To Bi or Not to Bi

Most of the time, I opened my eyes. We looked at each other, wordless. Michael stepped up to my bed and pulled my covering off, dropping it with his dressing gown to the floor. And then he took me. He either turned me on my belly and rammed his little prick into my high-lifted cunt, or he raised and pressed my legs against my ears and drilled his steely erection into my wide-open snatch. All this in silence, always looking at me, trying to read my expression. And I, shut my eyes, being determined to give nothing away. But then, of course, my wet-hot, throbbing pussy betrayed me once again as Michael fucked and fingered it into another, uncontrollable orgasm. And he, disdainfully silent and grinning, sprayed his semen over my heaving belly and meagre tits!

Over the last two years of our marriage, Michael raised the ante in our sexual contests. He still, though less and less often, invaded my den and, without a word or foreplay, began to fuck me. But now, he always turned me side-on. Michael's so knowledgeable fingers no longer just ravaged my pussy and clit while he fucked. They began to almost caress the, in this position, open crack of my ass. And then, a from my juicy pussy slippery finger began to push into my anal rosette. First, a gasping moan of surprise escaped me. But then I broke my pledge of never rewarding the bastard with a lusting sigh. I could not control a drawn-out whimpering as his finger slid in deeper and deeper. My involuntary sounding wildly turned him on. With his finger bending and twisting in my virginal ass, his rock-hard little cock pounded me, together with him, into a gasping, howling climax. This time he spent in me, and he staggered from my bed.

I knew, of course, what was to come, unless I ended it with Michael. Both my mind and body were in disarray. Michael, being Michael, made me stew and wait: five weeks, 38 days to be exact, before he stood again, naked in my den's door. And I just woke up for him. I neither pretended to be asleep nor told him to get lost.

And he fucked me, in a drawn-out, artful and shamefully domineering fashion. He started on my pussy with a long play of cock and fingers until the first throes of coming made me soak the sheet. Then he left me, went to the toilet, leaving the doors wide open. I could hear the arrogant sound of his stream hitting the bowl. Then he stood next to the bed rubbing his cock centimetres from my face, grinning down on me.

I had never consented to suck his little prick. Michael knew I would not start now. So, with his cock hard and pointy, he joined me again, rolled me on my side, and pressed his member and three fingers into my hot, still slippery-open cunt. God, Rene, it gave me away! And I waited. Yes, waited, holding my breath for his finger to slide into my ass, and the bastard took his time. When he finally pressed its full length in, and he started to fuck me in staccato-bursts the first waves of a wild orgasm began to break in on me.

Suddenly Michael - his cock and finger - left me. He jerked-up my legs over his shoulders and leant back. His face a grimace, he stared down on me while his hand directed his steely, made-for-it cock at my now cramped-shut hole. Michael paused for a second and hissed something. I thought I heard: - "You want it, bitch!" as he forced the point of his cock through the resisting closure and begun to fuck me. And God, did he fuck me open! I climaxed into his first penetrating, burning entry and cried out. I did so, it seemed for minutes, howling and pussy-gushing with every further thrust. Finally, when he filled me with a hot load into my entrails, I burst into shrill, hysterical laughter. Michael collapsed on me and tightly held me for long, long seconds. He had never done this before. Then he hurriedly left me, stretched out on the cum-soaked sheet.

I knew then that I could not permit myself to submit to Michael like this again. To be fucked and fuck in anger and disdain allowed my ugly pussy to respond, and my mind to observe in cool detachment. It was a game in which Michael and I were equally matched. But now he had broken my silence. I had cried out and begged for more as Michael fingered and fucked me anally into an uncontrollable, blinding climax. It was no rape. I had no excuse. He, for once, had conquered me. I pledged that Michael was not a man that would ever, ever do this to me again!

Only days later, Michael stood naked, erection-ready, again in my doorway. I just looked at him as he strolled to the bed and flicked the doona to the floor. It was such a theatrical performance and I, for the first time, was not enthralled. When he joined me on the bed, I did not resist but indifferently spread my legs and allowed him to spear his little prick into my bone-dry pussy. A change had come over me.

