Seduction By Email

I received an email that completely knocked me for a loop. Who am I? What can I say? Not much. I'm a normal guy. Just like you, reader.

That is, I was until I read that email.

It was from: Plain Jane.

It was a long email, very long, so long that, at first, I considered ignoring it, but once I started reading, I could not stop.

It was... Well, here it is. Judge for yourself.

***

Dear Mr. P;

You don't know me. You would never notice me. In the supermarket, in passing, during casual social interactions, at the coffee shop, I would not attract your eye.

I know you. I've seen you in every one of the circumstances mentioned above. I am sending you this email in an attempt to seduce you. But, be assured, I am not a stalker. If you do not reply to this email I will blend into the background of your life and you will never know who I am or hear from me again.

Why you? You're sexy. To me.

Why would I not go through normal channels, accepted social methods of meeting you?

Because I am plain. I'm not ugly, but I'm not beautiful. I'm plain. My lips are not full and sensuous. My hair tends to hang straight and I am NOT BLONDE. I'm short. I wear glasses. My tits are so small I only wear a bra so my nipples don't poke out of my shirts. My butt is round and cute, but not a bubble. My legs are...short. My face is so anonymous you couldn't describe me to a police officer if I tied you down and raped you for six hours in broad daylight.

I would not do that.

Unless you wanted me to.

My body is not distinctively sexy in any way. Except one.

My brain.

You see, I have sex on the brain. I like sex, a lot. I think about it all the time. I strip men with my eyes. I fuck them in my imagination. I am addicted to pornography. I can spend an entire weekend naked, wet and horny, watching sexy videos and movies, fantasizing about men - lately you - and inserting just about anything phallic I can find inside every orifice in my plain little body. I own just about every type of sexual device I can find on the internet.

And I orgasm. I cum. My vagina is a cum volcano, erupting and spewing and oozing all manner of liquids from inside me. I am wet as I type this and I will shortly have to stop so I can release the pressure building up in my cunt. I have a nasty, demanding, insatiable, craven, naughty, and continually seeping sinkhole of lust between my legs that cannot be fucked often and hard enough.

I'm a bad girl, Daddy.

Mmmmm. I'm getting very wet. Anyway, let me give you a picture of who I am, sexually.

Sadly, I don't fuck often. Often enough, anyway. Sure, in my teens I was a slut. Having just discovered the joys of fucking I opened my legs for any man who looked at me sideways. But it wasn't very satisfying sex. They all wanted to either own me, control me, or were just playing me. It felt empty. After a brief, hurried, unimaginative, and unfulfilling few fucks, my sex partners either texted me too often, or not enough. "Coming and going, coming and going, and always too soon," as Madeleine Kahn said.

So, I set out to create my own sexual agenda. I decided to start by finding a man who was older, someone who would want to have sex with me despite having a wife, a career and a reputation. I decided to have an affair.

At the time I was working for a small college. During the school year we were kept pretty busy in admin, but come summer, the campus was almost completely deserted. Many days passed where only the two of us were in the building, my supervisor and I. And he was the ideal man with whom I could have an affair. So I set out to seduce him. He was/is married, very much so, and had a well established situation at the college. He had, by necessity, built up a considerable resistance to the charms of all those cute, bubble butt, bubble brained co-eds. And as handsome as he was, he attracted some attention that way.

How would I seduce him? Me, plain Jane, with a body that the devil himself could ignore. I spent a lot of time considering a strategy, spent many naked weekends fucking him in my mind, hatching a plot. But circumstances swung my plans in an entirely different direction than what I expected.

His wife was writing a book. She needed a research assistant, just for a month or so. Since I was rather under-utilized on campus, Mr. B asked if I wouldn't mind taking a little break and spending time working at his house with Mrs. B.

Whatever. I really didn't have much say in it. It would be less hours, same pay. And they had a nice house in the country. She was very nice, as beautiful a wife as he was handsome a husband. They had a perfect life. Their two kids were college aged and successfully employed. They were affluent. They both projected that kind of self actualized, fully aware and highly competent way about them that semi-rich white professional people do. Perfect hairdos, perfect cars, perfect house, perfect clothes, etc. But when I saw them together I didn't see a lot of perfect chemistry. You know, the kind that makes sex compelling, explosive. But, of course, they were very married, and so involved in keeping up with their perfect lives that straying, infidelity, was out of the equation.

