All characters involved in sex, plus the Scotch whiskey, are 18 years old, or older.

*******************

My sister's reaction was incredulous. I got off the phone with her, because I could not give her a good reason. Why, after 30 years, did I want to go to my high school reunion? At the age of 48, why did I want to see all those creeps again? After all, weren't they the ones who ostracized me in high school? Wasn't it Marybeth who gave me the nickname of the school slut? Worse, the nickname stuck. And much worse, I did my best to live up to it.

Once the boys heard that I was the school slut, I was never without a date on Friday nights. The boys were sure I would put out for them. I was such an insecure idiot that they seemed never to be disappointed. When Marybeth showed me documentation that swallowing cum was fattening, however, I realized I had to satisfy them some other way.

Well, we all know what the other way is, don't we girls? Yes, we do. Pregnancy and STDs are an always-present danger, but my doctor was understanding, and she gave me birth control pills and told me to buy condoms for the boys, since they could not be relied upon to come equipped, so to speak.

So I emerged from high school physically unscathed, but mentally destroyed. And now I was planning on going back? Am I insane? That is exactly how my sister put it, bless her soul.

But thirty years is a long time. Now I am 48, with two lovely children, a career as an RN, and the military pension I receive as a widow of a fallen soldier. I am strong. I can't tell you how many times I listened to Gloria Gaynor singing, "I will survive" over the last 30 years. It was a lot. And survive I did.

Also, I had my plane ticket to Kansas City, and from there I would drive a rental car to Wichita, for the reunion. I could have driven from Chicago, where I live, but the airplane was cheap, and it was easier and faster.

"Will there be any men at the reunion without prior carnal knowledge of you?" my sister had asked. I reminded her our class had 450 students, about half of them men. That's around 225 men. A hell of a lot fewer than that got to lay me. It still shames me to say just how many, though. A lot. Too many. Way too many. But that was then. This is now.

One high school man was special: Rick. His full name is Richard Mason. He never asked me out. He never got to sleep with me. But whenever he saw me his face lit up, and he smiled. In high school I had a pretty face and a hot body. It was a well-used hot body, but nevertheless it was hot.

My body is now chaste. I have not had sex since my husband left on his last, fateful and fatal, final overseas mission. That is a little over two years ago. But I am still pretty, in an age-adjusted way, and I still have a hot body. My breasts grew with the birth of my two children, so probably now my body is even hotter.

I guess if my sister had pushed harder, much harder, I would have confessed I was curious to see how all those guys would find me now, and whether they would still want to try something, even if most of them by now doubtless were married? And what about Rick Mason? Would he even be there? Would his face still light up when he saw me? Had I confessed all this, my sister would have easily talked me out of going. I was setting myself up for a major disappointment.

That's why when I packed, I brought along some weed and my favorite vibrator. I figured I would have some frustrating nights alone. My sister would watch the kids. Being 14 and 16, the kids did not need much watching, but they still needed meals, and the reassurance that loving, adult supervision brings. My sister is crazy about her niece and nephew.

I don't travel much, so when I boarded the airplane I was in the section reserved for airplane peasants. Boarding group five, when there is no room left for hand luggage. Nobody can make you feel like unimportant scum the way an airline can.

And as long as I am at it, airplane seats are not designed for women with childbearing hips. I think they should give us all Vaseline to grease us up before we attempt to sit in those seats. I did manage to squeeze in, thank goodness, and also to fend off the wandering hands of the man seated next to me. Still, I took the wandering hands as a good sign. I am still an insecure mess of a woman.

Actually, part of me was glad I was seated next to a lecher. I needed to feel attractive. I needed to feel desired. It helped to fortify me for the ordeal I was willingly and stupidly about to impose on myself. At 48, I am over the hill for being a single woman. But you never know, do you? There must be some men my age who don't want a 20 something, you know? It's just in a country of more than 350 million people, those 15 or so men who enjoy women their own middle age are, shall we say, hard to find!

The reunion had several events. Festivities began with a welcome dinner on Friday evening. A tour of the old high school on Saturday morning, and then the big event: cocktails, dinner, and dancing to a live band Saturday night. The last event was a picnic on Sunday at one of the local parks.

