I never would have predicted what happened.

Joe and I have been married for twenty years, and I’d always been faithful.  To my knowledge, he had too.  We graduated from the same high school, dating occasionally but nothing steady.  We went away to different colleges.  Somehow we hooked up again and things escalated toward proposal and a wedding.  We’ve been the quintessential boring, professional, married, childless couple ever since.

Boring didn’t mean uneventful, though.  We’ve had our share of rough spots.  Lately, one of those rough spots had to do with our respective physiques.  Where Joe had been an athlete in school, he’d lazily let that athleticism slip away.  I, on the other hand, continued to work hard at staying in shape, and though far from being a hard body I still caught the roving eye of many men.  However, I never heard him gripe about it.

When the invitation came for our twenty-five year high school class reunion, we clashed again.  “We’ve never been to one of these,” I giddily said.  “Oh what a blast it’d be to see all our old classmates again.”

He was less than enthusiastic.  “Why, to see how they’ve all gone fat, or bald?  To play silly games of one-upmanship with everyone?  Gloat?  Why?”

“Oh, don’t be a party-pooper.  It’s about time we had some fun.”

He wasn’t convinced, though I wore him down and he relented.  Then I went dress shopping.

As the date of the reunion approached, I daydreamed, trying to imagine what some of the guys would look like after all this time.  Ron, my first and on-again-off-again boyfriend, probably was as skinny today as he had been back then, and more than likely still had that mischievous grin on his face most of the time.  I wondered if he still liked rough sex.  Gary, the first guy I let get to second base, was probably the guy most likely to get fat.  Jerry, the guy I lost my virginity to was probably gray and ugly now, though back then his ragged looks conveyed bad-boy mystery.  In high school, I always fell for the bad boys; my basic chemistry, I guess.  How many would be there?  How many were still married?  How many had fat, dumpy wives? 

How many would I still throw myself at?  I’d soon find out.

I found a fantastic deep blue cocktail dress that, although not too short, would show off my legs really well.  I always loved to wear a dress that swished and swayed (and provided quick glimpses of mystery as it did) while I walked.  The blue dress had the necessary flare.  It had plenty of flair too, I might add.  I bought a new pair of Italian heels to go with the dress.  I was ready to knock ’em all dead.

Joe wasn’t as excited as I was, but he did buy a new suit for the occasion, and looked great in it.  When I showed him the dress and heels, he said, “You look like a hooker.”  I took it as a compliment; to me it meant I looked hot and not cheap as he intended.

The night of the reunion was fantastic weather-wise, and I viewed that as the first good omen.  Joe and I were early arrivers, so we got to mingle and get reacquainted with other early-birds.  I hardly expected any of my old flames to be as early as we were, so I wasn’t disappointed.  After we got drinks at the cash bar, Joe went his own way, catching up with a couple of his long-ago buddies.

“Damned if it isn’t Carmen Garcia,” spoke a deep voice behind me, “though I’m sure it’s not Garcia anymore.”

I turned to look at a stranger.  These situations are the worst at reunions; someone remembers you but you are clueless as to who they are.  “I’m sorry.  You’re right, but I’m drawing a blank as to who you are, and again, I’m sorry for that.”

“No offence taken, Carmen.  I’d be delusional in thinking you’d remember me.”  He put his hand out for a shake.  “I’m Fred, Fred Taylor, the chemistry whiz.”

I remembered, but he never looked as he did now.  Fred sat next to me in Senior Chemistry.  No, it wasn’t what you might think.  It wasn’t one of those nerd-boy-helps-pretty-girl scenarios.  We both had a knack for chemistry, and we left the rest of the class in the dust.

The man before me was tall, slim, good looking, and had a deep, TV personality-level voice.  Not the Fred I remembered at all.  I shook his hand.  “You’ve changed a lot, Fred, and the change is a good one, I might add.”

“Thank you.  You haven’t changed a bit, and that’s a good thing, since I remember you as the hottest girl in school but way out of my league, I’ll admit.  I couldn’t count the number of times during senior year I wanted to ask you out but chickened out instead.”

“Wow. You probably would’ve gotten a ‘no’ reply anyway.  Back then I went for the guys just on the other side of trouble.  Thankfully, I got over that affliction.”

He laughed, and I joined him a split second later.

“I may have lost out on dating you, but our little partnership in Chemistry almost made up for it.  At least it did for me”

“We were quite a dynamic duo, weren’t we,” I said.

