Unexpected Consequences

Doing it doggie, for the umpteenth time, the guy at her backside having just emptied his balls into her, Gwen's awareness slowly seeped back as she came down from the high of yet another massive, mind-blowing, continuous climax. She sagged to her chest, her arms gone to jelly, with the withdrawal of her latest plunderer. In the momentary quiet, someone suggested, "How 'bout up the ol' dirt-chute?" Carlos, who was sitting in front of Gwen, watching the goings on, editing the video in his mind, nodded inquiringly at her, looking for assent or protest. Puzzled for a moment, she struggled to figure out what was meant, then, grasping the meaning, she stated, in a low voice, "I've never taken it up the bum before."

"S'okay," Carlos intoned, before he announced, "Nope. No anal—leastways, not yet."

But maybe, Gwen realized, that was not exactly true. Vague, distant memories crept back—out of the shadows, into her consciousness—memories of her sore bottom—both holes. "I must've, though," she mused, "for I'm pretty sure I've been three-holed. At least, my asshole, if I remember correctly, sure felt uncomfortably well-used the next day." In the flurry of new experiences, she could barely recall the actual losing of her anal virginity. And, suddenly, she knew from those hazy memories of the college gangbang, that anal sex was just another one of those things that started out awkward and uncomfortable then morphed into something much more pleasurable and exciting. Although, as the recollection became clearer, she realized what she had decided, back in the day; that, while okay, anal sex was not nearly as good as vaginal doggie-style. So, actually, it was just that she had had no anal since college. In the twenty some odd years of marriage, her husband had never suggested anal and she'd put it out of her mind. Somehow, given her present circumstances, that made the prospect rather intriguing—even exciting.

Gwen smiled a rather tipsy smile, and, her judgement still somewhat impaired, whispered, "Hell, let's go for it."

Carlos stood, stepped to the bed, and, taking her cheeks in his hands, kissed her affectionately. "My God, but you're precious," he purred; then he began directing. "Miguel, get your skinny butt over here. I've got a job for you." Turning, once more, to Gwen, he calmly explained. "Miguel has a long, skinny cock. Like a foot-long wiener. Perfect for opening up the rear door. Now, let's get you back up on your hands and knees. Don't worry, we'll use plenty of lube." In short order, he had deftly facilitated Gwen's re-introduction to anal sex. Being the first time in God only knew how long, it was a bit painful, but she'd expected that. Actually, it wasn't bad. The sensation was both novel and nostalgic, and very soon, she was actively joining in. Just before Miguel blew his load deep in her bowels, she was edging toward climax. Indeed, she thrilled at the injection of warmth deep in her fundament.

Anal sex was like the final frontier—the last taboo. Once that line was crossed, anal intercourse became the target, and it all stayed exclusively that way for a couple more rounds. After that, it was anything goes! Single, double, triple penetration; the party took on a life of its own. Gwen continued to revel in the mindless delight; every position, every variation stoked her desires, and much of it brought back recollections of her frat-boys' gangbang. Just like then, she was not as shocked as she thought she should be. As before, she had initially been passively accepting, but almost embarrassingly quickly she became actively welcoming. Once again, she developed an eager enthusiasm, to the point of demanding participation: "Next!"

She couldn't believe what a slut she was being. But it just didn't matter. She couldn't have cared less, because she was enjoying it so much. She was awash with an erotic ecstasy. She deliberately kept herself unaware, not allowing herself to even suspect that it was judiciously spiked drinks that kept her dosed up—happy and giggly and compliant. "Gotta keep you hydrated—and keep you happy with Dr. Feelgood's special tonic!" Along with the erotic atmosphere, it all contributed to her pursuit of carnal satisfaction—aided in her complicity.

Carlos ensured that Gwen was repeatedly given a maintenance dose—just enough pentothal to keep her compliant—in the groove, as it were; and that amount was steadily decreasing over the course of the evening, as it became easier and easier for his target to achieve sexual fulfillment. There was never any physical coercion. Before they had reached the midway point of the runaway train-ride, Gwen hardly needed to be dosed at all. She was doing it all of her own free—if somewhat impaired—will; riding high on erotic energy. The thrilling sense of sensual overload filled her over and over. Indeed, every time someone took her doggie-style, she re-experienced the mind-blowing continuous orgasms that had astounded them all initially. Like the old Ozzy Osborne song, she was, "Goin' off the rails on a crazy train!" Although, she was not familiar with the term, the kind of gang-bang of which she was currently the subject was often referred to as pulling a train!

