tagNovels and NovellasNo Going Back Ch. 28

No Going Back Ch. 28


I hate him! I hate what he did to me, and to my daughter. I don't care how he became what he is, what led him step by step to do things he never would have imagined, I still hate him. But, I still miss him.

Roger has been gone for two months now. I know, I told him to leave, to get out and never come back. Chas didn't ever want to see him again, and I didn't blame her. I know he took care of the worst of the problems, I don't think the Cult will ever bother any of us again, but the things that happened will never go away. I still lie in bed at night and think about the horrible things that I experienced.

I can't put out of my mind the disgust and humiliation that I suffered. The images haunt me in my dreams. And worst of all, worse than the anger I feel at Roger, is the reaction my body has to some of the memories. No matter how hard I try to feel only the anger, the memories have other effects, ones that make me wonder who I am, and what I've become.

When the memories overwhelm me, when they pull me back into those horrible experiences, over all my objections, I find my body responding. In my mind, I see the bodies. I see the men . . . so many men. I see them all around me. I close my eyes and feel their hands. I feel them touching me, spreading me, opening me . . . and then I feel . . .

The wetness between my legs eventually drips onto the sheets. Whether I touch myself, or not . . . . whether I reach the point that I can't deny the inevitable, or only lie there shaking . . . I finally have to sleep on Roger's side of the bed, to avoid the wet spot. And that, somehow, reminds me of him even more, and makes me feel even worse.

I hate him. I hate myself. I hate . . . what I can't forget.

After weeks of the memories, weeks of the frustration, it became almost impossible to sleep. I began riding around in the car at night, listening to the radio, trying to think of something . . . anything . . . else. It was only a matter of time before I ended up . . . back there.

I knew where the adult bookstore was. At first, I only pulled into the parking lot. I sat there, watching the men go in and come out. My stomach would churn as I watched them, wondering, "Was he one of . . . those men? Had he . . . been there, on the other side of the wall? That night . . . had he actually been . . . inside me?"

Once in a while, a man would notice me, and look at me, with wide, hot, curious eyes. I would start the engine, back out, and drive away, my heart pounding in my chest. I would swear not to come back, but I knew it was a futile promise.

The night I actually went in the store, I thought I was going to faint. I stood in front of the book racks, pretending to look at the titles. I could tell that men were watching me, and that made it even more difficult to breathe. After about five minutes, a man walked down the aisle and stood a few feet from me, looking at a magazine on the shelf. When I sensed him turn slightly toward me, as if he were going to say something, I almost ran from the store. It was a miracle I didn't have an accident in the car on the way home.

It was only a few nights before I was back in the store. I couldn't stop myself. I dreaded the possibility that someone might actually approach me, but the intensity of that fear was so intoxicating, I felt drugged with the anticipation.

It was after the fourth time I'd entered the store, when I left the parking lot, a car pulled out behind me. I watched the car in the rearview mirror until I was halfway home. It was still there, and I was getting uncomfortable, so I made a turn in a different direction, away from home. The car continued straight, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

As I crawled into bed, I knew I was going to have trouble sleeping, again. Now, in my imagination, I could see the car following me. I could almost see the man behind the wheel. I could almost feel his thoughts, sense his memories of the night he entered me, his cock straining through the hole in the wall. As my hand slid between my legs, finding the wetness that I knew waited, I imagined his hand, unzipping his pants as he drove.

I could see it so clearly, his cock being pulled into view below the steering wheel. I felt his hips begin to tense as he wrapped his fingers around himself, began to stroke himself, letting his own memories return to that night. I felt his eyes, focused on the back of my head through the windshield. I imagined the hardness of his cock in his hand, the heat of it as he pulled and squeezed and kneaded his engorged cockhead.

Under my own hand, liquid squished noisily as I drove myself to higher and higher levels of excitement. The sound spurred me on, stunned at the quantity of female juice dripping between my legs. In only a few minutes, I reached the top. Three fingers of my other hand drove themselves inside me, and I fingered my clit until my body and my mind exploded.

In my vision, the long, thick, purple-headed cock exploded in his hand. The cum shot up, past the steering wheel, past the dashboard, onto the window, running down in rivulets. I could almost taste it, my tongue lapping across the window like some rough-surfaced, wet, pink windshield wiper.

I pulled my fingers from my sopping pussy, rolled on my side, and stuck my fingers deep in my mouth. The taste was sweet, and I sucked and licked my fingers, wishing the mouth sucking them was not my own.

The physical release had been so powerful, I knew I'd soon finally be able to sleep. That realization brought little joy, and as I slipped into exhausted unconsciousness, the last sensation I felt was the heavy wetness of the tears on my pillow.

