Descent into Depravity Ch. 04

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Alice, a recently widowed schoolteacher, has discovered her late husband had a porn collection, which she, to her surprise, finds intriguing. An even greater surprise is that her new found obsession with sex seems to have cured her depression over her husband’s death. In this chapter Alice’s descent into depravity continues with a lesbian affair with her best friend.

A week later I was still struggling with my need for a plan to meet Sofia and Juan. It wasn’t like I thought about it every waking moment, but it was always in the back of my mind, especially when I was reliving my voyeur’s experience while I masturbated. I hadn’t abandoned Larry’s porn collection, but my memory of watching Sofia and Juan in the back yard was certainly supplementing it.

Then my life changed. Again. The phone rang—it was Joan calling me.

“Joan, where have you been?” I said. “I haven’t heard from you in two or three weeks.”

“Hervé and I have been in France.”

“Provence?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Just a hunch,” I said thinking back to the time in the grocery store when Hervé had seductively proposed I run off to Provence with him.

“It was lovely. I’d never been there before.”

“When can we get together so you can tell me all about it?”

“Hervé’s gone for a week on business, so pretty much any time you want.”

“Good. Then you’re coming here for dinner tonight. I want to hear all about your trip, and I want to show you what I’ve done with my back yard. Can you make it by six?”

“Sure.”

As soon as I hung up I was asking myself, “What have I done? This is the first time I’ve invited someone over since Larry died.”

The next thought was a very healthy, “Why not. It’s my house now, and I should have people over. And who better to start with than Joan?”

I ran to the bedroom, my around-the-house robe open and trailing behind me. I tossed off the robe and stood naked in my bedroom as I grabbed a skirt and a blouse (as per my usual, no undergarments for grocery shopping). I dreamed up the menu while I was dressing and derived a shopping list from the menu as I drove to the market. I made sure the list included a couple of bottles of wine, as I knew Joan liked her wine almost as much as I did of late. The store had a discount if you bought six bottles, so I of course stocked up.

Two hours later Joan arrived. I was in the kitchen stirring up spaghetti sauce, a glass of red wine in one hand. I had an apron on over the clothes I had worn to the store, but I hadn’t thought about adding any undergarments. “Oops,” I said to myself as I saw her stepping from her car at the street. “Oh well, it’s only Joan.”

My kitchen faced to the front of the house, so as Joan approached the front door I yelled through an open window, “Come on in. I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”

I heard the front door open and close, and as Joan walked into the kitchen I handed it to her.

Joan is several inches shorter than me. Most people would call her voluptuous. Her narrow, pinched waist provides an attractive bridge between her broad hips and her big breasts. Her boobs cover most of her chest. When she wears the right bra they project out from her chest like a shelf. It causes men to stop as they walk by her on the street and occasionally step unexpectedly off a curb they didn’t see. Her ass is not only round but it projects from her lower back—what some refer to, perhaps a bit crudely, as a bubble butt. This afternoon she was wearing a brightly-colored blouse that draped seductively over her tits and a short skirt that covered her butt and a few inches of her legs, but not much more. Several buttons were undone on the blouse, so a good deal of cleavage was exposed. As usual, she wore heels a couple of inches higher than I had ever owned, to augment her height. She had a round face with large brown eyes and thick dark lashes. Her hair was raven, lush, and long. Like mine it hung down over her shoulders, approaching her breasts in front and also down her back. I’ve known Joan ever since my senior year in college and consider her to be my best friend, as she does me.

“Ah, just what I was craving,” she said as she accepted the wine glass. As she leaned across the counter to take it from my hand I found myself looking at her massive cleavage, exposed by a combination of her forward lean and the open buttons on her blouse. I felt just the lightest tingle of lust as I stared for a moment too long at her tits. It seemed she held her forward lean a bit longer than was necessary. Was she showing me her tits? Did she see me looking? Oh Where did that come from I thought? My god, you are obsessed with sex of late I scolded myself.

Joan stepped back from the counter and held her glass up in a toast. “Here’s to us, a couple of abandoned old broads.”

We drank, and I asked, “Abandoned? Where is Hervé?”

“Oh, he’s just off on a ten-day business trip. Left five days ago. Won’t be back until Friday.”

She paused for a moment, sınırsız escort reconsidering. “I’m sorry Alice. Hervé being gone for ten days hardly compares with your loss. How are you doing?”

