Pamela is left wanting

Before Pamela knew it the men were all looking away, as if some dinner bell had rung beckoning their attention.

As suddenly as it all had started Pamela felt the cock head slip from her lips, the men seemingly suddenly dressed in worn clothes beneath their jackets as they left, talking about how it was time for them to get going.

Their dinners were waiting. Pamela felt rejected. Forgotten, passed over.

Shocked that she had wanted to just be used like some whore.

Disturbed that she couldn’t explain how or why she had wanted that. Concerned that she still had doubts that it was not only what she had truly wanted.

But still desired.

Grabbing the jacket she scrambled to put it on, pulling her sports bra down, and ran away.

She resisted crying, trying to be thankful that it had all suddenly ended. That she had been spared falling in character.

Pamela felt strangely relieved and grateful she hadn’t fallen lewdly into discovering just how perverted, and depraved she could be. Still yearned to be.

Getting home she rushed in, storming up to the master washroom where she struggled free of her clothes, feeling strangely still dirty as she gazed in the mirror, seeing nothing amiss other than a few loose hairs from her pony tail, and a strangely elegant glazing of sweat.

Pamela ran her hands cautiously across her body, trying not to think about the homeless men, how she wanted them to use her. How she wanted to taste each of them, how she wanted to be torn apart by them like the feral dogs they were leaving nothing but a slutty bitch brought down to their level.

And bred.

Her hands traced her skin, trying to feel for the remnants of the cum she now tried to recall clearly darkly staining her skin. Feeling nothing but enticing pleasure, and a light glazing of sweat in the wake of her touch.

A quiet knock at the door heralded Pamela back from the exploration of her body, and the contemplation of her conflicted thoughts and desires. “Yes?” She asked aloud in response, lurid curiosity tugging at her mind about how the maid would react if she opened the door and presented her naked self right now.

“Dinner is served, and Mr. Richards called to say he will be a bit late for dinner. He had two unexpected meetings pop up.” The maid declared from the other side of the door.

As her footsteps withdrew Pamela opened the washroom door and gazed out upon her room. Unbidden she imagined her husband there, fucking a bent over Catherine from the other side of the bed. The two of them gazing at her.

Closing her eyes, Pamela shook the vision from her head, walking to her closet she grabbed her housecoat, feeling strangely unmotivated to dress in more than the soft fluffy garment as she tied it around her waist.

The house felt oddly empty to Pamela. Her two sons and daughter having gone off to University. As she wandered the corridors she had strange new ideas of being bent over here and fucked, on her knees sucking cock there, pinned up against the window being railed over there as the neighbours walked their dogs by.

A glance in her husband's vacant home office brought thoughts of his aide bent over against the book case.

Pamela felt the growing wetness between her legs as she descended the stairs, and entered into her dining room. The wine tasted rich and fruity, the dinner a delightful pasta dish. But through it all Pamela felt something lacking.

As she ate unenthusiastically with her fork, her other hand roamed and teased at the seam of her robe. Conscious effort withdrawing her fingers each time they mindlessly pushed the boundary Pamela sought not to cross.

As dinner was finished and the dishes cleared Pamela roamed her house restlessly. Struggling to ward off the lewd thoughts, her wandering hands, ideas and imaginations not only of herself, but other people in assorted perverted acts.

Each room would be abandoned with the slightest faltering touch of her fingers upon a hard nipple, or stroke of the wetness between her legs.

Worse still, was the blackhole of regret in her mind that she kept clenching and re-tying the robe closed. That she was fighting the growing desire and need to enjoy her touch. To free herself from its constraints.

Crossing through the dining room having lapped all but the kitchen on the ground floor. Pamela tried to banish the idea of her robe flung open, fingering herself brazenly watching for how the maid would react.

Wanting nothing but more of the degrading encouragement that had haunted her since her run.

If only she had known why that gang of vagrants were along her run, she might’ve considered visiting her friend Laura. Not that it mattered, as her attention was drawn to a course of action.