Unexpected Consequences

Getting them fresh drinks, Carlos walked her out onto a patio for a breather. Gwen sensed that he was a real smooth-talker, but she was charmed by his apparent sincerity and appreciated his attention, in what she felt was an increasingly strange situation. As they left the din of the main hall—the ballroom, as it were, he took her elbow, and steering her to a bench to one side, he purred, "Let me ask you about yourself: a sort of '20 questions—get to know you game?" Wherein he proceeded with a bunch of benign inquiries. "Where were you born?" "Where are you from?" "Brothers?" "Sisters?" "Children?"

Gwen answered freely—"More freely," she thought, "than I would under normal circumstances, actually." She forced her mind to focus on the interrogation, which, she failed to notice, became increasingly personal.

As Carlos assured her it was all in fun, he subtly raised her from the bench and led her through some open glass patio doors, into an adjacent room. "It'll be much quieter in here," he whispered. "Much easier to converse." The room appeared to be an opulent sort of parlour, with a couch and a love-seat, on either side of a low coffee-table. He sat with her on the settee, with no pause in the questions. "Have you ever been groped by another man, at a party?"

"Not really."

"At a dance—on a dance floor."

Gwen considered for a moment before responding. "Yeah, I suppose. A time or two."

"Was your hubby nearby?" He gently pumped her for details, before abruptly asking the next question. "Have you ever had sex in public? In a public place? Where there was a danger of getting caught?" Carlos subtly pushed her for more detail, but Gwen, feeling more than a bit fuzzy-headed was a little vague. Nonetheless, Carlos continued. "Have you ever cheated on your husband?"

"No!" She was adamant. "Never! Not since we first started going out!"

At that point, Carlos sort of changed tacks, starting in on a more teasingly suggestive vein. "Where is your favourite place for making love?"

"The bedroom—no..., the living room—on a blanket—on the floor—in front of a blazing fireplace—with music on the stereo."

"What is your most sensitive exogenous zone?"

"That's getting rather personal, don't you..."

"So? What is it?"

Gwen smiled, feeling just a little bit naughty, and let herself play the game. "Hmmm? I guess I'd have to say my nipples?"

Carlos paused for a moment, securing Gwen's attention before asking softly, "What is your favourite position for sex?"

Whatever it was that had loosened her tongue, Gwen was shocked to hear herself reveal a secret she had kept hidden for twenty-five some-odd years! "My all-time favourite? Rear-entry!" She dropped her eyes, demurely, before going on. "But my husband doesn't care for it. We've never done it that way." She added rather sadly, "Not in the entire time we've been together."

"D'you mean anal?"

"No. No. Doggie-style!"

"How do you mean?" Carlos sounded genuinely puzzled. "Show me."

"You know," Gwen chirped, giggling. "On all fours, like this." And she scrambled up playfully onto her hands and knees on the couch, bowing her back and jutting out her ass. Her shoes fell from her feet, as she looked at Carlos and rocked back and forth—just, of course, for demonstration purposes.

In that position, her boobs hung free, their engorged nubs swinging circles against the light material of her sundress; and her underpants were exposed. She was, indeed, perfectly poised for manual stimulation. Carlos immediately, authoritatively slid his hand up under her skirt and grabbed her inner thigh, ostensibly to steady her. As he did, his hand pushed high against her pussy. He smiled as he felt the damp gusset of her panties; while Gwen blushed, suddenly embarrassed by her plebeian big whities.

With his other hand, Carlos freed her hanging boobs, and played with her, self-stated, erogenously sensitive nipples, while subtly subduing her fussing and blocking her way off the couch. "Don't do that!" Gwen complained. "Stop it!" But it was hard to take her seriously, what with her smiling and giggling; furthermore, it was becoming abundantly evident that she was getting increasingly turned on.

Gwen felt rather tipsy, a bit foggy, with a light head and a lighter mood. Her sense of propriety seemed to be lifting off her shoulders, disappearing—her inhibitions dissipating like steam rising off a wet sidewalk in the morning sun. She figured maybe the last drink had been a bit stronger, perhaps a bit too strong. She was feeling rather giddy; still, she didn't actually feel tipsy, as in getting drunk, but rather blissfully unconcerned. Carlos held a fresh drink in front of her. "Are you trying to get me drunk? Take advantage of me?" she snickered, taking a large slurp through the proffered straw. She couldn't know that it was the chemical Carlos had used to spike it that was responsible for her growing euphoria.

