My 30th High School Reunion

"That's quite a fantasy," I said. "You know, I've never had two men at the same time. I'm not that kind of girl."

"How do you know?" Frank asked.

"Trust me, I know," I said, even if I actually had no idea.

"So I'm wondering, Susan," Frank began. Clearly it was difficult for him, whatever he was wanting to say. "I'm wondering if we could, uh, you know, like you did with Mark last night?"

"What did I do with Mark last night?" I asked, a bit alarmed.

"Oh. Well of course you must know, right? You were there, right? But according to Facebook, you and Mark had wild sex multiple times last night and again this morning. Here, take a look!" Frank said. He stupidly showed me Mark's Facebook page, which had a picture of me standing in my hotel room, dressed only in my panties and smiling like an idiot. Below the picture he had inscribed, "Wild times with our school slut last night and again this morning! Wow, what a babe. 30 years later - Still a great lay."

I managed to say, "Excuse me," as I ran to the ladies' and vomited into the toilet. To think that I had actually liked Mark! The ladies' room had a couch for those of us ladies who become indisposed, presumably by "that time of month," and I lay down on it, my face facing the floor. I did not cry. I wanted to, but tears did not come.

Finally, I went back to Frank. "I have a migraine headache, Frank. Sorry, but I have to call it a night. It was nice to see you again. Goodbye." Frank looked stunned, fortunately too stunned to speak, and I was able to get away and back to my hotel. I went back to my room. I quickly packed, checked out, and drove straight to the Kansas City airport. It's a nice airport, with easy access to the gates.

I returned the car, and enrolled for standby on all the flights to Chicago that night. There weren't any, so I simply waited for the 6am flights. I got on the first one I could. On the way from the airport to my split-level, suburban home, I bought a bottle of high quality, 18-year-old Scotch whiskey. At home, I found a surprised sister, babysitting my two teenage kids. The kids were up, scurrying about, getting ready for school.

We put on thick sweaters, and I took two glasses, my sister, and the Scotch out to the porch. I poured us each a glass. I had said nothing. "Scotch whiskey at 8am? Bad reunion?" my sister said, with sympathy in her voice. I nodded. "Want to tell me about it?" I shook my head no. My sister sat with me there, in silence, for two hours. I never spoke. Neither did she. My sister is a good woman. They don't get any better than she is.

The next day Mark called. He was coming to Chicago for the next weekend, and he wondered if I wanted to get together with him? I smiled to myself. "Sure," I said. "What did you have in mind?"

I agreed to dinner and a movie. Then I called my sister. Her husband Steve is a retired Army Ranger. He has Army Ranger friends. You do not mess with them. Mark did not know it, but he was going to get more than he bargained for.

I laid the groundwork. Steve's friend Tate is a hunk. We had flirted before from time to time, but I was not ready for the dating scene. But now it's been two years since my beloved's passing. I guess I am as ready as I will ever be.

Steve arranged a meeting between Tate and me. I told him what happened, and told him what I wanted to do. I asked him what he wanted from me in exchange. He said that he wanted nothing. He said that I'm a babe, and he always enjoys helping out babes in distress. I leaned in and gave him a kiss right there in Starbucks, I was so grateful.

Apparently Tate liked the kiss. Right then, right there, he asked me out for that very evening. Even though it was Tuesday, and I had the early shift on Wednesday, I agreed. After all, he had kindly agreed to help me.

Tate was 60 years old, having 12 years on me, but he was all muscle. Easily over six feet tall, he was an intimidating figure. He was perfect for the showdown with Mark. I figured if I put out for Tate, he would be that much more convincing.

The date was romantic enough. I dressed nicely, but not provocatively, except for my perfume choice: Opium, of Yves St. Laurent. I applied it where the sun does not shine, should the date come to that. As you might have guessed, I had descended back into my high school slut mode. It's easier to be a slut when you're 48. It's even expected, since the dating scene is a living hell.

At 48, you cannot play the innocent little girl anymore. Everyone has been around the block. Everyone knows the score. Women fuck their dates, even if they're not interested in them, just to be polite, and so that they're not trashed on tinder and the like. Combine that, with my history of easy virtue, and it's not hard to see what's coming.