He asked, “Did you end up using any of that vast chemistry knowledge?  I mean, I didn’t.  The world of Finance is where I ended up, and you’ll never hear me complain about it either.  I’ve done well.  So, how’s life been treating you?  Married?”

“Oh yes, married.  Remember Joe Saunders?  We married after college.  He’s right over there,” I said, pointing.

Fred’s eyes looked to where I indicated.  “Yeah, I remember Joe from the football team; the football team I tried out for and didn’t make, I might add,” he said with a smile.  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but he doesn’t seem like your type, at least the type you hung out with back in school.”

“You’re right about that.  Just call it maturity.”

“Kids?”

“No, none for us,” I said.  “What about you?  Wife?  Kids?”

Solemnly, he answered, “My wife died two years ago.  Cancer.  I have a wonderful daughter who’s just starting her own high school journey.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your wife.”

“Thanks.  It was a tough time for all of us.  I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it.”

“Yes you will,” I said.  “You seem like a strong man. You’ll make it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure, but thanks for the encouragement.”  Time flew by as we drank and reminisced.  As they arrived, I recognized and pointed out my old beaus.  One time Fred exclaimed, “You went out with that sleaze-ball?  I wouldn’t have trusted Jerry with anything.”

“Well, I did.”

“Jesus!  You really did chase the bad boys, didn’t you?”

“And regrettably, sometimes I did more than chase them.”

He chuckled, “Okay, we won’t go there, but aren’t you glad you got over that?  Look at the slob now.”

He was right, and maybe I had been right earlier when I imagined what the guys would be like today.  Except for Ron they were all fat, greasy nobodies; frogs compared to Joe’s prince.  One by one they saw me and hit on me, and one by one they got the cold shoulder.  I particularly enjoyed Fred’s protective “bubble.”  Where my husband should have been the one deflecting all the guys, Fred did the honors.

“Thanks for that,” I said, after a rebuffed Gary went back to his wife’s side.  “I bet they think you’re my husband.”

“They all were so focused on you, as I would be too in their shoes, that they wouldn’t remember Joe even if he was standing here instead of me.”

Whatever possessed me was still up for internal debate, as I leaned into him and kissed his cheek.  “Consider this that date you never asked for.”

The look in his eyes was magical.  “I already have considered it, and I’m enjoying myself immensely.”  His expression softened a bit when he added, “I almost didn’t come to this thing.  It’s been a while since I went out and had any fun.  Carmen, you’re as special as you are beautiful.”

A kiss on his cheek and a sparkle in my eye didn’t get him to make a pass at me or propose anything.  I thought about many things, letting my mind drift during our reacquainting small talk.  In fact, ‘drift’ was the right word, since I’ve only drifted through life since I sat next to Fred in high school.  And now look at him.  In this short time at the reunion, every one of my life’s decisions has been called into question.  All the choices I made in men, all the things I’ve taken for granted, as I passively moved through the world.

Here was Fred Taylor, a man who seemed to have taken charge of life as easily as he took charge of his chemistry lessons.  I bet his wife had been a special woman, and then she got ripped away from him by the cruelest of diseases.  I sensed they’d had a bond that perhaps Joe and I would never have.

Finally, Joe approached and we made the introductions.  Based on his body language, I wondered if he’d been watching Fred and me for a while.  Had he seen me give him the peck on the cheek?

Joe and I stepped away, while Fred went to speak with others.  Joe said, as soon as we were out of others’ earshot, “He wasn’t one of your fuck-buddies, was he, like old Ron?  Though I think you’d want either of them to fuck you now, wouldn’t you?”

“C’mon Joe, how can you say such a thing?”

“Look, I’ve been thinking of how much you looked forward to this reunion, getting all dolled up, ready to rekindle all the old flames.  I know we haven’t been much of a husband and wife team lately, especially in bed.”

“Oh honey, I love you, and I had no such intention.  I just figured we’d both enjoy seeing old friends, that’s all.  I mean, while Fred and I were getting reacquainted you looked like you were having fun over there with your old football buddies.”

He didn’t look angry, so maybe I was misinterpreting something.  He hesitated, then said “I guess what I’m saying, sweetheart, is if you want to sleep with Fred or Ron or anyone else for that matter, it’s okay with me.”

“I can’t believe you really mean that!  You WANT me to sleep with another man?”

