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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Copyright 2004. As the author, I claim all rights under
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Anniversary
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
***
On the eve of her twelfth wedding anniversary, which
she is celebrating alone, Jeannie reminisces about her
previous anniversaries. She does this while chatting
with her husband on her laptop computer. Todd has left
her an anniversary present on the form of a huge black
dildo, which presently has Jeannie very uncomfortable.
Enjoy her reminisces. (MMF, intr, swing)
***
This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray
any person living or dead, nor any known situation.
This story contains mature themes and is meant for
adults only and is not to be read by person's under the
age of 18, or the legal age in the county/state/country
in which the reader resides.
If you would like a Microsoft Word version of this
story (a much better read), please contact me at
MarciaR26@aol.com
***
ANNIVERSARY
by
Marcia R. Hooper
(MarciaR26@aol.com)
I lay on my bed in the dark, typing. My husband, via my
Apple laptop computer, kept me company. With my hips
elevated on three pillows, my thighs spread as
comfortably as I could get them, and my rectum
practically filled with KY lubricant, I still ached.
"This is crazy," I wrote.
He came back: "Half an hour. Not a second less." It had
been in me now for five minutes.
"Why do I let you talk me into these things?" I
complained.
"Because you love me," he wrote back.
"I don't love you that much!"
"LOL."
The truth was, I did love him that much. Enough to put
two dildos up my ass, one in my mouth and one in my
vagina if he wanted me to.
"I miss you so much," I typed. He had been gone a week
and it felt like a month, a year. I dreaded when he
went away.
"I miss you too. The kids asleep?"
"They better be."
"The bedroom door unlocked?"
"It's open a crack," I wrote, the way he had
instructed.
"And what happens if you hear the kids?"
"I pray to Jesus for mercy?"
I am a thirty-three year old mother of three. My name
is Jeannie and I live in Germantown, Maryland. We have
a three story single family home in a development off
North Lake. I'd tell you the street address but I don't
want to get raped. I work at a Cadillac Dealership in
Laurel.
My husband is a software salesman for Hewlett-Packard.
His name is Todd. He is a year younger than I, which
makes my submissiveness to him all the more
humiliating.
"How's it going?" he wrote.
"It really hurts. Where'd you get this thing, anyway?"
He'd left it like a time-bomb in my lingerie drawer.
When he told me where it was and I went to get it, my
mouth dropped open. It was nine inches long, thickly
veined around the shaft with a rudimentary set of
testicles at its base and a bulbous head. "And why
black?" I asked.
"Because it'll hurt more." Eleven black men had taken
me anally over the years, but none were as painful as
this. "I got it in Beltsville," he typed. "At a
lingerie shop."
What kind of lingerie shop sells huge black dildos? "I
feel like the George Washington Tunnel," I told him.
My oldest daughter is eleven years old. Her name is
Sarah. She was born when I was twenty-two years old.
Erin is nine and Rachel is seven. Todd and I talk about
having a fourth child; we'd like a boy. We'd name him
Todd, Jr, after his daddy. Sarah knows I'm submissive.
"Do you know how embarrassed I'd be if Sarah walked
in?" I asked.
"It wouldn't be pretty."
Not pretty indeed. She has seen me getting my bottom
spanked a number of times. It terrified her at first,
then it amused her, now she really thinks its cool. I'm
not allowed to spank the children. It's counter-
productive he says.
"How long has it been?" he asked.
I looked at the clock. "Eleven minutes."
"Still hurt?"
"Not as bad."
"Imagine what you look like."
"Thanks."
The night of our wedding, Todd tied me face-down to the
bed. We were in the Catskills, in a log cabin with a
hot tub and a huge bed. He blindfolded me with my
wedding stockings, gagged me with my white panties,
tied a knot in my hair with one strap of my brassiere,
strapped his belt around my middle and secured the
other end of my bra strap to the belt. He took pictures
of me laying there spreadeagled, my head yanked back,
drool dangling from my lips. Then he mounted me and
filmed that with a video camera.
