself to be touched, even invited it. Only one partner at a time usually. A hand on her breast usually, often under her clothes, but sometimes unbuttoned in full view if she was feeling bold. It was wildly exciting to allow herself to be groped by a complete stranger.

A hand on her thigh, allowed to approach her pussy, that was also common, and exciting. But only a few were allowed to actually fumble at her pussy. Most ended up being awkward, she cut those short.

A few were allowed further, depending on their skill. Notably the one that resembled Christian Slater, his hands were good, gifted. He’d brought her to orgasm two more times, and she’d masturbated him on other occasions.

It could have been more, but sometimes she saw him and avoided him, not wanting entanglement or to seem needy. Sometimes she looked for him and he wasn’t there. They never exchanged a word, which she liked. She didn’t want to have a conversation with him, or anyone there. One would just sit down next to the other, and if she allowed it, something would happen. Then they’d part.

What she did in here was disconnected from the rest of her life. In some sense it was unreal to her, a kind of material version of her night-time fantasies, and she insisted on it. She wanted no conversation, no recurring recipients, she wanted no familiarity of any kind. It was about perfect anonymity without consequence or context. Impersonal.

Ironically, and it did occur to her, what she looked for most about the porno movies she watched, was the complete opposite. The sense of contact and connection, the sense of intimacy, of flirting, of personal engagement.

She wasn’t bothered by the contradiction or inconsistency. In here, she was the goddess, it was her rules. So what if they were arbitrary?

The movie was more engaging than most. The man had been in once before, she’d watched him from a distance. This second visit, she’d decided to sit next to him. After a while, she’d reached over. He exposed himself for her, and she took him in her hand.

She thought about exposing her breasts, but found herself more interested in handling him.

But the thing about this cock, as she ran her fingers loosely up and down, clean, smooth, straight, not smelly or slimy, a well-shaped head. Perfect for oral sex.

The thought fluttered about in her mind like a butterfly as she watched a woman suck two cocks on the screen in front of her.

To do it right here, right now, that seemed so deeply transgressive, so exciting. In her mind were the first two men, and other examples, some only distantly glimpsed, but all willing, even enthusiastic.

“I could do it,” she thought. The image in her mind, the notion made her wetter, it made her pussy clench slightly.

“Why not?”

On impulse, she bent over quickly, ducking her head, and took him in her mouth, lips sealing around the glans, swirling her tongue around it. He gasped loudly a combination of shock and pleasure. Immediately, she returned to her seat, staring at the screen, giving no sign she had done it.

Except for the smile, she couldn’t help that.

That had been thrilling! If the thought had tempted her, the quick oral kiss was almost delirious with its impact, her arousal redoubled, she was filled with this sense of transgression and power, doing a naughty thing and getting away with it.

She wanted to look around, to see if anyone had noticed, if anyone was watching. But it would be an admission to turn her head, a surrender to conformity.

Besides, she wasn’t sure that she didn’t want anyone to watch. Sometimes, especially in the gay theatre, the couples she watched would look directly at her, enjoying the attention, dedicating some of the performance to her. Sometimes, when she played with a man’s cock, or allowed her breasts to be fondled, she’d spot watchers and would make eye contact, smiling with perverse pride.

Faith slid smoothly onto her knees in front of him, never losing her loose grip on his erection. He spread his knees wide to accommodate her, and shifted forward in his seat. The floor felt harder on her knees than she expected, and between knees and toes, she found herself much more aware of the slope of the floor. It felt dirty in the sense of being unwashed, but not sticky. It would have ruined the moment if she’d knelt on a sticky spot.

She looked up at him, his face was illuminated by the light of the porno film on screen.

She had a fleeting moment when she found herself missing it. Most times she’d played with men, the screen had always been there in front of her, spilling out light, things going on. It was a part of the experience. She could hear it, but that fourth wall companion was missing.

Instead, there was a live human face above her, excited, expectant. Too close, too real. Illuminated by the movie screen, it almost felt odd.

“Watch the movie,” she told him. “Don’t look at me.”

She focused on the cock instead, guiding it forward, to lean in her direction.

“No hands,” she warned. “No touching. Or it’s over right then.”

“Okay.”

That seemed harsh. She tried to soften it.

“You’re going to love this,” she assured him.

“My name is–”

“No names,” she cut him off quickly. And again tried to soften it. “All right?”

Deliberately, Faith shifted her attention from him to his cock. Where to start? A hundred porno scenes flickered through her head. She grinned up at him, wanting him to see the grin. But focusing on a point above and beyond his head.

Keeping the grin, she lowered her head and shoulders until she was almost level with the erection. She stuck out her tongue, and approached, licking the front of the head like an ice cream cone, one long sensuous lick. It throbbed in her grip. She was struck by how hot it felt, how alive it was in her hand. Experimentally, she licked all around the head, spacing out the laps, so she could feel the answering throb each time. Then she lapped up and down the shaft, and the sides, as she’d seen in the pornos, but the response wasn’t nearly as strong. She stole a glance upward at him, to see how she was doing, but he was obediently staring at the screen, and she couldn’t read his expression.

Faith left off the shaft and lifted her head to look down on it, considering her next move, casually stroking the shaft. What next? Maybe just jerk him off? Maybe in a bit. She kissed the tip of his cock, lightly at first, and then again more passionately. She opened her jaw, keeping her lips closed and pursed, pressing against it, and then let her tongue slip out to lash at the head. She was rewarded with a gasp, and his body shifted in his seat.

Glancing up, she saw his face gone tense. He was gripping the armrests of the seat tightly. Good, she liked that response.

Carefully, she went down, letting her lips open as they slid across the head, feeling the curve of the glans, the bumps of the prepuce. There was just the faintest slickness on her tongue, a taste of precum. She could feel the cock reacting to her mouth, the head flaring, as she opened her jaws wider, pressing down with her lips. The cock head was enfolded in her mouth, and she slid further down feeling the shaft enter. She descended until had a couple of inches of him, distending her jaw and filling her mouth, her lips wrapped tightly around the shaft. Below her lips, her hand moved slowly up and down.

Faith kept it there, not withdrawing, not advancing, just gently enfolding it in her mouth, sucking slightly, flexing her tongue against it. She could breathe easily. Even now, there was no foul odor. He wasn’t in far enough, or pushing enough that she worried about gagging.

It was pleasurable. Sexy yes, and hot, the raunchiness of her act had an effect on her. She was aroused and wet. But it wasn’t as if she had a clitoris in her throat, mechanically it was no more arousing than sucking on a popsicle or a banana. The arousal came from context, both his desire and her awareness of the nature of the deed.

But there was another pleasure mixed in, a kind of deeper satisfaction or fulfillment that made her think of babies with bottles and soothers, or children sucking their thumbs. Some deep primal instinct to suckle that had crossed with and mixed with sex.

She understood why the gay men she’d watched had seemed to enjoy it so much. She was struck by how much she enjoyed it, although both more and less than what she had anticipated, and how different the experience was from her expectation.

Outside the porno theatre, giving her lovers head had always been this mixture of lust and obligation, of gifting. Somehow, in here, the experience was distilled, shorn of all baggage. She was finally free to just experience.

Going a little deeper, she found the limit of her comfort and reversed direction. She began to lift her head until her lips curled over the rim of the glans, and she slid back down again. She went slowly, trying to focus on the feel of it on her tongue, the sense of its shape in her mouth, descending a couple of inches but far short of her limit, before rising again. Her head began to bob slowly at steadily over his manhood in easy rhythm, all the while exploring with her tongue, tightening or loosening her lips, trying to gage both its and his responses, to find what affected them. Below her mouth, she kept her hand on the shaft, stroking it, but finding it difficult to coordinate the movements, her mouth and hand almost worked at cross purposes.

He touched her hair, stroking it, and for a second she considered stopping to warn him off, but he wasn’t rough or forceful, so she allowed it.

After a moment, she lifted off, lines of spit connecting her lips to the head, and took a breath. She didn’t need to breath, just work her jaw. She looked at him, and descended again, bobbing steadily.

“Faster,” he whispered, his hand brushing her hair. She acceded to his request, picking up the pace, her head bobbing up and down his shaft. She slowed. Stopped. Began again rapidly. Stopped suddenly as low as she dared to go. Pulled back until the tip was barely against her lips, and then dove down again maintaining a quick but not rushed rhythm. He liked all of it, she judged, going by his reactions.

She was surprised by how easy it was, in one sense. But also by how much work it was, the strain of keeping her mouth open, using tongue and lips in unfamiliar ways. Faith wondered how long it would take, worrying about tiring and about strain on her knees. If he didn’t come soon, she decided she’d just finish him with her hands.

Despite this, his orgasm took her by surprise. She felt his cock seem to buck between her lips, felt the head swell, and then semen filling her mouth. She pulled away quickly, running her hand up to the glans and squeezing, watching semen erupt. He gripped the arms of his seat, his body twisting as she jerked the ejaculating cock.

“No more, no more,” he hissed. It was the first time she realized that the sensation of male orgasm could be too intense.

Faith’s mouth was full of semen. She reached into her pocket for a Kleenex, and spat it out, wiping her tongue on the tissue. She could still taste it. On kind impulse, she wiped him with the Kleenex as well running the tissue up his shaft to the urethra, and dropped it on the floor. His cock was deflating rapidly, she actually found that more fascinating than the erection, she was used to erections, but it always seemed kind of a miracle when it subsided. Where did it go?

Satisfied, without saying another word, Faith got up and walked away. There were men clustered around, more than at the start. She didn’t acknowledge them, but she knew that they’d watched her, something that made her blush, but also left her oddly proud. She felt light, excited more than aroused, and her legs wobbled a little, which she attributed to kneeling on the floor. She walked out of the theatre and went home.

At home, she immediately undressed, reached for the vibrator, and relived the experience again and again, concluding each time with her own orgasm.

Kayley and her Glory Holes, a discussion

INTRODUCTION - This isn't a story per se, so much as an author's comment on a part of an ongoing story. I have some nervousness writing this comment. I feel that if I have to explain things, then the story isn't doing its job - it shouldn't need explanation or discussion, you should just get it. It's like someone explaining how their joke is funny. If they have to explain then it just isn't.

But then I thought, there might be some worth, and some extra interest for the readers to hear what my thoughts and intentions, and my technical and literary decisions and process is in writing the story. Why I make one choice and not another, what I'm driving at, etc. So I may do this from time to time.

Anyway, Kayley and Sam is a story series I'm doing. It would really help for you to read it, to appreciate this discussion. Suffice to say, it's a 'Cuckolding' story involving two innocent youths, Kayley and Sam, who encounter a dark figure, Leroy, who leads them down the path.

Along the way, Leroy brings Kayley to a peep show where she discovers glory holes, and after that, she starts going secretly on her own, four or five times. Only three of her glory hole adventures are described, others are alluded to off camera.

One of my readers wondered what the point of the glory hole stuff was, and felt it was an unnecessary distraction. I disagree, and I'll try to answer this.

DISCUSSION: You raise some interesting issues, so let me offer a few thoughts.

First, I don't write for my wider audience, I write for myself. In fact, I make a few choices that I'm worried my audience will dislike. I recognize I've got an audience and that there's some communion, some influence there. But I really feel driven to tell my story my way.

This may sound silly, since I am a mere 'literary' pornographer, but I believe in my story, I believe in my characters, and I really want to feel, or want them to feel authentic. I want the story to feel right, if that makes any sense. And so, it goes this way and that, it takes its turns and digressions, characters get showcased in various ways, ideas and kinks are explored.

Some of my readers offer suggestions, and if they click with me I'll take them or file them away for future use, in this story or in another story.

But some of them have feelings as to where they want the story to go, and while I respect that, I have my own road map or narrative.

This section with Sam and Kayley out for an adventure and the last with Kayley solo at the Glory Hole may feel like a swerve, and a derailment, when you really want to just get to the kick-ass cuckolding.

So I thought I'd speak to some choices. My bottom line is that I'm in a genre, I'm writing raunchy porn. That's okay with me. I enjoy it. But that contains certain restrictions - that the characters have to have a lot of sex. Sex is the vehicle for the story.

I don't really write about Sam and Kayley's parents, or their jobs, or their picnics, or all the things they do when not having sex. I'll do it if it feeds the narrative and leads to sex. But let's face it, if I dwelled on the rest of their lives, you'd all be bored and go 'hey, when is someone going to fuck!'

And you'd be right. I have to develop their characters, their ideas and personalities, around the sexual core. I'm okay with that.

I think Kayley's character comes across really strongly, she's a hot little number, but I think you can easily get an idea of how she is with family, hanging out with friends, even at work.

So let's talk about Kayley and her glory hole scene, and what's going on there, and why I made a point of saying this was her fourth or fifth visit, but don't depict all of them.

I don't feel I need to depict every one, and I think it would undermine the narrative. Instead, I depict three glory hole scenes for her.

The first one is with Leroy - he takes her there and introduces her, and then he's shocked and surprised, because she gets right into it. She finds a pleasure and an altered state of consciousness that he didn't expect. Okay, so that whole scene shows how controlling and manipulative Leroy is, but it also opens up a side to Kayley, a sexual side that takes Leroy by surprise.

The second Glory hole scene takes place after the first cuckolding, and it's Kayley's alone. It's a reaction to the cuckolding and the intense and complex emotions of her participation. Okay, cool.

Then I skip over the next few. Why? Because I don't need to. Nothing much happens, she goes, she sucks a few cocks, she feels better, and she goes home.

Why even have them?

Why mention it?

How does referring to these offscreen incidents help the story?

Why not have the encounter I depict be the next one, the third, starting with Leroy, the second her alone?

Because, I wanted to mention the intervening ones to show she's rapidly establishing a pattern. She's addicted. If I wrote second solo trip to the glory hole, I just tell the audience she's fucking around. If I establish she's going there constantly, and this is her fourth or fifth solo... that tells us something is going on with her.

And this visit is not "suck a few cocks, feel better, go home." Things happen. She defends her turf - showing she's not mindless. She presses the boundaries - she strips, she dances, she fucks the guy, she barebacks and she kisses.

So this really advances the narrative, advances who she is sexually... she's going further and further.

But to get her to the place where she's realistically comfortable enough with herself, with being in the booth that she is going to do all these risky and crazy things... she has to be comfortable going there.

So this can't be her second solo... she's got to have been going there regularly. So again, I put that in. I don't have to go into detail, I just have to establish that she's been going regularly enough she's willing to experiment, to expand the boundaries.

And the boundaries that get expanded are interesting - she takes off her clothes, she gives a dance, she sucks and pulls a condom off, then she fucks and she insists on bareback and coming in her, she takes pictures of her fucked semen leaking pussy and shares them with two strangers.

All of this is fucked up and extreme, but I want to talk about two things.

First - for want of a better word, Semen-Addiction. When we first encounter her, she's insisting on condoms with Leroy and Derek, and going for STD tests. Okay, she got used to barebacking Leroy. But that's one guy.

But think about this - every time she's gone to the booths, she's swallowed cum. It's an intrinsic part of the booth experience for her, it's a marker of her satisfaction, to make men come, and to feel that physical proof - the way the cock gets hot, it hardens, the head swells, the spurt into the mouth and the unique taste. It's linked. So when she fucks in the booth, she still wants that male ejaculation, the linkage crosses over from sucking to fucking, without her even noticing. She has a need to physically own men's orgasms.

Which is why she's compelled to bareback Bruno and take his semen from him, even if she's already come.

It's also why she's so conflicted and secretive about it with Sam immediately after. She did something, she didn't even wholly understand why she did something. If she's having trouble explaining it to herself, she can't explain it to Sam. At least, not right there.

There's stuff going on in her head around this, which I show in her actions, but not necessarily in her inner monologue, because that monologue doesn't quite know what's going on.

Here's the other thing - she fucked a guy bareback. She gave away pictures of her cunt. She stripped and danced for a stranger. Of all the fucked up things she did, the one thing that bothers her?

The kiss!

The Kiss crosses the line for her, because its not sexual to her, its personal, and her time in the glory holes is about avoiding the personal. A kiss is romance and relationship. A kiss is reserved for Sam. It happens with Leroy because he's wedging a relationship. It can happen in other circumstances.

But this time, here, the kiss fucks her up. It's too much intimacy, too much human contact, and she doesn't want that.

But the second major thing, the most important thing, and the reason that it has to be the fourth or fifth visit, is that here is where she spills her guts.

She talks and acknowledges she's got a weird addiction to glory holes... which means I have to allude to more history than I've shown. She can't talk about or acknowledge an addiction if she's only been there solo twice. But if this is her fourth or fifth visit in a relatively short span, she has to acknowledge there's something going on.

But it goes further, she opens up about the weird stresses and complexities in her life, in a not entirely honest way, a little self serving, a little uncomprehending, but she finally talks and explains to herself and the audience and the guy on the other side, that she's become an addicted glory hole cocksucker because she's can't handle the emotional complexities of her sex life and needs an escape.

And she doesn't do it very well.

You can almost read the mind of the guy on the other side of the wall as he's thinking "Holy shit, lady, you're completely out of your mind, aren't you? You're just mental!"

That's because she doesn't wholly grasp what's going on with her, she's not being entirely honest with herself, she doesn't feel like she's in control of her life and things bother her but she doesn't know what to do, so she's drifting along.

The point is for we, the audience, to understand what's going on in Kayley's head better than Kayley understands herself.

Anyway, that's what I tried to do there. From this point on, you can take it as a given that she'll be showing up there off camera, any time she feels particularly stressed. I'm not necessarily going to show them all.

I have written at least one more glory hole scene, late in her addiction, and its epic. And I have ideas for a couple more. But mostly, it'll be off camera.

SLIPPING INTO DEPRAVITY - Ch. 25 - Romance, Cuming and Going

ROMANTIC INTERLUDE, PART ONE OF FOUR

KAYL

We hit the Hundred!

As of today at least, our Patreon has 100 members, or clients, or followers, or whatever we're supposed to be called. 102 actually. With 60 paying.

I'm thrilled! It wasn't long ago that it was just me!

It blows my mind to think that 100 people are regularly reading my writing, and many even paying for it.

This has been such a strange and winding trip for me.

When I was younger, I was a wild child. Also known as a fuck up. I screwed around a lot, got fucked a lot, made a lot of bad choices, and somehow got lucky.

In my middle-late twenties, I started unfucking my life. But I was horny as hell. I'd put myself in a straightjacket. So I ended up kind of expressing my sexuality online, masturbating in chats. I started to tell stories of some of my reckless adventures, and I got a few people who regularly got off on them.

The stories started to get deeper, more personal, reflections on my life on the things I'd done. Sometimes the people I harmed, or the ones who harmed me. Sometimes just exploring what I went through.

Eventually, I outgrew that, and went on with my life. I built a life, and now and then I'd write something pornographic or erotic, and share it with a tiny circle of online friends. I think at the end, I was down to three.

I moved. Shit happened. I moved again. Relationships came and went.

Then one day, my last reader, someone I hadn't emailed with in three or four years, out of the blue contacted me to announce he was a micropublisher, and he'd always loved my stuff and wanted to publish a book of my life journeys.

Of course I said "No! Also no! Fuck no! Never! Nada! Fuck that!"

But he kept at it, and eventually, wore me down. I agreed to, not the stuff he wanted, but for him to publish some of my later stuff, expressly fiction.

Then I spent two years being a giant pain in the ass to him. I'm embarrassed by how difficult I was with him every step of the way. I was so concerned about privacy, and demanded layers on layers of shielding, to separate this from the rest of my life, and to separate me from any possible perving.

But in the end, there was a trilogy - Perversions and Infidelities, and I was a published author, up on Amazon and everything.

And the books sold exactly zero copies.

I honestly started to feel so bad. I mean, I put this guy through shit for years, and all he wanted to do was give me these books, make me an author. And then the whole project fails.

You can't help but feel guilty.

Eventually, I asked him if there was anything I could do, and he suggested that I should try to promote my work on Literotica. I went there, and at first I just started reading, trying to figure out how this place worked. Then eventually I found my way to Patreon, and subscribed here and there.

I was so concerned with privacy, that even though Eve St. Albert was already a pen name, I went for another pseudonym - Eve was now Darrow, a nicely androgynous name, so that while on Literotica and Patreon, I could post and comment and no one would figure out that I was a woman.

Oddly, some did figure it out.

Eventually, I stared coming out of my shell, just acknowledging my sex at first, and then growing bold enough to post stories on Literotica, and eventually on Patreon.

You know what I found?

One thing, I really enjoyed writing. Before it had been an off and on thing. That early burst in my twenties, no mostly lost. And then playing around now and then. But writing systematically and for an audience is a real thrill. My characters come alive for me. I find myself thinking of things for them to do, imagining conversations. I'm loving this.

And the other thing I found is that you're all so nice! Comments on literotica or patreon on Don Silver's site were often mean. I tried to toughen myself to that, but accepted it would happen. But mostly, it doesn't. Comments are positive, friendly, some of them are thought out and deeply insightful. Even the brief "You made me really hard!" is kind of cool and thrilling.

I've engaged privately with some of you, and it's always been a positive experience. Friendly, personable. It's not super-deep friendships, but it's respectful and courteous both ways, and it's charming. I'd love to name some of you and say publicly it's been great talking to you, but I don't want to embarrass everyone. I'll just mention a guy who was so thrilled with my writing he made the effort to promote me better than I promoted myself, and another guy who shared bits of his non-porn novel and inspired me to spend a few hours getting a crash course in publishing for him. You all know who you are, and I love you all.

So much of what I was afraid of or worried about just didn't happen. Instead, I ended up with a friendly community evolving around these things I was doing.

It's wonderful.

Thank you. Thank you all so much, for just being you.

There are still boundaries. Eve St. Albert is a pseudonym. I'm a mature woman now. I have a career. I'm married. There are children. I live on Canada's west coast. That's it, the walls come down, you don't get to know more than that about my present life. I don't want to be rude, but these are necessary.

Anyway, so... a hundred followers on Patreon. That just blows me away.

I've got thousands of reads and hundreds of followers on Literotica.

But this just seems so much more substantial on Patreon. You're all much more serious in your perving.

I recognize the number will fluctuate. People sign up for the free week, read as much as they can, and go away. Even paid memberships drop off, having tired of my style, or maybe needing to economize.

I'll tell you a secret - every time someone unsubscribed or dropped, I'd get a notice and I'd feel bad, like I'd failed them somehow. I'd take it a little personally. I think I'm getting over that.

And up to recently, any time anyone signed up, I'd send a personal message. I stopped doing that lately, though maybe I shouldn't. I like saying hello. But then again, I wonder if that doesn't go over well. Does it come off as creepy or needy or off putting? Sometimes it feels silly to me to send a personal message to a person who just wants to read the porn for a week and then leave, I feel like I'm intruding.

I'll be honest, I'm not sure how long I can keep this up. I think I've been averaging around 40,000 words a month, posting weekly. That's a lot of writing. Part of it is supplementing with existing material, finally finding an audience for it - Eve's Cage, Catfish, Cuffed, my Memoir bits, all pre-existing. I've got a lot of stuff actually, so I can keep supplementing for a while.

But I'm not sure how much new writing I can do. I've got a huge backlog - maybe 60,000 or 70,000 words of complete or incomplete stuff, and a ton of notes. And lots of ideas. I think I can be productive for a long while. And maybe I can experiment with shorter vignettes, not 10,000 words each shot. Or try things.

In a sense, I now feel a bit of pressure. I'm an entertainer, you are my audience. I want to please you. But it's pressure. I'm okay with it, and I know if it stops being fun I can quit, or cut back.

But also, I love it. I love the idea that you, whoever you are, will read something I wrote, and it will make you hard, that it will thrill you, make you come. That you might laugh at some part, or find it insightful or interesting. That you might care about the characters or their situation. Sometimes I write and I think "Oh they're going to love this!" Sometimes I write or want to write and I worry that you won't like it.

I still write what I want to write, and I write what I feel the story and the logic of the situation and characters demand. I know I'm writing porn and that's all, but I enjoy it. My audience doesn't dictate to me.

But still, I'm happy that you're there, and I write for you, because on some level, in some way, I love you all. You motivate me. I hope that doesn't sound stupid.

Now onto the bad news - end of the month, I'm going to raise my subscription rate to $12.00, from $7.00. I've been looking around, and I think that's fair.

I'm not going to do tiers, or have special privileges or any of that. Honestly, I find that complicated and kind of off putting. I instinctively didn't like it. I think I understand the logic of it, some people just want to feel special and access special privileges, to have a sense of being in an inner circle. I respect that.

But I think one of the reasons I don't want to do that is because I feel like this is a community. I know its not. I only have engaged with a few of you. You don't know each other mostly. It's all just individuals gathering around the same source. But it feels like a community to me. And if we're a community, we're all together, anyone can talk to anyone, anyone can talk to me. The only rule is that we should all be nice to each other, and just enjoy the stories and the discussions.

I don't know how long this will last, we might go on for year. But right now, I want to say to each one of you, "Hello!" and "Thank you!" And if I could, I'd give each one of you a big fucking hug.

Eve

SLIPPING INTO DEPRAVITY - Ch. 24A, Kayley's Glory Hole Solo

GLORY HOLE ADVENTURE, ONE OF ONE

KAYLEY P

BLUE MOVIE, part one

Faith could look in the mirror and see her shortcomings.

Legs that were just a little too short, even in heels, a belly that was round instead of flat, breasts that, despite not being particularly large, had sagged even in high school.

She didn’t see herself as ugly. Just not quite there. Unremarkable.

She was well aware of the standards for women. And of the women who met those standards, with their perfect faces and perfect bodies. They were on every magazine cover, every movie or television show, they populated the beaches, attended the universities, starred in the workplaces. They were the influential, the standard bearers.

They were the definition of what a proper woman was supposed to be, and they did it effortlessly. It wasn’t even a factor of youth. There were enough such women at every age, that Faith could gage their perfection through their evolving life cycle.

She believed that there had been an earlier time when something less would been good enough, when the parameters of what a woman was supposed to be had been much broader, when it was all right to be ordinary.

The world had refined itself, wealth, leisure, health care and dentistry had allowed this new breed of perfected men and women to emerge, leaving all the rest of us behind. And with their perfection, they’d reserved all the good stuff for themselves, the good life, happiness and satisfaction and excellence.

Faith saw herself as drab. Not awful, by any means, not ugly. Not a loser. She could look at herself naked in a mirror, and all the parts were there, there was nothing unacceptable. But standards had moved past her. Ordinary wasn’t good enough now.

She felt like a leftover person.

Leftover people got leftover lives. That was how she felt.

It certainly felt like that when it came to sex. Perfect people had such perfect sex, and so much of it. It made her feel inadequate, her experiences of blow jobs, masturbation, the sweaty fumbling of copulation, all so rushed and awkward and perfunctory. Even her orgasms weren’t as good as the perfect peoples’ seemed to be.

It made her restless. She had this sense of weird unease, as if she could or should be doing better. As if whatever she had, wasn’t quite enough. Great sex, beautiful sex, wild sex called to her. She wanted the sex that perfect people had, wanted to touch it, taste it, see it.

Which brought her to the porno theater.

She knew of it well before she visited. The city had a ‘sin’ district of sorts. Careful zoning had squashed adult bookstores and novelty shops, peep shows, massage parlors, strip clubs and sundry unsavory venues all into a relatively small district, adjacent to the nightclubs, not too far from the tourist and hotel areas.

You talked about it with your friends in high school, sharing stories or remarks, a kind of anti-garden of Eden, full of forbidden knowledge and earthly pleasures. They’d remark on it salaciously or dismissively, depending on who they shared it with and how they meant to wield it. But whatever they said about it, or however they said it, beneath, there was the fascination of the virginal for the carnal.

The first time she’d visited the area was with her friends, giggling at the sleaziness of it, wandering into an adult novelty, barely daring to look at rows of dildos straight on.

The second time, she’d gone alone, furtively buying a small, cheap and very inadequate vibrator.

Over time, she’d return and buy better ones, as she got to know her own body better, and found what it liked and responded to.

The district both intrigued and repelled her, the promise of sex and satisfaction, the naked, unapologetic raunchiness of it all was alluring. No guilt here, only desire. No second guessing or insecurity, simply doing it, simply being.

But against that, there was a repellent quality, a kind of grittiness and vulgarity that clashed with her fantasies.

It was all very male oriented of course, it was about selling sex to men. But the flip side of it belonged to women, it was women’s bodies on display, women’s lingerie, women’s sexuality that was depicted as proud and voracious, women having sex. The men were inconsequential, supplicants, not stars. The women, or at least the image of women and their sexuality, was dominant.

The porno theater was right in the middle of it. An old style neighborhood movie theater that had been fallen behind the times, and in an effort to keep up had divided itself into three screens, and then eventually converted to adult entertainment. Or perhaps the other way around. She wasn’t sure. Her parents might have gone here when it had been a real movie theater, and it still had the architecture of past respectability.

Its existence was no secret, she knew of it, had driven or walked past its marquee many times before she decided to buy a ticket. She had been thinking about it a long time, imagining darkened spaces and people, perfect people, up on the screen having explicit sex, long before she actually bought a ticket.

***

The interior lobby was red. Deep red carpeting, now worn in the center, from so many feet, and never replaced. The walls were red and plush. Fittings were brass. The biggest surprise was a huge marquee watercolor poster for ‘The Crusades, starring Charlton Heston’ a leftover from better days. The other, regular sized movie poster slots were occupied by the expected porno movies just slightly ragged, all photographic and glossy.

There was a concession stand just behind the ticket booth, and a worn stairway with brass fittings on its railing and a sign indicating washrooms upstairs. Even the thought of the sort of bathrooms that would be in a porno theater made her shudder.

For a second, Faith stood there, taking it in, not sure what she’d expected. It was an odd combination of ordinariness and decay with only a thin gloss of sexual bravado. She wasn’t sure what the posters signified - films come and gone, films to come, or simply posters that theater owners liked.

She jumped a little as a man in a bomber jacket walked past her, marching up the stairs. He didn’t make eye contact or even look at her, but simply moved around her as if she was a ghost, not even acknowledging her presence.

There was a short hallway leading to three screening rooms. The first was obviously gay, ‘Sailor Boys in Morocco,’ the second was straight but raunchy, ‘Raincoat Sluts.’ The third seemed gentler, ‘Eve for a Day’ that seemed safest.

The film was already running when she stepped into the darkened theater. That wasn’t a surprise, the theater advertised all day movies from 2 pm to 2 am. Up on the screen two women, perfect women of course, were engaged in some sort of conversation.

The room was smaller than she expected, perhaps two dozen rows of seats, mounted steeply. One wall was ornamented with velvet paneling and gold wainscoting, crowning along the edges of the ceiling, the other walls were bare, signs of a clumsy retrofit from when the space was divided up. Along one corner of the ceiling, was a white smear, revealing peeled paint and plaster. There was a lingering air of seediness, that she found she had sort of expected, and a faint musty scent new to her that she hadn’t.

There were a dozen people watching the movie, all men, all seated far apart. No one turned to look at her as she made her way to an empty row, chosen because there was no one sitting there, or anywhere close.

Up on the screen, the two women were kissing. On screen, they were gigantic, the camera close up on their faces, their profiles were immense, each twelve feet, lips that could devour an automobile, tongues like freight trains. Moans that weren’t quite in synch added to disorientation.

Even as the camera pulled back to encompass their torsos and bared breasts, and further to show their full bodies writhing against each other, they were still distractingly gigantic.

The sheer size of the figures up on screen made it oddly anti-erotic. She had to look away, letting her eyes pour over the men in the rows ahead, watching the movie. Staring at the backs of their heads, their shoulders, as they sat there and stared at the screen, she felt vaguely voyeuristic. Watching them watching the movie, unaware of their gaze, she felt oddly powerful. They lacked faces, identities of their own, they were like mannequins.

What were they experiencing? She wondered. Sometimes men left, sometimes they sat together. Mostly, they didn’t move, transfixed. They seemed hypnotized by the flickering images, whereas she felt a sort of removal, something that made her feel vaguely empowered. The magic had no hold on her.

Someone came and sat in her row.

Faith glanced at him warily, careful not to turn her head too much, instead just giving a side eye. The man didn’t acknowledge or look at her, he simply sat down, three seats away, leaving ample space between them. Had he even noticed her? Or realized that she was a woman? After all it was dark in here.

Of course he must have noticed, Faith chided herself. It was a movie theater. He wasn’t blind. What would a blind man be doing at a porno theater? Listening to people moan?

He wasn’t bad looking. Or especially good looking. He was average, a little taller, slightly bony. He reminded her vaguely of Christian Slater.

She thought about moving a few seats further away, but that would be obvious. Or leaving, but then she’d have to cross over him, she imagined edging past him, her knees brushing against his, the awkwardness of it all.

Faith decided to sit right where she was, ignoring him. Everyone was here to watch the movie, which at this point involved two people having yet another conversation, this time, another girl, and a Latin American man. She didn’t know who they were, or if they’d been in the movie before she came in. They were both attractive of course, perfect people, the girl blonde and dressed in a tank top and skirt, the man in shorts and a loose wife beater t-shirt.

The scene was a living room with a fireplace, all very old fashioned. They sat on the couch, talking about another woman, knees almost touching. As the woman leaned forward to whisper something, her hand rested on the man’s thigh, sliding upward. They both looked down. The woman pulled away, removing her hand as the man leaned forward. He placed his hand on her knee.

She stood up and walked a few steps to the fireplace. The man followed speaking earnestly. She turned, the camera catching the smile on her lips. The man stepped up behind her, reaching around to pull her back towards him. Her hips rotated just a little as she pressed her bottom into his crotch, even while she whispered that it was wrong. The camera zoomed in on his olive-tanned hand slid across the bare pale flesh of her stomach, and then abruptly the hand dived down, fingers sliding beneath the hem of her skirt.

Faith’s heart raced. The image of the hand sliding down beneath the skirt, the obvious pleasure and anticipation of the woman on the screen, made her heart flutter. She could feel herself suddenly a little wet. There was nothing explicit, she could not see the hand or what it was touching, it was simply the suggestion, the reaction. In her mind she could almost feel the fingers sliding smoothly over the woman’s mound, towards her clit, her lips, her wetness. Faith licked her lips, fascinated.

On screen the woman gasped, throwing her head back, and he kissed the side of her neck. His free hand reached up, pushing up her tank top exposing both her breasts, his hand clutched one breast. She moaned as his hand dove further beneath the band of her skirt. She reached up, one hand on his as it clutched her breast, as if pushing it down on her body, her other hand clutching her free breast.

In the theater the man got up and sat down in the seat next to her.

Startled, Faith turned her head to look at him directly, but he just gazed ahead to the figures on the movie screen. She wasn’t sure what to do. Tell him to go find another seat? He was just gazing calmly at the screen, not even acknowledging her. She didn’t want to speak to him. That felt like it would be an invitation. An initiation. Move herself? But she was here first. Would that be weakness? Was there an etiquette?

Elsewhere, some men sat close, and it occurred to her that there was a kind of eroticism to sharing this act of cinematic voyeurism, a subtle excitement to knowing someone, even a stranger, was nearby seeing and enjoying the same thing you were.

Up on the screen, the couple were kissing, she’d turned around in his grasp to embrace him. Her breasts, pert and perfect still fully exposed, both his hands on them now. Instead, she was kneading his crotch, fingers lifting and splaying then pressing down to wrap around his cock, still in his shorts, but now given shape by her fingers and the way its length pressed against the fabric.

As she shifted slightly in her seat, her breath just barely quicker, the man spread his legs, and their knees touched. Mildly jolted with surprise, Faith moved her knee back, and then, motivated by some defiant, excited impulse relaxed and let them touch. She glanced at the man, not a direct look, but a slight turn of the head and side eye, and froze.

Up on the screen the couple had moved back to the couch. His shirt was off and she lay supine as he pulled her skirt and panties off, her tank top was already gone.

The stranger was nakedly stroking his cock. It wasn’t out and the light was dim in the shadow cast by the seats ahead, but there was no doubt as to what his hands were doing down below his waist. The same thing that the woman on the screen had done, the hand sliding, clutching outside, the cock hard and pressing against the fabric.

Faith was shocked and intrigued at the man’s boldness, literally masturbating out here in a public theater. Had he sat closer just so that she could see? Did he want her to see? It was disorienting, Faith knew she should be repulsed, but honestly she could not classify the warring emotions and reactions. The stranger’s knee rubbed against hers unconsciously as he touched himself. She pulled her gaze away, staring at the figures on screen.

The blond woman wore only tennis shoes and white socks, she was lightly tanned, just enough for bikini lines to show. The bronzed man finished pulling her skirt off, it dangled from one lifted foot before vanishing away. Had the girl even been wearing panties? Some abstract part of her mind wondered. The girl stretched out on the couch like a cat, full of luxurious, boneless languor, her legs parted, one foot up on the couch, knee bent, the other foot drifting to the floor. The man knelt between her legs.

Next to Faith, there was the sound of a zipper, almost imperceptibly faint, but somehow large in her awareness. She knew what the man beside her was doing.

There was a close up as the woman on the big screen ran her fingers through her lover’s curly hair, their eyes meeting, and then she guided his face between her legs. Faith watched, her mouth dry and heart beating, as his lips parted wide and his tongue slid out to lick. The camera shifted scene to the woman’s reaction, her satisfied moan, her buttocks lifting almost convulsively.

Despite herself, Faith glanced again at the stranger beside her. He was staring at the screen, utterly fascinated, entranced. Only his knee pressing against hers signified any awareness of her presence. His hand was inside his fly, pants unfastened for easier access, visibly stroking.

Up on screen, the woman moaned with pleasure, both hands on the man’s head as he bobbed between her legs. Two shows for the price of one, Faith thought. She glanced again, focusing on the stranger’s crotch, hand vanished, but the motion suggestive. Faith wanted to see more. As on the screen, she wanted the tease revealed, even as the man’s motions grew more expansive, the gap in the pants growing.

Faith was wet, genuinely wet, she could feel herself throbbing down there, with real excitement. She could feel the hardness of her nipples, a sense of adrenalin and anticipation running through her body. It was the excited anticipation of make out sessions, that awareness of sex, the steps leading to it.

But in a strange way, it was better. She was just watching, nothing was demanded of her. She didn’t have to worry about what she was doing or supposed to do, there was none of the subliminal second guessing, the uncertainties of regular sex. All she had to do was simply experience her arousal as things played out on the screen before them and in the seat beside her.

Her glances became more frequent, until she was literally dividing her attention in two, going back and forth. Up on the screen, the tanned man was standing as the blonde woman knelt before him, pulling his shorts down. She cooed with delight, as his rampant erection sprang free and wrapped her hands around it.

