The Problem with Glen

Time is a construct of human invention

Warning: There is both a gangbang and a non-consensual sex scene in this story. It’s the same scene.

Labor Day Weekend, 2021

It didn’t take long for Glen to find me. We have a strange relationship. At every professional conference that we both attend, we hook up. It’s kind of nice, because I hate these conferences, but I’m ambitious, so I feel not only do I have to attend, but I have to give a talk on my latest research, and moreover for my talk, I have to dress correctly, but nevertheless look both attractive, and a little bit sexy. It’s a delicate balance, and Glen’s advice is essential.

It’s great to have a good friend there, to have someone to hang out with, to cheer me on before I have to give a talk, to share meals with, and in general to tease and have fun with. It’s not all one sided, either: I provide the same things for Glen.

The glue that makes our friendship work is sex. The sex is discreet; nobody can know. Apparently, Glen finds me irresistible, or at least he does when we’re both at conferences. I find sex with him pretty wonderful, too. It’s a win-win situation, or at least it was, until I met Björn Janson, and grew up. I’d have to tell Glen the sex part was over, but I felt there was no need to tell him until the subject, or situation, explicitly arose. Okay, I guess it’s obvious and I admit it: I’m a coward, and I hate ending things.

You might think the huge diamond ring and the solid gold band on my left hand would have clued Glen in to some lifestyle changes of mine that occurred during the height of the pandemic. After all, Glen and I had seen each other only by Zoom, and not even once in person for a little over two years.

Our bizarre tradition, however, was that the two of us lived in the here and now, and we never seemed to waste time catching up on each other’s news. Glen called it, with contempt dripping from his eyes, nose, and mouth, the “news from Lake Wobegone.” Glen never mentioned my new rings, or what they symbolized. Maybe he didn’t even notice them? That was unlikely, but possible. He could have been too busy checking out my boobs in my sexy new sweater, than to look at my left hand. You just never know with men, do you? In any event, even if Glen did notice them, they nevertheless didn’t seem to be an issue.

The rings were an issue for others, however, as I learned at the welcome cocktail hour that very evening. I had naively thought that the rings would somehow, automatically, make me off limits to the lotharios that prowl our conventions. I realized that while there were not that many women at these STEM conventions (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics), there were precious few who looked as attractive or as sexy as I did, or at least that’s what Glen always had said. This made me a minor center of attention, not due to my brilliant mind, but more due to my hourglass figure.

It doesn’t hurt that I have shapely legs, nice sized boobs (but not too big), and a pretty face, with a Katie Couric mouth that, according to Glen, gives the best blow jobs in the tri-state area, whatever that means. Glen is prone to hyperbole. I also like to flirt. No sexual pun or innuendo can avoid my notice, and I always have a suggestive parry to offer.

As smart as I’m supposed to be, what had never occurred to me was that for some men, being married, or already “taken,” if you will, made me even more desirable(!) As Glen explained it: It’s a different kind of achievement to get a married woman into bed, than it is to get a single woman into bed. There’s also the (apparent) thrill of bedding another man’s woman, behind his back, and all the more so if the woman is at first reluctant, though ultimately, willing; best of all is if, in the final stage of the seduction of the unreceptive, the woman becomes enthusiastic and even demanding.

Then there’s always the aspect, as Glen said someone famous had once said, that desire and impossibility are inextricably linked. I was taboo, off limits, not a possible “conquest:” that alone made conquering my body ‘impossible,’ which in turn made such a conquest all the more desirable, at least for some men.

Glen became my mentor at my first conference after my PhD, when he also became my lover. I had enjoyed the usual slate of boyfriends in high school, college, and graduate school, and it was all good fun, but never seemed to be destined for the long haul, if you know what I mean. I was ripe for the plucking at 25, young and excited, and there was Glen. He was thirty-five, a full professor at Duke, good looking, and the only thing, the only solitary thing, in his field of vision, was me. That made me feel very special.

I wasn’t especially easy to get into bed, and never thought of myself as a slut, but at that first convention in Las Vegas, I was on my back in Glen’s hotel room only four hours after we met. The only thing that could get me to stop having sex with Glen was my desire to see a special show at one of the casinos. Glen said he would go with me if I went braless. That insistence turned me on, and as Glen felt me up during the show, not caring who might see us messing around, he won my heart.

Now much later, and except for Glen, who was grandfathered in (if you will; from when I was a freshly minted PhD), I never sleep with colleagues. Glen is also ten years my senior, and he was, for me, a guiding light for a young woman with ambition, in a complicated profession.

I like sex, and I don’t mind some variety on occasion, but not with men with whom I have to interact professionally. Men aren’t stupid, and they figured out eventually that the happy hunting grounds for some casual convention sex lay elsewhere, and they tended, mostly, to leave me alone. Glen had coached me on how to achieve that result, even if I never wanted Glen, himself, to leave me alone. He never did, either.

When the liquor was flowing, and everyone was drunk, however, was when I became a target of opportunity for, well, everyone, and that’s when it was especially nice to have the good services of Glen, who would run interference, with the reward that I would try to blow his mind in a Marriott, Hilton, or Hyatt hotel room, sometimes hiding his obvious destination with the Book of Mormon (if the hotel were a Marriott), held tightly right over my naked pussy.

Glen was not 100% effective, however. I would get cornered, kissed, and felt up, if my colleagues thought they could get away with it. For historical reasons stemming from massive insecurities, I had trouble resisting flattery, and if I were a little tipsy, I had almost no resistance at all. Men preyed upon my submission-inspired seeming inability to stop their wandering hands, which at times went outrageous places. Glen knew this, and he tried to protect me when he could, or so I had always believed.

Sometimes, Glen did better at preserving my dignity, then he did at other times. More was at stake now, than just preserving my reputation as a colleague and not a slut. A few events in my past had earned me the nickname of the Stanford Slut, but that was in graduate school, and long ago, and now it was mostly forgotten. Luckily, that nickname was shut down fast, and few people even know of the events that inspired such a horrific but short-lived nickname. Also, I’m not at Stanford, anymore, and haven’t been since I was awarded my PhD. Now I’m at Cornell, in upstate New York, in the Engineering College, and I have a tenure track appointment.

I’m also now married, and there’s an unwritten, unspoken code for how married women behave. The Supreme Court would say it’s a consequence of the “forsake all others” clause of the marriage vows. They never seem to add, “even if you’re a submissive,” however.

