A Good Little Wife Goes Bad Ch. 01-02

This is a slow-paced story that, I hope, is both well-written and humorous, and which I trust will appeal equally to both men and women. As it says in the story: if you want to read a 'wham-bang-thank-you-Ma'am' kind of story, you may be better off looking for your 'fast fix' elsewhere. I would welcome comments (especially from any ladies) either in the public comments at the end of the story, or directly, by email.

A Good Little Wife goes Bad

Chapter One

I don't know why on Earth I've decided to write all this down: one thing's for sure: I'm the only one who'll ever get to read it. I guess it's just a way of getting my thoughts in order; getting a handle on all that's happened. Putting things down in print has always worked for me, that way. Still: what would you expect of a journalist? I think I'll write it a story... maybe a bedtime story... for adults...

God knows how I got into this mess: well, I do know: it was my own stupid fucking fault, but then, it often is, I guess.

I suppose if this is going to be a 'story', before I go any further I should describe myself, not that there's any point: seeing as the story's only for me, but I'll stick to my self-imposed assignment. So: I'm 25, 5' 8", slim, and have long blonde hair; I think my legs are my best feature, but guys seem to like my breasts. So: what else is new?

We're from England, but moved here to Singapore a year ago when Mike got a job with an investment bank in the city. As I said: I'm a journalist, but apart from the odd bit of freelance here and there, I've not found a job, here, yet. But Mike's earning such good money, now, that's not really an issue, at least as the financial situation is concerned. I don't know if you know Singapore, but I always say that it's more West that the West! The city centre is just one gleaming mall after another, and you don't even have to venture out into the fresh air (or the heat) to get between many of them: just seamlessly glide along the air-conned, store-lined hallways from one to the next; in fact, it's impossible to tell where one mall ends and another begins. It's shoppers' paradise. Why am I telling you all this when all you're really interested in are the 'juicy details'? Well, for one thing, being a 'journo', it simply goes against the grain not to set the scene a little, and if I am going to write this, then I may as well do it my way. And, for another thing, I told you: I'm a woman, and you should know that women like to build up to things: if you want to read a 'wham-bang-thank-you-M'am' story, then do us both a favour, and read one written by someone who's got a dick.

But this description does have a point, because my fall from grace, the place where I stopped being the perfect little wife I'd always been and became, well, something else entirely, the setting for where I right royally fucked up, was in one of these shiny cathedrals where shoppers flock to worship Mammon. It was, in fact, in Ion Orchard, one of the very newest malls, which only opened at about the time we arrived here. Like most of the malls, here, in the basement there's a very large food court, part of which, at Ion, is called Food Opera.

Most of the seating area of Food Opera is situated in a towering atrium where you can sit gazing up at through about four floors of sparkling glass and chrome to the ceiling far above. (Incidentally, just as an aside, and in case any of you reading this would like to absorb a little cultural information while you're getting your jollies, one of Singapore's most famous red-light establishments, The Orchard Hotel, is know as 'The Four Floors of Whores', with, I've heard it said, each floor being given over to girls of a different Nationality: Pilipino, Thai, Chinese etc, but I expect that last bit's just bullshit.) Anyway, at Opera you can look up at all these other shopping levels, and each level has a balcony overlooking the food court, well, I say balcony, but they're just the walkways around the stores that have almost-chest high glass barriers and wooden guardrails along them, enabling the passersby above to lean over and peer down at the people eating below, and the ones below to look back, except most of them never look up from their plates, or the person they're with. I guess the lower level is about 10-15 metres (say 30 to 40 feet) from the tables below.

I don't know if you picked up on the most salient point in the above description, or not... but it was the word 'glass'. Yes: that's right: all the 'balcony' walls are completely transparent. That's just one of the things you notice about Singapore: it's a city of escalators (man: some of them go up three or four floors, I'm telling you, when it's not busy, it's common to see people sitting down on them) and every single one of them has glass sides. I guess that's not all that uncommon, but you just know that it's all been designed by a man, don't you. And when you couple that with the thousands (and I'm not exaggerating) of stunning Asian girls wearing micro mini skirts... well: talk about Perv's paradise!

