49 comments/ 88994 views/ 7 favorites Fucking Up By: angiquesophie Part One, some background. You're supposed to know who you are when you turn 18. I guess that is why they make such a fuss of that age. Well, I already knew all about myself when I turned 14. I knew by then all there was to know about who I was and always would be. I am 29 now and earn a lot of money as an advertising copywriter. 29 is an age where you can hide behind your wallet. You can buy yourself a mask. 14 is not an age where you can do that. At 14 you are what people say you are, and they love to tell it to you over and over. You must be quite dense not to get the message. The zoo they call high school keeps its labels simple and easy to memorize. My label was geek. You also could be a jock or a nerd, a freak, a babe, a bitch or a slut. More than four or five letters were hardly ever needed. Which of course suited the labelers well. They never had an urge to look where the longer words lived. The labelers were usually the ones excelling in sports, and the blonde long legged pompom wielders. Before I turned thirteen I had innocently tried to take part in their outdoor activities. But by the time I turned fourteen the futility of that ambition had been rubbed in with wonderful efficiency. The jocks made it clear on day one: Geeks Don't Do Sports. They are not only bad at it, but they deserve to be ridiculed and bullied into understanding it too. At 14 I understood. By 15 I knew that I'd better read books and talk about them with geeks who read books too. I also knew at what table to sit for lunch and at what tables not. But most of all I knew this: beautiful girls were not for the likes of me. You did not date them. And if you tried, the catch of the sports episode (see above) came into function. You just ended up with a red face and a sinking heart. When I reached the age of 16 I found out that dating plain girls was not only easier, it also made me feel a lot more comfortable. Of course my cock did not agree with that, but by then that part of my body had long ceased to be a successful advisor. Anyway: the brain is a beautiful thing. While kissing and necking a braced and bespectacled plain-jane, it conjured up images of every fabulous tit I ever saw. Or more realistic: I ever almost saw. I first got laid on prom night. Marie had a great body, actually. But her face was Ground Zero after five years of relentless acne. She was intelligent, witty and fun. But who needs those on the backseat of an old car after gallons of illegal beer and the sweaty dancing of a proms night? Well, you get the picture. I went to college and the only difference there was the larger number of geeks and nerds. It gave me just more plain girls to choose from. And I did, after a few months of shyness and hesitance. About that time another law kicked in: plain girls are more eager. They are also more loyal. Of course: they have to, as they have to do battle for each conquest. It teaches them to hold on to what they have. Same thing goes for plain guys like me, of course. But I was a slow learner. I kept trying to hop around, until I at last had to admit that it was no use to turn in one ugly girl for another. That's when I met Irene and went as steady as steady goes. I know, I know... I sound terrible. As if the beauty of a girl is the only quality to look for. But I am honest too, at least here. At that time it was indeed the only criterion. And the law came down as hard on the girls as on the likes of me. You see, when you raise kids and tell them they can't have candy, candy will be the one thing they crave for all the time. When they play at other children's homes, they beg for them all the time. Same with me. I was a healthy boy with a healthy appetite. My hormones were tickled by high, hard tits and swaying asses, by moist, generous lips and endless legs. And they were denied me. Let's say it made me dream of candy 24/7. Irene was a miracle. Under her straight mousy hair dwelt a mind of mercury. I never again met a girl who could turn a gray, rainy afternoon into paradise, just with words and images, with little touches and butterfly kisses. And when she smiled, her plain, stub nosed face seemed to catch a ray of sunlight. Of course that is how I remember her now. Back then, being the one tracked oaf I was, I just took it all for granted. As a matter of fact I felt sorry for myself, punished to always be with girls like her. It is actually how I thought about her: girls like her -- a species, a faceless part of a faceless multitude. God, was I pathetic, back then. Part Two, the miracle. Nowadays I am so much more with it, being a well to do single urban professional. I go to the gym, I have lasered eyes and a sun tan. My apartment is in magazines. I wear Boss, Armani. Designer jeans. I frequent three star restaurants, rock concerts, operas. I travel abroad, meet the rich and famous (okay, let's say the well to do and the local snobs). Isn't it lovely, my life? Yeah, exactly who am I fooling? Truth is that I do have all that. But one icy glance of a gorgeous beauty and all of it slides off me like flesh off a skeleton in a horror movie. It leaves me as naked and ugly as fifteen years back -- fumbling, stuttering. Believe me: men like me don't blush adoringly. They sweat. Last year I met Marie at the school reunion. She had found a famous cosmetic surgeon, who had turned her into Angelina Jolie. Then she had met a local zillionnaire and wore the ring to prove it. I know...I should never have gone to that reunion. Yesterday I saw Irene in a glossy magazine. She just had her first novel published. It went to the top of the seller list in a week. Next to her in the picture was her tall, dark, handsome husband. She smiled like sunshine. She made me sweat. Curse too. Then again, maybe I could use her name in conversation. Tell someone she had been my girlfriend, once. Wouldn't that make me look like somebody? I saw the magazine at the reading table in the agency, sipping a cup of latte. That's when I heard a laugh. People use to call laughter like that silvery. I wont disagree most of the time, but this silver had life in it, a pulse, a breath. And it belonged to the most stunning girl I ever saw. First thing was her smile. Hard to miss, as it shone like a 100 watt lamp in her dark face. Her complexion was chocolate, her skin perfect. My routine is face-tits-eyes, taking two seconds to complete the round. All three stages were spectacular. She was gorgeous looking, her tits were high and round, her eyes, well... I have ever since wondered how to describe her eyes, but I can't tell you. They touched me where I live -- a profoundly unnerving experience. Her name was Aimee and she preferred her coffee weak and sweet. I did not find that out, of course. I was as usual still getting the knot out of my tongue when good slick old Arnie had already poured the coffee for her, complimented her on her name, asked her if she was waiting for the Fredericks of Hollywood casting session that afternoon, and had taken her on a tour of the premises. To be sure, Aimee had walked in for an interview at the accountants' company that occupied a few floors beneath us. She had gotten out of the elevator on the wrong floor. Three days later I met her in the reception lobby. As we rode to our separate floors, I at last succeeded in asking her a question. She told me she had gotten the job of secretary to one of the many bean counters. Somehow I kept bumping into Aimee quite a lot in the next weeks. And I discovered that she was something I had never seen in a girl as beautiful as her -- Aimee was shy. She fumbled with her fingers, never raised her voice