Author's note: I apologize for the typo in the title of my first submission – Personal Assistance. Not a good way to start! I hope you will forgive me and enjoy the submissions, anyway, for what they're worth. Thanks – Jazz
Gwen had no idea her husband was stepping out on her. That's why she felt so guilty as she let herself into the hotel room. Still, she was now used to those initial pangs of guilt. She dimmed the lights, and got undressed. It still amazed her. Reclining on the bed, she began going over, in her head, the events leading up to this.
To start – what was it? Three, almost four months ago? – her wild friend, Flora, had talked her into meeting a client for her because she was in a jam. Sounded simple enough.
"Flora?" the man had asked as she opened the hotel room door to his knock.
"No," she'd replied, apologetically. "Flora's going to be just a little bit late. She asked me to meet you and keep you company until she gets here. I'm Gwen." She had smiled warmly at him – he was very handsome, ruggedly so, she thought. "I hope that's all right."
His answering smile had been almost predatory. "That'll be just fine," he had purred – a growl, actually, deep in his throat.
He'd come into the room and surveyed it as Gwen went to fix him a drink. As she'd turned to hand it to him, he'd reached with his other hand and stroked the side of her breast. Surprised, she had giggled nervously and brushed his uninvited touch off. "Now, now," she'd admonished, trying to make light of her protest; but, as he'd taken a sip of his drink he'd reached out again and placed his hand firmly on Gwen's hip.
Pulling her toward the settee, he'd murmured, "Join me." Gwen hadn't wanted to make a fuss, and expecting Flora to show up imminently, she'd lifted his hand from her skirt, then sat primly next to him. Right away his arm had gone around her shoulders. Gwen had begun to get flustered, trying desperately to fend off his advances without giving offense. She'd stared vacantly about the room for help.
"You seem nervous," he had whispered in her ear, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "You must be new."
"I – uh – I just – I'm just here to – um – help Flora out," Gwen had sputtered. She had stiffened as his hand slipped down off her shoulder to cup, once again, to the side of her boob.
While he'd nursed his drink, the stranger had made idle small-talk. His groping and fondling had continued enough to require Gwen to dodge and sway, as she'd playfully batted his hands away, giggling nervously. She hadn't quite been able to figure out how she'd gotten into this, nor what she should do. Perplexed, she had wondered, "What would Flora do if she were here?" Then she'd known! She'd known exactly what Flora would do! She'd known exactly what Flora did!
Mind you, understanding that hadn't helped her situation at the time, and she had felt herself drifting under the stress and stimulation – projecting herself, until, suddenly, she was observing 'the dance' objectively. Gwen had been surprised to watch herself responding calmly to the persistent advances of her partner. She'd watched as he teasingly reached for her breasts, flipped her hair, ran his hand up her legs, touched her cheek, all the while laughing with her at her ineffective defensive moves. Indeed her resistance was initially token. She didn't want to make a fuss, and she'd fully expected to be rescued by Flora at any moment.
Gwen had been even more surprised to find herself getting aroused – not just from the physical sensations of his persistence but by the very odd circumstances, as well.
And now, at the continuing recollection, a warmth swept over her.
She had acquiesced a little at a time. First tolerating his hand to brush across her clothed nipples – which, in itself, sparked an unholy arousal – before allowing him to gently squeeze – grope – her breasts through her blouse. Then, almost in a trance, she had let him undo the buttons of her top. He'd, naturally, almost casually, slipped a hand under her bra. She had barely been able to stand the heat generated by his subtle manipulations. The cool air on her tits, as he deftly removed her brassiere, had been an almost welcome relief, but only for a moment. The fire had flared, as he began nuzzling her swelling boobs, licking and nipping at her engorged nipples; it'd suddenly blazed up blindingly from deep in her chest to sear her brain. She remembered feeling her grip on reality slipping, being burned away.
Keeping his mouth firmly fastened to her right tit, hanging onto her bud with his teeth, he had reached under her skirt to grab her ass and squeeze. Gwen'd felt her head roll back as an animalistic whimper escaped from her lips. She had had to steady herself on his shoulders to keep from collapsing. Smoothly, one of his hands had swept under her to caress her already moistened pussy through her panties. When he'd pulled the damp material aside to push a digit between her slick nether-lips, something inside her had ignited, and she'd wrapped her arms around his head, gathering him securely into her heaving bosom. Without being conscious of it actually 'happening' she had become aware on her situation. For a few beats she'd been objectively watching herself virtually naked on a bed with a complete stranger.
The sheer naughtiness of it all had fired her libido hotter than she had ever been, and had rocketed her awareness back into the here and now – back into her corporeal self. And there, he'd been sucking and biting her nipples mercilessly, drawing his fingers though her ever-moistening furrow. The stimulation had been almost excruciating, tossing, or so it seemed, her soul into the midst of an explosion. The massive orgasm had hit unexpectedly, with an intensity she had never even imagined was possible – "Oh, oh, oh! Yes! Yes! No! Yes! Oh, God! So good! Oh! Ah! Ah, AH, AIYEEEEEAH! Yesssssss!" – and that was the first of many – that afternoon, and since.