Sodium Pentothal: when given in a legitimate therapeutic dose causes instantaneous loss of consciousness and is used as a knockout-shot to initiate general anesthesia. At less than medical dosages the effects range from slight tipsy-ness to zombie-like unawareness—a date-rape drug for the uninspired. Just less than that, though, before the subject loses all of their will, it becomes the truth serum of spy-thrillers. Furthermore, it is at dosages slightly less than even that, wherein lies the sweet-spot; where the subject is happy and awake and open to suggestions—where inhibitors are suppressed and secrets are shared. While maintaining that sweet-spot isn't particularly easy, this wasn't, as they say, Carlos's first rodeo.

Carlos proceeded to play with her hot pussy through, around, and under the sodden gusset of her panties, so that Gwen could barely focus on anything except the fingers at her nipples and her pussy—fingers slipping under the elastic, poking and prodding into her blossoming, dampening snatch. Involuntarily, she began responding to the finger-fucking, rocking her hips back, moaning and gasping, and whimpering when the fingers briefly left. With a slick sleight of hand and the snick of a switchblade Carlos opened the gusset to provide easier access for his probing digits.

Briefly bereft, Gwen twisted and squirmed, searching to reconnect with such wonderful stimulation, until the fingers returned and continued their infuriating dance around her clitoris. Her arousal was building to fever-pitch.

Carlos dropped his hands from her nipples and her pussy at the same time, eliciting a whine of complaint, until he returned his agitating digits, briefly, once more—for a fleeting spell, before removing them again, abruptly. Gwen protested with a whimper and a giggle, then rolled to the side to watch as he took off his shirt to reveal a tanned and sculpted chest. He, then, lifted her near hand and placed it on his breast, before peeling his pants off. Down to his briefs, he paused to let her appreciate his body-builder's physique. His tiny tighties well-displayed an impressive, semi-turgid tool.

Whispering soft, inarticulate encouragement, Carlos moved Gwen's hand from his chest and placed it on the ball-bag of his briefs. Curious, she let her hand explore his bulge, cupping and stroking his growing stiffness. Meanwhile, Carlos pulled her top the rest of the way down, leaving it to hanging from her waist, so it no longer interfered with her lusciously bare boobs. As if to prove the point, he reached in, and rolled and pinched the far nipple, while he chewed and sucked the near tit. Multi-tasking, he used his other hand to slip her dress right off, pulling it from beneath her knees, before casually stroking her slit one more.

Slowly, but steadily, succumbing to the drug-induced seduction, under a soothing barrage of encouraging whispers, Gwen began to rationalize: "It's only just this once. No one will ever find out." It crossed her mind that this was a Nike moment: 'If it feels good do it!' She smiled at the thought then corrected herself. "No, Nike's slogan was, 'Just do it!' Still," she grinned, "that fits!" Deep down, she knew what she was contemplating, let alone what she was already doing, was wrong, but she couldn't summon the will to consider an alternative. In her state of drugged coercion, she whined pathetically, as, once again, Carlos ceased his manual stimulation, leaving her squirming, while he expertly shuffled back directly behind her. Before she could turn to assess the situation, Carlos stabbed her savagely with his impressive sceptre, impaling her fully with one swift stroke.

While afterwards she would only have vague memories of the actual seduction, that moment was like a spiritual rebirth for her. With her inhibitions securely stowed away, the memories of the sexual, sensual overload from her long-ago frat-bang, that had, up to that point, only been seeping back into her awareness, flooded back, as, not so much an explosion, as a tsunami of sexual energy that overwhelmed her. She went wild! Mind you, in light of how she had responded to a good doggie-style fucking all those many years ago, perhaps her wild, over-the-top response to Carlos's thrusts was not completely due to her chemically-assisted arousal.

Pausing, balls-deep, Carlos leaned over Gwen's back, firmly grabbing her tits, cupping and mauling them; pinching her nipples. Accelerating his rhythm, his boob activity becoming more frenetic, he suddenly stiffened—threw back his head and growled as he spewed volumes of cum splashing and filling Gwen's thirsty cunt. As she started to descend from her crazy climax, Gwen had begun to notice that the room was filling, getting crowded, as some of Carlos's group of playboys joined him. And as Carlos finally pulled out, someone else climbed up to kneel between Gwen's feet, grasping and squeezing her buttocks, replacing intervening fingers with the spongy head of a cock. She heaved back against the soft pressure, springing the cock into her pussy. Suddenly stuffed, she paused for a beat, waiting for her new partner to begin thrusting. As the desperate, active penetration once again rocketed her arousal into orbit, it all came back.

