W. L. Telford
An overheard chance remark made by another passenger at the beginning of a long flight captured my imagination. When we landed thirteen hours later on the far side of the world, this story was written in my mind. Since then I’ve only polished it a bit.
This is the complete story. There is no more.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Yes! Yes! YES!”
Connie Porter woke and rolled over to glance at the digits on the bedside clock. Just after midnight, as she knew it would be.
The sounds--her neighbor’s voice from the adjacent condo--continued. “Oh! God! Yes!”
The five story building was divided from front to back into ten units, two that mirrored one another on each floor. The arrangement of the master bedrooms, with a bathroom on one side, a walk-in closet on another, and windows on a third, meant that the only place for a bed was with the headboard against the wall that divided the two units. So Connie’s bed, or rather Connie’s and her husband, Matt’s, bed was separated from Ann’s only by a foot or so of space.
The building was well constructed, with superior sound-proofing. Or so it had seemed until Ann began dating a body-builder named Jim six months earlier. They were in their mid-30s, the same ages as Connie and Matt. But Jim forced sounds from Ann that Connie realized she had not made for years. If ever. Now, as she knew from past performances, came what could only be described as the squeal of a stuck pig. Certainly Ann was stuck somewhere. “eeeeEEEEEEEEEHHHH!”
What did he do to her to elicit that? For no explicable reason Connie thought he was in her ass. She found herself picturing them. She did not like anal sex. The few times she and Matt had tried early on in their relationship, it had hurt and he had stopped. But now she found her body responding to the sound. Her nipples were hard. Her pussy wet. Abruptly Ann’s squeal ended. They had orgasmed. Jim’s cock had exploded deep inside some hole in Ann’s body. Silence. Probably they, satisfied, rolled over and went to sleep. But Connie couldn’t.
At the office the next day, Connie Porter was restless.
A financial advisor specializing in estate tax planning, she spent much of her time reviewing detailed documents. To her it was usually interesting work. Beyond the numbers were complicated and demanding problems to solve. But today she couldn’t concentrate. In her mind she still heard Ann’s night sounds; and her body was still aroused by them. When Andrew, one of her associates, came into her office to discuss a spread sheet, he innocently brushed against her as he leaned over to view her computer monitor. Her eyes were at the level of his crotch. Momentarily she found herself staring, seeking a bulge in gray flannel trousers.
Connie Porter’s eyes and imagination continued to wander, as they never had before, on the commuter train ride home. A man wearing tight Levis sitting across the aisle. The rear of another man standing by the door. Often men had glanced at her. It went with being a beautiful woman; and she tried to ignore them. But now she was the hungry one.
Once in her condo, she kicked off her shoes, mixed a martini, used the remote to turn on the flat screen above the fireplace and watched the evening news. Or rather she didn’t watch the evening news, though was passed for it flickered across the screen.
Matt, her husband of nine years, was an expert on surface runoff water, consulting nationwide in agriculture, construction projects, flood control, and was usually away from home during the week.
He was attractive, funny, kind. She loved him. But they didn’t have much sex any more. Only once or twice on weekends. It was pleasant, but it wasn’t earth shattering. She didn’t mind. Or she hadn’t until Ann began seeing Jim.
Connie took a sip of her martini and found the glass empty.
The thought had been there for weeks, perhaps months, growing. She had never let it be formulated into words. She didn’t now. She just stood and walked back through the condo to the master bedroom, stripping off her clothes along the way.
Naked she stepped into the glass shower stall. Hot water felt good on her head. But when she had washed her hair and turned to rinse, the spray hit her nipples. She moaned and clutched them hard. Desire. Need. Only grew stronger.
She sat on a tile ledge built into the shower and shaved. Legs. Armpits. Then her pussy. She seldom did that. Matt liked it. Perhaps others would. It was a sexual declaration. One bare foot lifted to a glass wall enabled her to spread her cheeks and shave her ass crack as well. She was breathing heavily by the time she finished.
Drying herself, she sat naked on the bathroom throw rug and painted her toe and fingernails coral. Again something she seldom did. Coral was the only shade she had.
Standing she looked in the mirror.
At thirty-five, she was a beautiful woman in her prime: shoulder length dark brown, almost black hair; hazel eyes; full lips; broad shoulders; full, high breasts with big dark chocolate nipples; flat belly; narrow waist; flaring hips; and beyond the view in the mirror, long, long legs.
She looked exactly as she had at twenty-five. But she didn’t suppose that would be true in ten more years. She would still be attractive, desirable. But not what she was now. Matt often said that any man would want her. Soon she’d see.
No eye shadow. Lipstick that matched the nail polish.
Applying lipstick made her aware of her mouth. It filled with saliva as she imaged what it might soon be doing.
She hurried to the walk-in closet and considered the long rack of dresses. Sexy but respectable. The Collison was a respectable hotel. She and Matt occasionally had drinks there. She had met women friends in the bar before lunches or shopping. It was the kind of place men with good expense accounts stayed while traveling. The kind of place Matt stayed. For the first time she wondered if he ever picked up a woman while he was away. It had never occurred to her. Perhaps because never before had she considered being picked up. She didn’t care. It was irrelevant. She was consumed.