He'd sat up, grinning, and pulled at the rest of their clothing, until he had them both naked, then, rolling atop, he had entered her swiftly – strong and assured – his iron hardness battering the walls of her womb, detonating another climax fast on the brief denouement of the first. Taking her to a place beyond anything she had ever experienced, it had blotted out reality, obscured any rational thought. She'd been carried along for long, long minutes by the crashing surf of afterglow, as he'd continued thrusting, holding his own release in abeyance while working her irrevocably toward yet another climax.
At that time, Gwen was not exceedingly experienced with oral sex, but somehow, as he'd rolled off her and lay still for a moment, on his back, she'd understood the twinkle in his eyes and the almost imperceptible nod of his head. Still quivering from the tremendous climax echoing through her core, she had crawled between his legs and gone down on him with a gusto that surprised her. Before they were done, he had fucked her twice more – with amazing vigour. She had had several more orgasms in the process. As he'd pounded into her the last time – she, lying with her lips on his chest, her fingers on his nipples – she'd felt the excited warmth of him press against her nose. "What am I doing?" The question had flitted across her awareness, but was quickly replaced by the detonation of yet another orgasm.
Lying on the bed, basking in a level of mellow afterglow she had never experienced, she had watched the stranger dress and leave. He'd muttered nice things to her, and left something on the nightstand. She realized she didn't know his name; nor did she need to. In fact, she had never even kissed him – not on the lips, in any case. Talk about your zipless fuck! As he'd left the room, he'd met Flora coming in. They'd exchanged words, at the door, then he had vanished. Flora had approached her, lying there, almost spread-eagle, amidst the crumpled bedding, naked and supremely satisfied.
"I'm so sorry that I'm late. I really didn't mean to leave you in the lurch like that," Flora raced to explain. "I only thought I'd be a few minutes late." Gwen had said nothing, at first – only watched, eyes half-mast. Flora's face cracked a sly smile. "You looked like you survived all right, though." Then she'd added, under her breath, "You've certainly got that well-fucked look about you!"
Serious once again, Flora had gone on, "I didn't mean for you to find out about me – my occupation – this way."
Gwen raised herself onto her elbow. "S'okay," she'd murmured. "It was fun!" Then, giving her mussed hair a shake, she'd purred, "Who am I kidding? It was fa-abulous!!"
Flora called herself a call-girl, but that was just a euphemism for high-priced, perhaps exclusive, prostitute; the client was a john. In her, albeit brief, explanation, it turned out Flora worked within a loose association of five 'ladies' with Miriam, the dispatcher, who saw herself, if somewhat erroneously, as the madam.
Reminiscing, lounging on the bed, waiting for her next 'client', Gwen recalled highlights of her journey so far. The high of anonymous, illicit sex that first time had just blown her mind. Her climaxes had been unbelievable. She had objectively inspected her feelings and had detected, surprisingly, only a giddy invigoration, not the guilty confusion she'd expected; so, instead of complaining to her tardy friend, she'd wondered about doing it again. "Maybe, just once?"
"Well," Flora had chuckled. "He," she'd nodded toward the door, "would see you again." She'd let that sentence hang in the air between them.
And therein was the critical decision. Gwen could have shaken her head – no! She could have smiled, got dressed, and walked away. She could have chalked it up to a lapse in judgement, a unique experience, a one-off. "Oh?" she had queried instead, sitting up. "When?"
Flora had warned her about stepping onto a slippery slope, but acceded to her request. "Let me know when you're available. I'll talk to Miriam; we'll call with details." Although it didn't dawn on her just then, at that moment, she had become a professional. Notwithstanding, Gwen had paid little mind to the pile of bills left on the night stand.
The second time was just as good – in some ways even better. Same client – just as anonymous – just as satisfying.
By the end of her second encounter she was actually hooked, and once she was hooked, it right away became a weekly thing – mind you, that had progressed fairly quickly to twice a week. But, it was never about the money, only the high. And the anticipation of pleasure far overshadowed all consideration of wrong-doing. She still marveled at the truth of it all. Here she was, an affluent, middle-class, forty-something housewife and mother of two. Her business as a freelance graphic artist routinely got her out of the house, and that gave her flexibility. A regular at the gym, she stayed in good shape, but never really ever thought of herself as beautiful or glamourous. And suddenly she was a – what? – call girl? Whore? A wry, almost sad, smile skipped across her lips.
