Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Coercion, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Cheating, FemaleDom, Spanking, Light Bond, Humiliation, Group Sex, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Sex Toys, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Analingus, Violent, Workplace, .
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This is the story of the adventures of a female PI with a loose set of morals. She is ready to take the easiest road to success no matter how degrading and humiliating to her sense of dignity.
I am driving south into the farmland and come to a midsized town with lots of new houses with small yards and mostly two stories with enough bedrooms to hold a large family. I am driving a small red Volkswagen with California plates. I find the street I am looking for and rehearse my little spiel that I give to all the clients before I reach the door. I notice there are no dogs or any children’s toys on the newly-sodded grass and that is a big plus in my book because I don’t like any distractions. I want to push a bell or a buzzer but I don’t see any. My knock is a bit on the timid side and I feel immediately inadequate. That is my general sense of being when I am about to meet complete strangers and I have to convince them of my sincerity and honesty in just a few short minutes. It is those first minutes that make all the difference in the world in any deal.
A young woman answers the door and I am now more at ease. We look a lot alike with the same color hair of dirty blond and I suspected she even had my brand of lipstick that makes the lips seem a little bit wet to the casual observer. I know that was the same thought in her head when she pushed back her loose strands behind her multi-pierced ears with the decorative art of Indian accessories that appealed to me equally well. Unfortunately, I never went past the single piercing stage because of strict parents and a boring school like that had me constantly with a book on my lap instead of some football jock’s handsome head. It seemed like my best friend forever Veronica had all those heads bobbing on her sweet spot like trained seals looking for snacks.
Allow me to give you a little background on me, if you are interested in that sort of thing.
My name is Felicia Smothers.
Please don’t laugh and ask which one I am. That is not my original name. My papa’s name was Featherstone and I loved the way it sounded on the lips. It would be so much nicer to say “my name is Felicia Featherstone.”
My disaster of a husband Karl Smothers turned out to be a real prick right after the honeymoon. I have to admit our honeymoon was a whirlwind of constant humping and introduction to every sinful act and deed the priest had told us girls to avoid at all costs. He constantly stressed the importance of getting married to a stable anchor and making lots of babies to the greater glory of God. All I have to say after Karl finished with me on that honeymoon down Mexico way was that my poor pussy and tired ass needed a vacation to restore my dignity and calm reserve.
I really want to lie to you and tell you that I was a virgin until Karl took me on the Mexican honeymoon, but the truth of the matter is that my Uncle Max busted my cherry bouncing me on his well-padded lap in the back seat of the family car coming back from the seashore on a rainy Saturday afternoon. I never forgot that entire sequence of events because the sensation of my overweight uncle’s happy warrior sliding into my teenaged channel was not in the least bit painful and at the time it seemed so right that I was afraid he might want to make a habit of it.
Up until that moment of truth, my concepts of having sex were all filled with scenes of knights with shining armor and white horses that sometimes changed into unicorns with long hard shafts on the top of their beautiful heads ready for combat or anything else that unicorns were inclined to pursue. My little soft cheeks pressed tightly into Uncle Max’s groin and I pretended I was so happy at swimming in the surf that I was singing a little song that was popular on the music stations right at the moment. I think it was a “number one” for all of eight days and it made me tingle just to hear the words of love.
It is hard now to describe the feel of Max’s middle-aged cock navigating my virginal slit. He had no problem shredding my eighteen year old hymen. I was inspired by thoughts of football jocks bending me over the workout bench. The image of them making me take it all the way up like a dirty girl down on the corner looking for love in all the wrong places caused me to orgasm for the first time. I had only masturbated with my little Teddy Bear before that fateful day and it never seemed to bring me to that point of no return.
After Uncle Max, Mister Patel at the candy store finished my sexual liberation period with constant “on your knees” performances to earn little goodies and an occasional magazine with lots of pictures. I knew his ugly covered-up wife was aware of my shameful indecent acts to drain her husband’s seeds, but she never said a word. I felt a lot of guilt about that, but had to admit Mister Patel had the longest and the stiffest dick I had encountered up to that point and he certainly know how use it inside a young girl’s mouth. Sometimes, he would have me bend over the counter like I was looking at something delicious down low and he would use his fingers on me like he was playing a musical instrument. It never failed to bring me off and I have never found a man with that ability even though the nasty minded Karl didn’t hesitate to give it a go time and again without success.
I took the job with the detective agency on a whim because they advertised for someone who could type their own reports and follow orders. I didn’t have any problem with those requirements and it looked like it was the sort of job that I would enjoy doing. Besides, the romantic angle of being an actual “Private Detective Agency” was a hook I was unable to resist. It turned out that they were not too happy about a female applying for the job despite the fact all the bosses made no bones about ogling my pretty legs like a bunch of hungry sharks.
