tagGroup SexThe Devil Comes Out at Night Pt. 04

The Devil Comes Out at Night Pt. 04

byriverboy©

My name is Margaret Norman, and I'm a sexaholic.

My friend Carol Lindsey would probably think I should start this chapter of my saga that way, but I don't buy into that way of thinking. Yes, my name's Margaret Norman, and sexuality might be the part of my life that I'm most interested in right now, but I don't think that's such a bad thing.

Carol is a woman who could use a dose of sex. That makes it sound like a drug, and I guess maybe it is. Bob's cock feels like a drug. You remember Bob. Tall, dark and handsome. My Burt Reynolds. My Playgirl centerfold. I'm pretty sure he's the man in our congregation at church that packs the most flesh in his pants. A Christian dildo come to life.

Gosh, that sounds horrible. I don't know if there's even such a thing as a Christian dildo. There may be; in this day and age, you can buy just about anything. But one thing you can't buy, as far as I know, is a spouse who lets you play with one. The real life kind, I mean. The kind that's huge, and flesh and blood, and hanging between Bob's legs.

Of course it's a two way street. My sweet husband Donald has a Christian sex toy of his own. Don't worry, Jeana doesn't mind being thought of that way. She gets a kick out of it. She can recite scripture from memory one moment and grunt out "Fuck me harder!" the next. It's that God and the Devil thing. She and I are both sort of two sided, and Donald and Bob like us that way. I guess I should back up a little though, and continue the story properly...



I'm happy to say Jeana and I really did become best friends. The day after our first time naked together—that wild, hot, sweaty day on their boat—was a Sunday. She and Bob just waved and smiled from a distance at first. I felt the awkwardness in the air. It seemed to infect the whole of the church, so I took Donald's hand and pulled him over to where they were.

"We loved it," I said, speaking vaguely, dodging the passing parishioners in the isle.

"Did you?" Jeana asked, looking a little worried, and very curious. "We were hoping. We loved it, too."

I noticed a nosey nellie looking and listening. "It was so delicious," I said to Jeana. "We'll have to try and find the recipe so we can make it again."

"Oh. Yes," Jeana said, looking around and seeing more than one nosey woman. "Definitely."

"Well," I said to Donald, "shall we take our seats?"

Donald shook Bob's hand, and then he nodded and smiled softly at Jeana. I wondered what he was thinking as we all moved toward our usual seats. Jeana looked luminously beautiful, and she had a soft, lovely perfume on. Did the sight and the scent of her make Donald as drunk as the look in Bob's eyes made me?

That evening, I called Jeana on the phone. We talked for almost an hour, learning about each other's lives, and yes, talking about some of what happened Saturday on the boat. She told me again that I surprised her, and I told her to stop telling me that or I'd start second guessing myself. Was the 'new me' really that unusual? We talked a little about it, about how enjoying sex — really enjoying sex — seemed to be the province of "other kinds of people," as she put it. Not church people. Not Christians. That seemed sad to me. Why should one of life's most pleasurable pleasures be denied?

We talked about other men in our congregation, and other women. Cynthia Marley's name came up. Bob had mentioned her when we were on the boat, and Jeana and I were both curious about the strange aura she seemed to cast over the men of the church. She's a single woman, in her late thirties. She works in a bookstore and I think she spends most of her life reading. She's not an overly pretty woman, with very plain hair and an almost homely looking face, but she has a body that wouldn't look out of place on one of the Kardashians. She does her best to hide it, but she has breasts that are as big as mine — she's slimmer in the waist, mind you — and she's got a behind that looks big in the frumpy dresses she wears but positively comes to life when she wears bluejeans. We've only ever seen her in jeans three times, all of them 'work days' when the congregation got together to do some maintenance tasks at the church. Twice it had been painting, with brushes and rollers and dropcloths, and once it was a horrible job of scraping up old linoleum floor tiles in the big Fellowship Hall. We were all on hands and knees for the entire day, working with scraping tools and pry bars. I remember wishing I'd worn a heavier duty bra, to hold my movement in check a little better, and I'm guessing Cynthia did, too. I'm also guessing she wished she had looser fitting bluejeans on. Mine were loose and comfortable, but hers tightened right up when she got down on her hands and knees. The term 'camel toe' is a relatively new addition to my vocabulary. It's a thing that I didn't know was a thing until I started reading about sex and watching porn. The moment I realized it was a thing, my mind flashed back to that work day in the Fellowship Hall. You see, women's bluejeans can be quite thin and stretchy these days, and Cynthia Marley, well, there's no good way to put this delicately. She has a big pussy. Prominent, and shapely, I guess you could say. It's a good thing the job we were doing that day was dirty and strenuous, because it scared off most of the church's women from being there. If they'd been there and seen her, poor Cynthia's camel toe would have been a never ending topic of gossip, the way Jeana's bare back is. There were a lot of men there, though, and if I'm remembering the sight of her as well as I do, you can imagine how it burned into the men's minds. Bob's comment on the boat brought it all back to me.

