The Slut Buried Deep Inside Me

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Joanie discovers her true nature at Key West

I love my husband, I really do. He is handsome, a good provider, generous, talented in more ways than anyone else I’ve ever met, and that includes in the bedroom. So, why is he my ex? We divorced for irreconcilable differences, and one of them was Maribeth Wilkins. Another one was Susan Abbot; and let’s not forget Joy Spanner. My perfect husband is, yes, a philanderer. I wouldn’t have cared that much, since he was always perfect with me, which brings us to the main irreconcilable difference: Little Ms. Gonorrhea. That last bitch was the hardest to ignore.

So, now I’m a divorcé. I’m 27, single, and without kids. I’m also, it seems, quite popular with men, married or not. At first, I was surprised that even my ex hadn’t tried to date me! Well, now it seems, six months after the divorce was final, he actually has tried, and being him, he succeeded. That date was rather funny. At the end of the date, he smoothly and perfectly walked me to my door, and gave me one of those kisses that he does, the ones that always make me weak in the knees. He could tell he was working his usual magic on me and that he was minutes away from having me naked, on my back, legs apart, in what used to be “our” bed, but is now “my” bed.

The expression on his face was priceless when I thanked him for a lovely evening, and closed the front door. He stood there, on the porch, probably in shock that I, of all people, could resist him, and also obviously debating what to do. You see, I’m told that I’m dynamite in the sack, and it was clear he had been looking forward to a nostalgic, good time with me. Too bad for him, and — truth be told — for me as well. Maybe he’ll have better luck with Maribeth, Susan, or Joy, or whoever gave him, and then me, gonorrhea. Whomever he’s bopping these days, I wish him well, and to her, I wish good luck! She’ll need it.

My ex, Philip, was not the first to ask me out after our divorce; not by a long shot. Philip had already dated my best friend Jane for a while, and I was worried she’d fall for him as hard as I did. I had always found Philip to be irresistible. Luckily, while Jane had enjoyed Philip more than I was comfortable with, ultimately she and I had different taste in men, thank goodness.

As I said, Philip was not my first post-divorce suitor. No, the first was Randy (great name, right?) who had always liked to flirt harmlessly with me, back when I was a married lady. I’d flirt back, of course, never meaning anything by it. I had no idea he had actual designs on me. After all, he was one of Philip’s close friends. When he asked me, I was not used to dating; it had been quite a while, and back when I dated last was during my collegiate years.

In college, I was not an easy lay, but by no stretch of the imagination could you have called me difficult to get into bed. If the man was nice, respectful, clean, and kissed well, chances are he could have me, and once he could have me, he could have me in any way he wanted. Luckily for me, nine times out of ten it was straight sex, missionary, and I’d be lucky, usually very lucky, if I actually had a real climax, and not just a fake one. Then there were the one of ten guys, who were into all kinds of kinky, weird stuff. They’d get what they wanted, too. Yes, I was that kind of girl. I suppose that’s part of what attracted Philip to me in the first place.

Sorry about the digression. I do that a lot; more and more it seems these days. Anyway, my first date after the divorce, the one with Randy, went okay. Well, to be honest, no, it didn’t go okay. I wanted male companionship, to see what it would be like to spend some quality time with a man who wasn’t Philip, and Randy wanted only one thing: to lay Philip’s ex-wife. I began to realize that all of his harmless flirting might not have been so harmless. I had to fight Randy off — literally. I was almost date raped. Well, he got to see what I looked like naked, and I can always buy new clothes and underwear. The ones I was wearing were ripped beyond repair. There was no second date with Randy, of course.

After Randy, there was Mark. Mark was another close friend of Philip. Randy, Mark, and Joe used to come over to play poker, or to watch football together on Monday nights, and I would serve them beer, munchies, and such. I think they all fantasized about my doing it in revealing clothes, etc. but that never happened. Well, it never happened except for that one time. That was the time that Philip was out of town on work, and to my surprise the men came over anyway, since it was a Monday night.

I didn’t think anything of it, since we were by then all friends, and it was just another Monday night, but Randy started teasing me about how covered up I was. That would have been okay, but unfortunately, the others all joined in. I was secretly charmed that they all found me so attractive and sexy and well, finally, I caved, as I often do under pressure from men. I went upstairs and changed. I changed into a escort super short skirt, lace “little nothing” panties, a sheer see-through blouse, and a lace, black bra. I looked so hot I could have set ablaze a small pile of kindling.

