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Even if it's not, there's no telling what she might find there that could potentially be put to use to quench the fire currently burning between her thighs. (?) Suddenly, she's brought up short. Was she truly going crazy? She didn't masturbate, at least not since she lost her virginity. She didn't feel there was anything "sinful" or "wrong" with it; she just didn't do it, never felt the need. On those occasions she needed sex, there had never been a shortage of men (and a few misguided—and very disappointed—women) who had been more than willing to provide it, whether she was interested or not.
Maybe she should just take a shower (a cold one!) and try to calm down. It was going to be a long day and night, otherwise. While she's thinking things through, one hand apparently hasn't gotten the message that sanity must prevail, as it continues to idly stroke her enflamed pudenda; she suddenly notices and yanks it from her crotch, staring at it like it's betrayed her.
With her hand right in front of her eyes—and nose, as well—that's when the smell of her heat truly hits her. She notices with distaste that her hand is coated, almost to the wrist, with the slime from her still-dripping pussy. Without thought, she tentatively sticks out her tongue and takes a lick from one of her fingers. Suddenly, she is stuffing her fingers in her mouth, one by one and two by two, trying desperately to remove every last drop of her own pussy nectar from her fingers.
When there's no taste left on that hand but her own saliva, her other hand quickly follows suit, and although part of her is horrified by her actions, there is a definite satisfaction to the act that compels her to continue licking and sucking until she can't taste or smell another whiff of her scent on either of her hands. The entire time, her rebellious, agitated pussy practically hums in satisfaction, continuously twitching and spilling its copious flow down her thighs. When the frenzy dies down, she immediately stops and thrusts her hands into her armpits, hugging herself tightly to keep her hands out of further mischief.
'Shower!' she practically screams to herself. 'I've got to get into that shower! All these thoughts of sex are making me nuts!' She takes a few seconds to grab all of her clothing from their various landing sites, and uses her already-sopping panties to mop up the small puddle of her own juices on the floor. She has the sudden, bizarre compulsion to lick up the puddle, which she just as quickly squelches, with a shudder. She finishes wiping up and frantically stuffs the panties into the middle of the pile of clothing she's carrying, to minimize the scent.
As she hurries off—still nude—her slickened thighs continually remind her of the need building 'down south' and she resolves to head to the gym to work off some of this frustration, meet up with 'Milla, her trainer and best friend, have a leisurely dinner together, call it an early night, read a book—no romance novels!—and to bed by 9 p.m. so she'll be fresh and rested for work in the morning. But tomorrow when they both finally return home from their respective jobs, her hubby had better be prepared for the fucking (and cocksucking) of his life! (?)
Unfortunately, she soon forgets about all of these resolutions; the changes are already accelerating.
* * * *
Sweet Jesus! What a show! His straight-laced little wife never masturbated—at least, so far as he knew. She never even walked around nude, for that matter. Well, he believed she didn't do anything of the sort, since she never even gave the ideas any consideration when he had lightly probed, back in the early days of their relationship. Admittedly, since they regularly worked different schedules, he couldn't say for certain; but he'd have bet a sizable sum she was always fully dressed, even when alone in the house. Hell, she even came out of their private shower wrapped in a towel and turned out the light before donning her flannel nightshirt and popping into bed. To see her completely nude, frantically massaging her sex, writhing and moaning...well, that was the stuff of dreams!
That 'finger-lickin' good' bit was a bit disturbing, though; admittedly, erotic as hell, but definitely a little worrisome, for no reason he could quite put a finger on. He certainly had no idea there was anything like that in the programming. He also knew it was a bit early in the project to call 'Tasha' back, but if he saw too many more things like that, he might ask for a quick tweak to get things back on course before things spun out of control too badly.
Unfortunately for them both, it's already far too late for that resolution; the changes are already accelerating.
* * * *
'I absolutely REEK! I've got to wash my own scent off before I go nuts,' she thinks, as she slams her dampened clothes into the hamper. She quickly turns on the shower to her usual temperature, then thinks for a moment, and lowers the temp a bit, to reduce the too-comfortable heat and steamy atmosphere to something a little more chilling. She stops for a moment to look at herself in the mirror over the sink...and sees no changes, nothing out of the ordinary. Yet she feels like some stranger has taken up residence inside.
