From: marimclain8@zyx.com.au

To: renemax6@xyz.com.au

Subject: Telling all: Who to?

My dearest Rene,

After your last mail and the follow-up text, letting you into my secrets may read disappointingly dry and barren. So, before I set to it, I want to tell you how much your snatch-shot delighted me. After twenty-one years, you, my ‘shy’(???) Rene, have still the sexiest, delectably kissable, and so, so fuckable pussy! God, how I envy you.

To change the subject – or do I – I hope you are looking forward to our week in my Robert-built shack in Smoko. It’s a lovely place that I have neglected to describe to you. I was too set on shocking ‘innocent’ Rene by focusing on how I got - in this shack - so lovingly fucked by Bob the Builder. Thus, the hut is full of, say, happy memories for me. I am excited about getting back there, this time with you!

Now, not unrelated, of course, to my secret and to the pussy-envy you provoked all these years ago. After watching Karin’s contortions on the bed and repeatedly looking at her beautiful vagina, I spread, for the first time, my legs in front of a mirror. From that moment on, I knew that my snatch was ugly, even repulsive. Mine looked nothing like Karin’s. I had a flat, fleshy gash between my legs with loose, oversized flaps on either side. They were not lush, pouty lips, like Karin’s and yours that would temptingly open to touch and kisses.

And they were, subsequently, too often just carelessly brushed aside by fumbling fingers and rudely pushed through by clumsy, hole-seeking pricks. It was not that my misshaped – I thought – pussy lacked in nervy sensitivity. I liked and wanted sex. While too proud to be too forward, I was neither frigid nor played hard to get. Still, only one of the dozen or so men ‘I have known’ ever made the love I wanted to my ugly pussy or my, admittedly, too tiny tits. So, I’ll spare you from the boredom of mentioning more than two. (About Bob the Builder and how I got belated ‘full-filled’ we can talk in my shack!). The two I will mention played with and aroused my lively dirty mind more than my unloved, ugly pussy.

To be fair, the first, Anil, did not know what he was doing to me. He was an Indian postgraduate student I met during my year in Cambridge. He was a historian, came from a three-generational Indian railway family. He worked on a thesis and book about the nineteenth Century colonial railway boom.

I was stuck in Newham’s, a women’s college. Anil and I met over a shared table in a Pakistani restaurant. I liked him; liked his brown skin and - when we began to smooch on the banks of the Cam - the way he tasted and smelled. And he was interestingly attracted to me.

We could not risk fucking in our respective colleges. So, I began to accompany Anil on his research-related visits to the industrial centres of Britain’s railway boom. His costs for this were born by his study-grant, and I had generous parents. We fucked in seedy hotels in down-at-heels, rustbelt downs. Slumming heightened somewhat my so middle-class sexual arousal. More interesting was Anil’s Indian scholar’s appreciation of the Kama Sutra. He had studied it in detail through a long, virginally frustrated youth.

Already on our first trip, Rene, Anil lent me his well-thumbed copy. I could study it while he visited the historical sites and industrial museums. And then, at night, usually after another meal in a Paki or Indian diner, we retired to our dingy room and a less than clean bed to practice what I had learned.

It should have been perfect. We were young, horny, and athletically fit. Anil played competitive hockey, and I had been a runner and top Netball player. However, it became soon apparent that the tantric fulfilment the Kama Sutra promised would elude us. Sweet Anil concentrated so much on the artfulness of what he was doing that he forgot he was doing it with and to me.

Instead of being carried away by getting fucked in quite interesting contortions - which I unreservedly admired - I began to watch Anil with amusement., I also learned that I could make him very quickly and prematurely come. I only had to touch him to switch his attention from the theory onto me. I was, after all, the woman he was supposed to pleasure. Anil’s quite beautiful cock would discharge much too soon, and we would abandon Position Twenty-One without reaching tantric perfection.

