Don’t. Please Don’t Make Me.
2 in stock
“Don’t” Please. Don’t Make Me! by Jo-Anne Wiley
A Snowball’s Chance…
The winter storm had done more than fill her lane-way; the snowplow driver was right behind. And he had filled her vagina!
It wasn’t like her. Sue had been alone since her husband had run off with one of the Bubble-Heads from the Mr. Bubble Car Wash, leaving her with debt and a delusional daughter. But the “snow cowboy” rescued her from the drifts; had driven her home. And she had been hospitable… Very!
Just a ‘quicky’ she reasoned; it had been years, after all. But he stayed the night. And showed up for dinner the next evening. One quicky leads to another, and another, and suddenly you’re in a relationship. The guy was coarse and hard, and she wasn’t at all convinced it could ever be serious. But he was just so damned good. But then again, he was getting lots of practice: Sue began to see the change in her daughter.
Doing Tricks and Driving Around Naked
She picked up the ketchup bottle and, encircling the neck with thumb and fingers, caressed it with long, finite strokes. Her friend’s chin lifted, eyes shimmering in surprise and excitement.
“You did that? To him? At the office?”
The clatter of knives and forks paled to the sound of her marriage imploding. Along with her job and her career. It started as a mindless diversion from a long day seated by the dental chair: The accidental brush of breast on arm, crisp nipple-play on skin, a friendly squeeze where one would not normally squeeze. It was all innocent fun. And Holly’s male patients didn’t complain. But Rich Cunningham saw what the others missed: An opportunity to make her perform. To satisfy his own warped sexual idiosyncrasies. And those of his son.
“He’s not going to call,” Holly maintained.
“Man like dog,” her friend Juan said, “sniffing ’round woman’s leg. He get service like that? He call. You be certain of that! And when he does, this is what you say…”
Plus, for fans of Jo-Anne Wiley, two bonus stories:
There Are No Rules, When The Lights Go Out
With the flick of a switch, her life changed. She was with the guys with whom she had worked and shared her daytime hours, for close to ten years. She had been a surrogate mother… damn, a surrogate priest, to most of them! So just like that, it’s over? Ten years swept away in a landslide of groping hands that washed over her like muddy floodwater. What insanity had impelled her? Why in god’s name, had she ever let herself be talked into hosting the bachelor party.
Linda-Lee’s dark brown aureoles were featured on the cover of the magazine with the caption, “Eat More Fortune Cookies.” The guys at work were going to go berserk. They had been betting on the size and color of her nipples for weeks. But he had declined the bet; it wouldn’t be fair, after all. He was already familiar with the size and shape of Tom’s fiancee’s breasts. All too familiar. What he didn’t understand was her compulsion to humiliate; to photograph him at his very weakest moment. For all to see.
Cover Art Image Shutterstock.com
Why hadn’t she gone home at six o’clock like she had originally planned. Well because there was one last e-mail to be answered and Angie liked to start her business day with a clean slate. She was just wrapping things up, ten after six, when her desk phone rang.
“Herb, I thought you’d be busy getting ready for the party.”
“I know… I know. But I’ve hit a snag, Angie. My fault. I just didn’t plan things too well. That’s all. But I’m glad I caught you. I need you to drop around to the house on your way home. I’m sorry; just didn’t plan things too well,” he repeated.
Alarms were going off between her ears: As shrill as any inside a fire hall. “It’s a bachelor party, Herb… a STAG! You don’t invite girls to a stag party!”
“No… no… no,” he tried to mollify her. “I just need help with the food.”
And now Angie was curled-up into the corner of the couch. She held one of Bernice’s cushions in her lap and tried to hide her nipples in the folds. She could have wished for a larger cushion.
What she wanted, was a really good cry, but that wouldn’t help right now. She needed to get dressed and get the hell outta here. Home! But someone had hidden her clothes. Her jacket was still there, hanging from the back of the bar stool. And her high heels lay upturned at the end of the coffee table. Angie 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. But she feared that might change at the sight of her nude 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 effect of the vodka that had given her misguided courage earlier, was wearing thin, leaving her cold and empty inside; empty except for the moisture that was leaking and leaving a sticky smear on the inside of her thigh; 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. And serviced was the word for it! 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. Angie 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 water-sports. But who was it? Who wanted to watch her pee? As hard as she tried, Angie couldn’t remember his face. Maybe she had just sneered, without really looking; that must have been it.
When she had finished up in the bathroom and washed her hands, she stepped through the door and was surprised to find the hall lights had been extinguished. Angie remembered being jostled about in the darkness. Then went blank for a moment before finding herself flat on the carpet with someone hovering above her. Very close.
It had been so dark. A liquid black that defeated her attempts to focus. Angie 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 penis. 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 fucking on her friend’s bedroom carpet like a common slut.
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 subconscious 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 bullied about. 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 with determination; 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. She went all delirious inside. She should have felt shame. But instead she was yearning.
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 take him into her mouth? But before she could fathom an answer, the man she coupled, paused and leaned forward; lifted on his hands. Angie heard the quiet smack of his lips and the groan from the one above. She had always been curious: Two beautiful boys sharing. And now it was happening a scant two 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, her leg danced with nervous tension. She stared into the darkness, eyes wide and restlessly blinking. Her perception abruptly changed. God. She was being raped.
But before she could struggle, her partner faltered. Pushed deep and held. And he came.
When he had finished, he rolled to one side and the other man took his place. Angie held on and accepted the other penis.
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