Carlos, as her primary seducer, had hit a jackpot. He knew a gold mine when he saw one. As well as the multiple partners taking cell pictures and video, he cracked a contented smile, knowing about the several inconspicuous, networked video cameras with which the room was equipped.

Gwen marveled, yet again, that she was the only woman in a room full of men! Who would have thought she could be such a whore? Just like at the frat party all those many years ago. Once again Gwen was being fucked, repeatedly; she was too exhausted to offer even token resistance, even if she had had a mind to. Truth was she actually enjoyed the dream-like thrill she derived, even from her passive acceptance. Eventually, however, left for a time, lying in the middle of the wet and stained sofa-bed, she was so enervated she could barely gather her wits.

The crowd was already thinning out when Carlos called time. Curiously the boys began filing past her to kiss her goodnight. Shimmying up to sit up on the edge, at the head of the bed, against the wall, Gwen watched them come by, each leaning in to give her a murmured "Thanks," and a sincere kiss on the lips—anything from a peck to a passionate smooch! More often than not it was accompanied by a grope—a mauled boob or a pinched nipple, a stroked or poked pussy, or twiddled clit. Then they were gone.

"Well, now, Ms Gwen, we have to see about getting you back to your hotel." Carlos, now dressed himself, bustled about in the drawers of the couple bureaus. He managed to produce Gwen's handbag, a thin, slinky dress, and a pair of high-heels—Gwen's own clothing was nowhere to be found. The dress he offered was really much too small, so much so that it was hardly worth wearing; still, what were her options? Her tattered panties were history and her bra was long gone, so she wriggled and squirmed into the excuse for a dress, pulling the stretchy material down over her head and shoulders. That she was sans underwear became very obvious, but what could she do? Amazingly, the shoes, with their CFM heels, fit well.

Carlos walked her out to the portico entrance, and pulled her into a smoking hot kiss, parrying tongues and swapping spit. While the cab driver waited, Carlos flipped a hand under her hem, and finger-fucked her mercilessly, firing her up to a knife-edged arousal, despite her almost overwhelming fatigue, before nudging her into the back of the cab. As he handed a fare-pass to the driver, he said, giving Gwen an evil grin, "Maybe you can give the cabbie a real tip before he drops you off."

Gwen sat back, silent and frustrated, eyes straight ahead, her mind in a whirl, her bottom leaking. She felt semen seeping steadily from both her ass and her pussy. It quickly soaked through her dress, leaving, she could tell, a large wet-spot on the seat of the taxi. Sitting still for the length of the ride, clutching her handbag on her lap, Gwen inadvertently pushed her dress against her sodden bush, leaving a wet patch in the middle of the front of her dress, too.

As they approached the hotel, the driver asked, "Are you in a hurry, or do you have time for that tip your friend mentioned?"

Flustered, Gwen spluttered, "Oh, I'm sorry, but I'm very late!" During the trip she had noticed that several large bills had mysteriously found their way into her purse. She handed one to the driver as a sort of consolation, and, in exchange, accepted his card.

She gave a non-committal nod as he said, "If you need a taxi, later today, you can call me direct." Then, exiting the cab, she was startled by the slamming door behind her that broke the quiet of early morning and got the attention of the few souls thereabout. She caught the gaze of the doorman. With her incredibly tight dress threatening to pop her tits right out of the plunging neckline, she tottered unsurely towards the door, exhausted atop the unfamiliarly high heels. Holding her purse strategically in front of her, she endeavoured to hide the wet patch at her lap. The air was cool against the saturated fabric, and she was unaware that faint white tide-marks had already begun to form, like a target on her butt.

The doorman looked her up and down suspiciously. "Key?" Her eyes opened wide, questioning, not understanding. "May I see your room-key, please—Ma'am?" Digging through her purse, she felt the cool air on her cunt as she exposed the dampened material. With a silent nod at the flash of her key-card, the doorman held the door for her, getting a good view of her backside.

The lobby was almost empty. Still, she felt conspicuously conspicuous as she wobbled her way to the elevators on those ridiculously high heels. Riding up the elevator alone, Gwen felt strangely stimulated—by the cool at her bottom and her crotch, by the clingy tightness of her single garment, by the precarious height of her shoes, and the swirling, tingling fuzziness of her head.

