Laura’s Story

Ass

It had to be the most bizarre idea for starting a family in the history of procreation.  If someone had told me, even a year ago, that my husband and I would do this, I would have said they were stark, raving mad.  But some circumstances change people, change the way they think; they changed my husband, and they certainly changed me. Two years ago, Paul and I were a happy-go-lucky, ordinary, married couple.  We both had steady jobs. We had two weeks on a Greek island every summer.  We enjoyed a good life, good sex and enough money to get by.  We had both wanted children from the moment we got married, but I was just twenty-one, so, like most couples, we thought there was plenty of time.  Enjoying life was more important. Then Paul got mugged.  Apart from the indignity and shock, he was on the receiving end of several kicks, one between his legs.  The police officer that phoned me said he was conscious and able to walk, his injuries didn’t look serious, but he was on his way to hospital.  An examination of his testicles, by a thankfully experienced doctor, revealed that the swelling was due to something more serious than bruising.  Surgery was immediate.  Radiation and chemotherapy followed, for more months than I care to count. After a year of agony, emotional for me, physical and emotional for Paul, he was declared by his doctor a new man; apart from needing regular check-ups, he was in full remission.  The treatment probably saved his life but left him completely sterile.  He could no longer father children.  The doctor assured us we would return to having a normal sex life.  Normal? Paul and I quickly decided that his problems would not stop us from having our own family but that, I suppose, is where our attitudes really started to change.  We both wanted to experience the pregnancy and the birth, so that put us off adoption, and I have a serious phobia with needles and surgical procedures.  I probably would have given in to my fears, but having used most of our savings while Paul could not work and discovering IVF was expensive, I allowed myself not to feel too guilty.   Having considered fertility treatment as a principle, (utilizing the semen of someone we didn’t know) and feeling reasonably comfortable with the idea, discussion progressed to my having intercourse with a complete stranger, me ludicrously suggesting it was just to get pregnant as if the idea were completely natural I should add at this point, that the particular discussion developed late one night in bed.  We had been out for lunch with a group of very good friends.  The lunch started at midday.  We got home at midnight.  We had consumed too much alcohol to want to sleep, enough to have lost any inhibitions, but too little not to remember anything after.   At a bewilderingly clear-headed moment, Paul stated, “People donating semen to a clinic are both assured of anonymity, and checked for disease and abnormality.  We don’t want the risk of an STD or worse, so we’d have to do some background checks.  That sort of blows holes in someone remaining a complete unknown.” “They wouldn’t have to be a complete unknown,” I replied confidently.  “We do all the checks, then we do it like they do in firing squads, you know, several people shoot, but no one knows who fired the live round.”  I felt like an alien had taken over my brain.  I was shocked, not only that I could think like that, but that I could sound so enthusiastic about the idea. Paul, however, was completely unfazed and continued clinically.  “It’s an apt analogy in a weird sort of way.  If you had sex with someone, we wouldn’t want to know he was the father of our child.  Equally, we wouldn’t want anyone to be able to claim paternity rights.  It’s a perfect solution, you don’t have intercourse with one stranger, you do it with several.” In the drunken euphoria that followed, we sat at the computer, composed a succinct but sexy advert, took a few soft-core photos and posted an ad on the internet.  By the next afternoon, the wisdom of that moment had vanished, our regrets fueled by the collection of weird, crude and troubling emails that filled my inbox.  Eternally grateful that we had kept our identities anonymous, it was easy to ignore the responses. In the days that followed, the emails tailed off to nothing and we put the subject out of our minds.  Well, I know I did.  I think part of me was still shocked that things had gone as far as they did.  Shocked and a little scared.  I can’t honestly say that I know what Paul’s thoughts were; I didn’t mention it, and neither did he Now, I should explain that when I check my emails, I have a habit of ignoring who they’re from or the subject, and dive straight into the text.  It caught me unaware when, a couple of weeks later, I found myself reading this: Dear Both, Some ten years ago, a group of colleagues working for the same multinational company met as a project team out in Canada.  A combination of technical problems and weather forced us to spend Christmas holed up, the only residents in an isolated hotel.  Although the team was disbanded only a few weeks after, we become very good friends because of that time together and still get together, through work and socially. When we are able to meet outside a work environment, we try to do something that none of us have experienced previously.  I would stress that our escapades here never involved anything illegal or improper and we have never, in the past, contemplated anything remotely sexual, let alone what I’m now suggesting.  