The Problem with Glen

Time is a construct of human invention

Warning: There is both a gangbang and a non-consensual sex scene in this story. It's the same scene.

Labor Day Weekend, 2021

It didn't take long for Glen to find me. We have a strange relationship. At every professional conference that we both attend, we hook up. It's kind of nice, because I hate these conferences, but I'm ambitious, so I feel not only do I have to attend, but I have to give a talk on my latest research, and moreover for my talk, I have to dress correctly, but nevertheless look both attractive, and a little bit sexy. It's a delicate balance, and Glen's advice is essential.

It's great to have a good friend there, to have someone to hang out with, to cheer me on before I have to give a talk, to share meals with, and in general to tease and have fun with. It's not all one sided, either: I provide the same things for Glen.

The glue that makes our friendship work is sex. The sex is discreet; nobody can know. Apparently, Glen finds me irresistible, or at least he does when we're both at conferences. I find sex with him pretty wonderful, too. It's a win-win situation, or at least it was, until I met Björn Janson, and grew up. I'd have to tell Glen the sex part was over, but I felt there was no need to tell him until the subject, or situation, explicitly arose. Okay, I guess it's obvious and I admit it: I'm a coward, and I hate ending things.

You might think the huge diamond ring and the solid gold band on my left hand would have clued Glen in to some lifestyle changes of mine that occurred during the height of the pandemic. After all, Glen and I had seen each other only by Zoom, and not even once in person for a little over two years.

Our bizarre tradition, however, was that the two of us lived in the here and now, and we never seemed to waste time catching up on each other's news. Glen called it, with contempt dripping from his eyes, nose, and mouth, the "news from Lake Wobegone." Glen never mentioned my new rings, or what they symbolized. Maybe he didn't even notice them? That was unlikely, but possible. He could have been too busy checking out my boobs in my sexy new sweater, than to look at my left hand. You just never know with men, do you? In any event, even if Glen did notice them, they nevertheless didn't seem to be an issue.

The rings were an issue for others, however, as I learned at the welcome cocktail hour that very evening. I had naively thought that the rings would somehow, automatically, make me off limits to the lotharios that prowl our conventions. I realized that while there were not that many women at these STEM conventions (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics), there were precious few who looked as attractive or as sexy as I did, or at least that's what Glen always had said. This made me a minor center of attention, not due to my brilliant mind, but more due to my hourglass figure.

It doesn't hurt that I have shapely legs, nice sized boobs (but not too big), and a pretty face, with a Katie Couric mouth that, according to Glen, gives the best blow jobs in the tri-state area, whatever that means. Glen is prone to hyperbole. I also like to flirt. No sexual pun or innuendo can avoid my notice, and I always have a suggestive parry to offer.

As smart as I'm supposed to be, what had never occurred to me was that for some men, being married, or already "taken," if you will, made me even more desirable(!) As Glen explained it: It's a different kind of achievement to get a married woman into bed, than it is to get a single woman into bed. There's also the (apparent) thrill of bedding another man's woman, behind his back, and all the more so if the woman is at first reluctant, though ultimately, willing; best of all is if, in the final stage of the seduction of the unreceptive, the woman becomes enthusiastic and even demanding.

Then there's always the aspect, as Glen said someone famous had once said, that desire and impossibility are inextricably linked. I was taboo, off limits, not a possible "conquest:" that alone made conquering my body 'impossible,' which in turn made such a conquest all the more desirable, at least for some men.

Glen became my mentor at my first conference after my PhD, when he also became my lover. I had enjoyed the usual slate of boyfriends in high school, college, and graduate school, and it was all good fun, but never seemed to be destined for the long haul, if you know what I mean. I was ripe for the plucking at 25, young and excited, and there was Glen. He was thirty-five, a full professor at Duke, good looking, and the only thing, the only solitary thing, in his field of vision, was me. That made me feel very special.

I wasn't especially easy to get into bed, and never thought of myself as a slut, but at that first convention in Las Vegas, I was on my back in Glen's hotel room only four hours after we met. The only thing that could get me to stop having sex with Glen was my desire to see a special show at one of the casinos. Glen said he would go with me if I went braless. That insistence turned me on, and as Glen felt me up during the show, not caring who might see us messing around, he won my heart.

