Paint Her White Ch. 01

The smell was the first thing to hit her.

Her first waking inhale was stenched with stale beer, cigarette smoke and an ungodly mixture of various male colognes, and much to her complete embarrassment, most of those scents were caking her naked flesh.

"Your Mother would say you're nothing more than a pathetic whore if she saw you like this," 55 year old Jean Shulman cringed to herself.

"Yeah Jean," she replied out loud into the early morning silence of her decimated motel room, "If you saw someone in the same shape as you are right now...You'd call them a whore too."

Opening her eyes was the next step.

Between the slithering weight of the sun beaming through the Eastern window and the thudding grind inside her own head, that task proved to be immense.

"OHHH...GGRR," Jean winced when the first images of the room began to filter between her barely parted eyelids. "If this is what the room looks like... I don't even want to think what I look like!"

The memory of what happened the night before slowly creeping back into Jean's mind, the 'morning after' ramifications were thankfully pushed aside for the moment by an even more pressing force, her straining bladder.

Lunging up from the bed to rush to the bathroom, Jean nearly tripped on the mammoth swirl of sheets and clothes tangled on the floor.

"Gotta go...gotta go...gotta go," she mumbled, reaching out to grab the frame of the bathroom's entrance before pulling her unsteady shell of a body through the doorway.

Looking as if she was walking on shattered glass as her feet shuffled across the bathroom's chilly linoleum, Jean openly wondered how her 55 year old body had held up under such extreme conditions, a mere eight hours earlier.

A cold wave jolted through Jean's spine when she sat down on the rim and realized one of her previous night's visitors hadn't put the seat back down. Raising up slightly to adjust her situation, once she was safely perched back on the commode, Jean allowed the vertigo sweeping through her system to settle as her bladder emptied.

Once she was able to raise her head and focus for several seconds on her surroundings, Jean caught a half darkened glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror.

"God...Damn...," the normally religious widow mouthed from her seat on the bowl. "It's even worse than I thought."

* * * * *

Three Weeks Earlier

Jean Shulman had always hated being the center of attention. A trait unusual for someone who had spent over three decades as a school teacher. In her private life however, Jean had been married for 21 years to a car salesman who often dominated a room and over the years, she had developed a comfort level blending into the background.

When her Husband Floyd had passed away eight years earlier, Jean found it very difficult coming out of those social shadows, and instead decided to funnel her energies into her church activities and career rather than seeking out another relationship.

Jean's natural humility and concern for others had served her quite well over the years. She had made very few enemies and had the utmost respect of her peers and most of the now thousands of students that had passed through her classroom since her first teaching assignment in 1973.

That innate humility was surely being put to the test however as Jean sat under the horrible yellowish and humming glow of her school's gymnasium lights, at the head of one of several tables covered with fancy red tableclothes, surrounded by an assembled crowd of friends, colleagues, students and wellwishers.

"I shouldn't be here...not at least for another 10 years," Jean bitterly groaned under her breath, despite the vibrant smile that remained on her face as she engaged everyone in the room.

"Rubber chicken and a gold watch...that's what 31 years of service gets you," Jean's inner vitriol continued to fester as acquaintance after acquaintance came up to thank her and wish her well in retirement.

"Shame no one from the city school board could make it," Jean laughed to herself, replaying in her head the stress of the past year and why the higher ups on the Charleston school board had decided, because of the city's educational budget crunch, that she was more valuable to them taking early retirement than paying her the salary she had earned over the years.

Sensing the writing was on the wall, Jean begrudgingly accepted their offer.

Between her pension, savings and stocks, Jean knew that money wasn't the issue, she could live out the remainder of her life in relative financial comfort. The problem was she had always been a teacher. When she was married, her career was the only thing that gave her an identity separate from her Husband and her children. And after his death, with the kids all married and moved on with their lives, teaching was the one constant that gave Jean a daily purpose. All she really had left to measure her value anymore was watching those 150 or so students every year matriculate through her classroom and out into society.

