Role Play

I don't know that this is, strictly speaking, a scary, supernatural, or spooky story. But I find it strange in a psychological, Twilight Zone sort of way. I hope that comes through.

As usual, if you like this story, give it a favorite, a rating, and a comment to let me know what you think. Thanks as always for reading, and Happy Halloween!

- The Author

PART I

I had this plan to fuck him for his birthday. All out. Wine, lingerie, a blowie, candles, the works. But, like any other time, the day came and it didn't happen. I wasn't surprised, by him or me.

He got ready for work in the morning. I made him special breakfast. Eggs, toast, and coffee, as always, but with bacon and fresh OJ added in. He thanked me politely, peck on the cheek, then left for work.

All out.

At least I had the lingerie this time. I got that far. We'd gone to the movies--together, but separate, natch. His billion dollar action movie ran half an hour longer than my moody art film. I went shopping.

Once he was out of the house, I decided to try it on. I thought, it might be easier when he gets home. I went to the bedroom, got naked, slid into the translucent white babydoll and matching thong pantie.

All that frilly mesh and satin already had me feeling cute, even though it was a bitch to get the hook and eye together in the back. Finally successful, I opened the closet door and looked in the mirror.

The woman staring back at me didn't look like she felt cute. 45 years old, thicker and saggier than she used to be, the face of someone who might have been a knockout before she aged into somebody's TV mom.

I turned sideways. Tummy roll, thick thighs, once-impressive boobs forced to be perky by the uncanny strength of the ruched straps. It wasn't my shape that bugged me--for 45, I was still kind of a baddie.

It was the disuse. Like a once-nice car left sitting in a yard, grass growing up around the tires, left to rust. And, really, that was my fault.

Once, I was a cop. Some bad shit went down. Not my doing, but they cleaned house. I took a very early retirement package, and, a few dalliances aside, stayed retired. My husband, 40 today, still worked.

When I retired, I thought of it as a fresh start. I was 30, my whole life ahead. I had Paul--my new hubby, 25 and virile--who was game for anything. One thing I wanted was to try lots of new things in bed.

Instead, we just stopped. It wasn't Paul. He would have done anything I asked of him, with a smile on his face. But some stuff had happened in the cop shop that had put me on my guard, and I couldn't shake it.

We tried sex on vacation, we tried hands and mouths only, we tried sex with the lights off, sex with clothes on. After one particularly long stretch of inactivity, I found out the hard way that I had vaginismus.

Poor Paul. He was so patient, tried so hard. But I turned him down so many times that, after 10 years or so, he got the hint, maybe sooner than I did. The irony was, neither of us had ever stopped being horny.

Now, 15 years later, our marriage was all but sexless.

I gave myself one more look in the mirror. Not bad at all. She could still get it. Lean into the experienced older woman thing. I liked the thought of it, even if the reality of it was frustratingly elusive.

Deep in my loins, I felt a tingling, those first stirrings.

I once confessed to a police psychologist that I sometimes got turned on by the sight of my own body in the mirror, either dressed in something sexy or in nothing at all. She told me I was an autosexual.

I didn't think it was anything that deep. I think I just associated being naked or dressing up in lingerie with getting ready for sex. It was part of the routine. A ritual, with vestments and everything.

Whatever the case, I was horny. And there was only one thing to do about it

I went to the table on my side of the bed, opened the drawer that I was fairly confident he never looked in, and sifted until I found the clit sucker. I shucked my panties and reclined against the headboard.

With my knees up and apart, I thought about better times with Paul. The clit sucker huffed and puffed and became muffled as I pushed it into the mess of dark curls that hid my meek little clitoris.

The time he fingered my asshole while we fucked. (A failed experiment, in my opinion.) The time I made him come so hard that it glanced off my belly and hit me in the jaw. Our first time, all fumbling hands.

Paul was cute, compact, masculine in a nerdy sort of way. His dick wasn't huge, but it was nice, a thick little pole dusted with hair that he kept neatly trimmed, topped with a swirl of soft foreskin.

I'd caught Paul masturbating more times than he could ever know. Once or twice, I'd actually walked in on him, and he'd pretend he'd been doing something else. I would let him think I was convinced.

