Like Pavlov’s dogs, I’ve become accustomed to the sound of my mistress’s melodically orgasmic moans. The change in pitch—from low to high—triggers an intense reaction in me. My pussy gets wet, if it isn’t already, the inner and outer lips blossoming darkly with hot blood; my nipples stiffen; my chest and cheeks flush bright pretty red; heart rate and respiration increase dramatically. All the clinically recognized signs of sexual arousal.
But the real question is—why?
I know I will not be called in for sex. That I will be forever denied the orgasm I’ve so desperately craved for the past year.
Perhaps the answer lies somewhere within the final symptom of my conditioning. Each and every time I hear my husband and my mistress fucking, the frenzied banging of the headboard against the wall (here’s a thought: what must the neighbours think?), in conduction with all that I mentioned above, the helpless drooling of my denied pussy, I find myself salivating uncontrollably because I know that mistress’s pussy will soon be on the menu.
