It Began with a Need Ch. 02

I sat idling behind my desk playing distractedly with my pen as I stared out the windows at the cityscape around me. The view was spectacular: located on the top floor of a building in an old part of the city my office looked out across the low rise rooftops that predominated the area, to where the modern high-rise loomed threateningly over the historic quarter.

Today I didn't even see it; I stared into the middle distance my thoughts remaining stubbornly stuck in the events of the night before. I couldn't shake it. Even as my Office Manager, Carrie, was giving a presentation I found myself staring at her crisp, professional office suit over a pretty, silk blouse and found myself wondering how it would look on my husband.

Carrie (her mother had named all of her children after Stephen King characters), noticed my gaze:

"Is everything alright, Jane? Am I missing a button or something?"

Flustered at being caught out I blushed, "sorry Carrie. No everything's fine" I felt the need to cover my tracks a little, "It's just I had a bit of a falling out with Steve last night so I'm a bit distracted"

Carrie deserved more than the brush-off, she had been with me for nearly 15 years and, at this stage, oversaw the running of all the shops along with the management of company investments. She was a close friend and confidante as well as being my second-in-command.

It was just that I felt this was a little too personal and too raw for me to share, even with her.

I pulled myself out of the funk, somehow, and spent the morning focusing on the everyday problems that tend to arise. As normal I met one of the shop managers for lunch in their district and got the lowdown on how things were going in her part of town before spending the afternoon carrying out spot-checks to ensure the shops were clean, all machines working, and there were no on-site problems.

But no matter where I went I couldn't shake off the image of my husband making love to me in make-up and lingerie. I found myself window shopping for feminine clothes that might suit him and at one stage I found myself in an Ann Summers idly browsing through their sexier offerings.

With my curves, even though I'm 5'4", I'm normally a size 10 and I figured that Steve would probably be similar with his slender build. I spent over an hour in the store looking at babydolls, panties, teddies, and bras fantasising how he would look in them: how frail and feminine he would seem.

I very nearly succumbed to the temptation to buy him a wardrobe of lingerie but realised in time that this would be a wish-fulfilment exercise on my part and that I would have to consider my next steps very carefully if I was going to continue down this path.

What path?

The mental question stopped me in my tracks. Was I seriously considering making a fundamental change to our marriage of 20 years on the back of one, albeit phenomenal, fantasy?

I realised I was.

The mental image of my husband in lingerie would not go away and even here, surrounded by the noises of traffic, thousands of people and the accompanying sights and smells of the city my attention was firmly rooted to the intensely sexual sensations that that picture was conjuring throughout my body. My skin sprouted Goosebumps, my nipples were rock-hard under my solid work-bra and my panties were soaking.

I needed to get myself off, right now!

With shaking hands and without even looking I picked up the nearest dildo and a sexy cami/shorts combo and brought them to the paystation. Once paid for and packaged I left the store and struggled through the crowded footpath to the nearby Double-Tree Hilton.

I paid for a room for the night and entered the lift. The need had not receded in any way as the lift climbed through to the eighth floor. I stared unseeing at my new purchases nestled in my oversized handbag; my fingers rubbed gently along the spaghetti straps of the camisole as the lift dinged to a halt: "floor 8"!

To the tourists waiting at the elevator doors I must have appeared slightly drunk; I felt dishevelled, flustered, and flushed; and not quite steady on my heels as I pushed through them and, as I heard the snick of the doors closing I slipped off my shoes and carried them down the hall.

Once inside the room I leaned against the inside of the door trying to catch my breath but my need was pressing: I had to come!

I stripped off - my panties were soaked through - and, emptying out my handbag onto the bed, tore open the box containing the dildo; I was so wet I knew I wouldn't need the lube. I pulled it out of the box in the bathroom to wash it and realised just how big it was. It was at least 9 inches long, whorled and veiny and as thick around as my wrist. It was a monster! The anticipation of it filled me with excitement.

I crawled onto the bed, dripping, and perching above it pressed the monster against my mound - it slid in easily, balls-deep in moments - and I'm sure that my accompanying moan of satisfaction was audible through the thin walls. I didn't care.

I fucked myself hard and brought myself to orgasm in record time. I had never needed it so badly and still I knew I wasn't satisfied. I would need more. I turned over and lay spread-eagled on the bed with that cock still buried deep inside me, using my vaginal muscles to milk it gently as I tried to pull myself together. My fingernails tugged idly at my engorged nipples my other hand pressing flat against my public mound.

That cock was doing things to me that Steve had never done, could never do, with his little clitty. I savoured my use of that demeaning description even as I wondered if I could ever see him as a man again and, if I couldn't, how would I ever be able to explain to him this change that had come over me, this need to own him, this desire to make him less than he was; all to satisfy my own perverse pleasures?

My hand reached down and began to stroke that big, beautiful cock in and out of my wanton cunt. I allowed my mind to float on the waves of pleasure flooding through my nerve-endings. Trite, pornographic images of Stevie dressed as my secretary on her knees under my desk; dressed as my maid waiting inside the front door for me to arrive home; dressed as a whore, a slave-girl, a Playboy bunny...between my legs, worshipping my pussy to orgasm after orgasm in her pretty panties! I came hard again. My knees were shaking and sweat was rolling off me. I hadn't even realised how much effort I had been putting into the rhythmic fucking of my pussy as I dreamed my fantastical dreams. I hardly had the strength to pull the huge phallus from my body and drop its dripping mass onto the bed beside me.

My phone showed no calls; it was 5 o'clock. I had been in the room for over an hour. I had been fucking myself for over an hour!

I fell fast asleep amid the wreckage of my lust.