Yet, still I was blindsided. Tate took me to his home. It was fine, even if it sorely lacked, and needed, a woman's touch. We had more drinks, sat next to each other on the couch and Tate made his move. We kissed, and little by little my clothes came off. By the time I was down to earrings and panties, I was nice and wet. I was aroused. That's when Tate lowered the boom.

"I want to tie you up," Tate said.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Have you ever done kink, Susan?"

"I've never done bondage, if that's what you're asking," I replied. Silence ensued. "If that's what floats your boat, Tate, I'm willing to try it. You won't hurt me, right?"

"Just a little casual whipping, perhaps," Mike said.

"You're not kidding?" I asked.

"I'll stop if you say the safe word," Tate said. "Today's safe word is 'Stop.'"

"Good choice," I said. "Okay, if it's important to you, I'll give it a try," I said.

Tate led me into the second bedroom, which gave all of the appearance of being a torture room purchased at a Spanish Inquisition Surplus Store. I began to get scared, even very scared. Strangely, my arousal got super intense as my fear increased. When Tate gently pulled down my panties, I was more than ready for this.

I got on the bed, and he put on the harness and the constraints. I could not move. He got out a small whip and struck me across the belly. There is something about erotic pain: either you like it and it turns you on, or you don't, and it's a turn off. Tate knew this, of course, and he waited for my reaction.

Tate smiled when he saw my reaction. My breathing had changed and my pussy was so wet if was dribbling out some juices. He increased the force of the blows with the whip, and I began to moan. When he whipped me across the breasts, I actually groaned with pleasure. Tate told me later I was a natural.

Right then, however, he said nothing. He just climbed up on me, pulling on the nipple clamps he had fastened earlier, causing me to gasp. When he actually shoved his cock all the way inside me, I was so wet and ready for it, I took it really easily. We fucked a long time. No man had ever lasted that long with me before, not that there had been much competition. In high school the boys just wanted to cum inside me as fast as possible.

Tate had a big cock. It was the biggest one I had ever seen, and I've seen more than my share. So I was a little nervous, but when he entered me, it felt so natural! I could feel his cock filling me up, and when he began to slide in and out, I could feel his enormous strength.

I just love a strong man. Tate was strong. His cock was strong. He was the incarnation of distilled masculinity. Or at least that's how it felt as he fiercely fucked me. Tenderness was not in his active vocabulary. Neither was languorous. Action, that's the word that describes the animal known as Tate. Lots and lots of action.

I felt Tate's weight on me as he screwed me. He moved his cock in little circles, and it kept massaging my clit. His cock was so huge it was hard not to, I suspect! I just loved it. I would get a little thrill every half second when it would touch me there. I loved the squishy sound his actions were making as he used me. I was so wet, it wasn't funny.

As an adult, there had only been my husband, and quite recently Mark the Asshole. I guess I climaxed twice during Tate's memorable fuck. I guess, too, I like bondage. I never even considered saying Stop: Not even when Tate almost choked me to death while fucking me and driving me to my second, and totally over the top, orgasm. Wow.

After the fuck, we adjourned to his living room. He gave me a glass of 18-year-old Scotch (how did he know that was my drink of choice?), and with me still naked, we sat together on the couch. He turned on the TV and there we were, having sex in his torture chamber.

I got alarmed. "If that goes on the Internet, I will come here and kill you in your sleep," I said.

Tate laughed. "It's just for us," he said. "Want a copy? You look beautiful and sexy enough to launch a thousand ships."

"Sure, I'll take a copy," I said. Maybe some day I'll show it to my daughter, once she's old enough. "Maybe we can do this again some time? I had fun."

Tate smiled. He had a live one.

The night of my date with Mark came all too soon. Mark was all suave and self-confident. Why shouldn't he be? With minimal effort he had laid this sexpot (me) within hours after meeting me after a 30 years hiatus from when we had first had sex. No doubt being around me made him feel like a stud. On the other hand, I'm a slut, remember? How much of an achievement is it, anyway, to lay a slut?

But Mark was mature enough to know that was 30 years ago. Now I was a middle-aged widow with two children, and anything but a casual teenage slut. I was even probably too old to be considered a MILF. How depressing. But I was nowhere near a slut anymore. And yet he had laid me and he made it look easy. Well, good for him.