The expensive gold silk shirt dress Matt had given her for Christmas.
She pulled it from the hanger. Perfect. The fabric clung to her body. The hem was a few inches above her knees. Eight buttons up the front. She pulled it on. Buttoned all but the top and bottom buttons as usual, tied the sash that served as a belt. Glanced at the racks of her shoes on the other wall. Picked a pair of backless ivory stiletto sandals. Slipped them on. Then walked through the condo to the full length mirror opposite the entrance door and smiled. The woman looks fuckable to me, she thought. She unbuttoned another button at the top of the dress. Better. Another. Her breasts were starting to spill out. Too much. But two more buttons at the hem were not. Sitting down, she would be showing a lot of naked thigh. She wanted men to be looking at them, wanting to be between them.
She had never done this before. Never until recently ever thought of it. After a not unusual number of lovers in late high school and college, she had met Matt. They had dated for two years before they married. No one else in eleven years. Yet it felt so natural to be going out to be fucked by a stranger. Just one step after another. As though it were all planned.
Crossing to the dining room table, she took car keys, driver’s license, and cash--it looked to be about $100--from her purse, leaving credit, business cards and iPhone behind.
She peered through the security hole in the door. The small landing between her door and Ann’s was empty. She went out, quickly locked her door behind her, and took the stairwell down to the underground garage rather than the elevator.
With Matt often away and she commuting to work by train, they had only one car, an Audi Q7. She backed up, turned and went up the ramp through the automatic door without seeing anyone.
A few blocks away, Connie Porter pulled into a CVS parking lot.
A gust of wind blew the skirt of her dress apart as she walked.
This was a necessary embarrassment. She had never bought condoms before. These were not for birth control. She was on the pill. Disease.
She thought she had seen them toward the back of the store. She certainly didn’t want to ask a clerk. But when she did find the shelf, she was confronted by a daunting number of choices. She just grabbed a pack of ten--certainly more than she would ever need--and headed for the cashier, who was a pretty teen age black girl. Knowing eyes checked out dress, shoes, bare legs. A big grin. And a big, “Have a good night,” as she handed Connie her change.
Back in the Audi, Connie’s face felt so hot that she checked in the vanity mirror to see if she was blushing. She deserved the humiliation. But it did not cause her a moment’s hesitation as she turned right toward the Collison as she exited the parking lot, rather than left toward her home.
The Collison was two miles from the condo. She drove this street all the time. Yet everything seemed unfamiliar. Different. Distant. Shops she knew well were seen as though for the first time. She realized that what was different wasn’t the night; but herself.
There was underground parking at the Collison, but she couldn’t wait even that long and pulled into the half circle entrance and turned the car over to the valet, pleased to see his eyes follow her legs as he held the car door for her.
Through the lobby without a sideward glance. Thankfully an empty elevator was waiting. Up to the second floor to the bar known as Fitzgerald’s.
Fitzgerald’s was of moderate size, a narrow room with a high ceiling. The outer wall was all glass as was the entire hotel. Beside the glass wall were black leather sofas and armchairs, some facing out, some facing toward the bar. Low glass topped rectangular tables with burnished steel legs were in front of the sofas. Small round glass topped tables with similar steel legs in front of the seatings for couples. A slate gray carpet covered the floor. The bar top was zinc. Black leather bar stools had backs and swiveled on steel posts.
The sun was beginning to set, but the bar was still very bright.
Connie hesitated for a moment at the entrance.
Eight or nine men were at the bar, all in business suits. Some talking to one another. A few apparently alone.
About half the armchairs and sofas by the glass wall were occupied. She made her way to a chair at one of the small tables, facing toward the bar.
She sensed men’s eyes following her across the room. They always did. But this was different. Not their eyes. Her intended response to them.
When she sat, the hem of the gold silk dress rode up and opened as she knew it would.
One of the men at the bar, turned his head slightly, glanced at her, leaned forward and said something to another man, who also turned, trying to seem natural. As he did so, Connie crossed her left leg over her right. The man’s eyes widened before he turned away. She glanced down. Her left leg was exposed almost to her waist.
A waiter arrived. A college boy. Nice looking. Slicked back long blond hair. White shirt. Black bow-tie. Black trousers. Connie noticed that standing above her, his eyes flicked back and forth between naked thigh and the slopes of her breasts at the open neckline.
“A Bombay martini,” she said.
“Very good, ma’am.”
While waiting for her drink, and realizing that she would have to sip slowly--a second martini on an empty stomach: she wanted to be fully aware of what happened to her tonight--she let her eyes wander about the room. In addition to those at the bar, there were four men sitting alone at tables. She wondered how long before a man approached her. And which one. That it did not matter caused her cunt to clench. She would fuck the first man. Not matter how young or old. No matter what he looked like. Always she had made the choice. Now she wouldn’t. The first man with nerve would decide.
