Dear Mr. X,
Bastard! I really didn’t think I could pull this experiment off, and I almost fainted trying. You’re not going easy on me, are you, mister? Ha! I half-wondered whether when the delivery man showed up, it would be you in disguise. Not that this would have been any easier.
Everything started smoothly. When I got home from work I told my husband that I felt like Chinese, which is nothing unusual, and then I called in our order (to a place we almost never use) and hopped into the shower. Continue reading Chinese (balls): her response to The Delivery Man Experiment
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.