Subject: The Case of the House Slut (nosex)
Author: Dan <whalesrevenge2009@gmail.com>
Posted: Kelly <pghpa_girl@yahoo.com>
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!!!WARNING!!!!
This file is a work of fiction containing sexually explicit material which may
include depictions of underage, nonconsensual and unprotected sex as well as
incest and adultery. It is not intended to implicate any person or action by
them or me, nor advocate such practices. If you can't separate fantasy from
reality, get professional help - FAST!
The material is distributed as "For Adults Only" and possession by a minor is
strictly forbidden. If you are not legally empowered to be in possession of
this material, do not read it and delete it immediately.
This work is copyrighted ©2011 to the author. It may be posted with the
permission of the editor to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area
of commercial sites so long as no changes are made to the content AND the
author/editor information is retained.
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Dear Kelly,
I warned you. This is not a fantasy fuck story...
****Would I Fuck You? – The case of the House Slut****
Any woman that has earned the right to the name “house slut” ought to get a free
ride to fuck whomever she wants. Most of the time, that is. For the
appropriately worthy girl, the issue is hardly ever in doubt. The guys are
controlled by what thinks the least, and react instinctively the most. Namely,
with their dicks. And that is all she should have to do: Make it impossible for
you to doubt that it’s your lucky day. Eliminate all uncertainty. Forget that
ole cliché “if you play your cards right” because you've already won the hand.
You’ve been selected for a free fuck and there’s nothing more for you to do
except to have fun until you decide to make it to the hotel room. Get your cock
up (she’ll be sure to give an extra hand or mouth if the matter is in the
slightest doubt) and get to doing what every guy can barely wait to do anyway.
They don’t call us “one track minds” for nothing.
Well, that’s the theory at least. And for a true slut, it can become routine. So
certain to work that even a woman who has been christened the “house slut”
starts to take men for granted. Does “no” exist in the vocabulary of the male
species? "Not applied to ME it doesn’t," says the house slut confidently. Oh
sure, there are plenty of guys who would say “no.” But not in a place like
Jesters in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. Guys who protect their adulterous virginity
by condemning all of that as “wrong” wouldn’t hang out in a place like that, and
so space and time would protect them from being so easily compromised by the
house slut. Guys who would say no are not like me. Me and my pal “G” that is.
“G” was a coworker from my previous job. We were down in this town finishing up
some work that we had begun together before I bugged out for my current
livelihood. Not a bad mission, too. About three weeks in Ft. Lauderdale during
the high season? February? Everywhere else we had been to on our way to this
temporary paradise had tried to cheat us of precious days. Wind. Snow. Ice. Loss
of electric power for days on end. YIKES! So pulling into "Lauderdale" in the
whee hours of the morning after a grueling 24 hour drive had been refreshing.
Even shocking. Get out of the car at 3 AM in February to find the air balmy?
Hey! This is just wrong.
After making it to the hotel and sleeping off the exhaustion, we went out to the
work site and did some preliminary things to set up shop. By the time dinner
time rolled around, we were famished. And ready for our first evening meal in a
town that the old hands back at the plant had built up to be a party town that
had no limits. "Anything could happen and often does" the people in the know
told us. I had never been here before. All I knew of Ft. Lauderdale was that I
had once seen a movie with Elvis Presley strumming a guitar supposedly in Ft.
Lauderdale during an early version of what we now call “Spring Break.” But it
was probably a movie set anyway, not the real thing. I was now in the real
thing.
Yep, the old guys at the plant ought to know. After all, they had bragged long
and hard about all times they had been here. “Ft. Liquordale” they liked to call
it. And so our fantasies ran wild. Exploring it thoroughly had a purpose,
namely, to risk getting into trouble. Of course, not too much trouble. We were,
and are, professionals. Still have to get the job done. Mission first. Etc. etc.
I still have photographs of what “getting the job done” looked like after an
encounter with a slut we called simply “the mouth." Wretched worn out souls we
were (but not from fucking her). But that story is for another time.
Back at the hotel, which was no where near the beach or any other tourist
attraction for hard-up college coeds that we could imagine, we asked ourselves,
“where do we start?” (“G” had made the travel arrangements. This hotel right on
the interstate was the best he could find on short notice for a long stay at the
peak of the snow bird season.) A good meal seemed a necessity. Then we would
find a lively place to hang out and watch, hoping for that fleeting look from
the gorgeous twenty something chicks we were dying to meet. At least that was
the fantasy. But titty bars, or worse, were off limits. Not because of morals or
even what our wives thought. “G” and I both knew that titty bars are nothing but
money sinks with no chance for any REAL action. Yawn. We wanted real chicks.