The young waiter returned with her drink. She smiled at him. He wouldn’t be the one. Some other man’s cock would be in her long before his shift was over. At least she hoped so.
Two men left the bar, staring openly at her as they passed, and smiled. Connie smiled back. But they continued on.
Another sip of martini. Another reminder to slow down.
Out of the corner of her left eye, she saw a man enter and go directly to the bar, where he seemed to be known to the bar tender and several of the men sitting there. He was a big man, an inch or two taller than Matt’s 6’ 1”, with thinning black hair, heavy shoulders, and some extra pounds around his waist. Aged somewhere in his forties. Tony Soprano, Connie thought.
The bartender handed him a crystal double-old fashioned glass with what looked to Connie like whiskey or bourbon on ice. The big man took a gulp, turned toward the room and saw her. No expression passed over his face. Not a bad face, with features a bit blurred by perhaps too much of whatever was in his glass. But he did not look away. He took another swallow of his drink. His gaze remained directly on her. Something inside Connie Porter’s belly tensed. She became aware of blood rushing through her arteries. Her pulse drummed in her ears. Looking at the man as openly as he was looking at her, she uncrossed her legs and put both feet on the gray carpet, then slowly moved her knees apart. His eyes left hers. How could they not? She did not know exactly what he was seeing. Plenty, not doubt. But the invitation was unequivocal. His eyes came back to hers. His face remained expressionless. Unreadable. The tension between them was so palpable she did not understand how everyone in the room could not feel it. When he turned away, her body collapsed. She had been so certain.
Connie took another, too big sip of her martini, and unconsciously recrossed her legs. An ivory sandal dangled from her right instep.
“When I see a woman with shoes like that, it seems that she is already half-undressed.”
Startled, she had not seen him cross the room. He was looming over her. Suit coat opened. He did have a gut. That did not matter. He seemed confident and powerful. That did not matter either. He was the first man.
Connie laughed and gave what would have been not long ago an unimaginable response. “I could be completely rather quickly.”
“Can I buy you another drink?”
“Are you staying at the hotel?”
“Then why waste time? Let’s go to your room.”
The big man looked down at her, let his eyes wander leisurely, comprehensively, from her coral toenails, up that long naked leg, to where her breasts stretched gold silk, exposed throat, beautiful face, full coral lips, unwavering hazel eyes, down her arm to her left hand where they lingered on the wedding ring she had deliberately left on.
“Is your drink paid for?”
A hand, the back of which she noticed was covered with curly black hair, reached into a pocket, removed a twenty dollar bill from a brown leather wallet and dropped it on the table. More than a generous tip, but neither of them cared to wait for change.
Connie Porter gathered her strength and stood. The big man, whose name she realized she did not know--she was going to a hotel room to have sex with a total stranger whose name she did not even know--took a step backward to let her pass.
Connie felt that everyone in the room was watching. Everyone in the bar knew that she had just let herself be picked up and was on her way to let this man fuck her. She imagined people picturing the two of them naked. His cock deep inside her. Her legs and arms wrapped around him.
As they waited at the elevator, they did not speak.
An elevator came. They stepped in. He punched 18 with a thick finger.
On 3, where the hotel’s main restaurant was located, an older couple, in their sixties, he in a business suit, she in an evening gown, got on. The man pushed the button for 14.
The big man leaned toward Connie and whispered, but loud enough to be overhead, “I think you are naked beneath that dress?”
In a normal voice, Connie heard herself reply, “You’ll see soon enough.”
The couple in front of them gave no sign of hearing, but when the elevator reached the fourteenth floor, both turned and glanced back as they exited.
At 18, they stepped out, and Connie followed him down the corridor, until he stopped, fished out the key card and opened the door.
It had hardly closed behind them, when he grabbed her and pulled her to him. One hand behind her head; one on her ass.
She went willingly. Felt lips mash hers. Felt her breasts flatten against his chest. Felt though layers of clothes, the hard length of his cock against her pelvis. Moaned. Felt strong fingers dig into ass, pushing silk into the crack.
The kiss was so hard it hurt. His tongue pressed against her lips. She opened them. The first penetration, she thought. She let her tongue play with his. Gasping when he pushed her away and walked to an armchair and sat down.
“All right,” he smiled, holding up his left wrist. “I’ll time you.”
“How long it takes you to completely undress.”
Connie Porter laughed. “Shoes first or last?”
“Leave them on. We’ll fuck them off. Start now.”
Once the sash was untied, there were only three buttons. But her fingers were trembling. She did not even remember who the last man was she had undressed for before Matt.
One button above the sash. Then the next. Then the one below. Gold silk opened and fell from her shoulders. The right sleeve caught. She glanced down to free it. Looked up at him. His face showed nothing.
“Eleven seconds,” he said and made a circular motion with his index finger.
Connie Porter naked, on display, obediently turned.
When she was facing him again, he asked, “Did you shave that for me?”
“You are one beautiful piece.”
He moved his feet and knees apart. She did not have to be told. Wearing only her heels, she walked to him and knelt.
