Paul and Paula - Her Story 02

This story is the property of the writer Kalimaxos. Any unauthorized reproduction or reprint without the author's express authorization is strictly prohibited.

It is the story of Paula and spans close to twelve years in Paula's life. 1983 to 2005. And the story is a prequel. Read to the end to see more information where the story continues by the original author.

My characters are often flawed, and like real life, my stories are a shitshow, like life.

One more thing, you are on an erotica site reading smut. The last thing we need to hear is your morals and judgementalism. What are you doing here reading smut then trashing the writers, and characters on moral grounds? How "moral" is that?

I moderate comments. Make any derogatory or violent comments, lie about the story content to influence readers, or give me a lecture on morality, and your comment is gone.

You need to read part 01 first. it's complicated.

***************

Part II

Work is rewarding... in one way or another

Jacksonville, FL 1997

As I drove back to work from the hotel, it was hard to wipe that grin Brandon had placed on my pretty face. 'My first' was such a pleasure. He had not been good when we first met. The great came in time. But unlike some men who think "they are all that" and need not expand their skills, Brandon had become one of the best lovers I ever had. And so long as he stayed that way, I always found room for him on my busy schedule.

The rest of the afternoon went pretty quick as I had a house showing for a middle-aged couple. The wife seemed bossy and remote to the husband. Just the way I liked them as customers. When I had a minute alone with the man, I passed him my card with my personal email.

"Contact me," I said, looking intently into his eyes. "I'll make it worth your while if you convince her to buy. You can tell her you talked me down two grand from the price I offered. Are you interested?"

Giving up two thousand bucks on the signing price was nothing, considering how much the sale was. My offer was already thirty grand over what the sellers wanted. Why so much? Because the wife had gone googoo-gaga over the place as soon as they saw it and I had made a judgment call,

Customers like them were what I lived for. A wife who didn't care how much the mortgage would be just to have the palace she deserved. And a husband who looked... starved. And I don't mean food-wise. Hubby could stand to lose twenty pounds. What I meant was sexually starved.

I knew this sale was most likely to happen from the smile he gave me after the surprise wore off. And my cut of the deal would add to my already fat company account.

How I secured that sale is rather droll and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Rest assured that the husband did contact me the next day. We did get together for an hour of horizontal dancing at a local hotel. And much to my disappointment, I found out why his missus was not impressed with him.

To say that guy was lacking in skill and endowment would be an understatement. But then I thought of Brandon and how well he performed with what he had and came to two conclusions. First, this man lacked imagination and the will to improve his game; even after giving him a couple of pointers. Second, despite fifteen years of marriage, his wife had not taken the time to teach him how to be better.

But I had the sale, and my association with them was over after the signing. That was all I wanted with some men - a successful business deal. If some sex had to be placed on the negotiating table for that to happen, it did. And if the man happened to be a handsome hunk that piqued my interest, I went that extra mile to add icing to the cake of life.

Regrettably, not all potential buyers were hunks. But you see, I love sex. I crave and need it. So having sex to further my career may be an issue for some, but not for me. In my view, my looks and willingness to have sex with clients or business associates is but a tool to get ahead.

Yes, I could play the morality game some do, but then I would, for one, miss out on a lot of fun, and two, not amass the wealth I intend to accumulate. Call me whatever you will, but I think life is too short to hold back on its pleasures or opportunities. I only have one life, and I will not waste my good years, then have misgivings or, worse... regrets.

Feel free to judge me. Meanwhile, I am having a ball and getting rich.

***

My safe and comfortable...

Jacksonville, FL 1997

I thought of that on my way home that early evening. My husband Paul had arrived home in time to start dinner. After a kiss, hug, and exchanges of "I love you," I had gone to change and returned in time to help set the table.

"How was your day, dear?" he asked as he usually did.

"Productive," I replied. "The buyers made an offer on the Estemarie Lane property."

"Did they haggle much?"

"A bit. Enough to save face," I replied in between bites of lemon-grilled catfish. "Oh Paul, this is really good. You outdid yourself. Is that a hint of garlic?"

"Nothing gets past you," my husband replied in his usual calm tone.

