Secrets From The Girl Next Door

Normally I love my job.

I love the work, I love the people, and I am good at it.

If I have a complaint, it might be that everyone was too nice, boringly nice.

Everyone treats me as if I am the stereotypical "nice girl next door."

My bosses, my co-workers, and even our customers treat me like I am everyone's "little sister." I am sure that most of them are convinced I teach Sunday school and always wear dresses even on my days off. Being 5.1 and 105 pounds doesn't help. I am constantly asked for ID and am told that I couldn't possibly be 26. My small boobs and long hair, especially when my hair is braided make it difficult for me to buy wine or liquor. Even now, I can wear coveralls and braids and get into movies at the kid rate.

Admittedly, I certainly have always looked like the "good girl" in school and at work.

My friends and teachers always said that I never got in trouble and never seemed to do anything bad.

I got married immediately after university, we were able to get a nice little house, and we both have good jobs. Even after being married for five years, I can understand why people would think that we were just a nice wholesome boring married couple. I even garden and sing in the choir at church.

People who think that is all that I am would be wrong though.

We are like that book everyone says not to judge by its cover.

Despite loving my job and being good at it, my Friday could not end fast enough.

Time dragged and dragged. I found that I could hardly concentrate on anything, much less work.

Everyone and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. It seemed to take a week to get to lunch and a month later, it was still only 3:24.

In my mind, I was a million miles away. I was thinking about an unexpected text and its implications.

Mercifully, 4:30 finally arrived and I turned off my computer and gathered my things.

I was excited, almost trembling in anticipation as I started walking to the parking garage. I hoped, honestly, that I wasn't being unconsciously rude to anyone because I was so distracted. I was afraid that I might have ignored my coworkers' "good nights" as I anticipated what was waiting for me in my car.

As I entered the parking garage, I caught a reflection of myself in the glass windows.

There was no doubt I look much younger than I am. I am well-proportioned though and in good shape. My body was attractive but not perfect. I run, do yoga as well as watch my diet. I don't think I am vain, but I admit I do feel sexy when my body catches the attention of men and even other women. But at barely 5 feet and maybe 100 lbs, I am tiny compared to my coworkers.

Despite that, occasionally I catch their eyes lingering for a few extra seconds on my ass or my small boobs. Each time it happens, my pulse races, and I feel myself getting damp and excited, just like the very first time someone noticed my body.

I know they would be surprised to learn my secrets.

Today, I wore a nice summer skirt, the hem just above my knees with my beige boots, a loose men's style dress shirt, a nice necklace, a little makeup, and jewelry. My hair was in a loose bun and I walked with a slight sway to my hips, nothing overt, just simple and natural.

I smiled at my reflection and said under my breath, "Just like the girl next door."

I wasn't complaining, in fact, I worked hard to maintain and project that image.

I considered myself a solid 7 or maybe an 8 but not a 10. As if to emphasize the point, under my dress, I wore one of my plain white bras and a pair of comfortable but plain white cotton panties.

Looking at me, nobody would think anything other than, "Nice and cute, but exciting sex for her would just be her on top, nothing more."

For most of my life, that had been my reality. Both my husband and I had been inexperienced when we were married and we stumbled through sex on our wedding night and for several months afterward. I had only ever been with one person prior and that should hardly have counted. That guy did zero foreplay, and he fucked me in the backseat of his father's car for less than five minutes. My husband had been a virgin but at least he was willing to eat me after I gave him his first blow job.

Something happened though. We both had wanted to please each other so much that at almost the same time, we both discovered online porn, then erotic stories, and then we started learning together. We got better, we got more adventurous, and we soon found our appetites only increasing. You might say we became addicted to pleasing each other through sex.

As my husband Paul improved, he gravitated towards becoming more dominant while I embraced becoming submissive to his desires. We moved slowly from straight missionary sex to engage in different ways to satisfy ourselves and each other, in particular with oral sex, at home, and in places over time increasingly in more exposed locations. With each passing month, our pace of sexual discoveries and experimentation seemed only to increase.