In the seat beside her, the man’s cock was slowly exposed, lifting as he stroked it. In the dim shadowy light, it was pale, almost ghostly, springing from a dark patch of pubic hair. Even now, it was partially obscured by his hand, her glances never supplying quite enough of a look at it. Its mystery was almost more fascinating than the scenes on the screen, perhaps more fascinating for being live and right beside her.

He was so bold to have it out like that, so reckless, such a pervert. His adventurousness excited her. She found herself almost resenting it, in her own arousal, she desperately wanted to touch herself, but obviously she couldn’t. She could only sit there and watch, and tonight get busy with her favorite vibrator.

Up on the screen, the woman licked the head of her partner’s cock, lapping it, one side then the other. Then with fingers wrapping firmly around the shaft, opened her mouth wide and took the head between her lips.

There was a hand on her thigh. Faith felt the fingers against her flesh sliding down, the palm resting there. It should have jolted her, and Faith was vaguely surprised at her lack of reaction. But with the eroticism of the scenes on the screen, the man touching himself, and her own arousal, it seemed almost natural. She was aware of it, not repulsed, but not accepting either. The hand made no further encroachments, as if it was deliberately waiting on her decision as to whether it should creep higher. Waiting for some sign of acceptance, like her knees closing suddenly or easing wider.

She did neither.

Instead, for what seemed like an eternity, but was only a split second, she hung in indecision. She felt like she was at the edge of a cliff, or perhaps better, standing at the edge of a pool, or in front of an open door. She had this sense of potentiality, of possibility, of a great well of sensuous carnality in front of her, waiting to swallow her up. Part of her wanted it, to just ease forward, relax her thighs, see how far the hand would creep. She imagined pulling her skirt up higher. But there was also the uncertainty, the uneasiness and questioning of the unknown, how far it might go, or might want to go and whether she was ready for those unknowns, and if not ready, would she be allowed to back away.

Staring up at the screen, watching as the woman’s red lips slid down the length of the cock. As she teased and tortured it with fingernails and rolls of the tongue, the man was sitting now on the couch, leaning back. The woman knelt between his legs, her expression one of wicked glee.

Faith stared hard, unwilling to even glance to her side, vividly aware of the stranger’s erection, of the motion of his free hand stroking, of the hand on her thigh; vividly aware of her own arousal, but willing to give no sign of any of it. Gently, she placed her hand atop the stranger’s hand on her thigh, making no other acknowledgment, neither approving nor rejecting, but simply waiting to see what happens next.

Faith’s heart was pounding in her chest, it was an act of willpower not to turn her head, not to look. She stared at the screen, but she was no longer watching it, instead fully caught in the moment. The stranger’s hand lifted gently from her thigh, turning to catch her own hand.

She allowed this.

Carefully, the stranger drew her hand over to his seat. Her heart rate doubled, pounding wildly. She swallowed, her stomach full of butterflies going wild. She both knew and didn’t know what he was doing, wanted and didn’t want it.

The stranger guided her hand to his erection, curling her fingers around it. It was hot in her hand, achingly rigid. She felt the slightest touch of slick moisture against one of her fingers. She was no virgin, she’d held and fondled lovers’ erections, sucked cocks, but there had never been this sense of immediacy, it had never been this vivid. She could almost smell his arousal.

It had felt unexpected, she hadn’t expected it to go here, to become this complicated, this overt. She had anticipated encroachment and whether to permit it, but this? This was an invitation to partnership in his crime, in his perversion. Heady and unexpected.

Faith couldn’t help it, she turned her head to look, to stare. The man was watching her, waiting on her reaction. No, she thought, too much. She withdrew her hand, pointedly turning her head to stare at the screen, shutting him out so that he got the message.

She took a breath and tried to slow her pounding heart. The man sat there, neither advancing nor retreating. She wouldn’t look, but she couldn’t forget the warmth and rigidity of his erection, the ghostly paleness of his cock.

Up on screen, the couple were fucking on the couch, their position awkward, the man holding himself above her, very clearly positioned for the sake of the camera shot. Their fucking alternated with close shots of his penis, shining with her lubrication thrusting again and again into her vagina.

After a few moments, carefully, she let her arm creep lightly across the seat, her fingertips trailing across the fabric of his trousers. Was it still out? Had he put it away? She didn’t want to look, instead she pretended that her hand was disembodied, that it operated under its own will as it searched.

There was a brush against hot flesh somehow stiffening, and then gentle touches guiding her into place, her fingers moved up a length of flesh coming to the shape of a head and curling around it, feeling once again its hotness and rigidity, the head already smeared with a drop of pre-cum.

Mine, she thought, mine now, and squeezed.

If she thought of it, she’d have decided it was insane. She wouldn’t have done this. She’d just walk out, do the sensible thing, and never admit to anyone that she’d voluntarily touched a complete stranger’s cock in a porno theater.

But Faith was very deliberately not thinking, focusing on the moment, on her arousal, on the couple on screen, the darkness of the theater. It was as if the theater had become its own world, separated from reality, from the fears and mundanities of regular existence, where the rules were different, where a logic of sensuality governed and things were ... permissible.

Faith eased forward in her seat, her panties already soaked. Allowed her thighs to widen ever so slightly. The stranger’s hand found its way to her thigh, she felt the palm against the flesh. She smiled inside, and squeezed the cock in her hand gently to signify her approval.

She opened her thighs just a little further, waiting. A moment later, the hand on her thigh, warm and firm, as if recognizing her consent, crept up a little further. But not far, not quickly, as if carefully gaging her willingness. And truly, she wasn’t sure how far she would let it go. To let him touch her panties seemed inconceivable.

And deliriously exciting.

In her mind’s eye, the scene of the movie, the hand disappearing beneath the waistband of the woman’s skirt, her ecstasy, the primordial awareness of where those fingers were, what they’d been doing. She wanted to be touched like that.

The image in her mind’s eye merged with the action on the screen, the courtship had transitioned to full copulation, their bodies writhing together. The man on screen sitting back on the couch, almost sprawled and reclining. The woman riding him, holding his wrists and pressing his hands into her breasts. Their bodies glistening with sweat. The soundtrack was a dizzy succession of moans, the dubbing not even bothering to synchronize.

She eased a little forward, spreading a little wider, feeling the hand creeping up. She stared at the screen, with half-lidded blinking eyes, the action breaking down into a sequence of stunning images. She held the stranger’s cock in her hand, her grip just loose enough that she could slide it up and down. His hand on hers, guiding, she let him set a pace for his own pleasure, letting her fingers ripple as they crossed the threshold of the corona and closed over the head and prepuce, smearing the beads of precum.

She had the sense of crossing her own threshold, of descending into the pool of sensuality, not a leap, but a loosening, a sensation of relaxation and abandonment. The fingers brushed her panties, and she eased forward just a little more, carefully not looking at the stranger, but feeling his fingertip move up and down, tracing the outline of her lips and the wet place between, circling her clitoris through the satin. They probed the edges of her panties, tugging at the fabric, and she allowed the smallest gasp, her hand momentarily tightening gently around the cock.

Suddenly, there was a hand on Faith’s other thigh.

Faith felt jolted, her heart skipping a beat. Her knees clamped together. She felt like she’d jumped out of her skin. She jerked her head, and there was another man sitting on the other side of her, not as tall, but more conventionally handsome, wearing a two day growth of beard and casual clothes. She hadn’t been aware of him at all, hadn’t noticed his approach, hadn’t realized he’d sat down at the other side of her, that he must have been watching her. Not until he’d touched her. It was as if he’d materialized out of thin air.

For a second, the sensual world she’d allowed herself to be immersed in turned to ice and shattered. She didn’t know what to do. Scream, shout, run away. Call it off. Slap the second man, ‘How dare you touch me while I’m about to be fingered!’

Neither man moved. The first stranger’s erection was still in her hand, under her power. They were both watching her, waiting for her decision, to see what she would do.

On screen, a new couple was fucking, a café-au-lait woman with long black hair, and a muscular blonde man, going at it doggy style. The woman gasping and tossing her head. For a second, just a second, the woman on screen looked directly at the camera, seemed to make eye contact with her, a flickering impression that was gone almost as soon as it was made, the toss of her hair giving the subliminal impression of a nod.

The cock pulsed in her hand.

Faith glared directly at the second man, challenging. He couldn’t quite meet her eye. She made herself settle back in her seat, easing her butt forward and parting her legs. She took the first stranger’s hand and placed it firmly high on her thigh, about halfway up. With a glance at the second, she took his hand and placed it just inside her knee.

Then she very deliberately turned her face to the screen and ignored them both, refusing to so much as look at either, watching the café-au-lait woman take on two men, while looking again and again directly at the camera.

Faith wasn’t at all sure she’d recapture the warm feeling of immersion. She’d invited their groping out of a weird feeling of defiance, and was half inclined to reject it in a few minutes, to call the experience ruined and walk away. They wouldn’t try to stop her, they’d backed off with a hard look from her.

To her mild surprise, the feeling of immersion crept back, the sense of being enfolded in sensuality, in touch. She found herself relaxing, the sudden tension draining away. Neither man on either side of her rushed. The first man made his careful way up her thighs, and she found herself spreading her legs wider to accommodate.

The second was more circumspect, more cautious, aware of being on thinner ice. He stayed at her knee before carefully making his way inward.

Faith felt the first stranger’s fingers near the junction of her thigh. She was wet again. She lifted her hips slightly to pull her skirt up a little, to make access easier. She felt so wanton, so unapologetically, gloriously wicked, sitting in a porno theater being groped by two complete strangers.

As she felt the first stranger’s hand brush against her panties, the fingertip once again gently tracing the outline of her lips, sliding between them and stroking upwards to circle her clit and then repeat the pattern. She reached down without looking and pulled her panties to the side, and gasped as she felt the touch of his fingertips against her bared clitoris. She was awarded by a pulse of rigidity to the cock in her hand, a blush of precum beading at the head, smearing across her palm.

Faith had never been touched in such an intimate way. Touching herself was different, of course. And her lovers had never regarded touch as more than hasty foreplay, a mechanical prelude to the good stuff.

But the stranger was gifted, his fingers probed and teased, alternating heavy and light, but never too much, never the same way or the same place. He was so intent he forgot to guide her hand on his cock, letting her cradle it loosely in her hand, like a talisman. He taunted her clit, tapping, fluttering, sometimes surprising her with a gently inserted finger, curling upwards to stroke her g-spot, bringing her to the outer edges of orgasm.

The second stranger arrived, and then she felt two hands between her legs, two palms, two sets of fingers, as different as night and day, crawling over each other, sometimes working in tandem, but more often unpredictably diverse, sometimes two fingers curling inside her as other fingers circled her clitoris, sometimes pushing and probing at her clit. She was drenched, she could feel her vagina contract.

Her legs spread wantonly wide, her skirt up around her hips, all caution, all reluctance gone. She floated on a sea of sensation, filled by sensations of touch, sights and sounds of passion, filling her mind, her own soft sighs and moans joining in.

Faith twisted in her seat, sometimes reaching down to grind one hand up against her clitoris, or to push another away. From her peripheral vision, she knew both men were turned in their seats towards her, watching her intently, the movie forgotten. She was vaguely, very vaguely aware that other men in the theater were watching, heads and shoulders turned around in seats, some standing to get a better view, perhaps a few approaching as close as they dared.

They seemed miles away, she was almost indifferent. There was no desire to have them nearer, to intrude on the psychic boundaries of her dreamlike lust. She didn’t want to be touched by anyone else. She didn’t want to know anything about them.

And yet, Faith was aware that she was the center of attention, the porno movie was forgotten, the perfect people onscreen were ignored, her arousal, her sexuality, her adventure overshadowed them. She was the sex goddess, she captivated, and the theater was the temple, the watchers her worshipers.

She pulled her blouse up exposing her bra, and then her breasts, without really having a reason, but simply for the sensuality of the motion, of the act, for the almost subliminal sense of being a star, the center of attention and wanting them to look.

The hands climbing each other at her pussy became almost distracting, their lack of coordination stealing her away from the edges of orgasm, as often as they pushed towards it. She was becoming annoyed.

Faith reached down and took the second man’s hand away, bringing it to her breast, pressing it to her nipple. Obediently it clutched, fingers squeezing, her nipple roughly stroked. She felt bold.

This was better, Faith twisted in her seat, giving her vulva fully to the first man, stroking his cock loosely, feeling the second man’s hand on her breasts, moving from one to the other, cupping, exploring.

His face came close, as if to kiss her, and she turned her face away. Instead, his mouth descended to her nipple sucking it, as he squeezed her other breast rhythmically. She moaned loudly and pressed his face against her breast, feeling his teeth scraping against her nipple. She stroked his hair. Her hips bucked coming closer to a peak.

Over his head, onscreen the Hispanic man had returned, a smaller, muscular brunette woman wrapped around him. The woman’s fingernails drew lines down his bare back, and she watched his buttocks flex as he thrust into her, her thighs bouncing with every lunge.

The second man was already half on top of her, with his mouth on her breast. She felt him lurch, his mouth leaving her breast, a wet smear of his saliva chilling. He was half standing, holding himself up against the seat, fiddling with his pants.

As she watched, her gaze flicking from the screen half obscured by the man, to the blocky shadows and pale hips of the second man's body, his erection rampant, not porno sized, but decent, curving sharply upwards, she thought, ‘why not?’

It was exciting, not terrifying. She was so aroused, so immersed, so drenched in the erotic heat of the moment that his clumsy desire was welcome. She stroked the cock in her hand almost unconsciously, pulled up her legs, and reached down to pull her panties even further aside, to welcome him.

He was awkward as he climbed over her between her legs. The second stranger’s first effort to enter her was defeated, not by her choice but her posture in the theater seat. She slid down in the seat, scooching forward until her ass was almost at the edge of the seat, and bracing herself her feet against the row of seats in front of her.

The second stranger lowered himself down over her, almost kneeling, holding his body over by the arm rests on the seats. He thrust against her, his cock leaving a wet trail as it slid over her mound.

Faith reached down, grabbing his cock, guiding it forward. Surreally, the phrase ‘two in the hand one in the bush’ flickered through her mind. But then she felt him between her lips and with a thrust he entered, and she moaned.

The first stranger’s hand withdrew. She let go of his cock to guide his fingers back to her clit. As she did so, the other man’s cock fell out, and she had to hold it and bring it to her lips until she felt it slide in again. The position was so awkward, he could not enter her fully. She could feel only half his length.

Over his shoulder, up on the screen, a woman wrapped her arms around her man as the camera shifted from their bodies coupling to the erection sliding into her wet vagina.

She stared at it, focusing, immersing, even as the man above her struggled to thrust into her, parting her wet lips and thrusting wildly, while the other stroked her clitoris with frantic urgency, the timing of the two just barely out of synch and deliciously so.

Faith’s orgasm was finally arriving, she moaned, her voice rising to a cry and then another. She struggled, arching her back to lift her hips to take him deeper. It was building fast.

The man on top of her groaned suddenly, his wild thrusting becoming frantic. Only her hand preventing him from falling completely out of her, before ramming half less than a third of his length in.

Faith could feel his cock swelling in her, could feel his ejaculation in her, something that amazed her, she’d had sex with men, had men come in her, but had never felt actually felt them in this way, had never felt their ejaculation. Had never come so close to simultaneous orgasm with a partner.

Then her orgasm bloomed fully, her cries became shrieks, for a moment there wasn’t enough air, she couldn’t breathe, her mind was filled with blinding white light. She writhed and bucked. The man on her was deflating his cock fell out, and he sank to his knees, his weight partially on her, but she hardly noticed. It became too much, frantically she pushed the first stranger’s hand away from her clit.

Faith drew in gasping breaths, until she could breathe, pushing the man off her. He lurched to the side, twisting and falling into his own seat. Her right hand was slick with slime, and she realized that the first must have ejaculated while the other was mounting her. She was lightheaded, vaguely glad that he’d found release. They’d all come together, practically, Faith was oddly proud of that.

The position was uncomfortable, down in the seat, legs up against the next row, she was contorted like a pretzel. Moaning, half in lingering pleasure and half in discomfort, Faith pulled herself back up, twisting into her seat. She felt her vagina, still dilated slowly closing, semen leaking from it and smearing the inside of her thigh.

Awkwardly, she pulled her top down, and then reached up under it to pull her bra somewhat back into place. The straps were all over, it wasn’t fitting right. She smoothed down her skirt. On either side of her, the men were pulling on their pants, tucking their spent penises away.

The first one, the Slater looking one, was dabbing away at a semen smear on his pants with a paper napkin. Seeing that brought home to Faith the semen oozing between her legs, and the consequences.

Whatever spell had slipped over Faith was broken now. The theater was seedy again, with peeling ceiling leaks and old seats, and the musty smell she now identified as stale semen. Onscreen, characters were fucking, but they’d lost their allure, too big, too gross. Everyone in the theater was watching her, many standing for a better view.

“I think we’re done,” she said out loud, startled by the sound of her voice.

What had she done? She had this sudden sense of disorientation, as if it hadn’t been her at all. It had been someone else. As if it hadn’t happened at all, but was simply the movie she’d watched. But that idea vanished as quickly as it came, the sensations, touch and being touched, the sights and smells, the intensity was far too vivid. It was real, it had happened. It was shameful.

“We’re done,” Faith repeated. “It’s done. I’m done.”

Faith stood up, her knees still wobbly, hands grabbing the backs of the next row for support. She took stock, lightheaded but not dizzy, a mess for sure, her bra felt twisted, none of her clothes felt like they fit right. Probably sex hair.

The first man stood up. She wasn’t sure why, did he want something, was he intent on coming with her? She didn’t want him too. She didn’t want anything to do with any of them. Then she realized he was standing to let her pass, and felt an odd gratitude.

Someone clapped, and then another, and another. Faith swiveled her head, looking from one to the other. The few seated men stood up, clapping.

“You have a standing ovation,” the first man said.

The smell of semen was in the air. Standing was right, she thought suddenly, How many had jerked off watching her? Had spurted semen like milky fountains? Faith blushed deeply, it was embarrassing, but weirdly proud. She gave a half bow, and then staggered down the row, making her way out.

Faith stumbled down the row and out of the theater, blinking even in the low light of the hallway. As she walked, she kept tugging her clothes back into place, so as not to look like someone who had just had sex with two complete strangers on impossible furniture. She caught a glimpse of herself mirrored in the glass of a porno poster.

Yes. Sex hair.

Faith was kicking herself all the way home, she couldn’t believe things had drifted so far out of hand so quickly. She couldn’t believe she’d done something so stupid and reckless. The ways it could have gone wrong were... infinite. There were recriminations and promises.

The first thing home, was a long shower, and intensive scrubbing. She could still smell the place on her, the odor of men’s sweat and semen gone stale. She douched, flushed, thought about pregnancy and venereal disease, took another shower.

She would absolutely never, ever, ever, ever do anything that insane again, or allow anything like that.

But later that night, after she’d gone to bed, Faith found she couldn’t sleep. She laid in bed, thinking about the experience, reliving bits and pieces. Images, like the actor’s hand sliding under the waistband of the actresses skirt, the deliberate way she’d placed the stranger’s hand on her thigh, the way his cock had felt in her hand. The memory of touches and acts, of sensation and arousal, slowly chased each other through her mind, and she felt aroused again, the intensity of the experience leaking back.

Faith marveled at the way it had all drifted out of control, the wild wantonness, the sleaze of it all.

But it hadn’t been out of control at all. She’d been in control, choosing, allowing. Out of control, in the sense that her desires and impulses had guided her. But they’d done nothing she had not allowed. It was an odd thought.

Abruptly faith got out of bed and shed her underwear, turning on a lamp and walking barefoot to her full length mirror.

There were no marks of her adventure in the porno theater, not that there should be, but oddly disappointing. She looked at her near naked body in the mirror turning from one side to another. It was all right, she decided. Not extraordinary, but she saw no shortcomings.

Sexy, even. Powerful in its sexiness. It hadn’t been a bad experience. It was kind of wild. Bold and fearless, reckless sure, and not something she could ever tell anyone about. But not something to be guilty about.

It had been an adventure.

On the way back to bed, she grabbed her favorite vibrator from the drawer. Faith crawled under the covers with it, thinking about her adventure, reliving in bits and pieces. The vibrator flicked into buzzing life.

Faith didn’t sleep much that night.

She didn’t mind.

Kayley and Sam, easter eggs

Hi. Just me, playing silly games. Here's some things in Kayley and Sam that people might have overlooked.

CHAPTER TWO

"The thought of you having sex with anyone turns me on. But yes, a black cock in you would be hot. Or Thai."

"Why Thai?"

"I figured you love the food, so you'd love the cocks."

• Foreshadowing!!!!

CHAPTER TWO

"What about a fat guy?" she gasped. I could feel her hips rocking her pussy onto my fingers. Her hand closed down on my thumb, pressing it against her clit. "Like really fat? And hairy, I mean, like hairy all over, hairy back. Would it turn you on if I spread my legs for a fat, hairy guy with moles and a pug nose and missing teeth, one eyebow and receding hair, with three chins, and sausage fingers, and a thick slimy slab of a tongue, and balding."

"That's oddly specific," I said. "I'm starting to wonder about your fantasy life."

"Oh fuck," she moaned as my fingers flexed in her. She took a breath. "And sweaty, really sweaty, I mean sweat just dripping off him as he fucks me with his big fat cock, his rolls of fat all over me just dripping sweat, like slimy raindrops, while he licks my face with his slab of a tongue. Oh fuck, my pussy is just dripping."

I really hoped it was my fingers, and not the visualization of her dream date.

"Too much," I said.

• Kayley has a fetish. Not sure if it was sufficiently obvious.

CHAPTER 11

"Welcome to my house," Leroy said, opening the door, and waving us in. "Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring."

I grinned, taking Sam's hand, and followed the direction Leroy pointed.

"That's really beautiful," I said, surprised. He had unexpected sides to him. "I love that. Did come up with it? Is it a quote from somewhere? Can I use it?"

Leroy looked thoughtful.

"I dunno. I think I picked it up from somewhere. Just liked the sound of it."

• Actually, it's from Bram Stoker's novel, Dracula. When Jonathan Harker arrives at Castle Dracula, the Count welcomes him in with these lines. I thought it was a combination of beautiful and creepy, and the context was Leroy was saying it. I thought it was going to be my great big foreshadow as to who and what Leroy really was. Not a literal Vampire, but a kind of human parasite. Nobody noticed.

CHAPTER 11

And he (Leroy) ruined it, because you know, men ruin everything. Sam crossed in front of me, delightfully naked, except for his white socks. I wanted to grab his cock. He was already hard.

• Well... they do! Seriously, if men didn't have cocks, they'd never get laid! It's what you have going for you. If women had cocks, I might be a full on lesbian.

CHAPTER 11

Carefully, he (Sam) sat on the same couch with Leroy, the two of them maintaining a careful separation. Leroy pulled out his cock, and I caught Sam giving it the side eye. Leroy was definitely proud of his manhood.

• I slipped a little bit of homerotic curiousity/fascination there, kind of laying a seed for future explorations.

CHAPTER 12

He paused at the doorway, swinging around back to us. Even deflating, his cock was still intimidating.

"Under the circumstances," he grinned. "Formal dress is optional."

He seemed amused by that, so I guessed it was a quote of some kind. A moment later, the shower ran.

• That's from the Rock Horror Picture Show. When I lived in Minneapolis after I left home, we had a friend who was totally crushing. We'd have parties. Probably no one remembers it any more. But damn, I would have done every single person in that movie.

CHAPTER 17

Luxuriously, with an incredible smile of joy and satiation, she reached up, to throw her arms across Leroy’s shoulders.

“To think I ever hesitated,” she drawled.

• This is from a really obscure horror movie called Hellraiser (Hellrazor?) 2. The bad guy gets his head drilled by a tentacle and likes it. I have a really nice memory. I was living in this little town in the midwest out of Des Moines. Total redneck place. I was working housekeeping at a hotel, and I'd been hooking up with this really closeted redneck named Ruth. We were in my room, an unfinished utility-storage room at the hotel, bundled up under the covers at the bed, watching a VHS rip together. She was intense and conflicted,. But now and then, when we were together, she'd kind of relax. Anyway, we were watching, naked under the covers, laughing and grabbing each other, mocking the lines. When that line came, she said it and we laughed. Then she looked at me all serious, and said it again "To think I ever hesitated." And suddenly, she was really real, absolutely honest in that moment. Ruth was fucked up and conflicted, complicated and angry, and totally raised as a redneck, and I'm pretty sure she'd decided she was going to hell for hooking up with me. And honestly, we'd have both been lynched if what we'd been doing got out. But there, in the middle of some goofy B-movie, stealing a cheesy line, there was something so deep and honest.

CHAPTER 24
Apparently, still in the pokey and under review by Patreon, but I thought I'd spill a couple of Easter Eggs.

• "I'm here to suck cock and chew bubble gum, and I'm all out of bubble gum."

  That's from 'They Live,' where former wrestler and tough guy, the late Rocky Rowdy Roddy Piper, playing a character named Nada, announces "I'm here to kick ass and chew bubble gum, and I'm all out of bubble gum."

  That was totally unconscious. I must have seen the movie at some point and the phrase stuck in my head. I looked it up, it's a fun, weird, very strange low budget movie about zombie yuppies from space taking over.

Also in Chapter 24, I have a scene where Kayley tries to decide whether to blow someone or not, and she mangles Hamlet's 'To be or not to be' soliloquy, making it very dirty and all about oral sex.

Blue Movie - Cuming Soon to a Theatre Near You!

Hi there,

I just thought I'd drop a quick note. I'm going to let the Memoirs rest for a bit. There's a lot of material, some sexy, some painful, some life experience. I'll come back to it, eventually. But for now, the quartet of gangbang experiences feels like a complete arc.

What I'd like to do next is a three part story I've called Blue Movie - it's about sex, raunchiness, porn, exhibitionism, voyeurism, fulfilment and Christian Slater.

Of course, next week, coming up, will be the next chapter of Kayley and Sam, where Kayley flies solo. But right after that, Blue Movie! I promise.

SCHOOL TRAIN, my third

NOTICE - As always, I just want to remind every

Generally - A Small Note

Apparently BTB (Burn the Bitch) is kind of a thing.

No.

There will be no 'Burn the Bitch' stories or endings.

There will be degradation, humiliation, angst, lines crossed, moral compromise, self sacrifice, self loathing, self destruction, mistakes, errors, awful partners, being lead astray, bad judgment, unforced errors, submission, enslavement, destruction, dehumanisation, inferiority, weakness and all these things, because that's human. Sometimes we go through these, sometimes we need to read about them, sometimes we crave them, in real life or safely in our fiction and fantasies.

There will be every kind of perversion you can think of, and some that you can't but I thought of. There will be sex, sodomy, infidelity, cunnilingus, new entries to old orifices and vice versa, bondage, suspension, exhibition and many more.

There will even be heartbreak.

Some of my characters and stories, the heroine (slut, if you want to call her that) will end up in a very bad and unhappy place with no way out.

Because sometimes that's what happens in life, and in fiction, a good tragedy has a sweetness and sadness that will make you ache.

But if a woman in my story ends badly, I want you to care. It won't be 'burn the bitch.' None of this hatey stuff.

Okay. Rant done.

SLIPPING INTO DEPRAVITY - Ch. 23, Leroy Has his Way

KAYLEY VISITS LEROY'S APARTMENT ALONE, PART TWO OF TWO

“The cuckold session,” he whispered. It was a change of direction. “Some of it was real, for you, wasn’t it? Sometimes you weren’t playin

“The cuckold session,” he whispered. It was a change of direction. “Some of it was real, for you, wasn’t it? Sometimes you weren’t playing, were you?”

Oh fuck him, I thought. He’d been probing and probing, and now he was going to pull it out of me.

I nodded. “Sometimes.”

“When?”

“On the love seat,” I whispered. “When we were making out in front of Sam, when you had the video on him, to embarrass him and he was squirming. And I said video me. It was real. I was feeling it.”

“Good girl,” he whispered in my ear. “Finally some truths. Other times, were there other times it went real?”

“Yes,” I gasped. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t ask for some moment by moment. That would be torture. And I’d have to lie for parts of it, and that would be hard.

“And how did it make you feel?” his voice was silky.

“Strong,” I whispered. “Powerful, in control, with him. Submissive, with you. Dominant and Submissive, at the same time.”

“Do you want to do it again?” he asked.

“Sam wants to,” I said.

“Do YOU want to do it again?”

Oh fuck you, Leroy, I thought to myself, gasping.

But instead, I said “Yes.”

He chuckled. I blushed harder, if that was possible. I wanted, I was willing to do it again, for Sam, because he wanted it, for whatever fucked up reason. I would go along with him. But deep down, I had to admit to myself, it had been exciting. Disturbing, unnerving, even repugnant... but exciting.

And some small part of me wanted to do it again.

“Good girl,” he chuckled. “I knew it.”

His fingers moved, leaving me gasping as he took me to the edge of orgasm, but carefully held me on the precipice.

“When we do it again,” he said, “I want you to commit to your role. Really commit.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t say okay, you need to promise.”

“I promise.”

“Say it.”

“Ahh, I...,” I tried to get the words out. “I... uhh... I will do it, I will commit... uhh... Really commit to the cuckolding, to cucking Sam...”

“Good girl,” he said. “But because you asked, I’m going to ease on Sam, be a little gentler, more careful. So what do you have to do?”

“I have... uhh... I will be harder on him...”

“Very good,” he said. “How does this make you feel? Honesty.”

“Funny,” I whimpered. “Conflicted.”

He paused, thoughtfully.

“Because it gets too real?”

“Uhhh uhhh... yes.”

His hands moved more slowly.

“Kayley,” he said. “I want you to listen carefully. It’s all just role play. That’s all. Sometimes, really good role play will feel real in the moment. But it’s not real. It just feels like that. You’re allowed to let it feel real, to have moments when it feels real. It’s all right. It’s still just role play. I understand, Sam understands, we all understand. You don’t have to feel bad.”

I nodded.

“Okay.”

“We’re just playing, Kayley. We’re playing right now. It’s all right to let go. This feels real, but it’s not. You and I are just playing.”

“Sometimes,” I bit out, grunting, “when you play, you’re a jerk.”

“I know, I’m feeling my way. I’m learning. I don’t know you and Sam as well as I want to. I make mistakes sometime. I’m sorry.”

I nodded.

“It’s okay.”

“We’re good?”

“We’re good.”

“It’s working for you?” he asked. “Mostly?”

I took a deep breath.

“Yes! It’s working! It’s hot! Can you please please please PLEASE make me come! I’m begging. I just need to come so bad! Can you let me come! Please!”

He made a startled noise, but his hand went hard between my legs, powerful manly strokes, shoving against my clit and lips so hard it was almost like having a cock in me.

“Coming right up!”

“Oh!” I grunted. He pushed harder and harder, my body swinging back and forth.

“OH! OH!” It was hitting, an explosion boiling up between my legs, spreading through me. My lungs seized. White hot bliss shot up my spine. And then it was just whiting out, I was coming so hard it was like a seizure. My bones and muscles turning inside out. My mind went white with energy and intensity. I came and came, screaming with joy.

As it faded, I felt myself going limp and boneless. My face slid into the wall, my arms dropping to my side. Only Leroy grabbing my waist held me up.

“Holy fuck,” I breathed. “Holy fuck!”

“There,” he said, somewhere behind me. “Happy now?”

“Oh yeah!” I agreed.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get you into the bedroom.”

He half carried me, half walked me, and dumped me, unceremonious and naked on the bed. That was okay, I didn’t have my bones in right at that moment. I rolled over on my back.

Loomed over me, pulling off his shirt, but not his pants. Of course, I thought, he wouldn’t take his pants off because he’d come and his dick was limp. For all his talents and gifts, his insecurities were pretty obvious and strangely immature.

He laid on the bed beside me, pulling my legs apart, and running his hand up my thigh. I let him, he liked being in control and me passive.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he said staring at my pussy. “Really hard. And I’m going to fuck you up the ass, and take that cherry.”

He’d just come, though, and I was pretty sure he’d need time to recover. But... “Okay,” I said.

“No objections?”

Why would he even bother to ask that?

A thought occurred to me.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Yeah,” go ahead.

“I thought you wanted to fuck my ass in front of Sam,” I said. “To cuck him by making him watch while you took my cherry.”

He shrugged.

“First, I love fucking ass. Second, I love popping that particular cherry. Everyone does regular, but that gets saved. That’s enough. I don’t want to share it with some cuck, so I want to do it privately.”

He paused.

“Also, if it goes wrong, or there are problems, or something gets fucked up, it’s just the two of us. If there’s problems, we work it out together, I can take care of it. Take care of you. Once I know it’s smooth, I’ll do it in front of him. He’ll watch me do you perfectly. He won’t know the difference.”

“You’re really into this cherry thing, aren’t you?” I asked. For a fleeting second, I thought about telling him the truth.

He smirked. “Believe it, bitch.”

But he didn't say it in a mean way. Just... eager. Happy with the idea. I decided to play along. Let him think he was plucking a virginity.

I nodded, “Okay.”

His strategy made sense, and in a sort of assholish backdoor way, there was even some form of consideration. I contemplated that for a second, in this weird sexual, emotional, passive receptive place, after a devastating orgasm.

Involuntarily, I shivered with vague delight and a nebulous anticipation. It occurred to me that maybe I should go to the peep show again sometime and suck cock after cock after cock... where had that thought come from? I’d already done that, it was out of my system. I didn’t need to do it again.

I frowned.

Leroy was playing with my pussy, it was vaguely pleasant, but not intense. I needed a moment to recover.

“You’re really into this cuckold thing,” I said. “You say it’s a game, but you’re into it.”

He looked down the bed at me.

“It’s fun,” he said. “All sex is fun. All sex games are fun, if you do them right. But this one, this one is mostly yours and Sam. I’m just playing along.”

“Uh huh,” I said skeptically.

“I didn’t start it,” he said. “You guys did, although you didn’t really know it. That’s where you were going. Both of you. The thing is Sam’s really into it. It’s important to him. He needs it. And I kind of think you’re into it to.”

“I don’t know that Sam’s all that much into it,” I replied carefully.

“He came seven times. No pussy. No blow jobs. No one touching him. Just the power of the idea, of the experience. Hell, he didn’t even have to jerk off watching it, he just came,” he said. “Don’t tell me he’s not into it. I know he is. It’s a guy thing. It’s up here.”

He pointed at his head.

I tilted my head. “Explain it to me,” I challenged him. “We’ve been together for years. You met him last week. How do you know his head better than I do? It’s a guy thing? Explain it so my girl brain understands.”

His face clouded a second. He didn’t like sarcasm. He was oddly thin skinned at times. Insecure? But he stopped and looked thoughtful for a moment, it almost felt like he had it ready.

“Ever play softball?”

“I little, back in high school. Never really got into it.”

“Softball,” he said. “Is a game about losers, and losing. All men’s games are about that. It’s all about the terror of losing. When you play softball, you’re under the gun. You have expectations. You’ve got to hit the ball. That’s the whole thing. Don’t hit the ball, you lose, worse, you’ve let the whole team, everyone down. Three strikes, you’re out.”

I didn't reply, but I thought about that. He must have had really competitive parents. Shitty parents if that's what he got out of it.

“That’s softball - a crucible. You get your turn, you go up and you try. And if you fail, then you’re worthless. You don’t just fail, you fail the whole team, you fail everyone. You didn’t do your part. You fucked up.”

“Unless,” I said. “You hit the ball. And a home run..”

“Of course,” he said. “But no one hits nothing but home runs. Mostly, you swing and you miss. That’s what being a man is: Being a loser. You spend most of your life being a loser. Once in a while, you get lucky. But mostly, you lose, and it eats into you.”

“That’s crazy.”

“That’s being a Man. Men are sold impossible demands, impossible expectations, in every part of their life - commercial, sexual, family. They have to hit the home run all the time, every time, in every way. The minute they swing and miss... they’re a loser.”

He nodded.

“Leading cause of death for men in their forties? Suicide. Leading cause of death fifties and sixties? Heart attacks and strokes, stress related diseases.”

Leroy had stopped playing with my pussy. He’d pulled himself up further onto the bed to look at me.

“We have these impossible expectations, we do our best, but slowly we break. We’re crushed, we’re ground down. It destroys us. But we can’t stop. We can’t ever put the burden down. We have to be winners, we have to hit those home runs, we have to spend the whole of our lives swinging and swinging until we die. We spent our lives in terror of losing, and we spend it losing, labouring under impossible expectations.”

“That’s what our society does to men,” he paused. “The only way out is to choose to lose. Quit. You drop the ball, you throw the game, you chose defeat. Because at least the pressure is off. It gets so bad, that you’d rather lose than keep in the trap. Young men drop out and hide in their mother’s basements, older men kill themselves.”

“And the answer is letting you fuck me in front of him?” I said skeptically.

He was bullshitting me. I knew it. I don’t know, maybe he was saying something real about the male condition. But it was bullshit too.

He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “The answer is to show him that it’s okay to put down the burden. That he’s still okay even if he isn’t hitting that home run every single time. It’s about learning to let go, to not have this crushing weight of expectation, and to not have to be responsible.”

“It’s about setting him free. Not having obligation, just being allowed to experience.”

I thought it over.

“Bullshit,” I said. “Sounds like bullshit.”

But inwardly, I was a lot less sure. Leroy was describing the male rat race, and I’d heard way too many social commentaries and reflections, read way too much about male stress and dysfunction, to just dismiss it.

“Nevertheless,” he said. “That’s how it is.”

“So how does cucking come into it.”

“Sex is just another one of those places of pressure.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I get that. You were saying. But...”

Wait, had I just agreed with him?

“We live with the terror of inadequacy. Our dicks aren’t big enough. We don’t last long enough. We don’t deliver the orgasms every time.”

“Sam’s never had that problem,” I told him. “For that matter, I don’t think you’ve ever had it. Not judging by your performances so far.”

“Even when we are and we do, there’s the terror. Maybe next time we can’t get hard. We can’t get hard fast enough. Even when we’re doing fine, there’s that terror of failure, waiting in the wings.”

“And emasculating him and fucking me in front of him... how does that fit? That just seems...”

“Because he’s trapped in this toxic idea being a man,” Leroy said. “And sooner or later, it will break him. I want to break him out. Breaking him out means breaking the trap, the illusions, the expectations. Taking it all away and making him like having it taken, being free finally.”