She had really forgotten, until Carlos's first insertion, how very much she truly did love rear-entry; but then, with the second hard-on of the night pounding her after barely a break, she could feel her excitement reaching, once more, for the stratosphere. As much as the rhythm was deep, Gwen began, much to the surprise of all within earshot, to complain about him being too fucking gentle! "Give it to me!" she cried, getting louder. "Stop pussy-footing! Pound me, dammit! Rough and raw!"

If she had listened, she wouldn't have recognized herself, but, in her uninhibited state, she didn't think twice about demanding whomever fuck her faster and harder and tougher, as she rocked back to meet his thrusts—orgasms rocketing up her body to take her unawares, exploding into a million colours and sensations before ricocheting back through her core. She felt herself going absolutely wild!

The love-seat was really too cramped and too awkward for doggie-style screwing, especially inasmuch as she could no longer hold herself up on all fours. Now, someone else was definitely in the room with them, for some anonymous person or persons gently took her by the arms, and, without losing the coital connection, carefully moved her—draping her over the back of the settee, whereupon her non-stop doggie-fuck continued. Mildly confused Gwen passively accepted the change in position; her continuous climax hardly even affected.

"Watch this," someone called, and a couple of the friends flipped open a couch across the room, that just happened to be a full, queen-sized hide-a-bed. All the while, whoever was poking her from behind kept Gwen hyper-aroused by playing with her nipples, rubbing her clit, prodding her anus with fingers, and talking soothingly dirty to her, all the while continuing a gradually accelerating in-out rhythm. Finally, slamming deep and holding her hips tight to his, he grunted and jerked and flooded her overflowing twat with his issue. The jangling of her nerves and tingling of her nerve-endings barely subsided as she hung limp over the couch-back.

Once again, the drooping, virtually insensate Gwen was lifted and carried, this time, over to the bed, where Manny, one of Carlos's close associates, got her back ready for more rear entry. The mind-blowing, continuous orgasm was quickly re-established.

Gwen was only vaguely aware that some of Carlos's gathering throng of friends and colleagues were stopping in front of her to snap pictures, trying to catch the turmoil of emotions that painted her face: hunger, satisfaction, desire, pleasure, torment, desperation. Not everyone knew that besides the ubiquitous cell-phone cameras, the room housed a multiplex of permanent lenses—fixed and remote controlled.

Before the next cock was even fully seated in her pulsing pussy, she became vaguely aware, through a frenzied fog of arousal, of someone climbing onto the mattress in front of her. She opened her eyes to see an erection bobbing before her face. It pushed in as she gasped and groaned through another wave of orgasm, and she accepted it. Not knowing what else to do, she closed her lips around the shaft, and swirled her tongue over and around it. The rhythm of the fellow fucking her from behind more or less determined how quickly and deeply she was pushed, repeatedly, onto the cock between her lips. Everyone present was silently impressed—amazed at how she relaxed her throat at each in-stroke, and breathed through her nose at every out. In the back of her mind, some small objective corner marveled at how well—and how quickly—she'd adapted to the cocksucking. Indeed, she had never actually deep-throated before—as far as she could remember—nonetheless, she was soon managing it quite well.

Gwen had no idea how many hard-ons she had taken in double-penetration, but inevitably she succumbed to fatigue, slipping off the penetrating shafts at either end and collapsing onto her side in exhaustion. Supported in sitting up, she was given a drink and a moment's respite before being laid back supine on the bed. She lay, passive, somewhat hazy, waiting for the next chapter to begin, the next experience to reveal itself.

Missionary position—this, at least, was something she was familiar with. Manny, shuffling on his knees, made his way between her legs; the first of this round. Although he had already had her once that evening, Manny was sporting a conspicuous hard-on, more than ready for a second go at the lovely Ms Gwen. Lining up carefully, he pressed into her in one smooth motion. His slick penetration, lit up her vaginal nerve endings, sparkling through her fundament and feeding the banked fire of her senses. As he thrust into her, she could feel him fanning the embers of her unchecked carnal desires; but her journey back toward crisis was cut short, as Manny grunted and stiffened and came in several rapid, warm, fluid spurts, leaving her, for a spell, hanging, unfulfilled.

Still, he was smoothly replaced by Ric, before her arousal had much time to recede. Ric had a big, big stiffie; not so very long, but tremendous in girth—as big around as a beer can. And it stretched and stimulated Gwen's pussy in novel, exhilarating ways, sending shocks and arcs deep into her genitals and up pathways parallel to her spine, all the way to her brain. He used long, slow strokes. Holding himself up with his arms he looked down into Gwen's glazed gaze, watching her arousal wash across her face, growing incrementally, but inexorably, until she threw her legs up and locked her ankles across his lower back.

