Melissas Regret Pt 02

Dear Melissa (or, should I say,

Doctor

Melissa),

Well! I saw the article in the paper about your role chairing that big fund-raising event, and I just had to look you up and write to you.

Yes, I only recently moved to town. I didn't even know you had ended up here, too. But I have to say, from the picture and the story -- you seem to have fulfilled every promise that everyone saw in you back in college, and in graduate school when we lived across the hall from each other. Great career; respected in your profession; married to an equally respected professional; lovely home and kids; and, of course, you are every bit as beautiful in your forties as you were in your twenties, in a casually-elegant, no-nonsense way.

But I can still see in your eyes -- not so much in that one picture in the paper, but in others; you're not active very active on social media but some of your friends are! -- that same look that I recognized twenty years ago. That little twinge of quiet desperation; that little glimmer of

regret

for the kinds of exciting experiences that you never let yourself have. Unless someone like me insisted.

I'll bet when you were in high school, even in college, you thought that losing your virginity would change you. That people would be able to tell, to see a difference in you. They would be able to see by looking at you, something in your eyes,

something in your posture... you were no longer a good girl, you were -- well, if not a slut, at least someone who lacked the willpower, the self-control, to not give in to your short-sighted desire for a little pleasure.

You found out that wasn't true. And not only could your friends and colleagues not notice a difference in your sunny, competent, professional day-to-day demeanor. Your boyfriend didn't even see it. Even when you started being a regular, compliant booty call for the guy in the next apartment; wedging an extra hour into your busy schedule to cross the hallway and get naked for me and submit to my lustful desires, three, four, five nights a week.

People see what they expect to see, and what they want to see. Which is why your boyfriend kept seeing you as his model girlfriend, oblivious to the little bite marks, to the vagaries in your schedule; accepting without question even your most facile excuses and explanations.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. There are some people who can tell. Guys like me. Guys who are attuned to seeing it, sensing it, almost smelling it. The little signs you give off that tell them that you a part of you craves submission, being used. Those guys will find you. Over and over again.

Like I did. And then Carlos.

Carlos was the guy after me, after I moved east to pursue my doctorate. I'm sure your boyfriend -- was he your fiance yet by that point? -- didn't know about him, either.

Carlos was the one who dragged you down to the glory holes at the run-down adult bookstore on the east side of town -- not the brightly-lit national brand in the suburbs, where the young professionals slip in quickly and quietly with their faces turned away from the street; the one with the bars on the window and the guy behind the counter with the cigar and the tattoos all over his 18-inch biceps.

And he sat in the booth with you and took pictures as a parade of cocks presented themselves through the holes on either side of you, some rigid and eager, some pendulous and potent and demanding that you bring them to attention with your mouth, with your tongue, with those lips that you had kissed your boyfriend goodbye with before his night shift. Cock after cock, all attached to nameless, faceless men -- short, tall, fat; young, and disconcertingly old; college boys slumming, and semi-literate day laborers. All of the above, but to you, they were just the bodies pumping blood into the slabs of meat that they thrust at you through the holes in the wall.

And to them... well, perhaps it would excite them to know that the soft hands and the warm wet eager mouth on the other side of the wall belonged not to some worn-out meth addict, but to a lovely, slender young brunette; a woman who just recently was a magna cum laude college graduate, who until just recently was a virgin. Or perhaps they wouldn't care at all. To them, perhaps you were just the life support system for the hungry mouth into which they were unloading their slick, pungent semen.

Cock after cock; some circumcised, some uncut with foreskins that oozed back and forth over their glistening knobs; some pasty pale and covered with blue veins, some dark and menacing. All of them quickly taking satisfaction without regard to your own conflicted needs, a mix of shame and urgent but unrequited arousal. All of them spurting their seed onto your tongue, into your throat, all over your shoulder-length hair, down over your pert breasts.

Until three o'clock in the morning. And your next shift began at seven.

Carlos also took you to your first gangbang. The idea was thrilling and terrifying, but you simply nodded and said yes.

