A Divorced Woman's Eye Opening New Sex Life

By Sophie Sin

Forced into a protracted bout of celibacy by a bit of bad luck, one divorcee desires the respite only a man can bestow, but finds herself unable to realize her carnal ambitions. However, a chance encounter with a lengthy stud sets off a turbulent descent into riotous immorality that is without a doubt nothing less than eye-opening, life-changing and all too welcome for this desperate lady in need.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lunatic Ink Publishing
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215252888

Sophie Sin

Sophie Sin writes heterosexual erotica. She also occasionally writes gay erotic fiction under the pen name Dick Powers.

Book preview

A DIVORCED WOMAN’S EYE OPENING NEW SEX LIFE

Sophie Sin

Copyright 2023 Lunatic Ink Publishing

More stories at Sophie's Book List. Find her gay erotica under Dick Powers.

All characters consent and are over 18yrs.

Table of Contents

Ex-Husbands Suck

On A Night Out At Spring

Facing Up To A Friend

The Black Men Of America

Walk Of Shame?

Solving Gay Guy Problems

A Hunk’s Odd Sexual Interests

Feeling Good?

Glory For Her

To Be Free

A journey starts and ends with understanding, but the quality of what you know when you are just starting out and when you are finished differs greatly. If anything, that was the main thing that I learned from my 90 days of truly life-changing debauchery.

- The Divorcee

MY EX-HUSBAND SUCKS

The email’s obsessive, crazed, and often muddled font variations combined with each letter’s obscenely large size (the smallest being at least the length of one of my pinky fingers in height) says quite a lot about how little mutual respect that my asshole cheating ex and I have left for one another.

fUc yuO Whor? Mia - my co-worker and bestest bestie - deciphers aloud questioningly.

A downtrodden but slightly concurring hmmmmmm... is all the woman gets in reply as I find myself with my head tilted a fraction to the side as I attempt to divine whether the ‘wh’ is actually an ‘f’ or not and in turn wonder exactly how I am going to include this fine example of that retard’s communicative ingenuity into my list of words that the company provided email software automatically obscures when I receive some of that shithead’s digital correspondence and, at the same time, bemoan the fact that these days merely cutting and pasting the offending letter (or letters for that matter) into my catalogue of typefaces results in a semi-disgruntled ‘font code’ error from the system. Thus, resultantly, a severely laborious delving into and comparing of fonts from various out of the way websites that supply assholes like my once long-term love interest with the means to annoy their hard done by prior partners will be required yet again in my short term future.

Beside me, my gorgeous blond desk mate edges her swivel chair out a little so that her eyeline is not hindered by the quarter partition that the admin department of Roland & Peters International, a small specialized law firm in central Manchester, supplied to separate each desk for our ‘individual privacy’ (despite - by default - every computer in the office bearing such heavy-handed employee spyware that a settlement hungry union rep would begin to salivate just on hearing about it) and as part of the office’s recent ‘No More Lost Information’ campaign that coincidentally began shortly after what that venture is all about preventing - and those ‘mini-privacy screens’ as well - VERY publicly (read: ‘extremely embarrassingly’) occurred.

As I’m sitting there trying to figure out what to do about my ‘wh’ or ‘f’ or whatever the fuck it is problem, I can feel Mia’s watchful brown eyes worriedly centered on my right hand - it currently tightly ground into the computer’s mouse and shaking lightly. However, honestly speaking, I don’t have the ovarial fortitude at this point in time to turn, look at and reassure my friend that I’m good when actually I am really, really, really not good because there’s this subtle electric tickle sliding down through my gut towards the pit of my stomach right now that I swear is close to transforming into a hot, bile-inducing, raging fury with the result being yet another time where I lift the pointy-clicky tool and angrily smash - probably multiple times - the cheap Chinese-made plastic piece of junk as hard as I can down onto the desk’s surface until the stupid thing bursts apart at its screws and seams and quickly becomes nothing more than scrap for the wastebasket shortly after.

"That asshole..."