Dawn was breaking out the window, on the eastern horizon, as she entered her room, and it suddenly dawned on her, the scope of her transgression. Suddenly sober, the intoxicating effects of alcohol, not to mention, illicit medications, having worn off, reality raised its head. What she had done! What exactly had she done? Dropping her purse on the bed, and stripping the dress from her sticky body, to puddle on the floor around and over the shoes, she climbed into a hot shower. After a long, long time, just standing in the hot spray and thinking about nothing, she surprised herself by beginning to masturbate. Indeed, she was astonished by the speed at which, after the innumerable orgasms she had had just in the past hours, she climaxed. Not only that, it was stronger and more intense than she had pretty much ever had at home!

Gwen got dressed and slunk into the conference hall to snag a coffee, then she found the room for her first session, sat down and waited, avoiding eye-contact with anyone. That session was a wash-out. She couldn't make sense of any of it. Her mind kept falling back to the night before, a miasma of bright and shifting, vague and distorted memories of lewd, voluptuous, and erotic scenes, coloured with pleasure, overwrought with sensations, novel and exciting, and excessively thrilling. During the break, she milled about the concourse like a zombie.

"Hey there, what are you so smiley about?" Startled out of her trance, Gwen looked up to see one of her companions from the previous two evenings. Whatever had been lighting up her face fled.

"No one waited for me," Gwen whispered, displeased with how wimpy she sounded.

"Omigod! Really, we looked around for you. When we asked, we were told you had already left! Everyone thought you'd just bailed early. Although we did wonder why you hadn't told anyone." She put an apologetic hand on Gwen's arm, and leaned in to ask, "You got back all right, yes?"

Gwen nodded, but, thinking about it, she found she hardly had to force her smile. "Yep. Got back okay?"

"Oh. I'm so glad. And I'm so sorry you thought we'd abandoned you."

In the afternoon, Gwen just wandered around the vendors' display in a fog—her emotions snapping back and forth like a flag in the wind, painting confusion across her face. She felt as if she were wearing a scarlet letter: H for harlot, S for slut, or W for whore. C for cheater seemed almost too mild. Surely the evidence of her transgression was obvious to everyone; tainting her demeanour—her soul. Tramp, tart, slattern—oozing out her pores, fouling her very being. She was so worried she made herself physically ill. She didn't get to one session in the afternoon, so filled with grief and terror and disgust, on the one hand, she could barely function; yet, on the other, wondering why she had let herself go without for so long. Last night had brought into focus distant memories of her frat-bang. She blushed at the glowing recollections of sexual fulfilment.

Of course, she was a grown woman now—a mother, a wife, an upstanding citizen, a member of a society that did not partake in nor condone activities such as that. Gwen was horrified by the realization that, as the assault—the ordeal, whatever, had progressed, she couldn't really deny that she had enjoyed it. How could that be possible? Still, she had to admit that, at least some of it—no, most of it—had felt really, really good. Regardless of how it felt—how her body and its carnal sensations might have betrayed her, she promised herself, "This will not, cannot ever happen again!"

On the flight home Gwen was certain everyone was looking at her. She could almost feel that legendary scarlet letter—A for adulteress —emblazoned across her chest. "How can I ever face Mark?" By the time she arrived home she was a wreck, sick with a dreadful anticipation, sure that her misadventures would soon be revealed. She waited on tenterhooks for Mark to react: explode, leave her, rant and rave; but, when she found him waiting, he only offered sympathy, saying she must have picked up something on the airplane.

"It happens," he allowed, helping her into the car for the somewhat subdued ride. Arriving home, she then waited for Mark to realize what was wrong, to recognize the signs of a cheater. She waited with bated breath for the hammer to fall; but it never did. He simply fussed over her, pampering her until she actually began to feel better, until, after a few days, she actually began to relax. Gwen struggled, in her efforts to recover her equilibrium, to forget her treasonous behaviour. And slowly her life returned to normal. As her sex life also regained a modicum of normalcy, she realized that normal—her old normal, anyway—consisted mainly of muted satisfaction.

