The Invisible Orgy

I was with three men this weekend.

One was in my bed.
One was in my mind.
And one was in my heart.

If you had climbed up a ladder and peered in my bedroom window, you would have seen me with but one man: tall, grey-haired, somewhat overweight, not really good-looking, sweet, comfortable, attentive, and flaccid.

But two more men were most definitely in residence.

The man in my bed knows my body, and many other female bodies as well, and used his gentle talents to deliver pleasures that many women would have envied. But I couldn’t cum, I couldn’t rise to that muscle-straining state of tension and then let go of the railing and tumble over the edge in the free-fall of release without filling my mind with memories and fantasies of the fiend and his words and plans and threats and tortures.

And when I did cum… over and over again… when I came again and again and cried, as I always do, my breast was torn with heaving sobs and the pain, greater than any caning, of love and loss and longing.

And the learning continues.