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This is the second in a series of stories about a woman, suffering from depression over the death of her husband, who learns that he had a secret, depraved life, totally at odds with his seeming disinterest in sex. As she delves into his secret porn collection she experiences her own sexual awakening and recovers from her depression in the process.

*****

The next day I dressed for work just as I always did—dark slacks, flat-soled shoes, a white blouse and a brightly colored scarf just to give the whole outfit some flare. My underwear was my usual white panties and functional ho-hum bra. Really quite boring, but certain not to give offense to anyone. Like if I got hit by a truck and had to go to the hospital or some such.

There was one thing that was different, not that anyone could tell. I could tell, though. My sex was shaved completely bare. It made me feel as though I was indecently dressed, even though no one could see a thing and I was wearing the same clothes I always wore. The feeling was delicious, but somewhat distracting. I managed to keep my mind on my work when the kids were around, but much of the rest of the day my emotions were waffling between a mild guilt and a thoroughly enjoyable feeling that I was getting away with something no one could see.

The important thing was that I didn’t think about Larry all day. I didn’t realize that until I got home, but the black cloud that Larry’s death had been simply wasn’t there—all day. I had lunch with some of the teachers and enjoyed listening to them gossip about the principal and other teachers not at the table. I doubted if much of it was true, but that didn’t matter. The talk was mildly scandalous, and I enjoyed it as I sat there wondering what they would think if they knew about my naked pussy, and how they would gossip about that if I were not there. They couldn’t know, of course, but I let myself think they might.

Perhaps the healthiest part of lunch was that I actively participated. I didn’t have any dirt of my own to dish up, and I wasn’t about to just make something up. But I confess I actively encouraged the others to tell what they knew (or thought they knew) by asking leading questions. (“Do you think they really went to the mall or did they go to a motel?”) It was fun. Fun was something I hadn’t had in months, with the exception of my masturbation of the last few days, but this was a healthier kind of fun.

My days for the rest of the week were pretty much the same. My evenings were a good deal different. As each day wore on, my mind kept turning to my plan for the evening—masturbating as I looked at Larry’s porn collection on my wide-screen TV. By the time I got home each day I was horny as hell. I went directly to the bedroom and stripped off all my clothes. Then I would stand before the full-length mirror in our bath and watch myself as I fondled my tits and lightly stroked my sex. But I always stopped, before reaching the climax I craved. I wanted to save myself for an extended masturbating session after dinner, when I could sprawl naked on the couch in the living room watching Larry’s porn collection on the TV. Strangely, I enjoyed dinner more with the ache of denied gratification churning my core.

When I wasn’t actively masturbating (really, you can’t do that with all of your spare time) I spent my time around the house naked but for a short, loose silk robe. I thought about just dispensing with clothes completely while at home, but I decided that I liked the robe better. It was almost see through and short enough so that unless I was very careful about how I sat or moved it exposed my sex. Also there was a delicious jiggle of my tits as I walked about the house that would have been obvious to anyone watching. I loved the sensation of my nipples rubbing against the slick fabric of the robe as I moved about. All in all, the robe was more indecent in its own way than actual nudity, because it purported to cover my nakedness and failed miserably. Of course there wasn’t anyone there to see my wanton dress, and if there had been I’m sure I would have lacked the courage to actually dress that way. Still it was fun, and fun was what I desperately needed after six months of being depressed about my late husband.

Another thing I tried was going to the grocery store sans undergarments. Of course I was still wearing my usual conservative dress, usually a knee length skirt and a loose blouse (I didn’t own anything else), but there was a real thrill to walking around the grocery store naked beneath my everyday clothes. I wouldn’t have dared do such a thing at school, but at the grocery store it was okay because I believed I was unlikely to see anyone I knew there. I soon made indecent dress a regular part of my shopping routine.

One day I discovered my assumption that I would never meet anyone I knew at the grocery store to be overly optimistic. As usual, I pranced about the market picking up a few things I needed for Escort Akbatı dinner, thoroughly enjoying the cool air of the market on my naked pussy and the friction of the fabric of my blouse on my nipples as my tits jiggled beneath my clothing. I was standing at the vegetable counter trying to decide on the size of cucumber I wanted for dessert (yes, that kind of dessert. I had become quite fond of cucumbers). Just as I reached for my cucumber/dildo of choice I heard a deep voice with a heavy French accent.

