Soft Swing Pt. 01

Note to the Reader: This story is about a couple who fantasize about exploring sharing sex with other people. It is not about cuckolding, but is a story about a loving couple who wants to add to their relationship through being open sexually, with each other and other people.

Warning: This story deals with a rape that occurred in the main character's past and how it affected her sexuality for many years. It is based on an actual person, who gave me permission to build this story around her experiences. Much of the scene in which she and her husband deal with her fantasy, her behavior, her "speaking" are all directly based on what really happened.

If that topic offends you or upsets you, do not read this story. If the idea of swinging offends you, do not read this story. Negative comments about the TOPIC or judgmental comments about the lifestyle choices of the characters will be deleted.

There is some sex in this story, but the "payoff" isn't until the next chapter. It got too long to keep as one story.

Lastly, thank you to my readers and editors who help me get better.

KB

*****

I nervously awaited my husband Jeff to get home from work. I had something to propose to him, and I wasn't sure how he would react. Jeff and I had a very active and adventurous sex life, but we'd never explored swinging or playing around with other people. I was hoping that was about to change.

My name is Melissa, but everyone calls me Mel. I'm 34, and Jeff is two-years older than me. Jeff was married once before. He got hitched the first time right after graduating high school when his girlfriend told him she was pregnant. It turned out to be a lie. She even went so far as to fake a miscarriage.

Jeff had to work two jobs to support his wife, but while he was doing that, she was screwing men behind his back. He found out when he came home early one day and found her fucking his best friend. Needless to say, he has trust issues.

Jeff is my first and only husband, and I'd like to keep it that way. I plan to stay married to him, as it said in our marriage vows, "until death do us part." He is my hero, and I love him unconditionally. There is nothing he could do that would make me stop loving him.

I was engaged to another man when I was in college. His name was Randy. He and I had dated since the eighth grade. Everyone knew we were perfect for each other and expected us to get married right away. We were in no hurry, so we decided to wait until after college. We both went to Texas Tech.

I studied music; I played the violin. Randy majored in both Geology and Chemical Engineering. He was planning to work in the oil industry with his wealthy father.

After our freshman year of mandatory dorm life, we moved into an off-campus apartment together. We got engaged in the summer after sophomore year. We were on track to graduate, marry and have 2.3 kids by the time we were thirty.

One night, we were supposed to meet some friends at a bar for drinks, but Randy got stuck in a lab and arrived a couple of hours late. When he finally came, he couldn't find me. Randy looked around for me, unsuccessfully. He assumed I had left already and decided to go home but stopped by the restroom on his way out. As he neared the men's room, he heard a commotion out the back door and went to investigate. He found me. I was being fucked roughly, doggy style, by a stranger, while three other men waited for their turns.

I remembered being in the bar and drinking with a couple of my girlfriends when this rough-looking Mexican guy, named Juarez, and a few of his cronies surrounded our table. One of my friends knew him, by reputation, as a local drug dealer and an all-around bad guy. She whispered to me that he got the nickname Juarez because he had spent two years in a prison in Juarez, Mexico.

My friends and I wanted nothing to do with him or his buddies. However, they were assholes and pressured us to have a drink with them. We didn't want to, but they frightened us. So, to get them to leave us alone, we agreed to one drink. That was the last thing I remembered until I woke up in the hospital.

I later learned that after the first round, my girlfriends all left, but I stayed to have "one more." I told my friends I would be safe because Randy was on his way and should arrive any minute. Juarez and his friends got very aggressive with me in the bar, groping me and feeling me up until the bartender told them to "take it outside." He didn't realize the condition I was in or that my behavior was not normal. He just assumed I was a horny coed looking for a wild time.

When Randy found me, Juarez had me bent over the arm of an old sofa, which the bar kept out back for smokers, with my jeans around my ankles, fucking me from behind. Three other guys stood around us, cheering him on with their cocks in their hands, waiting for their turn to fuck me.

Randy was furious and jumped Juarez, who had continued fucking me, ignoring Randy's shouts. Randy grabbed him and threw him to the ground a few feet away. Juarez jumped up, pulled a knife and lunged at Randy, the blade slashing up to his throat. Randy had studied martial arts most of his life and over the past two years had been doing MMA. He dodged the blade and slammed a fist into the side of Juarez's jaw that dropped him instantly.

