don't even believe what just happened. I am struggling to even think about it, as I sit in my car outside the office. I don't even remember driving here, and it's a Saturday, I don't even work today. I have to organize my thoughts as I come to terms with this, and think about how I can talk to my husband about this, if I even do.
I can trace this back two weeks. I was working in the yard, and I lifted a pot that was too heavy, and as I lifted, I jerked and twisted. Everyone knows you don't do this, but of course we all do, and when you're a five foot five and 130 pound woman of 40 years, the inevitable happens. I collapsed on the lawn, my back completely torn up. The pot dumped on the grass, and I kind of laid there for a few minutes. When I felt like I could move, I tried getting up. I had to get on my knees, and roll to get into a posture I could lift my body up without using those big lower back muscles.
By Sunday, I was really bad. It wasn't the lower back muscles, but my right lat, it was really torn up. I could feel the blood pulsing through my muscle, and most every move hurt. I took naproxen, but it only took away the sharpest of the pains, and of course I knew taking naproxen too often caused other issues. Anyway, as a radiologist, I was up and down and helping move patients around, so I called out.
That call out became the whole week. I didn't really get better. The whole next week end, same, it was relaxed a little, but even breathing hurt that muscle. My other muscles were getting tired and sore, compensating for the disabled one. By mid way through this past week, I was getting concerned. Despite being in the medical field, I rarely sought medical help, except of course in a serious injury or illness. This was becoming that. I called the office, and our receptionist mentioned massage.
For me, massage was one of two things. It was a thing dirty or lonely men would go get, in order to get jerked off at the end by a Korean girl. Or, it was a thing that rich ladies would take their spoiled girlfriends or daughters to on the week end. But our receptionist, Kelly, explained about her back injury a few years earlier, and how massage turned what seemed like a permanent problem into one she could manage, and eventually get through. She was right, it was five years ago and I remember she was out and how bad she was when she came back, but I had almost forgotten it, since today she was in near perfect shape.
I asked her where she went, but she said the name of a place in her town, which was pretty far driving for me, and it was closed since anyway. I used the google to locate a local resource. On browsing, I did find both kind of massage I had in my mind: ones with pictures of busty young Korean girls, and all reviewed by men, and ones with a hundred pampering functions like waxing and nails and things I didn't even know what they were. But a few, these were more medical in nature, not quite like a chiropractor, but not like a massage spa either. I read the reviews, and most seemed similar, in price too, and were all within ten minutes' drive from my home.
When I was flipping a coin over the three I found, I noticed an ad for what was called "cuddle therapy". I chuckled, that this was even a thing, and clicked it to see what it was all about. It showed a picture of a guy, not really a tough guy, but one of these you see around, with a beard but only on his neck, no muscle tone, I think I remember our gay nurse calling this kind of guy a "twink". Either way, as I read, I was intrigued. I still needed this muscle taken care of, and he did offer massage, but the cuddle thing was real. He explained it that we would sit or lay together on his chair, sofa, the floor, or a bed, and basically it was as you would imagine, he cuddles you or you cuddle him, and you talk, and he listens. All the reviews were 4 or 5 star, and all were women, and all referenced that he was an excellent listener. I was getting depressed from being out of my routine for almost two weeks, and this pain was really taking a toll on my mind as well as my body.
I took a chance and called the listed number. Frank answered on the second ring. He explained again what cuddling was all about, but really evaded most of my questions. The whole thing seemed like something I wanted to try, to relax, but I asked about if we are clothed or nude, and he said everything is my option. I took this to mean of course that more than zero times women chose to be nude or for him to be nude or both, and I was a little put off. I was imagining that now I was the dirty lonely man going to get masturbated. But he was nice sounding, and again his reviews were good, so I booked him for this morning at 9.
All that backstory, and here I am, still not sure if I can even retell this story, sitting in my car, alone, much less recount it to my husband. I pulled into his complex at twenty of 9. All week I had been dressing in yogapants and loose fitting shirts, because of the pain and the fact that I wasn't going anyplace. Today I dressed the same. I had driven past this complex many times, but never knew how big the place was, or how many little units there were. It was like half of our town lived in here. I sat in my car until five of, then carefully climbed out of my car and walked up to his door. He opened the door just before I could ring the bell. He had been watching me?
