This could just as well be in the "Non-consent, Reluctance," Category; if that's not your thing, you've been warned. Also, the main character in this story in no way resembles me in appearance, mind or emotion, so don't think that I'm a narcissist (cough, cough).


September 18, about three weeks after my loving husband Chet hosted a surprise party for my 44th birthday, didn't start out like a day that would change my life. Chet left for work at 7:30 a.m. just like normal, although probably for the second time that week he didn't reset the alarm when he left and also probably didn't even securely lock the door. I got up just before he left to kiss him goodbye. I looked at my calendar and confirmed that today was one of my twice weekly hands-on volunteer service days helping abused and homeless women get job training, living accommodations, and any other assistance that they needed.

As I showered my mind thought back to the party and how what happened during and after it crystalized my three main "problems" in life. They are what Charles Barkley in a Saturday Night Live skit would call "rich white people problems," not real ones, because compared to the women that I help at the Women's Center they're infinitesimal. However, it is my life, and they're real to me.

At the party one of my married male friends, Jack, propositioned me in as direct and graphic a manner as possible outside of a whore house. Instead of laughing it off, like I normally did when hit on, I angrily blasted him and made sure that he knew never to ask again because next time I'd record him and play it for his wife.

Is getting hit on really my first "problem" you ask? For me it is, because it's happened my whole adult life, it has a dramatic affect on me, and I don't know why guys do it.

I'm not being modest, but realistic, when I say that I don't know what it is about me that turns seemingly normal guys like Jack into perverts. I'm five one, 105 pounds, with little A- cup tits that have freakishly large and sensitive nipples. While I work out for ninety minutes every other day and have always had good muscle tone in my arms, torso and legs, it's not like I'm Jessica Biel, or anything. I used to agonize over my butt and thighs being too big, but years of scoffing by my female friends who have weight problems or have flat asses made me realize that maybe those are not undesirable features.

My face and brunette hair are at best slightly better than ordinary, and though my brown eyes are big it's not like they're enchanting or anything. While I always have a smile and kind words for people, it's for men, women and children alike - I'm not flirting with guys when I smile.

At least a dozen drunk guys, and some sober ones, have said "Amy you are so fucking sultry," or words to that effect. However, when I think of "sultry" I think of Kathleen Turner in Body Heat, and that definitely is not me, so I have no idea what the hell they're talking about.

One reason that I hate being hit on rather than viewing it as an ego boost is because I am and always will be completely monogamous. My husband Chet is a wonderful man in every way. He is kind and considerate, yet strong of mind, body, and soul, in everything. He treats me as an equal partner in everything that we do, and treats everyone with kindness unless they clearly demonstrate that they are not worthy of it. He is a wonderful father to our son and daughter, both of whom were back at out-of-state colleges that 18th of September day. He financially supports us well, and considers my hectic schedule working as a volunteer doing hands-on work with three different charities a noble calling. I hate anyone thinking that I might cheat on Chet, and I never will.

A second reason that I hate being hit on, or even a guy ogling me, bring me to my second problem: what it does to my psyche.

I have as rich a sexual fantasy life as anyone my psychologist has ever seen - yes I had a psychologist because for many years I was completely embarrassed by my sexual fantasies, to the point of starting to attain a bad and destructive self-image. For example after Jack propositioned me I fantasized for four days about him wantonly fucking every orifice in my body.

As I said, although heightened by it, my fantasies are not restricted just to guys who hit on me.

-Thankfully the UPS delivery guy for our area was transferred because I named one of my dildos after him.

-Chet's business partner, Simon, is a real hunk who undresses me with his eyes and grins diabolically every time that I see him. For at least the next three days that universally results in me in my mind riding him cowgirl while he sucks on my freakish nipples and fingers my asshole.

-The now twenty one year old Adonis down the street, Mark, would always seem to pop up when I was out by the pool in my bikini in the summertime with some bogus excuse for being there and with his pants tented. I named my Kegelmaster pc muscle exercise device after him (I've been able to easily deflect the most powerful spring on that thing since two months after Mark first ogled me), and whenever I used it I pretended that it was his cock and that I was squeezing every last drop of cum out of him with my pussy.

