George Isolde etc Ch VII
- 2 years ago
- 40
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Just Another Old Slut free porn video
I knew it was her as soon as she walked into the restaurant in the lobby of her husband's building. She was tall thin and pretty. She was this year's model without a doubt. One of those Anne Hathaway/Katy Perry type women that look like they're English, but aren't.
Whatever happened to girls like I was? Have we gone out of style? There's no way you can tell me that a man would prefer one of those thin, whiney, needy, fembot like girls to a full bodied, bit titted, fat assed blonde. If that's the case, I'm glad I'll be too old to care soon. Anyway the game was on.
She sat down at a table, and looked down at her watch. Within moments she was joined by a guy in a cheap suit. This guy was not impressive at all. He was of middling height, neither skinny or fat, nothing about him stood out in any way. He appeared to be merely one of those bean counters that no one ever notices. You know the type they have nice little cubicles and they look out for this account or that one, but they really don't matter much in the grand scheme of things. They don't handle the heavy lifting in either business or life. They only keep an accounting of what someone else has designed, or built, or stolen.
From the instant that he sat down across from her, I watched her eyes light up. This was the most excitement she'd have in her entire day. She really didn't understand what was going on here at all. Poor stupid little fembot, I was almost sorry for her. And the bean counter had no idea how close his feet already were to the fire.
He regaled her with his witty conversation. She tittered and giggled endlessly. They were having such a good time. I'd realized instantly, when I saw the look in her eyes, that I was almost too late.
It's said that a woman knows within 10 seconds of meeting a man, whether or not she's going to fuck him. The look in this fembot's eyes said "Maybe not today, but her pussy could possibly be had by this grunt."
It was obvious that I had my work cut out for me. My name is Sally. Sally Ryde and I work for an investigative firm, here in sunny California. I'm not exactly an investigator or a detective of any kind. What I technically am is a decoy, but what I really am is a slut.
It's okay, I'm not offended. In fact I'm proud of the title. I've worked very hard to earn it, and had a lot of fun doing it too. I've had a very good life and will probably be retiring soon. In this case, the job I'm doing isn't exactly for the firm. It's kind of a favor for an old friend; that will also benefit me.
As I mentioned before, I'm the old model of slut. I have long blond hair, big blue eyes, big tits, a fantastic ass, and a walk that no man used to be able to resist. I say used to because though I don't look it, I'm 62 years old.
Okay, close your mouth, you're letting all of the flies out. My hair is Clairol's Ice Blonde number 8. My tits are implants, and my ass comes from daily, one hour stair-master sessions. We'll talk about my assets more later on, but for now just suffice it to say that I'm still hot and not just for my age. I have absolutely no doubt that if you and I were in the same room, you'd want to fuck me.
Besides I could look like a wrinkled up corpse and still be able to do my job. If they think that no one will know about it, most guys will fuck anything on 2 legs, with a hole in it. How do you really think all of those 350 lb. women on Jerry Springer ended up pregnant?
Most sluts, the good ones anyway, have this pheromone thing going for us. Most guys can smell it and just know that they aren't going to have to put out any money or any effort whatsoever. They know that they can pretty much just walk up, push us over and get that pussy. No strings attached, no bullshit or guilt trips after it's over, and a return visit any time you'd like. Try getting that kind of service from one of the Anne Hathaway types.
So even at my advanced age, I have no trouble pulling in men. As I sat down at a table near my target and her beau, I silently put out the call. Within moments I have a bean counter of my own at my table, then another, and another guy from outside. All I have to do is glance their way, and they just know that they can get some.
As my entourage and I got up to leave, I casually mentioned to my target that her makeup could use a light touch up.
By the time she entered the nearest ladies room she found me in just the position I wanted her to find me in. I was bent over, with one guy under me thrusting himself into my pussy and his friend was sticking it up my ass, while I blew the third guy. As we made eye contact briefly, I made sure to smile, while noting the fembot's outright shock, if not disgust that someone of my age would be engaged in such behavior in a public restroom. If only she knew.
