To be perfectly honest, I was just too young and immature to be in a marriage. Too youthful to be cooped up at home, too drawn toward experimenting to cut off all my social life so abruptly. The terrible isolation you experience when you graduate and move in with someone gets crushingly boring.
It got me into trouble.
One night ten years ago I was going through a phase and my husband Jason was on a business trip. It was incredibly late, somewhere around 1 a.m., and I was younger and dumber then. Naive. Hormonal. Still with a disproportionate need for attention. Today I know better, and to this day I feel so stupid about the whole thing.
Jason texted me that he might have to stay a few additional days on his trip and it made me feel lonelier. He wasn't absolutely sure but he was already gone the entire week and I had no one to talk to.
Night before Jason was returning I had our crummy rental house to myself and I was bored and horny, so I looked up dirty ads on craigslist to masturbate to. One of them caught my eye since the person had just posted and was awake this late, so I wrote to them just to feel the edge. It wasn't my first time doing this, it just helped me get off on a rare occasion. Human contact. Sometimes I'd roleplay and pretend to be a hooker a guy wanted. Other times I'd pretend to be whatever they wanted, teasing them.
But overall, I was just fantasizing that this was real, that I was going to hook up with a stranger, so I got hornier as I kept at it.
We exchanged several dozen emails, flirting and avoiding specifics. Teasing him made me smile, and it was just a fantasy. I would have never done it - it was basically cybering with perverts. But as the hour went by he was still patient to email back and forth and not pushy even though I was obviously stalling until I came and flaked out like usual. It was like 2 a.m. by that point. Most guys would've walked away by now as this turned into slow motion chat for me.
Then he surprised me. He asked if I had any dirty outfits and all I could think of was my old prom dress and some thigh highs, so I replied with a sly "yeahhh..." When he asked if I was wearing it right then, I wasn't, but then I don't know why - I guess I was that horny - it came to me that I should try to put it on before replying, so I did.
Our place was dumpy, and we didn't get around to getting much furniture just yet. Living on one starter income was tough. All I had was a small plastic dresser from Walmart where I kept my clean undergarments and a small closet messily filled to the top. Skipping a bra, I stepped into a faded red nylon thong my husband liked and then examined my drawer. It had been years since I wore any hosiery. The struggle putting on a cheap pair of black thigh highs reminded me why. The frayed bands smelled rubbery and I thought it was time to throw them away after tonight. My dress was hidden in a trash bag where I kept my old clothes, neatly folded in a forgotten stack from several moves ago.
It was a short dark-red intarsia dress with subtle layers of crocheted lace. To my mild surprise, it wasn't creased.
Putting it on made me realize that I was a pinch thinner six years ago, even though I was still pretty thin. Luckily the dress was stretchy, and it hugged all my curves somewhat obscenely. Tops of my thigh highs nearly showed. Since I didn't have any hooker shoes, I figured my white cork wedges would do nicely since they were tall and laced up almost halfway to my calves. They matched my hair. The laces were these playfully long pink ribbons and after a few loops they matched the outfit well.
Jesus, I was now dressed up like a teenage slut.
The cherry on top was putting on my black lacy gloves and it was as if I was eighteen again, pushing the boundary of what I was allowed to wear. The tanzanite wedding ring ended up in my jewelry box. Walking back to the computer I felt my tits swing forcefully sideways at each step and it made me giggle because things had definitely changed over those years. The dress alone wasn't up to the task of containing them.
Was this a dirty outfit? I don't know, but I wanted to wear it when I replied with a single "yes," so I knew how it felt to do that. Last time I wore the outfit, it turned heads. It wasn't en vogue anymore, design having borrowed some oriental elements of the day, but it still looked cute on me. It was expensive when I bought it, so I kept it, and I missed the attention it received. I was still young and beautiful, wasn't I?
The weight of sending that single "yes" hit me in the stomach.
Pursuit of that nasty hookup fantasy in my head was so erotic. It put me one step closer from fantasy to reality and I nearly tore my clit off waiting for a reply. My legs propped up on the coffee table, I sat back on the couch and watched my gloved finger slide over my clit as I rubbed myself through the thong.
He wanted to know what the outfit was like and I spelled it out in details, typing slowly and playing with my pussy, occasionally using the bottom of the thong as an anchor to stimulate both my clit and ass. I was going to just finish and go to sleep, but then his reply made blood rush to my head and I couldn't stop rubbing myself. The thong got pushed aside. By random chance, he was practically just around the corner. That fact just drove me nuts and I stopped breathing trying to get off and all he asked was "can I see?" and Jesus, that right there nailed me.
Without thinking I started a race between my left and right hands and whichever one would win I didn't know at the time. My brain was shutting down, one hand was furiously rubbing my clit trying to cum and the other one was typing "yes" in slow motion and I ran out of letters to type and I wasn't done yet so I bit my lip and typed my address in slowly, one key every few seconds spaced by me frigging myself, and I held my breath in spurts because it felt more intense masturbating like that. Every few keystrokes I'd lick my gloved fingers to make it slicker and get back to work.
Just like the few other times I did this I knew I was going to erase it, but each letter made the edge bleed over from fantasy to reality. Each key press was an audible punctuation to danger. The simulated risk got me so close to cumming. Pretending I was going to do it was so nasty, it was exciting. Like standing over the edge of a tall building and imagining jumping off, my heart racing.
It felt as if I needed to send a reply of any kind or I had to orgasm first. Modeling a slutty outfit for someone sounded so dirty. The thong wedged in my ass and I could feel it rub pleasantly as I squirmed around on the couch. It was entirely soaked through in the front. What kind of a girl would do this sort of thing?
And then I didn't orgasm.
Instead, my fingers crawled to CTRL and ENTER out of muscle memory and sent the email.
"Fuck!" I screamed. Panicking, I instantly realized how badly I fucked up.