I thought for a minute and said, “I’m doing fine. Just fine.” And I meant it. “Things have changed around here over the last few months,” I told her. “Let’s have dinner and I’ll tell you about it.”

As I turned to refill my wine glass I wondered, well just what am I going to tell Joan about—Larry’s porn collection; his Literotica posts; my obsessive masturbation; my new-found interest in nudism; my voyeuristic encounter with my neighbors. The fact was that all these things had coincided with my recovery from my depression, but was that a coincidence or a cause? Can sex cure depression? I figured my therapist would not support that idea, unless she viewed it as a hobby. She was always recommending I find a hobby, but I somehow didn’t think masturbation was what she had in mind. Strange notion. I hadn’t seen her since I found Larry’s porn collection and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

I let the whole question drift away as Joan and I ate dinner and she jabbered about her trip to Europe. After dinner we piled the plates in the sink along with the pots and pans I had put there to soak. When Joan started to wash up, I told her, “Stop. They will all be there tomorrow, and I can take care of them before I leave to teach my Monday class. Let’s pour some more wine. I want to show you my back yard.” We were into the second bottle by then, and I was feeling it as we headed out back, our glasses full.

We wandered about the yard for a while and eventually wound up sitting at the table and chairs I had put in the pergola. I walked back to the kitchen and brought out the wine bottle to refill our glasses. I liked the way my tits felt as they bounced beneath my blouse. Had Joan noticed? She hadn’t said anything, but I thought I caught her staring once.

I put some bounce in my step as I walked back across the yard with the open wine bottle. Yes, I thought, she is definitely noticing the jiggle in my tits. I wonder? Stop that you naughty girl I told myself. Iwasn’t clear as to whether what I was supposed to stop—jiggling my tits or wondering about Joan. I did neither.

I satoppositejoan on the pergala after filling her and my wine glasses. We each took a long drink. “So tell me how you’re doing,” Joan asked, bringing me back to the question I had ducked when she first arrived. I didn’t want to talk about it then, but I was drunk enough now that it didn’t seem to make any difference.

“I’m doing great. My depression is gone. I get out of the house for things other than work. I talk to people. I admit that you are my first dinner guest, but it’s a start, and I didn’t agonize at all about it. I just asked you.”

“So what caused this transformation?” she slurred the last word just a bit.

I paused for a minute. What the hell, I thought. Joan is my best friend. Finally I spoke up. “I have a new hobby.”

“A hobby? You mean the yard?”

“No, not that.”

“So what’s your new hobby?”

“Sex.”

“Sex?”

“Yes, sex,” I said. I took another big drink of wine, not that I needed it.

“With who?”

“Uhh . . . well mostly myself, so far,” I said. But I have ambitions, I thought.

“Oh . . . Yeah. I get it. I’ll be down to that by the time Hervé gets back.”

“No, no you don’t understand.” I refilled both our wine glasses. It was nice where we were sitting on the pergola. There was a breeze and the temperature was just right. I turned just a bit so the breeze was blowing up my skirt and gently massaging my naked pussy. I had let the bottom of my skirt slide well up my thighs and I was making a point of not holding my knees tightly together.

“Okay. What don’t I understand?” Joan asked. “I mean I understand masturbation. We all do it, but when I studied psychology in college, nobody said it was a cure for depression.” She babbled on about depression and obsessions for a long while, remembering far more from her single college psychology class than I would have expected a liberal arts student majoring in boys to remember.

After a while I stopped her. “Wait. Let me explain. After Larry died, I was depressed. For a long time. But now I’m not. Since I took up sex as a hobby, my depression has gone away, like a fog that clears when the sun gets high. Maybe I’m obsessed with sex now, but as an alternative to depression it’s hard to beat.”

“So what happened?” Joan asked, still giving me a blank look.

“I inherited a porn collection, and it turned out I liked it a lot more than being depressed. It’s that simple.”

“What?”

So I explained about what I had found on Larry’s computer—his porn collection, his Literotica stories, and how I had become so engrossed in all of it that I hooked his computer up to the big screen TV. Then I told her about how I liked to walk around naked or taksim escort as close to naked as I dared under the circumstances. I didn’t quite get to the part about watching the neighbors fucking before she interrupted.