and often looked down. Her complexion was too dark to see if she blushed, but I am certain she often did. Another remarkable thing was the formal and conservative way she dressed. She often wore Chanel-type suits that should have been on elderly Washington politicians' wives and wealthy grannies. Her skirts hardly ever left her knees free, her blouses were wide and buttoned up, her heels seemed either flat or less than an inch in height. And still she looked dazzling. It took me two weeks to ask her out for lunch. She declined. I felt the familiar tons of geek shit descend on me. She was very sweet about it, whispered her apologies, but she really had to refuse. It took me two weeks to ask her again. Two weeks in hell. They taught me I would die if I did not ask her again. But also that I might really die if she refused once more. Yes, I had fallen in love with Aimee. And no, she did not turn me down the next time. We saw a movie (well, I guess she saw more of it than I did). Then we had a few drinks and some supper. It all seemed wrapped up in a pink haze. But when I conjured up all my courage to kiss her, she offered me her perfect cheek. No need to bore you with the tediousness of our courtship. We dated quite a bit in the next weeks, but each date ended right at the doorstep of her humble apartment. Of course I tried to lure her to mine, but she never even seemed to acknowledge my suggestions. Then I made a huge mistake. One day we had a short and pleasant little lunch in the mall. On the way back I tried to get her attention focused on a rather sexy outfit in one of the windows. It was a short, deeply red velvet dress with spaghetti-type straps that would allow the low cut top to just cover her nipples -- at least in my overheated anticipation. I suggested for her to try it on, and I was for the first time introduced to an expression I would see more of in the months to come: deep hurt, mixed with disappointment. She left me standing right there and it would take me weeks to have her answer my phone calls again. Why did I keep courting Aimee? She was like a fata morgana, those appearing and disappearing little oases in the shimmering desert. And yes, that cartoon-like man crawling in the hot sands was me. Or maybe she was more like a slippery fish in a pond, always escaping the cage of my hands. She drove me mad. Then, one day, she pushed me over the edge. We had a company party -- a small celebration at the offices. So I asked Aimee to meet me there and attend it as my date. She agreed and for days I nursed these exciting thoughts about stunning my colleagues with my eye candy. She didn't show up. I phoned her all evening and the next day, but she never answered. Nor did I see her in the building. That was when I decided to forget about her. Or at least give her the impression I did, because I never could get her out of my mind for more than ten seconds. It took her a week to call me. Her voice on the phone was thick with emotions. She told me she had panicked at the thought of going to the party. She could see why I hated her, but she had been too scared. She was so very sorry. She sobbed. She understood if I didn't want to see her anymore, but she had been so, so scared. In short, after she had sobbed and sorried for ten minutes, you could wipe me up from the floor. Aimee and I married half a year later. It was a very small ceremony as I was an only child with one surviving parent -- my mother -- and an aunt. Aimee had a brother and a few cousins in Louisiana who did not bother to fly up. There were friends and colleagues. We took a honeymoon on the Bahama's. In the weeks after the time she stood me up at the party, she changed a lot. I admired her for her courage, as it must have been hard for her to open up -- to break through her shyness and accompany me to parties, wearing nice and sexy dresses. She had to make small talk with people she did not know. And, yes...she even came with me to my apartment afterwards. The first time I hardly dared ask. We had been to a company function, where she had easily been the evening's main attraction. By then the amazement of me having a girl like her on the arm, had died down a bit. But her attraction to the male population at the party had only increased. The panting pussy hounds didn't even bother if I was around to let their tongues hang down her cleavage. It only made my ego swell with a feeling I had never ever had. The feeling of alpha male pride, I guess. And it went straight to my crotch. So when she pushed me inside my apartment the moment I had opened my front door, I was as ready as the next hormone-ridden teenager. Too ready, maybe. Her mouth was soft and hot and seemed to have no bottom. It must have been the drinks. I'd never seen her like this. She took my hand and put it on her pussy, right through her flimsy dress. I surfaced from the kiss, taking in gulps of air and looking into her eyes. There was a glint I'd never seen before. It matched the little curls at the corners of her lips. "Love me tonight, Harry, before I change my mind," she whispered into my ear. And I thought I would come in my pants right there and then. But I didn't, thank God. Well, to be true, I did that after having been inside her silk tight pussy for twenty seconds. It left me devastated. I apologized and begged her to understand. It had all been so exciting, she had made me wait for so long. She only put her finger on my whining mouth and clucked her tongue. "Ssssshhh," she said. She lay back on my pillows, looking glorious. The tits I had been sucking only minutes ago, looked just perfect. The legs I was kneeling between, felt like silk and seemed to have no ending. She just took my dripping, spent cock in her hands and caressed it with the soft satin of her palms. Then she came up and took the head in her pillow like lips. She started to suck me. I have been sucked a lot in college and later on, so I knew Aimee was average at best. It was clear she had a rather limited experience. But I felt so very honored. I was proud that she could bring herself to do it at all. I lay my hands on her head, feeling almost ashamed. It must have been the sheer thrill and excitement that restored my erection in minutes. I grew into her soft mouth and she even sucked me deeper into her. I slowly pulled out of her mouth, looking deep and grateful into her eyes. Then I once again settled between her legs and slid the head past her still wet pussy-lips. I now had the stamina to wait for her orgasm, I hoped. But I wasn't sure if her soft moans and tiny spasms were exactly that. In the weeks after this first time we fucked almost every night, twice in weekends. Aimee had not been a virgin. She told me she had had a few young lovers in high school and college, but they had been as clumsy and new at it as she was. She learned amazingly fast. The intimacy of it all plunged us into the dream world where new lovers live, forgetting the world around us. We went everywhere together, feeling proud and self-assured. In bed we did everything by now. Aimee sucked me like a goddess and when I ate her out, she came and came. We did 69 and doggies and she even loved it when I pushed a finger or two up her tight ass hole when I fucked her. She also became more expressive, using words she may not even have known before. I never wondered where the shy Aimee went. You know me by now. Because I was so very proud of myself, I took all the credit. All her changes should be written on my account. Me Tarzan, you Aimee. Part Three, reality. It was six months after our honeymoon when fate knocked on my office door. We were working hard on a new campaign for one of our biggest