4 comments/ 4892 views/ 1 favorites Taken Down By: CatharineBourne Down and Out Good lord, of course I want to get out of bed. This is going on two weeks and shows no sign of letting up. Sean's been bringing food, water, hell, he'd bring wine and cheese if I asked. He thinks I might be sick, doesn't understand that I wish I were sick—I'd be so, so good at sick. I wish there were something I could point to and say that! That right there, that's why I can barely make it to the bathroom, sit at the kitchen table for maybe five minutes or the back porch for a cigarette, before almost literally crawling back for the bed. The smell of the sheets bothers me, they feel almost painful against the skin of my legs like they're crawling with bits of fire. But I just can't lift myself up, like a flashflood and I'm sinking in it. Nothing even happened, that I can tell, I'm just depressed. Slivers of light dim around the edges of the drapes, it's evening, and Sean eases the bedroom door open. It creaks more when he does that than if he swung the damned thing in one motion, but I love him for trying to be quiet. He brought chicken and leek soup for dinner, he says. "Not sure if I can eat," I clear the books off the nightstand but it looks more like my arm flailing and books crashing to the floor. You Are Not Your Brain! and other positive-thinking nonsense. "It's good cold, too." He sets the tray down and pushes his sleeves up his forearms. "Anything I can do?" But he should know by now. No, no there's nothing he can fucking do—except maybe stop rhyming his sentences. "Thank you, sweetie. I'm fine." Saving my strength like it's a bank account, like taking a little out each day so it builds up while I don't really notice. My best friend is throwing me a Get Well party—kind of a tough-love get out of bed and have a good time thing. Sean's going along with it, even though he's never been a huge fan of my friends and they'll be everywhere. Anyway, it's this Friday and I'll have to be presentable, for an afternoon at least, while they put on that self-righteous pillars of strength act, all care and concern for their depressed friend. Even just thinking about it maybe I'm a little tired of them myself. Sean sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, smoothing absently at the comforter. We'd met during the mid-20s realization that college really was the place to find a spouse. No one's ready to commit—but then? The office's out of the question—it's terrible when it blows up, and if it doesn't you're sitting across the dinner table talking about what? Exactly. And the bar scene, well if he ever doesn't come home on time one night you know precisely what he's doing. So it was a friend of a friend of a sister's friend kind of thing and we settled into a routine pretty quickly. Don't get me wrong: I thought Sean was sexy as hell. He had this artist's perpetual slouch going, like he was always vaguely somewhere else, but it looked just as much hard-to-get as bashful. Of course I know now it was all bashful and no hard-to-get, that it was feeling so out of place that he hardly knew where he even was. Couldn't pinpoint what style he should be fitting into but it came across as I Couldn't Give A Fuck. Besides, I like guys in waffle-knit henleys and scarves. Call me crazy. "Maybe you'd like to lay on the couch for a while. Watch some television?" He's tugging at the blankets, mostly playfully, almost a smile. "Lie. It's lie on the couch." Sean puts his hands back in his lap. These are kind of how our evenings have been going. Our mornings, too. He proposed about a minute before I was just going to go ahead and ask him, we both figured out it was time months before. He was so cute. Like acting out what a proposal should be, or one he'd seen somewhere, he got me all dressed up and took me to a dinner we couldn't afford. When he ordered the bottle of wine I knew but naturally he waited until dessert was on the table. I'd like to say it's been a roller-coaster since but lately it's only that first drop, without the arms in the air or the screaming. Sean leaves when I close my eyes, the door slowly creaking behind him. ### The ladies are already bottles-deep into the case of two-buck Chuck and it's only 3-something o'clock. Sean came in, said hellos and turned right back around to make another run to the store. Can't say I blame him. I didn't even know we had this many folding chairs. This morning, or, rather, the time when I woke was about exactly as I'd expected. Sitting up, swinging my legs to the floor, something was running laps around my head. Standing took a few minutes. I couldn't bring myself to get out of the shower until the water went cold, forcing me out. Standing on the cold tile—why, oh why had I insisted on this beige, freezing Spanish tile?—in front of the mirror fogged over and streaming rivulets of water, I forced the whole world into focus. My goodness, I couldn't help thinking, I've really let myself go. Holding the weight of my breasts, letting them go, squeezing the tiny bit of fat around my middle, even as the mirror showed all evidence to the contrary—objectively an hourglass figure—all I saw was a 34 year-old unshaven slob. Almost compulsively I stroked my fingers through the damp and overgrown hair that wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. In the bedroom I rifled the closet for a dress I could hide in. It's counter-productive, of course, baggy clothes make everything worse but no one who feels the tiniest bit self-conscious can help themselves. Opening the underwear drawer, though, and sorting through cotton, frill, and lace I settled on a see-through black thong that Sean had surprised me with it seems like a lifetime ago. Seemed somehow the bare minimum I could do, a small naughtiness only I'd know about. Stepping into them, feeling them not uncomfortable but definitely tighter than the last time I wore them, nowhere near covering my bush, they were like a weird talisman to get me through the day. My friends mercifully entertained themselves in the living room while I poured an unreasonably full glass of wine in the kitchen, hoping to drink it down to a decent level before rejoining them. Mindy appeared at my shoulder. "How're you holding up, sweetie?" she rubbed tight circles around the small of my back. "Oh, I'm sure you know..." she's the only one of my friends Sean would ever talk to about anything. She pulled a chair out from the table, "They're killing me with their gossip. Why don't we sit for a minute? Catch up." But what could I say? I bored even myself: yes, I'm still in bed maybe 20 hours a day. No, I don't know what's wrong, and no, I have no idea what anyone can do to help. Sean is super-supportive, he's an angel. How many times can I say the same thing over and over and over? But Mindy listened to it again anyway, an elbow on the table and chin resting in an upturned hand. Sipping her wine often enough that it was OK for me to drink mine. She's too much, sometimes. I heard my voice cracking—I'm sure she thought it was self-pity or whatever but really it's just that I'll never be able to tell her how much she means to me. She sat up straight, took one of my hands in hers. She had a glint in her eye I couldn't explain. Mindy has a PhD in something literature- or psychology-related, I can never remember. Or the psychology of literature, maybe. At times if feels like she's my shrink, especially lately—she's so good at getting me to talk. "It'll get better soon. Shh, shhh, shhh. No, I have a good feeling about this. Just give it some time and I'm sure you'll feel a lot better." But surely she's lost all touch with reality. I drank off the rest of my wine, refilled the glass. "Well," turning back from the counter, "OK, I guess we have to go back out there." I knew they would all have to leave, eventually, but the evening felt interminable. I was barely conscious saying the last of the goodbyes, both drunk and exhausted. This must be what alcoholics describe as a blackout—my body did move, did hold me upright. My mouth formed I guess the proper words, judging by everyone's reactions, though my God I couldn't tell you how. Again finally in the bedroom I kicked my heels into the corner and lifted my dress over my head, tossing it off to join the shoes, and literally fell into bed. The closest to bliss I'd