I need to explain. I love Glen, I dearly do, but Glen is just not marriage material. He’s not the man I want to spend my life with. He’s not a candidate for being a life partner. He’s simply a wonderful man, a mentor, and we love each other, and express that love the way a man and a woman do. I really do enjoy the sex with Glen; I enjoy it a lot.

Glen and I live far away from each other. He’s down in North Carolina, in Durham, and I am in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York. We really only see other at professional conferences and conventions. At those, we enjoy each other to the max, but always as discreetly as possible. People, after all, love to gossip.

In the past, before I was married, I would reward Glen for his efforts, later in my hotel room. Glen would have carte blanche with me, the menu of approved activities limited only by his imagination, his desire, his own physical limitations, and his will. For example, it takes two to have exhibitionist sex in the hotel’s hot tub. Get me drunk, and I’m up for anything. Glen is more modest, and too shy to fuck me in the hotel’s hot tub. That’s okay; I can live with that.

I was to give my talk the next morning. This meant no excessive drinking that evening, and Glen’s services were needed only twice. The first time was when I got cornered and had to choose between spilling my drink, and letting the guy stick his hand inside my sweater. I would never allow myself to spill my drink. Professor Stricker told me I had “great tits,” and he slinked his chubby fingers under my bra and fondled my nipples. Glen arrived, took my arm, and loudly said, “Joanie, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

The second time was when I was chatting with my department chair, and a colleague came up behind me and fondled my ass, my body hiding his nefarious activity from my department chair. Glen helped to save me again, although also he was a little slow for my taste. I suspect he enjoyed watching me get molested for a bit, knowing I felt as if I could do nothing about it, but I could never have been so cruel as to have accused him of that.

Glen returned with me to my hotel room, at my request, in order to help me to choose the outfit I would wear for my talk. As I’ve already noted, it had to be both totally correct, and yet hint of being sexy. That’s how women advance in the profession, or at least, that’s been my observation. Of course, doing top flight research helps, too. That’s why I was a featured speaker at the convention, after all.

Since Glen and I had been occasional lovers for years, I felt relaxed in front of him. Even though I was now married, being naked, or almost naked, in front of Glen was fine, or so I naively thought. I’m one of those girls who would never stroll around naked in front of a guy, unless, of course, we had already fucked. Then, after we had fucked at least once before, I would have no problem parading around naked in front of him, to his heart’s content. After all, I have a nice body, and I know it.

Glen, of course, had seen me naked a lot before, and he had used my nudity quite efficiently as a preliminary to all sorts of X and XX rated activities! Glen seemed to like acrobatic sex, and well, I like to please. My times as a high school cheerleader served me well.

This was not such an occasion, however. There was to be no sex, acrobatic nor otherwise, and I had made that quite clear. Crystal clear. I would not do that to my husband Björn. Björn is kinky, to be sure, but he’s a conventional man, and even though I have a long history of falling into bed with Glen at conventions, that had to end. Björn would not stand for it, and my marriage would hang in the balance.

To benefit from Glen’s exquisite sartorial wisdom, however, I held up two dresses for him, while wearing only a strapless bra and panties. “Let’s see how you look wearing them,” Glen said, to nobody’s surprise. I modeled them both.

“Now model them without the bra,” he said.

“That won’t work, trust me. There’s no way I’m giving a plenary talk without a bra. No way at all. You just want to see my bare breasts again. They haven’t changed in the last two years,” I said. I hoped I was right! Age is not kind to some women; but two years is not that long, and I’m still young, even if I’m over thirty, but barely.

“Let me be the judge of that,” Glen said. I giggled, nervously, and complied. I stripped, and then modeled both dresses without the benefit of a bra. Obviously, this gave Glen another opportunity to enjoy seeing my naked boobs. He took full advantage. His touch is magical, and he had my nipples hard in no time, but I pushed him away, reminding him about his role as my sartorial superego.

“Hmm. I see your point. Yes, those two dresses each need a bra,” Glen said. “The blue one is a better choice for tomorrow.” Meanwhile, Glen clearly enjoyed soaking in the view of my boobs. Men are so obvious. It’s biology: they get hard. I do confess, though: It’s reassuring to know that, now that I’m even over thirty, the sight of my naked boobs can still inspire an erection for a man as worldly as Glen.

Glen is indeed worldly, too. He’s fucked women in eight different European countries, in Singapore, Argentina, Chile, Peru, and Mexico, in Japan, in South Africa, and in Ghana. I have no reason to doubt the veracity of his braggadocio. I myself find the man irresistible.

“That’s what I thought, too,” I said. “Thanks, Glen!”

“Wait. Let’s see what they look like commando,” Glen said.

“In the blue one you might see a shadow of my bush right through the dress,” I said. “The fabric is quite thin. No way can I give a talk on a stage, with my bush showing through the dress.”

“That could be really fetching. Let’s see,” Glen said. “You don’t want panty lines, do you?” I don’t wear thongs, and of course Glen knew that.

“You just want to see my pussy again. It hasn’t changed,” I said. Pussies are not like boobs: If they change at all with age, it’s both slower and less noticeable.

“You unjustly accuse me. I’ll turn around while you do your thing,” he said, and he did, so I removed my panties. I gave him the okay, and he turned back to look at me. He rubbed his chin, had me turn around, bend over, and as a final test, he had me walk the length of the room.

“Well, it’s within the bounds of being correct, but it’s probably a little too sexy. Men will be staring at your crotch, trying to decide if you’re commando or not. If you bend over, locking your knees as you do so, the hem of the dress will rise just enough to reveal your fabulous pussy, which every man will want, but only I will get,” Glen said. I forgot to mention that the blue dress is short. It’s of a correct length, but only barely so.

“Uh, about that…” I nervously began, trying to wave my wedding rings where’d he’d have no choice but to see them.

“About what?” Glen replied, cutting me off as he approached me and gave me one of his kisses that always seem to make me weak in the knees. “Hey, bend over while locking your knees, okay? I want to see if I’m right.”

Nervous now, I explained that maybe we were going down a road best left unexplored, given my new, married state of being. There! I had said it! Trust me, it hadn’t been easy to do. I studied Glen’s face for his reaction.

“Don’t be silly. We’re just checking out sartorial issues, here,” Glen said. The news of my marriage, and my consequent unavailability for one of our traditional convention romps, seemed to wash over Glen like water off a duck’s back. Maybe he didn’t care, or had some new bimbo lined up to replace me?

Strangely, with that thought I felt both relieved, and disappointed, simultaneously.