Always calm and collected, my Paul is - never showing an ounce of emotion. I can't even remember the last time he had shown any anger, jealousy, frustration, or lost control over anything.

"How about your day?" I ask out of obligation, as the answer will be the same as other days.

"Nothing new in the public relations world."

Of course not. Why would anything be engaging in a safe and uneventful job? But then what man in his prime gave up being an investigative reporter and settled for a monotonous secure job?

But that's my Paul. A good man to be married to, have a family and raise children with. He was and still is good-looking. More so than average. Not with the IQ I am blessed with, but still, quite intelligent.

"I'll tell the kids to come down," I said and went to check on our boy and girl upstairs.

The rest of the evening was filled with the usual family stuff. While we ate, our kids ignored each other initially before taking swipes at one another. You know the standard fare with siblings vying for their parents' primary child favor. Paul and I gave each other knowing looks, letting our son and daughter have their say, then setting them straight.

Then there was homework, which we parents checked. Eventually, it was bedtime for us all. Paul and I watched some TV for an hour to give the kids time to go to sleep then checked on them before returning to the sanctity of our bedroom.

And in the fashion of most married couples, we had sex. No. Not just sex. We made love. Gentle and easy. Typically, slow and... mundane love. Still, as I always cum from intercourse, I came from Paul's fucking and finished him off with my mouth, just the way we had started.

That was our routine. I started Paul off with my mouth. Then he reciprocated by going down on me. I made sure he did not cum. There had been a time I would make him cum first with my mouth, giving him time to recuperate when he ate me. Then he would last longer when he was in me. But as the years passed, Paul had changed.

By that point in our marriage, if Paul came in my mouth to start with, he was done for the night. So we had compromised. I kept him from cumming, then he worked on me a bit, then he inserted himself in me, and when he was close, I finished him off orally. Sometimes that took us fifteen minutes from beginning to end -- most times. On bad nights, the entire process was over under ten minutes. If I was lucky, we made it to twenty.

Some women would be happy with that much sex. If they had it every night, that is, which we did not. Still, we had sex a couple of times a week on good weeks. I often reminded Paul we had not had sex by Friday or Saturday. As I would learn from women I knew, their sex lives were even less remarkable than mine. When I told how much we had to another woman, she said she 'wished she had that much.' So I guess I was ahead of the curve? I should have been glad my husband gave me that much attention.

***

So why Brandon, you ask? Well, as I said earlier, Brandon was my first. The first man I had while married to Paul. And a girl always remembers her first. Her first man to have sex with and take her virginity. The first she gave oral to. The first she gave her ass to... well, all those were Garry for me.

So who was Brandon? Well, Brandon was the first man I had as a married woman. And I did not cross the line from faithful wife to what I am not easily. In fact, I stayed faithful to Paul for over nine years.

What made me cross the line and join the ranks of cheaters? Why am I living this double life?

***

Enter Paul

The University of Florida, Gainsville. January 1985

So, where was I? Oh yeah...

Everything was great in my life. I was pulling a 4.0 GPA with hardly any fears of not continuing so. I was young, popular, and was getting more sex than most people get in a lifetime each month.

They say everything is sunny before the storm. Right before something happens to ruin it all. And mine did in a way I had not expected. Have you ever seen a video of a truck hitting a car at a crossroads?

That is what happened to me when I ran into HIM. I knew who he was, vaguely. Who? Paul Donnely, of course. He had a reputation as a smooth operator with, what I called, the 'Bamby' type girls.

Bamby was this goody-two-shoes girl in high school. You know the type: strict parents, church on Sunday, no drinking, no sex, and known for being a tease. At best, Bamby gave a guy a kiss at the end of a date and, if he was lucky, let him pet her boobs over her sweater at the movies. Yeah, you know the type.

Girls like Bamby looked down their noses at girls like me who had a reputation for being "easy." And not just that, they detested anyone who had sex at all. We were the amoral heathen who were beneath them and their preppy crowd. As if sexual denial was some kind of test to join their snooty club.