After our second anniversary, he started taking nude or partially nude pictures of me. The pictures never revealed my entire face so looking at them you couldn't tell it was me. Like most things we did, we started very basic and then advanced.

Before long, he was taking pictures of me nude in public places. He created an online album showing me naked at home, then in parks, libraries, and public streets; each time my body was fully exposed but my face was always partially hidden.

We were to the point now that we could be out hiking, he would just have to nod at me, and almost instantly I would be naked, and he would take pictures of me.

Sometimes I would masturbate, other times I would suck his cock while he remained clothed and I was on my knees. He encouraged me to keep up the façade of my "good girl" appearance, but privately he started posting pictures of me on several websites as we explored more and more explicit aspects of sex.

We may have started like two wide-eyed innocents but the more we explored, the more we wanted to try, and the more we did try, and nothing was off limits.

Something about being naked made me lose control of my inhibitions. As we experimented with more things, we found that my image of the "girl next door image," was becoming more of my disguise and the "sex experimenter" became who I really was.

Soon every time we would go on long car trips, I would be naked before we left the city limits. At first, it was only when it was dark outside that Paul would play with me.

Sometimes I would recline the seat and use my toys on myself. Before long, I wouldn't cover myself when truckers looked down on me. Then we began showing me off during the day, often Paul would pull off on those rest areas and ravish me.

Sometimes he even tied me up naked and stretched out on the reclined front seat for the entire drive.

Other times when we hiked, often I would be naked while he remained dressed, the last time he tied me between two trees, blindfolded me, and then pretended to be a stranger and fucked me while I was tied up. Sometimes I would have to quickly hide when other hikers appeared on the trail but Paul would encourage me to imagine being caught by strangers and letting them fuck me while he watched. So far, that hadn't happened.

Recently Paul surprised me by asking about how I felt about having sex with a woman or if I had ever wanted to fuck his father or my father. I always would say, "Yes." I told him, "I would do anything he wanted me to do," after saying those few words, Paul began talking even more about sharing with me. I had noticed his appetites only seemed to be getting stronger and we explored more extreme sex.

Then one-day text messages began.

Each time, they began the same way, with one word, "Tonight."

Each time he raised the bar on what would happen to me. He was training me. Now as soon I received the message I became so horny I could hardly focus on doing any work. My messages always came at work. I found everything about the messages to be very exciting, very slutty, and very incredible. There was no pattern to how often it happened, it was totally random and truthfully not nearly enough for me.

Like what happened today.

An hour after arriving at work there was a text message on my cell from Paul.

It was the same simple message. One word but it was enough to totally derail my entire day.

"Tonight."

It was enough.

I could feel the sweat appearing and beading on my forehead as I looked at the text.

I could feel my heart beating faster.

I felt the flush that always turned the skin on my neck and chest bright red. I was afraid my coworkers would notice. I could feel that sweet electric buzz from my nerve endings between my legs and the wetness that always happened when I got these messages.

The last time had been almost a month ago. I worried that Paul had gotten tired of them and had decided to stop. I was so excited when I saw that one word. I wondered if he could sense I needed my fix. I remembered the last time.

That day too, his message had caused my ability to concentrate and focus to evaporate.

Although the message was always the same, each time what followed was always a surprise, always different, and always very bad.

If my co-workers only knew ... what would they think? I small tremor shook my body at the thought of myself and my secrets being exposed.

Right now though, lost in the whirlwind of my imagination and anticipation I walked to my small car in the parking garage. A simple compact sedan, not fancy or flashy, a practical little car, just very nice, like my disguise. I unlocked the door and climbed into the driver's seat.

There it was. A plain white envelope sitting on the passenger seat. Just like always.

My hands were shaking a little as I closed the door.

