Excited, eager, and drippingly horny seems to be my normal state; at least, it is now. I live in a constant state of lusty arousal, and my husband finds some magical way to make me fall helplessly and hopelessly in love with him every day. Yesterday was no exception. Despite me being a very torridly slutty, bad girl the previous night, he still slew me with the deadliest combinations of affection. Thoughtfulness to the point of being disturbingly psychic, looking sexier than any man should legally be allowed to be, showering me with respect and love, and making me so fucking horny that I spent more hours masturbating at work than actually working had me ready and eager to pounce on him.
As I mentioned, I was a naughty little slut. Correction: I was a huge a slut, an insatiable nympho, a cock-hungry trollop, and a foul-mouthed vixen that got covered in cum. It all began with my flashing my husband's friend's roommates the lingerie I was wearing under my clothes when we visited—my story cover picture is from that night. That turned into a gang-bang the very next day. We had four fine young men over for dinner, and I was their appetizer as well as their dessert. Before we dined, I made a grand entrance, wearing only heels, a garter belt, and stockings. One by one, I sucked and stroked them, ordering them to shoot their cum all over my body. Then, covered in spunk and smiling, I sat at the table, and we feasted.
Afterwards, I feasted on four cocks; by draining them, earlier, they lasted longer. I had cocks in my mouth, cocks pounding and slamming into my quivering, flowing pussy, and still more in my hands. All the while, my husband sat in his chair and watched me. His adoring words and enthusiastic enjoyment of me, his wife, being a gang-banged slut, was the hottest part unless one counts the eight hands massaging my cum-soaked body after I’d drained their cocks a second time in my pursuit of pleasure.
Most married women would fear divorce or repercussions. Did I get slut-shamed, yelled at, or discover that my marriage was at risk because I’m a trashy slut that can’t enough sex? No, not at all. I awoke to a hearty breakfast in bed, fresh towels and my favorite soaps in the bathroom, and wildflowers inside my car, a sweet little love note, celebrating me, as a person, tucked between the stems.
I was floating on clouds the entire day at work. My staff already hates me, because I can’t ever shut the hell up about Glade, my husband. It’s not that I’m so lacking in self-awareness that I don’t realize that I’m going on and on about how he’s on a god-like level of sexiness, of his idea of “a little romantic gesture” puts Hollywood to miserable shame. I’m completely aware that I’m the luckiest fucking bitch to have ever walked the planet; I just can’t get over the fact that the man’s only flaw is his terrible choice in women—I’m proof-positive. Still, my coworkers put up with it, more than likely because I sign their paychecks.
My friends, however, are a completely different story. With them, I’m even worse. I’ll post my husband’s dreamy face, with those finely chiseled features and pussy-drenching, soul-piercing eyes at the drop of a hat. For even the slightest, most tenuous of reasons, I’ll show off his lean-muscled, perfect body, his spankable, tight ass, or that huge, mammoth, mutant cock of his.
“Oh fuck oh fuck, oh fuck,” goes my usual refrain, “Glade just did this! He just said that!”
Seriously, I have no idea why the fuck they put with me. Still, my friends tolerate my incessant infatuation, and they keep trying to talk me off the ledge of my self-induced insanity. While their words to me are supportive and loving, in the forefront of their minds, they’re probably thinking, shut the fuck up about him already, you slutty bimbo! You’re either the luckiest cunt on the planet or absolutely delusional.
The thing is, I’m not used to being accepted for who I am. Furthermore, I’m not used to being celebrated for being a wild, wanton sex fiend. My sexual appetite had ruined every relationship I’ve ever been in, and to be admired and supported for my sexual insatiability is, to this very day, something I cannot fathom. The constant romance and being treated like a respected and admired equal are also unheard of. As was the case yesterday.
Not only did I get showered with loving devotion, as if I were a princess or something, but my husband, Mr. Perfect, was unrelenting. Timed fifteen minutes apart, as my staff’s faces grew more and more jealous, I received four-dozen roses. That’s twelve roses per cock. Then, accompanied by cheery-faced caterers, lunch for me and my staff arrived.