As I descended the six stairs to the den (where the huge flat screen TV is), carrying a tray with beer bottles on it (IPA for Randy, Pilsner for Mark, and Belgian, or any beer with a weird name, for Joe), all three men looked up my skirt, causing me to giggle. When I gave out the beers, each man, one after the other, looked down my blouse. Later they talked me into playing a kissing game, and of course I ended up kissing all three men, and getting rather thoroughly felt up, but that’s as far as it went. Mostly. You see, Randy came back after they all left, and he got me undressed to my panties. That, however, was as far as it went, if you don’t count the pictures of me nearly naked, on his cell phone.

Randy showed his pictures to Mark and Joe, and all three raved about my boobs and my nearly naked body. It planted the seed of desire for Philip’s wife, i.e., me, in the three men. I suppose that’s why they were the first three men to date me after the divorce. They were also the first three men to be disappointed that, even though I was 27 and divorced, I was not easy. All they got were first rate blowjobs, but I shared my pussy with none of them.

Women are not like men, I guess. I went a year without sex, and certainly without orgasms, and I was okay with it. Then my friend Jane and I went on vacation, down to Key West. Somehow the change of scenery, and not knowing anyone there (except for Jane, of course) changed me in some profound way, at least when it came to sex.

Each night we went dancing and drinking, and well, liquor loosens my inhibitions, and my morals, I learned down in Key West. The first night we were there a guy named Doug got lucky with me, while Ravi got lucky with Jane. The next night Ravi ravished me, and Doug fucked little Jane’s brains out. The third night I got picked up by a real stud, with the appropriate name of Troy, and we barely made it back to our Airbnb with my clothes still on. Jane was with some lounge lizard name Larry, and then Doug and Ravi dropped by. I was so drunk I did things I’ve since tried hard to forget. Suffice it to say all four of the men left happy, with carnal knowledge of both of us women, and no doubt they had stories to share with their mates. Luckily, they had no idea how to contact us, or even what city we lived in.

I was a different person when I returned home to Indiana. I didn’t broadcast it, and I trust and hope Jane didn’t spill the beans, and I thought that outwardly I was the same as always. I must have been wrong, however, because Randy, who was always as randy as his name implied, somehow picked up on something subtle I must have said or done. I think this because despite his spreading the word around town that I was a frigid ice queen, he asked me out again.

At this point I hated Randy for having been such an asshole. All I did, after all, was deny him vaginal sex. I did, in fact, give him a blowjob and I swallowed his load. He had no business bad mouthing me, even if I had kneed him in the groin when he tried to force me. So, there was no way I was ever going out with him again. That much was clear.

However, the major change I alluded to earlier was that — for the first time in my life — I was horny, and I mean truly horny. The only thing I could figure out was that somehow, the group sex with Jane, Troy, Larry, Doug, Ravi, and of course me, had profoundly altered both my personality and my sexual desires. I was a different Joanie than I was before the trip to Key West.

So, to Randy’s surprise, and to my surprise too, I said yes when Randy asked me out. Randy cleaned up nicely for our date; I had never before seen him look so good! He even wore a pleasant aftershave. He was all smiles, and the smiles were not because he was expecting to lay me; no, they were genuine smiles, as if he was happy to see me, to spend time with me. It reminded me of my ex, Philip, who had always rejoiced just being in my company. I had come to think that what Philip had shared with me was genuine love. I realized I missed Philip. He was one in a million.

I wasn’t with Philip, however; I was with Randy, and Randy was clearly randy. I put Philip out of my mind, and concentrated on the hunk of a man in front of me. Randy was determined to show me a good time, and the man has talent, I have to admit it. He treated me like a queen, wining and dining me, and then taking me dancing. It was a romantic, wonderful time.

When Randy took me back home, I secretly winked to myself, and I invited him in for a drink. Randy was in for surprise after surprise, as whatever he tried with me, not only did he meet neither resistance nor reluctance, but he met rather enthusiastic cooperation. We began with me bringing him a Scotch whisky, while I took a Campari for myself. Yes, I included the eskort obligatory orange slice. A girl has to have some style, right?