And Jean had seen much of Charleston's social landscape pass through her classroom over those three decades. Several city councilmen, doctors, lawyers, policemen, shop owners, even 11 teachers at her present school had at one time been a student of hers. In fact, it was the first time one of her former students became one of her co-workers that Jean realized she was 'getting old'.

Despite her financial freedom and all the free time not having a roll to call every morning would create to do some of the things she'd always wanted to try, taking away that routine in her life was going to create a massive and uncertain void for Jean.

* * * * *

Financial comfort and free time, two of the Devil's best friends.

When her Husband had been alive, Jean's home life was taken up with her household chores, tending to the kids and after all that was done, grading her homework and making lesson plans for the next day. She really didn't have time for much else.

After Floyd died and the kids moved out however, Jean was forced to find new outlets. Even though she still had a productive career keeping her busy during the day, Jean tried a myriad of things from church and social groups, taking up new hobbies and every year or so a new exercise fad to keep her free time occupied. More times than not however, she found herself home alone, content to live the same simple existence she had come to love.

One of the things that had changed significantly from the time Jean began teaching to the time she was forced to retire was the use of computers in the classroom. Even though she had purchased one for the house to help keep up with her in curriculum, the computer was mainly used to help with her finances and occasional word processing needs.

As she became more comfortable with it however, Jean's late night research and dabbling gradually began uncovering many of the same pitfalls all well intended novices eventually stumble upon. Mainly that there was something inherently sexual at every turn, no matter where she tried to go online. And like a temptation too alluring and guilt free to fight, in those lonesome hours in front of the illuminated glow of the screen, Jean would be repeatedly shocked, and often left numb, by the various things her fingers typed into those beckoning 'search fields'.

Eight years widowed, Jean had swore she wouldn't re-marry after her Husband passed, knowing she would always measure Husband Number Two to the man she'd given everything to for most of her adult life. In her early 50's however, with half a lifetime still left to live out, Jean could feel loneliness gnawing at her soul with each passing year, along with the more unspeakable urges that went unfulfilled without a man in her life. And it was those late nights alone in her bedroom office space where Jean allowed her mind, and often times her body, to wander.

By modern standards, Jean and Floyd had been a relatively conservative couple. They had sex two or three times a week for the duration of their marriage until Floyd took ill. It had been a fulfilling relationship and Jean never once seriously thought of straying. Her connections with the local church scene combined with the expectations that came with her career, Jean knew she could never contemplate such an action, even if she had wanted to.

The free time and void of losing her career only added to Jean's frustration however, and the isolationist lifestyle she had painted herself into made it difficult to find other human outlets for her feelings, not that she would have felt comfortable discussing many of them out loud.

Like most people who fall under the sway of the internet when lonely, Jean occasionally had trouble pulling herself away from the glowing light of the screen, with nothing but time on her hands and curiosity in her fingertips as she gradually came to discover many hidden hungers that her lack of fulfilment fed.

* * * * *

The original germination of Jean's idea had its roots over a year earlier. In all honesty, the first few threads of it had seeped into her thoughts many years before, but it wasn't until her Husband's death and the subsequent lack of affection that the idea seemed tangible. Even then while still teaching, imaging going through with it was merely an easy trigger for her to use when the pressure burning in her loins began to be too much.

It wasn't until Jean's forced retirement and all the angst and free time that came with it that she consciously made the leap to put the perverse plan on paper, and into motion.

A few weeks later, dozens of letters with no identification or return address began showing up in mailboxes scattered around the greater Charleston area, with a simple and succinct note included saying to be at the Budget Inn on I-26, room 133, on the night of August 5th, after 9pm.

* * * * *

The first invitee to arrive at the motel that night was a 41 year old brokerage firm manager named Clint Gray, North Charleston High, Class of 1981.

Sitting behind the wheel of his Audi at a quarter to 9 that night, Clint studied the relative calm of the parking lot surrounding him as dusk gave way to dark, his mind still running in circles trying to figure out why he had been invited there.

