Coffeehouse CrushCoffeehouse Crush


Maggie and I stopped having sex a few months before our divorce, and two years later I was still in a dry spell. Yeah, two years and counting. I was told guitars are chick magnets, so I dusted off my old acoustic and sharpened my pencil. I ain’t no Bob Dylan, but I was happy to be playing and writing again and I frequented coffeehouses with live entertainment. You readers know the type of entertainment; men and women, mostly bleeding heart liberals, singing their life stories. Once you own the guitar, it’s a cheap hobby.

I can’t say women flocked to me, but I’m attracted to just about every woman with a guitar, and so it was with pretty Nissa. As far as I could ever find out, “Nissa” isn’t short for anything; it is her given name. I guessed her to be about my age, at the time in our early forties, maybe not as hot as she used to be, but she retained some of her younger glory. The reddish blonde hair was not as long as I imagined she wore it in her twenties, but it was still thick and wavy down to her shoulders.

I bought a CD Nissa recorded. The CD was her vanity project, and I’m sure she still has a couple cases of the CDs in a back closet somewhere that will never be sold. So, she appreciated the occasional fan. The singer-songwriter scene in our town was intimate enough that she and I were on a first name basis and would see each other at open mic nights or other shows a couple times per month. She signed the jacket thanking me for my support, but wrote nothing to suggest she thought about me when I wasn’t around.

I thought about Nissa, though, and she met me for lunch once. We worked our day jobs within a mile of each other, so neither of us took it as a big deal, but I was attracted to her and we were both unattached. Nissa was a manager at an accounting firm by day. In my office, I’m one of the peons people like Nissa don’t want to be any more. I didn’t work for Nissa, though; to me, she was just part of our group of local songwriters.

Nissa was a bit softer around the edges than my ex-wife. Maggie was a manager of managers, a boss of someone like Nissa, and someone who stomps on worker-bees like me just before Christmas when corporate budgets are reviewed. Maggie shortened her hair and heels, maybe to become more like the male managers she admired. Nissa combined a softer, artistic side, with her managerial, type-A personality and I liked her.

I wasn’t looking to marry Nissa, but I found myself comparing her to Maggie, so it was a shock to find out during our lunch conversation that my ex-wife and my coffeehouse crush were sorority sisters in college. If Nissa ever thought about me romantically, she seemed to lose interest after that revelation.

One acoustic show took place around the corner from her little Cape Cod. She had walked over before sundown, but later after the show, she asked for the quick ride home in my car. I was happy to oblige, and figured I’d still be home in time for the Friday night rerun of the old Battlestar Galactica TV series. In the driveway, though, Nissa mentioned she had been taking an art class and hoped I’d give her a really, truly honest opinion of her drawings. It occurred to me that an honest opinion wouldn’t get me anywhere with her, but we had known each other a year without getting anywhere, so I figured I’d play it by ear.

“Etchings?” I asked. “Really?”

She laughed lightly at the age-old “etchings” joke, and I was sure she was thinking, “No, this guy’s not getting laid tonight.” On the other hand, she invited me in.

Sure enough, her living room was crowded with charcoal drawings on an easel and an angled drafting table. The drafting table was a solid hunk of professional furniture, with unusual brackets at the corners. I was considering my art review when Nissa appeared with a glass of red wine. She apologized for not opening a fresh bottle, but she thought it was pretty good Australian wine, and then she excused herself to “powder her nose”. Several minutes went by and I realized I had just about emptied the glass of wine, and I stopped drinking so I wouldn’t look like too much of a lush. In our time together, we had never drunk alcohol.

She returned and stood next to me. I glanced at her and she nodded back toward her drawings. I think I asked her about her sources of inspiration or something similarly corny, but she launched into a serious answer about some Ecuadorian impressionist I had never heard of. I couldn’t respond intelligently, and there was a moment of silence.

I turned to say something, anything just as Nissa sidestepped behind me. She pulled my elbows back. She said, “We’ve known each other for some time. Aside from some songs which are mostly fictional anyway, neither of us divulges much personal stuff.”

She pulled my arms back more tightly, but not roughly. Nissa continued, “There’s something I want you to try. I hope you’ll play along, and it will be our little secret.”

OK, so Nissa was shy and didn’t want anyone to know how inexperienced she was. Or, maybe she was embarrassed to be attracted to me. Whatever! I promised Kadıköy Türbanlı Escort I could keep a secret, even though I didn’t know what she was talking about.