“It’s not fair!” one of my employees lamented. “Why are all the good ones married?!”
However, my adoring husband didn’t get any sex the previous night. I’d planned on fucking him until I passed out, but lustily coaxing out nine loads of cum—one of them was more virile than the other three—exhausted me. To make up for it, I was sexting him all through the day. Pictures of me, ranging from suggestive to outright pornographic, were added to entice.
I’ve mentioned before that all men should take Glade lessons. For example, sending a woman a dick pic does not turn her on. However, if she sends you a suggestive text message accompanied by a picture of her hard, braless nipples poking through her thin T-shirt, and she gets told all about how her inner light of perfection shines through, and how her “mortal coil” is just as divine as her internal essence, she’ll get horny enough to not only ask for a dick-pic, but she might also finger her aching clit while looking at it.
Each and every message, suggestive statement, and filthy picture netted a response that warmed my heart, stimulated my soul, aroused my mind, and made my body yearn for the dirtiest, sluttiest, wildest sex imaginable. Slowly, over hours, he worked his sexual magic on me, turning me into a horny, panting sexual beast of a woman.
I didn’t want to make love, and sexy wouldn’t suffice. I had been a nasty, dirty slut, begging for more cum. I desperately needed to be reclaimed and fucked hard like the slut I am.
‘Remember how I was covered in cum last night?’ my text message began. ‘I need to be covered in cum again… your cum.’
Without pause, his response was immediate and stunned me with its implications. ‘Certainly, as you wish. But, the people at the restaurant I booked might stare.’
‘But I have nothing to wear. I look frumpy.’
‘You could never look frumpy. Your beauty is a thousand times more perfect than the fiery sunset over the mountains after a storm.’
See? Glade lessons!
‘I’ll need to go home and find something to wear.’
The issue with that is that I’m obsessed with clothing. I grew up very impoverished. Most of my clothes were second-hand or home-made. If we wanted fast food for dinner, it involved saving our pennies for almost an entire month. Now that I don’t need to worry so much about money, I’ve adopted the vice of being a shopaholic to round out my vast collection of other vices. My husband knew this, and, as usual, he’d thrown together an impromptu masterpiece of seduction and romance.
Some artists work in clay or paints. Others sculpt or create music. My husband’s mediums are perfection and romantic seduction. He’s the type of man who can destroy your home, drain your bank account, split you in two, and then leave the toilet seat up, and you’d just say, “So, does tomorrow work for you, too?”
‘Your dress should arrive soon. Don’t worry about a thing.’
If any other soul in the universe would say those words to me, I’d know that it was well past the time to worry. With him, though, I’ve learned. That perfect, enigmatic motherfucker did, indeed, have everything well in hand. The expression on my employee's face, when she tossed my latest delivery onto my desk, told me that my new garment had arrived.
“I fucking hate you, boss-lady. You suck.”
“Love you, too, Steph.”
The garment box was classy and tasteful. It was a shiny black, so glossy that it reflected the light of my tiny, cluttered office. Crossing over the top was a wide, satiny purple ribbon, a big bow delicately tied at the intersection.
“Oooh!” I gasped when I opened the box.
The dry-cleaning receipt, less than an hour old, was on top of the beautiful and sultry dress. It was made of a light and airy, opaque fabric that was smooth and soft to the touch. In a light olive color, which perfectly matched my recently-henna-treated fiery hair, it was a toga-style, one-shoulder dress. Elegant in its simplicity, the cut of the top portion swooped from the left shoulder to under the right arm, with diagonal runches to give it some additional flair. The simple skirt had a knee-high slit on the right side, and the skirting fabric ebbed and flowed. It was stylish and sexy in a Greek Goddess way, but not too slutty to wear in civilized society.
