("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
                     `6_ 6  )   `-.  (     ).`-.__.`)
                     (_Y_.)'  ._   )  `._ `. ``-..-'
                    _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
                   ((('   (((-(((''  ((((
                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
		_________________________________________
		                WARNING!
		This text file contains sexually explicit
		material. If you do not wish to read this
		type of literature, or you are under age,
		PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
		_________________________________________




			Scroll down to view text


















--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2006.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  All rights reserved. Thank you for your 
consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------

Bad Advice
by Ardent (ardentsuitor@gmail.com)

***

This story is about a past girlfriend. You learn from 
everyone you meet, but you don't know what the lesson 
will be. This one was about busting romantic delusions. 
(MF, voy, oral, anal)

***

I watched my girlfriend get fucked in the ass today. By 
another guy. A guy she didn't like, and one I didn't 
care for either. The "Creep," as she called him. It 
wasn't as painful to watch as I thought it'd be. I was 
surprised that I found it erotic at all. I was very 
surprised. It brought out feelings that I didn't know 
were there. It was another side of my girlfriend that 
I'd never seen before. 

It was definitely more painful for her than it was for 
me. He was rough with her, but I think it was the 
misogyny more than the sadism that got to her 
emotionally. She probably hated every minute of it or 
she loved it -- in that sick way where you think you 
deserve it or that you've just got-to--have-it. 
Probably, a little of both. I don't know. She didn't 
let on. She barely said a word. 

As we walked back to our cars tonight I didn't say 
anything either. I thought a whole lot, but I kept it 
to myself. I didn't know what to say, so it was best 
not to say anything. She said nothing, but her silence 
was louder than words. She usually had a comment for 
everything. She was obviously thinking about what had 
happened. She was always very astute in her 
observations, so it made me pay close attention when 
she said, simply,

"I didn't think that would ever happen again." 

Alarm bells went off in my head. Confusion reigned. I 
wanted to say, "Again? You mean, you've done that 
before?" But I knew better. It was always better not to 
pry. Let things unfold with her. No matter how close we 
had become, she was always circumspect with me. A very 
private person. Besides, I sensed -- no -- I saw, that 
she was deeply embarrassed. She just wanted to get 
home.

As we went our separate ways tonight, she back to her 
husband, me to my wife, I thought: My relationship with 
her has changed forever. I knew her well enough to know 
that she'd worry about that, too, except that she 
undoubtedly had more on her mind than just that. She 
had to face her husband, and, literally, she had that 
foul taste of cock in her mouth. There hadn't been any 
wine to wash it away -- she wouldn't like that – and, 
her sore butt-hole was surely calling for her to get 
home as fast as possible. 

She wanted to recuperate in the bathtub. We'd fucked 
like that before, but gently, and only after she was 
fully aroused, and with lots of lube, and always when 
there was a bathtub in the motel room. This bastard 
hadn't wined her and dined her. He had used her like 
whore, in the bathroom at the pub, in front of her 
friends (well, while they were close by) and he had 
literally laughed out loud at the sight of her on her 
knees as I scrambled to get her clothes back on before 
anyone came in. 

I had contemplated leaving her right there in the 
bathroom. I don't know why I stayed to watch. I had 
been given my cue to leave. Initially, I was sick to my 
stomach, but as I said, it brought out a new side of me 
that was surprisingly cool and detached. As it turned 
out, it was crueler of me that I had stayed. To see her 
in that state -- what she later described as, "a dumb 
fuck with cockbreath and a sore butt," that was more 
unkind to her than what he had done with her, she said. 
She could have pushed it out-of-mind, had she been 
alone, but, because I was there, she couldn't escape 
the reality of it.

As I drove home, I had to backup and think, "How the 
hell did I get here?" I don't mean the affair. Plenty 
of people have affairs. Sometimes you get closer with 
the people you work with than with your spouse or the 
kids at home. Although she didn't have kids, I knew she 
probably questioned her choice for spouse and that she 
was looking for someone else, otherwise, why would she 
have said, "Yes," to me? I had often wondered if our 
affair was just a first step outside her marriage. I 
had guessed that she'd eventually leave me for someone 
else before she knew the answer to her questions. I 
didn't think it would be him though, arrogant creep 
that he was. 