She told me to put my eyeglasses on a small table. I leaned over to put the glasses down and she leaned into my butt. I stepped forward a bit for balance because she actually shoved me. She didn’t hurt me, but I felt the push. I chuckled and straightened up as she flicked off the lights.

She slid a blindfold over my eyes. It was not just a piece of cloth; it was some sort of commercial product, with padded eye patches and a thin strap. I moved to straighten the strap on the side of my face, but Nissa grabbed my arms again and pulled them back.

In the dark, blindfolded, I felt a soft, fuzzy material against my wrists. Quickly, I felt the soft fuzz tighten around each wrist separately, like a Velcro bracelet. Or, maybe it wasn’t so quick. My senses were confused, and I was wondering more about what would happen than what was happening.

I was gladly playing along. However experienced Nissa was or was not, she apparently wanted to try something new and unusual, in the dark, and she couldn’t even bring herself to ask me.

I felt Nissa’s hands slide down the sides of my legs. She untied my shoes and I slipped them off. She removed my socks, and I felt her slip fuzzy Velcro anklets around my ankles. She stood, still behind me.

She held me by my left elbow with her left hand, and ran the fingers of her right hand into my hair. I wondered if a man’s head of hair was important to her, in our forties. I was graying, but not balding. Her fingers tightened and she pulled my hair enough to jerk my head. She pulled me quickly and rather roughly a few feet to the drafting table. I began to turn, maybe to face her, but she twisted my arm and pulled my butt into her abdomen.

“Don’t move too much. I’ll lead you where you need to go.” She let go of my hair.

She pushed her abdomen into my butt again. She reached past my right shoulder, pushing me to lean over the angled drafting table, and she grabbed my right hand and pulled it toward the top right corner of the table. Still blindfolded, I heard a click, and my right wrist was stuck, bound to a bracket I couldn’t see, attached to the fuzzy bracelet. I brought my left hand over to feel it. Nissa moved to the left side of the table and told me to feel her breasts. I heard her remove her shirt.

To you, reader, this all sounds so strange, and it really was strange. I reached toward her on my left, to feel her breast. She took my hand and put it against her chest. I curled my finger into her bra cup. She leaned with her breasts over the edge of the table and I slid my fingers into the bra fabric, but it was all a trick. With a slight push, she attached the bracelet on my left wrist to the unseen bracket on the left top corner of the drafting table. I could stand almost straight, but my hands were cuffed to the table. Apart from my footwear, I was still dressed.

I tested the wrist bindings. Maybe I could have ripped them apart or damaged the table, but I was tightly restrained. Nissa moved behind me and crouched, sliding her hands down my left leg. Another click, and my left anklet was attached to something. It felt like a wire attached to the left front leg of the table. I could move my leg and keep my balance, but I couldn’t drag my left leg to the right.

“Well, you are a pushy woman!” I joked, but Nissa kept working. Still crouching, she reached up and fumbled nervously at my jeans button and zipper. She pulled my pants and underwear down and off my right foot. She twisted the pants off to the left side. She couldn’t remove the pants without unhooking my anklet.

I said, “Sorry about the tighty whities. If I had known there would be an audience, I would’a worn my G. I. Joes.”

“Quiet,” she insisted. Her face rubbed the side of my left butt cheek and down my leg. Her right hand shot up the inside of my left leg, into my testicles. In retrospect, I should have known she would try to trick me into spreading my legs. A half hour earlier I was wondering about Battlestar Galactica, not about some chick’s bondage fantasy. Pretty Nissa was fondling me, and I gladly shifted my right leg over to give her space. She moved and I heard the click. All my wrists and ankles were bound.

Nissa stood. “Listen,” she said, “this is your last chance. You’re probably not thinking what I’m thinking. Ask your questions now, and if you want to stop, I’ll let you go. After this last chance, it’s all a game, and we play it to the end.”

Curiosity killed the cat, as they say. I said, “No photos or video. No choking. No marks on my skin.”

She assured me nothing dangerous was planned, and, “What happens at Nissa’s stays at Nissa’s.” I considered the possibility she was a hooker and I was about to get hustled, but I only had twelve bucks in my wallet, so the joke would be on her.

I wisecracked, “You said you wanted me to see your artwork.”

Nissa laughed nervously. Kadıköy Otele Gelen Escort “You saw it. I won’t tell you everything else, but I’ll let you go if you wish.”

“Fine, let me go,” I demanded.

I felt Nissa begin to unravel the Velcro on my right wrist.

“WAIT!” I yelled.

