Julius and Me

The three men who sauntered into my bedroom were all huge--and why not? They were on the college football team. Two were black, one was white. I'd never seen them before.

The first one flung himself on his back onto the bed, then dumped me (face down) on top of him. He promptly stuffed his cock into my pussy. The second guy kneeled behind me and plunged his cock into my ass. The third came up in front of us and (gently) lifted my head up so that it faced his erect cock. As I obligingly opened my mouth, he stuck it in and began pumping. I was now being triple penetrated by men whose cumulative weight was probably six times my own. The repetitive motion of three cocks going in and out of me at the same time induced a curious sense of contemplative tranquility, allowing me to reflect on how I had gotten into this unusual situation.

I'm Sandra Osborne. I'm a thirty-four-year-old professor of philosophy at one of the big state schools in Wisconsin. The salient fact of my life, up to this point, is that my no-good husband, Mark Stephens (I did not take his name and will never take a man's name--my own is surely good enough), ditched me after eight years of marriage to shack up with some sweet young thing of twenty-four--some assistant of his, apparently. He's a lawyer, so there wasn't much of a chance that I'd bump into him on campus--especially (and this would be particularly mortifying to me) if he were walking hand in hand with his new

inamorata.

Maybe we were too much alike--too much the overeducated intellectual. But don't get me wrong: we had a lot of fun between the sheets and elsewhere, and we taught each other a lot, in and out of the bedroom. But for reasons that remained opaque to me, he sought greener (or, perhaps, more compliant) pastures elsewhere.

I didn't think Mark's departure would hit me so hard--but it did. I guess I didn't feel hurt so much as I felt humiliated. How could this little slip of a girl (I didn't even know her name) be compared to my magnificent self? I mean, I have plenty to offer to lustful men of any age, if I do say so myself. True, there's a lot more than that to make a marriage work--but why Mark had found my large, firm breasts, gently swelling hips, tolerably flat stomach, and curvy bottom insufficiently appealing, I'll never know.

I made it a point to go directly to work each day and right back home afterwards. It infuriated me that his infidelity was putting this crimp in my lifestyle, even though I'm not exactly a party girl and don't go out on the town much; but of course we had a lot of mutual friends, many of whom I couldn't (or didn't want to) see anymore, just because of the horrible awkwardness and embarrassment of being an abandoned wife trying to keep up an acquaintance with people who were inevitably paired off in reasonably happy marriages or living arrangements.

So I hope you can understand why the whole situation made me do something reckless.

It was now spring semester, and I was teaching an Introduction to Philosophy class, mostly for freshmen and sophomores. Several of the students, not at all used to thinking philosophically, were having trouble. That didn't surprise me in the least, and I figured most of them would just drop out: it's not as if my class was required for graduation or anything. But one boy--sorry, young man (he must have been at least eighteen, perhaps nineteen)--named DeShawn Phillips seemed determined to stick it out. Maybe it was just a matter of pride or even boastfulness ("I'm taking a

philosophy

class!"), but I suspected he really wanted to catch on. So in early March he ambled into my office for a little extra help.

He was on the football team.

I have to say he was pretty good looking--a light-skinned Black man, probably just over six feet tall, with muscles on top of muscles, but otherwise not exactly a 300-pound behemoth, as I somehow imagined all football players to be. (I know nothing about this game and care less than nothing.) In fact, when I tactfully mentioned that he wasn't quite as beefy as I'd expected, he said in a sort of southern drawn, "Oh, ma'am, I'm a running back." I just nodded my head in faux comprehension. Didn't everyone on a football team run? But it appeared that not everyone had to be Jolly Green Giants to do their jobs well.

So after tutoring this earnest young man for about an hour, my head fairly close to his as we toiled over his textbook, a strange feeling began to course through me. Maybe it was his body scent, which seemed to evoke something primal in me. It was after we'd finished that I eyed him and said:

"I'm not sure you know, DeShawn, but my husband left me a few weeks ago."

He looked down at his hands. "Yeah, I heard that. I'm real sorry, ma'am."

What a nice, polite young man!

"Well," I said, "I'm trying to move on. But I do feel a little lonely sometimes."