Marybeth and I arranged our own dinner on Friday. It was wonderful to see her again. We had always been in touch, usually on the phone, but also with email, texts, and of course Facebook. Marybeth was happily married, or so she says. She also said her husband had many flaws, but he was a good father. What the bleep does that mean? I'm still puzzling it out.

I skipped the high school tour. Instead I slept late, and then went to the place where I lost my virginity to Stuart. Next I visited the place where I lost my virginity the second time to George. The third time I lost it was with Bob, on the living room couch of his parents, so I did not visit that site. As I remembered all of the immature sex of these bumbling boys and my own needy teenage self, I had to laugh a bit. I guess I was providing a public service, right?

So it was with some trepidation when I went to the country club where the cocktails, dinner and dancing were to take place. Marybeth and I clung to each other. It was not at all as I feared. Everyone was relaxed, and nice, and universally seemed thrilled to see me. They remembered me for the qualities of my personality, and not for the sex.

Yeah, who am I kidding? Boys don't ever forget their high school lays; especially since often I served as their first ever lay. So lots of boys remembered me, except now those boys were men, most with wedding rings on, potbellies, and bald spots. In contrast, I looked as smoking hot as I did in their memories. These pathetic men clung to me, surrounded me, and smiled at me incessantly. I brought back memories of a naked, moaning sexpot underneath them, smiling up at them, giving them pleasure like they had never before experienced. Who is going to forget that?

The man I wanted to see, Rick Mason, skipped the reunion, even if he was on the list of those planning to attend. Oh well, there were 150 other people there. Screw him. I made pleasant small talk at the dinner. As it ended there was lots of table-hopping. Just as in high school, people felt it important to touch base with everyone they knew/remembered.

Then the dancing began. Well let me tell you, I'm a girl who loves to dance when the music is good. The music was not good - it was great! I was not going to stand around and wait for some guy to ask me; I just went out on the dance floor and started smiling and dancing.

I wasn't thinking, but my dance moves are very sexy. They did not seem so sexy in high school, but now that I had been around the block, I realized my moves were highly suggestive. Well, too bad: that's how I dance. And that's what I was going to do.

Word got out that even though I was wearing a wedding ring, I was in fact an army widow. Some of the men there were divorced, and single, and well, there I was. There was the school slut, still sexy, still pretty, and a widow. And they all knew about widows: Widows just had to be horny, right?

I hate the idiotic stereotypes of that type men seem always to think. I hate them even more when in my case they are true. So I received a fair amount of male attention. There were the divorced men, and the married men looking for a little one-night side action. Reliving old times, right Susan? In your dreams, you jackasses.

In truth, I was sad that Mark and Mary divorced. I had thought that was a love made in heaven. They had seemed perfect for each other. I had taught Mark the basics of sex, of course, in the back seat of his parents' Mercury, but he had then moved on to Mary, who had done her best imitation of a horny bunny rabbit. She got knocked up, and the two of them married. But in spite of the hurry up marriage, the two of them really had a love that was more than a love.

Mark got me alone, and he told me the whole story. Mary, it turned out, was an exhibitionist, and Mark was a jealous, possessive husband. This was not a good combination. After a major fight, Mary had stormed out, and found comfort first in a bottle at the local bar, and later in the bed of Mark's friend Steve. This became a pattern, and in spite of the religious taboo, and the children, they ended up divorced. Mark seemed to me to be a broken man.

After Mark confided all that in me, we danced the rest of the night away. I felt close to a man from my high school for the first time, ever. It was a good feeling. That night I fell asleep easily, needing neither the weed nor the vibrator.

The picnic was the anticlimax, and was poorly attended. But Marybeth was there, and so too was Mark. The three of us had a good time eating BBQ hamburgers and catching up on 30 years. I showed off pictures of my kids, and looked at theirs.

As the picnic began to wind down, Mark got me alone, and asked if I was free for dinner? There was a nice Chinese restaurant near my hotel. Seeing no red flags (isn't that amazing?) I happily agreed. We agreed to meet at 7pm.

