Let Me Add My Voice

I didn't verbally answer him, but instead, I ran my hand down between his legs and dragged my fingernails across his testicles before wrapping a soapy hand around his engorged cock. I stroked him several times before slowly sliding my fingertips off the end. He gasped for breath and responded by sliding several soapy fingers through my hairy southern lips. It was now my turn to gasp for breath.

Barely able to speak, I think I said something like, "Your dad must be a very wise man."

To which he whispered in my ear, "I'm your Daddy now, baby -- and I think it's past your bedtime."

Without another word, we both quickly rinsed off, Pete turned off the water, and as we stepped from the shower, I grabbed a big fluffy bath towel for myself and one for Pete. I quickly toweled myself off and dropped my towel to the floor at his feet. I wanted to help him with the toweling process, which was really just an excuse to kneel in front of him and suck his dick -- which I did.

He seemed to love it, but he stopped me before I got too far, as I'm sure he had an agenda, and shooting his first load standing on the bathroom tile wasn't it. Helping me back to my feet, he took my hand again, walked me to the bed before gently pushing me backward onto my back. He then slowly knelt in front of me and started kissing my feet. I had never had my toes sucked before, and now I didn't know why I waited so long. It was unbelievably erotic, and I could feel my pussy getting wetter and wetter as he erotically sucked each toe -- one by one -- by one.

As he finished my toes, he began another series of traveling kisses up each leg as he slowly worked his way to my highly-excited pussy. And just as he got there, he paused long enough to turn me ninety degrees on the bed and then laid down next to me -- only facing the opposite direction. He rolled onto his side and turned me onto my side, facing him. It was clear he was as much of a connoisseur of the French arts as I was -- and apparently, he believed lovers shouldn't eat alone.

Bob and I used to do sixty-nine, but usually, one of us was on top and the other on the bottom. Pete ostensibly preferred to do it side by side, which was actually much nicer. It made you much more like equal partners and gave neither lover an advantage over the other.

Pete's dick was so big I couldn't possibly get it all in my mouth, but I did the best I could, and wrapping my hand around what was leftover, I continued to gently stroke him. I didn't want him to cum too quickly as I absolutely loved what he was doing to me at the other end. He had inserted a couple of fingers and was gently massaging the roof of my vagina, all the while masterfully licking, kissing, and massaging my clit with his tongue and lips.

Pete's technique was so good that he could have easily gotten me off within two minutes or less, but as he was apparently enjoying my efforts as much as I was enjoying his, he was in no hurry to get to the next course either. With exceptional oral skills, he was able to keep me right on the edge until my oral efforts on his lower region finally brought him to fruition. When he simply could not hold back his orgasm any longer, he quickly pushed me over the top, so we both climaxed within seconds of each other.

I know it's an overused expression -- But Oh My God -- Oh My God -- that's all I can say. I've never had an orgasm like that in my life. And the sensation of reaching climax while your lover is releasing in your mouth at the same time was probably the most erotic experience I think I have ever had. I was so stimulated I didn't want to waste a single drop of Pete's excellent essence, and I enthusiastically swallowed every drop of his load. It was truly magical.

As our mutual orgasms slowly subsided, we both rolled over onto our backs, totally spent and yet still holding hands; we both just stared at the ceiling in a state of near exhaustion. As I laid there, my chest heaving up and down, I tried to think if Bob and I had ever reached a simultaneous orgasm while sixty-nine-ing. I couldn't think of a single instance. Usually, oral sex was just an appetizer before the main event. So, it was possible that my little affair with Pete could already be setting all kinds of firsts.

After maybe ten minutes of recuperation, Pete got up and walked naked to the kitchen in the other room. A minute later, he returned with two bottles of cold water from the fridge and a handful of miniature liquor bottles, I assume from the mini-bar. I gladly accepted the bottled water but passed on anything alcoholic.

After drinking half of the bottled water, I sat up on one elbow and said, "Pete, that was about the most amazing experience of my life. Thank you -- thank you so much."

"You were pretty damn amazing yourself, Stacy," he said. I guess that wasn't your first time to suck a man's dick?"