His suit jacket was open. From this angle his gut was bigger.
Before she could reach out, he undid black leather belt, a button, unzipped, carefully extracted the meat she was so hungry for. It was a good cock. Big, thick. A lot like Matt’s. But it wasn’t Matts. It was a total stranger’s. And that was what made it so exciting. This man was going to do anything he wanted with her. They both knew it. She was married and not about to make a scene and have to explain to her husband what she was doing in that hotel room. Besides all those people had seen her in the bar.
Connie Porter’s head moved forward. Coral lips opened. Coral tongue licked fluid from the tip. Head lowered. Engulfed. Lips closed. Mouth sucked. She pushed farther. To her gagging limit. Raised. And lowered.
Though the gap in his suit pants and what were probably white boxers, she saw a mass of crinkly black pubic hair. His balls were hidden. She cupped them through fabric with her left hand, noticing her wedding ring. Her right she wrapped around the shaft. Stroking up and down with her tight mouth.
He didn’t taste like Matt. Saltier. Muskier. And he didn’t smell like Matt. He probably hadn’t bathed since morning, and she and Matt now usually had sex just after showering.
Not breaking her rhythm, she pressed her tongue against his flesh, letting it ride up to the indention just beneath the head before down again.
Her eyes looked up. His were closed. His head back.
She felt the hard cock hardened further.
Pulling her mouth off, she plead.
“I’ll suck you off. I want to. I want to taste your come. But please, please fuck me first. I need to feel you inside me.”
His head come forward. His eyes opened.
“Are you that desperate?”
“Doesn’t your husband fuck you?”
“And you need it again so soon?”
“I need your cock. Not his. I need a stranger--you--to fuck my brains out.”
“Do you do this often: come out looking for strange cock?”
“You won’t believe me, but this is the first time.”
“How long have you been married?”
“And I’m the first man other than your husband in nine years?”
“Where’s your husband now?”
“I don’t know about your brains, but I will make your eyes roll back.”
Strong hands clutched her shoulders, lifted her from her knees and dropped Connie Porter onto the nearby bed. She fell back, legs apart. She saw his eyes on her cunt and left them that way.
“It will take me more than eleven seconds.”
She watched him toss his suit coat onto the chair, untie his tie, pull out his shirt. No t-shirt. Thick neck. Probably once a football player, she thought. Big shoulders. Big arms. Big belly. Hard. Not soft. A lot of crinkly black hair. Her nipples ached to brush against it. And soon would. What she had been fantasizing about, obsessed with, really was happening.
He stepped out of brightly shined black shoes. His suit trousers fell. So did the expected white boxers. Her eyes couldn’t leave his cock. So good in her mouth. Her pussy throbbed.
He bent and pulled off black socks.
Her head fell back as he climbed onto the bed between her still ivory sandaled feet.
A finger moved upward. Past her right knee. She held her breath as it traced her thigh. Gasped as it easily slipped into sopping cunt.
An appreciative, “Ohhh.”
Lips sucked her hypersensitive clit. A tongue licked.
The big man straightened up. Her knees were splayed. Ivory sandals still on her feet. He took his hard cock and slid it up and down her crack. Not entering. Teasing. He slapped it against her clit. Electric shocks shot though her body.
No hesitation. “Please fuck me. Please. Please. I’ll do anything.”
He laughed. “We both already know that. Tell me that you are a married slut who wants a man whose name she doesn’t even know to fuck her.”
She was squeezing her breasts, pinching and twisting dark nipples. “It’s true. I am a married slut who wants a complete stranger to fuck her. I need it so. Agggg!” As she felt hard cock enter and easily slip all the way in.
Ivory sandals were over his shoulders and near her ears. Her body bent double. Pinned by his hands on her upper arms and his weight. He was much heavier than Matt, as well as much hairier. But beneath fat, there was muscle. He pounded into her with complete disregard, which was just what she wanted. Every deep thrust drove the breath from her lungs. “Agggh.” Woosh. “Agggh.” Woosh.
The big man gathered his feet beneath him, frog fashioned, changing the angle so his cock reached even farther into her, the full, thick shaft buried to his balls every time.
“Oh, GOD! FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME!” And Connie Porter’s eyes rolled back until he could see only the whites as she came.
He, however, did not.
He moved his balance off his toes and slowed his motion, straightening out his legs and body until he was lying flat on her. Crushing her beneath his bulk. The slut’s eyes were closed, but he wasn’t going to give her any rest.
Holding her body to his, he easily rolled onto his back, so that she was on top.
“Your turn,” he said.
Hazel eyes opened. “W..w..what?”
“Your turn to do the work.”
She seemed to be regaining consciousness, to realize where she was, what she was doing.
She brought her knees forward, straddling his thick waist. Sitting on that mound of belly. Aware again of hard cock still inside her. And began to ride.
Full breasts dangled, swayed. Leaning forward she let them brush back and forth across crinkly hair. Hypersensitive nipples became rock hard.