Gwen had coined Wendy as her working name – although, as it turned out, she rarely ever used her pseudonym or her name in her liaisons – and, as Wendy, she had refined and defined her idiom. Getting undressed before the 'client' arrived, dimming the room by closing the curtains and leaving just one bedside lamp burning; then setting the door slightly ajar just before the appointed time, before lying in her tiny, sexy undies, sprawled alluringly on the turned-down bed – it had all become part of her established routine.
At one point, that very first time, with her very 'accidental client', she had moved to kiss him, but he'd turned aside, muttering that he was there for sex, not love. Interestingly that had made some degree of sense to her even then, and she had later incorporated it into her own style; so that now she almost never kissed clients on the lips.
Gwen always had her workout gear with her. Although it hadn't happened yet, she figured 'going to the gym' would easily explain her freshly-showered and invigorated demeanour, if anyone ever questioned her after an encounter. Early on, she'd shaved her bush, leaving just a 'landing strip' above her vulva. She'd explained that to her husband as having got the idea from a women's magazine – better for sweaty works out, or something. He'd accepted it as a rather attractive curiosity.
"What a ride it's been, so far; what an experience," she mused.
So many different times – trysts? Tricks? Liaisons? And all memorable – each in its own way, although not all as smooth as one might want.
Early on, after she'd been doing it maybe a month or so, the client – 'john' as it were – had become frustrated. She had felt the anger building in his hammering thrusts, as she'd lay on her back, holding his shoulders, tits jiggling wildly. Hooking her ankles over his butt, she'd sensed a pulsing arousal growing within her fundament. Suddenly, with an anguished growl, he'd stopped. Pulling her hands from his shoulders, he'd abruptly pulled out, then shuffled and hopped his knees up over her shoulders, trapping her arms, and jammed his swollen penis into her mouth, entwining his fingers in her hair, and brutally feeding her the length of his impressive erection.
Panic had flared as the cock-head filled her throat. She'd grabbed a breath as he withdrew momentarily before continuing, relentlessly, the violent mouth-fucking. But before she could complain, her arousal had blazed, building toward a crisis, as the pounding, anonymous prick slammed into the back of her throat. "Mmmmpff! Mmmmpff! Gugh!" Her muffled, gagging grunts, emphasizing each thrust, ran counterpoint to his staccato gasps and groans.
"Unh! Shit! Unh! Oh fuck!" His rod had grown and twitched, getting harder and seemingly longer as it slammed relentlessly in and out, between her rounded lips and over her tongue, bashing her tonsils! But with every stroke the sensation had intensified, until the impending climax had almost made her crazy. She had felt like Linda Lovelace in Deep Throat, every push of the oral assault inflamed her. After minutes of punishment, the attacking tool had swelled to fill her, almost suffocating her. Ignoring her distress, the client had pulled her hard against his pubes, and held her until she almost passed out. "Aaaahhhhh!" The prolonged ejaculation, the pumping of cum down her throat, had given her no choice but to swallow – swallow or drown. And that strong, violent climax, spurting copiously into her gullet, had triggered in her a massive orgasm – literally the most powerful climax she had ever experienced – by far – thus far!
Gwen smiled at the thought of that. But it was true, even now, most – virtually all – of her orgasms were as intense as or more intense than any she had had up to that point. So the best just kept getting better and better. The 'most intense orgasm of her life' occurred with amazing frequency.
Interestingly, it had only been a few weeks ago that she had had her first black client. And it hadn't, in her mind at least, started out too well. The memory played across her thoughts like a video clip.
As he had entered from the dimness of the entry hall into the halo of the bed, he was already exercising an arrogant swagger. "Hey, hey, hey! Look what we have here." His flipping hand gesture made it unclear as to whether he was talking about Gwen – sprawled invitingly across the bed – or himself. His next line cleared that up quickly. "Snowy white girl like you, you ever had a feast o' black meat?"
"Can't say as I have,' Gwen had replied trying hard to hide her already growing dislike of the man.
He'd actually said, flashing a preternaturally bright smile, "You know, once you have black you can't never go back." And as lame as that was, he'd then put on a faux southern accent and said, as he removed his jacket, opened his collar, and took off his tie, "Baby, you're just gonna love this!" As he focused on getting naked, Gwen had rolled her eyes, and given a disbelieving shake of her head. She had pretty much resigned herself to a session of bullshit.
Concealing her distaste, Gwen had watched him carefully fold his clothes over the chair, and she'd had to admit, he'd disrobed with a certain kind of grace. Once undressed, he'd revealed a rather rampant erection. There was no denying that the black scepter rekindled her waning erotic interest. "Now that's rather curiously attractive," she'd thought to herself.
Watching his sturdy licorice-stick, bouncing as it led him towards her, she'd reached out as he sat down on the edge of the bed, and met him with her fingertips, fairy-touch light on his biceps. They'd studied one another for a silent moment: she, white and pristine – ready; he, black and imposing, but tentative – surprisingly unsure. Maybe it was just nerves, for her caresses had mellowed him almost immediately – his swagger and attitude had dissolved into irrelevance. She'd been surprised, too, by her own response to the touch – a rapidly growing arousal.
