tagLoving WivesMelanie's Memoirs - A Married Slut 12

Melanie's Memoirs - A Married Slut 12

byNonStopFunGuy©

I'm Melanie. I'm a 30 year old, married slut who cheats on her husband almost daily, if not even more often than that, because he can't come close to satisfying me and I can't possibly get enough cock anyway. This is another entry in my memoirs.

At the time I'm writing this, I've got about eight to ten guys who I count as "boyfriends" -- guys I fuck somewhat regularly. I decided to write down how I got here -- the doting, boring suburban housewife to the cheating, cock-loving little bitch that I know I am -- because I know how impressed many guys are with me. I've done some really, ridiculously naughty things. Really depraved, outrageous things. Two years ago, before all this started, I barely even had fantasies about some of the things I've done.

I can't get enough attention from hung, sexy men (and hot ladies too!). I want every reader of this to crave me, as much as I crave the men in my life. Don't you want me? My petite 125 pound frame, my long dark hair and slender, triangular face, my hot small ass, my gorgeous C-cup tits. I'm here for you, baby, are you man enough to please me, hmm?

So go on, grab your dick (or jam your fingers in your twat), read on and I hope you get off as hard as I have!

* * * *

My future was decided yesterday, the day before I wrote these memoirs, a cool, rainy day in the first week of June. I mean, I didn't make a formal decision about my future, but I made a choice that puts me on a pretty obvious path. One that was so improper, but felt so comfortable.

My hand grabbed the door handle of my new car, but I didn't move it. Not yet Sitting in the driver's seat of my brand-new convertible, with raindrops softly tapping the rag rooftop and windshield, I paused. Froze, maybe, is a better word. I sat in that little sports car and had to make a choice about myself.

I was in the mostly-deserted parking lot of an small, two-story commercial building isolated on an otherwise undeveloped, wooded landscape backed to the ocean. I'd been here once before, about three weeks ago, but for a far less momentous event. Today was a real turning point in my life, should I get out of the car and walk into that building.

It was the headquarters of an "amateur" porn website. I won't give the name here, but it's one that you've probably seen if you do a lot of online porn surfing. Pictures and movies, basically. They have a specialty, I guess you'd call it that, for married women. Women like me, horny for attention and cock. Totally regular women contact them, come over to get photographed and recorded while getting nude, sucking and fucking huge swollen cocks, filling themselves or getting covered in sperm from men they don't know, while their husbands are back home. Some might have approved of it, wanting wives who fuck around and are sex goddesses. Others, like my husband, wouldn't have a fucking clue.

I set up and went to an "interview" about three weeks earlier, just a couple days after fucking four (!) strangers in the storage room of the gym where I work out. Yeah, letting myself gets screwed and used by four muscular, sweaty studs had made me realize not only did I love to fuck, but I was fucking good at it. Really good. No reason I shouldn't make some money on the side, if I could, getting paid to have sex while it's recorded. So I contacted this porn company, and they said, come on by for an interview. They wanted to see if I was for real, if I had the looks and body to turn on men, and if I had the guts to do it.

For that interview, I sat in a small office with the place's owner, his wife (who was the first model on the website, which was after they were married), a young but unattractive female aide, and a female photographer who was a hot-as-fuck blonde. When they interviewed me for a half hour and concluded I was a for-real married woman interested in appearing on their website, they took me into a studio and photographed me stripping. I got nude in front of the guy and the three women. It wasn't difficult, I wasn't nervous; I was actually horny as fuck, and finger-fucked myself to orgasm in front of the four of them. They were all complementing how hot my body was, how I was so pretty and sexy and was a great model for them.

Come back in a few weeks, they said, they'd have a "shoot" of me with one of their male models. A muscular, fit, hunky black guy with a solid 9-inch prick, by far the biggest I'd have ever fucked. It would take about an hour or two, not including "prep" time (makeup, etc.), and if it went well I'd end up with loads of sperm all over my body, a very achy used cunt, a few hundred bucks (in cash!) for the session, and a few pages on their website showing the entire planet what a fucking slut this married whore was that afternoon.

They were even going to use my name and home state -- "Melanie F. from PA" -- so that, if anyone saw the website and recognized my face, there would be little doubt who the whore on the website was. More than that, the website would have a profile of me. I admitted on video that I was fucking around, screwing men and women my husband didn't know about. I loved sex, loved it with strangers, loved being used and fucked and manhandled, love turning sexy men into my own playtoys. As the owner of the website said to me in the recorded interview, I was just a sex-craved nymph who couldn't get satisfied at home.

So that was the choice I had to make, sitting there in the parking lot yesterday of this porn company's studios. I was there to get photographed for a website having sex with a man not my husband. Mmm, it would be great sex, and knowing that guys online would be jerking off to it made it even more hot for me. But what a risk it presented, huh. The risk the whole world finding out what kind of slut I'd become -- meaning, my husband, parents, sister, friends, in-laws, everyone!

