A Day In The Mind of a Bisexual Nympho

I wake up and stretch out across my bed, moving into the warm spot that my lover has left behind him. He has gone to work already, and I am alone. I wish he would have woken me for a morning romp. There is nothing like blurry sex, half-asleep . . . I start to picture it, and I am hot instantly. I should probably get up and shower so I can get to work early, but I am almost paralyzed with desire and know I will be useless today unless I feed myself. I fumble in my night stand for my pink vibrator that is fully charged and never leaves before I wake up. The mere sight of its rabbit shape suffices to turn me on further. I love the perverse fact that I regularly get off with something that resembles a forest animal. I turn it on and am transported to new realms of pleasure as I slide it inside me and the base of the shaft sends waves over my opening as the bunny ears flick my clit. As I move it slowly up and down inside me, my breath quickens and I start to moan. Lusty, raunchy images flood my mind and are released through the wetness between my legs. I picture a man watching me pleasure myself as his wife straddles him. She is looking at him, but he is looking straight into my eyes and I’m looking back. He is sexy and his wife is gorgeous. I want them both. I picture myself sliding between them. She is behind me and I am facing him. I am rubbing up against her and I can feel her nipples harden against my back. He is thrusting inside me and my moaning is getting louder and louder . . . I bite my lip and then scream as my orgasm rocks my body. I take a moment to catch my breath, and then head for the shower. I’m going to be late for work, but it was so worth it.



I am on the subway. Someone sinfully gorgeous is sitting across from me. His eyes lock with mine. I smile the seductive way I used to smile at strangers before I was taken. I briefly wonder what kinds of sex I am missing out on by agreeing to be monogamous.

“Hey,” he says, and I am startled.

“Hello,” I reply demurely, hoping that my conservative skirt, silk scarf and blouse are effectively disguising the sex-crazed animal inside me that is begging to come out and play.

“Where are you off to?”

“Work. You?”

“I just worked the night shift. I’m on my way home to bed.”

“Ah. What do you do?”

“I work security.” I bet you do. He is burly and looks like he’d be a handful for any person who tried to make trouble for him. “And what do you do?”

“I teach preschool classes at the YMCA.”

For some reason men seem to be turned on my women who are wholesome by day and sex-slaves by night. Maybe it’s the contrast. I hope he can’t tell that I am a whore hiding in a children’s’ teacher’s body.

“You like kids?”

“Very much. And you?”

“Oh, yeah I love children.” He leans forward conspirationally. “I would love to have some.”

I always wonder at what point during these exchanges I have to tell the guy I’m not single. I mean, I don’t want to just blurt it out, because he could quite possibly just be a friendly person making conversation. There’s nothing wrong with a little conversation. But I always feel like kind of a tease for allowing it to get to the point when he asks me out and I have to tell him no.

He leans back and looks at me for a minute, and in that minute I am seeing myself kneeling to the floor, unzipping his worn jeans and taking his hard, throbbing cock into my mouth. I know by the look on his face that he can either read my mind or is having very similar thoughts of his own.

“It’s too bad you have to work,” he says. “I could take you home and make you breakfast.”

I should tell him I’m taken, but what would be the point? “Don’t you normally make a woman breakfast after a one night stand?” I am brazen. I am one part ashamed, two parts thrilled.

“Yes, but when you work at night you gotta rearrange things a little.” He chuckles. “I’m not workin’ tonight though, if you’re interested in doin’ things right.”

Say no. I don’t want to tell him that I’m taken for some reason. I like being desired. “I’m sorry. I’m busy tonight. Maybe another time.”

“Can I have your number?”

I try to think of a way to get out of this. “Give me yours.”

“Ah, a woman who likes to be in control. I like that.”

He lists off his number and I pretend to program it into my cell phone. A heat is burning between my legs. I want to devour him but I know I would regret it. I picture him doing naughty things to me, and then shake the thought from my mind. Mercifully, it is my stop. I say bye to him and hustle my horny self into work.

