My Wife The Fag Hag

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I once asked my wife what the most kinky thing that she had ever done was. This is what she told me, in her words.


This was humiliating and dirty and kinky all mixed up, and it turned out to be so hot. I’ve dreamt about this many times and it feels like I remember every detail clearly — though that is probably me clinging on to the memory and renewing it when I, very occasionally, imagine myself back there as I masturbate.

Years and years ago, before I met you, I had two gay male friends I used to hang out with. Paul and Joe — I’ve told you a little about them. I must have been about 21. They were in my year at college, but seemed younger — lovely, beautiful innocents, when I first met them. They got experienced quickly though, got into a heavy gay scene. Paul got a drug habit and dropped out. I have no idea what happened to him. Jo is married now, with kids, and a long-term male lover on the side. I get the occasional letters from him, a card a Christmas and my birthday.

On the night in question… they were holding a party in their flat. There were 90% gay men, a few lesbians and me – the only straight person there, an anomaly, the outsider. They insisted I came, moral support I think. They were just establishing themselves as a couple. It was a great party. Dancing to cool music, food and lots of wine and dope. You know how I used to get horny on dope; that and watching the lovely boys, dancing, flirting and touching and kissing and going off the back rooms to bugger each other silly. I got so hot, watching it all. It was a very sexy scene. Left out, I was frustrated and wet in my panties. I got very, very drunk and came on to a couple of the pretty young boys. I must have made a real fool of myself, trying to kiss or get my hands on some shy, tight bodied queer who wanted nothing to do with me. It must have been comical and sad. I was rejected, but kept on trying with different boys. Anyway, to save me further humiliation and to stop me harassing their friends, Paul and Joe made me a cup of tea and put me to bed in the little spare room.

I woke up in the middle of the night and became aware of people standing around the bed. It was dark and it felt like there were dozens of them. They were talking in whispers about me – how drunk I had been, how disgusting it was to have a woman try to get at you like that, how I couldn’t control myself, what a slut I was. Paul and Joe were there. They didn’t defend me. They laughed along. And I distinctly heard Joe say: “She can be such a fag hag.” Somehow, this talk, their disgust, turned me on so much — you know, the situation, the humiliation, their sexiness, my frustration. I was a fag hag. I liked hanging out with them, I liked that they were inaccessible to me, that I couldn’t have them, that they thought me ridiculous, sad, drunk and yenibosna escort slutty, while they were free and hungry and being true to themselves… well I got hot and streaming between my legs. I was so turned on, it was a struggle to control my breathing, to keep up the pretence of being asleep.

They went quiet. I could make out the sounds of kissing, their heavy breathing. I was sure that they were touching each other, stroking each other’s cocks. Then someone pulled the duvet, right off me, leaving me lying there on my side, in a t-shirt and panties. This went on for some time. Them wanking over me and kissing and holding each other and me lying there pretending to be asleep.

“Hannah, are you awake.”

It was Joe, kneeling by the bed and whispering quietly into my ear.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Someone pulled back the curtain allowing the orange street light to flood into the room. I turned on to my back and I made out about ten men standing around me. All had their cocks out, some were kissing and wanking each other. They were so close, their spikes encircled me. I wanted to reach out, but hesitated, controlling myself.

Joe bent over me and kissed me on the cheek. “We just want to look at you. Is that OK?” He helped me off with my t-shirt and pulled off my panties.

I wanted to talk to them, but I was aware that a delicate balance was being struck. They were curious, in some way they thought I was sexy – my long slim limbs and small breast and short hair. But they were also disgusted by me, my neediness and sluttiness at the party earlier. It seems being gay entails a rejection of the opposite sex to a degree, especially in young men such as these who are trying to find their way in a hostile world. So, I didn’t reach for their beautiful turgid cocks, though the desire was nearly overwhelming. Instead, I closed my eyes tight and put on the best show I could. I arched my back, pushing my breasts up at them. I ran my palms back and forth over my nipples until they were hard and sensitive, then I pinched and pulled on them hard, hissing my pain and pleasure at my audience. Then I pulled my knees up and spread my legs. I bunched my fingers and thrust them into my cunt, hard and heavy and fast. But I stopped short of coming. I opened my eyes then. I had a good look around me. They were looking at me, so I looked back at them. Ten or so cocks, hard as iron pointed in at me. They were all wanking, or being wanked, they were kissing, they were touching each other’s arses, and chests and flanks and… it was so sexy and they were all, every last boy, looking at me. I was the centre of attention in the hottest way — an object, a curiosity, despised, but still they all had their hard cocks out and they were looking at me, staring at me with zeytinburnu escort their blank eyes and slack mouths.

“I need something in my arse. I want to feel that, please.”

I looked round for Joe or Paul. I was desperate. Paul pulled out of the circle for a few seconds, and came back with a tube of lubricant and a huge pink butt plug.

“This is what I used to train myself for anal. Do you want this, Hannah?”

