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Lipstick Hangover

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Notes: This story is a sequel to my poem “Straight Girl Surrender.” You don’t have to read the poem first…but I wish you would. And please read more of the excellent poetry on this site, brilliant work that doesn’t get the attention it deserves.

A warning to category purists: this story contains hetero sex, but if you read it, you’ll see that’s not at all what the story is about. All characters, of course, are over 18. Enjoy!

– Jazz


It was mid-morning when I arrived home. I stood for a moment at the door, taking a deep breath and adjusting my game face. Then I entered.

He was standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee and looking at his phone, as I walked by. He looked up and regarded me. I forced a smile.

“Good morning!” I said, trying not to sound too cheerful. Trying not to sound guilty.

I had hoped he would just reply and go back to his phone so I could rush past him into the sanctuary of the bedroom. I could hide from him there, at least for a little while, alone with my shame.

Instead, he just stared at me in silence, his eyes locking me in place. His gaze moved up and down my body. Inspecting me. He must see something, I thought. There must be signs all over me, signs revealing what I had done.

Signs of her.

“Have a good time?” he asked, voice low-key and neutral, eyes now on mine. It took all my willpower not to look away.

“Yeah, pretty good,” I said, matching his casual tone.

“Tied one on, did you?” His face broke into a little smile. My body flooded with relief; he didn’t seem to suspect.

“Not really,” I said with a shrug. “I was more tired than drunk, and it’s such a long drive. Thanks for letting me stay over.”

“Of course,” he said, waving dismissively. “Much safer than driving all that way at that hour. And you know I trust you.”

That last sentence was a gut punch. I felt a twinge of panic at the irony I might have heard in his voice. But mostly I felt a surge of guilt and shame for making a cuckold out of him.


Girls’ Night Out, she called it, making it sound innocent. But I knew we were at the point in our relationship where “innocent” was no longer on the menu.

I drove to her place. She looked absolutely breathtaking: tall, dark, and mysterious; long-limbed grace in a little red party dress; deadly curves, long black hair and green eyes that reached into me and locked onto my soul.

We cabbed to a bar, which was hopping on a Friday night, for snacks and drinks. She was relaxed and charming and fun, easing my nerves. We were by far the top attraction in the place, and I could feel the pressure of watching eyes.

A few men tried their luck, but we laughed them off. Only one was obnoxiously persistent, but he finally vanished when I flashed my wedding ring. I caught her staring at it, something strange and hungry in her eyes.

Let’s go dancing, she said, and we cabbed to a club. It was called Lypstyx, and there wasn’t a man in sight.


In the safety of my bedroom, I stripped out of my dress, bra, and panties. My clothes smelled of perfume and spilled drinks and female sweat; scents that brought back the powerful passions of the night before.

Scents of her.

Standing nude before the full-length mirror, I inspected myself, just as I had before leaving her place, searching for telltale marks. She’d been noticeably careful with her nails, which was a blessing, so there were casino şirketleri no scratches. Some faint blotches on my neck and right breast, reminders of a dangerously intense two-handed grip she’d used.

I shivered, remembering my gut-wrenching orgasm as her fingers tightened on my throat.

My throbbing nipples looked dark and swollen. That was something he might notice, and I knew I should try to keep them out of sight for a day or two.

I touched them and gasped at their sensitivity. She had been so strict and harsh in applying the clamps. I remembered the burning pain from their wicked tightness. I remembered the sharp arrows of agonizing delight as she tugged and teased with the little chain that hung between them.

For the most part, though, my body didn’t look like it had spent most of the last twelve hours engaged in wild fucking. Nothing too obvious, I thought, nothing that will look suspicious unless he already suspects. So I indulged myself in a moment of self-admiration. Like most people, I am my own harshest critic, but objectively I know I’m considered beautiful. Long, shiny, reddish-brown hair, big dark eyes, and facial features a bit too sharp, almost hard. Large breasts sitting proudly on a slender body sculpted to near perfection. Long legs you want wrapped around you.