"I have to buy you one of those fucking-machines," he
wrote. "Imagine you with one of those."
"Just imagine."
"If I bought three of them for you, you could take it
up the ass, in the pussy and the mouth at the same
time."
"Just imagine," I repeated.
"On second thought, I wouldn't you getting addicted."
"Like my vibrator?" I asked. I have a problem with my
vibrator.
On our one year anniversary, he got me stoned on pot
and cocaine. When I was sufficiently screwed up, he had
me take off my clothes and walk naked down the middle
of Rockville Pike. It was three a.m. on a Sunday
morning, and raining and foggy, but passing motorists
slammed on their brakes to watch me. I stepped light as
a ballet dancer on the cold wet grass of the center
island, chirping various Madonna songs and laughing
insanely. Imagine if I'd been arrested.
"Anything going on yet?" he asked.
"Not yet."
As preparation for this, I had taken a warm water
enema. I took it on the bed, on the pillows, the red
bag hanging from the canopy, the black hose running
down to the white nozzle up my rectum, the warm water
coursing through my insides. In exactly these details,
I had described it for my husband. When the discomfort
became intense, he allowed me to rush to the bathroom
to relieve myself. I'd need relief again. I could tell.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"My rectum."
"How good it feels?"
"How good it'll feel tomorrow."
"It won't be that bad."
Not bad, he says.
On our second anniversary, he took me to a wonderful
restaurant downtown. He bought me the most expensive
item on the menu--I still can't pronounce it's name--
let me pick my own wine, then surprised me with
strawberries and whipped cream in our motel room. He
took me to bed and made love to me three times in four
hours. He never tied me up, he never spanked me, he
never made made me hurt. In the morning I had a love
bite on my neck. He's so full of surprises.
"Is it completely inside you?" he asked.
"As far as it will go."
"Bottomed out?"
The anniversary after Erin was born, I came home to
find a two foot long... something, on the dining room
table. I had picked it, totally at a loss. It was
composed of red plastic balls, one after the other,
tapering to the end. I honestly didn't know what it
was. Todd had showed me. They hadn't bottomed out.
My insides rumbled. I shifted my position. The "balls"
at the end of the shaft bounced up and down and touched
my thighs. It was such a strange feeling.
"Have you been a good girl?" he asked.
I enumerated: "I did the cleaning, paid the bills, went
to the grocery store, got the car washed, took Sarah to
get her hair cut, bought you a pair of Docker's and two
new Polo-Ralph Lauren shirts at the Costco, got you
some underwear and socks, got the underwear I showed
you in the Victoria's Secret catalog, took my enema and
am now laying here with John Dillinger up my rear end.
I hope I've been good."
"Have you thought about what I said?"
He wants me to pierce my clitoris.
On our fourth anniversary, we visited Niagara Falls. I
had expected droll but was pleasantly surprised. The
kids had fun and we rode the boat close to the Falls
and took the tour through the cliffs and behind the
roaring water on the American side. Later we risked
life and limb crossing the Niagara Gorge in a gondola.
Todd sprang for a helicopter ride and I nearly died of
fright crossing the Falls. Everyone found it quite
amusing. Todd called me a wus.
Our second night there, Friday, we took the kids to
International Village and to all the attractions on the
Hill. We decorated ourselves with cotton candy, had
foot-long hot dogs and a bucket of French fries and
visited the Falls for the light show. Saturday night we
had dinner in the revolving restaurant atop the Skylon,
and I hid my head traveling up the side in another
gondola. When the kids fell asleep in the other bed,
Todd tied me hand and foot to the bed frame with motel
towels, gagged me with my brassiere, put my panties
over my head, then proceeded to drive me mad with his
tongue between my legs, a battery-powered vibrator and
pieces of ice. The ice was the worst.
"You'd look cute with a stud down there," he wrote.
"I have a stud down there," I replied. "His name is
Todd."
"But it's so fashionable, Babe. I bet all your friends
have them."
"My friends wear studs in their ears, Todd, not in
their panties."
"Dana has a nipple ring."
