She Never Came Bac

My name is Tor Ormsson, and that's all I know about my parentage, as Dad and Mom split when I was 18, putting me out on my own. Later, my wife was Connie (never Constance) Hilding before I married her and she took my last name.

As a self-employed forensic IT specialist, I had to travel now and then, to testify in court cases. Living just outside of Dallas, Texas, my client's city (Houston) was a long enough trip away from home that a motel was in order. My client paid for my trip, housing and meals. I'd expected to be gone for a full 5 days, but the case against my client's company had abruptly ended in a settlement, so I was able to drive home 2 days early.

My lovely and exciting wife Connie had been working part time for a cruise-ship travel company, in a marketing capacity. The work wasn't demanding and her pay was pretty good, plus we had about 4 days per week, counting weekends, for her to stay at home and take care of our house and me.

Connie was tall, about 5' 10" which mated up well with my 6' 6". Small breasted, a B-cup, she had nipples so sensitive that she could orgasm with my touch or lips/tongue alone. Her delicious nipples were so sensitive that she had to wear nipple shields to prevent them rubbing on the blouses she wore almost all the time. The rest of her was equally lovely, as she had average weight for such a tall woman, plus she was lightly tanned with long legs.

All that and she was really sexy and open-minded. We had screaming, yelling, thrashing sex about 5 days a week and made-out on the couch the other two, so that I could get my strength back. In fact, over the last year, her drive had actually increased, or that's what it felt like to me.

OK, that's enough about me and our past. It's what I discovered when I got home that forms the meat of this tale. It was a note that Connie had left on the dining room table. It said that she was attending a conference and after-work party that her local company had thrown, over at the Comfort Inn, room 217, south of Dallas, in Corsicana.

Obviously, the note was intended for me to see tomorrow, in the night, when I'd get home late, with Connie coming home in the early morning, from her own motel room, as she hated to drive at night.

I impulsively decided to join the party, taking my little hi-def video-cam and tripod with me, to film Connie, as she loves to dance, flirt outrageously and gets a little bombed at other parties we been to, together. I'd be there to protect her ... I thought.

Her needing protection wasn't what I found, when I arrived at the motel, about 6 PM, and stepped into the large suite. I suppose the door should have been locked, but whoever was in charge of that duty was far too interested in the stripper just starting her routine in the room.

I made a sudden decision to become the camera guy, with my bill-cap pulled down. I used the tripod I brought. I mounted my video-cam on the tripod, and sat down, to minimize my height, then watched in mounting horror, silently screaming to myself, BECAUSE THE STRIPPER WAS MY WIFE, CONNIE!

To give her credit, she did a stunning, sexy job, dancing to the strong beat of a recorded boom-box re-recorded tune. So I knew that this was no random thing, but a pre-planned event. She didn't have on much to start with, just a skirt and blouse, plus thigh-high net stockings. It only took a couple of minutes to get her out of the skirt and blouse, leaving her naked in CFM high-heels and stockings. As Connie shaved her pussy, she was bare of even any pubic fur.

It only took a few minutes because she wore no bra nor panties, not even a thong. Her pussy was already reddened and swollen. I thought, gasping, "Did she go to work 'commando' and 'pre-fuck' other guys there?"

As the center of attention, she danced around all 12 now-erect men, but ignored the camera guy (me). She displayed her nipple-swollen tits, swayed and thrust her hips, and even reached down with one hand and held her pussy lips—no, sluts have cunts—open, showing her shocking pink drooling-wet opening and protruding clit. She deep-kissed all the men, one at a time, while dancing and letting each touch her all over and even inside her cunt, too. Each of the men got to squeeze her bare boobs, tugging and twisting at her distended, sensitive nipples, while she moaned and had standing-up orgasms.

She ended her 'routine' by getting on the bed and writhing around, pointing her engorged, hard nipples up at the ceiling, humping the air and arching her back to the driving rhythm of the recorded music.

Then she looked around at all the erect guys and said, in a perfectly normal voice, not drugged or forced, "Time to fuck, guys. Who's first?" Just about numb to the horror I felt, I watched my lovely, naked, suddenly (to me) slutty wife take on 12 horny men and fucked each of them 3 times each, until they were all limp. Thirty-sex penetrations.