“If it makes you happy, yes.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said loud enough to have some nearby people stare at us.

“I’m about as serious as I could be,” my husband replied.  “I haven’t seen you glow like that in ages, like you did talking to Fred.  I saw how you were reacting to him.  Go for it, if that’s what you want.”

Now I was the angry one, though my anger was driven equally by my guilt as by his surrender.  “Damn you!  Now YOU get to decide if anything I do is okay or not?”  I paused, trying to control the anger and failing.  “I was about to say you don’t own me, but I guess you know that already since you just gave me away.”

I left his side and went in search of Fred.  Instead I ran into Ron.  I sensed he’d been trying to speak with me but so far hadn’t the chance.  Now was his chance.

“Hi Carmen.  Who’d you marry, Saunders or Taylor?  I saw you with both of them.”

“I’m with Joe,” I said, “what about you?”

“Divorced now.Just a girlfriend.”

“I doubt if she’d like to be referred to that way.”

“Who cares?  She’ll never be as hot as you were.  You still like it rough?”

“That was like a different life,” I answered.

“Too bad,” he said and smiled. “I’ve got a whole room full of playthings I bet you’d like.”

“For your girlfriend, not me.”

I left him and sought out Fred.  When I sidled up to him, he must have known something happened between Joe and me, though he didn’t comment.  Instead, we were one of the few couples who actually danced to the lame orchestra.  While we danced, he held me close enough for me to notice he had an erection.  I glanced up at him and saw him blush.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Fred, I take it as a compliment,” I whispered to him.

He whispered back, “Oh Carmen, I couldn’t help it if I tried.  It’s been so long…and you’re the most fantastic woman I’ve danced with since…”

I cut him off, whispering, “Ssh, I understand.  Thinking of your wife is the most natural thing for you to do, and it shows me how much of a loving man you are.  You’re pretty fantastic too, even for a chemistry wiz.”

“I wish this evening could go on forever, though I’m sure your husband would object.”  He tried to make it sound light hearted, but the yearning came through.

“You’d be surprised,” I muttered, which drew a quizzical look from him.

We danced, speaking no more.  You might say I encouraged his erection through my proximity.  When the music stopped, I chuckled watching him attempt to walk and not show his bulge.  No one was looking anyway.

We sat at an empty table, and I said, “You want that long lost date with me?  Take me home with you.”

He looked stricken.  “Wow, I can’t believe you said that.  Wow,” he exclaimed again as he thought about all the consequences of my very blunt proposal.  “You know I want to.  Oh yes I want to, but I can’t be that impulsive.  I mean, I’d be thinking about your husband all the while, you know, and that it would be cheating, and I never cheated on my wife.”

I didn’t want to lose eye contact as I answered, “What if it’s what I want, and Joe said it was okay?”

“I don’t know…”

“When you DO know, give me a call.  Don’t wait too long though; your date window may expire.”  I pulled a business card from my purse.  He gave me one of his in return.  I was happy to see that his office was close by, for up until now that was my chief worry, that he lived too far away for me to have any hope of seeing him again.

I didn’t speak with Fred the remainder of the party.  Even after having such a wonderful time, I went home morose and self-pitying.  My sullen mood failed to dissipate as I thought about my husband’s too-quick capitulation.  That had really hurt.  I’d heard the word cuckold used before, but did it now apply to Joe?  Did he not care enough about me and our marriage vows to fight for me, or even get jealous?  He seemed to have simply given up.

It took exactly four days for Fred to call.

“I missed talking to you the rest of the reunion, you know,” he said.  “I had a wonderful time, and I’m sorry I spoiled it for you at the end.”

“You didn’t spoil anything, Fred.  I shouldn’t have pushed my marital woes on you like that, so I should be the one apologizing.”

He laughed lightly, “That sounded just like how Kathleen and I would talk, each trying to outdo the other with our apologizing, no matter who was at fault.”

My heart grew heavy.  I wanted him.  If he said to come over, I’d go to him and fuck him silly.  But the ghost of his wife would always be there, hovering above us.  Could either of us get over that?  I wanted so desperately to try.  I needed it; the warmth, since Joe and I were stone cold.  We slept together, but our bed could’ve easily been an iceberg.

“The date offer still stands,” I said.  “I’d like one.”

We ended the call without a commitment.

