I am not a slut.
Really, I'm not. Okay, I guess I'm a bit gullible and sometimes I don't think things through as well as I should and maybe it's true that I have on occasion made poor decisions, like the time in a job interview when I was asked what was the one thing I'd always wanted to do and I answered without thinking, "Just one time I'd like to get fucked completely senseless, with a dick in every hole." That probably wasn't the best answer. It may have ruined my chances of becoming a librarian, but it was worth it just to watch the old blue-haired old lady on the interview panel almost swallow her teeth.
It's just that sometimes I accidently get myself into positions that are beyond my control and then, well, maybe it happens that I get forced to do things that I normally wouldn't do and then I think "darn, here we go again."
Which was exactly what passed through my mind as I looked at my half-naked reflection in a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door in some house located who-knows-where, occupied by two construction-worker types at least 15 years younger than me whose names I didn't even know.
I was wearing only a thread-bare, white, man's dress shirt that should have been thrown away years ago. The fabric was so thin I could clearly see the dark rings of my coffee-cup-sized areolas surrounded by just a hint of pink 38DD titty showing through.
The shirt was too tight across the chest, so my boobs were kind of squished and mashed together. The top two buttons were missing and I knew I was exposing way more cleavage than the law allowed. The third button, poor thing, was struggling mightily to contain my expansive chest and thereby prevent what appeared to be the imminent eruption of Mount Boobilicious.
The shirt was barely long enough to cover my ass, as long as I was careful. I raised my arms experimentally and figured I'd be marginally decent as long as I kept my elbows below my shoulders. Anything more than that and my smooth, freshly waxed pussy lips and firm, round butt would be exposed for the whole world to see.
Experimentally I pinched my nipples through the fabric and then gently circled them with my fingertips. Immediately they got all puckery and started pouting, standing up like pencil erasers, trying to poke their way through the thin material. I checked me out front, back and sideways. Not bad at all for a 40-something housewife, I decided. If I was a guy, I'd fuck me.
"I can't come out like this," I whined through the door. "I'm too embarrassed."
"You're gonna have to come out sometime, sweetheart," I heard one of the guys, the one I'd already begun to think of as Mr. Nice Guy, say. "Don't worry, we won't bite." And I heard the other one snicker.
"Can't you at least give me some panties? Some shorts or something?"
"We're fresh out of panties, darling, and our shorts won't even begin to fit you."
My jaw fell open. "Are you saying I have a big ass?" I asked incredulously.
"Absolutely," Mr. Nice Guy replied, and again, I heard the other one snicker. "If your ass was any bigger it'd have its own zip code," he said.
I decided to think of him as The Mean One.
Sigh. Here we go again, I thought as I opened the door. How do I get myself in situations like this?
It all began innocently enough when I popped in at the club after work for a drink before going home. It was just beginning to sprinkle when I arrived but when I tried to leave a couple of drinks later it was pouring cats and dogs. I figured the prudent thing to do would be to wait it out, so I headed back to the bar and resumed my innocent flirtation with a couple of guys there. In hindsight, maybe that wasn't such a good idea.
One little drinkie, two little drinkies, three little drinkies, four. The rain still hadn't stopped and I was getting as sloshed as the streets. It was kinda late now and I knew that if I didn't leave soon I wouldn't be able to leave at all. I splashed through the parking lot, got thoroughly drenched while pawing through my purse for my car keys, then dropped them on the ground and got even wetter trying to pick them up when my purse slipped and spilled its entire contents into a mud puddle. I was completely soaked when I finally plopped my drunk, miserable self behind the steering wheel and decided to take a round-about way home in order to avoid what would be a guaranteed DUI if for some reason I got stopped. I guess that wasn't such a good idea, either.
It was still raining. My wipers were old and worn and left rainbow-shaped streaks on the windshield as I peered blearily between the headlights, trying to keep it between the ditches on a road I didn't know. Of course I saw the curve too late. I hit the brakes and spun the wheel, only to feel the car yaw, spin and swerve off the roadway, sliding sideways through a patch of grass before coming to rest finally at the bottom of a dirt embankment.
I wasn't hurt, just upset. I hadn't hit anything serious so I figured the car was okay, too. The motor was still running so I pressed on the accelerator a little and felt the tires spinning in the mud. Stuck. I put it in reverse and tried again. Same thing, only it seemed somehow to be settling a bit. This is not good.
I dug my cell phone out of my purse to call my husband. He was already gonna be upset with me for being out this late and I dreaded the explosion when I told him what I'd done. As it happened, it didn't matter. The phone's battery was dead. Fuck.
Gingerly I opened the door and took stock of my situation. The car was buried to its axle in the deep, sticky mud. "Fuck," I screamed and stamped my little foot, which I guess is what caused me to lose my balance and fall flat on my big ass in the goo.
"Fuck," I screamed again and slammed my fists on the ground. That accomplished a lot. It succeeded in splashing even more mud all over me.
I was absolutely miserable. I just sat there in the mud with the rain pouring down, soaked hair falling in my face, clothes ruined, and started crying. How much worse could it get? That's when I heard the car coming.