More serious was that Anil seemed to neglect deliberately two critical elements in his recommended text. I, for one, was most attracted by the centrality of the cock- and pussy, the lingam- and yoni-worship in the Kama Sutra. I was also lecherously keen on Anil’s beautifully coloured, shaped and sizeable lingam. I was prepared - to coin an unoriginal phrase - to go to my knees to worship it. And I longed to have it reciprocated on my yoni! But in our Kama Sutra wrestlings, my floppy, ugly yoni was all too often brought before Anil’s eyes. And I came to believe that Anil was so disenchanted by its looks that he struck all pussy worship from his erotic script. Once I realised this, I lost all interest in Anil and Britain’s industrial centres and seedy hotels.

The other man in my disappointing collection you knew: Michael, my second husband of six years. You formed, I am sure, your impressions. You wondered, perhaps, whatever kept me attracted to a weasel like him for almost ten years.

We met as honours students in English Literature and had an on/off sexual relationship before I left for Cambridge. Both Michael and I had secured tutor-ships in the department, were doing postgraduate work, were considered talented, and had future academic prospects. But we were very different: I was scholarly and self-critical in my work. Michael was erratically brilliant. Both of us had articles accepted for publication. Mine were received with muted praise. Michael’s, however, were usually enthusiastically applauded by some, then, over weeks and month examined more closely. The final judgement was usually that Michael’s work was unsupported opinion. When I won a prestigious scholarship to Cambridge, Michael raged. Over the year I was away, we did not exchange a single letter.

I returned to Melbourne with a mostly completed PhD thesis. I finished it and had it published within eighteen months. It gained me a lecturer-ship in the English Department. Michael was still a tutor and had acquired a reputation, based partly on notoriety, partly on admiration for his sharp wit and original mind. I soon did my part to add to his less than savoury fame. Michael reputedly ‘fucked everything that moved into his orbit’. Within days of returning from Cambridge, it included me!

So, my dear and now curious Rene, what attracted me and my pussy to Michael. As you recall, he was neither a nice man like your Martin nor physically an Alpha male. In addition to being a head shorter than I, non-athletic, he was interestingly under-endowed in the lingam department. He had the thinnest cock of all my male acquaintances. But God, whenever Michael decided to fuck me, this cock was rock-hard. And he certainly knew how to compensate for what it lacked.

But what aroused me most was Michael’s arrogance; his no objection tolerating or expecting manner whenever he wanted to fuck. With others but you, Rene, I would find all sorts of more acceptable explanations for my reaction: for instance, that I loved Michael, admired his intellect, and felt guilty about being more successful and wealthier than him.

None of this was the truth for me. Yes, our relationship had always been a strained one. For Michael, there was his non-acceptance of my success. For example, in the last year of our marriage, I was promoted to Senior Lecturer and Michael, for the first time, to a permanent position as Tutor.

So, jealousy had always given his sex with me an extra edge of triumphant cruelty. After periods of disdain and showy indifference, Michael would just take me in a show of naked sexual aggression. It expressed the fundamental truth of our relationship; it was the only thing that bound us together. We never liked, or respected each other, or sought each other’s company except to fight and fuck.

And Rene, I was addicted. God, it turned me on whenever he wordlessly stepped up to me. There were dozen of possibilities. He could decide to tear open my top and sink his nails into my tits, marking me for weeks. Or he pushed his hand into my pants to press his fingers deep into my unready but then quickly wetting up vagina. Or, he bent me – and I let him – over the table, or my computer or – at night with the room’s light on - the windowsill. He’d rip my panties off and fuck me! Michael’s steely little prick would spear me from behind, and three of his fingers would push into and brutally torment my throbbing pussy from the front. I shook and twisted myself into a torrential orgasm. I could neither stop his attacks nor my unforgivable surges of pleasure. I tried my hardest and mostly succeeded in hiding the latter. And Michael would zip up and grin and walk away.