“Oh, you naughty girl. Were you naked under your clothes when you came to dinner at our house?” she asked smiling lewdly at me.

“No, but remember the time I ran into you and Hervé in the grocery store? I was naked under the skirt and blouse I had on that day. I was scared to death—just sure Hervé could somehow see through what I was wearing and know that I was naked beneath it.”

Joan laughed, “Hervé tells himself that every woman he sees is naked beneath her outer garments. He says he’s an optimist. What he is, is a lecher.”

I smiled. “That’s what you like about him, isn’t it?”

“Ummm. Among other things.” She had a slightly lascivious smile on her face as she spoke.

“I’d like to garden naked, too,” I continued, “but I haven’t quite worked up the courage for that yet. I do have this sort of ‘why bother’ style bikini that I wear in the back yard when I garden, and I did mow the back lawn topless last week.”

“Uhh . . . are you wearing any underclothes now?”

“Well . . .No. I intended to but I didn’t wear any when I went to the store, and I forgot when I got home. I have a habit of not wearing underclothes to the store and since I am usually nearly naked around the house, it’s easy to forget when I get home.”

“So you’re naked underneath that outfit?”

“Yes. Want to see?” The wine was kicking in. I would have never suggested something like that when I was sober. But I was far from sober now and more than a little horny. Without waiting for answer I started unbuttoning my top. My c-cup breasts burst out as I peeled the blouse completely off. Joan was staring silently. I reached behind me and released the catch on my skirt and then stood briefly to let it slide over my hips and down my legs.

Now Joan was sitting staring at me in shock. “Alice, you’re naked!

“Yes,” I said as I cupped my breasts and held them out toward her, “and it feels delicious.”

A few moments silence passed between us as Joan stared at my naked body.

I don’t know where the idea came from, but I said “Now it’s your turn, Joan. Take your clothes off. No more wine until you’re naked.” I was waving the half-full bottle at her.

Joan looked around. “Can your neighbors see us?”

“No.” I left out the “I don’t think so” part, required for full honesty. “Besides it’s getting dark.”

She looked around again and then said, “Okay, I’ll do it.” It was obvious she was as drunk as I was.

She started by unbuttoning her blouse. Her big tits stood out, her bra holding them up, as she pulled the blouse off and tossed it on the pile of my clothes. Next she stood and removed her skirt so she was standing before me wearing just a bra and panties. Before going further she picked up her wine glass and emptied it for a shot of courage.

“You really want me to do this?” she asked.

“Yes,” I responded, waving the wine bottle again.

She looked around again, then quickly shed her bra and panties and sat down. She leaned forward holding her glass out for a refill from the bottle I had been waving before her. Her big tits waved back and forth beneath her. I could see her areolas were swollen and her nipples hard. What would it be like to suck on those nipples? It was just a fleeting thought.

I filled the glass and looked at her. “My god, you’ve got great tits,” I said. “No wonder Hervé likes you. I’ll bet he can never get enough of your tits.” Wow, I thought, I have to be really drunk to be talking like this.

Joan smiled. “Oh yes, Hervé loves my tits. It’s the Basque blood in him.”

“Basque?” I thought he was French.

“He came from Southern France, a little town right up against the Pyrenees. Lots of Basque blood on both sides of the border there. They’re so horny, those Basque men. You should get yourself one.” She was clearly drunk now.

Joan giggled. “He likes to titty fuck me.” She was holding her tits out toward me looking down at them.

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“First I suck his cock so it’s good and hard, although half the time he just walks in the door with a hard on. God he’s a horny bastard. Then I lube his cock up and he puts it between my tits so it’s pointed right at my chin.” She pushed her tits together to show me, although I noticed that she did it in such a way that she had a finger and a thumb on each nipple. Her nipples had engorged and they were big around and long.

God, I want to suck on those, I thought. It wasn’t a fleeting thought now. Does that make me a lesbian? Fuck who cares. It’s all just sex.

“What happens next?” I asked. During the silence while I was questioning my gender preference, Joan had lost the thread of the conversation. Now she was seriously focused on masturbating her tits.

“Oh tesettürlü escort . . . What? Oh . . . you mean with Hervé. Yes. She pushed her tits back together and said, “Well, he lays his slippery cock between my tits so the head is pointed against my chin. Then he slides it back and forth until he cums. He says it feels just like a pussy.” She rolled her head back, obviously thinking about Hervé’s climax. “My god,” she said. “If that lecherous Basco hasn’t cum in a few days he can cover my whole face with cum. Then he likes to watch it drip down onto my tits.”