My dreams weren’t just about Fred, but included much of the spontaneity, and yes, the danger of my early bad-boy couplings.  In my dreams everything imaginable was done to me, and I enjoyed it all.  I’ve been told that men do the same thing; they gladly fuck the sex hungry slut, and then marry the virginal, “clean” girl.  News flash: gender didn’t matter.  I believe we want and need both; the heat of sex and the coolness of a faithful spouse.  We hardly ever find both, and therein lies the problem.

It was my turn to call Fred.  I basically didn’t allow him to say no.

He took me to dinner and then dancing.  Much of what we sparked at the reunion got rekindled.  While dancing, he got another erection.  I encouraged him, rubbing close.  I asked whether his daughter was home.  He said yes, but she would respect our privacy.  We were soon in his car and going to his home.

His daughter was a cute teen, and before looking at a single picture around the house I knew she took after her mom.  When I asked, he showed me a portrait photograph of him and his wife, Kathleen.  I was a little shocked to see the similarities in our looks.  If I redid my hair and wore my makeup a bit differently I could’ve passed myself off as her sister.  That was unnerving, as maybe he chose Kathleen as the virginal alternative to my unattainable high school slut.

I noticed some father-daughter unspoken communications going on, as perhaps she was giving him her approval, which got me wondering how much matchmaking she did.  Certainly if she didn’t want her father to date, I would’ve gotten a cold shoulder.  And, certainly, she hadn’t seen my wedding ring, which I slipped off as unobtrusively as possible after we arrived.

She went to bed, and soon afterwards we did too.

At first, Fred was so tentative he fumbled.  As I undressed, after letting him try, and failing, to remove my bra, it sunk in how all the high school angst of never getting up the courage to ask me for a date led him emotionally to this point in time.  This was up to me.

He tried to say something as I let first my bra then my panties fall to his bedroom floor.  I shushed him, saying, “Consider this meant-to-be, only twenty five years later.  Now you can make love to me.”

In keeping with his tall bodily proportion, he had a splendid cock.  I took him into my mouth.  His reaction had me wondering if Kathleen was the blow-job type.  Maybe she wasn’t, since it didn’t take long for him to hit the back of my throat with his hot, pent-up semen.

He tried to apologize, but I wouldn’t let him.  Instead, I coaxed him back to stiffness.  In the meantime, his hands and mouth roamed over my body, as if he were scanning me for future recall.  I welcomed everything, since I’d gone a while without this level of pure tenderness.

“Carmen, you are the most beautiful…” he muttered, incomplete in thought, fully distracted by what I imagined to be twenty five years of fantasies.  He was hard again, dripping plenty of pre-cum.

I said the words he probably dreamed of me saying, “Fuck me!”

“Do I need to wear a condom?” he asked sheepishly, “I don’t have any…”

“Don’t be silly.  I doubt I have anything to be worried about.”

He was a vanilla lover.  Missionary was the only thing on the menu.  When he entered me, I absently wondered if cunnilingus had been as foreign to his marriage as fellatio seemed to have been.  I urged him on, spurring his ass with my heels.  He thrust his hips wildly, and in less than a minute he was cumming.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh, Caaaaaarmennnnnnnn,” he moaned as he filled my as yet unfulfilled cunt.

Our chemistry equation was still a bit off, it seemed.  I chalked it up to not having sex in a while, and possibly that his wife had not been the orgasmic type and so his PE hadn’t mattered very much.  He sensed my frustration, and apologized.  “I’m sorry for cumming so soon, Carmen,” he said.  “If you let me have a next time, I’ll do better.”

I told him a next time was a distinct possibility.  I didn’t want to complicate things with his daughter, so I didn’t spend the night.  Before I left, I took a close look at the pictures of Kathleen; sizing up her looks and his attraction to them, wondering what kind of woman she’d been in and out of bed.  In other words sizing up the ‘competition.’  Maybe it was up to me to teach him a new trick or two.  I was the sex-on-the-edge girl, wasn’t I?

My tactic was playing hard-to-get.  I waited almost two weeks for him to build the courage to call me again.  We set up another date.  If my husband hadn’t petitioned to have his picture next to “cuckold” in the dictionary, I would have worried about stepping out once more.  I looked at myself in the mirror and began moving my hair this way and that until I simulated Kathleen’s hairstyle in the cherished photo.  I visited my stylist, and she did my hair in a near perfect facsimile.  We’d see what Fred’s reaction would be.