“And this just came for you, you fucking bitch,” Marcy, my store’s manager, chided. “We were talking. Instead of bonuses this month, can we just rent Glade?”
In the second box, similarly adorned to match the garment box, was a full array of new makeup, all in the brands I use. Not only did he think of everything, he’d paid attention to all those minute details, making everything perfect for me. I swooned. I’ve known him for almost three years, and he still manages to surprise me daily.
With my eyes tearing up a little over his thoughtfulness, I texted him. ‘Love, LOVE the dress. How do you know it will fit?’
Again, he responded immediately, as if he had some “perfect ways to respond to Krystal to make her melt” guide at the ready. ‘I’ve committed every millimeter of your body to memory. I cherish your perfection. It is the gods’ only true masterpiece; the cosmos pales in comparison. Of course, it will fit.’
The dress not only fit, but I looked amazing in it. For a brief moment, I wished I’d worn underwear for a change, but the fabric draped over my body so perfectly, so alluring and enticingly, that garment lines would sully the rare event of me not looking like I either raided Stevie Nicks’ closet or bought out Sluts-R-Us. I made precious little time to get ready; my store was closing soon. I did, however, have enough time to alert my friends with myriad “Glade, oh my Glade, I so love that fucking man” drivel.
Then I saw the note at the bottom of the box. My husband wasn’t satisfied with turning up the heat on me all day. I had already fingered myself several times over our naughty banter and the mood he’d put me in, but the note took my already high state of horny arousal and rocketed it into space.
The note simply read, “This dress shall be torn from your flesh before the night is over.”
As crass as that may sound, in that moment, it was perfect. He’d taken my delight at acting so kinky and stoked those horny fires to the point of a volcanic eruption. As I read it, then re-read it, I became determined to become even wilder, more slutty. When I’m a scandalous tart, two things happen. I continue to receive this romance-novel level of love and attention, and he fucks me like the slut I am. He wasn’t jealous or insecure; he was celebrating my unleashing my true nature.
Most women get divorced when they fuck four guys in front of their husbands. Rather than emotional trauma, I got breakfast in bed, flowers, still more flowers, love notes, a new dress and makeup, a catered lunch, and a dinner date. It’s kind of like a rewards program for whores!
Although I was in my office, getting ready by fussing over my makeup and arguing with that bitch in the mirror, I knew when my husband had arrived. My girls, my coworkers, were involved in their usual post-closing chatter. The shrieks and laughter stopped, blessed silence permeating the store. There’s only one thing that will silence a gaggle of giddy women, and that’s somebody that is so amazingly stunning that our clits ambush our brains and turn them off.
Contrary to popular belief, women are just as much into admiring sexiness as men. The only real differences are that we’re exponentially worse and perverted about it, but we don’t fly our lusty-addled slut flags in front of most people, except when we’re together in a group. There are, in this world, some people that just short-circuit our armored veneer of hiding our infinite desire and make the horny, needy, perverted slut within us all climb out of its shell.
It isn’t just how somebody looks. Being beautiful, handsome, sexy, or all of the above is a big bonus, but charisma, attraction, and desirability transcend mere looks. One’s carriage, body language, attitude, and sense of presence are all factors. My Glade just stuns. This huge aura radiates outward from him, drenching your cunt and instantly sending your mind on the express train to horny, naughty town.
He looked like a fashion model in his dark, pleated pants and shimmering purple button-down. The way it hugged his shoulders and then tapered down to his tiny waist enhanced those hard-as-steel muscles that rippled with every movement. His long, medium-blond hair was worn long, just how I like it, and it wildly framed his symmetrical features, those muscular cheekbones over his crooked, roguish smile.
He didn’t ignore the trio of women, my employees, that had suddenly become yet even more of Glade’s Groupies. He, in turn, spoke to them, making them feel like they were the most beloved, respected, appreciated, and lusted-after women on earth. The bitches! But, mid-conversation, at the exact moment I was staring at him through the mirrored glass window of my loft office, he looked up and met my gaze. I knew it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t see me through the mirrored glass, not even with the lights on. But he caught my eyes and gave me a little wink, and that mirth-filled smirk of his that always makes my knees buckle.