“Alice. My, but you’re looking good today.”

It was my friend Joan’s husband, Hervé. I dropped the cucumber in my basket and looked over my shoulder, knowing immediately who it was by his deep voice and accent. Hervé was a notorious flirt.

“Oh! Hervé, how nice to see you, and thank you,” I said, feeling a moment of panic. What was Hervé doing here. Could he tell I was naked beneath these conservative clothes I was wearing?

“Your colors. They go so well with your skin and hair. You have marvelous taste my dear. And that blouse. It’s a beautiful match with your eyes.”

God he was such an awful flirt, and his eyes were roaming across my body as if he had X-ray vision and could see right through to my nakedness beneath my clothing. All I was wearing was a simple jeans skirt that came nearly to my knees, a pale blue cotton blouse buttoned up discreetly so as not to show any cleavage, and a pair of flip-flops.

My heart was racing and I felt a burst of lust originating in my sex. It wasn’t as though I was standing naked in front of Hervé, but I felt like I was. And the way he was looking at me. He must have known. But how could he? There was the most amazing course of conflicting simultaneous emotions running through me. I was mortified, I was terrified, and I was almost overcome with a burst of lust unlike anything I had ever felt before. “Where is Joan?” I asked, hoping to change the topic to something other than me.

“Oh, she’s around somewhere, but it’s you that is lighting up this dull, drab grocery store.” His lines were especially amusing when delivered in his French accent.

Whew, I thought. If Joan’s here in the store he won’t go too far. Then, for some reason I’ll never understand, I decided to reciprocate.

“It’s so nice to hear you like these clothes.” I did a quick pirouette. As I turned I could feel my long hair swinging away from my neck and the skirt flaring out and showing more of my legs, but not high enough, I hoped, to show him my naked ass.

“Ooh la la,” the lecherous Frenchman responded. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”

I pushed my hair back and looked up at him with a smile. “Oh, just here and there. Work, and well that’s about it.” That was about it for the last six months I thought. This was the first flirtatious conversation I had had with a man in months—maybe years.

“And you, Hervé? Where have you been hiding yourself?”

“Ooof. You know. I work and work and then Joan. She has her . . . her . . . what you call her honey dos. They never end.”

I laughed. “Poor Hervé. Your life is so hard.”

He reached out and took both my hands, holding them palms up. His hands were surprisingly hard, but warm. “Oh oui. If only I could. . . . We, Alice . . . just you and I. Run away to Provence. Just lie on the beach and make . . .”

Fortunately that was when Joan came around the corner of the aisle, her loud greeting cutting off her husband’s proposition in mid-sentence.

“Alice, you’re out! You’re out of your house, and don’t you look nice.” Her comment on my appearance was an honest compliment, as opposed to Herve’s lecherous flirting.

But as she spoke the thought that crossed my mind was, “Yes, I am out of the house and I do look nice and more importantly, I feel nice . . . and nearly naked.” I smiled just a little at the last part of that thought. Wouldn’t Joan be shocked if she knew.

I thanked her for the compliment and told her I felt nice also. From there the conversation was mostly between Joan and me, her arrival having dampened Hervé’s ardor. Eventually we parted, Joan and Hervé insisting that I join them for dinner again soon and me promising to do so, but with no particular date set.

I finished my shopping and drove home. As I drove, I marveled at how good I felt. I hadn’t enjoyed anything since Larry died as much as I had enjoyed Hervé’s lecherous flirting. Maybe life was going to be okay after all.

I was feeling pretty raunchy when I got home, but instead of just jumping into a masturbation session, I stripped off all of my clothes and put on my lightweight robe. I had left the cucumber sitting on the kitchen counter to warm up a bit. The temperature the grocery store had been storing it at was liable to give my pussy hypothermia, I thought. “I’ll just save that for after dinner,” I told myself.

