Unexpected Consequences

Finally, after a long, pregnant silence, Mark addressed Gwen, somewhat self-righteously. "There, that was your penance." He paused to gauge her reaction, but she gave nothing away. "Now," he went on, "let's see if we can work on forgiveness."

Surprisingly she wasn't angry, or upset, or disgusted—she felt only a sort of raw indifference. Forgiveness? But he'd never even given her a chance. Now it was much too late. "I've been charged, tried, and convicted without ever being given the opportunity to defend myself."

"Defend? What?" His voice was strident with his obvious surprise; his errant wife was not following the script—not being demure, contrite. "You're on bloody video willingly fucking a half-dozen or so spic bloody strangers! You're the star of an honest to goodness gangbang video! What's to defend?"

"Apparently, yes, that's how it looks," Gwen replied, coolly, "but, maybe, considering twenty-five plus years of love, fidelity, and respectability, there might be another explanation. I'm not going to try to convince you—it's much too late for that. Still, several cameras running over five or more hours produce tens of hours of raw footage. Editing it down to, what? one and a half—two hours, it'd be easy to keep out any evidence of reluctance and coercion, or suggestion of drug-addled participation."

Though Gwen's forthright response surprised him, Mark remained stubbornly steadfast. He refused to accept—refused to even consider—that it had been a one-time only event. He scoffed at her proposition that she had fallen victim to some rather effective drug-assisted coercion. Certainly, he wouldn't admit even to himself, that he may have made a major mistake by jumping to conclusions, and arriving at a completely incorrect assumption.

Gwen went on, eerily calm. "I can almost see arranging this gangbang to exact revenge—even up the score. Still, I cannot consider this penance—I have nothing to repent. Nor forgiveness—I've done nothing to forgive. And once you set that dirty old degenerate on me, you showed just how low an opinion of me you hold, having clearly assigned me a status beneath that of whore. Furthermore, what of your nasty threats of violence should I not passively accept your forced fellatio? No; at that point, everything changed between us. Nothing will ever be the same. Part of me was destroyed; all the rest has undergone such a paradigm shift..." Mark's mouth flapped for a bit, but no response was made.

Gwen continued, calmly, as if listing the details of their current situation for her own clarity. "Whether inadvertently or deliberately, when you tacitly gave away my ass, you relinquished a piece of my intimacy—something that wasn't even yours to give away. I remember reading somewhere, 'What the tongue has promised, the body must submit to.' I believe that's true, even if the promise was tacit."

His mind curiously rudderless and wandering, Mark suddenly asked, "Why is it we've never tried anal sex?"

"You never suggested it," Gwen replied, not even surprised by the question. "Now it's too late. Now, you can't have me anally without Hendrickson's permission. I've, just as tacitly, given him my word."

"But you hate Old Man Hendrickson?!"

"You're the one who let him put a claim on my ass. So don't blame me." Gwen watched as his emotional turmoil swept across his face—bewilderment, sadness, anger, disappointment, lack of understanding. "No one—not a single soul—protested or denied his claim. They legitimized it with their silence; and I confirmed it with my heat-of-arousal admission."

More than half of her life had been spent in suppressed sexual enjoyment. Now, she could see that she had been complicit in both her moral straight-jacket and this her rebirth. From here on in she would embrace her inner slut.

Suddenly getting up on all fours in the middle of the bed, she demanded, "Fuck me from behind!" leaving unsaid, "so I don't have to look at your face!" Initially confused, Mark obliged. He wordlessly moved into place behind her and pushed his no-quite-rigid erection into her. Gwen rocked back to meet his rather tentative thrusts, yelling impatiently, "Harder! Harder! Ram it in me, you bastard!" As her libido rapidly came to a boil, Mark said, "I don't really like it Doggie-style;" his complaint, a pathetic whimper. "It's too impersonal."

Gwen wanted to scream, "Tough! I do!!" Instead, letting the sensual crest keep rolling, her excitement continue simmering, she shoved him onto his back, and straddled him, facing his feet. Pushing back onto him, she thrilled to the sensation of his now increasingly-rigid manhood as it sliced back into her, filling her cavity and reaching into her depths to ignite, once more, a rapturous climax. Pounding herself back into Mark's lap, pounding herself back onto his root, she realized that this, reverse cowgirl was really just doggie-fucking seated. Mark reached up around her, under her arms, to grab and squeeze her tits, pinch and twist her nipples. Like adding a shot of lighter-fluid, her already burning arousal flared and flamed. As there was no longer any love between them—nor would there ever be, again—she could simply delight in their carnal familiarity—familiarity both physical and emotional.

As Gwen approached climax Mark softened, became wobbly. He gently pushed her away, pushed her off, whispering, "I want to make love, not just fuck. Can't we make love? You know, missionary-style?"

Gwen heard herself whisper back, "No, that magic has been destroyed."

A thick silence descended over the room. Curiously, after a spell, Mark turned to his wife and said, "Aren't we even, now? Can't we move on—get past this, together?"

"Now we're even?" After a silent, motionless pause, Gwen asked, sincerely wanting to know, "Even in what way? Do you feel your facilitating a gang-rape, somehow balanced out, made up for my drugged participation in a gang-bang? It seemed to me, I'm the victim on both sides of that coin." She continued the pondering in her head as she waited for a response—a reply or a rationalization from her spouse. Did he expect that they would or could just go back to loving one another exclusively—loving one another at all? That she could even think of limiting her sex to just him? That she would refrain from indulging in the kind of hedonistic pleasures he so stupidly set free, after she had kept them confined so well for so long? The love that had once held them together lay as sharp and shattered splinters between them. There would be no getting around that—ever! That being said, she had wiggled her way back into the middle of the bed, and let him fuck her—missionary position—before finally drifting into sleep. It was clear—to her at least; he might need some time to accept it—it was clear they no longer shared love. Perhaps, though, they were developing a sort of emotional symbiosis.

The change in Gwen, while not actually conspicuous, was monumental. She had crossed the Rubicon; there was no turning back. The wife and mother, personas she had carried and lived almost three decades, had been shrugged off and left behind. She stretched and flexed pulling on the unfamiliarly tight and bright personas of slut and harlot and whore. Gwen had quietly considered the ramifications of those sudden changes, and her options, choosing to wait and see in the interim. She would stay and cohabit with Mark for the time being, and while there'd be no more making love, she'd fuck him as often as he liked—and his buds when the opportunity arose. She'd fuck 'em all—singly or in groups. In fact, she'd fuck whoever she damn well felt like—anyone who turned her fancy! Furthermore—and here, she chuckled aloud—she'd give up her ass to whoever that miscreant Hendrickson wanted her to.

"We'll just see how it goes." A tacit decision, perhaps, but a decision, nonetheless. After all, a quarter century of self-restraint, and where had that gotten her? Truth was, she enjoyed the promiscuity—delighted in being a slut. From here on in, she would surrender to self-gratification at every opportunity; 'make love' for the unmitigated thrill of pure hedonism! She'd let Mark keep her—even give him first dibs, to start—after all, the house was half hers. She'd stick with him until his support became too limiting, his acceptance too restrictive.

For now, it was all good.