Cuckquean Ch. 08

I went to her apartment as soon as David left for work.

God, it was a mess. I just looked around for a minute or two, trying to figure out where to start. The woman was an absolute pig.

Besides the clutter and the mess, there was an odor in the place as well. It was a sour combination of old sweat, pussy, food gone bad, dust, mold, and God only knew what else. I walked through the place, just taking it in. The bathroom looked like she didn't own a toilet brush, a sponge, or a dustrag. The kitchen had dirty dishes in the sink and when I opened the refrigerator I found at least part of the odor. In the bedroom, the bed unmade of course, and the sheets looking like they were never changed, the harsh mixed sweat and pussy stink was stronger.

I giggled as I started unbuttoning my blouse.

I hadn't planned this, well, I hadn't planned it on a conscious level anyway, but it felt right to take my clothes off. There was something, well, delightfully naughty, about standing naked in this dirty bedroom where my husband's girlfriend lived. My fingers were trembling a little as I folded my clothes carefully and put them on top of her chest of drawers after brushing dust away.

I padded, naked, into the front room and carefully locked the door, well, made sure it was locked. It was. And then back to her bedroom where I started snooping.

Okay, I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed either. I looked through her drawers, not surprised at all to find absolutely nothing was folded or in any kind of order. I opened each drawer, finding underwear, most of it was lacy and obvious, jeans, T-shirts, and surprisingly, flannel pajamas. I didn't find what I was looking for though.

In her closet, there was at least a semblance of order. Expensive clothes, the suits and skirts and slacks and jackets he wore to work were hung neatly. Shoes were placed in pairs on shelves sized for the purpose. But I still didn't find what I was looking for.

I did a slow turn, thinking. It just has to be here I thought.

I snapped my fingers, suddenly knowing. Of course. This wasn't a woman who would be secretive about her little quirks. She would walk naked, swinging her hips, wondering how she came to be sleeping alone tonight, and get her little toybox from the closet where it would be with her favorite things.

I walked, naked, back into the closet, and there, under the shelves, where I knew it would be, was a wooden box. I pulled it out, having a bad moment, thinking there might be a little lock on the box. It was an image so clear I could see it in my mind's eye.

But there was no lock. I lifted the box, about the size of two shoeboxes side-by-side, and admired the workmanship. It was dark wood, I thought maybe Walnut, and it had been oiled until it shimmered, changing colors dramatically as I rocked it in the light. The top had been carved, the carving so delicate it took a few seconds to spot the nymphs emerging from the trees. It was beautiful.

I carried it to the bed, it seemed natural to cradle it in both arms as I did so.

After I sat it on the bed I admired it for a while. It was truly a work of the craftsman's art.

Then I opened it and my breath caught.

It almost overflowed with things I had only experienced in my fantasies. I recognized many but some were a mystery.

The most obvious was a dildo. It wasn't huge, call it a hundred fifty percent of life-size, but it was so realistic I couldn't resist grabbing it in my hand as I had done so many times with David. Unbidden, the thought came to me, "I wish," and I giggled. I could detect the first hints of hysteria in that giggle, but honestly, I didn't mind.

Standing there, beside my husband's lover's bed, I reached down and took it into my body.

It was big enough to draw a little gasp and then a sharper groan when I felt that pain only a woman can feel when it was too long. I stood like that for several seconds, impaled, pressing hard enough to hurt.

"You are a crazy old woman," I said, aloud, pulling the dildo out but feeling a bit of regret as I did.

I started inventorying her secret box, getting more aroused as I did.

There was a ball gag, something I recognized from my occasional forays into pornography on the internet, something I had done more of since David and I had started talking about, well, our new Life.

I was fascinated with it. When I brought it close to my mouth I caught a faint residual scent, her saliva perhaps, or maybe something else I thought with a giggle.

The ball was smaller than a tennis ball but only slightly, a white ball with a regular pattern of holes in it, I thought it was a "whiffle ball." The gag itself was a simple thing, a leather strap about a half-inch wide terminated in a hook and eye attached to a two-inch length of elastic, ensuring a tight fit.

