The Summer Itchen

From the files of Cleo: 2014392

Note: All of my postings are based upon truth, either collected verbatim from others, or as a continuum of facts gathered previously from several sources due to counseling sessions and personal advice. None of the names are real and many times I have interjected events based upon my own experiences that I have either lived or personally fanaticized about; or, in some instances I have combined stories of more than one client for the purpose of interjecting reader interest.

I accept the stories presented to me as being factual and write them as offered, although I know in many cases they are embellished, or sometimes actually untruthful: i.e., (1) people may lie in order to present themselves in a better light; (2) people may interject their own fantasies in order to make their experiences more interesting. I try not to judge their motives, and present the stories as I am told by them. We all have secret desires, fetishes and fantasies, and the behavior I describe is practiced daily by thousands of people.

To many people, this behavior is not considered deviant, but the norm. Bear in mind, what is normal for one person may not be, for another. I try not to judge, recognizing that I have my own secrets and fantasies. I have seen much worse deviant behavior than described here, but this is not the forum in which to write of it. I like comments of a constructive nature. Personal attacks usually mean that I have hit a peculiar nerve of someone.

Thank you.

Cleo

THE SUMMER KITCHEN Chapter 2

I love two men. One of them good, caring, and faithful: my husband, Joe. The other is one of those "Bad Boy" types most of us probably knew in high school - the ones with leather jackets who rode loud, black bikes and got envious stares. They were always on the fringe, breaking rules, flaunting their freedom to do whatever they wanted, and to hell with everyone else. Almost always they were painfully beautiful, too. That's the other man in my life – my lover – my guilty indulgence – Ryan.

My husband Joe is steady, makes a good living for me and the girls and is always there for me. He doesn't deserve any of this. That's what makes my deceit so abhorrent. I'm disgusted with myself but I'm so hooked on Ryan that I can't quit him. Off-and-on, we have been involved in our affair for several years. A couple months ago he came back into my life after a year of absence.

I hated myself afterward, but of course I went back and gave myself to him as soon as he called. As I said, I'm hooked. He's my drug, my alcohol, my very breath. I know someday I'll lose everything I have because of my need for Ryan. It's as if that is already preordained. If I lose Joe it'll rip my guts out. If I lose Ryan, I'll die. Pretty grim tale, huh?

After being gone for a year with no word, Ryan called. He'd been in my dreams nightly so it was almost as if he'd never left, anyway. We got together again but he'd seemed different – somehow changed. Always the devil-may-care type with little regard for anybody else's feelings, since his return he was even more self-centered and demanding than before. Early in our relationship he'd told me he "owned me," although he was never mean or overly cruel to me.

Since coming back this time, it's as if he wants to prove his ownership by making me do deviant stuff to please him. Most of it would've been too degrading and unthinkable before meeting him, but it's something I'm now willing to do them in order to keep him. For example, the anal sex he's now introduced into our lovemaking. I find it degrading and humiliating to say the least, and very painful. But I do love him and he enjoys it so much that I'll do it, or anything else he wants.

Since returning a while back, Ryan has been fucking me almost daily, until my legs are wobbly. My sex life with Joe during the same period was almost non-existent. I tried making it up to Joe and the girls by being more attentive and caring in all I did, but I know that's just the guilt coming out. I know, I know. I saw all the venomous comments after my first post, calling me all those names. Whore, slut, the "C" word. Yes I am all that and more, and anything you call me, I deserve.

In some regard, that's why I'm writing this now. I've been self-chastising myself for a long time and it hasn't worked, so I guess I'm seeking a little punishment for repentance, from other's scathing remarks. As I said, I deserve it for all the pain I've inflicted upon my family. With that said, I'd probably do it again to be with Ryan. I know I wouldn't be able to help myself. That's how strong Ryan's hold is on me.

Joe couldn't help but notice the change in me, and it all finally came to a head a few weeks ago. As I walked past him in the hallway, he took my arm and simply stared at me. I knew right then that I was busted.

"Time to talk," was all he said as he went into the living room. Eyes downcast, I followed. I couldn't even look at him, as I told him everything. By the time I was finished, tears covered both our faces.

