The Life of a Hoosier Farm Girl

This story involves exhibitionism and group sex. There is also an allusion to non-consensual sex arising during a romantic date. It is the first chapter of a story with nine chapters.

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I am a 27-year-old widow. My husband Bill, who was 4 years my senior, died 3 years ago, when he was 28. It came as a complete surprise. Bill had a drinking problem, and he brought a knife to a gunfight at the local bar in our small town in Indiana. He was shot and killed.

Nobody was ever arrested for having killed my lovely Bill. Obviously then, nobody was ever convicted of manslaughter, or murder, or anything. That would not have brought him back to me, he is gone forever, but still. My friends were great, and my family rallied me, but I nevertheless sank into a deep depression that lasted two years. During three months of my depression I was in a hospital for people like myself.

Once I got better enough to leave the hospital I went back to my hometown. But for a variety of reasons, some of which I will explain a little later, I ended up not being able to face life as it was in our hometown anymore. Nothing was keeping me there, since Bill and I had not yet had children.

The most common thing to do at that point would have been to move to Chicago. That's where everyone in the Midwest goes when they feel a need to escape the confining culture of a small town. I'm not sure why I did this, but I chose to move to New York. It's farther away, for one thing. It's bigger, for another. So, I simply picked myself up and moved to New York.

I did all sorts of menial jobs to support myself, especially waitressing. In spite of my poverty (waitressing in New York keeps a girl at poverty level), I managed to go to school. I got a degree in nursing, and now I just started my new job as a registered nurse.

After the elections, a bunch of us nurses got together and rented a bus to take us to Washington and back for the Women's March. Betsy is a friend of mine. She also originally hails from Indiana. She is almost my only friend in New York. She is also a nurse. She invited me to join, and so I hopped on the bus with these other women and a few men.

The ride down to DC was a hoot. We sang songs, bonded, and generally speaking had a great time. The weather was lovely, and I walked with the other people, making a statement just by being there.

I wore my usual weekend clothes: skintight jeans, a tight sweater that shows off my boobs, and tennis shoes. My only concession to being out in the world at a big event was a nice perfume coupled with large dangle earrings and of course my omnipresent ankle bracelet, the last present my late husband gave me. I also wore 11 silver bangle bracelets, and a large silver peace sign as a pendant around my neck. I enjoy wearing jewelry.

My hair is blonde and long, and I wore it in a ponytail. Probably it made me look a little younger than I am, but if you're female, that's not a bad thing. It bounced around behind me as I walked. And walk I did. I walked, chanted, and occasionally my fist rose in the air, with the thousands of other women surrounding me. It was a heady experience, and I for one was elated. In Indiana I had often felt alone; now I was surrounded by women who by and large thought as I did. Exhilaration describes the feelings I felt.

After the march, we had around an hour before we had to go back to the bus. This was a day trip to DC. At the last minute, I decided to stay longer, and I told my friend Betsy. There is so much to see in Washington, which has monuments and museums galore, and it seemed to me this was too good an opportunity to pass up!

Betsy asked me some practical questions, such as where would I stay (all hotels were full), how would I get back (all trains and airplanes were booked solid), and I just waved them aside, telling her, "I'll find a way." I think Betsy thought I was a moron just then, but I was determined, so finally she agreed to let the bus driver know not to wait for me, and then she quickly scurried back to the bus.

I did have an ace in the hole. I had gone to a small, local branch of IU (Indiana University) for college, and a friend of mine from college lives in the generalized DC area, so I shot her a Facebook message asking if I could crash with her for one or two nights. I was waiting for a reply. Her name is Grace.

In the meantime, once Betsy left for the bus, I decided to walk around and enjoy the sights. I was in a happy daze, one of the first times I had been this happy since I lost my husband Bill. I found a small park and sat down to write a postcard to my Dad. A man came up and asked if he could sit next to me on the bench. I said, "Of course. It's a free country. I'm Nancy," and I held out my hand.

I belatedly realized this was a standard Hoosier reaction to a stranger, but perhaps was not normal in DC. Anyway, the man looked startled by my reaction, but his surprise quickly morphed into a smile, and he shook my hand. "I'm Mike," he said.

