Nighttime Confessions 2: Sunrise Pt. 01

The extra-marital sex club created by capecodmercury in his "Nighttime Confessions" fascinated me. His character Marge and her dilemma inspired me to try my first pure fiction effort, and from a female point of view to boot. My thanks to him and the invitation to create other endings. I have tried to remain true to his setting, and you must read or re-read his first story if this is to make any sense to you.

This chapter 2 is in two parts, covering the next 24 hours. Chapter 3 covers the next 24 months. Part 2 will be posted shortly, but Chapter 3 is only just begun and, given the time constraints on my creative process, will be several weeks in the writing. I know what happens in the final chapter, but will have to sift the events through my editorial filters. So if you are one who is annoyed by having to wait for the next or final installment, don't read this until "DAWN RESOLUTIONS" is posted.

In addition to capecodmercury for the inspiration, I want to thank jaccuzzigal, mandywilluk2000, and dyanesbush for their review and helpful editorial comments.

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I didn't sleep that night. My fears that it would not be a restful night were well founded. Emotions, all negative, ran rampant and out of control. I tossed and I turned, trying to think of something other than my shocking experience with Phil and the "swinger club". But I kept coming back to pondering the why of what had, at least for me, been unthinkable before 11 p.m. that evening.

I had cheated on my husband and I could not come up with a sensible explanation for my conduct. I did not understand why I had done what I did. Worst of all, I had enjoyed the physical pleasure far more than I should have. At times that night, I became frantic about the future. Un-tethered from a fidelity that was always a basic (but relatively unspoken) foundation to my marriage, my union with Don suddenly seemed adrift.

I had not really cried since my mother died but I made up for it that night as I cried until there were no more tears. Three times I ran to the bathroom to vomit, until the bile was gone and only dry heaves were left.

I had lost something that I could never get back. The more I thought about that, the more devastated I became.

In sixteen years of happy marriage, plus three years going steady before, I had never thought about sleeping with another man. I don't remember even flirting with another man or finding another man attractive in that way. If a man had flirted with me, I had either been unaware or had easily deflected it. I never had a seven, or any other, year itch. I did not feel unattractive as I approached forty; I was not a mad housewife going crazy with the demands of children and middle class life. I did not have an unsatisfactory or unfulfilling sex life with my husband. There was nothing Don did or failed to do in bed that left me pining for something else. So why did this happen?

And why with Phil? He was a nice, attractive man, I suppose. Phil was an OK dancer and kisser. He had a good enough body, but not as muscular or attractive as Don despite Phil being about 8 years younger. I suppose he even smelled pretty good. But he was not a tall, dark matinee idol with piercing blue eyes and a six-pack. Perhaps I could understand being tempted to stray with such an Adonis. But Phil was none of those things. The only truly distinguishing characteristic that I could attribute to Phil, as I lay there wide awake in my bed, was his willingness to eat my pussy for nearly a half an hour. And of course I didn't know anything about that "talent" when I let him strip off my panties and inhale my cunt.

There I go using that language again. "Cunt?" That's a coarse word that I never use. At least I never had before becoming a slut tonight!

And why had I suddenly and without premeditation given in to an invitation for " just sex"? What is that? Hadn't I discovered long ago that "just sex" paled in comparison to making love with a man that I loved, or at least thought I loved. That sex without an emotional connection was little better than masturbation with a warm penis. Am I happy or sad that it turned out to be just a nice fuck instead of making love?

What about the "fireworks?" I described it that way, didn't I. Can you experience fireworks from "just sex" but not while making love? Is that upside down or should you not care about the man so that you can let go and have great orgasms. That made no sense, at least in the world that I had inhabited up to then.

Sex has never been a big deal to me. Until I met Don, sex was a take it or leave it proposition. Granted that the several sex partners I had before Don were inexperienced, and Phil was an experienced, mature lover. But aren't we all once we turn thirty? Hadn't I used to describe sex as just "a pleasant form of exercise?" Funny how Phil had used the same rationalization when he confessed to the gang's arrangement in the suite. That doesn't explain why I spread my legs for him.

