Dinner with the neighbors. Dinner with a man who has made my wife “puddle” as she thought of him while sunbathing naked on our balcony, which I know from reading an excerpt of a diary on her computer. I believe myself when I say that this moment of weakness was uncharacteristic, and I do still regret it, even if that moment of weakness has been compensated by the great moments we’ve had since. I think of her face thrown back in an orgasmic scream (lucky neighbors). I think of her laughter once we’re back on earth and sharing in the story of the planets we’ve just visited. We’re having fun. Continue reading His wife, my wife: the result of The Dinner Experiment
Tag Archives: Featured
Move into the Light: her response to The Photo Experiment
X, My pussy gets wet just typing that little erotic letter. I mean just glimpsing it down there on my keyboard, my nipples get hard. But then my skin is so sensitive these days that any old letter is likely to set me off on increasingly vivid fantasies. “QWERTY” is like dirty talk to me. I called your artist/photographer friend. He was already an acquaintance of mine, actually, and I’d indirectly worked with him a couple of years ago to promote another of his projects, so it wasn’t that unusual for me to call and say I’d be willing to help out on this project in any way – say, for example, stripping off all my clothes for his camera in the name of art. I should have been some painter’s muse, X, as you’ve mentioned before. I was made for artistic devotion! Nude is how I like to be. Continue reading Move into the Light: her response to The Photo Experiment
Mister Masseur: her response to The Full Body Massage Experiment
Dear Dirty Masseur X,
You know I do like to be touched. Also, isn’t it every woman’s dream to be painted nude by some attentive master? I just think of the hours – the days! – it would take, and you slowly getting to know my every single curve, and me getting all sleepy and languid and just letting you look forever. But I’m being coy, aren’t I? You’re sitting there awaiting your very official report, and this time I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, sir. I’m letting myself go. Because…well, why not? Continue reading Mister Masseur: her response to The Full Body Massage Experiment
A café orgy: her response to The Sex Fantasy Experiment
Dear Mr. X,
This challenge actually turned out to be harder than the last one (but then you probably knew that). Letting my tits pop out of my robe for the delivery man somehow just seemed like a game, but there was no wiggle room on this one (and you know I do like to wiggle!). I know my sexual fantasies, of course (long erotic books could be written with dirty illustrations, like a modern day Kama Sutra starring yours truly), but I spent hours nervously debating which of my friends wouldn’t be too shocked by just how slutty I’ve become. Then I thought, screw it, and I called up a friend who I’ll call Mona. She’s a good time girl, cruising through her second divorce, and I figured that she could at least giggle about it with me. Continue reading A café orgy: her response to The Sex Fantasy Experiment
Chinese (balls): her response to The Delivery Man Experiment
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
A diary, a sexual fantasy, and an anonymous e-mail
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. Continue reading A diary, a sexual fantasy, and an anonymous e-mail