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A Woman who Loves Men





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T H E H O M E R V A R G A S S T O R Y A R C H I V E

All stories in this archive are the property of the author. They may

be downloaded and read by private citizens. They are not to be used

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sites will be vigorously pursued by the hounds from hell, or my legal

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adult entertainment and should not be accessed by children.)

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This work is copyrighted to Homer Vargas (c) 2001.

Please do not remove the author information or make

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A Woman Who Loves men (MF, cuck, preg, ir, wife, inc,

teen, cheat, humor)

By

Homer Vargas

Vargas111@yahoo.com

[Note: mother Debbie, the famous advisor of cuckold

husbands, is the creation of CDE. He has generously

let me borrow her in order to help a young woman in

need. Thanks CDE!]

Hello, out there in Internet Land. This is mother
Debbie, again. In my little corner of the World Wide

Web, I'm your sounding board, advisor and provider of

motherly advice to those mothers' sons who are in the

less endowed crowd. You know who you are. You're not

jocks. You have only a weenie. You are not very

sexually experienced. You have a mild mannered,

unassuming personality. You are trusting, altruistic,

optimistic and always looking for the good, rather

than the worse in people, especially in the women in

your life. You may have been labeled as a "wimp,"

"sissy," or "mama's boy" by your family, friends or

others. You may be the one who's been taken advantage

of, even if it was done with love, by your

girlfriends, fiancée, wife, or mother-in-law and

sometimes by your own mother, sister, aunt, or other

relatives. You may have been lovingly coerced into

accepting a very subordinate or cuckold role in a

relationship with the woman you love. If this is your

situation, write and tell me all about it. Maybe my

advice can help you make a decision, or offer you

solace for a decision you've already made, or one that

was made for you.

Well, let's turn to today's case. It's a little out

of the ordinary. I call it:

"A Woman Who Loves Men"

Dear mother Debbie,

I know you usually do not answer letters from women,

but I just don't know where else to turn. I have

thought and thought about this and I am really

confused. Charles and I married three years ago now

and I really love him. Some people would say we are

perfect for each other. Although it looks like

Charles will never make partner at the law firm where

he works, we certainly don't lack for money thanks to

a very large trust fund left by Charles's grandfather.

Some women call me Charles's "trophy wife" behind my

back and titter about the difference in our ages, but

I know they are just jealous of me. Charles bought us

a very nice house in Potomac and he loves buying me

jewelry and pretty clothes. I love the way I look in

short skirts, high heels and slinky blouses. I'm a

petite blonde and some my gossipy neighbors say I'm

quite a "handful." I'm not sure exactly what that

means; certainly they aren't talking about my D cup

titties, which are much more than a handful.

I love to dance and with the hot clothes Charles buys

me, you'd think we would be out partying all the time.

Well, we do go out frequently, but there's the first

problem. Charles is short and a little heavy and

isn't a very good dancer. Moreover when we go out, he

usually falls asleep by about 9:00 PM or after one

beer, whichever comes first. When we get to a club, I

usually find a nice quiet corner for Charles, give him

a beer, and wait a few minutes until he starts to nod.

If it looks like he is having trouble getting off to

sleep, I help him get off by playing with his precious

little weenie until he makes a mess in his pants.

That always does the trick. Thereafter, I spend the

night in the arms of a series of young men who can

whirl me and twirl me and make my little skirts fly up

to show off my pretty panties, when I wear them, or my

prettier pussy when I don't.

And that brings me to the first dilemma: Antonio. I

love to dance with Antonio. I met him in a downtown

Latin club a month or so ago and I can't get enough of

him. He is so tall, and trim. His curly raven locks

glisten in the reflected strobe lights of our favorite

boits. When I know I'm going to meet Antonio, and

that's just about every time I have Charles take me

dancing nowadays, I definitely leave the panties at

home. Antonio also likes me to wear the highest heel,

thinnest strap, open-toe sandals possible, which

Charles gladly buys for me. At Antonio's suggestion

I've started shaving my pussy. He says people like to

see how wet I get whenever I'm around him. He loves

showing me off and I love being shown off by such a

hunk. He excites me so much when we salsa or merenge

that when her folds me into his arms during a slow

dance, I come all over the bulge in his tight pants

pressed against my cunny. Finally around 3:00 or 4:00

AM before I reluctantly awaken Charles to take me

home, Antonio sits me in a dark corner and I let him

finger me to orgasm after orgasm. I think I'm in love

with Antonio.