Real horny chicks. We were ready for those vaguely promised sluts to line up
for, well, for what? We’d figure THAT out once we were seated in one of those
hook-up bars flirting away. Yep, we were sure we would.
In reality we were on fixed budgets. You can’t afford titty bars or expensive
dining on a fixed budget. "G" had a young son and a baby daughter and a wife at
home. Actually for a night or two they stayed at my parent’s home. We had
dropped them off on the way to Florida to escape the unbearable effects of the
ice storm. They were back in their own home by the time we got to our
destination. But much guilt was shoveled into “G’s” truck by his wife as we
pulled out.
As for me, I had a wife in an advanced stage of pregnancy with our first
daughter, Cheri. “Get it over with THIS month.” She insisted through clenched
teeth. “In a couple of months I OWN you!” I saluted that cauldron of hormones
and escaped.
"All for our common livelihood" I tried to rationalize as a frying pan followed
me out the door.
"So where should we start?" we asked ourselves from the lobby of the mid-priced
off-the-interstate hotel we were staying in. Across the street our eyes were
drawn to a modest sized bar and grill. To get to it all you had to do was walk
across a busy boulevard. It was in relatively good repair (not a dump) but it
was not a chain. It seemed to have “local” written all over it. The name on the
sign was “Jesters.” There was nothing obviously attractive about the place. No
reason that I could see to crave the food. Nothing about the place seemed to
rate the term “entertainment.” But, “G” and I had traveled the world enough to
spot a hint of promise.
“Looks kinda local.” Was “G’s” typical simple and to the point observation.
I hadn’t visualized that as a good thing until he said it. And then it dawned on
me. “Local. Yeah, that’s what we want. Local people. Local bar. Local knowledge.
It probably won’t be worth hanging out in, but somebody will know where to go if
we ask. And if we decide to stay and get fucked up, we can walk back to the
hotel.”
Don’t get me wrong. Jesters wasn’t that bad looking from the outside. Not nearly
as scary looking of a place we would reluctantly follow “the mouth” into just a
week or so later. No, I’ve been in scarier places that I ended up having a blast
in. And when we walked in, it exceeded our expectation. A modern looking bar
area constructed from expensive wood beams. The bar wasn’t physically separated
from the rest of the place. More sort of adjacent to the rest of the
establishment, but dominating the atmosphere. The entrance opened directly into
the bar area. You walked down one side of the square bar to get to the dining
area.
The word “dining” might not agree with an accurate description. The tables and
chairs contrasted with the expensively constructed wooden bar. We sat down at a
table that belonged in an inner city diner. Or a country restaurant that expects
to serve fishermen for breakfast and construction workers for lunch. That
signaled two things to us. The food would be simple and not too pricey (good).
And that Jesters was set up to entertain lounge lizards, not family diners (even
better). The latter impression was reinforced by the stage in one corner that
was broken down for the night but was clearly intended to be used by some kind
of live music entertainment. Maybe they did live music on a weekend we figured.
But that also signaled that the young adult crowd that was already in the place,
although thin at the moment, was the clientele. Given the location of the place,
they were probably local clientele. And probably the numbers would pick up as
the evening wore on as more and more young urban professionals got off work,
followed by the late night “closer” crowd from the restaurants, bars, and maybe
even the titty joints.
Yep, hope for ole Jesters was improving by the minute. Then the “waiter” came
by. A young twenty something guy in a white apron. He kinda looked like he
doubled as the bus boy. Maybe he was the busboy, doubling as the server during
the slow period before hip people started showing up later. Anyway, he was
obviously local, so we couldn’t resist asking him for advice. We downed our
first beers as fast as possible and started cutting up happy that the stress of
getting here was over so the carousing could begin.
“So, we’re from out of town.” One of us said.
He listened to that confession with no change in expression, as if to say “like
THAT wasn’t obvious.”
I continued. “We’re planning on eating here and then heading out somewhere else.
Got any ideas of some happening places to go locally?”
He could have blown us off. Given us the run around. Sent us ANYWHERE as long as
he wasn’t likely to go there just to avoid the embarrassment of it all. Mixing
tourists with cool people? Perish the thought!
