The first thing I need you to know is this: I am a dirty bitch. Not a whore, thank you very much. Whores charge. I do these things because I like them. You can keep your female empowerment, and your sex positivity. I _like_ being dirty. I feel sorry for you young girls with your slut walks, and your tumblr blogs, and your reclamation of the word “cunt”. You’ve made sex safe and wholesome, scrubbed it free of stigma. You’ve Disneyfied fucking. I’d rather be nasty.
The second thing you should know is this: you know somebody just like me. You mightn’t think so, but you do. You overlook us, is all. I could take your hand and show you: lead you through the underpasses and back alleyways, past the motels and municipal recs, into the car parks and quiet lay-bys where we thrive and swarm. There you would find us at play, unburdened and free as we writhe and squirm and shudder together. You would be shocked at how many of us you recognise.
I look like any other plain middle-aged woman. You could meet me and my sisters at the Walmart, or on the hotel’s reception desk, or behind the counter at your bank. I work at a hospital, running the insurance department. I am a 47 year old married mother of two who likes to snort cocaine and fuck. You might think that’s trashy. I hope you do, in fact. The thought of you silently judging me makes my pussy tingle and leak. If you came to talk to me at work about your medical bills, you would never know that I was gently rubbing my clit beneath the desk. After you leave, and I cum, I’ll be fantasising about you catching me at it. I’ll be thinking of your shocked expression, I’ll be getting off on your moral disgust.
A couple of weeks ago, I found myself on a bus in Philly, where I live. When I boarded, it was empty except for a young man, maybe 19. He had thick glasses and acne. I knew just by looking at him that he was a virgin, so this is what I did: I walked all the way to the back of the bus where he sat and, ignoring all the empty seats, I sat down next to him. He was surprised that someone would do that, and he looked up at me as if he wanted to say something, but he was a good boy and too polite to complain. We sat together in silence for a few minutes, pretending to look out of the window, and then I gently rested my hand on the crutch of his jeans. He jerked and turned to look at me, but I just put one finger on his lips and said “shhhh, baby.”
I rubbed him gently with my fingers and my palm until I felt him get hard under my touch, and then I slowly undid his fly. His eyes were shining and his lips were parted. He held himself so still, hardly daring to breathe and I let my fingers creep inside his pants. His cock was nice and thick, and I fondled him through the cottony material of his boxer shorts, letting my thumb rub circles over the head. My fingernails ran up and down the length of him, teasing him, making him harder and his body became even more still, held rigid with anticipation. I pulled his head to my shoulder and slipped my hand underneath the fabric of his shorts to grab his warm shaft and he made an involuntary little noise like a sleeping child disturbed. My thumb rubbed the very tip of his glans, just underneath the slit and I felt that he was sticky with excitement. I stroked his hair with my free hand and whispered to him “you’re such a good boy, and momma’s going to look after you.”. I was so full of life. Every inch of my skin felt electric with joy.
He only took a few minutes. I stroked him up and down with a slow, rhythmic motion, spreading his thick precum all over the head of his dick. When he came he lifted off the seat to push into my hand and he whimpered in my ear, spurting his semen into his shorts. I took my hand back out, gooey with his mess and I lapped it clean with slow laps of my tongue. He watched me in amazement and was about to speak when I shushed him again and took his hand. I pulled open the elasticated waistband of my pants and guided his fingers to my wet, shaven pussy. He moaned when he felt me for the first time, and froze solid, so I helped him. I guided his fingers up and down my slick lips, I showed him how to run them around and around my hardened clit. I whispered to him that he was a good boy making momma feel so good and pushed his fingers inside me. Almost immediately I came, too, my sloppy pussy squeezing and slurping at his fingers, covering him with my slippery juices.
As I rose to leave, I told him, “When you get home, I want you to jerk for me, only for me, and I want you to sniff those fingers” and then I left him, stunned at the back of the bus. They have cameras, of course. I hope I gave the driver something to think about. Does that surprise you? I go to church, I help at bake sales, and I get finger banged on the back seat of the bus. My husband knows all about me, in case you were worried for him. He’s my favourite audience.
