I have always lived vicariously through women who have the nerve to be sluts and my own fantasy of being one.

I took my first secretary job with the hopes of breaking out of my Catholic upbringing

and get bent over a desk. Of course, that never happened. That didn't stop me from pining for that

torrid affair. I married a nice guy, and we had two good-looking kids, now ten and thirteen, a perfect

life, from the outside anyway.

When the babies came, my husband told me I could stay home, but frankly, I need to work,

or I'm afraid I would never fuck him again, because I can't get off, unless I'm

thinking about my boss or a coworker fucking me. What is wrong with me? And it's only gotten worse.

It's not my fault. There are so many young guys at work and my boss.

Fuck, what a man.

He rules every environment he walks into.

Even without saying a word, it's clear he is the man.

When he does speak, people shit themselves to give him what he wants, me included.

It's making me wet just telling you this.

He makes me wish I wasn't married, 20 years younger and far sexier.

All the things he looks for in his bimboos. He's married, of course. They are a power couple.

She's a model or something. I have seen her at a few parties, but he has a stable of bimbo's,

dozens, in fact. She used to be one. She might be all that, but I am the

keeper of his secrets. I have them in a book along with their sizes, flower preferences,

food allergies, and whether they like bear back or condoms. So you can imagine why I sit all day at my desk in a pool of my

own juices. It should put me off, but it doesn't. I love setting up their meetings for him,

knowing he's going to fuck one. Those are the nights my husband gets laid.

...