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  • In Need of a Fuck Buddy? Ch. 01

In Need of a Fuck Buddy? Ch. 01

I take my kitty out for air at least twice a day. He's a big old tabby and very affectionate and he's been the only male in my life for quite some time, and I know he can go out on his own but somehow our relationship has evolved into one where I feel better if I go out with him. I can have my two cigarettes a day. Two, only. Down from at least a pack, so I'm quite proud of that. So the two of us go out to explore the private patio on my condo, usually right around dawn and right around dusk, although we have been known to go occasionally during full daylight.

For these little adventures, I keep a faded pink hoodie on a picture hook beside the sliding doors. The hoodie is one of the few things my now 18 year old daughter left behind when she went off to college last fall. I guess it makes me feel closer to her because it was the present she'd really wanted on her 14th birthday. It's comfortable and it's easy to slip on and off -- and, as I confessed to my daughter on the phone one evening when she caught me outside, it's now the only thing I wear for these forays.

Being her mother's daughter and very direct, she quizzed me thoroughly about this. Good naturedly. And although I'd given away very little, she'd apparently felt she was sufficiently informed to be very amused -- and to tell me it was time to quote, "find a fuck buddy."

I'm not sure how this wardrobe habit started. I think it was one chill morning, the cat was especially anxious, rubbing my legs and carrying on and I'd woken up with moist panties. Rather than wearing uncomfortable damp panties in the cold, and not wanting him to have to wait, I'd simply dropped the panties on the carpet and gone outside. And liked it. Quite a bit sometimes. And why not? After all, it was my patio. And I was wearing the hoodie. Admittedly, the hoodie had been fitted to a slim 14 year-old, but I am petite-ish myself and it was stretchy to a point and if I worked at it the garment would just about cover me. If you follow me. I don't always work at it. I don't always do the zip all the way up -- or all the way down. Sometimes I don't do up the zip at all.

It's my patio and I'm a full grown woman of 39-ish. Whose daughter thinks she needs a 'fuck buddy'. To be blunt, my Rabbit is more effective, less hassle and certainly less expensive than the last few guys in my life... I defer to my Rabbit fairly frequently.

So the first photo to arrive in my inbox was a jolt. Life changing really. And the other three photos in the same email were shattering. There was no doubt it was me. There was no doubt I hadn't quite done up the zip and hadn't quite pulled down the 'hem'. Whoever the bastard was had even caught me bending over to pull a weed from one of my flowerpots. (It was about 3 hours later when I couldn't resist having another look, the way you do when you need to re-visit disaster, that I couldn't help being pleased that my butt was tighter than it might have been at this stage of life .) But the one of me plucking idly at my pubic thatch was not flattering.

Drapes firmly pulled, all lights off, and fully dressed including panties, bra and socks, I fired off the email reply : 'Who are you you prick!?'

The only response was a link. To a website. Where my photos, actually a set of 8 of them were posted for everyone to see. Albeit with my face blanked out. My first thought was that if my daughter saw them she'd recognize the hoodie!

Lots of people were leaving complimentary comments. Although many men, and several women, seemed to think my uncontrolled pubic thatch was a detriment. Well, fuck them!...but that was not a thought I actually completed because my email pinged again.

'In response to your question, you will eventually call me Sir. And you will be very well behaved and do exactly what you're told. I'd suggest you move in those directions asap.'

'Fuck you!' I hit send and slammed down the lid on my laptop.

The next set of photos arrived next morning, at my office. Trust me when I say it was terrifying. My mind just screeched off at light speed -- every which way. When it lighted on the thought the IT guys could actually monitor this stuff...and yes, they could, because some of the guys at the office had been disciplined for things...well, I deleted the lot and went home ill.

I was ill and I had lots of days saved up and my Supervisor took one look at me and immediately sent me on my way, without me even having to trot out the made up excuse.

Part way home I had to pull off the road. My legs simply wouldn't work reliably. Had he really CC'D my daughter!? If the IT guys...well, that would be a problem, no question, but if the bastard had CC'D my daughter...!!!?

I had to drive home. I had to drive carefully. My mind wasn't on the task and my thighs kept wanting to lift a little, involuntarily, so I had to exhale and consciously return my butt to the seat. (Not that I gave what that meant even a millisecond of thought at the time, believe me. That only came to me much later) I couldn't get the key in the lock of my condo. I couldn't get the laptop to boot up.

And he had CC'D me at home, and he had CC'D my daughter.

It was a series of photos. How to put this? Okay, exhale slowly, I had to tell myself, and again, exhale... now just type the words...

I don't always use my Rabbit. Sometimes I prefer my fingers. Sometimes I do this outside on my private patio. In this instance with the hoodie wide open. My right leg dangled casually over the arm of my favourite chair out there. Cigarette smoke curling up from the ashtray on the table to my left...and the bastard even caught the moment my tummy went taut with every muscle inside closing tight (I love the way they squeeze down on my inserted finger) even as I lurched forward mouth and eyes wide open.

It had been one of those indescribably fabulous orgasms. Obviously. And I had never actually seen myself at that moment before.

So despite being terrified, and horrified, and mortified, my mind did flit, albeit only for a millisecond before I recoiled in disgust, to the idea of finding a 'fuck buddy.'

Which reminded me this bastard had sent these photos to my daughter, as well as to my work.

Ping! I jumped, clear out of the chair. It was some time before I could swallow, breathe even, and longer still before I could manipulate the mouse...

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