-Josh, one of the trainers at the health club that I work out at, just has to touch my arm when spotting me for a lift, or sometimes just smile at me when he wipes my sweat off a piece of equipment, and my pussy floods. I then have to finger myself in the shower (fortunately they have individual stalls) otherwise I'd be unable to drive home.

Even though these fantasies happen all the time, and my psychologist encouraged me not to be overcome by angst about them, I don't like them being triggered.

My third problem - and I truly hope that it is not a large contributing factor to my second one - is that Chet is about as exciting in the sack as a rerun of the Beverly Hillbillies 1960s TV show. He never was Mr. Excitement, but I fell in love with him as a person, not for the sex. Now, even though he is still exceedingly cute and does not have midriff bulge he has a decidedly below normal libido, and it stays that way no matter what I wear, say, or do. He eats me out only if I beg on special occasions, and the last time that one of our once every ten days sex sessions included anything except straight missionary had to be four months before that September 18th day of infamy. I have often wondered if he fucked me once like I'm fucked in my fantasies if they would dissipate.

I would have finger fucked myself in the shower with all of these thoughts running through my mind on September 18 except that I wanted to get to the Women's Center early.


I was humming a happy song to myself as I exited the bathroom after my shower that September 18, still naked and drying my hair with a towel, when suddenly a strong left arm was clamped around my torso. It lifted me off the ground while at the same time a right hand securely slapped a piece of duct tape over my mouth muffling my scream so much that even I could barely hear it.

Whomever had a hold of me must have thought his actions out well in advance because despite the fact that I was undulating my body as hard as I could to try and break my arms free from his grip holding them against my sides, and wildly kicking my feet, before I really knew what was happening both of my hands were individually cuffed to my headboard, with me facing it.

In that position all I could do was continue to madly kick my legs trying to make contact with sensitive parts on my attacker's body. Fear had not set in yet, just anger. I know that I landed some kicks, but he was very strong and I didn't have any real leverage lying face down on my bed, so they didn't seem to have much effect. My kicks certainly didn't stop him from being able to tie first one leg, and then the other, to the footboard of my bed with what felt like scarfs.

When my second leg was tied fear started to overcome me. I wondered if I was not just going to be sexually assaulted, but killed. I glanced over to the side, and by viewing the mirror on top of my dresser I could see that there was only one attacker and that he was a muscular white male with a hood on covering his face. His shirt was off, and as I looked into the mirror with an ever rising level of apprehension I saw him drop his pants and boxers, exposing a girthy twitching flagpole.

I turned away since watching him in the mirror was making me more anxious and afraid. Suddenly I felt a blindfold being placed over my eyes and fit so securely that I really couldn't see anything. I assumed that he did that so that he could take his hood off and that I still could not identify him. He obviously was unaware - as was everyone else except Mark and our kids - that we had security cameras in every room of our house except the bathrooms, on a forty eight hour loop, so that if I survived I could replay what was happening to the cops and he was toast.

I was still so scared that had I not just gone to the toilet I would have voided my bladder when my attacker leaned down and whispered into my ear "I'm not going to hurt you Amy. I'm just going to fulfill my fantasy and then you will be released unharmed."

Obviously he knew who I was - but I didn't have a clue whose voice it was both because he just whispered, and probably also because I was too scared to think straight.

Shortly after his whispers into my ear I felt him mount the bed, grab my thighs, and then insert what I assume was his tongue into my pussy. My pussy was dry as a result of my trauma, and at first I tried to keep it that way by attempting to buck him away and think "dry pussy" thoughts. However, he securely held me in the position that he wanted with his strong hands, and soon by tongue and lip, followed by finger, action, he had my pussy soaking wet.

I tried as hard as I could not to orgasm but when he lifted my crotch onto his face as he squirmed to a position face-up underneath me, tongued the hell out of my clit, and penetrated my cunt with two fingers, I couldn't help myself.

Well, actually, it wasn't just an orgasm - it was an earth shattering one.