accounts. We put in long hours and in these last weeks I had been travelling a lot. I tried to be with Aimee as often as I could, but too often I could not. She never complained and was always as sweet as candy when I came home. I usually was all over her as soon as I was three steps inside the door. That morning I drank coffee, reading a report we might need for the campaign. There was some scratching at the glass door to my office. I looked up and saw Winston, ehm...what's his name from the mail room. Winston is a black guy, just out of his teens. We don't employ many blacks, maybe eight or nine, so few even that it might get the company in trouble. Advertising is still quite a white stronghold. "Hi Winston. What can I do for you?" I smiled at him, clueless why he might want to see me. "Sit down and spill it. I can see there is something on your mind." I love to sound magnanimous. Although it might only sound like that to me. It sure did nothing to make Winston less nervous. He sat down in front of me. "Why does she only fuck white guys?" he asked. I just stared. "Aren't we good enough for her?" he continued and stared down on his fingers. My mind raced. What or who on earth could he mean and why ask me? "Ehm, Winston," I tried. "I'm not sure I know what you mean?" Winston looked up, his eyes were sad. "Why does she fuck the white guys in here and not me or Jermaine or Kevin?" I had read some Kafka and felt myself slide into his crazy world. "Who, Winston?" I asked. "Who the fuck are you talking about?" He now looked puzzled. "Your mrs. of course," he blurted. "Your wife. Is she too good for us? Or don't you allow her? She is herself black, for Christ's sake!" An ice-cold rain soaked me. I tried to speak, but couldn't. I felt numb and removed from reality. I gasped. Then I rose to close the door. My knees hardly held me up. I returned to my chair, watching the guy's sullen face. "Are you fucking with me, Winston?" I said. "That...that is my goddamn wife you are talking about!" He looked puzzled. Then his eyes widened as if a sudden revelation came over him. "Fuck...," he whispered. "You...you don't know?" What he told me then was so utterly weird and unbelievable that I twice felt the urge to punch him in the face to make him stop. I wanted to grab him and kick him out of the office. But I only sat and heard his words through a buzz in my skull. He tried to be cool about it. It almost sounded like a rap, but for me none of the words rhymed. He told me how he had picked up stories at the office. Stories about the stunning black chick that spread her legs for everyone. Then, at the office party about a month ago, he had seen who she was. I remembered that party. I could not attend, being abroad. Aimee had asked me what to do and I told her she should go. No reason to stay home and be bored only because I was away. I remembered her sighing on the phone and I gathered that her shyness made her feel reluctant to go. So I told her just to have a look and stay as long as she had a good time. The next day she phoned me and said it had been okay. She has stayed an hour. Then she had taken a cab home. Winston had quite a different version of that party. Aimee had been hit upon right from the moment she walked in, wearing an incredibly sexy dress. As he described it I had no idea ever to have seen it before. Or since, for that matter. Aimee had been offered a lot of drinks and she seemed very much at ease, talking to some of the white guys "from upstairs". Which meant management in office talk. Winston said he had watched her closely as he had heard all the stories -- and because he wouldn't often see a sexy chick like her close up. But after a while he got distracted and when he again looked for her, she had gone, only to return half an hour later. This seemed to have set a pattern. After her second disappearance, Winston got curious. He followed her the moment she left again in the company of Dan Johnston, the Vice President of Finances. They had gone to Dan's office and closed the door, so he could not see what they did. But sure enough, half an hour later they reappeared. The girl had gone straight to the lady's to restore her hair and make up. The man had rejoined the party --- and his wife -- at once. After the party the corridors had buzzed with excited gossip about Harry's wife having been fucked by management. And as the weeks went on, new stories were added, involving every white guy, single or married, who had any position of consequence in the company. When I had seemed oblivious of it all, they had supposed I knew. Maybe, they thought, I used Aimee to get a promotion or something. Especially because, at the last function, two weeks ago, I had been there with Aimee and she had had herself fucked nevertheless. Fucking Up I gasped when Winston told me that. I remembered the reception. I also remembered that Aimee had been very easy around my boss and the other guys "from upstairs". They had chatted and flirted and yes, I was quite proud of her. But I don't remember her slipping away. So, relieved that I at last found a flaw in his story, I told him that it all had to be rumours and badmouthing. He shrugged and stood. "You believe what you want to believe, man," he said. "But I saw her get fucked there with my own eyes." I also stood, feeling a sudden rage choke my throat. "You saw?? When? How? She never left and I was there!" "She went to the lady's four times that evening," Winston said, making a throw-away gesture with his hand. "Only thing is she never went to the lady's." I stared at him. He looked back. Some sympathy crawled into his eyes. "Sorry I had to tell you, man. I thought you knew." He turned and left me behind like an empty shell. That night I did not know how to find the courage to go home. I left the office early, but only made it past the first bar to reach a second and a third. Together they added up to a nice collection of deep and very empty glasses. At the third bar it took me too long to understand that it was my cell phone ringing, but I got it the next time. It was Aimee and she sounded agitated. She asked where I was and as I answered, my tongue got in the way. I looked up at the bartender and he said "Red Bull". I wondered what he meant. He took over the cell phone and gave directions. I slid off the stool. A cold splash of water caused Aimee to swim into my field of blurred vision. I apologized, I guess. Next I was in the back of a cab. Then I was riding an elevator. There were blanks, but in the end I lay stretched out on a couch that looked familiar. The lights went out once more. Mighty sledgehammers crashed into heavy metal drums, while little sweet curls of violin music meandered through them like poison ivy. Growling bases throbbed beneath it. Distant wisps of coffee aroma tried to reach my nose. I cranked my eyes open, expecting my head to float against the ceiling. I was as dead as a living man can be. Slender fingers pushed a mug into my hands and the smell of coffee hit me hard. I sipped. It helped. It helped 0,001 points on a scale of a thousand, but it helped. It was a first little step on a journey across the world. But hey, you have to start somewhere. Aimee smiled into my face. She sat on the other side of the kitchen table. I must somehow have found the energy to get up and sit there too. We were silent, drinking coffee, eating dry biscuits. My stomach heaved, but stayed put. "What happened?" she asked, her voice all mellow. "Good question," I growled. The words sounded reassuringly like themselves. "Something at work?" she continued. "Bad news?" I stared at her. It all came back, like a screaming rat pack clawing it's way through