Besides the hair, I did my makeup, especially around the eyes, to get as close as I could to that photograph.  Perhaps as a direct challenge, a slap in the face one might call it; I had Fred pick me up at my house.  I wasn’t quite sure if Joe’s expression was one of anger or smoldering resignation, but he kept silent as I sashayed out the door.

When I entered his car, Fred was speechless.  The hair and makeup must have been dead on.  He took me to the fanciest restaurant in town.  I didn’t have to be a genius to know that it must have been his and Kathleen’s special place.  He babbled on about how great I looked, and I wondered if what I’d done only registered in his sub-conscience.  I hinted that if he took me home, he’d get lucky.

The shocked look on his daughter’s face when I showed up at their door brought me close to regretting the hair and makeup.  I hadn’t thought of her.  She went to her room, and after having a glass of wine we went to his.

I sat him on the edge of the bed and did a slow strip tease.  By the time I slid my panties down to my ankles his bulge was extremely noticeable.  Naked, I moved to him and freed his cock from his pants.  Not wanting a repeat of his last oral quick-draw, I sucked him only for a short while, a tease, really.  Because I suspected that his late wife hadn’t been the oral type, I knew I was blurring the role I decided to play.  Whether I should’ve been playing the role at all only bothered me for a second.

I helped him out of the remainder of his clothes and we slid into bed.  The whimsy in which I decided to play-act as Kathleen suddenly turned into something else, like a chemical reaction running amok.  The old chemistry whiz succumbed to a catalyst too strong to be ignored.  I felt his heat, and its convection into me was inevitable.

He slid into my wet vagina with a gleam in his eye that had been missing the first time.  A few tentative thrust quickly turned into righteous humping.  In this elemental chemical reaction, electrons broke their ionic bonds and spun out of their orbits and into the void, creating new matter.  The raw act changed us both.  He was fucking his wife again.  I came first.

“Ohhhhhhhhhh Freddddddddddddddddd,” I crooned as the wave washed over me, taking me away.

He groaned, and with a shudder of his own unloaded deep within me.  It was a baby-maker cum if ever I felt one, I thought.  Birth control should never be an afterthought, especially at my age.  Now the thought crept into my mind, though not for long as the still-tumescent Fred was beginning round two.  We morphed into several different positions that had me reassessing Kathleen’s agility.  He had me cumming and cumming and I completely lost track of where I was and who I was with.

He lost track too, for the predictable happened and he whispered her name as he came again.  True to my acting role, I spent the night in his—their—bed.

I awoke in the morning to sounds of a heated father-daughter discussion.

Daughter: “…how come she looks like Mom?”

Father: “She doesn’t.  Maybe the memory of your mother has faded…”

Daughter: “How can you SAY that, Dad?”

You get the idea.  I tuned out the rest, figuring that was between them.  I showered, dressed and with a kiss and a promise, I went to work.  Fred called me later in the day.  He couldn’t wait to see me again.  I knew I was playing with fire, but when it comes to sex, I’d been burned before.  Chemistry—always chemistry.

Not wanting to cause more problems for him, I had Fred book a hotel room for our next ‘date.’  Once there, I grasped his ardor.  Maybe it was the hotel room; I sensed he flashed back to his wedding night.  I was ambivalent about continuing the charade, yet I let it unfold anyway.   He was prepared for missionary.  I gave him cowgirl.  I read the discord in his eyes; his precious Kathleen never acted wantonly like that.  I rode him until he came, wide-eyed and grunting.  I kept riding.  This one was for me.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” I wailed as the big one hit.

He stayed hard.  I wondered, not for the first time, how vocal his wife had been, since he always reacted quite noticeably to my orgasmic cries.  I wanted another, the Big One I hadn’t had in a long time.  I was Carmen, not Kathleen, and my needs were different.  No amount of play-acting could change that.  I grabbed his hands and moved them to my throat as I kept fucking him.

“Yes, do it,” I said.  “Choke me.”

He tried to pull his hands away.  I wouldn’t let him.  “I…can’t.”

“YES…YOU…CAN,” I nearly shouted.  He tried but his heart wasn’t in it.  After all, Kathleen never did that.  I squeezed his hands together.  “Please…do…it…please,” I begged.