Anyway: on the morning I'm going to tell you about I'd decided to go shopping at Ion (I, now, sometimes wish I could rethink that decision, or, at least, how I behaved when I got there). I wore my usual sort of clothes: very stylish, very expensive, but quite conservative, I suppose (well, when compared to what most women wear, here, very conservative, I guess). I wore a fairly thin white cotton blouse and a slightly flared cream skirt that finished about four or five inches above the knee (and, believe me, for here, that is very conservative). Apart from my underwear, and a fabulous pair of 3" heeled Jimmy Choos, that was it: you don't need to wear much, here.

Everything was going as planned until I stopped on the floor above the Food Opera and stood looking down at the people eating below. I was just leaning on the rail, taking in some of the strange-looking dishes a few of them were eating, when I noticed a guy sitting below me and looking up at me. He was a white guy, and must have been about 40, I guess, and he was gorgeous: the sort that you normally only see in the catalogues. He looked a little like George Clooney, that type, anyway, although he had some grey at his temples: distinguished-looking is the phrase that's normally used, I suppose. Our eyes met, but only for a second: I looked away immediately.

But it was enough to cause my pulse to quicken a little, and to send a slight flush to my cheeks. I stood there, trying to appear casual, and to get back to thinking about whatever it was I was thinking about before I noticed him, but which, for the life of me, I couldn't remember at all. It was then, whilst glancing about, and taking note of the glass walls, that I realised, with a shock, that he must be able to see up my skirt. But I wasn't right up against the glass, in fact, I was a pace back, leaning forward onto the guardrail, so, the truth was he wouldn't be able to see much more than if he'd been standing next to me. But, nevertheless, the thought gave me a real jolt. I let go of the rail, stood up straight, and was going to move right away. As I said, before, I'd always been the perfect wife: pure of thought and deed (well, deed, anyway) and so my very first reaction was to make sure that no one was seeing anything they shouldn't. I even span on my heels... but something stopped me. I felt this little twinge, this small tickle that I knew was the beginnings of sexual arousal. I felt another surge of blood to my face: caused as much by embarrassment as nascent arousal.

Was allowing a stranger to look up my skirt really enough to make me horny? I swallowed a couple of times, feeling warmer and warmer, and not a little confused. This was so out of character. Why didn't I just go and get on with my shopping? But my face wasn't the only place blood seemed to be flowing to: I could feel myself getting warmer between my legs: that twitch was growing. Then it seemed I lost all control of my thoughts: they were no longer about going, or shopping, or anything safe and normal. I thought to myself things like 'Well: what harm would it do if he did look up my skirt? He'd enjoy it... and, it seems, I would, too. And who would know? It's not like I'm being unfaithful, or anything. Mike would probably just laugh, and think I was being paid a compliment, indirectly. And, anyway, what exactly is he going to see? Just a bit of thigh. I show a Hell of a lot more than that at the beach, or even when I'm wearing shorts.' A whole succession of thoughts like those, flashing through my head (and, yeah: I guess 'flashing' is the right word). That was all it took... and my fate was sealed.

I took a deep breath, and, instead of walking away, instead of stepping back into my normal, safe, life, I turned, unwittingly closing the door to that life, and stepped into my new one. I leaned against the rail, again, and made sure he was still there, and that he was still looking at me. He was. He was wearing a slight smile, now, but I made sure that I gave no indication that I'd noticed him. Then I straightened up and stepped nearer the glass. I knew that now he'd be able to see a lot higher than before. Moving my head from side to side, as if I were looking for someone, I could see that he'd started grinning. My face felt hot and I knew that it was very red under my tan. I could feel my pussy lips swelling as they became engorged with blood. My breathing was coming faster, too. I stood as close to the glass as I could, leaning back at the same time, knowing this would cause the front of my skirt to flare up... and that he would be able to see my panties. They were nothing special, but they were a little flimsy and could never be mistaken for a swimsuit. I was trembling slightly, now.

