Excited, eager, and drippingly horny seems to be my normal state; at least, it is now. I live in a constant state of lusty arousal, and my husband finds some magical way to make me fall helplessly and hopelessly in love with him every day. Yesterday was no exception. Despite me being a very torridly slutty, bad girl the previous night, he still slew me with the deadliest combinations of affection. Thoughtfulness to the point of being disturbingly psychic, looking sexier than any man should legally be allowed to be, showering me with respect and love, and making me so fucking horny that I spent more hours masturbating at work than actually working had me ready and eager to pounce on him.
As I mentioned, I was a naughty little slut. Correction: I was a huge a slut, an insatiable nympho, a cock-hungry trollop, and a foul-mouthed vixen that got covered in cum. It all began with my flashing my husband's friend's roommates the lingerie I was wearing under my clothes when we visited—my story cover picture is from that night. That turned into a gang-bang the very next day. We had four fine young men over for dinner, and I was their appetizer as well as their dessert. Before we dined, I made a grand entrance, wearing only heels, a garter belt, and stockings. One by one, I sucked and stroked them, ordering them to shoot their cum all over my body. Then, covered in spunk and smiling, I sat at the table, and we feasted.
Afterwards, I feasted on four cocks; by draining them, earlier, they lasted longer. I had cocks in my mouth, cocks pounding and slamming into my quivering, flowing pussy, and still more in my hands. All the while, my husband sat in his chair and watched me. His adoring words and enthusiastic enjoyment of me, his wife, being a gang-banged slut, was the hottest part unless one counts the eight hands massaging my cum-soaked body after I’d drained their cocks a second time in my pursuit of pleasure.
Most married women would fear divorce or repercussions. Did I get slut-shamed, yelled at, or discover that my marriage was at risk because I’m a trashy slut that can’t enough sex? No, not at all. I awoke to a hearty breakfast in bed, fresh towels and my favorite soaps in the bathroom, and wildflowers inside my car, a sweet little love note, celebrating me, as a person, tucked between the stems.
I was floating on clouds the entire day at work. My staff already hates me, because I can’t ever shut the hell up about Glade, my husband. It’s not that I’m so lacking in self-awareness that I don’t realize that I’m going on and on about how he’s on a god-like level of sexiness, of his idea of “a little romantic gesture” puts Hollywood to miserable shame. I’m completely aware that I’m the luckiest fucking bitch to have ever walked the planet; I just can’t get over the fact that the man’s only flaw is his terrible choice in women—I’m proof-positive. Still, my coworkers put up with it, more than likely because I sign their paychecks.
My friends, however, are a completely different story. With them, I’m even worse. I’ll post my husband’s dreamy face, with those finely chiseled features and pussy-drenching, soul-piercing eyes at the drop of a hat. For even the slightest, most tenuous of reasons, I’ll show off his lean-muscled, perfect body, his spankable, tight ass, or that huge, mammoth, mutant cock of his.
“Oh fuck oh fuck, oh fuck,” goes my usual refrain, “Glade just did this! He just said that!”
Seriously, I have no idea why the fuck they put with me. Still, my friends tolerate my incessant infatuation, and they keep trying to talk me off the ledge of my self-induced insanity. While their words to me are supportive and loving, in the forefront of their minds, they’re probably thinking, shut the fuck up about him already, you slutty bimbo! You’re either the luckiest cunt on the planet or absolutely delusional.
The thing is, I’m not used to being accepted for who I am. Furthermore, I’m not used to being celebrated for being a wild, wanton sex fiend. My sexual appetite had ruined every relationship I’ve ever been in, and to be admired and supported for my sexual insatiability is, to this very day, something I cannot fathom. The constant romance and being treated like a respected and admired equal are also unheard of. As was the case yesterday.
Not only did I get showered with loving devotion, as if I were a princess or something, but my husband, Mr. Perfect, was unrelenting. Timed fifteen minutes apart, as my staff’s faces grew more and more jealous, I received four-dozen roses. That’s twelve roses per cock. Then, accompanied by cheery-faced caterers, lunch for me and my staff arrived.
