Unexpected Consequences

It was obvious to Mark the moment he stepped through the door, that something was up. "Guess what?" Gwen, his charming wife, asked, hugging him tightly while giving him an enthusiastic welcoming kiss, before going on excitedly, not giving him a chance to respond. "Corporate management is sending me to the International Aesthetics Convention and Aesthetician's Conference, in Santa Fe, New Mexico—all expenses paid!"

Gwen and Mark were newly-minted empty-nesters, and Gwen had only recently rejoined the work force, having landed the manager position at a spa facility in Toronto. As she had only been in the position for less than eight months, the offer of a trip was both a surprising and a welcome Professional Development opportunity. The month's lead-time found her swept up in preparations for the five days and four nights—Thursday to Monday—fieldtrip, and busy, until the day finally arrived.

Seeing her as far as the gate, Mark said his farewells. "Behave yourself!" he teasingly admonished, amused by his wife's giddy excitement. He watched her disappear into the innards of the airport—waving furiously over her shoulder until she was out of sight. Amazingly, it was the very first time she'd been away from home by herself since getting married.

Gwen arrived to the bustle of the Santa Fe airport, still buzzing after the three-and-a-half-hour flight. After picking up her bags, she was pleasantly surprised to spot, in the welcoming crowd, a uniformed man holding up a sign that read 'International Aesthetics Convention'. "Gwen Brooks, from Canada?" he said, checking her off on a list when she confirmed, "Welcome." He, then, showed her out and onto the waiting mini-bus. Riding the shuttle to the convention centre, Gwen was still a little too overwhelmed to make much conversation with the other passengers. They were all dropped at the portico entrance, where they mingled into a large crowd of women milling about and making their way to the front desk. Eventually Gwen got to her room in which she dropped her bag, freshened up, and, a little timidly, made her way to the registration table to pick up her name tag and conference package.

At the Meet 'N' Greet, Thursday night, it became apparent to Gwen that the majority of participants at the conference were fifteen to twenty years younger than her. For some reason Gwen generally hung on to the silly tradition of not telling her age; suffice to say that although she could easily pass for mid to late thirties, she was well past her mid-forties. Nonetheless, Gwen routinely responded to anyone asking with a single word—"Guess," and a coy smile. While she saw herself as a plain, middle-aged, middle-class housewife, she would have been astounded if she knew how many of the men she came across daily—friends and strangers, alike—considered her a MILF. (Furthermore, she would have been terribly embarrassed to find out just what that meant.) Even more she would have been shocked to know how often their conversations turned to what they'd like to do to her, and how, given half a chance.

Friday, the first full day of the convention, was as enlightening as it was busy. Gwen met a few women who attended several of the same sessions as her, and, consequently, ended up chumming with them. After dinner one of them announced, "Okay! Enough of the shop-talk—it's time to parrrr-teeee!" After making her call home—right after dinner, in consideration of the time-zone difference, Gwen was bustled along with the lively group, without actually being given a choice. Her tacit inclusion made her smile, despite feeling she was more than a little out of her element.

The gang of girls met in the lobby and went into the attached club. Gwen followed along passively, wryly admitting to herself that she was succumbing to a bit of 'herd mentality'. To start, she mostly watched, sipping on a drink, a bit like a den-mother—yet, rather envious. Those young women apparently had so much more confidence than she had ever had. Presently, though, she was distracted by a few slick young bucks chatting her up, and, eventually, asking her to dance. She really surprised herself by accepting. After dancing more than a few dances, she was rather pleased with how much fun she was having, and flattered by the fact that her young partners tried to sneak the odd, subtle grope.

It had been quite the day, and despite the excitement of the club, Gwen swallowed her pride and was the first to say her goodbyes, and retire for the evening. The next day, Saturday, was equally frenetic; busy enough through the day that she hadn't time to think much about the previous evening's entertainment, but what flashes of memory she had were oddly accompanied by a tingling warmth in her core. "What is that about?" she wondered.

Surprisingly, the same group of girls, more or less, from the night before, insisted that she join them again. In fact, they wouldn't hear of her taking a pass. "What, you didn't enjoy last night? Coulda fooled me!" they cajoled.

Putting up only token reluctance—"I'm an old married broad! I'm certain to cramp your style, don't you think?"—Gwen allowed herself to be talked into joining her colleagues Saturday night—once again after her call home.