But, he was hardly a poster child for “cool people.” He was the busboy for God’s
sake. So he thought about it for a second and made a surprising observation, to
me at least.
“This place is actually pretty good. Give it some time and it will fill up with
a couple different crowds. We’ll get a lot of regulars in a couple of hours. And
then the closing crowd will come in. We stay open later for the locals.”
“Well, that’s interesting.” One of us suggested, not really convinced. He kinda
got the message and started reeling off names and locations of other places and
the likely events at those places on a work week night. Not real promising was
his final analysis. And, anyway, HE knew where all the places were located that
he had just reeled off. Our heads were spinning, not having come close to
keeping up with his fast paced advice. And, of course, taking notes was out of
the question. That’s not something wannabe cool people do.
In response to our obvious confusion, he had pity and returned to his original
advice.
“But really, it’s about as good here as anywhere. And the slut comes here. I
guess you can call her the ‘house’ slut.”
The look we gave him could have been equal to shouting “What the fuck! What did
you just say?”
We looked at each other and realized that regardless of whether this kid was
pulling our leg or not, this unguarded comment was just the sort of line that we
could turn into a joke that would never end. The more we drank, the more “house
slut” would be inserted into every conversation. Kind of like how the word
“fuck” has become a necessary part of every young person’s grammar, to be used
in every sentence more than once. So, we immediately launched into a cynical
investigation.
“House slut?” I said real slow, to emphasize what a novel idea this was to the
two of us. Even after years of licentious carousing with friends that thought
exactly like I did about the opposite sex, I had never heard an employee of a
food or beverage establishment make the claim, apparently seriously, that it was
stalked, or maybe haunted, by a woman that could be called a “slut” right out in
the open. It wasn’t like he was judgmentally calling her a “bitch” or a “cunt”
or anything else that might imply condescension. Nope, he seemed to be
describing her as she really was. How she wanted to be. How she regularly acted
so that significant numbers of people came to agree that she was a slut that
pursued her thing so often in THIS establishment that she had earned herself a
brand as the “house” slut like she was the cheap wine you buy by the carafe.
Despite sarcastic and pointed questioning by us, he stuck to his guns. He simply
repeated.
“She might be around tonight. Maybe you’ll see her.” And then he left to do his
waiter thing, when he wasn’t doing his busboy thing.
Multiple beers were consumed discussing the likelihood that the existence of the
house slut could be taken at face value. We soon realized that we had neglected
to ask him how we might recognize the house slut if she, or her ghost, showed
up. Negligence! What were we thinking? But the business in the place was picking
up so our server was replaced by the real one and the opportunity to interrogate
the guy for more details vanished.
No matter. Despite having a private LONGING for being so fortunate to be in the
sights of the house slut (or any slut), I had no hope that I would ever set eyes
on the house slut, let alone do slutty things with her. But I couldn’t admit
that to “G.” That would have been a sign of weakness. He would have attacked
that confession like a Viking raiding party. Nope, I secretly drank away my
jealously for all the other guys that had enjoyed the making of the house slut’s
reputation. If ONLY I could have been them for a night. Maybe an hour. I’d have
taken a blowjob in the parking lot for Christ’s sake! As I sat there feeling
sorry for myself, I pushed it out of my mind. Even if the house slut were to
show up (hopefully with a sign on her head announcing who she was), I would
never get the time of day from her. It would be just my luck that she’d overlook
me for some guy sitting next to me. Then I’d have to watch and listen to her
slobber all over him. Arggh! If ONLY the house slut would show up and want ME! I
thought to myself.
“Be careful what you wish for” is what I should have said.
As the night wore on, we moved to the bar and all that the busboy had said came
to pass, at least short of the house slut. The place steadily filled up. Pretty
girls in a gaggle over there. Guys and gals on the other side of the bar. All
seemed to fit into one group or another. Local for sure. But “G” and I were
content for now. Long past the urge to try to find any of the other locations
that we had been given. We couldn’t even remember what he had said about them or
even their names, let alone where to find the joints. And they probably weren’t
going to be better than here anyway. Not on a middle-of-the-week work night.
Under these conditions, is it any wonder that the “house slut” had faded from
our conversation? It had become more like a silly tall tale. And so we forgot
about the whole matter.
Instead, we had discovered a typical bar game. Nowadays, it’s all about video
games sitting on the most promising parts of the bar: The corners. In Jesters at
that time, it was a long, and expensive, miniature shuffleboard game. You were
supposed to put quarters into it, but we discovered that money only produced
electronic score keeping. We didn’t care about that. We could play the game with
the metal pucks without feeding the machine money. So we did. Laughing. Cutting
up. Drinking. The game gave each player ample time to rest against the bar while
the other player putzed around taking his shot.