“The whole cuckolding thing,” Leroy said, “it’s not meant to be permanent. It’s not a lifestyle, it’s a journey. In the end, he lets go being this illusion of false manhood, lets go the illusion of a cuck, and he’s free.”

I seized on that.

Maybe I wasn’t a man, but I wasn’t entirely persuaded. One thing about men, was that some of them could talk. They could say all the right things and sound perfect, and sometimes it was just bullshit. I’d met guys at university who did the talk perfectly, but all they wanted was to fuck you.

Was Leroy one of those guys? Maybe. Maybe he was just games and bullshit.

Or maybe, it was us? We were the ones who hooked up with him. I could have quit after Derek, or just had more guys, more places. I’d kept going back to him, Sam and I kept hooking up with him.

This was on us.

Sure, he was a stud. But maybe he was right, it was coming from us, and he was just reading us and feeding what was in us right back to us. Sam and I did that all the time, picking up and feeding back to each other. He’d done that with us. He was definitely good enough to do that.

But the idea that this was just a passing thing, some sort of growing or evolving stage, that we’d do it, have fun, or whatever, and eventually move on was reassuring. It suggested that it was us, Sam and I, we were driving subliminally, and we would let it go.

Fuck, I’d come to sort out and maybe wind down this whole cuckold thing I thought he was running on us, and now I was all turned around, and not sure what to think. Except that we were going to do it again, and maybe after that, and now I was recruited?

“So this is just a phase then,” I asked. Phases were annoying things that children went through, that you outlasted. I winced, it sounded so contemptuous and cynical. I was repelled by myself, maybe he was sincerely trying to explain something complicated and genuine in the tragedy of male life, and sort of lighting a pathway, and here I was being a sarcastic bitch.

“Sorry,” I said. “That came out wrong.”

“I’d rather call it a journey,” he said. “An exploration.”

“Where do you get all this,” I asked. “This perspective on masculinity and... everything.”

“I traveled, like I said,” he replied. “There’s different ways to live. It’s a bit of Buddhism. Spent time in Berkeley. I lived on a commune for a while, kind of picked up some old hippy notions.”

He stood up.

“I’m going to take off my pants,” he announced. He dropped them with his back to me. I wondered if he was avoiding displaying his non-hard cock, which would be a bit immature.

Or if he was showing me his ass, which was actually pretty nice. It was round, and masculine and muscular. I could feel tingles in my pussy, a little thrill of excitement, a sensation in my clit. That ass had pumped a hard cock into me, time and time again, and I’d loved it, every single time. He’d absolutely dominated me in every encounter.

He turned around, his flaccid cock and heavy balls swinging, trying not to draw attention to it only made me more aware of it. Leroy was a grower, not a shower. Erect, him and Sam were more or less the same size, but limp Sam had it all over him.

Naked, he climbed across the bed to me, laying on his side, one arm propping up, looking down on me. Nothing was ever casual, every move was choreographed for domination. There was something exciting about his relentlessness. I laid there flat on my back, looking up, waiting for his next move. He grabbed my chin and kissed me. As I melted under his kiss, his hand released my jaw and slid down across my body. My legs spread willingly even before he reached me down there.

“I don’t buy it,” I whispered, when the kiss broke.

“I think you do,” he said. “You buy it because you know it’s true. Because as fucked up as it is, deep down you know it. But it doesn’t matter whether you buy it.”

His head hovered over me, looking down. I waited for the next kiss. It was his game.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because you’ll do it for me,” he said, “and you’ll do it for him.”

The next kiss was light, teasing.

“What will I do?” I looked up at him.

Kiss. Longer lingering, fingers slid across my clit, wetness trickled down, one knee pulled up.

“Just what you did before. Be extra loud for me, extra-talkier, exaggerate your response for me, openly, overtly submissive to me, obedient in your role,” he said.

Even that first time, in the bar, just talking, he’d taken control, had been bold, fearless and openly sexual. I hadn’t been able to handle him, he’d handled me. I’d been unstrung, gone scurrying off to talk to Sam. But it was already too late, he’d already won, already completely dominated me, and submitting to his cock, was a forgone conclusion. When I’d come back, we both knew he was going to fuck me.

In hindsight, it felt right that he’d come in me, he’d owned me using his cock, inseminating me, making me carry his semen in my body was a powerful gesture, full of deep meaning as to our respective roles. I’d understood that on some level, that in ejaculating inside me, he had mastered me, reduced my body to a vessel for his sperm. There was something... profound in his doing that, and in my body’s acceptance of it.

“I will do that,” I agreed. “I will do what you tell me.”

He rewarded me with a kiss, and down below a finger drew a line up between my lips, parting them, dipping ever so slightly inside, during its journey. I gasped.

He was toying with me. He could make me come, he just didn’t intend to, not yet. I accepted it, it felt right, him in control. Oddly, it even felt right that I hadn’t reached orgasm that first time. It wasn’t about my pleasure or satisfaction. It was about his domination, about him taking his pleasure of me and laying his seed, making my body his. An orgasm would have made it about my satisfaction, denial of orgasm made it about my submission.

“As for Sam,” he said, “quieter, colder, less responsive. So he can tell the difference, so he can feel it. I liked how you were last time. That... maybe a little harsher.”

Harsher? I’d practically laid there in an exhausted coma.

And after that first time, even without an orgasm, I’d come crawling back to him each time, submitted instinctively, each time he’d claimed my body and I’d done whatever he wanted.

A thought occurred to me, he’d made me come every time since the first time. Had not making me come the first time been a deliberate decision by him? Had he deliberately defined me, established his power and my surrender all the way back then, from our first encounter.

“I won’t emasculate him for you,” I said. His fingers lifted, my hips rose to follow, but he denied me. I whimpered involuntarily.

Despite my lust, I kept following the idea. Maybe not making me come the first time was a strategy, just like his coming inside me might have been.

Had his possibly deliberate denial created the lust that made me submit to him? If I’d come that first time, would I have needed to come back? Would I have drawn back. Was that what had addicted me to him? Had he deliberately addicted me to his domination that very first encounter?

“I’m not asking you to emasculate him,” he told me. “Just be... a little harsher, just a little bit crueler in role play. I’ll ease off, I promise, but you have to dial up. You know him better, what works, what he can handle, when to let him breathe... He’s safer with you. Remember.”

I thought back our earlier encounter. Fuck, I’d figured my chances were fifty fifty at getting out of here without having to have sex with him. I’d been a fool, lying to myself. They’d been zero all along.

The minute I’d walked through the door, he’d run rings around me, carefully unstringing me until I was practically begging to get on my knees and suck his cock, and absolutely getting off. He’d turned me into a begging, whimpering, quivering sex toy without any effort at all.

And now... lying on my back, waiting for him, having surrendered my body and surrendered my initiative.

“All right,” I said. “Yes.”

He smiled. His hand settled like a great moth over my pussy, the heel of his palm fluttering against my clit, a finger slipped inside. I gasped.

“You’re so wet!” he told me.

“You see,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt him, or for you to hurt him. I only want to take away his manhood. You will help me.”

It wasn’t a request, it wasn’t even a command. It was an imperative. I was aware that some rational part of me should be saying something like ‘What the living hell? That is so fucked up!’

But for whatever reason, it was completely still. I could conceive it in the abstract. But it was weightless of no intellectual or emotional significance. It was like being told the mass of some random star on the other side of the universe. Okay, it’s true, so what? Emotionally, intellectually, I could only accept it. It felt so cruel. But it also felt so very right.

“Yes,” I surrendered, some part of me quavering. Part of me wanted to play act for him, be his bitch in heat.

Part of me hungered to crush, to feel and use power. Part of me desperately told itself that this was right.

And part of me knew Sam was into it, deep into it. As long as it didn’t harm him. If he was into being cucked, wasn’t it all just fine? I could fuck Leroy in front of him, submit and dominate at once and he could jerk off.

Why not?

What was wrong with that?

What the fuck was wrong with me? A teeny, tiny voice inside me whispered. But my pussy was drenched and clenching and I was moaning, and so fucking horny. I didn’t want to pay attention to it.

“It will all work out,” he promised. “We’re helping him.”

He kissed me passionately, his fingers slipping up deep, moving quickly. I gasped and gasped again. He took me right to the edge of orgasm, to the point where my spine was arching, my shoulders lifting. But again, he didn’t let me go over.

Now I was lying naked in his bed, as he undressed, intent on fucking me, fucking my ass, and I couldn’t imagine not doing it. The idea of not taking his cock seemed unthinkable, almost unnatural. Here I was, there was no other path. And I wanted it.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Was it me?

Or was it him? I didn’t give a shit.

“You bastard,” I whispered. “You are so good at making me do what you want.”

He smiled, amused.

“No,” he said. “I’m good at making you want what I do.”

At those words, my body seemed to convulse. It wasn’t an orgasm, not really. It was like a shock, there was something so true, so dark and deep, so utterly revealing that I my body couldn’t help but react as if to a blow or a surprise. He makes me want what he does, oh god, that was so much deeper, so much more terrifying than simply submitting, or wanting to submit. I drew a great heaving breath.

“Wow,” I gasped. “What a way to put it.”

“But it’s true,” he said, “and you know what it means.”

“Yes,” I whispered, looking up at him. I thought I’d surrendered to him, but now it was as if I’d fallen deeper.

“What do you want now?” he asked.

I licked my lips, knowing exactly what he wanted me to say, and needing to say it.

“I want you to fuck me up the ass,” I whispered, “now, privately, just the two of us. I want you to take my cherry. I want Sam to watch your sloppy seconds, and think he’s seeing the real thing. Because he’s a cuck, and he doesn’t deserve any better. He’ll watch and think he’s seeing you take my cherry, seeing how good you are, how much I love it when you do. He’ll know how much better you are than him, again.”

Leroy was as transparent as a pane of glass, I knew exactly what he wanted and why he wanted. He was so simple and obvious. The dark thing was, he made me want it too.

He grinned, he had this gloating, triumphant grin, a grin that he only wore when he knew he’d won completely, and more importantly, his opponent had lost totally. I hated that grin, and loved it, and when he wore it, my pussy drenched and I would do anything he told me.

“What else?”

I reached down, feeling my way along his body, until my hand wrapped around his cock. It was no longer flaccid, not hard by any means, but thick and full. On some level, I knew that fucking with my head excited him, that winning a mental duel was a turn on. Almost as much as losing a battle of wills was a turn on for me.

“I want to suck your cock until it’s rock hard,” I whispered. “So you can fuck my ass without a drop of mercy, so you can make it yours beyond any doubt, own it, the way you own the rest of me.”

Again, that gloating grin.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

I lifted up, and he held in place, allowing me to kiss him. I turned and crawled, wiggled down on the bed working between his legs, while he pulled himself up, propping himself so he could watch.

I grinned. I just accepted he was going to fuck me however he wanted, that I would let him, and that I would love it. At least physically, I would love it. Hell, I craved whatever he wanted to do, at least in the moment. Thinking was so overrated. I didn’t want to think.

Again, that teeny voice in the back of my mind warned me. I ignored it.

Soon I was laying between his spread thighs, my forearms folded under me.

I leaned forward, and licked his not quite limp cock, pushing it with my tongue, then I looked up at him, expectantly.

“Go for it.”

Eyes wide and shining, mouth wider, tongue sticking out as far as I could, I crept up on my prey was Leroy watched. The cock, heavy but still limp, the crown curving and slightly moist, rested passively atop his close cut scrotum, surrounded by artfully trimmed pubic hair.

Was that a twitch? I paused, staring, waiting to see if would move again on its own.

Then I pounced! My head darted forward quick as a cat, my tongue dabbed the head, slid around and under. Lifting it on my tongue, my head dived, and I swallowed his cock in one lunge all the way down to its base. My chin nestled in his scrotum, my lips pursed and stretched forward, I lifted my eyes up to him, playful and wicked. As he watched, I vibrated my tongue on the underside of his shaft and felt him throb slowly in response.

His gaze was carefully neutral, possessive, but reserved. It was a little disappointing, I let my eyes drop, focusing on the object of my worship, erecting the instrument of my ruin. His cock filled my mouth, stretched my jaw, and occupied me in a way that he didn’t when hard.

There was something exciting to me about sucking a cock that isn’t hard. Something satisfying, compelling. It’s like a different organ altogether, complete in itself, self contained. A hard cock is full of urgency and desire, of will and intention. It needs, it wants.

But when it’s not hard, there’s a different quality, it’s confident. That heavy shaft, the bold head is there, confident, it doesn’t need, it doesn’t desire, it simply exists, neither wanting nor needing. It’s pliable, you can bend it, squeeze it, it accommodates without fundamentally changing. In it’s own way, it’s fascinating. There’s a submission to serving it that slipped down to my core, to worship an object that does not care, that is indifferent... At first.

Sam was always enthralled to wake up with my mouth on his cock. But the truth was, I just wanted to commune with it, to have time with it, with him in my mouth, before the inevitability of his erection or his consciousness, one invariably pulling the other around. Before Sam, I’d barely been interested in them. But it was as if he had woken me, being in love had opened new worlds.

And now... with Derek, with Leroy, with all those erections in the walls of the peep show, they’d made me into a wanton cock sucking whore, eager to wrap her lips around any tool. I closed my eyes and imagined being back in the peep show. Naked this time. Kneeling, Blindfolded. Handcuffed. The door unlocked this time. A strange anonymous phallus sliding between my lips. Would it be hard and rough, hands pulling at my hair. Or gentle. Or simply presenting for my worship. I imagined my mouth flooding with semen, feeling it soften, retreat, and another taking its place.

I dreamed of being helpless, reduced to an object, sucking cock after cock, swallowing one ejaculation after another, my throat working constantly, my lips, my tongue in motion, my identity drifting away.

And after the hard ones, the returners, thick and heavy, but soft, demanding submission and service, teased and worshiped into erections, now hard and demanding.

I fucked my face slowly around Leroy’s cock, exploring it with my tongue, memorizing the shape in my mouth as it grew, no longer bending but slowly insisting on its own shape, taking on rigidity and firmness. My motion, the movement of my tongue and lips were reshaped as his cock shaped itself in my mouth, the pressure settling into rhythm, the tongue finding its path.

This was the other satisfaction of sucking a flaccid cock, feeling it respond to me. Feeling it wake, and pulse, swell and stiffen, come alive. There was something like control there, but also submission, the pleasure of a god waking to its worship.

“You are such a good cock sucker,” he said. “You love it, don’t you. You can always tell a girl who loves it.”

I rolled my eyes in pleasure, slowly dragging my head up and down his growing erection. There was no more teasing or play, only slow submission and surrender. Only fulfillment. I reached between my legs with one hand, feeling the weight of my body on my arm, as my fingers crept against my pussy. I humped myself slowly.

Leroy watched, my hips rise and fall, the pattern matching the bobbing of my head. He reached down, seizing my hair above my forehead, yanking me up and down on his swelling erection. He wasn’t rough, just controlling, I settled on the new pace and his grip eased, but did not release. My pelvic humping followed suit. He smiled, enjoying my submission and willing humiliation. I enjoyed my humiliation, a mindless, wanton slut air-humping to his cock’s thrusts between my lips.

“I might have to piss,” he said. “You’ll swallow, won’t you.”

For a moment, I froze, eyes widening, and he had to push my head down to restore my rhythm.

“Just kidding,” he laughed.

I felt my body flush hot. Was it just a joke, or the hint of some further perversion in my future? ‘I make you want what I do to you,” he’d said. Could he make me want that... Was that in my future? Would he do that to me? My pussy clenched wetly.

If it happened, I hope he would do it on his own impulse, and save me the indignity of having to ask for it.

I pushed the thought from my mind, pressed my lips tight around his shaft, slid down until I could feel him pressing the back of my throat, then lifted until only his head remained between my jaws. I kissed it passionately with my tongue.

“I think you’re ready,” he said, lifting my head off his cock. He did not release my hair. Instead, he maintained his grip, moving us both. At first, I tried to assume a submissive posture on all fours, ass up, but instead, he turned me until I was on my back, a pillow under my ass.

“Legs back,” he tapped my foot. “Pull your knees all the way up, up to your shoulders, bend them so your calves are flat, straighten your feet so your toes are pointed. Wrap your arms around them to hold them in place....”

I complied, moving as he directed me. “Spread wide. Wider... Perfect...”

He knelt, looming above me, looking down directly, his rigid cock resting against my lips. My ass and vagina were totally open to him. I gulped. My only lubrication was my own spit, if he shoved it in my ass, it would hurt.

“Jesus,” he said, staring down. “You’re fucking perfect. So submissive. So compliant. The only thing that could make you more perfect would be leather straps, holding you in place like this, trussed like a turkey. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

My heart was racing. Whatever was going to happen, however it was going to happen, it was going to be soon. I was terrified, but wild with eagerness.

“Yes.”

“Of course,” he said. “But for this, for your first time, your cherry plucking, I want it to be completely voluntary, no restraints at all, completely free to move, to run away, to change your mind, to say no... Except you won’t. Will you.”

“No.”

His cock, resting at the entrance to my vagina, slipped inside a couple of inches. He glanced down, and then ignored it.

“Tell me you want it,” he said.

“I want it,” I wasn’t lying. The whole visit had built up to this, I hungered for it.

“Tell me you want to give me your cherry,” he demanded.

“I want you to have it.” I licked my lips. “I want you to fuck my ass, to deflower me, to take me.”

“Do you want to know why I want you in this position?” he asked.

“You want to see my face, you want to look in my eyes, as you enter.”

His smile flickered. Even in my haze of lust and submission I could see the cruel joy in him.

“It’s going to hurt a little,” he said. “First times, it should hurt, so you appreciate it.”

He wanted to see the pain.

“I don’t care,” I whispered. “I want what you are going to do.”

And the fucked thing was I craved it. However he did it, however he wanted to do it. I wanted it, I needed it. I needed to be his slave, I needed to be claimed, to be property, to be his object. My cunt was so wet I barely felt his cock. My heart was racing, my mind was swimming, my pussy was lubricating nonstop.

He pulled his cock out of my pussy and teased it against my asshole.

Then he bent forward, almost on top of me, and pulled a small bottle of lubricant out from under a pillow. Had it been there all along. Part of me breathed a sigh of relief, at least it would be easier.

Some masochistic part of me curdled in disappointment, it wanted to be taken dry, or nearly so, forced open beyond any doubt, plundered utterly. I knew myself well enough, though, that the minute it really hurt, that part would curl up on itself and run away screaming.

He held the bottle high between us, letting lubricant pour down in a thin stream all over my pussy and inner thighs and ass. I could feel the cool trickles of the fluid working their way down in rivulets. He caught some in his hands and lubricated his cock. Then he spread it around my ass and asshole. I felt his finger penetrating me.

“You know,” he told me, “some girls, some boys, it’s no problem at all. They don’t even need lubrication, you can just shove it in, they take it, and they love it, as if they were made for it. As if they were waiting for it all their lives: For a cock fucking their ass.”

He slid a second finger in me, working two fingers back and forth.

“Then there’s some,” he said, “it doesn’t fucking matter, you can work on them all week. Rim them, lubricate, stretch them carefully with butt plugs, get the, stoned on weed or heroin, doesn’t fucking matter. They scream like pigs. It’s a continuum, from easy to horrible.”

Involuntarily, I shivered all over with delight and arousal.

Heroin? Screaming? Somewhere deep down, an alarm went off in my head at his words.

I quashed it and forgot about it.

I shifted position, my body shuddering. I couldn’t be still.

“Watch it,” he warned. “I’d rather not. But I will put you in straps.”

Which only made me shudder harder, my whole body shaking. I tightened my grip on my ankles. Fuck, he was so good at head games, it was unreal.

“I’m sorry, Sir!”

“Are you excited,” he whispered, pushing a third finger up my ass, and twisting it crudely. “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

He grinned.

“Good girl,” he told me. His fingers pulled away. He wiped a small shit smear on the outside of my thigh.

Leroy positioned his cock at my anus, settling in. I could feel him pressing gently, making sure he was seated.

“Ready?”

I nodded slightly, nervously. Staring up at me. There was a sadistic glee in his eyes that sent shivers through me. I tried my best to hold still.

“This is so exciting,” he said. “We get to find out what kind of anal pig you are. Where you fit on the continuum.”

He pressed. I gasped, and tightened against his pressure at my asshole. He pushed harder.

“Better you don’t try to fight it.” He grinned down at me. “Try to loosen, take deep breaths, concentrate on tightening, and letting go.”

The pressure was building, hurting a little. I took a series of deep breaths, in then out, each time, concentrating. I could feel myself tightening and loosening. His pressure, the pressure of his cock head against my asshole never let up, building slowly but steadily. Sam would have chosen his moment, easing off in tandem, testing, entering. Leroy was a bulldozer.

I exhaled, loosened, and suddenly Leroy pushed hard.

“Ahhh!!!” I cried out in pain, wincing and throwing my head back, as the head of his cock tore into me. My body tightened up, trapping him momentarily, with his head buried, locked in my sphincter. I was hyperventilating.

“Good girl,” he taunted. “Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

“Yes Sir,” I whimpered.

“Try to relax,” he told me. “Deep breaths. Concentrate on tightening, I’m not going anywhere. You can’t push me out. So tighten up, and then concentrate on letting go.”

I nodded. Gods, I was already drenched in sweat.

My thighs ached from being locked in position, and it felt like he’s lodged a greyhound bus in my sphincter.

It was the exact opposite of the way Sam did it. No wonder it hurt.

Adrenalin was coursing through me. My whole body was tingling, like I was on the verge of orgasm. I was terrified, elated, excited, aroused. Held in place, bound by my own submission, my body seemed ready to burst.

I had no control over my sphincter, it squeezed frantically, wrapping itself around the intruder, flexing and flexing, loosening only slightly, rapidly exhausting itself. He pushed again, forcing himself an inch or two.

“Ahhh!!” I tried out again, my breath left me, I sucked air desperately. “Uhhngg!!”

“There we go,” he exulted. “Can you feel it? I’m through. Your last fortress has fallen, your final gate is breached. You stupid little bitch, needing to be conquered. How does it feel, to finally be conquered? To be taken, to give up it up?”

His words swept through me, unraveling me. My mind was chaos, I was almost unable to speak. I felt hot and cold, euphoric, dizzy, disoriented. I had something massive in me, and my body had failed utterly, had fallen.

“T- T- Thank -k -k -k y- yo you,” I stuttered, staring up at him.

He grinned down at me.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and then he pushed. He was past the sphincter, no further resistance was possible. I could only squeeze him as his cock slid slowly, smoothly all the way in, until his hips were jammed against me, his pubic hair pressed against my despoiled asshole.

I could feel his cock, hot and hard, so deep inside me it was almost unbearable.

“You feel so good,” he whispered to me. “You are grade A ass. I can’t wait to do this to you in front of Sam. Then I’m going to fuck this ass every chance I get.”

He pulled back slowly, and plunged back in, enjoying. I felt the first hot throb of pleasure at this second deep penetration, feeling his cock pushing at the nerve clusters beyond my colon that made up my g-spot. He caught my shift of expression.

“Oh,” he said silkily, “you liked that? Let’s work on that...”

He slid all the way deep inside, bringing a gasp from me, bending down heavily over me. I think he wanted to kiss me, but he was only able to brush his lips against my forehead.

“Let’s see about turning our little Kayley into a proper anal pig,” he smiled. “Wouldn’t it be something, if Sam didn’t just watch me pluck your cherry, but watch me make you come... and harder than he ever did”

“Jesus Christ,” I moaned, blearily. The sensations rippled through me with each thrust. The soreness of my violation was still there, a burning sensation. But each thrust unspooled me further, pushing me towards both submission and the deep slow orgasms that come from anal sex.

Leroy fucked, slow and relentless, watching me go to pieces under him. With each thrust, I could feel my body submitting, my sphincter battered and defeated, loosening until he was pulling all the way out and sliding back in. My grip on one thigh loosed, and he caught it and held it in place. My muscles seemed to turn to trembling water. I panted and gasped, eyes only half seeing him. Sweat beaded and ran like rivulets across my body. He bent and licked it from my face, toyed with my breasts, pulled my nipples.

Through it all, I found myself descending deeper and deeper into submission, to this subspace, my mind shutting down, becoming a thing of nerve endings, of compliance, my will, my identity softening, dissolving.

“We’re going to cuckold Sam good, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” I moaned. I barely knew who Sam was, and didn’t care. I understood what he wanted, and wanted it as well, my will, my thoughts replaced. He slowed down, his angle changed, the irresistible pleasure diminished.

“Tell me about Sam,” he whispered.

Oh fuck, he was doing this now? Playing this stupid game? I squirmed with frustration, tried to move, but he had me pinned. I moaned. He gave me a deep stroke, and I felt hot pleasure ripple through me. I needed more.

“Sam?”

I met his eyes.

“Fuck Sam,” I whispered, unwilling to talk about it. He smiled, his cock sliding. Oh you bastard, I thought, this is what you want. I fed him. “He can go fuck himself.”

Another exquisite long deep thrust of his cock, sliding its length into my ass, filling my bowels. I groaned.

“You’re going to help me?” he asked. “You’ll do your part?”

His cock stopped moving inside me. There was a lucid moment in the distorted framework of my broken awareness.

I looked at him, it was like looking up from the bottom of a well and seeing stars. We both knew what he wanted me to say. I looked up into his eyes as he stared down at my naked, sweating impaled body. I gave him what he wanted.

“I’ll crush Sam for you,” I whispered, “like a little cuck bug.”

I knew it was a betrayal, but I didn’t care. Sam was vague and far away, insubstantial. Leroy was on top of me, had unstrung me, undressed me, had taken my body and will and made them his toys. He had driven his cock deep into my ass, and was pushing me to an orgasm I desperately hungered for, but knew he could easily deny if I displeased him.

“Good little pig,” he whispered. He bent me in half, his cock sliding so smooth and hard inside my rectum I was breathless. He kissed me passionately as sweat trickled off my body, and I returned it, utterly submissive, beyond submissive, owned.

He was thrusting harder, smooth strokes coming one after another. I could feel it building up inside me, a deep anal orgasm. Then it was happening, my spine arched and flexed, my arms and legs writhed, I gave this deep low moan. Then collapsed.

There was no trace of resistance anywhere. He fucked me for a few more minutes before coming himself. I was almost too exhausted to pay attention.

Leroy held himself deep in me, evacuating every last drop of semen into my bowels. I could feel his pulse in his cock as it steadily deflated, until finally, my battered body weakly pushed him out. He rolled over on his back, and pulled me into his arms. We laid there panting.

“Good little pig,” he whispered.

“Pig?” I mumbled. “What’s with that?”

“Pigs,” he said. “Pigs take it up the ass and like it...”

He thought for a moment.

“Or whether they don’t like it, they still take it...”

“Girls are pigs if they do anal?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“Or boys. There are girl pigs, I guess, boy pigs. The point is, pigs take it.”

“That’s strange,” I said, “where did you pick that up?”

Shrugged again.

“Prison,” he said. “Prison terminology, I guess.”

I tensed.

“You were in prison?”

“Me?” he said quickly. “No! I just used to hang with some guys who’d been. Picked up the slang.”

He nudged me.

“Time to clean me up,” he said. He caught the look on my face. “No, don’t worry. Go to the bathroom, get a wet washcloth. After you use that, you use your mouth.”

I did as ordered, cleaning myself and him. I think he was disappointed at the absence of blood from the washcloth. I felt really tender, but okay. I sucked his cock but this time it was thoroughly flattened, there would be no raising up to life.

After that, it was over. Moving carefully, I took a shower and cleaned up while he watched.

He walked me to the door, but then instead of opening it, he pushed me up against it, and kissed me passionately. His hands went up inside my sweater to fondle my bare breasts. I went with the kiss, surrendering to it, enjoying the intimacy. It was fucked up that he’d waited to the end, but damn, he knew how to kiss.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t want you talking about this with Sam. I don’t want him to know that you were here and I popped you. I want him to believe that he’s watching me take your anal virginity.”

“Yeah, I understand,” I said tiredly. “Okay.”

It made sense, and I couldn’t see the harm. This was all theatre and role play after all. I knew this was his first run, so yes, Sam shouldn’t know about it. It would happen in front of Sam anyway.

“Did you tell him you were coming here today?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I was going to when I got home. We’d talked about me coming over.”

“Let’s keep it vanilla. He doesn’t need to know about any part of this visit. Let’s just say we met for coffee someplace. Let him know, you’re up for the next session, this Thursday. Tell him no overnight, tell him that’s your decision. We had a conversation, I was respectful, you set some rules, and I agreed. That’s all he needs to know.”

I hesitated.

“I don’t know...”

“You’re not lying to him,” Leroy said. “He already knows I’ve fucked you a bunch of times. Hell, he’s helped me fuck you. Just don’t tell him about this one.”

His hand was on my shoulder. He was looking me straight in the eye, his gaze intent. It was hard to meet it.

“All right.”

It was too complicated and awkward, even if he didn’t mind the blow job and anal, and I knew Sam wouldn’t... he’s not jealous. The anal was theatre, I couldn’t really tell him that, or it would spoil Leroy’s effect. I’d have to say it was just sex. But the other parts, the discussions, the role adjustment, Leroy’s bizarre theories... even if they made sense, I couldn’t imaging them coming out of my mouth.

I realized I had no good way to explain or relate this visit. It was better to just give him the story Leroy wanted, and to let things slide.

It would work out in the end, like Leroy said. So there was no harm.

“Promise?”

“Yes,” I said. I gave up. “I promise.”

My promise was actually a relief. This whole thing had been so fucked up, I had been struggling with myself to figure out how to tell it to Sam. How to explain everything that had happened, when on some deep levels, I didn’t even understand it myself.

This gave me breathing room to figure out what the hell was going on in my head and what the hell I was doing, so I could have some hope of sharing it with Sam. It wasn’t lying to him, just sort of delaying, putting off a difficult conversation.

It was very clearly temporary. I mean, only until after Leroy took me anally in front of Sam. So a week or so. Then we’d all be clear, and my head would be straight.

And my head definitely needed to be straight. Sam’s too.

We needed to have a really serious conversation about Leroy and where he was going with us. We needed to take back control.

Because yes, he was charming and fun and exciting, and he had a great cock and all that. But fuck, there were aspects of him that I wasn’t sure I wanted in our life. And if it was a package deal, then maybe we needed to ‘return to sender’ and move on.

Leroy wasn’t finished.

“Some rules,” he said.

“Yes?”

Oh, what is it now? Geez.

“You never wear underwear, especially panties, around me again.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Another time, that might have been exciting. But it just sounded tiresome.

“From now on,” he said, “you’re mine. Whenever I want you, if I call, you come. If it’s the middle of the night and you’re sleeping next to Sam, you come when I call. If you’re at work, in the middle of a meeting, and I call, you say whatever you have to but you walk out and you come to me. Family dinner at Christmas... If I call–”

“I walk out and go to you,” I finished lamely.

Fuck that, I thought. I was too exhausted and worn down to resist. But screw him for making this demand, for exacting these promises when I was so wrung out. I wasn’t going to, I decided, no walking out on Sam, or work or social life to cater to him. He could demand, but when it came up...

“Good girl,” he said. And it was finally over, the door closed behind me.

My legs were shaky. I felt physically and emotionally wrung out. Flattened and exhausted. I felt sexually overwhelmed, but oddly still craving. My head was messed up, a morass of conflicting ideas and images and urges.

As I stood in the elevator waiting for ground floor, then walked unsteadily out of the building, I realized I was in no shape to go back home, or to see Sam. Not right away.

I needed to decompress, to find some quiet, dark place to hole up, to let the experience wash through me, and just unwind. A place to come to terms with all this dark sexual energy flowing through me.

I thought of the peep show...

Cuck Wanted

Idea for a story - Arrogant, sadistic, slutty trust-fund bitch decides she wants a cuckold to humiiate and degrade. So she puts up an advert or a singles profile, and goes trolling.

She interviews several men as her potential cuck, taking the opportunity to degrade and humiliate them, putting them through tests that eventually they either refuse or fail.

Until one guy comes along. Seems like the perfect cuck, the only thing wrong with him is that his cock is way too big, but apart from that, total doormat.

So her offer to him is: We will be officially 'together' so I have someone vanilla and acceptable, around my parents and friends, and to pick up my dry cleaning, shit like that. But I am absolutely going to whore around, and go out of my way to humiliate and degrade you. You'll never ever touch me, but sometimes I'll let you watch and maybe jerk off.

She's true to form. She's the most toxic bitch in the world. Her parents and friends love him to pieces, which annoys the fuck out of her. She goes wildly whoring, going out of her way to humiliate him, which he seems to thrive on.

But when she's not being a complete fucking sadist, she finds herself reluctantly starting to like him. He's convenient to have around.

And her sex life is getting better and better. The sleazy fucktards, the studs, the nasty pieces of work that makes her pussy wet... they're getting better. When you fuck pieces of shit, bad sex goes with the territory. Pieces of shit, as a whole, aren't really good in the sack, you have to wade through a lot of turds to find the gems. But lately, she's turning up more and more gems, guys perfect for her taste, that are gold plated fuck machines.

She starts to realize, it's him. Her cuck. He's figured out and understands her tastes well enough that he's been recruiting winners, even telling them what to do with her or how to treat her, and pointing her at them... while quietly weeding out the losers.

That's the start...

Cock Cages

WARNING: THIS MAY BE A LITTLE GROSS FOR MEN, SO IF YOU HAVE JUNK ON THE OUTSIDE, MAYBE YOU DON'T WANT TO READ IT. JUST SAYING.

I just put up a story, Eve's Cage, which is not about me, but deals with ... you know. So I thought I'd talk about.

I'm not really a fan of cock cages, or chastity devices, for men and women. I've got a book somewhere that a girlfriend gave me a long time ago, about patents for anti-masturbation devices for girls in the 19th century (it's a real book!) and that is seriously fucked up.

Honestly, I like my cocks free range, thank you very much. And as far as female chastity devices. Yikes! Nothing should ever get between a woman and her clitoris.

But I do have an experience, sort of with a chastity cage.

This was years ago in Vancouver, I was kind of on the edges of the lifestyle. Still into rough sex, but drifting away from it. There were a lot of really good people in the lifestyle, there has to be, it's really all about trust. You can't trust assholes, so they tended to be identified and frozen out. But I was around the fringes, not the mainstream. It's really fucked up to describe the lifestyle in terms of mainstream and fringes - by definition, the lifestyle was far out there.

But go figure. I think any culture or subculture inevitably starts to organize itself, sometimes in toxic, sometimes in positive ways.

Anyway, I was there on the edges, I hung out a bit, dated some, played some, socialized a bit.

I got to know these bi-guys, and had a fling with them. Dave and Danny (not their real names). Danny was sweet, he had that fuckable softness and innocence that you see in some gay or bi men. Dave, much pushier, verging on asshole. I remember, he had a staple gun and at some fetish scenes he'd go around stapling people (volunteers).

I wasn't really supportive of that because I was a bit of a prude by then, and really - staples? They're not sterilized, they can't be sterilized, it's just cheap porous metal, you can't sterilize the staple gun. What the fuck? Someone told me 'boil it in water, that will sterilize it. Really? Immerse it in fucking water, leave water residue in all those hidden inaccessible parts and crevices to rust or cradle bacteria, and then just wait and you've got a sepsis gun. Fuck! What is wrong with people?

I didn't introduce them to each other, or even get them together. But they weren't together before we started playing. And after at some point they were together.

We did some DP and some games. It was a lot of fun, casual fun, without any real baggage. DP is such an art form. It's best to do it with bi-men, or at least guys who won't jump screaming out of bed at an accidental touch with another guy, or won't be hyper-vigilant about avoiding the touch.

It was fun off and on. But after they hooked up and became an item, it was less fun. There was a lot of negative energy in their dynamic. It seemed to push the extremes of their personalities. Danny became softer, more pliable. Dave was more of a jerk. Negative energy.

I stayed on good terms, we saw each other in the same places, among the same people. I just didn't play with them. I'd see Dave leading Danny around on a leash. Even in public. I guess it worked for them. Oh and Danny ended up in a cage. They were very proud of that. I was even invited to feel it through Danny's tie-dyed jockstrap at a party.

Anyway, a few months later, I got a call from Danny, asking me to help him with something. He'd broken up with Dave, which I sort of approved of, but it had been messy.

I said okay. I really didn't want to. I mean, if he asked me for money, I didn't have much. If he wanted to park on my couch for a couple of months, no way. And if he saw me as his back up relationship, fuck that. But I thought I'd see. I'd learned to say no.

What he needed me for was to get his chastity device off. At first it had been off and on, then longer and longer, and for the last while ... weeks at least, maybe a month or months, I have no idea. Anyway, the break up had been nasty. Dave had flushed the keys down the toilet.

Now it was the next week, and Danny was contacting me to help get it off.

Honestly, my first impulse was to be bemused. I wanted to laugh, it just seemed so silly. Okay, sure.

That ended when I had him roll down his jeans.

I could smell it. Seriously. I could smell his genitals the minute it came off, and it didn't smell normal, or good.

There was a slimy smear on the insides of his underwear.

And his junk, what I could see of it, was swollen and purple yellow in the transparent plastic penis sheath. His scrotum was bloated and angry red, and looked sweaty.

I thought, "Holy shit."

I didn't even want to deal with it. This was something for a hospital. But he refused to go. The entire week since the break up he'd been sleeping on couches, hiding it from everyone while it got worse and worse, until finally he'd come to me.

All right, so he'd made it my problem. I didn't want to even touch it. I put on gloves and examined it. It was just some standard little shitty dollar store lock, the kind you bought a buck ninety nine.

My first idea was to just get another key. These are shitty little locks. I didn't think the company that made them spent all that much money. They probably only had a handful of tumble combinations. So, just go to the dollar store. Buy a dozen or so, and keep trying until you got a key that worked.

Luckily, I took a look. Know what I found? Glue. Dave had squirted glue into the keyhole. Danny had no idea, so it must have been when he'd been asleep or stoned. It must have been a power trip for Dave, I don't know what he was thinking. I still don't, I never talked to him after.

All right, Plan B. We went to the hardware store. I bought a little hack saw, some clamps, a few other tools I thought we might need, and some gloves.

Then we went back home. At first I tried snipping it with pliers, but it was too thick. Then I tried using the hack saw, but the motion really hurt him. Danny had been in pain or discomfort for weeks and he'd masked it with drugs, advil and weed. But it was getting past that now. And given the shape of it, I was worried about tearing something.