Frank welcomed me in, took my hand, interlaced his fingers in mine. He had a soft quiet voice, and there was soft quiet instrumental music playing in the background. I smelled the incense, I think it was sandalwood? He led me to a large loveseat, and we sat down. He never released my hand. We talked again about my injury, and he asked me where I would like to cuddle. We were already on the seat, there was a couch, the floor, and then he pointed into another room where there was a bed. I didn't feel right of course going into a man's bedroom, so that was off the table. I was kind of not ready to move from this seat, but I knew the best relaxation would be right on the floor. Frank told me to stay put, and he disappeared down the little hallway. He returned with a big comforter.
He laid this comforter out on the carpet, it was big enough for five to lay on it, and it was thick. I don't know where you buy this kind of thing or what bed it's for, but I could tell this was going to be relaxing. He again took my hand, and interlaced his fingers in mine, and helped me down to the comforter. As I laid down, he laid behind me, not touching. He reminded me again that I could choose if I wanted to take any of my clothing off, he would not judge me or even remark about my body.
To me, this was disarming. I am very average, I have average hips, boobs, legs, belly. My skin is average, neither flabby nor bony, I am not tanned but I'm not glaringly white. I don't have any scars or tattoos. But being average, I always have self-confidence issues when being even in a swimsuit in public. I see the other women who have big boobs, or a big butt, or who are flabby or tattooed, all with something unique, but me, I was the definition of average. You would never pick me out of a lineup.
I chose to stay clothed, and he assured me, letting me know I can do anything I like. As we lay there, my back to his front, not touching, we just chatted. He asked me about my injury, and asked if he could touch my muscle and try to work it a little. Of course I wanted this. He put his hand gently on my lat muscle, and just left his open palm on it as we talked. He asked me about my work, and my family, and did I miss being at work, did I sleep well. And after each question, he would apply a small pressure with his palm on my muscle, and he would remain silent as I answered. He really was a good listener. He never offered solutions, never tried to solve my problems, never lectured me, he just listened and asked probing questions to get the words from my brain to my mouth. It really was very relaxing.
As the conversation went on, he asked me how long I intended to stay. It was an interesting question, as his website said he charged by the hour, and I had booked an hour. I asked him what he meant, and he explained that usually we would start with an hour, and depending on how it went and how we felt, he would let it go on as long as it took to relax me. I liked this, and he explained that the session charge would be the same whether it was the original hour or more. He had no bookings for the rest of the day, so, as he said, he literally had all day for me. I liked this. I didn't feel like there was any pressure to get any progress in any amount of time, basically he had the singular goal of relaxing me, and he told me that my goal was to allow the release from my mind and from the muscle.
As he applied pressure off and on, in rhythm with the conversation, I could feel his breath on my neck. I guess he was close to me, I carefully moved my foot backward to gauge where his was. He was at least two inches from me, and I was still comfortable with this. I know how cuddling works, but I still wasn't sure if I wanted his body touching mine. The hand was ok for now. Then, Frank moved his hand, still making total contact palm to body, around my ribs to the front, below my boobs but above my waistband. He asked if this was ok, and it was, so I told him.
He gently stroked my belly, making half circles one way and the other, around my belly button. He didn't move toward my crotch or my boobs, just this one area. And I liked it. I felt the warmth of his big hand, and the slight pressure he was applying. Then, I felt his body touch mine. He had moved close enough that now he was touching my back with his front, from his chest down to his knees. His crotch was touching my butt. Instantly I wanted to protest, but I really needed this relaxation, and I was disarmed by his demeanor and his talking.
As he pressed his body against mine, he continued chatting as if nothing had changed. His hand pulled tighter and tighter on my belly, until I felt the pressure pushing my abdomen. I was soothing. So, I thought, this is cuddling. In my mind, images were racing, feelings of being cuddled like this by my parents, by my first boyfriend Mike, by my husband Carl when I was pregnant with our children. As Frank talked to me, and listened, and rubbed and pressed my belly, and his warm body was against mine, I really did feel relaxed. I even felt my eyelids relaxing, not like I was going to go to sleep, but that I wasn't in any need of having them open.
And then, a small shock. His hand broke his pattern of half circles, clockwise and counter, and that hand slid downward a little, his pinky finger snagging just a bit inside the waistband of my yogapants. I froze. My heart raced. I wasn't stressing, and I had forgotten the pain in my back, but I couldn't hardly breathe. This man I just met, this cuddle therapist or whatever he called himself, was now spooning me, and had his pinky finger in my pants. Ok, it was just the tip, but you know what they say about that.
