Every Picture Tells a StorybyMarieProvost©
How I got here...
Let me say right at the start that there is no actual sex in this story. Nothing goes on between my legs; it all takes place in my imagination, and that's probably the way it will always be, although when you're 57 year old you've seen and done enough things to realize that never is a bad word to use.
57 years old. Without question I'm the most sheltered woman that age on the planet, or at least that's the way I've felt ever since I came upon this website recently. Until my husband accidentally left this site on the computer, I didn't even know it existed.
When I slipped into the computer chair that morning and touched the mouse, the screen lit up and a whole new world opened up in front of me. It was a world that, while I probably knew was out there, was never curious enough to explore on my own.
There were thousands of stories there, so many that I didn't know where to start. I clicked on a title that seemed interesting, and found that was the only fascinating thing about it. I clicked on another, and then another. Some stories were better than others, and there must have been enough decent one to keep my interest.
Then, I clicked on one story with the title "Pretty Anna Upon Thames" and began to read it. The author seemed to have a good grasp of the English language so I read beyond the first couple of paragraphs.
There was a picture of a lovely woman in the body of the story, the woman who was the title character of the tale, and what a tale it was! She was an older woman, not my age but older than the young man who was the other star of the story.
His name was Blaine, and he was a young black man - so young that at first Anna wasn't sure he was old enough to her to be thinking about in the manner she was. As the story went on, I found myself getting more and more aroused, until by the end of the tale my face was practically on top of the computer screen.
The Blaine character caught my attention. So confident and charming, he had won Anna over effortlessly, and as he dazzled the woman with his lovemaking techniques, I found myself trying to imagine what it would be like to be with a young lad like Blaine.
Some of the things that went on in the story - I knew they were just added to make it more erotic. The part where Blaine actually contorts himself so that he can perform fellatio on himself - that clearly was insane. No man could do anything like that. It had to be anatomically impossible.
All of the references to his penis seemed to be wildly exaggerated as well. While it was true that over the last 34 years or so, my experience has been extremely limited, back in my college days I was a little wilder and had seen my share of dicks. I knew they varied in size quite a bit, but the way that this Blaine was described made him out to be some sort of Superman.
As I finished the story, my mind went back to an incident many years ago, back when our marriage was on the rocks and I was beginning to wonder whether or not to divorce my husband.
He had been caught cheating on me. The long hours he had been putting in at work had apparently included fucking an underling on the desks and anywhere else they could find. What made it worse was the fact that I knew the woman. She and her husband had socialized with us several times, and when I found out about it I was stunned. Why would this woman be interested in my husband?
She was beautiful. Blonde and vivacious, and so voluptuous that she was almost like a caricature, with breasts that seemed to perfect to be real, but were, most likely. What did she see in my husband?
My husband was like me. An ordinary, white bread guy who had just turned 40 along with me, and while I found him attractive, I was prejudiced. I loved the guy, or at least I did until I found about about him and Joni.
I didn't touch the man for over a year while he made every effort to make things right. The other couple had already gotten divorced and the woman had left town, and that idea was looking good to me. Just throw the bum out and be a single mother with 2 kids.
I began to go out with some of my co-workers a couple of night a week while my contrite husband babysat. Mostly we would just go shopping and hit a bar for a drink or two before heading home, although once in a while our younger colleagues would drag us old fogies out to a dance club.
I had stopped wearing my wedding ring about that time, putting it safely away while I decided what to do with my life, so when guys would start hitting on me in this place, it wasn't like they knew I was still attached, although I don't think that they would have given a damn one way or another. These guys just wanted to fuck.
That wasn't me. I had only had intercourse with 3 men in my life, and one of them was at home with our kids, so it wasn't like I was in the habit of giving it away to anybody who looked my way. I had been completely faithful up until then, and really had no intention of changing that in some rundown dance club that seemed to be desperately hanging on to the disco era.
