Chapter 1: Greg

You might wonder why, when I suspect, merely suspect, that my lover is going to be screwing around on a business trip, that I decide to fuck everything in sight as revenge. Well, first of all, I've never really been a Puritan, nor had any strong belief in fidelity, faithfulness, at least on my own part. Fidelity, just another useless 'F' word. I had already been screwing everyone I could; screwing as in sex, I mean, not in business. Well, maybe a little bit in business also. Secondly, it's my own pussy, cunt if you prefer, and my own anal entry point, and I can share them, and my mouth of course, and hands and tits and toes — toes work best on other women - with anyone I care to. I always have, and always will. After all, I'm a stock-broker, oops, make that a financial consultant, and everyone thinks I'm a whore anyway.

The sun was dying slowly in the western sky, still putting up the good fight to illuminate my living room thirty stories above the noisy street. I was sitting, half lying down, lengthwise on the couch, my panty-hose clad feet resting on Greg's lap, my back, or more accurately my neck, supported by the arm rest, with my flowing blonde head turned toward the television set, already in shade. He was sitting up straight, his hand softly running up and down my legs — legs which, as the expression goes, reached all the way to the ground — his hand not moving much above my knees. Though his touch was chaste, nevertheless my body tingled, lubrication oozed from my loins.

He had been at the apartment a half hour before me and already had the DVD ready to go as soon as I kicked my shoes off, another advantage of having given him a key. In stark contrast to the Waterford crystal glasses from which we sipped our first Chardonnay, he was dressed in workout shorts and a wife-beater t-shirt. Except for the shoes, I was still fully dressed from a hard day selling stocks and other high-commission investments: severe suit, frilly white blouse like those worn by the female Supreme Court Justices, but the hair no longer pulled back tightly. My glasses sat atop my head, not needed for the video; hell, I knew it by heart anyway. Greg, manager of a different office of the same firm, had taken advantage of his position to cut out early, as he did every Wednesday.

Wednesday was our 'fuck like bunnies all night long' appointment.

In fact, we made mad, passionate love probably five or six nights a week anyway, but Wednesday was our special time, when no interruptions were permitted; no meetings, no calls to the children, no restaurant dinners, no social events with friends, just that single DVD. To tell the truth, I was getting kind of tired of that video.

'All night long' generally meant five orgasms for Greg. Do not laugh please, do not shake your head in disbelief; wait until you've lived through it. Oh yes, the fourth really isn't much and the last one usually happens in the middle of laughter, when it is more like an endurance contest than a sexual activity, accompanied by just a few drops of his semen, but I can feel his throb and I know that he's not faking it. The first time he did it, we were still married to other people, and we had to get together during the day. We drove over the bridge to a nice place a little inland from the shore. We had all day; I had packed a little lunch for us. Greg says that he didn't plan a marathon, but that's the way it worked out. We got there about 9:30 in the morning and didn't leave until after 4:00. He used every opening available, plus two not usually considered to be holes: a hand job and a tit fuck. All of that left my pussy in good enough shape but my body was aching all over. Sure enough, my ex had wanted my body before dinner, and I was still oozing front and back, at least it felt that way, so I had to make him settle for fellatio, a blowjob — not that he minded it all that much. It was something he didn't think I liked, which was true only as far as he was concerned, not for anyone else, but after that evening he wanted me to suck his dick continuously, which didn't help my orgasms at all. Well, the hell with him; he's history, though he did leave me with a couple of great kids.

Anyway, that was the occasion of my first anal visit, compliments of Greg. I was terribly in love with him, far more — but I guess this is usual — than I had ever loved my ex. That one was an OK guy, never drank, never hit me, adequate in bed, but all around blah! I had met Greg back when we both worked in the same office. He had seen me one day in the office when I'd had a meaningless argument with my ex on the phone; Greg saw something in my face.

"What's the matter, kid?"

"Oh, nothing."

"C'mon, tell Uncle Greg."

Greg's not that old, but he is senior to me in the firm. I refused a lunch date but let him get sandwiches for us to eat in the conference room; it was glass walled and seemed decorous enough. Greg is shrewd; he went right from the recitation about the argument into a straight hit on me, no drinks, no music, just 'you're very exciting'. The next morning, I was in his apartment, in his bed and in his web, madly in love. You guys don't think about that, do you? You just want to get laid. But for us, we don't need you for that; we have vibrators and cucumbers and our own fingers, and you don't get to touch unless we have some affection for you. It doesn't have to be love, not then at least. It almost never starts out that way, but it has to be a lot more than plain old lust.

