I am no longer a child. I am forty years old, and I am married. I have a son and a daughter, both of whom are out of the house. My husband, Gavin, is an accountant. He makes good money, but I make money, as well, so we have a pretty nice lifestyle. I run a decorating business, which gives me lots of freedom to schedule my activities. I am pretty active, too. I am a member of Rotary, serve on the city's Status of Women Commission, have lots of girlfriends, and my husband and I have a membership in our local golf and tennis club, where I regularly work out. I am also still taking courses at the local community college. Plus, I am active in other ways. That's what this diary, of sorts, is all about. That's the best part!
oooOOOooo
I learned pretty early how good it felt to touch my own pussy and make it wet. And I also found out what to do when it did get wet. Who delivered that news? I think it was Sarah, who lived next door. To be honest, I can't be totally sure where I learned. I just remember fingering myself to orgasm after orgasm, and I bet I was only ten years old; or maybe I was eleven. I think that makes me an early starter.
The more I think about it, the surer I am that it was Sarah who really introduced me to sex. She was a year older, by the calendar, but she was in my class in school, and I can remember this: One night, really late, I woke up to pee, and I could hear my parents downstairs. They had been out to a big party, and they were drunk, which was not a usual thing, though I had seen it before. My father, who never went to college, was in the electronics business, and my mother, a stay-at-home mom, had been a real "catch." In high school, she must have been some kind of "party girl." I got that from the stories that my parents shared with me and my older brother. A lot of times my parents would entertain at home, and they did get kind of crazy, sometimes, especially when drunk. It wasn't usual, but it did happen. I knew what it looked like. Sometimes, my parents went out to parties at other people's homes, and that is probably what led to the scene I saw that night.
Anyway, that night, I could hear my parents making noise downstairs, talking and moving around. They weren't fighting, but they were doing something else. Sometimes they did fight, so I knew what that sounded like. This was different. There were moans, and little "shhhhhh" sounds. "Quiet," I heard my father say. Something was happening, and they weren't bringing it upstairs. They were staying downstairs; they were in the front room; I could tell that from the sound, which meant that I could creep down the stairs and spy on them. I didn't think they'd notice.
My Dad still had his shirt on, but he was naked on the bottom half, with his pants and shoes and socks scattered all around. My mother's dress was open at the top. I couldn't really tell what was happening. It sort of did look like a fight, but I knew it wasn't.
The next day, I told Sarah what I had seen, and she told me what it was. "That was sex," she said.
"Put your hand inside your panties," Sarah told me. So, I did. She put her hand in her panties, too. "Now," Sarah said, "think about your father, like you saw him last night. And think about your mother's face; you saw her face, didn't you?"
"Yes," I said. "I think she was drunk." Like I said, I had seen them drunk before.
"Are you thinking about your father and how your mother looked?" Sarah insisted.
"Yes," I said.
"Well," Sarah asked me, "are you getting wet down there? Rub it a little bit. Tell me. Is it getting all slippery?"
"Yeah," I told her. It was!
"Well," Sarah told me, "when it gets slippery like that, and you rub it, it feels really good. Rub it gently though. And you can stick your finger up inside. You should try it when you go to bed at night. Think about your daddy and your mommy doing it. Think about how they looked! I rub myself all the time, but I think about my brother's friend Jim. I saw him once; he took out his thing, and he was all slippery, too, just like what I am talking about. When the boy puts his slick thing inside a girl, that's called sex, and that's how babies are born."
"I know about that from school," I said, "but my mother and father weren't trying to have a baby. They have talked about it. ‘Two is plenty;' that's what they say. I have heard them tell Grandma that."
"Ok," said Sarah, "but you don't really have sex because you want a baby; you have sex because it feels so good. You'll see!"
I did see! And Sarah was right. The reason I love sex is because it "feels so good."
oooOOOooo
I said this was a "diary," but maybe it's not. Not really. I am just thinking back, but I notice that my thoughts don't come up in chronological order. In fact, "Pete," is the one who first sprang to my mind after I decided to tell some of my stories. But "Pete" was not the earliest, or the first, of my lovers. Not at all. In fact, Pete is still kind of "current." But he's not the latest, either. That would be "Roger," who just happens to be Pete's best friend. But let me start with Pete. I can get to Roger later, maybe.
I am thinking back to the first time we fucked - Pete and me, I mean. We were fucking in the bedroom that he and his wife share, at his home. Pete has a big cock, and after he fucked me missionary, he slid it up my ass. That was not a problem, either. I like it in my ass! Fuck, yes! I actually love it in my ass!