felt in weeks, but really just relief, washed over like a rising tide and sleep crashed into me. ### I woke in the dark. No that's not right. I woke with something covering my face and I couldn't see through it. Must've pulled the blankets up in my sleep. But I felt cold. Reaching to take off whatever it was I found that I couldn't. Reach, that is. My arm caught on something. Shifting, I felt the comforter under the bare skin of my back, reaching again I found both my arms restrained. What the hell? Tried to curl up, but my legs were, too. Panic. My pulse jumped immediately through every part of me, banged away at my temple. My breath quickened to gasping and gulping and felt stuck at the same time. I just lay there pinned like a butterfly, squirming and tossing my head, blind, back and forth. After I've no clue how long, and I don't know what it was exactly that did it, I started to calm down. Resignation, maybe. I took stock in the situation and tried to mentally catch up to myself. Last things I remember. I undressed and collapsed into bed. I was saying goodbye to the last of the girls to leave. I didn't feel drugged, I don't think. Tired, beyond tired. I was definitely drunk. Too drunk and too tired but no, nothing more than that and, besides, I was at home and Sean was right there next to me, arm around my waist. It's not like I was abducted or anything, surely I'm still here safe at home. There has to be an explanation. Mindy was last to leave, that's right, and I was standing with her there in the doorway, she was holding the screen door open and I was looking past her into the night sky. It was late, that's right. She gave me this soothing hug and I went to kiss her cheek. She turned toward me, quick and awkward, and I caught her on the lips then we laughed. Sean walked her to the car and they talked for it seemed a little long while he held the car door, she sat there giggling in the glow of the interior light. I held up the living room wall, that's right, standing and waiting for Sean to come back inside. He sent me up to bed, said he wanted to clean a bit. Maybe he wanted to drink alone for a while, as he has been lately late at night, and who could blame him? After the day he had. Hell, after the weeks he's had. I'm realizing I'm on top of all the covers, on my back bound spread-eagled to the bed and the familiar tightness of last night's panties still thankfully digging into my hips and, with the rolling and tossing earlier, riding up and tingling in other places. Wow, haven't felt that in a while. ### After long enough you get used to anything, I think they say. I suspect they're wrong, but I sure am starting to notice the basic things, like being really thirsty. Something I couldn't've imagined even crossing my mind, I don't know, a few hours ago? Yesterday? Time hasn't really come back yet. Thirst has. Dry mouth with a vengeance, like my tongue's grown a layer of fur. And my tummy may very well grumble soon, maybe most surprising, really, I haven't felt hungry in so long. I can't believe I haven't wet myself yet. I feel weight lowering onto the bed next to me, can't believe I didn't hear anyone enter the room—what, was the door open this whole time? A finger brushes my jawline, through the hood, gentle and like you'd pet a cat expecting her to lift her face for it, purring. Hands take hold of the hood's material, the edge somewhere down around my shoulders, and roll it up to my nose. "Thirsty yet?" It's fucking Sean. You've got to be kidding me. I mean, I guess of course it had to be, and I had to've known this whole time. But seriously, kind of a letdown. "You motherfucker. What the fuck?" I can't believe my own energy, my own strength, struggling at the restraints. The ferocity in my voice scares me. I'll punch him so hard in the face. "Here, I've got a glass of water for you," the everydayness, the calm, it pisses me off more than anything else. "You'll have to lift your head to drink it. Just a little. C'mon, honey, you can do it," his hand at the back of my head as if to help me. I'll pull these straps or whatever out of the damned wall. I'll rip them apart. He's got the rim of the glass to my lips, my mouth is clenched shut. He's tilting it, pouring. Water runs down my chin, neck, down over my shoulders and tits. I can't fit what's happening into any picture I've seen before. I'm so thirsty but won't drink. I hate my husband, this lovely man who's cared for me beyond what anyone could ever even ask for, let alone expect, for far too long. My nipples are hardening as the water passes over them, they're begging to be pinched between a thumb and a forefinger. Please, someone, Jesus. I don't care, let me do it, anyone. I didn't want to but my mouth opened against my will. I'm chugging the water he offers, that he's pouring down my throat as the rest spills washing over the rest of me. "You'll need to pee soon, I know. It's OK. You just have to trust me that everything's taken care of. You trust me, don't you baby?" Trust him? Wait, back up, everything's taken care of? What is everything? He takes the panties off. Or, down. They're stuck somewhere around my knees since my legs are tied down, and leaves me with a bedpan shoved up under me. He just thinks of everything, doesn't he? Son. Of. A. Bitch. ### Left alone with nothing to hold onto but my warm, fuzzy thoughts, this is a strange experience. I'm rather forced to admit that, beyond merely wanting to get up like I always have, given the opportunity I would. Almost as soon as the option was taken away, in fact, it's pretty much the only thing I can think about. And, of course, looking at this fairly very little has changed because here I am, still in bed. To be even more fair, if that's possible, who can say for sure that I really would get out of this bed and get back into my old life if I actually could. These are the kinds of things I have nothing but time to think about, and the back/forth is spinning into knots and mostly just making me sleepy, with a bit of a headache to boot. Sean is being his usual, sweet and supportive self—acting like there's nothing different or weird going on—and it's even more infuriating than ever. He always gave me my space, left me to work through whatever needed working through on my own. He didn't want to pressure me, he would say. And that's still his MO. Only coming in to bring food, water, take care of other bodily necessities. There isn't even the annoying door creaking, anymore, either he's pushing it firmly open like a man or, more likely, it's just constantly left open. But I find myself wanting him around more. He's sleeping out on the couch—like he has for a while now, watching TV and drinking and whatever—and, granted, I'm not tied in any way that would be comfortable to share the bed with me but I do wish he'd curl up with me for a while. I feel kind of alone in a way I never did before, having to wait for him to come in and see me, not being able to see him, or go out to the other room or call Mindy or anything whenever I want. So, out of boredom mostly, I do what little I can. When Sean is here I make a fuss about eating, drawing it out, making him stay a little longer each time. And I don't like to think that I'm consciously doing it, but I've been really trying to control my bodily functions so he can't just come in and put the bedpan under me and empty it and be done with the whole thing. No, he has to keep coming back to check on me. It's a small thing, and spiteful in its own way and honestly a little shameful how satisfying it is. When he isn't here I roll around on my back as much as I can, wiggling my ass on the sheets beneath me. I can get myself worked up pretty good that way, panties riding up and digging in around my crotch and the thong pulled tight in the cleft of my ass. I don't know, maybe it's just counter-productive—I haven't cum yet though I think I'm getting close. Needless to say I'm making quite a mess of myself and it's creating a lot of extra work for him. He lets me lie here in it for a while—but not too long—before coming in and changing me and cleaning everything up. He's been giving me spongebaths and changing my panties regularly. Always picking my skimpy thongs, it seems like on purpose since he's probably got to dig around in the drawer for them instead of picking whatever plain-old pairs