I hadn't yet come down from my orgasm when he extricated himself from his position with his face under my crotch, quickly untied my legs, and pushed my ass up in the air with my thighs virtually vertical. I tried to kick some when he released my legs from being tied to the footboard, but I was partially out of it because of the orgasm, still didn't have good leverage, and he was too strong.

Once I was on my knees, with one thrust his cock was buried in my leaking pussy. It was bigger around than my dildos. I knew then that I was going to be fucked, and couldn't do anything about it. I just hoped that he used a condom or didn't have any diseases - but his cock sure didn't feel like it had a condom on. That made me wonder if despite his statement that he wasn't going to hurt me if he was going to kill me and remove my body because he had to have watched enough cop shows on TV to know that any DNA that he left in me was sure to ultimately lead to him.

I resolved that I would be as passive as possible. I reasoned that if I did nothing to enhance the experience for him, maybe - assuming that he was going to let me go - it would be sooner rather than later. Well, as usual, best laid plans...yada, yada, yada.

The girthy dick had been stroking in me maybe a dozen times when my pussy started betraying me. Shortly after that I felt something enter my ass - I wasn't sure what. After thinking - as best I could with my pussy being energized - about it for a while I thought that it might be lubricated ass beads. Of course I had heard of them, but never had used them, a butt plug, or any other anal toy, and never had had a cock or even finger run up my ass before.

Once the last of what I supposed were ass beads was buried I felt more full in my nether regions than ever before in my life. The buried beads seemed to energize my attacker too since he started pounding in earnest. Despite my best conscious efforts to the contrary I knew that I was going over the edge, and when he started ejaculating in me, and at the same time started pulling the ass beads out, I not only orgasmed but my pc muscles clamped my pussy on his dick harder than when I was using my "Mark" Kegelmaster.

When I clamped my pussy muscles down in a sustained manner my attacker's dick stopped moving in and out. Instead it twitched and I heard the loudest most guttural groan emanating from his lips that I had ever heard in my life, anywhere. I think that he collapsed on my back, but I'm not 100% positive because I was having lots of trouble staying cognizant as a tsunami of an orgasm flooded all pleasure receptors in my body and except for my pc muscles most of the rest of me went limp.

I was only partially with it when I felt the girthy cock pull out of my pussy, which sent another electrical charge up my spine. I lay there panting, finding it difficult to breath just through my nose, while I was soaking the bed sheets with sweat.

My attacker must have recognized my heavy breathing because - in a hoarse and uneven voice - he whispered "If you promise not to call for help I'll remove the tape from your mouth. Nod your head if you promise."

Without hesitation I nodded my head. Screaming for help wasn't going to do me any good anyway since there was only one neighborhood family who had any chance of hearing me, and I knew that they were on vacation.

"Nod your head once if you want me to rip the tape off, or twice if you want me to try and remove it slowly," he whispered as I felt his fingers on my cheek grasp an edge of the tape. From my limited experience I thought that quick removal would overall be less painful so I nodded once. "Ouch," I exclaimed as it was ripped off.

"Sorry," he whispered, seemingly genuinely concerned. It was at that point, with my orgasm still providing aftershocks, that my fear started to quickly leave me. I was sure that my attacker was not only someone who knew me, but someone who liked me and would not hurt me. This was reinforced when with a wet cloth he wiped the remnants of adhesive from around my mouth.

"Could I have a few sips of water?" I boldly inquired.

"Sure," he whispered. Shortly afterward he whispered again "It would be best if you were on your back. If you promise not to try to escape I'll reposition your handcuffs and then give you as much water as you want."

"Please just let me go now," I whimpered. "I promise not to report anything if you do."

"I haven't fulfilled my fantasy yet," he whispered in response - with no harshness whatsoever in his voice. "Do you promise?"

"Yes I promise," I replied, since by now he had demonstrated that he could easily overpower me and I might get hurt without gaining anything if I tried to escape. He quickly undid my cuffs from the headboard, turned me on my back, made sure that I was reasonably comfortable, and then reattached the cuffs to the headboard. Soon after that he gently lifted up my head and put a water bottle to my lips. The water was cool and refreshing, and I was somewhat dehydrated from the intense fucking I had just received, so I probably drank eight to ten ounces before I told him that I'd had enough.