I don’t know (?? Don’t I, Rene?) why I married Michael. Marriage only hardened his attitude. Added to Michael’s stalled academic career was my higher income and, because of the generosity of my parents, personal wealth. Being married, it began to matter more crucially than before. I had bought a house; it was my property. Throughout our living together, Michael contributed little or nothing financially. Neither he nor I had, I believe, any illusion about our marriage improving and lasting. But, if and when it would end, I was not going to walk out of my house. Michael would either decide to leave or, just as likely, be sent packing by me!

Instead of a calm, although resented acceptance of the situation, it heightened the sexual tension between Michael and me to an extreme level. It became for us a game, an ever-mounting challenge. How far would Michael want to, dare, and be allowed to go in this sexual pandemonium before he or I would bring down the curtain?

Within months of getting married, we vacated a shared bed. The tension arising from Michael’s prolonged refusals to fuck, robbed me of needed sleep. I took, therefore, possession of our bedroom and turned it into my private den. Michael did the same with our smaller guestroom. Thus, throughout our marriage, almost all of our marital intercourse began with an act of invasion.

After lengthy intervals of Michael barely talking to me and treating me with studied disdain, he would turn up in the door of my den. He mostly waited for lights-out to find me in bed. If already asleep, I would wake up, blinded by the switched-on lights, to look at Michael standing in the doorway. He was either in his front-open dressing gown or, in warm weather, naked, with the rampant erection of his finger-like-pointing little cock challenging me. I am now, dear Rene, somewhat ashamed to admit how seldom I pretended to be disinterestedly sound asleep. On the few occasions I did, Michael flicked the light switch a few times on/off before turning and firmly closing the door behind him. Whenever that happened, he ignored me, as punishment, for weeks.

Most of the time, I opened my eyes. We looked at each other, wordless. Michael stepped up to my bed, pulled away the covering, dropping it with his dressing gown to the floor. And then he took me.

He either turned me on my belly and rammed his little prick into my high-lifted cunt, or he raised and pressed my legs against my ears and drilled his steely erection into my stretched-up vagina. All this in silence. When he looked at me, reading my expression, I shut my eyes, determined to give nothing away. But then, of course, my wet-hot, throbbing pussy betrayed me once again as Michael fucked and fingered it into another uncontrollable orgasm. And he, disdainfully silent and grinning, sprayed his semen over my ass or heaving belly!

Over the last two years of our marriage, Michael raised the ante in our sexual contests. He still, though less and less often, invaded my room to fuck me without foreplay or beg-pardon. But now, he always turned me side-on. Michael’s so knowledgeable fingers no longer just ravaged my pussy and clit while he fucked. They began to almost caress the, in this position, opening crack of my ass. And then, Michael’s from my pussy juices slippery finger began to push into my ass. A gasping moan of surprise always escaped me.

It broke my pledge of never rewarding the bastard with a lusting sigh. I could not control crying out and whimpering as his finger slid in deeper and deeper. It turned Michael wildly on. With his finger bending and twisting in my until then virginal ass, his rock-hard little cock pounded me, together with him, into a gasping, howling climax. This time he spent in me before staggering wordless from my bed.

I knew, of course, what was now beginning unless I ended it. Both my mind and body were in disarray. Michael, being Michael, made me stew and wait: Five weeks, thirty-eight days to be exact, before he stood again, naked in my den’s door. And I woke up for him. I neither pretended to be asleep nor told him to get lost.

And he fucked me in a drawn-out, artful and shamefully domineering fashion. He started on my pussy with a long play of cock and fingers until the first throes of coming made me soak the sheet. Then he left me, went to the toilet, leaving the doors wide open. I could hear the arrogant sound of his stream hitting the bowl. Then he stood next to the bed rubbing his cock centimetres from my face, grinning down on me.

I had never consented to suck his little prick. I would not start now. So, with his cock hard and pointy, he joined me again, rolled me on my side, and pressed his member and three fingers into my still slippery-open cunt. God, Rene, it gave me away! And I waited. Yes, I waited, wanting his finger deep in my ass, and the bastard took his time. When he finally dug it in while fucking me in staccato-bursts, the first waves of a wild orgasm surged in on me.