You thought you had an idea of what to expect, of being the sole center of attention of a group of anonymous men. You weren't expecting to be only one of three women, brought into the living room of a nondescript suburban home, to be ogled and fondled and penetrated and compared by a dozen men.

You, and a pretty stripper from a downtown club with a tattoo between her breasts, and a surprisingly elegant woman in her forties who was there with her husband, who ended up sitting silently in a corner the whole night. At Carlos' instruction you stripped naked in front of the room full of strangers, and then took your place alongside the other two women, knees on the cushions and elbows on the back of the sofa, your asses and pussies on presentation. Meat in a display case. Harem slaves at auction.

The host -- a middle-aged man with a pornstar moustache and a beer gut -- got the honors of entering each of you first, and he worked his way down the line, not saving you for last but simply choosing at random to start at the other end. Just a little jockeying for alignment and then a short, powerful thrust, a little yelp, and then on to the next woman. By the time he stepped behind you, you could feel his cock was slick and sticky with the other women's juices as he tapped it against your bottom, but by the time he parted your lips with the bulbous tip, you were so wet that he slid in to the hilt.

Then he pulled out and gave you a resounding, stinging slap on your right buttock. You felt tears come to your eyes, not from the pain, but from the sudden feeling that the slap was even more degrading than the single thrust of a strangers cock into your vagina. Like a rancher might slap the rump a heifer that had just been branded to tell it to lope back out to the pasture.

The clap was also a signal, the opening bell of trading on Wall Street, and you were about to be downgraded from blue chip to penny stock.

The second guy to enter you slipped in with ease as well, but he didn't stop with a single thrust. And the third guy slid in even more smoothly, his entry greased by the copious amount of semen that his predecessor grunted into you. You could feel it trickling down the insides of your thighs as he pounded into you, as if he wanted, needed, to scoop it all out to replace it with his own.

He grabbed your hair and bent your neck back toward him. Out of the corner of your eye you could see the other women, your compatriots in shame, receiving the same treatment. The slapping sounds of pelvises on backsides rang out from all three of you, in no discernible rhythm, as the men rutted each according to his own internal metronome.

At some point -- you couldn't remember whether it was while the third guy was in you, or the fourth -- two men came around and moved the console table from behind the sofa. They were all naked now, except for a few still wearing socks. Some of them were buff, sculpted, with impressive erections rising up from clean-shaved pubic mounds. Others sported wild, thick manes around their semi-erect phalluses, bushy scrotums hanging below like beards on Mennonite farmers. And they all were taking positions in front of you, in front of each of you.

You got one of the hairy ones, taking your hair in his fist and turning your face up to smear his schlong across your forehead and cheeks. He was clean, Carlos had told you you could expect that, but he still seemed and smelled wild, feral. But you opened your mouth willingly to accept him, to allow him to fuck your face, even while the guy behind you continued his assault on your pussy.

The hirsute man in front of you was gripping your head now with both hands, and you could only catch glimpses to confirm that the other two women were receiving the same treatment. And suddenly you truly did feel you were being spit-roasted. The three of you, suspended on the prongs of the men who were tending to you, basting you, like the main event at the best barbeque of the summer, slowly roasting over the coals of shame and perdition.

You realized -- even as the guy with a crotch like the face of a nineteenth-century Russian immigrant spurted down your throat and stepped away for another man to take his place -- that being one of three women there was both intensifying your degradation, and cheapening it. You were not even able to revel and wallow in the attention you should be getting, in the mortification of your personal and singular debasement. You were going to hell for this, but you didn't even get to be the star attraction of your own sentencing.

And that's when your orgasm suddenly racked your body.

At least, that's how Carlos described it to me. The scene, anyway. The thoughts inside your head? Well, I've always been able to read those.

Anyway, don't worry about replying, unless of course you want to; and don't worry about me bothering you or stalking you or anything. I won't cause trouble for you, or do anything to put your storybook life or your sterling reputation at risk. Unless you want me to.

You have my email address. You can save it separately, or delete it along with this message. But I suspect you'll save the address and the message. In spite of the fact that someday, somehow, your husband might find it. But that's part of the thrill, right?