tagGroup SexThe Devil Comes Out at Night Pt. 02

The Devil Comes Out at Night Pt. 02


It happened right after Sunday Service. Bob Smythe, he with what must certainly be the largest penis in the congregation, stood next to me at the coffee and donuts table. The room was full of parishioners dressed in their Sunday best. He filled a styrofoam cup with hot coffee and said something that surprised me.

"I heard a rumor that a band we like is thinking of getting back together. The one with the female vocalist and the three backup singers."

A year had gone by since my wildly naked night with Bob and two other men. I wasn't sure how to respond. "Oh...really? With...the original members?"

"Yes, the whole band wants to get back together. It all hinges on the singer."

"Where would they...play?"

"They're thinking of playing a cruise on the canal. Did you hear the news that Jeana and I bought a boat? It's a nice old cabin cruiser. We keep it on the canal, so maybe we can watch the show from onboard."

"Jeana too?"

"No, she's not interested in big band music."

I nodded and tried to keep my cool. "I might be...interested," I said, wondering if Bob could hear my heartbeat in my voice the way I could. "I'd have to check my schedule."

"Good to know, Margaret. I'll keep you in the loop."

Bob wandered off, heading in the direction of the donuts, leaving me with a head full of impure thoughts and confusion. Bob's an elder at the church. According to the definition in our bylaws, that means he's "responsible for the oversight of the church body, and the shepherding of it's members". If that sounds like someone who'd like to get his buddies together to fuck the church secretary — me — you'd be right.

As you can see, my language usage has loosened up considerably since last summer. As I'm sure you'll remember that's when I was ravished, consensually of course, by two of the church's elders and the church bookkeeper in a small cabin in the Adirondacks. My husband and their wives weren't there.

Since then, my sex life at home continues in the doldrums. I tried, more than once, to lure my husband into fucking me in more exciting ways. Twice I put my ass in the air for him, on my knees on our bed, and twice he rejected me. Laughed at me, in fact, in a way that wasn't as mean as it sounds. I can't say I blame him, really. He's just a really conservative man, and as for me, my behind is bigger than when we met, my parts are older. Maybe I just look ugly with my ass wide open that way. It's been nearly a year since Bob and Jim and Harvey had their way with me doggy style, and maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. In my mind I remember them loving it, praising how sexy I looked that way, but maybe I was less appealing like that than I remember.

My husband does let me on top now, even sitting up cowgirl style, so that's new and better. Previously it was strictly missionary. When I sit up like that he lets me do all the work, which was fun the first few times, but now it's pretty clear that he's just not all that interested. I even took a few stabs at getting him interested in oral sex. I kissed my way down his body, but when he realized where I was going he pulled me back up to him. "Margaret!" he said. "That's not who I married!" I guess some people are just stuck in their ways, even if another way would give them enjoyment.

I learned the phrase "doggy style" after I returned home from my night with Bob, Jim and Harvey. We'd attended a seminar put on by the church management software people, you may remember, so back at home my husband didn't suspect anything when I spent hours staring at my little laptop computer. I wasn't learning about the software, as I said I was, I was learning some of the ways enthusiastic people enjoy sex in the twenty-first century. How-to articles got me started. Five Blow Job Sex Positions That Do It for You Too. Five Daring Sex Positions for Deep Penetration. And there was one that made me think of Bob, Five Sex Positions to Try If He Has a Big Penis. Those were all at Cosmopolitan's website, a fount of information that I'm still catching up with. I found it amusing that the word "He" in the title of that last article has a capitol H, the way you write it when you're talking about God or Jesus. When Bob was fucking me with his huge cock last summer and I had the first orgasm of my life, I remember thinking God was deep inside my vagina. Maybe I wasn't wrong.

Good old fashioned porn entered my life through my laptop. There's so much of it! For free! It was an astonishing discovery. Watching it made me feel good about myself. I know that's an odd thing to say, but it made me realize a lot of the things I'd done in that dimly lit little cabin were right on the money. I'd acquitted myself pretty well considering who I was — a prim, proper, conservative church secretary who was doing all those new things for the first time. I guess Harvey did fuck me missionary once, which is all my husband Donald had ever done with me up to that point in time, but everything else I did with those men was new.

