I dream of cheating.

Last night, my dreams gave me what my real life will not.

I got my pussy filled twice in quick succession by two different men. The first was nameless, faceless, and he fucked me hard from behind, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back. I sent him out the back door as I saw the second coming down the street. Number two was almost a decade younger than I, a well-hung, boyish-faced and hot-bodied graduate I had a BDSM-tinged one night stand with four years ago. He threw me down on the edge of the bed, held my feet over his shoulders and pumped his cock into my cunt, sloppy with the first man's come. He put his hand round my throat and bit his lip, watching his cock disappear and reappear. He slapped my tit and called me a delicious little slut as he shot his come into me. I smiled, delirious with being desired. V was due home at 5.15pm - I remember very precisely - and the danger of discovery added a frisson. I jettisoned my second into the street a few seconds before V put his key in the lock. I welcomed him, flushed and smug, half-hoping for discovery and a realisation that his neglected woman was indeed wanton and wanted by someone, if not by him.

Next, a public toilet somewhere, kissing a petite woman with short blonde hair. She perched on the lid and I straddled her awkwardly, scooching her body forwards till our pussies could meet. I ground my pussy down on hers till my legs ached and I felt like I was going to fall over. Her trimmed pubic hair felt rough and rubbed delightfully against my open, delicate skin, but neither of us could get enough purchase to send us over the falls.

Then, briefly in the moments before waking, another woman, lying on her back. I did not see her face, I only saw the pussy open before my face. It looked red, inflamed and almost angry, not at all similar to mine in tone or texture. Shiny wetness spread over it and onto the tops of her thighs. I was excited and nervous, anxious to please, but confused as to what to do. I flattened my tongue and worked it on her clit like an eraser. She seemed quiet, still and bored, though she was very wet and her clit was hard. A lightbulb moment! I slid two fingers into her, pads up, and beckoned "come hither", hoping to find her G-spot. She squirmed and yelped, jumping her hips upwards. I wondered how I would know if she'd come, or if she was about to. My tongue ached, but so did my pussy.

I was already semi-awake when my alarm sounded midway through the scene. V having left already, I reached for a trusty toy to make the most of those precious few minutes when you're half awake, half asleep, and dreams feel real. I hadn't come in any of my dream encounters. I did shortly afterwards. So did my lady friend.

I'm in a state of constant arousal at the moment. I am masturbating three or four times a day, minimum. I need to go again, just writing this. No matter how much I wash my hands, they still have that distinctive musky scent. Out, damned spot! I can smell my own cunt through my jeans, out in public. I am sure others can tell.

V is not relenting. It's been almost three weeks. Last night, half asleep and sick, he grudgingly agreed to a quickie, but I'd rather have nothing than his charity fuck. What am I to do? My need to be the object of real lust is becoming ever stronger.

I have been sniffing around the "casual relationships" section of our local Craigslist equivalent, mainly checking out girls - for some reason this seems physically safer, less like cheating, and less risky in terms of meeting someone who'll judge my body negatively or to whom I won't be attracted.

I have clicked "reply" then panicked and closed the browser many times. I know that once I pop, I can't stop, and I'll get addicted to the thrill. But oh, I want that thrill.

I am a disgrace for even considering peeling the lid off this Pandora's box.

I am rarely attracted to anyone these days.

The cod-psychologist in me tells me it's my brain's way of acknowledging the futility of the situation - stuck in a sexless relationship with someone you love and don't want to leave, there's nothing more frustrating and dangerous than taking a fancy to someone who's definitely out of bounds.

Weirdly, when I masturbate, I rarely think of V, or even of men. I think about girls. My experience with women is limited to a one-shot deal - an ill-advised guest role in a threesome with a couple I wasn't remotely attracted to and didn't even like. But still, girls feature heavily in my fantasies. More cod-psychology - it's so painful and alien to me to imagine V, or any man, being attracted to me, so far removed from real life, that I focus my attentions on something so unlikely to become reality that it's actually less threatening and more believable. I know, I know, I'm full of psychobabble bullshit. Dan Savage believes in a kind of in vino veritas (in masturbato veritas?) - the gender you wank to is the one you really want. But for once I disagree with him. In fact, I've rarely been attracted to women in real life past the point of "Ooh, she's nice/pretty."

But yesterday, out at a little music event in town, I spotted a girl who turned my crank so far it nearly broke right off.