"Dana has big nipples," I said. "To go along with her
big breasts." Dana is our next door neighbor. She
showed Todd her new adornment in person. Todd hasn't
suggested any nipple rings for me.
To cure my postpartum depression following Rachel's
birth, Todd took me to Atlantic City. We stayed at the
Trump Plaza Friday and Saturday night, which for me is
as affordable as a Faberge Egg. While in the hot tub
Friday night, we fell into a discussion of swinging. I
confessed a deep dark secret: I wanted a black man.
He sat straight up in the tub. Oh, no, I thought: a
spanking for sure. But he shocked me right back asking
if I would like to. Of course, I said yes.
If Atlantic City were possible that weekend, I'm sure
Todd would have arranged it. But even Todd can't work
miracles. Instead, he made arrangements through an
interracial website--yes, they have such things -- and
contacted a dozen applicants. I selected four that I
liked and we met. I hadn't expected a gang-bang. In
order of size, they were Lashawn Freshwater, Seann
Chambers, Damon Hill and Donnell Willis. Three of them
were married and had done this before. They were
surprisingly nervous. I have never been so scared. I
have no words for what they did to me that night.
I typed: "Fifteen minutes."
"Is it moving at all?"
"Only when I move."
"It's really in there, huh?"
"Like a sausage in its skin."
There is a term for what Todd does to me during anal
sex that is almost as demeaning as the act. I worried
about that now. "Am I going to do anything else with
this thing after I take it out?"
"Like what?"
"You know what."
"Do you want to?"
He delights in teasing me. Torture is a better word. He
rents movies and lets me see what's in store for me
that night. I've tried to impress on him how unhygienic
what I do is; he points out how many women in the
flicks do it. I say yes, but they do it for the money.
Most of my black partners have wanted me to, but it's
enough that they have me anally. They seem to consider
white women deserving of anal sex.
"I'm just glad you keep that practice to ourselves," I
wrote.
For our sixth anniversary, Todd took me to Hawaii.
Sarah was five years old then, Erin three and Rachel a
little over a year. We had discussed going alone, had
even come to that decision a month before the flight,
then realized how unfair that would be to Sarah. Even
at five, Sarah understood Hawaii.
"You have to promise me something, though," he told me
a week before the trip. I was in the baby's room,
changing her diaper. He came up behind me and pressed
an unexpected erection between my cheeks.
"Oh?" I asked, at once interested and suspicious.
He grinned. "I want a public blow job."
I looked around for Sarah, old enough now to repeat
things, if not understand them. "What do you mean,
'public'?"
His erection grew harder. "As in public, where everyone
can see you," he said. I shivered all over. "Yeah," he
said. "That kind of public."
In Honolulu, we baked on the sand, cavorted in the
surf, took extraordinary tours of the island, got too
much sun and not enough sleep, dealt with a sick baby
when Rachel came down with a cold, lost Sarah for a
panic-filled hour and a half at a street-market in
Waikiki. We also offered six men the opportunity to
have sex with me after watching me suck Todd's cock.
Four of them had accepted.
I typed: "Eighteen minutes."
"Stop counting down. Enjoy your remaining minutes."
"I luxuriate in my agony," I wrote.
"Spoil-sport."
The truth was, I was beginning to enjoy this. Nothing
had ever stayed up me so long, and my anus was either
getting accustomed to the presence, or had just given
up. Besides, it beat getting rode until someone decided
to come in me; that really made me sore.
I wrote guiltily: "It's not so bad. Pleasurable even,
perhaps. Just not habit-forming, I hope."
"For me... or for you?"
I wondered which option was worse.
On our seventh anniversary, Todd took me to visit my
grandparents. That sounds corny, but my grandparents
live in Paraguay. We took the kids and spent three long
weeks battling mosquitoes, the military, foreign
tourists, foreign journalists, bad food and bad water,
grabby locals who delighted in pinching or patting my
ass, really scary mafiosa's who kidnapped American
women, raped them and sometimes gave them back for
ransom. This conversation took place in our rental car.
"Are we almost there yet, Mom?"
"No, and take that away from your sister. Erin, no!