almanbahis The most outrageous of our trips, Fred wanted to go to Disneyland, and while I confess that we did visit the Red Light District in Paris, it was purely part of the day we had sightseeing; none of us, as far as I am aware, sampled what was on offer. The youngest among us, a genuine and kind-hearted man, is incredibly shy and introverted.  His brain is wired in ways that leave the rest of us look like idiots, and he is pure genius at his job, but his highly developed intellect as a youth came at a cost; he never learnt the finer art of growing into an adult.  The rest of us believe he is a virgin, but we would never embarrass him ourselves by asking. We have tried to set him up with a partner, but he resists, telling us he wouldn’t know what to do; he will not watch porn because he has an unbendable sense that it’s demeaning.  We are working on the dating but fear there is nothing but experience that will give him the confidence to try for himself.  The last time we met, we suggested we find him someone to have sex with.  To keep a very long story short, the only way he was going to agree if we showed him how it’s done.  Not one of us, all of us. Apart from Tiny Tim, we are eight; two married, four divorced and two singles.  The two that are married may not partake, but I have spoken to the rest, and they are willing.  None of us smoke or do drugs, and we are all relatively fit and healthy.  We are more than willing to answer any questions. If you are still interested in meeting, it could be to our mutual benefit.  We will all be in Birmingham on business at the end of the first week of September. I am attaching a photo, taken in Canada.  We have aged a little, but it will give you an idea of what we look like.  By the way, we all have nicknames from watching The Muppets Christmas Carol, the only non-French film on TV that Christmas.  They call me Ebenezer. My immediate reaction was to check the calendar.  I had read that a woman is at her most fertile on days twelve, thirteen and fourteen of her monthly cycle.  If my periods stayed regular, that Friday fell on day fourteen.  It was a sign. I was still engrossed by the photo when Paul came in and looked over my shoulder.  I printed the email and let him read while I tried to get a sense of the men in the picture, imagining who might fit which Dickens character. “Do you want to go through with this?” Paul asked.  Compared to the last conversation, his voice sounded decidedly nervous. “What I want is to get pregnant and have a baby with you,” I said, trying to keep my own doubts under control.  “Outside of being drunk and thinking anything is possible, this is the first time that having that baby seems remotely feasible.” “But aren’t you nervous about having sex with strangers?” I had known Paul long enough to understand he was more concerned for his nerves. “Yes, I’m very nervous.”  I stood up and wrapped my arms round him.  “You’re the only man I’ve ever made love with, and you’re the only man I want.  I don’t want to be the wife that sleeps with other men, but this might get me pregnant, and that’s the bit I want to focus on.  I could do it because I know you’ll make sure I’m safe.” “They do look like good, healthy father material,” he said after studying the photo for what felt like hours.  And so began three months of planning.  I lost track of how many emails we sent, how many questions we asked, and how many ground rules we set, but each got a polite and positive response.  Most replies took several days, I assumed because Ebenezer was consulting others, but a response always came back the following morning; the one time we waited more than four days, it came with profuse apologies.  I realized that I had no proof of anything said, that this could even still be just one person leading us nowhere, but the longer the trail of words became, the more real it all seemed and the less vulnerable I felt. And it was far from three months of plain sailing. There were many times when one or other of us suffered nerves, but we managed to sit and talk through our doubts and concerns, reiterating the same arguments for and against, over and over.  One of us would always see the positives. Like couples the world over, there were times that Paul and I would argue; our backgrounds and viewpoints clashing.  Me becoming pregnant, however, was something that united us, and while we discussed our plans over and over, we never fought.  I don’t think I could have gone through with any of it if we’d fought. The repeated discussions, for me, highlighted a particular issue; what had happened to Paul had left scars far deeper than the physical ones.  He certainly had a problem with sharing me sexually with other men, I think I would have been concerned had he not, but while he was never able to sustain an objection to what was proposed there was something that kept him going back over the same issues.  It became obvious to me that he didn’t know how to express whatever it was.  I thought I could hazard a guess, but it seemed more important to let him work it out. The strangest consequence to that three months was how aroused I became, sexually.  When Paul and I started dating—I was still seventeen—he used to tease me about how wet my panties were if he ever got the opportunity to put his hand down them.  He said it was like finding a puddle between my legs.  Needless to say, he never had any difficulty putting his fingers inside me. That almanbahis yeni giriş intense response seemed to fade when the two of us became a regular couple, but thinking about and planning a sex session with several men, had me in a constant state of arousal, and wet.  