“What?” Nissa paused.

“I just wanted to see what you’d do. I’m guessing things are about to get pretty intense, and I’m nervous, but if you say it’s not dangerous, I’m willing to continue.”

“Final answer?”

“Final answer.”

Nissa adjusted the wrist strap a little tighter than before. I was sure she had decided to use me in some sort of art project. I wondered what I looked like, restrained, blindfolded with fuzzy accessories, bare-assed, but I hoped I would not find out on YouTube.

Nissa was still mostly dressed, as far as I could tell. I was facing the drafting table and couldn’t move more than a few inches in any direction. I wondered what her next step would be. I heard some faint clicks and beeps.

“Are you taking pictures with your phone?” I asked.

“No, no pictures,” she promised. “Relax for a sec,” she said with a mysterious laugh, “while you still can.” She caressed my butt, reaching around toward my front, not quite reaching my pubic hairs. There was a noise at the front of the house.

I jerked my restraints. “Did I just hear the front door?” I was scared. “You never said we’d have company.”

Nissa agreed, “You’re right, I never said and you never asked. You’re as safe as you were a minute ago.”

I heard footsteps and a familiar voice. “Hello, darlin’.”

It was Maggie, my ex-wife, using the pet name she called me while we were married. I pulled at the restraints again. I wasn’t so sure I could break away even if I got violent.

Maggie and I divorced without serious trouble. There wasn’t much money and no kids. Still, no divorce is fun and we both resented something about the other.

Maggie said, without emotion, “Darlin’, you won’t be harmed, and no one will find out about all this, I’ll promise you that much. But you know me, I can hold a grudge, and three years ago, you forgot our anniversary.”

“That’s it? You were on a business trip to Vegas!” I complained. “You were pulling all nighters at some convention center. I was home feeding the fish.”

“Yeah, well, tonight we settle the score,” Maggie added with mysterious excitement. “Nissa asked if she could watch.”

“Watch what?” I asked. I could hear Maggie undressing and tossing her clothes to the side. I never knew Maggie to be kinky, but she was seeing me from a new angle. She stepped toward me from behind as Nissa moved around the room.

Nissa narrated, “Maggie brought a toy with her.”

Maggie stepped closer. I was blindfolded, but I could feel her naked skin next to me. She rubbed something rubbery and hard against my leg.

“Are you going to sodomize me with a stick?” I asked, about ninety percent seriously.

Maggie kept silent as Nissa answered. “Maggie is wearing a strap-on, silicone dildo. We found it on the web. The harness holds a bullet vibrator in Maggie’s vagina. I’ll be working those controls, ha.”

“How big?” I asked.

“The kit arrived with a couple of sizes,” said Nissa. “Maggie is wearing the smaller dildo, 4 ½ inches according to the box.”

“What color?” I asked.

They both laughed at my question. “It’s purple. Maggie told me you’d be cracking other sorts of jokes. There are about a million double-entendre metaphors you could be shooting off right now, what with your ex about to screw you in ways her divorce lawyer never dreamed of.”

“Is it new?” I was thinking of STDs.

“Yup,” Nissa said. “Never used.”

“How about the bigger one, did you two, ya know, break it in?” I’m sure I leered.

They both hesitated. “We’re sorority sisters, not lesbians.”

“Riiiiight,” I cracked, sarcastically. I jerked at the restraints and the women purred contentedly. I could have imagined more questions, but once I learned I was about to be on the receiving end of strap-on sex with my grudge-holding ex-wife, there wasn’t much more to say. I had never done that with anyone, male or female or myself. I never wondered if it would be enjoyable, and doubted it would be. On the other hand, when they were finished, these two women would surely owe me some serious compensation.

I felt the fake but lifelike and erect penis being rubbed against my leg, and Maggie spanked my left butt cheek.

I told her with a high, girly voice, “No, don’t do that.” I was playing this to the hilt.

Maggie didn’t pause. She moved directly behind me. I heard her fumbling with something new, and I made out a squirting noise. I guessed she was lubricating her dildo. I heard a clunk, probably the tube being thrown down. I felt the cool, greased dildo erect between my butt cheeks.

Nissa started a CD, “Cherry Bomb” by The Runaways. “How droll,” I quipped, thinking of my metaphorical cherry. Maggie and I once spent a long Kadıköy Ucuz Escort weekend in Montreal drunk on wine and repeating the French word “drôle” and that line from John Knowles’ “A Separate Peace”, “Je ne give a damn pas about le français.”