"You know...this has to be a trap," his conscience chided, just knowing his wife had found out one of the chain of extramarital affairs he'd had recently.

"Bet this whole thing is being taped from somewhere right over there," Clint muttered, tapping the perfume scented invitation between his fingers against the top of the steering wheel, more than a little nervous to make the next move.

Stealing an occasional glance in his rear view mirror to the darkened room the invitation said to meet, Clint briskly puffed his way through several cigarettes before angling his gaze to the right.

"What's this?" he mumbled, seeing a pair of cars pull into the motel parking lot and cautiously head his way, all bypassing the normal step of stopping at the front office to check in.

Crouching down in the seat, instinctively trying not to be noticed, Clint held his breath as the two cars filed into the empty spaces around him. Being as inconspicuous as possible, Clint felt a surge of relief and deeper curiosity course through his bones when he saw a similar piece of paper wedged between another one of the new arrival's fingers.

Peeking around to each of the other just parked cars, Clint got the clear sense they were there for the same reason. Stepping slowly from his vehicle, Clint cautiously made eye contact with the two other men that had just arrived. A strange, quizzical triangle was created when the three noticed a similar card in each of the other's hand.

Even though Clint could vaguely place the faces of the other two men from around town on occasion, he knew neither of them by name.

"Must be a pretty big practical joke," one of the other guys chirped to break the tension.

"Am I the only one here that doesn't know what's going on?" the third guy, who turned out to be Alan Messing, a 35 year old yacht shop owner and North Charleston Class of 1987, spoke up.

"No...No...No," Clint quickly interjected. "I'm as much in the dark here as you two."

"All you'll have room 133 on your paper?" the second guy asked which caused the other two men to look down at their papers as if they were all comparing lottery numbers.

"Yep," both guys replied.

"None of you'll have any drug dealers or crazy Ex's after you or anything do you?" the same guy, a 23 year old recent college graduate and North Charleston Class of 1999 named Keith Kinter asked, only half jokingly.

"So...who's gonna be the first one to walk over there and see what's waiting for us inside?" Alan wondered aloud.

"Why don't we just wait and let some of the new arrivals take a shot at it," Clint replied, casting his gaze to the right, along with the other two men, to watch another trio of cars enter the lot without first stopping at the office to check in.

"And not be the first to see what's in there...let's go," Keith decided.

The curiosity, and potential conquest too much to turn down, the three men closed ranks and began to walk towards room 133.

"Who's gonna knock?" Clint offered the next question the three would have to deal with as they crossed the lot.

Passively surrounding the entrance, Alan, Keith and Clint mashed their hands and took a series of simultaneous deep breaths before the oldest of the three extended his fist towards the door.

"...I guess I will," Clint sighed.

"...Come in...its...its...open," a frail, almost unintelligible female voice barely bled through the motel's door in response to the knock.

"Did you hear that?" Alan whispered, like the other two men, vaguely recognizing the voice but unable to place it.

"...Hurry up...please," the soft voice from inside the room implored.

Turning the knob with the greatest of care, Clint was the first to strain his neck through the opening. As the oldest of the three leaned forward, Keith and Alan were able to poke their heads curiously over each of Clint's shoulders.

What they saw when they caught their first glimpse inside the room was one of the few people in the whole world that all three had in common.

* * * * *

For the years that Jean Shulman had tweaked the fantasy in her head, knowing she'd never have the guts, let alone the opportunity to ever pull it off, she had no way to prepare herself for the numbness that spiked through her soul the instant that motel room door creaked open.

Despite the hours it took to type the invitations up on her computer and spray a bit of her perfume on each before stamping and addressing them, Jean never fully grasped the wheels she would be setting in motion. Even as she hesitantly dumped the bulk mailing into a box on the far side of town, Jean never completely took into account the psychic overload that would occur when those first three shadowy faces peeked in on her.

"...Please," she furtively begged for a third time to the initial trio that had answered her lurid call. "Come in...Please...Before I lose my nerve."

