I groaned. I couldn't help it, I tried to stay silent but the pain was too great. I heard a snigger, then the agony increased. Sweat poured from my brow and I started to hyperventilate.
All I had done was suggest to my wife of thirty years that we spice up our sex life: Try something new, maybe buy some toys or go to a nudist resort. Nothing extreme -- no erotic piercings, swinger clubs or dogging sessions, nothing like that at all. To my amazement Sheena had agreed to it. She hadn't appeared shocked at the suggestion, or screamed and run out of the door. No, she had sat next to me, all nice and happy and we had looked online, choosing a few fun items.
Before we married and found our own place to live there had been no need for catalogues of marital aids. A sideways glance would pass between us and without a word we would walk up into the forestry and find a clearing where we could screw ourselves senseless amongst the bracken, bluebells and bird-song. But inevitably a couple of kids had altered our priorities and from that time onwards things had quietly settled down progressively.
Now our offspring had grown up, flown the nest and our silver wedding anniversary had literally sailed past with a Caribbean cruise (the epitome of middle class, middle income holidaying for middle management -- fuck, that summed up my life). Then the opportunity for the return of the shag-fest of our lost youth had never materialised.
We had now adjusted instead to the boring routine of daytime TV and a car that was an econobox mall-mobile. Retirement loomed on the horizon, an early death from suburbia a realistic prospect. A look at the other houses in our street told a depressing story; a sea of white boxes with white plastic doors and lamps that pretended to be from old stage coaches but were really made in China from white recycled plastic.
When we were married we found a shabby apartment in a crumbling old brick building. Real bricks with real mortar. It would take little encouragement for Sheena to leave her panties behind when we went out, knowing that I would be bursting with hormones and be ripping off the remainder of her clothing as soon as we returned -- or even sooner given half an opportunity. Years further on and we had traded up to this suburban nightmare.
Respectability was now important, anything 'slutty' was out of the question. Her panties had become robust and firmly on, her bed-times earlier and she was normally asleep when I followed her to bed.
She could still dress up in the gear -- if she wanted to. Her body had blossomed with maturity and child-birth; weighty breasts now featured large areolae. Their volume caused them to swing away from the body when she leaned over, which mostly happened nowadays when she was picking something up from the floor, instead of when assuming a doggy position.
Her waist was a little fuller, her ass a little rounder but when wearing a slinky dress her body could still turn heads. A laced-up corset always did it for me, lifting her flesh until it spilled gloriously over the front. Her cups literally runneth over. After an evening wearing my favourite bustier, at least one of her nipples would be guaranteed to have escaped. The trouble was that she rarely wanted to wear anything like that; and even if she did, when it was time for bed she'd disappear into the bathroom to undress, later reappearing wearing fully buttoned Winceyette pyjamas and settle down in front of the TV.
So I was immeasurably excited when against all expectations she had agreed to participate in the spice-up and anticipated a rebirth of the happy times. Days later the anonymous parcels had arrived and we opened them together, though I had to agree to volunteer to try out the products first. I willingly presented my arms and legs to the restraints and my ass for the tube of lube. A modest insertion of a digit, a gentle massage of prostate -- I could live with that.
Now I was on my knees bent over a stool in front of a crackling log fire, blindfolded. Tight ropes and unforgiving handcuffs had been applied so that I couldn't move, a ball-gag in my mouth meant that I was dribbling but that wasn't my main concern. What had my attention was the immense plastic penis that she had shoved into my butt.
It was the first time that she'd shown enthusiasm for sex in a very long time. I couldn't even remember the last time that she'd actually initiated love-making. For a period I'd persisted, then in the face of total disinterest it had petered out altogether. There's a limit to anyone's determination and I had exceeded mine.
This time though she had enthusiastically stripped off and buckled the strap-on onto herself so that it swung out in front of her -- long, thick and black. Grotesque, with heavy fake veins and leather straps, it had the bulge of a scrotum that was held tightly between her thighs and a concealed vibration device that pressed against her clitoris.
The straps reminded me of old jockstraps and I certainly didn't find those very erotic, but it had been her choice and at that point I couldn't argue that I didn't want to be penetrated. I had never been buggered and anal sex held no fantasy for me, however I had been the one to raise the possibility of trying new things so in a word - I was stuffed.
If this was what being fucked felt like, my wife actually had my sympathy. Even lubed up I had had to force myself to relax to allow myself to be invaded by the immense length of plastic, stretching my ass widely as if I was taking a super-sized crap.
First the mask, concentrating my mind on only what I could feel or hear. Then cold lube along the crack of my butt that made me clench, next a slippery touch, an irresistible invasion. A finger slowly entered and there was nothing that I could do about it. There followed a stretching and overwhelming occupation of my innermost private space, an internal churning, a rearrangement of my guts.
There was an unforseen moment when something inside was touched; suddenly there had been an arousal, a feeling of erotic vulnerability mixed with pleasure.
Unexpectedly in the middle of this she had unbuckled the cock, leaving it uncomfortably inside me. She draped a blanket over me and everything had become quiet. I tried expelling it like a huge turd but it was impossible. Eventually I gave up and waited.
At least I was warm under the blanket even if my ass was aching. After a long time I heard the door open and footsteps enter the room. My blanket was removed and my loving wife had sworn loudly at me, calling me a pathetic pervert, a loser, a wanker. Then she had gripped my testicles (mine, not the plastic ones) and twisted until I could take no more. Despite myself I had groaned, and in response had heard an unexpected chortle from a stranger -- and felt another wrench on my most sensitive parts.
My blindfold had then been removed and I slowly, nervously, looked around. The first things I saw were a pair of shiny black boots with heavy silver buckles up the sides.
I knew just by that sight who was there and went cold at the prospect. There was only one person that I knew of who regularly wore boots of that style. Filled with dread my eyes rose to take in faded grey jeans, skin tight over powerful muscular thighs and wide hips. Then a narrow waist with a flat stomach under a lime-green top. Ever upwards, the chest with slight swells with nipples poking through the thin material. Chocolate skinned strong shoulders beneath the thin straps of the top, that led to arms bearing well defined biceps and triceps.