I also wasn’t quite hungry yet, so I put off Aksaray escort dinner for a couple of hours and sat down before Larry’s computer to explore some more of his debauched interests recorded on his computer. That was the evening I discovered his Literotica account. Once I figured out how the site worked I wanted to see what kind of erotic stories Larry favored. The site had a concept called Favorites that was custom made for tracking a user’s preferences. A little digging in Larry’s computer quickly yielded up his Member Name (“Pervy Larry,” how appropriate I thought) and his password (“Cocksucker,” not at all creative—same as the password for his computer).

When I got into Larry’s account I was shocked to learn that he didn’t just read the site’s erotica. He wrote it. A lot of it. Larry had posted over 100 stories to the site. I don’t know why I was shocked. I mean I had already found that my late husband had saved thousands of pornographic pictures and videos to his hard drive, so why should I be surprised that he wrote and published erotic stories? As I leafed down his story list looking at the lewd titles and brief descriptions of his literary efforts I told myself, “I’m not surprised he read this stuff. That sort of matches his collection of smutty pictures and videos. But writing and publishing it? That’s another step further into depravity than I thought he took. My, my.” I was beyond being upset about Larry’s secret depraved life. I had found I was enjoying it too much myself to be upset with him. But each new revelation came as a bit of a surprise.

Of course Larry’s stories were just like his pictures—I couldn’t resist reading them any more than I could resist masturbating as I looked at his picture and video collection. I opened one at random. I don’t even remember which of the web site’s categories it purported to be posted under. I can’t think of a reason why I should have expected anything else, but I was still a bit shocked at the material Larry had posted. It was lurid.

The story I had chosen at random opened as follows:

I awoke to the sensation of someone sucking my cock. I picked my head up and looked down to see a tangle of long blonde hair positioned over my crotch. She was on her knees, her head down hoovering my quickly hardening prick with her round ass in the air. I could feel her tits rubbing softly on my thighs.

But who was she? And where was I. I had gone to a bar the night before and had way too much to drink, but there was no memory of anything beyond the smoky bar.

Fuck, could she suck cock! Her tongue was rubbing the sensitive underside of my prick as she raised and lowered her mouth on it. When she reached the upper end of her stroke she let her tongue tease the end of my prick while her hands twisted and stroked my saliva-covered shaft. After a bit of this basic but talented cocksucking she adjusted her posture just a bit and, “Oh Shit!,” She took my prick down her throat. I could feel her nose buried in the pubes at the base of my prick. My cock, the part that was now down her throat, felt like it was buried in a hot, wet pussy.

She held my prick there, buried in her throat, for what seemed like forever, until she finally needed to breath. She pulled her head clear back from my cock and sat up using one hand to continue stroking my prick while the other pushed her hair out of her face. Now I could see her, but I still didn’t recognize her. Her hair was a thick, unruly blonde mop that hung down to her shoulders. She had big soft tits that swung back and forth as she moved around.

“Hi,” she said.

“Uh . . . Hi,” I responded. “Do I know you?”

“Not really.” Now she was jacking my cock with both hands. “We met at River Street bar last night.”

That was good. I could remember that River Street was the name of the bar I had gone to. “Oh.” I said. I was silent for a moment trying to remember more about the night before, but my headache and what this voluptuous blonde was doing to my prick was distracting me.

“I know this isn’t going to sound good,” I said, “but where are we, and how did I get here.”

Now she was rubbing her nipples with the end of my prick. “Mmmm. That feels good.” she said. She was silent for quite awhile as she rubbed my cock against her tits. Finally she spoke, “You’re at my apartment. We came here last night.”

There was more silence while she masturbated my cock between her big tits. Shit that felt good, but I still wanted to know how I got here.

“You promised me, you know,” she said.

Oh oh. That didn’t sound good. “Uh, what did I promise?” Not a good question to have to ask.

She giggled at my discomfort with my failed memory. “You promised me you would fuck me. You also promised you would eat me until I screamed for mercy.”

“Oh, okay,” I said as a wave of relief flooded through me. It could have been much worse.

“And did I?” Ankara escort bayan I gasped as she dragged the head of my prick over one of her engorged nipples.

Her face grew pouty as she responded, “No. You passed out.”

“Well,” I said, “if you’ll give me a couple of ibuprofen and a cup of coffee, I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?” she asked. She was still looking pouty.