Still, having guys hit on me again felt good, even if most of them were younger than me - considerably younger in some cases. One night, a guy asked me to dance, and I must have had enough drinks in me that I accepted.
He was a good looking guy, Greek or Italian with bronze skin and a shirt open to expose a hairy chest on gold necklaces. As if that wasn't Saturday Night Fever-ish enough, this disc jockey was playing songs from that movie which had to be 20 years old.
How Deep Is Your Love? Boy, sometimes the irony just clubs you in the face. The tempo of the music had stopped, which was just as well because my dancing is not much to write about, and now the Gibb Brothers were asking me how deep my love was.
I was in the arms of this guy, who had been paying more attention to everybody else dancing around us than me, but now I was wrapped up in the arms of this bear. His cologne was overpowering as we danced like we needed a room, and as he ground into me I could feel his cock pressing against my stomach, and he was hard.
He was leaning down and nibbling on my ear and saying something - something that didn't register until after he said it - but although the music was loud I knew what I had heard.
"I wanna fuck you so bad."
I guess that proved that I was where I didn't belong and doing things that I shouldn't be doing. The music stopped, I thanked him for the dance, and I scurried back to rejoin my friends, who had been watching old Marie doing something they didn't expect.
I had expected, and maybe hoped, that my friends would give me a tsk-tsk of disapproval, at least the ones in my age bracket, but none of the five in my company thought what they had seen was anything but fantastic.
"You two looked so hot out there," one friend remarked.
"Hot? He was grinding his crotch into me!"
"Duh!" retorted another. "No kidding. You were giving it back to him too."
"I was?" I answered meekly.
"We thought you were going to go at it right there on the dance floor!" one giggled, and that came from a woman who was even older than me.
"He said," I whispered to my closest confidant in as hushed a tone as I could. "He said he wanted to fuck me."
"And?" I whispered louder. "He went, I wanna fuck you so bad!"
"So what are you doing here?" she asked. "I would do him anytime. He was sexy, in a sleazy way. You need to get laid more than anybody in this joint. Go out back with him."
Apparently, it was a custom of this place that people would just go waltz out the back door and go into a car and have sex. That was nothing I knew about and certainly wasn't anything I was going to do.
"No thanks," I said with a laugh, and left my dancing shoes off for the rest of the night.
Marie Takes the Moral High Ground would make for a nice title to the story, but unfortunately I would be back in that very same bar with my very same friends the next week, and things would be a little different.
The circumstances the next week when I staggered back to the table were my friends were gathered, were quite different. I hadn't been dirty dancing to the Bee Gees this time and my friends knew it. I suspect they knew more than I did, because I didn't remember leaving the dance club, but I had.
Maybe I was drugged. That theory has gained strength in my mind over the years since that night, ever since the existence of date rape drugs became known, but to be fair I have no proof of that. I suspect it was a combination of too many vodkas, combined with sharing a joint with the girls before we went into the club (something I hadn't done since college) and my mental state at the time.
In the end, it was my fault. I don't go much for the old "I did it because I was drunk" line. Alcohol is truth serum in my mind, at least up to a point. Things you do and say while drinking are things that are in your mind all along, and booze just takes the safety catch on your mouth.
I remember talking to a couple of guys after dancing with one of them. He was black, which wasn't all that strange in this club, whose clientele was a potpourri of ethnic backgrounds.
It also wasn't uncommon for black guys to hit on us white women. They hit on everyone and everything with a pulse, or so it seemed. They ran their lines through you, and you politely declined, or at least that was the way I saw it.
I also recall walking outside with the guy I had danced with, and being led to the back of the parking lot, over by the woods that lined the area in the rear. Suddenly, I was in the back seat of some kind of big car - an Oldsmobile or something - and this big black guy was all over me.
His mouth covered mine, and his tongue was forcing inside of my mouth while his hands were all over me, exploring me roughly while I was pinned against the back of the seat.