So the aftermath of her... well... let me think, you 
couldn't call it rape. I was privy to it all and, as 
much as I detested his methods, he was clear in his 
intent. She had countless opportunities to bail out. 
She never once tried to stop anything. On the other 
hand, she looked mesmerized from start to finish. We 
had always joked that she lost all blood to the brain 
when we fucked. She responded to him no differently 
than to me, despite a world's difference in intent. He 
had just wanted to break her, and he did. 

At first she wouldn't respond to email and telephone 
calls. I thought, well maybe, that she was shell-
shocked. And, I also knew from past experience that she 
got reclusive for days at time anyway -- and at the 
drop of the hat, too. But this time, for once, I knew 
what had precipitated it, and it got me paranoid: What 
about those other times when she became reclusive? Had 
this happened before? Is that what she meant? Anyway, 
she didn't have to work for another four days, thank 
God. I didn't expect she could face her peers -- or him 
-- so soon. I wouldn't be able to, if I were in her 
shoes. But why was she avoiding me? She could talk to 
me, and she wasn't going to be confiding in her 
husband, that was for sure! 

I had never been there before, but I knew her schedule, 
and his, so I boldly knocked on her door. She wouldn't 
let me in – you know, something about violating the 
sanctity of the house, etc. -- but it got her to go 
out. That's when she said,

"I can't see what you see in me. Sometimes, you make me 
feel like the biggest slut in the world. Not when we're 
fucking -- then it feels good to let out the whore 
that's in every woman -- but it's... well, other times. 
You can be so naοve."

I didn't understand a thing she was saying, but I knew 
it was important. I knew I didn't understand something 
about her that I should understand. I knew our 
relationship was changed. Maybe it was over. And it had 
something to do with me being naive. I plowed on, 
bravely -- stupidly, actually. I asked, rhetorically, 
"What's happening to us?" She showed no interest in 
coming down to my level. No interest at all. Just when 
it sounded like she was going to explain, she said, to 
herself, more than to me,

"He abused me."

Well, yeah, I thought, obviously. But, wait! Hadn't she 
said that before, just the other day? And, the way she 
said it was peculiar. The alarm bells were going off 
again. What was it? The "HE" sounded like it was in 
capital letters. It meant not just him, the Creep, but 
"HIM," the archetypal abuser. The way she said "abused" 
alarmed me, too. It sounded like it was more than just 
sexual. Power was involved. I knew it! She had said 
that about him the day before. Before he had even 
touched her that night, she was abused.

Anyway, she couldn't have gone to work given the shape 
she was in. I could see that now. I wondered what her 
husband thought. She wasn't saying much. That was 
unlike her. She stared in a fixed gaze, and she kept 
her arms folded against her stomach. She usually shook 
off feelings quickly, or covered them up with that 
gorgeous smile and musical laugh. Now, it looked like 
she had stayed in her bathrobe all day. The shift she 
had thrown on was unflattering. She didn't care. He had 
really gotten to her. I had not expected that. Where 
was the strong woman that could hold her own against 
any guy? I broke my rule, and I asked her that very 
question, and she said,

"It's happened before."

I was beginning to feel sick and weak in the knees. I 
shouldn't have asked. She was saying very little, but I 
was hearing more than I wanted to know. I knew what she 
meant: that other creep. The first boyfriend. And I was 
beginning to get paranoid again. Or was there something 
more recent? I wanted to ask how long this had been 
going on, how many times, when, where, and by whom? But 
for now, I was just going to keep my questions to 
myself. I wasn't going to say a thing. After all, I'd 
already given her bad advice. I had no right to pry. 
And the Creep had basically told me the same thing that 
night: I had no right. The way she talked to me now 
simply reaffirmed that I had no right.

I left her that day still unsure of what it meant for 
the future, but I was thinking: it can't be good. I 
left understanding what she had been talking about a 
few days earlier, though. I knew now that I had 
underestimated the gravity of what had happened at 
work. She had told me about her unhappy day at work, 
and I had, unintentionally, given her bad advice. 
That's happened before. Let's face it, I can be an 
idiot, but this time the consequences astounded even 
me. 