I smiled and simply responded, "I'll never tell."

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear," he said as he tapped his water bottle against mine in a plastic to plastic toast before lying down next to me and cuddling up. After finishing his water, he kissed me with his ice-cold lips. It felt so good, and I immediately returned the kiss. We were soon running our hands up and down each other's bodies, and in probably less than three minutes, he was fucking me.

It was missionary, but he held me tight and passionately kissed me as our bodies rocked back and forth. And as I wrapped my legs around his waist, I was in total bliss for the first time since Bob's accident. As Pete had just had a massive orgasm only a few minutes earlier, he lasted maybe ten to twelve minutes. Which was pretty good as I really doubt Bob could do that, and the real beauty was that in that time period, I had at least two more orgasms. That is one advantage of being female -- Boys can stand to pee, but girls can have multiple orgasms. The former is nice when you're in a hurry, but if time permits, I'll take the latter any day.

As he gradually stopped convulsing and his body weight slowly settled onto mine, I untangled my legs from around his waist, threw my arms tightly around his body, and hugged him. "Thank you, Pete -- thank you," I whispered.

"You're thanking me; I should be thanking you, Stacy. You're amazing -- absolutely amazing," he said.

"Pete -- I can't tell you how much I needed this," I said, choking back the emotional lump that had formed in my throat. "What happens in Vegas -- stays in Vegas. And what happens at home -- stays at home, but trust me -- I needed this more than you could ever possibly imagine."

I had to break my hug on him to wipe tears from my face. He realized that I was completely serious, but discretion being the better part of valor, decided to just leave it there. "Stacy, you are extremely welcomed -- I am just so glad Lady Luck put us together tonight," he said understandingly.

"Thank you, again Pete," I said once more as I wiped my eyes on the pillowcase. And with that, he got up, turned off all the lights and coming back to bed, pulled the sheets up over us, and snuggled up.

The next thing I remember was opening my eyes to see the desert sky out the hotel window starting to glow a Southwestern pink as the sun began to appear over the mountains to the east. I opened both eyes, and getting up on one elbow, tried to focus on the bedside clock. As I struggled to make sense of the blue-green digits, Pete asked, "What time is it?"

"Five forty-five, I think," I responded.

"Don't you have to be someplace this morning," he said.

"Yes," I said as I sat up and put my feet on the floor. I staggered to the bathroom to pee and wash my face before putting on the clothes from the night before. I was hoping no one would be in the halls as I made my way back to my room. I haven't done the 'walk of shame' since college. But if I did run into anyone out there in the hallway, at least it wouldn't be anyone I knew. Besides, this is Vegas, and it's almost expected here. And as I was delighted with the events of last night, I really had nothing to be ashamed of.

When I finished putting myself together the best I could under the circumstances, and then headed into the front room where Pete had made us both a cup of coffee. He was sitting at the bar, and I sat down on the stool next to him.

As I began adding cream and sugar to my cup, Pete asked, "Will I ever see you again?"

"I'd love to Pete. I absolutely loved our evening together last night," I said. "But I'm not sure how."

"Do you travel much," he asked?

"No -- hardly at all. And when I do travel on business, I'm rarely alone. This trip was kind of a fluke," I tried to explain.

He reached for a business card out of his briefcase and jotted something on the back. "Here," he said as he slid it across the bar to me. "This is my personal e-mail address. Once you get home, write me so I will have your address -- let's stay in touch -- please."

I tucked the card into my purse and took a swig of the still too hot to drink coffee. "I will Pete -- I mean it. Last night was the most amazing experience I've had in years -- maybe ever!" I added with a smile. And with that, I kissed him, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door. I didn't look back because if I had, I was afraid I'd cry.

I made it to our affiliate's station by eight -- just barely. The interview was scheduled for nine-thirty, and I had to get ready. The whole thing went extremely well, and I easily made my two o'clock flight home.

During the flight home, all I could think about was Pete and would I ever see him again. I didn't want to leave my family, and I admit I did have a few pangs of guilt. Three years ago, I would have never dreamed in my wildest fantasies of ever cheating on Bob. But circumstances do have a way of overriding the strongest of moral convictions, as well as solemn vows, given the right amount of time and pressure.