In that moment, as he'd mirrored her, softly touching his fingers to her arms, Gwen had marveled at the contrasts – his black against her white – piano keys. Then he'd leaned toward her, and she'd moved to meet him, body against body. She'd run her fingers over his chest, stopping for an instant to circle his nipples. Continuing her descent, she'd swirled her hands across his chiseled abs, then raked her fingers through the tight curls of his forest, taking his impatient schlong into her hand with a gentle squeeze. She had felt the heat emanating from his skin as she leaned in to kiss his breasts. Curiously, it'd seemed like his heat ignited within her a burst of passion that grew into a novel and sensuous inflammation. Her skin had tingled, as sparks twinkled along her limbs. She'd felt alive and charged, and bright against his darkness – his unknown, anonymous darkness. There was still an unfathomable excitement in the naughtiness of the whole thing.
Holding his erection still for a moment she'd watched it jerk slightly in her grip, then she'd lowered her head to take it slowly into her mouth. She'd almost expected a flavour as she inserted his twitching stiffness into the perfect 'O' of her full lips. Drawing him in slowly as she descended, she'd collapsed her cheeks slightly, to slide her wet mouth along the rippled surface of his prick. As she touched bottom, feeling him at the back of her throat, she'd bounced a bit to ensure he was fully ensconced.
His growing arousal had been evident in the way his rigidity vibrated at the back of her throat, as she took him fully past her tongue and into her throat in one smooth motion. His fingertips had played softly at the side of her head, not presuming for an instant that she needed guidance; more to keep a tactile perspective – one that was still fixed to reality.
Gwen remembered being pleased with her burgeoning skills in oral sex. Only weeks earlier she'd been a bit of a neophyte. "Now look at me," she'd thought as the slurped him into her, slipping easily past her controlled gag-reflex, then grasping the forested base of his root with her full warm lips. Even now, reminiscing, she was proud of her evolution from blow-job amateur to felatio expert.
She'd flexed her throat muscles to grip his glans, causing his hips to twitch and sending shivers through his body. When her sealed lips brushed against his wiry bush, she'd set a vacuum in her mouth, drawing her cheeks in, drawing her inner cheeks tight against the veiny surface of his hardness. Gripping him with the warm smoothness of the inside of her mouth, caressing him with her tongue, she could massage his trembling root with the very least movement of her head – indeed with the slightest, involuntary twitches of his rod. Twisting herself about his tool, she had stroked him continually, rubbing her inner cheeks radially around him.
Occasionally she'd pulled back, until the rim of his helmeted head had rested just inside her lips, and let her tongue swirl over and about his glans, before plunging forward again, taking him fully and deeply into her throat. He'd whimpered in his urgency as she played him like a harp, until, finally, his breath had become ragged, his hips'd begun to buck; his cock twitched and shuddered.
Although it seemed impossible, she'd felt him swell even more. His hands had gradually, as if moving on their own accord, fixed their grip over her ears. Slowly but firmly he'd pulled her onto him and held her tight. The orbiter had landed! At that moment he'd begun pumping, spurting quantities of semen into her gullet. Threatening to drown her, it took all her resolve to stay focused – stay with the program. And it went on and on, torrents of seed, filling her pharynx, backwashing into her mouth, menacing her back nasal passages.
Still, the liquid warmth hitting her throat and flowing into her tummy, had ignited a huge orgasm that had built inside her, roiling up and down her spine, intensifying with every splash of cum, gushing into her. Gwen had felt herself convulse uncontrollably. Hanging off and spinning around his peg, she'd seemed to be jetting away from the present, into some other plane. In retrospect, she was surprised she hadn't bitten him – or torn him off.
Flopping about between his legs, she'd returned ever so slowly to earth. It had been an oral orgasm for the record books, at the very least. Eventually they'd resurfaced together, and glancing up at his face – his white smile gleaming sheepishly down at her, she'd gently resumed bobbing, dragging her lips up and down his cock. After a couple last, lethargic shudders, he'd been still. Gwen noticed that he'd hardly gone down at all. Finally pulling off him, she'd stared at his still rampant prick. Even now, she was impressed at how little of its integrity his erection lost.
After paying homage to the persistently upright woodie, Gwen recalled, she'd shuffled her knees up his hips and swung her legs over to impale herself on his throbbing sword; eager to try it 'cowgirl' again – a recent addition to her repertoire of sexual positions. Her pussy dripping and ready, she'd engulfed him fully in one swift plunge. And there was a bit of palpable magic when she pushed her waiting pussy onto him. The now-you-see-it, now-you-don't of his glistening blackness slipping into her, seemed surreal. He'd filled her nicely, and by his responses, both active and verbal, he'd appreciated it.