So there we were, some months later, that day of the marathon, in that nice little motel, naked on the bed, just kissing and caressing. The place was a hundred feet off the main drag, just enough to keep the cars in the parking lot away from casual passersby. It catered to the male business traveler, with some business from couples meeting for a 'nooner'; a female traveling alone would have chosen a slightly more upscale venue. Greg had his hand between my legs, his thumb inside me and his fingers splayed on my cheeks. I had my hand wrapped around that big beautiful penis of his. Was it beautiful to my eyes? Yes, but why? A penis is a penis is a penis. I've seen them big and small, but never too small to do the job as needed. Other than its inherent ugliness, how bad could it look? Bent in an arc, the way Monica described Bill? So what? No, the beauty of that thing sticking out from between Greg's legs was not in what it would do for me but in the fact that I loved the man attached to it, a love that I was ready to throw away my marriage for. That and the fact that he loved me, or so he professed and I believed.

Thus it was that when Greg's fingers began to move, when one of them slid in between my cheeks, I tensed but immediately relaxed. My lover sought sexual release, albeit in a non-traditional orifice. That sexual release is what makes the world go round, what makes the reproductive process pleasurable and thus efficient. No, we weren't planning to reproduce; my own reproductive years were past, thanks to a handsome young doctor who had invested enough time to find out what was really causing my internal pain. And who, once the doctor-patient relationship was concluded, was rewarded far beyond dollars. But the instinct to copulate remained in both of us, and my job, my goal, my fervent desire was to give my lover the release he needed, the release he craved. It mattered not which part of my body he used. They were all his, to use, to caress, to make love with, and when he desired, to just plain fuck.

I knew that my lover desired to spend his lust in my bowels, perhaps the ultimate domination of male over female, yet I felt no subjugation. It was a lust that I had always denied to my then-husband, and to all the other males of my youth, but I would not deny it to Greg my lover, my Adonis. We had never discussed it; I didn't know if he had experience in anal sex or not, but it didn't matter. What I had was his for the taking.

My body relaxed, inviting the probe of his finger. The passage through my sphincter was easy, facilitated by his lips moving from nipple to nipple. Then they moved to my face and our tongues met. This was not our first time making love, and he knew what made me hot, what got me ready to welcome him inside me.

"Roll over please, baby."

I complied, I obeyed, presenting my lover with the opening he had chosen to begin the day. Suddenly his finger left me and moments later, as if by magic, as in a theatrical performance, from out of nowhere appeared a tube of lubricant. Ah, my lover had planned this day to move into uncharted territory; he had known without asking that my back door would be his, then and whenever he wished. Forever it could have been, if only, if only...

Gentle fingers applied the cream, all over the area of my cheeks that would serve as the route for his penis until it was inside me, all over the opening to my body and even the lining of my bowels. One finger went back into me, then two, to coat me and to stretch the muscle that would fight his entry, despite my willingness to accept and to welcome him, to welcome my lover and his cock. He spread my legs and got between them, then reached under my stomach and pulled me up. This left me resting on my knees with my face and breasts on the bed; I used my arms to lift my upper body, bringing my back parallel with the mattress, as if ready for a doggy style session, though I knew that the pit bull behind me had other plans, that he intended to impale me in a manner never learned by our four legged friends.

He spread my cheeks and drew close; I could only imagine the sight he saw, his target glistening with lubricant. His body pressed against the backs of my thighs. My heart pounded as I awaited this strange onslaught, this buggery of my previously untouched anal opening. He was my lover and I welcomed him; how is it that what they call sodomy, no longer illegal in most places, is still so looked down upon, even when welcomed by love?

Greg's hard penis lay against the opening. Instead of pressing forward, though, he backed up and resumed the lubrication, this time on himself. I smiled at his thoughtfulness; with no experience of my own, it never occurred to me that being prepared myself would not be sufficient without him also being lubed up.

And then it was time. Strong hands which had been juggling my breasts, weighing them, now moved to my hips. Without instruction, I reached back, took that sweet penis in my hand and directed it against the opening it sought. Again untaught, except for some casual reading and listening, I strained as in a bathroom to relax the muscular sentry guarding entry to my bowels.

The purple crown moved slowly, silently, where none had gone before. Perspiration poured off my body; my head bent so that I might bite the pillow, lest my screams alarm late sleepers in the other rooms, or even adulterous lovers such as us. After what seemed like an eternity, the entire head was past my sphincter. Greg paused, first to allow me to recover from the new pain, to allow my body to become accustomed to this new intrusion, and then to reach again for the tube of lubrication, to re-grease his own member as well as the inner ring of that obstreperous muscle. Trust me, that finger wasn't particularly comfortable with that blood-filled penis already in there.