When I married Karl, I was still only nineteen and at five foot four I could be considered “petite” by most standards. I had wavy dirty blond hair that went to my shoulders. Some described me as beautiful with a pale white skin and delicate features set off by my hazel eyes and slightly moist plump lips and hint of a pink tongue. The only make-up I usually wore was my special tint of deep red with the suspicion of wetness. I knew my body was well above average. I made a concerted effort to flaunt it in the way I walked and the type of clothing I wore to highlight my assets.
I found that wearing the same school uniform skirt I wore as a teenager helped me to meet my clients and get close quicker than the more conservative dress recommended by my old-fashioned boss at the agency. I think it was the fact of being about four inches above the knee made a statement about my legs that men appreciated most of all. It was when the wives or girlfriends interacted that I had most of my problems. The fact was I hid a perverted attraction to the female sex that was almost an obsession, if the truth be known.
It was my disgustingly depraved husband Karl that made a point of constantly reminding me how incredible my legs were to the average male. It was a fact that they were beautifully formed, nicely toned and trim as an Olympic athlete at the starting line. My curves were in all the right places and perfect for my height and petite figure. In addition to that, my wardrobe of short skirts showed off my supple slim waist and enticing heart-shaped ass to perfection. I generally wore blouses of a sheer quality and seldom closed the top two buttons to allow viewing of my soft delicate bosom tops should one be so inclined. My C-cup breasts were usually covered with a dark shaded bra to be easily perceived through the sheer blouse. I would often stand with the light shining through the windows to show off their beautiful perky form in order to gain immediate attention from my admirers.
I guess I made a nice enough impression on the jaded middle-aged men with tired wives and expensive girlfriends.
The job was straight-forward enough.
All I had to do was contact the prospective “clients” for the agency and determine if they were the actual “heirs” to participate in wills and disbursement of funds from some legal settlement. I had to get as much information from the subjects as possible without dispensing any of the same in return.
I greeted the young woman with a smile that charmed all males and tended to put females on their guard. I did my best to sound like I was a native of the area, but I suspect some of my New York City accent lurked in the background like a red flag to perceptive listeners.
“Good morning, is this the residence of Mister and Mrs. Smolensky originally of Bayonne, New Jersey?”
The woman was intrigued we were standing in a coastal town, not far from the Jersey Shore, almost one hundred miles from downtown New York City. I almost knew what her response would be and I waiting for it so I could get on with the business of laying the groundwork for the interview. We liked to call them an “interview” so the clients wouldn’t feel like they were being interrogated. In all honesty, it was a simple background interrogation to sort out the “heirs” and get the file closed for all of us to receive our share of the pie as well.
The woman laughed nervously and stroked her strands of hair furiously like she was giving a massage to a sex-deprived marine.
“Well, honey, my name is Doris Smolensky and my husband’s name is Simon. We did live in Bayonne for a short time until my husband finished the assignment to the shipyard. I guess that would be a technical yes to your question. What exactly do you need, honey?”
I officiously planted my specially designed briefcase on the doorsill to make claim to a few inches of entry and introduced myself as quickly as possible.
“My name is Felicia Smothers. I work for the Pringleton Detective Agency and I need to talk to you Doris about your Uncle Willy. He died intestate almost eighteen months ago and we are sorting out the beneficiaries list. You are listed a percentile interest in the estate and I just need to clarify your relationship to the deceased with a few short questions. I should only take about fifteen minutes of your time and will insure your continued participation in the resolution.”
The eager-eyed Doris almost pulled me inside the entryway and escorted me to the glassed-in room in the back that had so many different plants of an exotic nature surrounding it, that I thought it was a Botanical Garden.
I went down the checklist and before I reached the end it was obvious that this Doris was the person on the distribution list with absolutely no doubt about it.
Her two sons, apparently twins, were swimming in the above-ground pool in the back yard and they looked quite splendid in their speedo tights and swimming glasses. Their trim backsides were partially exposed due to the tights running up into their cracks as they played and swam with intensive vitality. Doris told me they had just celebrated their eighteenth birthday that weekend and now they would have to find used cars for each of them. Bruce and Barry resembled their attractive mother who must have had them when she was still a teenager.
The day was becoming hot and humid and I envied the fact that they had the use of the cooling pool to stay refreshed in the summertime.
“I was just going to join the boys for a game of water polo.”
Doris’s words cut into my lurid daydreams of being done by both twins at the same time and not knowing which was which.
“Do you want to borrow one of my swim suits? I have God only knows how many of the things scattered around the bedroom.”
I don’t remember if I was more intrigued by the thought of stripping down naked in a room with Doris or bouncing up against the twin boy’s eighteen year old bodies, but it was impossible to decline the gracious invitation and I followed her swaying still-attractive backside up the stairs with my pulse beating a lot faster than when I first came through the front door.