When she had been her daughter's age, Joann discovered something about herself that both frightened and appealed to her. She had found erotic pleasure.

All her life Joann had been told how nasty erotic pleasure was, and now she felt ashamed when secret desires bubbled within her. It was these desires she was afraid others would see in her. In the world Joann had grown up in, erotic desires were considered the most shameful desires of all. She had never been able to truly enjoy herself with a man, afraid to let herself go, afraid of being called those horrible names usually associated with loose women.

Now, in her mid-thirties, divorced, with two children, alone for the first time in her life, Joann found it was becoming difficult to cope with the feelings inside her. At night, especially, those desires would surface, tormenting her for hours. She resisted touching herself, feeling the hairy wetness between her legs. She would clench her fists at her hips, tears of frustration streaming from her eyes, calling herself all those horrible names in her mind.

"Slut," she would whisper to the darkness. "Slut, bitch, whore."

She didn't understand how she could be fuck crazy, since she had never fucked anyone except her husband. But her cunt, that wet, hairy slit between her thighs, was always hot and wet, her succulent nipples stiff in desire. Her cunt tortured her nightly, her clitoris so painful she could hardly stand it. But she wouldn't touch her pussy, even knowing the relief it would bring. She suffered, thinking she was simply a bad person, a shameful person.

Joann was truly beautiful, with her chestnut hair and sparkling green eyes. Her skin was the dream of most women: smooth, creamy, unblemished, a perfect complexion. Her body was flawless in shape behind the clothing she wore to conceal it.