Phil may have said all the right things and pushed all the right buttons, but I have always scoffed at the notion that men can seduce women. Women allow themselves to be seduced and I allowed myself to be taken to his bed. WOMEN CHOOSE, MEN COOPERATE. And while I don't remember making a conscious choice to go to Phil's room, I needed no prompting to suck his hard dick into my mouth and there is no question whatsoever about the vocal alacrity with which I welcomed his cock into my previously chaste cunt.

"Previously chaste cunt." No matter what I did from now on in my life, it would always be that, forevermore. I was ashamed.

Have we become so liberated from our cultural roles that women have become just like men, whose brains seem to migrate to their dicks along with the blood. I was reluctantly willing to accept that excuse for Don and his suspected escapades, assuming that he had unwittingly been put in a position where his hardon overruled his better judgment. It didn't mean anything to him, did it? It does not seem to have affected our marriage, has it? Such excuses have probably saved a lot of marriages after one-night flings by husbands, but I was having a lot of difficulty with that excuse for a woman – or for myself. We are more discerning about whom we let into our bodies, aren't we?

Women don't think with their pussy. They may manipulate other people with it but they don't let their pussy make decisions for them. That is a male fantasy and a pernicious one at that. Men always fantasize that there is something they can do that overcomes a woman's resistance to promiscuous sex – be it mind control, a big dick, alcohol, exhibition, force, or seduction. It is pernicious because some men actually believe that garbage and feel inferior if they can't do it. WOMEN CHOOSE, MEN COOPERATE.

Blaming an out-of-control pussy or libido is idiotic, isn't it? At least I have always thought that. But maybe it WAS wet panties that moved me into Phil's suite. Maybe I really was thinking with my pussy. That is an explanation that lets me off the hook of personal responsibility. Kind of like the Devil (pussy) made me do it. But I don't think Don would buy the "Devil" excuse. I can't either.

Was it the alcohol? I have consumed more alcohol, especially hard liquor, this week than in a long time, if ever. Don is not a big drinker and I would probably have to go back to my college years to remember a time when I imbibed four days in a row. Even then it was beer, rather than bloody marys and rum and cokes. I had never gotten drunk this week but I was feeling happy every night. None of us needed to worry about driving, but I was never so impaired that I couldn't walk or talk without visible effect (or spread my thighs, I thought ruefully).

But alcohol releases inhibitions doesn't it? As I taught in my high school PE/health classes, you lose some social restraints before you become physically impaired. You laugh more, flirt more, tell jokes you would normally not tell, and use coarser language. There is a certain amount of truth that girls lose some of there resistance, but alcohol just allows us to do what we wanted to do anyway, not something totally out of character. Going to bed with Phil or any other man not my husband was totally out of character for me.

Or was it? Did the Devil alcohol make me do it? Am I actually a slut but just didn't know it all these years? Did all the alcohol just let the true me out? I'm not sure what a slut is and suspect that such creatures, together with the proverbial "nympho", are figments of male imagination. I know that I have never met a "slut" or a "nympho". Maybe it's just an epithet you use to describe a married woman like me, who fucks a relative stranger for no discernable reason.

I kept coming back to the loss of my chastity. I was now an adulteress, a permanent label that I could not escape even if I never fucked anyone but Don the rest of my life. Like virginity, once you had let a man other than your husband enter your vagina, you can never replace the psychological "hymen". I couldn't bear to think about telling Don about this. But if I didn't, I would be living a lie for the rest of my life by allowing him to think I was his faithful wife.

Many other thoughts rumbled around in my consciousness but at one point in that harrowing night, my focus shifted to my erstwhile new friends, particularly the other women. I felt only anger toward them and betrayal. According to Judy, they had voted me into the "gang" on Tuesday night, a fortuitous replacement piece of ass. Gee, I wonder what my qualifications were? I guess all the men agreed that they would like to fuck me. Duhh! How about the women? What did they care? Just to avoid a three-way with the odd man out after Lisa left?