“It’s not fair!” one of my employees lamented. “Why are all the good ones married?!”
However, my adoring husband didn’t get any sex the previous night. I’d planned on fucking him until I passed out, but lustily coaxing out nine loads of cum—one of them was more virile than the other three—exhausted me. To make up for it, I was sexting him all through the day. Pictures of me, ranging from suggestive to outright pornographic, were added to entice.
I’ve mentioned before that all men should take Glade lessons. For example, sending a woman a dick pic does not turn her on. However, if she sends you a suggestive text message accompanied by a picture of her hard, braless nipples poking through her thin T-shirt, and she gets told all about how her inner light of perfection shines through, and how her “mortal coil” is just as divine as her internal essence, she’ll get horny enough to not only ask for a dick-pic, but she might also finger her aching clit while looking at it.
Each and every message, suggestive statement, and filthy picture netted a response that warmed my heart, stimulated my soul, aroused my mind, and made my body yearn for the dirtiest, sluttiest, wildest sex imaginable. Slowly, over hours, he worked his sexual magic on me, turning me into a horny, panting sexual beast of a woman.
I didn’t want to make love, and sexy wouldn’t suffice. I had been a nasty, dirty slut, begging for more cum. I desperately needed to be reclaimed and fucked hard like the slut I am.
‘Remember how I was covered in cum last night?’ my text message began. ‘I need to be covered in cum again… your cum.’
Without pause, his response was immediate and stunned me with its implications. ‘Certainly, as you wish. But, the people at the restaurant I booked might stare.’
‘But I have nothing to wear. I look frumpy.’
‘You could never look frumpy. Your beauty is a thousand times more perfect than the fiery sunset over the mountains after a storm.’
See? Glade lessons!
‘I’ll need to go home and find something to wear.’
The issue with that is that I’m obsessed with clothing. I grew up very impoverished. Most of my clothes were second-hand or home-made. If we wanted fast food for dinner, it involved saving our pennies for almost an entire month. Now that I don’t need to worry so much about money, I’ve adopted the vice of being a shopaholic to round out my vast collection of other vices. My husband knew this, and, as usual, he’d thrown together an impromptu masterpiece of seduction and romance.
Some artists work in clay or paints. Others sculpt or create music. My husband’s mediums are perfection and romantic seduction. He’s the type of man who can destroy your home, drain your bank account, split you in two, and then leave the toilet seat up, and you’d just say, “So, does tomorrow work for you, too?”
‘Your dress should arrive soon. Don’t worry about a thing.’
If any other soul in the universe would say those words to me, I’d know that it was well past the time to worry. With him, though, I’ve learned. That perfect, enigmatic motherfucker did, indeed, have everything well in hand. The expression on my employee's face, when she tossed my latest delivery onto my desk, told me that my new garment had arrived.
“I fucking hate you, boss-lady. You suck.”
“Love you, too, Steph.”
The garment box was classy and tasteful. It was a shiny black, so glossy that it reflected the light of my tiny, cluttered office. Crossing over the top was a wide, satiny purple ribbon, a big bow delicately tied at the intersection.
“Oooh!” I gasped when I opened the box.
The dry-cleaning receipt, less than an hour old, was on top of the beautiful and sultry dress. It was made of a light and airy, opaque fabric that was smooth and soft to the touch. In a light olive color, which perfectly matched my recently-henna-treated fiery hair, it was a toga-style, one-shoulder dress. Elegant in its simplicity, the cut of the top portion swooped from the left shoulder to under the right arm, with diagonal runches to give it some additional flair. The simple skirt had a knee-high slit on the right side, and the skirting fabric ebbed and flowed. It was stylish and sexy in a Greek Goddess way, but not too slutty to wear in civilized society.
“And this just came for you, you fucking bitch,” Marcy, my store’s manager, chided. “We were talking. Instead of bonuses this month, can we just rent Glade?”