We both worked at the hospital, and we had become 
friends over lunch times. She talked about her 
residency; I about my research. She talked about her 
friends; I bitched about my colleagues. I knew her 
professors, and most of the resident advisors, 
including "The Creep." During the discussion of her 
workday upset, she had piqued my curiosity when she 
said in a surprisingly matter-of-fact tone,

"He abused me." 

Of course, I thought she was exaggerating, that it was 
just some hyperbole for dramatic effect. But she 
reiterated it. She said it solemnly, like she was 
acknowledging that she had been bested by an adversary 
to whom she was obliged to pay due respect. I 
questioned that. She seemed to agree, at first, and 
then she said,

"I don't respect what he had did -- I know that was out 
of line."

Right! So why would she put up with it? She prided 
herself on knowing how to put guys in their place with 
feminine sarcasm that effectively withered a guy's egos 
and shrunk their penis to the bone. Apparently, it 
hadn't worked on him. (Later, I realized: she had never 
had a chance with him in the first place.) She said,

"It was better just to take it and get it over with." 

Now, this wasn't like her at all. I didn't understand. 
Later, she demonstrated exactly what she meant by 
during her scene in the bathroom, she had just taken 
it, but at the time of our discussion she had simply 
demurred when I said that she was capable of handling 
herself with guys in the workplace. She said,

"I tried, but the attending physician ignored me, and 
the rest of the residents were sheep while The Creep 
took control of the show."

So, I thought, they pretended it wasn't happening while 
he dished out his ugly treatment on my girlfriend. That 
sucks, I said, but I reminded her that, although it was 
unfair, it was not uncommon to mistreat the residents, 
to which she said, 

"Yes, but not this much." 

She wasn't being specific. She wasn't being emotional 
about this. This was strange. I thought, I want to know 
more, but I just wasn't getting it. I was beginning to 
think that there was more going on here than I wanted 
to know. It was the first time I got that sick-to-the-
stomach feeling. As it turned out, she gave me the 
whole account, anyway. She said, in a bland tone of 
voice that was uncharacteristic of her,

"He asked us to consider a list of symptoms in a 50-
year old, overweight male, with bulging stomach and 
abdominal pain. He suggested an enema prep and he asked 
– no -- he handed me the syringe and bag and gestured 
to the hook above. I lifted the nightgown, but there 
was nowhere in that mass of flesh to get at it. He 
said, 'You've done this before. Go for it.' I said, I 
hadn't. He said, 'You're a nurse, of course you have.' 
I told him that I'd never been a nurse in my life! He 
said, 'Well, you've had plenty of experience with these 
at home. Girls like you don't stay that thin without a 
little binging and purging.' I said, 'Not me!' 'Well, 
go for it girly,' he said. 

"My face was burning red, but I channeled my energy 
into heaving on the guy's buttocks, lifting one cheek 
high enough to get the syringe in. To my surprise -- 
and disgust -- his anus got larger than the syringe, 
and he farted, practically in my face. When the chief 
resident laughed, they all laughed at me. The doctor 
looked perturbed, but he said nothing. I hated his look 
more than the laughter. 

"I was setup, and I felt like a fool -- obviously the 
guy was bloated with gas. I didn't hear the rest of 
what The Creep said until I heard my name called 
repeatedly. He was telling me to practice at home, but 
not to get too sore. I started to say, 'Okay,' but 
stopped because I hadn't digested what he had said. I 
had said enough though, because it brought further 
gales of laughter from the other residents. The rest of 
the day was a blur."

What an ugly day, I thought. We had met that night 
after work, and, at first, she had seemed her normal 
self. But after I had described my day, and she had 
described that ugly scene, she had made that haunting 
comment: 

"He abused me."

It was the dead-panned manner that was so unlike her. 
And she had added,

"At some point, I just took it and let it happen 
because he wasn't going to stop." 

That was not like her. She loathed the fact that some 
women fell for the myth of male superiority. There was 
no way she was going to tolerate being called "girl." I 
had suggested that she needed to get back on the horse, 
so to speak, and to show her fellow residents and "The 
Creep" that he hadn't gotten to her. That was my first 
bad advice. It was bad because she took it. She went to 
work the next day, and that night, Friday, we were to 
meet after work for drinks with her fellow residents. 