So, convinced I was out of danger, I did it. I bent over, keeping my knees locked. After all, it’s no big thing to show off your pussy to a man who has enjoyed your body as much as Glen has enjoyed mine.

“Yep. I was right; I can see your amazingly beautiful and alluring pussy. You know, it’s damp and sparkling. Highly inviting,” Glen said, and I quickly stood up straight. I took off the dress, carefully hanging it in the closet, to keep it perfect for the morrow. I also kept my distance from Glen, just in case he wanted to run his finger along my slit. I knew Glen, only too well. The dress was gorgeous, but the fabric was in fact quite thin, and it wrinkled easily.

“It’s time for you to go now, Glen. Thanks for your sartorial help. Now I need my beauty sleep for tomorrow,” I said, as I moved towards the hotel room door, essentially naked, as I was wearing only my strapless bra. I opened the door for Glen to leave, and he turned to kiss me goodnight.

We kissed, and then we kissed again, and he turned us around so that my near naked body was sticking out in the hallway, and Glen was in the hotel room. He deftly unhooked my bra as we kissed. I heard voices, and I was sure some of our colleagues saw me, my backside naked, as my unhooked bra fell away from my body. It was a strapless bra, so gravity quite easily had its way with it. I tried frantically to get back into the room, but it was as if Glen was made of stone, blocking my path to regaining at least a sliver of modesty. Somehow, my bra found its way to the floor of the hallway. I was totally naked.

“Joanie, is that you?” I heard Cory’s voice say. He has a distinctive, deep bass voice, with a trace of a Tennessee accent. His deep bass twang is recognizable anywhere. So while I knew it was Cory in the hallway, I should think, nevertheless, that It’s hard to identify a woman from just her naked backside.

My face was hidden, due to the kisses I was sharing with Glen. Cory was dangerous, however, because I had once enjoyed a night with Cory, a long time ago, back in graduate school. It had been a big mistake, albeit a thoroughly enjoyable one, and it was never repeated. Still, he had carnal knowledge of me, and right there, before him, was my stark naked body, while Glen was blocking my entry to my very own hotel room. Talk about embarrassing, even humiliating!

Many was the night I had masturbated, reliving Cory’s wonderful talent at pleasing my body, and Cory had given me dozens, if not hundreds, of orgasms, just from memories of that one roll in the hay. Yes, our one, drunken fuck was in fact that memorable. Cory had way too much sexual power over me, which is why I refused all his entreaties for repeat performances. Anyway, that happened long ago, when I was earning my short-lived nickname as the Stanford Slut.

I tried to ignore Cory, and continued to kiss Glen, hoping Cory and whomever he was chatting with, would just continue on to their rooms. My hopes were dashed when Cory’s hand squeezed my ass. He apparently remembered just the way to squeeze it that led me to sin with him, lo those many years ago. He also knew, just from the feel of my ass, that it was, indeed, my very own ass, and not the ass of some other woman. Yes, the naked slut whose backside was sticking out into the hotel hallway was indeed me. Cory always considered himself an expert on the subject of women’s asses. One little squeeze, and he knew for sure: it was me.

Cory and his companion pushed me (and a fortiori, Glen) back into my hotel room, with Cory and his friend following behind. Suddenly I was naked, with my black, strapless, lace bra forgotten, and lying on the floor of the hotel hallway. I was in my hotel room with three fully clothed men.

“Hi, Cory. Hi, Mills,” I greeted the two men, as if this were a normal situation. I had never been with Mills Mack, although the rumors among the girls were such that all women were to be pitied, if they had not (yet!) fucked Mills. He was that good. I was in deep trouble here. Mills always wore a tie, too, and rumors abounded about how he seemed always to put his ties to good use. All of Mills’ ties were made of pure silk.

Once you go Mack, you never go Back, all the girls used to say, and Mills did in fact seem to have a harem of willing women, who would fuck him anytime, anywhere, any circumstances, married or not. It was all just a bit frightening for me, but, to be honest, I was also just a bit curious. How could I not be?

I had not felt the need to be modest in front of Glen, but I did feel it, and rather strongly, in front of Cory, and especially in front of Mills. Always polite, I said, “Excuse me, men,” and I ran, not walked, my boobs doubtless bouncing all the way to the bathroom, grabbing one of those courtesy terrycloth bathrobes the Marriott supplies, and wrapping myself up tightly in it. Then I spent a few minutes hyperventilating behind the bathroom’s locked door, before I felt collected enough to once again face the three men.

“Please excuse my appearance. It’s a long story, and Glen was just leaving, and I need to ask all three of you men to leave, please,” I said. “I speak tomorrow morning, and I need to collect myself, and get some sleep, to prepare for my talk.”

I wanted to add that they should of course feel free to jerk off at the memory of my naked bod, but naturally, I didn’t.

The men must have made plans while I was hiding in the bathroom, because the three of them acted as one, removing my terrycloth bathrobe in (very) short order, and then using Mills’ silk tie to secure my wrists behind my back. Now I was stark naked in front of the three men, with my pussy (as Glen had already observed), flowering suggestively, glistening even, as my natural juices reflected the dim light in the hotel room.

“You need to go,” I repeated, in my soprano speaking voice, pathetically, and now highly nervously. My voice gets higher, and a tad squeaky, when I’m scared, as I was, just then. I was very scared, and not in a state to be convincing, or even to be taken seriously. “You all three need to go, and now! I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’ve recently become a married woman, and what you are up to is sexual harassment, and it’s dangerous for you in this #MeToo era,” I squeaked, my voice sounding much too shrill.

“One more time, for old times sake, won’t hurt,” Mills said. “We won’t tell your new hubbie.” There it was — out in the open. Mills wanted to fuck me. Now I was truly terrified.

“There’s no old times, Mills. We never did anything, so we can’t have one more time,” I stupidly said, since it wasn’t the case for Cory, and especially not for Glen! Anyway, it’s a stupid argument. The point is, and I should have emphasized it, was that I was saying no. Got it? No.

“Maybe not in your mind, but Joanie, we have fucked, over and over again, and we have spectacularly fucked, in my own mind, so many times it’s not funny. If you don’t believe me, just ask my right hand. Please don’t deny me the chance to experience you in reality,” Mills said, “and not just on the screen.” I stupidly took this as flattering, and I’m a sucker for flattery. It’s a serious weakness.

“Trust me,” Cory said. “Joanie is the best I’ve ever had, and the best I ever will have.” More flattery. Dammit! My resolve was withering away, like the Marxist state.