I'd be the first to admit she wasn't your classic beauty. A good 40lbs overweight, her yellow t-shirt clung to her belly tightly enough to see the dint of her tummy button, and her jeans were a bit too small and low cut for her wide hips. She had long, auburn, centre-parted wavy hair, pale skin, and a little rosebud mouth which frequently spread into an apple-cheeked smile. She was manning a table full of leaflets, bands playing on a little stage next to her, and she danced behind it with a complete lack of self-consciousness.. It was the way she moved her hips that did it for me - she shook them left and right, occasionally grinding out a full circle and hip-drop like a belly-dancer, but not for sexual effect, just for the joy of moving her body. She was having fun, smiling, laughing, chatting. I just couldn't take my eyes off her. Once I'm sure she smiled in my direction - she probably thought she knew me, I was staring so much - but I was with friends and didn't dare go over, although my pussy was throbbing with attraction and I could feel my nipples poking through my bra. I felt embarrassingly obvious, like there was a huge sign over my head - "Bea has a lady-crush!"

V's away for the weekend, visiting family. For once, the whole flat is my playground - no quiet, subtle, two-digit masturbation under the duvet once he's asleep. As soon as I got home, I stripped and flung myself into relieving the tension. Kneeling up, knees apart on the bed, I pushed a pillow between my legs, imagining the girl's plump body beneath me. I kneaded and stroked my own breasts and her imaginary ones. I visualised her legs around my hips, and as I rocked my hips back and forth, drawing my pussy across the pillow over and over, it became her own pussy, wet and open with a fine covering of soft red hair, mashing up against my cunt, her clit rubbing against the rough lace of my underwear and teasing me until I couldn't take it any more. I pulled off my knickers and dove my left hand deep into my cunt, covering it in my juices, then fell forwards onto my elbows, licking and lapping at the pussy-scented wetness on my hand, imagining us a 69 position, her clit hard against my tongue. I slurped and drank at her juices. My right hand became her tongue lashing into my own slit and over my clit. When my shoulders began to ache, I lay back to grab my big yellow dildo and work it into my pussy with one hand while I circled my clit with the other. In my mind's eye her hands controlled the toy and rubbed me, and she was squatted above my face, legs apart and her pussy inches from my lips. My tongue flickered out of my mouth and I imagined darting it over her clit, then pushing her gently forwards, parting her magnificent ass cheeks with both my hands and swirling my tongue over her asshole as two of my fingers screwed with determination into her cunt, hooking forwards to find her G-spot, and my thumb rested on the nub of her clit, holding firmly as she bucked and rolled her hips against it. When my imagination conjured up her orgasm, and her asshole and cunt throbbed on my tongue and fingers, my own orgasm contracted my body, jerking me almost into a V-shape and pushing the dildo right out onto the bed.

I am supposed to have been doing homework this afternoon, but this experience - the attraction and the subsequent vivid fantasy - were just too earth-shattering not to document. I still haven't got it out of my system - I've been thinking about her all weekend, and have masturbated several times, even while writing this. I doubt I'll do anything more about it - I have no idea who she is, no way to find out and, frankly, wouldn't want to risk the reality not living up to the fantasy. But in a way, while I feel mildly disloyal for fixating on a real person rather than a kind of faceless generic woman, it might be quite nice to be able to masturbate visualising a real person, with an aura and an "imperfect" body. And it's quite reassuring to experience strong physical attraction to someone so far removed from society's ideal - it gives me hope that someone, somewhere, might feel the same way about my imperfect form.

Happy Valentine's Day.

I was surprised this morning by V presenting me with a dozen roses and a card which was extremely "us" in nature, plus two tickets to see a show. Sadly, the lovey-dovey ended there. I spent the day cleaning the house. He spent it playing video games and complaining of a headache.

Late afternoon, I announced that I was heading to the bedroom to play with a rather extraordinary new toy, and did he want to come with me. He stopped play for a second to look up at me, remote control in hand, with a smile at half-cock and exaggerated sleepy eyes. And unpaused the game.

"I guess that's a no, then."

Quite literally, go fuck yourself. And I did, loudly and vigorously, and in front of a mirror.

Round two, ding ding. I wandered back into the living room in just my T-shirt, to debrief him on the performance of my new plaything. Perhaps sir would be interested in a demo?

No, sir would not be interested in a demo, even if the demo is a visibly aroused, wet and slippery young lady, hard nipples poking through her T-shirt, sliding a large buzzing dildo into her cunt right in front of him. See how much I can take, sir? Sorry, sir, I can see now that you're busy. With Mario Kart.

I give up, I honestly do. Except clearly I don't, because I like sticking rusty pins into the rotten cabbage of my self-esteem.

So Valentine's Day and the ensuing evening passed much as most Saturdays do, and it was fucking boring and depressing and not at all romantic, and I had another good cry, though not entirely for the state of our relationship. Ho hum. Yeah, it's probably just the intensifying ray of Valentine's Day thowing a spotlight on the shitty, but today has really bummed me out. Hope springs eternal. I promise to endeavour to make tomorrow better. Maybe even he will too.