Fortunately for Randy, the other guys ran off as soon as he decked their leader. Unfortunately for me, Randy assumed I was there voluntarily, being a slut behind his back, and he turned on me. Instead of being a willing participant, he found me incoherent and barely conscious. He pulled my pants up and called 911. While he was busy caring for me, Juarez disappeared.

Eventually, the police arrested Juarez. Since he had wielded a knife and drugged me, he was charged with aggravated sexual assault, for raping me, as well as aggravated assault, for attacking Randy. A jury convicted him on both charges. Due to his long criminal history, the judge threw the book at him. He was sentenced to life without the opportunity for parole plus ninety-nine years.

After the attack, Randy stuck with me, but our relationship had lost its spark. I could see it in his eyes and feel it in the way he touched me. Part of him blamed me for being raped. One of my "friends" had told him that I was flirting with Juarez and encouraged their behavior. She had always wanted Randy and was jealous of our relationship. She told him that she didn't think it was actually rape. He said he didn't believe her, but we stopped being intimate. After a while, we didn't kiss or even hold hands. Every day, I could tell Randy loved me less and less. Eventually, I ended it. I gave him back his ring and let him off the hook. I was damaged goods in his eyes, and I knew he would never get over it.

I went to therapy for a while to deal with the aftermath of the rape and of my breakup with Randy. The sad thing was, I didn't feel very much about the sexual assault itself, because I didn't remember it. I had no memory of being raped. Physically, I felt no different than I did after fucking Randy. Emotionally, I was angry about what had happened, but I was more upset over losing Randy than the rape itself.

After a while, I came to terms with the rape, even though I still struggled with my feelings for Randy. We had been together every day for so long, that not having him around was almost too hard to bear. I considered dropping my therapy sessions, as I felt they were no longer doing much for me. However, something strange had been happening lately, and I wanted to talk to her about it.

Lately, I had been having dreams. They were always similar, though not exactly the same. I was alone, in the bar, surrounded by laughing, faceless men in black robes. The only feature that was exposed was their large, erect cocks which they stroked around me as they jeered.

The room darkened, and a spotlight shone down on our little circle. I was in the center, naked. The dirty, ratty sofa was there next to me. A bald, muscular Mexican man with tattoos all over his body, even up his neck and partially on his face, stood naked in front of me. His cock was long, thick and hard. He smirked at me and pushed me over the arm of the sofa and forced his cock into me violently.

I didn't try to struggle. I welcomed his cock inside me. I pushed back and begged for more. He pounded me roughly, aggressively, like a wild animal fucking me. I screamed out, but it was a scream of intense pleasure. I woke as I came, my juices squirting into my panties and soaking the bed sheets.

The first time it happened, I cried in shame. I felt so dirty, so sick. How could I have had an orgasm dreaming of that animal Juarez fucking me? The dream came back a few nights later, and again and again. It was to the point that I was dreaming about it almost every night.

Then one day, I found myself masturbating and nearing orgasm. With a shock, I realized I imagined Juarez's cock inside me. I stopped masturbating and ran to the bathroom to throw up. That afternoon I scheduled an emergency session with my therapist. I told her all about the dreams, the orgasms, the masturbation. I expected her to have me committed to a hospital, put me on drugs or suggest a lobotomy.

Instead, she shocked me completely by telling me that my reaction was perfectly normal and rather common among rape victims. She said that it really depended on the woman, the nature of the rape, and many other factors. She told me that I was not sick. It was just something that happened in many cases. Her recommendation for what to do shocked me even more.

"Instead of fighting against it," she said, "give into it. Many women find that doing so releases the energy that is tied up in your subconscious mind about it. It's like a release valve. Many find that the recurring fantasies go away or at least cut way down. But he may appear from time to time in your fantasies. It's best to just roll with it, rather than trying to fight it."

"But, he's the last person on Earth I would ever want to have sex with," I said, fighting back tears. "How could I possibly get turned on by the thought of screwing him?"