But I love Charles, too, and there is a lot more to

life than dancing and partying. Charles's firm is an

important contributor to local cultural institutions:

museums, universities and the like. Naturally we get

invited to lots of lectures, private readings, author

receptions and that kind of thing. I really enjoy

these events because I kept up my reading after high

school and can hold my on talking books, or drama, or

public affairs. Poor Charles has trouble following

this kind of conversation and soon gets bored and

sleepy. Generally a glass of white wine is just as

good as beer for getting him drowsy, so that and a

little wank will have him snoozing peacefully in some

out-of-the-way place while I titter and repartee.

And that brings me to my second dilemma: Rutherford.

As you might guess, he's English. He's the book

reviewer for the "Post" and teaches modern history at

Georgetown, so he gets invited to all these literary

soirees. He is tall with salt and pepper hair, a thin

mustache, and a bow tie, his trademark. Even if I

didn't understand what he was talking about, I could

listen to that rich Oxbridgian accent for hours. He

is so witty and charming that women flock around him,

but their husbands don't allow too much of that. I'm

luckier, so more often than not, at the end of an

evening I'm left with Rutherford, listening to him

hold forth on something terribly intellectual. His

brilliance excites me and he knows it. When we are

alone and he sees how wound up I am, the dear will

interrupt himself and fish out his lovely thick cock.

He lets me suck it while he continues to expound some

pet idea, but usually not for very long. I can have

him filling my mouth with his delicious cream in

minutes. And then - I love his English sense of fair

play - Rutherford will throw up my skirt, bury his

face in my puss, and lick and eat me to a series of

explosive orgasms. It's the mustache rubbing against

my clit that does it! I think I'm in love with

Rutherford.

But I love Charles, too, and there is more to life

than dancing and talkie cultural events. We love

going to concerts at the Kennedy Center. Music

thrills me. It doesn't matter whether it's Bhrams or

Mahler. I respond very physically to the power of a

full concert orchestra especially when Andre is

conducting. He's my third dilemma.

Andre is Thai and when I see him on the podium in his

adorable little penguin suit, his lithe body moving

with the music, I get so wet. When Andre is leading

the orchestra, I definitely DO wear panties, having

learned the hard way, ruining several gowns and the

upholstery of more than one seat in the Concert Hall.

As you can probably guess by now, Charles, wank or no

wank, is snoring before Andre has turned the first

page of the score. Fortunately, they turn the lights

down quite low and the music of the orchestra covers

up my squeals as I finger myself while watching my

divine Andre. By the end of the concert I have

usually soaked a maxi-pad.

Then I have to rush backstage to show Andre how much I

enjoyed his music. We've become quite good friends

and he always invites me back to his dressing room. I

know it's a cliche, with Andre being a musician and

all, but he really is the most sensitive and caring

man. I can snuggle up against him and he will listen

to me for hours telling him things, little problems,

girl talk, you know. When I leave, I feel so much

better for having talked to Andre. Of course in part

that's because he IS a maestro with the thick end of

that baton which he uses in my eager little box to

make me climax again and again. I think I'm in love

with Andre.

But I love Charles, too, and there is more to life

than social events. Charles has to earn a living or

at least go through the motions, and I have a life,

too. I make sure the household help are on their

toes, shop, and keep myself looking good for Charles

-- and Antonio, and Rutherford and Andre. I go to the

gym three times a week, but what has helped me most is

Leroy: another dilemma.

Leroy has to be one of the biggest, most virile men
I've ever seen: Michael Jordan, but blacker. He's

into bodybuilding and is his ever built! His abs,

pects, and delts are adamantine. He has become my

personal trainer and does he know how to give me a

workout! He warms me up with the hardest, longest,

most talented tongue I've ever had in my snatch.

(Sorry, Rutherford!). When I am thoroughly

incoherent, he pins me on my back and has me point my

heels (six inch spikes) at the ceiling while he drills

me for twenty minutes or more. He says it's good for

my gluteals. Then we work on my abdominals by him

laying me face down with my butt in the air and Leroy

pounding my grateful pussy from behind. Finally he

lets me relax on a table with my knees bent wide apart

while he finishes me off, filling the extra large

condom I make him wear while I exercise my vocal

cords. I think I'm in love with Leroy.

