Naked and covered in sweat, I sat on the Sybian rutting like a bitch in heat. Leaning back on the little chair thingie that comes with it, I pushed myself down as much as I could, wanting to feel those delicious vibrations from the bumpy pad on my aching clit. Inside me the bulbous cock churned in maddeningly steady circles as it massaged my G-spot towards yet another toe-curling orgasm. Reaching forward, I turned up both controls a little. Enough fooling around.
For four days, I'd resisted what I was doing now. I knew what sort of danger it was putting me in, but that first ride on the infernal machine had made a second ride inevitable, one where I could control what it did to me, not my husband. There were subtleties to this a man couldn't understand.
Leaning back even further, I churned my hips forward and up rhythmically, and again got lost in the sensations of another advancing orgasm.
Since I had left work early, covering my tracks with the excuse of an appointment with a client, I had the house to myself for several hours. I knew my second ride needed to be done for me alone. If James were watching, I would be too inhibited, too afraid to let myself go. I would not learn what I needed to.
I wondered what my husband and cousin would think if they could see me humping this machine as if my life depended on it: a bitch in heat. That term was beginning to seem more apropos.
The Sybian rotated and vibrated on and on, tirelessly. I really loved this female pleasure machine.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
In one short week, my whole carefully-planned life had been turned upside down and everything shaken out onto the floor. It became obvious pretty quickly that what I had constructed, the way I'd put things together, had all been based on what I
thought
I should do, and very little of that was actually real and genuine about me.
Naturally, this had come as quite a shock. Basically, with the help of my long-lost cousin, Amy, I'd come to realize that been living in a 1950s dream world. Beaver Cleavers mom, I was not!
That first night, as we sat in her comfortable home in California, she'd looked across the room at me and asked simply, "Laura, describe yourself to me."
"What do you mean? Describe myself how?"
"Pretend I don't know a thing about you. Who are you? What are you? What do you believe?"
I thought for a few moments. "Well, first I believe in a God that looks after all of us, who is watching to see whether we're living good lives. And he will punish us if we don't, either in this life or the one after." Amy looked as if she wanted to say something, but kept silent, so I continued, "I'm good at what I do and have worked very hard to get there. Lawyers can sometimes be very ruthless, and while I work very, very diligently for my clients, I refuse to take shortcuts or bully people or use shady tactics. I play hard, but I play by the book."
"And what about Laura the person?"
"I try to always be pleasant to people no matter who they are, and lend them a hand when they need it. I'm kind. I don't tell lies, but I also don't try to hurt people's feelings by being too honest with them. I work hard to keep myself in shape, try to keep a good home and to always support and cherish my husband whom I love very much."
"Now, tell me about Laura the woman."
I stopped, not knowing what to say. Amy gave me room to think, but her stare made it clear she was not letting me off the hook, either.
Her words cut right to the heart of the problem, the split in my personality that I'd felt had always existed, but which had been getting steadily worse as the years ticked by, like a trickle from a pipe that's slowly rusting away. Sooner or later it's going to break and everything inside will spew out.
I was still very, very angry at my husband, James. What he'd done to me that last night I was home was completely and totally unacceptable. I should have been having divorce proceedings started or having him thrown in jail for rape. Yet here I was, on the other side of the country, totally on the fence, trying to find out what I should do.
The minutes ticked by as I thought about what I should say. I could've probably make up a fine-sounding story about a good, God-fearing woman who tries hard to be a good wife, hopes someday to be an equally good mother, a pillar of the community. But it would all be a fabrication, and what was the good of suddenly booking off work for a week (and I'd told a lie about the reason, too!), leaving my husband and then travelling 3000 miles west to talk to my cousin, only to tell her a pack of lies?
"I'm not a good person."
Amy leaned forward. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I'm not as good as I pretend to be."
"You do things you're ashamed of?"
"Occasionally, but mostly I think about things that I know I shouldn't."
"Tell me about it."
"You know! You were there when it started!"
"So I started you down the path to hell?"
"Yes...um, you did..." I bit my lip. "No, not really." I paused to gather myself further. "That time with you was the first for me physically, but I've had a lot of shameful thoughts about sex since then. It was like it started a chain reaction in my head."
My cousin nodded thoughtfully.
We hadn't seen each other in over ten years, not since the day our parents had made us by sleep bound and naked in a filthy pigpen. I still couldn't help but blush in shame when I thought about what Amy and I had been in the middle of when they'd walked into my bedroom.
"Have you only had shameful thoughts, or did you go further than that?" Amy asked.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
James was a little later than he'd said, having got caught up in traffic. He looked as if he'd had a tough day, and judging by the sheaf of dockets he'd brought home with his bulging briefcase, it was going to be a tougher night.
He took me in his arms and I tried hard to be like the old Laura: afraid of the touch of his warm lips, but even more afraid of my response.
"Tough day, too?" he asked.
"The client from hell. I did get home early, though, so there's a nice dinner."
"That's great. I'm starved."
As he went to the sink to wash up, I looked down at the casserole I'd just taken out of the oven.