I thought, somewhat shakily 'Well: he's seen the front; maybe he'd like to see the back.' So: I turned slowly around and leaned back against the rail, as if I were waiting for someone. I was feeling so turned on... almost directly in front of me were some toilets: just opposite the Starbucks, and I knew that I was going to have to go and masturbate in them soon. It was then I decided to really push the boat out: taking another deep breath, I bent over at the waist and pretended to adjust the ankle strap on my Jimmy's. I knew that he'd be able to see all of my panty-covered arse, and the thought sent a shudder running right through me, nearly making me come on the spot. I opened my quivering legs wide and stretched right down; I even shot a glance through my legs and down to the floor below: he was still grinning widely, and had his phone in his hand as though he'd just had a phone call, or was thinking of making one. I quickly looked away, and my hair tumbled down in front of my face. I could feel that my pants were getting wet: I could feel my juices coming out of me in what felt like little squirts. My breathing was quite ragged by now. I kept up this pose for as long as felt decently possible (well: indecently, I guess), and then stood slowly up and turned back to the rail to check on Gorgeous. But he was gone!

I could not believe it. He'd actually walked out on my display! How disappointing. How infuriating! How fucking dare he!!! My dismay and 'shame' at this blatant rejection, this utter disinterest in my charms, instantly turned to fury. Fucking faggot! I hope his next boyfriend gives him the fucking clap!

And then a silky voice, right next to my ear, said 'Looking for me?'

Jesus Christ! I dropped my bag and nearly jumped over the balcony! If I'd had that coffee I'd been thinking about, earlier, I know damn well I'd have wet myself.

It was him.

Flustered just doesn't even begin to describe my emotions. I can tell you, I nearly bolted. That great surge of adrenaline was just screaming at me 'RUN!!!' I think I would have done, too, if I hadn't felt completely paralysed. Can you imagine if I had run? I mean, Jimmy Choos are wonderful for a good many things, but a 100 metre dash just doesn't happen to be one of them. If I hadn't been transfixed, I'd have broken a least one fucking ankle, probably two!

My mind was blank. There was nothing coherent happening between my ears at all. I just stood there, face flushed, my hair stuck to my face with sweat, mouth open, my breath coming in short pants and every part of me trembling. I had all the after effects of an Earth shattering orgasm without fucking having one!

He quickly bent down and retrieved my bag, together with the things that had spilled out when it hit the floor: my passport, phone and some tampons (of course!).

After what seemed like a couple of hours of my standing there like that, my eyes wide, staring at him, a look of concern crossed his face.

'Are you all right?' he said, putting a hand on my arm 'You're trembling.'

This broke the spell, at least to the extent that I actually managed to move: I tore my eyes from his face and stared down at the hand that was on my arm. Still no rational thoughts, though.

After what seemed like another day or two, he said:

'Shall I find you a chair? Somewhere to sit down?'

And then all my thoughts came flooding back from wherever the cowardly bastards had been hiding.

OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. The man I'd been practically pole dancing for, in public, hadn't left: he'd come up to find me. He had found me. He had hold of me! OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG.

WTF could I possibly say? Could I still pretend that it was all completely innocent? Could I turn on him and accuse him of being a pervert? Fuck! I wasn't even sure I could stand, if it weren't for him half holding me up. And I didn't trust my voice to work at all.

I swallowed a couple of times and wondered if I could just giggle and get away with it... but I knew that even if I could manage it, it would come out sounding like hysteria and someone would end up slapping my face.

'Do you know what I think?' he said, smiling again. 'I think that maybe someone's been a very naughty girl.'

Ohhh Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My mouth dropped further open and I felt my face redden even more, both of which, up until that point, I'd thought would be physiologically impossible.

Part of me thought 'OMG: he knows!' The other part though 'Jesus: who is this guy: he sounds like he thinks he's trying out for a job at Doms-R-Us'

I had to say something to get this all cleared up: so I could go back to my shopping, and he, to looking up women's dresses. I cleared my throat, and, looking back up at his face, but, not meeting his eye, and said 'I -- I -- I, you see... well, I -- I, I think...' and then I stopped. I mean: where do brains actually go when you need them? I just couldn't think of what to say. If I denied it, I knew I'd sound about as convincing as a fox saying to the farmer that he only hung around the henhouse because the view was particularly fine from there, and that, anyway, he'd recently turned vegetarian. But I had to try... So I started again.

'It was an accident.' I said; the words tumbling out far too quickly.

