1 comments/ 10278 views/ 1 favorites Sexual Nuclear War Ch. 01 By: ElizabethLoring Copyright; Elizabeth Loring, August 12, 2006. All Rights Reserved. (No part of this story may be reproduced for any reason without explicit written permission from the author. Do not remove this copyright statement.) THE BACKGROUND Every woman needs to know her husband's body better than her own. If she doesn't, she won't keep him. It's part of the second law of nature but it isn't published in any scientific book. First comes self-survival, next comes reproduction. In my brain is where the "map" to my husband's body is filed; right behind "mental;" because sex is 90% mental; and because my plan was to drive my husband nuts. Getting to know a man's body, I call "mapping." For some unknown reason, the male animal wants a virgin for a mate. Yet before he decides to "settle down" he eliminates as many women as possible from this category. Not that he turns non-virgins down; quite the contrary, he pursues this sub-species of female extremely aggressively. But the deflowering of a virgin is his special calling; and most males keep accurate counts of this type of conquest. My husband was different than the rest of the male animals when it came to choosing a mate. Virginity wasn't a required necessity; thankfully, for me. For if it was, I'd been low on his list of choices. ********** My sexual activity began when I was almost 16. Like all others, it started with a single kiss; that "gateway act" to all kinds of carnal endeavors. During the next year and a quarter my appetite cautiously grew until one night, in the backseat of a car, when I was a bit past 17, I was completely taken; added as a notch on some man's belt and immortalized in his list of remembered conquests. A few months later, I was conquered by another, after that another, then another. Seven different men invaded me by the time I turned 18. But it was the eighth man that really got to me. With him, I learned how much I loved to fuck. Maybe it was that we were alone, finally able to lie naked together in a place, his apartment, where we were sure to be undisturbed. Sex was different than when engaged in on secluded lovers' lanes or in alleyways in the backseat of a car, always on the alert for passing vehicles or pedestrians, always anxious that someone might see us. Maybe it was my strict Jewish upbringing that I rebelled against. Maybe it was the fact I hated school and loved to paint. At close to 25-years ago, the reasons blend into lies and excuses and can't be separated. For whatever the cause, I left Los Angeles with this man, months more than four years my senior, and moved with him to Seattle. As with all naive young women, I assumed love would conquer all. Within a month it became painfully obvious that you can eat each other but you can't eat love. We bought weed, hashish, LSD, and 'rooms instead of food. We drank whiskey and wine instead of water. I counted on the sale of my art to support our lifestyle. But my paintings didn't sell well on the street corners despite my lack of strategic marketing planning – the customer base I chose to focus upon consisted solely of other "hippies." I took it that my art skills were not good, threw away my paints and brushes, and began to hunt for a job. In interview after interview I failed to get hired. I couldn't understand why showing up barefoot with hair uncombed and clothes unwashed without a driver's license or social security card disqualifies one for work. Fortunately, my boyfriend found one; delivering small packages for a man he'd been introduced to by a street friend of street friend. We no longer needed to panhandle. We still did, but didn't have to. From the very beginning, the man employing him always stared at me. He'd talk to my boyfriend, hand him a lunch bag to deliver, but he'd look at me at me as he spoke. One day he sent my boyfriend on an errand and requested that I stay behind. My boyfriend agreed and told me not to worry; that he'd be back soon. The man told him to come back after an hour. I remember those words as if it were yesterday; the words told to me before my boyfriend turned to leave. "Be extra nice to him, baby, we really need the money." I resisted the, almost immediate, unwanted advances; screaming, as the first love of my life closed the flop house apartment door. My opposition was short. It lasted only seconds. It lasted until the older, more highly experienced man forced his lips upon that spot on my neck known only by the current man in my life; the man who'd given my pursuer the map to my treasure. My body stopped fighting. My breathing grew ragged. A hand reached under my T-shirt and kneaded a braless breast. Another hand slipped down the front of my pants and pushed one, then two fingers, into my sex. With three distinct erogenous