She turns to look at the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door, does the same inspection for the rest of her body. Nothing different, no visible changes. She admires her toned physique for a moment, turns sideways for a quick check of her butt and boobs in profile, sees nothing to be ashamed of there, either...and is reminded of her 'condition' by a sudden intensity in the perkiness of her nipples and a fresh dribble of pussy juice from her twitching groin, brought on by viewing her own reflection in the mirror. (?)
Tim's a lucky guy...and I'm an even luckier woman, that he indulges me so.
'What was that whole bit about 'Althea' he was babbling about?' she suddenly remembers. 'And what's this sudden interest in redheads? And Brazilian waxings? I know some men are turned on by that bare look, but I never thought MY guy was 'one of those guys'...before today. Could he be having an affair?'
She shook her head, and dismissed the idea out-of-hand. Tim was occasionally difficult, admittedly had a tendency toward kinky tastes—which she had always successfully squelched—but unfaithful? She couldn't believe it.
'But what if I'm really NOT satisfying him, anymore? Maybe he's thinking about it...maybe he's tired of the 'same ol' thing' and Lord knows, there'd be a line of women waiting to take my place. Maybe even a kinky, redheaded, bald-pussied slut named Althea,' she thought, chagrined.
She runs her fingers through her bush, tentatively touching the oversensitized area, and tugging lightly on the strands. She has always loved her pubes, since they first appeared when she was entering young womanhood. She considered them her 'badge of honor'—proof she was a natural blonde and not a fraud like those bleached-blonde bimbos. But even she had to admit her bush was maybe a little too 'bushy', and though she knew some women trimmed and primped and shaved and even plucked or waxed their little patches, she'd always considered the practice foolish.
'How did they come to be so obsessed with a few square inches of hair that almost no one ever sees? How do these women ever find the time for such silliness? And doesn't it hurt? Doesn't it ITCH when it grows back in?' She couldn't imagine her lush forest reduced to some manicured lawn or landing strip, much less completely removed. She'd feel absolutely naked, like some pre-pubescent Lolita!
And now, her hubby was talking about another woman—possibly fictional, possibly not—with a completely barren groin, devoid of any nether hair whatsoever. Someone so comfortable with herself and her body that she could even bare her crotch to another person, possibly even a stranger—to be made even MORE bare! How is that sexy? She can't imagine anything less sexually exciting than displaying her naked crotch for some stranger to rip her pubes out by the roots.
Her pussy jolts her back to reality with another clench and twitch, and she quickly released the curls she'd held captive between her fingers. 'Well, no way, bucko, not this broad. I don't have time for such stupidity! My carpet definitely matches my drapes—full and lush and long and blonde—and it's going to continue to do so!'
Suddenly she remembers his other comments and spins back around to look at her ass. Not having a good viewing angle, even when separating her cheeks with her hands, she bends over, then steps apart until she can see a gap between her thighs. She's never really taken the time to inspect her bottom before, but her husband's lewd mention of putting his "cock into both her hot little holes" suddenly has her curious about this never-explored area of her anatomy. 'Such an asshole!' she thinks, then suddenly realizes what she's staring at, and laughs. 'No, this is an asshole. My husband is just a garden variety jerk,' she finishes, and smiles to herself.
Early on in their relationship her husband had made some brief forays into this area, exploring her 'taint' ("'Tain't ass and 'tain't pussy," he'd said, when she asked why he called it that!) and trying to gauge her responses to tentative touches in the cleft of her ass and near her browneye. She'd figuratively slapped him down hard, making sure he understood the whole region was off-limits, and he'd never brought up the subject again...until today.
So, now he's talking about a fictional(?) bald-pussied slut who apparently takes it in the ass as casually as some people shake hands. 'What kind of sick woman allows that sort of thing to go on? It's unnatural, it's...' She's left speechless by the unfathomable depths of such depravity. Still looking over shoulder, she can't really see the area as well as she'd like. She briefly runs a finger down the fissure, and is surprised by the intense sensation provoked by just a 'near miss' of her anal rim.