She took them in all her holes and in her hands, by ones, twos and by all three. They all fucked her raw and bareback, no condoms. They were insulting her, calling her a slut ... a whore ... a filthy cunt, and she was lapping it up, echoing their comments, and chanting, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

Including three of the guys who, up until now, I'd thought were my close friends, Connie sucked and fucked all dozen men, apparently loving every thrust and penetration. She had cum oozing out of her cunt, her ass and drooling down the sides of her mouth when she couldn't swallow fast enough. She let them shoot cheating jizm over her tits and belly, then used her fingers to scoop up most of the mess and slip it into her mouth.

Twelve erect, horny men had utterly defiled my wife, and she appeared to love every minute of it, groaning, moaning, thrashing, clasping at their bodies with her long legs. She was orgasming almost continuously.

There was no way, as a single husband, I'd ever be able to match the amount of erect-cock fucking that I observed over the next 2 hours as Connie let herself become a super-slut. Just grunting, squirting sex delivered into a total slut hot-wife. I'd thought she was a married-faithful, loving, sexy wife, but now she was a complete stranger to me.

At the end, all the men were sated and limp, as she continued to writhe around on the cum-pooled bed. At last, she looked over at me, as I was removing my video-cam from the tripod. She said, in a clear, lilting voice, "Camera guy, why don't you come over, suck on my nips and give me a couple of loads, too."

Picking up my camera, I went over to the just-fucked slut who'd been my loving wife. I threw off my bill-cap, saying, "No, I don't think I will, pussy-kitty (my pet name for her, when we were sexing at home)."

Her eyes went wide and her tanned skin went pale, as she recognized me. Then she screamed, "Noooo. You were never supposed to see me like this," as the tears started running down her cum-covered cheeks.

I said, more calmly than I felt, "I'll be home, waiting for you." Then I went to the door of the room. A couple of the guys made an attempt to grab me and the video-cam, but I drew my short-barrel Kimber .357 magnum revolver and put a round in the back wall, and a second in the room's thick door. As the still-naked guys scrambled out of the way, I walked out the motel's door, went down the stairs to the first floor, out to my car, and drove away.

Corsicana to our Dallas house was about an hour away from our house (not our home, any more), and I settled in to wait for my slut-wife to come back home. I waited for her all night. I waited all the next day and night. I still waited all the 3rd and 4th days and nights.

She never came home. No calls, no text messages. I called her work number, and was met with a wall of silence and phone hang-ups.

My forensic IT work involved a lot of video editing work, so I made three separate DVDs, showcasing the sexual performance of my 3 former friends with my slut-wife, including watching her as she stripped and writhed on the bed. These I forwarded to their wives. It was my revenge on the guys I'd thought were my friends.

Three divorces resulted.

One former 'friend' called to threaten me. I just fired a blank from my revolver next to the phone, said, "I don't care, bring it on. Don't expect to survive, if you do," and hung up. I never heard from him again.

The rest of the guys I had no personal contact with, and no interest in any form of revenge or financial recovery.

Calling in a favor, I contacted her previous BFF Jolene, from her work, and asked her out to lunch. I was careful to tell her that I wan't going to do the private investigator bit or cause any trouble at work with a lawsuit ... that I just wanted to know what had happened to cause Connie to trash our marriage in such a dramatic way.

Jolene opened up, just that once, and said that up until a couple of years before the party, Connie was for me and me alone. Beyond some harmless flirting, she appeared faithful to me, telling her BFFs about all the things I did to and with her in bed. Then she abruptly took a week of personal days off work, which, since she came home each night, I didn't know anything about.

When she came back, my Connie was a multiple cum-slut. She went straight to her boss' office and stripped bare, demanding to have sex with him, there on his desk. First just him, then a couple of days later involving a couple of the salesmen, and finally the whole Dallas company.

The 'party' I'd videoed was only one of many Connie had 'performed'. Jolene estimated that my slut-wife had been doing one afternoon 'party' every couple of weeks, then after a few months, one every week.

Then, Jolene said, when I discovered her having sex with the 12 guys, she went to her boss, they had more squirting sex on his desk again, and she was immediately transferred to the company headquarters in Galveston, Texas. She drove there with her boss and two other guys, and as her boss remembered it aloud, had sex with all three men on the way down there, twice.