So I set up the clamps on the kitchen table to brace it, then I clamped his device and I sawed through the lock, very carefully and slowly. No rushing. I didn't want the saw to slip and rip into his flesh. I had to stop in the middle, just to get a breath, because the smell was so bad.

But we got the lock off.

And the device wouldn't come off. It was stuck to his swollen flesh. Danny was having a panic attack, so I had to calm him down. I took him into the bedroom and laid down beside him and cuddled him until he relaxed.

When he was all right, I got him to lay with his ass on the edge of the bed, and his legs up in the air, spread. We joked that this was what it was like to be on a gynecology table.

Then I went down (not in that sense) and worked at trying to free him. I didn't have the proper tools for it. I can't even imagine what tools you'd have specialized for this. I didn't even have sounds (I do now, but that's another story, and I haven't even used those for years) (they wouldn't have helped in this situation). So I made do with a manicure kit, nail file, tweezers, etc.. Sterilized everything first with a lighter, just in case.

At first, nothing. His flesh was melded to the cheap plastic. But I had vaginal lubricant, water based, so I started using that to moisten the skin and try and squirt lubricant fluid in there, as I teased the flesh loose.

The scrotum ring came off fairly easily. Oh, you should have heard his sigh of relief. But the penis sheath was tough. Skin protruded through the holes in it, and I had to work all those through, and as I said, he wasn't just swollen, he was bonded. It took half an hour before I got the last piece off. It was all using the tweezers or nail file to loosen and lift the skin a millimeter at a time, then squirt a little lubricant in with this little squirt ball, give it a minute to work its way in, then lift another millimeter and try not to tear anything. It was so gross.

It still looked horrible. It reaked, and if anything, now it was uglier than ever, the purples and yellows, the swollen puffiness, the slimy discharge, the smell.

Honestly, I wanted to be sick, but I didn't want another panic attack, so I just played it calm and positive, and told him that now that it was off, I was going to clean him up.

I should have done that in the bathroom, but I didn't want him moving. So I filled a pot with lukewarm water, and got a washcloth and a turkey baster, and all my dry wipes. I'd have liked to use wet wipes, but I was afraid that the alcohol content or chemicals might burn him. Anyway, I cleaned off around his genitals. Then I gently squirted water, dabbed it dry, wiped as much as I dared and repeated the process. That was another hour. He couldn't hold the position, he kept having to put his legs down. So he'd rest, we'd talk for a few minutes, mostly casual shit. Then he'd put his legs up and I'd continue.

It looked better cleaned up, and that got rid of a lot of the smell, but it still looked like shit.

Okay, it was time to go to the hospital. Danny was dead set against it. Now that it was off, he just figured he'd be okay, he'd recover in a few days. He tried to hit me up for some money for weed, so he could have something while it sorted out.

I lost my temper. Well, not a full tantrum. But I put my foot down and insisted. He was so fucking reluctant.

Eventually, we compromised, I agreed to go with him to the hospital and hold his hand.

I remember we put all the pieces of the device into a ziplock bag in case the hospital or doctors needed it for forensic purposes. And then that ziplock bag went into another ziplock bag before I allowed it into my purse. Yes, it went into my purse. I wasn't going to walk around with a transparent ziplock bag, or even a plastic bag, with that thing.

So off we went to the Emergency room, where we got triaged and waited for almost eight hours. Fuck me!

I learned later that if we'd just called an ambulance, he would have been triaged on the spot and probably been seen right away. So if you're ever injured or fucked up, don't walk into Emergency on your own, call the ambulance.

Finally, we saw a Doctor. I had to pretend to be his wife to go into the examining room. The Doctor was an East Indian guy, young man. I started off by explaining I wasn't his wife, just his friend, and some of the background as to what had happened, and what I'd done. Basically, I didn't want to be blamed for what he was going to see. If I'd made a mistake or fucked up trying to help him, okay, I'd accept that. But the condition? Nope. He listened very patiently, and finally asked to see it.

So we showed it.

Five minutes later, he was being checked in and wheeled.

All the parts in the ziplock in the ziplock. I showed it to them, but they wouldn't even touch it inside two ziplocks. They held the wastebin open and I dropped it in. What a waste of time.

That was it. They had him. I went home, my good deed was done.

When I got home, I threw out the nail set, the clamps, the hacksaw, the bedsheets, everything, and scrubbed everything down. Just... ick!

Danny was in the hospital for three days. I'm not sure what they did for him. Lots of antibiotics I assume. But after that, who knows. They had him on an IV when I came to visit, but I didn't see under the covers. He was in good spirits.

It wasn't gangrene or a septic infection or anything weird, like I feared. It was a runaway fungal infection. External Trichomoniasis or something like that. Honestly, I wasn't actual next of kin, so the hospital wasn't telling me much. And Danny was pretty vague. I'm not even sure that they ever confirmed or figured out what kind of fungus it was. Maybe toe fungus or athletes foot. I heard about something called trenchfoot at a WWI display at a museum once. I don't think they cared really, as long as it responded to treatment and they got rid of it.

I don't know how serious it actually was. I was worried that he might lose everything down there. Particularly if it was gangrene or septic infections or something. Even fungal ... I don't know, maybe? It looked really fucking bad. But who knows, maybe it wasn't nearly as serious as it looked and all it needed was some regular antifungal baths. Maybe he didn't even have to be in the hospital. Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe it was all nothing.

And honestly, I didn't do anything for him that the hospital wouldn't have done, and probably done better, if he hadn't been too chickenshit to just go directly. So I'm not Saint Eve, or anything like that.

Danny was okay. He didn't have sex for a while, or if he did, he was catching, not pitching. He had some scarring on his penis, especially the head, but you wouldn't notice it, unless you knew what to look for and what it was you were looking at.

So I've heard. I never ever came near his cock after that. Not after what I'd seen and done.

Danny was off guys, especially Dom guys. He hooked up with this heavy chick who was into pegging. She didn't like me much, but that was cool. They were together for a while. We lost touch.

Dave? The story got around. Luckily, I mostly got left out of it. But Dave his name was complete shit. He was completely ostracized, to the point that if anyone was aware he was even talking to someone, someone would find that someone, take them aside and fill them in on what Dave had done. I don't know if Dave hung around Vancouver for long, or what happened to him. I don't really give a shit.

The story travelled. I heard about it a couple of years later, in Toronto. All the details and names stripped away, but the essentials were there. I think it passed into urban legend, before slowly being forgotten.

I asked Danny once, afterwards, why he'd come to me of all people. He said it was because I was the most together person he'd ever met. I found that hilarious. Me? Holy shit! The nonstop whirlwind of fucking up? Me?

I don't really have anything against Chastity Play. I've seen and been around it before and after. Done correctly, it's safe enough.

If you were going to do it, I'd say go all the way, use a device made from surgical steel. Go high end. But fuck, cheap porous plastic? Oh my god.

I won't do it myself. To me it's like 'Eyeball Play' - yeah, just not a good idea. Edge all you want. But at the end of the day, take good care of your stuff.

And, you know, for what it's worth... take care of each other, look out for each other. I went through some fucked up (not as fucked up as what Danny had, but fucked up in other ways) things, but I made it because people looked out for me at moments.

Looking after Danny was a giant pain in the ass, wrecked my whole night. But he needed someone. And you don't ask whether they deserve it or not, or whether they did it to themselves, or shit like that. Someone needs help, even for something stupid, you help them.

Look out for each other, that's the only way we all make it.

EVE'S CAGE

Eve brought home a box and set it down on the coffee table in front of them.

Allan looked at her, she'd just returned from one of Chris's encounters. As usual, her hair was disheveled, her pupils were dilated, she was slightly flush, she moved with a kind of boneless loose limbed grace. Despite herself, she smelled of sex and submission. Even her breath smelled slightly of him, of his cock and his semen.

Whenever she came back from Chris, she was a little off, as if he'd changed her head space and it took a little time to refocus as herself.

Allan knew Chris ruthlessly demanded deep submission from her, he enforced it. And in their psychological and sexual dance, she yielded. It excited him to see her totally subsumed like this, imagining what she did or would do or would be capable of doing.

When Eve was like this, he felt a subliminal excitement. He saw the pictures, the text messages, even the video clips. He listened to Chris's heavy handed innuendo, always just short of openly saying 'I'm fucking your wife, and fucking you over.' He heard her stories.

But when she was like this, after a session with Chris, bottoming out in submission, when the woman he knew and loved had been replaced and reshaped... there was something about that, which made his heart pound.

She put the box on the table and nuzzled up to him on the couch, curling against him like a cat.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A gift from Chris."

&&&

It was like a frog in a pan of water, slowly heating up.

Eve had always had a submissive streak. Perhaps that was why he'd won her. He had pursued, and she'd allowed herself to be taken, to fall in love, to grow close.

But Allan was never truly dominant. He wasn't submissive either. His personality, and his world view, the way he thought and lived simply didn't operate on that narrow spectrum. He could do it, but his heart wasn't in it. He simply wanted to live, to love, to enjoy life. Games and hierarchies touched no innate need within him.

But it was in Eve. There was something there, a need, a craving, ignored or overlooked, but a little crack in her soul that ran down all the way to the core. A crack that could be opened, that wanted to open. There was something Eve needed, that Allan hadn't understood. And because it wasn't truly in him, it was a need that he couldn't meet for her.

Which was where Chris had come in. He'd been Allan's co-worker. They hadn't been friends, perhaps not technically rivals. But they were associates, they socialized and inevitably, Chris had met Allan's wife.

And then... He'd seen something in her. Or she'd seen something to him. A like calling to like, reversed poles inevitably attracted to each other, some irresistible chemistry.

The thing was, Eve loved Allan with all her heart, with her entire being, she could never let him go, could never be without him. He was her life.

But there was her flaw, her need, the crack in her he couldn't fill or touch.

But Chris could.

Eve was fulfilled, and Allan, who loved her more than anything, could not find it in him to deny her the fulfillment of a need, the satisfaction of a craving. If he couldn't understand it, he at least recognized it. If he could not meet it, he could help her in other ways.

So the journey had begun. A conversation, and then another conversation. A negotiation. A tentative try. Something very small, very confined. Then something else. Step by step. Eve remained with Allan, their relationship stronger than ever. But Eve also walked another path, descending slowly towards the deepest part of her soul.

Sometimes, to Allan, it seemed that there were two Eve's. The woman he loved, and the thing that Chris owned. Allan maintained his boundaries, he didn't play Chris's game. He had his life with Eve. Eve had another life with Chris.

It's amazing what you could find yourself accepting, if it all happened slowly enough. That, he would tell himself, is what happened to Eve, what Chris had made her into. But it was also their marriage.

&&&

"A gift from Chris?" he repeated.

That was intriguing. Chris was far too selfish for any thoughtfulness. It could only be something evil, some diabolical humiliation Chris had cooked up.

His cock stiffened in his pants. Eve, her hand laying casually in his lap, felt his response. He felt the sharpening of arousal.

"Oh?"

Eve's hand slid around his cock. He was hardening rapidly.

"It's a chastity device?"

"A what?"

"A cock cage," Eve said, "to contain a man's cock and balls, and keep him from getting fully erect, and to make sure that he can't do anything with it. It's a tungsten-steel alloy one, almost impossible to cut, with a lock built in. Very expensive and high end."

Allan's breath caught in his throat.

"Once it's on," she said, "it's on permanently. It can only be taken off with the key."

"Interesting," Allan replied. It was the most neutral thing he could think of.

"He wants me to put it on you," she said. "To make you wear it."

Suddenly, Allan's heart was beating rapidly, his cock was rock hard.

"Does he now?"

"I agreed to it of course," she said. "You know what happens to me when I'm under his control I want to serve him, to please him, I have this craving to do anything he tells me. I promised him that I would do whatever it took to persuade you to be locked up."

Her hand was stroking his cock.

"When I'm with him, he controls me. When he gave me the box and told me what he wanted, all I wanted to do was obey him completely, and put my husband's cock in a cage."

"How about now," Allan breathed, flushing. His arousal was reaching fever pitch.

"I've got better things to do with my husband's cock than lock it up," she teased. "That would be such a sin."

"Still," Eve hesitated. "I can feel a little bit of his influence over me. It's fading though."

"Well," Allan said. Eve's hand was stroking him gently, her warm body, pressing against him. He could feel her breath against his neck as she laid against him and whispered.

On the coffee table, the box radiated malevolent sensuality.

"I hear some men like to caged up," Eve said. "Sometimes for the denial, sometimes for the submission. I hear some women like to cage their men, to show them their place, to take their power."

Allan swallowed. Staring at the box.

"Have you ever thought of it," she teased.

It occurred to Allan that she might not be completely free of Chris's spell, that she was still under his influence, still bent to his will. Was she trying to tempt him, persuade him?

"Not really."

"Not really?" she teased. "So a little? It crossed your mind."

"No," he said.

She pouted. His loving wife or Chris's willing slave, where was the boundary line?

The box sat in front of them on the coffee table, full of mystery. Allan vaguely understood chastity devices, he'd never really seen or handled one. But there'd been remarks, and glimpses in pictures.

And now one was sitting right in front of him like a coiled Cobra, full of danger and menace and excitement.

One specially for him.

Contained and hidden inside that cardboard frame.

Something of gleaming steel, and curves and bands, and a locking mechanism.

He swallowed.

"Shall we take a look?" he said finally, trying to keep his voice normal.

"Sure."

Eve leaned forward to pluck it off the table, and the held it in their lap.

"Have you seen it," Allan asked.

"No," Eve lied. "It was just in the box. But it cost Chris a hell of a lot of money, apparently it's very high end. Top of the line. Nothing but the best," she joked.

"Or he wanted something that was escape proof," Allan said.

Eve frowned slightly. Those were almost Chris's exact words.

Together, they opened the box. The device was covered in plastic sheets, sitting in molds. Piece by piece, they excavated it, pulling each piece of plastic off, examining every piece of metal. The thing was build like a puzzle, of pieces to assemble together.

"Here's a picture of what it looks like, honey," Eve said, holding up a glossy page.

Allan held up different pieces, trying to fit them together, the way they showed on the brochure. It made his heart race with both anticipation and panic.

Eve read from the back. "Lifetime guarantee," she announced. "Well, that's not disturbing. It says here, it's a blend of tungsten-titanium-steel. No wonder it's so expensive. Almost impossible to cut, trying to cut through it would heat the metal enough to burn."

"Yikes," Allan said, holding a series of curving loops on a frame. This, he thought, would be where his cock goes.

"There's a built in locking mechanism to hold it together," she said. "Once locked, it can only be opened with a special key."

She read further.

"Listen to this, each lock is precision engineered. This is made in Switzerland. It can only be opened with the key, and only two keys are made - they guarantee it."

She looked in the box and reached in, lifting a little plastic bag out. She handed it to Allan, who pulled out the keys.

"These right here. These are the only keys in the world for this lock. If they get lost, that's it."

"There's a warning against tampering with the locks. Apparently, if they're tampered with, that's it, they break and its locked forever."

Allan controlled his breathing.

"Pretty scary stuff," he said, putting it down.

Carefully, they replaced the plastic covering on each piece of hinged metal, laid them back in the fitted cardboard in order. Chris sealed the box and put it back on the table, the Cobra coiled back in its basket.

"Well," Allan joked. "I'll say this about Chris, he doesn't skimp."

"No," Eve said. "When Chris wants something, he goes all the way... to the limit... and past."

Allan glanced at her. There was something worshipful in her purr. He knew Chris had taken her all the way to the limit and past again and again. Was she completely back.

Allan tried to laugh.

"I don't think I'll be going in a cage tonight," he said. "I've got somewhere else I want to put my cock."

He kissed her, and she giggled joyfully. The old Eve was back.

"I want you to put it there hard," she said. "As many times as you can."

Laughing, they headed up to the bedroom to make love. But before they did, Eve said one more thing, the old Eve faded for just a second, and whatever Chris was shaping seemed to look out.

"Chris gave me a week to cage you."

&&&

The sex was amazing. Wild, exhausting and uninhibited.

When it was over, she held his cock, and told him the things Chris had done to her, how willingly she'd accepted his domination, how utterly she submitted.

She always told him everything that happened, everything he did to her.

He was hard and fucked her all over again, his mind full of images of Chris using her perfect body.

Afterwards, she cuddled up against him and went to sleep. He spooned her, thinking about Chris, and about the box on the coffee table.

&&&

The next day, the box was still sitting where they'd left it, on the coffee table. He ignored it, except that he couldn't ignore it. He was completely aware of it sitting there, brooding, no matter what he did, no matter what he and Eve said, as they went about their day, Allan was entirely aware of the box, where it was, what was inside it.

Whenever he thought of it, he would start to get hard.

&&&

The next morning when he woke up beside Eve, her body pressing against him, he knew two things. The warmth of her, and the damned box waiting downstairs on the coffee table. The cobra coiled I n its basket.

Neither of them mentioned it, going downstairs and having breakfast together. Eve went off to work.

Allan sat down on the couch, staring at the coffee table.

He stared at it for a long time.

Finally, he hunched forward and opened the lid. Once again, he carefully took each piece out of its molded saddle, carefully pulled the plastic sleeves off and laid each gleaming silver component out on the coffee table side by side, turning each piece over, examining it, weighing them, running his fingers along the polished metal. It was cool to the touch, rigid and unyielding, supervising light weight even when collected together.

It was almost beautiful in a way. Not clunky or heavy, but like a work of art, all gleaming ribs and curves, soft angles. It was graceful, like the bones of a bird. A thing of elegance, made to capture, contain and control.

Allan picked up the piece which was supposed to fit around his cock, like a bird's arching neck. He squeezed it in his hand, it was unyielding. He placed it on the table and put all his weight on it, it didn't bulge a millimeter. Despite the temptation to put it in a vise, or apply a hammer, he didn't dare do anything more, for fear of scuffing its gleaming polish.

When he picked it up, he found it had left a dimple in the coffee table.

He stared at the instructions, and carefully following them, tried to assemble it on the table, fitting the pieces together, until it laid there complete but empty, a gleaming bird skeleton.

Then hastily, he dismantled it, replacing each plastic sleeve, fitting the components back in their molded cradles. He sealed the box, and moved it to exactly where it had been.

The dimple he covered with a coaster.

Allan unzipped his pants and took his cock out, staring at the box. He was already rigid. He masturbated, starring at it, and came violently.

In his mind, he heard Eve's words.

"Chris gave me a week to cage you."

&&&

When he came home from work, Eve was already home. The box was still on the coffee table. As far as he could tell, it had not been moved. The coaster was still there.

They did normal things, had wild sex, went to sleep.

Downstairs, the box waited for him.

&&&

The box remained where it was the next day when he went to work, and when he came home.

But when they went to bed that night, it was in the bedroom, laying on the bedside table.

Eve did not acknowledge it. It was as if it had moved there on its own, closing in on him.

As they took off their clothes, all he could think of was the box and Chris, and Chris touching his wife. They made love, it was wild and passionate. When it was over, she lay panting and sweating against him.

He couldn't help himself.

"You brought it upstairs?" he asked her.

Eve yawned.

"Yeah," she replied. "I couldn't leave it on the coffee table forever. What if one of our friends came by and opened it. What would they say?"

Allan laughed.

"That would be pretty embarrassing."

He let a long pause drag out.

"What's Chris going to do when you tell him you didn't put it on me?"

She shrugged.

"I don't know. Maybe I'll lie."

"Maybe he'll check? Then you might be in trouble."

She laughed.

"He's not going to grab your junk to see," she told him. "He doesn't have the nerve."

"No," he said. "But he might demand a picture."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"Then I'll just say no," she said. "What's he going to do, punish me?"

Waited a few more beats.

"Want to take another look at it?" Allan offered. "I mean since it's here."

"Sure," Eve said. Was that a touch too quick? She reached for it, bringing it onto the bed between their naked bodies. Allan scooched back a little to make room for it. Eve opened it up and with swift sure movements, pulled out each component laying it on the bed. Was she too swift, too sure, had she unpacked and repacked it repeatedly when he wasn't around, familiarizing herself with it.

Allan's cock was filling out, the post coital erection becoming thick and heavy. They both ignored it.

Allan pulled off each plastic sleeve.

"It's something," he said finally. "Shiny."

"We'd better not lose the keys," she cautioned, looking at the instructions.

Allan picked up two of the components, and fit them together. Eve glanced at him. Allan froze.

"It looks like how they go together," he said. He toyed with random pieces, carefully not joining them.

She nodded, turning back to the instructions.

"You know, it's a whole sequence, putting them together. They have to be assembled in just the right order or it doesn't fit at all. And there's a whole process recommended. You should be shaved."

"Shaved?"

"Oh yes," she noted, "and moisturized. And it's recommended that you be tied up, spread eagle, for the fitting. That's what they call it."

"Not me," Allan protested. "The personally."

"Yeah," Eve said. "Sorry. It just says 'subject.'"

She teased him. "Feeling a little insecure?"

"Yes," he said lightly, making a joke of it.

"There's some further instructions on maintenance."

"What?" he asked. "It rusts?"

"Subject maintenance, that's you dummy! So it doesn't chafe, or constrict or injure. Lubrication, or moisturizing. There's a whole section about risks, shrinkage, reduced sperm count."

"Shrinkage!"

"Oh yes," she said. "We'd have to keep putting you in smaller units over time. What a rip, they're just doing it to sell more cages! It's a scheme!"

"Let me see that," Allan said, reaching for the instructions. She held it away from him and he lunged at her. They play wrestled on the bed, the pieces jumping around between them, until he had her on her back pinning her down with his weight on top of her.

"Now let's see," he said, pulling the paper away and examining it. "Liar! There's nothing here about shrinkage!"

Eve giggled.

Her eyes were luminous. She was grinning up at him. His cock was hard between them.

"So," she said grinning, "are you going to put that to use... while you still have it?"

And then the grin turned into something else as he slid all the way up inside her. The sex was passionate and energetic, and the components bounced all over the bed, knocking against them as he thrust into her willing body.

Afterwards, he laid there watching, as she efficiently collected the pieces and put them away in the exact proper order with no hesitation. She didn't bother to put the plastic sleeves back on the components, leaving those scattered on the bed and the floor. Somehow, this seemed significant. Allan watched her, with a tiny flutter in his stomach, but he didn't say anything.

&&&

The next day, she shaved him smooth. They pretended there was nothing to it. He shaved her regularly of course, it was one of his thrills. She had shaved him now and again. This was just one more time. Nothing extraordinary at all.

Neither of them mentioned the box or even looked at it all through. It just sat there.

It sat there, watching them make love as they ignored it.

"Chris gave me a week to cage you."

&&&

They were cuddled up naked on the couch after lovemaking.

"Do you want to put it on me?" he asked out of the blue. It was never far from his thoughts.

Eve looked away from him.

"Chris wants me to," she said quietly. "And I want to do what Chris tells me. I want to obey him. I want whatever he wants. I don't even want to, it's like I need to. It's like a compulsion, a craving. When I'm with him, he controls me totally, I want him to control me, I submit completely."

"It's so satisfying to obey," she sighed. "It's a need inside me, building and building. And when I obey, all the pressure goes away, and I'm fulfilled."

"Is that all the time," Allan asked.

"Yes and no," Eve said. "When I'm with him, I go into it, and I can go so very deep into it. When I'm away from him it's not so bad. It fades. But not completely, it's like there's this tiny urge in the far back of my mind. But I can ignore it."

"I see," Allan said. "But what about you, do you want to cage me?"

She thought about it for a long time.

"Yes," she said finally. "Maybe just for fun. But it's there, I want to use it. I want to put it together on you, and look at it."

"I want to tease you in it, excite you, and you not being able to do anything."

"I want to come back from Chris, his cum dripping from my cunt and show you my pussy, wet and swollen and gaping from his cock, and know you're so hard in your cage you're crazy, but you can't do anything except lick his come out of me."

"I want to obey. To satisfy the need to obey, and cage you. I hate him, he's an awful, arrogant, bullying child. But its like a compulsion."

She stared up at the ceiling, blushing mildly.

Allan's cock was rock hard. He was excited and frightened all at once.

"I don't know," she said. "He makes me want to obey. And that feels dangerous. But it's kind of exciting for me too. It's tempting. You're curious aren't you? Curious about what it would feel like to wear it. To take that step?"

She looked down at his hard cock between them. He didn't have to say it, his erection spoke for itself. Staring, she let her fingers drift down to it, curling around it loosely, as it throbbed. Neither of them needed to speak. The same thoughts were running through their heads. Finally, the words came.

"We could try it."

"Temporary. Just to see."

"That's not what Chris wants."

"No. But he's not here. It's just us."

"He won't know."

"Unless," she said, "I'm lying to you now, to get you to accept it."

"Are you lying to me."

"I would never lie, unless Chris ordered me."

"Did he order you?"

"No."

"Temporary?"

"On... and then right back off."

"Yes."

"All right," he said, swallowing. "Do it."

His cock was the hardest it had ever been in his life. So rigid it felt like a steel bar. It felt like each pulse of blood through it was a hammer blow. It felt urgent and alive in a way he'd never felt before.

She stared at it a moment longer.

Then her head descended, lips forming a taut seal, parting slowly as she kissed it. His cock slid like a piston into the tight, wet, flexing cavern of her mouth.

He lasted only a minute.

It was the most powerful orgasm of his life.

&&&

It was the seventh day. Allan laid back, body covered with sweat, Eve curling around him. He could almost swear that steam was coming off them. The sex had been incredible. There'd been something hungry about it, something ravenous. They'd each felt it, a wild desperate quality, a sense of overwhelming need.

Both of them had been incredibly aware of the box beside the bed, as if it had been watching them. Although the sex had been mind blowing, although they'd lost themselves again and again, no matter how desperate or frantic the fucking, no matter how strong the orgasm, there had never been an instant when the box hadn't been there.

Allan had screamed while ejaculating into his wife, the sensation so powerful it felt like his heart stopped, he'd forgotten her under him, forgotten her pussy wrapping around his cock, had forgotten her name and even his own name.

But even then, he'd been aware of the box.

He took a deep shuddering breath.

"Wow," he said, "that was amazing."

"I hope you enjoyed it," she said softly, playing with his chest hair. "I wanted it to be memorable. It may be the last time your cock enters my pussy. Or any pussy at all. Ever."

He shivered.

"I have chills," he joked.

She leaned up and over him, letting her nipples brush over his lips. He lifted his head to suckle, taking a nipple ring between his teeth. Distracted, he didn't quite realize that she was leaning forward and stretching his arm out. Not until the cuff snapped shut around his wrist.

Allan jerked instinctively with shock. Eve reared up, grabbing his other arm, stretching it out before he realized what was happening. He realized she was cuffing him, tying him down.

Should he resist? Ask her to go slower? Tell her to stop? Or just go with it? While he was debating, the second cuff snapped shut around his wrist.

Without a word, she climbed down, reaching for his ankle. He didn't kick. When she crossed the bed, he let her guide his other ankle into position, waited silently as she fastened it. There was something so gentle about the way she did it.

One by one, she tightened the straps, pulling his arms and legs straight and then taut, but not uncomfortably so, until he was spread eagled helpless on the bed. The silence with which she worked was unnerving. He tried to catch her eye, but she simply ignored his gaze and performed her tasks with focused efficiency.

Then she climbed up onto him, straddling him. He could feel her wet vagina on her chest, gaping, the lips parted, his semen slowly smearing from her pussy onto his flesh.

"You promised," he said looking up at her. Impossibly, he could feel his cock getting hard all over again.

"Yes," she smiled down at him. "On and then off," she agreed.

He stared up at her.

He nodded.

"All right then."

Eve straddled his chest, drawing herself up to her full height, teasing his nipples as she looked down on him. She had the ghost of a smile, her blue eyes were unreadable.

"Oh," she whispered, she teased his hard cock with her fingernail. "Isn't this beautiful? Your last free erection."

She hesitated, glancing at the cuffs that stretched him out tight. She pouted.

"Well... your last erection, anyway. Isn't it going to be a shame to make it go away."

"Oh it might be pretty persistent," he said. "How are you going to make it go."

Would she blow him? Ride him? Nothing but a mind blowing climax would neutralize that erection, and since he'd already come, he expected to last a good long time.

She bent down to kiss him on the forehead, for a moment, her nipple rings brushed his chest, and then she hopped off, and left the room without a word.

Puzzled, he watched as she returned a moment later, with a small table that she set beside the bottom of the bed, near his left foot. A moment later, she came back with a small box and a bottle of lotion, setting it on the table. She smiled reassuringly at him and left the room.

More moment passed, and she returned carrying a large bowl almost reverently, in her two hands.

"Ice water," she said cheerfully told him, placing the bowl on the table. "Sorry I was so long. I had it chilling in the fridge overnight, but I had to empty ice cubes from the freezer into it. I got special plastic ice cube trays, they're like little lozenges."

Allan realized she had been preparing for a while. The thought disturbed him.

She sat on the bed between his spread legs.

"I wanted this to be special, for us," she explained. She squirted lotion into her hands, and climbed up to kneel between his legs. She reached down, grabbing the base of his erection in one hand, and gave the tip of his cock an affectionate kiss.

She looked up at him.

"How are we doing?" she asked. "Are we okay?"

"Eve," he whispered.

But she ignored him, working the lotion along his shaft, onto his head, and gently spreading it on his scrotum and pubic area.

"You know," she said, "I remember once, looking at your hard cock, and thinking it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. That's what love is. To look at something and to see its beauty, your beauty. You made me happier than I imagined possible. I hope I made you happy."

She looked down. "Moisturizing is very important," she spoke absently. "It's important to keep the skin healthy. Once a week, I'll service. Taking it off, shaving you, moisturizing, taking care of you."

She smiled apologetically. "You'll be tied hand and foot of course, while it's being serviced. You won't be allowed to come. And it'll go right back on before you're released. But I'll take care of you."

Eve shuddered. "I've seen pictures of dried cracking skin, it's not pretty."

"You're talking a little scary," he said. A cold fear was creeping up his spine. This was a mistake. "Temporary right?"

She smiled and nodded vacantly. It didn't make him feel better.

"Now," she said, her manner changing, becoming professional and brisk. She reached into the box. "There's an issue of temperature. Your balls require a specific temperature to produce viable sperm. That's why they're in your scrotum, outside your body. Temperature regulation. When it's cold out, they retract close for warmth. When it's hot, they descend to shed heat."

"For what we need to do, your balls have to be at maximum distension. So I've got a series of heated damp cloths from the dryer and the microwave."

Allan kicked hard, or tried to. He thrashed around in his bonds, struggling against them. But they were anchored too tight, the nylon straps too strong. Try as he might, they wouldn't give. She must have drilled anchors into the wooden bed frame. With massive strain, he physically lifted his hips and back off the bed, before his muscles gave out and he fell back.

Eve watched patiently. When he fell back, panting, she moved in with a cloth from the box.

"Eve! No!" he shouted.

"It's okay," she said, wrapping the cloth around his shaved scrotum. His scream died in his throat, it wasn't burning hot. It was simply... warm. Even pleasantly warm, enfolding, like a snug blanket. He sighed, more from relief than pleasure. "It's okay," she reassured him, "I won't hurt you. We're going to do it gradually. That's how your body works. We ease into it."

"Stop," he ordered. She ignored him and played with the cloth, massaging its warmth into his balls. Despite his nervousness, he could feel them loosening. After a moment, she nodded, and reached for the next.

"I said stop," he said. "Or I'll scream."

Eve looked up at him, her face pleasantly neutral.

"No one will hear you," she said. "But I will find that unpleasant, and I'll have to gag you. Please don't make me do that."

The warm cloth was replaced again, this one hotter. He could feel his balls almost dangling, his scrotum loose. And then one that felt actually hot, the hottest part wrapping around the base of his scrotum. He didn't think he'd ever hung lower.

Eve plunged her hands into the bowl.

"Woo!" she said, her pleasant neutrality giving way. She shivered. "Cold!"

"Your cock," she said, holding her hands in ice water and clearly not enjoying it, "is just the opposite. We need it to shrink."

She smiled ruefully.

"I mean look at it! You're still hard! You've been harder than ever since I tied you down. You're scared, but you trust me, and you're into it. On some level, this is incredibly exciting for you. But we'll never get that monster into a cage."

"So we have to reduce you. Cold for the shrinkage, to reduce the blood flow. We'll go slow, first my hands. Then cold wraps soaked in ice water, until you're re-sized to fit. Once you're in, of course... It won't matter any more."

She took her hands out, shaking them to fling off excess droplets.

"Okay," she smiled ruefully, "here goes. This might be a bit of a shock. It's okay to scream a little. I'll understand."

Eve wrapped her hands around his erection. Allan screamed, her touch was so cold, so shocking. Her ice cold fingers curled tight around his hot hard cock, and he was breathless. It wasn't painful, but it was extreme.

Gently, she moved her hands up and down, the fingers curling around his head, making sure every bit of him was chilled, a reverse masturbation. He could feel himself softening rapidly as chills ran up his spine.

"Oh wow," she said vaguely, "look at it work. We'll have you right sized in no time."

The cloths were applied, shocking but less so.

"Allan," she whispered, "look!"

He lifted his head. His cock was shriveled, shrunk the smallest he'd ever seen it. It looked almost unfamiliar, a child's appendage replacing his normal one.

She replaced the cold wrap and crawled up onto the bed on all fours for a moment, to kiss him on the forehead.

"You've been such a good boy," she said. "I'm proud of you."

He tried to stare into her eyes.

"Temporary, right?" he said. "We'll try it a few hours and then we take it off."

He didn't believe it.

She ignored him, and stood up off the bed, picking up the box and returning to her post between his legs. With calm precise movements she opened the box and started laying out the components.

"The hard part is over," she said without looking at him. "This will be so easy."

"Eve," he said desperately, "stop for a second. Wait a moment, okay? Let's just slow down a little. Can we talk a bit more. I think we need to discuss this, discuss some rules."

She ignored him. She didn't even glance toward him, as she fitted the pieces into place with smooth, delicate movements, her face a mask of concentration.

The movements were too precise, too knowing. As Allan watched her, he realized she must have been practicing all week. Everything that had happened this week, every word, every gesture, every act, had been carefully engineered to bring him to this moment. She'd intended it all along, had always been fixed relentlessly on her goal.

"Eve!" he cried out.

His hips lifted up off the bed again. He screamed himself hoarse. He thrashed futilely with all his strength, but he was so stretched out, he could barely move. He swore and cursed. She waited patiently for him to fall back, expression neutral. She slid the underpiece into place. He could feel the cold metal against his swollen distended balls.

"Eve," Allan cried, "listen to me for a moment."

She ignored him. The cage descended over his penis, even through the numbed flesh, he could feel it. He bucked wildly, thrusting his hips this way and that, trying to shake it off. She waited him out, keeping one hand on the contraption to make sure he didn't dislodge it.

"Wait, please," he begged. "I'm not ready."

She didn't look at him, but this time, she bothered to respond.

"Of course you are ready," she said. "I spent all week getting you ready. You're just afraid."

"Please!" he begged. "Eve!"

"Shush," she whispered to him. "Don't be afraid, it's going to happen, it's happening, it's already happened. It happened already the moment I brought it home and showed it to you. It happened the moment Chris gave me the orders. It happened the moment he decided. This has all just been waiting. It's okay, darling. Relax. It happened long ago, this is just catching up. You were always going to be here, you've always been here."

She squeezed, and he felt it, everything snapping into place. His heart sank.

Then he felt something, a series of clicks down below, constricting his scrotum and pushing his balls down further.

"Adjusting," she explained. "Not too tight so as to cause blood loss. Just to ensure you can't escape. Ever."

She gazed at his distended scrotum.

"I hope that's not too comfortable?"

"Maybe loosen it?" he begged.

But she didn't, instead she ignored him again. Instead, she reached down again, he felt more clacks and tightening against the base of his cock.

She looked up at him then and held up the key.

"One final thing. Any last words?"

Here eyes were shining, her expression distant. Allan just stared at her, trying to find any trace of his wife.

"Eve," he whispered.

She lowered the key, fitting it into the lock and turned. He felt tumblers falling into place.

"Done," she whispered.

Abruptly, without speaking, she got up from the bed and walked away. He watched her naked butt swivel as she walked from the room. He thought about calling after her, but she seemed utterly indifferent.

She returned with her camera phone. Without speaking to him, she took several pictures, from up close, showing different angles of the cage, to medium and full shots.

She hit send.

Then, watching him, she punched in a number, Allan knew exactly whose, and said very plainly.

"It's done."

Allan recognized the voice that answered, and his stomach did flip flops.

"Good girl," Chris said, and hung up.

Eve dropped the phone and knelt on the bed between Allan's legs. Naked, breast swaying, she slowly crawled up the bed, one limb at a time, like a cat. Her swaying breasts brushed against him as she made her way up. Finally, she was looking down at him, face to face, looking into his eyes as her pubic mound rubbed lightly against his cage.

Eve kissed him passionately.

"Fuck you," he snarled with cold fury. The sudden hurt in her eyes, gave him pause.

"I understand," she said and got off him.

She settled into the chair beside the bed, simply sitting there, watching him.

"Are you going to let me go now?" he demanded.

"Will you attack me?"

"Of course not," he lied.

"In a while," she said. "Chris is coming over to pick up the keys. I'm going to wait for him here, with you. He'll explain things. I'll let you go after that."

"Fuck you," Allen said sullenly.

"You're my husband," she whispered. "And I love you, I do truly love you with all my heart, and always will."

She paused.

"But Chris is my master, and I obey him."

&&&

"Hey asshole," Chris said, jovially. He was dressed casually in a black suit, red shirt, no tie. His hair was black and curly. His smile easy. Chris always seemed casual, sailing through life with effortless arrogance.

Allan glared daggers at him.

Chris surveyed the naked man, tied spread eagled to the bed, his genitals locked away in a glistening steel contraption.

"Love the look, by the way. It suits you." He sucked air in his teeth. "You shouldn't stay too long like that though. Might start to lose circulation. She didn't gag you? I told her too."

He grinned.

"But I guess you couldn't talk her out of it, could you?"

"Just fuck off," Allan said quietly.

"Hey pal," Chris mocked hurt. "Don't be like that. Hey, I know what will cheer you up. I've got a magic trick! Look!"

Allan turned to look.

"Two keys!" Chris held them up.

"Pliers!" He pulled a set from his pocket. He took the pliers and used them to snap one of the keys in half.

"One key!"

He pocketed it.

"One fucking key. I can snap it. I can melt it down. I can mail it to Antarctica. And then you're in that thing for the rest of your fucking life. I paid a lot of money for it. It would take surgery to remove it without the key."