Mark pulled out all of the stops. He took me to a fancy dinner and then to the hot play at the Goodman Theater. He dressed nice, in a suit and tie, and he was solicitous of me all evening long. Too bad he was doomed. What he did to me with Facebook was not something I was capable of forgiving. He assumed I was ignorant of it.

As I had arranged, at the end of the evening, I took him to Tate's place. Tate was hiding in a special place he had built for his friends the voyeurs. Tate was truly into kink! Mark got me undressed to my panties, and we kissed a lot. (Oh, the sacrifices a girl has to make!) He enjoyed fondling my boobs, too. I kept my hands to myself. A blowjob for Mark that night was not in the cards. He did not actually ask for one, but it was clear he had expected one, and that he wanted one. Too bad, sucker.

Then I lowered my own boom. I told him I'm into kink. Mark's eyes got wide. I think men like to tie up and fuck women. It's just a theory I have, and I'm not about to try to verify it with data!

The other way around, however, where the man is tied up? Not so much! But I explained to Mark if he wanted to have sex, he would have to submit to bondage. The idea that he was the one to be tied up really flummoxed Mark! He had no idea what to say.

"It's up to you, Mark. No sex unless you submit to bondage," I said.

Mark pushed me onto the couch. "That's what you think, bitch," he angrily spat out at me. He ripped off my panties, and he roughly spread my legs. I tried to knee him in the groin. I missed, but I still managed to send a knee into his solar plexus, and while he was gasping for breath I wriggled free. I hit him on the head with a lead crystal vase. It did not break, but Mark lost consciousness.

Tate quickly emerged from his hiding place, and together we moved the naked Mark to the torture bed, quickly binding him up. Tate gave me the whip, and he retired to his hiding place. He barely made it out of sight when Mark awoke.

"My head is killing me," Mark said. As he tried to get up and could not, he said, using his elegant command of the Queen's English, "What the fuck?" Then he saw me, standing there with only my panties on (I had slipped them back on), my boobs floating around above him.

I stood to his side and showed him the whip. "No," he said. I ignored him and gently whipped him. He almost began to laugh at my pathetic attempts with the whip. I channeled Tate's technique I had observed from the receiving end, and gave him a good thrashing. I could see red welts forming. "I wonder how this whip would feel on your cock?"

Mark's eyes got large. He had a huge and throbbing erection. I could see the blue veins sticking out from the sides. There was pre cum on the tip. I smiled, and whipped directly onto his cock. He screamed.

"It hurts, does it?" I said.

"You bitch!" Mark said.

"Physical pain pales compared to mental anguish, asshole" I said. I took out my iPhone and showed him his Facebook page picture of me, nearly naked (I was wearing only panties) and smiling, with his caption bragging how he had laid the 'school slut,' after a 30-year hiatus.

I put on high heels. I put one foot on Mark's stomach, and Tate emerged from the voyeur's hideaway. Tate had a real camera, not just a cell phone camera, and he took a lot of picture of my high-heeled foot right next to Mark's still erect cock. After the photo shoot, I got dressed and left.

Tate went and watched the video again of us fucking, and then finally released Mark. He told Mark to get the fuck out of his apartment and never to show his ugly face in Chicago again. Mark left quickly, shouting obscenities from the street. But when Tate appeared in his doorway, Mark quickly ran away as fast as he could.

Two can use Facebook, and I posted some of the pictures Tate had taken of Mark and me. Mark was looking like a wimpy submissive, with a sexpot in high heels and wearing little else walking all over him, while he was bound and naked. I was the sexpot, and if you knew my boobs, you would know it was I. Also, it was my Facebook page. That's a big clue. But I did not care. Not even a little bit. My comment was "I don't like wimps."

Tate and I began dating. I learned a lot about being a submissive. I took to it like a duck to water. This helped me to realize, eventually, that my doormat high school slut behavior was actually exactly because I was a submissive. I just had not realized it.

Our relationship, that of Tate and me, which began mostly around sex, grew into something more. Now it is something much more. Conventional people would call it love. It's nice to love a man again. It's also nice to have a man love me. My kids like him, too. Well, sometimes one can have a happy ending, right? This is one of those times.