During one of those moments while waiting, I leaned against the bar near the
corner and gazed, because I was facing that direction anyway, at this women in a
red top sitting at the bar. She was attractive. Very attractive. And so I
stared. I didn’t mean to make it obvious, and maybe it wasn’t. But on that side
of the bar, which was on the side with the shuffleboard machine and just a few
bars tools down from the restaurant’s entrance, she was nearly alone. She kind
of stood out sitting at the bar and so I decided to enjoy the eye candy. I
couldn’t see below the bar what she was wearing. But I could see her red knit
top just fine. Her tight torso highlighted some very very nice boobs. Probably
some kind of push up bra enhancing what was already nearly C-cup (soon enough I
would get close enough to know). She seemed unbelievably sexy to me in my
condition at that time. She was an upper twenty something, or maybe young thirty
something. Just like me. And the more I looked at her, the more I became
aroused.
“Damn,” I thought to myself, “she’s hot.”
Not wanting to be a creep, and with “G” needing some abuse, I turned my
attention away. But I kept looking back to this chick. Then she really caught my
attention. Sitting on her bar stool like some diva in an old Hollywood movie,
she pulled out her cosmetic case and started dolling herself up. For the moment
I didn’t know why. It seemed an odd place to do it. Most chicks are too self
conscious to primp and proper at the bar like that. I didn’t realize, of course,
that I was looking at the house slut doing the equivalent of what a soldier does
who is about to enter combat: “LOCK and LOAD dog faces! Don’t shoot until you
see the whites of their eyes.”
All that would become obvious a short while later. But for now, it made the eye
candy experience all the more interesting. But at that moment it was still far
away. Seemingly no closer to becoming a personal self-esteem building experience
than meeting Snow White. She smiled into her mirror as she dolled up. I decided
afterwards that the smile was because she saw me gawking in her peripheral
vision. But for now, it seemed like she was ignoring me completely in favor of
admiring herself. Typical woman I thought. A momentary fantasy arose in my head
about some mythical romance with THAT hot looking chick.
Then “G” hollered for me to come take my shot and my attention was diverted away
from the hot chick in the red top doing her make up. I played my shot (I forget
how I did, probably nothing heroic) and returned to the bar. I knew my next shot
would come quickly so I returned to a point closest to the end of the
shuffleboard table. Instead of sitting around the corner, now I was perched
without sitting at the edge of the bar just a few stools down from the chick. I
was facing out looking at “G” and waiting my turn. My elbows were back behind me
supporting my arms as they rested on the edge of the bar. My fists lightly
curled up. My body at a slack angle away from the bar. Feeling totally relaxed
and devil may care. I was looking at the shuffleboard machine, and not much
else.
I may have noticed movement in my peripheral vision, but she moved rather
quickly so I didn’t see it coming. Getting up from her bar stool after having
stowed the cosmetic case to ready herself for combat, she just walked the few
steps to where I was and turned to stand directly in front of me, about one foot
away, to deliver her line. A guy couldn’t have delivered the pick up line any
better.
“I’m the prettiest girl in this bar, and I’ve chosen YOU tonight.”
I may live to a ripe old age, but I’m pretty sure that will be the last time ANY
woman says that to me. At least in that way.
Going from a totally unattainable fantasy to an all too real encounter like that
can cause a man to self destruct. Your mouth refuses to engage to form a
coherent sound, let alone a sentence. What was a second before an easy
spontaneous conversation with “G,” was now a shocking lack of situational
awareness. Fortunately, I had had enough to drink to be uninhibited, but not too
much to be foolish or worse boorish. I somehow kept my composure despite the
surreal feeling that I had been dropped into the set of a beer commercial
without seeing the script first.
Her lips upturned slightly as she maintained unyielding eye contact, secure in
her mind what this frontal assault must be doing to my ability to think. Forget
about killing me with kindness, she was killing me with a lack of subtlety. In
thinking through this moment, again and again during many masturbations, as well
as other idle moments not masturbating I still have to marvel at her purpose and
willingness, or experience, that allowed her to figure out what she was wanted
from me and then to take a direct approach to get it. This was something Farrow
might call “communication.” Some other folks, like Ms. Manners, might argue it
was over communication that should be avoided. But whatever, she had said it. I
didn’t dream this, although I might have dreamed something like it as part of a
fantasy with no hope it would or could ever be realized.