Some girls like Bamby or the Bambies also went to college as I had. Most on their parent's dime. At first, they stayed true to their values, joining preppy sororities and hanging out with preppy guys. The kind worthy of being seen by their crowd. And once again, looking down at anyone else from their morally uppity ivory tower.

I wish I could tell you that this was a social dynamic based on money or politics. You know the cliché. Rich-daddy's-girl looking down at the peasants? But it was not. If anything, these morally superior types spanned the economic, social, and political spectrum. Their primary motivator was not just sexual denial but moral snobbishness. They needed to make themselves better than others. No different than the politically motivated college types who thought themselves better than "the other side." You know the type.

I once heard them refer to me as a "doer" As in a woman who does. And they were right. I did... do - a lot. I did anyone I wanted - if I wanted and when I wanted. I did all kinds of men. More than one at a time if available, and men of all different ages, races, and sizes. So yes, someone beneath the Bambies and their Ken-doll-like boyfriends.

But a funny thing happened during the first year of these girls' college experience. The cookie jar effect (so many men around) and the away alone (no mom and dad to watch over me) realities came together to create... sexually curious Bamby. And if she was not active by the end of the freshman year, by the beginning of their sophomore year, these girls were ready to unleash years of pent-up sexual frustration.

It was sort of a worm/butterfly transformation if you are into a biology analogy. The worm was obviously the high school repressed Bamby. The curiosity time was the cocooning phase, where the Bamby had urges and temptations but tried to suppress them -- often unsuccessfully. The butterfly phase was when they surrendered their virginity to some guy.

Sometimes, they liked a guy and chose him to be 'the one.' Or it was while they were drunk at a party, letting loose with the first guy there. But sometimes, there was a smooth operator who got off on popping Bamby cherry and did the job.

After all, these young women's bodies were in their prime and had as much need for sexual release as mine did. Only I indulged it while they suppressed and repressed it. It was actually interesting and funny to watch at frat parties.

I used to go to them with a guy named Jerry from the Greek Council -- some committee of the Greek Alphabet fraternities or something. Jerry liked slumming and was a member of a male group with the gangbang fetish. If you don't know, these guys liked to get together and have sex simultaneously with one willing, happy girl! Why are you surprised that I had indulged in that practice with them as the center of their attention -- more than once. Life's experiences while I was free. Have you forgotten?

Anyway, here I was at this preppy frat party with Jerry, who was privy to all such parties in his council position. Probably he was there to make sure... Oh, I didn't know... that the punch was properly spiked? That girls wore no underwear by midnight? That there were sufficient rubbers available? Or just an excuse to party. Still, Jerry got in these mixers, and I tagged along for the fun of it.

The place was full of preppy guys trying to score with the Bamby preppy girls as usual. Sadly, these girls made cock teasing the poor young men a sport. But there were a few preppy guys with Butterfly Bamby girlfriends. These were primarily upperclassmen who had paid their dues sucking up to cockteasing girls -- eventually convincing an upper-class butterfly to "go steady" with him.

While we attended the same classes at FU Gainsville, we differed in student cultures. Still, we coexisted and occasionally met socially, yet rarely.

Jerry would tell the preps that I was his nymphomaniac sister and that I needed relief. You would be surprised how many volunteers would line up outside a bedroom to service the needy damsel in distress. Since most of them were virgins, I was glad to oblige, and they wore condoms at the insistence of my handler and brother for the night Jerry.

As Jerry was six-three and quite broad-shouldered, the preppy boys behaved. But the Bambies were not amused. I mean, here they were, used to the attention of the sexually frustrated prep males, and here I was giving them what these bitches would not. And that, of course, eventually led to a confrontation.

Jerry stepped out of the room while I was "engaged," but I was too busy getting spit-roasted by two novice preppy guys to notice. It took them very little time to cum and gave me the time to wipe down the front guy's cum from my tits. It was then that I noticed that there was no continuation to the sex "train" I was pulling - no next guy.