zones stimulated simultaneously, it took little time for me to become putty in his hands. Willingly, I gave him my riches. That was my first experience with "mapping," the knowledge of how to make a body react the way one wishes. And not being a virgin made me very familiar with so many of its techniques; for "mapping" is a two-way street, what works on a woman can be applied to the man. Little did my husband know that by the time he married me, I'd pretty much had the "lay of his ground." To the experienced woman, "mapping" is second nature, done every time affection is shown. Bits of information are constantly being gathered and filed in the brain for future reference. My husband had only an inkling of how well I knew him. Marrying a multi-times-removed virgin can be a treacherous thing. THE PLAN From my street-selling days hawking art, I'd learned a few things too; wants and needs are not the same things, always demand a higher price and leave room for negotiation, quality is in the eye of the beholder, don't waste time with those that won't buy, and a prospective customer has to have what you want, usually money, but not always the case. Art can be traded for tangible things, like drugs. But, most of all, I learned to have a goal and a plan. And to make sure you meet your goal, divide it into sub-goals. The first question I needed to consider was whether or not my customer had what I wanted? If not, any plan would be irrelevant. Why plan for success without any payoff? It was as easy question for me to answer, although what I wanted from my customer was unusual. My husband had control of my daughter's discipline and I wanted to be the person administering it. He definitely had what I wanted; and only he had it. Thus, I eliminated from my repertoire anything that would involve another or something else. Group sex, toys, X-rated movies...anything else involving something or someone other than him and me was out. All those things, I'd come to experience in the past. But they wouldn't accomplish my present objective. And quite possibly, they could become a distraction. It was paramount that I be the focus of attention, not someone else or some toy. Did my husband want or need me? Men always want. I had to convert that "want" into a fiery need. Once I did that, I'd demand my inflated price. And what would that price be? Why, of course, the maximum possible; our daughter's complete freedom and reinstatement of all trust. We could bargain from there. Would my customer buy what I was offering? Absolutely. We'd been having sex for twenty years. But this was going to be a different kind of sex from any kind that either of us had ever known. The winner at the end of this campaign would be in control of the other; and that control would most likely last for the rest of our lives; or, if I lost, I might have to file for divorce. I'm not one to be dominated for any period of time...anymore; although I was dominated quite a bit when I was single. If I lost, divorce would depend on whether my ruler was lenient or iron-fisted. The stakes in this were going to be high. My mind began to ponder the risks and the rewards. If I won, I'd be in control. I resolved not to be stupid like other women and let my husband, or the world, know that fact. His victory would be glorious and outwardly he'd show that he exercised control. My victory would be silent. Regardless of the outcome of my war, all would think my husband was dominant. I'd be seen walking behind him in his footsteps. What wouldn't be seen is my nudging him in the direction I wanted him to go. To accomplish my goal would take time. I set my sights for two weeks. I couldn't imagine anything being accomplished much quicker. My husband's anger would need to subside. I'd be wasting time doing battle before that emotion calmed down. My reward for winning early would be a calmer home sooner. The reward I desired was my daughter's freedom. Earlier victories didn't match my intended goal. Not that they weren't important. But the majority of my resources should be spent accomplishing the aspiration, not winning a battle. That fact didn't mean I couldn't soothe him though, to help my husband regain his composure. It just meant not starting to work on my objectives from the very beginning. Softness, tenderness, consoling, and understanding could be the prelude, setting the stage for initial confrontations. It set my objective. My spouse was going to show signs of "needing" me by Day 10. On Day 13 I projected my mission would culminate. On Day 14, our daughter would be set free so I could unleash everything in my arsenal in complete privacy. It would be Day 15 before I left our bed or wore any clothing. That was my plan, tempered with the knowledge that the best laid plans of mice and women often go astray. I recognized that