On that Sunday afternoon, after 24 hours of the most intense, prolonged and repeated sexual coupling I had ever experienced, I was standing, naked, by the window, looking at the garden outside through the half-drawn curtains. The sun was shining weakly, allowing the bare trees to cast their prickly shadows across the lawn, when he came up behind me. One hand cupped my breast and the other grabbed my pussy, pulling me in towards his groin, before forcing my neck down to bend me over. My hands scrabbled at the wall to try to gain some purchase for balance and then automatically went around my ankles to support his weight as he slid himself into me.
No preamble necessary. The activities of the previous few hours had left my body craving more. Like a starving man before a banquet, it had started with a few furtive bites before evolving into a Homer Simpson-ish gourmand of unquenchable desire. Always wet and ever ready for consummation of the lust that had been released.
Reaching up to push my hands against the wall, the depth of the penetration quite startled me for I had never been fucked from that angle before… although there were not many positions that remained unvisited during that eventful weekend. Strange, how my ability to recall stops at the point he led me into his bedroom but I suspect that is due to the large amount of Dutch courage I had imbibed to anaesthetise my conscience so it didn’t have to deal with the enormity of the occasion. I have no recollection of any of the details of that night or the following morning in his bed, only the feeling of being battered and yet unbelievably alive. However, this memory from the following day shines out like a beacon. His hands on my hips, slamming into me, forcing out a moaningly-appreciative orgasm before pushing me onto the bed on my hands and knees. Grabbing my tulip from under the pillow, my clit took me almost to the peak again before he entered me from behind at the optimal moment.
The heat of my burning internal flesh surprised him. It still does, even now. For, after a weekend of such rampancy and, following so closely upon the first climax, I was incredibly aroused; the blood and excitement were centred in that place, engorging my flesh like swollen petals. Tight, slippery, yet almost dry heat, the furnace consumed him before it was suddenly awash with fluid as the consequent huge explosion hit.
Underneath the layers of my naturally enthusiastic reaction to his attentions, I became aware of something rising within me. This was more than the squeals of pleasure that I remembered from happier times with the man whose name I bear and different from the feral howls of enjoyment that the Bear’s fingers had released, with the assistance of the relaxing effect of a large quantity of alcohol.
This time I was stone cold sober and it took some seconds before I recognised the phenomenon. Finally, another man had made me like myself enough to be able to go back to that seminal masturbatory orgasm I had experienced with a Rabbit and a toothbrush all those months ago. With the blood rushing in my ears, my mind reached for nirvana as my body shivered its excited response to his rhythmic pounding.
At the very last moment, caution overrode abandon and I bit down on the mattress in an attempt to stifle the energy that was trying to force its way out of my mouth, activating my vocal chords on its journey. But my body had the upper hand and, although muffled, the shrill shriek of its victory cut through the silence of that January afternoon like a klaxon.
The transformation of a shy, repressed, vanilla little housewife had begun and the Scream would punctuate the journey on a regular basis.
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