One would think that after all the stupidity I’ve brought into our relationship, or after all this time, that he’d just nod and greet me. In truth, I doubt that I married a mortal; each and every time he sees me, it’s like the first moment we met. His face lit up with appreciation and brazen appraisal of my physical charms. That lingering, piercing glance roamed over my figure, probing it, studying it. Those gray-rimmed, hazel eyes penetrated my soul and absorbed my essence, obviously pleased at what they discovered. Calling it eye-fucking wouldn’t do his demeanor justice. Every time he looks at me, or anyone else, it’s like a blending of souls.
Because I’m not a total fool, I scampered out of my office, which overlooked my store, and gracefully descended the stairs. Because I’m coordinated and elegant, I didn’t trip until the fourth stair from the bottom.
“I swear that you’ve grown infinitely more perfect than the last time my eyes drank in your perfection,” my smiling husband said to me. “Every time I see you, I’m convinced that I’ve glimpsed absolute perfection, and yet, you still grow more gorgeous with every passing second.”
After the chorus of “Aaah,” from my staff, we exited the store, and I demurely climbed into the passenger side of my Prince’s chariot, a vintage sports car in this case. Weaving through traffic, we conversed about multiple things as he drove.
"I’m so fucking horny that we could just go home and fuck. I’d love to be tied up and told what I filthy slut I am.”
“Dinner, first. We’re going someplace new.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
While my husband may seem to be perfection personified, he’s also completely oblivious to women’s advances. To him, me telling him that I’m “fucking horny” and want to be ravaged doesn’t mean that I actually want it. In his world-view, it's simply a woman being “nice” and having fun. On the one hand, it’s glorious to have the absolute freedom to say anything I want and know that he won’t assume it’s a sure thing. On the other hand, it’s infuriating because, even as his wife, I have to work triply hard to let him know that my signals are sincere. What’s more, if I imbibe any intoxicants, sexual bliss is off the table unless permission has been resolutely stated beforehand. I have a workaround.
I held up some edibles as we were parking at the very posh restaurant. “I’m going to drink wine and eat these edibles, and you’re going to fuck me like a savage beast and shoot your cum all over me; is that clear?”
My sexy, eye-candy husband smiled at me. “As you wish. Are you hinting that you’re horny?”
“Hinting! Diana fucking Pan, Glade. I just got gang-fucked by your friend and his roommates and was masturbating all day, and my fingers have been fucking my wet cunt all day. What do you think?”
“That I’m the luckiest man on earth.”
Chivalry is not dead, just rare. Being raised on my mother’s romance novels, I have certain unrealistic expectations regarding men. Mom would toss me her once-read housewife porn to read a few times a week, telling me that she folded down the corners of the pages marking the hottest sex scenes in case I wanted to “flick the bean.” Yes, I flicked, but that’s not my point. My point is that I expect a certain degree of respect without ulterior motives, some romantic inclinations without feeling one is owed my hot, wet pussy, and at least some gentlemanly conduct above the level of a typical caveman.
My husband is just like that; thank you, Goddess. Before my seat belt was undone, he’d come around to my side of the car and opened the door for me, extending one of his manly hands to grip. Of course, I just had to take the opportunity to let my dress ride up, exposing my legs and just a hint of my soaking pussy. He had, after all, kept me in a constant state of heat all day.
As soon as his hand gently grazed my palm, divine, erotic lightning shot through my hand, up my arm, circled my nipples, and then went straight to my pussy. When his hand snaked around to my back, high enough to not be untoward but low enough to make me wish he was grabbing my ass, I moaned. He had worked me into a sexual frenzy. While I was impressed with the lavishness of the restaurant and his perfection at setting everything up, I was so feverishly aroused that I would have fucked him on the pitcher’s mound during the World Series.