“The same for me,” Glen added. “Why do you think I even come to these conventions, if not to enjoy the forbidden fruit of Joanie’s luscious body?” Well, that was news for me. I thought we cared for each other, and I was not just a sex object, some sort of cum dump, for Glen. The sex with Glen had always seemed to arise out of a love we have for each other. I had always looked forward to it. Had he not felt the same way? Had I been wrong, all this time? I felt maybe Glen’s remark was not so flattering? Life can be so very confusing.

Whitney Houston’s song, “How will I know,” flashed through my terrified brain. Focus, Joanie, focus!

What did Mills mean when he said he wanted to experience me in reality, and not just on the screen? I wasn’t on the screen, not in that way. Maybe I had a doppelganger on a porn site, somewhere? Could Glen, or worse my husband Björn, have uploaded compromising pictures, or — worse, much worse — videos of me? Was my porn name the Acrobatic Slut of Palo Alto, or the Ithaca Tornado, or The Wanton Waterfall Whore, or some such thing? I knew they had each taken some highly compromising videos of me. Why had I let them? Why??

The men walked me over to the king size bed, my hands still tied behind me. I tried saying no in every way I knew how. I said, No! Non! Nein! and I even said Nyet, M hěi, Méiyǒu, Không, and Vtla, the last four being Cantonese, Mandarin, Vietnamese, and Cherokee, respectively. I told them I was married, and my sexual favors were reserved for my husband Björn, and for him alone, with the key two word being him alone!

Even if Björn wasn’t a factor, and I assured them that he was, I told them there was no way I could ever handle more than one guy in a night; I’m psychologically just not made for group sex. I was too ashamed to use the words gang bang. I cursed them and told them I would hate them forever, I kept emphasizing that I was married and I could not, would not, and must not commit adultery, and nothing worked! Indeed, sounding like a Dr. Seuss book does not inspire men to behave. Absolutely nothing worked!

So much for the power of the spoken word. Seriously, that thought crossed my mind, even in such a situation! The adultery idea seemed to turn them on even more, as was obvious by the way their hard cocks twitched, whenever I told them I was married. Yes, they had all three undressed, at this point, and they were all three hard. Locked and loaded, so to speak, and ready to plunder my poor, naked body. I had abandoned all hope.

I confess: I do sometimes find it thrilling that I can turn on men that way; especially such a gold-plated group of men. Cory and Mills were both Stanford PhDs. Cory was tenured at Harvard. Mills was already a full professor at Yale; one of the youngest ever to achieve that renowned status. And Glen, well, what about Glen? Glen was Glen, and that was more than enough for me. Glen never failed to rock my world. Glen was the sage of Duke University.

Mills gave a gentle little push and I fell backwards onto my back on the bed. In a last attempt, I said, “What will I tell my husband Björn?” I was trembling in fear of what I knew I was about to do. Three men? Really? Seriously? Maybe this wasn’t really happening, and was just a flashback from the LSD I had once stupidly taken in graduate school? Of course, the LSD had in fact allowed me the breakthrough that solved my thesis problem. Still…

“Seriously? Your husband’s name is Bjorn? Tell him nothing. This never happened. It’s our little secret,” Mills said, as he forced my legs apart. I noticed, for the second time, that he was naked. When did that happen?

“He’s Björn, not Bjorn. It’s a diphthong,” I said. My brain said ‘Resist! Resist!’ but my legs didn’t hear my thoughts, apparently, and my legs spread too damn easily. I tried to close them back up, but Mills already had his body between them. I knew I was wet and ready, too. Goddammit, I was turned on by the prospect of bending my will (and my supple body) to three men at once. Oh shit; what was I doing? The men seemed to know that I had given up. My reluctance seemed to have vanished at some point, as I realized the inevitable.

I truly didn’t want to get some new nickname, such as “The Plenary Pussy of Chicago,” or the “MILF of Michigan Avenue.” I also, and more importantly, didn’t want to cheat on my new husband Björn! Nevertheless, sex with Mills? From all that I’d heard, it would have been hard to pass that up, especially because Mills was hard. He was rock hard.

At first, it was no big deal, yet another cock entering my body. Plenty of cocks, over the years, had been inside me before. I always emerged happy, healthy, and unscathed, and never pregnant. Lord knows, cocks entering my body and my mind had happened enough times before, in my mouth, in my pussy, and even in my anus. This was just one more. Just one more time.

However, while Mills fucked me, and Glen kissed me with his patent-pending kissing technique that always drove me wild, Cory’s hands went everywhere it seemed, first on my boobs, then my neck, then choking me, then penetrating my anus, then fondling my toes. The real attention getter, however, was Mills’ cock, which, I had to admit, felt like no other cock I had ever experienced, and I mean that in a good way. I mean it in a very good way. I mean it in a bleeping mind-altering way!

I lost my mind fucking Mills. My mind left my body and was aimlessly wandering around the Chicago Marriott. I had the biggest orgasms of my life, and I was on some sort of endorphin overload high. Maybe it was what they call a serotonin storm? I was reduced to a whimpering bundle of relaxed flesh, and I was only dimly aware when Mills got off me, his amazing cock dripping with his cum and my juices, and Cory climbed aboard, reliving his old triumph when he had me that one and only previous time, back in graduate school, when I had been in a drunken stupor, and had earned my nickname ‘The Stanford Slut.’ Never let a man get you naked and fuck you in a bedroom with the door open at a wild and raucous party, and expect not to get a reputation as a slut. So many people had watched Cory fuck my brains out that one time, back at Stanford. One of life’s many lessons learned!

Even though Mills had ruined me, having driven me into a quivering, whimpering mass of female flesh, and having stolen my sanity, I still somehow responded to having Cory’s wonderful cock once again bringing me extraordinary pleasure.

As my orgasm built, my tummy rose off the bed of its own volition, and I called out to the high heavens as my climax arrived, my cunt muscles contracting, and squeezing the milk out of Cory’s fabulous cock, trying to get every last drop of his spunk to add to that of Mills, as their little spermatozoa swam frantically in all directions, hunting blindly for my tiny eggs, tucked happily away upstream in my ovaries. As my soprano cries of pleasure rose to the heavens, I wondered if the archangel Gabriel would hear them?