Now much later, and except for Glen, who was grandfathered in (if you will; from when I was a freshly minted PhD), I never sleep with colleagues. Glen is also ten years my senior, and he was, for me, a guiding light for a young woman with ambition, in a complicated profession.

I like sex, and I don't mind some variety on occasion, but not with men with whom I have to interact professionally. Men aren't stupid, and they figured out eventually that the happy hunting grounds for some casual convention sex lay elsewhere, and they tended, mostly, to leave me alone. Glen had coached me on how to achieve that result, even if I never wanted Glen, himself, to leave me alone. He never did, either.

When the liquor was flowing, and everyone was drunk, however, was when I became a target of opportunity for, well, everyone, and that's when it was especially nice to have the good services of Glen, who would run interference, with the reward that I would try to blow his mind in a Marriott, Hilton, or Hyatt hotel room, sometimes hiding his obvious destination with the Book of Mormon (if the hotel were a Marriott), held tightly right over my naked pussy.

Glen was not 100% effective, however. I would get cornered, kissed, and felt up, if my colleagues thought they could get away with it. For historical reasons stemming from massive insecurities, I had trouble resisting flattery, and if I were a little tipsy, I had almost no resistance at all. Men preyed upon my submission-inspired seeming inability to stop their wandering hands, which at times went outrageous places. Glen knew this, and he tried to protect me when he could, or so I had always believed.

Sometimes, Glen did better at preserving my dignity, then he did at other times. More was at stake now, than just preserving my reputation as a colleague and not a slut. A few events in my past had earned me the nickname of the Stanford Slut, but that was in graduate school, and long ago, and now it was mostly forgotten. Luckily, that nickname was shut down fast, and few people even know of the events that inspired such a horrific but short-lived nickname. Also, I'm not at Stanford, anymore, and haven't been since I was awarded my PhD. Now I'm at Cornell, in upstate New York, in the Engineering College, and I have a tenure track appointment.

I'm also now married, and there's an unwritten, unspoken code for how married women behave. The Supreme Court would say it's a consequence of the "forsake all others" clause of the marriage vows. They never seem to add, "even if you're a submissive," however.

I need to explain. I love Glen, I dearly do, but Glen is just not marriage material. He's not the man I want to spend my life with. He's not a candidate for being a life partner. He's simply a wonderful man, a mentor, and we love each other, and express that love the way a man and a woman do. I really do enjoy the sex with Glen; I enjoy it a lot.

Glen and I live far away from each other. He's down in North Carolina, in Durham, and I am in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York. We really only see other at professional conferences and conventions. At those, we enjoy each other to the max, but always as discreetly as possible. People, after all, love to gossip.

In the past, before I was married, I would reward Glen for his efforts, later in my hotel room. Glen would have carte blanche with me, the menu of approved activities limited only by his imagination, his desire, his own physical limitations, and his will. For example, it takes two to have exhibitionist sex in the hotel's hot tub. Get me drunk, and I'm up for anything. Glen is more modest, and too shy to fuck me in the hotel's hot tub. That's okay; I can live with that.

I was to give my talk the next morning. This meant no excessive drinking that evening, and Glen's services were needed only twice. The first time was when I got cornered and had to choose between spilling my drink, and letting the guy stick his hand inside my sweater. I would never allow myself to spill my drink. Professor Stricker told me I had "great tits," and he slinked his chubby fingers under my bra and fondled my nipples. Glen arrived, took my arm, and loudly said, "Joanie, there's someone I want you to meet."

The second time was when I was chatting with my department chair, and a colleague came up behind me and fondled my ass, my body hiding his nefarious activity from my department chair. Glen helped to save me again, although also he was a little slow for my taste. I suspect he enjoyed watching me get molested for a bit, knowing I felt as if I could do nothing about it, but I could never have been so cruel as to have accused him of that.

Glen returned with me to my hotel room, at my request, in order to help me to choose the outfit I would wear for my talk. As I've already noted, it had to be both totally correct, and yet hint of being sexy. That's how women advance in the profession, or at least, that's been my observation. Of course, doing top flight research helps, too. That's why I was a featured speaker at the convention, after all.

