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Excerpt for Banging Bridget (A Hypersexual Diary: The Adventures of Mr. Curvy, Chapter 102) by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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Banging Bridget

(A Hypersexual Diary: The Adventures of Mr. Curvy, Chapter 102)

Copyright 2019 Ron Galbraith

Published by Ron Galbraith at Smashwords


Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.


Adult Content Notes and General Disclaimer

This ebook is intended for adults only, and is not suitable for readers under 18 years of age. It contains adult content and themes, including graphic descriptions of sexual activities. All activities described herein take place between fully consenting adults who are at least 18 years of age at the time such activities take place. This ebook is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, place or event is unintentional and purely coincidental. Any mention of any trademarked property is done so without the permission of the trademark holder, and is not intended to imply any endorsement of or by such trademarked property.


Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter 102: Banging Bridget

Postscript

About Mr. Curvy

Special Bonus excerpt from Chapter 103: Awesome Andrea

Connect with Ron Galbraith


Foreword

Hypersexuality is considered by most mental health professionals to be a psychological disorder, in that those who are diagnosed with it typically are obsessed with sex and feel compelled to engage in frequent sexual activity.

That’s me.

My name is Ron. I am a straight, white guy, by now solidly in middle age. I’m a licensed architect, and work independently, which gives me a reasonable amount of flexibility and independence, along with a decent income. I’m not rich, by any means, and I pay alimony to both of my ex-wives, but I have enough left over for some fun. I’m fit and reasonably trim- I work out almost daily and I’m careful about what I eat. I’ve been told that I’m better looking than most men my age, with a rock-hard body and sort of a rugged look, emphasized by a beard and tattoos on both arms.

I have been hypersexual my entire life, and by now, I have had sex with hundreds of women in all manner of situations. Over the course of these adventures, I’ve learned something about how to give a woman pleasure, which is heightened somewhat by a congenital curvature in my dick; when it’s hard, it curves upward at a thirty-degree angle, making it a perfect G-spot finder. An old girlfriend bestowed the name “Mr. Curvy” to it, and that name has stuck.

If anything, the pace at which I meet and have sex with girls has increased over the last few years, banging two, sometimes three new girls a week. These stories chronicle some of my more recent adventures. These are true stories of real sex with real girls; they actually happened exactly as they are described, except that the names of the women and other characters have been changed to protect their privacy.

Chapter 102: Banging Bridget

Gonzalez, Louisiana, is a town a few miles east of Baton Rouge on the way to New Orleans. Carved out of the swamps and bayous, it is big enough to rate two freeway exits, and it hosts a smattering of restaurants and gas stations, along with a few other businesses. The biggest thing in town is a branch of a popular chain of big-box sporting goods stores. Louisianans love their huntin’ and fishin.’

I happened to be there for a project assignment. I had been working out of Baton Rouge, on a temporary basis, for a few months and I had been working a few side jobs for some extra cash as I drew closer to the end of my major consulting engagement there. I knew I’d be returning to California in a few weeks, and the thought made me sad- I had loved my time in Baton Rouge, and I had especially enjoyed renewing my acquaintance with Louisiana pussy.

Louisiana girls were amazing. I had banged literally hundreds of different girls during the five or six years I was living in New Orleans, before going back to California the last time. Baton Rouge wasn’t quite as intense, of course, but being the hypersexual male I am, I still was able to find a few dozen girls to introduce to Mr. Curvy in the short time I was there. He was having a great time.

I had been asked by a local developer to go to Gonzalez to have a look at a small commercial building they were considering buying and turning into something else. They arranged with the occupants, a pet supply store, for me to go late one afternoon and check the building out. I wasn’t really much looking forward to it, but then, work is work.

I met my client in their downtown Baton Rouge office late in the morning, and then I stopped off at one of my favorite Cajun restaurants for lunch: Fried catfish, super-fresh and tender, over crawfish etouffe, served with a side of cracklin-seasoned green beans and a slice of buttered po-boy bread. The girls weren’t the only delicious thing about Louisiana I was going to miss.

I hit the freeway east, heading down to Gonzales and found the building easily, a one-story structure built of concrete block, with a modern storefront. I went inside and asked the girl at the register to see the manager.

“That would me be,” she said, smiling prettily. “I’m Bridget.”

I took a closer look. The girl looked like an archetypal MILF, maybe a couple of years shy of thirty, with bleached platinum-blonde hair hanging straight down to her collarbones. Her face was sweet looking, very pretty, and round in shape, with big, wide-spaced brown eyes and a bit of a ruddy complexion. She was dressed in jeans and a company-logo polo shirt, the collar buttons open to show an impressive cleavage. Her body was short, and curvy…. the kind built for sex.