"Do you love this guy?" he asked, his eyes reflecting the depth of his pain.

I felt more sobs fighting to escape from inside my chest, fighting it. I waited for almost a full minute before I could answer, and then I nodded. "I guess," I said in a tiny voice. "I don't know. It's like he's a drug that controls me, something I need in order to survive."

"I see." After a moment of just staring at me, he quietly said, "When did you stop loving me, Kay?"

I jerked my head up, staring him in the eyes so he could see the truth. "I never stopped loving you! I still love you! If I could stop this thing with Ryan, I'd be the happiest person in the world!" The sobs I'd been fighting came then, wracking my body as I hugged my knees. "I wish I was dead."

We talked for almost an hour, and finally had said all that could be said about it. I whispered in dread, "When do you want me to leave?"

"I don't know, Kay. We have the girls to think about. This story disgusts me. You disgust me."

His words gutted me, causing the sobs to increase in volume. My stomach ached badly but I could see Joe was hurting just as much, and it was my fault! I vaguely wondered how a person went about killing themselves. Sleeping pills, that's the way I'd do it. I couldn't live with the disgusted look in Joe's eyes – or his pain. His next words shocked.

"Go to this guy. Really get to know him, Kay. My guess is you'll find he's a piece of shit after a while, and come to your senses. I'll give you a chance to do that for the girl's sake. Take six months. You'll have no contact with us during that time. I'll make up something to tell the girls. If you show up again, it will be because all this is out of your system and you want to be a wife and mother. There won't be a second chance. I don't know if things can ever be the same between us but I'd be willing to try for the family's sake. That's the best I can offer, the only deal you'll get."

We talked for a long time and then Joe went in and moved his things into the guest room. Sleeping alone in the big bed I'd shared with Joe for so many years, I realized what a mess I'd made of our all our lives, and just how much this affair had cost me. I didn't sleep. I think I cried all night. The next morning I called Ryan and told him what had happened. Of course, he was delighted. Despite my apprehension and the pain of having made Joe so unhappy, my panties were damp with anticipation by the time I arrived at Ryan's house with two suitcases. I called myself a whore and a slut, but that doesn't mean I could resist his pull on me.

It was the rainy season and Ryan's work slowed down to a stop since he couldn't build a lot of stuff in such heavy rain. That meant he was usually around all day. The first thing he did was give me a couple of the dress shirts he hardly ever wore, telling me that's what he wanted me to wear around the house. That's ALL I'd wear, he emphasized - no bra or panties. He'd then given me that devilish grin, saying, "I want you always available."

Since childhood I'd been told I was beautiful, and I could see that Ryan found me stimulating and very desirable. I often played on that to get what I wanted; doing sexy things like bending over in front of him, rubbing my breasts when I knew he was looking, enticing him to make a move. When he didn't respond, I initiated the sex - just dropped down and took his limber penis inside my mouth, holding it there until he wrapped his fingers in my hair and pulled me closer. It was the greatest feeling in the world, him needing me.

Because he was a type-A personality, or maybe just out of boredom, Ryan wanted sex three or four times a day. I guess we both did, really. A new world had opened up for me, one filled with passion, ultra-intense sensations and exciting deviant behavior – exciting stuff for a woman who was almost a virgin when she married. We were like kids in a candy store. I'd be cooking or watching TV, and suddenly feel his cock poking me from behind, or dangling right in front of my face. Or maybe I'd walk into a room and be whirled around, just bent over a chair and fucked brutally from behind.

I became so dependent on this, when it didn't happen with some regularity I'd seek him out and initiate it on my own. When my vagina (or anus) got so sore and tender that I couldn't perform, I'd simply slip to my knees and suck his cock for hours. Okay, I loved it all. It was what I lived for. In between, I thought about Joe and the girls a lot, but Ryan always seemed to sense when I did, and suddenly be standing there with his giant cock out, that devil-may-care wolf grin on his face.

After I got past the initial pain of the first few attempts, anal sex became routine for us about once a week. It didn't even hurt as much, anymore. Okay, truthfully? I enjoyed it. I also finally got to do the thing I'd only fantasized about until then - going to sleep with Ryan's limp dick in my mouth after I'd sucked him into oblivion. Sex, sex, sex, that was my life, and I simply loved doing it with Ryan.