That's when it got even uglier. We walked in, trying 
not to look conspicuously like a couple, but rather as 
colleagues. We probably didn't fool anybody. They were 
already there, but -- surprise -- he was there, too. 
His back was to us, and he was regaling the residents 
with stories. The sound of his voice made her freeze in 
her tracks. I tripped over her, and she half-fell to 
her knees – that was the first time that night that she 
was on her knees before him -- and that drew his 
attention. And then it began. He shouted out her name. 

He greeted her grandly and he ignored me. He grabbed 
her bare arm, encircling it tightly with his hand, and 
he jerked her up from the floor and toward the bar. She 
was still recovering from nearly tripping, and she 
hadn't time to say a word before he had put a martini 
glass in her hand.He made a toast:

"After a week of rounds, all I can say is, 'Bottoms 
up!'" 

I thought to myself, what? A bad joke? An adolescent 
reference to 'bottoms' during a toast? Obviously, a sly 
reference to her encounter with the patient. How fast 
this guy moves. But, wait! He kept his finger under the 
stem of the martini glass and she had to down the whole 
thing before he let her rest it on the bar. He ordered 
another. My girlfriend is a lightweight. She couldn't 
legally drive after one, and now she was starting on 
another. 

I counted three, but she couldn't finish the third. By 
that time we were all sitting at a table. She sat 
between me and "The Creep." We were against the wall of 
the booth, crowded on all sides by the rest. There was 
lots of loud talking and joking. I hadn't realized it, 
but she hadn't said a word. Not one word the whole 
time. I had barely kept track of the conversation, but 
I thought that I caught references to the incident with 
the patient. I wasn't sure. I was more certain of it, 
however, when my girlfriend leaned over and said 
something to me. She said,

"Let's go." 

I didn't want her to leave feeling defeated. I wasn't 
sure where she was at, and I asked her, discreetly, was 
it because of him? She said, 

"Yes." 

That's when I gave her more bad advice. I said 
something to the effect, stand up for yourself. She 
turned to him and said, 

"You're a prick." 

It would have brought utter silence to the entire 
table, but his rejoinder was immediate.

"If I'm such a prick, why has my hand been up your cunt 
for the last ten minutes?" 

Followed by, "Take a look." 

He said that to no one in particular, but the nearest 
resident, another woman, pulled the tablecloth back and 
said, "Eww!" Others craned their necks, but they 
couldn't see. Unfortunately, I could see, and it was 
clear that his hand had probably not budged in ten 
minutes, and that his fingers still hadn't retracted 
from her cunny. The female resident's date stood up to 
get a look, but she told him that it was time to dance. 
Then everyone vanished from the table. I thought we'd 
be leaving at that point, but he was pulling my 
girlfriend from the booth saying, 

"Let's dance." 

My girlfriend doesn't dance – ever -- but she was 
dancing with "The Creep" before you knew it. Actually, 
he was holding her up, and he was swinging her around. 
She has no strength in her legs when she's aroused, and 
she had that that mesmerized look that meant... oh 
God... that she was very aroused!

The fucking followed the dance, and they hadn't danced 
very long. He moved her down the hallway. What-the-fuck 
is he doing, I thought? He leaned her against him, and 
he leaned against a door, and then they were gone. I 
was over there in a flash. But it wasn't an outside 
door. It was the men's room! She was slumped against 
him half-standing, half-leaning. He flashed a look at 
me and said, 

"You can have your girlfriend in a moment, when she's 
done. Don't look surprised. I've seen the way you look 
at her. Don't worry. I'm not romantic. Just horny, and 
I like married sluts -- so do you, I fancy." 

Busted! He continued talking to me – no – he was 
goading me.

"That's the code: You're not married to her, and you 
have no more claim than me. So bug off." 

I should have left. I started to leave as he banged his 
way through the stall door. It had barely closed when 
he had her dress slung over the doorframe. He shouted 
at her, 

"Lean forward!" 

She gasped audibly. I know the telltale sound when 
she's first penetrated. He yelled at her again, 

"Move forward! Stand up!" 

There was the sound of a slap, and another slap, and 
another. I panicked. 

"Stop it. Don't hurt her. She can't stand. Her legs are 
weak." 