Once at the corporate headquarters, she was interviewed, having sex with the corporate men. She got a job, as being 'requested' to include extensive trips on the cruise ships, as a 'long-term hostess' for corporate executives and ship's officers and men.

So my now free, single woman—who'd been my wife—had become the company's gang-slut, to fuck officers, selected crew and traveling executives. The last Jolene had heard, about 3 months after the 'party,' Connie was sexing up to 30 men every 24-hours ... and loving it, having fantastic orgasms and bragging about causing them.

After a couple of months alone, I downloaded an application for Dissolution of Marriage, Non-Respondent, filled it in, listing serial adultery as the cause, paid the fees, and sent it in. After a year, I was a free, single man again.

I felt horrible, trying—and failing—to determine what I'd done to change my loving, sexy wife into a gang-banging cum-slut. Eventually, after some counseling and therapy, I decided it was nothing I'd done. She'd apparently had had her own slutty emotional reasons and hadn't shared them with me, having become hyper-sexual (what used to be called a nymphomaniac). She kept that part of her life a secret from me. No attempts at counseling. There were no confessions. Not even a strained agreement to stay together and become swingers.

A year after I attended the 'party,' when the divorce came through, I sold the Dallas house and furnishings that we'd shared, and disposed of her belongings and clothes. I re-settled in a smaller house, more rural, outside of Dallas. I had a swim pool, this time, and space to just sit and watch the world go by. With Internet content available, I didn't lack for well-paid work. I kept the same work numbers on my cell-phone and land-line, so all my present and former contacts would know how to find me, as it said on my business cards.

Other than that, my wife-abandoned, post-divorce life was pretty dull.

I got on with the rest of my life. Some dates. Some empty, meaningless sex. Mostly I just worked and existed.

A couple of years after the 'party' and my granted divorce, I got a call at my home office, asking if a Mz. Xia XianPing could see me about an important matter concerning my ex-wife. Since this was the first time anyone had called or communicated anything about my ex-slut Connie, I was curious, so I made a next-day appointment to see her at my home-office.

As expected, Ms. XianPing was Asian Chinese. At about 4' 10," I towered over her by some 18". She seemed to weigh about 95 lbs. and would have been considered skinny by American standards, if it weren't for her nicely shaped and prominent boobs, which appeared to be a comfortable C-cup, plus relatively long legs for an Asian person. I looked, of course, being male. Ms. XianPing was carrying a small shopping bag, which she indicated was the subject of her request to see me.

Unskilled in Chinese modes of thought and politeness, I just made small talk until I felt she was at ease with the hulking big monster I thought I was perceived to be. But, Ms. XianPing got pretty much right to the point. She said, "We've never met, of course, but I feel that I already know a lot about you, because I was your wife's assistant and caregiver aboard ship and, later, in the hospice where she recently died. She talked a lot about you, especially about your lovemaking and what you did with her, before the cancer took hold."

I answered, saying, "I didn't know where she was and even that she wasn't living. I'm kind of taken away by what you just said. What happened? When? How?"

I added, kind of bitterly, "Do you have any new information about why Connie did the things she did ... cuckolding me regularly ... leaving and never coming back ... fucking total strangers and co-workers daily ... that sort of thing?"

Ms. XianPing first replied, "Before we get to that, please start calling me Xia (pronounced Zee-uh)."

I replied, "Then call me Tor."

Xia went on, "Now, here is Connie's final letter to you. It was the only one she ever composed and she told me not to give it to you until after she'd passed on. I know it took her a lot of effort and time to write the letter—actually, it took a few months—because of effects of the cancer, her black-out seizures and the steady demands for shipboard sex, including a lot of kinky stuff, which she provided, until she finally had too many seizures and entered a hospice."

I interrupted, "Xia, what's this about cancer and hospice? I didn't know anything about that."

She said, "It's all spelled out in the letter. I already know everything that's in the letter. I was the person who had to edit it for clarity, because, toward the end, she babbled a lot and often didn't make a lot of sense. Here is the letter, which you must read for yourself."

I opened the folded and stapled pages and read:

————————-.