Over the course of the two-hour flight home, I successfully reconciled any feelings of guilt or remorse. I was happy, smiling, and still on cloud nine thinking of Pete and what I hoped had been a very successful interview as I stepped onto our front porch. That was until I opened the door.

The house was a total wreck. Bob was lying on the couch watching some asinine motor-cross race on TV, and my daughter was in the kitchen standing at the stove trying to cook dinner for her brother and herself. I just simply exploded. If I'd had a brick, I'm sure I would have thrown it through the TV. I don't think I used any profanity as the kids were standing right there -- at least I 'darn sure' tried not to. But I was screaming at Bob, which I don't think I had ever done before. Certainly not in front of the kids, but I just simply lost it!

As Bob scrambled to get off the couch, I stopped screaming long enough to look over at my daughter. She was standing on a footstool in front of the stove with a kitchen mitt on one hand and a big wooden kitchen spoon in the other. She was trying to make macaroni n' cheese out of a box for their dinner, and as our eyes met, I realized she was about to burst into tears. I dropped my bags and rushed to hug her -- at which point we both started crying. "It's not your fault sweetie," I pleaded. "I'm not mad at you, I'm just tired, and I'm mad at your Daddy for not helping you cook dinner."

That night as I lay in bed next to Bob, I couldn't sleep. As I listened to him snore and fart his way through the night, I came to a determination. I was not going to divorce Bob -- that would only make things worse for the kids, and there is no way I would do that. Plus, it would not help my career or our struggling financial situation. But I was not going to spend the rest of my life celibate. I was still young, still attractive, and I still possessed a normal healthy libido. Bob could go fuck himself for all I cared, but I was going to fuck whoever I wanted.

The next day at the station, I was way too busy for anything but work. The station manager and the news director both LOVED the piece I did in Vegas. Lots of Atta-boys (Atta-girls), and that helped boost my spirits immeasurably. But the next day, during lunch, I slipped away with my laptop to the local Starbucks. I'd heard of Ashely Madison, and I thought I'd give it a try. To my surprise, the Wi-Fi at Starbucks blocked the Ashely Madison website -- jeez. So, I headed down the street to a neighborhood coffee shop to try theirs.

Eureka -- success, no blocking there, and I logged on. The first thing I discovered was that I'd have to register. So, I logged off and created a secret e-mail account. I wanted to call myself "Damsel in Distress," but of course, that was already taken. So, I opted for DameInStress69, and it was available; the 69 of course, in memory of my experience with Pete and hoping that it might bring me good luck.

I also had to come up with a password, so I used Pete's last name spelled backward. For a zip code, I used downtown as I figured there would always be available hotel rooms there. For my date of birth, I used my actual birth date minus 180 days. That way, I figured I could always recalculate it in case I forgot, plus it made me slightly younger. And then finally I had to come up with a greeting. This was a little harder, but I finally settled on, "Cute young soccer mom seeks committed afternoon love coach." I thought that was pretty cute with tie-ins to my age, the fact that I have young kids, and that I am looking exclusively for a married man. I didn't trust single men, and I didn't trust myself with a single man. It seemed like that if we were both married, there would be some built-in protection from unintended emotional entanglements.

Once I was logged on, I surfed around the free portion of the sight for about thirty minutes while sipping a latté before deciding to post a profile. I was pleased to discover that listings for women were free. Not only did that save me money I couldn't really afford to spend, but it also solved the whole issue of what credit card to use and how to explain it to Bob if he ever discovered the charge. I assumed it would not show up as a charge to "Ashely Madison" on the credit card statement, but still a potential problem and better averted than confronted.

I then realized that I needed some sexy pictures. A listing without pictures would never attract any serious interest, and so I would have to somehow get some titillating photos of myself. For three days, I racked my brain trying to think of some way other than taking selfies in the bathroom mirror. You can spot those a mile away, and besides, they just look downright stupid.