As you can tell, I'm not crazy about perfection. I like things a little messy, including my sex. Especially my sex. Cum on my face. Let me shoot my squirt all over your prone body. Fuck my ass. Eat me with ice cream.

I digress.

So, I went to work for Mrs. B. She started me right off looking on line at data bases and various university web libraries. It was quiet, relaxed, comfortable. Everything was right there, coffee, snacks, back deck, living room couches, etc. We made a lot of progress quickly.

But during that first two weeks I found myself wondering. How does she cum? Does she moan? Whine? Is it just a quick uh uh uh and she's done? Does she get very wet, or hardly at all? Does she ooze cream? Anal play? Oral? Does she jam those toned and silky smooth thighs down onto her husband's face and grind her clit on his nose as his tongue reams her butt and pussy?

You know, normal, everyday, passing thoughts.

My first clue that all was not perfect with Mrs. B were the cigarettes.

Don't tell my husband she said when we took a mid morning break and she lit up.

Now, I don't smoke, but I was very glad she did. It's so...messy, imperfect.

Sometime in the second week, after we'd gotten to know each other and were comfortable, I arranged to have her catch me surfing the internet for porn.

Oh, Mrs. B, I'm so sorry. I was just taking a break and, well, I, I'm kinda curious. It was a video of two women and a man doing, you know, normal everyday kind of things, fucking, sucking, cumming. I left it running while I pleaded for her patience and understanding.

It's what I do instead of smoking, I told her, an excuse she immediately understood.

She did watch it with me for awhile. Oh my goodness, she said as the man buried his porn god cock into the porn goddess' butt while she ate out the other porn goddess.

I'm sure goodness had nothing to do with it, I quipped, and she recognized the quote from Mae West.

I was so wet I took another break and fingered myself in the bathroom. I remained wet. And that gave me the idea.

I don't where scents. But I decided to start. My own scent. I dipped my fingers into my naughty little cun and then dabbed it behind my ears, on my neck, shoulders and wrists. Mrs. B had this way of looking over my shoulders as I perused data bases and such and I knew she'd get a subtle snoot full of my 'perfume' back there. I started fluffing some part of my hair out of place in the back, a tuft sticking up. And I wore dresses that buttoned or zipped up the back, leaving the top button or top few inches of the zipper undone. Maybe a stray thread left on the back of my neck or bare shoulder. Mrs. B would inevitably feel compelled to zip me up, brush away the specks, smooth my hair.

Touch me. I don't know if she could feel it like I did, do. I doubt any person walking the earth responds to touch like I do. I hope you find out for yourself. A fingertip caress on my neck sends electric sparks shooting through me, arcing and sizzling right to my clit and nipples.

And I wore very thin bras, or none at all, to make sure that Mrs. B saw my nipples.

Well, round about the third week I began to see results from my strategies. Mrs. B's nipples were being naughty. And she seemed both flustered around me and unable to break away. She found more reasons to touch me.

I, of course, played innocent, well, except for the occasional screaming orgasm that escaped from my computer during break.

But, I think my perfume was working. One day, she was sitting at her computer typing and I walked up behind her to ask her something. She was five cups of coffee into it and I knew she was buzzing. I had just been dipping my fingers in my honeypot and I began kneading her shoulders with them, and she groaned with relief. After a few minutes working out the knots up there, I asked if I could massage her feet.

Something my sisters liked a lot, I said. Innocent, friendly, casual.

She was very quiet, but she spun her chair around, I knelt down in front of her and lifted her foot up gently. To cradle it, I placed it in my crotch. The electricity coursed through my body. How could she not feel it?

Well, I worked over both her feet and she sort of got very relaxed. I started caressing and rolling my hands up her calves then, and both of us kind of knew where this could go.

I stopped and said, I can't do this, Mrs. B.

Why, what's wrong she asked. Are you OK, Jane?

I'm...feeling kind of...attracted to you, Mrs. B. I know it's entirely inappropriate and perhaps we should end our time together, but you are just too...too...sexy for me to concentrate on my work when you are around.

What are you saying, Jane?

By way of an answer, I stood up, leaned over her chair and kissed her. I had smeared cum juice all around my lips.