There was more than one occasion when I could feel it running down my leg and frequently had to take myself off to the ladies’ at work, illogically fearing someone could see. I even started taking spare panties with me in my handbag.  I was so glad I’d never liked the fashion of wearing leggings. There was a day that the exchange of emails had me particularly distracted.  We had stated that the group was not allowed to ejaculate anywhere but in my vagina; Ebenezer responded positively but re-iterated that the group wanted to demonstrate to Tiny Tim that sex can be varied and without restriction, and asked if there were other things they could not do. I spent the day thinking about the answer, to the point I hardly got any work done and had to run off the ladies more than once, not only to change my panties, but to masturbate, something I have not done alone since getting married.  I am so glad it’s a small office and the toilet is well out of earshot.  After I got home and discussed my thoughts with Paul, I wrote back and said no; no restrictions on what they could do I also began to think seriously about how I look, both clothed and naked.  I realized rather ashamedly I’d become complacent since being married, putting comfort ahead of looks. I’ve always felt vulnerable being naked in front of any strangers; I use a cubicle when I go to the gym or the pool, and insist we find the most remote and secluded spot at a beach if I’m going to sunbathe, even in a bikini.  I suddenly felt determined to lose the few extra pounds I now carried around my thighs and bum, I started to trim my pubic hair, and I invested in a lot of new and sexy underwear, useful now I was having to change so often. The other thing I realized; I’d become complacent about the sex life I was having with Paul; since he’d been in hospital it was almost non-existent.  We fooled around that drunken night the ad was placed, and Paul did penetrate me, but it was far from being satisfying intercourse; we both fell asleep.  We do cuddle naked in bed, but I’m not sure that counts. I told Paul how aroused I was getting, and started to encourage him to put his hands down my panties to feel, even if we’d just come in from the supermarket.  It brought back fond memories of our first explorations of each other’s bodies.  After all these years it was a lot less clumsy, but it was just as exciting, and after all that Paul had been through, it was a new journey of discovery. Paul had not shown much interest in sex since he was discharged from treatment, but I assumed that my love, and time, was all he needed.  Having seen his response to feeling how wet I’d become, and feeling guilty, I took more initiative.  I stopped wearing just scruffy, comfy clothes in the evenings, I put nice underwear after I’d had a bath so Paul could take them off again in bed, and I focused more than ever on foreplay. Paul had always enjoyed licking me and putting his fingers in me; often bringing me to an orgasm before penetrating and getting me to climax again.  Instead of my usual laying on my back, legs akimbo, we started to try new positions.  Sitting astride his face was a turn off for both of us, but Paul enjoyed sixty-nine style, and responded eagerly with me, bent over, back to him, on my knees.  Who knew a woman could orgasm while having her bum hole licked? sixty-nine was a revelation.  I think we had always put so much emphasis on kissing and watching each other when we made love, that it never occurred to us to try.  We have both enjoyed oral sex often enough, but it had always been a prelude to penetration.  Now I wanted to spend a whole evening just licking, sucking and rubbing him.  It was Paul that suggested I change position so he could touch, taste, and watch me at the same time.  I didn’t exactly orgasm the instant I felt his breath against me, but Paul told me after I dribbled on his face. The other thing that changed; my language.  Paul and were both brought up by parents that never swore, or discussed sex, so I guess we both had inhibitions.  Now, when we were in bed, I wanted to tell Paul to lick my arse or my cunt, or pussy, or any other noun that came to mind.  I wanted to tell him to put his cock in me, to fuck me.  I didn’t want to hold anything back. There was an evening, while cuddled up in bed, Paul needed a pee.  I got up with him and insisted I hold him while he urinated.  With me on my knees, I wrapped my hand around his penis but that started to give him an erection.  Instead, I settled for just lightly holding with two fingers.  When the flow started, I put a third finger in front of it.  Urine sprayed onto my face and neck.  Paul momentarily stopped, worried that splashing me had been accidental, but I made him turn to face me and pointed him at my breasts.  While it was a pain having to clean and go put towels in the wash, I loved every second of it. Now all of that sounds as though our sex life went from zero to one hundred in a heartbeat.  It didn’t.  It was a slow build.  By the time September arrived, we were having a night of playing and occasional intercourse perhaps once a week.  I was still a long way from being able to get Paul to an orgasm, but I had tasted that little salty dribble of almanbahis giriş fluid on him a couple of times.  Only one thing had grown into a daily ritual; Paul would kiss me and slip his hand down my panties when he got home from work.  