are right there on top. I'm surprised he hasn't shaved me yet—I thought the whole point of these lacy panties was how they looked against bare skin. The skimpiness, the see-through, the butterflies with the open crotch—little strings of fabric running down under either side of my pussy and leaving the middle exposed. They're supposed to go with a shaved little-girl looking thing, right? That's how it's supposed to be, but here they're not covering a damned thing, hair not even poking out but just everywhere. Don't get me wrong, I kind of like it. It feels aggressive, somehow. He bought them, he keeps putting them on and leaving me here while I guess, what, he's standing out there looking through the open door at me bound here. Well, if that's it then I'm fine, splayed for him to view. He can look all he wants. ### "Are you ready?" he asks. Ready for what, I want to ask. His thumb is rubbing up and down along the sheer fabric still covering my pussy. I must be soaking through already, it's been so long. Is he finally going to take advantage of my body tied and waiting for him? About damned time, really. At least this, finally, makes sense. I mean, I've been here for days and he's just now getting around to fucking me? Who doesn't stick his cock in a bound, spread body nearly naked on the bed? Who just looks through the open door? Sean fingers me slowly, up. Then down. He keeps working me toward an edge and he knows just where that is. God, he hasn't forgotten a thing. "Nice and slow, baby, I want to make sure you're OK." Oh fuck me, already, you bitch. I can feel myself dripping between my legs. "That's a good girl." Good girl? Fuck. His tongue now, flat against the silky fabric. Gaaawwwwwwd, that's good. Little laps of his tongue, like a puppy on Quaaludes. Like he remembers what he's doing but as if we're divorced or something. Like he doesn't still own this. I want to stay quiet. I don't want him to know he's getting to me. But good God damn. "Eat me. You motherfucker." He holds his tongue flat against me, with pressure and stillness and, and he just stops. "I'm sorry. Please?" I feel the weight shift on the bed, his tongue leaves me. His fingers play along and inside the elastic of my panties, between my legs. Kisses along my inner thighs, thumbs reaching in and rubbing up and down on my labia. Mmmmmmmmmm. "Is that good, baby?" I moan. His thumbs slide along the outside, the damned outside of the sheer fabric. I love it but it only reminds me how imprisoned I am. "What's that, baby?" he asks, soft and coy. "Please, please touch me." When he pulls at the elastic and reaches his fingers inside I've never felt anything quite like it. He's slow, gentle, it's like tender and loving and satisfying some small, dark corner of my soul. I finally know, no matter how long it takes, he's going to take care of me. I'm not sure I'm even conscious when he leaves the room. I'm basking in the relief, sort of half-moaning still and aimlessly writhing. It's of course dark, at least under my hood, and he's gone. ### I wake to the hood being peeled up just above my nose. Time to eat, I think. And I'm right, sort of. Sean rubs the head of his cock across my lips. This is getting kinky—he doesn't even usually like blowjobs. But I do, and it's been a long time since I've had the chance to give one. I open my mouth and close my lips around the tip, tongue flicking but he pulls away. You've got to be kidding, right? Taken Down He's holding it right there, I have to move my head a little but I can at least get my lips on it, a kiss, a lick. Finally I can't believe it but I'm actually begging. "Please," how did he get me to do this? "Let me be a good girl for you." He leans over me and feeds his cock to me. I love it even more. I take him deep into my mouth, Jesus almost down my throat, and close my lips tight around him as he pulls out. He thrusts deeply, slowly, a couple of times and I act like I have no choice but to let him fuck my mouth. Saliva gathers and drips down my lower lip. I actually don't have a gag reflex but I pretend to choke a couple times, for effect. I'm really struggling against the restraints, trying to reach for him. I want to use my hands. I want to curl up around his legs and feel his skin everywhere on me while fellating him. This has to end soon, right? I mean, this must mean I'm better and we can move past this bondage-stuff soon. Right? I want his cum in my mouth, or on my face I don't care. I picture what it might look like, him shooting it all over the black hood. But he still won't cum for me. Instead he's reaching down and fingering the fuck out of me while I try to swallow as much of him as I can. And then he's down around my waist, dragging my panties down my thighs. They're below my knees when he undoes one of my legs, reattaches, undoes and reattaches the other and then massaging me with them. Well this is interesting. They're dry and slightly scratchy then they're damp, and then they're going inside me, pushed along by his two fingers, bit by bit. All the way in, save for a loop of waistband, I can't say I feel full but different. There're these little shocks when he tugs on them, they're absorbing everything and drying me out. This is going to take some thinking-through but eventually we make it work. Eventually they're balled up in my mouth, salty-wet and nice to bite down on. It will become a thing, eventually, to the point if he ever reaches for my mouth with a handful of dry cotton I look at him quizzically, reminding, asking, "Don't you want to put those somewhere first, before you gag me with them?" ### Turning me over is an overly-complicated process. Comical, really, but I don't laugh as he thinks about how to un-attach and roll me, reattach and make it seem like I'm not totally free for a minute. On my stomach, arms and legs out to the corners of the bed, I wait while hearing him rustle through the dresser drawers. Underwear down around my thighs, he's drizzling cold liquid over me, lubing me up. He fucks me slowly, then before I know it he's out of me and holding his cock between my ass cheeks, we've never done this, and he's playing around my the exit there with his thumb and circling, working the lube in a tiny bit. And I'm gasping air in anticipation, wondering. And he's then sinking slowly, so slowly into me. I'm full like I've never been before, I've no idea how much more of him there is. No frame of reference for anything, really. He's breathing loudly. "Are you OK, baby?" I nod quickly, taking big breaths, grabbing fistfuls of bedsheet and twisting my hands around in the shackles. He presses deeper inside me. He grabs my hair, pulls, keeps lowering himself and this must be what I've been looking for all this time. It's completely different, completely unexpected, and he's reaching around under my hips to finger at me but I only wish I can bat his hand away. I don't need that right now, I can hardly believe I don't need anything else at all, right now. He's repeating, over and over, you all right, you OK, baby? But I'm more than fine. Finally, "Stop asking me if I'm OK." Oh, I feel his balls now against my pussy—he's all the way in me and he stays here now like this, I feel him twitching inside me, as we both adjust. Pulling out is like taking away something I earned. ### Sean is out for the day, for the first time since I can really remember, shopping I think. He'd taken a lot of care washing me and getting me all pretty. The attention was lovely, if confusing. He explained he'd be gone until probably late, and leaned down for this long, tender kiss on my lips that he held there, without tongue, hand brushing back my hair. Then he was gone so the sound of the door opening is very troubling. There are voices and clinking glasses, drawers opening and closing, in the kitchen. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say I'm freaking the fuck out right now. Struggling, these shackles are kind of a joke until you need to get out of them. I'm trying to stay quiet, hoping whoever is out there isn't curious about looking around. But they're not, I guess, instead they start playing music in the living room. I smell wine when they enter the room. It's Mindy's voice, that back-stabbing bitch, apparently. "You're wondering why I'm here." So obvious it hurts. "I sent Sean out today. We needed some time to really get to work." Work? What the hell is she talking about. It's strange that I wasn't even concerned about her seeing my tied to the bed, topless, hooded, in only whatever underwear Sean left me in this morning. That wasn't the issue, strangely. I just thought of what the fuck she was doing here, and who she was with. Mindy pulls the hood off me, "I think we've had enough of that." The blinds are drawn, it's not that bright in the room, but it may as well be a fucking supernova in here. I'm blinking, can't see at all for a while, things start to calm down and come into some kind of manageable focus. Mindy's right here next to me, dressed a little primmer than usual with a collared blouse buttoned-up to her neck—not an easy feat with breasts as large as hers. The woman she's with got real quiet when they came into the room and hasn't made a peep since, she's a dishwater blonde standing a few steps back from the bed looking bashful, looking a little like a drowned rat, actually. She's maybe in her last year of college, and just maybe that college makes their students wear English boarding-school-type plaid outfits. "How are you feeling, honey?" Mindy asks. "I have to say I'm a bit perturbed, actually," I'm staring daggers through Miss Drowned Rat, who won't meet my eyes, won't look at my face at all. "Who's your friend?" Mindy pulls the girl by the upper arm up to the side of the bed for an introduction, the girl's making a big deal about not looking at me. "This is Sam. Yes, that's short for Samantha but you don't need to worry about anything more than that for right now." Mindy removes Sam's blazer for her, leaving her in short-sleeved white blouse and plaid tie and of course that red plaid so-over-the-top-cliché skirt. White stockings, even. Where on earth did Mindy find this one? "But you are going to get to know her very well," Mindy's running a hand along the girl's arm. Huh? At this point, Mindy says, an explanation is in order and I think that's totally true. Sean is a weak man, she says. I'm wondering what Sean has to do with this, but she says he went to Mindy for advice and the advice she gave is exactly what happened. This whole bondage thing? Mindy's idea. Fucking me in the ass? Mostly Mindy's idea. Panty-play? Well, she doesn't even seem to know about it so it looks like that was all Sean—and suddenly, out of nowhere, as I realize that I'm so proud of him. So happy he used me in a way he wanted, that we have that, at least, for ourselves. Mindy goes on to say he's been reporting back to her daily and she's not pleased with my progress. "You seem to like it too much, dear. I'm quite surprised to see how quickly you took to it. I'd rather expected the opposite." "Sorry to disappoint." "Oh it's there—you see, don't you? Your sarcasm proves it. But we need to find what's going to make you snap out of this." Mindy's loosening the girl's tie, unbuttoning the top couple of buttons. "Sam here is going to help with that." Oh, of course. I start struggling impotently against the restraints without realizing, moving instinctively. This might be it—I've never had the least interest in "experimenting" with another woman. I mean, this girl's cute, in a take her home and give her a sandwich kind of way. But 1) I am not gay 2) I'm not gay 3) really? This girl, and this outfit? Mindy's standing behind the girl, pushing her forward so she's slightly leaning over the bed. She, Mindy, is caressing the girl's thighs, right at the top of the white stockings, playfully lifting the skirt just enough to tease like I'm interested in what's underneath. In fact, I'm bored with this already. If it's going to happen let's go ahead and get it over with. She has other ideas. She's got hold of the girl by the hair, forcing her to look directly at me. At my face, mostly, but directing her attention elsewhere, too. Her hands are roaming everywhere now, up under the skirt every so often but mostly down the girl's shirt. She's roughly grabbing handfuls of the girl's breasts, squeezing, pulling her bra out of the way to expose a nipple which she twists between thumb and forefinger. The girl puts her hands down on the bed next to me, her mouth opens and breath quickens as she's getting into it. "Oh but we have to keep your interest, too, dear," Mindy produces a riding crop from wherever one hides these things. "I don't want you simply tuning out," she says, and she smacks it down, hard, right on my pussy. Not only does it sting but something else, too. I'm waiting for the next slap but it doesn't come. Instead Mindy's pushing the girl down onto the bed, her hair's falling down over her face as she's pressed down toward my stomach, my hip. Her mouth stays open, I can feel it, her lips wet on my skin. She doesn't try to kiss, really, only a couple of furtive licks as Mindy rubs her face around on me. I hear the distinctive whack of open-handed slaps on the girl's ass, can almost feel her butt jiggling, recoiling from the impact. I definitely feel her face pushing against me as she's hit. She takes it well, only bites into me once and even that isn't too hard. "Sam," Mindy grabs her by the scruff of her neck, pulls her back up to standing, "I think it's time to make D more comfortable." Mindy shoves the girl back down to the bed, this time between my spread legs. This is about to take a turn toward the can't-be-taken-back. Mindy positions the girl, belly-down on the bed, and stands at my side. She grabs me by the back of the head and raises my head from the bed, forcing me to look down the length of my body toward the girl there with her mouth still open, waiting for instructions. "I want you to watch," Mindy's placing a pillow beneath my head. "It's better when you watch." The girl's looking up at me, finally looking into my eyes. I can't describe the change in my feelings about her, about what I want from her. "You don't have to do this, sweetie," I say to her even though I know it's no use. I expected a change in her eyes, but instead it's her open mouth turning into the slightest of smiles. Mindy stands behind her now, the riding crop swings viciously down on the girl's ass, her back, her thighs. The smile widens but the eyes stay the same. Still, she waits. Mindy places her hand at the back of the girl's head and pushes her down on me and that's when I feel her tongue working, my panties are soaked immediately—her wet tongue on the outside and me almost exploding on the inside. I do watch. She's looking up at me. Her little face and her high cheekbones buried down there, her face framed by the bush escaping the sides of my panties. Mindy's behind her, leaning down over her, almost lying on top of her and pushing her down harder on me. She's pulling down on the cotton waistline, more hair escaping there and covering the girl's nose. Sam's caught in it, in everything there, and as Mindy keeps pulling on my panties, stretching the waistline so they haven't come down off my hips but I'm nevertheless almost completely exposed, the girl's mouth closes now finally on my clit and she sucks it in. I want to think she's not experienced at this, that this mouse of a girl is as innocent as she looks in her little schoolgirl dress even as Mindy peels it slowly off of her. But she didn't learn to do what she's doing watching porn videos—there's no performance, no exaggerated tongue movements, no distance whatsoever between my pussy and her mouth. She's clamped down on me, covering me, and so there's not much to see at all, actually, except her face there. Little movements in her cheeks as she sucks and licks, her nose bobbing a bit and crinkling as my hairs tickle her, and it's just simply the hottest thing I've ever seen. And still, looking down into her eyes looking up into mine, I do pretend she's never done this before—I pretend she doesn't even like it, Mindy pushing her face down onto me—and it's pushing me to an edge. Like warm bubbles starting at the base of my spine, tingling, glowing, they fill up and spread outward and up from there. Little helium bubbles of warmth traveling up my back, up through my tummy, my tits electrified, mouth opening. vibrations in my throat and I realize I'm moaning. My arms keep jerking against the restraints, I'm trying to lower them to my sides, trying to grab this girl by the back of her head, trying to pull her mouth tighter