Dear Mrs. Fantasy,
I can’t stop thinking about your orgy fantasy. As I walk down the street, every woman is you, and I let my eyes run over their breasts, their hips, their legs…. I pretend you’re naked before me, and then I slip into your orgy fantasy: your eyes are fixed with lust on your husband’s cock, and on the heaving breasts all around us, and I am behind you with some other man, having shed my clothes. My body is pressing up against yours, and you feel my cock tracing a line across the small of your back, then across your firm ass as it arches up towards me, and then my dick slips down between your legs, and although you do not know who it is behind you – you reach back to place a hand on my chest but do not turn to investigate further – we’re both too far gone to do anything but fuck, and fuck, and let our bodies be drawn down towards the floor as others watch with lust and envy. Continue reading The Business Card Experiment
Dear Little Exhibitionist,
Dear Lady X,
Dear Mrs. X,
I shouldn’t have done it, but last week I opened my wife’s computer while she was in the shower. We’re both sex nuts, and the bedroom has kept us together through ten years of marriage, but we hadn’t even approached a kiss in weeks. Worse, somehow I didn’t mind. Something had gone wrong, something I couldn’t begin to put a finger on. She’s still one of the sexiest women I’ve ever met, dressing like a classic movie star – garter belts even, holding up exotic silk stockings whose swirling patterns I used to study, all hidden underneath some prim skirt by a French designer. She’s European (it hardly needs to be said), and we live in an exotic place under palm trees across the Atlantic Ocean that I’ll choose not to mention for the moment. Mostly, though, she has preferred not to wear anything at all. She tends to cavort around the house naked, relishing her body: blond hair, always red lipstick, pale skin with tits made for some mermaid bursting from the sea in a Renaissance painting, a round smooth ass, pussy showing pink through a few blond hairs, then firm legs down to bare feet with red-painted toes. She’s the sort of innocent thing on the surface who inspires dirty thoughts, and as far as I can see, she hasn’t aged a bit. But she’s stopped cavorting, and we’re hardly even talking. Her body’s becoming a memory. So what’s gone wrong? I opened her computer hoping to find out.