To my dear husband Tor Ormsson, whom I still love with all my heart,

You must know by now that I'll never return home to be with you. It would hurt you too deeply to actually see you were just one of a crowd of horny guys with erect cocks, who've fucked me over the last many months. I did make love you in our bed, and I remembered the wonderful lovemaking you did with me just about every day, morning and evening, but your one cock suddenly wasn't enough for me.

But what I wanted more than anything was your grabbing and mauling my tits and nipples ... your hands and mouth all over my nips and cunt ... and, most of all, your big, hard penetrations of my willing body, pumping in and out of me, then shooting cum so much that the excess flowed out of my cunt and onto the towel we had under us.

All that was because I'd suddenly become a hyper-sexual woman, a nymphomaniac.

You remember when, suddenly, I started dropping things and having little memory lapses. I remember, mostly because I found myself ramping up our lovemaking at home, asking for once in the morning and twice at night, but only falling asleep to dream about men—any men—with hard cocks, fucking me.

I got worried, so I called up our family doctor and got an immediate emergency appointment. I know he'd been our physician for years, but suddenly I had a seizure [blank]. I found myself all but naked, on my knees and sucking his cock before he fucked me on his office exam table. I never told you about this, of course. After that fuck (which I loved), he referred me to specialists at the medical center in Dallas.

They did a full work-up, finding me healthy, but with a troubling new little tremor in my right hand, so they did a complete neurological work-up too, including a MRI of my head, which revealed that I had a brain tumor, already fairly extensive. More tests revealed that I had Glio-Blastoma Multi-Forme, which is usually abbreviated GBMF. The cynical medical residents referred to those initials as 'Good-Bye, Mother-Fucker'. It was not operable nor capable of being dealt with by chemo, being spread over much of my brain. My survival times, beyond two years, was pretty much zero.

The worst part, besides being dead in a couple of years, was that I was told that it had also spread in my right brain, the part that controls my rational thoughts, the ones that inhibit my emotions plus the cancer went down into my frontal lobes, where I normally would have been too self-controlled to demand so many fucking cocks. I had been turned into a hyper-sexual woman by my cancer and would probably need more and more sexual release as the months went by.

I called into work, and took a week off work, but didn't tell you anything about the diagnosis or the looming sex problems. I wanted to keep my hyper-sex fucking a secret from you as long as I could, knowing that it would destroy you to learn I was now a slut-whore and didn't ever want to—really, couldn't—stop. Instead, I went over to The Rail bar and got blasted.

Three guys picked me up and took me to the motel across the street. They all stripped and fucked me. I loved being fucked, especially by nameless men, as they pumped me full of hot, spurting cum in both my cunt and ass. I got fucked 3 times each, a total of 9 times and I loved every penetration and cum. I cleaned myself out, showered and got back in my clothes. I drove home, rested a bit, making sure I was douched and enema-cleaned, and then attacked you for two more satisfying fucks that afternoon and evening, plus another the next morning, for a total of 12 fucks that session.

Next day, I waited until the middle of the afternoon, then went back to the bar and got picked up by the same 3 guys, plus 4 more of their friends, who did me 3 times each. I did a little strip and dance for them first. So I got fucked 21 times before I cleaned up and went home. The next night, it was another, longer, sexier strip and dance for 9 guys, 3 times each, for a total of 27 fucks. That set the pattern for the rest of the week.

That was, I suppose, when I really left you, Tor, but what could I do? Your one cock wasn't near enough for me, any more, even 3 times a day. I'd become a true nymphomaniac, putting out sex for any guy with an erect cock, yet I couldn't be completely satisfied for more than an hour or so, not even after my sexy, married Tor made sweet love to me.

I'd changed and I didn't know why. I was under a death sentence. I didn't want counseling. I didn't want to do the 'Honey, we need to talk' bit. I didn't want to have us be scheduled swingers. I felt I had to hide my new hyper-sexual behavior from my hubby. I just wanted—no, needed—to fuck and fuck and fuck with as many different cocks as I could get my always drooling cunt around, 24/7/365.

I returned to work and immediately started having sex with my boss, right there on his office desk. When I came in a couple of days later, he had a couple of the sales people there and I fucked them all. Not much later that month, I was fucking the whole company, both men and women, nearly every day.