New Hobby

December 1st

I’ve always been a woman of refined tastes—Pilates, organic smoothies, and a perfectly curated home. But lately, I’ve discovered a new passion. A hobby, if you will. Some women take up pottery or bridge; I’ve taken up the systematic degradation of my own dignity for the sake of my neighbor, Mr. Henderson.

Mr. Henderson is a walking nightmare. He’s in his late fifties, profoundly obese, with a stained undershirt that never seems to cover his protruding belly and a smell that oscillates between old ham and damp cardboard. He is, by all accounts, repulsive. And that is exactly why this is so exhilarating.

I don’t view these sessions as "sex." Sex is a chore I perform for my husband. This is an exploration. It’s like a high-stakes game of chicken with my own social standing. I’ve decided to make this hobby a full-time pursuit: sessions are unlimited, occurring as often as physically possible.

December 5th

The thrill is in the exposure. I’ve found that the "hobby" is far more rewarding when I am on the verge of being discovered by my family. The risk adds a layer of adrenaline that no yoga class could ever provide.

Yesterday, while my husband was vacuuming the living room, I lured Mr. Henderson into the open-concept dining area. I didn't even go behind a curtain. I simply dropped to my knees right next to the breakfast nook, pulling his greasy trousers down.

He stepped into my space, his heavy, flabby thighs brushing against my cheeks, and began to throat-fuck me with a clumsy, **** hunger. I didn't try to be quiet. I let out loud, wet gagging sounds, my eyes rolling back in my head as he shoved himself deep into my throat.

My husband stopped the vacuum and looked over. "Diane? Are you **** on something?"

I didn't pull away. I stayed right there, my mouth stretched wide around Henderson's girth, and managed to let out a muffled, "Just... glug... practicing my deep-breathing exercises for my new meditation app!"

He actually nodded in approval and went back to vacuuming. Mr. Henderson gave a guttural, wheezing laugh and pushed even harder, claiming his territory in the middle of my own home.

December 12th

The raw anal sessions are the highlight of my "curriculum." Mr. Henderson refuses any kind of protection; he wants the friction, the heat, and the sheer audacity of it.

We’ve pushed the boundaries of location. Last night, we were in the laundry room while my daughter, Mia, was folding clothes just three feet away. I was bent over the dryer, my white yoga pants pulled down to my ankles, exposing everything to the fluorescent light.

Henderson drove into my backside with a loud, rhythmic slap-slap-slap that echoed through the small room. I was gasping loudly, my breath hitching in a way that was unmistakably erotic.

"Mom? Why are you making those noises?" Mia asked, her voice sounding confused.

I gripped the edge of the dryer, feeling Henderson’s heavy stomach bouncing against my lower back. "I'm just... ah!... trying to get this stubborn stain out of the rug! It's just so... oh god... difficult!"

Mia just sighed and walked out, thinking I was just being an obsessive cleaner. I felt a surge of power. I am living a double life, hiding a grotesque secret in plain sight.