Confessions Of A Slut Ch 16

When I left my job in Africa to move back to Thailand in 1986, I was 44 years old and still in the full flower of my sluthood, a confident, mature, attractive, successful woman. Having had a hysterectomy 11 years earlier I had no restraints due to periods or fear of pregnancy. My sexual partners now totaled more than ninety. I regretted only a few of them

Enroute to Thailand, I went on vacation to the Greek Islands -- among my favorite places in the whole world. But I spent my first two nights there alone in my room with a bottle of gin. Amidst all the twenty-somethings I seemed ancient, so I indulged my loneliness by getting drunk. The reader of earlier chapters will know that I am a secretive alcoholic who had spent many weekends dead drunk. I now had my drinking mostly under control -- but, it was a vacation and I indulged myself.

I was relieved my third night when an American couple invited me to a party at their villa. They said there would be a single man there and I -- with quiet desperation -- prepared myself. I wore a flowery, flouncy knee-length dress with a white peasant top of fine, clinging cotton. Sans bra, the shape and color of my nipples showed through discreetly. I displayed ample cleavage and a shrug of the shoulders or a slip of the spaghetti strap revealed an areola. It was a blouse designed to make men look down it -- and I love having men look at my tits.

I was also aware that I was a bit old for my outfit, so I hoped for flattering lighting at the party. As it turned out, the lighting was good for me. It was a group: of eight: three married couples, a single man, and me. We danced and ate and drank. But, even getting high on gin and tonics, I didn't like the company much. They were all Wall Street types, people who had attended the best schools and made a lot of money, but they had a slimy and clever texture that didn't attract me. That is, except for the single man who was about my age and most charming and attentive. I decided quickly that he would be a good partner for the night.

The villa was luxurious and even had a swimming pool, a rarity on the water-scarce Greek islands. About midnight, I was sitting beside the pool talking to my presumptive lover, sipping my fifth drink of the evening when two of the married couples took off their clothes, whooped and hollered, and leaped into the pool. As they splashed and played it become apparent that a spouse swap was underway. One of the women was entwined about her partner's waist; the other seemed dedicated to giving her man an underwater blow job.

I was a bit reluctant, not being overly enthusiastic with the company, but my single man persuaded me to join the others in the water. I slipped my dress off over my head and took my panties off. He pulled off his shorts and we jumped into the water.

Soon, seven of us -- four men and three women --all naked, joined arms, circled together in shallow water, and made bawdy jokes. The person missing from the pool was the other married women. She was lying drunk and semi-conscious on a chaise lounge beside the pool. As we reveled in the water, her husband shouted, "Somebody fuck my wife! Come on! Fuck her!" he exhorted the other men. He was drunk and obnoxious. With more men than women in the pool, he wanted to divert one of the men to his wife to increase his odds of pairing with one of us.

His strategy didn't work with me. He approached me in the water, put one arm around me, felt my tits, tried to kiss me, and thrust a finger up my vagina. I pulled away, pretending to laugh and quickly found myself in the arms of my single man. I stayed there for safety.

The drunk continued to shout, "Fuck my wife" and not finding a partner for her or for himself, he proceeded to get out and do it himself on the chaise lounge, the wife motionless beneath his humping body. "I'm cumming, I'm cumming," he announced to the uncaring world. And then he passed out beside his comatose wife.

The two other couples had completed their swap negotiations and foreplay and headed for bedrooms. Alone with my man, chest deep in the water, we indulged in a long, naked kiss that put me in the mood. He had a slow hand and a gentle touch and, my clitoris feeling the size of an orange, I wrapped myself around his waist and maneuvered his penis inside my vagina.

In the center of the swimming pool was a fountain with a wide circular base and that was where we fucked. I laid on my back on the concrete base, water running over and under me, my legs straight up in the air resting on his shoulders. He stood hip deep in the water, thrusting into me. It was a most excellent climax. I nearly drown as I relaxed and the water from the fountain filled my nose and mouth.

My partner knew how to treat a woman after sex. We got out of the pool, laid down on adjacent chaise lounges, and he got me a drink. I drank it and then he got me another one and then he fucked me again. And then I finished my drink and passed out.

I awoke later that night, cold and naked, confused, my head throbbing, and still lying on the chaise lounge. My lover was missing. He was a few feet away. He was fucking the woman who had passed out earlier. And on top of me was her obnoxious husband, thrusting his penis into my dry vagina.

I laid there for a moment, unsure what to do, the pain from his penis radiating all through me, and then I was thoroughly disgusted, mostly with myself. I raised my legs and pushed my would-be lover away from me. It was too late. He was climaxing and he writhed over me, spurting cum over my stomach and thighs. I pushed him harder with my foot and he tumbled over backwards into the pool.

"What the hell," he said.

"Get away from me, you asshole," I shouted. "I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last man in the world."

"You already have," he said with a smirk, standing in the water and looking at me.

I kicked at him and he laughed and swam away to the other side of the pool.

My earlier lover didn't come to my aid and comfort. He looked at me for a long moment, shook his head, and went back to humping his comatose partner whose moans were the only thing indicating that she was still alive.

I jumped into the pool and cleansed myself of the offensive left-over sperm of my two partners, thrusting fingers deep within me, trying to wash away my shame and anger. When I had done all I could do I was crying and nearly hysterical. I got out of the pool, stepped into my dress, didn't bother to seek out panties or shoes, and found my way in the dark to the door of the villa, nearly tripping over another couple co-joined on the couch of the living room. "Fuck you," I said in parting. "You Wall Street leeches."

It was a long walk to my hotel through the dark streets of a Greek island town, I was shoeless; my dress was clinging to my wet body, my hair was disheveled, and I was still drunk enough to be staggering, slack-jawed, and empty eyed. Most of the town was asleep but several late night revelers, young Greek men, shouted at me as I passed them on the streets.

"Hey, lady!" they shouted, noticing my condition. "Tough night?" I ignored them. "How much?" they asked. "You give me one hundred dollars and I fuck you," one added laughing.

I finally made it back to my room in the hotel and fell onto my bed crying. "Never again," said I. "Never again will I get drunk and used by a man." I have kept that vow. My days as a drunken party girl were over.

They say that men overestimate their number of sexual partners by counting women they wish that had bedded -- and that women underestimate their partners by not counting men they wish they had not bedded. That's true. I refuse to count as a partner that slimy bastard who fucked me poolside on the Greek island while I was unconscious