Something triggered him to comply.  His hands closed around my throat, tighter than I expected.  I needed it that way—tight, forceful, and threatening.  I bounced wildly upon his cock, anchored to him by the clenching hands at my throat.  I grew light-headed, all the blood seeming to go to my clit instead.  Just before I passed out, I got what I wanted, the Big One.  The orgasm whipped through me.  Even while my screams died in my constricted throat, the rest of my body screamed instead.  The last of my convulsions may have been in a dream.  I would never know.

When I came to, he was hovering over me.  “Are you okay?” he asked, genuine fear in his eyes.  He probably thought he’d killed me.

I laughed.  “Of course I’m okay.  That was the best damn orgasm I’ve had in years.”

Oops, Kathleen never talked that way either.  He said, “Oh…wow…I guess…you had me worried, that’s all.”  His expression was one of dissonance rather than worry.

I cuddled up to him and said, “Now you see the bad girl you always wanted to date.  That’s the way I’ve always wanted it.  Rough.  Can we do it again?”  I went down on him, not waiting for his answer.

After I got him hard again, he was different.  Maybe his wife hadn’t been the adventurous lover, but now he had a taste, and it tasted good.  We did it doggie.  I pulled a pillow case from one of the bed pillows and twisted it around my neck.  He took its ends like reins and pounded into me.  It was during my third orgasm that I lost consciousness.

I returned to consciousness to find him hard and wanting more.  I’d unleashed the beast.  We used whatever we could find as bindings to tie me spread eagle to the bed.   The ‘new’ Fred, the wicked Fred, took his time and had me crying like a baby.  The orgasms came loud and furious.  I lost track of time.

It was well into morning when I begged him.  “I’ve been bad!  Punish me!  Fuck me in the ass!  Make me hurt!  Please!”

My prince becoming a satyr, he hogtied me, and using some hotel conditioner as lubricant he opened me up.  The worst part—or the best, since tonight everything was relative—was that since my hands were tied, I couldn’t do anything to quell the yearning of my hungry clit.  Like being unable to scratch an itch, while he fucked my ass I couldn’t do a damn thing about the aching at the other hole.  The soap-like conditioner burned, but not any more so than my stretched and battered sphincter did.  The result was that this time I had an excruciatingly long ramp up to orgasm, so when it finally hit, it was a tsunami and I was overwhelmed.  My cry was part moan, part yell, part squeal—and all throbbing bliss.

The molecular bonds were broken.  I may have been his old chemistry partner in crime, but I wasn’t his Kathleen.  To me, it was an end to my little hair-and-makeup experiment, and the return of edgy sex so long missing in my life.  To him, it was liberating, opening up the sexual possibilities that were apparently dormant in his married life.

Sore for all the right reasons, I went home.  Friday night turned into Saturday morning as it had for eons.  After spending nights in another man’s bed, I didn’t expect Joe to be belligerent.  He wasn’t.  His resignation was palpable, and it made me angry; just the catalyst required to trigger a chemical explosion.

“How come you’re not pissed off, Joe?” I demanded.  “Don’t you want to hit me?  Strangle me?  No?”  I barely got a response.  “I just had the orgasm of my life, Joe.  Fucked right up the ass, Joe.”

“Do you want a medal?” he said.

“No, I want you to care.  Like that old Cheap Trick song we both loved, I want you to want me.”

“I’ve always wanted you, Carmen.  You know that.”

“Maybe, but not the way I want you to.”

“I suppose I knew that going in to this marriage.  Maybe I’m just surprised it took twenty years for this to happen.  You want a divorce?”

“You know what I want, Joe.  It’s what I’ve always wanted ever since puberty hit me.  It’s not a divorce.”

“Well, why don’t you go see Frank or Fred or whatever his name is, and get rougher still?  Anal, huh?  I thought you needed much more than that.”

Sounded like a great idea.  Though still sore from last night’s intensity, I called Fred and told him I wanted him again.  He got his daughter out of the house and I drove right over.  Once his sexual electrons went rogue, he participated with relish.  I gathered as many improvised sexual aids as I could from around the house.  A belt was a whip.  A bathrobe sash was a tie down.  His underwear turned into a gag.

He tied me to his bed and gagged me.  Over twenty five years of built up frustrations and fantasies bubbled to his surface.  He whipped and dominated me.  Neither hole was neglected.  When his cock wilted, the vegetable bin got raided.  I came a million times.

After several hours, I asked him, “Did you ever dream it would be like this?”

“No way!  My wildest imagination never traveled into these territories.  Honestly, I’ve never been with a woman who climaxed like that.”

