Erotica

Six Honest Serving Men

You’ll want to know how I got this way, how it was my clothes ended up in tatters around me

I know I shouldn’t start a story at the end, when I’m already lying spent and what happened has happened.

I should begin at the beginning, not commence by telling you I’m naked and drained, glistening with sweat and tears, a sheet pulled over me to hide the cum still oozing from my tender holes, because you’ll want to know how I got this way, how it was my clothes ended up in tatters around me, how I can be so obviously used and abused yet still smile.

Well, you can probably guess the how, but you’ll certainly want to know why.

Except telling you why I allowed a man to fuck my mouth — that I sucked him greedily until he spilled his hot seed on my tongue, swallowing what he gave me and thanking him for it because my cunt and my arse were too sore and I couldn’t take another cock in either — won’t make sense without explaining where and when it happened. It doesn’t help you understand if I tell you my mouth felt neglected and I felt there was more of me those men could use.

Telling you the fifth man chose to take my arse because it was already stretched and slick with the fourth’s cum; that he was gentle in the hope I might sob less; that he couldn’t know my sobbing was happiness not distress, and that I wanted to be made to squeal, to moan, to feel, to ache… that won’t explain anything.

I can tell you I chose to roll over after the third man came deep within me, that I spread my cheeks and offered up my arsehole not because my cunt was sore — though it was — but because I wanted more pain, or a different pain, or simply a different disgrace. I can tell you that, but it doesn’t explain why I let the third man fuck me.

Even knowing I wanted the third because I didn’t feel the second; or knowing I welcomed the second because the first was so good and I came on his cock like I never came with you in those few weeks when we still shared a bed; or knowing that I let the second man fuck me because I felt only joy, not shame, in my first infidelity; or knowing I wanted the second because he was small and I hoped to be fucked without pleasure, that I needed him to use me like he might use a whore; all that explains little, unless I tell you where and when this occurred.

But if you know I was lying on your bed when I spread my legs for the first man, maybe you’ll begin to understand. It was your bed he pinned me to, your quilt I clutched as he drove himself into me. While you were away again, playing with one of your toys, he found me weeping for my lonely marriage and he brought me solace with his company: his hard, hot company, hammering into me, flooding me, spilling out of me. And he brought his own company with him, a surfeit of company, the sort of company that leaves its mark so that even afterwards, in solitude, I can still feel their touch and remember I am not alone.

But you can’t truly understand how weeping in your room, in your absence, made me a wanton woman, unless you understand who those men were.

If any other rough men had found me and ripped through thin cotton to tear apart my dignity and leave me exposed to their will, I might have endured it, for the sake of feeling desired. But with these men I revelled in being used as the object of their lust. When men you chose — the groom, the stable lad, the gardeners, the gamekeeper — stood at the door and told me they knew how you treated me, that they watched me, that they knew what I needed… when those men told me what they intended to do, I lay back on your bed and invited them in with a smile.

So, that’s what happened. And now they’re gone, and you understand.

But do you understand that they’ll be back? Tomorrow, or next week, or when the moon is full, or new, or whenever they choose, one, or two, or all of them might visit my room and use my willing body.

Because this is the beginning of something.

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