As it got closer to 7pm I realized that this dinner was fraught with danger. Did Mark still expect me to be the school slut? Was he going to rent a Mercury to relive our first (and only) time? No, of course not, he had my hotel room right there, near the restaurant. Well, Susan, I told myself, you are in control of yourself. Jesus, woman, you are 48, with two kids, lived with a wonderful soldier and mourned his death for two years. You can take care of yourself, I told myself.

I wore the sexy outfit I had packed, since you never know. The skirt was short, but not too short, showing off my legs. The top half of the dress crisscrossed my breasts, showing off plenty of cleavage. The dress came in tight at my small waist, and overall if you did not know I was a sexpot of a woman in that dress, there was something seriously wrong with you.

It did not play out like any of the four scenarios I had foreseen. Mark was the perfect gentleman. He treated me like the most wonderful old friend he had ever had. He was a charming conversationalist. He was educated, interesting, and we even shared the same politics. He also, I could tell, enjoyed my cleavage. He was a healthy, heterosexual man. Thank goodness for that.

So when suggested he buy me a nightcap at my hotel's bar, it just seemed the most natural thing in the world. Plus, truth be told, I could use another drink, to celebrate my success at surviving my high school reunion. I was feeling no pain.

The nightcap became two nightcaps, then it became three, and at 2am the bar closed. The moment Mark had been waiting for, and I had been dreading, was coming. Since it was a hotel, we moved to the large, comfortable chairs in the lobby. This postponed further the moment of dread. I think Mark was beginning to realize that I could not bring myself to invite him up to my room.

Finally, Mark played his ace. "You know Susan, we never discussed what happened that amazing night in my parents' Mercury."

"That's because you just used me. You had eyes only for Mary. Everyone knew that except of course for me. I was hurt, Mark," I said.

"You got over me easily enough. The next weekend Jason did you in the woods, remember?" Mark said.

"Well, you are well informed, aren't you? Who did me the week after that?" I said, sarcastically.

"That time was Bill. You and he made love in the old abandoned barn out at the Foster's place on Route 22," Mark said.

"How on Earth do you know that?" I said, incredulous.

"Teenage boys talk," Mark said.

"You mean they brag, don't you?" I said.

"Susan, you had the best body in the school, the prettiest face, and you are a sweetheart. You did not need to take all us men to bed. Why did you?" Mark said.

"Aren't you glad we did the deed?" I asked.

"I was glad then, have been glad since then, and am glad today. It was the most magical moment of my life," Mark said.

"You're a smooth talker, mister," I said.

"You never answered my question. Why did you take so many of us to bed? Why did you become the school slut?" Mark asked. I winced as he used the word slut, and I could see Mark regretting his use of that word. He thought he had blown it.

"Mark, I was raised by a single mother. My father was a soldier and he died while my Mom was pregnant with me. She had a hard life. We never had enough money, and as I got older, I realized just how hard her life was. She always fed me, but she herself often went hungry."

"She got lonely as time moved on," I continued. "She started dating, and she brought the men home, and I heard her moans when she had sex with them. She had sex on the first date every single time. At first I thought she was being hurt, and I burst in on them while they were doing it. I was seven."

"The next day my Mom explained. She said the men were all soldiers, like my Dad was. She told me she moaned because it made the men feel good. 'It's important that they feel good,' she explained. We had a long talk, and for a girl of seven, I learned and understood a lot."

"That was my role model. I wanted to please you and the others. I felt I was continuing my mother's work. I was an idiot. I was a fool," and I stopped, falling silent. "After all, none of you were soldiers, you were just high school boys. I was playing adult, and doing a damn poor job of it."

"Was it enjoyable for you, anyway? If not, you are a damn good actress," Mark said.

I did not answer that, but only smiled. "Mark, it's late. Tomorrow morning, I am going to my mother's nursing home. I have to go up to bed now."

Mark looked at me wistfully. He sat there, and he said, "Well goodnight, Susan. I absolutely loved seeing you, and thank you for continuing our visit with dinner tonight."

I stood up, and made yet another potentially idiotic impetuous decision. I held out my hand and said, "Are you coming, Mark?"

We got to my room. We both knew why Mark was there. It was hopelessly awkward. Mark was still recovering from his divorce, and I had been chaste for two years since my beloved Henry had been killed. But I liked Mark. I had always liked Mark. He had used me in high school, and then hooked up with Mary, so I had forgotten him. Who needs men like that? There were plenty more knocking at my door, that much was clear.

