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JULIA
After our discussion, Scott took a shower and went to sleep. I lay beside him listening to his relaxed breathing, thinking about Scott's proposed rules. The fact Scott even hinted I might be having sex with someone else shocked hell out of me. When he said it would be my choice, I thought it was some kind of test or trap, trying to determine if I would remain faithful to him. The suggested example he gave me threw me though. Would he really give me a choice between remaining naked in front of my parents and sex with another person? It was a horrid example, and one I hoped would never come true. I really would need to ensure by parents never unexpectedly dropped in.
I suppose it was the worst example he could have given me to test the boundaries of what I'd consider to avoid sex with another man, but he must have other examples that would test my willingness to consider sex with someone else, otherwise, why mention it. If it was my choice, I could always choose the other option, but he knew there might be other options as unbearable to me. Maybe the whole dressing thing was a trap. If I swallowed every morning, I would always have something to wear, even if it was something sexier than normal. Playing games with swallowing his cum might be what gets me in trouble; thinking I'm safe to go nude one day and then a repairman coming over.
It wasn't as if I didn't love sucking Scott's cock. I did. And the flavor of his cum was on the mild side when I'd tasted it; kind of bland, not too salty, maybe a hint of sweet, but the texture is what did me in. Men's cum was slimy, like raw oysters, and I'd never liked slimy. I couldn't stand oysters, nor escargots, which even cooked seemed slimy to me. Cum was on the thick side with a gooey, sticky, clingy quality to it. I didn't mind the cock itself, nor even the pre-cum, but the cum made me get a queasy feeling when it filled my mouth. I tried to avoid it as much as possible. Even getting it on my hands made me want to scrub them. No matter how much I knew he loved it when I swallowed, it was only a few times a year I could actually do it.
It was a sly trick on his part, saying I didn't have to, but having consequences if I didn't. He knew I'd want to avoid it, but I might think the consequences were the worse choice. Even receiving a twenty swat spanking was something I'd truly like to avoid. Slimy or spanking, neither a wonderful choice. How hard would he strike me. Would my bottom be sore for days, hours or minutes?
He was right. I was titillated by my choice of romances. Even the descriptions of the shame, the punishment, the humiliation wasn't enough to deter me from reading them. To be honest, they aroused me, but why. Was it because I secretly wished the same for myself or only because it was happening to someone else, a fictional person who didn't even exist? But to a certain extent, horrible things like the events in my books, happened to real people every day. I was outraged at human trafficking and forced sex in real life, but craved it in my fantasies. Was it a sign of sickness?
Of course, I could always refuse to participate, say I didn't want to risk it, exploring what it would be like being a sex slave. But heavens, even the thoughts flooding my mind as I'd considered his proposal the last few days had dialed up my libido to uncomfortable levels. I was frequently aroused, either masturbating or attacking Scott when he got home from work. As Scott discussed what the rules would be and he'd shown me the various slave positions, my pussy juiced to the point I shoved my panties to the bottom of my clothes hamper so he wouldn't notice how wet they were, the soggy spot my overactive imagination put there. I wanted to cum now, to relieve the itch built up since supper. If it wasn't so late and Scott didn't have to get up so early, I would have jumped his bones before he nodded off. Rather than wake him to take care of my suddenly rampant needs, I furtively slipped my fingers down to my slit and slowly jilled myself off, cumming with a heavy sigh and slick, sex scented fingers.
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