“I’ll fuck you ’till your ears ring—in every room in this apartment. And I’ll eat you ’till you scream for mercy.” I was hoping she was the kind of girl who appreciated graphic dirty talk during sex.

“Okay,” she said, still holding my hard cock. Her pouty look had disappeared, replaced by a smile. “But can I get a sample now?” she asked.

“What’ll it be, fucking or sucking?” I asked.

She rolled off of me, flopping on her back, her legs spread lewdly, and said, “Eat me. Eat me ’till I cum and then I’ll fix you breakfast—with coffee.

“And ibuprofen?” I countered.

“Yes. Now get between my legs and start licking.”

I sat up and crawled between her legs. I was on my knees and elbows with my face just in front of her pussy. My god my head hurt. But if this was what it was going to take to get some ibuprofen, I was going to get right to it . . .

I was sitting before Larry’s laptop in his office with my robe open and my legs spread—I was so fucking horny! Dinner was out of the question. I wanted to read more of Larry’s pervy writing. I got up and walked quickly to the kitchen to get a bottle of wine and a glass, my tits jiggling and my open robe flapping behind me as I walked. After opening a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, I carried it and the cucumber back to the den. I poured myself a glass and sat before Larry’s desk sipping the wine as I read story after story from his Literotica page.

They weren’t great literature. The sentences were short, plots simple, or even nonexistent in some stories, commas seemingly random, and spelling shaky at best (didn’t he know about Microsoft’s greatest invention, spell check?). But Larry’s stories had one redeeming quality. They provided graphic descriptions of a wide range of sexual activities and the emotions of the participants, and they made me horny as hell. By midnight I had consumed most of the bottle of wine and cum four times. I wasn’t sure which was closer to being worn out, my pussy or the cucumber. Fuck, what an evening.

The next morning as I lay in bed before getting up to dress and go to work, I asked myself about the prior evening’s new revelations about Larry’s depravity. “My god he had a dirty mind. But why didn’t he expose me to that lewdly creative mind? I would have loved it. ”

“But would I really?” I asked myself. “I mean,” I said as I continued talking to myself, “a lot has changed in the last couple of weeks. Before Larry died you would never have walked around naked all over the house and masturbated in the back yard. Hell you hardly ever masturbated at all. The only thing you did less of was fucking with Larry. And if he had shown you his porn collection and his filthy stories, what would you have done?” I asked myself.

That caused me to pause. “Really what would I have done?” I asked. After another long pause I admitted to myself, “I probably would have screamed at him for being a pervert and made him sleep on the couch . . . or worse.”

“Yes,” I told myself. “Things have changed. Now I enjoy his collection of depravity.”

As I lay there, I began thinking about his stories. God they had made me horny. I asked myself ,”Which one was the best? I mean the hottest. None of them could be called great literature.” I remembered one in which he told of a couple that hooked up in a bar one night.

As I thought about that story I pulled my legs up and began to stroke my sex. My outer lips were quickly swelling and within minutes my juices were making me slippery. I let my fingers slide between my outer lips and begin to stroke my inner lips and slide into my fuck hole. “Fuck hole?” I said aloud. “When did you begin talking like that Alice?” I asked myself. “Fuck it,” I responded and shoved my fingers deeper into my cunt.

The story was told from the woman’s point of view. She was married and on a business trip. While the smooth-talking man she had met in the bar was picking her up she was feeling some guilt about what she wanted to do (which was to fuck this guy). Of course, as in all stories of this nature, her husband was a lout who didn’t even attempt to meet her sexual needs and treated her abusively. It was obvious Larry wanted the reader to believe his heroine was doing something very nasty, but totally justified because of her husband’s failures. It helped me step into the woman’s character as I read the story. He had done a nice job of having the heroine occasionally feel guilt about cheating on her husband and then quickly succumb to the charms of her partner for the evening.

I thought about rereading the story as a whole on the tablet that lay on my nightstand, but I didn’t have time. I needed to get up and get to work. But oh fuck I was horny. How had I gotten that horny so quickly just lying there thinking about one of maybe a dozen stories I had read the night before?

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