Mostly, though, it was just hearing him through the closed bathroom door, first thing in the morning, porn playing softly on his phone, quiet sloshing of precum as his foreskin slipped back and forth.

I hated that I'd consigned him to such a life. I loved him so much, and I knew he loved me even more, but this was the one thing where neither one of us seemed like we'd ended up where we belonged.

Paul masturbated every day, just like me. I learned early on that he didn't like to talk about it. I think it was necessary, like eating or breathing, something he did for a bare minimum of sexual nourishment.

One day, over dinner, I had summoned up my courage.

"I masturbated today," I said.

He stopped eating. His eyebrows rose just a little.

I don't know what I'd expected, but it probably involved a little more excitement. Maybe his face could have lit up or something.

"I just wanted you to know," I added.

"I'm glad."

I took a second to figure out how to word what I wanted to say next.

"You don't have to be careful with me. I'm not going to break."

That wasn't exactly true. On previous occasions, I'd been cagey and sensitive any time the subject of sex came up. He'd learned the hard way to be cautious.

"Are you glad you did it?" he asked.

"Mmhmm," I nodded. "I was feeling sexy. It was nice."

I wanted to tell him what I really felt. What I had imagined. Dicks big enough to fill me up and take my breath away. Blowjobs. Fingering. Aggressive sex from behind. Biting. Spanking. Analingus. Bruises.

Other men. Other women. Voyeurism. Threesomes.

He had just become so buttoned down. Once upon a time, we'd been open with each other about sex. It was a recurring anxiety, one that I'd gotten used to tamping down, that I was the one who made him this way.

I had to coax him to open up.

"Do you ever masturbate?" I asked.

After a moment, he said, "Yeah. Sometimes. But I think that's a part of my life that's just for me."

I nodded.

Fuck. Conversation over.

We went on eating in silence. Between each bite, I would wonder how in the world two people who used to not be able to keep their hands off of each other were supposed to get over this horrible invisible wall.

I masturbated for the pleasure, the fantasy. To act on my impulses, even if only with myself. For Paul, it was rote, mechanical, like scratching an itch. My desires were... more complicated than that.

I wanted to smell sexy smells, to touch sexy things, to look upon naked flesh in the act of physical love.

Paul and I tried masturbating together on a few occasions, an attempt to rekindle our chemistry in safe and controlled conditions. Those mutual sessions were the only orgasms I'd had with him in a long time.

My clit and the surrounding flesh were starting to go numb. If I didn't come soon, I was going to lose my orgasm. Just thinking about it made me want to cry.

No matter how I tried to keep it up, thinking about Paul wasn't going to get me there. It wasn't just that our latter day troubles were intruding. Something about the fantasy wasn't doing it for me.

There were more memories, locked away for so long in a vault so inaccessible that I wondered if some of them were even real. Some of them, I knew were real, but maybe not the way I remembered them.

Those were the shameful ones. The ones I preferred not to acknowledge. But I knew that those memories, even just one of them, would get me there, would make me feel like a properly sexed woman once again.

The clit sucker whined between my soft thighs. My hand was getting tired of holding it there. I decided, fuck it.

Alex had been my partner in my undercover days. What they don't tell you about a cover story is, it can be immersive. It can overwrite what you already know about yourself. Especially the way we did it.

But if there were a steady rock in the world, it was Alex. Tall, dark, handsome, bald-headed, deep-voiced, liked sunglasses whether he needed them or not. A guy you looked at just once and dropped your panties.

Of course I fucked him. More than once. Enough times that I've caught myself thinking of him as an ex-boyfriend. I hadn't been married to Paul for very long, but I didn't see him very often. It just happened.

I thought of Alex gathering me into his arms, letting me feel his erection against my leg through his pants and mine, his kisses smothering, domineering. We never even made it out of our clothes.

We fucked on a couch in the lounge, pants around our knees, his dick filling me up halfway to my brain. He smelled like leather and citrus. He pulled my hair and called me a bitch, which made me want him more.

He pulled out and I gratefully knelt and suckled the head of him while he jacked himself off. His semen was bitter, slightly alkaline. It slid down my throat and into my stomach with a pleasant thickness.

That had been the first time. After that, whenever we were on the job together, we took our time.

