We made love for a solid hour last night. It was slow and meaningful the way unrushed kisses make you vulnerable, and he pried into my world, my inner most protection and shame through it. Sex last night was a trip down memory lane.
I think it was the whiskey that did it. My husband isn’t generally that gentle and prodding. We started with me on top talking about our wild sex from the day before. Two orgasms that day lessened my desire yesterday which factored in to the slowness of our pace.
We held one another close, kissing each other’s neck and whispering sweet thoughts between moans. Our bodies were one in spirit, it felt. I was in the moment, not racing to end it, instead I relished in each stroke, each touch of his hand on my hair, each fleeting desire to change positions or suck his dick or grab more coconut oil and slather it all down there.
One story led to another and then another and then another finally reaching the tipping point. Pictures, the rolls of me at 14 in white panties posing sweetly, sexily, like a young whore in training, that’s where we landed.
His whiskey dick got us there because a sober dick would have climaxed two stories ago, when we were still on the whores at the brothel and my pussy being sore from pleasuring them all. It takes a special layer of sexy and forbidden fruit to win my husband’s drunk cum medal.
“I want to see those pictures, Stella,” he said starring deeply into my eyes. I was lying on my side at this point with my top leg pushed over and his body in between. His dick filled me up with its massive girth and power yet it wasn’t going down fast. Every stroke reached deeper into my soul and into my past. “Do you know where they are?”
I had to think about it. Each question forced me to rewind time, remembering the details, the smells, the reasons I was first fucked by a man in his 40s when I was just a young teen girl. It’s as if my husband’s dick while not pleasuring me per se acted like a hypnotic device tap tap tapping me into some wild trance. Let go, Stella, let go of your control.
“Yes, I do or at least I think I do,” I finally divulged the truth and then more streamed out like a crack in a dam. “It all started when he touched right here.” I motioned to the side of my pussy, the edge where she bridges my two legs. “I was wearing panties and a skirt and we were talking in his truck. He slowly worked his hand up my leg, to that spot and stopped.”
“Oh yeah?” My husband’s face was devilish with desire. “Did he touch your pussy?” He was imagining that it was him doing it, I know. He’s told me before he wished it had. He wanted to be my first and my last.
“Not that time. But I was so wet. The touch made me aware of my sexuality and how badly I needed to explore it. I’d been masturbating for years, but I’d never had a man inside of me. I was not yet a real woman.”
I trailed off a little sinking into the sadness of my emotions. Was I a victim? Was it all a game? At the time I felt like I was in control, but was I just brainwashed to feel that way?
My husband’s yearning brought me back. He’s the only man I’ve ever told my story to who thinks it’s simply perfect and completely natural and how a little whore should be trained. He’s insatiable wanting to know every detail of our sex and the cum I drained.
“The next time he put his fingers on my pussy over my panties and could surely feel my heat and wetness. But he did nothing more. He took so much time making sure I was ready and wanting it. I remember feeling scared and a little disgusted and very impatient.”
“The next time he slipped one finger under my panties and played in little in my juices. The look on his face was priceless. I learned that my body gave pleasure, my presence was entertaining, and my pussy had all of the power,” I paused for a few to ponder what I was actually saying to my husband. I don’t know that I’d ever put that together.
“The next time he pushed my panties to the side and licked my pussy. We were in his truck parked somewhere.” I hope now that no one was looking.
My husband’s dick grew larger tap tap tapping me harder. “He licked your pussy before he ever tried to fuck you? Fuck, that’s sexy. You never told me this. That’s what you made me do.”
My trance was wearing off. “I don’t really like thinking about it.”
“Don’t judge it, Stella. Go back, tell me more.” He meant it.
My sexuality brings him the most pleasure, and he wants it all. He wants to know every single thing I’ve ever done. My other men ignored my past either out of disinterest or utter disgust, as if I was wrong or bad or silly or naive. Or maybe they feared my unusual form of fun.
“I wasn’t attracted to him at all,” I continued, “But I loved how he made me feel about myself, the way he looked at me, the way he reacted when I danced and sashayed around. He broke my innocence and introduced me to myself. He dressed me in fun clothes and taught me sexy things to do. No one else treated me the way he did. No other man I’ve ever been with wanted me to show off my body, flash my pussy, and come back to tell the story.” The older man did and now my husband does too.
Why am I just now putting this together? It seems both my husband and my first have a lot more in common than I would have originally thought true.
We’re still making love. It’s deep and steady and safe. I’m safe and loved, adored, worshipped almost. Just like the older man. He worshipped me like I was his little queen, and I ate it up like ice cream. I needed that attention and instinctively understood it was both socially wrong yet biologically right. I also knew it was a short-term fling.
“I will get the pictures for us. I’m glad he took them. He has your innocence in a box, but soon they’ll belong to me.” My husband’s face looked like he might be going to war.
“He’s not just going to give them to you,” I said fully alert and back in my body. Why were we talking about this? I’d never thought about these pictures before. Could we actually get them? I’m going to deny it. I’d like to have my pictures too. What would my husband do to get it?
“I want to see your pussy, your little girl virgin pussy and those sexy innocent panties. I want to see your little titties. I want to see my girl when I should have been fucking her. She belongs to me too.” He started pumping me harder as if finally a fantasy in his mind was enough to get his drunk dick off.
“I want to see my expression, my face, how comfortable I was. Or if I wasn’t.”
I’m curious. Did I really enjoy it? I always thought I did. I felt like a star, a goddess in training. I remember feeling powerful like a queen, a pussy queen. I walked around naked toying with the old man’s heart. He knew he couldn’t really have me. It was all a brief fantasy. And sex was just part of my act. I never cam, but I got to be pleasure, which in my opinion lasts longer and is so much better.
“I bet you are simply divine, my sexy queen. He trained you just for me. How many times did he fuck you? 500?”
“Or more.”
“And you were 14?”
“Yep.” I winked at him.
“Fuck I’m about to cum.”
“I’ve been fucked a lot, sweetheart. My pussy is very good at her job,” I licked my lips and gave him the most seductive expression I could muster. He had me in this vulnerable place poking my shield and hoping gems of truth would fall out. And they did.
“You have the best pussy in the world,” he reminded me. “I love every single thing about you.”
I gave myself to him last night, and we became more. He exploded in me to seal the deal. I belong to him and he’s my king. He’s my hero and I’m his sweet little whore.
My job is to be that sassy girl in a skirt having fun bringing pleasure dancing around being seen. The more myself I become, the more he can worship me. I don’t need to worry what anyone else thinks or being what I think I should be.
Could it be that this intimate “we” is what I’ve been searching for this entire time? Could surrendering to the truth of my past fulfill my wildest dreams and set me free?
He fell to his side of the bed and let out a terrific sigh. My mind didn’t come back, though. The vision was in motion. My husband might be kidding about really finding those pictures. I’m surprised I wasn’t.
“He used to tell me that I’d be a complete knock out if only I had big breasts,” I smiled tenderly showing my husband the information on my phone. It’s the old man’s name, number, and address.
“That’s how I’ll get our pictures, sweet Stella. I’ll trade him the old for the new. I’ll give him a picture of you now with no panties and those big sexy boobs.”