Mike used this opening, which I had not really intended as an opening, just being polite, to chat me up. Mike was 30 (or so he said; he could have been up to 5 years older, it seems to me), and he was one of those men who is always smiling, and seems always to be happy. Nobody is really like that, so I was wary. But with those two caveats, he struck me as a nice guy.

He asked if I would like to get coffee with him, and of course I agreed. It turns out he is also now from New York, and he was down in DC for the inauguration, but also stayed for the march. "That must make you unique," I said.

"Yes, almost. There was not much overlap between those who went to the inauguration, and those who marched. I had no choice about the inauguration; my company sent me. The women's march I attended by choice," he remarked.

We talked for a long time, and he learned my complete history. He did not learn of course my brief sexual history; that much I will share with you. Before I married Bill, I had known two men intimately, so I was not completely innocent when I fell head over heels in love with Bill. Bill swept me off my feet.

When I entered my depression following his death, I received some medicine that was designed to help with just the sort of depression I had. It was still experimental, so I had to sign what seemed like a thousand papers in order to get it. Plus, it was free, because I was part of a clinical trial.

The drug worked great, and it cured my depression. But the side effects were not what a girl wants. I had sort of a medically induced bipolar disorder. My usual inhibitions -- ones that everyone has -- disappeared. I know from watching Bill when he was on a drunk what alcohol can do about inhibitions. It is not pretty. At times for example he would beat me for no reason. He would never have done such things when sober.

When sober Bill was an attentive and loving husband. When drunk he was anything but. When drunk he was a misogynist, and I became a target. Still, I stayed with him. I loved him, and I toughed it out through the bad times. I couldn't hide all the bruises, so all my friends knew that he beat me. They urged me to leave him. But when he was sober he was such a wonderful man, husband, and lover that I could never have left him.

With me now, after Bill's death and because of the meds, I became a sexual wild woman. I did all sorts of things I would never had done were it not for the medicine. How should I put this? Let's just say that I became easy to get into bed. I wanted sex, and I seemed to want more of it, and to want it more often, than is healthy or normal. My sex drive was in overdrive.

Whenever an episode of these side effects began to happen, I would first get a tingling sensation in my forehead. Weird. The doctor called it an aura. It always seemed to precede an attack of extraordinary sexual need. To make matters worse it would be coupled with a loss of inhibitions. I appreciated the warning the tingling provided, but there was nothing I could do to stop the warning, and little I was willing to do to stop the subsequent behavior.

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I will recount an example, and probably you will get the idea.

One of the first rather spectacular things I did involves three men. I was in a bar, and for some reason I felt at the time that my bra was uncomfortable. It seemed to be just then seriously uncomfortable. I asked a man sitting next to me at the bar to lift up my blouse in the back and to unhook it. When he did I slipped it off; it was easy to do because it was strapless.

The man who unhooked my bra, and whom I did not even know, asked for a kiss. I giggled, finding that funny. Finally, I said, "Sure, honey. If that's all you want," and I kissed him, open mouth, the works. That was my first kiss since Bill had died.

When we finally broke the kiss, after a few minutes at the least, I got off the bar stool and used my hands to jiggle my boobs. "You sure the kiss is all you want, honey?"

The man took me to a corner of the bar where it is a little dark. He began to kiss me in earnest. His hands went under my blouse and caressed my boobs. I loved it and moaned just loudly enough so that he could hear the moans. I moaned just from having my boobs fondled and my nipples tweaked. This surprised me, because my boobs are not erogenous for me.

I like when a man kisses me on the neck, and I like when he plays gently with my boobs, just as I like when he strokes my tummy, or caresses my foot. Boobs are like the other body parts for me; nice, but not special. There is however the societal taboo of having your boobs caressed in public in a bar. It was breaking that taboo that turned me on. I was sexually aroused from the situation, more than from the physical stimulation.

As we kissed he pushed up my blouse, displaying my boobs to his eyes and those of other bar patrons. He flamboyantly played with my boobs. I moaned some more. Two of his friends asked if I wouldn't be more comfortable with my jeans off. I broke the kiss to giggle some more and I said, "Yes. Yes, I guess I would be." Two minutes later I was sitting on the floor making out with the first man, wearing only a bunched-up blouse and my panties.

One of the two friends, his name is Clovis, said, "Smile!" and I gave him my best smile, sitting there with my boobs hanging out and my legs bare, and only my panties protecting my modesty. Again I giggled, and smiled. He took some pictures.