It was the combination of those two things that led me to believe that Greg had plenty of prior experiences plunging into the depths of the female anus. Actually of course it could also have been into a male anus, but Greg and I never spoke of such things, and I doubt very seriously that he went that way, even in secret.

After that, he began to pull my hips back toward him, easing his full length into me oh so slowly. Ultimately he was seated to the hilt, his testicles resting undemandingly against my labia. Again he paused, as my mind compared this new mechanism for male orgasm with the more traditional methods I had learned. I discovered that I was able to exert muscular pressure on the organ inside me, in much the same what that I could do so with my mouth or my vaginal muscles; I liked it, and so did Greg.

But the inertia of non-motion cannot last forever against the churning demands of filled testicles and soon Greg was pumping at top speed, alternating between my breasts and my hips as the fulcrum to facilitate his thrusts. On my part, the pain was gone, having been replaced by the joy of knowing that I was helping my lover attain the extreme pleasure of what his mind knew to be a wicked intercourse. He was in fact concentrating so hard on speed that he forgot to consider my own need and desire for orgasm; my fingers had to take over that task but it didn't matter, for love forgives.

His orgasm arrived with the usual announcement: "I've gotta cum, I've gotta cum, I've gotta cum", followed by a moan, a series of throbs and the expected creamy wetness inside me, albeit in a new location. A good man, my Greg, he stayed inside me instead of popping right out, using his hands to massage my back and neck as he waited for his penis to become again flaccid. Then it slid out easily and I turned to take it into my mouth, to clean it off, a gift every man fully appreciates.

When I later rolled onto my back to relax, feeling Greg's fluids seeping out of me, I realized that I had enjoyed my first venture into anal sex; the pain was bearable, the pleasure to the man so great, the new power I now had to allow a man to use me for that unspeakable act so invigorating. Or, and I admit to my egocentrism, the power to deny him that same use. I had a new orifice to contribute to my love-making repertoire, and it wasn't long before my ears became adept at sensing the right moment for me to say to some fully erect man, "Do you want to fuck my ass?" Yes, with a little experience, I came to love it.

Back to Wednesday. As it always did, the pounding music of the video got to me; I felt the beginning of a headache coming on, and that wasn't to be allowed.

"Excuse me, Greg, but I've got to get into something more comfortable. And maybe you can turn down the volume a little."

He nodded and reached for the remote, first softening the volume and then hitting the pause button.

"No need to pause, honey. I know very well what comes next."

He laughed. "Need some help changing?"

I smiled and shook my head. It was the same banter we exchanged whenever we watched that particular video, the one we had made in the round bed and heart shaped tub in the Poconos. The time it took to set up the camera and move it from room to room did take some of the excitement out of the evening, but we've used it to relive the vacation quite often. I never knew where he got the background music; he probably downloaded it without paying for it. I did know that I would die if one of my children ever saw it. Greg's children I wasn't concerned about, except that if his son Sandy saw it, he would hit on me to try to mimic it. It wouldn't be the first time he's tried; well, I can't help it if I look very sexy. Heck, if you don't mind me being crude, call me 'fuckable'. At the same time, I couldn't but help notice Sandy's suave charm; perhaps that's an oxymoron, but you get the idea. I threatened to tell his father, but he knows that I wouldn't. I'm too flattered.

Someday with Sandy, maybe?

I carried my wine into the bedroom, planning to sip as I changed. My suit needed a cleaning and I threw the jacket onto the bed. The bed linens were a mess. That was my only vice; my only housekeeping vice, that is. We almost never slept without a lot of rolling around on each other — that's the polite way to phrase it — and we always slept naked, even when I had my period. All that makes for a lot of bodily fluids on the sheets, but they're always dry by the next night. The only time the bed gets made is once a week, when Carolina, the cleaning woman, comes in. She obviously knows what's causing the mess; I wonder what she thinks about it.

Someday with Carolina, maybe?

My slacks followed the jacket, and then I decided that the blouse might just as well keep the other stuff company at the Cleaners. I sat on the bed to roll down the pantyhose. I hate those fucking things, but they're part of the job, a habit I've gotten into. While the brokerage company has no formal dress code, they're something I have to wear because much of my business is with husband and wife couples who come to the office for financial planning. I know how well my legs look, and I try to keep an appearance of modesty in the office, lest some of the wives think that I'm making a play for their husbands and decide to take the family finances elsewhere. Well, making a play for some of those husbands might be fun, but losing out on those commissions would make me very, very unhappy. And worse than that, they'd make to company very unhappy, and that could be serious, especially if the reason became known to the powers that be.

Someday with a client, maybe?