The adultery part of it was new, that was for sure. I'm pretty sure Jim and Harvey were first time adulterers, too, but I'm not sure about Bob. He seemed so confident when he guided the four of us into our tryst, it wouldn't surprise me if he'd done it before.

Being one of those women, an adulterer, was difficult for me to come to grips with. My husband didn't have a clue, and I've always been so far on the other side of the scale I'm sure he never even thought of wondering about it. No one would. Margaret Norman fucked by three men in a mountain cabin? You're crazy! She must have been raped! No? She wanted it? You've got to be out of your mind!

It took months for me to get used to the idea that I'd cheated on my husband. Having him laugh off my attempt at doggy style and stop me in my tracks when I tried to give him a blowjob was actually a big help to me. It helped me clarify things, helped me realize that I'd needed that experience in that cabin. I finally understood that I didn't want to go to my deathbed without experiencing the things that I did with those men, and my good, ultra-conservative husband was never going to help me in that regard. That's when I realized that I was okay with what had happened. For better or for worse, no matter what the Good Book says, I was happy about it.

Of course that was when I thought it was a one time thing, never to be spoken of again by me or my sexual comrades. It was an incredible night, we'd all gotten away with it, and life had circled back to the way it had always been — I was the prim, proper church secretary, Jim Halvert did the bookkeeping, and Bob Smythe and Harvey Gantry were Elders, all of us part of a tight knit, everybody-knows-everybody congregation at a deeply Christian church where the women button their blouses to the neck and the men wear ties when they drink coffee and eat donuts.

"Did you know the Smythe's bought a boat?" I asked my husband, right after he washed down a bite of glazed cruller with a sip of black coffee.

"Oh, yeah, Harvey mentioned it to me last week. He said Bob had asked him out to do a little fishing."


"Yeah. He said they caught a few perch or something. I don't know. Fishing seems like such a waste of time to me."

"Yes," I said. I pushed my glasses up my nose and looked around at everybody. The women I'd known for years all looked older. I did, too, of course, and wearing glasses was the latest chink in the rusting armor of youth. I'd finally given in to my worsening vision and gotten a pair over the winter. They're a retro "cat eye" style, with black frames. I'd seen them in some magazine pictures on some younger, hipper women and they looked really nice, but after I got mine home reality set in — on a fifty-one year old with old fashioned 'permanent wave' hair and conservative Christian clothes, they just make me look like a church secretary. It's fine, it's what I am, but...I just had something else in mind, that's all.

I did make a few changes that make me happy. Gone is the industrial strength underwear that time traveled out of a 1970 Sears catalog. I wear nicer looking bras now, nothing blatantly sexy, but nicer. The same with my underpants. Now they're less, well, underpants, and more panties. But maybe the biggest thing, no pun intended, is the dildo I hide in my closet. It's very close to Bob-sized, if I can trust my memory of that wild night almost a year ago. And get this — drum roll please — I've mastered the "deep throat." It makes little sense that I even tried, let alone put so much work into it, but it makes me feel good, sexual, in my own lonely way.

I ordered it from the internet and it came in a plain box with a generic sounding return address. It was sitting on the dining room table when I got home from shopping on a Saturday afternoon. I almost died when I saw the box sitting there. My husband had taken delivery of it from the UPS man. With my heart in my throat I told him it was a can of a new kind of hairspray I wanted to try. "Aqua Net will go out of business without you," he said. "I'm surprised they're still around. My grandmother used that stuff."

Some things haven't changed much, though. My behind is still bigger than I'd like it to be. After realizing, last summer, that some men desire me, I thought maybe I'd be able to stick to a diet and get myself back into a slimmer shape, but it wasn't to be. I console myself by thinking that my too-big behind balances my large bosom. It's true in a way, and modern girls don't seem too concerned with such things. My waist still goes in instead of out, and my ankles and calves still look good in pantyhose, so I'm happy about that.

I mention all those things because I think men are interested in them, but I could be wrong. Much to my surprise there's porn with women of all ages with all body types, so maybe I worry too much about 'traditional' looks. Bob and Jim and Harvey must find me attractive or they wouldn't want to be with me again.