I didn't protest. Maybe I should have. Maybe from the beginning I read his signals wrong, and returned wrong signals to him. I laid down on the floor with him. I let him hold my hand the way my husband held it. I let him touch my belly, this stranger. I let him press his body against mine. I talked to him in a tone and about subjects that I would only do with a very close friend. This man, I just met ten minutes earlier. A man who was paid to cuddle with women. In my mind, I put together this case, why I should jump up and run out. But I didn't.
Not that my husband was a bad husband in any way, in my mind I savored this little touch. It had been at least ten years since my husband was intimate with me. Oh, he put his little cock inside me every few weeks, but it wasn't sexy, it wasn't romantic, it wasn't intimate. It was me feeling my marital obligations, and fulfilling them, and him grunting as he shot a little load inside me with that short stubby rod. I wasn't hateful to him, I didn't feel like I deserved better. He is a good man, a great man, a good father, a successful man who always brought home the bacon, as far as I could tell he never cheated or even thought about it. But here I was, with this stranger, on the floor of his little condo, and he was touching me, and I wasn't stopping him.
I rationalized, in my mind, that this was part of the therapy, that he was a kind of doctor, his feelings surely were sterile and he was just doing his job, and I was going to relax and not think about whatever was going on. As we talked, I forgot where his hand was. He wasn't moving it anymore, just gently pressuring my belly. It was soothing. I enjoyed this feeling, the warmth of his palm I could feel through my shirt, and it radiated through my torso. I felt adrenaline in my blood, or maybe it was sex hormones, but it was thrilling. Except those times every few weeks with Carl, I rarely had sexual thoughts or feelings. I hadn't masturbated in a year or more, I had become asexual. And that all may have made this even more dangerous for me.
I never protested. I let him touch me like this, and my body was responding in its natural way. I could feel even that my crotch was becoming warm, and I felt my pussy swell against my compression pants. I hadn't worn underwear, again, my lazy mode from being home injured for ten days. Maybe another mistake. Who doesn't wear panties to meet a strange man for a supposed medical procedure at his home? Who does this even with panties on? Who does this at all?
But I lay there, and we talked, and he touched. I felt him move then. His hand moved, after five full minutes of inactivity. That pinky that was under my yogapants' waistband slid further underneath, and it was followed by his ring finger, and his middle finger, and then the pointer, and then he stopped, his thumb still trapped outside, but the rest all inside my pants. I felt his fingers laying flat like his palm, against my body. Not expecting to be touched this way, I hadn't shaved in almost a month. I felt a bit self-conscious now, I knew where his fingers were touching, they were where my pussy normally would have been shaven. I normally kept a small bush and then shaved the lips, but now the lips surely were hairy, and the part above where I normally kept my bush was stubbly at best, overgrown probably in most places. Why didn't I check this? Of course, I never expected this kind of touching. But he stopped there, and I again relaxed.
He continued chatting, he continued applying slight pressure on my abdomen with his palm, and hugging me. But now, he added a twist, moving his fingers individually against my abdominal muscles, like they were playing keys of a small piano. I was getting aroused now. This stranger was inside my pants, touching where I normally would have used a razor. I knew for sure that I was getting wet now. I felt my lips moving between my legs as I moved my thighs, and I felt that they were slipping past one another with my moisture. And I was hot in my crotch. I felt the heat, I could feel it radiate on my thighs.
He paused midsentence, and asked me if I was ok. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Maybe my brain short circuited, it wanted to protest, but couldn't, and my deep natural system wanted to beg him to fuck me. And the two couldn't work it out, so nothing came out. I guess something was victorious, because finally I did manage to agree that I was ok. He asked if I wanted to take my shirt off, so he could begin loosening my injured muscle. Laying on our sides, I knew he had just one hand to operate with, the one in my pants, so agreeing to this was the obvious choice, it would get that hand away from the danger zone. I agreed, and he lifted himself up, and laid both his hands on my torso. He handled me with care, lifting my body to a seated position, and then taking the bottom of my shirt and carefully lifting it over my head. I hadn't worn a bra, again, my laziness of being injured, plus how difficult and painful it was to put one on with this injury. But I completely forgot, until the shirt was gone and I felt the air on my nipples. I looked down, and there they were, my B cup boobies with their stiff nips.
