tagNonConsent/ReluctanceNot Since Then

Not Since Then

byDarkinside©

He rolled off onto his back with an exhausted heaving sigh, covered in sweat, and immediately grunted, reaching his arm underneath his body, reaching for the vibrator pressing into his back. He tossed it to the side and stared at the ceiling, breathing heavily. He brushed the wet hair off his forehead, and lay there silent and brooding. He felt her stir next to him, and he gritted his teeth, hoping she would just let it go, and knowing that she wouldn't. Worse, he knew that she would say it was okay. He waited, bracing himself for the conversation.

She moved several more times and he forced himself not to look, not to see her preparing to apologize, to ease his discomfort, knowing what she was doing, knowing she didn't want to bring it up either, and knowing she had to. She would try to ease his dismay, and she would make it worse.

He felt her hand on his upper arm, and he turned his head away from her, staring at the wall.

"It's okay," she said quietly, and he felt his body stiffen involuntarily, trying to hide it from her, and knowing he was unsuccessful when her hand slipped away.

"I'm sorry, Neece," he said to the wall.

"It felt really good. I enjoyed it."

"I tried."

"I know you did, baby, and I love you for it." And he had tried. Harder and longer than ever before. Over an hour, this time. Fingers, lips, tongue, cock and toys, all to no avail. And he knew she was telling the truth, too; she had enjoyed it, reveling in the attention he'd paid her, the stimulation he'd offered, the massage to prep her. He had gone longer than ever before, but it hadn't worked. Again. He stared at the wall and let the uncomfortable silence build

"I don't understand," he said finally.

"We've been through this," she cautioned, "please, let's not do it again."

"But why?" he asked more accusingly than he intended, rolling over to face her. He felt the sweat cooling on his skin. "I need to understand, Denise. Why?" He looked at her, taking in her glistening skin, the flush beginning to fade on her chest. He watched dismay and resignation flitter across her face, watched the troubling and exciting memory flicker across her eyes, as though he could read her thoughts, and his chest tightened as he relived it with her, in silence. Remembering. So long ago, now; months. And still it was there for her, like it was yesterday, and she was still sore and aching and happier than he had ever seen her. A pang of loss gripped his heart for the woman she had been before....them.

"Can you tell me why?"

Her face tightened and her eyebrows knitted in frustration. She bit her lower lip, but said nothing.

"Denise?"

"I don't know!" she spat, and whirled on him, her face a mask of pain and longing and frustration. "Dammit, Kevin, don't you think I would tell you?" He shrank back from the onslaught. "Don't you think I want to know, too? Don't you think I WANT to cum? Oh, Kevin, do you know what it's like? To be so close, to have it right there, just out of my reach, taunting me, and not being able to reach it?" She was pleading and challenging at once, and he felt her desperation, and scolded himself for prodding, knowing it was not about him and his feelings, not really. Knowing the answer was not inside her. They had covered this ground before, too many times since that night.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it, a little, but his anger and frustration possessed him. She saw it on his face and threw herself back down next to him, facing the ceiling. He lay there in tense silence next to her for what seemed forever. But he could not sleep, even as he heard her breathing change, and slow, and deepen. When he was sure, he slipped from the bed and went to the den, plopping on the couch and turning on the television, muting the sound.

He didn't watch the show, he just wanted the flickering light for companionship. He was lost in his thoughts and feelings, trapped by the memory. Those men, that night, his wife. A wonderful vacation, until that night. They had reconnected, relit the fires of desire, renewed their love. But then it had all come to a halt.

In his mind he replayed their game, punishing himself as he had done since, choosing alternate words and actions, each one making the night end differently in his imagination. He said different words and they didn't go out, they stayed in instead, together. He disliked the dress and she changed, and wasn't noticed. He was less adventurous, and they stayed apart, together. He used different words, and they ended up alone in their hotel room. He objected strenuously, and it stopped before going too far. He fought, and lost, but the night ended; badly, but over. In each imagined scenario the event never occurred because of some small change in his behavior. The musing tormented him.

And he knew she tortured herself, as well; she had said as much. If only, she had said. Had not insisted they go out dancing, had worn a different dress, had worn panties, had excused herself, had declined the offers to dance. Had not kissed him, had not offered a last drink, had not looked at him so lovingly and hotly. Had listened to her brain, and not her body. If only.

But he had been excited by her loveliness, her allure. She had been captivated by the daring, the attention. They had allowed themselves to be swept by the newness, the thrill, the strange and exotic locale. And they had agreed, expecting a one-time thrill, an adventure. They had lost control, and the night turned into more than they expected, and they were paying the price.