The clit sucker had me so close, like a dam about to break, and finally the first orgasm crashed through me, coming and going quickly as it usually did with the clit sucker, then a second, then a third.

I laid there a while, legs open, naked from the waist down, lingerie slightly wet with perspiration. I took a nap, then tried masturbating again. But I couldn't bring myself to go back to those memories.

It was as if opening the vault just a crack had only made it close tighter, made its contents more inaccessible, on pain of emotional distress. Whatever spirit had briefly possessed me was now gone.

By the time Paul came home, I'd already changed into a hoodie and sweat pants. He never saw the lingerie. The evening passed without event and we went to bed that night with a chaste kiss on the lips.

When I woke up the next morning, Paul was already gone. It was a long work day for him, wire to wire. He'd been having them a lot lately.

I looked over at my phone and saw that there was a message waiting for me.

~

I didn't have his name in my phone anymore, but I recognized the number. It was as if I'd conjured him.

Alex was back in town. He'd asked me to meet him in the bar of the hotel where he was staying. For drinks.

For a few hours, I didn't send him a reply. I had no idea what to say. Then Paul messaged me, apologizing, saying he'd be staying overnight at the office. Probably two nights. That's when I texted Alex back.

My day passed by in a blur.

The next thing I knew, I was in my car, in the city, perfumed. I wore my nicest dress that still fit. Simple, black, hugging my wide hips, baring my thighs. A simple necklace to decorate a mile of cleavage.

I kept thinking of Paul. Our last handful of misfires, the cavalcade of mornings hearing him beat off through the bathroom door, making an endless circle in my brain. I wished it could have been different.

I'd left some bullshit note explaining my absence tonight and possibly tomorrow, just in case he got back before I did. I figured he would never see it.

I met Alex in the bar. He wore his customary longsleeve black shirt and black pants. We hugged, a very familiar hug. I could feel his body against mine through our clothes. I supposed he could also feel mine.

We had a few drinks. Enough to relax, but not enough that we didn't know exactly what we were doing. We talked about nothing important. Then he invited me up to his room. No pretext, no excuses.

Then we were kissing--his kisses were sloppy, domineering--and he reached under the dress and pulled my panties halfway down my thighs, and I had his dick out in my hand, and his hand was on my pussy.

His room was modest. The fanciest thing was the big, broad window that stretched across an entire wall. In a real city, there would have been a skyline. Here, we could mostly see the offices across the street.

Our lights were off, but I mumbled through half-parted mouths, something about being seen. Some of those windows still had lights on, people close enough that I could see the patterns on their neckties.

"Don't worry about it," Alex said. "You're nobody to them."

We tugged at each other's clothes, clumsily, but we got each other naked. His body was still hard and powerful to the touch. I felt so soft in his arms. Then I was on my back, on the bed, him on top of me.

As he suckled my fleshy neck and carefully played with one sensitive nipple, I murmured, "Just like in the undercover days."

He chuckled. "You still remember that old cop scene?"

"How could I forget?"

"It was so long ago. And there were so many scenes."

I thought this was an odd thing to say, but it drifted out of my mind as he gripped one shoulder, turning me on my side, and I dutifully went along with it. He laid on his side behind me, snuggling me close.

His hard-on felt so big and warm, resting in my buttcrack like a hot dog in a bun. His hand reached around between my thighs, pressing two strong fingertips into my wet, fleshy vulva, swirling, massaging.

His memory was good. I came quickly, a short and sweet orgasm, a fair appetizer before the main course. My body trembled against his. God, how I forgot how comforting it is to be pleasured by another person.

I scooched up, reached down in between my legs, felt around for that lovely hard thing, put the bare head of it between my slick labia. I trusted him enough to fuck me raw without doing anything stupid.

With both of us on our sides, he hugged me to him and spooned me, pushing into me until I felt full up to my navel, his pelvis pressing into my ample buttocks, his hips rocking rather than thrusting.

It was gentle. I welcomed it--hell, it was my first sexual attention from a man in god knows how long, and I was ready to inhale anything he would give me. But, later, I would make him give it to me rough.

I took his hand from my belly and placed it on my stretched vulva, and he dutifully gave me little pulses of pressure that timed well with the leisurely in-out of those slow, shallow, deeply buried strokes.