Suddenly Michael’s cock and finger left me. He stood up at the edge of the bed. Pulling me unresisting to him, he jerked up my legs over his shoulders and leant back. His face a grimace, he stared down on me while his hand directed his steely, made-for-it cock at my now cramped-shut hole. He hissed, ‘This is what you want, you bitch!’ and rammed his cock into my resisting rear.

And then he fucked me, and God, did he fuck me open! I climaxed into his first penetrating, burning entry and yelled a – ‘Michael, No! God, stop!’ I howled, it seemed for minutes, while my pussy gushed. With every further thrust, I was now gasping a ‘Yes!’ Finally, when he filled me with a hot load into my entrails, I burst into a hysterical crying fit. Michael collapsed on me and tightly held me for long, long seconds. He had never done this before. Then he hurriedly left me, stretched out on the soaked sheet.

I knew then that I could not permit myself to submit to Michael like this again. Just to be fucked by him in anger and disdain allowed my detached mind to observe my ugly pussy’s orgiastic response. It was a game in which Michael and I were equally matched. But now, the bastard had broken my silence. I had cried out and begged for more as Michael fingered and fucked me anally into the torment of an uncontrollable, blinding orgasm. It was no rape, and I had no excuse. He, for once, had conquered me.

I pledged that Michael was not a man that would ever, ever do this to me again! Only days later, Michael stood naked, erection-ready, again in my doorway. I just looked at him as he strolled to the bed and flicked the doona to the floor. It was such a theatrical performance, and I, for the first time, was not enthralled.

When he joined me on the bed, I did not resist. I spread my legs and allowed him to spear his little prick into my bone-dry pussy. A change had come over me.

I was now observing Michael with almost wry amusement, the way I had watched Anil’s Kama Sutra attempts years’ ago in England. When his fingers moved onto my groin to compensate for what his little cock lacked, I grabbed his wrist, and cooly said: - ‘No fingers tonight, thanks.’ For a moment, Michael froze in surprise. Then, he grabbed violently one buttock and dug his nails into the cleft of my ass. Pressing the marauding hand hard into the mattress, I calmly said: - ‘Take your hand off my ass, please.’ Then I slightly lifted my ass to allow him to withdraw his annoying hand.

And he withdrew. I laid back and spread my legs invitingly open. As he mounted me with a growl, I said in my usual, lecturing voice: - ‘Well, Michael, that’s good. Let’s have a nice little fuck, if you must.’

It stopped him dead in the middle of a feeble thrust! I hardly felt him; no waves crashed in anymore. He swallowed the welling-up curses, then snarled down on stretched-out me on the sheet as he got up to stalk out of the room.

We never exchanged words about what had happened. Weeks later, Michael stood once more – and the last time – in my door and switched on the light. I did not pretend to be asleep. I looked at him briefly and told him to turn off the light. Then I laid down on my side, turning my back on him.

A few days later, coming home from the Uni, Michael’s belongings were gone. The story he spread among his coterie of admirers was that he finally left me because I was an ‘intellectually vapid, upper-class, cock-hungry bitch’.

Dear Rene, the rest you know. I divorced, went to the States for six years, married Sam, before returning without him to Melbourne and promotion at my old Uni. You and I have been in touch since, become friends, and now – what next? We’ll see. My lengthy tale could have bored you too much to spend a week with me in my shack. It’s because what I’ve told you today would thrill and excite sexy you.

You still owe me a little confession about unfaithful (I suspect!??) you. When? Now, by mail, or orally next week in Smoko?

With more than affectionate interest, your

Mari.

Texts sent briefly after:

R. to M.:

Your mail, as always, was of more than passing interest. Only this time, much, much more so. My ‘confession’ may truly shock you. I will better not leave it for the shack as you might send me home!

M. to R.:

Never, although I may have to punish you severely. I recall from your Mark story a peculiar ‘Like’!

R. to M.:

You wouldn’t, would you? It’s not done between Bis, is it???