But I love Charles, too and that's why I'm taking so

long, mother Debbie. I wanted you to understand the

problem I face. You see, I'm almost nineteen now and

I am really getting anxious to start having babies.

Mom is on my back, too; she thinks there is something

wrong with me. My little sister Shannon has three now

(Daddy, her algebra teacher, and the twelve year old
she baby-sits). Several of mom friends thought she

looked so sexy fattening up with her son's baby, they

let that scamp Josh put them back in maternity

dresses, too. Even little Sherry persuaded the same

nice black boy who had knocked up their sixth grade

teacher, to make her pregnant, too.

I went to for an examination with a sample of Charles

sperm (painstakingly collected by three hand jobs over

six days!) to find out if we could have children. "If

I were as fertile as you are," she laughed, "I'd be

careful not sit too close to anyone on the Metro or

you'll be having triplets." She noticed me looking at

her own prominent belly "A well-hung orderly," she

explained. "On the other hand, if Charles's baby

juice is all you have to work with, you could take a

job as poster girl for Planned Parenthood."

Now I really love Charles and I think he will be a

wonderful daddy for my babies, able to help me take

good care of a clutch of little ones, but it looks

like I will have to get one of the other men I love to

be their father. But which one should I choose to

give me the big belly I crave? I love the grace and

stunning good looks of Antonio; he would make me such

a beautiful baby. But I love the brilliance of

Rutherford's mind; our child would be a genius. And

with the sweetness of Andre, we would have the most

adorable, loving little boy or girl. Yet I love the

way Leroy fucks me stupid; he would have me in the

maternity ward WEKS before any of the others. You see

my problem, mother Debbie. How do I go about

choosing?

(Signed)

Perplexed

**************

Dear Perplexed,

First let me say how nice it is to correspond with

such a sensible young woman. You have discovered what

some women never do; never try to change a man into

what he is not. With a wisdom beyond your years, you

have already realized that women require many

different men to serve our many different needs. It

is otiose to try to get just one of them to cover all

the bases. In this, women are just the opposite of

men, who have only ONE need, and any woman with a hole
in the right place can satisfy it.

You are particularly smart to understand that only by

accident would the man who would be a good daddy for a

woman's baby, be the man she would want to choose as

its father. I see, however that you have not taken

your insights to their logical conclusion. You are

still thinking of CHOOSING a father, and of A father.

Taking up the second point first, there is no reason

that all your children should have the same father.

Aside from the fun of letting lots of different men
make you pregnant, circumstances change. You seem to

have some excellent candidates lined up for putting a

baby in your cute little belly right now, but ten or

eleven months from now when you are ready to become a

mother again, you may have even better ones. On the

other hand, you'd better hold onto that Charles;

you're not likely to find another man as well endowed

financially and as poorly endowed physically as he.

And his docility, his lack of libido, what a perfect

husband! Keep that little treasure happy by wanking

him 'til his eyes cross!

Now, as for choosing the father, that is quite

unnecessary and even evolutionarily counterproductive.

A clever woman, and I can tell you are clever my

dear, sets up a sperm war. You should be able to

arrange a friendly orgy during your fertile period at

which you allow ALL off the lucky men to pump you so

full of jism it runs out your eyeballs. Get that twat

awash with sperm; and may the best wiggler win!

Now some women are concerned about managing a pack of

potential fathers, fearing that they will be jealous

of each other. Sometimes women even take the cowardly

way out and cheat. Never do that, honey! It is

perfectly alright to cheat on your husband, but you

must be totally honest with your lovers. They should

know all about each other. Once they see what you are

up to, why should there be any jealousy? Would

Rutherford want take you dancing? Is Leroy interested

in discussing Sartre or listening to Telemann? Of

course not! So long as you keep their balls drained,

something a little minx like you should have no

trouble doing with just four men, you can keep them

all happy.

And here you see another advantage of getting yourself

knocked up at an intramural gang-bang. None of your

lovers can be sure until you deliver whether you are

carrying his baby or not. So all are likely to be

extra solicitous of your pleasure as your tummy and

tits explode. Of course there are going to be three

disappointed erstwhile fathers (four if you count

Charles) when you finally pop the little bugger out,

but by then everyone should be looking forward to the

next event.

I hope this advice helps you, dear. Please write in

nine months to tell me whose it is. I'm rooting for

kinky hair.

Love,

Mother Debbie

Comments, please, to

Homer Vargas

vargas111@yahoo.com

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