Authors: Ray Gordon
Unhooking my bra and allowing the cups to fall away from my petite breasts, I knew I'd lost control of my senses. This was madness, but I couldn't fight my arousal. Slipping my skirt down my long legs, I stood before the window in my panties and imagined Derek spying at me through binoculars.
Attractive, blonde Sarah is content with life in the suburbs with her husband. At least until she receives a salacious e-mail from a man called
, who knows intimate details about her. The message suggests she is being watched. More mails arrive admiring her sexy outfits. Her bemusement soon turns to curiosity and she begins a correspondence with
. Believing the writer to be her husband, she follows the requests in the emails and engages in sexual games with him. Once hooked on the game, the requests become more extreme and she engages in affairs with other men. And it is only then she realises the identity behind
is not her husband. A stranger has transformed her from a loyal loving wife, to an insatiable adulterer.
Swamped by an overwhelming desire not only to discover who
is, but also to now find gratification from increasingly outrageous sexual acts, she begins to seduce the men she suspects are
. Time after time she attempts to solve the mystery, but fails, while slipping further and further into shame and depravity. And all the time,
watches, until . . . finally,
Ray Gordon is a popular erotic novelist of near legendary status, who has penned over forty novels for a variety of big publishing houses.
DEPTHS OF DEPRAVATION
THE ROAD TO DEPRAVITY
THE UPSKIRT EXHIBITIONIST
MY THIGHS PARTED,
my white cotton panties buried in the wet valley between my hairless pussy lips, I felt my clitoris rouse as my friend's husband gazed longingly at me. I knew what he was thinking, what he wanted to do to me, and I opened my thighs a little further. I felt sexy, really horny, as he focused on my pussy lips bulging invitingly either side of my tight panties. His dark eyes smiling as he adjusted the crotch of his trousers, he finally left his chair and stood before me. I felt wicked, excited, as I looked up at him from the sofa and grinned. I was wet with desire, my clitoris swollen, yearning for his intimate caress. His cock would be solid, I mused. His full balls heaving, he'd be longing to sink his hardness deep into the wet heat of my tight vagina.
âYou're a horny little thing, Sarah,' he said, kneeling before me and easing my knees apart. âI've always imagined fucking you and . . .'
âDo it, Sam,' I breathed, almost ripping my panties off. âFuck me.'
He unbuckled his belt, lowered his trousers and proudly displayed his erect penis, his bulbous knob. I was hungry for sex, and he knew it. The feel of his solid cock entering my tight vagina driving me wild, I lay back on the sofa and parted my legs to the
maximum as he impaled me completely on his magnificent organ. My hairless pussy lips stretched around another man's rock-hard cock, my clitoris massaged by his pussy-wet shaft, I closed my eyes as he increased his rhythm.
I'd not wanted this, I reflected. I'd been trying to forget other men and get my life back to some sort of normality. But I couldn't help myself. Since my husband had been working away, I'd become a nymphomaniac. No matter how I tried, I couldn't resist another man's cock. The very notion of being alone in a room with another man sent quivers through my young womb. Craving crude sex, I'd become an adulterous whore, a common slut. As I fucked my friend's husband, I knew that I'd never change. His spunk flooding my contracting vagina, my clitoris erupting in orgasm, I writhed and whimpered on the sofa. I could never be faithful to my husband. Too much water under the bridge, too much sperm had flowed, for me to return to the twee little housewife I'd once been.
We'd fucked long and hard, and I enjoyed two massive orgasms. But, my sperm-flooded vagina contracting, my clitoris swelling, I'd not finished with Sam. Moving forward on the sofa, positioning my naked buttocks over the edge of the cushion, I demanded that he fuck me again. His beautiful cock stiffened and he impaled me on it once more. Entwined in adulterous lust, the sound of flesh meeting flesh resounding around the room, we gasped and writhed in our illicit act. More orgasms, more spunk . . .
âYou're amazing,' Sam said, finally sitting back on his heels.
âAnd you're bloody good,' I breathed huskily. âDo my arse now, Sam. Fuck my arse.'
âGod, you're an insatiable little nymph,' he said with a chuckle.
âShe's a filthy slut,' his wife screamed, entering the room and glaring at me. âAnd you're a cheating bastard.'
âOh, I . . .' he stammered, leaping to his feet and pulling his trousers up. âI thought . . . I didn't know you were back.'
âYou filthy whore,' she spat, slapping my face. âGet out of my house . . .'
In such a short space of time, I'd slipped slowly but surely into a nightmarish situation. I'd been faithful to Dave throughout our marriage, and now I was jeopardising everything by seducing yet another man. Three, four, five men? I'd lost count of the adulterous encounters I'd had over the past week. I'd enjoyed four happy years with Dave, fulfilling years. The semi we'd bought on the outskirts of town was small, but we'd made it our home, our love nest. Dave earned good money as a photographer and I wanted for nothing, so why the hell was I playing around? We'd always got on so well with each other, shared everything and did everything together. Now, I was sharing my body with several other men.
My initial attraction to Dave had been his sense of humour. He was a practical joker and great fun to be with. He was a good laugh but, apart from the fun we had, we understood each other. I'd always got my kicks from flirting, crossing my legs and showing a naked thigh or wearing revealing tops and displaying the deep cleavage of my firm breasts. Dave had been pleased to think that other men were looking at his wife. He was proud of me, and I liked that. Although I loved the thought of other men ogling my curvaceous young body, Dave knew that I'd never be
unfaithful to him. We were a fun-loving couple and enjoyed life to the full. Until that fateful evening when I received the first email.