Cory groaned in his deep bass voice as he filled me up with his seemingly endless supply of splooge. With Cory’s musical deep voice, I felt as though I was fucking Paul Robeson. I did love his twang. I always heard his twang in my head when I jilled off to the memory of his fabulous Stanford fuck. Cory finally got me off, and next he got off me, and Glen quickly took his place. “I’m quite sloppy, you know,” I weakly said.

“I’ve never had you sloppy before. I love new experiences,” Glen said.

I was exhausted, but I managed to say, “I’ve never fucked two men in an evening before, and obviously never three.”

“Don’t you just love new experiences? Do you think you’ve got another orgasm for me, in that heavenly body of yours, Joanie?”

“No, I’m all played out. Between Cory and the amazing Mills Mack, I’m afraid I have nothing left for you, my dear Glen. Why don’t you leave, and go try Marcia instead, and, OH MY GOD,” I exclaimed, as Glen plunged in, bottoming out on his very first thrust, and once again sending my endorphin level through the roof!

Glen and Marcia used to have a thing, but it never stopped Glen from fucking me at conventions, and at conventions only. Marcia was not pleased, and at times, she would make that clear. She would make it crystal clear. I wondered if she were even at this convention. Everyone else seemed to be.

Maybe Mills was a more spectacular fuck, and maybe Cory was beyond handsome with his finely chiseled body, perfect amount of chest hair, deep, almost operatic bass voice, and beautifully formed muscles, but I truly cared for Glen, I always had, and that, at least for this girl, makes a huge difference.

I’d never admitted it to myself, but probably I was in love with Glen. Not the way I loved and adored Björn, which was truly special and, I dare say, unique. No, the way I loved Glen was another way, in and of itself. It was not a conventional sort of love, but I guess you could in fact call it “convention love,” for lack of a better term.

So as Glen fucked me, with nice, hard, thrust, after nice, hard thrust, I guess I just gave myself into it. Later the men told me I was moaning throughout Glen’s fuck, and at the end I was babbling incoherently, although somewhere in there Cory was sure he heard, “harder! faster!” as I exhorted Glen to give me all he had, and then some. You could also hear the sloshing of all the sexual juices currently enjoying the spin cycle in my cunt.

All three of them wanted to fuck me again, but I said no. I must have said no five or more times. I reminded the men that I had to give my talk in the morrow, in the relatively early morning, to boot, but I was staying for four days, which meant two more nights. Only when I finally said all that, implicitly promising more sex with them each of the next two nights, did they leave.

Around twenty minutes later, however, when I was just out of the bath, which I had used as a pathetic douche, there was a gentle knocking, but nevertheless a persistent knocking, knocking, knocking, on my bedroom door. There was no bust of Pallas above the door, and it wasn’t Edgar Allan Poe’s raven, alas. Then again, I’m no Lenore. No, it was Glen, who had come a-knocking, so persistently knocking, on my bedroom door.

Of course, Edgar Allan Poe married his first cousin when she was only thirteen. These were among the thousands of thoughts fleeting through my mind, in the aftermath of my first gangbang, and of my first adultery. My brain was scrambled. I couldn’t think a single coherent thought, and I was to give my plenary in the morning. Lord help me.

When I let Glen back into my room, still naked and wet from my bath, is when it occurred to me that my one and only strapless bra, the one that fell to the ground when I was naked earlier, my backside sticking out into the hallway, was nowhere to be found. This was a disaster, because I needed a strapless bra for the two dresses. Stores were closed for the evening, and would not open until 10AM the next day, and my plenary address was at 9AM. I guessed Glen was going to get his wish: I was going to have to give my talk without wearing a bra. Note to self: Next time, bring two strapless bras!

I was going to stand up on a stage, in front of upwards of 250 people, most of them men, and give my talk, my plenary talk, which is an honor to be asked to give, while braless? And with my boobs hanging out? My chest is not huge, I’m a 34 C, although Cory always joked I was a 34 EE, since I was almost 34 years old, and my field was Electrical Engineering. Just then, however, I felt as if I actually were a 34 EE. I was stressed!

Glen gave me a wonderful wake-up fuck when I accidentally rolled into him the next morning, and then he helped me with the final decisions of my clothing. My judgement was clouded, a bit, by all of the intense erotic experiences. I ended up wearing the blue dress, with no bra but with a little boob tape both to keep my nipples from accidentally coming into view, and to cut down on the jiggling. The neckline plunge of the blue dress showed off more cleavage than I was comfortable with, especially without a bra. In addition, I was a poor man’s Jennifer Anniston, with my nipples poking at my dress like there was no tomorrow. Maybe there was no tomorrow? Would my career survive this plenary address?

I did realize, of course, I could have covered my nipples, too, with the boob tape, but I didn’t. Had I been honest with myself I would have realized, with the somewhat exhibitionist mood I was in, that I actually wanted my long nipples to poke their tiny hearts out at my dress, and titillate every boob amateur at the conference. I remembered a line from the Broadway musical Gypsy: Honey, if you’re going to bump it, bump it with a trumpet! Well, this was my gimmick: I’d be the slut professor who gave a plenary address naked underneath her dress. Don’t hide the fact, I told myself; bump it with a trumpet!

I had just gone off the deep end, wishing I knew how to swim. Lord, help me!

Oh yes, I also wore no panties. I was going to give my talk commando! I have no idea how Glen talked me into that particular sartorial choice! My defense is that my brain truly was scrambled. It was, you know. I’m not lying, here. As I recall, he had said it would be weird to wear no bra but to wear panties. That makes no sense, I know, except for a certain bizarre appeal to symmetry, and symmetry is an important concept in higher mathematics; but as I said, my mind was scrambled just then, and I had farmed out all of my thinking to Glen.

I used the little machine to make coffee in the room, and ate some emergency bread sticks I always pack for trips. I couldn’t face the breakfast crowd, especially if Cory and/or Mills were to be there, as I’m sure they would be. I was surprised Glen had brought with him, of all things, boob tape. What kind of man packs boob tape for a visit to a conference? He didn’t have condoms, he never had those, but he had boob tape? Well, that’s my Glen. I’m sure stranger men must exist, somewhere; I just have no idea where that might be!

Nobody keeps such data, but Glen assured me I was the first, and doubtless the only woman, ever, to give a plenary address at a professional meeting, wearing no underwear at all. That idea thoroughly turned me on. The fact that it turned me on is part of the problem! I made a note to myself to get a therapist when I got back home. This was way too f**ked up! I guess it was then that I truly realized I need help.