It was true, but it sounded pathetic that I was coming 
to her rescue -- even to me. I realized -- after I had 
said it -- that there wasn't room between the door and 
the end of the stall for them both and that she was 
probably slumping down. In an instant, the door was 
open, and he slung her across his hip and onto the sink 
vanity. 

"Guard the door." 

His prick was erect. He had given me an order and I 
responded. I almost saluted. I guarded the door. Now I 
was abetting in my girlfriend's – well, whatever it was 
-- it wasn't rape. She looked at me. I looked at her. 
It was pathetic. She was just waiting for him to get 
back inside of her. To, "get it over with," as she 
later said. At that instant, I thought, fuck her! Let 
him fuck her! I was mad. 

I should have left, but I didn't. Even though he had 
just put her on the sink, he just as rapidly pulled her 
off, and in a blink she was kneeling in front of his 
prick. He looked at me. It was a look of rebuke, like, 
I should've been watching the door. Instead, I was 
watching him poke his cock into my girlfriend's mouth. 
I know her, and I know she knows how to handle a cock. 
She knows how not to get choked. Her hand was around 
the base of his cock in a flash. I thought: the Bitch! 
She's more alert than she looks, but he was even 
faster. He grabbed both of her arms near the shoulder 
and he forced them back. She had to let go. I could see 
his grip was too hard. I said, 

"Don't hurt her, she bruises easily." 

Oops. I was betraying my familiarity with her again. He 
sneered, 

"Too late for that, isn't it? See this?" 

He didn't mean his prick, which hadn't stopped it's in 
and out movement in my girlfriend's head. No, he had 
taken his hand off one arm, 

"She'll have a tattoo of finger prints here for sure." 

He laughed, again. I thought: Yeah, she'd have been 
bruised even from the moment you grabbed her when we 
entered the bar, but I didn't say it. He continued 
speaking, never stopping the mouth-fucking. He was 
speaking to me, as if she couldn't hear or, more 
likely, as if she didn't count. This, apparently, was 
between men; she was just a wet mouth.

"What's she going to do? She's used to lying to her 
husband." 

That was true, I thought. The Creep wasn't cuckolding 
me. We were both cuckolding her husband. Still, I 
thought, the bruises were going to be very hard to 
conceal. And another thought occurred to me: her throat 
was going to be really sore. We had never done it like 
that before. I didn't think she was capable of it. She 
gagged, she spluttered, and she coughed. But she never 
resisted, and she never said, "No." I thought, the 
fucking Bitch!

I should have left. But I didn't. What he did next 
surprised me and my girlfriend. Like a rag-doll, he 
slung her back on the sink vanity. She leaned her back 
against the mirror, and she immediately arched her 
back. She steadied herself by grabbing him around the 
neck, otherwise, the faucet would have jammed into the 
small of her back. But it made it look like an intimate 
scene. One buttock was in the sink. Her legs were 
splayed. One leg rested on the vanity, the other was in 
his arm over free air. She looked fuckable in that 
position, I thought. Posed like that, she would look 
fuckable to any man, anywhere, at anytime. 

And he did fuck her, but he went straight into her ass. 
My girlfriend made that "Uggh" sound that she makes 
when she's anally penetrated. She didn't close her 
eyes, but she wasn't looking anywhere. She got that 
look. What was it? A look of concern, passion, or 
reverie? I never knew. It was probably pain, or 
pleasure, or a combination thereof. She probably never 
knew either. She always went somewhere deep inside when 
we were doing it. Somewhere very far away, but she left 
a body that was oh so fuckable.

We had fucked that way before, but always with lots of 
lubrication and with me behind her. He had, what, one 
or two plunges in her cunt -- no doubt very wet -- and 
then lots of saliva from her mouth, and then he was up 
her butt while facing her. She never complained. She 
just squealed, mewled, and did lots of unlady-like 
grunting. At that moment I couldn't remember what she 
felt like the last time I had fucked her up the butt. 
What I was experiencing now was all visual and 
auditory. I was watching a pornographic scene. A woman 
used as an object. Just happened to be my girlfriend. 

He called her every ugly name in the book while he did 
her. Her cunt slurped and made gushy, swishy noises, 
except that it wasn't her cunt, it was her ass being 
used liked a cunt. He was giving her the sort of 
jackhammering fuck that I thought would have been 
impossible in an asshole. 