I was now observing Michael with almost wry amusement, the way I had watched Anil's Kama Sutra attempts years' ago in England. When his fingers moved onto my groin to compensate for what his little cock lacked, I grabbed his wrist, and cooly said: - "No fingers, thanks." For a moment, he froze in surprise. Then, quite violently, he grabbed one buttock and dug his nails into the cleft of my ass. I turned onto my back and, thereby, pressed his marauding hand hard into the mattress. I calmly said: - "Take your hand off my ass, please.", and lifted slightly. When he withdrew it, I laid back and spread my legs invitingly open. I actually smiled at Michael, condescendingly, I'm sure, and said in my usual, lecturing voice: - 'Well, Michael, what now?" It stopped him dead, in the middle of a feeble thrust! I hardly felt him, no waves crashed in anymore. He swallowed the welling-up curses, then snarled down on stretched-out me on the sheet as he got up to stalk out of the room.

We never exchanged words about what had happened. Weeks later, Michael stood once more - and the last time - in my door and switched on the light. I did not pretend to be asleep. I looked at him briefly and told him to turn off the light. Then I laid down on my side, turning my back on him.

A few days later, coming home from the Uni, Michael's belongings were gone. The story he spread among his coterie of admirers was that he finally left me. I was an - "arrogant, intellectually vapid, upper-class, cock-hungry bitch".

Dear Rene, the rest you know. I divorced, went to the States for six years, married Sam, before returning without him to Melbourne and promotion at my old Uni. You and I have been in touch since, become friends, and now ... Will we see? My lengthy tale could have bored you too much to spend a week with me in my shack. It's because I no longer think that anything in what I've told would really thrill and excite sexy you.

You still owe me a little confession about unfaithful (I suspect!??) you. When? Now, by mail, or orally next week in Smoko?

With more than affectionate interest, your

Mari.

Texts sent briefly after:

R. to M.:

"Your mail, as always, of more than passing interest. Only this time, much much more so. My 'confession' may truly shock you. I will better not leave it for the shack. You might send me home!"

M. to R.:

"Never, although I may have to punish you severely. I recall from your Mark transcript, a peculiar 'Like'!"

R. to M.:

"You wouldn't, would you? It's not done between Bis'. Is it???

From: renemax6@xyz.com.au

To: marimclain8@zyx.com.au

Subject: Shameful Admissions.

Dearest Mari,

The plural in the subject heading above is not a spelling error. True the main-admission you are waiting for, and I am struggling with, happened many years ago. I was then, despite my education and being married, naïve and in sexual matters a prude. However, when you asked me about my extramarital experiences some time ago and I panicked to answer, I was a different person. My purely sexual affair with Mark and, if you allow me to speculate, my 'warming-up' relationship with you, has fundamentally changed me. I am no longer the prudish, respectable woman of some twenty years ago that lapsed. She allowed herself then, on the spur of the moment and hot summer night, to be comprehensively shagged by almost a stranger. Why has it not become for me, merely an amusing anecdote?

I am sure that you will guess one of the reasons when I tell the story. But there were other issues why your surprising question shocked me into silence. I had suppressed for years what had occurred, and for the new me, it was suddenly a new story that I knew not how to tell.

Mark had made me realise to what extent my prudery had not only retarded me but had impoverished my marriage. Martin was a gentle and considerate man. From the beginning, he took care that in our sexual couplings nothing he did or attempted would shock, displeasure or disgust me. For instances, I showed early in our marriage a dislike of being taken from behind. My mind hated the mental picture of my naked bottom in the air waiting to be poked by Martin's thing, his hands on my spread buttocks and he looking down on my private cavities. I showed my dislike. For the next thirty years, Martin never fucked me doggy-style or pressured me with 'other' sexual positions and 'perverse tricks'. In my objections, I always combined my ignorance with certainty. Thereby our sex-life whithered into a narrow range of quickly unloved routines and boredom. And it made the virtuous woman that got finally shagged, ready meat.

This, I now understand. The less and less inhibited exchange of e-mails and the confronting directness of the Q.&A.-game with Mark transformed me. It made me realise, admit and relish, question by question, mail by mail, text by text, that I was sexually alive and raging and wanted to dare all. And most importantly, that for Mark, I became thereby a more and more exciting and desirable woman.