my guts. "Bad news, yes," I said. "Awfully bad." She looked worried. "There are more jobs, honey," she said, putting her warm hand on mine. "You are good, they all know." "Not that," I answered. Then I could not go on. All the bitter words were there, but I could not get them out. The finality of it all stunned me into silence. It felt so incredibly surreal now. I shook my head as if to clear it from things that stuck to the inside of my skull. "Later," I whispered. I stood and walked to the bathroom. The shower was heaven. Aimee left for work, I called in sick. They didn't like it, in the middle of the campaign development, but I didn't give a shit. I just sat at the table, an empty cold mug turning in my hands. Then I rose carefully, not wanting to disturb the huge church bells in the dome of my skull. I cleaned up the kitchen and went for a run in a park near the apartment. The cool breeze helped, so did the exercise. My erratic thoughts did not help much, though. Not at all. Breakfast with Aimee had subdued the urge to scream at her, attack her with questions, accuse her, hurt her. All that was left now was a numb feeling. A need to know, but also a fear to know. I'll ask her tonight, I concluded. And just thinking that took a huge weight of my shoulders. A weight that returned of course, as the day progressed. When I was preparing dinner, my hands shook with fearful anticipation. The meal went all right, as far as Aimee was concerned. She had walked in around 6 pm, all fresh and bubbly. She kissed me for setting the table and making dinner. Then she took a shower and returned in a nice slinky dress to go with the table linens, candles and napkins I had laid out. Me, I had to force each fork full down. She noticed and I guess she supposed I wasn't all well yet. So I struggled through the courses and desserts until we arrived at coffee. That's when I could not keep the lid on it. "WHY?!" I blurted and the word almost tore open the inside of my throat. Aimee started at the sudden outburst. "W-what do you mean, honey?" she stammered, clutching the edge of the table with both hands. I gasped, already ashamed of the outburst. "Honey," I tried again, almost whispering now. "They tell awful...awful things about you at the office." Aimee's eyes widened. She looked surprised, not shocked but confused about what I might mean. "Awful things?" she repeated. "What awful things? At my office or yours? I don't know..." I closed my eyes, then opened them again. "They say you fucked half the management at the last few parties of my company!" When the last word slipped out I already wanted to grab it and put the whole sentence back where it came from. But it was too late. Aimee looked truly shocked. The Hurt invaded her gaze -- an expression I knew so well. It was the way she looked whenever I trampled on her feelings. And at once I felt a total heel. It hadn't been true, of course it hadn't. How could it? Stupid, stupid fool! "They...they say that of me?" Aimee said with a trembling voice. Her body leant back in her chair, as far away from me as possible. I only stared at her. "And," she continued, now with a hint of frost in her voice. "And you believe that?" I sat there and knew I blew it. I only had this one story of a spiteful teenager. Goddammit, maybe the boy just wanted to get back at white scum like me. Maybe he and his buddies had a grudge against Aimee for fraternizing with the white bosses "from upstairs". What had I been thinking? Look at her, man. Look at what you did to her. You goddamn fucking oaf. Believing hearsay at a glance and accusing the only person in the whole world who had taken the immense trouble of falling in love with me. Bravo! Aimee rose. She threw her napkin on the table and walked out of the room. I shook the daze off me and cried after her. She didn't respond and disappeared in our bedroom. As I reached the door, I heard the lock click. It was the most sickening sound I ever heard. I begged at the door. I knocked and whined. She didn't answer. I even called her cell phone and heard it ring in the kitchen. That night I spent on the couch staring into the darkness until it turned gray again with the light of dawn. I crawled out of the nest I had made and once more knocked on the bedroom door. It opened at once and I started to blurt out apologies. But they stuck in my throat when I saw the suitcases in her hands and the coat on her arm. "Aimee! Don't!" I cried, trying to block her way. She just evaded me and walked to the kitchen where she picked up her purse with keys and cell phone. Then she went to the front door, never even looking at me. I scrambled behind her, begging her to not do this, to stay, to forgive me, to talk to me. The sound of the door closing put an end to that. I sank to the floor and cried. The next day was as hollow as the one before. The night in between gave me maybe one hour of exhausted sleep. I avoided the mirror, the shaving gear and the toothbrush. And I again called in sick. I also called Aimee, about a thousand times. She never answered. Around four in the afternoon the doorbell rang. I ran to it, almost stumbling over my feet. It wasn't her. It was a well-groomed gentleman in a dark blue suit. He asked me if the name he mentioned was mine and I agreed. He handed me a big envelope and informed me that I had been served with divorce papers. He smiled. Then he left me standing in my robe and stubbles, staring at the large yellow envelope. She wanted nothing out of the divorce. She just wanted out. When I at last saw her at the attorney's office where we had to sign the papers, she hid behind her lawyer and never responded to my urgent pleas to talk. She just signed and left. I had no options left but to follow her example. I quit my job and not even cared to find a new one. I just hung around in my apartment, watching TV and playing stupid video games. I felt very sorry for myself. One day, not a month after the divorce, I picked up my mail, sorting through it. There was an expensive, cream envelope. The handwriting stopped me, making my heart race. Inside was a formally printed card. It invited me to attend the marriage of Ms. Aimee Gabrielle Beaulieu and Mr. John Harris Petersen. The envelope also contained a slip of paper with a single line on it, written in the same hand as the cover. It said: "Honey, I always fuck up, never down." Petersen was my ex-boss. And by now Mrs. Petersen's ex-husband. I never liked him much. But right now I felt pity. The End. Fucking Valerie It was a rough day. It was mid summer, the air conditioning at work was at its usual inadequate temperature setting and my new boss was a real SOB. He was the type of person who, if he was drowning in a swimming pool, people would toss him an anchor. I trudged in, only half remembering an invitation to an early dinner party to which my wife had accepted an invitation. I walked into my house, ready to drop into a chair and have a cold drink. Turning the corner from the front door into the living room, there was my wife. She was 5' 6" tall, 125 lbs and 34A-28-36. She was wearing a stunning new outfit: a then current fashion white halter top dress, white hosiery and white 3 inch high heels. She had foot surgery just three months before and no one expected her to be able to wear high heels again. Her make up was very nice. Her eye shadow emphasized her brilliant blue eyes and her lips were very red. The dress itself had a circle skirt and was knee length. Under it was a rather stiff and quite rustling white 60 yard petticoat. My wife looked like an 18 year old virgin bride. She approached me and putting her arms around me and french kissed me quite passionately. She