Neither of us seemed to get enough of it. We fucked everywhere; all over the house, in his truck, at the movies, even in the men's room at the park, while listening intently as other men came and went. It was very exciting and as I might have said earlier, during sex I'm extremely vocal. Suppressing my noises in that restroom stall proved very difficult. Ryan had laughed afterward. "I'll bet some of those guys jerked-off out there."

I don't expect anyone to understand this life style, heck I couldn't understand it! I mean, how could we have sex almost anywhere, day in and day out, every single day and not get bored with it? Ryan had become my whole world and there was no room for anything else in it. He had me, and he knew it. I did everything in my power to please him. He knew that too. That's probably why he never gave up on the idea of me "taking care" of his crew.

At first, I thought it was just one of the fantasies he liked to have during sex, but I knew he was serious one day a few weeks into our new arrangement, when he said some of them would be coming over to watch football, and that I was to be "available." Stunned, I sniveled, and then pleaded with him, but he simply dismissed it, saying, "If you can't do what I tell you, do whatever you want to then."

I was a wreck by the time the three guys arrived; Jose, "Biscuit", and Carl. Jose was a stocky Mexican youth with a pencil-line mustache, about twenty-five. Biscuit was an overweight white boy probably nineteen or twenty. He had little pig-like eyes, wet lips and acne. Carl was an elderly black man, tall and slender, with a small gray goatee. He acted like he was pissed-off about everything, all the time.

That morning I pleaded with Ryan to let me dress properly, but he insisted I wear one of his white shirts as usual. He said I "looked beautiful and sexy" in it. As they arrived with several cases of beer I scampered around putting out enough snacks for a football team. My face flamed as I remembered that they'd all heard my passionate cries one day as Ryan fucked me half to death at my home, when they'd built my summer kitchen. They had all been on his crew back then, too.

At first, Jose and Biscuit seemed embarrassed by meeting me face-to-face, but Carl just smirked nastily at me as I moved around the room. I got the feeling he thought I was just another white slut, and I felt he was ripping the shirt right off me with his eyes, fucking me in his demented mind. All day I constantly fought against tears, putting on a bright face each time I carried something else out to serve them. I wondered why they called the fat kid "Biscuit," but I would soon learn. I glanced up to find Carl looking down the front of my shirt as I bent over to place chips on the coffee table. My face flamed as he chuckled nastily.

Ryan didn't help matters. It seemed he couldn't keep his hands off me. Whether it was just to humiliate me, or to show the others I was his possession, I don't know. Ryan broke out a plastic bag filled with "weed" and passed around a bong, and some papers in case anyone wanted to roll their own. I'd never smoked dope, and although I resisted, Ryan insisted that it would do no more than a couple glasses of wine would. I finally gave in and it hit me like a ton of bricks, maybe because it was my first time using it. I was pretty loopy after that and took a hit right along with everyone else whenever it was passed around. That seemed to help ease my fears a bit.

As the day wore on, I felt all their eyes constantly on me, following my every move. One could almost smell the sexual tension in the room and to tell the truth, after all the pot I'd smoked, it was affecting me too. Maybe out of embarrassment for me, Jose and Biscuit attempted to hide their excitement, but Carl flaunted his, laying back on the couch with his legs spread, his erection making a tent in the front of his baggy pants.

I staggered into the kitchen for ice, placed both hands on the counter, bowed my head and closed my eyes, wishing this day over. Ryan had promised me when we started our affair that he didn't want to share me with other men. He'd even been jealous of Joe! But I had to admit that, "that" Ryan had been different than, "this" Ryan. He'd changed . . . become more demanding . . . somehow harsher . . . like Carl. I suddenly saw Carl's long body sprawled across our couch - his large tent in front flashing through my mind. Vaguely I wondered if he was as big down there as Ryan. A shiver ran through me at the thought, for I knew this old man could be mean.