This bitter duo of words is spit forth from me in a disgusted murmur after a few more seconds silent contemplation and is swiftly followed by a pop of air that bursts forth from my lips like a bottle rocket from a soda pop can during some family fireworks fun and makes me realize that I mustn’t have taken a full breath since I opened the cheater’s email around about a minute ago and also, worse, that I must have been chewing on the right side of my lower lip again because it hurts quite a lot there.

Should I, ahh, take that from you? Mia asks while tentatively making to extract the device from my death grip of mousey doom and in response I merely shrug and bring my hand up and off the thing so that I can quite purposefully place the offending appendage down on the armrest of my chair closest to the woman and well within her reach if things were to unexpectedly get a tad crazy all of a sudden.

No, I say more calmly than I actually feel, I have this under control.

Of course, this doesn’t fool Mia or any of my co-workers quietly trying not to pay too much attention to the department’s unlucky soon-to-be properly divorced mid-level administrator because it was only several weeks back at exactly 7pm on a Friday that I smashed down the previous mouse - the current one being somewhat sparkly new still - onto the polished wooden surface of my desk so incredibly hard that the stupid thing actually managed to shatter into several sizable chunks. However, fortunately, my boss Mitch was the only one at work at the time and the lovely man raced off down to the supply closet to bring me a new one, but, still, somehow everyone knew the next day that ‘the crazy lady in admin’ did it again and, if I’m being honest here, up to that point the one I demolished in a single strike was the fifth mouse and ever since I’ve been trying to kick my mouse breaking habit, but it’s no easy feat because - as much as it hurts to think this - that fuck-faced cheating asshole was my everything for an entire 10 years and it still hurts me six months from tossing him to the curb when I remember that we were (at least I thought) much better people than his and my current behavior implies.

Okay. Then should I call your lawyer and tell him that the prick did it again?

That one requires a little thought and the silence lengthens as I carefully ponder what to do. However, in the end I decide to gulp down my feelings like the bitter pill they are and shake my head with surety while my gaze hovers on the ‘wh’ situated right-mid screen and conclude that it is probably a capital ‘F’ that uses a Spanish twirl towards the tail end and, also, that narking the fucker in probably isn’t worth the effort because he never really learns anyway.

I don’t think it’ll do much good, I comment candidly. It’s not like they haven’t warned him numerous times before, but, as you know, that hasn’t stopped the bastard from doing stuff like this.

My voice trails off as I reach out to finger the screen. 100% that is an ‘F’. I’m sure of it now.

Okayyy...

That extended ‘okay’ of Mia’s sounds about as concerned as one can be and so I put in an effort (mainly powered by friendship) and straighten up like a good girl, drag on my best ‘do not worry’ smile and offer my number one most unfazed gaze to the woman, who in response emits a sigh - as Mia isn’t the type to be easily fooled - and reaches over to click the left mouse button onto the small ‘+’ symbol next to the currently open browser tab showing my personal email with a firm shake of her head.

"Are you really okay?" she questions, glancing from me to the potentially imperiled peripheral device and back.

I shrug again and honestly reply, No, Mia, I’m really not.

The younger woman stares at me for a second then drags herself to her ‘slightly too long for appropriate office wear’ pin heels and throws a length of her long blond hair over her lean left shoulder before insisting stubbornly, "Come smoke."

Despite myself, one corner of my lips edge up a tad. It has been two months since I gave up smoking ‘for good’ (as I keep vehemently insisting I will) for what was the third time since I flung the first iteration of my now much changed divorce paperwork across the length of the breakfast bar of my previous apartment at the man I used to love. However, it has been a real bastard of an afternoon thus far and right about now a cigarette between my lips would feel absolutely fantastic and so I guess I’ll be adding a fourth fall from the wagon to my history of trying and failing to give up my come and go again nicotine addiction.

Alright.

My sneaker clad feet touch base on the tidy gray carpet and I navigate in the lead through the two orderly rows of co-workers’ desks - their owners suddenly ultra-interested in the legal documents displayed on their computer screens - and half stumble, half walk out the side door to mount the stairs that lead five breathless flights up to the rooftop smoking area.

Ouch-- I wince as the aching blaze of the springtime sun blisters my retinas and I make my blurry way past people who only know me as a woman undergoing some rather unpleasant divorce proceedings to where the stoic rock of my in-office friend group is perched like a fag (which he is)