A look of alarm shot through DeShawn's eyes, and he continued to gaze down at himself in a desperate attempt to avoid looking me in the face. No doubt he was wondering what the hell I was doing betraying these awkward confidences to him. After all, I was a professor and he was merely a junior (as I later found out).

When he said nothing in reply, I extended a hand, placed it on his arm, and said, "I wonder if you can help."

That sure made him look at me! He raised his head up, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

"Yes," I said in what I hoped might be a seductive voice, "maybe you and a few of your teammates could come by some evening and keep me company."

DeShawn wasn't quite as innocent as he appeared: he knew exactly what I was saying. "Ma'am, that wouldn't be right," he muttered. I was touched by this appeal to conventional morality; but then he added, more realistically, "We'd all get in trouble."

"Only if anybody blabbed," I said blandly. "But no one's going to blab, are they?"

"I guess not."

"So . . . you think you and your friends might want to come over?"

"Maybe." He was breathing pretty hard by now.

"Perhaps even this Saturday evening." That was two days from now. I tore off a page from my little desk calendar and scribbled my home address on it. "Here--if some of you want to come on over, you're welcome to do so. You're not playing any games, are you?"

That could have been interpreted as a

double entendre,

but he interpreted it literally, as I'd intended. "No, ma'am, no games."

Even I knew that football players didn't play in the springtime.

"Well, just give it some thought," I said.

DeShawn got up like a zombie and, without a word or backward glance, got the hell out of my office.

I now realized that I myself was breathing hard--almost hyperventilating. A sheen of sweat covered my brow, and my hands were trembling. God in heaven, what had I done? Had I really invited a bunch of oversexed athletes to come over and "have their way with me," as the Victorians used to say? Probably they wouldn't even show up--they'd surely think it was some hideous practical joke, although why a professor (even a young and--I trust--reasonably attractive one) would engage in this sort of twisted humor was beyond their comprehension. And if I actually followed through on my lewd implication, I was risking immediate firing and the ruin of my career.

See what you've made me do, Mark Stephens?

As I trudged home later that afternoon, I could only hope that DeShawn and his pals either would just not show up or, even if they did, would be content to bask in my seductive presence without laying a finger on me. There was no harm in that, was there?

But as I finished my meager and solitary dinner on Saturday, I was in an utterly confused state. Maybe I could just leave the house, so that anyone who came by would find the place empty. Or I could tough it out, daring any young men who showed up that my body was in fact off limits to their hands, mouths, or any other parts of their bodies.

What I actually did was to go upstairs, strip naked, and put on a thin robe--really a sort of kimono--and wait to see what happened. Every moment I was doing this, I was aware that I was playing with fire: either utter, soul-destroying disappointment if no one took me up on my offer or, still worse, the irremediable shame of actually going through with what I had hinted to that young and naïve man-boy.

Then the doorbell rang.

DeShawn was on my doorstep--as were six other players on the team. That was one or two more than I was expecting.

They rushed into my house like boisterous teenagers (although none of them were under eighteen and some of them were probably in their early twenties), gawking at the elegantly furnished living/dining area as if it was a museum exhibition. Strangely, they all rushed by me without giving me the slightest notice--at first, anyway. After they'd had their fill of their surroundings, they focused their attention on me.

It was clear they liked what they saw: I could see it in their eyes. But what struck me is that they all seemed frozen into shyness. All they could do was look up and down at my sleek, slender form. They could clearly sense that I was naked underneath the kimono I was wearing; some of the guys licked their lips in anticipation of getting me into their clutches. But they were all charmingly hesitant to make the first move.

So now I was facing a critical discussion. I could either say, "Sorry, guys, I've brought you here under false pretenses. I'll give you milk and cookies and then send you on your way"--or I could say (or do) something very different.

I chose the latter course.

I carefully untied the sash of my kimono, opened the two sides of it, and let it slip from my shoulders to the floor. I was now naked in the presence of seven huge men.

As they just gawked in amazement at me, standing at various points in the long living/dining area, I walked sedately by them so that they could get a good look at all my assets. I heard someone whisper, "You're so pretty, ma'am," while others seemed actually to be salivating. I guess I still had it--I could still cause a man's temperature to rise. Of course, I myself wasn't immune: I could feel wetness between my legs. In fact, it was coming out of me so fast that it was trickling down my legs.

