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Today, it’s cold and the skies have produced little hail stones mixed with flakes of snow. My favourite wine bar is crowded with strangers who came in to shelter from the sudden downpour, and stayed to while away a few hours discussing the weather, the latest banking scandal, the state of the presidential election race, and who they think might win the latest television talent contest.
I’ve found a secluded corner and have started tapping away (obviously). Can’t see the yuppy ‘Banker Boys’ but I know they’re here somewhere.


I feel like such a fucking bitch.
To be honest, this is not the first time I’ve gone swimming in the gloomy pond of self hate.
How could I do what I’m doing when he’s so bloody nice.
He’s good looking, sexy, and worst of all he loves me, even when I’m puking into the toilet bowl, and he’s having to hold my hair out of the way.
But he doesn’t really know what I am. Would he still love me if he found out?

You other women who have slipped out of the marital bed and ended up on you back with another man pressing down on you, will know all about these moments of black doubt and regret. When you would give almost anything to go back to the moment it all started. You know – the moment you said yes, or didn’t say anything at all as he bent you over, laid you down, or stuck his cock into your mouth.

Don’t you wish you could go back to that moment, when there was still time to walk out and go home to fuck Mr Right, and not bang Mr. Right-there? Who, lets face it, might look like Prince Charming on the outside, but inside……. he is all slimy frog, even with his big, beautiful cock that fills up every corner of your vagina.

But is it that simple? Are we seduced my inches and girth? Are we really that shallow? (No jokes, please.)

Yesterday, Birthday Boy took me to lunch at the Ritz, bought me roses, and then we rode the elevator up to a room he’d booked for the afternoon. How romantic.
Romance hell!

He didn’t bring the little housewife to an expensive hotel just so he could make sweet delicate vanilla love to her. No,. He wanted the other woman he married. The one who goes down and sucks his cock and claws and howls and whimpers, and makes him feel that his nearly nine inch cock is ripping her apart.
How many of you women haven’t been down that road for her man?

Of course I was dressed correctly under my business suit. You know: black laced, knee length boots; black stockings; red lacy suspenders; tight panties; smallish bra to match. Just like a hooker. He didn’t have to ask. But that’s what he likes. And it was his birthday.

We drank champagne and then he poured it on my….. It doesn’t matter where he poured it. This blog is not going to be a masturbation cliché, subtle or otherwise. So fade out. I’m sure your imaginations can fill in the blanks.