By the time we wrote the story of our first night together, Mark knew that I would love to fuck and get fucked in any detailed position. I admitted that I wanted to get to my knees to suck his cock in foreplay and later when it was wet-hot from my pussy's juices. And yes, I told Mark that I wanted his marvellous cock to fuck me, again and again, into orgiastic oblivion. There was nothing, it seemed, I would hold back, say no to. But one day, Mark's questioned me, in general terms, how I felt about anal intercourse.

I had happily answered dozens of racier questions. Our liberal attitudes, and the social and legal acceptance of homosexuality and its sexual practices as unexceptional, had made the suggestion quite harmless. But it shocked me, first for days into silence, and then into my first untrue answer. I replied that I never had or would ever want to have anal intercourse.

Mark accepted my answer without comment. But then, as you have read, in our first-night together - God, it was real for me - he turned me on my belly. In prolonged and tantalising foreplay, he ran his tongue up and down my spine. At first, the cleft of my ass and my legs clamped together in terror and surprise. Mark persevered. In kissing me open, my thighs spread quickly, and my pussy quivered against his lips. Then, with each passage of his tongue, the crack between my shivering buttocks widened. And on its way up, Mark's broad lick no longer stopped at my pussy nor did it begin there on the way down. And each time I fevered more in expectation of his tongue's flickering caress as it passed, oh so slowly, over my puckering-up rosette. But then, as you know, Mark took pity on me and stopped. He finished by concentrating solely on my beautiful(!), hungry pussy and fucked me into a wild, fantastic climax. He had, though, also taught me how susceptible I was to being anally pleasured! This, even now, I am still somewhat ashamed to admit.

When Mark, knowing now my weakness, followed it up with a direct question, I ended our relationship. My honest answer would have led us immediately to breaching the anal barrier in our sexual interaction. From this temptation, I had to flee, even with Mark.

This discomfort is closely connected with my one and only act of marital infidelity. It was no affair, not even an episode. It just happened, now many years ago in a setting familiar to you. Martin and I had joined a group of colleagues and friends from University on a summer-holiday down the coast. It had been a hot day, with some tensions arising between couples. I felt, on this day, unusually alive.

As always, in the evening we joined for a meal and drinks and whatever developed in one of the cabins. It was oppressively hot and felt as if a storm was gathering. All of us had, probably, too much to drink. After sparring with some males over literary issues, my closest friend in the group staggered off to bed. And Martin had started to play cards. I knew what that meant. I would go to bed on my own -not that I would miss much - and not see him for hours. So, I went outside, hoping to catch the first cool breeze of the coming change.

I was leaning against a car when X. came out and joined me. He was a regular member of our group, admired by some, detested for his arrogance by others. He had a reputation as a philanderer, although in our group he paid little attention to us women, his wife included. I had rarely exchanged a word with him. But now, he walked up to me, put his arm around me and said: - "Here you are, Rene. All hot, alone, just waiting. For what, I wonder?"

His face was close; he grinned. His hand had slipped under my arm, and he was cupping my breast. I momentarily froze but decided not to react. I turned to walk away, but his other arm went around my middle, stopped me, and pulled me against him. His mouth was against my neck, and he whispered: - "You do not want to go back in, do you, Rene?" and both of his hands had slid under my thin top and closed over my boobs.

There and then something in me decided not to scream and not to run. I stood still, and X's hands played and searched over my breasts, and his fingers found and pinched and pulled my nipples into a, for me, foreign pointy hardness. His mouth closed over my ear, and his tongue flicked for seconds over its shell before he murmured: - "You don't want to run, Rene. You are all hot and burning and waiting to get fucked!" And as I bucked against his cock against my ass, his hand had slid down my belly into my shorts. I must have shocked, or was I waiting what he would do next?. When I clenched my thighs together, I pressed X's fingers into my pussy's opening. And I moaned; not screamed, not shouted for help: I moaned! And he, keeping and moving his fingers in my pussy's softness, moved me, step by small unresisted step, into the deeper shadow behind the car.

The cabin's door opened, and light flooded out to were we had stood moments before. A couple were making ready to leave. She turned in the door to exchange a few parting words with somebody inside. I heard the cardplayers, recognising Martin's voice. X was leaning against the car. He had withdrawn his hand from my pussy. I could have, with the cabin's door open, silently slunk away from X and nobody would have known what already had happened. Instead, I had turned and stood now, my breasts pressing against his chest. Looking over his shoulder, I silently watched as the door closed, and the couple walked away.