I thought, how could her butt get that loose? And it 
got looser, and looser. He moved in and out rapidly, 
and then he'd move slowly for a while. He was taking 
his time, as if savoring the feeling – or was he 
savoring the position he had put her in, enjoying her 
subjugation. He pulled out. She gaped. He went in, and 
a little fart erupted. Normally, a little pussy fart 
would have embarrassed the hell out of my girlfriend. 
We'd have to stop. She'd have to go to the bathroom, 
even thought she didn't need to go. But not tonight. He 
pumped. She slurped. He pumped, and she farted, and she 
got looser and looser. 

He called her more derogatory names. She didn't close 
her eyes. That bothered me. He came. It must have been 
big. Her eyes got big, and then they got bigger. I knew 
she must have been feeling him enlarge inside her as he 
came. She probably came, too. I could never tell for 
sure when she came. She usually laughed when she came, 
but not tonight. He pulled away and she nearly hit the 
floor, because he wasn't holding her up any longer, and 
she hadn't thought to steady herself. She couldn't have 
even if she had tried. She had no strength. It caught 
him by surprise. He wasn't anticipating it. It looked 
obscene and lewd. Her body slid between him and the 
sink, her face past his slimy cock. 

I thought in horror that he'd fuck her mouth again, but 
then his cock got entangled in her long hair. I mean it 
got very entangled. My girlfriend has very long, very 
curly hair, and his cock was buried in it balls deep. 
He tried to pull away, and she continued her destiny 
with gravity. He obviously didn't care that she was 
going to hit the floor. He needed to get his cock out, 
and now! He must have panicked, because he ripped it 
through her hair. I knew it must have hurt his cock, 
and I thought "Good!" but it wasn't him, it was my 
girlfriend that had yelped in pain. 

She hadn't reacted to the vigorous mouth-fucking and 
butt-fucking, but now she was responding to having her 
hair yanked. It woke her up, and she looked up. She was 
on the floor with that just-fucked-look. She looked up 
at him, and past him, she looked at me. Then it seemed 
to hit her, what she must have looked like. What she 
had just done. And she looked embarrassed. No, I wish 
it was just embarrassment. She looked ashamed. Deeply 
ashamed, and suddenly she looked very young, like a 
teenager. I thought, yeah, like a teenager caught 
having sex by a parent. It was ecstasy followed by 
shame and embarrassment. A confusing rush of feelings. 

She turned half around trying to get up on her knees, 
and it presented quite a sight to us or to anyone that 
might have walked in the door. She was very moist from 
ass to pussy. I knew she was trying to restore some 
sense of decorum and modesty, but her worst fear was 
realized. A fart. But not just any fart. A cum-filled 
stream that lasted an un-godly long time. I can only 
imagine her horror as she felt that involuntary release 
in front of us, and then the realization that it wasn't 
air, but that it was "The Creep's" copious ejaculate. 

He had her. He owned her. He had dumped more in her 
than I could ever imagine. And, now, he had her again, 
by remote control, even though he was halfway out the 
door. He had left a lot of himself in her, and it was 
flowing out of her beyond her control. It didn't give 
any sign of stopping. That's when he laughed. I think 
that laugh over the river of cum, got to my girlfriend 
more than ridicule the day before, more than the mouth-
fucking, and more from the embarrassing ass-fucking 
itself. The laugh, no, that sneer at her expulsion of 
his fluids, meant that she wasn't going to be the same, 
and I wasn't either. 

I remembered that it was a public bathroom when the 
door slammed following his abrupt departure. In an 
instant I grabbed her dress and tried to slip it over 
her, trying frantically to remember what went where. I 
almost slipped. Fuck! I thought. Someone's going to 
slip on this cum. I panicked. My mind raced. I wasn't 
going to clean it up! Still, the vision of someone 
inadvertently slipping and cracking their head loomed 
in my head. The Bitch! She should clean it up! That's 
what they do in the porno flicks, right? She'd be 
licking it off the floor. Reality set in. There was too 
much there. She wasn't a porn actress. She was a 
doctor. I thought, wouldn't it be ironic if her sexual 
escapade caused someone to slip and have brain damage?