Yet, he just further heightened my arousal, compliments raining over me and leading me inside.
“You’ve got be Glade,” the enamored, bubbly, young blond hostess who was far hotter than I said. Her name tag read, “Liz,” and she was already making fuck-me, doe eyes at my man. I mentally added “The Whore” to her name. “And plus one,” she added, not even looking at me.
I mentioned that Glade is well-endowed. In the proper company, women are all about objectifying men. My husband gets the lion’s share, and I’m the worst one. Picture drunken, horny sorority girls at an all-male review. That’s the typical treatment he gets. Around him, women are all hands, screaming, “fuck me,” and trying to get him to notice them. It’s truly a surreal thing to observe, and it’s been the subject of many a conversation. He denies it, playing the, “they’re just being nice,” card.
Liz the Whore’s reaction was right down the middle. She stared at his muscular chest, complimented him on his attire, and took his arm—rubbing her slutty, little paws all over his biceps—pointedly ignoring little old me as she led “us” to our table.
“Everything’s ready for you, exactly as you requested,” she said, seeking his approval.
I had to admit that the table was set to perfection. It was an out-of-the-way location, giving us some semblance of privacy, despite the bustling restaurant. Green candles, to match my dress, were set in the center. The dishware was ritzy and classy, unlike me, and perfectly positioned. A single rose was laid on one plate, and a bottle of Siduri Williamette Valley Pinot Noir was being opened by the nearby wine steward.
“If I can do anything else for you… anything at all… just let me know, and I’d be happy to please you.”
I instantly upgraded her name to Liz the Fucking Whore. Eyeing up the silverware, I wondered if I could be fast and accurate enough to grab both the regular and salad forks simultaneously, and gouge out the whore’s eyes. Outwardly, I was all smiles, and then, because I’m an emotional train wreck, I shot the handsome wine steward some “fuck me hard” eyes and a demure smile.
Glade thanked the hostess, ignoring her "Glade-fever," and pulled out my chair for me. Unknown to men, women have a secret, silent communication system. Liz the Fucking Whore had not attempted to hide the fact that she wanted my man from me. Her ignoring me and groping at him, plus those eyes roaming all over his body and that massive bulge in his pants, was her way of telling me that she knew he was with me, but I could fill the Grand Canyon with all the fucks she didn’t give about it.
I scampered around the table, intentionally making my not-quite-full C-cup tits bounce. Despite being forty, I’ve still got it. My wine steward noticed my jiggling boobs, rewarding me by spilling a little wine as he popped the cork. My husband openly admired my body, and his eyes were solely on me. My triumphant expression, in silent lady-speak, yelled, “Suck it, bitch!” Momentarily defeated, Liz sulked away, still stealing glances at his body.
“Would the lady care to sample the wine?” The sexy steward, named Stephan, said.
He looked quite dapper in his vest and bow tie. Of course, seated, my eyes first caught sight of the package in his pants. From there, my slutty eyes traveled south, checking out his legs to see if they were muscular before they traveled up to his face. He had lovely eyes, the shade of saddle leather, and his dark hair went perfectly with his tanned skin.
“Oh, goodie,” I said because I’m so cultured and refined. “She would.”
I’m not a wine snob, but I do love good wine. This Pinot was excellent. It had a balanced aroma and multi-layered flavors, and it wasn’t too sweet and didn’t have a preponderance of spices or woodiness.
“I must remind sir that this is only available by the bottle.”
“Of course,” my husband cheerily responded. “Make sure to add a tip for yourself, as well.”
“Yes, sir, and thank you, sir. Wine for you?”
“No, thank you; I’m driving. I’ll have water and tea. Fifty shades of Earl Grey, if you have it.”
Stephan leaned toward me, asking me if I needed anything else for the moment. Then he went away to do Steward things.
“I took the liberty of pre-ordering appetizers for us. But, please feel free to order anything else, if you so desire.”