I wanted to ask about his wife, but I needed to let that curiosity fall by the wayside.  Instead, I tried valiantly to get him up again.  Alas, he was spent, and maybe I was too.

When I got home Joe wasn’t there.  I set about doing some long neglected household chores.  The activity helped, yet I couldn’t quite escape the yearning in me that now was fully awakened.   I’d spent over twenty years sublimating my sexual chemistry.  Ah yes, chemistry; how many people know that fire is a chemical reaction?  The school reunion reignited the fire and now the flames were consuming me.  I let them burn me to the core.  Throughout the rest of the day I dug out toys from hiding places and masturbated furiously.  In between sessions of self-abuse, I contemplated my future, though no clear image appeared in my crystal ball.

When Joe finally came home, he was drunk.  The day’s orgasmic rush must have been etched on my face, for Joe exploded with pent-up rage.  “You’ve been fucking all this time?  Has he been here, in our bed?” he bellowed.  I didn’t want to fight, but clearly he did.  The first blow was a slap across the face.  “You always talked about how you liked it rough back then.  How’s this for rough?”  He slapped me again.  “Did Freddie-boy hit you?”  Slap.  “Did he rough you up before he fucked your ass?”  Slap…

I didn’t fight back.  I let him take all his frustrations out on me.  I let him, that is, until the unstable electrons of my atomic self blithely left their orbits, as I knew they would.  “Don’t slap…me anymore…on the…face; spank me instead…if I’ve been bad.”

I turned my back to him and dropped my pants.  When I glanced at him over my shoulder, he was leering at me.  I had unleashed another beast.

I was abused by my own husband.  I let him.  I suppose those statements are contradictory, but that’s how I would dissimulate the entire act.  He ripped my clothes off before removing his own.  His belt came out of its loops and was used for a different purpose.  The pain didn’t last long.  My tears either.  Slowly I turned numb, so when he penetrated my anus I didn’t even flinch.  This wasn’t chemistry, it was alchemy; my elements had transmuted into something else, something from which my old composition would never return.  Like turning gold into lead.  He grunted at the moment of release.  This time his strike was a punch, not a slap.  A few more and I slipped into dreamland.

I awoke bruised and battered beyond anything I’d experienced before.  I hurt all over.  However, no bodily pain could match the psychological one.  That hurt went much deeper.  That hurt really hurt.  I cried for what was lost.  I cried with regret for what was regained; the chemical soup that was my perverse sexuality.

After I’d spoken with him at the reunion, my first boyfriend Ron had slipped me a piece of paper with his number on it.  I’d walked away from him then but now was a different time with different needs.  I called him, “Hey Ron, this is Carmen.  You free?”

His answer told me he would always be free for me.  I told him what I wanted.  The woman who accompanied him to the reunion was about to be jettisoned; no longer his girlfriend.  He gave me directions to his place.  I packed my things and filled my car before driving across the state to where Ron lived.  He met me at the door with an array of bondage toys, never saying a word or asking about my bruises.

I got undressed and he guided me toward a room that once had probably been a game room but was now his playroom.  He fastened me into an apparatus hanging from the ceiling.  The sweet torture soon commenced.  He used many tools to tickle and torture my aching clit until my stifled scream vibrated from around the ball gag.  My restrained legs kicked so violently during the exhilarating orgasm that I thought I dislocated an ankle.  The pain bothered neither of us.

He finally undressed himself, his fantastically long cock standing out there in supreme anticipation, just as I fondly remembered it.  He repositioned the chains of the apparatus to further expose his target, and then his cock hit the bull’s-eye.  No sooner had he begun to thrust than I began to cum.  And cum, and cum.  Whether he came or not, I couldn’t tell.

I moved in with Ron.  We didn’t have sex for a while until I healed sufficiently enough to be hurt again.  When we used his special room once more, he hooked up a noose-like attachment to the gear.  It was like a controlled hanging.  Each time we used it I had the greatest of orgasms moments before losing consciousness.  My chemistry had achieved equilibrium.

Ron would whisper in my ear, “This time you’re never gonna wake up, bitch.  This orgasm is your last, so you better enjoy it.”

I did.

Then I awoke.

Again.

Pain.

And pleasure.

Another climax.

My old specialty: Chemistry.

 

The End

Originally published as a Kamilla Murphy book © 2011, 2017

 

 

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