"So welcome to the rest of your life, asshole. Welcome to the new rules, and you'll fucking obey or else," for a moment, he seemed demonic. His face a mask of hate and triumph.

Chris sat back on the chair, where Eve had been sitting. He folded one knee over the other, cheerful again. Allan looked around for her.

"Oh," Chris said and chuckled, "I told her to stay downstairs. There were some things we had to talk about privately. Not for her ears."

He glanced around himself.

"Nice room," he said casually. "You know, after we're done, you and I, I'm going to call her back up here. And I'm going to fuck her brains out, right in front of you. I mean everything. Every kind of position. Up her ass, down her throat, you name it. And she's going to come, she's going to come like crazy. I'm going to fuck her until she's a wet rag while you watch. She'll do everything. I'll fuck her like I own her, which I do."

"Why are you such an asshole?" Allan asked coldly.

Chris went still. His face turned cold.

"You say one more fucking word," he said quietly, "and I will gag you. Then I'll pulverize your balls. Then I'll make her leave you alone up here for however long it'll take you to shit and piss yourself over and over and leave you laying in your own filth."

"Well?" Chris demanded.

Allan didn't respond.

"Okay," he said pleasantly. "Where were we? You know, it's funny. I hated you. Did you know that? Do you want to know why? Yes? No? I'll tell you anyway. Eve. The minute I saw her, I knew I was going to have her. I knew I could break her. And I broke her. Over and over, all kinds of ways, I broke her and kept breaking her. The things I made her do! The things I made her love doing! You'd be amazed."

Chris leaned back.

"Except for you. No matter what I did, and I tried, god fucking help me, I tried. I couldn't break her of you. She loves you. Crazy, right! Who does that! It made me insane. I punished her. I did everything I could imagine. But she wouldn't give you up. Wouldn't let you go. There was always that one part of her, I could never touch, never bend, never even scratch!"

Chris waved airily.

"I thought of getting rid of you, but knowing her, that wouldn't make a difference. She'd still be pining away. Do you know," he said, "I actually thought of getting rid of her, permanently. I was that frustrated. Mental, right? I mean the complications of getting rid of someone..."

"So then I thought to myself: What we need is a realignment. We need to rearrange. We need to correct your status, eliminate certain things, put you in your proper place. That was the solution... And here you are!"

Allan watched him.

"Yeah," he said, "I know. Sucks to be you. I imagine you're pretty pissed off? Rebellious? Thinking revenge? Looking for a way out? Don't worry, that's all normal. You shouldn't though. I'll fuck you up. You have a new reality, my friend, and sooner or later, you'll learn to live in it. Better for you if it's sooner."

He leaned back.

"Don't be too hard on her. It was insane how hard I had to work, how much time I spent, how long it took to get her to this point. She really does love you. She'll always love you."

Chris rolled his eyes.

"You're her 'everything.'" he mocked and rolled his eyes.

Then he looked thoughtful.

"Actually, no. Go ahead, take it out on her. I don't mind. Punch her out, slap her around, let her know how you're feeling. Kick her out! Leave! Divorce!"

"Anyway," Chris smiled. "I'm glad we had this talk. I've wanted to clear the air between us for so long. Now, I'm going to fuck your wife in front of you in ways you never imagined, and you'll never have a chance to do again. Then I'll leave you to marital bliss."

"EVE! Get your slut ass up here!"

&&&

Chris made her wait for another three hours after he left, to release Allan. By that time Allan was too broken and exhausted to do anything. He waited patiently for her to release the bonds, then without saying a word, he turned and crawled to the far side of the bed and curled up on his side, facing away from her.

Eve crawled into bed. She reached out an arm to touch his shoulder. He didn't react. After fifteen minutes, she took her hand away, rolled over and crept to the other side of the bed. She began to weep. Allan stared at the wall.

He didn't sleep at all that night. He just stared at the wall.

All he wanted was to be dead.

His heart was broken.

&&&

For the next few days, they tried to make life as normal as it could be. They showered, ate, went to work and came home. They barely spoke to each other.

Finally, on Wednesday, Allan spoke to her.

"I love you," he said. "I always will. I am going to forgive you, I want you to know that. I just... need... to work at it. But I will forgive you. I'm working at it."

Eve stared at him blankly.

He wasn't even sure if it mattered to her any more.

But it mattered to him.

Then she nodded.

They finished breakfast, and got through the rest of the day without exchanging another word.

&&&

Seven days had passed, when Eve asked him to sit at the table with her. The hurt was still there. Day by day, he diminished it. Like a man carrying a boulder up a mountain, he forgave her bit by bit. But it took time.

She placed a white square of cloth on the table and unfolded it. There were two objects in it. She slid it towards him.

He stared.

"What is this."

"Those are the real keys."

Allan looked up.

"Explain."

Eve looked up at the ceiling, and then down at her hands.

"I can't fight him," she said. "Maybe I could have, once, in the beginning. Maybe. Or maybe not even then. But I can't fight him. I can't even try. Not any more. Not for a long time. We both know it. I do what he wants. I can't resist. I can't not obey. He's done things to me. He's made me do things. When I'm with him, I'm not who I am. I'm something else. This other me. Something that obeys."

Allan watched her.

"But I thought that maybe I could lie to him," she said. "So I had fake keys made, to give to him. I kept the real ones. For you."

"He's cruel. He's like a hawk. He's watching us," she said. "He'll check on you. Test you. You'll have to wear it a lot. At work. A lot of the time. But not all the time. We can fool him. You'll have the keys. You can take them, free yourself and leave me if you want. I will understand. You can do what you want."

Allan picked up one of the keys, turned it around in his hand. He felt a weight lifting off him, a life sentence, lifted with a key. It felt strange.

He stared at Eve, looking calm and sad, waiting for whatever was going to happen next. She had plans, apparently. And hopes. But it was up to him, really. He could do whatever he wanted.

He could leave. The thought of letting her go wrenched his heart, and he knew that under all his hurt, he still loved her. He could leave her with him. And that thought tore at him.

"You waited a week," he said.

"Yes," she replied quietly.

That was the part he couldn't understand. This week of suffering, the unbearable wall between them.

Eve stared at the table.

"I wasn't sure. I didn't know that I could lie to him. He's taken so much of me, he's taken so much from me," she said. "But apparently, I can."

Her fingers clasped, and twisted against each other.

"I... Me... the me you know," she said, "and... the other me, the one he made..."

She looked up at him.

"We both choose you."

Allan reached out and took her hands in his. Chris was dangerous. They were in danger. It had been slowly developing for a long time. A pair of frogs in a pan of water on a stove. But they were together, Allan and Eve and the other Eve. Together they could deal with Chris, navigate to safety, find a way through and to meet her needs. Not quickly, not easily, it hadn't been quick reaching this point. But together...

"I love you," they said at the same time, their voices matched step by step.

"I always will."

BLACK TRAIN, My Second

NOTE - For the record, I was eighteen or nineteen years old, or older when these events took place. If you believe I was younger, that's on

NOTE - For the record, I was eighteen or nineteen years old, or older when these events took place. If you believe I was younger, that's on you.

&&&

The second time I pulled a train.

Yeah, the shit game was going. The funny thing was, I wasn’t really a slut at school. The boys at school, they’d have given their right nut to be with me, for five minutes apiece. I wasn’t interested. They didn’t know anything, they had no skill.

I’d had men. Men who knew what they were doing.

No fucking comparison.

So you know, apart from a few things. Like some blow jobs here and there. Maybe a fuck now and then, but one timers only, but no one regular. I didn’t do much at school. Like the stories had me as some insane sex crazed slut. But mostly, it was hateful bullshit and lies.

Didn’t stop the bitches from hating me, or making my life hell. Not all of them. But you know, you worry about the ones that are gunning for you.

Mainly, I got the fuck out. I skipped out on school every chance I could. Afternoons, there were better places to be. Evenings, there were better places to be. I hung out in bars, went to parties. I had really good party vibes. I was friendly, happy, I thought fast, quick on my feet, and if someone saw something they liked I was flattered, and if I saw something I liked, I reached out and grabbed a handful.

Hey, when you’re young and hot and fearless, every door is open to you. Even the ones you maybe shouldn’t go through.

So what happened was some guys I partied with told me about a party going on and invited me. Not technically invited, not their party. More like ‘there’s this thing going on, we’re going to be there, you should show up.’

I knew the place, at least to be able to find it, didn’t know the people, but fuck it. Stay home and get into another raging fight with Mom and Dad about my failing grades, and partying and drinking and bad attitude?

Fuck that.

And fuck them.

So I hitchhiked and hit the party. I knew pretty fast it was a downer. Like, I’d been told there’d be coke there. But almost everyone was older and pretentious. The guys I knew, the one I wanted, didn’t show up, and the one that did show up brought his girlfriend. And fuck that, like, I didn’t poach, you know what I mean? Especially, I didn’t poach when the fucking girlfriend is right there staring daggers. And coke? Oh yeah, it was there, you can tell people are all twitchy and hyper. But I wasn’t getting near it.

I ended up talking to this black guy in the kitchen, Marcel. He had a long last name, I don’t remember it. I do remember, he was West Indies - Caribbean. He smiled a lot, had this groovy accent, and I got him to start telling me stories of the place he came from. Dominique, I think.

I loved that shit. I mean, I’d lived my whole life in Hamilton, a shitty little steel town. It was suffocating. But sometimes, I’d go to a bar or a party, and I’d meet men who really lived. Who’d been places, who had done things. I’d always get them to tell me, even if it was ordinary shit to them, like growing up in Dominique, it was always so wonderfully exotic.

Once, I met a man who’d climbed Everest. I don’t know, looking back, if he’d actually done it or not. It could have been bullshit. But he talked enough, was knowledgable and vivid entouch, for sure he climbed mountains. So yes, I totally fucked that guy. He was a mountain climber. He'd been on Everest (probably). Wouldn’t you?

Maybe I should have been a journalist. I was always good at getting stories out of people, getting them to tell me who they really were.

Sometimes, I’m pretty sure that saved me - like a guy is opening up, and I’m going “Uh huh! Uh huh! Okay, excuse me for a minute, be right back,” and I’d be fucking off for all it was worth, climbing out the bathroom window if I needed to.

Didn’t work with Jules. But that was a special case.

Right. So black guy. Looked nice. Sweet accent. We were hitting it off. Right away, I knew if he wanted to fuck me, I was so into letting him. I just liked him. And black, that was kind of interesting.

I’d been with a black guy before, I’d blown this black kid in school. But he was just Hamilton black, which isn’t really black at all. And it wasn’t memorable. So it didn’t count.

Anyway, we both agreed the party sucked. There were no good drugs, people were hogging the cocaine, and no good liquor. It was all just these pissy wines and I wasn’t into wine back then. But hey, he knew a party somewhere else, fun people. Did I want to go.

Totally!

I figured, fifty fifty it was a real party, or maybe it was just back to his place and we’d get naked. You know what? I was good either way. I wasn’t a slut back then. I liked him, so it was okay.

And back then, the way I reasoned it was that a slut fucked anybody, like she fucked guys, whether she liked them or not. I only fucked guys that I liked. I mean, okay, if I wasn’t into them, but like couldn’t get rid of them, sure a handjob or a blowjob, just so they’d go away. But I only did it with guys I liked.

Yes, I can see what’s going through your mind. But fuck off. That was how I thought back then. I’m not apologizing for it now.

As it turns out, he really did take me to a party. Sort of.

It was someone’s apartment across town. Not a big place. Two bedrooms, kind of ratty. There were three guys there and two women. All of them black. Caribbean black, so real black. Not American black. The women were sisters. They didn’t like me at all, I could tell right away. But the guys liked me just fine, they all smiled and welcomed me, and it’s nice to feel welcomed.

It was almost as lame as the first party, but they had real booze, like vodka and whisky and stuff. I was already a determined drinker. And they had some good pot. And like I said, the most important thing was that they were friendly. So it wasn’t so bad. I cuddled on the couch with Marcel, and listened as they talked with their beautiful accents. I didn’t understand half of it, it was all people and places and shit I didn’t know. But once in a while they'd stop and explain things to me, particularly if it was a joke or something. They were trying to include me, it’s nice when people do that for you.

I started making out with my new friend, Marcel. Like, not crazy, we were in front of people. But you know, when there’s attraction, you can’t keep your hands off. Excused himself and went to the bathroom.

I nodded wisely. I knew what that meant. I waited a minute and followed after... old bar habits.

It so was embarrassing! He actually did have to use the toilet!

I opened the door on him as he was taking a shit.

Ouch! How was I supposed to know!

Who does that?

But after, when he finished, he let me back in. He had pulled up his pants, which I found disappointing. I hadn’t seen anything real when I’d opened the door, not junk or anything. But I’d seen smooth black thighs. I don’t know why he had to pull up his pants, like, I wouldn't have minded, you know what I mean. But I sat on his lap as he sat on the toilet, and we spent twenty minutes giggling softly and trading sweet little kisses. He was a good kisser.

I totally wanted him. I put his hand under my top so he could feel my breasts. My pussy was wet. He was beautiful and exotic, he smiled at me and it was so genuine, like he really liked me. He made me smile. He was funny and sweet and kind.

We went back out into the living room. The sisters fucked off. It was kind of a mixed thing. On the one hand, they really didn’t like me. I could tell by the way they talked to me, or at me, or looked at me, or even just refused to look at me. I didn’t do anything or say anything to them, so I don't know what their problem with me was. They just took one look at me and decided I was trash. So I didn’t fucking like them at all, and I wasn’t sorry to see them go.

On the other hand, when they went, now it was just me and four black guys. Having other women around was at least some safety. Being alone in that situation...

I suppose you can see it coming. I didn’t. I think I was a little drunk, a little high, and just enjoying myself. Honestly, my existence back then was so shitty, little spaces like this in my life were what kept me going.

And I’ll be really honest with you. Sitting there with them in the living room, giggling and getting baked, and just being happy, if they’d said “Hey, we always wanted to run a train on a little redheaded white girl!” I’d have said, “Sure! Why not!”

I mean, why not?

Right?

But it wasn’t like that.

Marcel and I were kind of touchy, and he said let’s go to the bedroom, and I said sure. Though what I probably thought was “Finally!!!”

So off we went, and shut the door. I had this idea that we shouldn’t make too much noise. Ha! We got on the bed, fully dressed. I remember giggling uncontrollably with happiness. I made him take off his sweater, watching eagerly as he pulled it over his head.

Okay, this will sound stupid, but I really wanted to see what colour his nipples would be. Like, how was I to know? He was black all over, except his palms and the flat of his hands (also the bottom of his feet as I found out). So he wasn’t totally dark skinned all over - parts of him were light or pink, like his gums and tongue and the flats of his hands. What about his nipples??? And his cock, what colour was that??? I think I must have seen pictures, but I wasn’t thinking of those. And here was a real live black man, I wanted to know, goddammit!

We made out on the bed, squirming and rolling around, kissing and laughing. And he got my top off, and played with my nipples. I loved that. I loved touching him and licking him. We sucked each other’s nipples. I remember laying on my back as he knelt on the bed, my legs in the air, pulling off my jeans, they were so tight he had to struggle, practically rolling them off.

And then once he had my jeans off, he was spreading my legs, and I was going, “Hey dude! Dude! Take my socks off! Come on!”

This is a thing I’ve noticed with black guys since then, but no one ever seems to talk about. They like socks. Like, even wearing them to bed. I remember once, this gorgeous black guy I was with, and he comes to me, he’s naked... except for white socks. I had to struggle not to laugh (If you’re a woman, never ever ever ever laugh at a naked man, it won’t turn out well). Black men are into socks, not all of them, but enough that I’ve noticed. I have no idea why. It’s mysterious.

Or I don’t know, maybe it’s just the ones I went with. It’s not like I’ve fucked every black man in the world.

He had so much trouble getting my jeans off, I pulled my panties off myself. Otherwise, who knows, we’d be here all night. I mean seriously, yes, they were tight, but for fuck sake’s, I got in and out of them just fine. It’s not a labour of fucking Hercules. Don’t get me started on men and bras.

Oh yeah, and I remember there was a moment, I’m laying there, legs spread, he’s shirtless but still in pants, and he’s just staring at my red pubic hair, like it’s the Virgin Mary or something. At first, I thought ‘Dude, it’s just bush! Get over it!’ And then, in a second, I realized that I was as remarkable and exotic to him, as he was to me, and that made me happy, to feel special. So I decided, yes, stare at my pubes all night, I liked it.

He got off the bed and turned around to take off his pants, which I thought was a terrible cheat, because I wanted to watch that penis getting revealed. He did have a nice muscular ass though, so it wasn’t all bad. He turned around, he was already hard and it was sticking out, and he rolled a condom on. Then he climbed on the bed, and got on top of me as I spread my legs. We were both giggling, well I was giggling, he was laughing, and smiling at each other. He was propped up over me, and I remember looking up at him, wanting to touch him all over.

He found me with no problem, and I was so wet already, he slid right inside, making me gasp loudly, and then we started fucking. I wasn’t very quiet. Part of it was I really liked him, and was really happy he was inside me. I pulled my knees way back, so he could get in deeper. He was just regular size, I think a little thick, maybe curving a bit, but not remarkable. But I liked him going deep, because his pubic area and pubic hair would grind up against my clit and that felt really good.

Also when he was deep, I could feel the bare part of his cock, the condom didn’t roll all the way up, like there was an inch between the edge of the condom and his base, and I wanted to have that inch, to know that when he was deep, we were skin to skin. And no, I couldn’t fucking feel the difference, but it still meant something. I think it was the idea for me of that skin to skin intimacy.

While he was fucking me, I had my hands all over him, touching his arms, his chest, his ass, just running my fingers all over him. And we’d kiss, or rub our faces against each other. I remember a few times he’d lift right up, his body pulling away, so he could look down between our legs, and see his cock buried in my red bush. I can’t explain it, but that made me happy.

He fucked me like that for a few minutes, and then I wanted to get on top, so he let me. I straddled him, held it in my hands. I think for a moment, just a moment, I had the impulse to take the condom off so I could really feel him. Also, I’d noticed he wore athletic socks to bed. But instead, I just held him at my entrance, sinking down on him, with this giant fucking grin. He reached up to fondle my breasts, as I rode him, grinding up and down, fingering my clit. I remember him watching me ride, and loving that he was watching. In this position, I could touch him everywhere, from his lips to his knees. He sucked my fingertips. I leaned forward to kiss him, running my hands all over him. I loved biting his nipples, I just couldn’t stop doing that.

Do you want to know what it’s like fucking a black guy? Their cocks, it feels just like a cock when they’re inside you. And when it’s in your mouth, it tastes exactly like a cock. When you lick their skin, they taste exactly like human skin. If you bite their nipples, it’s totally like biting regular nipples. The hair feels different. Black men more tend to be uncircumcized. That’s about it, really. And they wear socks a lot. That’s all. Take out all the weird fetish stuff, that’s all. Some are nice, some aren’t. They’re mostly just guys.

You know what feels really good? Its when a black man who really loves kissing you is kissing you. That feels so good. It feels just like when a white guy or an Asian guy who really loves kissing you is kissing you. You know what the biggest turn on is? It’s when someone likes you.

I didn’t come. I came close several times, but even playing with my clit while I rode on top, I didn’t come. I think I was over-excited, or distracted or something. I loved fucking him, I loved the feel of him in me, and his hands on my tits, but he didn’t make me come. He came though. I rode him and rode him and I watched the expression on his face and the way his body went stiff, and I loved that he was coming for me. As his orgasm faded, I laid flat on him, pressing my breasts against his chest and kissed him.

After, we laid together for a few minutes. I was just blissful. Then he had to go to the bathroom, and grabbed his pants. It was funny, he'd just been. Maybe he had spastic bowels or something. Or a small bladder. Who knows.

I figured I'd wait for him to come back, and we'd cuddle and decide what to do next. Depends with guys, some bounce back fast, others, it takes a while. I didn't know which he was. So, I just decided to wait and see.

A few minutes later, another guy came in. He wasn't Marcel, I was a bit shocked. I was still naked, obviously, and a little freaked, so I sat up and pulled my sheet up to cover me.

I don’t remember his name. Marcel’s the only name I remembered. He was bigger than Marcel, heavier. Just as black. He had a broken nose. And he was from a different island than Marcel, or maybe a different town. But they were cousins, I knew that much.

I pulled my sheet up to my neck, backing up on the bed, back against the wall, watching him. I didn’t say anything, I was just sweating, hoping Marcel would be right back and he’d go away. But instead, he just calmly took off his clothes and sat on the edge of the bed.

He reached out and took the sheet, and just pulled it away from me. I remember it slipping away, hanging on to it, but being slowly exposed, as it was taken way, sliding down past my knees, until I was naked. He just looked at me for a while. There was no sign of Marcel.

Then we talked. Well, he talked, I just listened. I don’t remember all of it, it was years ago. But a few things stayed with me. I remember him saying, “It is what it is, and we all got to do what we got to do, and the only thing we can decide is whether we want it easy or we going to take it hard.”

Like... Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Well, there’s the message, isn’t it? Especially when you’re a naked teenage girl huddled up with her back against the headboard and there’s a big naked man twice your size sitting and looking at you. "You want it easy, or we going to take it hard?"

But right at the end, he reached out slowly and grabbed my ankle, and he said, “You just say yes or no. And if you say no, that’s all fine, I’ll walk out that door.”

I said “Okay” and he smiled, and pulled my ankle, and I let him spread my legs.

Sometimes, thinking back, I feel about it one way, and sometimes I feel about it another way. Like, he talked for five minutes, and I listened, but half of it I either didn’t understand, or it just went in one ear and out the other. Certain things he said kind of burned in, but looking back, it’s contradictory.

I just knew I wasn’t comfortable. That’s not a big big deal, everyone has sex sometimes where they don’t feel comfortable, where they don’t feel good about it, where we’re doing it for the wrong reasons or bad reasons. That’s just human nature. I knew him from out there, and he’d been nice enough, and friendly enough. But I didn’t really know him, and we hadn’t made out or done foreplay.

I said yes, and I let him spread my legs. I knew that I could say no. Probably. But maybe at some level, I didn’t feel like I could say no.

He climbed on top of me, and I said he needed to wear a condom. So he got off me and got one from his pants on the floor and put it on as I watched.

So... I had that much control?

Then he got on top of me again. He kissed me, not much though, his tongue slid in my mouth. Then he entered, he had no trouble finding me. He was different from Marcel, Marcel went in right away, like it was a race or something, and there was a prize at the back of my pussy. This guy was gentler, more careful, and just eased in.

When he started to fuck, it was slow long strokes. I was on the bottom the whole time, looking up at him, or looking down at his black cock in a white condom going between my legs. After a while, I started touching him, I think partly because it might make him finish faster. And partly, I’ll admit it, because he started to make me feel good, and I liked his cock in me. He made me come twice, before he finished.

When he was done, he went flat, laying on top of me for a couple of minutes, letting me feel his weight. He reached down to hold the condom, when he pulled out.

Sometimes men don’t, and if they lose their erections fast after coming, they leave it in you, so you have a condom half dangling from your pussy. I so fucking hate that. Never do that! Bad penis person! Bad!

He talked to me afterwards. I remember him smiling at me, not a mean ‘ha ha, I just fucked you over’ smile, but an ‘I like you smile, and we just had fun together’ smile. I remember the smile, and being reassured by it. I don’t remember what he said, but I remember saying ‘thanks’ so he must have been saying nice things to me. Then he was gone.

He got off me, grabbed his shit and walked out, naked. I noticed he wore his socks. It was just a weird little detail that sticks with me.

I’d figured out, while he was fucking me, though, that they were all going to fuck me. Fucking one guy in a room full of them, yeah, that’s a thing. You can do one guy and that’s it. Fuck, two guys in a room full of men, that means you’re doing all of them.

So I didn’t bother getting dressed. I just laid there and waited. And the door opened.

This one was shy. He asked if he could come in. He was already in, but at least he asked. Then he asked if he could join me on the bed. I had my body under the bedsheet again, and I was clutching it. But I said okay. He laid down with me, fully clothed, and asked how I was doing. I said okay. He said I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to. I said I knew.

Maybe I should have said, ‘let me the fuck out of here.’ I could have said that, and gotten away with it too, probably. But, I wasn’t as worldly or as strong as I’d thought I was. So I didn’t. I just kind of accepted that at some point, his cock would be in me, and then the next one, and then I’d leave. I didn’t feel bad about that, but I didn’t feel good. It was just how things were.

Anyway, we laid there and we talked a bit. He was genuinely concerned with how I felt, which was nice. I don’t remember much, but I remember relaxing, and kind of liking him. I learned he was a virgin, like it slipped, and he denied right away. But I could tell. I asked if he’d ever seen a naked woman, and he bragged about being to all kinds of strip clubs and was great friends with the strippers. And at some point, I pulled my sheet away, so he could see me naked.

HE STARED. Oh my god, he just stared. He didn’t even blink. He just stared so hard. Didn’t even try to touch me.

So I said, do you want to kiss? And he said okay. So we kissed.

He was fucking terrible. I don’t know what he was trying to do. Improvisational auto repair with his tongue, or something. He was awful. After a minute, I decided I needed to try to teach him how to kiss properly, but he couldn’t seem to learn. Not even when I told him out loud in words, “Okay, now do this with your lips, and keep your tongue there.” He’d say he understood, but then he’d just do the same thing. And his hands were all over my boobs, but in a clumsy way, like they were play dough.

So I said take off your clothes. Because I just didn’t want to kiss him any more.

Isn't that terrible. I chose to have sex with a man because I couldn't stand kissing him.

There was more to it than that, I was actually horny, you can’t have sex with two guys and come close a bunch of times and come twice and then be in bed with a man who is radiating his own horny and not be feeling it.

And actually, I kind of liked him, he wasn’t as sexy and exciting as Marcel, but not as intimidating as the other guy, and I didn’t respect him as much, but I liked him. Liking someone counts for a lot with me.

Also if he was a virgin, I was kind of into being his first.

I am that shallow.

And I knew I had to get it over with and take him, and the next guy before I could go. So it was complicated for me. Sex can be complicated. It should be simple and pure, but we all make it complicated.

He shucked out of his clothes at rocket speed, and as he grabbed for his condom, I told him he didn’t need to. I think I had some idea that for his first time, it should be special. So bareback, so he could feel how beautiful sex was.

His body was skinnier than the others, he was taller, bonier. His cock was the biggest, but honestly, they were all basically average. I had to guide him and put him inside, and fuck, he was like Marcel, like in so fast and deep, it was like he thought there was a prize in my tonsils. He was fast too, I kept trying to get him to slow down, but he fucked like he was on a timer. Then he came in me.

He didn’t roll over, or fall on top he just stayed up there above me as his cock fell out, and asked me if I’d enjoyed it.

Yeah, I hadn’t come within a fucking mile of an orgasm. I mean, it felt good, it feels good to be touched, it feels good to have someone horny for you and excited and full of desire, and it feels good to be fucked. So it felt good, but he didn’t get me there.

But I pushed him on his back and straddled him, and kissed him everywhere but on his lips (I'd learned my lesson) and told him it was great.

When he left, I didn’t even bother to pull the sheet over. I just heaved a great big sigh. I wanted to yell out “Next!” but I didn’t have the nerve. I remember thinking as I laid there, that if they’d come out and said ‘this is what we want to do’ I’d have probably gone ‘hell yeah.’ Or maybe I wouldn’t. But they went about it so chickenshit.

The door opened and the next guy came in. I just laid there and spread my legs right in front of him. I was into my martyr complex. Poor me, don’t even talk to me, I’ll just spread my legs and you can use me, and I’ll just lay there feeling sorry for myself while you do it.

He didn’t jump on me right away. Instead he took off his clothes, and got on the bed with me, and started telling jokes. Not jokes, just funny stuff. Like I was in bed with a naked horny black stand up comedian more interested in trying out some material than going straight to the fucking.

Okay, sorry, I’m being a bitch.

But he was friendly and funny, and he liked touching me. And he got me smiling, then he made me laugh a couple of times, because some of his lines were so stupid. He kissed me, but I could tell he wasn’t into it, not like Marcel had been. And he fingered me, not very well or very long, and I could tell he wasn’t into that either.

Then he tickled me, and he liked that. He was torturing me, and we were giggling, and wrestling all over the bed. Then he did something that no one had ever done to me before, that I’d never even imagined anyone doing.

He motorboated me.

I was completely fucking astonished. I mean, mind blown, not in a good or bad way, but more like a ‘what the hell was that’ way. I didn’t even know what to think. I laughed out loud, partly because it tickled, but mostly, out of sheer astonishment.

I didn’t even know what it was called until much later.

Who even does that? Who came up with that? Who in their right mind thinks it’s a sexy thing to do? Do men get off on it? Like, what the fuck??? I’m not offended or upset. I just don’t get it. Didn’t get it then. Still don’t get it. Men!

He asked if I was ready, and I said yes... because apparently men believe that women find that irresistible. He motorboated, each time to peels of horrified laughter from me.

Then he asked me if I wanted to go with or without a condom. I said I wanted a condom. Then he spent like five minutes trying to friendly talk me out of using one. And like, fuck dude, if you’re so bent on not wearing a condom, why did you even ask me? So I got stubborn and insisted.

The sex was okay. He started on top. But then he pulled off and wanted to do it doggy style. Like, what’s the point of having sex with a black guy if you can’t even see him? What’s the point of having sex with a hot redheaded teenager if all you see is the back of her head? So I said no. But he let me ride on top of him, and I had fun, because his hands were all over me and he played with my nipples, and I could touch my clit with his cock in me. So I almost came, I think I sort of did, but it was a little one. And he came.

Then he left, and I laid back, all spread out, as if there was a line up outside the door, wondering what would happen next. Were they all going to go again? How many turns would they take? Would they bring friends over? I thought about just an unending line of black men pumping their semen into me as I watched the sun come up through the bedroom window. I wanted to go home. Would they let me? Maybe they wouldn’t let me. I thought about schemes to escape, like in the movies I’d set off the sprinkler and sneak away in the confusion. Boy, that was pretty stupid.

Fuck that, I’d just leave, I’d tell them I was going, and that would be that. Except I needed a ride home. Also I needed a drink. And they had good pot.

The door opened, and the last guy to fuck me, he poked his head in and said they were getting ready to light up, and did I want some?

I said ‘Yes please!’ and got dressed and went out.

I mean, priorities! It was really good pot. Back then, some of the weed you’d get in Hamilton was so shitty it was unbelievable. You could smoke all day, and not get a buzz. The only reason you’d smoke it at all was to be cool and to be able to say you did some weed today.

Also, I didn’t want to just lay naked on the stupid bed, feeling sorry for myself and waiting for someone to remember to come in and fuck me. Angst is nice, teenage girls live for angst.

But it sounded like they were having a really good time, laughing and talking and drinking and stuff out there without me, and I kind of wanted that. If I didn’t feel good, I thought maybe partying would numb that bad feelings, and it sort of did.

It’s funny, I didn’t really know what to expect. But they were all still really nice and friendly, and I just sat in the middle with them, and we all smoked and drank, and they told jokes that I didn’t get, and they smiled at me like they really liked me. I was fully dressed, the second guy, he was completely naked except for his socks. And the rest were between the two of us, but actually, I felt comfortable, hanging with half (or totally) naked black guys.

I wanted to leave right away, but I didn’t want to be rude. They brought out some hash, and you know, I had to stick around for that. And they had bourbon, which I’d never had, so it was absolutely necessary I give that a try - surprisingly sweet and smooth, like caramel and vanilla, a little spicy, with this weird charcoal undertaste that kind of balanced the sweetness. A little bit like whisky, but smoother. Not really my thing, but okay.

So I was there for another hour laughing and hanging out and getting a little shitfaced (but not too much), before I said I was leaving. They wanted me to stay, but I insisted. So they all gave me hugs. Marcel was too drunk to want to drive me home, so they took up a collection for cabfare. I didn’t want to accept it, because it was too much like taking money for sex, and one of my tiny shreds of dignity in all my promiscuity, self loathing and budding alcoholism was that I wasn’t a prostitute. But I let them.

I got home by cab. Big fight with Mom and Dad of course. But by that time, we were fighting constantly. And honestly, they had stopped expecting anything better from me, so it was almost going through the motions. We were all just at the stage of resenting and really disliking each other.

I had to fuck up colossally to have a real blowout... so of course I did. But not that time.

So that was the second time I pulled a train. I don’t feel that I was raped, I said yes, I chose to allow it to happen. But sometimes I felt different, but even when I feel different, it’s hard to convince myself completely, one way or the other. I feel stupid for it, I let myself get into this situation, I was naive or stupid, or weak, or passive. I don’t know. I felt... I feel ambiguous about it, about the way it all happened, and what they did and what I did. It’s never sit a hundred per cent well with me. I feel unsatisfied, and it’s not the lack of orgasms (although I’m sure I’d feel a lot better about the experience if I’d cum and cum and cum buckets).

I don’t know. Sometimes sex is complicated, that’s all. We get ourselves all tangled up. Someone said to me once “There’s no instruction manual for being a person, we’re all just bumbling along, learning as we go.” I think he was telling me to forgive myself.

Like I said, if they’d come up to me up front and said, “we want to do this” well fuck, back then, half drunk, half baked, all horny, I might have said “Hell yeah! I thought you’d never ask!” I might have. Did I say that before? Sorry, I'm a little drunk as I'm typing. Not much, just a little.

But looking back, I don’t know for sure that they had a plan. I’m sure Marcel didn’t pluck me out of one party and take me to his friends with intent to gangbang. I think maybe it just kind of drifted into it, that I seemed willing and slutty and fun, so one of them said ‘maybe I’ll try’ and it went from there. I guess I didn’t know what I was doing really, so maybe they didn’t either.

I don’t know what it was for them, or how they felt. I never saw them again. I think I saw Marcel once at the mall, but I’m not sure, and I didn’t talk to him. Maybe I was just the slut of the week, and they picked up drunk horny chicks and gangbanged them on a regular basis. Maybe I was nothing more than kleenex to blow their cocks in.

Or maybe I was this magical unearthly redhead of exotic paleness and surreal hair colour, who drank like a man, toked like a Jamaican, laughed and partied with them, and then when she was ready, she took each one of them, lead them into the bedroom and made each of them feel like a king. Maybe I was this amazing, unforgettable goddess, a memory they each treasured for the rest of their lives, and they still talk about me to this day.

I don’t know. If I had a choice as to what I was to them and how I was remembered, guarantee you know which I’d pick. We all want to feel special.

I don’t know that I understood, or had any real idea what I was getting out of it for myself, or how to handle myself.

I was young. Maybe that’s what being young is about - screwing around and screwing up and not feeling a hundred per cent until you figure it out.

I don’t know, like if I had to do it all over again, I would have done it, or let it happen. Probably not. If it had happened, with a smarter, more worldly me, it would have happened differently. But do I regret it? Yes... But also no?

I think it was an experience, and I wasn’t hurt or damaged, and some parts of it were good, some weren’t, and maybe I learned and grew. Look, Mom, no scars. That’s something. I can’t say that about all my experiences.

It wasn’t until my fourth train, I really understood how to do it right.

FIRST TRAIN

NOTE: This is autobiographical. I've changed names, and some minor details. This is something I wrote about twenty years ago. I was writi

NOTE: This is autobiographical. I've changed names, and some minor details. This is something I wrote about twenty years ago. I was writing then about things I'd done and gone through about ten years before. I admit was a bit messed up. For the record, I don't want to be accused of child porn, so I was over eighteen when this happened. Eighteen or nineteen. And when I talk about school, obviously, I'm talking about college. If the me in the story seems younger, I was a late bloomer. If you decide I was some other age, that's on you.

&&&

In school, I was sexually precocious. I’d gone from zero like everyone else, to sixty. Gone from naive and horny to worldly and horny.

And at first, it made me popular. Everyone was young and hormonal, insanely desperate for sex, but terrified, steeped on a diet of pornography and expectations and terrors. I think adults don’t really understand. But when you’re young and new and looking... it’s all extreme.

You have extreme prudishness, where you even see a nipple and people go nuts, extreme pornography, extreme advertising, Everything about sex in the world around us is just this terrifying high volume hardcore. I mean, we were growing up with porn, and there was no way we could even approach half that shit, the men were all six packs and Olympic cocks, the women all boobs, and they did all kinds of shit. Look at advertising and movies, everything was sexualized to this epic level, all the women fashion models, the men James Bond or Shwarzenegger, those were the fucking expectations. The world was made for stars and super-achievers who had already achieved. And here we were all struggling with zits and navigating periods. Half of us didn’t even know where the clit was, and I’m not talking about the guys.

There’s no moderation, there’s no reasonable gentleness to it, or how to navigate it. Instead, just everything is contradictory, and extreme and blasting at max volume, and it’s all contradictory. We were being shot out of cannons into the deep end of the swimming pool and it was so fucked.

Sex is terrifying, and alluring, and you just don’t know what the fuck to do about this thing you want to badly, but it’s all wrapped up in extreme hyper-bullshit. We were just trying to navigate, all of us.

So someone like me comes along, and she's genuinely sexually experienced, and not just fumbly fucks, sophisticated stuff! She ‘knows things’ she’s worldly. She does it, and she’s cool with it.

I was popular.

I mean, I was popular with boys, obviously. But I was especially popular with girls. I remember early on being in a bathroom with a half dozen girls, spending an hour just talking about it, answering questions.

Half the girls didn’t even know they had a clitoris, the other half didn’t know what it was called.

I felt like a superhero or something. At least for a while, before it turned bad.

And it turned bad fast.

The thing was, even if I was sexually worldly, I was still a girl. Raging hormones didn’t just make for tits and horniness.

It made for emotions. The thing I remember most was how powerful the emotions were, how out of control. If I was upset I sobbed uncontrollably. If I had a crush, I was over the moon. Everything was just raw and powerful. Friendships, enemies, love, hate, you name it.

I had a crush.

His name was Peter. I don’t even know why I had a crush. I just did. It was just where I landed. Infatuation is a crazy thing. I thought about him constantly. I wrote his name down endlessly in my notebook, making little hearts and doodles. I followed him around like a puppy. He had a small group of friends he hung out with. There was Tommy, Lyle, I think maybe Jerry. I did my best to ingratiate myself with them, pushily trying to be one of the gang. I had a big smile any time he was around.

I simpered.

I concocted elaborate fantasies and daydreams of us doing stuff together. Normal stuff, going to concerts, restaurants, sports games, doing homework together, him coming over to meet my parents, getting married, having children, vacations to landmarks together. The sort of daydreams it’s embarrassing to admit to from years later.