There were two Melanies, I was really one person in two worlds. At home, with my husband, I was doting and good. I had fun with him, we were romantic and playful, it was always easy being with him. Easy, yes, that's the right word. No stress, no expectations. It was morally "right" to be with him, I didn't feel bad about myself when I was playing the loving wife. He made the decisions around the house, he did the hard work to earn the money, I had life on easy street. Sleep in, do whatever I wanted, just take care of him with dinner and attention and laundry and shopping, all the things a housewife is expected to do for her husband. That's an easy, simple life, essentially stress-free. I started that life right after college, getting engaged my senior year, basically deciding it was easier to be the wife of a guy from a well-off family than a woman trying to make it on her own in the male-dominated world.

Then there's the other Melanie. The one that can't wait, every morning, for her husband to leave for work. I'd get naked as soon as his car was leaving the driveway, I'd rush over to the computer to read my emails, see who was trying to set up a date with me or meet me, find out who was online for cybersex or phonesex. The other Melanie would shower and put on perfume and do my hair BEFORE going to the gym for a workout, leaving open the possibility that my workout would end up being in someone's bed. The other Melanie goes on lunch dates or for drinks with married men, visits the condo of a horny kept blonde downtown, agrees over the phone to meet men in parking lots of motels without ever having met them in person yet.

As these months have passed, it's become clear to me who the REAL Melanie is. Not the one I'd been playing since I got married, right after college. The real me was the slut inside who craved attention, worship, and sex. Being so fucking sore I couldn't put my knees together, laughing at the inability to drive myself home from a motel or someone's condo or apartment, feeling sperm dripping down my thighs out of my used cunt from a man I'd never met before . . . that is what made me feel alive. Those moments are pure joy for me. There is nothing in life like them.

You know, a married woman like me isn't supposed to have that kind of joy. I supposedly had sworn it off. Frankly, many people would say, any woman isn't supposed to have that kind of joy. The thrill of a stranger staring at your body, wanting you, the fun of the seduction, the amazement of seeing a guy's huge penis for the first time. Or the tingling from knowing that another female wants to fuck me, as much as I do her. No, that's what a slut does, and girls are supposed to be good, not be slutty. Sluts are bad. Right? Fuck that. Fuck ALL of that.

The more and more I fucked around, the less I could tell my husband. There was no way he'd understand the real me. If I said, I was having an affair? I shudder at what his reaction might be; anger towards me, possibly physical abuse? Possibly. Certainly I'd be subject to emotional attacks, his family would hire expensive lawyers for the divorce, it would be mental pain far more intrusive than any deep fucking I'd had. But it wasn't an affair, it was the life of a cockslut, it was a need to be a sexual object for men and women, and in that way for me to use them too. But my husband wouldn't understand any of that, he'd just say I was an out-of-control whore, someone living a lie with him.

That, really, is why I was contemplating the porn shoot for this website.

Maybe, I thought, I wouldn't have to tell him. Maybe he'd find out this way. Like, a friend of his could say, I think your wife was on a porn website. Or, we'd be at dinner and someone would come up to me in front of my hubby and go, I saw you on that porn website. Or, best of all, maybe my small-dicked hubby looked at porn -- with me in his bed, I'd have no idea why -- and he'd see me on the website. So instead of me telling him I was sleeping around behind his back, in one moment he'd just be shown that I'm a fucking slut. Not the good wife who stays at home, but the bitch who spreads open for any hot guy who wants to drill his dick into my married pussy.

That wasn't the only reason I was here. The idea of being fucked on film for an Internet porn site had made me excruciatingly horny. 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. Not outright hatred; just, a resentment, an unspoken disdain. I was mad at him not only for bad sex from his small cock, but for unknowingly restricting my extremely fulfilling sex life. I mean, having put my profile and pictures online and having cybersex and phone sex regularly, over the past year I'd gotten all sorts of offers -- for overnight dates, weekend trips, and fully-paid-for trips to all sorts of cities I'd love to visit. Men in New York, Miami, New Orleans, Chicago, San Francisco, Las Vegas . . . guys online were offering to fly me out, wine and dine me, show me great times, and fuck my brains out. Had to say no to all of that. Not to mention the scores of hot guys who lived near me, whom I could have fucked anytime I wanted, if I could go out at night. Hubby was stopping all of that, every bit of it. Shit, I couldn't even have phonesex late at night, when most of the hot men were available online.

Not only was there the unfulfilling sex life after dark. But, just sitting there watching the news with him late at night, thinking to myself there was probably some hot guy with a fat cock and rocking body who could be stretching out my pussy right at that moment, if I wasn't married. That's what you give up when you get married, of course; but when I got married, I had no idea I'd be so interested in that kind of life.