But as soon as I'd said it, I knew it was exactly the wrong thing to say. For one thing, it meant I knew precisely what he was talking about... But, even more damning, if I'd been innocent, then my first reaction would have been an instant, and indignant, denial. Damn!

But then he spoke, again. 'Listen. I understand. It was just a bit of fun, wasn't it? No harm to anyone.' He was stroking my arm.

I glanced guiltily from side to side, but couldn't think of anything to say, and, of course, my silence was as good as an admission. But then he carried on.

'And, I think I can safely say that we both enjoyed it very much.' He was smiling properly, now, his eyes twinkling, doing the whole George bit. It was pretty obvious that not only didn't he have to try very hard to get women, he probably spent most of his time fighting them off.

'I think you're mistaken...' I began, relieved that both my brain and mouth seemed to be working in tandem, again.

'But your pants were wet.' He interrupted, still smiling. 'I saw them.'

Oh Fuuuuuckkkk!!!! Now, I don't have to tell you, this was upping the ante by a hell of a lot.

What could I say? That I had a bladder condition and had wet myself? I mean, you've gotta admit that things have come a very sorry pass, if telling a complete stranger that you've pissed yourself seems like your best option. He started speaking, again.

'There's nothing wrong with having a little fun, is there. I mean: we're both over 21, aren't we.' And then, after the briefest hesitation, adding, with an even broader smile 'Well: at least I know I am.' Laying on the charm by implying that maybe I wasn't. He was smooth, all right.

'I am over 21' I said, looking at the floor, 'But, I'm married' I tacked on, in a mumble; and knew, instantly, that, once again, it was the wrong thing to say. Now I'd as good as admitted that flashing him had made me cream my pants. I looked nervously around. Was there anywhere I could escape to? Could I throw him over the balcony? Would it kill him, if I did? Did I want to spend the rest of my life in prison? For flashing my knickers? I shook my head: this was getting ridiculous.

'I see. So: being married precludes you from having fun, does it?'

'Precludes?' I thought. So: he's educated. And I realised that he sounded British, too, which hadn't registered before, because, for me, that still seems 'normal', but, of course, here, that's far from the case.

'That sort of fun, it does' I said, in a very quiet voice.

'With strangers.' He said.

'With strangers.' I confirmed.

Great! So now we were actually standing around, here, and calmly discussing my indiscretions.

'I'm sorry' I said, for no apparent reason.

'Well: I'm not!' he said, quickly, and began laughing.

I knitted my brows and pouted, still looking at the floor. What now?

'Everyone should be able to have fun.' he said. 'In fact: I think you should have some more.'

Some more? What did he mean? He was still stroking my arm gently. I'd almost forgotten. Almost.

Then he did something that left me dumbfounded. He flipped my passport open, glanced at it, and said 'Yes, Isabella... or is that Bella? I definitely think you should have some more fun.' Then, after glancing down, again, he said 'Or should I call you Mrs.-------' (And I'm not going to print my surname, here, even if this is just for me: but it's quite an unusual one.)

When he said that, my stomach turned to water. He knew who I was! He could find me! A wave of nausea washed over me. I'd even completely forgotten he was holding my passport and my other things, that's how much of a state I was in. And I knew that the ex-pat community here in Singapore was small enough that tracking anyone down would be child's play: especially someone with a surname like mine.

Then he turned to my phone and quickly tapped in some numbers.

'What the hell are you doing!' I cried, just as a ringing sound came from one of his pockets. He'd phoned himself to get my number.

'Give me my things back!' I almost yelled as he touched his pocket and his phone stopped ringing.

He shrugged as he gave me my stuff back. 'I just thought it might be nice to be able to keep in touch, that's all' he said. And, then, indicating the tampons and raising one eyebrow in a very salacious way, he added 'You may want to find somewhere safe to stick those.' glancing pointedly down at my crotch and then back up to my eyes.

My heart did a little stutter, and I felt the blood rush back to my face: I guess it must have drained away, at some point: probably when he said my married name. Looking down to hide my confusion, I stuffed my things back into my bag. This was going to end right now, and I was determined that I'd have the last word before storming off. So, glancing back up, and coldly looking him in the eye, I said 'If you don't think I'm going to delete your phone number as soon as I get home, then you're fucking demented!'