I was only turned slightly toward Frank, so he couldn't see me straight-on, but he definitely looked directly at my boobies, and then back up to my eyes. He asked if we should get back to cuddling, and I agreed, glad to have my back to him again and not show my breasts to this total stranger.
I was feeling open to him though. This man was listening to me, he was genuinely concerned with my injury, and his activity so far was actually making my pain ease. I hadn't taken any pills this morning, so if this was going to work or not work, it would be obvious. We lay back down, and this time he pulled half of the comforter over us. Now we were covered, and cocooned under this large comforter. I had enjoyed the cool air of his apartment on my breasts, but now the warmth of our bodies trapped under this comforter felt even better. He put his body at a distance from me again, and put his hand back in the original position, on my injured lat muscle. He pushed pressure on it, with the heel of his palm. I could feel waves of alternating pain and relief as he pushed and moved, up and down the muscle fiber. I know there are a few muscles in there, but somehow he knew which one needed the pressure, and he hit it.
As he continued, he asked me more open ended questions, letting me regain my voice and we chatted like this for a while. He kept circling that muscle, or going along its length, alternately putting pressure and releasing. His hand was very warm, and I enjoyed this feeling. I had both my arms and hands folded over my chest, covering my tits, although of course I don't know why I did this, we were under covers and I was facing away from him. But after Frank's movements under the waistband of my yogapants, I had the feeling that he would be juggling my jugs any minute now.
But he didn't. He kept the motions on my sore lat muscle, and each time he stroked the muscle, each time he applied pressure, the pain left momentarily. To say he beat that muscle up would be maybe too much, but he certainly manipulated it in a way that felt to me like a doctor might rebreak a finger to set it properly. I really was in heaven. And my arousal in my pants subsided. Maybe whatever fear or shame I might have had was misplaced, and this guy was really only a professional. A kind, tender, warm, professional.
Frank's hands moved from that sore muscle to my side now, where my ribs were exposed. He gripped the entire side of my rib cage, again manipulating the little muscles there. Each time he moved, I felt one of his fingers lightly graze the side of my breast. I felt a tingle each time, and my nipples stiffened to their maximum, like they were little bullets. Even I felt goosebumps on every inch of my body. Again, my pussy got swollen and hot and wet. Just from this massage.
Then, he pushed his body close to mine again, as before. When he did this, his hand moved around my torso to my belly. He repeated the process from before, this time on my bare skin. Circles in both directions around my navel, and grazing touches to my waistband. He slid his bare hand over my bare chest, and right between my breasts. Laying on my side of course, going between my breasts meant one was laying on his hand, so that motion aroused me even more. I was getting sweaty under this comforter, and I knew I was wet between my legs. I wondered if he could smell my sweat or my wet vagina. As he stroked up and down my chest, from my throat to my waistband, and back, I was really getting deeply aroused. My body went into a kind of automatic mode, and I actually pressed my butt against him. I felt betrayed by my own body. I was pushing my rear against this strange man's body, where his penis would be, and I was getting wetter by the moment.
Frank slid his entire hand into my pants. And then back up my chest. Then down my pants again. Each time, going only as far as he had before, right to the top of where I would have cut my pubes, had I bothered to shave. Surely he felt the hairs that shouldn't have been there. Was he getting aroused? I didn't feel his cock against me, so I hoped maybe he was really taking this in an asexual way.
But I was wrong. One of the times he went into my pants, I again responded by pressing my butt toward him, and I did feel his hardness. It scared me, that this strange man I had just met was erect, that his hand was roaming my chest and neck and belly and inside my pants, that my breasts were exposed if he wanted to look, or touch, or squeeze, or even taste with his mouth. I felt that mouth, the heat of his breath, against my neck and ear as he touched me. I felt his cock against my butt now, and as I pressed against him, he pressed against me, now in a unified motion.
What was I doing? How far would he go? How far would I let him go? Would I beg for him to stop? Would I beg for him to go farther? My brain was swimming now, all my hormones were raging, each time Frank pushed his hand into my pants, I hoped he would go that last two inches to my pussy. I hoped he would touch my wet lips and my swollen clit, and even slip a finger inside my hole, and press his cock against my rear, bite my ear. Oh I was being a slut!