I'd need to be prepared, to make adjustments as the problems and complications arose. What concerned me most, initially, was my spouse's emotional state. I'd never seen him so angry. Chapter 2 to follow... Sexual Nuclear War Ch. 03 Copyright; Elizabeth Loring, August 25, 2006. All Rights Reserved. (No part of this story may be reproduced for any reason without explicit written permission from the author. Do not remove this copyright statement.) NIGHT TWO – THE MINOR ADJUSTMENTS "No clothes again?" I was asked, in a tone not as sharp as the night before. "No clothes again." I repeated softly as I snuggled to where I'd fallen asleep the evening before; with one exception, my fingertips went between the buttons of my husband's pajama top and began softly stroking his breastbone. He took a deep sigh, but said nothing. My fingertips stopped stroking. I took his pulse. It was slower than the evening before. A small smile came to my face. I thought about my future period and where we were now. If I played this right I could pick up the lost day, possibly gain another; depending how far I could go without disturbing my husband's calm. Two minutes later my spouse moved his folded arm from his stomach and rested its hand on the outside of my thigh; the same thigh I'd laid across his legs the evening before. It wasn't much, but it was physical contact, contact initiated by him. For that I was happy. It showed his rage calming. The worst was over; he was starting to settle down. My mind drifted to how irate he was that early morning returning home with our crying daughter. That was early Sunday morning. It was now going on 10:30 Tuesday night. Two and a half days to break a tantrum; who says men aren't babies? ********** But for me, it had been three and a half days. Friday night was the last time my husband and I engaged in sex. My daughter's disappearance cost me an evening in my spouse's arms as my mate became more and more perturbed, then concerned, then worried, then fearful. I wasn't the woman in his life for those few hours leading up to his race to our daughter's apartment. We hadn't even gotten as far as getting undressed. Like all long-time married couples, our frequency of sex had dwindled over the years. We were no longer like rabbits, but we weren't the average long-time married American couple either, the couple that statistically has sex a mere once a week. In fact, I was proud of my husband, a man nearly twenty-two years older than myself who had the libido perfect for the statistical woman my age, twice weekly. But like all Jewish women, I pushed my man. His earning money was never a problem; my spouse was a psychiatrist. It was his penis I constantly urged. "Are you playing golf tomorrow?" I asked him quietly. "Do I ever miss a Wednesday?" was his smart-alecky answer. "Keep answering me in with that tone, you're score won't be very good." I pushed back. "Threatening not to relax me?" he sighed and gave me a cruel glance. "Maybe." I answered. "Then don't!" he was picking a fight. "You just want me to beg to kiss your cock." I pouted, trying to defuse what had gone too far. "Beg me before I shut you off, you dick addict!" he teased. "Pleeezzzzzeeeeee!...MMMMMmmmmmmm!!" I told him as my hand pushed away the covers and began devouring. It was what I did for my husband every Tuesday night to mentally prepare him for his nearly entire day at the links. Over the years I'd polished his many woods, licked him until he was hard as any single iron, made certain that he always went to the course with a relaxed putter, and made sure I'd kissed the balls in his bag for good luck. In wasn't a hurried time in our lovemaking. Ejaculation wasn't the goal, although it was rare when he didn't. Many were the times I caused him to make a mess. My method was always strictly oral, relaxing him with just my face and mouth; making certain my hands never got involved. My wandering lips got to the spills eventually; and my mouth and tongue cleaned all he threw regardless on what surface his seed was sown, be it linen, his skin, or mine. That night it was my goal to have him make the biggest mess of his life. Our small tiff I put out of my mind. It is difficult to accomplish an objective if one is perceived to be the cause of tension. There would be other times for us to fight the same battle when there was less at stake. I followed the old adage and postponed what should have been fought now to another day, increasing my chance of being victorious. As my teeth gnawed playfully at an orb my spouse accused me of planning to bite him, severing a single ball from his body in retaliation for his tone. I stopped my adoration of his cock long enough to tell him that I would, but he'd probably enjoy it too much. Then I proceeded to carefully consume most of the spongy sphere, holding it