A New Life

I really believed I had an almost perfect life: a happy marriage, two great daughters, and enough money that I didn't have to work, but could devote my life to guiding them to adulthood. However, as soon as my younger daughter left for a great job the other side of the country, and my elder daughter got married and moved several states away, all within a week, I realised that however good life might have seemed, it was now just hollow and empty, with no purpose or meaning.

I've got ahead of myself, though, and I need to back up to give you some chance of understanding the black depression that came over me.

My name is Jo. No not short for Jolene or MaryJo, or any other classic American name, but Josephine. No, I don't know where it came from, and my Mom either didn't know, or managed never to tell me, and I never knew my Dad. He'd left Mom when I was tiny, but fortunately she'd already set up what was to become a hugely successful job placement agency, so she had enough freedom and money to look after me properly. Actually, it was only after Mom died, and I found the certificate, that I even knew they were ever married, but I'm ahead of myself again.

No, I didn't have a Dad, but I had loads of uncles - at least, that was what Mom called them. They used to show up for a few weeks or months, sometimes more than one in the same week, then disappear. It was the sort of life that for many has led to neglect or abuse, but I guess they were clients from her business, and Mom could check out their background and character, so it worked for me, and for Mom. She seemed to enjoy lots of sex without commitment, I got a great sex education, and much of her attitude must have rubbed off on me.

Too much as it turned out, as I was only too willing to open my mouth and legs as soon as I could. It was all just playful experimentation, though, until one of Mom's old clients, Mark, came back, and brought a son almost exactly my age. Mom found him a job, but then he went on to set up his own software business, catching the arrival of personal computing and smartphones. Although he didn't hit the mega wealth of the Facebook founders, he made a bomb. Enough, anyway, to support a whole team of trophy wives, despite their earnest attempts to bleed him dry.

Probably, his son, Bill picked up the same attitude to non-commitment sex from Mark that I had from Mom. Anyway, while his father was noisily screwing Mom, Bill gave me my first real fucking. No, I should probably say my first experience of making love, because we both found that our parents' lifestyles had left us wanting the love, romance, and lifetime commitment that they'd never had. And apart from enjoying great sex, we found romance as well.

The only problem was that although my Mom had taught me about sex, she only got around to getting me on birth control what turned out to be a few weeks too late. When the doctor checked me over to prescribe the pill, she told me I was pregnant.

The first thought Mark, Bill and I had was to yell at my Mom for not getting me sorted out sooner. It didn't last, though, because Mom had the appointment after me, and we got the devastating news that it seemed she had some obscure, but totally lethal cancer. She got to see a specialist within days, and they put her on aggressive chemotherapy, but she died before I was half way through my pregnancy.

I don't know what Mom and Mark had discussed, but Bill and I decided that although it was a bit sooner than we'd have chosen, starting a family was mow what we wanted. We rushed to marry while Mom was still alive, and when she did, Mark took me in, and paid for both me and Bill to finish our education, with a series of childminders to look after baby Marie while I was at college. Bill and I were so grateful, though we were pretty sure that Mark was getting more than just childminding from the series of young women, barely older than me, who passed through.

It could have been a recipe for disaster: a shotgun wedding between a couple both coming from a single parent family, and with what many would have called loose morals. But it wasn't. It turned out that Bill and I genuinely loved each other. He finished his education, then joined his father's company, where he discovered he had a real gift, working his way up to head the Android and IOS app division, while I finished my education, then devoted my life to bringing up Marie, and our second daughter Ellie who had come along eighteen months after her elder sister.

I learned probably more helping the girls with their schooling than I ever had at school myself, and they both did well. They were both keen on sport, each becoming cheerleaders for the school team in turn, and I joined them jogging and at the gym which kept me in shape as well. Looking back, as Bill spent more and more time with work, the girls used filled more of my day and my attention, and became more like friends than children. The fact that I'd help them get through the most difficult years without getting into drugs or the like, and without getting pregnant the way I had, made me proud of myself as well as them.