From: renemax6@xyz.com.au

To: marimclain8@zyx.com.au

Subject: Shameful Admissions.

Dearest Mari,

The plural in the heading above is not a spelling error. True, the primary admission you are waiting for, and I struggle with, happened many years ago. I was then, despite my education and being married, naïve and sexually a prude.

However, when I panicked to answer when you asked me about my extramarital experiences, I was a different person. My sexual affair with Mark and my warming-up relationship with you has changed me. I am no longer the prudish, respectable woman of some twenty years ago that lapsed. She allowed herself then, on a hot summer night, to be comprehensively shagged by almost a stranger. Why has it not become for me an amusing anecdote easily told?

I am sure that you will guess one of the reasons when I tell the story. But there were other issues why your surprising question shocked me into silence. I had suppressed for years what had occurred. For the new me, it was now a story I did not know how to tell.

Mark had made me realise that prudery had retarded me and impoverished my marriage. Martin was a gentle and considerate man. He took care that in our sexual couplings, nothing he did or attempted would shock, displeasure, or disgust me. For instance, I showed early in our marriage a dislike of being taken from behind. My mind hated the mental picture of my naked bottom in the air waiting to be poked. I imagined Martin’s hands spreading my buttocks to look down on my private cavities. I showed my dislike. For the next thirty years, Martin never fucked me doggy-style or pressured me with ‘other’ sexual positions and ‘perverse tricks’. In my objections, I always combined my ignorance with certainty. Thereby our sex life whithered into a narrow range of quickly unloved routines and boredom. And it made the virtuous woman that got finally shagged, ready meat for a stranger.

This, I now understand. The less and less inhibited exchange of emails and the confronting directness of the Q&A game with Mark transformed me. It made me realise, admit and relish, question by question, mail by mail, text by text, how sexually alive and curious I was. Suddenly I wanted to try and dare all. And most importantly, for Mark, I became, thereby, a more and more exciting and desirable woman.

By the time we wrote the story of our first night together, Mark knew that I would love to fuck and get fucked in any detailed position. I admitted that I wanted to get to my knees to suck his cock in foreplay and later when it was wet-hot from my pussy’s juices. And yes, I told Mark that I wanted his marvellous cock to fuck me, again and again, into orgiastic oblivion. There was nothing; it seemed I would hold back or say no to. But one day, Mark’s questioned me how I felt about anal intercourse.

I had happily answered dozens of racier questions. Our liberal attitudes, and the social and legal acceptance of homosexuality and its sexual practices as unexceptional, made the suggestion relatively harmless. But it shocked me, first for days into silence and then into my first untrue answer. I replied that I never had or would ever want to have anal intercourse.

Mark accepted my answer without comment. But then, as you have read, in our first night together – God, it was real for me – he turned me on my belly. In his tantalising foreplay, Mark ran his tongue up and down my spine. At first, the cleft of my ass and my legs clamped together in terror and surprise. Mark persevered. After he kissed open my thighs, my pussy quivered against his lips. Then, with each passage of his tongue, the crack between my quivering buttocks widened. And on its way up, Mark’s broad lick no longer stopped at my pussy. Nor did it begin there! And in each following passage, I fevered more in expectation of his tongue’s flickering caress as it passed, oh so slowly, over my puckering-up anal rosette.

But then, Mark took pity on me and stopped. He finished by concentrating solely on my beautiful(!), palpitating pussy. We finished with him fucking me into a wild, orgiastic surrender. He had, though, also taught me how susceptible my ass was to being pleasured! Even now, with you, - this isn't easy to admit.

When Mark, knowing now my hidden inclination, followed it up with a direct question, I ended our relationship. My honest answer would have led us immediately to breaching the anal barrier in our sex. From this temptation, I had to flee, even with Mark.

This discomfort is closely connected with my one and only marital infidelity. It was no affair, not even a ‘stand’ as in one-nighters. It just happened, now many years ago, in a setting familiar to you.