Put simply, I enjoyed fucking other men more than my husband; it was even more fun fucking a guy I didn't know, and whom I'd never fuck again, than having another rote turn with hubby.

And you know, it's not fair of me, but I was secretly blaming him for it, more and more. I figured he sensed something wasn't right.

Like, he'd call me in the middle of the day, and he'd find me bitchy and crabby, trying to keep the conversation short. It didn't happen all the time, but frequently. That was usually because I was finger-fucking myself at the computer, or on hold with a guy for phonesex, or on my way to a date. Yeah, there were a couple of times I talked to him in the middle of the day while I was having sex with Roger or Michael (I trusted them enough to answer my cellphone or the home phone while I was with them). Hi honey, how's your day, when will you be home, I miss you, I love you. I say all the right things, but I probably spoke in monotone, if not being outright bitchy. Hard to concentrate on your husband when a much more sexy stud or horny pervert is licking your twat right at that moment, if not jamming his bone into me.

Plus, the arguments. Him and me arguing, more and more. I was always pretty diffident in our relationship, letting him make major decisions. He left decorating the house to me, even though he doesn't have my good taste in color. Otherwise, we'd talk about things, but normally he got the last word in. The last few months, however, I kind of didn't care. I'd bring home food for dinner I knew he didn't like (Middle Eastern or Moroccan stuff, which I adore). Me working "at the gym" until late in the afternoon, so dinner wasn't ready for him when he got home. (No, I would never be at the gym, actually. Use your imagination.) It was getting more out of control, too. Perfect example was this past week, me buying my new convertible sports car, not only not asking him or telling him in advance, but shopping for it without him. I took a boyfriend, my friend Brad, instead. My hubby came home from work and there was a nice, new convertible in our driveway. At first he thought someone else was at our house, then I laughed at the strange conversation we were having. I said, "No, baby, that's mine -- you like it?" Like it? It wasn't about the hot car (hotter than his), nor the fact it cost more than his (trust me, we can afford it, he saves money like it's going out of print). No, he was mad that I made the decision without him knowing in advance. I have to say, I was unapologetic, standing there listening to him rant, but I didn't care. It was time for me to have new wheels, I told him, we can afford it, I did it on the spur of the moment. So what? It made me feel good -- why can't he be happy for me? Now, I couldn't tell him why I really liked having my new car; someone -- maybe Brad, maybe Roger -- said I'd look great in sun glasses in a black convertible, and I thought, why not make it happen? So that led to an argument that night, and another one the next morning. Through all of it, I didn't care. Fuck that, I said of his objections, out loud. It's my car, I like it, you get a new one if you want.

Was he suspecting me of cheating on him? I'm a good liar, I have to say. Once, my husband accused me of having an affair, but more in a hypothetical way. "Why didn't you answer the phone, are you having an affair?" Something like that. He wasn't even right about whatever he was saying, I think I had a legitimate excuse for what he was mad about. I don't know if my husband is stupid, but he didn't really pick up on the new things in my life this past year -- all the new lingerie and see-through, slutty clothing I'd been buying myself, or new perfumes, or the TWO gym memberships. Who needs to go to two different gyms to work out? I do, if the guys at one gym think I only walk into it to get laid. When I really want to work out, I need a different gym.

I was tiring of the arguments. I didn't want to miss all the good, hot sex I could be having in evenings. I hated having to say no to legitimate offers from rich, gorgeous men to fly to their cities for all-expense-paid weekends of fun and fucking. Sex is no fun when you're staring at the clock, thinking how long I can stay at a guy's apartment or a girl's condo or in a cheap motel, before I had to get home. Would have been way better to fuck without time limits, in my own bedroom. Not to mention being able to have pillow talk, or post-sex kissing and caressing, taking showers together, all the fun things.

Melanie, the slutty one, wanted to move on. The married, good Melanie hated having to make that decision. There was no way I was going to do it myself, no way I was going to approach my husband and tell him what was really going on with me.

So, that put me here in the parking lot, contemplating making a few hundred bucks getting fucked on camera by a stranger. Fuck, I wanted to do it so badly. Not for the money; but for the fun of it, the sex, the publicity, showing off what a hot slut I am, how good I look nude and with a dick in my mouth or pussy. Or ass, wherever.

Just drive home, a voice said in my ears, this is out of control. You're out of control, Melanie. It can all end, break it all off, concentrate on your marriage and husband, start a family, be a mom. This was good for the memories, but what's to show for it? I have great sex one day, and the next day, I just want more. It'll never end. Ever! Except, eventually I'll get old and ugly, saggy, hot men won't want me . . . and I'll be alone with fucking nothing. Nothing, no one.

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