The guy wasn't much bigger than me physically, but his hands were gigantic. I looked down at those long black fingers that were mauling my breast outside of my clothes, and even though the man was rude and crude, I found myself stop the minimal resisting I had been offering.
This was it. All of my years of unblemished fidelity were about to end in the back seat of an Olds with a guy whose name I didn't even know and didn't even like. I felt myself weaken with every passing second. His hand - hands - he was like an octopus because his hands were everywhere; probing between my legs and clawing at my breasts. How did he know I liked my little titties treated like this?
His hand had worked under my blouse, pushing the bra up and out of his way so he could knead my tits directly, and I was being crushed by this man I didn't know as he leaned over me and smothered me with kisses.
"I got what you want," I heard him say, and it while it struck me that this might have been the first sentence he had used with the word motherfucker in it, what caught my attention was the fact that he had called me Mary, not Marie.
That insult didn't matter much, because I didn't know his name either. What mattered is what had been going on while we had been making out. Unbeknown to me, he had taken his penis out during this flurry of activity, and I found this out when he grabbed me by the wrist and brought my hand down to his crotch while he leaned back.
I looked down as my hand made contact with something very hard and very big. Even in the semi-darkness, with the back seat of the car only faintly illuminated by the parking lot lights many yards away, I could see what he had put my hand on.
The man was trying to get me to wrap my hand around his manhood - my hand and their tiny fingers over-matched by the thick and ominous cock I found myself holding - and then his other hand was on the back of my neck, pushing my face down towards his penis while he graphically told me what he wanted me to do. Something that I had never done, or even considered doing to another man ever since I met my husband.
Life and literotica...
I haven't read all that many stories here at literotica, but had seen enough of them to know that at this point in the story, the woman is supposed to go crazy over the prospect of being with a black guy with a big cock. Her life and morality gets turned upside down at the sight of a penis that's bigger than she's ever seen, and she swears her allegiance to black men for the rest of her life.
That may be literature, and may actually be true in some cases, but for me, life wasn't like that. In the seven seconds or so that I held that man's cock in my hand, my head was spinning. Aroused? Yes. Appalled? Yes. Curious? Most assuredly. Scared? Definitely.
It was that fear that caused me to scramble away from the man and fly out the door, mumbling an apology while I ran back through the parking lot and back into the dance club, trying to get my clothes back in order as I did.
The guy at the door smirked at me as I got there, shaking his head when I showed him my hand stamp.
"Oh, I remember you," I said with a lecherous grin that said more than words could ever say, his eyes telling me and everybody in the area that he was well aware of what I had been doing ever since I had walked past him a while ago with that man.
I know what you did, his eyes said. You went out to the parking lot with that black dude and sucked his cock - probably fucked him in the back seat of his car too. You pussy is probably dripping with his cum while I'm letting you back inside the club.
No, I wanted to say as I passed him. I didn't do anything with that man - not really. We messed around a little but I didn't do anything, I swear.
He didn't care though. He probably saw this scenario a dozen times a night. Bored white suburban broad gets a buzz on and goes out for some forbidden fruit before heading back to the unsuspecting spouse with a smile and a pussy full of another man's seed.
My friends knew too, or at least they thought they did. I could see it in their eyes. I had stopped in the ladies room before rejoining them and tried to get myself together, but I knew what I looked like. Still slightly disheveled, I looked like a middle aged woman who had just gotten fucked.
The co-workers were split on what they had just witnessed. A couple of them were disgusted, but not because of what they thought I had done but who they thought I had done it with. Apparently it was okay for me to play around with the John Travolta wannabe last week, but not with - you know who.
As for the others, they were all ears and wanted to know all the details, despite the fact that I had no story to tell. No, I did not have sex with the man. No, I didn't go down on him. No, I did not cum.
I was wet though, even if I didn't admit it. There was something about it all that had excited me despite how terrified I had been, but I kept that to myself.
Being the last one let off at home by our designated driver, who happened to be my closest colleague, she parked the car and asked me to tell her the truth.