Self-consciously I looked in both directions. The last of the office crush was still trickling out of the elevators, the quicker and more anxious people had already left, but the slower ones were just starting their cars, the last goodbyes were being said for the weekend, and taillights were heading towards the exit ramps.

I had started the engine but had made no effort to leave the parking spot. More sweat beaded on my forehead despite the coolness inside the car. Lower down I wondered if I would leave a wet spot on my skirt. Self-consciously I brushed my hair back without thinking about doing it and undid one of the buttons on my shirt.

The envelope was sitting on the seat. The front and back were blank.

I reached for it, took it, and ripped it open with shaking hands.

Inside was a single page and something heavier as well. I had to turn the interior light on inside the car to read the note and see what the heavier object was.

"Key Motel, Room 7," nothing else.

I dumped the object out onto my lap.

I had no idea how Paul had managed to put the note into my car, he had been working on the other side of the city since first thing this morning. The letter hadn't been there when I parked this morning.

I knew a little about the Key Motel. It was just off the main highway on the industrial side of town. I noticed it from time to time when I had to visit clients in that part of town. According to some co-workers, it had at one time been a cute little roadside country motel. Now it was isolated amid the retail and industrial sprawl.

It had seen better days and its reputation now was decidedly less cute. Some of the office crew joked it was a motel that was rented by the hour, not by the night. One person had said it was a place for sluts and whores. I could feel my panties getting even wetter as my nipples strained within the tightness of my bra.

"Perfect for me," I said to the steering wheel.

I smiled and put the car in gear. Driving out of the parking garage, my mind swirled wondering what lay in store for me.

I don't remember the drive. I know it took more than thirty minutes or so and I passed through an endless number of traffic lights. All the while, my mind drifted back to other nights when I had received Paul's messages.

Each time instructions followed the initial message in a plain white envelope that was always in my car at the end of the day. I would be instructed to do things. I believed that Paul always left the choice up to me. So far, I had never refused.

It always happened at night, always at night, and always on a Friday too, like today. The instructions always involved me doing something very naughty. They had begun with me getting secretly naked in a public place like an isolated park or a quiet corner of a mall parking lot, and masturbating in unusual places until I orgasmed. What added to the excitement was the knowledge that there was always a chance that I would be caught.

Subtly the instructions shifted from parking lots to places like the late show at the movie theatre or in the library near closing time. The movie theatres were almost always nearly empty so I could have fun but I did worry about someone seeing me.

The library had lots of hidden corners that helped, but each time the instructions demanded more risk-taking. They were always exciting but while I did worry about being caught, Paul knew I was addicted and knew there was no way I would refuse or stop following his instructions.

On one of the more recent nights, Paul had increased the stakes. I had been instructed to visit an adult theatre and strip naked while the movie played, that time I had to masturbate and not get caught, which wasn't easy, I had very nearly been caught in a room full of horny men. I shivered at the thought, not from fear, but from excitement. At the time I had wondered if Paul might have been one of the men in the room with me.

Each time when I got home, even that movie night, Paul would be waiting for me. He would have me strip and tell him every detail. When I was finished he would fuck my brains out. When we watch porn together increasingly the themes were about wives being fucked by strange men and or women, usually four or five at a time.

The last few times he had even chosen videos where husbands would prostituting their wives. We would lie in bed, both naked, watching and rewatching while he fucked me again, often from behind so we could both watch the videos.

When he would ask what I thought, I told him I would be happy to be his little whore. That first response to that question and each time since would make Paul fuck me even harder and always much rougher than we usually would. I loved the rougher sex.

Each time over breakfast the next morning Paul would ask, "Would you do that? Would you sleep with other men for money?" I responded the same way by cleaning his cock and giving him a blowjob at the breakfast table.

This last time I said, "If I could be paid to fuck all day and all night for you, I would quit my day job and be a hooker full-time." With that, Paul hoisted me onto the table from my knees and fucked me right on the table.