As soon as she left, I finished the guys off and sent them on their way before fixing my own makeup and hair. I do need to keep up my appearance in public, since I am after all a professional.
As I returned to my table, I ordered a drink and looked at the menu. My target no longer laughed at her beau's silly jokes, and in fact she seemed to be deep in thought. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed a number. Less than 2 minutes after I put my phone away her boyfriend got a call on his. He excused himself, looking really red in the face and quickly left. It was time for me to strike.
"Don't be shocked, sweetie," I said to her. "We are after all the same. We're just at different spots on the same road."
"I quite doubt that," she said.
"Damn," I thought. "The bitch even sounds English." There must be a school out there teaching certain skinny assed American girls how to act like they're English. I had to find the place and burn it down.
Not that I have anything against the English, but I just hate anything that's fake. It's kind of a joke, like Madonna. That bitch grew up in Michigan, just outside of Detroit. Now she sounds like the fucking Duchess of Windsor. Who the hell does she think she's fooling?
"Okay honey," I said. "Whatever you say; but before you go jumping to conclusions, let's talk for a moment." She came over and sat down across from me.
"You're married, right? But obviously not to that idiot that just left here." I said.
"How did you know that?" she asked.
"Looking at his clothes and jewelry, I could tell that he couldn't afford to even buy you the shoes you're wearing. Those Donnie Noh pumps you have on, cost at least Fifteen hundred dollars a pair. Your wedding rings probably cost more than that schmuck makes in 2 years. His ring finger has a fresh tan line on it. That means that he just took off his wedding ring, to hide the fact that he's married. If he was married to you, he'd have no reason to hide it."
"Your husband, from the things he buys you, probably loves you very much. Judging from your expression, I'm sensing that even though he loves you, and you know that he loves you, he's spending a little bit more time at work than you'd like. You're feeling trapped and lonely and bored. Am I right?" she nodded her head and looked at me strangely.
"The bean counting cheater comes along and starts giving you compliments, and telling you how pretty you are and all of that shit. Every time you see him, he spends more time with you, so by now it's become a little bit of a pattern. No one has noticed it yet, but you're starting to come here more often. You're starting to engineer opportunities to see him and get your fill of attention. Tell the truth. Am I right?" The girl nervously nodded her head.
"Told ya," I said. "We are the same, because that's how it starts. Very soon you're going to be just like me. Maybe it'll take you a few more years, but maybe a few less. You never know. Let me tell you a story, okay, uhm..."
"Renee," she supplied. Pay dirt, Renee Colter was my intended target. I'd been sure from the beginning, but there were so many of these silly little cows out there that you could never be sure.
Renee, I started out just like you. A young pretty married woman, with a husband and a beautiful home. I'd married my high-school sweetheart as soon as he graduated from college and we started our life together. Ronnie, my husband, worked very hard to provide us with all of the things that I thought I wanted. Every year the list of things that would make our life together better, grew longer and more expensive.
Ronnie never balked at anything I asked for, he just worked longer and longer hours to provide me with the things I needed. Like you, left alone at home all the time, I got lonely and bored. I tried all of the usual shit. Clubs, Women's organizations, Volunteer work, I tried them all. It got to the point where I was just so God Damned lonely that I think my brain slipped a gear and I got stupid. I started thinking that Ronnie wasn't doing his part to keep our marriage going. It was all about me. I guess I thought that he liked working 50 or 60 hours a week. Nah, he didn't want to stay home and play golf, or drive his car.
That's when I met Art. Arthur Lang was one of our neighbors from down the street. He worked out of his home doing Medical billing or some other stupid thing like that. At any rate he was always home. After a while, I really don't remember what started it, but he started coming over sometimes for coffee and just listening to my problems. It was wonderful to have someone I could talk to, and it made me feel a lot better.