Gwen recognized that she was bowing to peer pressure—as much as any of those gorgeous, confident young women could be considered a peer—but, she was, nonetheless, more than a little curious and somewhat titillated as well. At the same club as the night before, they occupied a couple tables, got drinks underway and began making eyes at all the single men. Their conspicuous presence drew the attention of a flotilla of young Latinos—all wearing blouse-y white shirts over shiny tight black pants and black slip-ons with Cuban heels—many of whom they'd met the night before. While they were definitely a slick group of young guys, their handsome and familiar faces seemed safe. Carlos, whom she had met on Friday, sat with Gwen and began chatting her up. His attention, along with her drink, warmed her.

A short time into the evening a sing-song-y voice next to her pierced the thrum of the crowd. "I've come to save you, Dude! Save you from this lame party."

Gwen thought that it didn't seem so bad, "But what do I know?"

"Luis my man 'zupp?"

"Carlos...," they exchanged some kind of personal handshake before going on.

"Yeah, Luis, this pretty lady is my friend, Gwen."

"Charmed," he purred, nodding his head slightly before turning back to Carlos. "Sal's having a party up at 'The Palace'. He's sent me with the party bus to gather up a few strays."

Carlos looked at Gwen. "Are you up for it? It'll be a much better party. Sal's parties are always great—open bar to start with." Gwen felt flattered that he had deferred to her. She nodded slightly, and he went on. "You can bring your flock along...," adding, "We'll invite all the boys, too."

"Or they can bring me!" Gwen thought.

Luis then announced, "Gather everybody up. The party bus is just outside! Rollin' in five!"

Draining the drink in her hand, Gwen accepted a refill. She tagged along despite misgivings—she somehow felt coerced into going, but, as they boarded the bus, she bit her tongue. She didn't want to be a party-pooper, nor appear the prude. As the mini-bus wandered through various neighbourhoods into a tony sub-division of huge properties up a wooded hillside, Gwen began to feel just a bit tipsy. And, as it pulled smoothly into the bustling, vast driveway of a real mansion, Gwen cautioned herself to be careful with how much more she drank. The paddock in front of the estate was absolutely lousy with Porsches and Beemers and Bentleys. Disembarking and swarming with the raucous group up the steps into the ostentatious front entrance, Gwen found herself clutching onto Carlos' sleeve and following passively.

There was lots of noise—music and dancing; and lots of drink and smoke and goodness knew what else. The whole situation suddenly reminded her of the one extravagant bash she had attended more than twenty-five years earlier, at the very end of her college career, at a posh residence of a frat-rat she barely knew. The distant memories came flooding back. What the hell? She thought she had successfully buried them long ago. It was a 'while-the-parents-are-away' kegger at the house of a friend of a friend. Even the silent, and distant recollections made her blush. Truth be told, it was not one of Gwen's prouder moments, to be sure.

At that time, she had been a bit of a wallflower—meek and mild, and most of her peers considered her a Goody-two-shoes, with little or no sexual experience. She had, however, at that time, recently become sexually active with a boyfriend she thought she loved. All of her sex, up to then, had been missionary or straight back-seat quasi-missionary.

Her boyfriend, Ben, having found one of the many upstairs bedrooms unoccupied, talked her into agreeing to the absolute need for year-end sex. He had contended that doing it just down the hall, within earshot of the main party made it special—as it should be for a special occasion. Risqué! Still, she insisted that the bedroom door be locked, so there would be no actual danger of getting caught flagranté delicto.

They began slow and gently, but soon progressed to heavy duty, passionate necking. Ben quickly had her boobs out—squeezing, pinching, nibbling from time to time. His other hand was in her pants, and into her panties, diddling her clit and finger-fucking her already slick pussy. The planned slow, gentle foreplay was rapidly overcome by ardent desperation. Ben laid his youthful Gwen down on the bed. Deliberately slowing down, he sensually undressed her, kissing and palming and fingering—stroking her bottom. They were equally surprised by her wonderfully fulfilling orgasm.

Licking his hand to moisten his erection, he entered her, showing admirable restraint, penetrating her with long slow strokes—to start—before succumbing to his flaring arousal. With controlled acceleration he pummeled and pounded her, as she thrust her hips forward to meet his every push, clasping her legs over his lower back, and crossing her heels to lock them. Their excitement grew together until the shared sexual energy spilt over, exploding between them in one massive shared orgasm.