I only said a casual hello to Jim and Harvey at the coffee and donuts table after the church service that day. My stomach was all butterflies when we spoke, thanks to Bob's carefully worded invitation for a sexual 'rematch' between the four of us. It's almost too much to comprehend, being with three men. When it happened last summer it all rose up out of nothing, like a quickly thickening fog that made us all disappear for a while, our normal selves obscured, our hidden insides wallowing in the dark devilish mist. If it was to happen again, with all of us knowing about it ahead of time, well, that's just a whole different kettle of fish, as my grandmother used to say.

So yes, my stomach was all butterflies when I said hello to Jim and when I said hello to Harvey. Their wives were both with them, nice women, Harvey's wife quiet like he is, and Jim's more talkative but not what I'd call gregarious. Just nice. Pretty. Both of them older than me. Bob's wife is nice, too. To tell you the truth I try not to think about the wives too much. What I did with their husbands was wrong. I fucked those three men I don't know how many times. I sucked their cocks over and over again. I smiled and laughed when they splattered me with their semen, and I licked the sweat off of them in places good girls shouldn't even talk about. It was thinking about all those things that made me want to do it again. All of it. Just one more time. I wanted to feel like a woman again, just one more time before I die.

The secretary's job at a small church like ours isn't a full time position. I work Monday, Wednesday and Friday, occasional Saturdays and I often open the office up after services on Sunday, usually just for an hour or so. I was working at my desk on a Wednesday afternoon when I got the call on the church telephone...

"Hi Margaret, it's Bob."

As I've said, Bob is an Elder, so the call could have been about church business, but as soon as I heard his voice I had a feeling it was a different kind of call.

"Jim and Harvey and I are going to be doing some fishing tomorrow," he said. "Harvey's been out with me once, but Jim hasn't seen the old boat yet. We were all hoping you could join us."

I was hoping Reverend James wouldn't walk in and see the smirk on my face. "What makes you think I'd be interested in fishing?" I said.

"Just a hunch. You seem like a sporting woman."

I smiled. "And you think calling me here at the church is appropriate?"

"We can work out something different for next time if you'd like."

"Next time? Wow, you really are an optimistic fisherman. I guess I should have expected that from you."

"What you should have expected from me was a phone call a week after the seminar last summer. I've been absolutely dying to fish with you ever since then."

I was smiling, my heart was pounding and my spirit was soaring. That's when the boss walked in. "Sorry," I said to Bob, "Reverend James needs me. Where and when tomorrow?"

I jotted down the info, 10AM at the old unused canal terminal at Linckport. "Thanks, I'll be there."

"Something fun for your day off?" Reverend James said.

"Oh, yes. Meeting some friends."

"Sounds nice. We can never have too many friends. Can you pull the minutes of the last council meeting? I need to check something."


So that was that. The Reverend's sudden presence had pushed me into a quick decision, and the one that came flying out of my mouth was shocking but not surprising. I wanted to ask Bob about the location, the privacy, the boat, his wife, what Jim and Harvey had actually said about getting together with me...so many questions, and I feared I wouldn't have a single answer until I stepped aboard Bob's boat. I could have called one of the men, I suppose, but what if he was with his wife? It didn't seem like something I should do. I did have the day off, and nothing important planned. A drive to Linckport would be easy and pleasant enough. There were some nice shops there I could browse in after telling the men their "fishing trip" was just too risky, too wrong.

I wore bluejeans and white sneakers, a white blouse and an orange and green summer scarf. Other than the I'm-in-full-bloom scarf, it was a similar outfit to the one I wore last year, the night all the men told me they liked seeing a woman in jeans. Bob's boat was easy to find once I'd found the old canal terminal, the only boat tied to the crumbling concrete terminal wall, his white ropes tied around blue posts, round-topped things that looked like steel mushrooms. They looked like they could hold a ship.

"Good morning, beautiful woman," Bob said, waving from the boat's flying bridge.

Jim and Harvey were on the back deck fiddling with fishing gear. They smiled when they saw me. It was one of those moments when time seems to stand still. The sky was pale blue. The day was warm. I think there were gulls flying and a few geese on the water. Bob climbed down the ladder-like steps and the men were all together. Three of them, ready to fuck me. Considering how odd the moment made me feel, I was surprised that conversation flowed in a normal way.

"What are we fishing for?" I asked.

"Smallmouth bass and walleye are pretty common," Bob said. He offered his hand to me. "Come on aboard," he said. "Get your sea legs."