Randy was in Philip’s formerly favorite armchair, leaving the couch open, but I chose to perch on the arm of the armchair, positioned so that Randy could easily, were he to be so inclined, look down my blouse. Randy was one of those men where looking down my blouse was never in doubt. In fact, Randy told me, as we talked while drinking our drinks, that Randy was actually a nickname.

“What’s your real name, then, the one your mother gave you?” I asked.

“My father gave me the name. My mother is Jewish, and she was flying around the labor room, high on pain killers, at the time. You’ll notice I have a big head,” he said.

“Is that why you’re circumcised?” I asked, giving Randy pause, since we were both still fully dressed. Then he must have remembered I had given him a blowjob on our previous (and only other) date.

“Yes. I had a bris and everything,” he said. “We celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas. Double the presents, double the fun.”

“Again, what’s your real name?” I asked.

“Do you appreciate irony?” he asked. I smiled. “It’s Christian. Vivian gave me the nickname Randy in ninth grade, when, well, you don’t need to know about that now, do you?”

“No, I don’t. I can imagine,” I said, as Randy unbuttoned my blouse. “Want another glass of Scotch?” I added, noticing that he had already downed his first glass.

“Are you trying to get me drunk so that you can have your wicked way with me?” Randy asked.

I giggled. “Be right back,” I said, and as I rose to go to the kitchen, I slipped off my now fully unbuttoned blouse.

“Wait a minute,” Randy said, and he unhooked both my bra and my short skirt, also unzipping it, in some deft movements. My bra joined my blouse on the floor, and as I walked to the kitchen I wiggled my hips so that the skirt too fell victim to gravity and alighted on the floor. I returned with a Scotch whisky, and dressed only in panties. I don’t wear thongs; they were bona fide lace, bikini panties. I like the way I look dressed only in those panties.

I re-entered the living room with the glass of amber whisky hiding my right boob. The rest of me was quite obviously on display. Randy had a tent in his pants, and it looked like it hid something erect and nice. I smiled. “Like what you see?” I teased.

Randy smiled. He unsnapped and unzipped his pants. He stood up and walked over to me. I always marvel at the absence of hips men have, and I quite easily pushed his pants down to his ankles. They were slacks, not jeans, so it was easy to do. His briefs were themed, and I said, “You really are a Christian, aren’t you?” as I mistook the generic naked woman theme of his briefs, to a Madonna theme.

“No, I’m just Randy,” he said. “Randy Hastings, to be precise.”

“I’d really like to meet your ninth-grade girlfriend, someday,” I said, and I giggled again, as Randy’s hands descended my panties down my legs, leaving his head, and his mouth, at the level of my cooch. I pushed my cooch towards his mouth, and not being stupid, he took the hint.

“You can meet Vivian, if you like. She’s in town, and we’re still in touch. Now that we’re both naked, is there anything you’d like to do?” Randy asked, his smile almost a smirk.

“Why don’t you eat me out, and we can figure it out from there?” I replied, and quick as a bunny I was on my back, my legs were spread, and Randy’s tongue was doing heavenly things to my private area. I do mean heavenly. His tongue would lick my entire slit, always touching strategically my little button at the top. While his tongue was busy, he stretched out his arm to my boobs, and played with my nipples in the most fetching way imaginable. The guy was a one-man pleasure machine. I began to moan. I have to admit: I’m a noisy fuck.

Randy was relentless, and he drove me to a screaming orgasm using only his tongue. He didn’t even have to supplement his ministrations with his fingers, although it would have been fine with me if he had. As I was trying to recover from my mind-blowing orgasm after having been chaste for so long, Randy climbed up on me, and stuck his cock into my warm, welcoming pussy.

“Oh, yes, I need that,” I groaned as he penetrated me. Randy took that as a good sign, and he pumped his meat inside me with an enthusiasm usually reserved for a newly defrocked priest meeting a horny and willing nun. What a metaphor! It must be due to his name really being Christian.

I continued to moan as Randy lived up to his nickname, enjoying every thrust to the max. Randy was taking his time, giving me long, deep, satisfying thrusts, while I pushed back, my stomach rising from the bed, which a man like Randy would recognize as a woman’s preliminary to a major climax. Randy hence picked up the speed, and my body responded happily with an acoustic soundtrack that would have made Ennio Morricone proud. I was blown away when it came, and Randy did his eskort bayan part, too, filling me up with a copious load of his cum.

