A Woman Who Loves Menbyvargas111©
[Note: Mother Debbie, the famous advisor of cuckold husbands, is the creation of CDE. He has generously let me borrow her in order to help a young woman in need. Thanks CDE!]
Hello, out there in Internet Land. This is Mother Debbie, again. In my little corner of the World Wide Web, I'm your sounding board, advisor and provider of motherly advice to those mothers' sons who are in the less endowed crowd. You know who you are. You're not jocks. You only have a weenie. You are not very sexually experienced. You have a mild mannered, unassuming personality. You are trusting, altruistic, optimistic and always looking for the good, rather than the worse in people, especially in the women in your life. You may have been labeled as a "wimp," "sissy," or "mama's boy" by your family, friends or others. You may be the one who's been taken advantage of, even if it was done with love, by your girlfriends, fiancée, wife, or mother-in-law and sometimes by your own mother, sister, aunt, or other relatives. You may have been lovingly coerced into accepting a very subordinate or cuckold role in a relationship with the woman you love. If this is your situation, write and tell me all about it. Maybe my advice can help you make a decision, or offer you solace for a decision you've already made, or one that was made for you.
Well, let's turn to today's case. It's a little out of the ordinary. I call it:
"A Woman Who Loves Men"
Dear Mother Debbie,
I know you usually do not answer letters from women, but I just don't know where else to turn. I have thought and thought about this and I am really confused. Charles and I married three years ago now and I really love him. People would say we are perfect for each other. Although it looks like Charles will never make partner at the law firm where he works, we certainly don't lack for money thanks to a very large trust fund left by Charles's grandfather.
Some women call me Charles's "trophy wife" behind my back and titter about the difference in our ages, but I know they are just jealous of me. Charles bought us a very nice house in Potomac and he loves buying me jewelry and pretty clothes. I love the way I look in short skirts, high heels and slinky blouses. I'm a petite blonde and some my gossipy neighbors say I'm quite a "handful." I'm not sure exactly what that means; certainly they aren't talking about my D cup titties, which are much more than a handful.
I love to dance and with the hot clothes Charles buys me, you'd think we would be out partying all the time. Well, we do go out frequently, but there's the first problem. Charles is short and a little heavy and isn't a very good dancer. Moreover when we go out, he usually falls asleep by about 9:00 PM or after one beer, whichever comes first. When we get to a club, I usually find a nice quiet corner for Charles, give him a beer, and wait a few minutes until he starts to nod. If it looks like he is having trouble getting off to sleep, I help him get off by playing with his precious little weenie until he makes a mess in his pants. That always does the trick. Thereafter, I spend the night in the arms of a series of young men who can whirl me and twirl me and make my little skirts fly up to show off my pretty panties, when I wear them, or my prettier pussy when I don't.
And that brings me to the first dilemma: Antonio. I love to dance with Antonio. I met him in a downtown Latin club a month or so ago and I can't get enough of him. He is so tall, and trim. His curly raven locks glisten in the reflected strobe lights of our favorite boits. When I know I'm going to meet Antonio, and that's just about every time I have Charles take me dancing nowadays, I definitely leave the panties at home. Antonio also likes me to wear the highest heel, thinnest strap, open-toe sandals possible, which Charles gladly buys for me. At Antonio's suggestion I've started shaving my pussy. He says people like to see how wet I get whenever I'm around him. He loves showing me off and I love being shown off by such a hunk. He excites me so much when we Salsa or Merenge that when her folds me into his arms during a slow dance, I come all over the bulge in his tight pants pressed against my cunny. Finally around 3:00 or 4:00 AM before I reluctantly awaken Charles to take me home, Antonio sits me in a dark corner and I let him finger me to orgasm after orgasm. I think I'm in love with Antonio.