So now we would make love for the second time, 30 years later. The passion of youth, the excitement of conquest, the dive into the unknown of adult sexual intimacy, all of that was missing. What was there in its place? Two middle aged, lonely people, trying to rekindle something we never really had.

Given the above paragraph, it is surprising how lovely it actually was! Mark took his time, making sure I was nicely aroused by going down on me. That was nice! Of course, after a two-year hiatus, anything would have been nice, but I have always had a weak spot for cunnilingus.

Returning the favor, I used my fellatio skills on Mark. He was surprised I could deep throat, and he was not only surprised, he was ecstatic. Calories be damned, I swallowed for him, too. Once he had recovered, which did not take too, too long, considering he is 48, we were both ready for the main event. He gently spread my legs, and got up above me. I smiled up at him.

Mark said, "God you're pretty, Susan," and he kissed me. Well, it does not take a rocket scientist to realize that was exactly the right thing to say. His kiss was lovely, and suddenly he was inside me. Clever distractions, actually, feeling him inside me came as a surprise! But it was a nice surprise. Right then, it was a welcome surprise.

I felt, when he was inside me, that we were joined. We had become one. Two parts of the whole were now together. I loved it. Then he began to pump: in and out, in and out. I was wet and ready for that. Boy was I! His hard, throbbing cock plundering me did me a world of good. I had needed this. A good hard fucking, by a man who seemed truly to care for me, yes! It is exactly what I needed.

When he came, and exploded inside me, I could feel his cum squirting inside me, rushing up my vaginal canal looking for eggs. I still had eggs, no menopause yet, so I just had to hope the sperm would not find the eggs, and if they did anyway, that the eggs would miscarry. But it was not really my fertile period, anyway.

Mark spent the night, and we fell asleep spooning. We made love languorously in the morning, just as if we were an old married couple. I could get used to this, I thought. We had the hotel breakfast, and we said goodbye. Mark left for Dallas, where he lived and worked, and I went to see my Mom. I would return to Chicago only on the next day.

Mark said he would call me, and come to Chicago to see me. I smiled, grateful for his lies. We had fun, but it was meaningless. As if to underscore its lack of meaning, I ran into another old acquaintance from high school, Frank, at the nursing home. His Mom was there, too. He too had been at the reunion. He was one of the few men (according to my sister) who did not have the opportunity to enjoy bedding me in high school.

It did not take long to realize he wanted to correct that oversight now, and finally get to bed the school slut. His efforts were comical, actually. The poor man still lived in Wichita, too. He invited me to dinner that night. A free dinner? Why not?

Frank took me to a much nicer dinner than Mark did. Frank had never married, and had no children. In my book, that meant he was gay, or way too much of a mama's boy. He wanted to know if the rumors in high school about me having taken so many boys to bed were really true.

"Frank, how could ask me, or any woman, such a question?"

Frank blushed and was silent. He realized his embarrassing mistake.

"Okay Frank, here it is," I said, unavoidably showing irritation. "I fucked a lot of our classmates in high school. Pretty much all you had to do was to take me out, just as you are doing now, and then I would put out for you. Happy, now?"

Frank was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. "Does that mean we're going to fuck later, Susan? I would love that!" Frank said. "I've been fantasizing about you ever since high school."

"Frank, high school was thirty years ago," I said.

"I know, Susan. My fantasies are now quite elaborate," he said. "Shall I tell you one?"

I shrugged, but also I nodded. Frank told me how he fantasized seducing me. In his fantasies, I was not so easy. Well, at least there was that! He wooed me with flowers, with candy, with dogged persistence until, beaten down, I agreed to go out with him. Once we went out, I would rapidly fall under the spell of his charm. We would end up making love, out on the river walk, late at night when it was deserted.

I would moan so loud as we were making love, that he would worry someone would come over to see if we were okay. That person would see us, and when Frank was done with me, the other guy would enjoy me. (In his fantasy, apparently I was okay with that. Well, it's his fantasy, not mine.) Then it would be Frank's turn again. Frank gave so many details, I was beginning to get wet by the time he reached the end. He looked at me.
"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.