within my mouth, delicately cleaning its protective sac with my hidden tongue by following the shape of the delicate globe. The angle I chose to add luck to his game put my nostrils in contact with my husband's skin. Pheromones wafting from his organ fill my nostrils. My ardency increased as did the amount of cock affection my husband received. Within minutes my mouth was paying homage to his dick; more than making love to it, kissing the flexed man muscle becoming the reason for my existence. Hands lifted my hair away. I heard his heavy breathing and sensed being intently watched. A thrill shot through me, knowing somehow, someway, all the love I showed him was being recorded. The thought of it increased the passion of my affection. I love seeing myself on tape! Thumbs pressed his member upright. Up and down the underneath of his shaft I licked. Soon my cheek and center of my face rubbed against the straight, solid, male pole before my lips slowly poured over his tip and down its length they rode. It is not only the man that gets excited from fellatio. If the woman's like me, she does too. Feeling solidness rubbing against her lips can be as stimulating as the most sensuous of open-mouthed kisses. Seeing veins outlined in dim light, tracing those bulging blue channels with the tip of one's tongue can put her in a sexy mood. Securing an upper lip behind the thick ridge and twisting her head not only gives the man pleasure but her too; as the upper lip is tricked into believing it's being attacked by the tip of a sharp tongue. Add to the visual and tactile stimulation oozing leakage that tempts with its salty, fish-like flavor. Throw in recollections of other men just as intimately tasted. Fellatio can quickly become any woman's favorite act! "Be my star!" my husband all but told me these moments were being memorialized. My head twisted and bobbed upon my director's cue, riding the cock with zeal. "Ready for your weekly 'cum' fix?!" my spouse rasped me a few minutes later. My hand reached below my waist and sank into wetness as I nodded my answer while bobbing furiously, for the first time realizing that I'd failed in my battle, yet unable to put an end to my torment by making a hasty retreat. ********** "OH FUCCKKKKKkkkkkkkk!!" I screamed those two words as my own hand brought me to ecstasy while I lay on my back. All was over for my spouse. The stickiness on one side of my face, the remnants of seed trapped between my cheek and gum, told of his conquering my will to retain control. It was over for me too, in one way. My body finished responding for his video's next to last scene. Back to my stomach I rolled; a defeated, submissive woman. My mouth worked at cleaning up the mess of runny goo. Hands lifted my hair while his hidden camera rolled, recording my homage paid to the semi-flaccid winner of the battle. To be continued... Sexual Nuclear War Ch. 04 Copyright; Elizabeth Loring, September 1, 2006. All Rights Reserved. (No part of this story may be reproduced for any reason without explicit written permission from the author. Do not remove this copyright statement.) DAY 3 –MY INITIAL SATING "OH FUCK ME!!...YES!!!...YESSSS!!!" I gasped and panted at the same time. Hands in my hair pulled my head down quickly. "MMMMMMmmmmmmmmm!!!" I sucked my hardest, my head twisting in the hands that held it; my mouth hungry for the taste of more oozing droplets while a strong abdomen made noises of contact as it slapped against my behind. ********** I was in rare form that day, needing not one, not two, but three different men to satisfy desires left smoldering for several hours. The embers within me burst into an inferno upon being touched by the very first man. He was a lawyer, the kind that I hope never to need to use professionally. A criminal defense lawyer with a reputation of being very good; and indeed he was. I can recommend him very highly, but not for his legal skills, of which I have no personal knowledge. He was my neighbor. We'd gotten to know each other very, very well. This lawyer was a firm man; firmer than other members of his practice. But they'd do in a pinch, and had in the past, some surprising me and filling in quite nicely. I remember my conversation with that attorney as if it were yesterday. We spoke legally, so if others were listening in, nothing could be suspected or proven. DAY 3 – THE MORNING PHONE CALL "I need some advice." I told him quietly as my husband readied himself for his golf game. "The usual kind of advice?" he asked me. "I wouldn't be calling you if it was usual. It's a big problem for me...and it's been bothering me something terribly. I didn't sleep well last night because of it. I'd like the matter handled by more than one firm member." I gave my response. "More than one firm member, that sounds serious. How much time do you