I sighed, a long sigh that came out in a series of ratcheting grunts that got stuck periodically in the back of my throat any time his hips touched my body. Every breath I took was heavy with the scent of sex.

That feeling built up in me, plateaued, built again, plateaued, and, when I finally came, it was spectacular. I shook, I growled, I howled, as his fingers and the head of his dick worked their magic on me.

God, I could have pissed myself, it was so nice. Partly because it had been so long. But that mattered. A hard body, a roving hand, and a deeply buried cock were better than the best toys in the world.

He pulled out, and he politely asked me to suck him off, to get him the rest of the way. He was big and bold, but he could be so cute. I sat up, he knelt in front of me, and I took his wet dick into my hand.

I put my lips on the head of him and bobbed on his first few inches, cradling him with my tongue and letting the spit well up underneath. He was big enough that I had to remind myself to keep my jaw relaxed.

He was short work. I suppose my normally horrid memory came through for me. I swallowed every drop, then licked his pisshole clean.

I got up, went pee, then came back to find him already asleep, half-sprawled.

I snuggled into him, praying we made it the rest of the night without waking up again. It really had been a while. I needed the night to recover. Then, tomorrow, I would get him to really fuck my brains out.

~

I had one of those dreams that's like multiple dreams crammed into one.

Not that dream within a dream, Leonardo DiCaprio type thing.

I mean the kind of dream where you can shoot laser beams out of your eyes, but you're also a little kid and it's that one time you helped your dad fix the tractor mower. A dream melange. A compound dream.

I was a prostitute. I got paid to have sex with people I didn't know, people I didn't love, and it felt so good. New bodies every time, being called upon to do things I'd never done before. Strange things.

I was a cop who convinced myself I was a prostitute. Deep cover, triple fakeout. My major was a fruitcake who insisted I consult his hypnotist. A strange man who put me under, planted the scene in me.

Not the most ethical thing in the world, in retrospect.

I was a prostitute who convinced myself I was a cop, because I had agreed to fuck someone who wanted to get off by having his paid arrangement disrupted by the most corruptible kind of police officer.

I was a cop who had retired. One who went too deep undercover as a prostitute, sealed the deal too many times for the comfort of internal affairs, who decided they'd rather wash their hands of it. Of me.

I was a prostitute who played the role of the retired cop, the housewife, because some men don't need to get off, so much as they need the idea of a girlfriend, or a wife, but not the obligations.

And I was the retired cop. The housewife. The one whose life had definitively dried up, for whom sexual pleasure, physical expression, intimacy of the warmest, stickiest kind, were but a wistful memory.

And, in every scenario, there was Alex. Big Alex. Hard Alex.

Alex, my partner. Alex, whom I hired to put me in touch with sad people who needed to fuck, or happy people who just needed to fuck without commitment. Alex, who worked cases with me. Late nights, paperwork.

Alex, who had seen it all with me. Who had watched over me while I got stuffed in every hole. Who had helped me swab cocaine from a shower drain for lab analysis. Who had taken it up the ass while I watched.

Alex. My oldest ally. My friendly fuck. It didn't matter if I'd last seen him yesterday or 15 years ago; he would always look after me.

In my dream, Alex was there, sitting in the corner, doing his best not to intrude. It was his job not to call attention to himself.

I was with a man. We were on a bed.

I didn't know what he looked like. In dreams, you don't have to know. He had on black boxer shorts, in which his hard-on made a comically big tent. I wore just a simple pair of black panties, plenty of cheek.

He had me on my stomach. He lied on top of me, nibbling my neck, my ear. No kissing--that was always off limits with me. He slipped a hand under my hips, which I obliged by lifting off the bed just a little.

For a moment, he humped me and played with my pussy through the cloth, more for his amusement than mine. I didn't know if this dream was from scratch or from memories, plenty of which would have fit the bill.

Then he got up, pulled my panties down to my thighs, smacked my ass, sending ripples up through my soft body, pulled my asscheeks apart, licked my asshole, that slimy feeling, flesh sliding against flesh.

I acted like I enjoyed it. I think I actually did. It was hard to tell.

Of my own accord, or, at least, the accord of my dreamself, I rolled onto my back, looking upon my own bare belly and breasts as though I were someone else. I let him pull my panties the rest of the way off.