That alone meant the world. Paul and I had reached an agreement, if we had not decided by Wednesday to abandon our plans, we would not discuss it further.  The meeting was Friday.  Our nerves were fraught, and we saw no point in making things worse with last-minute discussion.  The deadline also gave forty-eight hours to tell Ebenezer.  Even though we did not know who this person really was, we felt we would owe him a courteous explanation. That deadline passed.  I took Thursday off work to pack and relax, but spent most of the day cleaning, ironing, and doing anything that didn’t involve me thinking about what lay ahead.  Friday, with enough clothes put haphazardly into a case for a month, Paul and I traveled, the journey uneventful, save for the silence. Ebenezer had booked two adjoining rooms for us at a hotel just off the city center, in the names of Mr. Statler and Miss Waldorf; one room for the group to congregate, the other for my use.  Where Statler and Waldorf chose to sleep, he explained, was up to them.  He added that the group now referred to us as the Fezziwig’s, but felt that might have made their booking team suspicious.  The choice of names made us smile, and strangely, that we had become part of the group He also explained that while there were over one hundred company personnel and guests present in Birmingham for that weekend, none of them were booked into our hotel.  He did not want us to feel uncomfortable accidentally meeting the group in the bar or at breakfast.  Equally, the group did not want to bump into colleagues or bosses and have to explain their presence. When we arrived, we found ourselves in a very plush lobby (Paul and I were used to low budget), our rooms pre-paid for two nights.  We had expected a reservation for just one night and to pick up the bill.  The young lady on reception was at pains to explain that the reservation included charges up to £200, but she would need a credit card just in case we exceeded that figure. I think my heart stopped when Paul handed over his card, his name looking nothing like Statler even at a cursory glance but it was accepted and swiped without issue.  The woman then looked to me.  After what felt like an age, she suggested we put all charges onto the one room and reminded us we would be responsible for anything over £400.  It was not until we settled in our rooms, that my brain caught up. The whole business of having our stay paid for troubled me.  At the better end of the scale, I could take it as a gesture of kindness by someone wanting to make our stay as comfortable as possible.  It could simply be that all rooms had been reserved and paid for on the same basis and the monetary gain, for us, was unintentional.  The worst, being paid for sex, I shuddered at.  Going up in the lift I could see the same thoughts occupying Paul’s mind.  “I know we’ve promised each other we would not discuss this now,” I said, my voice filled with trepidation, “but if you say so, we turn around and leave now, not another word, and no regrets.” He stared at me for what felt like an age, until the lift door opened at our floor, making us both jump.  On the wall directly in front of us, our room number and an arrow, seemingly guiding us to our destiny. “Let’s see if we can get you pregnant,” the only words he spoke. The rooms were beautiful, but the windows stretched from wall to wall and floor to ceiling.  One massive expanse of glass through which I could see across the rooftops of Birmingham, and the people of Birmingham could see me. “It would be weird if I pulled the curtains, Right?”  The question was aimed more at myself. “Yes, it would be weird” Paul replied, smiling.  “We’re twenty-eight floors up.  No one is going to see you.  Apart from me and the cast of Christmas Carol.” I knew Paul would not be able to just sit there and wait, so was not surprised when he announced he was going for a walk.  He promised he would be back in time to meet the group in the bar at 4 o’clock, as arranged, and would see me at 4.30.  That gave me two hours to get ready.  I got undressed thinking I’d have a soak in the bath, then changed my mind and phoned room service.  We had a healthy credit to get through.  The voice on the phone sounded confused when I ordered four large gin and tonics. “Is madam expecting guests?” The question sounded pompous and judgmental. “No,” I bristled, “they’re all for me!” Within ten minutes, an older gentleman in a black suit and tie delivered a plate of sandwiches, a pot of tea, two glasses, a full ice bucket, eight mixers of tonic and a quarter bottle of gin. “Personally, I dislike drinking gin when the ice has melted in the glass,” he said, with the most perfect smile.  “We are not supposed to serve our guests with bottles, but we had these in the cellar; an error on the part of our suppliers.  I’m sure madam will be discreet.  Would you like me to pour?” “No,” I answered, unsure if he meant the tea or the booze.  “And thank you, that’s perfect.”  And it was perfect.  I didn’t know whether to kiss him or shake his hand, but both would have meant letting go of the tightly grasped bathrobe, and I wasn’t ready to expose my body just yet. By the time Paul returned, I had bathed, shaved and dressed; a knee-length black dress that would fall to the floor when unzipped.  I had agonized over what to wear, but as I had little control over if, when, or how my clothes would be removed, I wanted simplicity.  He caught me still in the bathroom putting make up round my eyes. 

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