"We're not exactly sure why, Mel," she explained. "It's really a combination of things. It's partially the Stockholm syndrome, partially a latent submissive nature in you, partially that Juarez represents the ultimate "bad boy" to your subconscious. It may be worse in your case since you were drugged."

"How so?" I asked.

"Your conscious mind was not able to provide analysis of the data to catalog it and store it properly. The subconscious mind is not able to analyze memories or data. It only sees the stored data and doesn't know the context. Under normal circumstances, when you bring up a memory of the rape, your conscious mind can intercept the memories and know it was rape. However, when dreaming or fantasizing, your conscious mind is not available. You react physically to the way your subconscious mind processes the memories. Take away the context of rape, and the images, memories, situations must be things you would normally find arousing. Do you often fantasize about sex with strangers?"

"Sometimes," I admitted.

"Multiple men?" she asked. Was she grinning?

"Sometimes," I admitted to that too.

"So, without your conscious mind in the loop to prevent your subconscious arousal, you get excited. When you wake up or stop daydreaming, your conscious mind is shocked by what has been making you orgasm. You feel guilt. You feel shame."

"So, my subconscious thinks I liked it even though it was rape?" I asked, struggling to understand.

"Not quite," she replied, smiling softly. "Your subconscious mind knows you did like it, even though your conscious mind refuses to accept it. Moral judgment, shame, and guilt are all constructs of your conscious mind. Your subconscious loves sex. Arousal and even orgasm by a rape victim are not uncommon, Mel. It's something women cannot control and causes them extreme mental anguish because their conscious mind believes it was wrong and cannot deal with what they feel is their bodies' betrayal."

"I can see that," I said, "I am struggling with that myself."

"When you have an orgasm, against your will, you come face to face with the fact that the conscious mind does not truly control our bodies and subconscious minds. We are not entirely in control. It doesn't mean you wanted it to happen. It doesn't mean you encouraged it to happen."

A tear rolled down my cheek. "I didn't want it to happen."

"With you, it's potentially even harder for you to manage. The memories of your rape were stored when you were highly impaired. Your subconscious mind didn't know you were being raped. It found the experience to fit your likes and desires. It's like you have a fantasy mold of a specific shape and the events of the rape, free of your conscious judgment, fit that mold perfectly. So, your subconscious goes there to turn you on. It doesn't know any better."

"The more you try to repress it, the more power you give to it to disrupt your consciousness. If you continue to deny it and hold it in, it can become like putting a lid on a pot of boiling water. Pressure builds up until it explodes. Women who do that often start to act out. They put themselves in risky, even dangerous situations, trying to experience the thing they need to fill that fantasy mold. I know of women who turn to drugs, unprotected sex with strangers, and worse. It becomes a vicious cycle. The more they do, the more the conscious mind feels shame, guilt, and self-hatred. The subconscious engages to fill the mold more and more, leading to more extreme behavior."

"So, you're saying if I don't masturbate and cum, fantasizing about my rapist, I may become a drugged-out, crack whore?" I snapped at her, growing angry.

"That's a little strongly worded," she said mildly, "but that's the idea. Acting out can come in many forms. It could be as simple as a nervous tick or as extreme as you describe. You may handle it fine, but if you were, I don't think you'd be here today."

I thought about what she was saying and nodded slowly. "So, what should I do?" I asked.

"Well," she began again, "Instead of suppressing the fantasy, give in to it, whenever you feel it starts to become an obsession or problem. You may find that giving in and enjoying it may release some of the pressure and the fantasy will fade away for a while. If that doesn't work, we can try hypnotherapy."

I decided she was nuts and stopped going back. I didn't need any more of her psycho-babble, mumbo jumbo. I would just ignore the fantasies. I was sure that in time, they would stop on their own. Hypnotherapy? I wasn't about to let anybody poke around in my head.

I had the dream again that night and woke in the middle of an intense orgasm. I lay there thinking about what my therapist had said. Did I somehow like what Juarez had done to me? Did my subconscious mind want to relive it?

I thought back to when we had been in court during his trial. I recalled the arrogant way in which he smirked at me as I testified, the way he winked at me and blew me kisses. I thought back to the night of the rape. Over time, I had remembered bits and pieces of things. They weren't like normal memories, but more like short snippets of videos of unknown people.