To this very day, I’m uncertain if the way he speaks is intentionally crafted to arouse women, or if it’s just the way he is. The words “feel” and “desire” had the barest hint of inflection, stressing the words just enough to make them register in my ears. I felt desire as if commanded. I knew I was completely helpless against his god-like level of seductive prowess; that knowledge in no way lessened the heat of the experience.
Glade looked around, taking in the decor. His appreciative face then focused on me. “Our hostess seems nice, doesn’t she?”
“You mean Liz the Fucking Whore?” His eyes told me he understood my tone, but his mirthful, impish smile remained. My husband was nonplussed. “Oh, Glade, I’ll do anything.” I shimmied my shoulders, not caring that my tits were bouncing from side to side and others were looking, drawn by my refined and cultured yelping. “anything at all. Take me! Fuck me!”
“Nah. She was just being…”
“If you say 'being nice,' I’ll stab you with my fork, you motherfucker.”
“Nonsense,” he guffawed. “I never once laid a hand on your mother.”
“Would you just stop seducing every woman in sight like some hypnotic, sex-god vampire?”
He stared into my eyes. “You are getting horny, so horny, mu-wa-hahaha.”
“I’m fucking serious.”
“If you keep acting like you’ve been, you’ll be fucking the wine steward and everybody else that’s fantasizing over you, right now, right here in this restaurant.”
“Right! You’re funny. Like Stephan even noticed me.”
“Oh yes, my darling goddess of perfection, he did. I saw you smirk when he spilled the wine. I also saw how his eyes were riveted to your perfectly formed, amazing breasts, trying to look down your top.”
“I did that for you, not him.”
“And I loved it. He did, too. You gave him a hard-on. I would bet that right now, he’s not opening another bottle of wine; he’s in the bathroom, opening his pants, and stroking to your physical perfection.”
“You’re just saying that so I don’t claw out that slut’s eyes.”
“On the contrary. I’m saying it because it’s true. You are the most perfect creature to ever grace mortal eyes. The ground you walk upon worships you, and those who see you know what it means to glimpse the perfection of the gods. Every man and most of the women in this place are drooling over you right now. Didn’t you feel the temperature rise when you walked in? You are so astoundingly perfect that the scorching heat of your physical beauty, eclipsed only by your inner glow, has made it hot in here.”
I calmed down. Don’t judge me. Redheads are known for both their volcanic temper and fiery passions. I was merely demonstrating both extremes in tandem.
“Everybody is lusting after me? I doubt that. Like who?”
“Well,” he chuckled. His expression, the touch of his hand on mine, and the soothing, seductive tone of his whimsical voice made my overheated pussy gush so much that it soaked the back of my dress. “Take that late-thirties man behind me and to my right, dining with the elderly gentleman.”
I looked. The man was staring at me, and he averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his menu, as soon as he realized I’d stared at him.
“His eyes, like mine, were riveted on your sexy, perfect ass when we walked to our table. He’s been wondering if you’re wearing panties and has been trying to look up your dress the entire time. Between him and Stephan trying to look down that perfect little gap in the top of your amazing dress, you’ve given two sets of blue balls just there. That isn’t even mentioning the bisexual woman to your right, the one that’s been staring at your body and licking her lips.”
My husband knows I’m an exhibitionist slut, and he feeds my attention-whore disposition by fucking my mind into a horny fury. He can do it instantly, reducing me to a quivering mass of lusty need. He’d just done it.
And then, our dinner fun began. Pretending to not be studying the man, hoping for an upskirt, I crossed my legs, forcing the hemline of my skirt up over my knees. I spread them as I uncrossed them, leaving my skirt in the danger zone. That gave him a good view between my legs. To further draw his eyes, I slowly rocked my knee back and forth. A knowing smile crossed my lips as I checked out the horny-looking woman to my right. The man looked between my legs, and the woman smiled at me, not averting her eyes.
“Really?” I mused. “And who else.”
I knew I was about to get mind-fucked so hard.
To Be Continued...