And yes, I masturbated to him at night, alone in my room. I whispered his name as I frigged myself into quiet little orgasms in my room with my posters and teddy bears and girl stuff, across the hall from Mom and Dad..

I would whisper his name when I masturbated.

I was so stupid.

That’s painful to look back on now, worse to admit, I was so naive and just... stupid. It just hurts to see me back then.

Anyway, here’s how it went.

There was this park. It wasn’t much of a park, the city didn’t really give a shit, so it got all overgrown. But the nice thing was, it was mostly woods, with trails and these little places you could hang out. In my time, all the kids went there to get laid or get high or just drink without getting bothered. Big hang out site.

Of course, it turned into a gay cruising zone after. Then the meth heads and needle babies got there and some crimes happened. Then the city got up in arms, and they cleaned the place up. Then the homeless moved in, so now it’s tent country. But all that is after.

We were all a lot more innocent then. Back in those days, it was just a place to hang out, smoke some joints, make out and maybe cop a feel or get a handjob.

Peter and his buds went there every time they could score some weed, or get someone to buy them a sixpack. And me, madly in love, totally infatuated, hanging on Peter’s every word, I’d invite myself along.

It was pretty pedestrian. There was this spot where someone had dragged some bench seats from old cars, old couch, dead furniture, so we’d all hang out there sprawling around, passing a joint and drinking beer, having stupid inane conversations about this or that: The latest movie, or who was being a prick at school, or the rugby game, or whatever.

I’d be there, plastered right up against Peter, trying to offer something, giggling too hard, whenever someone said anything half clever. Wanting to be part of the group, but also wanting the rest of them to fuck off so I could stick my tongue down his throat.

I remember there was a little fire pit, and it seemed to get used by someone. Sometimes when we went, there'd be fresh ashes. But none of us were ever even half-assed enough to make a campfire. We talked about it, but it never got further than talking. We brought marshmallows once, but we got the munchies and ate them all before we got around to making a fire. Then high and giggly, we realized, it would be bad fucking idea to start a fire when we were already baked.

You know what? I’m smiling a little remembering. It was all innocent and harmless. Even if I didn’t really belong with the group, at least they were okay with my presence. I was an honourary member of the gang. I’ll take that, considering how it all turned out later.

I remember every time we went out there, after they’d drop me off, I’d rush up to my bedroom to masturbate like crazy.

Fuck, I was such a horny little mink back then.

Anyway, I wasn’t with them when Tommy found the mattress in the bushes. I think it was Tommy. I don’t know what I was doing, some family shit. Otherwise I would have been there with them, trying to become a conjoined twin with Peter. I think Tommy went for a piss and got a little lost. I don’t really know.

There was all sorts of shit out there. Shopping carts. There was an old VW van, half sunk in, rusting away. There was a little shack made of wooden pallets, some kids clubhouse. So a mattress? Who the fuck knows.

Next time I was out, I insisted they show it to me. It wasn’t much, like a single bed mattress, maybe kid size. It looked a little ratty. It was off in this little tree covered glade, even in daylight, it was shaded. I guess someone had dragged it out for naps. Who fucking knows?

We took a look, went ‘okay’ and back to the hang out. But I’ll tell you, when I saw it, my horny little brain went into overdrive.

The thing is, when you’re young, you’re horny as fuck. But there’s no place! There’s no safe place! Home, there’s no privacy, you can’t have a boy up to your room, and if mom and dad are out, you can’t count on them not showing up out of the blue. There’s the mall, there’s school, there’s lots of places to go. But the only private places are gross, and even the private spots, there’s no privacy. It’s all really fucked, its insane to be that horny, and there’s just no good places.

Peter and I, by that time, we’d french kissed, and he’d felt my boobs. One time I jerked him off, and showed him my pubic hair. Once, I blew him. But it was just so hard and hasty. I know that sounds crazy. And I didn’t just want to just get fucked, I was in love, and horny as I was, I wanted it to be special.

So mattress, out in the open air, some secluded glade, light filtering through the trees. Romantic, that seemed romantic to me. It seemed like it could be special. I was stupid. I just wanted... Something. I mean, I understood sex, but I wanted.... I felt... love? Orchestral music? Something like the movies, or romance novels my Aunt used to read. It was just fucking infatuation.

You want to know something that hurts, that took years to realize?

I was infatuated with Peter. But he wasn’t infatuated with me. There, I said it. He didn’t feel the same way. I didn’t realize, I didn’t even think about that stuff really. It never occurred to me.

I was just this girl that pushed and pushed her way into his life, and he didn’t know what the fuck. On the one hand, she’s eager to show him her boobs, that’s nice. On the other hand, she’s pushy and intimidatingly experienced and she won’t leave him alone. He was a teenage boy, so he was fucking horny just like I was. So he'd be into it, but then not into it. You're not going to miss a chance to see boobs, but she'd be too much. He’d pull away, and the more he’d pull away, the harder I’d chase him.

So anyway, one day after school, there we were, out in the woods, sharing a six pack and a couple of joints. I looked over at Peter, and I said, proud of how super-casual I was about it, and I said “Let’s go out and see the mattress.”

And he said okay, like it was no big deal.

Oh fuck! I was ready to cartwheels!

So I said okay too, like it was no big deal. Because I was cool, you know.

I took his hand, and we said we’d be right back. And you know, we knew what we were going to do, and they knew what we were going to do. So they joked and cheered, I had to struggle to keep this big grin off my face.

We went out to the mattress. I was so relieved when it was still there. Sometimes things disappeared, or got moved. You never really knew.

I was out of my clothes so fast! Just naked out there, in front of Peter. I felt beautiful. I stepped up, and kissed him, and his hands were all over me. I got his T-shirt off, and we pulled down his pants. Then I was on the mattress, it was damp under my back, but I didn’t mind. I was looking up at him.

He was so fucking beautiful.

I spread my legs, and he kind of pushed, but couldn’t seem to find me. I remember his cock poking at my pubic hair. I reached down and guided him in. I was so fucking wet, he slid right in. And finally, finally we were making love.

No condom, of course. That would have spoiled the perfect romance of the occasion. I wanted to feel him, all of him, and when he came in me, I wanted him inside me. I wanted to keep his semen in me, like a promise ring.

His breath smelled of beer. And he was clumsy and awkward. He held himself up off me, like he was doing a push up, even as I tried to pull him down, so I could feel his chest against my nipples.

But he went a good ten minutes. Which was long for a boy his age with no experience. I think it was the pot. Me, I just loved having him inside me, feeling his cock, just delirious with happiness. Every stroke was an emotional ecstasy, it felt good physically, I was almost having orgasms.

When he came and finally relaxed on me, his body pressing in, I had like a contact orgasm. He laid on top of me panting, and I wrapped my arms and legs around him like a python, keeping him inside me, even as his cock deflated and his cum oozed into me.

I was so thrilled. We had consummated our true love, I felt like I was in a Disney movie. Peter was already restless, but I wasn’t registering that. I was just blissful.

That’s when we heard the giggling.

I honestly don’t know what was going through my head back then. Maybe it was the pot, or the beer. Or maybe it was just this delirious happiness. I should have freaked out. But I didn’t. It was just the gang, these guys I’d been so bent on insinuating myself with. They were my friends. They were more than my friends. They were the brothers (not literally) of the man (boy) I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

This will sound stupid - I’d already picked out their rules for the wedding party. Lyle would be best man, and Tommy would be Master of ceremonies, and Jerry (?) I had something for him too, I can't remember what, be they'd all be important parts of my wedding.

I was so stupid.

They’d knew I’d gone off to consumate true love with Peter. So somehow, it wasn’t bad they’d watched. I was so happy, I didn't really mind. It would have been shitty if they’d stood in the open and watched and made asshole comments. But you know, sneaking, I just wasn’t bothered. In a weird way, it was kind of thrilled, our true love had been witnessed, consecrated.

So they came out, and Peter rolled off me and started getting dressed. They brought a couple of beer as peace offerings. So I just sat there naked on the mattress, passing the beer back and forth with them, and talked about how special it was.

I didn’t mind them looking at me.

I kind of liked it.

Peter sat down with us, I kind of pulled him closer to me. He resisted a little, which I didn't understand, but I didn't think anything of it. We talked and drank, and Tommy asked if he could have some. I pretended not to understand, but he kept at it. Finally, I said I was with Peter.

And Peter said he didn’t mind.

Whoomp. My heart dropped out the bottom of my stomach. For a moment, I was just sick.

I think they saw something in my face. Because suddenly it was all four musketeers and share and share alike. And they all really liked me. I was one of the gang, for sure. They were all agreeing. What we all had was special. I kind of went with it.

I told them about my wedding fantasy. Oh god, I was so... Stupid. Tommy was thrilled to be the best man. He did seem really honoured that I chose him. And we sort of talked about the life I’d wanted, and how they’d be a part of it. Thankfully, not in too much detail. Tommy worked on Peter too, not just me. And Peter said I should, because we were all together, brothers and a sister. I felt kind of hemmed in.

But I loved Peter. And Peter said I should, and it would be okay.

What could I say?

Okay.

I had put on my T-shirt, but I wasn’t wearing anything else. I took it off, and laid back on the damp mattress, propped up on my elbows. Tommy took off his clothes. He was heavy set, broad built. I ran across him many years later, and he was fat as fuck. He was hairier than the others. His cock was thicker, and it bent to one side. I’d never seen that.

He got on top of me, and laid right on top of me. I felt his weight pressing me down. I like Peter, he didn’t find my entrance. His cock humped against my belly. I should have let him come that way, but after a half dozen stupid thrusts, I reached down and bent my knees back, and guided him to me, so then he pushed up inside me.

Tommy made me grunt, he felt really big. Bigger than he actually was, because I wasn’t as wet as I’d been with Peter. I remember grimacing when he pushed up inside. He thrust really hard, awkwardly so, and I wrapped my legs around him in self defense. His cock felt weird in me, because of the way he was bent sideways.

But it was funny, I started to enjoy it. I didn’t want to, I wanted it to be over fast. But he was big in me, and moving hard, and I guess jamming against my clit with each thrust, His weight crushed the breath out of me, but his chest hair tickled my nipples and his skin was against mine. I started to get really turned on, getting wetter and more aroused.

And I thought, maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this is good. I started to kiss him, and he kissed me back.

Then he came.

Like.... fuck!!!

Then Lyle. He was so fast, like the minute Tommy got off, he was on top of me. Like, right there. He had this skinny basketball player’s body, just all arms and legs and ribs and tendons. He found me right away, just slid right in. And the minute he was inside, he kissed me.

I didn’t kiss him.

He was the one that kissed me.

I was almost shocked. He didn’t even move inside me, his cock was all the way in, and we were making out on the damp mattress. It was like we’d gone parking, except that his cock was already in me. I remember thinking he’d gotten it backwards, it should have first the foreplay, then the penetration.

But when he started to move, it felt good. He didn’t last super-long, none of them did. But he tried to hold back. I slipped a hand down so I could touch myself while he fucked. He was the one I came with. I wouldn’t say, a hundred per cent, he made me come. But he was in there, no pun intended.

And Jerry. Jerry had his turn. I don’t even fucking remember him. He put his cock in me. He came in me. I don’t think he kissed me. That was it. Sorry Jerry.

They all watched.

But at least, no one said anything stupid.

Then we all got dressed and went back to the couches. None of us had anything to say, really. I cuddled up with Peter. I really needed to be close to him. Normally, I’d cling to him because I just loved him so much. But I remember this time, the clinging was desperate, like I was drowning. He was just stiff.

I was plastered so close I could feel Peter getting his erection back, so I started rubbing it. I felt I’d fucked up in ways I didn’t even understand. Hadn’t I done everything they wanted? Wasn’t I one of them. He let me unzip him and take it out.

I sucked his cock right in front of them, with some stupid stupid idea that somehow this would make everything all right. Fuck, I’ve got tears in my eyes as I write this.

They all watched me, solemn as church goers.

That was it.

The whole thing, maybe an hour or so. All four guys, probably not more than half an hour of fucking combined.

Then Peter drove us all home. It was like a funeral in the car. Just sitting there. I was in the front seat, the three guys in the back. I reached for Peter’s hand, but he had both on the steering wheel, staring straight head.

Tommy and Jerry got off together. They were going to hang out at Jerry’s. Lyle rode with us almost to the end, I so fucking wanted him out so I could talk privately with Peter. Then he was gone. And somehow, I didn’t have anything to say now that I was alone.

We drove another ten minutes, and he pulled up in front of my house. I leaned in to kiss him, because I really really needed to kiss him. I needed to kiss him to know that I hadn’t fucked up, that we were still in love, that as weird as it was, it was going to be okay.

He turned his face away, stiffly.

I said “Why?”

And he said, “Because I know where your mouth has been.”

Just like that, my whole world shattered and my heart broke in a million pieces. I hadn’t sucked any of their cocks, just his. How could he say something so awful! I’d done it for him. For love. I’d had sex with them because he’d told me to. He fucking told me to do it. He made me. I wouldn't have done it otherwise.

Suddenly, the infatuation was over. Right at that moment, it was stone dead. I was hurt, and really angry, and I didn’t know what to do. So I got out, and slammed the door and ran up the driveway to home.

You think I would cry. But I didn’t. I said I wasn’t hungry, and went up to my room. Then I just laid there with this cold awful pit in my stomach, just hating myself. I didn’t sleep. I just laid there all night. The sun came up, and I didn’t even want to go to school.

But Mom made me.

Of course, the story was all over school the next day.

Actually, I am probably remembering it wrong. Maybe it took a few days. But the story got around. I’d gone out in the park and lured all these guys into a gangbang, suddenly I was the biggest slut that had ever been in school.

I was so fucking angry when the stories got back to me. I was crazy angry. I found Peter and just screamed at him.

He told me Lyle had talked. So I walked up to Lyle, full of towering fury, right in the halls, right at the lockers in front of everyone, and raged and swore at him. I was so hurt and upset. All he did was stand there, with some stupid snarky smile, full of contempt, with all his buddies surrounding him to protect him, looking at me like I was some stupid cunt, laughing at me, as I screamed myself hoarse, and then ran away and had a good cry in the bathroom. If I’d have had a gun, I would have shot him. I hated Lyle. I hated him so much. He’d ruined my life!

Actually, it was the worst thing I could have done. If everyone hadn’t heard the story already, now it was all over the place. And if anyone had doubts, yeah, my fucking screaming fit amounted to a confession that it had happened, and every bit of it was true. School runs on gossip. Now, I was the biggest slut that ever existed. I wasn’t popular any more, I wasn’t the sexual superhero, the sophisticate with the answers, the girl who knew stuff, the brave and confident one. I wasn't cool.

I was just a whore, a disgusting whore. The cold was setting in.

The shit game had begun.

You know, looking back, I think the shit game was already starting. We like to have things neat and tidy. We like these benchmarks in our lives. It’s convenient to say that the first train, that was where my life went to shit. And it felt like that.

But looking back, you know, I think maybe it already had started. The whispers behind my back, the catty remarks, the jokes and stories, lies and exaggerations, the coldness and the cold shoulders. I was just ignoring or not noting it, but I think it had already started.

But you got to put your benchmark somewhere. It just kind of went into overdrive. My life would turn into hell. I had my first big epic fight with my parents around that time. I don’t even remember what it was about. Something stupid.

That’s about it. I didn’t have anything to do with any of them the rest of the time I stayed in school. They knew enough to stay the fuck away from me. I had never been one of the gang, I was just a stupid pushy girl who inserted myself into their group. I hated them. I hated myself for being so naive and stupid. I hated the world.

And the world, my world, well, it hated me right back.

Many years later, I saw Tommy, he was a fat fuck.

I never saw or heard of Peter, maybe he’s out there somewhere, or maybe he died of cancer - like I could give a shit.

Jerry? Who knows, who cares.

I did run into Lyle. I didn’t even want to talk to him. He was married, kids. It was some stupid function. I was kind of trapped there. So I had to talk to him.

Want to hear something stupid?

He had a crush on me. Oh yeah. He was totally fucking in love with me. I was the most amazing, the smartest, funniest, most thoughtful and most brilliant girl who ever lived. He worshipped me from afar, all the while I was trying to saran-wrap myself around Peter. When I was hanging with the gang, he was so fucking happy to be around me. I broke his heart every single time we all got together, because he could see how much I wanted Peter, and I barely looked at him. But he was such a nice guy, he wanted me to have what I wanted, even if it wasn’t him.

When I fucked him, it was the greatest day of his life. All his romantic fantasies come true, or at least as close as they could ever become.

The worst day of his life? That was when I’d come screaming myself hoarse at him in the hallways. What I thought was a snarky grin and him laughing at me? He had been scared shitless of me, he was paralyzed practically pissing himself with terror as I swore and screamed at him. Completely humiliated in front of everyone. He changed schools after that. I didn’t even notice.

It’s bullshit of course. It was all just teenage crap, not the worst day or the best day of his life. We’re all so fucking dramatic at that age. He went on to live his life, I went on to live mine. We had other best days and worse days. He showed me pictures of his wife and kids. He turned out okay, and he was happy that I turned out okay.

It’s funny. I was in a love triangle, and didn’t even know it. I got infatuated with the wrong guy. Maybe if I’d looked left, when I looked right, maybe something tiny and stupid, and it might have been me and him, and everything would have been so different.

So, that was my milestone - my first gangbang, naive, infatuated, foolish, just stumbling and fumbling my way into it, not really knowing what I was doing, and fucking it all up.

I was sexually sophisticated. But I wasn't really mature in any other way, so it was like a gun in my hand that I could use, but not handle.

It is what it is.

KAYLEY AND SAM, Ch. 22 - Kayley Surrenders to Leroy

KAYLEY It was a windy day, I was glad I had dressed for it. Heavy sweater, blue jeans, my clothes were like my armour. The weather had given

KAYLEY SUBMITS TO LEROY, PART TWO OF TWO

KAYLEY POV

It was a windy day, I was glad I had dressed for it. Heavy sweater, blue jeans, my clothes were like my armour. The weather had given me the excuse to dress as unsexily as I could get away with.

I pressed the building intercom.

“Yeah,” came Leroy’s voice, distorted and crackling.

“It’s me,” I said. The buzzer went off and the door unlocked. I walked into his building.

Without Sam.

That, I thought, was probably a mistake. I got into the elevator, feeling my heart starting to pound. Scratch that, I thought. It was definitely a mistake. Nope. I should press main, go back down, out the elevator, out the front doors, say ‘something came up.’

But then, I wouldn’t be tingling with curiosity and excitement.

Things had been weird since the cuckold session, in ways that it was hard to put my finger on. Sam and I both felt edgy, like lines had been crossed and we were in unknown territory. Leroy definitely wanted to do it again, I definitely wasn’t sure. On the one hand it had been incredibly exciting in all kinds of ways. The sex had been hyper-intense, I’d done extreme submission and domination at once. Something that overpowering, you crave it, but you’re also a little scared of it, what it did to me, and especially what it did to Sam.

Sam? I didn’t know.

But he’d gone over to hang out with Leroy. I’d had misgivings about that, but he came back more relaxed. He was vague about what they’d talked about hanging out. But somehow, he was willing to try another session. Considering how brutal our first session had been on him I was startled.

Now it was my turn to meet Leroy one on one, as I’d promised. Yeah, after a day or two to think about it, I was ready to break the promise. But then Sam really felt I should go see him. So between the two of them... Here I was.

And then there was the other day’s ... event. Something I hadn’t shared. Something that, in hindsight, I was having trouble getting my head around.

The more I thought about it, the less I understood what had happened. I’d been in the neighborhood of the Boutique. It wasn’t really on the way home from work, but I had some idea of picking up some pastries. But the bakery was closed, I’d forgotten about that. But the Boutique was just down the street. Well... why not take a look, shop around? Then in the Boutique, I was uninterested, distracted, I really didn’t want to buy anything. But the peep shows were open in back. Well...

The memory of me and Leroy and what I'd done there, the way I'd lost myself, was vivid. Why not go in, take a quick look, then leave?

And then... And then... And then...

Each moment, each decision, that took me there, had seemed so ordinary, so normal, so casual and mundane. Here’s Kayley, just living her life, not a care in the world, and whoops! Just normal, right up to the moment I started sucking a stranger’s cock through a hole in the wall and couldn’t stop. Even then, it seemed to be exactly who I was and what I wanted and needed.

Only in hindsight, was I going, ‘what the hell did I just do?’

Except it was bullshit. I’d thought about going back alone after the first time with Leroy. Going there without him or Sam to distract me, just alone in the dark room. Thinking about it made me wet in ways I couldn’t fathom. But I wouldn’t have done it.

Then after the cuck session, it had gotten intense. But I wouldn’t have done it.

Then Sam had gone off to see Leroy, and left me behind. It wasn’t like that of course. There was no reason to think of it like that. I didn’t really feel like that. Except yeah, on some level, I felt left behind. Jealous. They’d shared something that I was left out of. And when Sam came back, he was a little different.

I was really thinking about it. Really kind of hungry for it. But I wouldn’t have done it.

Except I was cornered into going to see Leroy.

It was all sort of out of control, all just slipping and sliding. I was horny, but repelled, intrigued but disturbed. Wanted but didn’t want. Sam was different. I was different. Leroy was... Leroy-ing. My life was exactly the same, but everything was just a little different.

If I had said to myself to do it, right up to the moment I wrapped my lips around a stranger’s cock, I would have said no way. But instead, I pretended to myself, right up to the moment I was kneeling, that I wasn’t really doing it, not here for that.

That was really fucked up.

Another fucked up thing, that once I’d done it, I felt good about myself. Relaxed, unstressed.

The most fucked up thing, I kind of wanted to do it again.

Not with Leroy, I never wanted to repeat that scene with him.

Not with Sam. My god, I would die of shame.

But just me, alone in a small dark room, with whatever came through... There was something pure about it. Something safe. Right now, if I had to pick, I’d rather be there than here, on my way up.

It was disturbing. I couldn’t get my head around it.

Fuck this, Kayley, I told myself. I’m in control. Just play it cool. I wasn’t going there to get fucked. This was just to talk it over with Leroy. Set some ground rules for this stupid cuckold session, and hopefully keep it from getting weird and toxic.

Butterflies. I knew what I wanted to say. No negotiations, stand your ground. Lay down rules. And if he said no or tried to fuck around, then shut him down. It would be a relief to just cancel the session and tell Sam it was Leroy’s fault. As much as it drew me, it repelled me.

As the elevator door closed, I felt a little wet surge between my legs. I didn’t think he was going to rape me or anything like that. Okay, I wasn’t going there to get fucked, but who was kidding who. We’d done it every single time we'd met. There was an undeniable, overpowering attraction. Something in me craved something in him. Or it craved something in his pants at least.

Odds were fifty-fifty.

It occurred to me, that if we did, and we weren’t going to, but if we did, it would literally be the first time without Sam being present in some way. Without having his reassuring presence and safety, but also without the sense of being watched by him, performing, looking after him. Totally one on one. What would that be like?

Well, the peep show thing had been one on one, but that didn’t count. We hadn’t actually fucked.

I felt a tingle in my clit, some sense of anticipation and arousal. Down girl, I thought, it’s not happening.

The elevator doors opened to Leroy’s floor.

Verdict? Intense but uneven.

And it left the question: What the fuck were we going to do with Leroy? On the whole, I didn’t regret the experience, and neither did Sam, as far as I could tell. He actually seemed positive about it. But an experience was an experience, and I had no intention of getting sucked down into some continuing maelstrom of bullshit.

I needed, we needed, to clear the air. Especially about the cuckolding session. And especially if they wanted to do another cuckolding session. I wasn’t sold on that. Just a regular threesome would be more fun. Definitely less tension. But Leroy had pushed it and Sam seemed intent on it, which I struggled to understand.

And to be fair, the prospect of another cuckolding session had a dark gravity that pulled at me.

It all felt... out of control, in ways I didn’t quite understand. Volatile. It needed to be in check, with boundaries.

So, talk about it. Set some rules, some understandings.

Leroy and Sam had talked. And then Leroy had invited me.

Leroy: No matter how good he fucked, or how charming he could be, we didn’t need assholes in our life.

The question was: Was he worth it?

I walked up to his door and knocked. It opened, and Leroy appeared looked me up and down. I was wearing comfortable blue jeans, and a purple sweater, high necked, with high top runners. Hoping for something sexy? It wasn’t that kind of meeting. I hoped. Fifty-fifty on that. I was realistic. My pussy was already wet.

“Come on in,” he said, and opened the door wider. I stepped through. The door closed. My heart fluttered for a second, expecting. But to my surprise, he wasn’t all over me. Instead, he walked to the kitchen.

“Take your shoes off,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Runners off,” he said. “Put them by the door.”

“You didn’t require that last time.”

“Last time I was out of my mind horny anticipating about to have a threesome with the most insanely hot couple I’d ever met. After you two left, I paid for it by walking on street grit the rest of the morning. Shoes off.”

I took them off, and turned to him, casually dropping them on the shoe caddy by the door behind me. His apartment was open plan, he was still in the kitchen area. Well, I thought, not jumping me was a good sign.

Or was I disappointed?

After all our encounters, raw sexual tension was inevitable.

Or was it just me?

“I’ve got some coffee on,” he said, “you want to sit on the couch, or on the table?”

“Let’s do the table,” I said.

“So,” he said calmly, almost without interest. “Is anything going to happen between us today?”

Well, he put it right out there. My stomach fluttered. I blushed automatically, a little shocked that he'd been so open.

“You mean,” I asked, “am I going to fall into a swoon, suck your cock, and then we merrily rush off into the bedroom?”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“No,” I shook my head. Wait, that was too definitive. “Not this time.”

He thought it over and shrugged.

“Cool,” he said. “Your call.”

I was relieved.

He took a drink.

“So,” he said, with clear sincerity, “how’s Sam doing?”

Just like that, he won points with me. A quick smile flickered without meaning to.

“He’s fine,” I told him. “We both knew it was a role play, we went back to normal.”

‘Good,” he said. “I worried. Even as a role play, it’s still got a punch.” He sipped his coffee. “So did you guys make the full twenty-four hours.”

I laughed. Surprisingly, he wasn’t offended. Maybe I’d misread that aspect of him.

“We lasted maybe eight hours.”

He smiled and chuckled.

“Sam my man! Way to go!”

“You’re not offended,” I said. “Curious.”

I’d expected him to be more controlling, and more upset with being disobeyed.

He shook his head.

“Nope. I figured you would need downtime for recovery. For both you and Sam. A breathing space. Counting the restaurant, how many times did Sam come?”

I pretended to count. I knew exactly how many times Sam had come, and when and how.

“Including the restaurant? Seven.”

He chuckled.

“Now if I did six or seven in that space,” he said. “I’d be useless for a week. I asked you to wait twenty four hours, I figured that would be safe. But your man is like the energizer bunny, he just keeps going and going."

“He bounces back hard,” I admitted.

“Cripes,” Leroy said, “he does. I wish I was that young.”

He looked me over.

“How about you?” he said. “Recovered. No aftereffects? Physical or emotional? You took some hard pounding there.”

I smiled.

“I was a little sore,” I admitted. Technically, I’d been a lot sore, particularly after Sam and I had our solo rounds. “But fine.”

He nodded.

“You were fucking good at it," he reflected. "Real fucking good. Deadly even. You followed the lead, played into it perfectly. If you hadn’t kept breaking character...”

I couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, or was it a criticism? The cuckolding session. The early part had been mind blowing, the psychological work up early on, especially on the love seat, that had been so intense. The role play for me had been powerful, it had been like slipping into another identity. There’d been a psychic undertow to the role play that had drawn me in completely. Then that amazing, incredibly slow penetration, reaching a level of sensual detail and intensity that was almost transformative.

And then, moments later, he’d fucked it up completely, right in the middle, after I was basically reduced to goo, by turning to Sam and going ‘Hah ha Sam. My girl now. Hah hah.’

Like what the fuck? Are you eight years old? The illusion, the make believe shattered completely. I’d almost laughed out loud involuntarily. And then he’d done that obnoxious “Sam’s cock is little” shit that annoyed the hell out of me.

I’d recovered and made up some shit so the scene could go on, but he’d lost me. After that, for me, it was just good hard fucking. I gave it to him there, he was good at it. But it wasn’t much more than that.

But the problem was me breaking character? Give me a fucking break.

“Well,” I replied. “You said it yourself, it was a role play. And the sex was real.”

The sex had definitely been real - bruising, exhausting, relentless, sweaty. The sexual energy had been overwhelming. Even after it was over, it wouldn’t stop. I’d woken up in the night, horny as hell, started playing with his cock. He woke and the next thing you knew, we were at it.

And to be completely honest with myself, some of the stuff he’d managed to get me to say during that midnight session that followed had left me ashamed afterwards.

I mean, I was exhausted, submissive, literally drunk on orgasms and arousal, and I was feeding him what he wanted to hear... but in the moments I’d said things, not just then, but particularly then, I’d meant them.

There, that's my deep secret. There had been points, moments, even if only for a moment, where I'd meant what I said.

The role play had gone very deep, to the point of maybe not being role play. That was one of the reasons why I had to keep breaking character early on. I had to remind myself it wasn't real.

“The sex was very real,” he agreed, “and intense. I actually got the feeling a few times, that you weren’t pretending.”

He stared.

Fuck. Our thoughts had lined up at the right moment, so it felt almost psychic, like he'd just read my mind.

Except for a moment of stillness, my body betrayed nothing, certainly I didn’t let on about the instant, intense shiver that went up and down my spine. He didn’t stare or anything, just watched me. After a few seconds I found I had to look away. A moment later, I could feel myself turning beet red.

“Nope,” I lied. “Role play, all the way through. You were a very good lead, it was easy to follow. You’d worked it out very well...”

“Uh huh,” he said, and just looked at me. “Why don’t you spread your legs for me.”

He said it in a plain, casual, conversational way, as if remarking on the weather.

My knees parted involuntarily, just an inch and I slammed them together. What the fuck? Where had that come from?

I waggled a finger at him and shook my head.

“Nuh uh,” I told him.

He shrugged.

“Just thought I’d test you a little.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I think you’re wet, though,” he said. “Aroused. A bit excited. Memories sparking up, and of course, you’re here alone.”

“Oh my,” I snarked. “That doesn’t sound creepy at all.”

He chuckled.

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just... Every other time I fucked you, Sam was there, either listening, or physically there. Even when I didn’t know, you knew. You knew he was there, you were always performing for him a little, affected by his presence. It was never just you alone.”

“Surely,” he asked, “you must have wondered? What it would be like to do it with me, without him there? Listening. Watching. Looking over your shoulder. Trying to get a better look. Without that pressure of having to look after him? Worrying about him, whether he was enjoying? Whether he was having fun?”

“Think about it,” he said. “Just you and me, no Sam, no watching, no worrying, no second guessing. Just uncomplicated fucking.”

I felt like I was sweating suddenly as he was talking, his words uncannily reflective of my own thoughts earlier. The sweater was suddenly a little too warm.

“Interesting idea,” I said neutrally. “Maybe I’ll ask Sam and then I’ll try it alone with you. But not today.”

He nodded.

I needed to ask.

“What about you?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I’ll fuck you every chance I get. In a heartbeat. You’re platinum grade ass.”

Platinum grade ass? I’d never heard that before. I laughed nervously.

“Your nipples are hard,” he observed.

I refused to look.

“No they’re not,” I told him, blushing “And if they were, I’m wearing a loose sweater, and a bra under the sweater, you couldn’t tell.”

“They’re definitely hard,” he said, looking directly at them. Fuck, I thought, they’re not sticking out are they? He can’t see that, can he? He’s fucking with my head.

“And when I said you were wet,” he said. “You didn’t deny it.”

I was blushing madly. I squirmed awkwardly in my chair, suddenly restless. To cover, I put the coffee cup to my lips and drank.

“This is fucking great coffee!”

“Sumatran. From Mandan province. They have their own strain of beans.”

“Ahh,” I said. That was the infuriating thing about Leroy, he was good at everything. Or he seemed to be. If it was bullshit, he had the best bullshit Sam and I had seen.

I put the cup down.

“Look,” I told him, “yes, there’s sexual tension. My nipples are hard. My pussy is a little wet. Okay. I feel it. You feel it. We can’t have done all the fucking we’ve done, and not have sexual tension when we’re alone. That doesn’t mean we’re going to fuck, got it? I’ve said no.”

“Sure,” he said, he leaned back and smiled. “But I am enjoying the tension. There’s no need to act on it. But it’s nice to feel... that little bit of electricity. Don’t you think?”

Fuck, I thought, he never stops. But he was right.

I looked up at the ceiling.

“Mmm,” I said thoughtfully, “you may be right. As long as we don’t act on it.”

“Fine by me,” he said.

“You’re pretty relaxed.”

“I know I’ll have you. If not now, then later on. I can be patient.”

I nodded. Made sense.

“Can you really see my nipples are hard?”

“Oh yeah,” he said.

I looked down. Yeah, they were definitely poking the sweater.

“Fuck!!!!”

“I’ve got some napkins, he said, "and some paper coffee filters. "

"You could put them in your bra. It might help,” he offered, "with the nipples thing."

I thought about it for a second, it seemed kind of pointless. But wait...

“Wait!” I demanded. “Are you fucking with me?”

He didn’t answer, just lifted an eyebrow as he drank his coffee.

“You bastard!” I swore in a friendly, affectionate way. I’d have to tell Sam, he’d laugh.

He just shrugged.

“Anyway,” I said. “I mean, how was the role play for you. You went pretty hard into it.”

Until you fucked it up, I thought. I didn’t think he realized he’d blown it, he’d just kept on, and mostly recovered. But then, we were into hard fucking, and the psychodrama stuff was secondary.

The throat fucking, that had been amazing, something of a revelation. My big takeaways so far: It hadn’t been nearly as difficult as I’d expected; And something else, as it had been happening, when he’d been going a particular pace, so I could snatch breaths and my throat muscles had seemed to react... I’d experienced intense arousal. I wasn’t sure whether it was entirely psychological, or there’d been a physiological element. I really resented him taking my hands away when I was trying to masturbate. I was still processing it. I sort of wanted and didn't want to try it again. I didn’t really feel like discussing it with him though.

The midnight sessions, when we’d been half asleep, rousing each other, my defenses down, our bodies willing, he’d gotten it back then, the psychological edge. That was when it got closest to not being role play.

He drank his coffee.

“It was just a scene," he said. “That’s all. You design it, you work out the choreography, you make sure everyone’s doing their part and having a good time. It’s like being a dungeonmaster... in DnD.”

“Dungeons and Dragons?” I wanted to make sure.

“The same,” he nodded. “Played it in high school. The thing is, you’re so busy looking after everyone, that you never get completely immersed.”

“You made it feel very real,” I said. I felt myself blushing brightly again, and hoped he didn’t notice.

I looked over at his cabinets. When he’d been on, when it was working, his sexual potency had been breathtaking.

“You felt very real yourself, like realistic. Like you weren’t playing.”

“I have this urge to be in charge,” he admitted. “Not really dom/sub, just my personality. Sometimes it gets out of hand, I have to watch out for that. But a scene like this, it just sort of plays into that part of me.”

“I’d say...” he said, “ten per cent me, ninety per cent playing to the role. I could never actually let go, I always had to manage the scene. But you? You really went there. Sometimes I watched you or listened, and I honestly couldn’t tell you were role playing. You felt very real sometimes.”

I looked at his cabinets. Was I blushing? My face was hot.

“It was fun.... “ I said. “I don’t know, that I’d want to keep on doing it. It feels confining, and... a little dark. Once or twice... okay. But I wouldn’t want to do it regularly.”

He nodded.

“I can get behind that,” he said. “I get it. You’re right.”

“One thing that really bothers me,” I told him, emphatically, looking directly at him, “and you keep fucking doing it. You keep cutting down Sam. It bugs me. It’s cruel and it’s mean, and it’s not fun at all. And he’s not that much smaller than you are. Fucking stop it. Okay?”

He nodded.

“You’re right,” he said sincerely. “You’re absolutely right. It’s unnecessary, its cruel like you said. It stops. Done. I'm sorry.”

Just like that? I’d been thinking about it off and on for days, working up to an argument. And he'd just conceded out the gate. No defensiveness, no justification, nothing. He just admitted and apologized. Fuck. I'd been ready for a fight.

“Okay...” I said.

That didn't feel like enough.

“It’s just... I don’t like it. It’s malicious. And it makes...”

“Makes me look like an asshole,” he finished.

“You’re absolutely right," he said. "I started it when I thought you were stepping out. I thought it was working for you to slag your husband. Unhappy marriage, wife straying, you don’t want to be talking up the Mister. I had the idea that was what you needed - fuck to your asshole husband."

He paused thoughtfully.

"But I misread. That wasn’t the situation at all, and even when I should have known better, I kept at it. I’m sorry.”

I was put out. This was almost a different side of him. I’d expected something closer to his role play, the ‘fuck at all costs’ ‘dominate at all costs’ persona. Or the predatory horndog from the bar. I’d expected him to defend and aggress.

But fuck, here he was, thoughtful, considerate, unapologetically sexual, but respectful... and funny. He was almost like Sam. I liked that he could remind me of Sam, that he could show the qualities I loved in Sam. It made me trust him a little more.

Was this the real Leroy? Was sensing this inner person why we were both so strongly attracted to him? Part of me just wanted to go and sit on his lap and joyfully kiss the fuck out of him and run off to the bedroom.

Or was this a role play? And underneath, maybe there was something darker and more predatory. I shivered involuntarily, and I could feel my pussy clenching, a wet squeeze dampening my panties. Something predatory, waiting to fuck me, if I dared show weakness. I had a momentary flash of me naked in his bed, him looming over me, hovering, his erection waiting, and submissively spreading my legs.

“I think,” he said, “you need to do it.”

“What?” I asked a little too loudly.

Blushing, I’d realized I’d become momentarily distracted. I’d lost the thread of conversation.

“I like Sam,” Leroy said. “I like him a lot. But I don’t know him well enough. I might miss the mark. Or go too far. You should be the one to cut him down... you know the press the right buttons... size, staying power... whatever, and how hard to push, to get him going but not hurt him. You know him well enough to know where to go, and when to stop."

Wait? What? I thought.

"People get off on submission, you definitely do. Surrendering, humiliation, the fantasy of being conquered..." he went on.

My heart beat a little faster, I felt light in my stomach, a tingle below. Yeah, he'd read me right. It wasn't all of me. But I got off on it.

