Not willing to trust anyone who could use intimate relations against me, I had few dates. Except for Peanut and Sharona, I hardly saw anyone socially.
My post-humiliation, divorced personal life changed about two weeks ago, when I got up to answer the door of my small house, down in Ocean Beach, below Point Loma in San Diego, California. As was my habit, I held my cocked Kimber .357 magnum revolver in my hand as I opened the door.
The figure there was female. Very much so. Dressed in a tasteful but very sexy crop-top blouse, extensive bare midriff and a short leather skirt. Close-net stockings and CFM, stiletto-heeled boots, plus a shoulder-strapped leather purse completed the picture I had, standing in front of me. She wore a summer hat with a wide, floppy brim, which concealed her face from my view, above her. A small roller-handle suitcase stood beside her.
Before I could say a questioning word, she said, "Wanna spend a long sexy week with a naked porn star?"
I thought I'd never hear that voice again, as it was Cyndi's. A Cyndi that was 3 years older. A woman that was still slender but had put on some weight in all the right places, at least as far as a male was concerned.
Standing aside, I gestured her to come in, de-cocking and holstering my revolver.
As she swayed inside, pulling her suitcase in behind her, I answered—from my heart—saying, "Yes, I'd like a long sexy week with a mostly naked woman, but I'd most like it with a former wife, who can be a porn star if she wants, but whom I'd like to talk with, look at, cook for, sleep with and cuddle on the couch, too, as well as fuck her brains out."
My ex-wife stopped dead, standing there in the middle of my living room and said, "You mean that? You don't want a whore? You just want a naked woman, like we had before ... before ... like we had ... before ..."
I removed the whole gun-and-holster and put them in a drawer of the endurable, next to the couch. Cyndi raised her eyebrows, so I said, "I don't have anything to fear right now."
She cried out in a small voice, "But you must hate me, after what I did to you, back then ... before ... when I humiliated you in front of ... before ... Oh God, I wasn't gonna cry ... after ... before ..."
The tears came in a rush, as I guided her to the living room couch and got her semi-reclined. No, I didn't strip or rape her. I just let her cry and sob and moan, until the waterworks slowed.
I said, "Cyndi, we'll talk about the past soon, but let's not do the just now. Things are too raw, too emotional to remember that evening and what came after. Just you need to know that, yes, I do trust you with my life, property and body, just not with a marriage, your impulses or your cheating. I don't need a gun for self-protection. I didn't hate you then and I don't now. Oh, yes, bitter disappointment, hurt, anger, sourness, resentment, shame, horror, all of that, but not hate. It was never hate."
She cried more, drooling tears down her face and onto her blouse, soaking into the material and turning parts a little transparent. Eventually the sobbing quieted and then stopped, with sniffling. I offered a box of tissues from the nightstand on either side of the couch, then just sat quietly and waited through the sniffling and the face-patting.
I didn't see any ruined make-up. What kind of an actress—even a porn star—goes out without some make-up?
She looked up, smiled, and said, "I got a little boom box in my case. Ya want a real sexy porn star strip, Mister."
I grinned, and said, "No, Cyndi-with-an-i, I want the same undressing you did when you came home from work. You just took your clothes off and then got mine off. You made us both nude, as soon as you could. You made sure I looked at you. Anything that happened after that was strictly due to your mood at the time. So do that. I'm ready."
I quickly added, "Yes, I also want a really sexy strip and naked porn star sex, but later. When you can plan for it and get set up properly. Actually, I want several strips, with lewd dancing and sexing afterward. Later. Right now, I just want a nude former wife, who can have sex with me if she wants, but who can sit, cuddle while nude and just relax, too."
She said, smiling, "Oh, you're gonna get sex. Hot, wet, ex-wife sex. Then hot, wet, experienced, porn star sex. Dirty, screaming, slobbering, drooling sex. I have a really slutty porn star cunt that you're gonna use every chance I can get you up and inside me. I'm still tight because I exercise, dance and do Kegel exercises."
"But right now, Sir, we'll pretend that I just got home from a good day at work, teaching the kiddies, so here goes, because I remember what you liked."
My still lovely wife, but no longer totally skinny or elfin, unbuttoned the three closures to her tear-dampened crop-top and shrugged it off her shoulders. She wore no bra. Her tits were pretty much like I remembered them, but seemed larger and more prominent. Her nipples were dark red-brown and were growing before my eyes, as she tugged on them, twisting and mauling.
I raised an eyebrow, so she said, "All mine. No silicone. Just used a lot over the years. Yeah, they've gotten bigger, from constant handling. Sensitive as hell, too."
She drew the zipper inside each stiletto-heeled boot down and pulled off each. Starting to roll down the mesh stocking, I held out a hand and shook my head, 'no'.
She grinned wider at that, saying, "Oh, you're gonna like what happens next."
