She found other porn magazines under the mattress, a few dozen of them. Some of the things the magazines depicted Kathy had only heard whispered about. She couldn't believe that Randy Chapman, son of the richest parents in the neighborhood, looked at such filth. She couldn't believe that he could possibly have soiled his bedsheet with so many loads of cum. The sheet was actually stiff with dried cum, as if it had been starched. The boy had to be a sex maniac.

Kathy spotted a school picture of the boy among the clutter on his dresser. She picked it up, gazing into the seductive blue eyes under the blond bangs. The boy was a knockout, as she'd used to say about the boys in her high school. The boy turned her on. She wanted him. God did she want him!

She found herself pulling off her clothing – her dress, her bra, her panties. Her tits had swollen hugely, her cherries large, purplish, and bumpy, her nipples like hard fingertips. Pussyjuice dribbled from between her furry, swollen cuntlips and trickled down the insides of her thighs. She fell on her back an Randy's bed, rolling in the smell of him, his picture in one hand, her other hand jabbing between her legs.

"Oh, Randy, fuck me!" she moaned. "Give it to me, baby!"

She kicked her legs up in the air and pointed her toes. She arched her back and rocked her hips, thrusting her tits up high, rubbing them against the phantom chest of the phantom teenage boy.

"I want you!" she growled.

She didn't care anymore that she was married to Otto and had promised to be faithful to him forever. He'd never satisfied her anyway. Not once in their fifteen years of marriage had he ever satisfied her. She was thirty-three, an attractive woman at the peak of her sexual need, and married to a man who had never given her an orgasm, married to a man who used her a few minutes each morning as a sex toy, as no more than a receptacle for his cum, married to man who cared about his own quick pleasure and nothing about giving her pleasure.