Todd!"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Pull over?"
"Here?"
"What's wrong with here?"
"Look around you, dear."
"Never mind. Keep going."
Some time later: "Mom?"
"Sarah, I'm busy! Erin, hand me that diaper. No, that
diaper, the one without the poop."
"Mom?"
"I'm busy, Sarah. Rachel, could you please hold still?
I'm not going to--"
"Dad?"
"What is it, honey?"
"That man is following us."
"What man?"
"The man in the beat up old car. The one you bought the
oranges from? He's back there with his friends, see?"
"What's she talking about, Todd?"
"I'm not sure. The grubby old dude from the roadside
turnout? I think he's back there, two cars back. Maybe
we shouldn't lead him home, huh?"
"I don't see anyone. No, wait--I do see him. He's...
no, definitely do not lead him home, Todd."
What the old man in the truck had been doing was
grinning at me with his gap-tooth, wretched smile. We
had stopped at his roadside stand on the edge of town
to shop for some fruit for dinner, and he, like the
other males of the locale, had examined my goods while
I examined his. I left feeling mentally stripped and
devoured--I didn't want it happening in real life.
I typed: "Sarah got kissed today in school."
"She did?"
"So she tells me. His name is Tom."
"Did she like it?"
"As far as I could tell. I'm surprised she even told
me."
Sarah is at that age when communication with Mom
suddenly ceases. Or, at least grows heavily censored.
Things I did at eleven would have given my mom a cow.
Probably still would.
"You don't think she's. . .you know?"
"I don't think so. But it's coming. They start earlier
every year."
"I'm not talking about her period," he said.
"Neither am I."
For our eighth wedding anniversary, we stayed closer to
home. Todd finagled a time-share condo in the tallest
building in Ocean City, Maryland. We spent a wonderful
week alone, baking on the sand, loosing money in the
arcades, buying, flying and loosing kites, dining on
crabs at Phillips, day-fishing on an party-boat out of
Bahia Marina, para-sailing on Agawoman Bay, riding
Skidoo's on the ocean, and getting magnificently
sunburned.
And of course, getting me banged.
My third night there, I struck up a conversation with a
young man in the Purple Moose Saloon. After ten minutes
I made it obvious he could have me if he wanted me, and
waited to see if he did. His name was Jay and he was
with three of his friends.
"I like him," I had told Todd earlier that day. This
was outside Thrasher's French Fries, near the end of
the boardwalk, where the young man and his friends were
hitting on girls.
Todd turned around and looked. "Which one?"
"Do I have to choose?" I giggled.
We followed them surreptitiously throughout the
afternoon, discovered where they were staying, then
followed them in the early evening to the Purple Moose
Saloon. Armed with fake ID's and a confidence pumped up
by alcohol, the four friends were now hitting on me.
"I'm going to UMBC," the young man of my fancy
confided.
"I went to UMBC," I told him, delightedly.
"Oh, yeah? How about that?" He high-fived his friend
Tony. Tony grinned with sparkling white teeth and
twinkling green eyes. He was the cutest of the four,
but also the most conceited. It was Jay I liked.
Tony said, "Jay here, thinks Penn State is beneath him.
He had the chance to go, but thinks all those jocks
running around campus mean only one thing."
"A party school," Jay said, slapping himself on the
forehead. "What was I thinking?"
I concurred teasingly, "We can't all be Einstein's,
Jay. Maybe you need a tutor?"
He laughed and touched my thigh. Then I knew. The
question was: Just him? Or his friends as well?
Right out of the blue I typed: "Do you know who I
enjoyed the most in Ocean City?"
His surprise answer: "Jay. The one from UMBC."
"How did you know that?" I typed.
"I know my wife."
Better than you know, I thought. And not as well. "He
was a really nice boy. I wish I had kept up with him.
Do you think he'd still be interested in me? After all
this time?"
"Are you suggesting it?" he asked.
"Just wondering."
"Call him. There couldn't be many Jay Birkenstauler's
in the phone book."
He was right. Only one.