"So does Sam. I guess everyone does in the right moment," he continued. "But can be a fine line between excitement and arousal if you do it right... and trauma and emotional pain if you do it wrong.”

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “You should handle that. He’ll be safer and happier. I’ll leave it to you. I won’t push like I’ve been doing. I’ll back off and let you run that.”

“What?” I’d just jolted from this wildly affectionate impulse, to a submissive micro-fantasy, and now a call back to the intense energy of the role play where he’d just promoted me to ... bitch goddess?

It was weirdly exciting, because while I didn’t like verbally slapping Sam... on some level, I kind of had.

It felt like my body was thrumming, I was experiencing this strong sudden feeling of sexual arousal, but it was like I couldn’t settle on what was arousing me?

“Oh. Yeah. I see. Okay,” I mumbled, trying to buy time to sort out my confused impulses. He'd thrown me. “I’ll think about it. We’ll talk about it. Later.”

“Another thing,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I should spend the night,” he told me. “Not after a session. It’s too raw. With a regular threesome, sure, I'd love that."

"But a session brings too many things up, I’m thinking about last time. I don’t think spending the night is good. I think after a session, I should go home, and leave the two of you together.”

I was a little shocked, this was unexpected. And the thing was, he was right. The session had been one thing, but the night sex, the things I’d said and done, the way he’d wore me down, and Sam leaving our bed... It was all dark. Emotionally dark and dirty.

“Okay,” I agreed, grateful for the change of subject. “I can go with that.”

“I’m thinking during the week,” he said. “Not the weekend, so we’re not tempted. You have to go to work in the morning. I have to go home.”

“Makes sense.”

“This is for you guys,” he said. “I loved fucking you all night long, you just kept getting deeper and deeper, surrendering more and more totally. You remember? The things you said? The promises you made?”

I was blushing hot. I remembered the words vividly. I remembered submitting. Promises? Were they promises? Maybe? My hands shook a little at the memory of how completely subordinated, how utterly abandoned I’d been. I flashed on the things I’d said and done, the unspeakable thoughts and feelings that had flowed through me. There’d been no pretending.

“Your legs are spread,” he pointed out.

“What?”

Oh fuck, they were. Not a stripper doing the splits, but definitely, somewhere along the way, I’d kind of moved my hips forward as I sat, and my knees had unconsciously parted, directly aiming my pudenda at his crotch. I was glad I was wearing jeans.

I straightened up and crossed my legs.

He chuckled.

“It’s okay,” he said. “A lot of sexual tension in the air.”

I blushed, again feeling grateful that he was letting me off the hook.

I picked up my coffee cup in both hands. I needed both hands, because I didn’t trust myself to keep from trembling if I used one. Damn, but it was good coffee.

Fuck him, for being so good at everything. If he wasn’t, my clit wouldn’t be kicking up a fuss.

The cup was almost empty. I debated asking for a refill. We had a lot more to talk about. Especially if he wanted to do another cuckolding session. I wasn’t sold on that. Just a regular threesome would be more fun. Definitely less tension.

But Sam seemed intent on it, and it had a dark gravity that pulled at me. So, talk about it. Set some rules, some understandings.

I actually felt better about it now, than when I’d gone up in the elevator. Yeah, you could cut the sexual tension with a knife. But I’d seen new sides to him, reasonable sides. I hoped.

He was a fascinating mystery.

“You,” I said, squeezing my thighs together, “are a dangerous man.”

Crossing my legs had been a serious mistake. I was already wet, more wet and more tense than I wanted to admit, and crossing my legs had just resulted in my putting pressure on my inner thighs, which added tension to my pubic region, and caused my thong to pull tight against my clit and my pussy lips.

I desperately wanted to uncross them and assume a more comfortable position that wasn’t mild sexual self-torture. But I’d made such a big production out of crossing them, that I couldn’t do that without drawing attention to it, which would tell him I was really wet, which I didn’t want to do.

And the worst part was that I was terrified he already knew all this, because he was so damned sexually intuitive. So good at reading me like an open book. I was terrified that he knew I’d trapped myself into sexual anguish, and he was enjoying it.

He’d probably told me to spread my legs, knowing I’d refuse but then unconsciously do it anyway later on, so that he could point it out, and make me cross my legs, trapping myself.

The bastard.

Come on Kayley. No one is that devious.

And I'm definitely not that easy to manipulate. I hoped.

“We’ve talked about that,” he said thoughtfully, “me being dangerous. That's the second time you mentioned it. You brought it up after the..."

I was grateful he didn't say it out loud, but he didn't need to. The memory of that encounter was overpowering.

He looked at me speculatively.

"But here you are."

Eek! I thought.

"Let me ask you, how do you feel about me being dangerous? Be honest.”

“Nervous,” I replied slowly “Careful.”

“Be honest.”

“Excited... Odd... A little scared,” I said. “It makes me want to get on my knees in front of you.”

Oops.

I shouldn’t have said that last part. I knew it was a mistake right from the start, and it came tumbling out anyway. Oh god, that was such a stupid thing to say. I was in so much trouble.

Fuck.

I smiled weakly.

“Strike that last bit?”

He waved, dismissing it. Instead, he leaned forward, thoughtfully.

“That makes me think of the 'Four Fs'” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“The Four Fs - the four physical responses to danger - Fight, Flight, Freeze and Fawn.”

Okay, he’d just fucking lost me. I’d thought after my idiotic confession, he’d just grab my hair, force me to my knees and go at it. But apparently, we were still having a coffee table discussion.

Okay. Sure.

“I thought it was just fight and flight,” I said carefully. “Responses to danger.”

“Those are the big ones,” he said. “But they realized that freeze and fawn are in there too.”

“Freeze is easy to understand," he said. "Sometimes, the response to danger is paralysis. People... animals, freeze up for a second. The rabbit freezes when the shadow of the hawk is there. You get caught in a bank robbery, you freeze.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good response,” I replied.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Some situations, you don’t know what to do. Something goes off... maybe the response isn’t obvious, or easy. Maybe doing something will put you in more danger. If the rabbit runs, it’ll attract the hawk. If you panic during a bank robbery, a twitchy robber might shoot you to death. So you freeze, to figure out the safe move, rather than risking death.”

I nodded.

“And the other one?” I asked.

“Fawn?” he said. “That’s the tricky one. Have you ever seen a small dog meet a big one. Sometimes it goes up, tail wagging so hard its butt is swinging, licking its muzzle, ears down. No aggression at all. Just hyper ‘wants to be friendly.’ That’s fawning.”

“Fawning, as in flattering, sucking up, ingratiating. That’s a survival strategy, particularly in social situations. Can’t run, can’t hide, can’t fight... When someone makes you feel threatened, kiss their ass.”

“That’s what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re fawning.”

I thought it over very carefully.

“Fuck right off,” I said. “I don’t kiss anyone’s ass.”

He chuckled.

“No,” he said. “Remember, it’s a physical response, it’s how we’re wired. It’s physiological, an instinct, an urge. When you feel danger, your instinct is to run, or fight, or freeze up... or fawn.”

“It feels...” I began. “I don’t like it... it’s icky.”

“It’s just physiological,” he said. “You feel someone’s a little dangerous, you have this urge to ingratiate, to try and make him like you. If the threat likes you, it’s not a threat. Simple, but it works. Sexually, if it’s a bad boy, you turn on the sex appeal, you try to get him interested... if he wants to fuck you, he doesn’t want to hurt you.”

He shrugged.

“It works for some things,” he said. “It’s not necessarily the best strategy. Real danger? My advice is run like hell. If you can’t run, fight. If you don’t know what to do, freeze. But fawning works enough that we got wired for it.”

"You keep saying I'm dangerous," he told me, "and then you flirt, because your fawning instinct is kicking in."

“Where the fuck did you learn all this stuff?” I asked, incredulous.

It wasn’t that I disbelieved him. The way he laid it out made way too much sense, and explained a lot of things, not just about sex, but ways I’d seen people behave.

“Stanford,” he said. “I took some classes there, back in the day.”

“I see,” I said. “Is this before or after you went into the Astronaut training program?”

He froze. At first he looked confused, then it sank in, then there was what might have been a very quick flicker of annoyance or anger. Then he laughed, and I laughed too. The weird discomfort of the 'Four Fs' conversation dissipated. Even the sexual tension eased.

“You bitch!” he chuckled. “I should spank you for that.”

“Promises, promises,” I replied. I stuck my tongue out at him.

He regarded me with amusement.

“Kayley?”

“Yes.”

“You were fawning just now.”

I was so shocked I uncrossed my legs, and put my hand over my mouth.

“Holy shit!” I said. “You’re right!”

I had fawned! Now that I’d noticed it, I almost felt panic, like I wanted to go back and second guess every friendly conversation I’d ever had, review every time I’d flirted. Especially with him.

He chuckled.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He straightened up and pulled himself to his feet. “Listen,” he said. “I have to go and piss. Did you want to come and watch? You can hold it, or whatever.”

“What?” What the hell, I thought, where the fuck did that come from. Watch him pee? Wait!

Leroy stepped over to me and took my head in his hands and kissed me, initially, just on the lips, but with sudden force, he pressed, forcing my lips apart and my jaw opened. His tongue slid into my mouth. I was breathless. Then it was gone, he was straightening up, and I was trying not to pant. I had this random thought that my nipples must just be poinging through my sweater.

“Whatever,” he said, walking past me. “If you don’t want to come and watch, make yourself useful and put things away. Make sure you rinse the cups. When you’re finished, go into the living room and wait for me.”

Wait! Wait! Rewind! What the fuck had just happened? Had he? Rinse the cups? What did he? He kissed me? I was completely thrown. But I couldn't even reply, he was already gone.

Automatically, I started putting away the cream and sugar, pouring out the remainder of the coffee, there wasn’t enough for another cup. Better to start a fresh pot. Disposing the grounds. I rinsed the cups and put them away.

I had this weird feeling of arousal and panic. I was absolutely soaked, between my legs, I felt fluttery all over, my skin was hot. It felt like I’d fallen into a trap, like this whole visit was a trap, the entire conversation, carefully maneuvering me into this position of arousal and submission, so he could fuck me. I had this feeling that, almost from the moment I’d walked through the door, he’d been playing me. He couldn't be this good, could he?

I was rinsing his cups? He’d simply ordered, and I was complying.

Maybe it was time to leave. Fuck this shit. I went into the living room. I could hear him pissing in the bathroom. He must have the bladder of a racehorse. Fine, I’d just grab my runners, be out the door. Four Fs? Watch me do flight, motherfucker!

My runners were gone. Or at least they weren’t where I thought I’d left them. Had he taken them? To keep me here? To control me? That was crazy. But where were they?

Crazy? My impulse to run off like a mad woman was crazy. I needed to get a grip.

I sat down on the couch. What had I thought? Fifty fifty chance of getting fucked? Right now, more like ninety ten, or maybe ninety nine point nine. Not looking good for our heroine’s virtue.

Leroy came out. I was gratified to see that he was tucked away, his cock wasn’t flopping around. Okay, good sign.

He stopped in the living room, and looked at me, smiling. It reminded me a lot of the smile he gave me in the bar, the confident, ‘I’m going to fuck you’ smile. The sort of smile that had made me shiver and spread my legs.

“Get off my couch,” he ordered, with just a trace of harshness.

I got up quickly. It was different from being in the bar with him. Here, he was definitely in charge, and I wasn’t.

“Come here,” he ordered.

My heart was literally thudding against my ribs. I was so wet, it felt like it was going to work its way through my panties, down my jeans.

Two or three steps, I was in front of him, looking up at him.

“Closer,” he ordered.

I stepped close, so close we were only inches apart. I could feel his physical presence. I had to bend my neck to look up at him.

“So let’s see,” he said, his voice calm and predatory. “Nowhere to run, and no way to resist. Fight or flight is out.. So it’s just freeze. You stand there, waiting for whatever happens. But you have to do something...”

I swallowed, a loud gulping sound.

“So that leaves fawning,” he said. “I bet, right now, you just have this urge to please me. It’s like a need, almost like a compulsion. You feel it, like an impulse, an irresistible impulse, this desire to make me happy. What’s it like?”

I licked my lips.

“Desperate,” I said. “Tense. Urgent, like I really need to do something. I can’t wait. Whatever it is, it has to be now. I’m not afraid of you, I don’t think. But I just want to make you like me....”

That sounded so stupid. I was blushing nonstop, my heart kept beating faster and harder. Any harder, I’d start shaking back and forth. I felt so weak, like my muscles and joints were all unstrung and disconnected.

“I want to get on my knees in front of you...” I whispered. “And suck your cock.”

I waited for a command, an order, a hand on my shoulder or head. There was nothing. Just him, looking down at me. He wasn’t going to give an order. He was going to make me choose to do it.

I felt weak, my body like water, unable to resist. Maybe not wanting to resist. It was like gravity had increased, the whole world pulling me down. I sank to my knees.

I looked up at him, as he stared down. Once again he had taken the role of conqueror, and I the surrendering conquest. Except that there was no real conquest, he didn't even need to exert, it was just my pulsing weakness, this overpowering need to capitulate to him. To offer myself, with the rabid, urgent hope that he would take me.

“Well, I guess,” I said, remembering my stupid remark, “I kind of opened myself up to this.”

His expression was gloating and hungry. Was this the real man? I couldn’t be sure. The way he looked at me though, made me feel weak, it sent shivers through me.

Fight, fight, freeze or fawn. The last a compulsive urge to submit, to curry his favour, to please him.

Was this what I wanted?

Was this the man I needed?

He unzipped his fly and pulled his cock out. I was ridiculously grateful to him for that. Partly, my hands were shaking so much. But there was something deeper, this casual gesture signified his approval of my instinctive submission, and in my compulsive state of fawning, that made me ecstatic.

Even only partially erect, I couldn’t help but stare. There was just something hypnotic about his cock in front of me..

“Oh, I knew you were always going to end up on your knees,” he said.

“What I love is that you knew it too.” He smiled.

I wanted to crush him with a really smart cutting remark. There wasn’t anything I could say to that. So I leaned forward and took the head of his cock in my mouth.

He was right.

There was nothing to say.

As I rolled my tongue around it, feeling the now familiar shape and texture. I knew it intimately, my body, perhaps my soul, had memorized the exact configurations and properties during the cuckolding, during that glacial slow penetration.

My eyes closed. Strangely, I found myself relaxing. The high strung urgency of what Leroy called fawning was leaving my body, just slowly fading. Perhaps it was because I had purpose now, I had an actual task or mission to concentrate me. Or perhaps on my knees, I’d found an island of stability.

Something resembling calm stole over me, not a normal calm. This was mixed with arousal, and was submissive, perhaps capable of being deeply submissive. And satisfying. I could feel Leroy’s cock head swell in my mouth as I held it on my tongue, lashing it tenderly. I tasted a bead of precum as I licked it away. My lips wrapped tight, feeling him grow with each pulse. There was a deep satisfaction in having it in my mouth which went beyond sex.

I had given my first blow job in high school, it had lasted a minute. Through my final year at high school, and into university, I’d learned reasonable proficiency in the art, but no real interest or engagement.

That had all changed with Sam, suddenly, I was wild for him in every possible way, and the chance to have him in my mouth was a carnival of excitement and exploration. Sucking Sam’s cock was both joyful and addictive, I could never get enough.

There were submissive aspects, certainly there were times when I felt submissive or he went dominant, and oral service took on profound depth.

But it was Derek who had been the turning point, although I hadn’t realized it at all at the time. Exhausted, muscles sore, pussy stretched, denied orgasm, Derek had forced, or maybe coaxed me to take his limp filthy cock in my mouth, and I’d given in. It had been degrading, but I’d been too battered down to resist, his member had still been thick in my mouth, vile with cock slime and latex, and yet, I’d surrendered.

That was it, I’d surrendered, accepted and went along with his desire, submitted to his use. It was vile, and that had made it humiliating. But the thing was, that as I served, as I’d cleaned him with my mouth, the taste of cock slime and latex diminished and defused, vanishing or being forgotten. And instead, there was just the freshness of him in my mouth, the taste of cock flesh and smooth skin, there was the heaviness of his cock, the feel of veins and wrinkles, the shape of his foreskin and cock head. He hadn’t been hard, if he had been, that would have distracted with its urgency. But now, past orgasm, in its passive state, I’d found a profound kind of satisfaction in giving myself to it.

The truth was that I would have sucked his limp cock as long as he wanted. I would have sucked him until he’d gotten hard again. I would have sucked him until he came in my mouth.

Or until he decided to fuck me again. And this time, I wouldn’t have made him use a condom. I would have just accepted his bare cock and submitted to his coming inside me. The Kayley that would have taken him in her body then would have been a very different girl than the one who went into the bathroom with him.

This realization, this epiphany, stole over me and left me weak, as I was on my knees yet again, now, sucking Leroy’s cock, now hard and filling my mouth. I didn’t think in these terms, I wasn’t thinking at all. I was just existing, and understanding.

That throw away moment in my sex with Derek had actually been deeply consequential, had been transformative. I’d made some mental adjustment there, had slipped into a certain territory, without either of us realizing it. I had been changed in some small aspect, without my even noticing. He could have taken me so much further then, and I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would have gone wherever he took me, submitted to whatever he wanted.

Not all of the oral encounters after had been in the same vein. My relationship with Sam’s cock, including my joyful fixation with oral remained. The times with Sam, the hilarious episode in the Thai restaurant, they’d had none of that. Not every cock that might pass between my lips necessarily made me a slave, that would have been ridiculous.

But cleaning Leroy our second time in the men’s room, that odyssey of a blow job that turned into some primeval face fuck at his place, the experience in the peep show, it had all just built on and hardened, that small alteration to me, had set it into stone and expanded it.

Especially the experience at the peep show. The peep show had taken away men and men’s bodies, had distilled the experience to my mouth and cocks and the submissive, profound need to serve orally. However my experiences changed me, even if I was already altered, the peep show experience felt it had fixed it permanently, rewritten a part of me.

Had I really understood the consequences for myself when I had chosen to walk in to the peep show? And if I had understood, would I still have walked in?

With a shiver, I realized the answer was yes.

Had Leroy known what he was doing when he took me into that peep show? I hoped not, that seemed impossibly diabolical. If he was that good, that cunning, then it was hopeless.

He wasn’t that good, I decided. Leroy was good, definitely. But it was important not to believe all his bullshit.

He’d just done whatever he wanted every step of the way. I was certain he had not understood or intended, it was just a game. He did not appreciate how profound it would be for me, how life altering. But he had been there, he had witnessed and seen. He may not have understood how it changed me, how I had been changed and altered. But he’d seen the result. Perhaps he even understood it, or if not, he knew enough to take advantage.

I had barely begun to understand it myself, only finding these epiphanies kneeling before Leroy, and serving him. I was no longer wholly the Kayley I had used to be. And yet, this awareness did not shatter me. I embraced it, felt warmed by it. This was who I am now. Or at least, who I was in the moment.

“Fuck,” Leroy grunted, “you’re such a fucking cocksucker!”

He was rock hard in my mouth, it hadn’t taken long, I’d reveled in the way he’d swelled, pushing my jaws apart, becoming hotter and harder in my mouth. It had been new territory, with each throb, his cock had become a new thing to explore continuously.

I was vaguely aware of his scrotum draping over my chin, I’d worked my way to a deep throat, without even a gag. He hadn’t pushed, he’d just let me follow my fascination. I took a deep breath of his masculinity, wallowing in it, eyelids fluttering and pulled back, my hand pulling gently on his testicles.

If I’d thought about it, I preferred him in the front of my mouth, no more than two or three inches. There, his cock head sat on my tongue like a throne, I could move my lips, suck so intently my cheeks caved. There was the pleasure and fulfillment of worship. But no matter where he was in my mouth, there was always the beckoning, to take him some other way, deeper or shallower, to lick his balls, bury my face in his pubic hair, kiss the head. I was constantly moving, constantly exploring the landscape of his erection, endlessly fascinated.

“Take off your sweater,” he ordered. My lips left his cock just long enough to heave my sweater up over my head and fling it away. I swallowed his cock again, going deep.

That old movie is silly, it’s not like we have a clitoris in our throats. If I come at all from sucking a cock, and sometimes I can, it’s from the psychological intensity. There’s no direct sexual nerve endings in my mouth, or my throat. But there are nerve endings, taste, awareness of texture. Awareness of the resistance to my tongue, the shape that it caresses, awareness of the wetness in your mouth, my jaws stretched open. There’s a sensuality to it, a sensual awareness that can be sexual, that is often sexual for me.

But it is an unfulfilled sexuality, arousing but never satisfied, so I chase that arousal, I pursue it slowly around the head and down the length of the shaft, into the nests of pubic hair and the swaying bush of the scrotum and back again, unconsciously seeking that sweet spot that’s never quite there, losing myself to it.

And perhaps, deep, deep down, there’s the primordial suckling urge of the infant, after breathing, the deepest, most fundamental human impulse. To feel something stiff and round in between my lips and suckle, and with that, a satisfaction a gratification, a soothing of disordered minds and the stream of thoughts and impulses.

Sucking cock, suckling, carried with it a sort of mindless pleasure, a basic happiness and contentment that shut off thought and left me in warm immediacy.

“Get rid of the bra,” he ordered. I unsnapped it and shrugged it off automatically, his cock never leaving my mouth.

I lost myself on my knees in front of Leroy. His hand stroked my hair or moved my head, but these sensations were remote. He spoke, but unless they were commands, I simply let them flow through me. What commands he gave my body, my mouth followed automatically.

At some point, he took control, whether he seized it, or gradually usurped I did not know, because I was in a state of mindless surrender, unable to distinguish the performance of my body from his will. I only gradually came to realize that I was obeying him, that he was ascendant. But this time, he didn’t disrupt my contentment with face fucking.

His cock swelled in my mouth, I slid back and forth, sealing my lips tight, aware of his impending ejaculation.

Then I felt him filling my mouth, the liquid semen surging all over my tongue and gums, from the roof of my mouth to momentarily swell my cheeks, and I was swallowing automatically. In that mental state, feeling, tasting a man ejaculating in my mouth was almost like having an orgasm of my own, it brought a kind of excitement and blissful satisfaction.

“Fuck you are good!” Leroy said. He stepped back, his cock slid from between my lips.

I reached for it automatically.

He took deep breaths. I looked up, his face was red and flushed, he was breathing hard. I struggled to connect the hard sharp orgasm he must have felt with the blissfulness I’d experienced from his agitation.

“Fuck, that was satisfying. I love blowing a load in your mouth.”

Slowly, I returned to myself. I felt calm and relaxed, very open.

“Are we done?” I asked.

He didn’t reply directly.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” he ordered.

In my relaxed state, I saw no reason not to comply. Vaguely I wondered what he had planned next. Did he want me to stay on my knees?

“I’ll have to stand up to get the jeans off,” I told him.

“Sure.”

I climbed to my feet.

“I don’t like jeans,” he said, watching me pull them down, “or slacks. You should just wear skirts or dresses, so you can be accessible.”

I thought about taking my panties off in the same movement, but decided to do them separately, he’d probably like that more. The jeans slid down my calves, I stepped out of them. I was wearing a red satin thong with a large wet spot. They went next.

Why bother to wear a bright red thong on what was supposed to be a casual no-sex visit? I hadn't thought of it when I picked it out.

Or maybe, some deep part of me had intended, wanted this all along. Maybe this was where I knew I'd be, right from the start.

“Socks too,” he said unnecessarily, I was already pulling off my white ankle socks. He smiled. “You know, there’s something about having you barefoot that is so fucking sexy.”

I stood naked in front of him. He was still fully dressed. He’d even tucked his cock away, I kind of missed it.

“Come here,” he ordered.

I took a couple of steps towards him, approaching close until there were only inches between us, like before. So close I had to bend my head to look almost straight up at him, and he was looking down at me. This is what he’d had me do before the blow job, so I assumed that’s what he wanted this time.

“You’re different,” he said, looking into my eyes. I looked away.

“I feel more relaxed,” I said. That urgent need to fawn had faded. I felt like I was in an odd sexual head space. It wasn’t bad, I was okay with it. But I recognized it wasn’t my normal head space.

He cupped my breast, squeezing my nipple. I looked down at his hand on my breast, my lips moving slightly when he pinched too hard. He slipped his hand down my belly, between my legs, finding my pussy. I gasped and my legs felt watery.

I expected him to kiss me, but he didn’t. Sam would have kissed me. Sam never missed a chance to kiss me.

“Fuck,” he said. “You’re wet. You’re just dripping.”

Of course I was. My eyes went half lidded, and I started to pant slightly. His fingertips expertly played my clit and two fingers sank into me, unerringly stroking my g-spot. I put a hand on his shoulder, leaning on him, widening my legs a little. It was startling how intense the response and arousal was.

He withdrew.

“You stopped,” I complained.

“Turn around,” he ordered. I obeyed. He stepped up close, I could feel his breath on my neck. His hands reached around, cupping my breasts, moving up and down my body, across my ribs, my belly, down below to tease my clit.

“What are you going to do?” I asked. He’d come, he wasn’t ready to fuck me, at least night right way.

The blow job had left me in this odd state of sexualized excitement and receptiveness, but strangely passive. His touch had sent me smouldering. I wanted to be licked, fingered, fondled. I felt this slow hunger building in me.

I could feel him staring at me for a moment. Then he took my hip and shoulder. “Move,” he ordered. At first I thought he was marching me to the bedroom. But instead, he stopped me facing a wall from a foot and a half away.

“Hands on the wall,” he said, “head height. Stare directly at the wall, don’t look anywhere else. Don’t look away from the wall. Don’t move your hands.”

I obeyed.

“Comfortable,” he asked after a minute. It wasn’t bad. My arms were outstretched a bit, but not awkwardly or uncomfortably. I wasn’t putting any weight on them. And the wall allowed support. It wasn’t a stress position.

“Yes. Am I allowed to blink?” I asked

“Of course.” His words came from directly behind me. I felt his breath on my shoulder.

He reached around, cupping my breasts, pulling on my nipples, and alternately pinching them. His hands moved up and down my body, from the underside of my jaw and throat, smoothly down all the way to fingernails raking my inner thighs and sending shivers through me. He stepped close to reach between my legs, fingers parting my lips.

“Spread your legs a little more...” he ordered. “That’s it.”

He started to touch and tease me, biting my shoulders, running hands and palms, fingertips and fingernails everywhere. Sometimes in long caresses, sometimes a series of touches and taps, always returning to my erogenous zones, sending me into shivers of arousal.

“How does that feel?” he asked.

“Wonderful.”

“You are such a responsive slut,” he whispered in my ear, his fingertip brushed lightly over my clit, making me jump. “Tell me you’re a slut.”

“I’m a slut,” I breathed.

“What kind of slut?”

“The best kind. The kind that fucks total strangers in the men’s rooms of bars, and sucks random cocks in peep shows.”

“The kind that likes to get fucked?” A finger slid up inside me, exploring.

“The kind that loves to get fucked.”

“I’m going to fuck you, then I’m going to fuck your virgin ass and pop your little cherry. What do you think of that?”

“I can’t wait. But I might have to.”

His brows narrowed. “Hmmm?”

“You just shot a whole lot of come down my throat.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ll be ready soon, and I’m going to make sure you’re begging for it.”

“You always make me beg.”

“You love to beg.”

“Because I’m insatiable. I need your cock. I need to come all the time.”

“Do you deserve to come?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I want to come!”

“WHAP!” he slapped my ass hard. “Ow!” I went, reflexively.

“I decide whether you deserve to come,” he said. “Not you. You just beg.”

“I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “You’re right. May I come? Please?”

“What did you do to deserve it?”

“I got on my knees for you,” I said. “You didn’t even have to tell me. I got on my knees because I wanted to please you. And I sucked your cock. I sucked it really good. I worshipped it.”

“That was a pretty good blow job,” he admitted.

“Tell me a secret,” he said. “Something Sam doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t know about the peep show.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Not yet.”

“Not enough,” he said. “Tell me another secret, something no one knows.”

Fuck. I was going out of my head with the need to come, and he was playing twenty questions. What an asshole. It’s not like I walk around with a list of untold secrets I could draw on. Especially in my desperate panting state. My mind was a chaotic blank. I searched for anything recent.

“When you went to the bathroom,” I mumbled. “And invited me to watch... I wanted to go. To hold it.”

“Oh really,” he whispered. “Was that all you wanted?”

Oh fuck! Just give him what he wanted, so he’d let me come.

“No, I wanted to watch you piss. To see it,” I whispered. Fuck, I’d already given him that. He wanted more. “I had a flash, when you said it, an image...”

“An image?”

Fuck.

“Of kneeling while you pissed. Of kneeling right in front of you. Of you pissing on me instead of in the toilet. Of opening my mouth so you could piss in it.”

Just let me come, I screamed at him in my head. I hoped that this didn’t get me in trouble, and that he wasn’t some pee freak or anything, and I I was setting him off.

“Ever had these fantasies before,” he whispered.

“No,” I answered truthfully. “Just now, with you,” I lied.

He chuckled.

“You would do whatever I told you?” he demanded.

“Yes.”

“If I took you back to the bar, to fuck a stranger?”

“I’d fuck him.”

“Even if he was black?”

“Yes.”

“Or brown? Or Asian?”

“Yes.”

“Fat?”

“I’d fuck whoever you told me to.”

“What if I sold you to a stranger?” he demanded. “What if I pimped you?”

“I’d do it.”

“Put you on the street?”

“Yes.”

“Gangbang.”

“Yes.”

“What if I took you out there without Sam,” he said. “What if I left Sam out of it.”

Oh fuck you, Leroy, I thought angrily. I didn’t answer.

“Kayley?”

I refused to answer. Fuck it, come, not come. There was a limit.

“Kayley?” His voice was warning.

I still refused. I expected him to do something, either do some asshole thing to punish me. Or leave off entirely and stop - cold turkey me. Or rev up. His hand on my pussy slowed down slightly, he seemed almost thoughtful.

“The cuckold session,” he whispered. It was a change of direction. “Some of it was real, for you, wasn’t it? Sometimes you weren’t playing, were you?”

Oh fuck him, I thought. He’d been probing and probing, and now he was going to pull it out of me.

I nodded. “Sometimes.”

“When?”

“On the love seat,” I whispered. “When we were making out in front of Sam, when you had the video on him, to embarrass him and he was squirming. And I said video me. It was real. I was feeling it.”

“Good girl,” he whispered in my ear. “Finally some truths. Other times, were there other times it went real?”

“Yes,” I gasped. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t ask for some moment by moment. That would be torture. And I’d have to lie for parts of it, and that would be hard.

“And how did it make you feel?” his voice was silky.

“Strong,” I whispered. “Powerful, in control, with him. Submissive, with you. Dominant and Submissive, at the same time.”

“Do you want to do it again?” he asked.

“Sam wants to,” I said.

“Do YOU want to do it again?”

Oh fuck you, Leroy, I thought to myself, gasping.

But instead, I said “Yes.”

THE FOURTH TRAIN

The fourth train was the one where I finally got it right. As I've said before, by this time, I was of legal age, over eighteen. I was still struggling with college, having flunked a grade or two. Still living at home, but the situation with my parents was bad. We were fighting a lot. About the only good thing was that I was legal age to drink, so I didn't have to worry too much.

Basically, I was hanging out at this bar, relaxing and holding court. I was sitting with a bunch of guys, we had pulled two tables together, and they were competing to see who could buy me beer. I liked that, I liked it when I was the center of attention, you know.

I suppose I didn’t really get along with girls much, those days. Definitely not with girls my own age. The older women I knew in bars, they were fine, they were sort of like moms. Some liked me, some didn’t, but you know, I didn’t worry much. When there was a girl my age, there was some wariness, there was always a degree of rivalry and sexual competition. It was like, they divided the attention, you know.

And I think, back in those days, with college being this pit of hell, failing or fucking up everything, and the endless home wars, I think that... You know, being attractive to men, being the star of their show was really important. So you know, when someone else is taking the limelight away, of course, I was a little threatened. Threatened enough that I really didn’t have female friends, and didn’t really hang out.

It wasn’t overt, I wasn’t psycho about it, you know what I mean. I wasn’t getting into catfights, and I wasn’t poaching boyfriends just to feed my ego. Well, okay, I poached once or twice, and flirt-poached a few times. But even then, I really felt that it was toxic and mean and not at all the way I wanted to see myself. I didn’t like myself doing it, and so I tried to keep away from it.

Of course, just to be honest, maybe I was afraid of being beaten up. Once was terrifying enough, getting ganged up on in the girl’s locker room. But no, I don’t think I thought about that much, except after.

Partly, maybe one of the big reasons I didn’t like to poach was that if a guy was with a girl.... Well, okay, he’s taken, and maybe I could show my sexual power by taking him. But on the other hand, she’s off the board, you know. I mean, she’s not really competing with me, so I could relax a little more with her.

Actually, years later, I found I was remembered well for it, at least a little bit, and kind of considered an honourable slut by a some of the girls from back then. And you know... I’m sitting there with them, and all I could think was how fucking lucky I’d been. Because these bitches could have made my life a living hell back then, and they didn’t. Not more than they already had, and not more than it already was.

But you know, I remember the way I was back then, and it’s not hard to see myself deliberately going out and doing things that would have had them hating me... And then... Oh my. Lucky, I was just lucky.

Or maybe desperate, because you know, if I lost this.... Well, there weren’t that many other places in my life back then where I could go.

Anyway, hanging out with guys was infinitely preferable, especially when there were no other girls around. Then I didn’t have to worry about competition and rivalry. I could just take it for granted that they were all interested in me, they all wanted to be my friend, they all wanted me to like them. Sure, they just wanted to fuck me. But, so what?

I’ve got a lot of good memories of just hanging out in bars, sitting at tables with two or three or a handful of guys, laughing and joking, never paying for my own drinks, and talking and listening and it was just cool, you know. I was never ever alone in a bar. I mean, even if I walked in and didn’t know a person, I’d just sit down with a table of guys, and there we’d go. Good times.

So this time, this was actually one of my favourite bars, it was part of this old hotel, so you’d go out the side into this little lobby and you could rent a room. The bartender was nice, he knew I was underage, but he didn’t hassle me. More just kind of looked out for me. And I paid that back mostly by being respectful and not fucking up or drawing too much attention. This was the place where I did the 69 year old guy for his birthday. It was a neat place, all kinds of people came through, regulars who’d been going there 40 years, guys in suits, workers, everyone. Strippers at supper time and all day Fridays and Saturdays. I nagged them to get male strippers in once or twice, but you know, not really seriously and it never happened. They tried live music once, didn’t work out.

I was sitting at these two tables, that we’d pulled together. Me and a half dozen guys. I was sitting at the head, or at least that’s what it seemed like. Holding court, and just joking around. I think I’d blown a couple, but I’m pretty sure I hadn’t had actual sex with any of them. But you know, I did have this reputation at the time. So, there was a lot of sexual tension, a lot of it, and I didn’t mind. It made things interesting.

Anyway, we were going back and forth, and there was no shortage of half-assed double entendres that made me laugh because they were so stupid. You know, it’s funny, but like, I was entertained back then because it was stupid, and I knew it was stupid, and I thought they knew it was stupid too, sort of like this joke we were all in on. But looking back... Maybe they really were that stupid. Wow.

But we were sitting there laughing, and it got on to junk food. I think I was getting a little hungry. And I said something like, “You know what? I would fuck you all for a bag of hickory sticks.”

Hickory sticks were this candy, sort of like potato chips. I remember I used to eat it all the time as a kid, it was my favourite. I don’t even know if they make it now, or ever made it anywhere but southern Ontario. I remember looking for it in Minneapolis. Hickory is a kind of wood, isn’t it? Never mind.

Anyway, a light bulb must have gone off in someone’s head. We just kept talking and stuff, but five minutes later, there was this bag of hickory sticks in front of me. For a moment, the whole table was just silent, we were speechless. Because we all knew what I’d just promised, and here it was. Then, you know, I burst out laughing and we all had a good laugh.

I ripped open the bag. Someone reached for some, and I pulled the bag away. Uh uh, all mine, mine, mine.

So Eve, are you really going to do it.

I might. Grinning like a Cheshire, stuffing sticks in my mouth.

You won’t, you’re just fucking with us.

Maybe.

You’re such a fucking tease.

Hey, I said it, I’ll do it, if you’re all man enough.

Oh yeah, we’re all men.

Mmm hmm?

If you’re up for it, we’ll do you like a freight train.

Okay, this is kind of recreated dialogue, which is why its kind of sucky. My memory is not perfect, sometimes its more flavour and images. And I’m a lot better remembering how I felt at a particular moment than what someone actually said in their actual words. But you know, back then, mostly we called it gang bangs, and that freight train comment sticks in my mind, cause that’s the first time I ever heard anyone talk about it like a train.

But the other thing was, you know, this back and forth. Psyching each other out, kind of joking and half not joking. It was like this big game of dare, but we were laughing a lot.

So I’m going, fine. Do you have condoms? Show me condoms! And you know, one guy actually had some in his wallet, which everyone found absolutely hysterical. And then there were these little trips to the bathroom and this little pile of condoms growing in front of me.

And I’m saying, well, really. This isn’t many. I thought we were talking gangbang here? I mean, this isn’t even a start.

Somebody claimed that his condoms were extra large. Bullshit, they were all getting them from the vending machine. But you know, we were oohing and ahhing over cherry flavoured and unlubricated and ribbed, whatever it was spitting out.

I said, “This isn’t extra large! This isn’t even a condom! This is just a pencil wrapper!”

We just fucking roared, you know. He’s going, “No, no, it’s a condom, and it’s extra large.”

So I replied, “Are you sure?” I’m holding it up to the light and squinting and going, “It says ‘pencil wrapper’”

“No! It’s a condom!”

And I’m turning it around and around and going, “Oh wait, there’s writing on the back here. It says, if you have a horny little monkey, this pencil wrapper can be used as a condom for horny little monkey sex.”

“Extra large monkey!”

We were just killing each other, you know.

That part of the conversation, I remember that clearly, because it was so much fun. Also, from that point on, everyone was calling him Monkey. Although sometimes we called him Horny Little Monkey and sometimes Extra Large Monkey. That nickname stuck for a long time, I remember.

But it just kept on. Really, it was the only topic of conversation. Everything came around and back to the gangbang, to the joking that wasn’t quite joking, that whole will she or won’t she thing. I was enjoying it, I loved the heightened tension, the edge to the play.

And at some point I said, well, get a room. Because I’m not doing it on this table. We all laughed at that. I’m going to be doing all the work, so you have to pay for the room. Or fuck it.

And a few minutes later, there was a hotel room key.