Now I had to deal with the fact that it was realized. What the fuck do I say or
do NOW in response to THAT? And she was waiting for a response. I didn’t want to
melt down. I’ve got to say SOMETHING and I’ve got to figure out what that is
NOW. I was shocked by how ill prepared I was for this moment. For crying out
loud, “G” and I had been anticipating this trip for months. We had planned out
not just the job portion of the trip, but the fun portion too. We had fought
through a fucking ice storm to get here. Just three or four hours before we had
ASKED the waiter/busboy how to find just THIS sort of action. And he had TOLD us
about the house slut.
Had he really been trying to warn us? Here I had been feeling jealous and sorry
for myself because THIS would never happen to me. And now it had just happened!
Well, not everything had happened. She hadn’t said “I choose you and that means
I’m going to be a submissive porn star for the rest of the night while you fuck
me in every hole twice!” But neither was this some murky flirting with hours of
probe and feint before your fate is determined: Go home with her, or go home
alone. All of the defenses to avoid adultery were supposed to be built into this
tiresome process of the bar pick up. But she had just circumvented ALL of it!
The gradual defense I counted on was ripped from me like weak armor.
What was I to do? The tired movie gimmick comes to mind. You know the one where
an angel poofs onto one shoulder and a devil onto the other. Both giving
opposing advice.
“Turn her away! You have a pregnant wife at home!” the angel shouts.
“But she chose YOU! It would be rude to blow her off,” counters the devil.
Back and forth.
Something finally popped into my mind and then flowed out of my mouth. Not
unlike last October, when that little jailbait kitten stopped me during my
football game road trip. "Hiss!" she said. "Hey sweetheart." I said.
What did come out of my mouth didn’t address the situation, it just postponed
the moment of reckoning. Until the near future. The very near future.
“Well, that’s nice.” I heard myself say. “Hey, look it’s my shot. Why don’t you
come over and meet my friend ‘G’.”
Her face showed faint surprise at the suggestion, but then she telegraphed that
she could go along with that suggestion for now. After all, this was real life,
not some ASSTR story. Obviously, she had done this before (duh, she didn’t get
the name “house slut” for nothing!) so she was probably already expecting a
pretty casual response. After all, she hadn’t proposed marriage (I had that
happen once in college by a girl who neglected telling me her name first). Nor
did she offer sex directly. So an invitation to “tag along” with me was probably
about the average response she could expect. As she would, in "G's" words,
“shamelessly” show soon enough, she was confident that the hook was reasonably
set and that I was on the line. Nor was she finished with the “Ms. Direct and to
the Point” act. In her mind, she’d be able to land me. When I think back on it
now, that’s what I know SHE was thinking. At the time I was still trying to
think, so stalling was MY real motive.
So we walked over to the table and I introduced her quickly to my friend who,
not having the benefit of the introduction, was thinking "why the fuck is this
hottie suddenly talking to Dan?" But he played it cool, flying wing man as
smoothly as possible. I bent over the table to make a play while she waited.
Then I straightened back up and made some small talk, the contents of which are
thankfully lost to history. But she was still standing there hungrily eying her
catch and probably wondering why I wasn't pawing her boobs. It was then that my
eyes fully drank in the ruby red lipstick and the whore like way she had dolled
herself up. Even better was the smell of cheap perfume that I suddenly realized
was surrounding her like a wafe of smoke. It was powerful, and not refined in
the least. I don't know what cheap perfume is, but she was so completely doused
in it that I didn't have to try hard to notice it because my beer-assisted
mental process kept coming up with "cheap fuck-me perfume." I was persuaded
then, and now 17 years later, that whatever it was, the purpose of this scent
was to signal "fuck me NOW!"
Then momentary salvation from "G."
"Dan, it's your fuckin turn."
I smiled at the House Slut and bent back over the table. The House Slut must
have decided that I had underestimated the sincerity of her offer. If I was not
going to start loving on her with octopus hands within the first 5 minutes of
our "relationship" then she would go the extra mile to make it clear that I
should not feel inhibited. It was time to show me that practically nothing would
be denied me beginning right then and there. Her method of communicating this
was to bend over my back and introduce me to her ample boobs. The boobs that I
had not thought to paw in public (usually a no-no that ends a promising evening
on contact) were now smooshed on my back. But this chick didn't get the title
"House Slut" by being subtle, and this was still too subtle, so next thing I
knew she was rubbing her boobs across my back in a circular motion that once I
realized what was happening caused an involuntary reaction on my part. Nope, not
an erection. That's for a silly porn story. I felt the heat well up in my face
as a crimson blush like I never remembered exposed my intense (and I mean
intense) feeling of embarrassment. What she thought had to be kindling
unquenchable lust was producing in me a "Dog just caught the car now what does
he do with it?" moment.
