Descent into Depravity – Chapter 2.1

Latest erotic coupling stories: Descent into Depravity – Chapter 2.1

Author: Bluepen451

This is the second in a series of stories about a woman, suffering from depression over the death of her husband, who learns that he had a secret, depraved life, totally at odds with his seeming disinterest in sex. As she delves into his secret porn collection she experiences her own sexual awakening and recovers from her depression in the process.

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The next day I dressed for work just as I always did—dark slacks, flat-soled shoes, a white blouse and a brightly colored scarf just to give the whole outfit some flare. My underwear was my usual white panties and functional ho-hum bra. Really quite boring, but certain not to give offense to anyone. Like if I got hit by a truck and had to go to the hospital or some such.

There was one thing that was different, not that anyone could tell. I could tell, though. My sex was shaved completely bare. It made me feel as though I was indecently dressed, even though no one could see a thing and I was wearing the same clothes I always wore. The feeling was delicious, but somewhat distracting. I managed to keep my mind on my work when the kids were around, but much of the rest of the day my emotions were waffling between a mild guilt and a thoroughly enjoyable feeling that I was getting away with something no one could see.

The important thing was that I didn’t think about Larry all day. I didn’t realize that until I got home, but the black cloud that Larry’s death had been simply wasn’t there—all day. I had lunch with some of the teachers and enjoyed listening to them gossip about the principal and other teachers not at the table. I doubted if much of it was true, but that didn’t matter. The talk was mildly scandalous, and I enjoyed it as I sat there wondering what they would think if they knew about my naked pussy, and how they would gossip about that if I were not there. They couldn’t know, of course, but I let myself think they might.

Perhaps the healthiest part of lunch was that I actively participated. I didn’t have any dirt of my own to dish up, and I wasn’t about to just make something up. But I confess I actively encouraged the others to tell what they knew (or thought they knew) by asking leading questions. (“Do you think they really went to the mall or did they go to a motel?”) It was fun. Fun was something I hadn’t had in months, with the exception of my masturbation of the last few days, but this was a healthier kind of fun.

My days for the rest of the week were pretty much the same. My evenings were a good deal different. As each day wore on, my mind kept turning to my plan for the evening—masturbating as I looked at Larry’s porn collection on my wide-screen TV. By the time I got home each day I was horny as hell. I went directly to the bedroom and stripped off all my clothes. Then I would stand before the full-length mirror in our bath and watch myself as I fondled my tits and lightly stroked my sex. But I always stopped, before reaching the climax I craved. I wanted to save myself for an extended masturbating session after dinner, when I could sprawl naked on the couch in the living room watching Larry’s porn collection on the TV. Strangely, I enjoyed dinner more with the ache of denied gratification churning my core.

When I wasn’t actively masturbating (really, you can’t do that with all of your spare time) I spent my time around the house naked but for a short, loose silk robe. I thought about just dispensing with clothes completely while at home, but I decided that I liked the robe better. It was almost see through and short enough so that unless I was very careful about how I sat or moved it exposed my sex. Also there was a delicious jiggle of my tits as I walked about the house that would have been obvious to anyone watching. I loved the sensation of my nipples rubbing against the slick fabric of the robe as I moved about. All in all, the robe was more indecent in its own way than actual nudity, because it purported to cover my nakedness and failed miserably. Of course there wasn’t anyone there to see my wanton dress, and if there had been I’m sure I would have lacked the courage to actually dress that way. Still it was fun, and fun was what I desperately needed after six months of being depressed about my late husband.

Another thing I tried was going to the grocery store sans undergarments. Of course I was still wearing my usual conservative dress, usually a knee length skirt and a loose blouse (I didn’t own anything else), but there was a real thrill to walking around the grocery store naked beneath my everyday clothes. I wouldn’t have dared do such a thing at school, but at the grocery store it was okay because I believed I was unlikely to see anyone I knew there. I soon made indecent dress a regular part of my shopping routine.

One day I discovered my assumption that I would never meet anyone I knew at the grocery store to be overly optimistic. As usual, I pranced about the market picking up a few things I needed for dinner, thoroughly enjoying the cool air of the market on my naked pussy and the friction of the fabric of my blouse on my nipples as my tits jiggled beneath my clothing. I was standing at the vegetable counter trying to decide on the size of cucumber I wanted for dessert (yes, that kind of dessert. I had become quite fond of cucumbers). Just as I reached for my cucumber/dildo of choice I heard a deep voice with a heavy French accent.

