Shower Spy Slut: Part Two: The Battle of the Bimbos

Asian

Oscar Wilde was a wise and witty man. He’s the one that mentioned that women should be loved, not understood. Ironically, that means that he understood women. My boyfriend is like that as well; he both loves and understands women. Most guys will say that they love women, but they actually mean that they love fucking women. Glade loves women, through and through. I love that about him.Mr. Wilde also stated that there are only two tragedies in life–not getting what one wants, and getting it. While I’m fully aware that I am the architect of my own disaster, Oscar’s words outline the travesty of my situation. I suffer the tragedy of having to deal with getting what I want.My tragedy is that Glade is everything I ever fantasized about in a man. I have been living for seven months in a constant state of shocked disbelief, constantly pestering my friends over every bit of minutia. I could, and often do, go on and on about his exploits, his life of constant adventure, and the fact that being in his orbit guarantees that you’ll experience a dream that you’ll never want to end. Everything about him is everything I’ve craved. The fact that he seems oblivious about how amazing he is, only adds to his sexy, roguish charm.The greater tragedy is that all of these wonderful traits, the generosity, the tear-inducing thoughtfulness, the extravagant gestures, the ability to adore you like a cherished friend, respect you as an accepted equal, and fuck you like a trashy slut, all while making you feel like the most treasured person in the universe, are also the very same things every other fucking woman on the planet craves. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t be so…so, fucking, Glade.Those were my thoughts as I ran into the bedroom on a desperate quest to out-slut the invading whore-army. In my own house, abandoned nearly a month ago so I could sink my wretched claws into Glade by forcibly inserting myself into his life, I had a huge wardrobe of clothes that ranged from sexy to fuck-toy-slutty. Here, I had only the barest necessities; I didn’t even have a bra or pair of panties.I wasn’t worried about undergarments. I once asked him what he thought was the sexiest thing a woman could wear. “No underwear,” was his succinct response. He also mentioned that he preferred women who were “naturally slutty.” Further probing queries revealed that he meant slutty women that naturally radiate their sensual, sexual nature. If they manufactured the aura, it lost its magic. I can be slutty, the sluttiest slut in all of slutdom!Thinking quickly, I grabbed his dagger off the bedroom table and stabbed a hole in his t-shirt about several inches above the bottom hem. Ripping it by hand, the long shirt shortened into one that barely went to my waistline. The torn, ragged edge drew attention isvecbahis to my hips and would expose my stomach, still looking shapely after thirty-nine years, if I stretched or raised my arms.Hacking and slashing at my new jeans, ones he had purchased for me, I ripped, tore, and shredded them, strategically. Knees, thighs, a bit of hip, and cuffs were opened to view with plenty of white threads visible to add to the allure. A few hasty slits, less than an inch from where the swell of my ass meets my thighs, finished up my impromptu distressing exercise.Trying them on, the bitch in the mirror showed me that my skin was far too pale for it to be sexy. Lace garter-hose, which are like a garter belt and lace stockings all in one piece, not only hid my paleness, but put a big thumb on the slut-scales, tipping them way over into the realm of “naturally slutty.” They were faded a bit from washing, from their original stark-black to dull charcoal, but it looked sexy and slutty at the same time. I even teased my hair into that “just been railed hard” look.Properly armored for the battle ahead, slutty Krystal descended the stairs, pondering whether or not she should have grabbed the dagger, just in case. Et Tu, Krystal? I had only traversed a stair or two when I hear them. The Battle of the Bimbos had already begun; I was coming late to the party.Glade’s jovial voice could be heard, retelling the tale of capturing Goatmez Addams. His self-debasing humor and entertaining style were shining through. His zeal for life peppered his words, making a fascinating tale. Above his mirth-filled bard’s tale could be heard the annoying, fake cackling of the great whore army.Stomping down the stairs, not so my breasts would bounce enticingly and freely beneath the loose, thin t-shirt, which they did, but because I was pissed and jealous, my feet announced my return. Luke, the chef, was off at one end of the kitchen, an interesting mix of faux stonework, medieval accenting, and modern appliances. He was laying out a lunch fit to feed an army, an army of sluts, it seemed. The half dozen women were gathered around my boyfriend, hanging on his every word, as well as his arms, his chest, his neck.Doe-eyed faces, filled with lust, each one attempting to subtly shove the other one out of the way, stared up at him, pressing their naughty bits against my man. Glade knew each one of them by name, on sight, from the front or behind, by the sounds of their voices, even by the way they walked. I sort of knew their names but choose, instead, to label them by the nicknames I’ve given them.There was Marie, the half-Asian-looking, early-twenties hottie that was the restaurant hostess most nights. Petite with long, shiny black hair, a firm behind, and pert little breasts that have boner-inducing isveçbahis giriş separation, her nickname was the “friendly slut.” Her line of attack was to show him how sweet and loving she is, all while showing a submissive streak. I kind of liked her.The tall blond one, wearing skin-tight leggings under a tight cleavage-revealing V-neck top, aided by a push-up bra, was Diana. She has large breasts, maybe fake, and reminds me of a Shield Maiden or an Amazon. Her nickname is the “slut that always shoves her tits in his face.”The sensual-looking, short, dyed-redhead with killer legs and tiny waist was named Tina. She has swollen, pouting lips that I’d kill to have, high cheekbones, and an extremely toned body. She showed it off in a thin, wispy, gauze skirt that allowed the firm jiggle of her ass to show whenever she moved and a black Metallica t-shirt, tied into a knot at the hem to show off her muscular abs. I dubbed her “the slut that never wears underwear.” I nicknamed her that because she always made it a point to tell Glade that she wasn’t wearing any.Lisa, that slut, had her black hair in little side braids, pigtails, playing up the country-girl next door look. An open flannel shirt over a ribbed, white, wife-beater tank and faded blue jeans that looked like they were airbrushed on, showed off an all-around excellent figure. I wished I had brought down that dagger when I saw how she had her arm over his shoulder, pulling him in possessively. “The slut trying to impress him with her intellect” was about to be my first victim.Finishing out my slutty platoon of foes was Aubrey and Joan. Aubrey was a brunette, working on her Master’s Degree in Veterinary School, also known as “the slut that sits beside him and strokes his arm and thigh.” Joan, a bottled blonde, wearing far too little clothing for December, was dubbed “the slut that always talks about how often she masturbates.” She also overshares her techniques and likes to mention that she just got done making herself cum. Pardon me mixing genders, but the balls on that woman!When my boyfriend saw me, he stopped talking and stared at me with delight. “Did you just get even more beautiful than three minutes ago? Every time I see you, I’m stunned!”Suck it, whores! I thought to myself. “Come here and give your horny girlfriend a kiss,” was what I said aloud.He started with a loving, gentle, soul-felt kiss; I would have none of that. I forced my lips into him, kissing him passionately, hands roaming over his torso, squeezing his tight, muscular ass, knowing they were jealously watching. Pulling me into him, wrapping me with warmth, protective strength, and lust, his body responded to my conveyed passions, in kind. As we kissed, I debated the wisdom of wearing jeans.You see, there isveçbahis yeni giriş are kisses and then there are KISSES. The latter kind makes your body erupt into a soulgasm, makes you melt, causes your heart to beat fiercely. His kisses encompass and transcend that, cause you to willingly, immediately surrender all of yourself to him in any way, at any time. I hoped my wetness wasn’t visible on the crotch of my jeans. You might cry bullshit at that, but the first time he kissed me, I knew that I was his forever and that there was nothing I could ever hope to do about it.Kiss broken, me out of breath, knowing stares exchanged, he turned back to his merry band of slutty groupies to finish his story.“I’ll take the first shower,” the slut that masturbates said. Shooting me a jealous glance, she went upstairs. Krystal one, sluts zero.Meandering over to Luke to help with preparing lunch, I exchanged pleasantries with the five remaining, man-stealing whores. It’s not they are bad people; we’re just at odds when it comes to my boyfriend.One might suggest that I’m jealous, insecure, and perhaps overreacting. I am not. I know exactly what they’re doing and why. I know this because they’re pulling not only the same shit every other woman he encounters pulls, but the very same shit I pulled to get my clutches into him. When others are doing the exact same things that you’ve done, for the exact same reasons, the game is not only afoot, but the stink of rot permeates Denmark.“Glade, oh Glade, did you do all of this work in here, yourself,” Boob-slut sang out, giving her huge bosoms extra bounce because I lack that sort of endowment up top.“You did? Tell me how you made this,” she cooed with her voice dripping like orgasmic heat, bending over to show how the tight fabric of her leggings showed off the swell of her pussy from behind. Damn her, that’s my move! Whores one, Krystal one.My lover peeled away from the herd, I talked with Luke. Luke is tall, with a muscular, swimmer’s body. Shaggy, short-cropped blond hair, a perfect smile, and a sweet demeanor made him a wonderful man to be around. Additionally, he’s a chef, so that makes him quite the catch. I slutted myself to him; he pretended to not notice. Worse yet, Glade’s hopeful whores didn’t seem to mind. Fucking-whores two, Krystal one, damn it.One by one, the horde of whores made their way up to the shower. Each one of them found some excuse to come down in various states of undress to try and catch his eye.Some of my thoughts were:Really, boob-slut, did you need to come down in just your shirt to ask which door led to the bathroom? You were obviously in there. Yes, you have a nice ass, thank you for sharing. No, he didn’t notice because slutty lace under denim seems to be more enticing than you, you evil whore.Come on, masturbating slut, you didn’t need to come downstairs in just your thong and demi-bra to ask if it was okay to use the toilet. He doesn’t like underwear, that’s why I’m not wearing any, and made sure he knows.

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