Of course, as already indicated, Pete's married. You might say that "married" is my sexual preference. I really love fucking married men! They're the ones who get me off the hardest, and they're the ones who come to mind when I think back. Almost always, the men I fuck have been married (as I am, too, remember). Somehow, that adultery thing is really good at making my pussy extra juicy. Pete made it juicy, too, right from the get-go.
Like I said, I am a decorator, with a practice that operates online and out of my home office. I have contacts with furniture dealers, upholsterers, drape and curtain companies, painters, carpenters, carpet suppliers - all the professionals I need to call upon. But when you contact "Mimi," what you get is me.
Lorraine, Pete's wife, used my website to ask me for a consult. I met her at her home. She and Pete live in an old Victorian, but they had only recently moved in, and they wanted a complete "do-over" for the house, but with everything authentic. Could they afford this, I wondered? They could! We signed an agreement; I got my required retainer, and I started to work. Pete was not in evidence. Nor did he turn up really soon! Lorraine and I worked together on the planning, the scouting the antique shops, the review of the wallpaper samples, everything. Lorraine and I became "best friends," as the project proceeded. Of course, she told me all about Pete, whom she idolized. She painted a very positive picture!
Pete, per Lorraine, was the "perfect husband." He came from a rich family, but he was not stuck up. He was really intelligent! He was a trial attorney, specializing in litigation involving stocks and financial instruments. That meant he was out of town frequently, because while his law firm was in San Francisco, a lot of the clients were national companies, and Pete traveled to New York, Chicago, Dallas, Miami, and even to Europe, on a very frequent basis. Lorraine (probably about thirty) was a lot younger than Pete. I found this out from our conversations, and I found out that Lorraine had been married to Pete for four years. Lorraine was a stay-at-home mother for their first child, a little boy, who was three years old when I began my consulting work for Lorraine and Pete.
Of course, I did meet Pete, eventually. One Saturday afternoon, with the young child off at a grandmother's house, and with Lorraine and me trying out wallpaper swatches in several of the downstairs rooms, Lorraine called "time out."
"Let's have a glass of wine," she said. So, we did. We were in a rear room with French windows that opened onto a nice backyard patio and garden. It was already beautiful. No need for my help with the outside environment. Lorraine and I were kicked back, enjoying the late Spring air and the view, and that's when Pete showed up. He had been off playing golf (with "Roger," as it turned out, but then that is definitely a future story). Pete came into the house just a bit sweaty and rumpled. He had two little twigs in his hair. I remember that. He kissed his wife and was introduced to me. We shook hands. Any spark? Well, yes!!!!!
Lorraine left, to go to the kitchen to get another wine glass and the wine bottle. We had just touched, and Pete looked right into my eyes. I wasn't prepared for what I saw. I am usually pretty aggressive about sex, but I was not in "sex mode" there with all the wallpaper samples. Sex just wasn't on my mind. But sex was on Pete's mind. When he looked at me, he was thinking sex. I could see it. I think it took something like two minutes for Lorraine to fetch the wine and the wine glass. That was enough time for me.
I love it when men not only show me that they find me "attractive," but when I can see that they want to fuck me. With our eyes locked, wife out of the room, I reached over and picked the twigs out of Pete's hair. It was a very intimate moment. "I'd like to run my fingers through your hair," Pete said.
"Well," I responded, "I would really like that, too, but then I'd have to take off my jeans."
Pete's eyes did widen, but he didn't really miss a beat, even though I was definitely trying to discombobulate him, to make an impression.
"Another time," he told me.
"No fooling," I asked?
"I am not fooling," Pete replied. He was very serious when he said it.
"Fooling around, though?" I countered. I was trying to lighten the moment.
"Yesssssss." He strung it out to a hiss. "Fooling around." And then Lorraine returned.
Before Lorraine was able to hand Pete his wine glass, I reached out my hand and put the two twigs I had gathered and placed them in Pete's right hand. I am not sure whether Lorraine actually noticed the gesture, but Pete got it. Pete got my intimate token of affection before Lorraine offered him the wine.
"I come first." That is what my message meant. My pussy was already wet!
Like I said, I doubt that Lorraine noticed what happened there. Like I said, Pete definitely did!
"So, honey," Pete opened, addressing Lorraine, "can you and Mimi give me a report on where we are?" We all settled back in a trio of chairs, facing the patio and garden, and talked together about the status of the decorating project. Pete professed much more interest, I gather, than he had ever shown before, since it was my impression that this whole project was really of, by, and for Lorraine.
During the conversation, I asked some questions about his work, and he asked me about mine. In order to make sure that Pete would be able to follow up on that "Yesssss" he had promised me, I gave him my card. I had to wriggle my hand into the front right pocket of my jeans to find the card, and then I laid it down right in front of Pete on the little table that was in the middle of our chairs.
