Mind upside down. Lying in bed. Alone. Nearly sleeping. Abused, but ecstatic. A wild evening. My husband, Mike, had fucked his hooded girlfriend right in front of me. As planned. Then a hot bisexual young man turned up. Sent by Mike. He'd fucked my arse. For the first time. I'd orgasmed almost to unconsciousness. All so improbable. Like winning the lottery. More exciting even: no money could have bought that experience.
So, it was probably not a surprise that although I fell asleep quickly, I found myself dreaming freakishly, rather soon. I was in our garden with Mike, and our neighbours for many years, Alison and Stuart, Dan’s parents. In the dream, we were 20 or so years younger than now, in our mid-20s. We had often spent times together over 14 years living next to each other, so maybe not so weird. But we had never done anything like what my dream contained. We were all naked. Mike was leading Alison round the garden on all fours on a dog’s lead, calling her a bitch and making her bark on demand. I was on my back, limbs all stretched out, tied at the wrists and ankles to pegs in the grass, unable to move, clamps on my nipples, roaring like a lion, while Stuart was fucking me hard, deep and violently, and insulting me in a range of European languages. And nearby was Dan, also in his mid-20s, his current age, also naked apart from a gold pointy party hat. He was boisterously arse-fucking another man, who was wearing a Boris Johnson mask, while belting him across his back and bum with a rolled-up copy of the Daily Telegraph, shouting: “You cheating liar!”
It was wild and felt so impressive in its improbability. I could feel myself getting very wet, but half realising it was a dream, wondering if I might dream myself into an orgasm. I had done that once before. And then I drifted out of the dream into wakefulness and found there really was a cock thrusting in and out of me. But it belonged to my husband, Mike, not my ex-neighbour. It was his real member, not a dream phallus. And I wasn’t tied up, he wasn’t calling me “puta”, “salope” or “Schlampe” and I didn’t have any clamps on my nipples, though Mike was squeezing them quite hard.
I was indeed very wet, once again, and my vulva felt extremely swollen. The noise of his cock squishing inside my cunt was so loud that I could hear it over the noise of his panting hard, close to my face. I felt a mixture of shock, sexual pleasure and comfort.
“You dirty bastard, Mike. Haven’t you had enough already tonight?!” I said sleepily, though I didn’t mind it all. He used to sleep fuck me a lot when we were young, but it hadn’t happened for many years.
“I can never get enough of you, love,” he grunted. “Your cunt is where my cock belongs, any time I want it there. Even when you’re asleep. It’s much better than Kate’s dirty arse. But every time I go there, I’m thinking of you.”
My pussy gushed when I heard that, and I slipped closer to orgasm, even though I was only just awake. Mike intensified his pounding and was also on the point of ejaculation. A short burst of sleep hadn’t really reset my mind: I was still very sexually aroused after the evening before; even my dreams were full of improbable sex, and now I was being woken up with a thrusting large hard cock in my cunt. There was only one outcome. I felt Mike’s cock swell in its special home. He began to grunt, obviously on the point of ejaculating. Although I was too dozy to feel anything like what I had done in my myriad orgasms earlier, the sensation inside my cunt, the sight, sound, smell, and touch of Mike put me on the edge of cumming once again. And as he heartily shot his load into me a few seconds later, I cummed right with him, hard and classically, constricting my vaginal muscles on his penis as I did, in a reprise of some of our best simultaneous orgasms of the previous 24 years. My freshly toileted vagina was sullied once again.
“I love you, Jane,” he said. “Thanks for everything tonight. You have been a star. I hope it was all good for you too.”
“Yes,” I said tiredly. “I am so sexed up, but I need to sleep now. I am exhausted, physically and mentally. Please let me sleep now. We’ll talk about it all tomorrow. Love you, Mike.”
He kissed me gently on the lips and rolled over. I fell asleep almost immediately. And I would probably have slept right through for several hours, if I hadn’t been woken a couple of hours later by the runnels of cold cum down my inner right thigh and buttock as it oozed out of my pussy.