The man inserted his hands between her breasts and his chest, palms up, so her nipples dragged across callouses. Even in the midst of fucking, she wondered what work he did. Hands of a laborer; but he clearly wasn’t one.
She felt it building again. Hard hands closed on her breasts. Held them, used them as handles to speed her up. He lifted his head from the bed and, pushing her breasts together, sucked both nipples into his mouth at once. Then, instead of just lying there, his hips began to piston up, meeting her downward motion. Faster. Faster. “Ohh! NO!” Sudden pain as his teeth bit nipples set off a second explosive orgasm. Exhausted, she collapsed onto his chest. She had not had such orgasms for years. Maybe never. And knew that was because it was just pure sex. No love. No affection. Just two animals fucking. And that she was cheating.
She couldn’t believe it when he said, “I’m not through yet.”
He pushed her aside, onto her belly, moved around behind her, grabbed her hips and raised her to her knees, and shoved his cock into her again.
All she had to do, all she could do was kneel there, her body a triangle, Head down, ass up. Hard hands on her hips holding her in place. She knew what he was seeing: her naked back, the indentation of her spine, exposed puckered anus, glistening blood flushed labia clinging stickily to his cock, pushed in when he drove down, pulled out when he withdrew.
It felt good, but she wasn’t going to come again. She couldn’t. It would kill her.
He didn’t take long in that position. But then they had already been fucking forever.
Connie Porter heard his increasing grunts. Animal sounds. Felt his increasingly faster thrusts. Felt his engorged cock within her. Felt the first gush of a stranger’s come in her married cunt. And surprised herself by convulsing into a third orgasm.
“What are you doing?”
She must have passed out. She couldn’t separate her hands.
Her eyes opened and saw one ivory sandal lying on its side near the foot of the bed. The other was not in sight. Probably on the floor. They had fucked them off.
A big naked hairy body was kneeling beside her, pulling her arms above her head by a neck tie that bound her wrists.
“What are you doing?” she repeated.
“I said roll over.” His voice was commanding.
Connie Porter obeyed and rolled onto her stomach.
The big man tied the other end of the necktie to the headboard, then moved down and grabbed her left ankle, tied another neck tie around it, pulled it wide and knotted it to the left leg of the bed.
Fully awake now. Frightened. Aroused. Connie lay quietly. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen. She couldn’t do anything about it. I’m truly helpless.
Apparently out of neck ties, a belt went around her right ankle, also secured to a bed leg. Her body was an inverted ‘Y’.
She watched him studying her.
He took a pillow.
A hard hand came down hard on the left cheek of her ass. “Oww.”
“I said, lift up.”
When she raised her hips he slid the pillow under her abdomen and nodded with satisfaction.
Connie Porter watched confused as he left the bed and started to get dressed.
“Quite some time ago,” the big man said as he pulled up his trousers, “I learned to do whatever I want with a woman the first time I have her because there might not be a second. If she likes it, she comes back for more. And if she doesn’t, I’ve still had my fun.
He didn’t bother with his suit coat, and his tie was already in use.
When he was otherwise fully dressed, Connie saw him disappear into the bathroom. He returned with the complimentary sleep mask in his hand, lifted her head by the hair and put it over her eyes, blinding her, then wrapped something else around her head, so she could not wiggle the mask off.
“I’m going back down to the bar for a cognac. While I’m sipping, my enjoyment will be enhanced picturing you up here like this. After a while you’ll hear the door open and someone will come in and fuck you in the ass. It might be me. It might be someone I meet in the bar.”
She heard the door close.
Her entire body was shaking with fear and excitement. Tentatively she pulled at her bonds. She couldn’t get free. She didn’t really want to.
This had all started with the sounds Ann made when Connie thought she was being fucked in the ass. Earlier that evening, only a few hours ago--a lifetime ago--when she was shaving the hairs from her ass crack, she had considered the possibility she might have a cock up there that night and been surprised to realize that she wanted it. Even if it hurt. No matter how much it hurt. She thought that when the door next opened, it would be the big man; but part of her hoped it wouldn’t be. That he was in Fitsgerald’s right now, telling some man that there was a married slut tied naked in room 1824, waiting to be ass fucked. Here’s the card key. Go on up. Maybe someone he knew. Maybe that cute guy who had waited on her. Maybe it was time for his break. Fifteen. Thirty minutes would be more than enough.
She knew she was obscenely exposed. Hips elevated. Legs stretched wide apart. Well used cunt dripping come. Vulnerable waiting ass hole. She felt juices running down her thighs.
Time passed. She had no way of knowing how much.