Jeana and I talked about Reverend James' wife, too. A petite woman with raven hair, the spirit of God runs through her so thoroughly it leaks right out through her pores. It's often a little over the top. Jeana wonders if she says "Oh, God!" when Reverend James fucks her. It made me laugh. I felt bad about it, but gosh it was funny.

And then there's the handsome men of the congregation. I'd never felt comfortable talking about them until I became friends with Jeana. She's much more easy going about that type of thing, openly speculating about cock size, hairiness and endurance. She bases a lot of her guesses on how happy the wives are.

I asked her if she thought other women were speculating about our husbands' cock size. She said yes, she could sense it, and I sort of knew what she meant. I told her I think that kind of curiosity is just the animal in us, those genes and deeply rooted instincts that make us mammal. When you think of us as the animals that we are, it's normal for us females to be on the lookout for the top cunt-hound, and normal for all the cunt-hounds to be sniffing around our rear ends. Jeana laughed and agreed.

She asked me about my 'makeover' — the blonde hair, the stylish black-framed glasses, the subtly sexier Sunday dresses. I told her about the marriage counselor, the porn, Nina Hartley, and how it had all somehow led Donald and me into the couple swapping with her and Bob on the boat. She was glad it did. She told me she fantasizes about sex with more than one man, the way I do, and I wanted to tell her about Bob and Jim and Harvey in the Adirondack cabin. I didn't, and wondered if I ever would. She told me that being with Bob and Donald on the boat was her first time with more than one man. I already sort of knew that. She told me that the first orgasm that way, with Bob in her mouth and my Donald fucking her, was the best orgasm she'd ever had. She said some of it was the way I was holding her, and she said she's hoping she can hold me that way, too. A vision of what I'd done came into my mind, and it gave me goosebumps. My arms were wrapped around her, her beautiful soft breasts were hanging under her, and my hands were on them, and she was moving. My Donald's cock was doing it, making her move, and she was moaning on her mouthful of Bob's big cock. I remember thinking how hard he was. Extra hard.

I told her I'd like that. I didn't come right out and say "having your hands on me," but she knew what I meant. There was some silence on the phone, while we both thought about it, and then we decided we should stop yakking and do some of the many things that needed doing in our lives. I can't remember a phone conversation I've enjoyed as much as that one. It felt so good to have a 'soul mate' kind of a friend.



Jeana called the next day and invited Donald and me for another Saturday on the boat. I went back to the mall and did some more bikini shopping. I knew I might not have them on for very long, but it was still fun to think about wearing some different ones, and the whole 'bikini thing' was good for my new diet — it made me want to double down on eating right and exercising.

Yes, I was on a mission to get my body back in shape, and the collateral energy of my efforts would trim up Donald, too. We went meatless three days a week, and I bought a juicer and some new pots and pans. No more ready made food. Everything fresh. It was a challenge, but cooking has always been an interest of mine.

I bought some exercise mats and some medicine balls and some dumbbell weights. We set up a nice space for it all in a spare bedroom, complete with an old boombox for playing music and a tired old laptop for playing YouTube videos of exercise gurus. Donald was all for it because he had a new girlfriend. I think swinging boggled his mind, more than he let on. He tried to seem cool and collected, but I could tell thoughts of Jeana were sneaking in, the same way that thoughts of Bob's big cock messed with my head. It was all very odd, and nothing like anything we'd been through before with our marriage. I wondered what Paulette, our marriage councilor, would think. I wasn't sure I really wanted to know.