Our ninth wedding anniversary, dawned rainy, cold and
miserable. We were at my parent's place in Denning, in
the Catskill's, by North Lake. The kids were at home
with Mom and Dad. Sharing my bed was an Ulster County
policeman named Morris Haught. He was black, of course,
big as a horse, and quite handsome. I awoke first and
lay there looking at him. He breathed softly and easily
now, unlike last night.
On our way home from dinner, Todd had said: "We're
being pulled over."
"What?" I looked back to see a blue and red flashing
light bar. "Were you speeding?" I asked.
"No. I was doing limit." It was a missing screw as it
turned out, letting our license plate hang askew.
I liked Morris immediately and, one thing leading to
another, we ended up in bed. Just before midnight, on
my stomach, panting harshly, hair tangled around my
face, a softening erection in me, I had exclaimed: "You
did what?"
He laughed. In my ear he repeated: "I took the screw
out myself."
"Why?" I demanded, although I knew exactly why.
"So I could meet you."
"You could have just said hello."
He laughed again. Then I laughed. "Don't tell my
husband." Todd was across the hall in the second
bedroom. "He'd be very disappointed. He thinks it was
fate."
"It was fate," he said. "Fate that I saw you in the
first place."
"Remember Morris?" I typed.
"We are reminiscing, aren't we?"
"I have something better to do with my time?"
"You better not."
"What I wondered was," I typed, "did you call him or
did he call you?"
On our tenth wedding anniversary, we flew down to
Daytona Beach for a long weekend, just Todd and I. When
we got to the motel, he stayed downstairs to park the
car while I went up to the room. I struggled to get the
door open, cursing silently that he had left me with so
much luggage. After getting everything inside, I got
grabbed from behind. He kicked the door closed with his
foot and, one hand stifling my screams, the other
pinning my arms at my sides, carried me, feet kicking a
foot off the ground, to the bed. It wasn't until he
tossed me down that I saw who it was.
"Morris!"
"Hello, Jeannie."
I was flabbergasted. "What are you doing here?"
"Getting ready to strip-search you," he said,
unbuttoning his shirt. It was a very thorough strip-
search.
Todd wrote: "It was my idea. Morris went along with
it."
"Went along with it. Very funny. He's not going to show
up here for another strip-search, is he?"
"Try calling him at home."
"Very funny," I wrote again.
Our eleventh wedding anniversary was one of the best.
We packed the kids into Mom and Dad's 30' Gulfstream
motor home (we could have packed the house into the
Gulfstream, it's that big) and set off for a three-week
odyssey across the United States. We went to Georgia
first, via Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway, to
visit the kid's other pair of great-grandparents. The
normal ones.
While in Shenandoah National Park, we took a day-hike
up the Appalachian Trail, were enthralled by the
magnificent scenery (all but Sarah, who would much
rather have been home playing with her friends), got
enchanted by a dozen or more deer, terrified by three
black bears, got my feet soaked in a stream slipping
off a mossy rock, and got poison ivy on my butt
squatting to pee.
That night, after the kids went to sleep Todd took me
atop of the camper and screwed me silly on a blanket.
We did it beneath a million stars with a million
mosquitoes sucking us dry. I looked like a smallpox
victim the next morning, but I was happy.
In Tennessee we stopped at a nudist campsite and had a
very interesting overnight stay. Especially for Sarah,
who refused to expose her developing body until the
cute eleven year old in the next camper came by.
In Georgia we picked peaches, saw Todd's grandparents,
visited Civil War landmarks, treated Todd to a much
deserved, mobile blow-job while the kids took a nap,
and saw me have sex with my first real southern black
man. This happened just outside Macon, where Todd's
parent's live. We were at a Texaco gas station, off
Route 41, filling up. This enormous black man had a
shaved head, wore a black tee-shirt beneath his bib-
overalls, had huge muscles straining his shirt-sleeves,
and labored beneath the ferocious sun trying to repair
a gas pump. I took one look at him and knew. "Please?"
I asked Todd. The kid's were at his grandparent's.