I was back asleep soon enough and slept quite well. But in the last hour or so, as it got light, I felt a huge pulsing in my clit that was pushing me between a broken sleep and a dozy wakefulness. Once again, I dreamed improbably as I flipped in and out of slumber. I perceived myself on my back in the middle of the rugby club pitch, naked. My ankles were being held down by a cluster of young male rugby players in full kit, though some of them had shorts down and were masturbating each other’s penises. Someone was holding my wrists to the ground. I assumed it was Mike. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him telling me I was a grubby fag hag. And then Dan appeared, wearing only his blue and yellow rugby socks and his boots, his fine cock hanging low. He knelt down and began lightly but rhythmically tapping the tip of a rugby ball onto the top of my vulva, right onto where my clit was buried. He kept saying, “Time to cum now, Mrs Edrych,” seductively after each tap.
It was beautifully and physically intense. My orgasm was building again, either side of the line of sleep. Each time I slightly woke up I found that my hands had drifted down to rub myself. And then I felt the orgasm explode gently through me as I awoke properly, trying not to moan as I didn’t want to wake Mike. He half-woke and pulled me into him, which was a nice way to conclude a dreamy climax.
I dozed slightly longer but rose before Mike did. It was Saturday morning. No need for either of us to get up for work. I sat peacefully on my own for quite a while with a coffee. I recalled all the details of last night with Kate and with Dan. I struggled to believe it all but didn’t doubt the facts. I wrote down as much detail as I could: to validate the precision of my own memory, to preserve it for me to enjoy again, to share with others as I now am, and to intensify the pleasure from the acts of detailed recollection required. I filled several pages of a notebook, for what I soon realised was over nearly an hour.
I was strangely at peace and contented with it all, despite how outrageous it had been. It felt almost like the fulfilment of a destiny. Sure, Mike and I had previously each pushed our boundaries a bit with other sexual partners in recent years, but this was a whole other level. And I felt alive with it. I realised that I had been metamorphosing from one state to the next in my sexual life cycle. Like an insect. I realised that my early adult sexual life had been larval: the caterpillar, readying myself to develop. These last few years of mild sexual experimentation had been like a pupa: a chrysalis, slowly waiting to metamorphose into the mature imago stage. Now I was shedding my cocoon, emerging as the adult butterfly, ready to spread my wings, to show my beauty to the world, and to please myself and whoever else I wanted to. (Don’t ever let anyone tell you that entomology isn’t sexy...)
The sexual pleasure I was now feeling was built on the notion of the body leading the mind; in many ways a fulfilment of my female potential, for so long hidden and repressed behind society’s conventions and judgements. The consensual pleasure I had just had, with other adults, affirmed my existence as an independent woman. I was the empowered mature female: the imago as virago. Sure, I had let Mike take control, and he’d passed that control to Dan when he was with me. But I had loaned that privilege to Mike, because I trusted him to push me, to please me, but also to look after me and to keep me safe. It was a good deal. I hoped that it would form the foundation for yet more sexual exploration. But if it went where I didn’t want, I could draw a line; and I could even stop it at any moment.
As I sat there with my mind reanimated, I felt so much closer to being complete as a person, as a woman. I was awakened. I was accepting the revelation that we should not allow ourselves to lead lives as diminished and unfulfilled versions of what we could be because of fears about social norms and conventions when it comes to sex. My body was my body as a 46-year-old woman, and I wanted to use every brain cell and every nerve ending to squeeze the maximum pleasure out of it while I still could. A gorgeous young man had told me how beautiful I was and had seemed to be genuinely turned on by sex with me. My husband was clever, adventurous, confident, sexually skilled and would always come home to please me. He had shown me with his girlfriend the things that he had always wanted me to do, but which my correctness and nervousness had prevented me from doing. I no longer cared whether Kate was fitter or thinner than me; my confidence was so high because everything Mike had done with her had nourished me to develop.
I had no hesitancy any longer. Our bond was so strengthened by what we had shared last night. And I felt so fucking good; a buzz of ecstatic contentment in my mind and body, like I’d just been given the keys to an enormous, amazing mansion, fully equipped with superb furniture, decor, artefacts and gadgets for my enjoyment, to explore in detail, and to share with others.