"C'mon," she whined. "I was stuck not drinking and had no fun. At least you can tell me something good. Tell me what you did."
So I told her every detail, and she seemed disappointed that I hadn't let myself go.
"I did it once," she blurted out suddenly, her chubby cheeks turning crimson as she fiddled with the steering wheel cover. "Went out back with a black guy."
I was stunned, figuring that my friend was in the most stable marriage in the world, and that proved that just liked in my house there were stories going on that nobody else knew about.
"Just one guy," she said when she saw my shock. "I still don't know why. They like fat girls, you know. They think we're easy. Guess they were right - at least that one guy was. Please don't ever tell anybody."
"I won't," I promised, a promise I've kept until know, but she's still anonymous to you.
"I'm sorry I did it," she said. "But in a way I'm not. I was curious, and it was really good."
"It was Andre."
"Andre," she said with a quizzical look on her face. "The guy you went out there with."
"No," she confessed. "I have to admit that when I saw you leave with him, I was a little jealous, because I knew - or thought I knew - what you were doing."
I was flabbergasted.
"You should have done it," she said. "He's really really good. Maybe it was because it was so wrong - the forbidden fruit and all - but even though I love my man with all my heart, he never makes me orgasm like Andre did. If he didn't hurt me that last time..."
"Hurt you?" I asked.
"He wanted to have me - you know - back there?" she said, and when I said I didn't understand she gave me more information than I wanted. "Anally. He put it in my ass. He likes it best that way."
"Good grief," I said, but I must have used more graphic language at the time, because I was scared enough just holding him in my hand for that brief moment. The prospect of having that weapon in there make me shudder.
"Hurt me," she confessed. "Hurt me really bad because he's so big and I wasn't really lubricated good. I had to go to the doctor. Talk about embarrassing."
In retrospect, I guess Andre wasn't all that extraordinarily built. I've got a toy that my husband got me a while back that's about as big as Andre was, 8 or 9 inches, but that was plenty big in my book.
"Well, I won't be going back to that club again," I told her, but I'm not any more certain now than I was then why that was. Was it fear of seeing Andre again and having to face a guy that had a right to be angry about someone he probably considered a cock-teaser, or fear that next time I would make a different decision?
This is 2010...
I've thought about that night many times in the years that have passed. In the end I think I made the right decision. Our marriage has stabilized, although it will never really be the same for me. Every time I see my husband's dick I remember, at least for a fleeting second, about where else it has been. Inside her, and who knows where else? He claims that was his only misstep, but once a cheater...
So while I'm glad that I didn't end up on that back seat, getting fucked by a guy whose name I didn't know when he was putting the pressure on to have me, there's a part of me that wishes I had let him force my head onto his cock.
I know there are a lot of people reading this who just said "PIG!" when they read that last sentence. I sure that there are a lot of guys that are wondering why they are reading this when they could be reading stories where there's a lot of fucking and sucking going on.
I'm aware of the double standard involved here. The man, the hunter-gatherer, is considered a stud when he fucks everything in his path, where a woman, the domestic goddess, is supposed to be chaste and pure while waiting at the door with slippers in hand when her hubby gets home.
That has been me in a way, although not to that extreme. I'm a successful professional woman who does not rely on her husband for survival, since we make about the same salary, but I am the traditional wife in most ways.
So now I wish that I had gone down on Andre. I wish that I had let him bring my mouth to that big swollen cock of his and make me suck it. I had this coming to me. To sample that cock so different than I had ever experienced, to taste that forbidden fruit one time? To be brutally honest, while I happy that I didn't have intercourse with Andre, I wish I had given him head.
My husband had done much worse as far as I'm concerned. Wasn't it a president who claimed that fellatio wasn't really sex? Anyway, I'm very glad that we didn't fuck, and I know now that if I had stayed in that back seat with Andre that would have happened, because he wasn't the type of man who was going to take no for an answer.