Don't

            Angie was curled-up into the corner of the couch. She held one of Bernice's cushions to her chest and tried to hide her nipples in the folds. She could have wished for a larger cushion.

            Not that Angie was a large woman.

            She was actually, quite slight of stature. “A tidy piece of work,” a boy had commented after she had removed her clothes for him. But even so, the cushion wasn't adequate. She could clutch it to her chest or lay it in her lap, but either way, she was displaying a lot of her personal territory to anyone who cared to look. But the men had already had a look; a good look. And taken photographs.

            What Angie really wanted was, not the cushion, but to have a really good cry, unfortunately that wouldn't help right now. She needed to get dressed and get the hell out. Home! But someone had hidden her clothes.

            Her jacket was still there, hanging from the back of the bar-stool. But all the rest of her clothes had disappeared. Except her shoes. Her high heels lay upturned at the end of the coffee table. She groaned when she recalled how she had kicked them off, just before climbing up to dance for the men.

            God. It was almost midnight and she needed to call her husband:

            “...hello dear… yes, well the reason I’m late… some of the guys from work wanted to fuck me. No big deal. Soon as I get dressed, I'll be right along. There's some leftovers in the fridge...”

            Her cell phone was in her jacket pocket. And that was clear on the other side of the room. She would have to stand up and pass by the table where the men were playing poker. Right now, their attention was focused on the cards, and the pile of money in the center of the table. But she feared that might change at the sight of her naked legs. Maybe she should risk it; just slip her shoes on, walk over to the bar, pull her jacket about her shoulders and leave, bare-assed. Unless she got stopped by a cop, she would be home-free! Sort of...

            Angie figured she was safe to drive. The effects of the vodka, that had given her misguided courage earlier, was wearing thin, leaving her cold and empty; empty except for the semen that clung inside. Seepage left a sticky smear on her thigh and a dull reminder that she had fucked two of the men earlier.

            Oh Lord, she thought, as the hazy memory began to solidify behind the solitude of closed eyes.

            She didn't know which two!

            Angie looked about the room, trying to determine the identity of the guys she had serviced in the dark reaches of the upstairs bedroom. And serviced was about the word for it! Like you do with your car: Take it in so they can check under the hood. They had checked under her hood, alright. And a few other places as well. She had been fondled, fingered and fornicated. And it was all her own damned fault.

            She studied the men in turn, but there was only one she could positively eliminate: Abe. He weighed in at close to two-hundred and fifty pounds. The guys in the bedroom were of average build. She massaged the eyelids with the balls of her thumbs and tried to make sense of the events that had turned her Friday evening into an unprecedented disaster.

            She remembered she had gone upstairs to use the bathroom and someone had the gall to suggest that he be allowed to watch. She at least had the presence of mind to draw the line at bathroom water-sports. But who was it? Who wanted to watch her pee? As hard as she tried, she couldn't remember his face. Maybe she had just sneered, without really looking; that must have been it. When she had finished up and washed her hands, she had stepped through the door and was surprised to find the hall lights had been extinguished. Then she remembered being jostled about in the darkness. She went blank for a moment, before finding herself laying on the carpet with someone hovering above her. Very close.

            It had been so dark. A liquid black that defeated her attempts to focus. She searched with her fingers; felt the stout wooden leg and the frills hanging to the floor. It was a bed! She was on her back across the floor of a bedroom!

            And there was a penis between her legs.

            Lord help her, she hadn't even heard his zipper drop, but he was already burrowing into the folds of her vagina; already in there with two fingers and the tip of his cock. She could feel them; moving.

            Angie had a mild panic attack. Wasn't she supposed to be fighting him off; with tooth and nail? Defending her virtue, not to mention her husband's private domain?

            But it was like the old tree in the forest, thing; if she couldn't see the guy, couldn't identify him, was he really there?

            Was she really cheating on her husband? The rationalization reduced what she was doing down to an acceptable, though naughty, adventure. As innocent as flirting, or masturbating, even. Just that she didn’t have to plug in her vibrator.

            Her husband couldn't possibly object and she could relax and enjoy having her sex manipulated. Wonderful! She had justified screwing on her friend’s bedroom carpet like a common slut.

            Of course she was fuckin' drunk!

            Somewhere in the back of her sodden mind, she realized the argument was ridiculous, but just then the guy removed his fingers and there was the long, unfaltering push. He stretched her pussy like a bull-headed trout, bulldozing up-stream. And any reservations she might have had, were pushed to the back of her subconsciousness as she consoled herself by spreading her legs wider. What the hell. The guy, whoever he was, was good!

            He was long and smooth and so very nice and firm. Angie felt the pressure build and then the long deep slide as her body yielded. With her head swimming in premium vodka, she didn't stop to think about her reputation, her self-respect, what he might pass on to her. Didn't think of her husband waiting patiently at home. She didn't even care who's penis was stretching her vaginal canal. All she could think about was how good it felt to have her sex twerked. To be probed deeply by a strange penis that belonged to a faceless man. She lifted her feet, shamelessly, so he could get all the way in and she had the satisfaction of hearing him exhale, deeply, when he bottomed-out. God, it had been so long...

            His hands were low down and Angie lifted her hips so he could reach under and grip her bottom; a cheek in each hand. With the extra purchase, he moved; driving forward again and again. It was a maddeningly beautiful rhythm. Fingers were fluttering about her breasts, bending and pulling at her nipples. She was startled. How could that be? The man she was fucking still held her low down. Slowly the realization dawned: they were not alone. There was a second man!

            She recalled a girlfriend who once admitted she had slept with two men. Angie had been appalled and her friend had labeled her a “prude!” Now, in her thirty-ninth year, successful and happily married, she found herself, lying naked, on the floor of her friend's bedroom with two men. Two strange men. She went all delirious inside. She should have felt shame. But instead she was yearning for it.

            Angie sensed the second man floating above her eyes and when she stretched inquiring fingers along the carpet, she discovered a knee positioned either side of her face. She felt the rhythm of his movement through the muscles of his thighs. And Angie detected the sound now, the steady thumbing of his hand above her. Did he expect that she would lift up and take him into her mouth? But before she could fathom an answer, the man she coupled, paused and leaned forward; he saved her the effort. Angie heard the quiet smack of his lips and the groan from the one above. She had always been curious: Two young men sharing. And now it was happening, a scant few inches above the tip of her nose. And she couldn't see a thing!

            The penis moved inside again: long, slow, if not somewhat distracted strokes. It was good. Very good. And if Angie could have unwound a little, pushed away the realization of what was happening, she could have had, maybe, a powerful orgasm. But she couldn't relax. Not outright. Too much was happening; too much for her brain to process. She felt startled, jostled, and couldn't keep her leg still. It danced with nervous tension. She stared into the darkness, eyes wide and restlessly blinking.

            And then her partner faltered. Push deep and held. And he came. And came.

            When he had finished, he rolled to one side and the other man took his place. Angie just held on for the ride, in anticipation for what the next penis promised.

            After, they had slipped silently from the room. Angie reached down and cupping her sex, she had retreated to the bathroom again. She did the best she could with wads of toilet paper.

Excerpt from Jo-Anne Wiley's latest book: DON'T ...e-book available on Amazon. Softcover edition available online from eroticbooknetwork.com