"Do I need them," I asked as I stepped aboard. "It's just calm, isn't it?"

"Sure," Bob said, pulling me into an unexpected hug. "It's just an expression. We'll be anchored, nice and peaceful. How are you Margaret? We're all really happy we could have this reunion."

"Yes," I said. It was dumb answer, but all I had at the moment.

Jim and Harvey both greeted me, each of them hugging me in their own slightly awkward way. I'm sure I seemed awkward to them, too. The reason for our meeting was on all our minds, and it wasn't smallmouth bass.

"This is a bigger boat than I was picturing," I said to Bob.

"It's an old Matthews. These old wooden ones are pretty affordable, but the maintenance can add up. We'll see how it goes. For now she hums along like she's brand new."

I wondered if I pulled off the same trick — old and wearing out but humming along in my too-tight bluejeans and my clean white sneakers, the equivalent of a new coat of paint on a slowly rotting wooden hull. Bob's boat did look nice, though, and I hoped I did, too.

My morning with the men started innocently enough, the big boat rumbling to life, me up on the flying bridge with Bob as we pulled away from the landing, Jim and Harvey down on the back deck pawing through the tackle box like little boys looking for the perfect lure.

Bob told me about the boats he'd owned before and how they gave him the confidence to try a big forty-five footer. "When you get older you want to try things, before it's too late, you know?"

A half an hour later we came to a widening of the river. Bob pointed out a lock, off in the distance, yellow and blue, looking oddly industrial out in the wilds of water and woods.

"We're going over there," he said, pointing at a marshy area, another river maybe, coming in from the left. "It's just a swamp back in there, but before it gets too shallow it's a good place to anchor. Nice and peaceful."

My heart started pounding when he throttled back the engines and angled us toward our destination. I was as nervous as I'd ever been about anything, but my mouth wasn't dry as you'd expect, it was wet. I looked at Bob, tall and slender and handsome, steering his craft with confidence, the way he'd steered me and Jim and Harvey into something wild last summer. He was doing it again, and my mouth was watering.

We slowed some more and came to a stop. The engines were idling when Bob pushed a button. He explained how the anchor hung in a bracket and an electric winch lowered it and raised it. He switched off the engines. The quiet was overwhelming.

Jim and Harvey already had fishing lines in the water. I was a little surprised. I'd assumed "fishing" was just something to tell their wives or their coworkers when they took the day off. I was suddenly confused — maybe we were there to reminisce a little and to fish?

"Would you like a tour of the old girl?" Bob asked.

We climbed down the ladder. Jim and Harvey both seemed preoccupied with their fishing. Maybe they were as nervous as I was. I followed Bob inside. It was a bright space, the living room I guess you'd call it. The kitchen counter was there, and a dinette style table and a steering wheel and controls, fancier than the one up above. There was carpet on the floor, brown with white anchors all over it. Mini blinds on the windows filtered the bright sunlight.

Down a few steps there was a cozy little bathroom, and then a sleeping area with a double bed on one side and a single on the other. Up front was a more private bedroom, with two narrow bunks and a built-in dresser with a mirror, and a small closet. Bob was telling me all about the layout, and all the nautical terms for everything, but my mind was in a fog. I was alone with him, after a full year of thinking about his big cock. I thought of it at church whenever I saw him. I thought of it when I saw his wife. I thought of it when I watched porn. I thought of it when I played with my dildo.

"I've been practicing," I blurted out, when he was explaining that the quiet noise we were hearing was the bilge pump.

"Practicing?" he said.


"Really!" he said quietly, looking happy. "Do all church secretaries practice that, I wonder? Donald must be pleased."

"Not on him," I said. "He...doesn't want that."

"Who's the lucky guy?"

"A hunk of rubber in my closet. And...you...if you want to."

"Margaret! I thought we were here to fish!"

Bob was smiling that lady-killer smile. I couldn't wipe the smirk off my face. A moment later I was down on my knees on the brown carpet, praying to the Devil that Bob's cock would go down my throat the way my dildo does. It felt like an obsession, getting him down like that. I worried about the big tip of Bob's real one, bigger than the one on my dildo. I worried that the big ridge around it would gag me, or get stuck and choke me. What an embarrassing way to die!

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