As I considered all this I was, of course, getting gradually more aroused. At a residual level, not about to explode into orgasm, but a reassuring fire burning deep and stronger in me to keep me warm. I realised that I had even had it there while I was sleeping, as my mind was having outrageous, but fulfilling erotic dreams, cummimg in my sleep. I wondered if it would always now burn in me somehow. I felt that it would. Mrs Jane Edrych was unbound, and the world would have to deal with her.
Mike eventually got up. We had a cuddle and a chat about how amazing everything had been. He didn’t say much, which I knew was a sign that he was still processing it all but was OK with it. He was always quick to share any discontentment. I told him I had grown wings, and he would have to watch now where I wanted to fly, but that I wanted him with me. I think he thought I had flipped, but he knew me well and smiled genuinely. “It’s all fine,” he said. “You’re amazing. I’ll always be there with you, with or without your wings.” I smiled and squeezed his hand.
“And let’s make sure we look after Dan,” he continued. He’s a lovely and unique young guy who is happy to join in. I’ve got to know him again over the last few years at the rugby club. He told me over a couple of beers that he’s fancied you for ever, even though he’s mostly gay. I thought he would be good for you. He was so pleased to get the chance to have your arse. But let’s not mess with his head, Jane.” I nodded.
“Yes, he was always a wonderful boy,” I agreed. “He was so good at fucking my arse. He made it seem so easy and natural. And it made me cum so well. I think I love it now if it’s done like that. And he looked after me so sweetly.”
“I know. I wouldn’t have let him have you if he wasn’t kind,” said Mike. “I was only lending you to him, Jane. You’re still mine.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why it was so good.”
Mike stood up to leave and added: “Oh, and by the way, you stink hugely of sex, sweat, and men. And much as I love it, it’s not a good scent for the rest of humanity: you should shower properly before you go out.” I laughed and thanked him for his advice. I told him to keep his mind active, and to make sure he had enough duct tape and whatever other kit he might need.
Over the weekend we did our usual things, mostly separately: him rugby coaching, drinks with pals watching football, and gym; me parkrun, girly tapas, and yoga. It felt normal, and familiar, but enhanced by an additional sensual layer from two sources: that sexual fire that burned deep and strong inside me, and that strength of my newly discovered sexual self-awareness.
I was happy and contented, but my chemical and physical sexual situation was driving my mind. As I went about my normal business, I found myself thinking about sex acts most of the time: always in the background, but often more concrete, specific and conscious. It was the case even when doing other normal things as I did that weekend, like talking to friends, shopping, eating out. Yoga was particularly difficult with all the concentration and physical effort required: focusing in on myself just kept me going deeper into my sexualised inner core. Generally, every sensation from the movement of the fabric of my clothes on my neck, my ankles, my breasts, my nipples, and especially my vulva was a delicious cocktail of pleasure and pain. I felt permanently aroused and wet. I think I came close to climax several times just as I did ordinary things, but it never quite happened spontaneously.
On the Sunday morning, I got a call from my regular lover of the last couple of years: Steve, the man with the beautiful voice. I realised we hadn’t been in touch for more than a week, which was unusual. I spoke to him and enjoyed hearing his voice. But I felt very little of a tingle for his tongue or his cock. I put off seeing him for a while, saying that I had had some minor health problems, nothing serious, and I would be fine in another few days. But in all honesty, he suddenly felt like someone who was connected to an earlier version of myself. The fully sexually enabled person I had now become didn’t feel like little Steve was what was needed any longer. I had outgrown him. I doubted I would want sex with him again. Which was incredible, given what intense sex we had had often over the last two years.
My thoughts became increasingly depraved when I was alone, like a daydream, nearly all the time, even just walking down the street. Thoughts of improbable bondage scenarios, of Mike dominating me, of me exposing myself in public, either online or in real life, and of initiating sexual acts with strangers. Mostly I imagined anal sex and nipple play with young gay or bisexual men, especially when I would see a good-looking young man randomly. I would want him to be bisexual and to take my arse. As Dan had. I resisted the temptation to relieve myself through masturbating when in the house. I wanted to see where my freed, but unsatisfied mind would take me.