She had played her white fingers across his chest, twiddling and pinching at his nipples. He'd cupped her pale breasts with his dark hands, in turn mauling and caressing, playing with her stiff buds. The attention to her breasts had been just like blowing gently on a flame to get a fire underway. Rising and falling, raising and lowering, up and down, Gwen had fucked him at an almost leisurely speed. There was no urgency, now. It just felt good, for him, too – she knew it, and she could see it in his eyes.
Eventually however, her thighs had begun to flag. As wonderful as it was, she'd needed to change position, so she had taken his shoulders and rolled, like a wrestler, to the side, dragging him over and on top of her, without releasing his member. Pulling him into, so-called, missionary position, she'd thrusted her hips to seat him fully once more, then begun rocking and squirming beneath him – her mission was to fuck him and fuck him well! She had felt him jerk and shudder as he'd regained the path to climax, and she'd felt herself blazing the way – her pre-ignition sequence, quickly getting well underway. The snapping and sizzling of sparks, along her nerves, criss-crossing and pinballing helter-skelter within, had promised a satisfying climax, soon.
Gwen had hooked her heels over his lower back and held him tight, relaxing as he'd retreated then pulling him in hard as he'd reinserted. Plunging and withdrawing, he fell into a dynamic rhythm that worked. Gwen had controlled the speed, communicating through her fingers at his shoulders, and varying vaguely the intensity of her pelvic thrusts as she rocked her hips to meet each push. Working on his second climax, he had demonstrated a bit of staying power, so they'd thrusted and heaved for many minutes – the beast with two backs, convulsing on the bed. He'd managed one more orgasm for himself – vocal and frenetic, gushing profusely, and filling her up – as well as couple of mild ones for her. He had been satisfied – so had she.
In the final analysis, while he was neither the biggest nor the best, he was still pretty damn fine! And to be fair, he was just a week after her first experience with anal intercourse – and there was another story!
Gwen reflected on the multitude of 'firsts' this new chapter of her life was collecting: first – affair? No, well, let's call a spade a spade – first adultery; first anonymous sex; first multiple orgasms; first ... what? – prostitution? – okay then, we'll call a spade a fucking shovel – first whoring; first black lover – well, not lover exactly, but sexual partner; first swallowing; first anal; first time fucking in several novel and imaginative positions. Gathering new experience upon new experience, she wondered what would be next.
"Yeah," Gwen recollected, a smile creeping onto her lips, her first anal intercourse, last week, had been wild, to say the least.
They had been fully involved, actively doing it doggy-style, and super-aroused. He'd been diamond drill rigid, pounding into her upturned quim, as she'd rocked vigorously back against him, soaring higher and higher towards an orgasm, that, when it had hit, had drained the strength from her arms and dropped her head and chest onto the bed – leaving her heaving and panting and moaning.
He'd paused, as she'd hung there, like a puppet, dangling from his erection, her hips wobbling over shaky knees, then, with a sudden slap on her buttocks, he'd pulled out abruptly. As she'd tried to clear her head enough to complain, he'd peremptorily pushed his rock hard bullet against her rosebud, pulling her hips back towards himself. Weak and relaxed in the after-throes of her climax, Gwen had felt her sphincter give way, lubricated only by her fairly copious pussy juices coating his staff, she'd felt the oddness of his thick woodie, sliding in – and it'd felt more like a log than a cock. And while he had probably only pushed less than an inch in to start, she remembered thinking it'd felt more like a metre.
"Hey! No! Owww! Stop!" She'd squirmed and protested. It really had hurt, at first – but not as much as she'd expected. Yes, she'd complained for a bit, but he'd held her tight and persisted – shoving hard – a couple more inches pushed in, then he'd paused and eased back an inch or so. The moment he'd stopped, Gwen had felt a shift in sensation. The agony / ecstasy line blurred, and suddenly she didn't want him retreating. Rocking her hips, she had pushed back with her arms, chasing the fleeing erection. It had only taken an instant, but it was she who'd resumed the intrusion!
With a slow, inexorable pressure, her client had finally reached full penetration. Seating his groin flush against her buttocks, his pubic hair had flattened against her cheeks, and filled her crack. In that last quarter inch, as the rigid incursion was completed – Gwen had felt a hitherto unknown switch get tripped. Tingling flashed explosively into a further climax. Bucking back against him, she'd fallen into the grip of a huge, on-going orgasm. Crashing through her previous experiences, the overwhelming intensity of sensation had seemed to tear holes in her psyche. Her whole being felt like it had been ruthlessly exposed and left quivering. The thrill had run like shivers up and down her body. It had been another "best ever" or, more specifically "best yet" at that time; perhaps "best thus far" would be a better designation.
But by then, she had already realized that the least of her climaxes were almost as intense as her current 'best ever', and that they very often equaled or surpassed her current personal best in intensity. Mind you, at the time, the very best was still categorically exceptional.