was wearing Chanel no. 5 perfume, my favorite. As she pressed herself against me, I noticed that she was not wearing a bra. Being a 34A, she really did not need to wear one but I had never known my wife to go in public braless unless she was wearing a bathing suit. ""MMM, something is missing," I whispered in her ear, half joking, as I pushed against her left breast with my right hand.. She kissed me again and responded, "That is not the only thing that is missing," as her left hand rubbed against my crotch, unzipped my pants and reached in grabbing my expanding cock with a fervor I hadn't felt since our honeymoon 13 years before. Her perfume was intoxicating. I held her quite close to me. We kissed again and my hand reached under her dress. I ran it up her leg. I discovered that she was wearing a pair of stockings with a garter belt and no panties! I didn't even know that she knew what stockings were, since she had always worn pantyhose. She had never gone without panties even in private except during sex or when she was bathing. She handed me a camera. "Take my picture." She never wanted her picture to be taken when she dressed up for me before. "Walk down the hall towards me." She did that and I took a photo. I took another of her sitting on the floor and one of her standing. I jokingly asked her, "Can I take one of you lying on the floor masturbating?" She said, "No. I still have to take the film in for developing." This was long before the time of the digital camera. "But I will pose for you." That stunned me. My sweet wife had always refused to do more than the occasional portrait. She walked to the center of the room and sat down. First she laid back on the carpet, then she spread her legs pulling her dress up to her waist. She was quite exposed. She then moved her right hand over to her vagina and inserted her middle finger into her pussy. "I want to fuck you." I said to her. She replied, "I bet you say that to all your female acquaintances." She pulled her finger out of her pussy and brought it up to her mouth. She began to suck in her finger, looking dreamily into the distance. I set the camera down and approached her. I sat down next to her. Our kissing became more passionate. "Fuck me, now, here on the floor," she whispered. She had never liked me to use the f-word and always resisted me fucking her anywhere but on the bed. We sat up on the floor. I started to get up to get a condom (we used them, very successfully, for birth control) but she said, "No, fuck me now. Fuck me you horny stud. I want your naked and hot cock in me now." She was almost shouting but in the hungry sexual way of a woman overheated by sexual lust. She was then lying on the floor on her back with her dress pushed up above her waist and her legs spread open. She was able to open her pussy almost 2 inches that way. She also began to caress her breasts through the fabric of her dress, looking at me in a way that I had never seen before. She was begging me to ravish her! I french kissed her pussy as she reached into my unzipped pants and worked my cock out.. My cock sprung out fully loaded.. I mounted her and slid my cock into her surprisingly moist pussy. "Oh, fuck me you horny motherfucker," she called out. "Fuck me. I want you to fuck me. I am so lonely for your huge, fucking cock." That excited me even more, since she never used that kind of language. We were fucking in a frenzied passion that I hadn't felt in her since before our son was born seven years before. Her moaning and begging increased, "Fuck me. I am your slut. Fuck your hot wife." My thrusts soon resulted in my filling her with my cum. My cock stayed hard as she moaned and bucked against it. I didn't even realize that the door and windows were open. We orgasmed very loudly and then we embraced and kissed as we came down for the frenzied passion that we had just experienced. She kissed me and said," I would have gone to the party dressed this way if you didn't respond as you did. Now fuck me again." Fucking Valerie: A New Story Authors note: One of the comments I received on my first story suggested some changes. Here they are. What do you think? It was mid summer, the air conditioning was at its usual inadequate temperature setting and her new boss was a real SOB. He was the type of person who, if he was drowning in a swimming pool, people would toss him an anchor. Valerie was standing in the middle of the living room. She was 37 years old, 5' 6" tall, 125 lbs and 34D-28-36. She was wearing a stunning new outfit: a retro fashion white halter top dress, white hosiery and white 3 inch high heels. She had foot surgery just three months before and she had not expected to be able to wear high heels again. Her make up was very nice. Her eye shadow emphasized her brilliant blue eyes and her lips were very red. The dress itself had a circle skirt and was knee length. Under it was a rather stiff and quite rustling white 60 yard petticoat. Valerie looked like an 18 year old virgin bride. She was wearing Chanel no. 5 perfume, her favorite. She was not wearing a bra. Being a 34D, she really did need to wear one, but it would not fit under the dress. It didn't matter; no one else was here. She pushed against her left breast with her right hand.. She kissed the air and moaned, "Oh, how much I want a cock," as her left hand rubbed against her pussy, reaching under her dress. Her perfume was intoxicating. She was wearing a pair of stockings with a garter belt and no panties! She was feeling so beautiful and sexy this way, since she had always worn pantyhose whenever she wore a dress. She had never gone without panties even in private except when she was bathing. She was feeling very naughty. She was dressed this way because she was lonely. All the men in her life thought that she was attached and so did not approach her. She was a beautiful sexy lonely woman without a lover. So she found the sexiest, most feminine outfit she could. She felt very pretty and sexy. She picked up a camera. "Take my picture," she said to no one in particular. She never wanted her picture to be taken when she dressed up like this. She wanted to show another side today. She walked to the center of the room and sat down. First she laid back on the carpet, then she spread her legs pulling her dress up to her waist. She was quite exposed. She then moved her right hand over to her vagina and inserted her middle finger into her pussy. "I want to fuck you," she said to herself. She pulled her finger out of her pussy and brought it up to her mouth. She began to suck on her finger, moaning, "Fuck me, now, here on the floor." She had never liked me to use the f-word and always resisted fucking herself anywhere but on the bed. "Fuck me! Now!" She was almost shouting but in the hungry sexual way of a woman overheated by sexual lust. She was then lying on the floor on her back with her dress pushed up above her waist and her legs spread open. She was able to open her pussy almost 2 inches that way. She also began to caress her breasts through the fabric of her dress. She was begging to be ravished! "OK, sis. I'll do that," came a voice. It was Valerie's much younger brother, Karl! "Where did you come from!" gasped Valerie, who was frozen with surprise. A 10 inch quite hard and wide cock stuck out through his unzipped pants. He had been watching his sister for some time. "I didn't know that you were that hot. You are dressed so pretty and sexy." He sat down next to her, and before Valerie could even move, he french kissed her pussy as she tried vainly to cover up. He quickly mounted her as Valerie begged "Please, no, don't do this. It's wrong! Please, you'll get me