THE AMOROUS ADVENTURES OF JULIANA L PART 1 by Anna_Roid
Dive into the tantalizing world of desire and passion in “The Amorous Adventures of Juliana L, Part 1” by Anna_Roid. Join Juliana on her thrilling journey of exploration, where every encounter sparks electrifying connections and unforgettable moments. Perfect for those seeking a riveting blend of romance and sensuality, this captivating tale promises to awaken your deepest fantasies. Unleash your curiosity and indulge in the seductive escapades that await!
My real name isn’t Juliana L., but that’s the name I am going to use in these accounts. Almost all of what I will write in these pages really happened; the remainder is changed to protect the identities of those involved, and for dramatisation purposes. After all, I can’t possibly remember verbatim conversations that happened fifteen or twenty years ago. Can you? , Before we begin:
I am not going to describe in narcissistic detail what I look like, the size of my breasts, the colour and/or length of my hair, and all the other rubbish that the usual so-called “erotica” online is usually filled with. You can imagine whatever you want from these basic details:
I’m in my late thirties, moderately plump, and of medium height. I am single, bisexual, of mixed race, have a college degree, and work as an office manager. I love reading, goldfish, hard rock, and walking in the mountains. That’s all you need to know; my country, city, politics, bank balance, phone number, bra size, and other details are of no consequence and none of your business.
Right. Shall we begin?
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As I said, I’m single; I’m single by choice, because I can only tolerate people in small doses, and I’ve enough of them in the office without having to share my personal life with them as well. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have sexual needs; I have those, all right. In fact, I have a fairly strong sex drive, which I’ll be the first to admit sits oddly with my general misanthropy. However, after all the stress of work, I don’t usually have the inclination or energy to go looking for someone to sleep with. Not on working days, anyway.
My favourite time of day is the late evening. I drive home from work – I live in a fifth storey flat in a residential building – park in the downstairs car parking, where like all the residents I have a reserved place – and take the lift up to my flat. As soon as I’m inside, almost before I lock the door behind me, I take off my shoes, sighing with relief at having them off my feet after nine or ten hours. I start stripping off my clothes, piling them on the nearest chair as I get naked. I’m not a slob; I’ll put them away later. I just need to get showered before I do anything else.
Later, after I’m clean, I change into my favourite evening wear, an oversized T shirt without a bra and loose shorts, without panties except when I’m menstruating. Unlike the usual women in erotica, I’m a real person, so, yes, I do bleed from my vagina every month, strange as it may seem to some people. I feed the goldfish (they’re Shubunkins, in case you want to know, and, no, I do not keep them in a bowl. I have a large moulded aquarium with an inbuilt top filter, a tank heater and thermometer). I’m not much of a cook, and since I usually only ever cook for myself I don’t see the point of attempting anything fancy, so I make whatever I want and eat it directly in the kitchen, right out of the frying pan. And then, after washing up, the evening’s mine, to rest and do whatever else I want to do.
Can you understand now why evenings are my favourite part of the day?
I don’t watch television. In fact I don’t even have a television any longer. I got rid of it long ago on the grounds that I have better things to do with my mind than jam it full of consumerist propaganda tailored to the lowest common denominator. Instead, I usually read – a real book, paper and print; believe it or not, they still exist – until I’m ready for bed. I said to bed. Not necessarily to sleep.
I have slept naked, from my college days. This was a habit that was inadvertently instilled in me by my mum, who was a control freak and attempted to regulate every bit of my life. She wore nightdresses that reminded me of Mother Hubbard gowns, and insisted on my doing the same while I was still living at home, until I had become so totally used to them that I thought that they were in the normal manner of things.
Then I went to college, where I had a room in the student dormitory. And, of course, I had a roommate.
I will call her Mila. She was tall and pale and sophisticated, with aquiline features and eyes that seemed to look down at you from Olympian heights. Her clothes were inexpensive to look at, and if you saw them hanging from a hook – or tossed over the back of a chair – you wouldn’t have spared them a second look. But once she put them on, they somehow moulded themselves to her, like the clothes of a princess to the manner born.
I’ll admit it – I took one look at her and fell into a crush.
I still remember that first night in the dorm room. Mila had been watching as I unpacked my things – she had moved in several days before, and all her stuff was already stowed away – and casually asking me some questions about my past and interests. At last she shook her head sorrowfully.
“You poor thing,” she said.
I was surprised enough not to be offended. “What do you mean?”
“I just said what I meant. You poor thing. You haven’t really had much of a life, have you?”
I opened my mouth to answer – what, I still don’t know – when I stopped to think about it. I remembered my school, which I hated; the teachers who had no sympathy for a girl who preferred imagination to dry facts, the classmates who disliked her because she preferred books to films and gossip. I remembered the stifling atmosphere of home, where I was always made to feel as though every moment was a lapsed duty to my mother, a wasted moment when I should have been doing something for her.
My father? I never knew him. He died in a car accident on the highway while my mother was seven months pregnant with me. She never forgave him for it, and, because he wasn’t around for her to blame, she took it out on me.
“That’s what I mean,” Mila said, as though she could read my mind, could see through my eyes the dry parade of the years. “You’re repressed.”
“Maybe,” I replied, putting away the last of my clothes. I didn’t think it the right moment to mention that, repressed or not, I’d managed to earn a full scholarship to this college. Later I was glad that I’d held my tongue, for Mila, despite her high-and-mighty airs that first evening, was, as I was to discover, herself a superb student and helpful besides. “Well, I’m here now.”
“Yeah.” Mila grinned. “It’s college, you know. You don’t really have to still live as you used to. You can let yourself be you.”
I didn’t really understand what she was talking about until later that night, when we were about to go to bed. I was about to retire to the bathroom with my Mother Hubbard nightgown to change when Mila, without a word, began to strip right in the room, in front of me. Within moments, she was totally naked.