In peaceful solitary moments when I could concentrate, I especially fantasised about doing more of the same with Dan. I relived the things we had done together on the Friday night, each precise recollection stimulating my arse, nipples and clit. My arse appeared to have sustained no lasting damage from being despoiled, but I did feel a sense of arousal and longing in there from time to time that was new to me. I particularly allowed my mind to hover over the sensation of him “feeding on my fat, hard nipples”, as he put it. I occasionally felt oddly maternal towards him, wishing I could have him suckle real milk from them. At the same time, I also felt highly sexually aroused by the thought of his manly lips on them. A few days ago, this combination would have disgusted me, but now, I felt enlightened and liberated. And hugely turned on. I began to feel the need to see him again, to repeat the things we had done, and perhaps to try new ones.
Late on the Sunday night I sat with Mike and began to share all this with him. He told me that he was very pleased, but not at all surprised. He said that the point of sex with Kate in front of me was to please me and to push me, but most importantly to push it all to another level. But he reminded me that he was in control and that I must not do things without his agreement as this might jeopardise the bond between us and what we were building in this new phase. I told him I totally agreed and that the openness we had had must continue. I told him that he remained at the centre of everything, my sexual and emotional bond with him was paramount and unbreakable, but that I really needed now to try more things with others. He said he felt the same. We agreed to talk further on the Monday evening about how to do sexually whatever we wanted in the light of our experiences of Friday, and not to have any sexual contact or to masturbate until then.
During Monday at work, I was unable to concentrate. Much like over the weekend, I had all the same recollections and fantasies going through my mind, as well as imagining what Mike was going to do with me that evening. I was permanently wet and aroused. And obviously distracted. I texted Mike to tell him I wanted his touch. Now. He replied after a couple of hours, saying I would have to wait a while yet and that I should be ready for him later. I felt reassuringly possessed by Mike and by my feelings and yet empowered to be an independently sexual woman by everything that I had experienced. One might say that these ideas are in conflict with each other, but to me they fitted together harmoniously and perfectly.
I was home about 5.30, Mike about an hour later. I was still in my work clothes of a loose-fitting cerise shirt and a charcoal grey knee-length skirt. But I had removed my bra, damp tights, and saturated knickers to be ready for him. I could feel my vulva wet and swollen, my inner thighs sticky, and my nipples erect and puffy like little corks. I gushed more when he walked in the door. I threw myself at him. He gave me a gentle kiss and told me to be patient, freeing himself from my grasp. I nodded.
“I have some things for you, Jane,” he said calmly. He took of his jacket and tie and produced a little jewellery box from his pocket. “Take off your shirt,” he said. I began to grab hurriedly at the buttons. I wanted to know what was in the box.
“Slowly,” he barked. “No rush”. I calmly removed it. I loved the feeling of nudity. He purred at the sight of my nipples. He walked up to me, kissed each nipple, and from the little box, produced what looked like two small rings, each with a shiny tiny white jewel. “For your nipples,” he said. “Just clips. I could tell you loved Kate’s. But the piercing is difficult. They take a long time to heal, and there’s a risk of infection. I don’t want that.” It was so sweet. He had known I had never liked them, but he’d read my change of mind so well, and he’d decided he didn’t want to mutilate me.
My nipples tingled. I gushed slightly more. He moved in and clipped the first to my right nipple. I gasped gently. I loved the gripping sensation. He did the same to the left one, which was less shocking, but still very pleasing. He stepped back to take photos so he could show me the look on his phone. I was amazed. I couldn't believe how good I looked with them. They drew attention to my sizeable breasts by making your gaze linger longer and from a slightly different angle. They were hanging slightly, shiny, and gripping each nipple mildly; a constant pleasurable pain.
I realised that he was planning to replicate with me now the performance he did with Kate on Friday. But I was now the co-star, not the audience. I assumed he would try to exhibit me, to edge me and to fuck my arse.