pregnant!" she called out. "Don't fuck me. I don't want you to fuck me. Your huge cock is too big! Please don't. Please don't fuck me." "You are too sexy for words. You should be fucked by a horny stud. You were asking for this." Karl put his cock at Valerie's love lips. She was quite dry and tight. The head disappeared as Valerie's pussy began to open. She gasped as the cock slowly began to penetrate her, opening her farther than she had ever envisioned. "You are so tight, Valerie. Are you a virgin?" asked her brother . Valerie was gasping in pain and pleasure. It had been so long since she had a cock inside her. She begged, "You are the only man to fuck me. Ohh, please, stop. Don't fuck me. I am a virgin!." He pushed another inch into Valerie's tight pussy. She moaned in pleasure and pain. Her pussy was stretched farther than it had ever been before, but her clitoris was throbbing with pleasure. "Oh, you are so big. You are hurting me! I don't want to fuck you." Her resolve was slipping a bit as he was kissing her passionately. Another inch went in. "Oh God! Help you are so fucking big. Fuck me!" She kissed him for the first time. Another inch. Valerie felt so full like her vagina was going to burst, yet there was a lot more to go. Another inch. "Valerie, You are so sexy. Your pussy is so hungry. I've always wanted to fuck you," gasped Karl. Valerie tried to open her legs farther to accommodate the huge cock that she knew would soon push completely inside her. "You are too big. I feel like you are going to overflow. I am so horny. I am so much in lust with you." Valerie's words were beginning to jumble together as her reluctance dissolved. The combination of her tight, dry pussy, the huge cock invading her and her throbbing clit was sending Valerie into orgasmic agony. Another two inches entered her. Valerie felt even more filled. Her clitoris was absolutely throbbing with pleasure while her vaginal lips and walls were pushed to what Valerie thought were its limits. She was as wide open as she thought she could be. Her brother had not yet started to fondle or caress her, only passionate kissing. She was the picture of her fantasy sex; fully dressed but with her legs spread wide with a huge cock not yet fully inside. Soon, Valerie was completely impaled on the huge member. Slowly, the cock began to pump. The thrusting became more frequent and deeper. "Valerie, you fuck so good. Tell me how good you fuck. I'm starting to cum." Valerie was at the edge of orgasm and pain. She tried to say," I am fucking....," or something like that when the sperm began spurting deep in her pussy. It kept coming. She began to scream in orgasmic frenzy. "Fuck, oh, fuck, I want to ....I am fuck. Fill me. I am so hot...." Valerie and Karl continued there sexual dance on the floor as she squirmed and moaned in orgasmic pain and he pumped love deep inside her. His hands were now fondling his sister's breasts as they begin to share deep french kisses. They began to breathe deeply together as the last cum shot inside her and she came with a screaming orgasm. The afterglow came. Karl said to Valerie, "I'll be back tomorrow for more...." Fucking Wild: Sharing a Tent We're just friends - until you need to share my tent. * * * * * Click Here to listen: .mp3 format or .ogg format. (31 min/mp3) * * * * * Fucking with Strangers Chapter 1 My excursion into a swinging circle. As the condom covered cock nuzzled against my wet engorged lips so I thought 'It has been such a long time.' As Paul pushed his welcomingly sturdy and stunningly hard prick up me I realised that it been about nine months, around three-quarters of a year or approximately forty weeks since I had been fucked. As he surged deep into me so I realised that my self-imposed celibacy was over. That made me feel good, very good. We'd met playing golf, helping each other find their balls in the deep rough that separated the eighth and ninth holes. We chatted as we walked in the long grass and then later in the bar. We had a couple of drinks at the golf club and met there again at the Sunday morning mixed get together. We played and had lunch together, he gave me a lift home for I had stayed at a friend's place near to the club the previous evening. We kissed as he dropped me off at my flat in Docklands. We met again a week or so later and then we went out to dinner a couple of times.. Tonight had been a natural culmination I suppose. It was an inevitability I guess. It was the way that relationships develop, particularly between people approaching or in middle age, for his fifty one and my forty three constitute just that, I was beginning to realise with some despair. As he started moving in and out and up and down, there was no space in my mind for anything other than the enjoyment of sexual stimulation. Fortunately he had made me cum when he'd undressed me so I was able to savour the sensations of his cock filling me and arousing my insides. He was a good lover. He hadn't rushed getting my clothes off and getting me into his bed and he had paid due attention to my full breasts and ultra-sensitive nipples with his hands and mouth. He was as equally relaxed about getting into my knickers. He had patiently stimulated my clit and then after peeling my panties down and taking them off, he had gently at first, but then more energetically as we progressed, finger fucked me to a first climax. We had rested. And then he had started sucking my breasts, I love that and I stroked his cock. He thrust it against me simulating a shag. We kissed and he ran his hands through my more than shoulder-length, wavy, unruly some say, chestnut coloured hair. He rolled on top of me his erection welcomingly pressed into me from my pubic mound to my waist, he felt so big, but then I hadn't had this experience for so long, everything was happening in extremes. He squeezed and rubbed my breasts, sucked my nipples and then wiggled his way downwards. I parted my thighs and he slid between them. It didn't last that long. I certainly had no staying power and he was so ready that prolonging it would have been meaningless. After the first few deep thrusts that sent his cock so far up me I thought it would enter my womb or pop out my mouth, he combined that with almost removing it. All the time he was kissing me, squeezing my breasts and sucking on my lips; I knew they would be sore and a little swollen in the morning. Then he pushed himself as far in me as he could go, held it rigid, grabbed the cheeks of my bum and moaned. "Are you ready, I am so near?" "Oh yes Paul" I groaned I am so, so ready." And then we had a marvellous mutual orgasm that well and truly ended my celibacy. * Just what had brought me back to a full sex-life, I'm not sure. Partly of course it was frustration. That dull ache of need that for nearly every moment of the nine months had pervaded every part of my body. There was hardly a minute and certainly not an hour that I didn't think about sex, that I didn't feel the warmth in my breasts and the irritation in the pit of my stomach. I was continuously aroused, my nipples seemed to be almost permanently hard and sometimes I would have to change my panties several times a day! I looked at nearly all the men and many of the women I met as sexual prospects, wondering what they would look like naked and how they would perform in bed. I had the most lurid dreams often waking up with my hand between my legs or holding my boobs. I had fantasies of being raped, having a gang bang and being tied up and continually fucked. To relieve the frustration I masturbated and boy did I; every day during those nine months and some times two or three times. That helped, but only