Martin and I had joined a group of colleagues and friends from University on a summer holiday down the coast. It had been a hot day, with some tensions arising between couples. Not between Martin and I, but I felt, on this day, unusually alive.

As always, in the evening, we joined in one of the cabins for a meal and drinks and whatever developed. It was oppressively hot and felt as if a storm was gathering. All of us had, probably, too much to drink. After sparring with some males over literary issues, my closest friend in the group stomped off to bed in a huff. Martin had started to play cards. I knew what that meant. I would go to bed on my own - not that I minded – and not see him for hours. So, I went outside, hoping to catch the first cool breeze of the coming change.

I was leaning against a car when X came out and joined me. He was a regular member of our group, admired by some, detested for his arrogance by others. He had a reputation as a philanderer. However, in our group, he paid little attention to us women, his wife included. I had rarely exchanged words with him. But now, he walked up to me, put his arm around me, and said, ‘Here you are, Rene. All hot, alone, just waiting. For what, I wonder?’

His face was close; too close the way he grinned. His hand had slipped under my arm to cup my breast. I momentarily froze but decided not to react. I turned to walk away, but his other arm went around my middle. I stopped, and X pulled me against him. His lips were on my neck as he whispered, ‘You do not want to go back in, do you, Rene?’ And both his hands had slipped under my thin top and grabbed my breasts.

There and then, something in me decided not to scream and not to run. I stood still and let X’s hands play and search over my boobs. His fingers pinched and pulled my nipples into a pointy hardness. His mouth closed over my ear, and his tongue flicked for seconds over its shell before he murmured, ‘You don’t want to leave me, Rene. You are all hot and waiting to get fucked!’

I bucked against his cock, pressing against my ass as one hand slid into my shorts and down my belly. Did I freeze in shock, or was I waiting for what X would do next? When I clenched my thighs together, three of X’s fingers pressed against my pussy. And I did not scream, did not shout for near-by help: I moaned! It sounded like assent. And X worked his fingers into my pussy’s whetting up softness as he moved me, step by unresisted step, into the car’s shadow.

Suddenly the cabin’s door opened. Light flooded out to where we had stood moments before. A couple were making ready to leave. The woman turned in the door to exchange a few parting words with somebody inside. I heard the cardplayers, recognising Martin’s voice. X was leaning against the car. He had withdrawn his hand from my pussy.

I could have, with the cabin’s door open, silently slunk away from X, and nobody would have known what already had happened. Instead, I had turned. As if hiding, I stood so close to X that my tits pressed into his chest. Looking over his shoulder, I silently watched as the door closed and the couple walked away.

Throughout, X’s hand rested loosely on my hips. He was not holding me captive. But now, he slid them under the loose elastic of my shorts and panties. He gripped my buttocks, pulling them as he pressed my on-fire pussy against his erection. I lifted my head. X’s lips closed over mine, and his tongue thrust brutally probing into the depth of my mouth.

He did not need to say it. I had not run; I was his. X would take me. He would fuck me any way he wanted! And his hands had already worked my shorts and panties down onto my thighs. He also moved me sideways to fuck me on the bonnet of the car. As he gripped my ass to lift me, I panicked. In fright, I grabbed his head, frantically kissing him before I whimpered, ‘Please, please, X! Not here! Come, come to my cabin.’

And I took him. Once inside, on the mat on the floor, close to the glass sliding door with some of the parks’ lights seeping in, we fucked. I know Mari, a lie like ‘X threw me down and raped me’ would sound better. It’s what I told myself for almost twenty years when the memory continued to spook me.

In truth, however, X slowly pulled off my top to bare my stretched-out, stiff-nippled tits. And I, Mari, tore down with shaking hands my shorts and panties. He made me wait too. And all of my body, my tits and belly and ass and cunt twisted and fluttered under his callously exploring hands. When finally, he slipped first his fingers and then his cock deep into my wet-hot cunt, I climaxed immediately. And not just! I was gripped and shaken and tossed about in X’s hands like a rag doll.