And yet, the funny thing was that these girl-hungry guys still held back. I didn't think they'd be quite so uncivilized as to pounce on me right then and there and have me on my own living-room floor; but they made no attempt to touch me, even though I sashayed inches from them, and sometimes even reached out my hand and stroked their cheeks suggestively, going so far as to roll my tongue over my lips in an unmistakable "come hither" gesture. There must have been some vestigial respect for someone who was both their elder and their teacher.

As for me, I knew I'd crossed the Rubicon, as it were. There was no going back. As Julius Caesar had said on that occasion, "The die is cast." I'd just have to let these guys into my body. And that sent some tremors through me, much as I tried to hide my fears with a display of feminine brazenness. There were seven men here, and with the exception of DeShawn I hadn't laid eyes on any of them before. But in a matter of minutes, they'd be penetrating my most intimate recesses.

I sighed inwardly and said to myself,

Okay, we may as well get this show on the road.

As I headed toward the stairs leading up to the second floor, where my bedroom was, I said over my shoulder, "Okay, guys, who wants to be first?"

I draped myself on my bed--on my back, legs raised, knees bent--but had to wait several minutes before a guy finally had the

cojones

to walk in.

Well, maybe it took him that long to undress, because he walked in naked.

He was Black, and he was large--in every way. I later learned that he was a defensive lineman (whatever that is). He must have been at least twice my size in terms of weight, and I have to admit to feeling a little worried that he could just crush me with his bulk. But when he crawled up onto the bed and placed himself between my legs, he took great pains to prop himself up by his elbows so that I wouldn't be asphyxiated by him.

Even so, he paused and gave me a worried look. "Ma'am, is it okay if I go in?" he said.

"You may go in," I said.

His member was at least eight inches long, and quite thick. It had been several weeks since I'd had a cock in me, so I was just the faintest bit out of practice. But he slipped in easily, given how wet I was and how hard he was. Somehow this first sexual contact between me and this perfect stranger broke the ice, and my body just took over--muscle memory, I suppose. I instinctively wrapped my legs around his hips and flung my arms around his incredibly broad shoulders, feeling like some sort of female Lilliputian as this man began thrusting in and out of me. His hands scoured my body as if yearning for every inch of me--breasts, back, bottom, thighs, with even a few tender strokes of my face. And sometimes he raised up his head (which had been buried in the pillow next to my own) and planted kisses of surprising delicacy on my lips. It was actually quite touching.

I could tell that his excitement had gotten the better of him, because within ten minutes he started groaning heavily--and, I sensed, with a certain frustration that he couldn't hold out any longer. Then his organ shot forth long, thick streams of his emission deep into me, and he really did press down upon me, holding me tight enough to squeeze the breath out of my lungs. This only lasted a few seconds, but I gasped when he released me, pulled out of me, and flopped over onto the other side of the bed. His discharge immediately began leaking out of me, there was so much of it. A beatific smile came over his face as he stared up at the ceiling. Then, with a quick kiss on the mouth, he said, "That was great, ma'am!" he stumbled off the bed and walked out.

I could now see that the other guys had lost their shyness and were eager to be next. In fact, one man was impatiently waiting for the first one to finish so he could take his place. This was another Black man, but quite a bit thinner. Even so, he had muscles all over, especially on the shoulders, chest, and thighs. I later learned he was a "fullback."

I wonder whether men have ever paused to consider why women find muscles appealing. Yes, there is a certain aesthetic pleasure in seeing a well-toned male; but there's a lot more to it than that. I think it's a very primal thing, going back to caveman days, when a woman sought a strong man to protect herself and her helpless children. Feminists will hate me for saying this, but I think all women know in their heart of hearts that it's men's size and strength--not to mention that thing growing out of their groins--that have kept women in a subordinate position all these centuries. Maybe that's changing now: it can't happen soon enough.