against me but I cannot. It's starting like a concussion—the starburst where spine meets skull, the flowering spiderweb of colors rushing forward toward my eyelids. It's starting there but suddenly arrested. I open my eyes in panic—Mindy's holding her by her hair, the girl's smiling and her eyes are glazed. "I think you're ready, little one." Mindy means me. Fuck yes I'm ready, I was right there. Mindy stands the girl up, holds her skirt out of the way around her belly with one hand. Her white panties are tight and riding up in various directions, damp in the middle. With her free hand Mindy pulls down on first one side, then the other, a zigzag down over the girl's hips and thighs. She's shaved bare as a Barbie doll. Taking her by the shoulders, Mindy maneuvers her, a little stumble and then crawling, up onto the bed. There's nothing in her eyes now, even the smile's gone. She approaches me on all fours, swings a leg over and she's straddling me, Mindy leads her still farther up my body, pulling the girl by the chin. She's now sitting on me, resting on her haunches and cutting off the circulation in my arms. She adjusts to take the pressure off my arms, now looking down at me. Oh no, this can't be happening, I'm between her legs. I look up and we lock eyes, I'm pleading. Wetness gathers at the far corners of my eyes, I feel it welling up there. Mindy lets go of the girl and takes a step back. My mouth is forming words I can't articulate. Everything is hot, suddenly, heat radiating down on me, a salty smell stuck in my nostrils. She inches forward on her knees, she's getting closer, closer. I do not want this. I keep looking up at her, shaking my head back and forth but all I see is the inside of one thigh then the other. And up at her, her hair falling down all over and Mindy standing in the background, a chuckle, a finger to her lips. The girl reaches down, gently brushes my hair out of my nose, away from my lips. Her thumb brushes there around the edges of my mouth, lingering for a moment and holding my mouth open as I exhale slowly. I don't know quite what I'm supposed to do. I let her keep my mouth open, I kiss at her thumb. "That's a good girl," she says. I feel a drop on my chest, she's absolutely dripping. "I can't wait much longer," she says. Mindy watches, breath quick and shallow. "It's OK, sweetie," Mindy's saying, "just lower yourself a little more." I don't want this. She's like nothing I've seen up close before, really just an empty place and a slit—I know there's more to it but everything's hidden inside. It's like this horrible thing that isn't a thing, and I know soon it will be touching me. She's prickly against my lips, my cheeks, my nose, everywhere she touches me, like kissing Sean late at night when he didn't shave that morning. I guess just like that, like a kiss. This isn't going away so I do, I kiss back. The girl opens then, as my tongue slides up between the folds. There's so much more to her. The taste is all salt, it stings my lips, I want a glass of water. I want a deep breath, but she's on me now and sinking under her own weight. My head is pushed down into the softness of the bed. I'm stuck here, between this girl's thighs and under her pussy. "Go ahead," Mindy said brushing my earlobe with her thumb, "you'll learn, dear." I didn't have a choice, I don't think. Sam lowered herself onto me, then. She stopped supporting her own weight, it felt like. I took all of her onto me, even as I closed my mouth shut tight I thrust my chin up to support her so I could still breathe. My cheeks got hot, my face turned red. Air came like some precious commodity. Mindy kept playing with my hair. "There, there," she was saying. "Step aside and let it happen." Every bit of me resisted, screamed out. Would have screamed but that would have meant opening my mouth and I couldn't. Sam shook her hips, ground onto my face and I was stuck there under her. It's definitely not as if something clicked, that's for sure. I didn't suddenly enjoy it or anything—I mean it was one of those moments that settles the Questioning part of LGBTQ. Which I always thought was a pretty easy mystery to solve: sit around one afternoon and honestly ask yourself, do I want to put my mouth on a vagina? The answer is no—done. But it isn't exactly that bad, either. I don't know this girl, that seems to make it easier, actually, and I trust Mindy or at least did so it's not threatening. Hell, I don't know, it doesn't appear this is going to stop no matter what I do. And she was so, so good to me with her mouth. It would be kind of rude to not return the favor and, who knows, if I do an OK job maybe Mindy will put her back between my legs, eventually. Mindy whacks me with the riding crop, again one sharp sting on my pussy. Resigned in that way, I take comfort in approaching this like homework. If I just do it it'll be done and I won't have to worry about it anymore, once it's done. She's already on me, all over me, so I open my mouth, stick my tongue out. The space between the folds of her labia is deeper than I would've thought—my tongue slides up and through the folds of skin, it's so wet there where I lick. All the resistance gives way once my tongue is in, it just glides on the slipperiness. Beyond frustrated, this bitch simply refuses to come and I don't know what to do. My tongue is working every shape I can think of. I take her clit between my lips and suck on it, draw it as far into my mouth as I can, slurping noises and all, and nurse on it. She's writhing on me, her weight shifting back and forth on me from one side to the other. But I can tell I'm not doing a good enough job, Mindy starts whipping me with the crop again. First on my inner thighs. She hits me, she waits, she hits the girl's ass and this poor thing leaps—I try to follow her pussy with my mouth but can't, before she falls back down onto me. Then Mindy slaps me between my legs. Flat and hard, the smack of it ringing in the room. My God, it's all I can do to not bite this sweet girl when Mindy hits me. Like any other annoying task, you can get really into it if it's a challenge. Determined, I put everything else out of my mind. Mindy's slaps are background noise. My disgust at the taste is forgotten, the numbness in my tongue is more an asset now than anything. My jaw hurts, muscles I didn't know I had are sore and opening my mouth is actually getting difficult, like getting to the bottom of a bag of beef jerky. But I've got a rhythm down, I'm gliding along following the girl's moans. She's the lead, she tells me exactly what to do—I just have to listen. And finally, finally she's suffocating me with her thighs, she's trying to break my nose with her pelvis. She's grabbing my head between both hands, pulling me up against her in ways she can't anymore believe I'm an actual person. Taken Down Cum for me, cum for me you little whore. I win. ### Sean returned to find me in a kind of state I'd never yet been in. Exhausted, distraught but satisfied, damp and vaguely sticky all over. He approached the bed slowly, I raised my head to watch him coming to me since I hadn't actually seen him in days. He seemed willfully oblivious to the signs of sex everywhere on my body. Without speaking he undoes the shackles holding me to the bed. I'm waiting for him to roll me over, for him to start reattaching things. Instead he looks down at me, my eyes range all over, bewildered, I see he's erect. He tells me he's making dinner and he leaves the room. ### Get Up I shower for a long time, standing under the harsh stream of water. I scrub myself, lather everywhere I've been touched, wash myself clean. I think I might be starting to cry but I turn face into the water so I can't tell for sure. After toweling off, I start the water again and fill the bath. I walk through the house collecting candles and my pack of cigarettes, I couldn't think of a reason to cover myself so I walk through the house nude. With the lights off the bathroom is a flickering glow, immersed in the tub I smoke and think, inhale and forget. I'm so fucking stiff everywhere. I'm trying to determine if my friend raped me with another woman. I want to know what Sean knows about this. It's late, dark, and no doubt time for bed again soon but still I dress. Jeans and T shirt, and find Sean at the stove stir-frying vegetables. I open wine. "I