I stood up in front of the full length mirror, now wearing nothing but my bra. I'm a 34B and quite happy with my figure. The bra itself was plain vanilla, again just in case one of those husbands happened somehow to see it through my blouse when I bent one way or another. I wouldn't want him thinking that I go around ready to strip for some guy. Listen, I've gotten my share of invitations to lunch from some of those husbands, and I knew that they didn't mean to bring dear old wifey. And sometimes I've accepted those invitations, and yes, most of those lunches wind up in a bed somewhere. But Greg doesn't have to know about those.

I unhooked the bra and tossed it in the general direction of the hamper; I would pick it up whenever I got to that part of the room. I ran an appreciative eye over my naked body, thanking as always my dear mother for giving me her genetic materials, the ones that give me the ability, almost without effort, to turn soft cocks hard in my presence. I often wonder about our twenty-five year age difference. Yes, I know we've had mother-daughter talks, but I wonder, did she ever love to fuck the way I do? I know that her generation was wild, but was she one of them?

My nipples stood at attention, a combination of their natural tendency, the glow of the wine, the chill of the air conditioning and the lust I was feeling. Which of those was the reason that I was looking at my breasts rather than my non-sexual parts? My head, for instance. I had loosened my hair as soon as I had walked into the elevator at work. Once freed, a shake of my head had the natural blonde all fluffed out, the severity gone. My eyes twinkled, their normal condition. I needed my full five foot six to impress both male and female clients, or at least to not frighten them away as a shorter woman might have done.

A glance at my glistening labia always pleases me. I don't shave the area bald, but I do trim it with a scissors. The usual dampness oozed, the bane of my existence; sometimes it will show up on tight clothing even when I'm not sexually aroused, which of course doesn't happen too much. Most of the time, I'm ready to go on a moment's notice. The realization that this was a Wednesday, and that Greg and his gorgeous equipment were within a thousand miles, was sufficient.

My Wednesday peignoir lay at the top of the drawer, waiting to wrap itself around my body, for those oh so few minutes before it would be removed for action. It was just a tradition, totally unnecessary to stimulate Greg's libido. And his cock. Also unnecessary, yet equally important, were the black heels, the highest imaginable heels, the ones that made me look like the whore I am every Wednesday. As I mentioned, we do what bunnies do whenever we get together, but Wednesday is a special tradition.

When I returned to Greg, the video was again in action. Though he was not even touching himself, his breathing was shallow as he watched his favorite scene unfold, the one where he finishes pumping me in the back door, pulls out at the last second and jerks his semen onto my round cheeks, bending quickly to lick me clean of the baby sauce before it could run off onto the sheets.

I twirled around in front of him.

"How do you like this, stranger?"

He pulled his weapon out of the leg hole of his shorts. Eight inches of love muscle, fully engorged, it was impossible to imagine it inside any orifice of mine, yet I knew that it would easily fit wherever he wanted to put it. He shook it while his eyes looked directly at my mouth.

"Suck this, cunt."

I giggled. "Oh, are we going to play the rape game tonight?"

He smiled. "OK, my love, let me rephrase it. Please wrap your beautiful wet mouth around my definitely needy phallic instrument and use your lips like a straw to get me all the way to heaven."

"Aah, that's better."

I dropped to one knee and reached for the waistband of his shorts, pulling them down toward his ankles, not even bothering to tell him to lift his bottom to make it easier. In recognition of the perspiration and dripping body fluids that occurs in these situations, I keep an old sheet covering the fabric of the couch, another subliminal reminder to my housekeeper that I like sex, possibly an unintentional invitation to her to join me in it. I hadn't really thought that through yet. No, not much I hadn't.

Though I have never refused any man's penis on the ground that it was not circumcised, I do prefer that kind, which Greg so kindly provided. The crown was glistening with his pre-cum, which I dutifully, and happily, licked off. Then I dribbled a little bit of saliva on that helmet and sucked it dry, again and again, ignoring the potent shaft supporting that mushroom shaped delicacy. I looked up and saw Greg's face concentrating on the video, a smile playing across his lips. Turning my head, I saw that I was mimicking the electronic record, sucking live and on the disc. Without letting go of his crown, I reached over him for the remote and clicked off the set.

"You can only have my body one way, Greg, live or video-tape. Which do you prefer?"

His response was to close his eyes and caress the top of my head. And despite his remarkable self control, I felt a gentle pressure as he, perhaps involuntarily, began to force my head down, to make me ingest more of his member. Which, in the case of Greg, required no convincing on my part. Oh, hell, I admit it; it didn't take much convincing no matter whose cock it was. I twisted my head so that I might approach his delightful weapon from the side, allowing me to lick up and down the veined underside of his shaft. My tongue snaked around from side to side, enabling me to wet the sides as well.