Her body started at the sound of the door opening. Tense she listened to footsteps brushing carpet. She knew a man was standing at the foot of the bed, viewing parts of her body only Matt had seen for years. The sound of a zipper. Then nothing. Was he stroking himself as he looked? Weight on the end of the bed. “Ohhh.” A clothed knee against the inside of her thigh. Hands pulled her ass apart. Were they the big man’s? She wasn’t sure. Sound of spitting. Her anus flinched as a wet glob hit it. Finger tip penetrated, working lubricating spit in. Relax, Connie told herself. You’ve got to relax. It will hurt less. The man spit again. Grunted with satisfaction at the result. It was there. The head of a cock pressing against her puckered anus. Prying it open. Relax, she told herself, willing with only partial success her muscles not to resist the inevitable invasion. “Ugggh.” Pain shot through her. It hurt. It hurt too much. But she couldn’t stop this man as she had Matt. Matt loved her and didn’t want to hurt her. Whoever this man was, he didn’t give a damn. His cock was going up her ass no matter what. And Connie Porter realized that was what she wanted. How she wanted, deserved, to be treated.
The head of the cock was past the first tight barrier, drilling deeper, splitting her apart. Connie bit the blanket beneath her face, muffling mewing sounds. She felt her tied hands ball into fists. Her tied feet clench.
The man, whoever he was, had remained dressed and only taken out his cock. In her mind that image was even more obscene: fully dressed man on completely naked woman, his cock buried in her stretched asshole. His weight and cock pulled back. It hurt almost as much going out as in. And then it moved in again. In and out. Deeper each time. She thought it was the big man; but she preferred to imagine that it was not. Not the college boy either. Another total stranger. A man she had never even seen was taking her ass.
Pain lessened now. Each long stroke only an ache.
The sight of helpless beauty. The erotic power of his dominant position. The tightness of her virgin ass, though he would never know that it was virgin. And perhaps technically it was not. Matt’s cock had penetrated it; but this would be the first cock to come in and truly possess it. All combined to bring the man to a, for Connie Porter, mercifully quick climax.
A brutally deep thrust. His body motionless on top of hers, except for the cock spurting the first load of semen ever up her ass. She knew it would not be the last. She should find some way to give her ass to Matt, too. He deserved that.
Weight lifted. From her. From the bed. Water running in the bathroom. Footsteps on carpet. Door opening. Closing.
The man, whoever he was, had not made a single sound, not even when he came.
Connie Porter found herself picturing cars passing on Burroughs Street eighteen stories below, none of the drivers or passengers knowing that a naked woman was tied face down to a bed in the hotel, obscenely on display. Come from strange men dripping from her cunt, seeping deeper into her ass.
She had driven by the Collison countless times. Perhaps some woman had been tied to a bed when she drove by. Certainly some were being fucked in the ass. Life was so isolated, so compartmented, Perhaps it was just as well. The sounds of Ann’s pain or ecstasy or both had broken through the compartments of their respective lives and set this off.
She lay there until the door opened again.
In her dream a hand was pushing her head.
She woke in total darkness to find a hand pushing her head.
She had no idea of the time; but she knew where she was and with whom, though still not his name, and what he wanted. She wanted that, too. She had not lied when she said she wanted to taste his come. To discover how it differed from Matt’s. When she pushed the covers off and moved down his belly willingly, the hand disappeared.
She could not see him. That was disappointing. She would have liked to suck his cock in the light and near a mirror, so she could see their reflections. Her bobbing head. His thick cock disappearing between her lips. But it would be blind sex again.
Her right hand found him first. Sticking straight up.
She enclosed the shaft with her fingers and stroked as she moved her face closer. Wet tip bumped her nose, left slime. She opened her mouth and, rolling onto her knees at right angles to his body, sucked him in.
He tasted different than he had before. Smelled different. Was she tasting her own cunt? Or her ass? Or both?
She wanted to please him. Wanted to bring him pleasure. Wanted her to remember her. As though he wouldn’t anyway.
Cupping his balls with her right hand, she sucked the big man’s cock. A bulge on one side of the thick shaft she decided was an engorged blood vessel. Hard to begin with, he was getting harder. What was he imagining?, Connie wondered. Was he picturing her or someone else? Abruptly in her mind she saw another woman kneeling just this way above Matt. He was a handsome man. He travelled as this man did. His eyes must have meet another woman’s across a room, if not so blatant a woman as she was tonight. Again she wondered if he ever had sex with someone else during their marriage? His cock in another woman’s mouth as this man’s was in hers?
She lifted her mouth off him, continued to stroke the salvia coated shaft with her left hand, bowed lower to suck his balls. First one. Then the other. Licking with her tongue. Then, on impulse, licking even lower. Not sure where or what she was tasting in that crevasse. The big man let out a moan, so she continued. Her pussy was getting wet from her lewdness. Was there anything she wouldn’t do? His cock was thickening in her hand. Not wanting to miss a drop, she raised her head until she found him again with her mouth. And then it did not take long.
She bobbed and pumped faster. Sucked harder. And it came. Gushing. Thick. Splattering against the roof of her mouth. Coating her tongue. Sliding down her throat into her belly as she gulped. Much thicker, slimier, more bitter than Matt’s. And much more of it. Even after he had already come in her at least once and maybe twice that night.
She swallowed and swallowed until his cock was still. Blindly licked the last drop from the tip. Licked and swallowed whatever was on the shaft and from her fingers. Then lay down again beside him.
Blurry eyed. Daylight through closed window curtains.