* * * * *

Two hours later

Looking down the length of her body through clenched and burning eyes, Jean's head wrenched and flailed to each side as a virile and vein etched cock bore repeatedly into her swollen cunt. Having long lost count of how many men had entered the room, and subsequently entered her, Jean's entire world had become a foggy and blurred haze of groping hands, male voices and cock after cock taking its turn inside her now sloshing vagina.

"Like their bees and I'm the Queen," she haphazardly assessed, for the first time in her life wallowing in the sensation of being the total and selfish center of attention with a group of men.

A delirious cornucopia of hot breath, bone rattling thrusts and savage grunts rained down on Jean's senses as another one of her former students piledrived his meat into her pussy until she felt it explode, like a pistol, inside the burrowed confines of her inner sanctum.

Lurching her back off the bed to meet the faceless ex-student's pounding thrusts, Jean felt several other warm and throbbing cocks slap against her chest and face as she bucked up. Looking up at them with a dazed and haunted gaze, Jean could see each of them jacking their own erections directly above her as they anxiously waited their turn between her legs.

Feeling her insides on the verge of melting away when the man inside of her pulled his sloppy cock free, an overwhelming sense of emptiness billowed in the pit of Jean's stomach until yet another young man took his place down there. Whiplashing her head backwards and collapsing back down on the mattress as the next former student eagerly staked his claim inside her womb, Jean's mouth instinctively shot open when she felt a stream of cum land, like a lava encased glob, directly across her lips from one of the boys above. Savoring the tangy sustenance before reflex made her swallow, Jean shot her eyes open wide, as if energized somehow from the taste, and met eyes with the man that had just knelt between her legs.

"Oh my God...please... Shane...please...fuck me," Jean whimpered softly to the 26 year old young man that eight years earlier had been one of her most difficult and rambunctious students.

Bracing her body each time the 6 foot 3 inch former high school wrestler and football player positioned his rock solid jock against her crotch, Jean guiltily raked herself over the coals for all the times she had, years earlier, imagined it was Shane fucking her on her desk in the classroom while in real time her Husband was trying his best to satisfy her on their marital bed.

Trembling endlessly from the sensation of having Shane stab his blazing prick deep into her already filled cunt, Jean looked down to her crotch and was transfixed at the way her current lover's manhood was coated with the congealed jism of everyone else that had cum before him, as it sliced maddeningly through her vaginal cauldron.

"Looks like all that time you made me spend in detention really left an impression Mrs. Shulman," Shane taunted as he ratcheted his grip around the insides of Jean's thighs, serving to force them even wider apart until his pelvic bone was colliding squarely with hers.

"UUUMMM...UUMMM...UUMMMMMMMMMMMM," Jean's moans grew in volume, totally lost now where one pulsing wave of glee stopped and another of hers started.

"Plenty of you guys have filled this pussy already," Shane told to the group of guys standing beside him. "I'm gonna do something a little different...something I've been dreaming about for 8 years."

Wincing when Shane pulled his substantial girth from her throbbing pink fissure, Jean laid prone on her back and held her breath as he crawled up the length of her body until each of his knees were tucked just below her armpits.

Trapped under the burning weight of Shane's balls pressing down on her sternum, a small gasp escaped Jean's lips when Shane swung his cock in front of her face. Feeling warm traces of the sticky arousal that saturated Shane's cock drizzle down against her cheeks as he pumped it above, Jean instinctively opened her mouth and waited for her former student to fill it.

Her body tensing as Shane teetered forward, Jean's muffled groans filtered through the room as the precocious young stud stuffed his former teacher's mouth full of dick.

"GRR...AAHHH," the 55 year old widow groaned a minute later when Shane mercifully pulled his dick free from her mouth.

Turning her head to the side as the younger man tapped his throbbing tool against the side of her flushed right cheek, Jean awkwardly humped her cunt upwards against Shane's straddling weight.

"Room full of guys in here still left to go Mrs. Shulman...I hope you ain't getting too tired yet," Shane mocked before rubbing the slimy girth of his dick over Jean's chin and back between her shamefully eager lips.