Although I was beyond proper reasoning in that moment, I had already decided that I didn’t want to concede my arse to him. He had chosen Dan to take my arse, and I felt it belonged to Dan for that reason. I feared that it wouldn’t be as good as it was with Dan. And fundamentally I didn’t want Mike in it. I wanted to hold on to a small piece of control to remind Mike that he couldn’t take every last piece of me simply on command. I wanted to see if I could hold to that, but I knew I might fold under pressure and with the pleasure of sex altering my judgement as the evening wore on. I would have to see.
“Are you ready now to do the things with me that Kate did with me on Friday?” he asked. “Let’s see,” I replied, not defiantly. But I could tell he didn’t like my reply. I was pleased: I had drawn a line. He grabbed me round the waist, put his hand up my skirt with force, and his middle finger pushed straight into my cunt. I shrieked. He thrust it several times as I shook from the shock. I loved the roughness and the rubbing inside me. “You are mine,” he whispered passionately in my ear, his breath warm and satisfying on my skin. He withdrew his finger and undid my skirt, leaving me naked in front of him. He stepped back to look at me and took some more photos. I was frozen, loving the attention after so many sexual thoughts without action for three days. He came closer and suddenly rubbed his fingers firmly on the apparently hairless skin above my vulva, bristling the micro stubble that had grown in a few hours. I loved the peculiar feeling, the subtle noise and the imminence that they implied. He took my hand and led me up the stairs. I was panting, and I could feel lines of my own juices now all the way to my ankle on my left leg.
He pulled me into the bedroom, him in a shirt and suit trousers, me with nothing on, the classic clothed male, naked female dynamic. My anticipation was rocketing further. I wanted something sexual, but my mind couldn’t focus on what.
“I have something else for you, Jane,” he said. He took a black piece of fabric from his pocket and spread it out. It was a spandex hood. With a mouth hole. The same shape as Kate’s but not the same faux leather fabric. This was the extra prop to replicate fully the Mike and Kate show from Friday. “Put that on,” he said. “I’m going to put you in the window, but I’ll give you the chance to remain anonymous.”
I couldn’t believe how easy this felt. I had resisted this for so long, especially in my own house. And Mike had never pushed it. But now I was almost keen to do it. Because Kate had. Especially if my face was not on show.
He slid the hood over my head. It was an odd feeling, having something tight over my face. And I could still talk and breathe. I could even see slightly as I adjusted to the changed light and peered through the stretched fabric. Mike led me towards the window. I could see a blurred image of the street outside. It was still light. I couldn’t see much detail, and certainly not if there was anyone in the neighbouring houses. I knew that anyone looking directly would see me, and my nipple rings, but I felt it was unlikely. However, I imagined that the long-haired, blond, young man at number 23 might be able to see me, and that he would masturbate as he watched. The thrill moistened me further.
As with Kate, Mike was careful to avoid showing his own face as he told me to press my breasts against the glass. I complied and loved the sensation of the changing shape against the flat surface, as my face moved close to the glass and I felt the warmth of my own breath bounce back on to me. Mike was busying himself rubbing my ankles with his fingertips and using his tongue on my inner thighs. My imagination now had Mr 23 wanking his cock hard while looking at me. I was moving ever closer to orgasm. Mike suddenly shifted his fingers to the backs of my knees. I loved that. I gasped. “Yes, Mike! More!” I screamed. “Make me cum!”
“Oh dear, no,” he replied. “You know what’s going to happen, Jane. And it’s not that, is it?!”
Of course! I had momentarily forgotten the script. He was beginning to edge me. I put aside my previous dislike of this and gave myself to his control over my orgasm. I wanted to stop myself cumming too quickly. I stopped imagining sexual things and focused on peaceful, natural places to stop my mind from taking me to orgasm before Mike’s touch did. My body wanted to climax, but I concentrated hard to transport me to a beautiful open green field with blue sky and little clouds. It deflected me from the intensity of the sensations. I realised that I was about to cum, as Mike’s rubbing of my clit intensified. My mind couldn’t keep me in that field any longer: I was back in the room, desperate for the explosive moment as my body tensed and readied. I was about to climax and release all the sexual energy through me in an ecstatic explosion.