'Oooh. I don't remember anything like that before. What's going on with me, today?'
And with that thought, she shakes her head to dismiss any further thoughts along that tangled path and jumps into the shower.
* * * *
Her husband, of course, although able to see her clearly all during this inspection, has only the vaguest of ideas about what might be really going on inside her head. But being able to watch her admire herself in the mirror and 'comb' her bush with her fingers has resulted in a sudden discomfort in his own groin area, as his re-awakened cock strains once more against his boxer briefs. The further view of his wife displaying and exploring her ass, then showering—two things he has never seen in all their years of marriage—has him transfixed and practically drooling.
He briefly considers letting 'Lance-a-little' come out to play, but knows the show is really only just beginning; he definitely wants to be ready for the 'climax' of this production, and blowing his load now would definitely put a crimp in his enjoyment later. He simply "adjusts" the growing lump in his pants, smiles to himself and continues to keep his eyes affixed to the monitor screens.
* * * *
Andrea finds herself experiencing a difficulty showering she's never encountered before. She knows the primary source of her trouble is now centered squarely between her legs, but attempting to wash the area keeps bringing a flood of pleasure that nearly buckles her knees. She tries dealing with just her pubes, avoiding the engorged lips and folds below...and completely avoiding even near-contact with her turgid clit. But the sight of her womanly hair covered in creamy suds brings her thoughts back around to that slut 'Althea' and her husband's newfound interest in smooth-shaven—waxed, rather—pussy.
'What is it with those men? What's the attraction, there? Are they all pervs in one form or another? What's the preoccupation with asses and fur removal? Pussies are where we're supposed to get fucked and they should have fuzz...it's the way God intended, or it wouldn't grow there.' She reaches for the razor she uses on her legs and pits, and following old habits, starts to touch up those areas...then catches herself and laughs aloud.
'Yeah, that's some argument, there! God intended me to have hair on my legs and pits, too, but nobody I know is going 'au naturel' with furry legs and stinky, hairy pits. In fact, just the thought...ewww. So, what's the big deal with my pubes, then? Maybe I am overreacting!' She can't take her eyes away from the frothy topping covering her fur, looking for all the world as if her hair has turned white, or her crotch was covered with whipped cream. 'Now there's a thought,' she mused, and her razor-filled hand starts to move toward her crotch to scrape away the offending 'white' fuzz covering her mound.
And just as suddenly as the reverie began, she comes to her senses. She quickly closes her eyes to the strangely compelling sight, hastily puts the razor back in the holder and reaches for the showerhead to rinse the suds off in the lukewarm shower spray. In the course of directing the handheld nozzle to the area, the inadvertent wash of the shower massage on her clit nearly buckles her knees. She accidentally drops the handle in the tub and the water pressure starts randomly twirling the spray in all directions...and some of those directions still include her overheated pussy.
She screams in frustration, grabbing at the hose and the spray nozzle, and in the course of her wrestling match, accidentally directs the flow to her sensitive tits, as well. Her nipples react to the cool spray and cooler air by springing to erection once more, nearly aching with their need for further touch, reaching newfound length and rigidity.
Finally, she regains control of the thrashing shower head and, panting now, stops for a few seconds to regroup. She considers what she's doing—frustrating herself even worse, and NOT curing the problem. Her aching nipples and twitching pussy attest to the fact she is eventually going to lose this battle and so she stops fighting the seeming inevitable. She begins using the massage feature with a purpose, hoping to accomplish with the water what her fingers alone could not. She turns up the water pressure, raises the temperature for maximum comfort, sets the massage feature to a pulsing spray designed to "relieve tension", leans back against the shower wall and goes to work...
* * * *
'Oh, sweet Jesus, I never dreamed of a show like this!' he chortles to himself, clutching his aching cock and watching the monitors.