It would have been nice if they had told me. Apparently they all had two years to grow into their intimacy (if it can be called that). Couldn't I have had at least a couple of hours? I am sure that I would have said "no thanks," and extricated myself from the situation if I had been given some warning. Or perhaps I would have said "are you fucking crazy?" That's how I feel now - crazy. I can't imagine I would have premeditated this adultery. Perhaps they all just thought I would jump at the chance to get laid. After all, that's what they were planning to do. Why should poor Phil be left out?

They were all conspirators to my seduction. They were all guilty of abusing my friendship and trust. They encouraged me to drift into a twilight zone of alcohol, sweet words and group action. It seems facile to say it now but their example had a powerful persuasive effect on me. To see them necking, and particularly married Rachel making out, lowered my resistance to what would otherwise have been utterly unacceptable behavior to me. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right?

I did. Without making a conscious decision, I found Phil's fingers in my pussy and myself cheating on my husband.

How ironic that I had spent the last two weeks preparing for and manning the ramparts against Frank Morello, only to be captured by the gang's Trojan Horse. A successful attack brought from the direction least expected, and before defenses can be erected. "Happily married" Phil had me wet and aroused before I realized my married virtue was under attack.

I had to admit that this week far away from home was also a factor. This was the longest I had spent on my own since I had been married. Occasionally a 2 day, 1 night coaching clinic within driving distance, but never in an airplane and for nearly a week. But its not like I'm a teenager off to the big city lights without a chaperone. Not like going to the Caribbean where everyone was topless and nobody knows you. I would run into these people again.

Yet with each passing day, I had felt the constraints of my middle class life falling away. Here I was not Mom, Meg, Honey, Mrs. Prescott, or Coach. Here I was my own person, Marge - just Marge without any roles to play. Was Marge a blank slate – an unwritten page? I had yearned for time alone with Don and for myself. This was unquestionably time for myself. That's a good thing, right? So is Marge, if left to her own devices, an adulteress – a slut? Did I have to be Marge, on her own, to see "fireworks"?

If this all seems to be going round and round in a circle, it was. By the time the sun began to creep over the horizon, I was exhausted by the jumble of thoughts and emotions that assailed me. But slowly my exhaustion gave way to a sense of tranquility.

I got up from the bed, deciding to brew the cup of instant coffee supplied to each room at the resort. I would need a little extra caffeine to get through this day after a sleepless night. I would sip it while I watched the sunrise, always a peaceful time. As I pulled a chair over to the three quarter picture window, which faced due east on the third floor, I saw the small handbag (that I had used last night) on the chair where I had thrown it. It was then that I noticed the white bra strap dangling below the bag. Anxious to get away from the Gang in the suite, I did not bother to put on my bra and panties and had stuffed them into the bag.

"That's cute," I mumbled out loud. I wondered if anyone had seen me walking through the hotel with my underwear falling out of my bag. I'm sure no one would suspect a thing of Coach Airhead. Right! Maybe the Gang would live to regret seducing me into their group when they discovered that I was too careless and stupid to keep their secret. It would serve them right.

I sighed with the recognition that I had to accept what I could not change, regrettable though it may have been. I smirked at the mix of metaphors but Marge, I said to myself, you can't cry over spilt semen; it was fucking under the dam so to speak. What I could affect was what happened today and tomorrow.

What was I going to do about Phil, the Gang, and Don?

Lots of questions! But for the first time in my life, I was provoked to look for answers. Finally, after twenty years, sex had unexpectedly become a BIG DEAL for me. An incredible orgasm can do that for you, I guess. Despite all of the negatives about last night, I suppose I could grasp at this silver lining. Was it wishful thinking that I could turn sawdust into gold dust?

The bright orange ball of the sun was half over the mountain ridge that overlooked the resort when I settled into my chair. At 6 a.m., I could see no movement in the courtyard below, so I propped my feet on the low windowsill in front of me. The warmth of the sun felt good. Spreading my knees and opening my robe, I basked in the heat and light on my naked body. I didn't think anyone could possibly see me, but it felt so liberating to expose my bare body to the sun. As though this week was about breaking down barriers, letting Marge breathe and come into her own.