want to go out tonight," I tell him at the table. "I have to be up early," he covers his mouth with his napkin as he chews and speaks. "Lot of work tomorrow." "That's fine," I say. "I want to go. You don't have to wait up." Sean's lips purse, he chews very carefully—he doesn't protest and dinner continues, ends, the dishes are rinsed and the dishwasher loaded. The TV is turned on and the bottle of wine finished, sitting in our separate armchairs in the living room. There's a bar up the street a little ways, I tell him, that I've passed I don't know how many times and never gone in. No, I tell him, I don't think I'll call Mindy. Maybe another time, I think we'll be seeing a lot more of each other now, but not tonight. I leave him and the crisp night air is gorgeous, calm, the simplest reminder that I've left the house. Easy as that: I walked out the front door. I push my hands down into my coat pockets and walk. Sean must've thought I'd gone insane: this bar is one of those brick timeless affairs, looking as though it's been here since Creation and allowed the city to build up around it. There's no proper sign, just a neon beer advertisement. Only a few small windows with planter boxes of sparse flowers and Christmas lights strung around them for any decoration, the door is this heavy, red quilted-pleather thing. The jukebox assaults me as I enter. After an hour I've got a great buzz going, I feel invincible. There are so few people here, no women, and the attention is on me—all of it. Whatever I want is paid for and appears, pushed in front of me by some man or another, smiling, like putting out saucers of milk for a cat. I'm not sure when I decided (after the third drink? fourth?), but I want to have an affair. Possibly not now—these guys are nice enough, but there's no reason to rush—but definitely soon and I can't explain to myself why, exactly. At home I sit in the kitchen, it's almost 2 in the morning. The silence is layered, the ticking refrigerator, a passing car, the stillness is so full of promise. I get my foot tangled up with the chair as I stand, almost fall but catch myself. Climbing into bed, I shake Sean gently by the shoulder. "Daddy, wake up Daddy." He mumbles, he's lying on his stomach, face turned to my side of the bed. I kiss his cheek, lick along his jaw, reach under him and take him in my hand. He rolls to his side, adjusts to accommodate my hand. He's groggy but waking, "How was your night? What time is it?" He has to be up in a few hours, he knows this and isn't exactly pleased. "I'm drunk and I've been a bad girl," stroking the length of his cock as it stiffens. The lies come easy then. "I like that bar, everyone was buying me drinks. It was so much fun and I met this really cute guy." His eyes open fully at that. "He bought me a drink, he's a fireman or a mechanic I think, and we talked for a little while then I took him into the bathroom." Sean's mouth opens but I kiss him, deeply and hard, before he can speak. "Shhh." I tell him how this kid was barely in his 20s, how I led him into a stall and unzipped his pants, how he barely spoke. I tell Sean I took hold of him like I'm doing now. I licked my hand and drizzled some saliva into my palm and grabbed him again to demonstrate. Sean doesn't try to interrupt again, he just lies there listening, as hard as I've ever felt him. I pulled the kid's pants down his thighs, he was so big and I couldn't help myself and I got down on my knees. Such a bad girl. I flick my tongue in Sean's ear and I whisper. "I put his cock in my mouth, it barely fit. My jaw is soooooo sore, Daddy." It's funny that I'm telling him this, when the truth about Mindy and the schoolgirl would probably get him more excited, and wouldn't maybe hurt his feelings. "I gagged when he hit the back of my throat. I tried so hard not to but couldn't help it. He didn't mean to choke me with it but it was so big." Sean just looks at me, his face unreadable. "But I didn't let him fuck me; I was a good girl for you, for now." And I slide down the bed and take Sean into my mouth, relaxing my throat I take all of him as he rolls onto his back. He puts his hands up to cover his face. I spread his legs, "I just did this." Sean is as hard as I've felt him, it sounds like he's holding back tears or moans or both. Gritting teeth and he doesn't know quite where to look, he seems to want to watch. He doesn't last long at all before he puts his hands around my head just below my ears—he always stops me before he cums—but this time I fight him. I grab his hips with both hands, lunging down on him in long slurpy gulps. His grip tightens and a deep moan escapes. He finally cums, hitting the back of my throat and I start swallowing. He's watching me now, eyes wide, and when he's almost done I keep the last little bit of ejaculate and let it drizzle out of my open mouth onto him as a raise my head off of him. It mixes with all the saliva already on him and I lick at it and tease and put on a show, like I couldn't swallow it all. I slide up alongside him, grab his hand and hold it between my legs for a second to show him how wet I am as I kiss him deeply. I make sure it's a really wet kiss, pushing my tongue into his resisting mouth, forcing him to taste everything I tasted. Then I roll back onto my side of the bed and I slip off into sweet, glorious sleep. ### We continue like this for a while. I go out on my own and return to tell him lies about what I did and with whom. I'm getting pretty creative, if I do say, and I'm having quite the sex life in bar restrooms, the backs of taxis, the 7th green of the local golf course, a table in the back corner of the restaurant where Sean proposed. I still haven't done any of these things with anyone else, yet, and I'm not even sure why, but I reenact them with Sean when I get home. So there's the joy of making it up and the pleasure of the act itself once I get home, and of course a weird kind of power-trip letting Sean think I'm cheating. He's getting to be pretty conflicted, or at least by that I mean he's starting to get really into the sex we have when I get home. Not sure what that's about—he's happy to have what he has or, maybe, he's getting off on thinking about me out there fucking other guys. Not just fucking, but telling him, in great detail with demonstrations, all about it as soon as I walk in the door. That would sort of prove that he's really the one in control, wouldn't it? The rest of our lives returns to something like normal, though. I'm being a little extra-nice to make up for the weeks he took care of me—lots of groceries and cleaning around the house and cooking him really nice dinners. I even sit and eat with him sometimes before going out for the night. I make sure there's breakfast in the morning and I'm on a mission to make the perfect coffee. He spends the day working in his office while I take walks through the park or meet with friends. I've been meeting Mindy a lot in the afternoons. We live a few blocks from the central square of our neighborhood and my favorite bookstore ever. It's pretty much an orgasm packed inside four walls: they stock local writers, obscurely wonderful journals and used books, there's a café and wine bar, retirees sit reading the newspapers all morning and the soft clink of porcelain cups and saucers fills the store. I wander the aisles of dark wood shelves among the vanilla-smell of old paper for an hour before I'm supposed to meet Mindy. I join her at the counter, we order espressos and sit. She's wearing her stomp-someone boots laced up over skin-tight jeans and a black top. We talk a lot about me, about Sean, about what's going on between us. It's so far been understood that we simply do not mention what happened with the schoolgirl, though I think about it now and then. Like now, I'm thinking about it right now. Instead she tells me about work-drama at her university: the department chair who won't approve her summer grant; the, in her opinion, hack colleagues teaching the same syllabi year after year, the readings dead by now even to the professors themselves; the waves of students, so full of their own sense of individuality yet co-dependent at the same time, entitled and coddled; the underfunded Humanities, struggling to justify their existence against the commodity-view of education. She wipes her napkin across the