* * * *
Fifteen minutes of feverish but frustrating activity later, Andrea is frantic. Strands of her hair are wet and disheveled, her face a contorted mask of mixed anger and need; her pussy and tits have reached new levels of excitation, but release is no closer than before. Her clit and nipples appear practically identical, poking out from their respective homes, quivering and erect, hypersensitized and no longer able to endure any sort of direct touch, even from just the shower spray. And now the hot water is running out completely, and her teeth are starting to chatter from the cold.
She slams the shower's handle off, and drops the useless massager. "I wish I had spent time learning how to masturbate!" she screams, aloud this time. "I need to cum, damn it!!"
Her mind quickly drifts again to her husband's strange behavior and their earlier discussion about the mythical 'Althea'. She suddenly wishes she could be freer to experiment, to take sexual chances, to be the aggressor and initiate sex like this Althea slut.(?)
And just as suddenly, it occurs to her that she could be. She was a pretty good actress in high school, college, even some local little theater; this would really be no different. She could 'play the role' of the vamp, the harlot, the slut...hell, so many women's roles were for prostitutes, no wonder Hollywood morals were as loose as their whorish cunts must be. And she'd be doing it for just one person—her man, her beloved. Didn't he deserve something back for all the good things he'd bestowed on her? And now, this seemed like such a little thing...for the man she loved.
But she really had no idea how to "study" for the role. Where is a good script when you need one? Who would be her role model? Well, 'Althea', obviously, was a place to start. If she was truly her husband's fantasy—or his very real lover!
And she knew just who could help her! 'Time for that trip to the gym, after all...as soon as I figure out how I'm going to put on panties and bra over these sensitized little nubs.'
* * * *
He has never seen his sweet wife so angry, so tormented and so...hot! Dear Lord, he was going to Hell, but she was so incredibly sexy like this, a wanton slut in heat. He was having his first misgivings about the whole thing, watching her in an obvious agony of need. And truth be told, his Johnson was certainly all for hurrying home to relieve her anguish!!! But he had to wait for her to be ready. That was the key to the whole treatment, he'd been told, to ensure the 'victim' participated in their own changes without any interference or assistance. It reinforced their lack of control and their surrender to their new conditions, and they couldn't rationalize later that someone had coerced them, so the final changes 'took hold' much more completely and permanently.
But this was his wife, dammit, and he loved her; it nearly broke his heart to see her like this. But his throbbing cock had no such attack of conscience, and when you only have enough blood for one head to think...
Although these were his first misgivings about the procedure, they were going to be far from his last, because as he sat conflicted, another set of eyes were watching the same show on the same web link...and practically rubbing their hands with glee, completely assured that all was going exactly as planned.
* * * *
Her compromise solution was horrible. She could put on no panties, because her engorged clit kept coming into contact with the silky material, and all of the garments seemed to somehow push her pubes downward to tickle her distended clit even worse; a full skirt was the only solution. There was no comparable garment for her breasts, unfortunately, and she was forced to endure a bra—a sports bra—which allowed for no bouncing or friction. She'd come to this ugly realization after several abortive attempts to go braless with just a blouse, or even with a normal bra and sweater, in a vain attempt to avoid exciting the perky buttons further.
Worse, she was beginning to think she could smell herself again...and even without panties her pubes still seemed to be continually irritating her clit unmercifully in its excited state. She had briefly considered a maxi-pad, to sop up the never-ending flow from her pussy, but the rough grating of the pad against her lips caused her pussy to begin its relentless clenching and twitching once more—so that wasn't going to work, either.
She needed some release, and she needed it now! She started working on her mostly-dry hair to hopefully take her mind off her OTHER hair, and as she peered in the mirror and brushed her locks to their normal sheen and loose-flowing order, she stopped a moment to consider her color.
'Why do men always want what they don't have? Women have told me their entire lives they'd kill for this silky, golden mane, and I've always been proud that no color has ever touched it. So, when my hubby finally goes astray, what does he look for? A redhead. Asshole! I guess it's human nature to want some variety in life, though...hell, I could use a change, myself! Maybe I could put one of those temporary colors in there...give him a quick thrill. I'd hate to mess up my hair, though! I wonder what my beautician would say? I'm sure he could tell me if it was safe...'