"I want copies of the pictures!" I said.

Clovis said, "Sure, darling. What's your name and address? I'll get them to you."

"I'm Nancy," I said, still giggling. "Willow Manor Apartments, #33F. Who are you? Want some of this?" and I gestured to my body, my hand running from my neck to below my private area.

"I'm Clovis," he said. "Maybe I should take you home." His tone was more serious, all of a sudden, as if he were concerned for me. At this point my blouse was gone and I was dressed only in my panties.

A girl dressed only in her panties in a dark bar is not a recipe for propriety, and certainly not for virtue.

"That would be right nice of you," I said. "Let's go." I stood and walked out of the bar with him, leaving all my clothes except my panties strewn about the bar. I got in his car, and his two friends piled in with us. I was in the back seat with one friend. His hands were all over me. Halfway to my apartment Clovis stopped and the two friends changed places. I giggled as the new guy got to explore my body with his hands.

I was still wearing panties, but it's not hard for a man to finger a girl wearing panties. These two friends of Clovis seemed to understand that very well. I was highly aroused by the time they got me home.

I led the three men to my apartment, and I invited them inside for a beer. They all entered, and two minutes later my panties were on the floor. One more minute and I was naked, lying on my bed. My hands were over my head because I had read in a women's magazine it makes one's boobs look more seductive. These men did not need any of my efforts at seduction, however.

The first man to approach me was Frank. "You've had too much to drink, my dear," he said.

"No sir," I said. "I have not! I had one glass of wine. I don't know why I'm acting as if I'm drunk; it must be a natural high. Anyway, I'm feeling good and -- this is not ladylike to say, but what the hell -- I'm horny." As I said that my hand went down to my pussy and I began to tease myself down there.

Frank took off his clothes, revealing a nice and quite hard erection. He watched me tease myself, and he stroked his cock. Clovis had his camera out, and I guess he had it on movie mode, since there was no clicking. I idly wondered how big his memory card was, a strange thing to wonder as Frank stared at me with lust in his eyes, and the other friend, Steve, was quickly undressing too.

Suddenly a moment of sanity came over me and I realized I was about to give myself to three men. I, Nancy, a loyal wife and a bit of a prude, was suddenly acting as if I were a wanton slut. It was as if my brain had two tracks going, simultaneously: one was my slut brain, wanting all the sex I could get, and the other was a shocked and appalled track, wondering what the blazes was going on with me?

My moral self had the high ground. My lust crazed self had the low ground. Traditionally in battles the high ground wins. But when the influence of the meds is factored in, the high ground had no chance. The low ground won in a walk, or perhaps linguistically more appropriately, in a lay.

The lust won. It won big time. Frank lay down on the bed and replaced my fingers with his own. "Honey, you are soaking wet," he said, apparently a bit surprised at how wet I already was.

"Wet and ready," I said. "That's me."

Frank climbed on top of me, and he was experienced because he just slipped it right in. It was the first cock inside me since Bill had died. I had never cheated on Bill, and my moral brain right then told me I was cheating. I began to panic. My lust filled brain told my other brain to shut up.I remembered Bill was dead, and you cannot cheat on the dead. The panic left.

Can one cheat on one's memory of the dead? Who thinks like this when a man is entering you, and two more men are watching? I put the thought out of my mind. I needed to concentrate on the sex at hand, and there was plenty of that.

Frank's cock felt good inside me. Just then I did not simply enjoy it; I needed it. I became vocal, and I began to say all sorts of things. I don't remember all of it, but later I saw the video (thanks to Clovis) and I had no idea what a slutty mouth I had. From the video I learned I had said, "Oh yeah, Frank, fuck me hard. Oh good. Harder, harder! Fuck me to oblivion. I need more of your big cock. Take me! Possess me. Keep fucking me like that and I'm yours to do with as you please."

I wrapped my legs around him and moved about underneath his large body, trying to get his cock just where I wanted it. He began to play with my boobs as he fucked me, tweaking my nipples, making them stand at attention. "Jesus, woman, you are fine. You are a great piece of ass."

Such talk would normally have grossed me out. I was a woman, I was Nancy. I was not a "fine piece of ass." But I did not really know any of these three men and here I was putting out for all three, and enjoying it. So just then Frank's description was quite reasonable.