temporarily. It also ended because of Paul, I felt he was special. He wasn't pervy or pushy, was good looking with longish greying, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He was around six feet and muscularly slim, brought about he told me by working out three or four times a week, running regularly and playing tennis as well as golf. After the divorce, I had vowed not to present my daughter, who had overall coped well with my marriage split up and divorce, with a series of 'uncles' and that had been another reason for my celibacy decision. Additionally, being celibate and not dating after a few months, although I had started out with what I felt were good reasons, increasingly seemed rather pointless; I had almost forgotten why I had started. After my divorce had come through three or so years ago I had a bad spell. I became rather promiscuous, well at least by my standards for in the previous twenty years I had only had two lovers; my husband and a guy with whom I had a passionate six month affair. During my 'mad' period I slept with six men. I got to a point where, I suppose, I was putting it about a bit. After a couple of years of that madness, which I worked hard to keep from my teenage daughter Sara, it suddenly hit me that I was becoming a slut. It also hit me that the sex I had with those men was, overall, unsatisfying and filled me with guilt and remorse. It was like that because it was almost just sex for the sake of sex; there was nothing else, no emotional involvement, no strong affection and certainly no love. I didn't want any of the latter, but had needed the former; I wanted sex, but no emotional involvement or dependence. I had been there with Kevin and the break up after I found that he was a serial adulterer had not only hurt me badly, but it had toughened me up considerably. So I had a classic Catch 22; I wanted sex, but without becoming emotionally involved, but when I had sex like that I didn't enjoy it. Hence, I stopped dating and became celibate. That is until Paul and now those reasons for not fucking seem ridiculous. He found me at just the right time for both of us. A couple of years earlier he had sold his interior design and office layout planning company for several millions. He and his wife had decided that they would spend a lot of time travelling the world for whilst building his group of companies he had no time for holidays. Tragically, just after the sale she was killed in a car crash so when we met he was just starting to get over it, if that is possible. At that time having tried celibacy I was coming to the conclusion the suffering was not worth the benefits. All the time since the divorce my intention had been not to get involved with a man until Sara was more or less off my hands at university. Paul came along just as she was taking her A levels! And when I met him on the golf course, we found his ball, but not mine and we laughed when I said. "Bloody men, they never seem to lose their balls." In the bar after the golf he came up to me and presented me with a brand new golf ball. "Titleist Pro V wasn't it." Smiling I said. "PTS Solo actually, but a Pro V will do, thanks." "May I buy you a drink?" "You think I'm that kind of girl do you" I laughed adding "Anything for a golf ball?" "Not just a golf ball, a Pro V 1" "Ah well in that case a glass of dry white wine please." He leaned across and putting his hand on my shoulder he kissed me on the cheek. We were parked near to my Docklands apartment after he brought me home from the golf club. We went to dinner later that week and this time in roughly the same place he kissed me on the lips, he was a good kisser. The next week after we came out of the restaurant and got into his car in the dark, we kissed. This time it was much deeper and longer. He cupped my breast and that felt wonderful. A week or so later after golf, dinner and a few drinks at the club we stopped in a quiet place as he drove me home. We kissed and he again cupped my breasts. "Paul I'm a little old for this" I said as his hand slid inside my top. "If you are, what's that make me" he replied, not stopping however from touching my boob and in fact slipping his fingers inside my bra so that they touched my nipple. That made me grunt. It is such a significant and exciting time when a man first touches a woman's breasts and particularly their nipple. We kissed for some time as slowly he eased each breast out of my bra and caressed them with his hands and fingers and then licked and kissed them. I had to work hard not to cum so aroused did that make me. I guess that by these actions Paul was asking if we could have full sex and I was replying that we could. He came in for coffee after driving me home from the West End where we'd had dinner. I had lied and said that my daughter was upstairs a sleep, I hadn't quite got my head round breaking my celibacy. As he pulled me to him and kissed me he said. "Would we hear her if she got up?" "Yes, I have intentionally had squeaky floorboards put just outside her bedroom so we would," I smiled as he crushed me against him. "What a thoughtful mother you are, saving your daughter the embarrassment of catching her mum up to no good." "Mum's have to think of everything" I replied as we sat side by side on the large six-seater, black leather settee. I was wearing a black dress with several buttons at the top that ran from the lowish neckline to my waist. It was quite thin and had a fairly loose skirt that came to just above my knees. As my legs were still tanned from a recent week in Italy, I wasn't wearing tights or stockings. As we kissed he soon had some of the buttons undone and was caressing my boobs before trying to undo the bra. "No don't Paul, just in case" I said nodding my head towards the stairs. "Wise as well ma'am" he smiled sliding his hand into the cups one at a time and lifting my breasts out. "This ok?" He asked bending his head and sucking my already swollen nipple into his mouth. I stroked his hair as I murmured. "You cheeky sod, but yes Paul that is ok, it is so much more than just ok." I slowly laid back into the corner of the sofa as he did such wonderful things to my boobs and nipples. I wasn't' aware just how far my skirt had risen up my legs until I felt his hand on my thigh more than half way between my knee and my panties. Stop him or let him go on, I asked myself? He provided the answer by slipping his hand slowly upwards until the side of it was pressed right against my soaked lips encased in the black thong. I panicked. I now wanted sex so badly, but knew that I shouldn't do that particularly as I had lied about Sara being here. Again that conundrum was solved for me. I began to cum. "Oh god Paul" I groaned grabbing his wrist and going to pull it away. "What?" I'm sure he knew for my body had gone rigid. "You know" I gasped not having the will to pull his hand away. "Yes I do" he said rubbing me." "I'm sorry." "Don't be, it's wonderful" he grunted manipulating his fingers inside my panties. "Oh my god" I groaned as they, effortlessly it seemed, slid in me, but then I was certainly fully lubricated. He made me cum quickly and fully. I didn't let him fuck me though and considerately he didn't try too hard thinking that Sara was upstairs. It wasn't just that inconvenience though it was also that he had the patience of an experienced man. We both knew that it was only a matter of time, however, and that his invitation to his house and for him to cook me dinner the following Saturday "That is if you can get a sitter" was likely to be that time. I had no difficulty with getting Sara looked after. We had melon and Parma ham, followed by a pasta and then