We three were in close quarters at this point, nearly touching, so "G" was more
than just a distant witness to this public show. He was more like a bystander to
an accident happening right in front of him. As I straightened up with the
embarrassment now turning to a panicked feeling of shame as though I had
actually fucked her and awakened in a strange bed with my cheating virginity
broken when in fact nothing of the sort had happened. She waited for me to
recognize that, at least on this night and with this woman, I could forget the
normal prohibition of "look but don't touch" and start touching. A lot. Right
now.
Instead, I looked at "G" and he looked at me and then he just blurted out
"Shameless, she's just shameless."
I guess it never really occurred to either of us that she was just a normal,
horny young adult. And, as a woman, she was at least theoretically in possession
of the power to turn off society's enforced inhibitions at the snap of her
fingers. How often had I dreamed of having similar power? What envy had I felt
when the helpful waiter had predicted the nightlife we could expect in Jesters
if we had enough patience to await the appearance of the House Slut? Now it was
shame and panic that I felt, not dreamy hope. And here was Mr. "I'll never tell"
(a "G" line often repeated) telling me that what he had just witnessed was
evidence of shameless behavior on the part of a lady.
For me, extrication from the predicament I was in was all I suddenly yearned
for. Not because she was ugly, quite the contrary, but because I just wasn't
ready to cheat. She started her follow up by trying to melt into my arms and
start an embrace to seal the deal so that whatever came next would start coming.
Could I be faulted if I assumed that what was supposed to happen next was a
quick exit to a private place to fuck? For me that was a very short walk across
the street to my waiting hotel room. Later, after the show was over, she loudly
informed the bar that "all she wanted to do was talk." Yeah, right. At earlier
stage of my life I would have simply assumed she meant "get to the hotel room"
and I would have gratefully pawed whatever I had to paw to get there.
But that was then and this was now. I slipped into a verbal distance that was
cool in the icy meaning. Minutes later she decided that she was being stiffed
and since the House Slut apparently did not beg, there was only one alternative.
She stalked off in a huff, abandoning her conquest without so much as an awkward
good bye. "G" and I went back to leaning on the bar and drinking, speaking
almost not a word about the event. Nor would he say much about the House Slut
for the rest of the trip, even though my pride kicked in the next day and so
taking a victory lap by boasting appealed at least a little bit to me.
All I really had to boast about was a shirt that was absolutely permeated with
the smell of cheap fuck perfume. Normally my business trips are too short to
need or allow for washing my clothes. If that had been the case on this trip, I
would have thrown my shirt and jeans away rather than tote them back home to a
pregnant wife in her third trimester. ("Hey honey, can you add a little bleach
to get that fuck perfume out?") Nope, clothes are not worth that. But since I
had another two weeks of this trip to go, washing clothes was always in the
plan. And now it was a very high priority.
The House Slut was irritated by her rejection. Crossing to the opposite side of
the room, with the square bar between us, she held court with whatever regulars
she called friends. The only thing I recall hearing was the loud proclamation of
her innocent intentions, possibly prompted by one of her listeners pointing out
that I was wearing a wedding ring.
Anyway, that was opportunity number one, of more than one on that trip, to
loose, in the vernacular of Kelly, my cheating virginity. There is no doubt in
my mind that unless I had caught a disease or got her pregnant (what House Slut
worth a shit is going to let that happen?) my wife would never have known. "G"
had already proclaimed, and was to proclaim again on that trip, that "I'll never
tell." No one would have told. But instead of feeling like the fuck of a
lifetime was suddenly within my grasp, not as a masturbation-driven fantasy, but
as the realization of my hope and envy from earlier that evening, I felt only
embarrassment. Intense embarrassment. The kind that made me want the pain to
stop before I melted in shame.
What kind of guy acts like that? You tell me.
Love Dan
P.S. No, I have no pictures of her. Don't even bother asking. We had no cell
phones back then, let alone cell phone cameras. :)
Dan - The House Slut