Since Glen and I had been occasional lovers for years, I felt relaxed in front of him. Even though I was now married, being naked, or almost naked, in front of Glen was fine, or so I naively thought. I'm one of those girls who would never stroll around naked in front of a guy, unless, of course, we had already fucked. Then, after we had fucked at least once before, I would have no problem parading around naked in front of him, to his heart's content. After all, I have a nice body, and I know it.

Glen, of course, had seen me naked a lot before, and he had used my nudity quite efficiently as a preliminary to all sorts of X and XX rated activities! Glen seemed to like acrobatic sex, and well, I like to please. My times as a high school cheerleader served me well.

This was not such an occasion, however. There was to be no sex, acrobatic nor otherwise, and I had made that quite clear. Crystal clear. I would not do that to my husband Björn. Björn is kinky, to be sure, but he's a conventional man, and even though I have a long history of falling into bed with Glen at conventions, that had to end. Björn would not stand for it, and my marriage would hang in the balance.

To benefit from Glen's exquisite sartorial wisdom, however, I held up two dresses for him, while wearing only a strapless bra and panties. "Let's see how you look wearing them," Glen said, to nobody's surprise. I modeled them both.

"Now model them without the bra," he said.

"That won't work, trust me. There's no way I'm giving a plenary talk without a bra. No way at all. You just want to see my bare breasts again. They haven't changed in the last two years," I said. I hoped I was right! Age is not kind to some women; but two years is not that long, and I'm still young, even if I'm over thirty, but barely.

"Let me be the judge of that," Glen said. I giggled, nervously, and complied. I stripped, and then modeled both dresses without the benefit of a bra. Obviously, this gave Glen another opportunity to enjoy seeing my naked boobs. He took full advantage. His touch is magical, and he had my nipples hard in no time, but I pushed him away, reminding him about his role as my sartorial superego.

"Hmm. I see your point. Yes, those two dresses each need a bra," Glen said. "The blue one is a better choice for tomorrow." Meanwhile, Glen clearly enjoyed soaking in the view of my boobs. Men are so obvious. It's biology: they get hard. I do confess, though: It's reassuring to know that, now that I'm even over thirty, the sight of my naked boobs can still inspire an erection for a man as worldly as Glen.

Glen is indeed worldly, too. He's fucked women in eight different European countries, in Singapore, Argentina, Chile, Peru, and Mexico, in Japan, in South Africa, and in Ghana. I have no reason to doubt the veracity of his braggadocio. I myself find the man irresistible.

"That's what I thought, too," I said. "Thanks, Glen!"

"Wait. Let's see what they look like commando," Glen said.

"In the blue one you might see a shadow of my bush right through the dress," I said. "The fabric is quite thin. No way can I give a talk on a stage, with my bush showing through the dress."

"That could be really fetching. Let's see," Glen said. "You don't want panty lines, do you?" I don't wear thongs, and of course Glen knew that.

"You just want to see my pussy again. It hasn't changed," I said. Pussies are not like boobs: If they change at all with age, it's both slower and less noticeable.

"You unjustly accuse me. I'll turn around while you do your thing," he said, and he did, so I removed my panties. I gave him the okay, and he turned back to look at me. He rubbed his chin, had me turn around, bend over, and as a final test, he had me walk the length of the room.

"Well, it's within the bounds of being correct, but it's probably a little too sexy. Men will be staring at your crotch, trying to decide if you're commando or not. If you bend over, locking your knees as you do so, the hem of the dress will rise just enough to reveal your fabulous pussy, which every man will want, but only I will get," Glen said. I forgot to mention that the blue dress is short. It's of a correct length, but only barely so.

"Uh, about that..." I nervously began, trying to wave my wedding rings where'd he'd have no choice but to see them.

"About what?" Glen replied, cutting me off as he approached me and gave me one of his kisses that always seem to make me weak in the knees. "Hey, bend over while locking your knees, okay? I want to see if I'm right."

Nervous now, I explained that maybe we were going down a road best left unexplored, given my new, married state of being. There! I had said it! Trust me, it hadn't been easy to do. I studied Glen's face for his reaction.