I continued, “Sentimental fool, c’est moi.” I struggled against the restraints some more, and I breathlessly pleaded, “Please don’t enter me. I’m just a virgin, you know.”

Maggie gasped, I suppose with power. She was about to rape an anal virgin, even if only as a game. When I got up that morning, I had no thoughts of taking in a dildo, but I was caught up in the moment. Nissa’s trickery in binding me to the table worked as masterful foreplay. I was primed and willing to play. These women manipulated me into their game, and I actually found myself wondering what anal sex would be like.

“Hey, darlin’, remember cherry lip gloss?” Maggie pulled my head around and leaned forward for a wet, tongued kiss.

“Ah,” I recalled, “just like high school.” Indeed, I remembered the taste, another cherry reference and another unusually sentimental journey considering the dildo rubbing against my butt.

Maggie rubbed the dildo up and down between my butt cheeks. I felt the tension of the bonds against my wrists and tried to keep my chin up, facing forward into my darkness. My legs were spread as Maggie aimed the end of the dildo. She was intent on penetration, but not roughly.

What was Maggie’s state of mind? With “normal”, vaginal sex in the missionary position, the penis starts at the edge of the vagina and won’t immediately slide in. The man pushes harder and the woman tells him to be gentle, but being gentle makes no sense to the man because he wants to penetrate, and if he’s not penetrating, he pushes harder. Each push gains a fraction of an inch, and then there is that magical moment when the man feels the heat of the vaginal juices, and with one more thrust, his penis slides in to its base. That moment of the first deep penetration is a man’s primal need. Most men are good people, and they don’t want to hurt women, but in those seconds before penetration, no rational thinking in possible. The man just wants to get inside, all the way inside, right fucking now! Whatever those chemicals are inside his little brain, they overpower all other thoughts, and he just wants to, well, be the man and be in charge.

It’s hard to say how Maggie understood this. We never reversed roles when we were married. I think she wanted to understand it, and that was why we were in that position, with me spread across a table and her zeroing in on my entry point. I was telling myself I wanted it, but my muscles reflexively closed up.

“You’re fighting it, aren’t you?” Maggie asked. I thought it was a rhetorical question, and I only managed a grunt, but she demanded an answer. I told her I was fighting it. I think that’s what she wanted to hear. The dildo felt huge and my body felt small. She thrust gently a couple more times and I think she laughed. I imagined an evil sneer on her face. She wanted me to fight her. I was trapped, and Maggie was going to win the fight, but she didn’t want it to be easy.

“You Drive Me Wild” began to play. “Turn up the music,” I called, trying to keep my mind on Lita Ford.

We had hardly begun when I felt like Maggie had already won. I felt like her dildo was ten inches long and inside me, but I was wrong. What seemed like the whole dildo was really only the head. Maggie was gradually pushing the head in, a tiny bit with each thrust of her hips. I felt like she had been pounding me for an hour, but it had been only a couple minutes. Maggie moved slowly, but Nissa decided we were “ready”. Nissa clicked her controller and the vibrator in Maggie’s vagina kicked on. Maggie grunted, her body jerked forward and the lubrication conquered my resistance. The dildo slipped in. The dildo didn’t scratch or injure me, but it was rigid and thicker than my virgin body expected. My insides were stretched in a new way. My cherry wasn’t popped; it was bombed.

I was tense on the table at first, head in the air, feeling the tight squeeze. When the dildo slid in to its full depth, my arms weakened and my chest collapsed onto the table. I felt Maggie’s hips against my butt cheeks. She couldn’t push it in any farther. I grunted loudly with each swivel of her hips.

There was the strong smell of heavy lubrication, and of the insides of my anus being pulled out along the dildo. At first, none of us liked the smell, but after a while, it drove us on. It was a sex smell none of us knew.

The edges of her harness and the vibrator rubbed against Maggie’s vagina. Each move stimulated her, causing her to jerk back and forth more roughly with each gyration. She began slapping my butt cheeks rhythmically with her hips.

“Oh, I get it!” Maggie cried. “I get why guys want to rush everything all the time. It’s not the orgasm you want. It’s this feeling of power. I own you! I bone you!”

I didn’t know where Maggie learned that phrase. Back in the day, I never told her I wanted to “bone” her. On this night, every time I thought I could muster the strength to move my arms, Maggie would drive herself to the next level. She dug her fingers into my hips and pulled herself toward me, jamming the dildo into my body, and once again my arms gave out and I collapsed onto the table.

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