Diane V. Stone

Kate: First Timer

Warning: This is a story containing sexual content. Adults only, please.

Hi everyone, I’m Kate. The first time I talked to Peter, my husband, about potentially having an open marriage, I thought it might be our last evening as a couple. We had only been married for a few years at that point, maybe it was a red flag that I wanted to experience other men. Peter was, well is, a great husband. He strove to make me happy, create a home, he did the bulk of the house work, because I was terrible at it. I can already hear the opinions of him developing from all the readers.

The biggest reality check, for me, happened when I was working for a mom and pop run physical therapy office. I was always advanced, graduating high school at 13, I finished my degree as a physical therapist at the age of 20. That same year Peter and I got married. An adorable Italian man, 5’10”, goes through waves of fitness over the years, curly brown hair, large brown Garfield shaped eyes, he was a unique find in Ft. Worth, TX. We were and are compatible in so many ways as we became a couple.

Back to that reality check. I was approaching my 23rd birthday in a week, my biological clock was already ticking, but there was something else ticking. I found myself continually feeding off of the energy of men. I had always been a Daddy’s girl, but he passed away when I was 17, a week after I graduated with my Bachelor’s degree. It was heartbreaking. He raised me to be confident, to know who I am, and to treat people the way I want to be treated. He also taught me to take care of myself, but that couldn’t help that I was a twilight baby in his life. He was already 70 when I was born, but not a typical old man. My dad would always say I kept him young.

My father was German, my mother Irish. I suppose you could say her genes dominated as I exhibit the telltale red hair, freckles, and generally cute Irish girl looks. I was also blessed, if I do say so myself, with a great rack. In addition to going through school quickly, I found myself developing before the other girls, filling out a C-cup before I got to college. Both of my parents would say I was going to be a heartbreaker, which was always a bit frustrating for me to hear. It made no sense to me until I realized they meant it as a compliment. I would always say I never want to hurt anyone. That brings me back to Peter. I love the man. He’s an incredible person and he balances me in so many ways. As I finished my advanced degree, he chose to become a massage therapist. His plan was to eventually open a practice for the two of us: really a great idea in ways. Little did he know, my loins had plans that would distract from such an entrepreneurial endeavor.

There I was, nearly 23, working on an athlete. Not just any athlete, a professional baseball player. He was so fucking tall, my 5’4” frame was tiny next to him. He was also damn handsome, Eric O’Shea (yeah, ok, that’s not his real name… none of these are real names, are you nuts?!). Eric was there, lying on the table wearing only gray sweatpants. His chest, arms, and abs were like a sculpture out of Rome, except more defined. Not an ounce of fat on his body. He looked amazing.