Lying quietly in the gloaming, the recollection of some of her recent erotic experiences banked the growing glow of her anticipation. She marveled at the multitude of cocks she had already had – the variety of shapes and sizes – and the range of skills of the various operators!
Two – nearly three weeks ago, Gwen recalled, she had taken her biggest cock yet. Another anonymous assignation – another nameless client; however, this trick was a true swordsman. His massive cock had been apparent even before he'd undressed. Still flaccid, it'd lay like a giant serpent, coiled in the front of his briefs; released, it had hung, swinging limply, part-way down his thighs. As he approached to bed, and Gwen's waiting nakedness, it had come alive, thickening, twitching, growing visibly, almost rearing up to look around. And, once erect, it was huge – like a wrist-thick truncheon. Although, even as he'd climbed onto the bed, and poised himself to enter Gwen, it had not yet reached full rigidity.
He'd paused, allowing her to appreciate his impressive member, now jerking and wobbling of its own accord. Pushing herself up onto her elbow, Gwen had reached with her other hand, as if to give the beast a handshake. As she'd taken his meat into her grip, she'd found she couldn't close her fingers – it was that big. Applying pressure, she had felt it get stiffer – hardening and still lengthening as she'd watched in awe. Its owner had smiled down at her proudly, before pulling back out of her reach and lining himself up with her glistening pussy lips.
Lifting her legs to hold them straight up he'd moved in slowly, seating his baseball-sized head tenderly between her already slick, puffy labia. Pausing for just a split second, he had gradually increased the inward pressure, slowly but surely separating Gwen's lips, gingerly entering her moist tunnel. The helmeted head had slipped into her, past her vaginal opening with a pop – perhaps not an audible pop, but certainly a tactile 'pop'. And he'd shown consideration – and composure – in pausing his entrance frequently, allowing Gwen time to stretch and acclimatize to his colossal intrusion.
Eventually, gradually she took most of it, pushing up against the end of her womb, pressing against her cervix. Unlike what she'd later experienced in her introduction to anal sex, there was no explosion of sensation. Initially, she'd only felt over-stuffed, barely coping with the inexorable stretching, and, if it wasn't exactly painful, it was definitely unpleasant. Gwen had felt that at any moment she would feel something tear. Ready, in fact, to call a halt, before she was injured, she'd noticed that, ever so slightly, the intense unpleasantness, was morphing into something else – a curiosity? a tingle? a stimulus? What, she couldn't quite determine. Notwithstanding, the battering ram, that lazily, relentlessly had begun sawing in and out, was now causing interesting sensations. Pleasure had come by degrees, proceeding from mildly pleasant to moderately arousing, as her client settled into a rhythm of long, slow strokes.
Gwen had, she recalled, begun building, ever so gradually, toward a climax, when he'd pulled out suddenly, without warning. And she'd felt, in that instant, bereft, gypped, robbed of the orgasm she thought she'd already earned. Before she could complain, however, he'd flipped her, silently; then, with a wonderful smoothness, stroked his baseball bat of a woodie swiftly into her now well-prepared cunt.
He'd obviously known that doggy-style better facilitated full penetration, for his insertion didn't stop until Gwen had felt his pubic hair against her bum. He'd then pulled back immediately and begun thrusting, picking up speed and intensity. And every stroke became less of an "I think I can, I think I can" ordeal, and more of an "Oh my God!" sort of building block. With every thrust his urgency seemed to increase, until finally his scrotum had slapped her clitoris.
Then came the explosion – Gwen's orgasm had hit like a missile. Her awareness had flared out into space before shrinking to an intense black-hole that bounced between her throbbing fundament and her disintegrating consciousness. At the exact instant of Gwen's climax, her conqueror had pulled himself tight and motionless, into her as far as possible, and with a guttural yell, had begun spewing what seemed like gallons of cum deep into her quim. Gwen had felt, at the very edge of her fading perception, the giant cock buck and jerk as it emptied itself into her.
Time had taken its time before it returned to the moment. As they both regained their awareness, Gwen had flopped forward onto the bed, trying to catch her breath, and pulling free of her genital support in the process. Looking over her shoulder, Gwen had had to check to see if it was really real. What she had seen was a massive tree-trunk, barely even drooping, shiny with their combined juices, and dripping semen from its still pulsing head.
Eventually, smiling wordlessly down at her, the guy, the owner of the wondrous weapon, had collapsed sideways onto the bed. His erection, standing proudly upright out of his pubic forest, had wobbled and waved, and stayed, amazingly erect.
After a bit, while Gwen had closed her eyes and bathed in the warm afterglow, he'd whispered, "Hey." Opening her eyes, deliberately moving her focus from his flagpole to his eyes and back, she'd seen his hand gesture at his hips, indicating she might try straddling him.