I calmed a little, and in my mind, I checked if my back still hurt, and it didn't. I doubt he fixed anything, but all these sensations completely took my mind off of it. For the first time in two weeks I wasn't in pain, and the rest of my body was relaxing, was in a pleasure zone. He slowed his hand movements, and rested his palm flat on my belly again, just above my waistband.
I took a chance, to see where this was going to go. We were still chatting, and I guess this conversation kept me thinking that all this was innocent, like when you are at the hairdresser and you feel his penis against your arm for a second, it's nothing, just part of the operation, and it goes away. I put my hand over his, and I pushed it down toward my pussy. Over my clothing, but I pushed it down in a way that he could not mistake my intent. I wanted to put his hand right on my private parts, I wanted him to grab me by my vulva and squeeze my swollen organs.
He did not disappoint. It was clear now that this often went this way for him, that he was operating as normal, for him. For me, this was not normal. I hadn't been touched by any man other than my husband for twenty years, I hadn't been touched by my husband in three months, and I hadn't even touched myself in a long time. I wanted this stranger to finger me and caress my secret areas, the places that few ever touched.
Frank moved his hand back to my belly, then under my waistband, and deep into my pants. He pulled at the yogapants, letting air into my crotch, and I could feel the warm air of the comforter inside on my body. He slid that hand down down down, until I felt his fingers on my pubes, and then right into my slit. Frank slid a single finger between my lips, and over my clit, and then into my wetness. I could actually hear the noise of my wet lips being parted. I could only imagine how gooey I was now. And I was only getting wetter.
He didn't go inside, but he rubbed and fingered and stroked every part of my privates. I was getting so hot now, and even I was breaking the conversation just to be sure I took a breath. He was now rhythmically pushing his hips into my rear, and I definitely felt his penis now. He was wearing only a shirt and some gym shorts, so there was nothing but these yogapants and those gym shorts between us. A millimeter of material separating the faithful wife and mother in me from the slut deep inside me that wanted to come out to play.
While his fingers played, he whispered into my ear, asking me if I wanted to remove any of these clothes. This was the point where I could have said no, and let this go as a little play, and then go home, having gotten a great treatment I could remember. But of course, as with every step in this process, I didn't say no. I nodded, and let him manhandle my body. He positioned me and moved me, as he pulled my yogapants down. He looked at my face, never at my nude body. I liked this, it kept up the illusion that this was some kind of legitimate medical procedure. He removed his own shirt, and then he laid me down. I didn't know he had removed his shorts, but once we were laid down, I found out.
I felt his penis rest in between my cheeks. I froze again. A stranger, his cock, my butt. He was now a few millimeters away from making me an adultress. Would this man try to fuck me? He went right back to his cuddling, though. Despite his cock between my cheeks, it was the same as before. He would stroke my body, lightly touching, then applying pressure, then light again. Circles, lines, every motion brought more and more goosebumps to my skin, and sweat to my body, and juices to my pussy.
As Frank did this massaging motion, his cock moved up and down my crack. He never pointed the head at my holes, just let the shaft go up and down my ass. I felt the wetness of his tip, he was really getting lubed up. My pussy was already soaking, it wouldn't have taken much to get him inside. And his penis, well, I didn't see it of course, but I could tell it was a little longer than my husband's, but not as fat. It slid easily up and down my crack too, and I was getting off just from this motion. The last time my husband dry humped me I guess George Bush was still president.
He rubbed my pussy, his bare hand on my bare lips. He pushed his face into the space between my shoulder and my neck, and nibbled on my ear. Then I felt his hand move away from my crotch, and I felt like how a baby might feel having her bottle ripped away roughly. Then I felt what he was doing with that hand. He took his penis from my crack, and stroked the head along my privates. He moved it from my asshole to my soaking pussy hole, then up the lips along to where they met at my clit. My clit is larger than normal, not like those weird mini cock ones you see in fetisch porn, but it was big. He stopped right on it, rubbing the tip of his rod right on my nub. I was going to cum, and he wasn't stopping at all.
I was being a whore! I just kissed my husband an hour ago, I just fed my children breakfast, I was just listening to talk radio in my car. Now, I was nude under a comforter in a strange man's apartment, and he was rubbing his dick all over my dripping pussy. All that was left was for him to stick that thing inside, and my transformation would be complete. Would I let him? I totally should have put an end to this. I guess we do this sometimes, we justify pushing the lines farther back until we've gone so far we forget if it's longer to go back or to finish the journey. For me, finishing was all that was one my mind. Would this guy finish too? Would I let him cum on my pussy? I'm not too old to have babies, would I let this guy cum and possibly get me pregnant? Would I let him inside me? Would I let this man I just met fuck me from behind like this? Of course I wouldn't.