But I love Charles, too, and there is a lot more to life than dancing and partying. Charles's firm is an important contributor to local cultural institutions: museums, universities and the like. Naturally we get invited to lots of lectures, private readings, author receptions, and that kind of thing. I really enjoy these events because I kept up my reading after high school and can hold my on talking books, or drama, or public affairs. Poor Charles has trouble following this kind of conversation and soon gets bored and sleepy. Generally a glass of white wine is just as good as beer for getting him drowsy, so that and a little wank will have him snoozing peacefully in some out-of-the-way place while I titter and repartee.
And that brings me to my second dilemma: Rutherford. As you might guess, he's English. He's the book reviewer for the "Post" and teaches modern history at Georgetown, so he gets invited to all these literary soirees. He is tall with salt and pepper hair, a thin mustache, and a bow tie, his trademark. Even if I didn't understand what he was talking about, I could listen to that rich Oxbridgian accent for hours. He is so witty and charming that women flock around him, but their husbands don't allow too much of that. I'm luckier, so more often than not, at the end of an evening I'm left with Rutherford, listening to him hold forth on something terribly intellectual. His brilliance excites me and he knows it. When we are alone and he sees how wound up I am, the dear will interrupt himself and fish out his lovely thick cock. He lets me suck it while he continues to expound some pet idea, but usually not for very long. I can have him filling my mouth with his delicious cream in minutes. And then -- I love his English sense of fair play -- Rutherford will throw up my skirt, bury his face in my puss, and lick and eat me to a series of explosive orgasms. It's the mustache rubbing against my clit that does it! I think I'm in love with Rutherford.
But I love Charles, too, and there is more to life than dancing and talkie cultural events. We love going to concerts at the Kennedy Center. Music thrills me. It doesn't matter whether it's Bhrams or Mahler. I respond very physically to the power of a full concert orchestra especially when Andre is conducting. He's my third dilemma.
Andre is Thai and when I see him on the podium in his adorable little penguin suit, his lithe body moving with the music, I get so wet. When Andre is leading the orchestra, I definitely DO wear panties, having learned the hard way, ruining several gowns and the upholstery of more than one seat in the Concert Hall.
As you can probably guess by now, Charles, wank or no wank, is snoring before Andre has turned the first page of the score. Fortunately, they turn the lights down quite low and the music of the orchestra covers up my squeals as I finger myself while watching my divine Andre. By the end of the concert I have usually soaked a maxi-pad.
Then I have to rush backstage to show Andre how much I enjoyed his music. We've become quite good friends and he always invites me back to his dressing room. I know it's a cliche, with Andre being a musician and all, but he really is the most sensitive and caring man. I can snuggle up against him and he will listen to me for hours telling him things, little problems, girl talk, you know. When I leave, I feel so much better for having talked to Andre. Of course in part that's because he IS a maestro with the thick end of that baton which he uses in my eager little box to make me climax again and again. I think I'm in love with Andre.
But I love Charles, too, and there is more to life than social events. Charles has to earn a living or at least go through the motions, and I have a life, too. I make sure the household help are on their toes, shop, and keep myself looking good for Charles -- and Antonio, and Rutherford and Andre. I go to the gym three times a week, but what has helped me most is Leroy: another dilemma.
Leroy has to be one of the biggest, most virile men I've ever seen: Michael Jordan, but blacker. He's into bodybuilding and is his ever built! His abs, pects, and delts are adamantine. He has become my personal trainer and does he know how to give me a workout! He warms me up with the hardest, longest, most talented tongue I've ever had in my snatch. (Sorry, Rutherford!). When I am thoroughly incoherent, he pins me on my back and has me point my heels (six inch spikes) at the ceiling while he drills me for twenty minutes or more. He says it's good for my gluteals. Then we work on my abdominals by him laying me face down with my butt in the air and Leroy pounding my grateful pussy from behind. Finally he lets me relax on a table with my knees bent wide apart while he finishes me off, filling the extra large condom I make him wear while I exercise my vocal cords. I think I'm in love with Leroy.