As I lay there, little flashes of memories came to me. First, I was in the bar, Juarez and his buddies surrounded me in the corner of the bar. Juarez had his hand in my jeans and was fingering me, and I had his bare cock in my hand. It was thick, but not overly long. Another flash of memory showed me on my knees, outside, sucking his fat cock, gagging. I pulled my mouth off and looked up at him, smiled, then sucked him deeper into my throat. Another flash and he was inside me, as I was bent over the arm of the sofa, cumming and begging for more. I saw Randy come out the door. I saw the look on his face.

I rolled over, face down on my bed, alone. I slid my hand inside my panties and began rubbing my clit hard. I could not have stopped the thoughts that filled my mind if I had wanted to. I didn't try to stop them. I gave into them. I lifted up, onto my knees, imagining being forced over the armrest.

"Take that dick, you bitch," I said out loud, in a rough, male-sounding voice, that came from somewhere deep inside me. It didn't even sound like me. "You know you want it."

I shoved two fingers into my pussy and groaned, remembering what I could of Juarez's cock inside me. I fucked my cunt hard and fast.

"Yeah, you like that cock," I snarled, emulating Juarez's voice. "Don't you, slut?"

I remembered being stretched. I remembered cumming. I remembered the look on Randy's face that said "cuckold."

I came, suddenly and with deep intensity. It was shameful. It was humiliating, but I liked it. I nursed the orgasm with my fingers, caressing my pussy until it faded and left me exhausted.

I must have drifted back to sleep, because the next thing I knew, my alarm went off. The rest of the night had been dream-free, and I awoke refreshed and felt good about myself. I didn't have the dream again for a long time. Gone were the recurring thoughts, the preoccupation with my rape. In time, I forgot to remember and just lived my life. I guess my therapist hadn't been nuts after all. One day, I should let her know.

I dropped out of college and moved back home. My parents were divorced, and I lived with my mom. I got a part-time job at a music store and taught beginning violin lessons in my spare time. Being home, I put on a little weight, which helped fill out my curves. I'd always been a little on the thin side. Guys seemed to like the new look and my hourglass shape. I dated a here and there, had sex with one or two guys, but nothing really excited me about any of them. I think I was still pining for Randy. I missed him terribly.

Then one day this nerdy guy came into the music store and was pretending to look at guitars but spent all of his time checking me out. He was not a studly type, with an athletic body or dashing good looks. He was average in most ways, but I found him adorable. Something was endearing about the way he watched me, tried to engage me in discussions and yet seemed nervous to talk to me.

He told me his name was Jeff and not much else. He was more interested in asking me questions than in revealing much about himself. I thought he was going to ask me out, but he didn't. I was more than a little disappointed, to be totally honest. I couldn't help but grin the next day when he came in and poked around the guitar department. We talked off and on for an hour. Finally, Mr. Anderson, my boss stopped by and told him, "Son, would you do us all a favor and ask Melissa out already, so she can get back to work?"

I was embarrassed, and Jeff looked as if he might run away in shame. Instead, he manned up and asked me out. I accepted. It turned out his interest in music was legit as he was a guitar player in a local punk-pop band. I went to see him play a couple of times. The group was not all that great and had little chance of making it big.

Jeff knew he didn't have a future in the music industry, but he enjoyed doing it all the same. His real job, for the time being, was as a tire technician at a nearby Firestone store. It paid the bills well for a guy with just a high school diploma. However, Jeff had ambitions. He was attending classes at the nearby community college at night, studying computer related stuff that I never pretended to understand. Eventually, he would complete both a bachelor's and master's degree in night school, while busting his ass all day.

Very early on in our relationship, Jeff and I had an in-depth conversation in which I told him about my past. He accepted it without even blinking. He was the least judgmental person I'd ever met. In response, he revealed to me about his failed marriage. I was surprised to find myself jealous when he spoke about his ex-wife. My emotions turned to anger when he told me how she had cheated on him. Jeff admitted to having a hard time trusting women, and he was very cautious about getting too involved with someone too quickly.