Virginia was at a sensual high, her fingers massaging thrill after thrill from her cunt. She was close to coming, the drool dripping, from the corner other mouth.

She looked at the pictures on the bed beside her again and increased the action of her hand. She had two ringers deep inside her cunt while her thumb strummed heavily on her cut. She imagined the frail-looking youth was squirting his hot jizz down her throat and started to come. She had always come easily, even many times when Harvey came after,just a couple of jabs, but this one was exquisite, shattering better than anything she had ever had before. And while she was at the height of her come, she saw the picture of the big dog and imagined that it was her hand pulling on the wet, slimy tool.

Virginia lay exhausted for a long while, the ride down from her sexual high a slow, gentle, very rewarding one. She finally got up when the urge to pee grew so strong she could no longer hold out. Her release over the potty was almost like another come. God, she thought, a good piss was almost sexual, and it really was. She went back to her room and hid the pictures under her panties in the dresser.

She wanted her husband to fuck her when he came home, but it was his bowling night, and lie left the house right after supper without so much as a kiss on her cheek. She felt only bitterness at her plight; after all, did she deserve such treatment? She had been a good wife and mother. Their only child, Ruthie, was nineteen and away for her first year in college, leaving her with nothing but an uncaring, self-gratifying husband. Why hadn't Harvey given her a son, too? She had wanted a son so badly. Why was she so left out? Site filled a glass half full of vodka.

Her brain felt numb when she finally staggered up to her bedroom. She had stripped down to her panties and bra when she glanced out the window and saw a light in the house next door. It was from Chuck Morrison's roam, it had to be, his parents' room was on the other side. Without thought, she staggered from the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. The Morrison house was a rambling, ranch type, and she could look directly into the window without so much as standing on her toes.