He remembered his elation when the heads turned, the look in her eyes when the invitation to dance came, the joy as she swirled the floor. He felt it again, the reluctant excitement as hands touched her, seeing her face, so beautiful in its desire. The want inside him to see her pleased, the light in her eyes as she imagined what they both thought might happen, his desire for her returned in her eyes. The dancing, the turning. The tease, the flash. The raised eyebrows, the knowing looks. All so different, so enticing, so irresistible. The music ending, the looks exchanged. The agreement. The invite. The lighthearted and dangerous laughs, the comments.

Neither of them saw what was really happening, they never dreamed it. When the two guests turned aggressive and challenging, he was still excited, she more so; she thought it was still the game. More teasing, more flashing. Then groping, touching. The kissing. And then she was on the bed, on her back, propped up her elbows. Her eyes flared with heat, and his cock had swelled with the same.

The men bid him to join them and they kissed her in turns, caressed her, undressed her. Each new step slightly more aggressive than the last. Pushing her between them, passing her back and forth; he watched as they exposed her breasts, and then as her skirt was raised forcefully, fingers entering her, parting her moist lips, slipping inside her. Crude comment of her wetness made her grunt in appreciation, their aggression and need making her hotter, the game more intense, and she responded to them, to their word, then to their commands.

Without realizing it they had excluded him, one with his fingers inside her, the other pulling her head, telling her to suck his cock, and he watched her mouth open hungrily, taking the stranger inside as she writhed on the other's fingers. The men had disrobed, hard cocks were exposed; she reached for them, unbidden. They moved her mouth between them, directing her, commanding her, controlling her, but still he didn't see it; his brain clouded by excitement and admiration for her sexuality, her delight. She did what they said and her willingness spurred them further, and before he knew it she was on hands and knees, sucking one while the other slipped into her pussy.

They slapped her face with their cocks and she swooned. They pushed inside her hard, and she called out in delight. They slapped her ass and she whimpered and shook. He was relegated to audience, seeing how they treated her, watching her reactions escalate, meeting theirs, exceeding his expectations. He was fraught with desire for her, thrilled at her adventure, watching her lose herself in erotic exploration. A phone chirped, and the one in her mouth pulled out.

He was looking into her eyes, feeling the heat from her, like bolts of lightning on his face, tearing through him as he sat, cock out, stroking himself, seeing her taken, seeing her give herself over, entranced by her passion, levels he had never witnessed. He didn't hear the door open, didn't realize anything until her eyes left his, flashing over his shoulder. The one from her mouth returned, cramming his shaft to her face, rubbing himself on her nose and mouth lewdly, them shoving his cock inside her open mouth, making her gag. And suddenly there were more, three more, five men now, these new ones friends of the first two; he was pushed off the bed as they climbed on, undressing.

And they took her. Over and over, in every position, in every hole. He heard her cry out her orgasm, the first one, muffled around the cock in her mouth. And another followed, quick after the first, as her ass was penetrated. Then two at once, in her ass and pussy, and she climaxed again, then again when one shot a load of cum across her face and open mouth. Her orgasms seemed, after that, to never fully subside, only to decrease in intensity for a few minutes until resurfacing, exploding again. They filled her with cock, and cum, her mouth swallowing, her cunt filled, her ass stretched. They slapped her and called her names and she reacted by taking more. Two of them fucked her pussy at once, stretching her cunt open; she cried out in pain and came. Over and over, cock after cock, and she took it all, embraced it, owned it. They used her, degraded her, excited her, until they were fucked out and left, laughing, as she fingered her cum-filled pussy and ass, her cries of climax ringing in his ears over their laughs as the door closed.

That had been her last orgasm that night, as she fell into a deep sleep, fingers still inside herself. He had cum watching her, twice. There had been difficulty afterwards; tense words, but they had gotten past it, and returned to their normal lives. But she had not experienced an orgasm since.

Not since that night. Since them.

His eyes flicked to the television, then to his lap. His cock was hard and strident in his shorts. He closed his eyes tightly, screwing his face up against the memory. The arguments, the strain, the difficulties. The problem. The solution. The future.

He pulled himself from the couch and flicked off the set, standing in the dark room, alone, uncertain, wavering in his decision. He hung his head, and shuffled slowly back to the bedroom.

She was awake in the dark, and he slid in beside her, and kissed her, gently, and he felt her arms wrap around him, holding him. He pulled back, and touched her face with his hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from her as she looked at him. In the dark, like this, she was the woman before. Before the night.

"All right," he told her, finding her eyes with his own despite the absence of light. "Let's do it again,"

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by Scheherazade7302/20/14

Missing the Point...

This is one of my favorite stories on Lit, and I should've commented back when I added it to my favorites but for what ever reason did not. The other comments are interesting in that they project suchmore...

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