As the kids are being dropped off I make casual chit chat with parents and sip my cafe mocha. My loins have cooled down considerably when in walks the hottest mom on the block. I try to tell myself that she has a husband. I try to tell myself that I have a husband. I try to tell myself that her and her husband have entrusted me with their baby, and that my husband has trusted me to be able to go out in public without wanting to hump every attractive person in sight, but it is no use. She hands me the bundle of pink flesh in her arms, and I smile. “Hey, baby,” I murmur, inhaling the powdery, lemony scent of the 18 month old. She gurgles at me and I think of how wicked it is that I am holding this baby girl while picturing her mother naked. It’s just that Gemma* is not your usual mom. Her wardrobe conjures a mix between army fatigues and couture. Her boy cut hair is bright red with jet black low-lights. She is marvellously tan, and her body is a compact, tiny, yet curvaceous wonder, with a very sexy trail of tiny stars tattooed from behind her ear, down the base of her neck, and disappearing suggestively beneath the collar of her shirt. She paints her nails with black polish and has a ring through her tongue. I want to touch it with mine. She goes on energetically about her latest photography project, and all I can think about is making these children disappear so that I can have my way with her on the craft table, both of us going home covered in glitter and glue. She kisses her baby good-bye, and I look down at the precious pink bundle in my arms and say “Lucky baby.”

“What?” asks one of my co-workers, overhearing my comment.

“I was just telling Lucy* a secret,” I say, and smile. Lucy starts to fuss and I bounce her up and down on my hip, trying to forget about her mom and all the dirty things I want to do to her.



I arrive at home, covered in glitter but not because my fantasy came true. I saw Mr. Sexy on the return subway ride, and had to fight tooth and nail against the slut inside me not call my husband and tell him I’d be home late. I open the door, and there is my lover. He is sitting on the couch watching TV, but one look from me tells him he’d better stop. He knows that look. He knows that I am starving for it, that I crave a fuck, that if he does not satisfy me I will not be held responsible for my actions. He knows that now is not the time to make love--I am brimming with lust. He stands to his feet and pushes me against the wall. I drop my purse. He kisses me hard and I moan, then he forces me to the floor. He opens the lid of the black leather cube that masquerades as a footrest while hiding our stash, and locates our handcuffs. Pulling my hands up above my head, he cuffs me to the legs of the coffee table. I am so hot I am trembling. I lick my lips and look at him, begging him silently to ravish me. “Slut,” he says, knowing it’s what I want. “Whore.” Yes I am. The words themselves make another moan rise in my throat, and he silences it with another rough kiss that makes me weak. He pushes my skirt up above my waist and pulls down my sexy knickers, leaving me deliciously exposed. “Fuck me,” I beg. He says no.

I ask him again. “Fuck me.”

He pulls my silk scarf away from my neck with one tug, and wraps it around my eyes. I am hand-cuffed. I am blind. He does not touch me. He makes me wait so long I don’t know if he is even in the room anymore. I am naked from the waist down, and the cool air in the room makes me painfully aware of just how hot and wet I am.

“Please fuck me now,” I whimper. Then I say it louder, in case he’s down the hall. Then I yell, not knowing where in the house he is. “FUCK ME!”

I realize now he has been right in front of me all along. He calls me his sexy whore, and after teasing me cruelly with his tongue for what seems like an eternity, he shoves his cock inside my wet, swollen pussy. I gasp with relief. Every sensation is heightened by the fact that I can’t see, can’t do anything to reciprocate except strain against the metal cutting into my wrists. I come violently, feeling like my body has been reduced to a shuddering mass of pleasure. He lets himself go inside me, and I come again, like waves crashing on the shore. I hear the jingle of keys. He pulls the scarf from my eyes down to my neck. He lets me watch as he unlocks me, then kisses my wrists where the cuffs left red marks.

“Thank you,” I say, burying my face in his sweaty neck.

“Anything to keep you out of someone else’s bed.”His tone is light, but I can tell he means it.

It can’t be easy being married to someone with an appetite like mine.