Gwen had known what he'd wanted although she'd never, ever done it before. She knew the position he wanted, but didn't know it was referred to as 'cowgirl'.
So, lethargically to start, she obliged – "After all, that's what I'm getting paid for!" she thought. An interesting tinge of sadness had brushed across her mind before she had turned her thoughts back to her present. After swinging herself over him, to kneel on either side of his hips, she'd had to rise up fully just to clear his swollen cockhead. Reaching beneath herself to guide him to the opening, she'd slowly lowered her still slick pussy onto his staff, carefully impaling herself.
Inch by inch, ever so slowly, his cock piercing further and further into her, she'd delicately settled onto him. It amazed her how it kept going – deeper and deeper – deeper, even, although it was hardly possible, than doggy-style. As her pubes had begun to entwine with his, she had felt his knob push, almost uncomfortably, against her cervix. It'd felt like he was trying to tickle her tonsils from within. But, that being said, he'd touched something no one else had ever touched.
Fully engulfed, she had reached the absolute limit of their union. And at that point, something snapped. Almost like a self-destruct button, an electric jolt shot up her spine to shatter her awareness, exploding her thoughts into a million shards of coloured glass. Involuntarily, she'd started to bounce frenetically on his cock, detonating mind-blowing climaxes. Yes, plural, as in more than one. Incoherent with the overwhelming sensation, she'd ridden from one climax to the next. He'd just laid there, his hands on her hips to steady her, letting her ride out her unrelenting ecstasy.
When she had finally returned to earth, she'd realized that he hadn't come during the entire time. "What about you?" she had queried.
He'd just raised his eyebrows, with an impish grin, and said, "Let's try it reversed."
Gwen had thought he meant her underneath, but in the end he'd got her positioned, sitting impaled, astride once more, but this time facing his feet. "Never done it 'reverse cowgirl'?" Gwen had just shaken her head in reply.
It was probably the record for endurance, it certainly had been for Gwen. Sometime into it he had pulled her down hard and held her firmly against his groin. She had felt him twitch and spurt, and felt a quantity of his seed ooze out of her and drip into his pubic beard. But he hadn't stopped there. Still rampant, he'd encouraged her, lifting and releasing her hips with his hands, to resume fucking. Not unexpectedly, she'd started to flag, exhaustion setting in. Sometime earlier, even before he'd turned her around, fatigue had begun to temper her climaxes. Notwithstanding, even the 'not-quite-getting-there' was fabulous!
Eventually, she could no longer summon the energy to raise herself off him, and she'd tumbled over on her side. He'd surprised her by gently cuddling for a space, before quietly leaving her on the bed as he'd dressed and left with hardly a word. With as much energy as she'd had left to consider it, his tenderness, puzzled her. And so it went.
Lying, waiting, she marveled once again at how oddly wonderful her life had become – albeit a bit complicated. And she loved it – no, that was exactly right. She didn't love it, she craved it. It had nothing to do with love. Love was cerebral. This was primal – nothing more than primitive, brain stem sensation. She 'made love' to her husband. This was just lust – carnal and wild. It was simple fucking, or, perhaps, not-so simple.
Somehow this tangled passion had become the new normal, although there was nothing really normal about it. It was more like a new, or novel reality, though, on further consideration, it actually seemed to have very little to do with reality, either. So what had she got herself into? What had she created here? This, her current what? – experience? circumstance? whatever – it was essentially a sort of tangential reality – just touching at the edge understanding.
It was fantastic in the true sense of the word, and she was, she decided, living in a fantasy. How long it would last, she had no idea. But she suspected she was building a house of cards, and eventually some strong wind would bring it tumbling down. Still, for now, she refused to even consider that.
Interestingly enough, her best so far, that is, the experience that currently held the 'best ever' designation, had to be just last time. An excitement rumbled through her, almost like a purr, as she conjured up those most recent memories.
The current record holder, as it were – she rarely knew names, and if she did, she quickly forgot them; she had no retention for trivia – had arrived without fanfare. In fact, it'd begun fairly benignly. He'd undressed and she'd gone down on him. Slurping and gobbling him expertly with her flourishing oral skills, she'd quickly got him fully erect. He wasn't super well-endowed; although what he had was nothing to sneeze at, he was nowhere near being a contender for biggest.
Anyway, she'd laved him and sucked him until he was standing tall, and twitching in anticipation, then she'd shuffled herself up over him, intent on exercising her abilities using her fairly recently discovered 'cowgirl' position, but he'd stopped her, and with muttered encouragement, flipped her onto her back, and drawn his quivering scepter gently to her puffy lips. It all had seemed, to begin with, surprisingly vanilla.
Oh, but he knew how to operate the equipment – fingers, lips, and tongue, as well as penis – and therein lay the crux of the experience. It rapidly became apparent, if it was vanilla, it was of the premium variety.
