Pam returns to her assignment without an excuse.
I'd been thinking about it for a couple of months. Well, thinking about it seriously; I'd seen this porn site a couple years ago, and I was actually jealous of women who had the audacity and confidence to strip nude and get fucked on a website. Many of the woman aren't all that hot -- too fat, too old, too worn. I was hotter than most of them, I'd make a great model. It sent chills from my clitty up to my nipples, picturing myself in photographs being fucked for the camera. When I'd taken those pictures of myself for my online personal ad, I got a rush from that; the idea of getting fucked in front of a photographer and then the pictures put on the Internet was a serious turn-on for me. So, spurred on less than a month ago after fucking Terry, Johnny, "Gouch" and Hector in the storage room of the gym club, I contacted the porn company and said, I'm a married slut who wants to be on your website. Just writing that email to them, putting my cellphone number in it, put me close to orgasm. It was something new and different, exciting, risque, I couldn't wait. It was really risky too -- I had to lie to my husband, again, justifying why I'd be away from the house all day for a the three-hour long drive from our house to this little oceanside town.
Sitting in the front seat of my new sports car, I had other things motivating me. A fork in the road, you know. The last night, my husband raised -- seriously -- the idea of starting a family. Kids. He thought it was time to get going, like my older sister, like his siblings. My reaction? Shit -- that would put a serious crimp in my ability to get fucked every day! Being pregnant? Having a baby in the house? Taking kids around to school and after-school activities? Yeah, I'd meet more men that way . . . but I might not look this good, motherhood was sure to distort my narrow hips, small ass, hot round firm titties. God, what a wreck my life would be. Did I want kids? Sorta, yes. I'd always pictured myself a mom, and there was a definite lure there. A hormonal one, particularly some times more than others. But more than being a fucking slut? No, actually, not even close.
That night where he didn't react to my hot lingerie was sort of the last nail in the coffin, in some ways. Other things, less direct as a discussion about motherhood, were making the slut in me push aside the good doting wife. I kept remembering the time, now about a month and a half ago or so, that my husband barely reacted to me wearing a slutty bra and thong late one night. I put it on for my husband, showing off my hot ass, teasing him with my tits. He was appreciating and attentive, but not exactly over-the-top like some of my dates would have been. The sex with him barely lasted long enough for me to even get worked up, before he shot his load in me and called it an evening. Four or five years ago, that would have been a hot night with him. Now? It was pathetically lame. I have better sex just on the phone with guys from the Internet. (And, by comparison, Jim and Mark and Nick and Susan gave me a lot, LOT better reaction to the very same lingerie in the next couple of weeks!)
That night kind of typified an anger that was building against my husband.