Not quite as beautiful as her body, I thought, yet it proved enticing enough to drive her to a wild plateau of passion when she finally took me. I shuddered as I remembered her on my body: her hands, her mouth, her skin, her juice…

I yelped in shock as I saw him in the mirror watching me.


She had written a poem for me, something quite eccentric in a modern world, yet it made me feel cherished and desired and I loved her for it. She told me she would reveal it during our evening together.

She held me and caressed me on the dance floor, as we bathed in the intoxicating perfume of women in heat, and she whispered the first lines in my ear…

– You know, and I know, and I know you know

– You will be mine tonight, and that’s just how it goes

And that was all it took to melt away any lingering doubts.

Take me home, I whispered back. I’m ready.


Of course he’s an attractive man. Handsome, strong, successful. His tall, muscled body was stripped down to boxer shorts that gave some latitude to his hard manhood.

My initial fear, as my eyes had met his in the mirror, was that he’d caught me thinking of her, that he’d somehow known my languid movements were tied to memories of the ecstasy she’d made me feel.

Now I was feeling a different dread. His smirk, the look in his eyes, the way he stood so close to my bare flesh…he was feeling frisky, but my swollen, aching body was sore and depleted. I had poured every drop of passion out onto her bed. Yet refusing him seemed out of the question, in part for fear of rousing suspicion, but mostly because my guilt and shame told me I owed him this.

His hands began to explore my body. One fingertip paused briefly near the faint bruise forming on my breast, then moved on. The backs of his fingers brushed my painful nipples, and I gasped and flinched.

“Sensitive,” he remarked.

“Time of the month,” I murmured. Complete bullshit, but it shut down his curiosity as I knew it would. Like most men, his ignorance of the female cycle was eclipsed only by his fear of understanding it.

He took each of my nipples between thumb casino firmaları and forefinger, and even a gentle rolling brought blazing pain. But also a masochistic warmth.

Suddenly he pinched down hard and twisted. I screeched and my knees almost buckled. It wasn’t as cruel as it sounds; he knows I have a kink toward nipple pain. But at that moment I was so ultra-sensitive that he stopped my breath. He released and stared at me, mildly confused and curious. His eyes searched, perhaps wondered, but didn’t ask.

He stepped forward into me, his strength and bulk forcing me back. Another step, and I had to retreat or stumble. A third, and the back of my legs were against the bed. A light shove, almost gentle, and I was on my back. His boxers dropped away, and he loomed over me.


A strapon is unyielding. It doesn’t compromise. It doesn’t wilt from doubt or distraction. It doesn’t climax, then shrivel and hide away wanting to be left alone. It just keeps going until someone tells it to stop.

Arriving at her place, she stripped me and teased me and pleased me, and we scissored our way to a series of hot, feral, mutual orgasms. Later, she brought me to levels of oral pleasure I didn’t know were possible and taught me how to return the favor.

As the hour grew late, the flames of my desire for her still raged, so she brought out the heavy artillery. She inserted a little butt plug into me, harnessed up a frighteningly large strapon, and plumbed my liquid depths. I simply couldn’t get enough of her deep, powerful strokes, and she was in no mood to stop. A silver sliver of dawn appeared before I finally begged for a ceasefire.


That pounding she gave me didn’t leave me relaxed and open. Instead, I was swollen and tight. My walls resisted in outraged protest as he pressed forward. Fortunately, she’d left my faucet running so I was partially lubricated.

He’s not abusive, and whatever sadism he owns is controlled and mostly playful. His forceful approach was something we’d acted out before. Recently, he had been exploring his dominant nature, trying to revive a marriage going stale. We’d both been surprised by the vibrant submissive streak I’d exhibited in response.

A submissive streak that had left me vulnerable to her aggressive seduction techniques.