I bought three bikinis, all on sale. All of them, including the one I'd bought the week before, made me look ridiculously titty. But I guess I just am. That's been one of the interesting things to get used to. After covering myself so conservatively for my whole life, becoming a titty bikini girl has been kind of fascinating. All women know men are gaga over tits, but experiencing it first hand, at over fifty years of age, has been almost laughably fun. I rolled our trash can out to the curb yesterday morning when my retired neighbor was out in his yard. Donald was at work, and it was one of my days off. I'd been trying on all my bikini tops again that morning, for the third time I think. I had sweatpants on, decent looking ones, and I suddenly realized it was trash day. I thought I heard the truck coming, but I wasn't sure. I hustled downstairs, grabbed the kitchen trash and I was out in the driveway before I knew it, rolling the big black can down to the curb. That's when I noticed Martin, patching a bare spot on his nearly perfect lawn. His eyes were on me when I saw him, and I suddenly realized I was a bikini girl, the top half of one anyway. I giggled nervously and waved.

"Oh, hi Martin," I said. "I didn't see you there."

"Good morning, Margaret," he said.

I could tell he was surprised, maybe even shocked, at the way I looked. His voice was different, the way he formed his words. His hands were working in the dirt, but his eyes were on me. I felt the thrill and a tingle down my spine. My breasts tingled, too. It was my nipples coming to life. They're big prominent ones, as you may remember, and in the past the industrial strength bras I used to wear rendered them invisible to friends, neighbors and all who looked at me. A big part of the new excitement, and comfort, I guess you could say, of becoming a titty woman, was getting used to people seeing me when I was nipply. I've purchased quite a few new bras, of various levels of thickness, but every one of the bikinis I bought was thin and quite revealing in that regard. I guess I bought younger girl bikinis, unlined ones, instead of the thick, padded ones older women wear. I mean, why wear something that shows off ninety-eight percent of your bare naked skin and then worry about nipple bumps? That's my way of thinking.

And so, my nice neighbor Martin became the very first 'civilian' to see me that way. I decided to test myself. It was the perfect situation — a weekday morning, a dead quiet neighborhood. I was pretty sure Martin's wife Ellen was at her volunteer job at the library.

"What got you this time? Grubs?" I asked, walking over to where he was working.

"Nope, nope, I think it's the road salt from the winter," he said as he stood up, gesturing at the dead patches of grass with his arm. "It's just along the very front here. See?"

"Oh, yes. I guess ours is that way, too, but Donald's not as fussy," I said, catching Martin's quick glances at my breasts. "You've always had an eye for the details."

"Well, I...do like it to look nice," he said.

"What a beautiful stretch of weather we're having," I said. "So hot. Think it'll last?"

"The forecast I saw says it will," he said. "They're calling it a real heatwave."

I'll tell you a little bit about what Martin's glancing eyes were seeing. Yellow. A nice, bright, medium yellow. That's the color of the two triangles of fabric that covered my two breasts. The color of a goldfinch in it's summer plumage. I remember thinking of that when I was in the store, picking it out, because the horizontal strap that goes around the body is black, and those cute little goldfinch birds are yellow and black. I guess I was in my summer plumage, too. Maybe that was what the nipple bloom was about. And wow, were they booming! Martin was getting an eyeful, because that nice yellow fabric was thin. Flimsy, I guess you could say, and stretched quite tight. When he wasn't looking I glanced at myself and I almost said, "Wow!", but instead my goofy little smile greeted his returning gaze. I felt like my whole body was a pair of tits at that moment. Tits that were adorned in a 'look at me!' color, tits that were cleavagy to the max, tits that oozed side boob from under the flimsy yellow like the leading edge of hot lava.

"We'll be on a boat this weekend, with some friends from church," I said. "With this heat, I thought I'd try on some bikinis and see what to wear. Do you like this one?"

For some reason, know only to God and the Devil, my lungs slowly filled to their capacity while Martin was taking a good look at the bright yellow and the big nipples and the massive cleavage and the oh-so-soft side boob. My chest was heaved out like a stripper. He was still looking when I exhaled, and when, God only knows why, I inhaled full deep again.

"It's not what I would expect to see you in, Margaret, but yeah, I mean, I do like it."

