Dear X,
You’re naughty. That was fun. I was a VERY nervous at first, but believe me I followed your instructions to the letter. I closed the door to the bedroom to dress. I did exactly as you said (and the shirt was white cotton, by the way, and I even undid an extra button than I normally might!). Even just that moment made me horny. I love my breasts even if I wish they were a little bigger, but they are sleek and perky, and I lingered on them a while, running my fingers over my nipples beneath the shirt. And I actually looked at my little pussy in the mirror – no panties! – and felt just…delicious! Though I almost raped my husband when I came out ready for work, I don’t think he noticed my excitement. I was so nervous that I hardly looked at him as I walked out the door – just a quick peck on the cheek and a mumbled goodbye. He hadn’t had his coffee yet, but I was BURNING! Continue reading Bubbly water, no panties: her response to The First Sex Experiment
Dear Mrs. X,
“Why not.”
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.