After my attacker obviously put the bottle away, he lay next to me on the bed and started pinching and then sucking on my freakishly large and hypersensitive nipples on my tiny tits. I was moaning lightning fast, which seemed to surprise him. "I'm very sensitive; please don't play with my nips," I begged. I didn't think that would stop him, but I had to give it a try. It not only didn't stop him, but it spurred him on.

Soon he was a whirling dervish, sucking, lipping, and twisting with great alacrity. I had never had an orgasm from nipple play alone before, although I had come close in the days when I wouldn't let dates fuck me but did let them suck my tits. This time I went way over the edge - my orgasm was equal to most of my vaginal orgasms with Chet.

Based upon the chuckles I heard, and the continued tit play, my attacker really enjoyed seeing me orgasm from his stimulation of my nipples. He enjoyed it enough so that after he let me recover from my first nipple-gasm he did again, with the same result.

Once I recovered from my second nipple-gasm he whispered "I really would like you to suck my cock. Promise me that you won't bite."

There was no way in hell that I was going to bite him and get him mad enough to hurt or kill me, so that wasn't an issue. However, except in my fantasies I hadn't sucked cock much in my life. I had given a few boyfriends blow jobs before I met Chet, and they seemed to be at least somewhat happy with them; however Chet wasn't much for having his cock sucked, so I rarely did it with him, and never to ejaculation.

"I pr-pr-promise," I stuttered out. "Please don't ejaculate in me - I'll probably choke," I plead.

"I won't waste a charge in your mouth," he whispered back, with a chuckle. I was consciously trying to place his voice, but the whispering and my sex-dazed condition didn't allow it, so I decided I wouldn't waste any more effort on it, and would just look at the video once he was done; assuming that he did leave me alive.

I had never sucked a cock with my juices on it before. Surprisingly it didn't taste bad or disgust me. By that time I had resigned myself to just taking what he dished out, and pretending that I was in one of my fantasies. After a few tentative sucks I started slurping in earnest, the imagined dicks of Simon, Mark, Josh, and even Jack, flitting through my mind as my tongue and lips got with the program.

My attacker groaned, obviously loving it; then he seemingly was overcome with passion since in a non-whisper he moaned "Suck my testicles," as he withdrew his cock and dropped his heavy scrotum over my mouth. If I wasn't sex-dazed I probably could have figured out who it was from that statement, but since I had stopped trying it didn't register at all. I just did as requested.

Sucking his balls was not nearly as rewarding as sucking his girthy cock, but despite their obviously sweaty condition wasn't really torture either. After I did my best to suck and lick them for a couple of minutes he shinnied down and soon his now saliva-coated cock was in my pussy again.

After a few strokes he started sucking and pinching my hypersensitive nipples while still fucking me. That led me to believe that he was quite flexible, making me wonder if it was Josh - which wouldn't be so bad - but hopefully not the slender yoga dude that constantly hit on me at the health club and who creeped me out. From the look I had gotten in the mirror before I was blindfolded I convinced myself that it could not be the creepy yoga dude.

Given the effect that the contemporaneous nipple sucking and dick stroking was having on my body, I no longer even had the ability to pretend that I was going to try to avoid an orgasm; it hadn't worked last time, so it certainly wasn't going to work now, either. So I just acted the way that I did in my fantasies when I dreamt that Josh was fucking my brains out. I instinctively started flexing and then relaxing my pc muscles, and soon my attacker was going nuts, wildly rotating and bucking his hips, and twisting my nipples.

My last rational though was "I can't believe the gusher of cum that he is injecting into me!" Then I passed out. It was probably only for a couple of seconds because when I regained cognizance he was still slowly stroking in me while groaning loudly, and unable to continue working on my nips even if he wanted to.

I lay in a state flitting in and out of consciousness for some period of time before I felt my right arm moving - obviously having been uncuffed from the headboard - and me being turned over on my left side. Then I heard the cuff click again.

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