Heather Brown - Wayward wife

And the hornier I got, the more I wanted it. Five or six times a day I found myself lusting for a cock, my cunt absolutely aching to have a cock inside it. I took to not wearing any panties when I was around the house so I could have easy access to my pussy, playing with it and achieving some kind of temporarily relieving orgasm so I could function for a while without climbing the walls.

Even when Ron was with me I couldn't get enough. My capacity to fuck continuously actually started to outstrip the capacity of his cock and balls, as I begged for more and more until he was drained dry. When he left, my yearning started all over again, almost as though I hadn't fucked at all. My cunt was insatiable, a monster between my legs always demanding its way.

I knew I had to find something to go along with my regular fucks from Ron or I'd go nuts. The house was a mess because I just sat around and thought about fucking and sucking. My mind was constantly filled with wet images of pricks and pussies and assholes and tits, all of them in the most turgid arousal and the hottest action.

One afternoon I grew so desperate that I even contemplated seducing George when he stumbled through the door at 6:00. I tried to make myself believe that his cock was enough to satisfy me in my horny condition, and maybe it would have worked if I could have held myself in and waited for him.

But there was no way I could wait. It was the middle of the afternoon. It would be over three hours before George and his dinky equipment got home. Meanwhile, my pussy was absolutely burning up. If I didn't get it on somehow, soon, I felt like I would have a heart attack.

Masturbating wasn't enough for me now. Playing with myself just cooled things down for a few minutes. If I tried to keep myself in line by masturbating until George finally got home, my cunt would be a useless bloody mess, rubbed raw by the time he finally walked through the door. I'd wind up in the emergency room instead of in bed.

I got up and paced restlessly around the room, my nerves frazzled, puffing on cigarette after cigarette. It didn't take long for it to occur to me that I was right back in the same shape I'd been in when I was bored out of my mind from being a typical housewife, my frustration making me a near wreck.

Determined that I wasn't going back to being a human dustmop, I vowed to think of some way to satisfy the desires that were eating away inside me. Another human being was going to fuck and suck me and make me come today, that was all there was to it. I'd made up my mind.

I'd wasted ten years of my adult life listening to common sense. Then this summer I'd finally achieved happiness by following my impulses instead, balling with teenagers simply because I wanted to. There was no way I was going to go back to sweeping my normal sexual instincts under the carpet.

Tired of the overly familiar scenery in the living room, I fled out of doors like I was busting out of jail. The first thing that greeted my eyes was the yard, so overgrown by now that it looked like we were growing wheat to supplement our income. God, I thought, I was going to have to do something about that lawn.

If I didn't get someone to legitimately cut the lawn, it was only a matter of time before the neighbors started to complain. If only I could find someone I didn't want to fuck to do it for me. Maybe George could cut it.

They had a citizen's committee in this suburb. When people started doing things that supposedly lowered property values – leaving the garage open, overflowing garbage cans, selling property to blacks – the committee made a personal visit to get them to see the light. In other words, they threatened to run them out of the suburb if they didn't play ball and correct whatever area in which the committee deemed they were derelict.

The more I thought about it, the more I couldn't understand why our giant rat's nest of a yard hadn't come up before the committee yet. Then I looked across the street to see what the homes over there were like. Immediately I understood why there had been no complaints. At least two of the yards in the block across the street were almost as bad as ours.

Ron!

The Don Juan had swept through the neighborhood so fast that he had single handedly changed the landscaping of an entire suburb. Nobody cared about their own yard, or how anybody else's looked, just so long as they were getting their supply of teenage jizz up their frustrated pussies.

And to think… I'd really started it all.

Just thinking about it made my cunt foam. I pressed my bare thighs together, trying to staunch the flow, my body trembling.

To temporarily clear my sex-engorged mind, I looked out across the street again, especially at the overgrown yard two houses down. God, that Ron was bold, I thought, going in and out of a house that close to mine.

I tried to be irked at him, but all it did was arouse me even more. You had to hand it to someone who was that enterprising. Especially someone with such a gorgeous dick.

I tried to think who lived at the house whose yard I was surveying. Goss… Foss… Foss something. That's all I could recall.

I closed my eyes, pushing my fingertips to my temples in order to elicit a recollection – some memory of the people who I invited in the house at which I was looking.

It became important to me. What was the point of living in a shell? That's what had driven me to the brink of a nervous breakdown – the chronic frustration and boredom of not having contact with people outside of my husband and children.

It became vital for me to remember something about the people who lived in that house to prove I hadn't been permanently dehumanized by ten years as an uptight, sex-starved housewife.

Foss… Foss… their name was coming to me. Fossgraves, that was it. Earl and Miranda Fossgraves. I'd been introduced to them once at a PTA meeting when they'd first moved into the neighborhood. He was in plastics or something. How could I have forgotten them? They were such an unlikely couple.

He was about five feet tall and five feet wide, totally bald. A human bowling ball. But pink… like he was made out of rubber. He was of indeterminate age, but at least ten years older than his wife, who seemed a taut thirty.

She was tall and statuesque, with a perfect body – a high-breasted monument to the perfectability of the human form. Silky brown hair cascading over her shoulders and down her gracefully sloping back. Long lissome legs. Now I remembered her perfectly… Miranda Fossgraves. I recalled her perpetual smile now.

Now how could I have forgotten a couple like that, I thought. There could only be one explanation: I'd been turned-on by her and, in my old mousy way, had immediately buried my dangerous attraction in my unconscious.

She'd been a friendly woman. She'd introduced herself as Miranda and asked me to come over and have coffee some time.

Well, that was three or four months ago, but better late than never. I'd take her up on her hospitality.

Within a matter of minutes I was going up her walk, chuckling at the tell-tale proliferation of weeds. I wondered what would happen if Ron should happen to accidentally go to work for some old confirmed virgin whose cunt had grown over, someone who actually insisted he mow her lawn for ten bucks. The poor guy would probably wind up as a teenage heart-attack victim from the shock.

When I rapped on the door, and nobody answered, at first I thought perhaps nobody was home. But then I heard someone stumbling and then hissing in a female voice, "Goddamn it!"

When the door finally opened, I didn't immediately recognize Miranda. I was too busy looking at a part of her I'd never seen.

All she was wearing was the sheerest nightie I'd ever seen. The top did nothing to conceal her succulent tits, their purple nipples straining lushly through the transparent fabric. The hem came about halfway down her crotch, the curly triangle of her pubic bush as apparent as if she'd been completely nude. Below there was nothing, her bare cunt flexing between her solid, tanned thighs.