Notwithstanding, it took more than a few weeks for the random recollections to stop making her feel suddenly nauseous. At the same time, flashes of memories of the ordeal occasionally had her thinking about how very exciting it had been—in some perverse sort of way. In any case, eventually the whole incident faded into a back corner of her brain and was left dormant.

Less than six months later, the business folded. The spa abruptly closed down and Gwen was left unemployed. On the bright side, she was also well-removed from any reminders of what she thought of as the convention disaster—her moral lapse. Being one year closer to fifty, rather than hitting the bricks, looking for another job, she chose, with Mark's blessing, to retire; and began volunteering for several charities. Life was good.

Almost a year after that, Gwen was out on one of her very infrequent 'girls'-nights-out'. Her husband, Mark, had joined most of the other hubbies at one of the friends', ostensibly to play cards. Really, the guys were more or less buds, but, as it turned out, none were actually card players. Becoming somewhat lubricated by the abundant flow of beer, they all got bored playing poker and were more than open to the host's suggestion that they use his new, giant-screen Smart-TV to surf for free porn on the internet. They hooted and hollered, laughed and cheered at the clips and vignettes that, interspersed with ads and promos, seemed never-ending.

Well into the evening, they came across a promo for a site called Holiday Sex—a collage of brief images that flashed across the screen like a pornographic strobe-light. "Hey! Didya see that one, Mark? Chick looked just like Gwen!" "Yeah, man. Something you haven't told us?" "Hey, scroll back—I didn't see it!" "No can do. Can't rewind promos." "I guess you've tried, eh?" Shouting and laughing and drinking, their attention was quickly taken by the following clip. Only Mark continued to think about it. It had certainly looked like his wife.

Calls came in on cells; the host's wife returned, and the party broke up. Mark and Gwen arrived home at about the same time. They talked about enjoying their respective evenings, and went to bed together—as usual. But the brief, vague image, that might have been his wife, niggled in the back of Mark's brain.

Alone in the den, late one night during the following week, Mark secretly searched for, and found, a website called 'Holiday Sex'. He was pretty sure that was the right name, and, although he couldn't find an image of Gwen on the preview page, he thought some of the collage was familiar. Surreptitiously, guiltily, he got out a charge card—his personal card—and subscribed. He felt a little foolish, a little weird, entering his subscription key and password, and beginning to check out the contents. Scrolling through the menus, he scanned the multitude of video titles and title screens; 'Barbie Blows Blacks'; 'Denise's DPs'; 'Airtight Anthology'; 'Amateur Pole-Dancing Antics'; 'Strip Club Havoc: Part 1 - Show Us Yer Tits!; Part 2 - Lick It Clean; Part 3 - Eat It Raw!; 'Fucked Silly'; and many, many more titles, listed in no particular order. Well down the list he came across the title he both wanted to see, and didn't want to see: 'Gwendolyn's Gangbang'.

Mark's wife—Gwendolyn, Gwen for short—was already in bed when he clicked on the play button. The video began with an artsy, mostly soft-focused mob scene. Even before the blurry throng washed into focus, revealing a crowd of female conventioneers milling about the check-in tables outside the convention area of a Santa Fe hotel, Mark had recognized the lead character—his wife. He watched, scanning through the benign introductory scenes, stunned. His eyes were glued to the screen; he sat paralyzed, as the action unfolded. And ever-so-slowly his shock turned to anger. Anger at his cheating wife, and anger at how incredibly arousing it was. Anger at his own physical response—to whit, a raging hard-on!

"Jesus!" Mark hissed, his ire rising sharply. "That fucking bitch!" He recognized that it was from a year ago. "How the hell did she get involved in this?" He stuttered and sputtered, deliberately slowing his breathing to keep from hyper-ventilating, adding just under his breath, "And was this a one-off, or are there more? She certainly looks to be more the veteran than the novice!"

He watched as his 'dear wife' repeatedly succumbed to what were, apparently, incredibly intense orgasms, while being fucked doggie-style. He felt more than betrayed—he felt violated and cheated out of what was rightfully his! He couldn't stop himself; he watched the video all the way through—fascinated, ninety-some-odd minutes of flat-out, top-notch pornography. He couldn't believe that his wife could be such a slut. Yet there was no denying it was her. Mark fumed, and seethed, and considered his options. Slowly a rough plan came together. He would do nothing to start—wait until the plan was fully formed—preparations all complete. What was it they said? "Revenge is a dish best served cold."