Opening the door naked as a jaybird, I saw Jerry and this good-looking prep talking. Good-looking prepper stared at my body briefly, then went back to talking to Jerry. As they conversed in low tones, I took the time to appraise this young man. He had upperclassman written all over him. They are more confident than newbies, and I could have sworn I had seen him earlier sitting with a butterfly Bamby. She had her arm around him as a sign of ownership. 'How conventionally basic,' I had thought, reminded of Marisol's description of the type.

"Look, Paul," Jerry addressed the young man, "we're just having fun."

"The girls here are not happy that your... sister... is pulling a train with the lower-classmen. We just don't do that at our frat.

"I know you're a greek council rep for Alpha, but...."

"I'm also the frat president," Paul corrected him.

"Good for you, Paul," Jerry said. "But we meant no harm. These guys can certainly use the action...."

"I understand, Jerry," Paul had replied politely. "Just not on our turf. The girls are upset, and it will cause problems for us. Take it somewhere else, and you and I go in peace."

I saw the hesitation in Jerry's face and knew the fun was over. As I turned to go back and get dressed, I heard Jerry concede. By the time I dressed and went back out, the Paul guy was back to his butterfly, and I made my way past a group of disappointed Alpha guys who had been waiting their turn.

"Sorry guys," I said and headed out, followed by Jerry.

"What a bunch of killjoys," he said once we were outside.

"Let's go to my flat," I said to him. "I'm horny as hell."

"What I like about you, Paula," he said and groped my ass.

Jerry and I had fun that evening, but my mind was on the tall guy from the frathouse mixer.

"So Jerry, who was that guy you were talking to at the Delta house?"

"Paul Donnelly. Not your type Paula."

"How do you know what my type is?"

"I know who your type is not," he replied with a smirk. "Goody-goody preps who pass moral judgment on others at the drop of a hat. You told me that last month. What? You changed your mind?"

"No," I replied. "I'm still me in case you missed what I was doing with those freshmen back there. I just found him... you know... interesting."

Jerry scoffed at that.

"Did he make your panties all wet?"

I tried not to show it, but it was true. Paul was handsome and had intrigued me. the way he had said 'just not on our turf,' was non judgemental. As if Paul didn't want to judge Jerry and I. Yet Paul had merely wanted to stand his ground for his frat and the girls that were guests there.

"He was very... diplomatic," I replied.

"Paul is known for that. A problem solver of sorts. But, as a man, he is very vanilla - a boy scout. His only vice has been talking some virgins into giving him their cherry. Like I said, not your type."

"And you are my type?" I smirked as I played with jerry's resurging cock.

"I have no delusions, Paula," he replied. "I'm your type... tonight."

"We need more like you, Jerry," I replied with a chuckle.

But the reality was that both Jerry and I were friends with benefits. Nothing more. I certainly had a collection of guys like him in my life. They were fun to hang around and fill my bed when I wanted them to. But nothing more than that.

***

The following day, Jerry gave me a piece of paper with Paul Donnelly's number on it. Jerry was such a good friend to me then. He sensed my interest in Paul and gave me what I wanted. No jealousy or theatrics. After all, we were buddies. And true friends wish to make each other happy.

"He is a senior, you know," Jerry said as he made us eggs and coffee.

I knew he meant Paul. He would be graduating that year.

"He writes for the college paper. IFA."

"The Indepeenent Florida Aligator," I giggled at my distortion of the word independent. "What a goofy name for a university newspaper."

"I'm sure there are worse," Jerry said, offering me a plate with scrambled eggs. "Did you get us coffee?"

"No, I wanted to be served."

"Fuck that, Paula," he replied in feigned indignation. "Do I have to do everything?"

"Well, you can't give yourself a blowjob, Jerr. That's where I come in," I replied coyly as I pushed him down on a chair.

Then I dropped my robe and filled a cup of coffee for him. Jerry smiled as he took the mug, and I fell on my knees. His eggs and mine got cold. But by then, I already had some protein for breakfast, which I washed down with coffee.

***

I have to be honest here. I pursued Paul Donnelly as he hardly knew me. From what he said, he had seen me around campus. But that was it. And I found out a bit about him. His specialty had been doing the Bambies from the preppy sorority pool, just as Jerry had said. In fact, he was quite successful at that, from what my contacts informed me.