It all seemed perfect until the girls left home. Then I realised just how far apart Bill and I had drifted, with all the hours he spent working, which wasn't a problem when the girls were home, but left me lonely when they had gone. And after a lively sex life in the early days of our marriage, Bill and I maybe made love only once or twice a month, and once rooms were empty without the girls, I moved into a separate bedroom to at last get relief from his ferocious snoring. It was not much of an exaggeration to say that my sex life went shortly after my daughters left.

Most of the women around worked most days, so I had little opportunity to socialise. Even my best friend, June, was an IT whizz who worked with Bill in the Company. Her husband Manuel, who worked in some sort of logistics company, seemed even busier, but she still had her youngest son at home to keep her occupied.

I was lonely. So lonely. I suppose like many women, I discovered that a dash of vodka or gin or even tequila in my morning orange juice helped the day pass more quickly. Then the dash became a few dashes, then a lot. I let myself slide, often only getting out of bed after Bill had gone to work, then going back before he came home late, which seemed to be getting more and more often. I started not bothering to dress, unless I went shopping, just staying in my baggy T-shirt I used as a nightdress, and an old flannel dressing gown. After all, what was the point of dressing if I were the only one who might see me?

I must have spent six months after the girls had left, sinking deeper and deeper into depression. Then I woke up one morning with a splitting headache, and the most godawful smell around me. I got out of bed and looked around to see what on earth could be causing it. Then it started to dawn on me: it was me. I stank. I pulled off my T-shirt and sniffed it. Ugh, it smelt of fermented stale sweat, but even after I'd thrown it into the bathroom, it didn't seem to have improved things much.

I pulled my panties off, then held them to my nose and inhaled carefully. Shit, I thought, then sniggered as I realised the expletive was all too appropriate, but combined with more sweat and the rotted smell of the secretions from my vagina, which I'd always thought were rank enough when fresh. I guess I already knew inside what a wreck I had become, but something about the disgusting way I smelled really got to me, and I knew that one way or another, I had to do something about my life.

Problem was, I had no idea what, except that a shower was obviously a good start. I bagged up my dirty panties and T-shirt, adding the dressing gown with its streaks of food stains, deciding that even after a thorough wash I'd never be able to wear them again. I turned the water on as hot as I could stand, and scrubbed and washed myself until I was in danger of making myself sore.

When I'd dried myself, I had to hunt around for another dressing gown to wear while I got myself breakfast, determined to have a good stocktake of my clothes, which would likely require a mammoth washing session. In the end I found a thin silk one that Marie must have left behind, and I found I rather enjoyed the cool, sleek feel of it against my bare skin.

Once downstairs, I wasn't surprised to see that it was mid-morning, and Bill was long gone to work. I poured myself an orange juice, using every ounce of willpower to stop myself adding my usual dashes of vodka, then I found some of Bill's muesli, and forced myself to eat it. I felt pleased with myself when I rinsed out the glass and dish, and loaded them into the dishwasher, but reality hit me again when I sat down in the lounge and took stock of my life. I had no job - actually I'd never had a job - no hobbies, few friends and a husband I might already have pushed beyond reconciliation. I could put the TV on, but the mindless daytime programs were all too likely to push me into needing a drink.

I was still wracking my brains, slowly slipping back into depression. I kept coming up blank when I tried to find something to give my life meaning, and ideally bring me and Bill back together, when I heard a someone ring the doorbell. Who the hell was that? No one ever called out of the blue, and I wasn't expecting any deliveries.

I pulled myself up, and headed for the door. I looked through the peephole and saw someone holding a cardboard box, with a smile-like logo on it. I certainly hadn't ordered anything, but maybe Bill had, so I opened the door.

"Hi there! I've got a delivery for you; can you sign here?"

The guy thrust the box into my arms, then held out his tablet for me to scrawl a signature. Goodness knows how they can ever check the right person got the delivery, I wondered, and as the thought hit me, I spotted the name at the top of the form. Mrs Livingstone, my next-door neighbour.

"Sorry, you've got the wrong house. The drives are real close, so you're not the first to make this mistake. No, just go back, and it's over there," I said, trying to give him back the parcel with one hand, and making a wide gesture with the other to indicate the right direction.