His expert touch had played to her arousal like a maestro – stroking her labia, while nibbling her nipples. Jolts of electricity had sparkled through her fundament. She'd felt the rolls of her vulva swell and spread and blossom with arousal; her furrow slick with her own natural lubricants. He'd eased toward penetration in missionary position. Entering her easily, with a silky smoothness, he had commenced long slow strokes. Gwen's skin'd goose-bumped and her vaginal walls had become hyper-sensitive. The drag of his penis, slowly in and then slowly out, had been like matches being struck – either direction – adding to an already intense blaze that had taken hold in her pussy and was then spreading up her spine. He'd taken her to the precipitous edge, left her teetering, then pulled back – many, many times!
It had been torture, but playful torture, not cruel, and when he did let her crash over, it'd been excruciating ecstasy! She'd had titanic climaxes – flashing like lighting, echoing like thunder, blotting out everything else.
And when he, eventually, had joined her in orgasm, she had felt the huge emission splashing her innards, scalding her deep. Slowing, but not stopping, he'd slowly resumed his trek, leading her once more towards her sexual apex.
He'd stayed, miraculously, rock-hard, and had continued slowly for the longest time. She'd continued to wax and wane, peak and retreat, sometimes reaching a climax, sometimes falling short. So, in that way, she'd orgasmed sporadically while he'd lazily sawed in and out, initially almost effortlessly. But, gradually his rhythm had accelerated, become more insistent. And while his conquest of her had never actually been frenetic, never really urgent, it'd become progressively more determined.
She'd thought she could feel him swell further. She'd been able to detect him start to shiver and shudder within her velvet grasp. Her climaxes had begun to come closer together, one on the heels of the next. Then his thrusting and plunging, the heaving of his hips, crashing against her upraised thighs had become increasingly intense. Still, there was no violence, just a hyper-activity, fomenting a sort of hyper-pleasantness.
And then the mother of orgasms awoke within her. Her perception had constricted, blackness crowded in from the edges leaving only a spot, a focus of intense white. Gwen recalled the intensity of sensation as a palpable thing centered on their connection, their connected orgasm, and obliterating her awareness of anything and everything else. She had felt her consciousness – as it pulsated – shrinking to a pinpoint, before opening like a camera lens, only to shrink again. Even now, she couldn't tell whether she'd been having one super long climax that just went on in waves, or if it was a seemingly endless series of separate orgasms, crashing over her like surf on a beach. Whatever it was, it had gone on, through a veil of rapture, for almost an hour.
The final orgasm, or the culmination – and somehow she knew this for sure – had been simultaneous with him. She'd felt his ejaculation within her womb. The warm and copious flow of his seed had further intensified, if that was even possible, her climax. Her body had been wracked with tremors of ecstasy that had left her limp and exhausted.
He'd left her inert on the bed, with quietly muttered thanks, while she'd tried, as yet unsuccessfully, to come to grips with what had just happened, indeed, what was happening. In the end she'd accepted it as just another in the continuing series of new 'personal bests!'
While originally it had been – and she'd tried to limit it to – once or twice a week, here she was, well into her fourth month, and this was the third appointment this week, indeed she'd had three last week as well – the last couple of weeks now she thought about it.
A little part of her, at the back of her mind, suspected that this was quickly becoming unsustainable. Her work – her legitimate work, at least, was suffering. Gwen was concerned about the graphics clients she kept putting off; indeed, she worried about her whole design business which she was neglecting. Not only that, it was obviously only going to get more difficult to hide her activities from her hubby.
Still, she kept raising the bar – meeting and exceeding the definitive experiences. How intense could they get – her best evers? Every couple of weeks she would have an orgasm that surpassed all the others, indeed, every climax between was as good or almost as good. So far she had had no disappointments! But how high could the bar actually go, before that, too, became unsustainable.
And in reality was it ascent – or descent? Maybe she was living an illusion. Was the bar actually rising, or was it sinking – into some well of depravity. "No!" she scolded herself. "That couldn't be. Don't spoil it!" It was easy, given her fantastic history, to banish all the negative thoughts. The positives easily became, as usual, overwhelming – all-encompassing, once again.
All those recollections of past tricks had stoked the flames of her seething passion. Further and further aroused by her anticipation, Gwen waited, warm in the thoughts of the high to come. To borrow a metaphor from the drug world, unlike the alleged "chasing the dragon" of a smack addiction, where the initial high is never recaptured, she was actually catching the dragon every time – as the dragon itself grew – the high getting better and better. She luxuriated in the expectation of sensations to come.
A tap on the door.
A lone, male figure enters slowly into the dimness, whispering a tentative, "Hello?"
In a sultry, liquid voice, Gwen replies, "Welcome," as he approaches the bed.
Reaching the circle of light, he suddenly freezes. The blood drains from her face. It's her husband.
May 7, 2018 in anal