think we're going to need to handle this problem and get to its root?" was his question. "A few hours; four, maybe five hours tops. That's all I can give you." I answered in a pant, taking a large gulp, concerned my husband would find me on the phone. "Sounds like you need a strong staff member who knows how to delve deeply into legal matters. Is meeting with the partner-in-charge okay with you?" he asked me. "If I meet with you first, I might not mind having him give me some advice." I replied. "You can meet with me first, then him, then both of us together. Does that sound acceptable?" he gave me a proposed option. "Yes." I breathed into the phone, knowing what he'd just proposed. "I want you to do me a favor. I'd like for you to meet with a judge I know...and let him delve into your legal issue too." the request turned me cold. "I don't think so." I responded indignantly. "Meet with him. It will be well worth your while, and mine, I assure you. Trust me, he'll give you all the boring legal advice you want, maybe a lot more advice than you're used to getting. He's very head-strong. But by the way you're talking, that might not work out too badly. Your problem sounds like it needs a straight shooter who isn't afraid to put a lot of time and effort into solving your problem. We'll see how you feel about it after the partner-in-charge and I meet with you. Okay?" came the pressure. "I don't want to meet with him!" I stood my ground, not wanting to expand my number of suitors. "You can make that decision after the partner-in-charge and I finish delving into all your issues. I think you'll want to meet with him afterwards. In fact, I'm counting on you meeting with him after." he pushed me. "Okay. I'll consider it." I relented, still sure my stance would remain negative. "Noon." The attorney told me without mentioning where. I knew where he expected to find me. "Noon." I answered and hung up, feeling a lump in my throat, feeling relieved that soon I'd have a man sate me. ********** DAY 3 – THE JUSTIFICATION It isn't that I don't love my husband. I did at that time and still truly do. However, our age difference was always somewhat of a problem sexually. His drive was half of mine statistically, and only 25% of it, in actuality. Additionally, I enjoy variety. Men of different shapes and sizes make sex exciting. And like top beauticians, who cut hair with different implements depending on what they want the hair to do, I prefer a differently shaped man for varying activities. A long, uncut man is so much better for anal sex than a thick, circumcised, stout man. As the buttocks gets in the way of complete insertion, extra length is highly desirable; so is the cushioning of foreskin. But to fellate that same penis isn't as enjoyable as it would be with a smaller, thinner man; unless, of course, my fellatio is limited to only licking, then a longer man again becomes preferable; and preferably uncut, since smegma adds to his flavor. So, a lot depends on my mood and desires; as a lot depends on the man's staying power; as a lot depends on the act and variations within that act. My need that day for more than one man was in part based on the above criteria. But it was also based on something else I hadn't counted on; that I'd want my husband but would be unable to have him. Two nights of lying close to him, one of those nights spent orally worshipping and pleasuring his cock, was more than I could bear. I needed fulfillment too, yet I couldn't couple with him without ruining my plans; not unless he wanted me to go to him, and even then I'd have to maintain self-control. I had no alternative. I'd have to use my supplements, the other occasional men in my life. For the next two weeks, I saw that I'd need more than my usual allotment. What all men don't understand is the effect it can have on a woman to have her face buried between his legs. Males view it as power, having a woman kneeling before him, using her mouth, head, neck, hands, and tongue to bring him one of life's greatest pleasures. But there is more to it than that for us. We want to be there; we want to taste a man's flesh; we want to smell the scent of his aroma; we want to assist him in ridding himself of his sticky seed. It's not because of jewelry or expensive gifts; although I won't deny it, they do add incentive. But rather, it is because in the scheme of life, that is where we should be, below the man's waist, motivating him to produce as much as he can and to be all that he can possibly be. Our place is where we are little known and rarely seen, but the real reason for a man standing tall. Our place is to make him feel confident and composed; even though privately we make him shake, turn his face red, and cause his knees tremble. Our place is to make the strong silent types cry out, to think of nothing