Once they'd caught their breath, Ben rolled off the young Gwen, and she rose up on her side, then flinging an arm across his chest tumbled, almost insensate, onto her tummy. At a light tap on the door, Ben slipped out from under Gwen's arm. After a bit, while still basking in the warm afterglow, Gwen became aware of an ominous hush hanging over the room. She opened her eyes to movement on the bed. A figure, not Ben, was crouched down next to her—the host! "What is he doing here?" she wondered

"Shhhh, s'allright!" hissed a soothing voice. The figure rose slightly and looked back at Ben. "You can leave now, or stay and watch, but don't worry about your girlfriend here. We're gonna take real good care of her." Gwen detected something predatory in his voice. He turned back, basically dismissing Ben, and slipped down toward the foot of the bed, disappearing. Gwen could now see Ben, in the shadows, stepping into his briefs, looking sad and scared.

Abruptly, hands grabbed her hips and levered her up, onto her knees. Her "Wha...?" was cut short as someone, presumably their host, peremptorily slammed a rigid erection fully into her, in one violent thrust. Before she could even formulate her protest, bashing solidly against the back wall of her pussy, the stabbing appendage detonated, in Gwen, an explosion of sensation unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her orgasm came on with a high-pitched scream, as she was hit with a new and frightening intensity of pleasure that pretty much overwhelmed her senses. Her arms went to jelly, dropping her chest to the bed, leaving her supported only by the impaling woodie—twitching and jolting uncontrollably—and the hands at her hips—flopping about as if she'd been hit with a taser.

Suddenly, the climax she had just had with Ben seemed more like a pencil sketch in the Sistine Chapel by comparison. Having taken her without her consent, Jasper, their scheming host, was unaware that, for Gwen, their copulation was her first time ever in a position that was not some variation of missionary. Her energetic response to being fucked rear-entry for the first time was a surprise all around. And that was just the initial penetration. With the second and third and subsequent thrusts, Gwen was further ambushed and increasingly overwhelmed by the rumbling ultra-orgasm that rolled on, blotting out her rational thought. She, effectively, just went crazy. Something about the depth and friction of the penetration triggered a sexual shockwave that completely overcame her ability to protest.

Through her orgasmic haze she felt it, the conquering cock, jolt and judder and spurt volumes of cum into her quivering box. As the tool softened slightly, Jasper, the cocksman, paused then pulled out leaving her empty for a moment before ramming himself in again, as stiff as ever, and going through it all again. It wasn't until the third round that she realized there must be more than one of them—several more. However, the charged, orgasmic atmosphere kept her from troubling too much with that thought. Indeed, the thick, enveloping, erotic fog insulated her from the realization that she was, in fact, being raped—gang-raped. Gwen was cognizant only of being bathed in an unbelievable intensity of ecstasy, and surrendering to the pleasure.

Swept up in the assault, Gwen was soon, albeit unconsciously, pounding her hips back to meet each penetration. Blinded by the bliss of a continuous climax—not a series of peaks, but an orgasmic plateau—a constant wave of arousal with no intervals of recovery, she became extremely vocal—her howls and cries a mixture of articulate pleas, pathetic whimpers, and desperate wailing.

The male contingent in the room was bloody amazed at the strength and length of her orgasm—unsure, themselves, as to whether they were witnessing a long, persistent climax, or an unendingly peaky series of extra-multiple-comings. Notwithstanding, they chanted encouragement to one another as they marveled at Gwen's continued wild response. "Keep her going!" "Keep it up!" "Don't let her come down!"

When, eventually, they rolled her onto her back, the climaxes became less frequent. Though just as strong, they allowed for recovery in between—a rolling, roiling series of peaks and troughs. She was not as shocked as she thought she should have been. Initially, Gwen was completely docile, but soon she became actively welcoming. Orgasms associated with double penetrations, which she passively accepted as she was man-handled into various positions, were not as strong as when her focus was on her invaders one at a time. As the gang-bang continued, Gwen saw that, while cowgirl was similar to missionary, reverse-cowgirl was more like doggie.

At one point, standing, bent over the back of a couch, the young innocent realized guys were taking her pictures of the expressions on her face, as they kept her rolling, overwhelming her sense and her senses. In retrospect, she was, at that point, nothing but a mindless receptacle — a cum-dump.