"Ok, if you are going to get involved in the project, too," I said, "here's how to contact me. But you better coordinate with Lorraine!"
I hoped, when Pete picked up my card, that he would be able to smell my cunt. My pussy was gushing, and just putting my fingers in the vicinity of my cunt, as I fished for that card in my front pocket, gave me a little thrill. Maybe a little bit of my scent would remain on that card. I was really, really hoping that was true!
I never did ask Pete whether he could smell my cunt on the card I gave him. The next time we talked, we so quickly moved beyond any discussion of our past, initial meeting, that I forgot to inquire. Our focus was on our future meeting, and I didn't have to wait long to get into a discussion with Pete about that!
In fact, I next heard from Pete when I was at dinner that evening, with my husband. We tend to go out to dinner on the weekends, and we were in the restaurant at the country club. I felt the little "buzz" of a text message vibrate in my pocket. I never have the sound on, but I always have my phone, and keep in in my right front pocket (where I had the card I gave Pete). Somehow, in the restaurant, when that pocket buzzed, I not only associated that tingle with the tingle I felt when I first met Pete, I somehow knew it was Pete who was texting me.
"Hon," I told Gavin. "I'm going to the restroom. I'll be right back."
Actually, it turned out to be longer than I had anticipated. I figured that I would just do a quick review of the text, and if it were Pete, I'd tell him that I would get back to him later. If it wasn't Pete.... Well, I'd be disappointed. But I didn't want to be checking my phone in front of my husband.
The text was from Pete! My suspicions (and hopes) were confirmed! But the text wasn't exactly what I had expected. I had expected a polite and cautious inquiry from Pete about when it might be convenient to get together, so Pete could make sure that he fully understood the future trajectory of the decorating project. Something like that, anyway. Some bogus, but safe, excuse for a next meeting. Or maybe for a phone call. Anyway, I expected contact, but "caution." I thought it was going to be my job to push the envelope.
Not to be!
The text from Pete was short and to the point. "Right now," he said, "I want a picture. Show me that little patch of hair I am going to get to run my fingers through."
Another text had come in while I was on my way to the restroom. I felt the vibration.
"NOW," it commanded.
Getting my designer jeans open and my panties pulled down, and getting a good angle took some time.
"NOW!!!!!!!!" said the third text from Pete. That one came in just as I was taking the picture, my wet juices already evidenced under my light and nicely-trimmed bush.
"Fuck. I can't wait," Pete texted back, when he got the picture. This was taking too long, I knew, but I was gushing by now, desperate to get off.
"Me neither! That was so fucking quick, wasn't it? You can just dream about getting your mouth all over this pussy, fucker!" Then, I texted him another shot, with my fingers on view, too, letting him see what he was doing to me.
"No! I want the real life version," said Pete. "Tonight!"
"At dinner with hubby. I will text you in about an hour."
"TONIGHT!!!!!!" That was the final buzz before I got myself put back together and returned to the table.
Our entrees where there, and Gavin has halfway through his steak. "Sorry, honey," I said. "Just as I was finishing up in the bathroom, I heard from that client with the Victorian. They are kind of demanding! I may have to go back to meet with them again after dinner."
Or one of them, at least. That's what I thought! But the "demanding" part; that was no lie!
oooOOOooo
Gavin and I have been married for twenty years. In other words, we got married right out of college, but I was fucking around on Gavin almost immediately. My first adulterous liaison was with the American History professor who had been one of the faculty participants in an honors seminar I took during my senior year. Otis was incredibly distinguished: gray hair, big arched eyebrows, the whole thing! And truly an inspiring lecturer. I will never forget his course on the Reconstruction Period. His disdain for the racism endemic in our history was palpable.
Anyway, by December of the year I graduated, having then been married for a whole three months, I happened to run across Professor McPherson in the downtown Mall. He remembered me, too, which was special.
"Ah, ha! My favorite student," is how he saluted me.
"What?" I responded. "You were definitely my favorite professor, but I am amazed that I even made it onto your radar screen."
"There are certain rules that constrain the interests of tenured faculty," my professor replied. "Personal involvements can lead to severe disciplinary consequences. No matter how attractive I found you, I wasn't really in any position to let you know. By the way, I saw the wedding announcement in the paper. Congratulations!"
"Thank you very much," I gushed. "I really am amazed that you remember me. I know the seminar was pretty small, but your lecture classes had hundreds of students."
"Yep," Otis said, "but there was only one Mimi. How about a cup of coffee so you can tell me what you're doing and how married life is treating you?"
Coffee it was!