raspberries. Simple but effective and delicious. We drank the best part of two bottles of wine, which together with the meal, the low lighting and the haunting Bach violin concertos created a warm and highly romantic atmosphere. Paul got up, walked round the table and stood behind me. He put his hands on my shoulders and kissed my head. "You realise Amanda I'm sure that I feel a lot for you don't you?" "As I do you Paul, but it's too soon to go there, just let's enjoy this for what it is, please?" I said putting my hand on his. "Yes darling I agree" he said softly as he kissed the top of my head and slowly slid his hands down my chest and onto my breasts. "And is this what it is Amanda?" I gripped his hand and pressed it more firmly against my breasts. I looked up into his eyes and whispered. "Yes Paul, I rather think it is." I was wearing a fairly low cut, short sleeved white, sort of posh tee shirt top with black, linen, calf length pedal pusher trousers. The top was tight and moulded itself to my breasts, emphasising their fullness. He caressed them through the material, cupping and squeezing them as he continued kissing the top of my head. Whispering. "Mmmmmm they feel lovely Amanda" Paul moved his hands upwards so that they were on my chest, his fingers slipping just slightly inside the neckline, just where the swell of my breasts start. It felt nice. I didn't move, but waited for his next move. And that was as delightfully exciting as it was predictable. He slowly slid his fingers and hands down, inside the top and onto my breasts. Pausing momentarily, presumably to ensure I was comfortable with what he was doing, which I illustrated as best I could by slightly arching my back and leaning my head to one side and resting it on his arm, he carried on making love to my breasts. His fingers slowly crept inside my bra and then down and down so that he was cupping my bare breasts. The knuckles of his first and middle fingers on both hands were either side of my wickedly hard nipples that he then pushed together squeezing those pink, rubbery protrusions. I groaned with pleasure and excitement and my head fell backwards as he slowly eased each boob out from both its protective and supportive D sized cup and the tee shirt. Holding them in either hand he leaned over me and licked them in turn slowly moving his tongue towards the flame tipped centres. Sucking them into his mouth IO could feel my whole body reacting and I knew that was near to having a breast caressing induced orgasm I had to stop him. "No Paul" I muttered grabbing his hand. "What is it?" He asked considerately clearly concerned. I stood up, we slid into each other's arms and we kissed. Again it was long, deep and quite lovely. As I pressed my body against his I had that absolutely delightful experience of feeling the length of his erection against my stomach. "It was just a tiny bit too much for me" I explained enjoying the feel of my bare breasts against his shirt. "What do you mean, didn't you like it" he smiled looking down at my boobs. I slid my arms round his neck, kissed him on the lips and said. "I liked it too much if you get what I mean." "Oh I see," he grinned back. "Please I can have that effect on you." "Well you do, but you know it has been ages for me. "Yes love I know" he replied as we kissed again. "Is this ok?" He whispered as he his rested his hand on my bum in the cropped black linen pedal pushers. "Oh yes" I sighed enjoying it and liking his consideration. It made me feel warm towards him and adventurous. I let my hand fall down between us so it found his erection. I slowly rubbed and gently squeezed it and whispered. "Is this?" It was the first time I had done that to him. "Oh yes Mandy, yes, it's lovely." Gently pushing me backwards we did a slow dance to the big, green leather chesterfield. He manoeuvred me until I felt the back of my legs pressing against it. We sat down and we kissed again. One of his hands cupped my breast as the other squeezed the cheeks of my bum through the thin linen. I was still rubbing his erection. As he had in the car a couple of times and at my apartment he pulled the boobs completely out of the cups so that the material of my bra and the top snuggled under each boo. It felt lovely, but was slightly irritating and felt somewhat teenagerish. "Stop a moment" I muttered. "Wha......?" I stopped him with. "Shush, just watch." Reaching behind me I slid my hands up my back inside the top and undid my bra. Looking right at Paul, I pulled the trick that only women can do, I wiggled and struggled with my bra and then brought my hands out from my top holding it. As he smiled and said "Wow" I dropped the flimsy, white see-through bra onto the floor by his feet. Looking him in the eyes I said. "Want more wow?" As I took hold of the hem of the tee with both hands and without waiting for an answer I pulled it, over my head and off. "Oh my god Amanda" he groaned taking me in his arms again and gripping the cheeks of my bum. "I want you so much." We kissed for some time with Paul slowly easing me backwards until I was squashed into the corner of the sofa with him lying half on me his full erection giving me lovely feelings on my legs and stomach. He ran his hands up and down my legs firstly, on their tops and then on the inside of my thighs, which I parted for him. He was alternating between caressing my bare boobs and running his hands up and down my thighs. He had worked me up very much; I was feeling incredibly horny and I knew my celibacy was about to end and I wanted it to. "Let's go to bed" he said huskily. As we stood up I smiled. "What about the washing up?" "Fuck it" he smiled back. Laughing as I fluffed my hair back into place making my boobs jiggle quite outrageously I said. "It or me?" "Both" he replied pulling me up. It was a strange yet monumentally horny experience walking topless through his house, up the stairs and into his bedroom. As I climbed the stairs I was acutely aware that that my bum would be swaying just inches in front of his face and as I walked arm in arm with him across the landing that my boobs would be wobbling wildly. Both of those felt good. In his surprisingly large bedroom he took my pedal pusher pants off and we lay on the bed. I was so worked up that my entire body was tingling. It erupted when he touched me between my legs, firstly outside then quickly after inside my panties. He made me cum very quickly. Then he removed my thong and fucked me. * After we had 'broken our duck' as far as full sex was concerned, our relationship developed quickly and very well. Due to my daughter, we were unable to actually sleep with each other all night very often, but we made up for that by enjoying our afternoons and sometimes even our mornings to the full! "It's been over three months now" he said as I lay in his arms on the back seat of his Rangerover. We had found a common liking for having sex in places where there was an element of danger; not too much danger, just enough to add interest. It had appealed to me in the past, but I had never had the opportunity to give vent to my feelings, Paul gave me every opportunity to do that for we were like-minded on the subject that we had discussed a couple of times. I had played golf at the club's Tuesday ladies morning. "Right girls I'm off to the gym see you all Thursday" I had said after showering and changing. I was wearing a thin white, zip up track top, black leggings and a fashionably short black skirt. I was not wearing any underwear. It was fairly chilly so it didn't look out of place that I was wearing a large jacket over my tracky top. Fuller breasted girls have to think of such 'cover ups' all the time.