But I wasn't stopping him. I wasn't saying no. I wasn't even resisting in any way. I was using my free hand to squeeze my nipples like a slut. I was letting this man jerk my pussy off with his penis, I was letting him nibble at my ear and neck. I was letting him say some very vulgar things right into my ear. If I was a man, I would be shooting a load halfway across the room right now. I was cumming, and with each stroke he pushed that cock into my clitoris, I felt waves of heat and excitement over every inch of my body. I felt it in my skin, and inside, in my brain even.
And then it changed. As I came, I kept silent, feeling that the last step in the journey to being a slut was acknowledging it by vocalizing it. I clenched my mouth shut, I clenched my fingers over my nipple, I clenched my knees together. All happy that I had touched fire and not been killed. But it wasn't over. He did something that turned this story from something I surely could have told any of my friends to something I am sitting here wondering how did this happen to me.
He took his penis and slid it down my slit. I think at this point I would have let him inside me. Inside my pussy, where my babies came from, where my husband once in a while put his little dick, I would have let him in for sure. But he didn't stop at my hole. Well, not that hole. He rested the soaking wet head of his cock against my anus. I froze, again.
This stranger was touching my butthole with his cock. I felt the lube coming from his tip, he was slathering it on my tiny hole. I hadn't bothered to shave for this, I certainly hadn't scrubbed my asshole. This guy was going to poke at my ass, I thought, there's no way he was going to try going in there. In my hole life the only thing that ever went in there was a finger a few times when I got a little wild while masturbating. I never let any man put his penis in my rear. Maybe I took it for granted that there was no way he would be trying to go inside.
Frank kept nibbling at my ear, and he was telling me how erotic and sensual it was that I let myself release in that way, that I had orgasmed with him on the floor under this comforter. He whispered to me that he wanted to give me one more orgasm, and that he wanted to touch one more pressure center. I knew his intent now was to get inside my bowels. I could have resisted. I could have said no. I could have done anything, but I did nothing. I moaned a little. I really gave him all the encouragement he needed, I had just cum from him rubbing my clit with his cock, and now I moaned at him when he told me he was going to buttfuck me. What was I thinking?
I wasn't thinking at all. I was like a dirty animal now. I was soaking wet from crack to clit, my thighs were wet with my cum, my boobs were sporting rock hard nips, and this guy was biting my neck and ear like he was going to have lunch. And I actually pressed my rear against his cock. I might have done better resisting by specifically saying the words than what I had done. I pressed my rear against his cock. I felt the bulbous head of his penis opening my rear hole.
As I said, I had never been entered this way. No man had ever put his thing in my butt, I never even thought of it, no man had even asked or even tried. Maybe I gave off this "I don't do anal" vibe, all my life, but now, this man must have seen all green lights. As I pushed against him, he pushed too, his hand now reaching around to my front and gripping my clit between his thumb and forefinger. As he squeezed it, I nearly came again, having a mini orgasm in his hands.
Frank poked his intruder into my ass, finally opening the hole enough to slip it in. It did hurt, I won't pretend it didn't. My virgin rear was tight for sure, and despite his penis not being large, it still hurt. He opened me up, and as he did, he pressed his bare chest against my sore back muscles, and he gripped my clitoris in his fingers, and he nibbled me ear and neck, and he said all these vulgar descriptive things about my dirty butthole. I guess he was really ready, though, because his precum had lubed him up in a way that once the head was inside, he slipped all the way in.
This stranger was inside my hiney, all the way to his balls. I could feel his balls on my wet vulva, I could feel his bushy pubes against the crack of my butt. He was poking the inside walls of my anus, I felt feelings inside my body I had never felt before. A man I didn't know an hour ago was fucking me in my virgin asshole, and I was cumming.
I was really cumming. It was like no other orgasm I had before either. I was like dull, but long. He squeezed my clitoris like he was jerking me off, and he was in timed rhythm, so that he would stroke me as he fucked me, and all I wanted to do was finish this orgasm or push his penis out. It hurt. I said this already, but it hurt. Along with the pleasure, was the very real stretching of my insides. The pounding against my guts each time he got all the way inside. The way his cock turned my rectum inside out each time he pulled out. It hurt, but the waves of pleasure were alternating with that pain, and it was setting my entire brain on fire. I was edging this way for half an hour already, and even after that first orgasm, this one was just going on and on and on.