It was almost a compulsion. I HAD to try it. My hand was trembling, almost as if I was trying to stop it, as I touched my lips, pressed together, with the ball. So I pushed, feeling the pressure as my lips were first pressed and then crushed against my teeth, and with a little cry, I opened my mouth. I had to push and open my mouth wide to accept the ball. As it got past my teeth, the image of something I had seen once on a stupid YouTube video, of some idiot college student shoving a pool ball into his mouth and being unable to get it out flashed through my mind, almost causing me to panic.

But I didn't panic. Instead, I hooked the strap behind my head, locking the ball gag in place. It was big enough that my tongue was pressed against the bottom of my mouth and I was drooling almost instantly.

I liked it.

I kept rummaging through her box of tricks and was surprised although I don't suppose I should have been, with the way I was getting more and more excited. I puzzled out how her nipple clamps worked and, with drool running down onto my breasts, clamped my nipples, tightening them until the pain passed from a simple ache to a sharp pain.

I liked it.

My breath caught when I realized that what I was holding was an anal probe, a butt plug, with its sharp cone shape, and then the wide base at the end of a two-inch long stem to keep things from getting lost in there. I shivered as I looked at the pink butt plug in my hand and then turned it slowly in the drool running from my mouth, thick and slick, that would be my lubricant.

I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding as I bent forward and used my left hand to spread my cheeks while with my right I pushed the plug in. I tried to relax but I was too nervous. At first, there was kind of a pleasant pressure but as the bigger part of the cone stretched me more it turned to pain. But I didn't stop and when I felt my anal sphincter suddenly squeeze in on that stem there were two sensations. First was the relief as the terrible stretching ended. Second, surprising me and taking my breath away, was an amazing sense of fullness that sent a sudden sharp electric shock from my clitoris to my nipples. It was similar to an orgasm but it went on.

I liked it.

I straightened slowly, my body fighting me from the fullness in my rectal vault. I rummaged around in the box of tricks and found an odd pair of handcuffs. They had a fur lining on the business end. I giggled and put the handcuffs around my ankles, limiting myself to very short steps. As I tried to walk I thought I must look like a movie caricature of a Japanese Geisha.

I liked it.

I was starting to put the box away when a few shiny chrome things in the bottom caught my eye. I looked at the teardrop-shaped chrome bangles, lifted them, and realized what they were. So I hooked the weights onto the nipple clamps, drawing a quick breath when the weight hit.

I liked it.

I took the little mincing steps the cuffs allowed to the full-length mirror and looked.

Christ, I looked ridiculous. I was a, well, let's be charitable and call it a "middle-aged" woman, thick in the middle, drooling around a ball gag in my mouth the drool making my saggy tits shiny while my nipples were pulled down by weights and clamps. My ankles were shackled. My hair was a mess.

I liked it.

I took my little steps to the window and threw open the curtains. On some level, I was disappointed that no one was there to see me. I shuffled around, each step less than a foot, opening curtains and just looking around the apartment, trying to figure out where to start on this mess.

In the end, I started in the kitchen. I washed what looked to be a week's worth of dishes, threw out milk so far gone it went down the sink in big clumps, Wiped God only knows how much accumulation of dirt and dust from the tops of cabinet doors, and spent a half hour on my knees doing the baseboards before sweeping and mopping the floor as I backed out.

By the time I finished in the kitchen, I was sweaty and the little ache in my belly was undeniable.

I went back to the bedroom, shuddering at the sight of the bed with its sheets gone grey, wondering briefly if they would ever be white again.

I opened her toy box again and took out that big dildo. I wanted to take it into my mouth so desperately that my salivary glands started working even harder and I had to turn my head to the side to keep from choking since the ball gag kept me from closing my mouth.