Throughout, X's hand rested loosely on my hips. He was not holding me captive. But now he slid them under the loose elastic of my shorts and panties. He gripped my buttocks, kneaded them and pulled them apart while he pressed my heated groin against his erection. I lifted my head. X's lips closed over mine, and his tongue thrust brutally probing into the depth of my mouth. He did not need to say it. I had not run; I was his whore, and he would take me, fuck me; any way he wanted! And his hands had already worked my shorts and panties down onto my thighs. He also moved me sideways and clearly intended to fuck me right now, out in the open, on the bonnet of the car. It drove me into a panic as he gripped my ass to lift me. In fright, I grabbed his head and began to frantically kiss him and whimpered: - "Please, please, X! Not here! Come, come to my cabin."

And I took him. And once inside, on the mat on the floor, close to the glass-sliding-door with some of the parks' lights seeping in, we fucked. I know Mari, a lie like - "I was fucked/raped by X" - would sound better. It's what I told myself for almost twenty years when memories began to spook me.

In truth, however, while X slowly pulled off my top to bare my stretched-out, stiff-nippled breasts, I tore down with shacking hand my shorts and panties. He made me wait too. And all of my body, my tits and belly and ass and cunt twisted and shook under his callously exploring hands. When finally, he slipped first his fingers and then his cock deep into my slippery-hot cunt, I climaxed immediately. And not just! I was gripped and shaken and tossed about in X's hands like a rag doll.

When the storm subsided, and X withdrew his sodden fingers and cock I felt like crying. I never had, I suddenly realised, climaxed like that before. X chuckled against my neck and murmured: - "I knew how much you wanted it, how badly you needed to be fucked!" He kissed me, almost gently and whispered: - "And now we'll discover the real hot little house-wife whore, won't we? I've watched you for a while and wondered."

Now X turned onto his back. He reached for my leg and pulled it over him. I did not know what to do, but he guided his rock-hard cock into my slippery pussy. As I crouched over him, he began to leisurely fuck me. One hand had gripped one buttock pulling open my cleft. As he thrust and ground his smallish, steel-hard cock into my pussy, he drew his fingertips and nails up and down my ass' crack. The electrifying sensation and the horrid ideas it invoked made me cry-out. X chuckled: - "Oh, we have an anal virgin!" Then he continued, and his cock and stroking fingertips and nails brought me, after an agonising, shivering, moaning minute or so, to another shuddering climax. As I straddled X, I felt my pussy-cum running down my thighs. I scrambled off him. Now I wanted to run, but were?

X would not allow it. When he grabbed me and tossed me on my belly, I knew! X knelt between my legs and lifted my ass and in one thrust rammed his cock into my pussy. As he fucked me, my cunt was so wet and wide open I could now hardly feel him. His hands, however, pulled my buttocks apart, and suddenly I felt X's warm saliva in my crack. And then his finger began to breach my anal closure, with every globule spit it pressed in deeper. Then his finger, sliding now smoothly in and out, began to bend and circle, and I gasped and moaned and cried out. But no "Stop!" or "No! No more!" came over my lips. My fingernails dug into the rug as I pressed and ground my pussy and ass against the two intruders.

Suddenly, both of them withdrew. X pulled my ass-cheeks apart, and then his cock slid unhindered, expected and - I'm ashamed to admit - welcomed with a shrill cry of lust deep into my ass. And then he fucked my ass in progressively harder and harder staccato bursts until both of us climaxed in a wild coming together. X arched and his hands and nails dug into my buttocks, marking them for weeks. And I stretched out and howled and tried to claw my way through the floor.

We did not speak to each other. X dressed quickly and left. I, eventually, got off the floor. In the shower I scrubbed my, I felt now, violated vagina and backside until I almost bled. In bed, I started to cry: Not in sorrow but in shame and blind anger. When Martin came from his card game, he stumbled over my blouse and shorts and panties strewn over the floor. But, being Martin, he sensed nothing untoward, and nothing in our relationship had really changed. I was forever after, again his faithful, decent (still prudish!) wife.