That's all I want, Mrs. B. Thank you, so much. You are the classiest, sexiest, most wonderful woman I've ever met.

Well, she about raped me. I mean she stood up and planted a liplock on me that just about sucked my tongue out of my mouth. And as she kissed me she guided me over to the couch and was tearing at my clothes, pushing a hand inside my pants, mussing my hair, and mauling my tits.

I, of course, was very wet. She put her face between my legs and, seeing it bare and hairless, began lapping like a starving little puppy, and when she stuck her fingers inside my burbling cunny, I came almost instantly, flooding her mouth with warm, sticky liquid. She moaned. And whined. Hmm, that's what I thought she'd do.

But she grunted like a piggy when I tongued her sweet, warm, moderately soggy, very married cunt. And came all over my face, holding my head and humping her clit against my nose.

Would you lick it off my face, I asked her, as sweetly as I could, given the circumstances. She laid me down on the floor, rubbed her pussy all over my tits and face, then slowly licked it off as she pushed a couple of fingers into me and fondled my clit and ass and legs.

We went for quite awhile. She was apparently somewhat sexually under-stimulated. We finished with her dildo, the one her husband didn't know about, taking turns with it, both of us getting a nice, slow, sensual, nine inch rubber cock induced orgasm.

Please, Jane, she whispered as we lay there recovering, don't tell Mr. B.

I would never, I assured her. You're too wonderful.

Well, for the next two weeks progress on that book slowed to a crawl. But Mrs. B learned a thing or two about sexy. About how sexy comes from the mind, not the perfect toned, tanned, clothed and coiffed upper middle class body.

She learned that a woman can cum many times in a morning, especially after five cups of coffee. She learned that sex is imagination. She learned that her research assistant could flood her tits, face and torso with squirt after squirt while being fucked with the vibrating dildo. And that I would lick my own watery cum juice off those married tits and then kiss her with cum slick lips while sliding the dildo as far up her married cunt as it would go.

She also felt very assured that her research assistant was a sweet if plain Jane lesbo and she had no worries about leaving the easily seduced and highly sexed young thing alone with her husband.

She was wrong.

I reported back to my admin position on a Monday morning in mid July and the campus was hot, still, quiet, in the middle of a long summer's nap. I began my next campaign with a good dose of scents, dabbed on shoulders, neck and wrists.

Mr. B was highly resistant, though. He didn't straighten my hair, zip my dress, brush off stray lint from my bare shoulder. I really didn't expect him to. I don't doubt the vaginal lubricant and cum juice I swathed liberally all over my upper body had a stimulating effect on him. I envisioned him going home and fucking the holy shit out of Mrs B., whom he would be very surprised to find was ravenously horny these days.

But I'm just too plain for a forty something, handsome, successful, career oriented professional to risk it all on. I certainly couldn't have him catch me surfing porn on campus computers. And, of course, he didn't smoke.

So, what could I do? I was, of course, curious about him. He seemed to have a good sized cock in those suit slacks. Did he grunt while he humped? Did he like missionary, prone bone, doggy, cowgirl, fellatio, anal? Could he stay hard after cumming? Would he face fuck me? Could we fuck on his desk or would he want to meet in a hotel, or on some back road in his BMW? Could I call him Daddy?

But he was stalwart in his resistance. It was truly noble. I could feel him stiffen up when I came around to his side of the desk to show him something. He'd get a whiff of my scent and he'd visibly react, sniffing, then breathing hard, wiggling around uncomfortably in his seat. He refused to touch me, though.

I'm just too plain. It was too easy to resist the temptations of his flat chested, short, average and unremarkable administrative assistant.

So I went to phase two. I began to collect my vaginal squirt in small vials. I would empty one into his coffee in the morning. And while he really enjoyed it (what flavor coffee is this, Jane?) he didn't throw me down on the copy room floor and rip my clothes off.

So I implemented phase three. I ordered a couple bottles of erectile dysfunction medicine. Viagra. At home, I carefully ground them to powder and mixed them into the vials of squirt. These I took to work and I carefully emptied a dose into the cup of coffee that I brought to him every morning.