When the storm subsided and X withdrew his sodden fingers and cock I felt like crying. I never had, I suddenly realised, come like this before. X chuckled against my neck and murmured, ‘I knew how much you wanted it, how badly you needed to be fucked!’ He grinned and continued, ‘We’ll have to really awaken the hidden, hot little housewife slut tonight. Won’t we?’

Now X turned onto his back. He reached for my leg and pulled it over him. Now straddled, X’s rock-hard, unspent cock pierced into my cunt. With one hand on my throat, he made me ride him upright, stretching out my tits. The other hand dug into my ass’ cleft. As he thrust and ground his steel-hard cock up into my pussy, his fingertips and nails had found my anal opening. The electrifying sensation and the horrid ideas it invoked made me cry out. X chuckled, ‘Oh, we have an anal virgin? That will be fun!’

But he only continued to fuck me. It was his fingertips and nails stroking up and down my crack and then shockingly pressing in that brought me, after an agonising, shivering build-up, to another shuddering climax. Straddling X, my juices were running down my thighs. I had never before climaxed twice or whetted myself like this.

X released his hold, and I scrambled off him. I now wanted to run. But he grabbed me anew and tossed me on my belly. I knew! Kneeling between my legs, X lifted my ass and, in one thrust, rammed his cock again into my pussy. My cunt was so wet and wide open, I could now hardly feel him. His hands, however, pulled my crack apart, and suddenly I felt X’s warm spit hitting the target And then his finger began to breach my anal closure; with every globule spit, it pressed in deeper. Then his finger, sliding now smoothly in and out, began to bend and circle, and I gasped and moaned. But no ‘Stop!’ or ‘No! Not that!’ came over my lips. My fingernails dug into the rug as I pressed and ground my pussy and ass against the double invasion.

Suddenly, X pulled my ass-cheeks wide apart. And his cock began to slide unhindered, and – I’m ashamed to admit – expected into my ass. And I welcomed the pain with a shrill cry of lust.

X fucked my ass, for long minutes, in progressively harder and harder staccato bursts until both of us climaxed in a wild coming together. X arched, and his hands and nails dug into my buttocks, marking them for weeks. And I stretched out and howled and tried to claw my way through the floor.

We did not speak to each other. X dressed quickly and left. I, eventually, got off the floor. In the shower, I scrubbed my, I felt now, violated vagina and backside until I almost bled. In bed, I started to cry: Not in sorrow but shame and blind anger.

When Martin came from his card game, he stumbled over my blouse and shorts and panties strewn over the floor. Being Martin, he sensed nothing untoward. In the months and years that followed, nothing in our relationship changed. I was forever after, again his faithful, decent, and still prudish wife!

My dearest Mari. I have been circumspect in this otherwise so detailed confession about the time, place, and associated people. I did not do this to deceive you but make it easier for me to stick to my confession's truthfulness. I hope you do not think that I try to hide anything.

What happened to me occurred on the very night, at the same place, among the same people when – as you told me – you fell in lust with my beautiful pussy earlier in the afternoon. I must have been radiating sexual waves that day! In the evening it attracted, as you now know, X: Yes, your husband, Michael!

As it would have been with you in the afternoon, I found it impossible to resist temptation. But with X, unlike with you, was I still myself? I’ve tried to deny it for years.

Am I forgiven? Your fallen,

Rene.

Text Message two hours later:

M. to R.:

Michael/X – what a cunning little fucker! And you and I: Were we both his victims? Hardly. I don’t blame you. I blame myself, though. I should not have gotten drunk and dejectedly slunk off to bed mooning over you that summer evening. It should have been me that met ‘sex radiating’ you outside. Ergo – much to make good and up for next week in Smoko!

R. to M.:

Can’t wait. Now you know how easily I can be led astray!

Post-Script:

From: author@outlook.com

To: All malfembis@lush.com

Subject: By the way.

Dear Readers,

The above and any of my other stories may disappoint, offend or, I always hope, even please you. Take a little time for a mark and comment. It will help my decision to either keep writing or be silent forever.

Your Author.