Lover: Yes, I know it’s you, Simmy! I just felt like calling you a slut because you only call me when you need a fuck, like I am your slut…I knew he was telling the truth, but he was the only cock available at the time and I didn’t want to ruin the chance.Me: I am waiting for you in a sexy satin nighty. My loser husband is not home. So, quit bitching and come to my place as fast as you can, bye!About an hour later, I heard the doorbell. I walked towards the door with mixed feelings. If it were my husband, my plan for cheating sex would have been ruined.When I opened the door, I was shocked and surprised at the same time. My lover was carrying my drunk husband. I didn’t know whether they had met somewhere on the road or inside the bar.I took them inside and closed the door. My lover had to drag my husband to the sofa because he refused to walk.We both were standing tall in front of my husband who was sitting on the sofa and looking confused. My lover grabbed my ass and began to pinch. Both seemed to be having the same problems with boys their own age being so immature. It seemed a common theme. And they were both so bright, it was fun to talk about music and art with someone who didn't laugh at her. Some classmates had teased her about being in the band. She found she loved music. And she liked being called an old soul. She took it as a compliment.Pat told everyone that only her parents called her Patricia. So she was Pat to Sandy, and to James, the older gentleman she became friends with. Those two she loved to chat with everyday. They were both writers too, of course. She had made it a habit to only make friends with fellow writers. That seemed safer somehow. Finally she had about thirty-five "friends" and only a few were what she would call real friends. These she trusted. Well, really, she trusted everyone on the site. Maybe that was her first big mistake.The sound of the flute, or some kind of pipes, started about a week after she had seen the car. Late at.
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