As I did it, I felt a waft of air against my chest. As I looked down, I realised that I'd forgotten just how slippery silk could be. The dressing gown had pulled open, and horror of horrors, I could see one breast hanging free as I was leaning forward.

My first reaction was one of shame and embarrassment. I could feel the heat of a blush spread across my face and neck. It could only have been a split second later when I looked back up at the delivery man, who I could see was staring at my exposed nipple, and his eyes flipped up to meet mine, triggering a completely different reaction.

What I saw in his eyes was pure lust. He was seeing me, not as the middle-aged woman with an empty worthless life, but as what my Mom would have called just a 'piece of ass'. No one except Bill had looked at me like that since I was at school, and I felt my exposed nipple hardening. I looked down, and could see a bulge in the front of the delivery guy's pants, which convinced me that he really wanted to fuck me, and for an instant I almost thought I'd let him.

But then I remembered that it was the last time I gave into that sort of lust that had got me where I was now. Even worse, getting seen by nosy neighbours with my tit hanging out and pulling delivery man indoors would destroy my reputation. Anyway, letting a tradesman with a strong Eastern European accent fuck me when I couldn't actually remember when I last took my birth control pill could end up really badly.

It could only have taken a second of two for all these thoughts to flash through my mind as my breast stayed under his gaze, though it felt like minutes. I pulled the robe back across to cover me up, and quickly stepped back inside, closing the door in his face. As I leaned back against the door, I was trembling all over. I was ashamed at having let a stranger see my naked breast, but at the same time my body felt alive in a way I'd forgotten it ever could. I could hardly believe I could still inspire lust, and I revelled in the new sensation of feeling like a complete woman again, with a tingling between my legs that I hadn't felt for years.

Part of me wanted to touch myself, put my fingers inside my pussy, and rub myself to a climax, pushing my fingers up inside me, imagining it was the delivery man. But another part of my brain said that if I gave into my own desire that way, I'd regret it later, and could easily slip back into the loneliness and self-loathing of depression. No, I was going to hold on and cultivate the feeling, savouring it as I tried to get my life back again.

I went back upstairs, took off the robe, and scrutinised my naked body in the full-length mirror. I'd never been a great beauty. As a child, people often said I was pretty, but yet my face seemed instantly forgettable. I could pass someone, even speak to them, and they hardly ever recognised me even minutes later. I guess it was because I didn't have perfect symmetry in my face, nor any striking features like prominent cheekbones, and my hair was just mid-brown, with a mind of its own, but without attractive curls or waves. Now it was a mess, not least because I hadn't blow-dried it properly earlier.

Apart from that, I decided my face had worn pretty well, and for a woman of thirty-eight - well, pushing thirty-nine, actually - the rest of my body hadn't survived too badly either. I cupped my breasts, which were still pretty firm despite feeding two daughters, and my nipples still pointed forward rather than down, though not without a little bit of sag that hadn't been there twenty years earlier.

I'd put on a few pounds recently, from comfort eating and the booze, but I still had a waist, and it had filled out my ass, which given the fashion for large butts, maybe wasn't all bad. Anyway, if I started exercising again, I was sure I could get trimmed back down. No, the only other problem I had was my hair at the other end.

I'd started waxing when the girls complained about the stray curls that had a habit of appearing around the legs of my swimming suits when we were on the beach, and when they were older, we all had regular appointments to have our pussies groomed. I liked to keep a trim patch myself, even though I liked being able to see my large labia when I was bare down below. However, like the garden, my patch seemed to have become badly overrun recently. I remembered that one theory for why humans have hairy genitals, is that it amplifies your odours, in which case, that went some way to explain why I'd smelled so awful that morning.

Just as well the delivery man hadn't seen that, else he might have changed his mind, and if I'd read distaste or even disgust on his face, it would have thrown me into depression for sure. Anyway, if he had seen, how much more thrilling, as well as embarrassing, it would have been if he could have seen my labia, and not just a mass of hair. No, I needed to do something about it right away.

Having decided that with a bit of TLC my body probably wasn't too bad, I had a look in my dressing room at my clothes. I had a lot, but with my new 'fuckable woman' feeling, they looked all a bit dull. Smart, but unmemorable. This new attitude meant I wanted people like the delivery man to remember me, and then lay in bed at night wondering what it would have been like to fuck me.

I chose the best I could find, including a bra and panties which didn't look as if they'd been chosen by an old woman, then headed of into town for a hair job at both ends, and to pick some new clothes that would help me continue feeling like a living, lusting woman.

I was lucky, because I managed to get a slot for a waxing at the beauty salon with only a half hour wait. I think that as I'd been a regular customer, they were keen to have me back. I'd thought that it would feel like old times once I got on the bed and opened my legs for Tanya, the woman who'd always waxed me, and in a way it did, what with the gossip she always had for me, and the occasional feeling that everything was back to the way it was before.

However, it also felt very, very different. The first time I'd been waxed, I was just so embarrassed showing my private parts to someone else. Well, not even just showing them, but letting them touch me as well. Gradually I got used to it, and then when the girls started coming as well, we used to have separate areas that kept our privacy, but let us still talk to each other, and we started to have a good laugh as we each let out 'oohs' and 'aahs' as each new strip of hair was ripped out of us.

It had never felt sexual, though; but today it did. Goodness knows why. I could make sense of why it had felt good to have a man look at my tit and want me, but I couldn't quite see why it should make me feel good having another woman see and touch my pussy. Not for a moment had I ever fancied being a lesbian. Today though, I did, as I suddenly felt myself wishing that Tanya would not just pull my labia about, but ram her fingers up me so I could find out whether I enjoyed it as much as I feared I would.

I made myself mentally apologise to Tanya for such a shocking thought, but then I started wondering. I mean, what a strange thing to do for a living, pulling other women's pussies around and cutting and waxing the hair off. Surely, you'd have to enjoy the sight of another woman's hole, wouldn't you? Or was the opposite true, and would it drive you mad with desire if you did, so only someone who really found it unpleasant could control themselves? I looked at Tanya's face, but it gave nothing away, and I didn't have the courage to ask. Thank goodness, though, I'd given the jungle a good scrub that morning, else I think I'd have just died of shame now.

I managed to get a hair appointment after lunch, so I decided to head to the mall for some clothes shopping. The sting from the waxing somehow seemed to amplify the tingle I still had from realising I could still get a man aroused. Or had I just imagined it? Or was the delivery man some sort of exceptional pervert, and anyone normal wouldn't look twice if I stood before them naked? It suddenly hit me, though, that maybe I'd be able to find out if I were careful.

I knew that one of the fashion shops had decided to make its changing rooms unisex, out of what I could only assume was some misguided attempt at gender equality. The clothes it sold were a bit too fashionable to appeal to me, so I'd rarely used it, but the girls did, and they told me at lunchtimes it was a favourite haunt for the local high school boys, who went there to try things on in the hope of getting a flash of tit though a poorly drawn curtain.

The shop had tried to control it, but given the boys often used to buy something at the cheaper end of things, they couldn't stop it completely. There was a petition going around to separate male and female areas again, but with all the focus on trans- and ambiguous-gender people, the LGBT brigade had started crying discrimination, so it was all on hold. Anyway, it was just what I needed.

If I couldn't get ogled by a high school boy looking for titillation, then I knew I'd have to go back to my original self-assessment. If I could, though, the thought of the kick it would give me, if the morning was anything to go by, would be amazing. Assuming I got a positive reaction, then I intended to by some underclothes that revealed more than they covered, tops that would show my nipple through the material, and skirts that would make it almost impossible for anyone not to be able to look up as far as my panties when I sat down.

I really wasn't sure quite where I was heading with all this. I loved Bill, and I was shocked that I'd thought I might let someone else fuck me, even for the instant I did. I'd always encouraged him with his work and it provided me with money enough for what I'd seen as an enjoyable lifestyle. I could just begin to see that he could claim, with some justification, that I'd been more interested in my daughters than him, if I tried to lay the blame on him for my lack of sex.