Previous to meeting Art, as I said I'd been kind of mistakenly, taking my loneliness out on Ronnie. Since I'd blamed him for what I thought was a failure in our marriage, I'd started trying to control him by rationing his pussy. We'd dropped from having sex four or five times a week to only once or twice. Don't think Ronnie hadn't noticed it either. He might not notice it when I changed the curtains in the living room, or bought a new rug, because seriously, men don't give a flying fuck about those things. But if he wasn't getting his pussy, he'd notice it instantly.
Ronnie being a good guy didn't club me over the head with it. He just thought it was some kind of woman's problem. He bought me flowers, some chocolates and a card, and sat back and waited for me to get over it. He spent his time waiting for me to get over it by devoting the extra time to his other interest; a 1970 Boss Mustang. That car was his pride and joy, it didn't matter what year it actually was on the calendar; it was always 1970 to Ronnie.
The attention from Arthur got more and more intense until we were having coffee everyday. The compliments began to turn my head, and what started out as only talking soon became touches, then hugs and finally kisses. Those kisses became more intense until before I knew it I was having sex with Arthur. I was a cheater. I began to think that I loved Arthur and he loved me so I began trying to avoid having sex with Ronnie all together.
I did notice that the two of them approached sex differently. What I mistook for a lack of passion in Ronnie was actually love. Ronnie took his time and stroked me and rubbed me to get me in the mood because it was important to him that I enjoyed sex with him. Arthur on the other hand often just fucked me brutally until I couldn't walk.
I really should have seen the signs. Men do treat their women the way they treat their toys. Ronnie loved his Mustang and took very good care of it. That was also the way he treated me. Arthur's car was a piece of shit and that was how he treated it, and me.
I ended up getting sick and having to go to the hospital. I had pneumonia, a really bad case of it. I called Arthur and asked him to take me to the hospital. He told me he couldn't risk it. I ended up calling Ronnie at work and he came and got me and took me there immediately. Arthur told me that Ronnie could do it because he was my legal husband, and it wouldn't cause nearly as big a problem as if he'd taken me. He told me not to ever forget that Ronnie thought he owned me, while Arthur really loved me.
Something about the way he said it, didn't seem right so I decided to test him. Ronnie had stayed at the hospital with me everyday until I was well. Arthur never even showed up to visit. When I was released from the hospital I decided to try and test them both. I told Ronnie that the doctor said I couldn't have sex for a month after I'd been released. He laughingly told me that was about how long he had to wait anyway, so what would be different. He loved me and he could wait not only for the month but until I was ready.
I told Arthur the same thing and got a totally different result. I didn't see Arthur for about a month. During that month I got over my infatuation with Arthur, and realized two things. The first being that he never really loved me, he just wanted to fuck me, and I'd been stupid enough to let him. The second was that he was also screwing several other married women in my neighborhood.
When I confronted him and told him to stay away from me or I'd tell my husband, he picked up the phone and said go ahead. He didn't care because I had a lot more to lose than he did. He wasn't married, so no one would care about our affair except Ronnie. All Ronnie could do to him, would be to try to kick his ass. Maybe Ronnie would win, or maybe Arthur would. One thing Arthur was sure about though, whoever won the fight, my marriage would be over. I'd be branded a whore and Ronnie would divorce me. No decent person in town would want to have anything to do with me. I'd be desperate and alone, and when I was desperate enough. Arthur would put aside his grudge and come back and fuck me. Ronnie, though he loved me, would never forgive me. I knew he was probably right, and didn't want to risk losing Ronnie because despite what I'd been doing, I loved him. I loved him more than I've ever loved any man in my life.
Arthur's whole approach changed after that. He no longer came over and had coffee with me and listened to my problems. There was no more kissing and romance, he just showed up whenever he wanted and fucked me. He started calling me names like slut and whore, and making me do things that I never imagine I'd do, like anal sex and giving him blow jobs.
Latisha
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