Maybe it was that slut inside trying to get out, but I never resisted. I let this stranger fuck me up the ass. He was biting my neck now, hard kind of, and rubbing my entire pussy with his hand, and he was pounding my butt. I was now drooling, my wide open mouth just gaping, maybe trying to say something, maybe trying to say stop, or maybe trying to beg him to go faster harder deeper. I don't know exactly what was happening now, except that my butt was being deflowered, and I was loving every second of it. The mix of regret, shame, and intense orgasm, it was shocking my brain and body into submission. I wanted him to go faster, to go harder, to go deeper. Each time he pounded me, I felt my butt being torn open.
On one particularly hard and deep push, he stopped. He bit my ear hard, enough that it drew blood. And I felt his sperm. I felt the heat of his load inside my bowels, I felt it against the flesh that was inside my body. I felt that cum in a place no cum had ever gone before. I felt so filthy, so dirty. I had let this man, this stranger, fuck me up my asshole, and I had orgasmed for ten minutes as he did it, and I let him shoot his load inside of me. I was, at the same time, a slut and a whore. I was crying now, not from shame or pain, but from the release.
I had let my inner whore out, and I loved it. I had cum longer and harder than I ever had, and I felt like he had coaxed my soul out from my body to let me look at it. He gripped my pussy with his whole hand now, and licked at my bleeding ear. He groaned, and then he told me so many sweet things that a husband might tell his loving wife after some special event like childbirth or something. I felt so loved, even as his deflating penis was still inside my dirtiest hole. I hadn't cleaned or anything, so surely he would pull out and there would be a mess, but I didn't care, I was released. I felt so relaxed, so free, so calm, despite having been fucked in my virgin hole, possibly without my consent.
And here I am now, in my car, at my office. The place isn't even open, it's Saturday, and I don't remember even driving here. It's the wrong direction from Frank's place to my home, but somehow my brain automatically drove here. I'm in this parking lot, no other cars, and I'm recounting to you what just happened to me. Frank offered me a shower, but I declined. He offered me a towel, but I declined. When I had come down from that high, I felt liberated, but also ashamed. A dichotomy that has me stumped as I sit here. Did I get raped? Did I give in to some slut inside me?
Even as I left, paid him, and thanked him profusely, I felt embarrassed in a small way. This happened in my town, it was possible that I would see Frank again, or someone I know might run into him, or even my husband may have met him before, or even my kids might have seen him before. I was released, relaxed, but still I had this thought that my whole life was different. As I left, he asked about my back, and I was bluntly honest, it felt as if the entire experience from the moment I injured it until then had disappeared, like nothing had happened. He smiled, and thanked me for the business, offering me his business card. Like I might want to get fucked in my butt again?
I sit here now, I wonder how do I go home? Frank's cum is sliding out of my butt right now, surely leaking through my yogapants and onto the car seat. My daughter would be home from college next week end, and would be sitting in this seat when she borrows my car. She would be sitting right here, where her slut mom farted out a load of cum from a stranger who had just buttfucked her. Of course she would never know, but I would. I'd go home, and I'd see my husband, and he would ask how the massage was. I had told him I was going to one of those richy rich massage spas, so of course he would have no idea that I'd been deflowered. He'd have no idea that another man's sperm was swimming around in the hole I shit out of.
I had to go home eventually, but here I was, sitting, recounting this story in my head. I'm sure my yogapants were wet, I'm sure even though they are black, anyone could see there was something happening there. My husband would ask. I had to think of how to get home without revealing to the world that I was a whore, a slut, an animal.
But you know, despite all of this, as I tell you this story, my hand is inside my yogapants. I'm touching my pussy, I'm edging myself to another orgasm. I can smell the sperm, I can smell my pussy juice, I can smell my butthole. I'm sure my hiney is wide open, maybe it would never close after having that penis violate its entrance. Would I ever call Frank again? Would I let him fuck me in my ass again? Would I let my husband do it?
I'm contemplating even climbing on top of him when I get home, and letting him inside my butt, as a treat he'll never forget. Today, I let a stranger bring me to orgasm and buttfuck me, and I let him cum inside me. Even though I should have said no.