Then suddenly nothing. Mike had ceased touching me. My hormones were stuck, unable to push me into an explosive orgasm. It was the weirdest sensation. It was almost like being unable to complete a breath, almost frightening; but with that fear came the most immense quasi-pleasure, and a delightful anticipation of something beautiful about to happen. My mind was lost, unable to know where to go. But looking back now, I would say it was like that beautiful anticipatory moment immediately before the first gin of the weekend, being better than the first gin itself.
“Welcome to your edge, Jane,” said Mike calmly, from between my legs, which were beginning to buckle. I tried to thank him, but my mouth muscles wouldn’t work. He lifted me up and gently threw me on my back on to the bed. He climbed on to me. I could feel him still wearing his shirt and underpants, and his stiff cock in there. I could smell his distinctive aroma, and the air was tinged with a residual fragrance of my cunt. He lifted my arms back above my head, put them flat on the bed, and handcuffed me with the chain through the slats on the bed head.
Inside my mind I was still lost, expecting something brilliant to happen any moment. Mike applied his mouth and tongue to my vulva. He was expert in cunnilingus, and had the most subtle techniques, refined over many years on me, and doubtless on a range of other women in recent years. To delay orgasm, I went back to imagining myself into calm, this time on a sunny, sandy, quiet beach. Mike began with his subtle flicks around my outer labia. I could feel myself moving back closer to the edge very quickly. He opened my pussy with his fingers and began to blow in little bursts on to my slightly exposed clit. The deflection in my mind was working, but I could feel the orgasm continuing to build. Meanwhile, I guess Mike was probing his tongue on to my clit, as he often did, but the detail was lost on me. I was so close to cumming. I was off the beach and back in the room. I couldn’t imagine my way out of the immediacy of orgasm any longer. It was going to burst with the next flick of his tongue.
And then he stopped. Again, I was stuck on the edge, without crossing into the line of ecstasy. I felt voided, locked, disturbed, but immensely pleasured and loved. I felt dizzy and not sure of reality any longer.
“Well done,” said Mike. His voice was the only piece of reality I could interpret. I was frozen. “Stay on the edge,” I heard him say. Then suddenly his mouth went back down on my vulva. More labia kissing and clit flicking. Taking me closer to the precipice again so quickly. I wasn’t sure I could survive, but still I concentrated on being peaceful elsewhere: in a warm clearing, surrounded by leafy trees. I felt his lips on my clit, starting his mini blowjob technique on it. I was right there again, a second or two from explosion.
He withdrew. I screamed. A sound, not words. Guttural, primeval. The noise of frustrated anticlimax. I was panting, almost unable to breathe. Sweating. Thrashing my legs. Mike undid the handcuffs.
I heard his voice again: “Time for the anal now, Jane”. I was so desperate to climax, so weak, so chemically altered and so in love with Mike’s control over me. But not absolute total control. In my mind, I had earlier drawn line slightly back from that. I was sticking to it. I had prepared myself for this moment. I was not giving him my arse. Though I wanted to cum so badly. But my inner virago took over, and I put down the marker.
“No,” I managed to pant at him. “Not my arse, Mike.”
“What?!,” he squawked. “Your arse is mine. I’m doing to you now the things you never let me do before. Anal is the last one!”
I couldn’t properly see his face of course, but I could tell he was shocked and angry. I held my line. I was just about able to suppress the effect of my hormones driving me so very close to climax. I was in charge of my body.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t promise you that. You have control within the lines I draw. And in any case, you gave my arse to Dan. It’s not yours!”
He paused. I could tell he was fuming. “He’s just a boy, Jane,” he said forcefully. “I got him to prepare you for me! I want to fuck your arse!”
“Absolutely not!” I said very firmly. I knew Mike was extremely angry and charged with testosterone. But I knew him so well so I also knew he wouldn’t cross my line and break me, nor would he really hurt me or force. I had control now. I wanted to use that to spark him now.