But this wasn't a movie, and I was having real trouble 
pulling her dress over her hips. I got closer so that I 
could see what I was doing. I wish I hadn't. She 
smelled. Normally, I love the smell of her sex. Of our 
sex. But this wasn't our sex. This was HIS sex -- and 
her shit. She smelled musky, very, very musky. And I 
thought, shit! Her sense of smell is way more acute 
than mine, and that rank odor was unmistakable to me. 
And we had to walk through the bar and by her friends. 
I was mentally beating myself up for getting her into 
this. I was really concerned for my girlfriend. I had 
given her bad advice, and she had gotten fucked, and 
now she was about to run the gauntlet with her peers. 

It was mercifully fast. He wasn't there. Just a few of 
her friends, still hanging around. They looked at her. 
They knew, but they knew not to say anything. I'm sure 
they were embarrassed for her. I'm sure they'd noticed 
her absence, and her sudden return. There was no 
mistaking whom she had been with and, now, her legs-
together-shuffling walk meant she had been fucking. If 
they were astute enough, they'd have known that she had 
taken it up the ass. None of them were close enough to 
smell her, thank God. Now we were out the door and in 
fresh air. She had to drive her own car. I didn't want 
her to. I offered to drive, but that made her angry. I 
didn't know how she'd get into her house without 
detection. I told her I'd check on her tomorrow, but 
that didn't happen.

It was a couple of days before she'd let me see her, 
and that's when she said, again, in her own cryptic 
way. "He abused me." That royal "HE." I knew much 
better what it meant now than before. She had told me 
about "him," but not with this much detail. I knew her 
first sexual experiences were anal, but not much more. 

"He," was how she referred to her first boyfriend. She 
never used his name or called him anything else. They 
had both attended the same boarding school: a boy's 
school and a girl's school on the same campus. The 
administration reassured the parents that it wasn't 
coed, but my girlfriend described the place as a 
virtual rabbit hutch. He was a senior. She was a 
freshman. She never liked him; she had idealized him. 
He was a poet. He was British. He probably liked guys, 
and he was alcoholic. He didn't really like her; it's 
just that she wouldn't go away. He was probably afraid 
of her, like most of us are afraid of women -- if we're 
honest -- but she didn't know it back then. 

He didn't touch her, at first. They just read poetry 
together, and he drank. Eventually he said, 

"When I drink, I'm going to want to fuck you, and your 
mother won't let you have the pill. You can't trust 
condoms. You know what condoms are?"

She sort of didn't. 

"Shit! You know what fucking is?"

 She had nodded, but it wasn't convincing. 

"You fuck, right?"

That time she had shaken her head, "No."

"Well, I'm going to want to fuck you, and you're going 
to want to fuck me, so suck me off and I'll leave you 
alone. You do suck don't you?"

She had shaken her head, "No."

"Fuck! It's like this..."

He had thrust a finger between her lips.

"Only more like two fingers." 

He had added a second finger, and she had pulled away, 
and he put his hand behind her head so that she ended 
up bobbing back and forth on his fingers. When she told 
me that, I thought it was the most perverted thing I'd 
ever heard. He told her, 

"If you don't get me to cum in your mouth, I'm going to 
fuck you. So what you do is let me fuck your ass, that 
way you won't get pregnant, get it?"

She had looked at him dumbly. She hadn't said a word. 
He left her alone to ponder it, and she knew he was 
right. She heard of other girls doing that, but it 
seemed silly when she had heard of it. It was a long 
way from her clit to her anus. Even though she hadn't 
done it, she thought she'd rather have it in her cunt. 

But he did want to fuck her, and she wanted to fuck 
him. It became a ritual. A little poetry. Him forcing 
her head down to suck him off. He was alcoholic and he 
was shriveled in her mouth. By the time she had him 
hard, he was frustrated and he would pull off her 
panties. She used the spittle technique, she said, 
until she was in utter pain. Aroused first, and in pain 
second. Over and over. 