When he was finished, he left me laying on the table with his cum leaking from my pussy and grabbed his wallet. Folding a hundred-dollar bill he slipped it into my dripping pussy and said, "You earned this."

He smiled and even though we were already both late for work, he said how much it turned him on to think I would be his little whore. As he left for work, I| felt so dirty, so slutty, and so horny. I was almost 100% positive he was setting me up, but he seemed to like manipulating me and I reveled in being his "bad girl."

I thought about that as I wondered what awaited behind the door in room 7 at the key. The last time his instructions had included a motel was when it had been room 12 in the Starlight Motel off route 80, what a night that had been. I arrived at the room, opened the door, and was surprised to find a man waiting for me. He had an envelope too, except his was full of money and there were instructions for me.

The man watched while I read the instructions.

An hour later the man left me lying nude on the bed. His cum was inside me and leaking from my well fucked pussy. My makeup smeared, my clothes wrinkled and scattered everywhere, and the money in the envelope rolled and wedged inside my pussy.

Before leaving the man had said, "You were worth every penny."

That was the first time my husband had me perform sex for money. I really was a whore.

After the man had been gone for a while, I reread the instructions and complied with the rest of what Paul had written.

I remember driving home in my work clothes as per the instructions, a stranger's cum leaking from my pussy. My panties were covered in his cum. I felt so dirty and so slutty, it was everything I could do not to play with myself. But that wasn't allowed.

Paul met me at the door, asked for and took $50 of the money from me; his fee he said. He pulled me into the house and fucked me against the inside door. He fucked me rough and hard, with an animalist furor that was unlike anything he had ever done to me before. When he was finished, he left me sitting against the door, his cum now mixed with the first man's, my head was spinning, my pussy throbbing, and a growing puddle of juices spreading around me.

Long after Paul had gone to sleep, I laid awake thinking about what I had done and what I was becoming. We both knew I was becoming addicted to this, my appetite for sex seemed to be growing, as did Paul's for this particular brand of sex.

Could tonight be better, would Paul have prostituted me again? The heat and moisture between my thighs increased at the thought. Absentmindedly, I never noticed my free hand caressing my breasts through my now almost completely undone shirt.

My breathing was labored as I pulled into the Key's parking lot, I couldn't believe how 1970's it looked from the outside. I almost expected to see hookers standing by the door. I wondered if I was becoming a nymphomaniac, certainly, the label "slut" was appropriate. My pussy tingled as I said "slut" aloud. Then I thought of the $200 and I thought that maybe "whore" was more fitting. Thinking about being both broke the quiet silence as I actually moaned aloud.

I ground my thighs together and almost came in the driver's seat I was so horny.

I noticed my work clothes and thought how out of place my "girl next door" disguise was in this place.

As I sat in the car, I noticed a large faded neon sign that advertised X-rated movies in each room. I parked the car, locked it, unconsciously counted the rooms, and then headed for what should be number 7.

Using the key from the envelope I opened the door and darkness beckoned.

Inhaling, I could detect a faint odor of perfume, and the unmistakable scent of sex, both sensations drew me further into the room.

Searching and finding a light switch, the light revealed what I expected, mirrors on the ceiling, and a round bed that dominated the room.

I had been right about the motel, everything in the room screamed 1970's décor with wood paneling and old, not antique furniture. The only thing new was a huge TV mounted to the wall that had a webcam attached to it. A sign hung beside it ... "Make your own porn ... video equipment rentals $150 per night."

A small package, a little bigger than a shoebox, sat on the bed wrapped in the plain white paper. There was my overnight bag as well. Inside the bag were some shaving cream, a razor, and my perfume. The scent was Paul's favorite, a mix of cinnamon and wildflowers.

Lying next to the box was a receipt for $150 with a password hand-written on the bottom. Someone had already positioned the camera and looking closer I noticed a couple of lighting tripods in place. It was obvious Paul wanted to record whatever he had planned for tonight.