I have a game I like to play. When I’m at home all day, I stay naked as much as possible, but if I have to answer the door, I slip on my gown. I open the door to the FedEx man, or a nice young pair of Mormons, or the guy who comes to clean the windows and I lean against the doorframe, with my gown hanging just slightly open. I like to see the anxious look on their faces as they try to avoid looking at my big floppy tits. Sometimes I play with the hem of the robe, flicking it open and shut absentmindedly as we talk. When I’m sure they’ve seen me, I say “You look mighty parched, would you maybe like to come in for a coffee?”, and they know. They all know.
It’s not the young ones that accept, the twenty-somethings with their pretty girlfriends waiting at home. They’d be too frightened of a horny old hellcat like me. No, it’s the men in their fifties and sixties. The guys with the greying hair and the paunchy tummies. They know what I am, alright, and they step gratefully across my threshold and let the door close behind them. As soon as we’re alone in my house, I lean back against the wall and let my robe fall open so they can see that I’m naked. I raise my hands above my head, palms outward, against the wall and I say “fuck me”.
Every time – every single time – I feel my sex flush with heat and blood and wetness. There is a moment of silent terror, a sensation like being in free-fall, then they step toward me and my blood begins to sing and my head starts to swim. I can hear my pulse in my head, thumping loud in my ears as they grab me roughly, and take what they need.
I cum for them, two or three times, while they choke me and call me names. Some of them like to spank me or slap my face, or push their fingers down my throat. Some of them like to force me to my knees so that they can slide their cocks into my mouth. Some of them like to turn me around, pull apart my fat ass cheeks and drive their dicks up my wet hole, fucking me up against the wall. Sometimes they take me into the sitting room to fuck me over the couch, or into the kitchen to fuck me on the worktop. I don’t care how they want me, just so long as they want me. That’s what I love, I guess – knowing that these men want me. I post pictures to the internet of my sagging tits and my gaping pussy and men send me dirty messages, and tell me that I’m sexy. It’s not because I’m pretty, or because I do yoga. It’s because I’m easy. It’s because they know that, if only they could find me, or one of the thousands just like me, they could have me. They could have any one of us. They could live out their dirtiest fantasies with our bodies, and we would beg them gratefully for more.
I have cameras all over the house so that I can make my home videos for my husband. When he comes home at night, we get the kids to bed, we do some coke and we drink red wine, and we watch the footage together on the 48″ TV at the end of our bed. I like to go down on him, my mouth bobbing and swirling over his cock while he watches me get fucked by strangers. He always cums so hard and I swallow every last drop. It’s not enough to simply _be_ dirty. It’s important to me that someone _knows_ how dirty I am. That’s what really gets my juices going. I think about that when I’m riding my dildo in the early afternoons. I think about the handsome young doctor at work who came into the stationary cupboard at work to find me frigging myself, knelt on the floor. I think about the way he blushed and paused before he left, momentarily tempted to stay and fuck me amongst the pencils and the notepads. I think about the strangers who walked past me one sunny afternoon as I got pumped full of cum by a college student behind the bushes in the local park. I think about the CCTV cameras in all of the alleyways and trains and car parks where I have played.
When you come to my desk at work, to discuss your deductibles, or to deal with your copay, I just want you to *see* me.
—-
I’m Robin Goodfellow, I write stories for the poor unfortunates who PM me their dirtiest fantasies. After consideration, I’ve concluded that I have a kind of low-level mania that manifests in periodic outbursts of sexually inappropriate activity. That’s not relevant though, particularly. Suffice to say that for the moment I am riled up and raring to write. Send me upvotes, send me orange envelopes, send me story requests, _notice me_.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/8agi1m/an_ordinary_slut_str8voy
Great reading! Makes me want more!!
I love big saggy tit’s