The big man was fully dressed in a different suit, this one brown. He was holding her driver’s license.
“Constance. Is that irony? I suppose they call you Connie.”
She felt fear now that he knew her name and address. “Yes.”
“I’m Ed. Names didn’t seem to matter last night.
“I have an early meeting. You can stay as long as you want. I’m usually in town every other week. You know where to find me.”
And dropping her license on the desk, he turned and left.
four weeks later
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Yes! Yes! YES!”
What the hell?, thought Ann McIntyre as she woke. She rolled over and glanced at the bedside clock. 12:44.
“Oh! God! Yes!”
The words were coming through the wall. That is Connie, Ann realized. I’ve never heard her before. I thought this building had better sound-proofing.
Words became shrieks, then a long keening squeal. That’s the noise I make when Jim takes my ass. Matt fucking Connie in the ass? Well, why not? Ann grinned to herself. It happens in the best of circles.
The animal squeal rose in pitch. Abruptly stopped.
Ann found herself turned on by the image of Matt shooting deep in Connie’s no doubt beautiful ass.
The next morning, Ann McIntyre and Connie Porter happened to leave for work at exactly the same time.
As they stood in the small foyer between their units waiting for the elevator, Ann said, “Busy week.”
Connie replied, “Me, too. Meetings all day. And I have to pick Matt up at the airport this evening.”
The women’s eyes met. Both smiled.
five days later
Connie Porter had just arrived home after work, poured herself a class of sauvignon blanc, kicked her shoes off, sat down on the living room sofa and was going through the day’s mail she had collected on her way up. Mostly catalogs. Reportedly the post office was going to cut back deliveries. While she felt sorry for the workers who would be laid off, she could easily live without the post office.
Her iPhone rang.
She did not recognize the number, but answered anyway.
“Hello. Is this Connie Porter?”
Instantly on guard, she replied, “Who is calling?”
“I’m going to assume it is. My name is Dave Wallace. You don’t know me. I work for Ed. He told me you are married, so if you can’t talk, just tell me I have the wrong number and hang up. I understand.”
After a long pause--she knew instantly where this was going, but wanted to learn more--coldly, “I can talk.”
“Good. Good.” Excited. “I’m in the city and Ed suggested I call. That you might like to get together.”
“Is that all Ed said.”
“He told me you are beautiful and wild--married as I said--and that your husband travels a lot.”
She sensed his hesitation, before he said, “You want it straight?”
“Ed’s exact words were that you are a great cocksucker, like it rough, and take it in the ass.”
Rage exploded across Connie Porter’s skull. Did the son of a bitch think he could share her with everyone? And she realized that’s exactly what he thought. Or was trying to discover. This was a test. If she went with this guy, she knew she would be getting calls from other men: guys like this Dave, who worked for Ed’s trucking company; his friends; his clients.
The thought of being used by all those strangers abruptly transformed rage into lust. Of being known as such an easy slut. Nipples hardened. Something in her belly tightened. Thighs twitched.
Finally, “Are you still there?” the man asked.
“Where are you staying?”
“I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“Do you want to have dinner first?”
“No.” And Connie Porter hung up.
She sat there for a while, Rubicon crossed, finishing her glass of wine, before walking the length of the condo as she had a little over a month earlier and going through the same routine: shower; shaving--this time as she spread her cheeks, she knew that a cock was going up there. Ed would have given this Dave all the details. She was the kind of woman you could blind-fold and tie up and leave to be ass fucked. The kind of woman a total stranger could call up and say, ‘Come fuck me’, and she would merely ask, “Room number?”
With Ed was the first time she’d been tied up. She hadn’t known she liked being tied. But she did. She would willingly have let Ed do anything; but being helpless was intense. She wondered if this guy was into bondage.
She didn’t have to apply polish to toes and nails. She always wore it now. Matt, who thought it was for him, liked her new sexuality. Currently bright red. She dried her hair. Touched up her lipstick. Thinking about where those lips would soon be was always erotic. Walked across to her closet, looked at her dresses, thought: why bother? Slipped on some plain black high heels--they wouldn’t be on long anyway. Went to the closet near the front door, pulled her trench coat from a hanger and put it on.
Keys. Driver’s license. Some cash. And she was out the door.
The Amado was in a different direction than the Collison, on the other side of the Interstate.
She didn’t stop for condoms. She still had all ten. And knew they weren’t going to be used tonight either. She wanted men to come in her. She wanted to taste it. She wanted to feel it spurting. Depositing semen in a woman’s body was possession; and she wanted to be fully possessed by strangers.
As she was driving, she knew that tomorrow Dave would give Ed all the degrading details. Not that long ago she would have been disgusted to be talked about that way. Now, like almost everything else, it turned her on.
Once Ed learned that she had gone to Dave, she knew that one night soon she would go to Ed’s hotel room and find that he was not alone, that there were two or four or whatever number of other men there, too. Waiting. And she would have to service them all.