Coffee it was....to start. Within about forty-five minutes, I was fucking Professor McPherson in the back of his big Lincoln Town Car, which was parked away from other vehicles in the Mall's giant parking structure. His car just happened to have tinted windows, though you could have seen us if you looked through the windshield. No one did, while the professor pounded his nice hard prick into my dripping wet pussy.
I loved Gavin, I guess, but after only three months, it was clear to me that he would never be able to meet my sexual demands. I fucking needed cock on a daily (or more frequent) basis. While we were in college, Gavin was an exciting fuck; he was a graduate student to my lowly undergraduate self, and I had only recently moved from the safety of self-pleasuring to the always riskier adventure of getting off with another person. Gavin performed like a champ before we got married. I was crazed to fuck, and I interpreted this as being crazed for Gavin.
Don't get me wrong. Gavin has been a great husband, and we do have a nice life. It's just that my life has some dimensions that Gavin has never figured out. Like the great teacher that he was, Professor McPherson let me see aspects of my personality that I hadn't really ever thought about in any direct way. He was my first!
I started thinking about the professor, as I was telling you about Pete, because the professor, like Pete, was dominant and demanding. As we had coffee, there wasn't really a lot of chit chat. Just a bit; just enough to get me to sit down with him, but it was the professor's intention to fuck me silly, from the minute he got his eyes on me at the Mall. How our encounter went was a lesson of its own. It was actually nice that I understood, right from the start, that you just needed to take what you wanted, where sex was concerned. I might have remained a "normal," somewhat sexually frustrated, wife, who wouldn't have cheated on her husband for years and years - though I am sure I would have, eventually - if I hadn't run across Professor McPherson that day in the Mall. He definitely helped speed up the process.
As we were in the Starbucks in the Mall, and after that initial chit chat, Professor McPherson leaned forward across the table and said, "You know, Mimi, you really were my favorite student. After every one of those seminar sessions, I got myself off in my faculty office, thinking about putting my cock down your throat, thinking about sucking you off, fucking your tight little cunt. I hope that's not too offensive, but just in case you didn't realize how you dominated my fantasies, I wanted you to know.
Now, remember that Professor McPherson was a truly gorgeous man! I was a young wife that was actually starting to realize that I wanted more sex than I was ever going to get from my husband - love him though I did - and what the professor said just blew me away.
"Well," I said, "you know I'm married, now."
"Yes. Congratulations, again! I am married, too, as you might suspect. In fact, I have been married for thirty-six years, but I'd blow off my wife to fuck you, if that was required."
My pussy was drowning. My juices were literally seeping out of my panties, so I could feel the wet trickle on my thigh. "Oh, no," I said. "I would never want to break up your marriage."
"Good." He said. "And I feel the same about your marriage. But you're wet, aren't you?"
"Yes," I admitted. "I'm wet. Really wet."
"Are you on a really tight schedule today," he asked?
"No," I said, honestly. "In fact, my husband is at a conference and isn't even home, so I am unattached for the day."
"Can I come visit your home?"
"It's just an apartment," I told him.
"Will you take me there?" he replied.
"Ok," I said. "Ok."
"You can drive," the professor said, "but let's go by my car, so I can put these things (his purchases) in the trunk.
Before we went to my house, like I said earlier, we fucked in the back seat of the professor's car. His cock was thin. His hands were huge, and he used them to pry my buttocks open, and pushed back my thighs, entering me like a knight with a sword might belly-gut an enemy.
But I was no enemy. I put up no resistance. Fuck me! Fuck me, professor!! I couldn't even believe how wanton I was. "Just do me. Do me like my husband never has!"
Even then, right at the first time, I knew that what I loved most was this kind of hard, adulterous fuck, a fuck that would expose me for the secret whore I am, that would release my wanton sex by giving me an excuse. Oh, sure. I was being "overpowered." That excuse, unarticulated but present, was the key to my release. Give me an excuse that lets me justify my lust. That's how I started. And Professor McPherson, somehow, knew. He knew that his dominant authority was the key to unlock my sex, to liberate me for the overwhelming pleasure that I get when I get to come on some strange cock, some forbidden prick, buried deep in my hungry pussy. Or, even better, buried balls deep in my ass, pounding my shit chute so hard that I come, and pass out, in one great, orgasmic release.
oooOOOooo
My name is Mimi.
So nice to be introduced! If you are reading this diary, of sorts, I mean. You could consider what I have just written down as an introduction!
It turns out that it takes longer than I thought to put all my adventures down. Later, maybe, I can continue with these recollections. Fuck! I never even really got to tell you everything about Pete.
Or Roger. Or all the other recollections that I have.
Pete was so fucking hot! Not my first, like I said, but definitely the first that came to mind, as I was thinking about writing up this diary (of sorts).
Lots more good parts that I remember, too!!
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