"Don't be silly. We're just checking out sartorial issues, here," Glen said. The news of my marriage, and my consequent unavailability for one of our traditional convention romps, seemed to wash over Glen like water off a duck's back. Maybe he didn't care, or had some new bimbo lined up to replace me?

Strangely, with that thought I felt both relieved, and disappointed, simultaneously.

So, convinced I was out of danger, I did it. I bent over, keeping my knees locked. After all, it's no big thing to show off your pussy to a man who has enjoyed your body as much as Glen has enjoyed mine.

"Yep. I was right; I can see your amazingly beautiful and alluring pussy. You know, it's damp and sparkling. Highly inviting," Glen said, and I quickly stood up straight. I took off the dress, carefully hanging it in the closet, to keep it perfect for the morrow. I also kept my distance from Glen, just in case he wanted to run his finger along my slit. I knew Glen, only too well. The dress was gorgeous, but the fabric was in fact quite thin, and it wrinkled easily.

"It's time for you to go now, Glen. Thanks for your sartorial help. Now I need my beauty sleep for tomorrow," I said, as I moved towards the hotel room door, essentially naked, as I was wearing only my strapless bra. I opened the door for Glen to leave, and he turned to kiss me goodnight.

We kissed, and then we kissed again, and he turned us around so that my near naked body was sticking out in the hallway, and Glen was in the hotel room. He deftly unhooked my bra as we kissed. I heard voices, and I was sure some of our colleagues saw me, my backside naked, as my unhooked bra fell away from my body. It was a strapless bra, so gravity quite easily had its way with it. I tried frantically to get back into the room, but it was as if Glen was made of stone, blocking my path to regaining at least a sliver of modesty. Somehow, my bra found its way to the floor of the hallway. I was totally naked.

"Joanie, is that you?" I heard Cory's voice say. He has a distinctive, deep bass voice, with a trace of a Tennessee accent. His deep bass twang is recognizable anywhere. So while I knew it was Cory in the hallway, I should think, nevertheless, that It's hard to identify a woman from just her naked backside.

My face was hidden, due to the kisses I was sharing with Glen. Cory was dangerous, however, because I had once enjoyed a night with Cory, a long time ago, back in graduate school. It had been a big mistake, albeit a thoroughly enjoyable one, and it was never repeated. Still, he had carnal knowledge of me, and right there, before him, was my stark naked body, while Glen was blocking my entry to my very own hotel room. Talk about embarrassing, even humiliating!

Many was the night I had masturbated, reliving Cory's wonderful talent at pleasing my body, and Cory had given me dozens, if not hundreds, of orgasms, just from memories of that one roll in the hay. Yes, our one, drunken fuck was in fact that memorable. Cory had way too much sexual power over me, which is why I refused all his entreaties for repeat performances. Anyway, that happened long ago, when I was earning my short-lived nickname as the Stanford Slut.

I tried to ignore Cory, and continued to kiss Glen, hoping Cory and whomever he was chatting with, would just continue on to their rooms. My hopes were dashed when Cory's hand squeezed my ass. He apparently remembered just the way to squeeze it that led me to sin with him, lo those many years ago. He also knew, just from the feel of my ass, that it was, indeed, my very own ass, and not the ass of some other woman. Yes, the naked slut whose backside was sticking out into the hotel hallway was indeed me. Cory always considered himself an expert on the subject of women's asses. One little squeeze, and he knew for sure: it was me.

Cory and his companion pushed me (and a fortiori, Glen) back into my hotel room, with Cory and his friend following behind. Suddenly I was naked, with my black, strapless, lace bra forgotten, and lying on the floor of the hotel hallway. I was in my hotel room with three fully clothed men.

"Hi, Cory. Hi, Mills," I greeted the two men, as if this were a normal situation. I had never been with Mills Mack, although the rumors among the girls were such that all women were to be pitied, if they had not (yet!) fucked Mills. He was that good. I was in deep trouble here. Mills always wore a tie, too, and rumors abounded about how he seemed always to put his ties to good use. All of Mills' ties were made of pure silk.

Once you go Mack, you never go Back, all the girls used to say, and Mills did in fact seem to have a harem of willing women, who would fuck him anytime, anywhere, any circumstances, married or not. It was all just a bit frightening for me, but, to be honest, I was also just a bit curious. How could I not be?