Worse, since I don’t shave down there, the men who looked (ie, pretty much all of them) could tell, with varying degrees of certainty, that I was commando under my dress. The women looked too, apparently, and within female gossip circles, I created a small, but durable, tempest in a teapot. I ended up being uncertain as to how well my talk went, since everyone was so absorbed by my clothing choices, that I fear little attention was paid to the content of what I had to say.

You know, it’s not easy being a woman and giving a talk in front of a large audience which is mostly male. You’re all alone on a stage, and you don’t know how many men are undressing you in their minds as you strut around on the stage. My outfit gave them a running start on undressing me with their minds. I wasn’t helping things with my sartorial choices.

To put it simply, I had totally blown the delicate balance between dressing correctly, and “a little bit” sexy. Glen had been an evil influence, and doubtless I had damaged my career.

Well, that’s how the cookie crumbles, as my Mom liked to say. My sister had updated it to, ‘that’s how the scone crumbles.’ Just then, I felt as if this is how the Joanie crumbles.

C’est la vie, you know? One thing that will certainly come out of all this is that there is little doubt I will now be invited to give a talk at every conference that comes along, from here until eternity, as long as men organize them. Little doubt at all!

Later, as it was close to the time to go home from the conference, Glen sweetly asked me what, if anything, I was going to tell my husband Bjorn (remember him?).

“It’s Björn, not Bjorn,” I corrected Glen. He chuckled. “No matter his name, what are you going to tell him?” Glen persisted.

“I’ll tell him: Time is not real. It is a construct of human perception,” I said.

I giggled, as I had never before seen Glen at a loss for words! Glen just looked at me, as the taxi arrived and I climbed into it. The taxi drove one hell of a well-fucked woman and wife to the Chicago airport (O’Hare, for those who like details). My flight want to Philadelphia where I transferred to a puddle jumper to Ithaca, which actually has an airport!

Back home, and finally safe, I told Björn all about the convention, about my talk and how it was received, and even how I gave it while being nude underneath my blue dress. Then I had to model the blue dress for Björn. He was drooling and kept asking me if I were telling the truth about my sartorial choices at my plenary address, at the conference. I guess he found it hard to believe his demure little wife had acted that way. Truth be told, so too did I.

“What possessed you to do that?” Björn had asked. I had no good answer. Björn knew all about Glen, and how he was my mentor, and more importantly my fuck buddy, for years right up to when I met Björn himself, and fell head over heels in love with him. Since Glen preceded my even having met Björn, and since Glen taught me how to please a man in the bedroom (or anywhere else the man would want me), Björn had no jealousy for Glen, or so I hoped. He didn’t know about Glen and me getting it on, once again, at this past convention, and he most certainly didn’t know about Cory and Mills!

Finally, to prove I wasn’t making it up about my sartorial infamous behavior at the convention, we texted Glen. Glen confirmed that I wore the blue dress, and yes, it surely did look as if I were naked underneath it. Thanks be to God that Glen did not say he knew for sure because he watched me step into the dress, enjoying the gradual disappearance of my naked skin, and especially my female charms, as I pulled up the dress and covered myself to the extent the dress permitted!

I knew Glen had used his phone to take pictures of me up on the stage, while I was giving my talk. He had shown me a few, and you could see my nipples trying to drill holes through my dress, the interior sides of my boobs exposed to the edges of my areolas, and a clear outline of my brown bush under my dress. I got lucky, for once, and Björn never thought to ask Glen if he had pictures.

Glen said he could make out the shadow of my bush, but the real tell was from behind. When I turned to face the screen, explaining all the mathematical equations and inequalities covering it, and thereby presenting my backside to the audience, the dress was stretched thin and tight across my ass, and not only were there no panty lines, it just didn’t seem possible that any undergarment could have fit in between the dress and my ‘luscious ass.’ Every detail of my ass was detectable right through the thin fabric of the dress. I did think Glen could have chosen his words more judiciously. He always was fast and loose with his diction. I knew too that he had phone pictures confirming what he said. He had shown them to me.

Glen didn’t dare tell Björn that he had watched me dress, and seen me naked as I stepped into the blue dress and raised it up to my shoulders, and that he had even zipped me up, pausing both to fondle and then tape my boobs as he did so. He didn’t tell Björn how at the reception after the plenary talks in the late afternoon, every man who knew me came up to me, ostensibly to compliment me on my talk, but in reality, to squeeze a boob, to caress a nipple, or to caress my ass to try to feel if there were panties underneath the dress, or in general try to determine if it was true I was naked under the dress. The consensus, I later learned, was that yes, I was damn tootin’ surely naked under the blue dress. I was a devil in a blue dress, and nothing else. Nothing else at all. I was a Duke Blue Devil, through and through.

The above might sound strange, having professional colleagues feel me up in public at a cocktail reception. If it does, it is because yes, it is strange. It’s very strange. Had I wheeled around and loudly slapped the first asshole who did it, it would have ended right away. The problem was that I didn’t do that; no, instead I did the worst possible thing: I nervously giggled!

This recounting of my talk and how I dressed for it, got Björn thinking. At the close of the evening, when it was time for pillow talk, Björn once again asked me if I had ever had sex with more than one man at a time. Björn and I often had pillow talk about the sexual antics I had gotten up to before I finally met the true love of my life, namely him, Björn Janson.

Björn invariably, and inevitably, got turned on upon hearing about all of the kinky sexual stuff I had done. He was fine with it; it was all before I met him, and all before we married, of course. Since it predated us even knowing each other, such recountings were somehow arousing for him, rather than threatening.

I guessed, and it was truly a guess, that Björn had always been a little sad that I hadn’t been even wilder than I was. For example, my never having had multiple sexual partners in one evening, actually seemed to disappoint him(!) His previous girlfriend had, apparently, and she had enjoyed it, a bit too much as it turned out. She continued such behavior even after they had married, without involving Björn, and it had led to their divorce, as I understand it.

Time is not real. It is a construct of human perception, I thought to myself, and in my mind, I transported to an earlier time, before Björn, what had just happened, for three days running, with one of the loves of my life Glen Ross, the amazingly handsome Cory Richards, and the mind-boggling, sexually talented, Mills Mack.

I transported it back to the wild times before I had even met the wonderful Björn Janson, my true love, my life partner. It became only another memory to use to titillate Björn during our pillow talk, is all. Björn would be thrilled to hear about it, since he’s weird that way, and I would enjoy reminiscing about it.