We lay there, side by side, once his cock had deflated and he had rolled off of me. Randy was silent, and for once in my life, I was, too, lying there in a daze, trying to understand what had just happened.

Randy finally broke the silence. “I’m spending the night,” he pronounced, making a declaration that brooked no dissent.

“Of course, you are. It’s the Christian thing to do. It’s the randy thing to do, too,” I replied, and we didn’t get a lot of sleep that night. I woke him in the morning with a blowjob, and he rewarded me with another dazzling fuck. He took me out for brunch, and then we separated, and I went home to dwell on what had just happened.

Randy and I dated for a few weeks, and during those weeks I also fucked Mark and Joe. I even fucked my boss during a drunken moment at a company reception. I was out of control. It was as if the randy Christian known as Randy had awoken the slut inside me that nobody knew was even there, least of all me. He did, though, finally introduce me to Vivian, his delightful ninth grade heartthrob. Vivian and I became fast friends. She really is an extraordinary woman.

The worst was when my Key West behavior resurfaced. Jane had told Randy all about what we had done down there with the four men. Randy was amazed. It wasn’t long before Mark and Joe knew everything, too.

Sometimes sanity arrives in a blindsided blizzard. Sanity for me was not Christian Hastings, although there was no question this particular incarnation of sanity was indeed randy. Sanity was named Philip, and he was, of course, my ex. He was such a feast for my eyes, when I first saw him by surprise. He gave me his (patent pending) winning smile. It’s a smile that says you are the most wonderful object I could have possibly seen today. It was a smile that spoke love, and even adoration. It conveyed a longing for a lost intimacy that we had shared. Was I seeing too much in one smile? I think not.

I found myself in a Star Trek tractor beam, being inexorably drawn to the handsome man Philip who used to be my husband. Neither of us spoke, we just kissed, right there in the entrance to the steakhouse. I was there with Jane, and Philip was there with — of all people — the ever-randy Randy (or Christian) Hastings.

Philip and I couldn’t stop kissing. Jane and Randy decided to leave the two of us alone, and Philip and I took a table for two, while Jane and Randy took a nearby table for two.

“I hear that you returned from Key West a different person,” Philip said, to begin the conversation. I blushed.

“You might like the new me better,” I said, with my voice tending upward in pitch, turning a statement into a possible question.

“I’ve heard that Randy, Mark, and Joe surely do,” he said, but his voice was kind; sweet, even. I blushed again.

“I’ve missed you,” Philip said, and all my defenses broke down and I began to cry. When the waitress came, Philip ordered a New York strip, and baked salmon for me, “along with a dozen soft napkins for my basket case of a wife. She just got some good news, you see,” he said. The waitress, who had suspected much worse, smiled and returned literally in seconds with some napkins for me to wipe my eyes, and my hopelessly smeared mascara. I looked like a racoon, as I remarked to Philip.

“At least you don’t look like Rudy Giuliani,” he said, and I began to giggle and then continued to cry from the relief. I had been in denial about the loss of the love of my life for much too long.

I had come to the restaurant in Jane’s car, and as we walked over to the table of Randy and her, I told Jane Philip was taking me home. Randy gave him a high five which thoroughly embarrassed me. “Maybe Jane, you can give Randy a ride home?” I asked. I had given Jane a complete blow by blow of my remarkable times with Randy.

“Oh, I’ll give him a ride all right,” Jane said, and she winked. Randy, Philip, and I all saw her wink. This time Philip gave Randy a high five.

I was so glad to be back with Philip. I knew he was the man for me. He was my life partner, the man God, in her wisdom, intended me to grow old with.

Philip did of course take me home, I invited him in, and a few weeks later after we had enjoyed some very satisfying love making, Philip said, “How do you feel, Joanie, about bringing children into this fucked up world?”

“Would they be your children?” I asked.

“I damn well hope so,” he said.

I went to the bathroom and removed my diaphragm. “Let’s get started, Philip. This is the fertile time in my cycle,” I said, as I returned from the bathroom, getting on the bed, and spreading my legs. Four months later I missed my period. A trip to CVS and the purchase of a pregnancy test confirmed I was pregnant. Philip and I cracked open a bottle of the bubbly, talked about the changes a child would bring, and eventually ended up (of course) in bed together. After Philip had ravaged my body once again, he knelt on the bed, produced my old, original engagement ring (which is beyond gorgeous), and asked me to marry him for a second time.

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