"Good. I don't know why I'm just discovering bikinis. They're so comfortable. Now I just need to work on my diet so I look good in them."

"You look...just fine, Margaret...just fine."

Martin took advantage of the situation. I was asking him to look and he did. He devoured me for a few long, glorious moments. My nipples doubled down on their bloom, and my spine tingled again. The little test I was giving myself was a rousing success. Martin was happy and so was I. Being titty was fun!



"A blonde in a yellow bikini! I love it!"

They were Jeana's words, loud ones, ringing out across the docks at the marina. Donald and I had just parked, a little ways away from their boat. I was in the middle of another experiment: showing up head to toe bikinied, with no shorts, no coverup. I laughed nervously when I heard her. A loud announcement of my arrival and attire wasn't exactly what I'd expected.

Jeana was up on the boat's flying bridge, smiling and waving at us. She was bikinied, too, and I was tempted to shout about it to the people that were around, maybe turn some heads from my direction to hers, but instead I let my nipples bloom in silence.

"Wow," Donald said, noticing my arousal. "You look sexy."

"Do I? I feel like racing home and exercising for eight hours."

"Trust me," my sweet husband said, zeroing his eyes in on my nipply targets. "Smokin' hot."

"I can't believe I'm wearing this in public," I said, looking down at myself. "What would my mother think?"

A high decibel wolf whistle blew past Bob's fingers and out of his mouth, letting everyone within a half a mile know I was standing there nearly naked.

"I guess we know what your boyfriend thinks," Donald said. "That's all that matters today, right?"

It was the truth and I held tight to it, trying to compose myself for the walk from the parking area to the docks. The heatwave brought out lots of boaters, and the marina was busy. Families, fisherman, young people carrying water skis and wake boards. Donald and I gathered our things: a bag with a few clothes and towels, and a big tupperware container of homemade pizza to heat up for lunch.

"Could you...take your shirt off?" I asked. "Then I won't feel so under-dressed."

"Oh, sure," Donald said. After he did it, when he was putting his white polo shirt in the bag with the other clothes, he said, "Now I feel like running home and exercising for eight hours."

I smiled. "We'll hit it twice tomorrow, okay? Before church and after."

"You got it," he said. "We can train each other."

So there we were, Donald and me, walking across a crowded marina, wearing swim suits we wouldn't have on when we swam, carrying food that would re-energize us after we got dizzy from fucking our brains out with another married couple. If we were the good Christians we pretended to be we would have taken a pause and thought about the situation, but instead we barreled down those wooden docks, nearly tripping over ourselves, with our eyes on nothing but the two sexy people who were smiling at our arrival.

Bob looked ridiculous. That's modern slang for incredible, in case you didn't know. Unlike the week before, he was already in his swimsuit, and it wasn't a conventional speedo. It was a speedo with short little legs, I guess you could say. Women's underwear in that style is called boyshorts, and men's, when it's underwear, is called boxer briefs. I'd never seen a man's swimsuit in that style, but there it was. Silvery gray, with a high tech texture. And, of course, Bob's signature: a big, lumberjack-sized lump, made by a penis that was already half-hardened into a cock. I could only assume it was my jiggly bouncing tits in my yellow bikini that was causing the nearly obscene display.

He was standing on the dock next to the boat when we got there. He took the tupperware from me and handed it to Jeana, and he hugged me. It was a full-body hug, long and lingering, the kind a barely dressed married church elder probably shouldn't give a barely dressed married church secretary, especially in a public place. I won't lie: the feel of him made me moan. I could feel his big lump against my belly, growing.

"Do I do that to you?" I whispered.

"Every time I see you, Margaret. Didn't you notice it at church last Sunday?"

His big strong arms turned me loose and I wanted them back around me. He's a really great hugger. I looked down at his 'problem' and I was amazed that a man would walk around with such a brazen hard-on in such a public place.

Donald had already boarded the boat and hugged Jeana. They were chatting about the hot day and the busy marina. Bob and I joined them and I hugged Jeana. It felt different than the usual friends type hug. Maybe it was just because it was so fleshy, but, as quick as it was, it felt different. The nice kind of different.

Little did I know that our new friendship was teetering on the rocks. Maybe that's a strong way of putting it, but it wouldn't surprise me if Jeana was going through some serious soul searching about me. About her husband. About everything.

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