surface of the table in front of her. She tells me a college degree is the new high school diploma—you need a degree to even hope for a middle-class life. But what does that do? High school is publicly funded, that's obvious but she feels the need to remind me, but so by saying everyone deserves a college education what we really mean is everyone needs a college education and that means we've shifted the burden of funding onto the students. Only those who can afford—or can take out loans—have a chance at being middle-class, which is what we used to think of as the baseline: nothing fancy, just a decent living. Administrators hire more administrators, creating a swollen superstructure of over-paid, useless people driving up the price and running the college like a business that delivers a product that the customer wants. But the customers are the students, and they have no idea what they want—that's why they're coming to college in the first place. We've convinced them they need to major in business so they can get into an MBA program—that's ridiculous. It used to be you majored in Liberal Arts, learned how to think and how to be a person—yes, that's something you learn how to do—and if you wanted to go into business the MBA was there to teach you. It's the same thing all over again: for business the MBA is the high school diploma—it's only the ticket to get into the show. Mindy remembers her espresso and drains what's left in her cup, "Yes, I'm rambling on, but I'm just so fed up with the whole thing." "It didn't happen overnight, so what happened, why are you so pissed now?" "I see money going toward all the wrong things. I'm trying to work on something I feel strongly about. I think it could really help people—I know, I know, you don't think research from a literature professor helps people—" "I didn't say that." "You were thinking it, and that's fair. But this time I'm working on something more practical and no one will give me money for it." She tilts her cup toward her, looks down into it, and sets it back in the saucer. "What are you going to do?" "I'm going to get another espresso." Mindy is also, apparently, recruiting one of her TAs to assist this unfunded research project. It's all very hush-hush and super-secret, of course, but it doesn't take a genius to put the pieces together. "This TA," I ask when she returns to the table, "wouldn't happen to be blonde, about 5'6"? She maybe wears strawberry perfume on the weekends?" Mindy slides one of the two fresh cups to me. "She's very dedicated." My voice gets that lowered-but-more-forceful tone to it, "I'm not a goddamned experiment, Mindy." "Of course not! All the same, I am going to need you to eventually sign a waiver for the video." My cup rattles against the saucer, I have to let go of it. ### Sean swears he knows nothing but he's a terrible liar. He won't look at me, he goes to the sink to fill a glass of water. When he sits he sets it on the table in front of him, takes a few sips, squares the placemat and here I thought I was being nonconfrontational. I'm cooking and setting the table and just asking in an offhand way about Mindy. She's been acting strangely lately, I said to him and now he's a fidgety mess. "I haven't noticed anything," he says, "but then you know I don't talk to her very much." I turn from the stove, "Can you get the plates out for me?" "Do you think it has something to do with work, I know she's been stressed?" He holds two plates out, "Are these OK or do you want the black ones?" She's taken quite an interest in me, in us, in how we're doing, I tell him. She's concerned about me, he says, because I was so depressed. He continues: and you're doing so much better now, which is great, of course, and she probably just wants to make sure that you're actually, finally, all right and not going to sink back into whatever you were dealing with before. Besides, you know how she is, she's into all that psycho-babble so maybe she's tinkering around with your head, a little, trying to figure out what happened. She looks at me like a lab rat, sometimes, don't tell me you haven't seen it. She's so aloof and clinical, and I'd never tell you what to do but are you sure you ought to be spending so much time with her? You two are together almost every day and I'm not sure that's the best thing for you—just something to think about. He closes the silverware drawer too quickly, the clinking metal startles him. I mean, of course that's not exactly what I meant. It's great that you're getting out and having a good time. At this he looks down at the place settings and gets all introspective, no doubt thinking about how he thinks I've been "getting out and having a good time." He looks really worn down all of a sudden. I decide then to give him something extra-special tonight. Then maybe tell him the truth tomorrow—the truth about the guys I'm not sleeping with. The other thing I'm already thinking of as a playing card, an Ace, and it's staying right here tucked up in my sleeve until the right moment. ### At the bar there's a half dozen guys I'd consider sleeping with—plenty of material to work with. I don't know why I can't make up these stories for Sean from scratch. I have to see somebody, have to talk with him and let him buy me a drink. There's no trouble imagining the rest but there needs to be some kernel of truth, a possibility that what I'm making up could have happened exactly as I will describe it later for it to work. At least a block of clay that I can mold into a shape. This one guy is kind of a bro, maybe a college athlete, hell he could be one of Mindy's students if he ever read a book. But those arms, those shoulders, that dimple when he smiles make his personality irrelevant. He orders me a vodka tonic, seems to like the way it sounds when he asks for it. I sit at the bar, he stands close behind me, his hand covering the small of my back. I sip my drink through the tiny straw and let him talk about himself, but I'm already crafting the story I'll tell later. He's a sweet kid but I imagine he'd be rough when we're alone. Or not alone, even better, I imagine he has an apartment nearby where he has a roommate, another Lacrosse player, let's say, and a fridge full of cheap beer that tastes like saltwater, empty cans stacked in a pyramid next to the recycling and a small tower of empties in the shower, half-full cans next to the beds and on the steamer trunk serving as coffee-table by the futon in the living room. I imagine very dirty carpeting and drapes that haven't been opened to let light through the sliding glass door in weeks. Sitting on the futon, a light beige that doesn't really show the stains, drinking from a can of beer, I believe they've done this before. They like to share girls, these two, because they're the star players on the team and they're best friends and it makes them feel even more powerful and attractive and popular than either one of them could feel alone. The conversation is only a poor attempt at flirting, it's juvenile and vaguely about music but mostly the shows they've been to recently. I pretend not to notice—it helps put them at ease if I don't act too eager, if I act like I don't know what's about to happen at all, if I let them believe we're working toward something that will happen naturally and without forethought or planning. If I simply told them to take their pants off it would destroy the mood, might destroy them, and so I sit listening and waiting for the beers to have their effect while the music plays slightly too loudly. But they did plan it out, in their own way, and this must be what's worked for them in the past: the one from the bar sits next to me and touches me but not obviously. A hand on my thigh, an arm draped around my shoulder when I lean toward him to laugh at something that wasn't funny, a finger twisting a lock of my hair while the roommate pretends not to notice. I'm barely listening to the actual kid next to me at the bar—I sip my drink and I smile but he's already running out of things to say and finally he leaves for another seat at the other end of the bar. Perfect, I can glance over his way while building the fantasy that I'll tell Sean when I get home. The roommate I imagine gets up to use the washroom or something, leaves us alone in the living room and now it all makes sense. This kid is the bait, yes