and no one else but us. Our place is to make a beast so much stronger than us whimper. It is then that we have our most power and influence; when we make a man our marionette by pulling with our lips and tongue on the lone straight string that gives us control over him. Many women will disagree with all I say. They will call me names; "tramp," "whore," "harlot," "slut;" those are the ones that come quickly to mind. Let them go to work everyday, play the corporate games, wait for the morning and evening buses, come home to make dinner, and face the same rut day after day. Let them complain that they have neither the time to go to the gym to retain her girlish figures nor enough money to afford beauty products to stay young. I choose a different path. Rather than confront a man, I'll compliment him. Let their men leave them either through divorce or death, and where do they go except searching for another man? In such a case, my search is well started while theirs has just begun. Let them hold their tongues and not dare tell any boss he's an ass. Who's the enslaved here? I willingly kneel before men and am free. Others choose to stand up to men and become captive in a man's world. And what happens to each and every one of them individually in the end? They kneel before any man who will have them or tells her to do so. Why? For survival. I choose the men I kneel before because my survival is virtually guaranteed. Yet, I'm the one they call a whore. My trysts with men are sufficient to assure my continuing lifestyle if a husband should happen to disappear from my life. They are quiet assignations that only the participants know about. Some are more necessary than others. They provide me what a sole man can't. Does my husband know of them? Of course not. Does he suspect? After all these years, I'm sure he suspects something, I've always been a bit of a flirt. But there have been no scandals; and I allow him the same opportunity for variety and never question where he's been or what he does. Love my spouse provides me plenty of; it's the raw sex I sometimes need and crave. That was the case that afternoon in an out of the way hotel room, my emotions churning from the night before, tempted beyond expectation without ever having been touched, the source of my enticement coming from my mouth massaging my husband's cock. I needed sated. I needed touched. My husband I didn't blame. A lone man didn't have the stamina needed. Besides, his age would have interfered. I still would have been needy had he performed beyond his capabilities. A younger, more virile man I required. It was my decision that I needed more than one. ********** DAY 3 – MEMORIES OF HOW IT ALL STARTED From the moment we danced at a country club New Years Eve party, we knew we were attracted. Our bodies meshed, my curves pressed perfectly into his grooves. Our unblinking eyes just stared at each other as our abdomens touched, then ground together minutes later when hidden from the public in the sea of swaying people. We met twice within the following week. Seven times the criminal defense attorney ejaculated. It was the way he fucked me, treating me roughly, behaving as if an animal, unable to contain his furious passion. Mine wasn't bridled either. My hips lifted to meet his every thrust. My eyes rolled as his strong, long cock repeatedly rammed into my deepest parts. I gasped for air every time my stomach muscles clenched as he withdrew. Hot, bubbling liquid he'd plant within me. Minutes later, we'd go at each other again. It was as torrid as it can get between a Jewish Princess and an Irish-Catholic goy. Religion we never discussed. What was the point? We both knew what we were doing was wrong. Our fiery tongues intertwined and spoke all that we needed to say. Was it love? Was it lust? I don't think that either of us really knew the answer. He slowed it down. His wife was becoming suspicious. His volume wasn't what it should have been. He blamed it on job stress. They went away on vacation and came back a happier couple. That told me for him it was lust. It didn't matter. The important thing was that we could sometimes be with each other, though not nearly as much. I was in his office one Saturday afternoon; a new location to keep our assignation secret. We were all alone for the first hour. Before we knew it, we had an audience. He'd be fired. His wife would be informed. I'd be exposed, even more than I was while lying on that conference table. But there was a way around the scandal. He could be on the fast track to becoming a partner. I could obtain free legal representation and advice. My strong needs could have additional avenues for sating. I took the easy way out of my, and his, dilemma. Two hours later I walked on air as I left the law office after kissing three men good-bye; feeling a bit