The station has dozens of photographers, but I couldn't use any of them for obvious reasons. Then suddenly, it came to me -- Angie. She had worked for the station a little over a year ago as an intern, and I probably still had her e-mail address. Just in case she was offended (I didn't think she would be), I sent her a pretty generic request. I just said I needed some publicity photos and headshots and would she be interested. I didn't hear back from her for three days which led me to believe she wasn't interested. But when I finally did hear from her, she apologized profusely for the delay. She said she only checks her e-mail one or two times a week as she primarily communicates through Facebook or Twitter these days. But yes, she was very interested.

She met me at my neighborhood coffee bar the next day, and that's when I explained these were to be provocative shots and possibly full nude if she was still interested. Oh-my, you should have seen her eyes light up -- oh yea, she was interested. I told her it was a surprise for Bob (boy, would that have been a surprise), but I don't think that made the slightest difference to her.

She suggested that we meet at her apartment Friday afternoon. The light would be good, and her boyfriend wouldn't be home. She also suggested I bring some sexy lingerie, makeup, and any other props that might make for a sexy shoot.

When I arrived, she was giddy with excitement, and she had some excellent ideas for poses and themed shots. We started out with just headshots -- the usual stuff. Then we did a dozen or so shots of me on the couch in various stages of undress before we moved to her bedroom. There she had me change into a sexy nighty that I'd brought. She took several shots with the nighty on and then several more of me fully nude lying on her bed. There was nothing X-rated (no crotch shots), but still, it was clear I was fully nude, and I thought they were sexier than hell.

But my favorites were from the last set of photos shot in her shower. My absolute favorite was a full body profile of me standing in the shower, head back, wet hair trailing down my back, and the shower spray hitting me just below the neck. Since my back was arched, my boobs were slightly pulled back, my nipples were hard and erect, my tummy was as tight as a snare drum, and my ass was as lean and tight as a high school cheerleader. You'd never guess that I'd had two kids. It was the sexiest photo I'd ever seen, and to my delight -- it was me.

Angie was the absolute professional, and I was so please with the whole shoot. She never stripped off any of her own clothing, never even hinted that she was even thinking about it. But if she had, I don't think I would have minded. I've never fantasized about another woman before, but I was so turned on by the whole experience I would have loved for her to join me in any of the shots -- especially the shower.

Before leaving her apartment, she downloaded all of the photos to my laptop and showed me that she had deleted them from her camera. Of course, I had no idea if they were truly deleted, but I had no reason to suspect they weren't, so I just had to trust her. However, as I was heading back to work, I did fantasize about her showing them to her boyfriend, getting all worked up, and then having mind-blowing sex with him. I got so horny just thinking about it, I wanted to 'rub-one-out' while sitting in traffic -- but I knew that wouldn't be safe, and luckily again, common sense prevailed.

That weekend, I wanted to give Bob one more chance. I was very sweet to him Saturday. I didn't ask him to do any chores; I let him watch TV all day without complaining (i.e., bitching), and I made him one of his favorite dinners. I even drew a bubble bath before retiring to bed, and I tried very sweetly to get him to join me -- but nooo. He was too tired -- probably from watching me work around the house all day. So that was that -- I'd given him his last chance.

All-day Sunday, I kept thinking about posting my photo on Ashely Madison. I knew that once my picture was added to my profile that I would start receiving a flood of responses. The prospect of all those men looking at me naked and fantasizing about how they might 'coach' me had me tingling with excitement all day. I wanted to attract the best possible candidates as Pete had set a very high standard, but I didn't want to set my expectations too high as I was perfectly aware of the inherent risks of internet-based dating.

Monday morning, as soon as I could get away to my neighborhood coffee shop, I reread my profile two or three more times. And then posted it along with my favorite photo -- the one taken in the shower, with my face blurred just enough to protect my identity -- I hoped!

It did not take long to start getting responses. I only checked it at the coffee shop, and I could not make it every day, so they just piled up. Sometimes I'd get ten to twenty messages a day, and I had to learn fast how to separate the wheat from the chaff.

I immediately deleted four out of five messages based on their level of civility or just plain gut instinct. For those who made the first cut, I decided I needed a standard response to separate the men from the boys. After several drafts, I finally settled on the following: