I continued to leaf through the collection. Another glass of wine. “This is so nasty. I’m loving it. I never did anything like this with Larry . . ., but he did, the pervert!”

“So that makes you better than him? Just because he didn’t tell you?”

“I don’t care. He was a pervert. I’m just having fun.” The logic of that likely escapes you, but it made sense to me at the time. Wine and lust will do that for you.

I had taken one hand off the keyboard and was using it to massage my tits through the thin fabric of my nightgown. It felt delicious. I would cup each breast and then massage it with my fingers. Then as I withdrew my hand, I let my fingers drag across the engorged nipple. The sensation when I stroked my nipple was fantastic, sending a shock to my pussy each time. I was squirming in my seat pushing my pussy lips together with my thighs as I moved back and forth in the office chair.

“Alice you’re masturbating and you’re enjoying this. You’re as much of a perv as he was.”

“I don’t care,” I told myself. “So what if I’m being a pervert? It’s been way too long, and I need this. Oh fuck how I need this,” I said aloud, still struggling to justify my conduct.

Now I had a hand on each breast massaging it and stroking the nipple through the cloth of my nightgown. Without a hand to advance the computer, I was just staring at one image on the screen—a woman sitting on a man, her legs spread lewdly on either side of his and his cock pushed into her shaven pussy, his balls pressing firmly against her. She had her hands on her big soft breasts holding them out toward the viewer and her head was thrown back, her eyes closed and her mouth open in what I assumed was a scream of ecstasy as an orgasm tore through her.

Earlier I had noticed a sub-folder titled “Slide Shows.” I pulled a hand away from my breasts long enough to open it. It contained a large number of files that were identified only by a date—no indication of the perversion documented within. The dates went back at least seven or eight years before Larry had died. “That fucking pervert,” I said. “He’s been collecting this crap for at least seven years!”

I finished the last of my second (or was it third? fourth?) glass of wine as I scrolled down through the files. When I set the glass down (after again dragging it across my engorged nipples) I selected a file at random—January 15, 2011. I double-clicked it and leaned back in the chair watching a series of lewd pictures scroll across the screen. Much better. Now I had both hands free to masturbate.

I pulled my nightgown over my head and tossed it over my shoulder. That left me with nothing on but my panties. As the lewd photographs scrolled slowly by I cupped my breasts from beneath and used my thumb and forefinger to rub and softly pinch my nipples. “Oh fuck, this feels good,” I said.

Eventually I came to the end of the slide show. I reluctantly pulled a hand away from one of my breasts and used it to maneuver the mouse to open the next slide show. It was more of the same and totally satisfactory given the mood I was in. If Larry had shown me this material when he collected it, I would probably have been outraged with him. Now I was reveling in it.

Instead of bringing my hand back up to my breast I dropped it to my naked thigh and slowly slid it up towards my white panties. I wasn’t surprised to discover they were soaked. For a while I used that hand to stroke and massage my pussy lips through the fabric of my panties, but when an image appeared on the screen of a nude woman lying on a bed, her legs spread lewdly, and her hands engaged in masturbating her naked pussy, I knew the panties had to go. I raised my hips and dragged my panties off. Now completely naked, I leaned back in the chair and spread my legs. I used one hand to push my unruly bush aside and spread the outer lips of my pussy to give two fingers of my other hand access to the sensitive tissue below. Then I just lay there, tilted back in the chair stroking my dripping pussy and gasping every time my fingers touched my clit.

My god this felt good! I wasn’t in any particular rush, so I avoided my clit, knowing it would push me over the edge. The next slide show seemed to focus on women masturbating. Just what I needed. As I watched the filthy pictures role by on the screen I varied my technique by sliding a couple of fingers into my cunt. It was dripping. I rotated the fingers in my cunt so the tips pressed against all sides of my vagina. There was a spot on the front wall that felt especially good.

As I neared the end of the masturbation slide show (for the second time), I realized that I was approaching the point of no return. Leaving two fingers in my cunt just pushing against the spot on the front wall, I used my other hand to begin rubbing my clit. It didn’t take long before I tipped over into the kind of massive orgasm people have when they have been abstaining for months. I screamed loudly and felt liquid gush from my cunt. I had never squirted like that before.