"Omigod! Omigod!" She reached up, grabbing his biceps for support. "Ooooomiiiigooood!" she wailed.

Ric continued to saw in and out through her orgasm, subtly picking up the pace as she descended. Soon, he was slapping the front of his thighs loudly against Gwen's upturned buttocks, and gasping, as he felt his balls tighten. The slight stiffening of his movements, as well as his member, ignited Gwen's senses once more, carrying her to another peaky climax as he flooded her womb with his generous spunk.

Ric surprised her by lowering himself onto her heaving chest and kissing her tenderly on the lips before moving aside to make way for Danny, who, without further ado, lifted her legs and laid them on his shoulders, before sinking himself deep into her swampy box. He was definitely not as thick as Ric, but he was, perhaps, longer, for his deep thrusts felt as if they touched hitherto unknown parts of her innards. The intensity of the arousal was nearly as insane as what she felt during her initial doggie-style romp. Her breath rapidly became ragged, as she gasped, "Oh! Oh! Oooohh!" flopping her head side to side.

In snapping her head to one side, she became aware of a figure next to her on the bed. Indeed, Juan had settled on his knees, beside her head. He swiftly tangled his fingers into her hair and held her firmly, turned towards him. In an unhurried move he fed her his erect dick, pushing steadily until she had him completely engulfed. She whimpered and moaned around him as the erotic fires with her belly continued to grow.

When Danny came with a bellow, before Juan got there, Juan shuffled down the bed and into position between Gwen's raised thighs, at her pulsing, dripping bottom. Without missing a beat, Jose took Juan's place, pushing his woodie down her throat. Gwen was amazed she didn't choke, mind you, her attention was mainly on the cock now pounding her heaving twat. Jose came quickly, filling her mouth to overflowing, as she coughed and sputtered through a truncated orgasm that detonated in unison with Juan's strong ejaculation in her cunt.

Gwen lay passively in the middle of the bed, waiting—recuperating. The milling throng of naked and semi-clothed, for lack of a better term, lovers seemed to be conferring about something, but Gwen was too tired, or, more accurately, with the help of the medications in which she had unknowingly imbibed, was feeling too apathetic to care about their schemes. Notwithstanding, after a brief respite, she was, once again, being pushed and twisted into different positions—tossed around, sometimes on her knees, Sometimes on her back. Cameras continued to show up clicking and whirring here and there, recording her activity, moving and still, from many angles. Cocks speared her repeatedly—at every turn—in both her mouth and her pussy, and the on-going arousal varied from gentle to spectacular. Gwen experienced multiple orgasms, some rapid-fire, some slow-burn; some mild, some frenzied. She found herself evaluating the various positions for comfort and stimulation; for example: on her side—spooning, wasn't particularly inspiring, nor was it conducive to adding the oral component.

She was manhandled into cowgirl position—bodily lifted and lowered, straddling Carlos to be impaled on his rampant penis. She delighted at the novelty of the position—at how she could control the depth and pressure, speed and stroke. In some hazy, vague recollection she knew she and Mark had tried the position before. She felt a shot of guilt at the thought of Mark, but it was soon washed away by the erotic overload that charged her nervous system, and punctured her being with crackling sensation, tingling like electric shocks. Bouncing impatiently on his prick, Gwen willed Carlos to cum and joined him in a wonderfully simultaneous climax. However, the secondary cock, standing beside her, had difficulty, not just joining her rhythm, but getting and staying in her mouth.

Every few turns or so, someone would get her back on her hands and knees and then into doggie; and even then, someone would, occasionally, be brave enough to poke their offering into her mouth while she was in the throes of another continuous orgasm. Next to doggie—rear entry on hands and knees—Gwen came to the conclusion that reverse-cowgirl was probably second in terms of sheer climactic intensity. She liked that she could control the speed and the depth of the thrusts—even the length of the pause when she bottomed out; furthermore, it was favorable to adding fellatio. Yet, in the final analysis, it was the very lack of control when being done doggie—the surprise accelerations, the random long hard penetrations, that fired up the extra excitement, that contributed to the continuous climaxing that she didn't experience in any other position. Even standing rear-entry, bent at the waist, proved to be not as good; too much distraction, what with her hands on her knees—or the back a chair, she needed to focus too much on staying upright, despite her fucker firmly clutching her hips. The aggressive holding and pulling severely compromised her already tentative balance.