She hated it, she said, but he'd "prove" to her that 
that she wanted it more than he did." When he'd say 
that, she knew she was sunk. He just fingered her 
bunghole, and she'd opened right up, and it brought 
that first feeling of deep shame. He fucked her like 
that almost every time she came to see him. He never 
fucked her cunt, even though she was dying for it. She 
learned early on that he could tell from the gape in 
her ass whether she was in the mood or not, so she 
couldn't lie that she didn't want it. He'd call her 
whore, slut, and ass-fuck because she wanted an ass-
fucking. She began to associate deprecation with the 
afterglow of sex. 

And then fate intervened. He sobered up, and she found 
that he didn't have a very nice personality. She got 
another boyfriend, and they went through the same 
ritual, except that when it was time to fuck she smiled 
at him slyly and stuffed him up her ass. She said that 
he literally said, "Ow!" but that he came buckets of 
cum. 

The next time, he introduced her to lube, and then she 
came buckets of cum. From then on she was in heaven, 
and the guys were in heaven. She was never at loss for 
dates. That's when she got her self-confidence. That's 
when she got the ability to handle guys. Her roommate 
eventually noticed the activity, though, and she had 
asked her, incredulously, "Are they fucking you in the 
ass?" 

She was ashamed to have to admit it, but she had simply 
nodded, "Yes."

Her roommate was grossed out, but my girlfriend was 
used to ignoring the rumors and innuendo at school. She 
began to have vaginal sex, but she was imprinted on 
anal sex and she inwardly believed herself to be the 
"dumb ass-fuck" that her first boyfriend had labeled 
her. Actually, she was extremely smart, smarter than 
her first boyfriend. When she broke off with him, she 
brought a 6'3" jock to his room, and had the guy tell 
her boyfriend, "I love her and would pummel anyone that 
even looked at her cross-eyed." She hadn't even slept 
with the jock. He had just said it because she told him 
to say it, and her old boyfriend had gotten the message 
to leave her alone.

I guess all this went through her mind when The Creep 
had fucked her.I wondered: how did the Creep know her 
weakness? I had to hand it to him, he had read her like 
a book, and I hadn't. I hadn't been able to give her 
the degradation that she had been familiar with, and he 
had. Yeah, our relationship was changed forever, now. I 
envied her husband. He knew nothing of any of this. He 
probably enjoyed her the same as ever, and she him all 
the more, but it wasn't going to be the same for us 
after what I knew.

We stopped seeing each other, sexually that is. Now, it 
was just bumping into each other at work. She continued 
on as if nothing had ever happened. She completed her 
residency and got a good position. I doubt the chief 
resident left her alone during the remainder of the 
year -- I wouldn't have. In college, I once had a 
girlfriend that saw another guy. She had said, "Just 
for sex. Not like you and me." 

But, later, I noticed that she wasn't with him, but was 
with his friend, and later with another guy, and then I 
realized she was being passed around. I lost respect 
for her and I pulled out of the relationship, much to 
her surprise. I wondered if my current girlfriend was 
about to embark on a similar journey. Would she get 
passed around among the guys that like to use a cunt 
and move on? Or was she into it? I knew we were 
through, though. 

I was often tempted to pull down her lab coat to 
inspect her arms for bruises to prove it to myself, but 
I never had the nerve. She undoubtedly saw the mixture 
of sadness, pity, and contempt that I had for her when 
we interacted in the dining room, but she never gave a 
reaction back. After all, that's how she had made it 
through high school. Half the school back then must 
have known she was the campus ass-fuck – she had even 
seen it penciled on the wall of the dorm telephone – 
and, now, it wasn't going to be much different around 
the hospital thanks to The Creep. Nobody keeps a secret 
like that for long. 

Well, I thought: what had I learned from the 
experience? I knew for sure that I wasn't an alpha 
male, but I wondered just where was I in the pecking 
order? My experience with her made me wonder if I had 
ever had really known any of the women that I had been 
with. How many other women had secret lives that they 
could hide from their family, from their husbands, and 
from their lovers only to have it flash in neon lights 
to alpha males in the neighborhood? It hurt for a 
while. I licked my wounds, and then I realized that I 
could learn from experience. 

No, it didn't make me an alpha male, but now, when I'm 
on the prowl, so to speak, I'm on the lookout for the 
kind of woman that shows the subtlest sign of 
submission. And, I'll be there with her, at least while 
the alpha male is busy elsewhere, because I've learned 
to look for it in the least obvious place: strong 
women. 

END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 48