sore but completely sated. To be continued... Sexual Nuclear War Ch. 05 Copyright; Elizabeth Loring, September 8, 2006. All Rights Reserved. (No part of this story may be reproduced for any reason without explicit written permission from the author. Do not remove this copyright statement.) DAY 3 (Continued) – INTRODUCED AND BLACKMAILED "OH GAWD NO!!" I gasped, feeling the covered cockhead rub itself through the divide of my sex. I wanted it to stop even before it began. But my body was weak from its interaction with two men, both stunned and shocked from being simultaneously taken in a rough, haphazard manner. How he got into the suite I had no idea. How much he'd seen I had even less of a clue. But there he was, naked and kneeling between my legs, holding the largest condom-covered cock in his hand that I'd ever seen. "AUUGGHHH!!" I cried out my gasp as a hand seized my ankle and pulled me nearer to the foot of the bed, directing me towards the behemoth monster. Moments later a dense, bulbous end barely separated my sex as it began to rub, feeling more like an un-knuckled fist stroking both my labia. "Don't tell me 'no!'" he spoke in a low growl. "You've never said 'no' to a man in your life! And you're not going to start when it's my turn to fuck you, Slut!" his voice became threatening as he glared into my eyes. In fear, my head turned to look around the hotel room. Both men I'd been with just a few minutes earlier were nowhere in sight. Again, the condom-clad glans began its rub of my sex. I panted in fear, having no idea what to do to stop his intention. In desperation, my closed fist went to beat on his chest. In midair he caught it by the wrist. My other fist I attempted to use. That one he caught too, using the same hand, pinning both of mine above my head. "AUUGGGHHHHH!!" I cried out in terror. A hand came across my mouth, stifling all noise. "Want to call the police, Bitch?" his words began. "Want to explain to them down the road how it happened that the 'cum' they'll find in this bed won't be mine? Want to explain why your clothes are folded and why your car isn't in this parking lot? Want to tell them what you're doing here when you have an appointment with an attorney...and that's where your car is...at his office...and the attorney just happens to be your neighbor? Want to go to the hospital and get examined? I haven't fucked you yet! But the exam will show you been fucked...fucked a lot and pretty hard. Want the police finding you on some security tape walking in here before noon? It's 1:30 now. Want to explain exactly how you were spending your time? What to explain why you didn't call sooner?" his list of implicating questions finally ended. The hand across my mouth removed itself. "What do you want from me?" I didn't think, all he'd said sounded like blackmail. "Don't play dumb with me, Bitch! You're mine for the rest of the afternoon, so just relax and enjoy it." ********** What was I to do? My husband had just found out some unflattering things about his daughter. If he found out the same unflattering things about his wife, there'd be no way he'd hand over her reins. But my daughter's problems weren't the first things that came to my mind. Gone would be a place for me to sleep and eat; gone would be the jewelry, the car, and country club membership; gone would be my marriage. "Oh shit!" I mumbled, taking a deep breath and turning away my head, resigned to the fact that I was about to become a notch on yet another man's belt. My eyes closed, not wanting to face what was happening. I didn't even know this man's name yet I allowed him to intimately touch me. It wasn't the first time such a thing had happened in my lifetime. But I didn't think it would reoccur after my marriage. Or, at least, that was what I wanted to believe. For some reason, the act of blackmail caused me to forget entirely about his size. What I sensed was just the light stroking of gel-coated rubber moving slowly back and forth over my clitoris. A small, involuntary "Huhhha." came from my throat. The gentle stroking continued, slow drifts of perceptible movements back and forth. "Unnnhhhh." I soon made another involuntary noise; this time, louder. "Like that?" he asked me in a bare whisper. "Huh-huh." I answered and softly nodded my head, exhaling deeply, ending it with a soft "Uunnhhh." It was the first point that I noticed my breathing becoming audible; the slow, rhythmic, deep inhales and exhales of an obscene phone caller. My head turned. My eyes slowly opened. Cruel eyes stared at me, no longer glaring. "Yeah. You're going to be a real good fuck." he mentioned, his heading continuously nodding slightly. I turned away, repulsed by what was just said. Again, the glans began its wipe between the lips of my sex. My head immediately turned. My eyes opened wide in disbelief