Before she knew it, young Gwen found herself pulling a train—taking on all comers—twenty-five or thirty frat rats. inevitably someone had relieved her of her anal virginity—she'd barely noticed—which had opened the flood-gates. Soon Gwen was taking them in all holes, without comment—singly, DP, even airtight. The multiple climaxes achieved, in other positions, at least, had troughs between the peaks, still, she went from peak to peak enjoying naught but a little respite in between. She continued to be very vocal.

Ben, the usurped boyfriend, she would later be informed, had abandoned her early on, with claims of profound disappointment and disgust. She didn't care. Riding a wave of orgasmic rapture, like an instant addiction, it was all-encompassing. A haze of arousal and release, climax and recovery, raising and riding erections, blinding orgasms, many and varied penetrations, continued for some vaguely wonderful indeterminate length of time. Until, at last, the party wound down. Fully enervated, she wasn't aware of how she got back to her dorm, but as she slowly regathered her wits, rationality raised its weary head once again.

And it terrified her as she slowly realized how completely and totally out of control she had been. Shocked by and ashamed of the total complicity in her own gang-rape, she turned into herself, and told no one. Gwen suspected, in retrospect, that someone had slipped her some sort of date-rape drug. She couldn't bare the idea of reporting it, so she just tried to block the memory.

Rumours had quietly dissipated by the end of the college term, and her ordeal had been a secret kept for decades. "Never again!" she'd sworn, and, indeed, hadn't been to anything like it since—no other wild experiences, at all. In fact, Gwen's subsequent sexuality, while steady, had been quite tame ever since.

Shortly after graduation Gwen had met Mark and begun a relationship that led to marriage. From the get-go, Mark had made it clear that he didn't like rear-entry when they were making love. He considered it too demeaning, too impersonal; so, they'd never even tried it. Their sex had been satisfying, if rather 'plain vanilla'; missionary or with her on top—they never even knew that it was called cowgirl position. Any oral sex had been in 'soixante-neuf'—'69'. Theirs had been an unremarkable marriage—happy and content—no surprises. And, in that twenty-five some-odd years, Gwen had been faithfully monogamous, with never even a thought of cheating.

She hadn't thought of that college gang-bang for well over twenty years, and she couldn't, for the life of her, explain why those recollections should have come flooding back just then.

Back at the off-site convention party, Gwen stuck close to Carlos, accepting another drink, and watching the goings-on with equal parts awe and apprehension. One of Carlos' friends she'd seen the night before and had met earlier that evening approached her, smiling and swaggering. "Hello there, pretty lady. Still shepherding your flock, I see," he said, gesturing to some of the others from the convention.

"More like the sweet lambs insisting on including this old goat," Gwen replied with a bon homme she didn't actually feel.

"Well, there's no point in just sitting watching. C'mon, my dear. Dance with me." Surprised, Gwen looked at Carlos who just smiled and nodded. "Miquel," he said, offering his hand.

"I'm not sure my husband would approve."

"He's not here. We'll just have to assume he's okay with it. If you're not sure, just don't tell him!"

And just like that, she found herself dancing with many of the Latino crew, though mostly with Carlos. She seemed to have lost track of her cohort of conventioneers, and was feeling slightly disoriented. During one particular slower dance, Carlos offered to make her more comfortable. Taking her slight shrug as tacit acceptance, and with a sleight-of-hand worthy of a magician, Carlos removed her bra from under her sundress top.

As much as she was aghast by his nerve, it was really pretty harmless, and she didn't want to make a fuss, so, Gwen simply reprimanded him, laughing, "You're naughty!"

"I know," he growled, stuffing the lacy bra into the back of his pants. "I'll hang onto this for you." Pulling Gwen close, he rubbed his chest on hers. Gwen was flustered, as she felt her nipples swell and stiffen. "You have such delightful boobs, darling," Carlos whispered in her ear. "And I can feel your high-beams getting harder." Silently holding her tight for the next few bars of the dance, Carlos managed to turn Gwen out for a moment, so that when he pulled her back in, her box pressed hard against his thigh. Gwen couldn't quite figure out how to pull out of the heavy contact without being too obvious. Furthermore, she realized, she liked the feel of it. As her face flushed, she tucked it against Carlos' strong shoulder. Confusion flooded over her, as she began to feel aroused.