Well, that got some results. It took five days. During this time, I purposefully dressed as conservatively as possible. Long skirts, neck high shirts with big red ties. But I kept my hair mussed, and wore red red lipstick. And just about bathed my neck and hands in my cum.

That fifth day I found a reason to bring him a report, carefully placing it in front of him and leaning in to show him a detail. My hair dropped across my face and he brushed it back. The first time he touched me.

I put my pen in my mouth and looked at him, cocking my head slightly as if to ask what he had in mind. He became flustered. We resumed our professional pose, me leaning down, he looking at my pen hand. Our shoulders touched. I swear he could feel the electricity. He sort of twitched and started doing that thing men do when they have to adjust their pants to accommodate a growing erection.

When I exited his office he suddenly called out, Jane?

Yes? I answered, pen in mouth again, looking back over my shoulder so he was sort of talking to my ass too.

Thank you for your good work.

He had his hand in his lap.

Well, I began wearing more revealing outfits, more skin around the shoulders and chest, more leg. I found, and he found, reasons to have me stand and sit close. We talked more about little personal things. I told him I was thinking of taking some classes that fall, if only, I admitted shyly, to meet some men. Since I don't frequent bars, and the campus was empty, I said, sighing, and didn't finish the sentence. He acknowledged that a healthy sweet girl like me should be dating.

I said I felt healthy, a lot lately.

He spent the next half hour in his bathroom.

So, I continued to bring him a cup of coffee in the mornings. And, in retrospect, this was kind of cruel. Viagra, sildenafil, lasts for about four hours. Which meant poor Mr. B was highly aroused around me and probably feeling a little washed out around Mrs. B.

In fact, she called me. And we arranged to meet at her house during that two hour time, three to five o'clock, when I was off and before he left for home.

But I really wanted a dick. A hard, hot, live, pounding cock inside my constantly wet little puss.

And Mr. B had a big one that was, those past few days, constantly erect inside the casual slacks he wore during the summer. As much as he tried to hide it under his desk, or keep it from my view by standing behind me at the computer, I could smell it, feel its presence, sense the heat emanating from that rocket.

Finally he did it again. He brushed back a stray strand of hair. I sort of leaned my head and neck into him slightly, affectionately accepting the casual caress. In response, his hand drifted down my back in a friendly kind of way, just two people relaxed and at ease with each other. Nothing overtly sexual.

Except the beast rose up from between his legs, a redwood tree sized log of man flesh aching to be fellated.

Well, he made it for nine straight days of extremely torturous frustration before he finally put that hand on my ass. It was almost like it was working on its own. It just wandered down there. Right smack dab on my left ass cheek.

Mr. B., I said, as innocent as a school girl. What are you...what...what do you want?

He was so flustered, so frustrated, so horny, so cute.

Do you want me as a woman? I asked.

Well, he suddenly became a male version of his wife that first time she threw me down on the couch. He grabbed me and pulled me down onto his lap and I felt that big old bad dog sit up and beg under my butt. I stood up, acting shocked by his behavior.

I walked over to his office door, then stopped and turned around. Mr. B, I whispered, my face the picture of mortification, do you mean to fuck me? He sort of gulped. So I locked the door, turned off the light and I walked back to him.

I leaned in close. Do you? I asked. Then I took his face in my hands and lowered my lips to his, kissing him gently.

He meant to. Fuck me. Hard.

That big cock came out of his pants like a horse out of the gate. He spread me across his desk and within a few moments we were locked in coitus. He was/is a magnificent man, all muscles and passion and a veritable fuck machine. I came just looking at those fine ripped abs working so hard to jam his steed into my stable. My skirt was up around my waist, stockings on, short pumps gripping his ass, and I opened my shirt to his big wandering hands.

And he took control. It was a strong, demanding, physical fuck, jolting me across the desk hard with each thrust, then gripping my slim hips to slide me back to renew his attack.

Oh, Mr. B, I never knew...you were so... You're going to make me cum all over your desk, Mr. B. I'm going to make a mess.

Ah, it was glorious. Messy, sloppy, wet, vigorous, grunting, slobbery, sweating, cum drenched, panting, lewd, illicit, extramarital, fucking sex.

When he came and his face squinched up and I felt the semen spurting inside my bubbly cunt, I let loose a flood of watery squirt that washed all over both our crotches, his desk, his legs and the floor too.