I crawled up onto her filthy sheets and rolled onto my back, my skin crawling, certain I could feel bedbugs skittering across my skin. I held the big dildo in both hands, using it to caress my face as I slowly pulled my feet toward my ass. I couldn't spread my legs, my feet shackled as they were, so I adopted a weird position with the soles of my feet touching and my knees as far apart as I could get them.

I laid like that, strangely happy to be debased like this.

I held the monster dildo in both hands, just touching my labia, took a deep breath, and shoved it in. When it bottomed out against my cervix and uterus I kept pushing, finding solace in the pain somehow. It was like the pain cemented my new position in the world and, God help me, I welcomed it.

This was beyond any masturbation I had ever done. I was pulling the dildo out, almost all of the way, and then slamming it back in, using both hands, wallowing in the pain, something I thought must be what it was like for a man to be kicked in the balls. It hurt but it felt good at the same time.

When I pushed, the orgasm was powerful and made somehow more intense by the toys on me, and in me, I felt my rectal vault fill around the plug filling me and for the first time in my life, I didn't try to stop that sudden urge to pee. The sheer naughtiness of laying on these dirty sheets, cumming like I hadn't in years, and wetting my husband's lover's bed had me a little crazy, okay, had me pretty much batshit crazy, as I reached down and pulled the buttplug free. The second orgasm, as my anus was stretched so far I feared something might tear was even more intense than the first. It left me shaky and breathless.

I pushed again, seeking every sensation I could pull from this experience.

I laid back on her dirty pillow, shaky, spent, and wallowing in, well, the word "debauchery" seems appropriate.

Rested, finally, I got out of bed and looked at the mess I had made.

I liked it.

I bent and put the butt plug back in but deliberately did not wipe. The thought came clear to me that along with "debauchery" came "debasement."

I stripped the sheets, scraped most of the mess into the toilet, and threw the sheets along with the grimy towels I found in the bathroom and the dishtowel and dish rag that, from appearances, had never been washed, into the washing machine. I carefully measured the Tide and added OxyClean, something I was surprised to find although it appeared that pretty much none had been used.

I went around the apartment and gathered up the dirty clothes scattered around. Christ, this woman was a pig. The panties were badly stained with skidmarks, something I hadn't seen since our son had moved to college. The bras were so grey I wondered if they had really once been white.

Once I had the assorted textile detritus gathered for the next load, I started on the kitchen. I still had the toys on and in, was still drooling like I had rabies or something, and was still moving in those little limited steps. But I could move.

I did a month's worth of accumulated dirty dishes. I cleaned the refrigerator thoroughly, throwing out almost everything in it. Once the dishes were done and put away I grabbed an old hand towel, dampened it, and started dusting.

About every two or three minutes I would go to the kitchen sink to rinse my dust rag, watching as the dark grey water sluiced down the drain.

I almost threw up when I started in the bathroom. As near as I could tell, Lori had bouts of diarrhea and had never bothered to use her toilet brush. The bottom of the toilet seat was so liberally spattered with, well, shit, that it was hard to tell if it was white with brown stains or brown with a bit of white. I washed it, rinsing the wash rag I had found a half dozen times, and then started on the bowl with the toilet brush I was surprised to find. It was apparent that her male visitors had trouble with their aim and cleaning the dark yellow stains from the front of the bowl was almost as bad as the bottom of the seat.

The bathroom and kitchen done, I vacuumed the living room, pulling the cushions off of her couch and sucking up an accumulation of crumbs and God knows what.

Finally, I went around the apartment on my hands and knees and did the baseboards.

I made her bed with sheets now white again.

It was about three in the afternoon when I put her toys back into her special box. I was still a mess between my legs as I pulled on my panties and girdle, strapped myself into my bra, put on my petticoat, and dropped the dress over my head. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a sagging woman, barely hanging onto middle age, with no makeup, hair a mess, crust on my mouth from where I had drooled all day and my nose had run.

I liked it.

I walked to my car, head up, not caring if anyone saw me. Hell, on some level, hoping someone would.