This girl was cute.

Even though she wasn’t one of the nubile young coeds I usually love to bang, Mr. Curvy liked what he saw. A lot.

“Okay, then, I guess you’re the one I need to see,” I said, grinning.

“I guess you do,” she said, smiling into my eyes. Her voice had a pronounced Southern twang. “How can ah he’p you?”

I explained who I was, and what I was doing. She told me that she had been expecting me, and I asked her a few questions about the building, and then I asked her to lead me on a tour. It took about half an hour, and she laughed and joked with me along the way, responding to my hypersexual banter in an easy, natural way as I tried to pour on the charm.

Finally, I was done with what I had to do.

“Well, Bridget, I guess that’s all I need from you, for right now, at least,” I said, with a grin.

She giggled. “You can always come back,” she said, her eyes fixed on mine.

“I don’t have a dog or cat,” I said.

She smiled again. “Then, you’ll have to adopt one. Or come up with a different reason to come back.”

“I guess I will,” I said, grinning again.

“You have my number.” Her smile was incandescent, reaching directly to Mr. Curvy.

I nodded, smiling. “I know where to find you,” I said. “If I need anything more, I’ll call you.”

“I hope you do.” That smoking smile flashed again, and then she turned to a customer.

I didn’t wait my customary three days to call her. I called the next day. To my relief, she answered the phone.

“Hi, Bridget, this is Ron… I’m the guy who looked into all your secret places yesterday.”

I heard her laugh. “Hi, Ron… I’m glad you called. But you didn’t see all my secret places, though.”

“Then I’ll have to come back.”

“Yes, you will.” She laughed again.

“How about this evening? You can show me all your secrets.”

“Okay, maybe I will. But maybe some of them will have to stay secret.” Her voice sounded like Southern honey.

“I’d love to find out which ones. Are you free, then?”

“Let me see. I think my daughter has soccer practice. I’ll call you back and let you know.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

A few minutes later, the phone rang, and I picked up. It was Bridget.

“Hi, umm… my daughter is going to soccer practice with her friend, and then she’s having a sleepover at her friend’s house. So, I’ll be all alone tonight.”

“Well, I’d love to keep you company. You can show me whatever it is that Gonzalez is famous for.”

“That won’t take long,” she said, laughing. “It ain’t much. But sure, you can come over. I’d love to see you.”

She gave me her address, and we agreed on a seven PM date.

I finished the report I was writing, and took a quick shower, dressing in my lucky red shorts. I figured that their mysterious pussy karma couldn’t hurt. Especially when I remembered those scorching glances from Bridget’s pretty brown eyes.

I texted that I was on the way, and headed to the I-10 freeway, going eastbound. It was only a few minutes later that I was signaling to turn onto the first Gonzalez offramp. I followed Bridget’s directions, and soon I found myself on a quiet suburban street, lined with neat little one-story houses behind neat little green lawns. I parked a few houses away from Bridget’s address, for discretion’s sake, and quickly walked to her front door. I noticed a pink big-wheel lying on its side in the driveway, next to a ten-year-old SUV, and I smiled. This girl was cute, but she was a total soccer-mom MILF.

The door opened as I approached, and I stepped into a small foyer.

“Hi!” Bridget said, closing the door quickly behind me. “How are you?” Her curvy body was clad in yoga tights and a dark colored tee, and she was barefoot, showing small, pretty feet with manicured toenails. I relished the sight of her pretty face, those enchanting brown eyes smiling.

“I’m good,” I said. “You?”

“Me too,” she said. “Want something to drink?”

“Maybe a little water.”

“Okay,” she said, leading me to the kitchen. The house was neat and tidy, and the evidence of a child was everywhere, from the large basket of toys in the living room to the crayon drawings held onto the refrigerator by colorful magnets.

Bridget handed me a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator, and led me to the couch, telling me about herself. She chatted at a rapid, nervous pace, telling me about how she had grown up in Mississippi, moved to Louisiana with a husband, and then he divorced her, leaving her alone with their daughter. She said that they were much better off now, because her husband had been an ardent evangelical Christian, and he just couldn’t accept her more free-spirited outlook on life. The arguments and shouting matches had gotten worse and worse, and eventually it had become clear that they were incompatible. She said that their girl was now seven, and “smart as a whip,” but it was a challenge raising a child alone on child support and her meager income from the pet food store.


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