The gas pump was on the far island. The man squat with
his hands busy in its innards. I climbed down to the
pavement, crossed the forty feet of intervening
distance, stopped a respectable distance away and said:
"Excuse me?"
The man looked up.
"We're kind of lost." I gestured toward the Gulfstream,
where Todd sat behind wheel, looking convincingly lost.
I stood in the hot sun with my hand shading my eyes,
the top three button's of my blouse undone, my hips
cocked to one side in an innocently suggestive manner,
and the most "I'm sorry to bother you" look on my face.
In bear's growl he asked, "Where you headed?"
"Columbus," I lied.
He shook his head. "No easy way to get there." He stood
up. He was eight feet tall. Seven feet when he stepped
down off the curb. I felt like--well, like Sarah
standing beside her father. "Come with me," he rumbled.
I faltered, looking back at Todd, who grinned widely.
Your mess, your cleanup, he liked to say. I scurried
off after the man, like a duckling after its momma.
Inside the building, he pointed to a map. "This is
Macon." He slid his huge black fingertip left, to the
Alabama border. "This is Columbus." No major roads
connected the two. I felt suddenly lost for real.
"Ya gotta start out on 80," he began. "Pick up 19 right
here at Thom--"
"Would you like to kiss me?" Right out of nowhere.
Blurted. Totally flustered.
"What?" He eyed me like a cop eying a potentially armed
and dangerous drunk. Distrust rolled off him in waves.
I gulped and went on.
"I like some men on sight. Black men, white men... ." I
shrugged apologetically. "My husband lets me have sex
with them when I like them." I couldn't believe what I
was saying, how stupid I felt. "I saw you out there--"
indicating the broken down pump, "--and something just
clicked in me. I want you to have me. I know how stupid
that sounds. I'm sorry, but there it is."
There it was, all right. From the mouth of an idiot. I
thought he would hit me.
Instead, he took me by the hand, lead me into the back
office, locked the door and took my clothes off. He
then showed me the way to Columbus with his cock.
I typed: "So, here we are, on our twelfth wedding
anniversary, you in Detroit, me in bed with a large
object in my ass. Examine this picture carefully."
"LOL. You know I'm sorry. I wouldn't be here if it
wasn't really important." HP stood on the verge of
loosing a major contract with General Motors. I
couldn't blame him for being there. It was our
livelihood. "I promise you next year," he wrote, "a
night you'll always remember."
"I'll always remember tonight," I said, looking at the
clock. It was midnight. "Happy anniversary."
"Happy anniversary to you. I guess it's time."
"Oh, I don't know," I typed. "I kinda like it there.
Like the George Washington Tunnel after a major traffic
accident involving tractor-trailer trucks."
"LOL. Leave it then."
"For a while."
We chatted for another twenty minutes, then signed off.
I closed the lid on my iBook computer, sat it carefully
on the nightstand, then interlinked my fingers and lay
my chin atop them. I smiled. I felt really good.
Content. I ached inside, my anus promised to make me
very sorry in the morning, but it could have been
worse.
"I'm ready," I said.
The chair behind me creaked and my visitor stood up. He
stretched and yawned mightily. "About damn time. Damned
key-clicking. I could have fallen asleep, except for
that."
"I didn't want you to fall asleep," I said, wagging my
tail at him. "I wanted your full attention."
"Oh, you got my attention, all right." He climbed
behind me on the bed. "This ready to come out?"
I gripped the huge black shaft one last time, sighed,
and said, Yes, take it out, which he did, very slowly,
and set it upright atop my iBook. He then took the
dildo's place inside me and began making my insides
ache even worse. I watched the glistening black shaft
sway silently in the dim light as we rocked the bed,
until I closed my eyes and joined him.
THE END
Note to the reader: This is not one of my better
efforts and I apologize for that. I just started
writing one evening with no clear notion where to go,
and the narrative shows it. Each anniversary should
reflect the ongoing conversation; instead, they come
out disjointed sounding and confusing. I can only say
that they reflect my own disjointed and confused
thought processes, LOL.
M.H. 11-14-04
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 32