For a long time I just lay in the chair, enervated by the force of my climax (and all the wine I had consumed). Now I wanted sleep, but I couldn’t sleep slumped in the chair in Larry’s office. I pulled myself together enough to shut down the computer, use my undies to clean up the mess my squirting had made, and then I tottered off to bed, leaving my nighty and soggy undies lying in the den. It was the best night’s sleep I had experienced in months.

* * * * * *

I awoke the next morning with a nasty little headache, but less than what I probably had earned, given how much wine I had consumed the night before. I drank a couple of glasses of water and chased them with about three ibuprofen. The recovery wasn’t immediate, but it was better than I deserved. Fortunately it was Sunday so I didn’t have to go to work.

I looked in the refrigerator for something for breakfast and came to the realization that there was nothing of interest. For most of the last six months my solution to that problem would have been to skip breakfast, but this morning I was hungry and I decided to go out. This was a milestone in my recovery process. I went to an IHOP and ordered a stack of hotcakes with a side of bacon. I loaded the hotcakes with butter and maple syrup. It was way more than I would normally eat, but I had always liked this meal and I felt like indulging myself. Besides, I was planning on taking my usual 8-mile Sunday afternoon run, so a little carbo-loading was in order.

I was sitting with my back against a wall with a view of most of the restaurant. As I ate I indulged in one of my favorite pastimes—people watching. An IHOP on Sunday morning is a cross section of Middle America. There are families just out of church—everyone dressed as well as their budget will allow, children scrubbed and shining, some behaving and others fussing; young couples who looked like they were just out of bed, desperate for that first cup of coffee; older couples enjoying a once a week break from the usual grind; even a few solos like myself. I was having fun making up stories about each of them—this man a widower, but unlike myself a widower of many year’s experience settled into an acceptance of his aloneness; this couple recently married (you can tell from the gooey looks); another couple, last night’s hook-up from a club, each hoping they remembered their partner’s name. The variety was limited only by my imagination, which I knew bore little relationship to reality.

Eventually my mind wandered back to last night and Larry’s computer. The first problem was just how much further was I going to delve into Larry’s personal life. There were lots more sub-folders below the Personal folder. Just how much more did I want to know? I thought about just throwing the computer off the Golden Gate Bridge and letting the past be past. But given the financial records on the machine, that didn’t seem like a good idea. So if I was going to keep the machine around how was I going to resist the temptation to dig deeper into my late husband’s perverted personal life. Just how twisted was he and how much did I really want to know?

I laughed as I admitted to myself that the success of my efforts to avoid digging further into Larry’s past would be dependent on my ability to limit my drinking and keep my libido tamped down. The first was arguably doable. After all I wasn’t a lush. But how do you control how horny you get and when? I knew from last night’s experience that when my libido took over I was going to go back to that computer to see what other kinds of erotica I could find. This was going to be a challenge, I told myself, as I signed a debit card slip for my breakfast and gathered my things to leave.

After breakfast I spent some time working on my lesson plans for the upcoming week. I didn’t think much about Larry and his computer. I truly loved my teaching job and I could easily lose myself in the work.

After completing my prep for the upcoming week I changed clothes; shorts, and a sports bra for a run. My headache was gone and I needed the endorphins a good long run would serve up. When I run I often try to focus my mind on the work I have coming up. Not the details of lesson plans, but the intangibles. Which kids seem to be having problems and what can I do about it, and how do I keep my super-achievers challenged, all in the context of the coming week’s lesson plan. I started out doing that, but my mind kept drifting away—back to the lurid pictures my husband had saved on his computer. I appreciated the money and investments he had left me when he passed, but I wasn’t so sure about the legacy on his computer.

As I ran my mind focused less and less on my frustrations with Larry’s secrecy and more simply on the eroticism of the pictures I had spent Saturday evening staring at. By the time I finished I was dripping wet from the heat and very aroused.

———————