I took deep breaths and willed myself to open for him. Eventually it happened, and he was fully inside. His initial penetration had brought intense pain, but as my body furiously pumped out endorphins, the pain became a dull ache dotted liberally with droplets of pleasure.

As he began to thrust in and out of me, I tried to stay there with him, but then my eyes closed, and I drifted several hours back in time…


No matter what she did to me, it wasn’t enough. Even as she pillaged me, I plundered her. She took me, stole me, used me as she pleased, reaching deep inside me and ripping orgasm after orgasm from my darkest depths. But I demanded even more from her, screaming and clawing and biting and bringing her to her knees in gasping exhaustion. I craved her, yearned for her, longed for her, even as our bodies intertwined and she was as close to me as she could possibly be.

My arms and legs locked around her as she fucked me, and I squeezed and tightened and tried to pull her entire body inside me. She whispered more of the poem into my ear…

– Sweet lingerie, and all that sexy bling

– It all comes off, güvenilir casino even your wedding ring



The wedding ring. My eyes snapped open, and he was still thrusting in and out of me, ragged panting suggesting he was getting close.

She had insisted I remove my wedding ring while we dallied. It was something symbolic to her, a demonstration that, during our time together, I belonged to no one but her. A kink that felt hot and naughty at the time but felt dirty and wrong later.

But the bigger problem was, I couldn’t remember putting it back on.

His hands held mine down on the sheets, above my head. My thumb was partly locked down by his big, powerful grip, but I managed to wiggle it free and I felt the band on my ring finger. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, which he might have noticed if he hadn’t begun ejaculating into me at that exact moment.


She watched me with a sad, sympathetic smile as I dressed and pulled myself together. It was morning, and the passion was long gone. Now I was filled with dark emotions like grief, shame, dread, and others I couldn’t even name.

It was clear by now that she had plenty of experience seducing married women. But I resisted the temptation to feel betrayed and used, because I owned this one. At any rate, she knew the script here, knew what I was feeling and what I needed. She was mostly quiet, giving me space to grapple with my emotions.

At the door, right before I left, she held me and wiped a tear from my cheek, and it made me feel a little less lonely.


Saturday afternoon, after we showered and I napped a bit, he and I did happy couple things: a walk in the park, some upscale shopping, and an early dinner out. In the evening he did a bit of work to prepare for his Seattle trip. I thought she might text me at some point during the day, but she didn’t.

In the very early, still-dark hours of Sunday morning, he awoke and took pleasure of me. He seemed quite needy. I wondered if he sensed that part of me was elsewhere, and his lust reflected deeply buried insecurity.

Later we had a light, early breakfast together in the kitchen. I sipped coffee in my robe, watching him putter and bounce around the house as he waited for his airport limo. He seemed edgy, nervous, eager to go. He avoided my eyes.

He travelled to Seattle on business at least once a month, often twice. He always took an early flight on Sunday, arriving early in the afternoon, and he never scheduled anything on Monday before lunch. He usually stayed until Friday morning, even though it didn’t seem he needed that much time, and he was difficult to reach during his stay. I was fairly certain he had someone there, and perhaps in Phoenix as well.

After he was gone, I checked my phone.

There was a text from her, sent early, probably right before she went to yoga. She had withheld the last stanza of the poem, but now it was revealed in her text:

– But you will crave that sweet seductive sin

– The way that my tongue made you spin

– The way we moved, that dance of skin on skin

– I know that soon I’ll taste your love again

I opened my robe and took a selfie. I examined it before sending it. My hair was messy bedroom sexy, my eyes deeply haunted. You could see the bruise on my breast now, and I thought my nipples looked even more traumatized than before. My pubic hair was matted with his cum.

It was, I thought, the sexiest I’d ever looked. And if you examined the image closely, you could see my wedding ring on the table next to me.

I hit send.

Five heartbeats later, she replied:

– Come over

And so I did.


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