In spite of how much I hurt emotionally, the uncontrollable desire for physical release was overpowering. I spent most of my day thinking about the men in the bookstore. I thought about how they looked at me as I stood in front of the shelves.

Most of them wandered the aisles as if they were actually searching for a specific book. They would try to find a spot where they could pretend to be looking at merchandise when they were really just finding a place to stare at me. I could feel them looking at me.

It never took long before my breasts actually began to tingle. I would feel my nipples getting hard, just from knowing that's exactly what they were trying to see. I wore thin, tight blouses or sweaters, and after several visits, I stopped wearing a bra. Even I was shocked to see how prominent and visible my hard nipples were as I stood there, in public, letting the men get a good look.

It never failed to excite me when a man finally turned and headed toward the booths in the back of the store. Often he stopped just before going through the doorway and looked back at me. I knew he was trying to get me to follow him, but I couldn't, I just couldn't. I wanted to so very badly, but I was so scared, sometimes I almost peed in my panties when some man looked at me and I accidentally made obvious eye contact.

One night, my knees were so weak when I walked out of the store, I was afraid to get in the car and drive. I thought it would be safer to go across the street to a little motel and get a room for the night. The place was pretty dingy, but for less than $30 and an extra $10 to the man at the counter, I got a reasonably clean, second floor room with two double beds that actually looked out on the adult bookstore across the street.

I was thrilled. I had no idea how exciting it would be to stand at the window, all the lights out so no one could see me, and watch the men come and go in the store. Within ten minutes of my discovery, I was standing there in front of the window, all my clothes off, imagining all the men were entering the building because I was in one of the booths in the back.

I know I had five huge orgasms in the first hour I stood at the window. Finally, my knees truly did give out and I collapsed into bed, completely exhausted. I slept better than I had in weeks. I knew I had found my very own Disneyland. - - - - - I repeated the motel visit several times, even staying on a weeknight and getting up early in the morning to go home before work. It was my fourth night that I met Charles. He came into the store dressed in a coat and tie, and he looked really nice. He acted so self-assured, so relaxed and confident, I wasn't even very scared when he spoke to me as I stood there looking at the "toy" selection.

"Picking out a present for your husband?" he asked, seeing my wedding rings.

"Yes," I answered meekly. "It's his birthday next week," I lied. I certainly didn't want to say anything about Roger not living with me any more.

"My ex-wife always told me this was her favorite substitute when I wasn't around," Charles laughed. The flesh colored dildo he handed me was long and thick, maybe eight or even nine inches in length. Before I could stop myself, my eyes dropped to his crotch, and when he noticed my gaze and smiled, I must have blushed a bright scarlet.

"Well, she did say it made her think of me," he laughed, "but then, you'd have to decide that for yourself, wouldn't you?"

That was more than I could deal with. There I stood, my fingers wrapped around a plastic cock that now supposedly represented a real one less than three feet away. An image of myself dropping to my knees, opening his pants, and making a direct comparison rushed into my mind. My heart began to pound in my chest.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I really have to go," I gasped. "I don't feel very . . ." I stumbled as I turned to go.

"Here, let me help you," he said. Taking my arm, he led me out of the store. He began to lead me to the parking lot next to the building. Realizing my car was across the street at the motel, I tried to think of what to do.

"Uhhh, I think I need to sit down before I try to drive. Can we go across the street to the coffee shop? Just for a minute?"

We sat in a booth in a little shop next to the motel. It was already after 11:00 pm and we were the only ones there. Charles ordered us coffee and before I could object, he sweetened the cups quite thoroughly from a flask he pulled from his coat. His action made me a bit nervous, but as the warmth the alcohol inspired flowed through me, it did feel nice. We talked a while, mostly about his ex-wife and about Roger, who I said was away on a business trip.

Under the table, he kept moving his feet so it was difficult to avoid touching his leg with mine. Every time I did, I felt a spark in my stomach. I was having great trouble not thinking about the large dildo I'd had in my hands so recently. I kept imagining sitting here across from him while under the table, one hand slid the dildo in and out of my wet pussy. As I got more excited, I got even more scared. When he finally suggested we go somewhere else for a real drink, I made a firm excuse about work tomorrow, thanked him and urged him to go.

He appeared surprised that I meant it, but we stood up and began to move toward the door. As he moved to open the door for me I turned and told him, "Thank you again, Charles, but I think I'll visit the ladies room before I go. You go on. Maybe I'll see you again sometime." I turned quickly and walked to the back of the restaurant.

I stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes, hoping that he would be gone when I came out. As I left to cross the parking lot to the motel, he was nowhere in sight, and I have to admit, I felt a bit of disappointment. I stopped at the car, opened the trunk and took out the unopened bottle of expensive scotch I had brought with me. "Maybe just a little to top off the evening," I told myself. "It couldn't hurt."

I climbed the outside steps to the second floor and walked toward my room, looking out over the parking lot. When I was two rooms away from mine, I saw a car pull into the lot. The man driving looked like it might be Charles. Looking back over my shoulder, I hurried toward my room. As I passed the last door before mine, a man stepped out from his room directly into my path. I never saw him, and as I crashed into him, the bottle slipped from my hand and shattered on the concrete walkway.

"Shit, lady!" the man cried. "Watch where you're going."

Totally confused, I muttered some sort of apology, looking forlornly at the remains of the bottle that had cost even more than my motel room. As the tears started to flow, I glanced quickly back at the parking lot and saw Charles getting out of his car. I couldn't tell if he had seen me, and I hurried down to my room, unlocked the door and slammed it behind me.

I lay face down on the bed, miserable and afraid that Charles had seen me. "What will I do if he comes up here?" I agonized, a part of me hoping he would. I heard steps approaching my door and my heart leapt. Then, three sharp knocks. "Oh God," I thought, but I stood up and moved toward the door.

I hesitated for a second, then decided I had no choice. If he'd seen me, I had to open the door. I knew it was a poor excuse, but . . . my hand reached out and turned the doorknob.

"Hey, lady, I'm sorry you broke your bottle. And I'm sorry I yelled at you. You OK?"

The man from the next room stood in the doorway. He was young, maybe 25. He looked kind of rough, and I immediately hoped Charles was on his way up the steps to my room.

I must have looked completely helpless to the man. My face was wet with tears and my clothes were wrinkled from falling on the bed in despair when I ran into the room. My sweater was bunched up under my breasts revealing several inches of bare stomach. I tried quickly to pull it back down to my waist, and too late, I realized the tension of pulling on the sweater only served to tighten it around my breasts. I saw his eyes lock on my chest and a cold nervousness rose in my throat.

I decided to take a step toward the man to try to suggest that he leave, but before I could move, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Here," he said. "I brought a replacement. This ought to help you out." He held out a bottle of brown liquid that I could only tell was some sort of whisky of a brand I'd never seen. Again I thought to move, but from his pocket he pulled out a knife, flicked it open, and began to cut open the seal on the bottle.

The knife blade glittered in the light from the ceiling fixture. "Oh, no, thank you," I tried to say. "I don't need anything to drink. I'm ready for bed now and I . . ." I didn't like the look on his face as I started that sentence. "Please, I don't feel very good. I need to go in the bathroom. Please leave, won't you?"

"Don't worry," he said. "You go ahead. I'll just pour us one quick one so you can get to sleep more easily." He moved further into the room, ending up next to the phone on the bedtable, still between me and the door. Not knowing what else to do, I almost ran into the bathroom and locked the door.

Almost immediately I heard a door in the room being unlocked, and then I heard other voices outside the bathroom in my room. "Hey lady," the man called. "Come on out. We got a party goin' on out here."

"Go away!" I cried through the door. "Get out of my room!"

Suddenly, I heard a clicking in the center of the doorknob and to my horror, the door opened inwards toward me. He stepped inside, the knife still prominent in his hand. He'd used it to open the door from the outside.

"Now look lady," he drawled with an menacing smile. "I'm just trying to be neighborly. I want to make up to you for breaking your bottle. Come on out and meet my friends."

I stood there in shock, my mouth hanging open.

"What's the matter," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You so damn anxious to get back across the street to those fuck and suck booths that you can't share a drink with me? I've seen you over there almost every night. You think you're too good to drink with me? What'll it be, you bitch? All I'm asking is one little drink. That too much for you to stand?"

The knife was all too handy, and his mood showed no patience. "Uhhh, OK, I'm sorry," I whimpered. "I didn't mean to insult you. Just one quick drink, though. I really need to check out and go."

"Yeah, right," he laughed, but he let me squeeze past him out of the bathroom.

Five pairs of eyes met mine as I entered the bedroom. Two other men and three women looked at me with attitudes ranging from curiosity to suspicion to dislike to . . . anything but friendliness. Next to the far bed was an explanation for their appearance. The door to the adjoining room had been opened by my "visitor" and they had simply moved in from next door.

"Heyyyy, welcome," slurred one of the men. "Come on out here and get acquainted."

"You watch yourself," whispered the man exiting the bathroom behind me. "My friends are pretty much OK, but they've been into some shit already this evening. Sometimes it makes them a little weird, especially Ricky. Don't get him mad, and this'll be fun."

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