Anyway, this chap was a bit less timid than his predecessor--or maybe he just wanted to display his savoir faire when it came to intimate relations with women. He sauntered in, gave a cynical smirk when he saw the male seed oozing out of me--and unceremoniously flipped me over onto my stomach. He wanted to enter another orifice.

I had prepared myself for that, having lubed my anus ahead of time. (My lube of choice is cold cream. Trust me, it works fabulously.) He saw that I was already prepared for his invasion of that area, so he almost jumped on the bed and, covering me with his body, stuffed his cock into my butt.

Luckily, I'd done this before--many times--with my husband, as well as others before him. And this guy's cock wasn't enormous, so I accommodated it well enough. He seemed to like holding his arms extended on either side of me, so that the only part of our bodies that were in direct contact was his cock and my bottom. That allowed him to gaze down at himself (and me) and see himself forging in and out of that usually forbidden cavity. He was grunting with each thrust, and the force of his thrusts made me emit higher-pitched grunts of my own, so that we sounded like a sort of animalistic duet.

After a while he lowered himself onto my body, and I did feel a bit of discomfort as the weight of him constricted my breathing a bit. He did this largely so that he could grab my breasts with his hands. He gave them good squeezes as he pummeled me, and I could sense that his culmination was imminent.

When he came, I did too--to my surprise.

It wasn't that he or the previous guy had made the slightest attempt to stimulate me; and I didn't expect them to. I had made it pretty clear that I was there for their pleasure, not my own. Even so, the fact that I had now incited two guys I'd never set eyes on before to shoot their wad into me tickled me enough to produce a hands-free orgasm of my own. That itself was a rarity: usually I needed to rub myself vigorously (or have my partner do so) before I could achieve climax. But I now sensed waves of ecstasy radiating out from my clitoris all over my body, and I started quivering from head to toe, but mostly in my legs. I think the guy--who was still firmly embedded in me--was struck by my response. He pulled out of me, and as I turned my head in his direction he just peered at me as I continued to shake and tremble, as if a mild current of electricity was running through me. I gave him a look that said

I'm sorry, I can't help it

as he looked worriedly at me, as if I was having an epileptic fit or something.

I finally managed to settle down, and this second guy slipped off the bed and left the room.

By this time, it appeared that the remaining men were getting impatient. So now a pair of burly gentlemen (one of whom was DeShawn) strode in, and their intent was clear: they were going to do me both at once.

I had never done this before, but I figured I could manage it. I mean, the guys would be doing most of the work, wouldn't they? And that's what happened. They got on either side of me, all of us lying on our sides; one entered my pussy, the other my ass. They got to work immediately, pounding me vigorously--and not quite in rhythm, but close enough--so that I could clearly feel both cocks going in and out of my two nether orifices, with only a thin membrane separating them. DeShawn, in back, seized one breast, the guy in front the other. Charmingly, this guy also gave me a few delicate little kisses on the mouth, and I have to say that the look he gave me was not that of pure lust but of a certain gruff male tenderness that touched me. He'd probably make a good husband for some lucky girl someday.

The two men didn't finish together: the guy in back came first (he was in the tighter hole, after all), and that seemed to inspire the other to expel his seed into me. They both bellowed like oxen, and I echoed their cries in a higher-pitched and more ladylike manner.

There now remained only three men who hadn't poked me--and they were

really

impatient now. They hadn't actually witnessed any of the proceedings; but, even as they milled around downstairs naked, they could hear the grunts and groans emerging from the upstairs bedroom. And so the trio burst into my bedroom almost before the last two had completed their work.

This was the triumvirate that I've described at the beginning of this account. And they produced what I took to be a rather rare occurrence--a quadruple simultaneous orgasm. Once again, without exhibiting any great concern for my own pleasure, they somehow triggered a climax in me that made me shiver all over even as they continued to thrust into my pussy, ass, and mouth--and I had a little trouble taking in the third guy's come as it slid down my throat while the other two shot their wad into my other openings.

And when they'd done their work, I felt a justifiable pride. It was surely not your average woman who can satisfy seven men one after the other--let alone two or three at a time. I had proved my point that I was a succulent and desirable damsel, no matter what my ex might say. So I prepared to bask in my own sense of accomplishment and self-worth.