Calling himself Brian, the sender said that he'd liked the red miniskirt and black leather boots I'd worn earlier in the day. Brian? I didn't know anyone of that name, but he obviously knew me. And he knew what I'd been wearing. I was gripped by intrigue. Only friends and family knew my email address, so how on earth had this man got hold of it? Was Dave playing a joke on me? He loved winding me up and I was sure that he'd sent the email. But I didn't see what the joke was. Whatever the joke, I decided to say nothing about it.
The second email arrived the following morning. Again calling himself Brian, the sender asked me what colour my panties were. I pulled my skirt up: they were white. After commenting on the skimpy top I was wearing, he asked me whether I fingered my pussy and brought myself off. Although I'd been pretty sure that the emails were from Dave, I began to wonder. We had a good sex life, regular and satisfying, but he wasn't the type to talk dirty when making love. And he'd never asked me whether I fingered my pussy and brought myself off. The email had to be from Dave, I finally concluded. He'd seen me in my skimpy top before he'd left for work that morning, so it had to be from him.
I was about to delete the email when I thought that it might be fun to reply. Although it was unlike Dave to talk about the colour of my panties and ask me about pussy-fingering, it occurred to me that he might be getting a kick out of it. Maybe the thought of my masturbating with my finger deep inside my vagina turned him on. I imagined him getting excited as I typed my reply.
I'm wearing white cotton panties and,
yes, I finger my pussy several times every day and bring myself off
. This was the beginning of a game, I thought happily as I clicked the send button. Or was it a game? Perhaps Dave wanted to discover my darkest secrets. Perhaps he'd hoped that I'd start up some kind of illicit email affair behind his back. Did I have any dark secrets?
âHad a good day?' he asked me when he came home from work that evening.
âJust the usual,' I replied as we sat at the dinner table. âNothing exciting. I haven't fingered my pussy or anything.'
Almost choking on his food, he frowned at me. âWhat?' he breathed. âYou haven't fingered . . .'
âI was joking,' I cut in with a giggle.
âWhat on earth made you say that?'
âOh, just something I read in a magazine.'
âWhat a strange thing to say.' He ran his fingers through his dark hair and locked his eyes on mine. âIs everything all right, Sarah?'
âOf course it is. I was joking, that's all.'
âActually, I'd like to watch you masturbating,' he breathed.
âReally?' I couldn't believe what he'd said. âYou should have told me.'
âIt's not the sort of thing . . . Do you masturbate?'
âWell, I . . . How's your day been?'
âNot bad. I got that contract for the advertising job.'
âWell done. I said you'd get it, didn't I?'
âYes, and you were right. That'll be a nice little earner. I'll have to work away for a few days, but it's going to be well worth it. You'll be OK here on your own, won't you?'
âYou've never worked away before,' I sighed. âWhere will you be going?'
âMorocco. Only for a few days.'
âOnly for a couple of days.'
âCan't I go with you?'
âWell, I suppose . . . The trouble is, we'd have to pay for your flight and hotel. And that would eat into the profit. You'll be all right here, won't you?'
âYes, it's just that . . . I'm being silly. Of course I'll be all right.'
I thought that Dave was unusually quiet as he messed about with a camera that evening. He'd said nothing about the emails, not even given the slightest clue that he was the culprit, apart from wanting to watch me masturbate. Why had he said that? Perhaps the emails were from him, I mused. There again, if he was playing some kind of joke, he'd hardly mention it to me.
Making him a cup of coffee, I wondered why he was so quiet. Perhaps my quip about fingering my pussy had upset him. But he wasn't the type to get upset. It then occurred to me that, if he
sent the emails, he might have expected me to say something. He might be thinking it odd that I'd received an email from a man asking me whether I fingered my pussy, and I'd not told him about it. Was this some kind of test? Should I have gone running to him and revealed all?
âI think I'll go to bed,' he finally murmured.
âIt's only eight o'clock, Dave,' I said. âThere's a film on later.'
âI have an early start tomorrow, Sarah.'
âOK, I'll come with you. We'll have an early night together.'
âNo, I need to sleep. You watch the film.'
We'd never played mind games, I reflected as he climbed the stairs. We'd always been honest and open with each other, so what was the problem? Maybe I
was imagining things, I thought as I sat alone in the lounge. He was tired and had an early start in the morning so he'd gone up to bed. That was reasonable enough, wasn't it? It was reasonable, but it wasn't at all like Dave.
The following morning as I read the third email, my intrigue turned into concern.
I watched you weeding your front garden this morning. You looked great in that little pair of shorts. I imagined your pussy lips bulging and
. . . I'd not started weeding the front garden until Dave had left for work. I'd not said that I was going to do the garden, so how . . . Gazing through the lounge window, I wondered who was watching me. The houses over the road looked quiet. Diana's car was parked in her drive, the Smiths were away on holiday . . . Someone must have been spying on me.
My thinking had gone way off track. Maybe I had mentioned the garden to Dave, I reflected. He'd seen me in my shorts that morning and, although I had no recollection of mentioning the garden, I must have said something about it. Again reading the email, I pondered on the man in the house opposite. Derek was in his fifties and not bad looking. His wife worked full-time, but he'd retired early and was usually at home. He'd always been somewhat overly friendly towards me, I recalled with a smile. He had an eye for young girls and, whenever we chatted in the street, he'd look me up and down appreciatively. He could have seen me in the garden. But he didn't know that I had a computer, let alone my email address. Deciding that Dave was the culprit, I typed my reply.