Hurriedly I churned the soaked earth in a frantic effort to get to my feet, thereby breaking rule 27a in the Good Girl's Guide to Lady-like Behavior; i.e., never do anything frantically while wearing high heels.
I spun around, slipped, tripped and again fell splat in the mud, this time flat on my face as a pickup truck stopped on the road above me. I climbed carefully to my feet, bedraggled and defeated, and heard an amused voice, later identified as the Mean One, say, "Look at the mud bunny."
The two guys got out and calmly surveyed my predicament with that irritatingly superior attitude men get when dealing with children, dogs and bimbos, and pronounced it hopeless.
"We can get you out," Mr. Nice Guy said, "but we'll have to get a tow rope. We'll need to wait until it stops raining, though. We live just up the road. Let's go up there, get you cleaned up and we'll come back in an hour or so."
"I have to go home," I cried. "My husband will be worried about me."
"You can either come with us or stay here," the Mean One said coldly. "And if you stay here and the cops come by, you can call your darling husband from the county jail because, you, Mud Bunny, are drunk."
He was right. I weighed my options and realized I didn't have much choice. Besides, they didn't seem like such bad guys. Did I mention that I wasn't a very good judge of character, either?
Cold, wet and shivering, I climbed in the pickup between them, trying to make myself as small as possible after the Mean One complained that I was filthy as a pig and was getting mud all over everything, and we drove off into the night. Once again, I had become a victim. I just didn't know it yet.
"Go take a shower," Mr. Nice Guy said when we arrived at their house. "Pile your clothes up outside the door and I'll put them in the washer and get you something to wear."
It sounded like a reasonable plan at the time. I was filthy; I certainly didn't feel threatened and was shivering after having been wet for so long, so I went into the bathroom and stripped. My bra and panties were soaked, too, so I added them to the pile of clothes in the hall.
When I got out of the shower, there was that damned worn-out shirt hanging on the door. I checked it out critically and determined it just wouldn't do.
"That's all?" I asked loudly. "I can't wear this."
"It's that or nuthin,'" the Mean One said. "Take your pick."
Oh my god. I suddenly realized I was in trouble. And there wasn't a single thing I could do about it.
There was nothing to do except put on the shirt and face the consequences of my actions. With one final check in the mirror I adjusted my attire to cover as much flesh as possible, arranged my long, wavy brown hair so that it lay seductively over my boobs and walked into the living room, only to have the Mean One stare at me like a hungry wolf and exclaim, "Goddamn, look at them fuckin' tits!"
How rude. I immediately tried to cover up, feeling terribly embarrassed and vulnerable, with one hand over my boobs and the other over my crotch, but there only so much covering up I could do. I glared at him.
"It's okay," Mr. Nice Guy said soothingly. "We're not gonna hurt you. Here, have a drink." He offered me a shot of tequila, along with a wedge of lime and some salt.
I needed another drink like a fish needed a bicycle, but realized I couldn't show any weakness in front of these guys. I accepted the drink and tossed it back, chasing the harsh, burning liquor with salt and lime. I immediately felt the warmth spreading down my chest, over my body and between my legs.
"That was good," I said breathily. "May I have another?"
Tequila isn't a drink; it's a drug. It removes inhibitions and makes us do things we normally wouldn't do. But it also gives us courage and at that point I needed all the courage I could get.
"I put your clothes in the washer. They oughta be ready in about an hour, and I cleaned up your shoes," said Mr. Nice Guy. "They're over there by the door. Why don't you go over and put them on? We wouldn't want your little feet to get cold."
I looked at the black slingbacks with the 4-inch heels and knew that if I put them on it would just make my plump ass look even higher and rounder. Still, they were the only personal things that I had access to at the time and would give me a sense of security. And the floor actually was kinda chilly, now that he mentioned it. I decided to put them on.
I heard sharp intakes of breath as I bent over to pick up the shoes and realized that damned too-short shirt had just ridden up over my ass, giving them both an unobstructed view of my big, round butt.
Acting like I didn't know what was going on -- I didn't want to let them know I was intimidated -- I took my time putting on the shoes and then turned around with as much innocence as I could muster to see how they reacted. I saw nothing but bulging eyes – okay, maybe a couple of other things were bulging as well – and hanging jaws. "Please, may I borrow your phone," I asked coolly. "I need to call my husband."
Mr. Nice Guy seemed hypnotized. "Sure," he said. "Anything you want."
The Mean One wasn't so accommodating. "Show us your gash, first," he said.
I was stunned. What kind of girl did they think I was? "My what??" I demanded in an outraged voice.
"Your gash. Your cunt. Your fuckmeat. Come on, Mud Bunny, you've already flashed us from the rear. Now let's see it from the front, all up-close and personal."
What an asshole. He was sitting there with a beer in his hand, one arm slung lazily over the back of the couch, staring at me calmly as if we were discussing the weather, insisting that I expose my most private parts to his penetrating gaze. I realized suddenly that I had somehow become all wet, but still, this was too much.
Stubbornly I shook my head. "Anything you may have seen earlier was just an accident," I said. "I am an honorable woman and I am not about to willingly expose myself to you like some cheap tramp."
He shrugged. "No pussy, no phone."