“Anyway, I bet you couldn’t fuck my arse as well as Dan,” I said slowly.
That did it. He jumped on to me. I gasped. He undid the handcuffs and lifted me up. I felt his shirt flapping open and his cock now out, hard and rubbing against me. I could feel and smell the rage in him. It turned me on. I wanted him, but on my terms. I knew I would get that. He dropped me by the window. I struggled to stay on my feet.
“You bitch!” he hollered. “Get up against the window!” I reached out and touched the glass and moved my face up close to it.
I couldn’t see him behind me. Then suddenly there was a massive hard blow on my bum, from something hard and plastic like a baton. Then again, harder. And several more times. Quickly. Very, very hard. Probably harder than any blow I could ever remember taking. It pushed me so close to cumming as the pain seared through my arse and stimulated my cunt. It was just a release of his male frustration. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. After several seconds of frenzied spanking, he relented. (I later found out it was my hair straighteners that he had grabbed to strike my bum.)
“Spread your legs!” he shouted. I bent over and did so, my arms outstretched, still touching the window. I was vulnerable but knew my arse was safe. Mike might want it, but he would respect my limit. I was rationalising all this as I desperately needed to let my orgasm out. His anger had scarcely moved me off the edge of orgasm. He rubbed his left middle finger aggressively between my buttocks, teasing my rim. I knew he wouldn’t invade me there. He hovered it, though, hinting that he might breach my line. Suddenly he moved his hand forward and rammed his finger with sudden force right up my cunt. I screamed with surprise and began to feel the pleasurable pain as he rammed it in and out of me. I was struggling to breathe and to stand, so close to climax now.
Then suddenly I felt the touch of another fingertip on my vulva, right where my swollen clit was hiding inside. The finger tapped arrhythmically several times, and within a few seconds, I could no longer hold back. I climaxed intensely. The release and relief were immense. I don’t really think I could enjoy the pleasure, and I think I lost real consciousness for a few seconds.
My next aware moment was of the tapping on to my clit being more intense. His finger was directly in contact with my clit. And then in my state of semi-consciousness, I realised Mike’s cock was inside my cunt now. Not my arse. As I had predicted. It had come to its rightful home and was ramming me hard, and aggressively. He was swearing at me and calling me disgusting words. I didn’t care. Somewhere between the intense physical pleasure, the multiple orgasms, and my retained control was a sense of deep and fantastic satisfaction, fulfilment, and winning at life.
He rammed hard and held me up at the window for quite some time. He never ejaculates quickly. By now I had stopped cumming myself. I was drained and coming back down. I was revelling in the situation as my loving husband was fucking me hard, exposing me to the street, albeit masked. I had climaxed many times in a daze of glory from my successful reading of him and of the pleasure zone. I had made him respect my limit, and he loved me for it, despite his short-term frustrated anger. I was hidden in the depths of love and contentment with his cock at home in my cunt. Indeed, I took a little additional joy in the fact that in the rage of the moment, he had lost some control and forgotten to hide his face, leaving it visible for several minutes at the window while fucking me.
He kept pounding me, my hands on the glass, my arms braced as I leant forward. He roared and ejaculated into me. I still love the feeling of his hot cum shooting into my cunt, even after many thousands of times. I could not have felt better in the moment, though I know there is no such thing as perfection. And I knew there was still more adventure to follow. I was ready to fly further as a mature adult form of my species.
He pulled me onto the bed with him. He took off my hood and kissed me breathlessly, expressing his satisfaction through his tongue probing my mouth. He tasted unique: like a flavour of virile sexualised contentment designed exclusively for me. He broke the kiss and held me in a tight hug.
“I love you, Mike. But I still want Dan to fuck my arse again,” I told him gently.
“I know,” he replied. “I’ll decide if and when, though. I love you too, Jane.”
I wanted to think of nothing else other than sex. I wanted to be permanently stimulated by my imagination, and by the sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch of my husband who owned me. Well, nearly all of me. My arse tingled.