I told Björn all about my three wild days in Chicago with the three men. I told him how all three men fucked me, one right after the other; how on the second evening they all three returned, and I had my first spit roast, and how on the third night I had my first ass fuck, and that I liked it so much, I had all three men ¨fuck me up my ass.”

Björn had yet to ‘taste’ the delights of my large intestine. He had asked, but I had always said no. I knew that now, he could have my ass whenever he wanted. I got aroused at the thought. I love letting the man I adore be in charge.

“Why had you always told me you had never done anything like that?” Björn had quite reasonably asked me.

“Well, I remembered what you had told me about Ingrid,” I replied. Ingrid had been the wife before me, the one who liked having multiple sex partners just a bit too much, which led to their divorce. Björn nodded. My explanation made sense to him, thank goodness!

“Did you have the men fuck you in both your pussy and your ass, as the same time?” Björn asked me.

“You’ve been watching too much porn. No, of course I’ve never done that,” I replied. Dammit! Why did I say I’d never done that? Don’t I ever learn?

“Why not?” Björn asked. “It seems like you’ve done just about everything else.”

As they say in football, I called an audible. “I’m saving it,” I said.

“Saving it? For when? You’re married now, please remember,” he said.

“I’m saving it for our 25h anniversary, in case you get bored with me and want to spice things up,” I said.

“I’ll never get bored with you, my sweet Joanie,” Björn said, as he rolled on top of me and spread my legs. Then he thought better of it, and raised me onto my hands and knees, got behind me and began to fuck me doggie style, which I absolutely, positively, love. But then, he pulled out, and slowly, very slowly, coaxed open my little brown flower, and bravely went where only three men had gone before, and only two days earlier at that, in the Marriott Hotel in Chicago. God, did I love it!

I did not tell Björn truthfully, exactly when my group sex, and my anal sex, and my spit roast, actually happened. Björn naturally assumed it happened before I met him and fell head over heels in love with him, and I did not disabuse him of his construct of the human perception of time. Time is such a mysterious thing.

I could not believe how aroused Björn got with the stories of my depraved debauchery, at the convention where I gave my plenary, naked underneath my dress, and had wild sex with three men, who were also my colleagues, including — especially — the only man who posed a threat to my love for Björn, the always already, ever present, and ever randy, Glen Ross.

I didn’t tell Björn about the cocktail party that same evening, when I was still wearing the blue dress, and all my colleagues (or so it seemed) felt me up. One of the more aggressive colleagues, a certain Henry (“Call me Hank”) Aaron, caught me as I exited one of the gender-neutral toilets, and pushed me back inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

Without speaking (I had only ever heard him say, ‘Call me Hank”) he unzipped my dress, and pushed it off my shoulders, letting it pool at my feet. I was naked before him. My nipples were so hard, and the quarters were so cramped, I thought maybe using the extra inches afforded by my ‘Come Fuck Me’ stiletto heels, I could poke his eyes out with my nipples. He was, however, wearing glasses. There’s always a catch, isn’t there?

“Everyone said you were naked under the dress, but I didn’t believe them,” Call me Hank said, stringing together enough words to form what might well have been the longest sentence of his life.

“Do the words Title IX have any resonance for you?” I asked. I was scared to bend over to pull up my dress. Given I was naked, bending over might give the wrong impression. I just stood there, scowling and naked, in front of Call me Hank.

Hank smiled. “How about a kiss, my little naked goddess?” he said. OMG, I thought, all Call me Hank needs is a naked woman, trapped in the gender-neutral bathroom, to get him to speak. And in complete sentences, no less! Yes, I rewarded him for his loquacious behavior, and I let him kiss me for a bit. Call me Hank was pretty good in the kissing department.

After the kiss, however, Call me Hank left the bathroom, leaving its door wide open. My naked body was in full view of anyone looking that way. Talk about humiliating! I quickly bent over and gathered my dress and stepped into it, pulling it up. My face turned all the shades of the red end of the light spectrum, finally settling upon fuchsia. Glen came to my rescue, rushing over to zip up my dress for the second time that day. This time, Glen did not reach around to play with my boobs, thank goodness.

I didn’t tell Björn about that experience. I had to save something to tell him on other nights. We’d have pillow talk the next night, anyway. I could tell him about all of the cell phone pictures of my naked body, when I stood naked, momentarily in shock, just before I dressed and emerged from the bathroom. Those pictures would later become the bane of my existence. Why does life have to be so complicated, I thought, as I cuddled up next to my wonderful, strong, handsome, true love and wonder of a husband, Björn.

Björn was called into work in Syracuse, and I told him I’d keep myself busy, alone in Ithaca, and not to worry. My ‘old friend’ Glen Ross was in town for a few days, after all. He was giving a talk at my university. Some idiot had invited him. That idiot was me.

“Wear the blue dress for Glen. I’ll bet he’ll love it if you wear it without a bra or panties, don’t you think?” Björn said. This was an aspect of Björn I had not seen before. Maybe the kink loving part of me had hope for Björn, after all?

“Yes, I’m sure he will love it,” I replied, wondering just how much Björn had already figured out? Björn is scary smart.

“Is Glen staying for dinner?” Björn asked. He sounded hopeful, as if he wanted Glen to stay. When I said yes, probably, if it’s okay with him, Björn said good, he looked forward finally to meeting Glen. I wasn’t too, too scared. Our home was not a convention, far from it. Nevertheless, however, I was in fact scared. I had never been able to resist Glen when he wanted me. However, Glen seduced me only at conventions, right? That meant I was safe, right there in my own home, right? Right?

I would tell Glen no, and in no uncertain terms. Surely, he would behave there, in the sanctity of my own home, and not try to seduce me yet again, knowing I was not able to resist him. Right?

What if Björn knew that I had well, you know, with Glen, at the recent convention, and everything else, and he was setting me up? He was, after all, scary smart. I had told him about Glen and me, but I had acted as if it was all in the past, as I had hoped it would be, now that I was married. Björn, however, has lots of friends, and some were probably at my convention, and they may have told him about my behavior unbecoming a married woman. Maybe Björn knew enough to infer what had probably happened? Good God, I hoped not!

Worst case: Somehow, through friends or from Glen himself, Björn knew everything. Everything. That was quite a horrific worst case!

How would Glen act in the presence of Björn that evening? How would Björn react? Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d discuss tennis ad nauseum and ignore me? Maybe I could quietly put the BGL BNP Paribas Luxembourg Open on the TV? A girl could hope, right?