that's it, and they do this all the time. He begins so slowly it's almost painful to watch: sitting next to me, arm draped around me, he starts kneading my shoulder and rubbing my neck. He doesn't look at me, pretends to not notice what he's doing and when this goes on just long enough to be awkward, he stops. He turns to me. "If you lay down I'll give you a massage." Oh Goddamnit, it's lie down. If I lie down I'll get the massage, so I do. The futon is right at that height where he can kneel on the floor next to me and he starts on my lower back. This is better than I expected—he's really good at this. Too good, actually, and within minutes I'm forgetting about the sex we're supposed to eventually have, totally content to let him keep working out the knots between my shoulder blades, in the muscles running down either side of my spine, this place at the top of my ass I didn't even know was cramped until now. My eyes are closed, little moans occasionally escape my lips. The drinks are working their way to my head and I'm floating but his hands keep me from floating away. Or maybe this is the plan all along—make me forget about sex, put me at ease here near bliss—that's maybe giving him too much credit but when the roommate returns I hardly notice. "Want to see something cool," the roommate's voice is deeper than the kid's, more forceful. "Your brain can only process the feeling of two hands on you at a time, so any more than that and it feels like you're being touched everywhere all at once. Here," he kneels down next to the kid, who is again focusing on my lower back. The roommate starts at my shoulders and Holy God, it's instantaneous and I wouldn't have thought possible. Taken Down He's completely right, there might as well be three guys massaging me, or a hundred, I can't explain it or keep track of who's doing what. All I can do is lie here face down on the futon while every part of me tingles. Every inch, it's electric. I press my face down into the fabric and moan. I turn my face toward them, looking for something to kiss. The roommate is right there, I roll onto my side to face him, grab him by the back of his head and pull him toward me into a deep, slow kiss. He keeps his hands on my back, holding me. The kid runs his hand up my inner thigh, up under my dress, finds I'm not wearing underwear and soaking. It's still just hands everywhere. He pulls my dress up, kisses my stomach. My dress is being pulled down from the top over my tits, fingers sliding along the edge of my bra and pulling that, too, out of the way. My nipples are rock hard and aching, a mouth on me and sucking. I've turned almost entirely over onto my back, I have no sense of myself anymore, I feel like just a body splayed out here for them to pleasure in ways I could never believed possible. They're getting undressed. Someone is between my legs licking me, my tits are being grabbed and the bra is roughly unhooked and discarded, leaving only my dress at this point bunched around my waist. I reach between someone's legs, cup his balls in my hand and take his cock in my mouth. I can't care if I'm giving him a decent blowjob, it's too difficult to concentrate while the other one has his face buried between my legs. He's really flexible—even as I'm sucking on him he's bent over kissing my chest, my stomach, the side of my hip. It barely registers that they move me to the floor. The steamer trunk/coffee table is pushed away to clear space. I'm on all fours stradling his face, his mouth clamped onto me and my thighs hold tight to him there. The other one moves around behind me and enters me, fucking me deep and slow. I hadn't really worked out the implications for their sexuality until now: they are clearly Bi, though they probably wouldn't think of it that way. The one between my legs is still licking away at me while I'm getting fucked and it feels so damned good, I rest my head against the carpet and reach down under myself to hold his head there between my legs, I raise my ass still farther into the air. Then he slides up underneath me, kisses me deeply and I taste myself on him. The other one takes his cock out of me and it's replaced by the kid who's beneath me and I ease down onto him. The roommate rubs my back. I hear a bottle of lube opening, feel the oily liquid drizzling at the base of my spine. I let him rub it into my skin, down into the cleft of my ass, it drips between my legs as I'm sliding still on the kid, kissing him. I let him push a finger into my ass, he goes nice and slow, then another one as I get used to being filled there. He doesn't have to move much at all, just hold his fingers there while I do all the work. ### Taken In No, no Sean would absolutely not be able to explain why he came back, but he did come back, clearly, because he's here, on the floor of his former bedroom, kneeling in front of his wife. She's sitting on the edge of the bed with her schoolgirl skirt hiked enough to show the garters clipped to the top of her stockings, and leaning down over him with her hair falling in her face and the unbottoned portion of her blouse falling open, cupping Sean's face in her hands but more like holding him there than supporting him. Her legs are parted and the lace is right there in the middle, in shadow and dark in the tangled growth of hair behind and at the edges, and Sean's attention's fixed on what's exposed as much as on what's hidden. The bed creaks as she leans down closer. "You know what's coming, don't you Daddy?" He looks up past the smiling lips and into her eyes. "I won't give you anything you don't want," she threatens. "Doesn't your girl always know exactly what you want?" She shifts and spreads, the skirt hikes farther up her thighs, and he's pulled to her, hands on the back of his head now. She smells of perfume and tastes like sweetened vinegar already, and he presses the flat of his tongue against the lace between her legs. With one hand she holds him against her, and with the other lifts herself slightly from the bed, she's too warm, the fabric too wet in his mouth. "That's it, like that," she says. Forcing herself down against him, his mouth opens wide, the soaking material heavy and leaking, and as he fills with enough liquid to swallow Sean now realizes she's using him for a toilet. "Oh," she says, "you take such good care of your little girl." He glances up, eyes wide, desperately looking for eye contact, but sees only her white neck as she faces the ceiling; he hears only her moaning relief as he overflows in gulps and waves and is covered by her. When she is through she relaxes against the bed, removing her panties with a quick drawing up and stretching out of her legs, but otherwise resumes the same position in front of him. She's damp with matted hair between her legs and her expression is not one of relief. She promises a present in return for cleaning her mess. Sean began licking and she watched, petting his face and whispering encouragement and wondering what there is really to recommend him as a man. Reliable, though cowed, husband, thoughtful but anxious, and an imaginary cuckold, with a set of sexual preferences that suit her, or rather what she's become, but as a man? The confidence he himself had inspired and nurtured now ruled her of its own accord, and Sean became one of any number of men, perhaps the least of better men, who deserved little more than their place beneath her. Sean's increasingly insistent tongue pulled her attention back into the moment at hand. She gently stopped him and pushed him away so that he sat upright on his knees, with a confused look on his face that cleared when she began unbuttoning his wet shirt. Sean took over and removed it, ready to continue but she held him still with a finger to his lips. Spreading obscenely before him then, she made a show of inspecting herself until satisfied he'd thoroughly cleaned her and earned his reward. "Thank you, Daddy," she said, reaching for the soiled panties at her side and forming them into a ball barely larger than a walnut. "Now these are for you," she inserted them into Sean's mouth and stood, leaving him there more than a little dazed and forced to begin swallowing again as saliva mixed with the rest. On his cramping knees and shirtless and facing the empty bed, Sean's life is moving in directions he doesn't clearly understand.