As I passed Ryan, he pulled me down on his lap, kissing my neck. His eyes were a little glassy from all the hits he'd taken on the bong, and I wondered if mine were too. I could feel his penis against my ass through his soft sweat pants because, as usual, I was naked under the dress shirt. I felt him stiffen a little as I looked pointedly into his eyes, silently pleading with him not to do this. His only answer was to flex his cock against my bare ass, grinning goofily. I felt his hand on my thigh and glanced up self-consciously to find the others staring at us, their eyes hot, radiating their hunger. I shivered with dread and with something akin to fear.

Frozen in place I was like a statue as I felt Ryan's hand slide up my bare thigh, coming to rest on my hip. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I saw Biscuit nervously licking his dry lips, Jose squirming uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair, Carl, with one hand now resting on his stiff "tent." The football game seemed all but forgotten.

My heart felt like it would pop right out of my chest at any moment, my breathing racing like a runaway locomotive. I felt a little woozy – out of control. If anything, my obvious uneasiness made the men in the room even more excited. Ryan stared at the game on TV as though it was the only thing he was interested in, but his hand slipped over my thigh to cup my shaved vagina. I let out an audible gasp that only seemed to increase the men's intense scrutiny.

Although my long shirt fell well below my knees, I tried pulling the tail down farther, but they could still plainly see that his hand was under it, and probably knew what he was doing. I glared at Ryan, shook my head slightly and mouthed the words, "please don't." Smiling, unrelenting, he slowly forced a finger inside my dry pussy. I fought back a small groan, hating him. Pain – embarrassment – or simply pleasure? Maybe all three, but I was truly terrified. I felt Ryan's wet mouth next to my ear.

"Do you love me, or not?"

I didn't want to answer, but I finally nodded with some hesitation. The pot had me confused, unable to form words properly.

"Then don't embarrass me in front of my friends," he whispered again.

I fought back tears and tried to sit still as he inserted another finger. I'd grown a little wetter by then, so it didn't hurt as much. After a few minutes I caught a whiff of my own sex, wondering if the others could smell it. Maybe they could, because I saw Carl now had a strong grip on his cock through his pants, Biscuit also had one hand resting on his crotch, and Jose was holding a throw-pillow in front of himself. All of them were staring at the place my crotch would be if they could see it, none of them blinking.

Then, as if my will had suddenly fled me, I felt my shoulders slump forward as if I'd finally accepted my role in what was about to happen. I simply gave up – giving in to Ryan's demands. The drugs made my decision easier and I knew it would make him happy. That is what I lived for. I also knew it was a precarious fork in the road of our relationship, one that couldn't be retaken. I wondered if he knew that, if he even cared.

Someone scored a touchdown on TV but nobody seemed interested. In fact, for the next fifteen minutes as Ryan repeatedly worked his fingers in and out of my pussy about an inch at a time, agonizingly slow, nobody even looked at the TV. I could feel his thick cock pressing against the crack of my ass, hard and hungry, making me squirm. I suddenly wanted him to take me into our bedroom and make love to me, but I knew that's not what he had in mind. Aware of the intense looks we were already receiving, I fought down the urge to fidget against his hardness.

His manipulations had made me incredibly wet, providing no friction as his thick fingers slowly see-sawed in and out of my wet vagina. I suddenly realized he was attempting to insert a third finger, involuntarily lifting my hips to help him. When I felt it stretching my elastic opening and sliding inside to join the other two, I groaned softly, pulling my knees back against my chest and placing my bare feet on the chair cushion beside his thighs.

Open and vulnerable to his assault now, I let myself fall backward against his hard body, leaning my head on his shoulder. My eyes mere slits as I stared unseeing at the ceiling, my senses so attuned to the sounds in the room that I could hear each man breathing, the small squishing noises as Ryan worked his fingers in and out of me. I was breathing in small, short breaths through an open mouth, constantly licking impossibly dry lips. All my sensations were centered on the nerve-endings in that spot between my legs. I was quickly losing it.

I realized cool air had somehow enveloped my lower extremities, and figured out that my long shirt now hid nothing from the waist down. Ryan's fingers were making louder squishy noises as he increased his speed, and all the others were still watching us. My vagina lips felt bloated and sensitive, the pressure building inside my belly was a bomb ready to explode. I heard someone whimpering – finally realizing it was me making the sounds.