In the second box, similarly adorned to match the garment box, was a full array of new makeup, all in the brands I use. Not only did he think of everything, he’d paid attention to all those minute details, making everything perfect for me. I swooned. I’ve known him for almost three years, and he still manages to surprise me daily.
With my eyes tearing up a little over his thoughtfulness, I texted him. ‘Love, LOVE the dress. How do you know it will fit?’
Again, he responded immediately, as if he had some “perfect ways to respond to Krystal to make her melt” guide at the ready. ‘I’ve committed every millimeter of your body to memory. I cherish your perfection. It is the gods’ only true masterpiece; the cosmos pales in comparison. Of course, it will fit.’
The dress not only fit, but I looked amazing in it. For a brief moment, I wished I’d worn underwear for a change, but the fabric draped over my body so perfectly, so alluring and enticingly, that garment lines would sully the rare event of me not looking like I either raided Stevie Nicks’ closet or bought out Sluts-R-Us. I made precious little time to get ready; my store was closing soon. I did, however, have enough time to alert my friends with myriad “Glade, oh my Glade, I so love that fucking man” drivel.
Then I saw the note at the bottom of the box. My husband wasn’t satisfied with turning up the heat on me all day. I had already fingered myself several times over our naughty banter and the mood he’d put me in, but the note took my already high state of horny arousal and rocketed it into space.
The note simply read, “This dress shall be torn from your flesh before the night is over.”
As crass as that may sound, in that moment, it was perfect. He’d taken my delight at acting so kinky and stoked those horny fires to the point of a volcanic eruption. As I read it, then re-read it, I became determined to become even wilder, more slutty. When I’m a scandalous tart, two things happen. I continue to receive this romance-novel level of love and attention, and he fucks me like the slut I am. He wasn’t jealous or insecure; he was celebrating my unleashing my true nature.
Most women get divorced when they fuck four guys in front of their husbands. Rather than emotional trauma, I got breakfast in bed, flowers, still more flowers, love notes, a new dress and makeup, a catered lunch, and a dinner date. It’s kind of like a rewards program for whores!
Although I was in my office, getting ready by fussing over my makeup and arguing with that bitch in the mirror, I knew when my husband had arrived. My girls, my coworkers, were involved in their usual post-closing chatter. The shrieks and laughter stopped, blessed silence permeating the store. There’s only one thing that will silence a gaggle of giddy women, and that’s somebody that is so amazingly stunning that our clits ambush our brains and turn them off.
Contrary to popular belief, women are just as much into admiring sexiness as men. The only real differences are that we’re exponentially worse and perverted about it, but we don’t fly our lusty-addled slut flags in front of most people, except when we’re together in a group. There are, in this world, some people that just short-circuit our armored veneer of hiding our infinite desire and make the horny, needy, perverted slut within us all climb out of its shell.
It isn’t just how somebody looks. Being beautiful, handsome, sexy, or all of the above is a big bonus, but charisma, attraction, and desirability transcend mere looks. One’s carriage, body language, attitude, and sense of presence are all factors. My Glade just stuns. This huge aura radiates outward from him, drenching your cunt and instantly sending your mind on the express train to horny, naughty town.
He looked like a fashion model in his dark, pleated pants and shimmering purple button-down. The way it hugged his shoulders and then tapered down to his tiny waist enhanced those hard-as-steel muscles that rippled with every movement. His long, medium-blond hair was worn long, just how I like it, and it wildly framed his symmetrical features, those muscular cheekbones over his crooked, roguish smile.
He didn’t ignore the trio of women, my employees, that had suddenly become yet even more of Glade’s Groupies. He, in turn, spoke to them, making them feel like they were the most beloved, respected, appreciated, and lusted-after women on earth. The bitches! But, mid-conversation, at the exact moment I was staring at him through the mirrored glass window of my loft office, he looked up and met my gaze. I knew it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t see me through the mirrored glass, not even with the lights on. But he caught my eyes and gave me a little wink, and that mirth-filled smirk of his that always makes my knees buckle.