I laughed — the colour, it was huge, bigger than a man’s bunched first, and it was Paul’s personal plug. But I nodded urgently and as he covered it in jelly I turned onto my stomach, and brought my knees up to raise my arse for him. His cold, slick fingers entered me, opened me a little and withdrew. Then I felt the end of plug against my arsehole. Paul stroked my arse gently, to calm me.

“Just relax sweetie, you can take it. Bear down like you’re shitting. There, that’s it, relax and breathe.”

I buried my face in the pillow. I tried not to make a sound. I wanted to take it like a man, like one of the boys, it was a point of pride. I’d never had more than a finger in me and it hurt like hell – really burnt, the stretching was so uncomfortable, so unsexy. But I was determined, and Paul was gentle, pressing a little and twisting, pressing and twisting. Then the pain shot up, as I was stretched so wide by the thick rim of the plug. I screamed then, in the pillow. But in it went in and the feeling of being filled and held inside came over me, and suddenly it felt so good. The pain had eased and, maybe it was in the mind, but I was so hot from having that huge thing in my bottom — I felt such a slut and I tingled in that whole area — my bottom, my thighs and my sopping cunt. I wriggled my arse, swaying it back and forth, getting comfortable, and I rolled onto my side. I looked around me. The boys were all hard as can be, still touching and wanking and kissing — they loved to kiss. A few smiles broke though — perhaps sympathy at my losing my anal virginity, my wildly stretched and filled arsehole. I rolled further onto my back, spread my legs and arched my back pressing the plug into the bed, really feeling it. A hand went to my cut and hand to my breasts and I dug and pulled and pinched at myself in earnest. In seconds I had all my fingers wedged into me, and pulled my breast into a cone by the nipple. Sensory overload and rocketing horniness — it was amazing.

“Cover me. Shower me in your cum. Please.”

A wanking frenzy ensued. Ten cocks were stroked hard and fast, there was panting and grunting and sighing and wet kissing and the slap, slap, slapping of boys beating off. I became focused on my orgasm. My fingers pressed against the plug inside me and a rubbed hard at my clit. I abused by breasts, putting on a show mecidiyeköy escort for the boys, but also swept up in the moment. As I my orgasm hit, I went rigid and still, as I do — you know that moment when things come together for me. That was when the first splash of sperm landed. On my foot, of all places. My leg jerked, in shock. It was an electric feeling. Some boy unleashing, on my left foot, my toes, my shin, grunting, beating his cock and ejaculating on me. I turned my face to my right. I knew Paul was standing there. I opened my mouth to voice my orgasm, I wanted to say thank you, but he came then spraying me with hot streams of sperm — into my mouth, over my face, in my eyes, some in my ear, my hair. It was ecstasy — it felt as if he had ejaculated a pint. Then they all started going off — a firework display. I was being showered, covered, head to foot, hot and wet and slimy and sticky. Fantastic. My orgasm stretched and stretched. I was tensed and feeling every drop as it landed, every tribute. Briefly, my sense of smell kicked in — I breathed in the scent of sweat and cock and arse, perfume, that tangy medicinal essence of sperm, and my smell, my churning cunt smell. I remember that distinctly… suddenly, as my orgasm slipped away, being assaulted by a range of odours.

They stood around me for a few minutes, in silence, as I unwound. I looked around, looked each of them in the eye and mouthed silently to each of them: “Thank you.” I rubbed the sperm all over my skin like a body cream. There was so much of it. Paul and Joe stayed behind, as the boys left one by one. They knelt at the bed by my head.

“Are you Ok Hannah?”

“Yes, yes. I’m in heaven. That was so hot. I feel so full. I’ve never… never had an orgasm like that. Thank you. Bless you all. Thank you so much. I love you guys.”

I was delirious with gratitude in the afterglow. Paul or Joe, or both of them, started scooping up the sperm around my face and neck and fed it to me. This went on for a few minutes, I was feasting on the boy juice — the bitter and smoky taste, the gloopy texture. I was tired and ached a little. My head felt heavy. One of the boys turned me onto my side, pushed my knees up and carefully extracted the plug from my arse. The duvet was pulled over me, the curtain closed and I fell into a deep sleep.

I woke the next morning and wandered out to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Young men, my boys, were sleeping in every corner of the flat, in every chair and on the carpet — there were four of them tangled up in the big bed in Paul and Joe’s room. I walked round the flat and kissed each them on the forehead, thanking them silently and wishing them luck and happiness and health. I put my clothes on and let myself out of the flat. I didn’t shower or wash my face or hands or brush my hair. I wanted to keep that dirty, itchy, slutty feeling of dried and crusty sperm all over me. It was a cool and sunny Sunday morning, and I wandered about the town, I did some shopping, I went to a coffee shop, and I visited an art gallery. I wallowed in my filthiness and feelings and smells and tastes of the night. Eventually I made it home and into a bath.

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