But I love Charles, too and that's why I'm taking so long, Mother Debbie. I wanted you to understand the problem I face. You see, I'm almost nineteen now and I am really getting anxious to start having babies. Mom is on my back, too; she thinks there is something wrong with me. My little sister Shannon already has three babies now (Daddy, her algebra teacher, and the twelve year old she baby-sits). Several of Mom friends thought she looked so sexy fattening up with her son's baby, they let that scamp Josh put them back in maternity dresses, too. Even little Sherry persuaded the same nice black boy who had knocked up their sixth grade teacher, to make her pregnant, too.
I went to for an examination with a sample of Charles sperm (painstakingly collected by three hand jobs over six days!) to find out if we could have children. "If I were as fertile as you are," she laughed, "I'd be careful not sit too close to anyone on the Metro or you'll be having triplets." She noticed me looking at her own prominent belly "A little accident with well-hung orderly," she explained. "On the other hand, if Charles's baby juice is all you have to work with, you could take a job as poster girl for Planned Parenthood."
Now I really love Charles and I think he will be a wonderful daddy for my babies, able to help me take good care of a clutch of little ones, but it looks like I will have to get one of the other men I love to be their father. But which one should I choose to give me the big belly I crave? I love the grace and stunning good looks of Antonio; he would make me such a beautiful baby. But I love the brilliance of Rutherford's mind; our child would be a genius. And with the sweetness of Andre, we would have the most adorable, loving little boy or girl. Yet I love the way Leroy fucks me stupid; he would have me in the maternity ward WEEKS before any of the others, probably with twins! You see my problem, Mother Debbie. How do I go about choosing?
First let me say how nice it is to correspond with such a sensible young woman. You have discovered what some women never do; never try to change a man into what he is not. With a wisdom beyond your years, you have already realized that women require many different men to serve our many different needs. It is otiose to try to get just one of them to cover all the bases. In this, women are just the opposite of men, who have only ONE need, and any woman with a hole in the right place can satisfy it.
You are particularly smart to understand that only by accident would the man who would be a good daddy for a woman's baby, also be the man she would want to choose as its father. I see, however that you have not taken your insights to their logical conclusion. You are still thinking of CHOOSING a father, and of A father.
Taking up the second point first, there is no reason that all your children should have the same father. Aside from the fun of letting lots of different men make you pregnant, circumstances change. You seem to have some excellent candidates lined up for putting a baby in your cute little belly right now, but ten or eleven months from now when you are ready to become a mother again, you may have even better ones. On the other hand, you'd better hold onto that Charles; you're not likely to find another man as well endowed financially and as poorly endowed physically as he. And his docility, his lack of libido, what a perfect husband! Keep that little treasure happy by wanking him till his eyes cross!
Now, as for choosing the father, that is quite unnecessary and even evolutionarily counterproductive. A clever woman, and I can tell you are clever my dear, sets up a sperm war. You should be able to arrange a friendly orgy during your fertile period at which you allow ALL off the lucky men to pump you so full of jism it runs out your eyeballs. Get that twat awash with sperm; and may the best wiggler win!
Now some women are concerned about managing a pack of potential fathers, fearing that they will be jealous of each other. Sometimes women even take the cowardly way out and cheat. Never do that, honey! It is perfectly alright to cheat on your husband, but you must be totally honest with your lovers. They should know all about each other. Once they see what you are up to, why should there be any jealousy? Would Rutherford want take you dancing? Is Leroy interested in discussing Sartre or listening to Telemann? Of course not! So long as you keep their balls drained, something a little minx like you should have no trouble doing with just four men, you can keep them all happy.
And here you see another advantage of getting yourself knocked up at an intramural gang-bang. None of your lovers can be sure until you deliver whether you are carrying his baby or not. So all are likely to be extra solicitous of your pleasure as your tummy and tits explode. Of course there are going to be three disappointed erstwhile fathers (four if you count Charles) when you finally pop the little bugger out, but by then everyone should be looking forward to the next event.
I hope this advice helps you, dear. Please write in nine months to tell me whose it is. I'm rooting for kinky hair.
Comments, please, to Homer Vargas