Las Vegas. 

For a supermarket managers' conference.

It was only Day Two of four, and I was already bored.

I had visited the city on dozens of previous occasions, but I had never been to this vacation destination with Jacob. So I thought that accompanying him on this work trip would be a fortuitous circumstance.

So far, my boyfriend was having a ball spending his packed days learning about ethical innovations in fresh food distribution alongside his fellow grocery geeks, while I was discovering that I had outgrown the allure of one-armed bandits.

The past night, with Jacob's sleepy blessing--"Sure, whatever, Honey."--I had joined a few of the other conference spouses on an excursion to a post-dinner male revue show, The Kings of New Jack Swing. I was thoroughly entertained by the assortment of male physiques stripping in a choreographed manner to bouncy 90s R&B jams. One of the members in our party, Deb from Peoria, had thrown a pair of panties on stage. The underwear was newly purchased, and Deb had forgotten to remove the tags, but it was a fun outing.

At the moment, it was ten in the morning. I had already finished the room service breakfast strewn across the foot of the hotel bed, and I had no spousal activities planned until afternoon tea, organized by veteran spouses Barb and Christine. Unfortunately there were no partially nude men schedule to dance at this gathering, unless conference husband Gerald imbibed one too many lemon drops.

Since Jacob was occupied with his workshop downstairs, I had a couple hours to fill by myself before lunch. My black curls encased in a satin bonnet, I snuggled under the sheets in my gingham pajama shirt and lace boyshorts, along with Jacob's dress socks to keep my feet warm. I clicked through the recent releases on the hotel's movie channel but found none to my liking. I extracted my laptop from my backpack, browsed my streaming service options, and landed on a home renovation series.

While I watched a seasoned house flipper take a sledgehammer to her kitchen wall, I recalled one of the conversations that I had partially engaged in last night as our group lumbered home from the show...

Intoxicated by the flowing drinks and the hedonistic performances, Christine and Deb were discussing their turn-ons, with and without their partners. After I had shared my appreciation for Jacob's handyman skills, Deb declared that she enjoyed beards and butt play. Christine liked listening to ASMR recording while fellating a blue dildo. 

"Why blue?" Deb asked, strolling along the sidewalk.

"Blue means it's a boy," Christine justified.

Barb had tried to avoid the dialogue by striding more quickly along the Strip, but Deb reined her back in.

"What arouses you, Barb?" Deb implored.

Barb's beige, freckled cheeks turned as red as her wavy hair. "Masturbation selfies."

Christine motored her wheelchair closer to Barb. "You mean watching videos that other people post on websites, where they pleasure themselves on camera?"

"Yes… and…" Barb hedged.

"And?" I pressed.

"Making and posting my own."

The group gasped.

"They are anonymous!" Barb hissed at her captivated audience. "And it's for fun, not for pay, although fans have offered. My face is hidden, so no one knows it's me. I'm simply another MILF taking off my clothes and rubbing one out on camera."

"Naked videos of yourself out there in the world, on the internet forever?" Deb stammered. "Gosh."

"Another MILF?" Christine repeated. "So, there are many women our age participating in this behavior?"

Barb nodded. "30s, 40s, some in their 50s. Quite a popular hashtag in the forums."

While the other spouses let Barb's admission soak in, I wasn't thrown by the concept of MILF masturbation porn. During my own solo sessions, I had observed examples before without directly seeking them out. However, I was surprised to meet one of the artists in person. It had never occurred to me that I would encounter one of these ladies in the wild. But of course, they were probably everywhere. They lived among us, because they were regular people. That was the whole point…

The wall had come down. 

Lying on my bed, I continued viewing the renovator in her hard hat and goggles rip out the remaining drywall between the living room and the breakfast nook.

I minimized the home show window and opened a private browser. Although Barb hadn't divulged which sites she had uploaded her erotic selfies to, I had an idea of where they might be and how to find them. I searched some hashtags related to MILF masturbation and scrolled past the thumbnails with visible faces, as Barb had stressed she kept hers hidden. I discovered a thread dedicated to real middle-aged hotties flicking their beans. I clicked on a post with redhead in the description, even though I couldn't really tell, since the woman’s pale pubic area, like most on the page, was shaved bare. Then I told myself that the color of the curtains didn't always match the carpet, although the hair under my bonnet was the same dark shade as my fluffy bush.  

My computer screen was filled with a pair of rose-colored nipples under a diaphanous blouse, jiggling as their owner petted her syrupy mound. I felt a familiar arousal growing between my thighs. I crawled out of bed to make sure the door was locked and to deposit the room service tray in the hall. The Do Not Disturb sign was already hanging on the outer doorknob.

After I retrieved the battery-operated friend stashed in my suitcase, I hopped back on top of the messy sheets. As the video played, I opened the comments underneath. Some past viewers had wondered about the personal details of the leading lady. She disclosed that they could call her Val, like her screen name suggested. She was 45, a happily married mom, and delighted by all the positive responses. I explored Val’s profile, selected her playlist, and let her amateur short films play on a loop, her moans fueling my bicurious desire. 

I peeled off my damp undies, unbuttoned my shirt, and slid my vibrator between my moist lower lips.

Clearly I wasn’t bored anymore.

I felt the edge of my toy buzzing underneath my swelling clit. With my shirt wide open, I kept one hand on my puffy brown areola and the other on the touchpad browsing the comments. Most of them were from guys beating their meat. There were occasional notes from female admirers, admitting that watching Val unexpectedly turned them on.

Watching her lift up her blouse, fingering her bare pussy, moaning. 

Val turned me on, too.

I let the vibe oscillate. I placed my fingertips on both my nips. Oh, this was so good. As Val got closer to erupting, that finger flying on her clit, my aching clit pulsed harder, and my brown toes curled in Jacob’s socks. 

Her titties were shaking, her pink nipples swelling the more aroused she got.

I turned up the vibrations.

I needed to cum.

I thought about Barb making a video like Val’s. 

Her fingers dipping. 

Her control slipping.

Barb’s thighs dripping.

Ohhh!

I came hard, trying not to leave a telltale squirt on the bed, writhing all over the sheets, screaming loud enough for the whole floor to hear.

Whew.

While I panted, recovering from my lesbionic, voyeuristic orgasm, I heard the computer audio switch to a new entry after Val’s playlist had ended.

Another video popped up, continuing the redhead masturbation theme. The cover shot featured a curvy individual wearing a white tank top lifted up over her natural breasts, a pair of white cotton panties, and white crew socks. When I moved the pointer over the image, the woman's freckled chin dipped into view to adjust the camera, and her henna locks brushed against the lens. 

That loose curl pattern looked familiar.

Tits out and pussy soaked, I gathered my energy and reached for my phone. I hoped I had entered the number correctly. “Hey Barb… Yes, it’s Honey… I’m good. Very good. It’s almost eleven. Do you feel like eating?”