“Then does he get you off,” I asked.

“Umm. Oh yeah! Once he’s covered my face and tits with his cum he wants to dive down between my legs and eat me. Oh god can that man eat pussy. Did Larry do that for you?”

I laughed. “Hardly. Larry’s limits were a few minutes of very uninspired foreplay and a five minute missionary position fuck, and not very often at that.”

“Oh that’s too bad,” Joan said. “And this is the man who had a porn collection?”

“Hard to figure, huh.”

I could tell she had gotten very aroused by the conversation. When we started her legs had been crossed—very ladylike, or at least as ladylike as you can be while sitting naked in someone’s back yard. Now she was leaning back in her chair with her legs spread lewdly as she continued to play with her tits.

“Have you ever kissed a girl?” she asked me.

“Uhhh . . . no,” I responded. “Have you?”

“Yes, a lot. When I was in college, before I met Hervé I began a lesbian affair with one of my professors.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes. It lasted two years. We both knew it couldn’t become anything more than an illicit affair. She had a husband and two children and I was her research assistant. It was a crazy thing for both of us.”

“Was the sex good?” I asked.

“Oh . . . Fuck! Oh fucking god yes! The sex was so good.”

“Better than with Hervé?” I asked.

“Hard to say,” she said. “It was different.”

“Which was better?”

“Both,” she answered with deliberate ambiguity.

“Were you sleeping with both of them at the same time,” I asked.

“Yes.”

“That sounds complicated,”

“Not really. They both knew and didn’t care. Sometimes Hervé joined us.”

“What about her husband?”

“Oh no! Not him. He was a stuffy full professor twenty years older than her. God, he’d have had a fucking stroke if he had known about us. He would have divorced her and gotten both of us thrown out of the university if he had known.”

There was a long silence while both of us thought about what to say next.

“Alice,” she said. “Will you kiss me?”

I knew she wanted more than that, or at least I hoped she did. We both stood and pulled each other together. Joan was a good deal shorter than me, so she was standing on her toes. Our lips came together in a soft, slow kiss. No tongue at first.

When we broke Joan said, “Oh yes. It’s been too long.” Her voice had a dreamy tone. Remembering her college lover I thought.

We were standing with my hands on her hips and hers on my shoulders, our bodies barely touching.

“I’ve never done that,” I said. “That was nice.” She was lightly rubbing her breasts against my upper rib cage as we stood there. My tits were almost resting on her shoulders. I really was taller than her.

“Do you want more?” she asked.

“Oh yes.”

She pulled my head down to her and we kissed again, much more aggressively this time, our tongues dueling with each other and our chests rubbing our naked tits and hardened nipples against each other’s bodies. She had her arms around my neck, pulling me down. I had my arms around her back, but I quickly let them slide down to her round soft butt. As our tongues dueled I was pulling her up against me. I slid a leg between hers and rubbed my thigh against her vulva. She was dripping wet. This kiss went on for a long time as she humped my leg and our tongues sparred. Finally she pulled back and said, “Let’s go inside. Sex is always better in bed.” I led the way down the pergola steps and then we ran, holding hands like naked schoolgirls, across the lawn and into the house.

Once in the house we continued running to my bedroom. Joan ripped off my bedclothes, leaving only a sheet. Then we flopped onto the bed lying face to face with our legs entangled. We began kissing again. It was a long kiss, soft and sloppy, with our tongues each probing the other’s mouth in turn. I couldn’t believe how soft her kiss was. I had never been kissed like that in my life.

Eventually we broke apart, but only by inches and only at the top. Our bodies remained lustfully entangled.

“God, I’ve never been kissed like that,” I said.

She smiled. “Women are different,” she responded.

She had a hand on my breast now. Not mashing it as the men I had known did. Just softly and tenderly massaging it, occasionally brushing my engorged nipple with the palm of her hand. Yes, I thought. Where has this been all my life?

“How long has it been?” I asked. “Since you made love to a woman?”

“Too long. Not since Gina.”

I gasped as she tweaked a nipple with her fingers. Not hard or painfully, but just enough to send a bolt of lust to my pussy.

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