“Alice. My, but you’re looking good today.”

It was my friend Joan’s husband, Hervé. I dropped the cucumber in my basket and looked over my shoulder, knowing immediately who it was by his deep voice and accent. Hervé was a notorious flirt.

“Oh! Hervé, how nice to see you, and thank you,” I said, feeling a moment of panic. What was Hervé doing here. Could he tell I was naked beneath these conservative clothes I was wearing?

“Your colors. They go so well with your skin and hair. You have marvelous taste my dear. And that blouse. It’s a beautiful match with your eyes.”

God he was such an awful flirt, and his eyes were roaming across my body as if he had X-ray vision and could see right through to my nakedness beneath my clothing. All I was wearing was a simple jeans skirt that came nearly to my knees, a pale blue cotton blouse buttoned up discreetly so as not to show any cleavage, and a pair of flip-flops.

My heart was racing and I felt a burst of lust originating in my sex. It wasn’t as though I was standing naked in front of Hervé, but I felt like I was. And the way he was looking at me. He must have known. But how could he? There was the most amazing course of conflicting simultaneous emotions running through me. I was mortified, I was terrified, and I was almost overcome with a burst of lust unlike anything I had ever felt before. “Where is Joan?” I asked, hoping to change the topic to something other than me.

“Oh, she’s around somewhere, but it’s you that is lighting up this dull, drab grocery store.” His lines were especially amusing when delivered in his French accent.

Whew, I thought. If Joan’s here in the store he won’t go too far. Then, for some reason I’ll never understand, I decided to reciprocate.

“It’s so nice to hear you like these clothes.” I did a quick pirouette. As I turned I could feel my long hair swinging away from my neck and the skirt flaring out and showing more of my legs, but not high enough, I hoped, to show him my naked ass.

“Ooh la la,” the lecherous Frenchman responded. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”

I pushed my hair back and looked up at him with a smile. “Oh, just here and there. Work, and well that’s about it.” That was about it for the last six months I thought. This was the first flirtatious conversation I had had with a man in months—maybe years.

“And you, Hervé? Where have you been hiding yourself?”

“Ooof. You know. I work and work and then Joan. She has her . . . her . . . what you call her honey dos. They never end.”

I laughed. “Poor Hervé. Your life is so hard.”

He reached out and took both my hands, holding them palms up. His hands were surprisingly hard, but warm. “Oh oui. If only I could. . . . We, Alice . . . just you and I. Run away to Provence. Just lie on the beach and make . . .”

Fortunately that was when Joan came around the corner of the aisle, her loud greeting cutting off her husband’s proposition in mid-sentence.

“Alice, you’re out! You’re out of your house, and don’t you look nice.” Her comment on my appearance was an honest compliment, as opposed to Herve’s lecherous flirting.

But as she spoke the thought that crossed my mind was, “Yes, I am out of the house and I do look nice and more importantly, I feel nice . . . and nearly naked.” I smiled just a little at the last part of that thought. Wouldn’t Joan be shocked if she knew.

I thanked her for the compliment and told her I felt nice also. From there the conversation was mostly between Joan and me, her arrival having dampened Hervé’s ardor. Eventually we parted, Joan and Hervé insisting that I join them for dinner again soon and me promising to do so, but with no particular date set.

I finished my shopping and drove home. As I drove, I marveled at how good I felt. I hadn’t enjoyed anything since Larry died as much as I had enjoyed Hervé’s lecherous flirting. Maybe life was going to be okay after all.

I was feeling pretty raunchy when I got home, but instead of just jumping into a masturbation session, I stripped off all of my clothes and put on my lightweight robe. I had left the cucumber sitting on the kitchen counter to warm up a bit. The temperature the grocery store had been storing it at was liable to give my pussy hypothermia, I thought. “I’ll just save that for after dinner,” I told myself.

I also wasn’t quite hungry yet, so I put off dinner for a couple of hours and sat down before Larry’s computer to explore some more of his debauched interests recorded on his computer. That was the evening I discovered his Literotica account. Once I figured out how the site worked I wanted to see what kind of erotic stories Larry favored. The site had a concept called Favorites that was custom made for tracking a user’s preferences. A little digging in Larry’s computer quickly yielded up his Member Name (“Pervy Larry,” how appropriate I thought) and his password (“Cocksucker,” not at all creative—same as the password for his computer).