I begged the men to tie me up and fuck me without mercy. They tied my hands together above my head, and then tied them to the bed frame. I have no idea where that desire to be tied up came from. I guess just then I wanted to be their sexual slave. I wanted to be there for them, whenever they wanted me, and especially so if they wanted me then! I wanted to relinquish control.

Steve was set to fuck me next. "Wet and ready, eh?" he said.

"Yep. That's me. See for yourself, big boy," I said, smiling at him and batting my eyelashes. I squirmed a bit on the bed, trying to entice him to plunge right in.

"Didn't some president say that?" Steve said.

AP US History kicked in. "Zachary Taylor, our 12th president, was 'old rough and ready," I said. "Maybe that's what you're thinking of?" Even as I spoke, I was still squirming seductively, so as to show him my wet and open pussy.

Steve smiled. "Call me Zachary," he said.

"I'll call you Ishmael," I teased, and he frowned, not getting the reference to the famous opening line of the novel Moby Dick. I was a bit too educated for this group of men, I guess.

He plunged his cock into me suddenly and with great force, knocking me back on the bed to the point where my head bumped the wall. "Whoa, buddy!" I said.

Steve ignored me and fucked me brutally, at times practically viciously. Okay, I guess it was a vicious fuck, not a 'practically vicious' fuck. I don't know what his problem was, but anyway I enjoyed it.

I had trouble keeping up, and at times I was almost breathless. My head kept bouncing against the wall with his thrusts. They came so fast I did not have time to slide down the bed, away from the wall. It turned out I liked rough sex like that. It's something I have in common with Lady Gaga, I idly thought, as I was moved around the bed repeatedly by the forceful fucking of Steve's powerful cock.

When Steve finally shot his load on my stomach, joining Frank's cum already there, I said, "Nice fuck, Zachary. Wow." Steve smiled broadly and leaned into my face and kissed me with some passion. I returned the kiss with an enthusiasm that surprised me.

Clovis was next. He gave me a nice fuck, but it did not compare either to Frank's -- or, especially, to Steve/Zachary's -- from then on, I always called Steve as Zachary, and giggled. He would always smile back. When Clovis finished with me, Frank announced that he wanted a blowjob, too, and I actually said, "What's in it for me?"

Steve said, "I'll fuck you again if you give Frank a blowjob." I still had not yet cum, even from all the fucking.

I said, "Prove it, big boy. Give me a Zachary fuck while I blow him," and I assumed the position on all fours, wiggling my ass at Steve/Zachary, as I opened my mouth for Frank. I saw Clovis changing memory sticks in his camera, and I smiled to myself.

I said to Clovis, "You'd best be making sure I look mighty pretty and sexy all of the time, or I'll get mad."

"Nancy, you're a natural," Clovis said. "Girls who want it are always sexy, and you are stunningly gorgeous, to boot."

Clovis betrayed me, even if at the time I did not care. He put his movie up on the Internet, and the title was "Sexy Nancy, the Slut of Brown County." A lot of men saw the movie. I saw it too, and I saw myself having quite a spectacular orgasm when Steve/Zachary fucked me rear entry while I blew Frank. The things I said as I exploded in a serotonin rush were remarkably filthy. I don't think I had ever spoken some of those words before. Some I would have thought were not even in my active vocabulary!

As Clovis diffused the videos, I became popular, you might say. I lost count of how many men enjoyed my sexual favors. There were a lot of them. At times, I felt as if I were taking a survey of the condition of ceilings in men's apartments.

Bear in mind I did not just lie down and spread my legs for every Tom, Dick or Harry. No, I was not that easy. They had to court me, at least minimally. If they wanted carnal knowledge, by gum they had to take me to dinner, to a movie, to a club; something! They had to spend some money on me. Then they could do with me whatever they wanted to do. And they did.

For most men, all that they wanted was a blowjob, or some simple fucking, or both. I enjoyed it. But there were some very creative men out there, too. That's what solidified my enjoyment of exhibitionism. Winter was ending, and it was just beginning to get warm in southern Indiana. I'll give an example. Around the fourth or fifth man to date and seduce me after my time with Frank, Steve/Zachary, and Clovis, was a man named Josh. He took me out for an evening picnic, outside of town at a small lake.