I’d like to say, okay, that’s the moment when it got serious. But I don’t think it was. I really can’t pinpoint when we sort of tipped over from talking about it to actually committing to it.

Partly, it was because the idea wasn’t scaring me. I mean look, I’d fucked the hockey team. It hadn’t been fun. It had been kind of sludgy and alienating, but fuck, you know, if I could get through that, I could handle anything. Especially, I figured I could handle them.

Besides, I knew these guys. I liked these guys. I liked this bar, this was a place where I’d had adventures, where I was welcome and had friends and felt comfortable. I’d fucked hockey players, and wow, they were such assholes. So you know, the thought of doing these guys, it wasn’t filling me with terror or anything.

And they were so eager. I could see the eagerness peaking out behind their joking. I was amused, and felt superior, but it was an affectionate superior. I just felt confident and in control, and the way they played to it, literally laying offerings at my feet, it made me feel like I was on top of things. I think in some ways, they were even a little intimidated, an intimidation that I didn’t feel at all.

Looking back, I think maybe even that first joke I made... That the idea of really doing it might have been there, or at least, that the idea wasn’t so unacceptable that I couldn’t joke about it. Maybe, on some level, I really was setting it out on the table, and if I hadn’t liked the way it went, I would have just said okay, it’s a joke but its not funny now, and shut it off. But you know, it turned out to be okay enough that I went through with it.

Oops! Did I just give the big surprise away. Probably not, considering the title. Still, anyone who wants their money back can just go up and ask the manager for a full refund, or complimentary tickets to the next showing.

In some ways, actually, I think we dragged it out. I mean, sitting around the table, joking and flirting, we were all on safe ground. We knew where we were and what it was about. But the thing was, when we went up to that room, you know.... Entering the empty space. They really wanted to go there, they were entranced by what was promised, but you know, they were a little afraid.

Probably real guy fears. Will I be able to perform? What if I’m too fast? What if I’m small? But more than that, you know, I think there was probably this big existential dread. I think on some level, men fear women, and you know.... As much as they want it, they’re a little afraid of it. Or maybe that’s bullshit.

After a while though, you know, we all wound up going up. First one to open the room, and then me and another guy, and then the others, one at a time. Six in all. What? You thought we’d all just go on past the desk clerk as a group? Fuck that, he’d have figured we were having a room party and kicked us all out. So, of course, we had to sneak our way up.

So, we watched the first guy. They wrote down the hotel room number on little pieces of paper. We counted down on our watches. It was totally secret agent mission, really silly in hindsight. The wait, that whole one at a time thing, added to the tension. I remember when it was my turn, it was all duh duh da DUH! I had butterflies in my stomach, walking down that hall.

The hotel room: Well, it was kind of crap, you know. Cheap 1950's style hotel room, with furniture that was almost that old. Everything was painted white about fifteen times, and you couldn’t open the window or see the moldings cause it was all painted over, even where the paint was chipped it was painted over. The air had that vaguely musty smell, and the bedspread was a little faded. Queen sized bed, and I remember, ultra-soft. When I laid on the mattress, I practically sank right into it, I’ve been on waterbeds that were firmer.

The most awkward moment was when we were all getting together up there. It took about fifteen minutes. Do we start? No, we should wait. The room is filling up, I mean, there were seven of us in all, and you know, that’s not a lot of space in that room. All of the joking we’d done downstairs, one guy tried and it just fell flat that was finished, and it was actually hard for us to even look at each other. I think that was the closest I came to changing my mind. I sat on the desk, swinging my legs, I wasn’t going near the bed. Someone stood by the window, another sat on the bed, another on the chair, one guy watched the door, opening it as we knocked. I think he was the happiest, he actually had something to do, he was Doorman.

I’d love to write that I was completely on top and in control and confident and fearless all the way through. I sure as shit hope that I seemed that way. The truth was, I was excited, but nervous. I was thinking, hockey team, and wondering if this was a mistake. But at the same time, I felt I’d painted myself into a corner with my bravado and joking down there. I didn’t feel that I could back out, and really, even if it wasn’t a good experience, like... I’d had the crap experience, I’d rather do the crap experience again than lose face in front of them. Is that insane?

The last one in, actually, saved us. I don’t remember his name. I honestly don’t remember any of their names. I know the faces, so that’s okay. He was the tall skinny one, I would have guessed he had the biggest cock, but I was wrong. Anyway, when he came in, he brought out a joint. We all agreed, we needed a toke.

So, he lit it up, I took the second hit, guest of honour, and held it in my lungs, as we all solemnly passed it around. It wasn’t really strong or anything, and there was only enough for one lung full apiece really. By the time it got to the end, there was nothing. So none of us got a real buzz or anything. But the thing was, it kind of gave us all a common ground, a shared experience, this sort of platform.

I exhaled finally, and after we were done with it, I said, “I want to see your cocks.”

Which blew them away for some reason. They kind of were shocked. Who gets undressed first in these kinds of situations? Mostly, I think, that women just don’t pull enough trains. I mean, etiquette never gets the chance to really develop. Who does what? What’s the proper thing to do? You can’t leave this kind of thing to men... They can barely go to the bathroom unsupervised.

So, you know, that turned into this big argument, which was kind of fun. It was almost like downstairs again, except we didn’t have beer. It kind of gave us something to go on about that wasn’t quite facing it.

Anyway, the big compromise was that I would take my top off, if they took theirs out. They wanted me to take the bra off, but if I did that, their pants had to come completely off, and some of them just weren’t ready for it. It was practically on a count of three. It was almost a negotiation, looking back,

I think both sides were looking for that irrevocable commitment. I mean, what if you take your penis out and I laugh and run out of the room? What if I get undressed, and there’s all of you standing there in your clothes? It was negotiating vulnerability and insecurity and a bunch of stuff that I never really thought about until now, as I sit here writing about it all.

So, I got to see their cocks. A couple I had seen before, most I hadn’t. One was bigger than I thought it would be, a couple weren’t hard, one of those was pretty small. The guy with the small cock was defensive, I mean, they were checking each other out (but not admitting it) more than I was. He said it wasn’t hard yet, but it would get bigger. So you know, typical guy bullshit razzing.

So I said, well, okay, bring it here. To where I was sitting on the desk, swinging my legs. He came close and I reached down and pulled his hand away from his penis, and started fondling it gently, squeezing and stroking it. I told him it was all okay. It swelled and hardened quickly in my hand, and you know, I just had this flash that he was really inexperienced.

I’m kind of proud of that moment. I could have been a shit, but I wasn’t. There was a moment there, in that situation, where I was gentle, and I did the right thing, where I was caring. I think it made him trust me, and it made the rest of them trust me. Suddenly, you know, they weren’t all there on the sexual chopping block. They were with someone who was prepared to accept them, even forgive them.

He asked if he could touch my breast. I said yes. I remember him cupping them through the bra, tracing the feel of a hardening nipple with his fingertip. Very gentle. It made me smile.

Then someone else came close, so I reached down to handle his penis, already erect too. His hands reached for my breasts too.

It was so cool, I mean reaching down and holding two hot cocks in my hands. I mean, it was absolutely cool, every girl should do that at least once in her life. It was just neat. I wanted to giggle.

Take off my bra, I told them. Two sets of hands reached around behind me. They did manage, without too much fumbling. I felt arms holding me, almost like a hug. Then it slid down my shoulders, and I was sitting there topless in front of them with nothing but my jeans and sneakers. I was flushed, blushing, like the tops of my shoulders were red, my nipples were so fucking hard.

I felt really excited you know. Sexual excitement, but more than that. I felt like this thrill, like when I went bungee jumping, just before I jumped. That kind of excitement. It was wild, and bold, and my stomach was full of butterflies.

But you know, still not quite ready to take that jump into free fall.

“Everyone wears condoms,” I said. “Like, no sex without condoms, period. And no rough stuff. And no talking about it afterwards. And everyone gets naked.”

They all agreed. You know what, I didn’t believe for a second that they wouldn’t talk about it. But I just wanted to set some ground rules you know. But anyway, I hopped off the desk, and then we were all taking off our clothes in an unsexy way. It was like we were stripping down for gym class, you know.

And then they were all naked with me. And you know, the other times, it hadn’t been like that at all. It hadn’t been them all standing there naked, with erections bobbing, looking at me and kind of wanting to fondle me. You know what, it was cute! You never know how you’re going to feel in a situation, and like, you know, I thought, maybe I’d feel threatened or insecure or overwhelmed. But you know, it was just they were so fucking cute.

“Hey,” I said, “after this, let’s all go in the sauna!” They didn’t laugh, and probably you didn’t. But you know what, I still think it’s fucking funny.

I wasn’t quite wet. Like, excited, but not really sexually ready. I thought maybe you know, I should sneak off and use some lubricant. Then I thought, well, I bet all I need to do is finger myself. Then, and I think, that’s sort of when it started to hit me, I don’t have to, they’ll all do it for me.

So I sat down on the side of the bed and you know, said, okay. I want someone to lick my pussy, and whoever does that best, they get to be the first one. So the first one down was Extra Large Little Horney Monkey, and he just went to town eagerly down there. He wasn’t really great, but you know, enthusiastic, like he really wanted to taste. I leaned back laying flat on the bed, I sank right into it. And I said, someone get on the bed to play with my breasts. Two guys climbed on. They were sort of all over with their hands, but then the one on the left just settled on sucking my nipple, and the other kept his hands roving. That left three, I guess they watched. I remember, one was on the other side of the bed, jerking off, and if I bent back my head, I could see him upside down, jerking off. I said, ‘save some for me,’ and winked.

And you know what. I was really having fun. I mean, I’d pulled three trains, but it wasn’t like I really knew what to expect. And this was different, this was totally different from any of them, and I was really surprised at how comfortable I was feeling. I was really just amazed at how much fun it was.

Three boys did their work, and Little Horney Ultra Large Monkey was getting sneaky, like alternating between fingering me while licking me. And I was ready, yes I was. So I said fuck me. And the other guys, the ones who were feeling me backed off, which was totally disappointing. He climbed up me and hovered, I reached down, to hold his cock, lifted my legs and wrapped them around his ass, and just kind of pushed him in me. I gasped, and then he was just thrusting wildly, out the starting gate like a bucking bronco. I whooped. He just pounded madly, you know, know rhythm, no pace, no control. And of course, he came in a minute. He didn’t want to let on, but I felt him freeze up, and then he tried to keep on. So I reached down, and yeah, his cock was softening. So I said it was okay to stop now.

The next one, someone was already trying to come up on me, but I twisted around and reached for the guy who’d been sucking my nipple. I wanted him next, and pulled him onto the bed with me by his penis, and just half straddled me. It took a second for his cock to find me, then I drew him in, and he came almost right away. Thank fucking god for rubbers, I thought. Geez, first five minutes and we’re through two. The other one, the one who’d tried to climb on me was just so fucking eager, so I spread my legs. He kind of knelt between my thighs and then slid his cock in and he was good. I could see him, and he practically had a vein in his forehead throbbing, he was trying so hard not to come right away, eyes crossed. But he didn’t, he fucked really good.

That’s always the thing with trains. The first guy or two, usually they’re sort of like appetizers. I don’t know, maybe it’s that stress of being ‘first guy.’ They usually come pretty fast. Sometimes they don’t even come, they lose their erections. It’s not a rule, sometime’s its not like that. But you know often enough, that I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of ‘guy thing’ operating.

This one was good though, he made me come. Which wasn’t hard, because I really wanted to. Hey, I’d gone through three guys in like two minutes. If it was all like this, then you know... We’d be finished in the time it took to order pizza. So I had to get mine in fast.

But then, you know, something started happening. I got... I started to get fucking ravenous. Like, I wanted it. I wanted to fuck. It kind of crept up a little, from normal fucking, to just craving it. I wanted more, and more. He came, and I wanted the next one. I straddled him, and started humping my body hard, I grabbed his hands and slapped them on my breasts.

I wanted a cock in my mouth. I demanded. Fuck me, yes. Harder. Give me your cock I want to suck it while I fuck him. Yes, get on the bed. Now. He could hardly stand. I lunged at his cock, I think it was Monkey, but you know, I didn’t give a shit, it was a cock and it was mine. It was only half hard, I sucked it right into my mouth. Underneath me, the cock inside fell out, and I reached quickly down, positioned it, and just rammed down hard. It was really awkward, the bed was too soft for the guy I was sucking to stand easily. He was all over, and even wrapping my fingers around his thigh, he was falling out of my mouth, or the guy below was falling out of me. It was frustrating, and it seemed to stoke my fire. I was just fucking incandescent. He was hard. Put a condom on, I ordered.

I climbed off, positioned myself on all fours on the bed, my face was right at the edge. Like this, like this, like this! My voice was strained. Behind me, he was just scrambling up, trying to get behind me to fuck me doggy style. I remember the bed bouncing and sinking as his knees and weight positioned behind me, and then his hands were on my ass gripping them. Oh fucking yes! And he sank his cock in, and it went deep, and he started pounding, still gripping my ass. My mouth found another cock, and I made this completely animal noise as I went down on it. I stopped and reared, spittle flying off it. Someone play with my tits, pinch my nipples! And it happened! Hands were all over me. I took my head off again, more spittle, and this time, ‘finger me, finger me as he’s fucking, finger my clit! And finger up the ass!’

I couldn’t believe the way I sounded, as if I wasn’t me. Eve had stepped out for a second, and there was this ravenous she-beast. A finger punched roughly into my ass, dirty fingernail cutting for a second, but no one reached for my clit. Frustrated, I reached underneath to try and do it myself, but it fucked up my balance, so I missed. He slipped out behind me, found me, thrust back in, and then I was coming. And ooooohhhh fuck, it was good.

He didn’t stop while I tried to catch my breath. Just kept pounding desperate thrusts, and then he came himself. I rolled over on my back, legs spread, waiting for the next body to climb over me, and it did. I pulled him close arching my belly against his, licking my neck, just wrapping my legs around him and holding him so he couldn’t thrust hard while I let the ripples fade, and then we started up again. And after him, another, but he wasn’t enough. Even while he was fucking me, while his cock was in me, it wasn’t enough.

I wanted more. I just wanted more and more, and it didn’t matter that I already had a cock in me, or that I was clawing my own breasts, arching my back, all but convulsing on the bed. I wanted it, I wanted the smell of them in me. I wanted them in my mouth, I wanted their hands on my body.

The next one, I was on the edge of the bed. I half fell, half climbed off, straddled him on the floor, while someone stood behind me mangling my breasts and when I came I clawed my fingernails down his chest leaving red marks and pounding myself so hard on his pelvis I think I bruised him.

And then no one was hard any more. So I just sucked whoever wanted to be sucked, and fingered myself, spreading my legs wide and arching my hips. And when it was hard, I just pulled a condom on and straddled it or bent for it, or did whatever, reaching for the next while feeling this one starting to move inside me.

Then a face between my legs, and hands on my breasts, changing positions constantly, and two guys fingering me, and then I was sucking this guy but he wasn’t getting hard so I started sucking his balls in my mouth and sneaking my finger up his ass, when that worked, I just climbed straight up, rolling a condom on literally as I positioned myself over him, to slam my cunt down desperately in a handful of angry thrusts chasing my orgasm before he lost his erection.

One of them left early, which pissed me off. I remember grabbing his pants to try and stop him. But then I let him go, and just grabbed someone else.

It was great, it was so fucking great. I felt unstoppable. I felt like I was just devouring them, chewing them up and swallowing them down. I was hungry for them. Finally, my last orgasm, I was fingering my clit and just jamming, humping my crotch in this guy’s face, and leaning up against someone their limp cock inches from my face, I’d reach and take it in my mouth and let it fall out, and I came one last time. And I was just this sweating, soaked, gasping, panting, red flushed mess... And I’d flattened them, totally flattened. But you know, if they could have kept going, I wouldn’t have stopped, I would have fucking well kept on and kept on and kept on.

And that was it. After a while, no one could get it up, like, not for anything, and they were all tired and I had a good come, so I relaxed. And you know, relaxing, I just kept on, and this unstoppable heat, this relentless urge just kind of dissipated, and without really picking a moment, it just seemed to be over.

There were used condoms all over the place. And condom wrappers. It really struck me as funny. I laid there on the bed as they kind of gathered them all up and tried to flush them a half dozen times. The trick to flushing condoms, by the way, is to tie a knot in them.

So we turned on the TV and channel flicked until we found much music. The first guy to leave, I mean, apart from the one who left in the middle, I don’t remember. Someone went to the toilet. There was washing up, I heard the sink. I started thinking, you know, a shower might be nice.

It was friendly at the end. I think they were feeling a little overpowered. But kind of happy, I mean why not, they came as many times as I could make them. There was some joking around and talking, a little awkward...what’s the etiquette on post-gangbang conversation? But really, I was just kind of feeling a good happy glow. Some of them kind of stuck around, until finally, I said (in a friendly way) “Go already.”

Then, you know. I was alone on this sweaty bed with its damp sheets. Just stretching out and wriggling my toes. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. I was just fucking amazed. And you know, being alone after that, that was great. I was just kind of absorbing being there. I would have killed for a smoke, or a toke, or a drink or a beer, or anything. Nothing.

Anyway, I just kind of laid there for a little while, then I got up and had a shower. Padded restlessly around the hotel room. It smelled of them still, and of me, the place reeked of sex. And I was a little sad they’d cleaned up all the condoms, it just kind of went with the ambiance of the experience.

I was sated, you know, but not quite satisfied. I could have kept on going. If they’d come back, or a new crew knocked on the door, well fuck, who knows? But I didn’t need to keep going. I was past that. So, for a little while longer, I just lazed around.

Then I went down to the bar. They’d all split, except for a couple who were playing pool. The tall guy and Extra Large Horney Monkey. So I kind of pressed myself up against them, but you know, not really interested, just being affectionate. I left them to their game, and found someone else I knew to sit with.

And I said, “Guess what I just did...”

That was pretty much it. I jerked off a guy in the bathroom, just for the fun of it. Then we sat in his car and smoked a couple of joints. And then I went home, somewhat early for a change. I think my energy was running out and I was getting tired finally. But I was really happy and cheerful and if Mom and Dad wanted to fight, well, it’s not happening tonight.

I remember thinking, okay, this time I got it. I got it right. I’d mastered the gangbang. Oh yeah, I was it, that’s right. I was all that, believe it. Slept like a baby. And that’s the story.

Looking back, you know, I’m just grinning my ass off as I write this. Fucking great. The only thing that wasn’t so great was that homophobia that guys have. You know when you’re all on the bed and his leg touches another his’s leg, and suddenly they’re just like... Okay, separate corners of the bed now. Like, for fuck’s sake, grow up. They were all too wary of each other, they’d be checking each other out, but god forbid they should accidentally or even deliberately touch while playing with me. That’s why I couldn’t get my clit fingered (assuming they knew where it was) while I was fucking.... Oooh, scary, too close to another guy’s penis! If they’d just been a bit more comfortable with each other, I mean, comfortable enough to get close and not worry about it while they were all paying attention to me and doing stuff for me.... then it would have been perfect. But as it was... Not bad.

I didn’t have the toxic blowback that I got from pulling the first train. I think it was just, you know, the whole social thing in the bar was different. It’s a lot smaller than high school, everyone is there to just get along, they don’t have to be there, and you know, they’d see me and have to talk to me after. What I found was that everyone was still nice to me after, which was cool. It took a lot of the potential sting out, or maybe it took the mystification, the bad taint out of it.

I suppose the story got around, and probably you know, they passed unflattering judgements. There were hints of that kind of thing, like, I’d hear about people saying ugly things, or if a guy was too drunk, he’d mouth off. But big deal, the world runs on gossip and cutting people down behind their backs.

But mostly, to my face, people were nice. And you know, if anything, I was more popular than ever. I mean, a lot of guys probably thought, hey, if she pulls trains, maybe she’ll pull one for us. And shy guys would think, if she’d pull a train, maybe she’d fuck me. I suppose it worked both ways, my sexual reputation intimidated others maybe. I don’t know, if guys stayed away from me because of my reputation, there were enough who were attracted that I never noticed.

I think there was even genuine respect and admiration there too. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I think it came as much from how I acted afterwards as the fact that I did it. Like, hey, I’d taken on a half dozen guys, and then I just kept on being myself the next day and the day after. I was tough, I was cool, you had to respect that. Eve was the can-do go-go go-hard girl, and she was still nice to people.

After that, I pulled a lot of trains. Not constantly or anything, but you know. I did a lot. There was no terror. Like, the fact is this - any woman, any fucking woman can take on a half dozen= hard men and go through them like a buzz saw. We can just do it, you know, we can fuck and fuck and fuck, and unless we get like a bunch of athletes, we’ll handle it. That’s real power, like, the woman power that we aren’t supposed to acknowledge.... We just have this greater sexual power. Don’t get me wrong, you know, I can be satisfied with one guy. But I can do more...

I’d found my power. I found the secret. I mean, the first few... The first one was just, you know, kind of emotions and weakness and I kind of left that feeling fucked over. And the second one, the black guys, was okay, but sort of ambiguous. And then the next one, the hockey team, that was just self destructive. But this one, I felt elated. Like I’d solved it, like I understood how it worked, and how to make it work...

So, I wanted more. Mostly, they were fairly deliberate. Guys would hear I've pulled one, they'd ask and then call friends; or sometimes it was just I'd be sitting with a group. Sometimes I'd get invited to a party where I knew in advance I was the only girl. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where that one was going. It was totally unconnected with school though, I'd learned my lesson there. (You know why high school boys don't get laid? They fucking well don't deserve to!)

Mostly, it was the bar and low life culture that I hung around with back then.

I shouldn't call them low lifes, but geez. I'm trying to think of a better name. They were basically the people I hung out with. Guys who'd hang out in bars on weekday afternoons playing pool and relaxing. Small time drug dealers or bootleggers, petty criminals, shoplifters, B&E artists, or maybe just guys on welfare or between real jobs. I'd float around inner city apartments and booze cans. It was all really casual and friendly, and comfortable in a seedy, run down way. Hmm. Maybe low lifes is good.

I wasn't doing it like every night, or even every week. I was just... Open to doing it, I guess. So, maybe between that one and the time I left home, maybe a half dozen. That's not so bad. Maybe one every month or couple of months, though it didn't space out like that. I did two in one week, once.

Memorable ones? Well, there was four guys in a van once, where I learned a very important lesson: Don't have sex in vans.

Basically, I was hanging out shooting pool on the hill, and we sort of talked about it, and I said okay with these four guys and we went to this van in the parking lot. It wasn't finished inside, not like you'll see in car shows. It was just basically the rough metal. They put a blanket in for me, but geez, that was nothing. It was really uncomfortable and awkward, and they all wanted to be in at once, but there wasn't room, so a couple of guy sat up front and looked back. The van rocked constantly, and it wasn't flat, there wasn't room to stretch out or anything, so it was like, I'd have somebody's elbow in my face and I'd be twisted around. And it smelled in there, not good male smell, but like ucky smells, oil and machine parts and cleaning solvents.

When it was over, and I was getting out, I saw some of the guys from the bar had come out to watch the van rock. I was so embarrassed and angry. I just went back to the bar, they asked if I'd had fun, and I just said 'fuck you.' Like, I never ever did any of those guys that came out to watch the van rock, and some of them asked. I hate vans, they're just so like stupid sleazy. They just offend me, they're pathetic. I've done it in cars and even in pickup trucks, but never ever again in a van.

After that, I basically put my foot down and required that they get a room if they wanted me to pull a train for them.

Listen, if you're so pathetic and broke and fucked up that a bunch of you together can't afford a room... Why is any girl wasting her time with you? Look, save up money to have 'losers' tattooed on your foreheads so the rest of us can steer clear.

And I did a rock band after their concert once. Well, actually, it was a jumped up garage band, you know. The sorts that get to be opening acts for real rock stars. They had a few CD's out, so I guess, you know, middle of the road.

And it wasn't the whole band itself, it was the drummer and the bass player and some roadies. Mostly roadies. It was an okay experience, I guess. But I went away from it feeling kind of 'bleagh', like, big fucking deal. Disappointment I guess. I thought it would be rock stars all full of magnetism and electricity, but instead it was just stage crew and electrician assholes in their jeans and T-shirts with no style. I guess the actual band members liked to pick one on one. They'd just cut the prettier groupies out of the herd and let the roadies try and clean up on their leavings. I guess I didn't make the cut. Which was sort of degrading. That was the end of that particular thing, being a groupie lost its appeal. I was nobody's leavings, fuck that.

Anyway, that kind of woke me up that doing the whole groupie thing was just a bag of shit. I mean, like in music, there's lots of guys I'd do, like Robert Palmer, or Tommy Lee, Rob Zombie, Leonard Cohen (he's god). Not really into the boy bands they're just too featureless for me, they're polished so smooth they have no identity, its like ken dolls having a band. And lets face it, Mick Jagger should be in a wheelchair.

But I'm wandering. The point is like, I think I'd require a certain amount of respect. Hmmm. I'm just not making sense here.

Look, you know, I'm just not into being a disposable kleenex slut for guys who won't remember my face while they're fucking me.

There was another one, they rented like a four star hotel room for me and came up one at a time. These were University students at McMaster, so they had a bit of money. It was sort of good and bad. The hotel was the most luxurious place I'd ever been in my whole life. The room came with its own bathrobe, and the bathroom alone was bigger than some places I've lived in. I was up way high, overlooking the harbour and it was just gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. I remember being up real late, scarfing down room service and watching the sunrise coming up. It was a good moment.

But I didn't like them coming up one at a time, or the five or ten minute gaps where there was nothing much happening between them leaving and coming in. I didn't like having to 'relate' to them over and over, instead of it being some luxurious fantasy experience, it wound up being sort of draining. They got dull and repetitive. It was like they all read the same script, they just acted so generic it got hard to see them as persons and not as time wasters. I didn't care who they were, not really. It's shocking to admit how shallow I was. They'd come in and sit down, undress, talk to me or not talk, and I found I cared less and less about them. They just got tiresome. The sex itself was fine, but everything surrounding it just became drearier. I realized I'd have preferred it if they'd all been in the room at the same time, so I could just have one or the other and skip all the awkward talking and trying to relate to them.

Like, maybe it would have been cooler if I'd stuck bags over their heads.

That was a sort of odd thing to realize. That I was as shallow as they were. Well, not shallow, you know, but sort of that I had my own dynamic. Like, the thing was, it was just sex, and I didn't really want to have to care about them, relate to them, or any of that shit. It just took energy out of me.

I remember being kind of bugged that I hadn't liked it more. At the time, I guess I just figured I just liked it sleazy, but now, I don't know. I think things were a little more complicated.

I mean, how do hookers deal with serial trains? One man at a time, one after the other, where you've got to talk to each fucking one of them and pretend they're all special. Like, I don't think they can do it, not really. I think they just sort of back off and go all burger king and plastic it all up, making that minimal contact putting borders all around it, and sexually, I don't think it's all that satisfying for anyone for that reason.

You know what I've noticed? Everyone, men and women, tend to romanticize hookers. But I don't see prostitution as romantic at all. There's this idea that prostitutes are free-er or more sexual or sensual, that they're about sex or fucking. I don't see them that way. I see them as tired women who've walled themselves off from their bodies and from other people and made it all plastic and uninvolving. It's like they're crummy waitresses in a crummy greasy spoon, except they're better dressed and on their back. I don't like it at all.

But anyway, maybe doing that one sort of gave me this insight into why hookers are the way they are. Maybe they need to be that way to cope.

I'd used to get the feeling that in a train, it was like there were two teams. Them and you. Not terribly equal. A lot of trains have that, some more than others. And, you know, that can be a really fucked up and kind of unpleasant situation to be in. Listen, if you're going into this thing looking for some kind of emotional bonding, forget it, you're going to die in the cold. Cause they bond with each other, not with you. That doesn't mean that they don't relate to you, or have a relationship with you, but its not that way it is with single people.

The thing with sex is that you can get all these things out of it. But they're different things. You can get love, or intimacy, closeness, tenderness, sharing, hard raunchy excitement, like, lots of stuff. Maybe you can get lots of different things. But sex isn't just about the same things, and you get different things from different kinds of sex. So you don't get the warm tender fuzzies from pulling a train, no way, not available.

But at the same time, there's other stuff you pull from it. But you sort of have to reach for it. I liked pulling a train all at once, having them in the room with me or one after another, bang bang bang. Fuck this relating to them. They're my meat, they're there for my pleasure, and I want that pleasure, I want that excitement, that intensity. I want them hard for me. I want them eager for me, they can fuck around and joke around with their buddies, but I don't want them there for any reason but me.

Like once I had the knack of it, what I really hated was the class clown. You know, the idiot who'd be there and start carrying on and laughing and joking. He took attention away from me. Well, that's part of it. The thing is that those guys are just disruptive assholes, self-absorbed, they think they're funny when they're just being offensive. One guy acted out so much, I just quit in the middle, I said fuck this, its him or me. He was getting drunk, and he'd give out these rebel yells and shout "It's Ho-Time!!!" and he was more interested in just being with his buddies and fucking around and impressing them with how fucking funny he was or something, like he had this need to be the center of attention. They tried to argue because he was their buddy, and I just got so mad, I walked out. Listen, if you come for the party, you fucking well come for the party. You don't go to a movie and pull out your cell phone and start talking to your friend about some shit, or at least, you don't get to do it in front of me.

The key to walking out in the middle of a train, by the way, is to always put the guys you've fucked in front of the ones who haven't had their turn. Basically, guys are selfish and once they've had theirs, they don't care about you, but they don't care about their friends much either. So they're like motivated to pour oil on the water and just try and keep everyone calm. Guys who see the meat walking away and who haven't had any can get really aggressive and panicky. So the thing to do is to keep shoving the guys who have been laid at the guys who haven't and start walking. Also, like, you know Captain 'I got mine' Peacemaker will try and talk you into it, so you basically should agree to talk, but somewhere away and private, and then make sure you're someplace where you can walk. I mean, you talk to them, but the point is, you are walking and you say whatever fuzzy thing about being reasonable that gets you closest to the exit. Most guys will back down from a confrontation if you don't panic them. Of course, that doesn't always work, like, if you've been driven out to some country road well, what, you're going to walk back? You have to finish it then. Not, of course, that this is advice that you'll ever find a use for.

Like, for me, it's about the sex, it's about the high. I don't want to fucking relate to them. I don't want to have to put up with all this touchy feely stuff. I mean, I just want to feel good. I want pleasure, I want energy, I want excitement. I don't want to have to fucking care about you, so get over it.

Like, I find with trains, the more guys, the harder it is to keep them straight, to remember who is doing what, who's who, even their fucking names and faces. Over six or seven guys, it's all a blur. The point is, you don't matter. It's like cheesecake. One single bite of a cheesecake is something to savour. But if I'm eating a slice of raspberry cheesecake, I'm not going to take a single bite, and I'm not going to have a fucking relationship with every single bite. Like, pulling a train, the experience the relationship is to the train. And as a raw experience, it can be fucking spectacular.

It wasn't the sleaze thing I wanted actually. It was the power, the totality of the experience. It was just the way it was done that time, it sucked the energy and intensity of the experience. Instead of being energized and powerful, I just got drained and tired.

If I was going to do it that way again, I think I'd meet them at the door and rip off their clothes, throw them on the bed, and kick them out when they were all used up. And if one of them tried to tell me his name, I'd just say I didn't care. Yikes, I sound brutal.

Well, excuse me for peeing on your little male bonding experience, next time just have a circle jerk while you beat a drum and talk about your fathers or something. I mean, what's in it for me?

Well, anyway, that's my take on emotionally navigating the whole group sex thing. You know what pisses me off. No one ever writes about these things. It's like we've got all these gaps in our society, about how we're supposed to feel about things, and whether we're supposed to feel about things. But it's there with trains, it's like, nobody ever talks about or thinks about the important stuff, it's all just fucking mechanics and judgements and fucking Barbie doll superficiality.

Like, with trains, there's all this stupid baggage. I was reading this book "Fast Girls" its about teenage sluts, and sometimes its so dead on I want to cry, and sometimes its so clueless that I throw it across the room. She talks about trains, and she says 'the train job (?) is basically mythical"

Excuse me? Hello? Like right in her own book, she talks about this girl who wound up pulling a train of four guys. Sure, she acknowledges the stories that go around, but a lot of times, it's like she's uncomfortable with the sexual experience of the girls she interviews, its like she wants to minimize it and say we're good girls, just misunderstood victims. And yeah, its true, like for how you get treated and the whole social thing, victim works. But at the same time, we're part of the dynamic, not merely static objects in it.

And here I am, ranting on about a book you probably haven't even read.

But you see, the thing with the writer here, is that she's just like so party line about the subject that its unbelievable. It's all mythical, no girl wants to admit. And its really derogatory and degrading, and just not proper. And if a girl is in one, then its rape.

Okay, it isn't sex the way it is supposed to be, and it can be very ugly. But looking back, you know what I've realized about it. Back in college, after it was flying around that I'd pulled my first train, the girls were as fascinated as the boys. Maybe more fascinated.

So here's what I think. Girls are supposed to be all love and feelings, and we're not supposed to really like sex, we're just supposed to be in love and like sex is a by-product. But, I think, down deep, really deep, it intrigues.

Like, if you came up to a woman and said, 'here's the thing, you can have a train, as many or as few as you want, it'll be nice in a clean room with silk sheets, no one will be rough, everyone will be clean, no diseases or pregnancy, and afterwards no one will ever know and you'll never have to see them again or anything.... Its just going to be a night of raw, throbbing sex with three or four or a half dozen good looking guys.' I think she would be interested. She might not say yes to your face, but I think the idea would excite her. She'd be interested.

Thing is, if a guy managed to have sex with a half dozen women, continuously, and left them all exhausted and satisfied, fuck, it would be on the front page of the newspaper. They'd throw him a parade. I'm not kidding.

But of course, if a girl does it, she's the biggest douche bag in the world. But think about this. I think its like, if you are a teenage girl, and you don't know much about sex, and it terrifies you and attracts you and you are totally insecure and boy crazy and all that... The idea of a girl simply being able to devour a bunch of guys. That's powerful. I think, there's some secret desire there, for that kind of power, that kind of sexual freedom. I mean, if sex is the subject of fear, then a girl who is fearless with sex is powerful. And what's more powerful than the strength to go, not just one on one, but with many. There's all this emotional stuff with sex going on, and like with a train, you just throw that stuff away, the doubt the guilt, the insecurity, the 'does he really love me' and you just have the raw sex. I think every woman, or every girl has fantasized about doing trains, but that it's the most absolutely secret fantasy, cause it goes so against what we're supposed to want and feel in sex.

But at the same time, cause of the dynamics, it has a lot of potential to be a really negative experience, like in terms of how it goes and how they treat you, and how you feel about yourself afterwards and the social consequences. I think some girls might go into it looking for something, power or love or security or even just acceptance, and if they don't have their feet under them, they could get really badly burned by the experience. It can fuck you up.

Basically, I think a lot of women would pull trains if men weren't making it so unpleasant. Does that sound prejudiced of me?

Train Jobs, I guess, are a train of blow jobs. It's in the book. I was surprised to read about it, it may be a bigger deal in the United States than in Canada, or maybe its from like bible belt redneck land or from the 70's, I dunno. When I was in college, and afterwards from other girls, I really got the impression blow jobs weren't a big deal. Like, phut. It's nothing. It's like a handshake, but wetter. They did them when they wanted to give the guy something, but not go all the way, or sometimes to just kind of finish a bad date so you could leave. But not significant. For a girl, I think, it's the sexual act that she has to invest herself least in. I mean, teenage boys, like if it was a minute that’s a marathon. So you go down, ten or fifteen seconds, whatever, come back up and touch your lipstick up and that's it. Compared to that, heavy petting took longer, and there was more touching and feeling and messing up clothes and hair and things.

So like the blow job is like an ultimate disposable sexual act. I've done blow jobs, and like a minute later, I can't remember anything about the guy except maybe his cock, it made that little impression on me. Anyway, I think that if a girl, a 'young slut' wanted to look for power in sexuality but didn't want to really expose herself, like under some circumstances, I could see a train of blow jobs happening.

By the way, have you ever seen those 'ultimate gangbang' videos, where its supposed to be this girl doing hundreds of guys? They're such total shit it's unbelievable. Not physically possible. Look, more than a dozen guys, you get really sore. I once did a whole roomful, I mean, a lot, and fuck I ached for days, I could hardly walk. So, I mean, if you watch one of those videos, it's like sure, big group thing, but they have fluffers, and they've got rest stops. A lot of those guys are like only on the bed, they wave their cocks in the general direction of the girl across the room and that’s called sex? Oh and they're all on a time limit, like thirty seconds or five minutes. Get real. I could pull a train with hundreds of guys too if they were all premature ejaculators. The only one that I'd respect even halfway is Annabel Chong.

And Bukake? What the fuck is that?

I don't know why, but those videos just piss me off. I guess I find that it takes a real experience, my real experiences and reduces it to this dumb cartoon thing. I dunno.

I think a lot of the stuff floating around in society about trains is all male bullshit. Guys are fascinated by gangbangs. I think they’re fascinated by the whole ‘whore/madonna’ thing, like a total sexual being you know. Trains or gangbangs represent a kind of absolute, raw, distilled sex, devoid of person or personality. I think part of it, especially for men who go into it, is male bonding. But for guys who are fascinated or fantasize it, I think it also represents a kind of ultimate woman figure. Geez, I’m just digging myself into a hole... Okay, stop here. For the record: I have no fucking idea whatsoever what is going through men’s heads.

Most of the trains I pulled were back in Hamilton, when I was in college. I mean, that was when I was closest to doing it steadily. After that, it just seemed to be occasional. A few times in Minneapolis, but I really did seem to settle down living there. Chicago, including one time when I blacked out. Never with Jules, he’d have cut my breasts off, and not in Des Moines or Phoenix. Winnipeg once, Calgary a couple of times but mostly not a big deal there. Windsor once, totally worthless. There was the big one in Minneapolis, and another big one new Years with Shan. Funny thing was, I seemed to do more, almost regularly, again back in Hamilton, when I was going to University. Not like, as frequently as when I was a teenager there, and very much more hit and miss.

Two years. My gosh, it’s been about two years, a little more actually, since the last one. I don’t know. Peculiar. Maybe, just whatever was in my life that made me need them, or the circumstances that put me there, maybe that’s just not operating now.

But so what. In the end, I really don’t regret it, I certainly don’t accept any moral judgements of me as a person for having done it. The bottom line, is for me, it was what it was, and its about what I get out of it. So there.