The Kindergarten Teacher

I fucked my daughter’s kindergarten teacher, Mrs. W last week. 

She doesn’t know her husband is paying me for weekly nooners.  One household, two clients.  They were just married in June, a formal affair featured in Greenwich Magazine.  I’m certainly maximizing my profit margin. 

Sex with the kindergarten teacher was a whole ordeal.  The mascara tears and hesitant kisses quickly turned into kinky play with jump rope bondage and edible children’s paste.  I should clarify; the tryst took place in her classroom after school hours.  Her idea, not mine.

I normally don’t do girls if I’m their first, but the price was too good to pass up.  Mrs. W, only 25 and born in argyle pampers, most certainly hadn’t tasted the pleasure of female company. 

It’s not like I’ve been doing this that long myself.  Whore didn’t top my career ambitions when I graduated from an Ivy.  I got knocked up later that year though, and felt obliged to marry P, or as I referred to him this morning in front of our lawyers, shit eating weasel breath.  The name changes daily you see, now that I’m ridding myself of him. 

But, this is about life post P.  Because his idiocy is how my whoring career started.  Not that I blame him for it.  I actually see this as the best decision I ever made.  I should send him a bottle of champagne, really. 

So, we got married and like a good, albeit well educated Connecticut girl, I decided it would be prudent for me to stay home and raise my daughter, make the house, cook the delicious things on the cover of Martha Stuart (our ex-neighbor), and lay still while P orgasms inside of me 2.5 times a week.   Did everyone in this state forget what decade we’re in?  I grudgingly digress…

There was a reason, of course, that I was able to stay home and enjoy these luxuries.  We were rich.  Not just comfortable, but 3 car garage with 2  parked out front, huge diamond ring and vacation homes all over the northeast, rich.

So, naturally when the market crashed along with our bank accounts and his career, and P came clean about his nasty little $50,000 a month prostitute habit which drained our savings, I had no choice but to kick his ass out on our fresh sod lawn. 

Fast-forward two years, and I’m still living large.  But now it’s on the dime of the husbands (and wives) of my promiscuous neighbors, soccer coaches, restaurateurs, and other local community members who serve to complicate things a bit more. 

So that’s me: Stella Bliss, from housewife to still very suburban whore. 

How I eventually came to this profession is a longer and much more interesting story than my brief prelude as a housewife.  Though I suppose during the day that’s still what I am… only as a cover, of course. 

Come back soon for more Bliss…