She saw herself sitting naked between two men, one long leg across one’s lap, the other leg across the other’s, a meaty cock oozing fluid in each hand; one of the men fingering her cunt; the other her tits. Once she would have said ‘pussy’ or even ‘vagina’ and ‘breasts.’ Now they were ‘cunt’ and ‘tits’.
Two or three men in her at the same time. What would that be like?
She would ask them to tie her up. Maybe she should start carrying her own rope.
Being fucked and played with all night long by strangers. Loveless, brutal, animal sex. Endless orgasms. And even when she didn’t orgasm, it was all so intense. Helplessness. Fear. Not knowing.
Air through the Audi’s vents blew up between her thighs, creating goose bumps on hypersensitive flesh.
Here I am driving through the night to have sex with a man I’ve never even seen, like calling a whore working for one of those escort services, except that happily married Connie Porter will do things many whores will not. And for free. God, she hoped this guy had a good cock and hard hands.
She was an intelligent woman who had not quite lost her mind.
She knew that this was going to end badly. One night she was going to find herself with a sadist who would seriously hurt her. That she could handle. Or thought she could. The thought of herself naked and helpless, screaming and begging, turned her on. I am so sick, she thought. But there would be marks and bruises she could not hide from Matt. Once he found out what she had been doing, what she had become, he would almost certainly leave her. She loved him and did not want that. But she couldn’t turn the car around. This sex was too much of a rush.
Her mind skipped back to two nights ago when Ann’s squeals had again wakened her. The sudden impulse was to get up, walk out her door and pound on Ann’s until someone answered. Connie pictured Ann in a hastily thrown on robe, flushed, hair mussed, angry at the interruption, until shocked as naked Connie said, “Let me join you.”
She didn’t know what Ann’s reaction would be; but she was sure that Jim wouldn’t mind. As sure as she was that one night it would happen. Probably the next time Ann made night noises. She really couldn’t help herself.
Connie had been driving automatically, not noticing her surroundings, lost in her own mind.
A traffic light turned red and stopped her.
She glanced around.
On the far corner was The Pits, a biker bar. Two or three dozen Harleys and only four cars in the parking lot.
The Pits was a one-story, flat-roofed, dirty brick building that turned two blind eyes--barred windows with closed curtains--and a plain steel door to the street.
You want rough loveless sex? Go in there.
She pictured herself some Friday evening doing just that, wearing as little as legally possible.
Not the gold silk.
She inventoried her wardrobe.
The burgundy slip. Bare shoulders. Spaghetti straps. Almost transparent. Barely falling below her ass.
Wear that through that steel door and I’ll be on my knees in a back room or sitting on the back of a Harley being taken somewhere else in five minutes. Maybe two.
She’d be quite a sight on a Harley. The slip above her waist. Long bare legs straddling the bike. High heels on pegs. Maybe her cunt hidden by the bulk of the guy she was hanging onto; but everything else she had on display. They’d be lucky not to be arrested for indecent exposure.
She saw the biker pulling up to a shack, dismounting, walking in, not even bothering to look back to see if she was following. Other bikers, who had followed them from the bar, roaring up. Dismounting. Laughing. Excited at such incredibly beautiful new prey.
One of them grabbing her bare arm and pulling her with them.
Standing, trembling, in the center of a room. Twenty or thirty or more men sitting on old furniture or leaning against walls, beers in hand, feral eyes on her. One smelly tattooed bear of a biker, swiping a paw as he passed, hooking the top of her slip, shredding it, leaving her naked.
What would men like that do to a woman like her?
She didn’t even try to imagine; but it would certainly be brutal. One thing they might not do is ever let her go.
It would be obvious that she would not have told anyone she was going to The Pits. Send someone back to move her car, maybe to the long term lot at the airport or sell it to a chop shop. And she would have vanished. They could play with her until they tired of her, then whore her out or trade her to some other gang.
She did not want to be a biker slut forever; but a weekend?
Why was it that recently every depraved fantasy that entered her mind instantly became an obsession? And the more degrading and the more dangerous, the greater the obsession.
With devastating certainty she knew that if Matt left her, one Friday night she would walk into The Pits and take her chances.
She imagined being released Sunday night, after forty-eight hours of constant abuse. Driving home naked and barefoot. Shoes, as well as slip, long gone. Trying to get to her unit without being seen. Meeting neighbors in the stair well. Maybe Mrs. Johnson, a retired school teacher, who reminded her of her mother. Naked. Bruised. Come streaked. Broken. How would she explain that?
And then she realized that she would go to The Pits even if Matt didn’t leave her. A few times a year, usually when he was testifying in a court case, he stayed over and didn’t fly home for the weekend.
Oh, God! she thought. It is too dangerous, too frightening. Which made it too compelling.
Connie Porter parked in the Amado lot and made her way to the stairs. Walking one flight was faster than waiting for an elevator.
On the second floor, she found room 212.
A group of men was coming down the corridor toward her. She didn’t care. She had not zipped the trench coat and now unbuckled the belt. The men were almost to her. An elegant red finger-nailed hand knocked.
When he opened the door, she opened her coat.
Review This Story || Email Author: w.l. telford