When the coffee maker beeped, I returned to the vanity to pour my cup and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. Not bad for a 39-year old mother of two, I thought. The brunette hairdo was near shoulder length but outdated, and reflected a romp in bed. My face showed the strain of tonight, but was still attractive, I thought. Full lips which I rarely adorned with lipstick. Well-defined cheekbones; no sag in the chin or cheeks, and blue eyes, with only the hint of smile lines around the temple.

My breasts had retained their C cup girth after the second pregnancy, and barely flunked the "pencil test". Nipples pink and nicely centered on small areolas, it didn't take a wonder bra to show some cleavage if I were ever so inclined. My belly had just a hint of roundness. It and my slender, well-defined legs were the product of twenty-five years of athletic fitness, and my mother's genes. Lifting my robe to see my backside, I realized that I didn't need to wear the baggy slacks that seemed to be my uniform most of the year.

I had not really taken that inventory or thought about it for a long time, but I had to admit to myself that I was an attractive woman, probably more so than when I met Don so many years ago. Even though Meg and Mrs. Prescott were not conscious of my body, Marge ruefully recognized that men would be attracted to me and I should be more careful what I projected to them. Did Phil and my companions assume that attractiveness equated to "hot"?

I took the coffee back to the windowsill and began fondling my breasts, remembering the expert foreplay that started me irrevocably on the path of adultery. My nipples quickly hardened under my hands and the sun and the memory. Lowering my hands to my belly, I massaged the stretch marks that were the visible reminder of my place in this world as mother and wife. Spread naked before the sun was not the same place, and Marge was no longer comfortable in just those roles. I was discovering that perhaps there was more to life than what I had known.

My hands moved down through the copious brown hair covering my mound and cupped my sex. I leaned forward to look at my pussy as I stroked it, something I rarely did. The hair had grown long without attention from me. Some strands could be pulled down two or three inches over my pink labia. I felt detached, almost disembodied as I inspected it. Did it look any different, this previously chaste cunt? I remembered the way it looked after being fucked by Don, the labia still a little puffy and some cum still remaining to leak out in the morning as I rose for my shower. It was a good feeling, one I associated with the love and intimacy that I shared with my husband. It didn't look that way now, and I didn't have that feeling. But I had most assuredly been fucked last night.

I was considering masturbation to drive the unhappy tension from my consciousness. Maybe I could recreate the magic produced by Phil's tongue and fingers, as though now that I had reached that pinnacle, I could summon it back at will. Suddenly I flashed on an absurd thought.

Call me giddy after a sleepless night, but my internal debate over whether my pussy could rule me put me in mind of a Thomas Jefferson biography I had read several years ago when I had to fill in as a history teacher for two years. I know – I've lost about half my readers with this bizarre connection. Thomas Jefferson on Literotica. What is the world coming to? The book devoted a lot of space to Jefferson's little known "Dialogue between Head and Heart", a series of letters where he debated with himself the advisability of pursuing his love for a married woman while in Paris during the Revolution. He was utterly smitten with her (the heart), but knew the pursuit was hopeless (the head). Ultimately the Head won (although I guess Sally Hemming's liplock on his dick had a little to do with it too).

I realized that my night's struggle had been a debate between the values of my life and marriage and the newly discovered excitement of adultery. Family versus Danger; fidelity vs. promiscuous sex. As I gazed upon my pussy, I imagined a debate with it to control the future. The Head didn't seem to have had much sway for the past 24 hours. In fact, it seems to have been AWOL. So it would have to be "A Dialogue between my Heart and my Pussy." TJ eat your heart out.

"Are you up for this, my pretty?" I started, gently patting my vulva.

'Phil was the one who was up, slut. I was the one that was flooding the sheets, remember? But to answer your question, yes, I am open to a discussion provided you keep your fingers still. I'll pass on the "pretty" bullshit for now.'

"My, aren't we touchy. We've had quite a night, haven't we, old girl."

'Speak for yourself, Bitch! I could have gone again – several times. And don't call me "Old" for at least another thirty years. The fact that you have let me practically dry up is not my fault.'

"I promise to do something about that, but what do we do now, my previously chaste cunt?"