“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 24 hours since my last confession.”
I used to be such a nice girl, constantly assailed with catholic guilt after every unclean, impure thought.
Do I laugh or cry at my own powerlessness to truly repent. I want to, believe me. I’d give almost anything to get off this treadmill. But I am a addicted.
What am I addicted to exactly? The risk of discovery? – The adventure? – The sheer variety? – Or is it just the amount of sex available to a horny bitch?
Answer yes, to all the above.
After the first time I promised myself that I’d spend the rest of my life being a good little wife, and in that way make up for the small, not so insignificant blip in an otherwise (almost) pristine life.
Oh, I’ve had the usual small dalliances at university. Away from home for the first time, a multitude of available men (boys), every one of them a testosterone fuelled pussy missile, ready, willing and able to strip off and do the dance at the first provocation. The reek of musk, stale sex, condom rubber and abused pussy was palpable in the dorm after only a few days. But that’s another confession.
Nowadays I’m constantly horny. Twenty three hours a day horny.
Even sitting in my neat corner office, my mind stuffed with details of financial and legal procedure and precedence, I am still aware of the devil on my shoulder, whispering tales of the men I’ve laid down or bent over for. My panties are constantly wet, as recollection makes me leak, and I’m forced to grab a fresh pair from my locked bottom drawer, just in case someone smells the juices leaking out of me.
I know I’m fucking up my life, but can’t raise the will-power to un-fuck it up.
I’ve mentally slapped myself across the face, but even that brings back a memory that’s better left in the closet.