as the cockhead pressed itself harder against my vulva. "Oh yeah! You've had a big dick before! I can tell by your reaction. You know what they can do you too. I can see that. You like a hung guy slamming your pussy, don't you, Slut? I bet you're goin' to go nuts when my big cock cracks you wide open!!" he spoke in a salacious voice. "NO!" I gasped again in horror. A hand came to the base of my throat, pinning me down, but placed low enough not to choke me; the man's weight on the heel of the hand, which rested on my collarbones. I sensed the end of shaft trying to seat itself. My hips recoiled into the mattress, pressing my ass as hard as I could into its springs, as both my hands grabbed his thick wrists. "You ain't getting away, Princess!" he told me as he gritted his teeth, his hips following mine, his body coming forward. Both my hands slid up his arm and anchored on the forearm of the same hand that pressed against the bottom edge of my throat, trying to rid myself of his confining control. I rasped as I felt the oval between my legs begin to widen under pressure. By reflex, my right hand left his forearm and shot low between us, seizing hold of the thick length of hose he was trying to thread into me. Panic struck when my fingertips didn't touch. In response, his free hand reached low too; his attempt to rid the hard male shaft of my grip. My fingernails dug in. His hand pulled. Suddenly my right arm was pinned above my head. A loud groan I emitted in fear. "You ripped the rubber, Slut. Too bad...it was the only one I had on me. I guess you're going to do have to do me bareback then. I hope, for your sake, you're on the pill. If you're not, you better fuck your husband sometime real soon." he spoke his intention as his hand left my throat and removed the torn contraception, discarding it in a random direction with a fling of his wrist. "NO!...Pl-please" I protested as the tip of his cock found my entrance. Lips fell upon mine, stealing a kiss, squelching my objection. Moments later, his weight was upon me. I began to feel the sensations associated with stretching. ********** It was nothing like I'd experienced with larger men before. There was no forcing run through my insides in an attempt to ram a dick as hard as possible into my canal's end. Instead, it was a slow advance along my front vaginal wall; an advance that sent shivers through me; an advance that quickly pronounced my breathing. And there were no small retreats and rapid resurgences upon the jam into my cervix, that dangling obstacle that all women possess. In fact, because of his slowness, he barely touched it, carefully realigning his body on top on mine as his tip met the low hanging entrance to my uterus. The repositioning caused his angle of entry to change, which in turn, shifted the force of his penis to my back wall; where his cock commenced to delicately climb the rungs of my spine. My sounds of sexual enticement grew in both frequency and volume. They were not the usual screams, a blend of terror, pain, and excitement that I'd previously emitted with men of abnormally larger size. Instead, the sounds I made were more ones of awe and amazement as I sensed my organ unfolding and conforming to this man of superlative dimensions. It took more than a minute, not mere seconds, for the cock to press itself into my tunnel's very end. Our eyes just looked into each other's. For a second time my hand reached low, feeling a length more than my fist still protruding from between my legs, again finding my fingers failed to encircle all that this man was, and is. A sudden roll he made, bringing me on top. I gasped. On his massive chest my elbows pressed my torso upwards while my knees rapidly folded, preventing my impalement. His head just as suddenly rose. Clamping teeth caught hold of the tip of a tit and crushed it. My cry of excitement I called for all to hear. Later I'd come to realize that he' been told where and how to bite. But analysis wasn't what went through my mind when it happened. My eyes rolled and my resistance abruptly ended. With his hands cupping my buttocks, and his teeth still attached to my nipple, he rolled us back to the missionary position. The series of infinite thrust began; thrusts that would ultimately render me a delirious and exhausted mess. I floated in a world where space has no dimension and time stands still. My vision wasn't able to focus. All I heard was morphed, the sound of a 45RPM record being spun at 33. I was conscious enough to feel the hand stroking the back of my leg and backside and smell burning cigarette tobacco. My muscles still involuntarily twitched, recovering from stimulation all too rarely felt. It suddenly dawned on me. I panicked and turned to face him, resting on my elbow. "What's your name?" I asked my newest knight in shining armor.