I popped a couple of Xanax, and opened a bottle of French Rose wine, which would go with the September heat. I put the chicken in the roasting pan and turned on the oven. The potatoes would roast alongside the chicken. I sprinkled some fresh rosemary on everything. I got the broccoli ready to steam, and checked on the salad dressing for the salad. Then I had to dress. I was meeting Glen for lunch, at a little place on the Ithaca Commons.

All that was left to do was to worry. I was no longer drunk with sexual need, swimming in endorphins, searching for my next orgasm the way a junkie might search for her next fix. No, I was home, on my very own home turf, with a loving and wonderful husband who would be home from work in a few hours. It was only a few hours. How much trouble could a girl get into with Glen in only a few hours? Was that a serious rhetorical question? The answer, by the way, is plenty. Plenty of trouble.

Lunch went fine. Glen was fine. We had fun, like two old friends do. Nothing sexual entered our minds, or at least, emanated from our mouths. When Björn finally came home from work (he works up in Syracuse), there I was, sitting on the couch in my blue dress, without any undergarments, innocently discussing the funny habits of our old graduate school professors, and giggling up a storm. Björn joined us, and I smoothly turned the conversation to tennis, as I went off to the kitchen, hips wiggling like they always do, to put the last touches on the meal.

As I left the room, I heard Björn say to Glen, “Want to show me the pictures, now? No, not those, not the R rated ones. Show me the one where she’s naked and air-tight.” I ran to the bathroom and watched my lunch come up from my stomach and exit my mouth. I had really enjoyed the vegan fried noodles and I felt sad to watch them leave my tummy in such a violent, and unpleasant way.

Returning from the toilet, with that awful post vomit taste, and having completely emptied my stomach into the toilet bowl, I saw Björn staring at a 5″ x 7″ glossy print of me enjoying a spit roast, with my naked body in between Mills and Cory. My boobs were hanging down and I recalled how they rocked all over the place as the men pleasured themselves with my body.

Then he looked at a second one with the roles of Cory and Mills reversed. So, he knew now both men had fucked me, and I had blown both men, and I took them on two at a time. This is not the image of me that I wanted my somewhat straight-laced husband to have in his mind!

The Chicago Tribune lying on the table in the background, within the pictures, inadvertently dated them to the time of the convention. I knew Björn would notice. He always notices details like that. I was screwed. I was so screwed. I knew I had lost the love of Björn just then, and certainly his respect. As for Glen, well, that’s what might have, in an alternate universe, sent me to prison. Luckily, I didn’t do it.

Women tend not to use guns, or knives, or fisticuffs. Women tend to use poison. Glen, who is smart as shit, should have known that. Maybe he did, and simply thought I would never do such a thing to him. After all, I’m a nice girl, and we’d been occasional lovers for quite some time.

“Dinner is served,” I said, in my sexiest voice, wearing my blue dress without a bra, nor panties. “Glen, you can sit here. Björn and I will take our usual spots.” Glen would not know his meal, and his alone, was poisoned, I fantasized to myself. Of course, the only poison the meal contained was table salt. Glen had hypertension, you see.

That night, after I had showed Glen to his room (our one and only guest bedroom, destined to be our child’s bedroom once that eventuality occurred), I changed into my sexiest nightgown to greet Björn in our bedroom. I wasn’t sure if Björn would even still want to touch me, but I hoped he would, and I wasn’t about to take chances. For Björn, I knew a sexy nightgown that he could remove would be even better than greeting him nude.

To my delight and to my great relief, Björn was one horny guy, and he practically ripped off my nightgown. I giggled in delight as he put me on my hands and knees. Was it to be doggy, or was it to be anal? I was up for either! I was so happy! I was ethereally happy. He knows now, and he still want me! Hooray! As it turns out, it was doggy.

As Björn was enthusiastically plowing my field, pushing me around the bed a little via the force of his thrusts, which had never before been so powerful, and I was groaning out my delight to the high heavens, a large, stiff cock entered into our bedroom, quickly followed by a naked Glen Ross. Björn waved Glen over and I had a cock in front of my closed mouth as Björn ravaged me from behind.

“No! Get out, Glen. Get out!!” I screamed, not having the presence of mind to say, while I was being plowed from behind, and his entry into our bedroom was highly inappropriate. Nevertheless, even as he fucked me, thrusting devilishly hard, Björn told Glen to stay, and said I would give him a blowjob!

To say I was surprised by this turn of events would be the understatement of the year. Björn, my own, possessive Björn, was willing to share me? Hell, not just willing; he was eager! And he was sharing me with Glen Ross, the only other man I truly loved? This did not compute. Nevertheless, good little submissive that I am, I went with the flow, and happily welcomed Glen’s lovely cock to my mouth. I moaned out my pleasure as Glen stuffed his cock into my open mouth during the middle of one of my louder, longer moans.

I was in heaven. I was being fucked from both ends, and each man fucking me was a man I loved. Granted, I loved them differently, but I loved them both, and now they were possessing me jointly. This was beyond heavenly.

I knew Björn had always wanted to take me as half of a spit roast, but I also ‘knew’ that would never happen. After all, one needs two men to do a spit roast, and he was too jealous and unrepentantly conventionally male to allow another man to share the pleasuring of his wife. Where his head came from, wives were still the husband’s property, and another man in the bedroom was förbjuden (forbidden).

Björn, the poor man, was trapped in a world of contradictory wants. I figured he’d always remember this outrageous sexual experience, and if we didn’t do it, he would always wonder and regret having missed the opportunity, for a long time, and perhaps for the rest of his life.

Maybe my thinking was self-serving at the time. In retrospect, I should have screamed and told Glen to get out of our bedroom. However, I didn’t. Now I have to live with the consequences.

Glen’s heart attack came when he was fucking me from behind, while I sucked off Björn. The two men had changed positions in the spit roast. I was nervous about Björn seeing another man, and especially Glen, fucking me and driving me to climax after climax. I should have said no. I should have screamed no. Well, I did do both, actually. I should have done more, and insisted upon No. I didn’t, though. I was in the zone, letting the endorphins control me.

We called 911 and the medics arrived so fast that I was still naked, talking to Glen in the hope it might help if he stayed conscious. It’s what they do in the movies, after all. The medics ignored my naked body while they attended to Glen. They gave him some life-saving drug, and with no time to lose they carted him out to the ambulance. I barely recovered the presence of mind to throw on my blue dress, running out to the ambulance, half dressed and dripping cum, to catch it just before it left for the emergency room.