Not His Type

Not His Type

by Tristmegistis

It was a wonderful day in the neighborhood. The sinking sun was shining, but it wasn't too hot. All the lawns had been tidily mown, the flowerbeds uniformly weeded. The homes were upscale, but not ostentatious. People were chatting as they gathered at the Marsh's, hosts of the get together.

None of the women at the block party had been able to tear their eyes away from their newest neighbor, Melissa included. Paul Johnstone was handsome, in an almost brutish way, his face all sharp angles and hard planes, his coal black hair untidy and in need of a trim, his electric blue eyes cold and calculating. He was tall, towering above all the other men -- including Robert, Melissa's 6'2" husband -- and his body was as chiseled as his face. She'd caught him looking at her three times, and each time she'd blushed and glanced away.

He was a complete enigma -- a single man, wealthy enough to own a home in this pricey area, who appeared and disappeared unpredictably, drove a restored muscle car, and didn't seem to date.

She was in the kitchen, arranging a fresh tray of crackers, cheese, and deli meats, when she sensed him behind her. She hadn't heard his silent approach, and tensed, whirling to face him with wide brown eyes. He was close. So very close. She smelled the musk of his expensive cologne, felt the heat radiating from his body. She gazed up at him, into those cobalt eyes, and felt paralyzed. Without seeming to move, he gently pressed against her. She felt weak-kneed, flushed, and frantically gripped the counter beside her.

His huge hands slowly landed on her hips, drifted up the sides of her simple blue blouse, came to rest on her modest breasts, and tenderly squeezed. Her nipples erupted, small diamonds suddenly tipping her teats, as her breath forcefully left her. His groin pressed more firmly against her soft, spongy belly. He had an erection, which felt as big as the rest of him. His hands loosened, tickled their way down to her stomach, then back to her waist. He gently pinched the small roll of her flesh. Moving it slightly up and down.

His baritone murmur seemed to vibrate her soul. "Nice tits, Mrs. March. You're not really my type, but I see potential. Vast potential."

And then he was gone, leaving her breathless, humiliated. And more aroused than she'd ever felt in her life. No one other than her husband had touched her since her marriage. Later, her orgasm with Robert was massive, even as she worried about what a fat cow she'd let herself become.

*

She stepped off the gym treadmill, gasping, wiping the sweat from her eyes with an already damp towel, and strode back toward the free weights. Her stomach growled beneath her emerging abdominal muscles. It seemed like she was always hungry, and not just for food. Robert was getting his own exercise with his inflamed wife quite often.

*

She jogged past Paul's house on a Saturday, which she'd been doing for weeks and weeks. No one ever seemed to be home. Then, as silently as that evening at the party, he appeared beside her, running effortlessly at her side. Startled, she broke stride, then picked it up, matching his pace. They ran in an eerie silence that felt to her like the oppressive stillness preceding a violent storm.

She felt his voice more than heard it. "You're looking good, Mrs. March. Hot. Why cover it up?" He glanced down at her. It felt like his eyes were raking her, measuring her, searing her. Her arousal was instantaneous, overwhelming. "Show it off, baby."

She gasped, and he was gone, sprinting like the wind, like he could run all day. Baby, he'd said. Hot. She slowed to a walk, turned around and found her way home. When Robert walked in from work, he was met by a Melissa wearing only an obscene red, sequined bra and panty set he'd given her as a gag gift five years before. Her weight loss was obvious. She looked cheap, but stunning. She inhaled his instantly erect member as fast she she could free it from his slacks. She growled as she swallowed it, fucked her own face with it, voraciously sucked out his sperm, then pulled him to the floor, forcing her molten core into his mouth. She screamed around his reborn erection as she came, then mounted him on the cold foyer tile and fucked them both through another hard orgasm.

*

She was wearing a skirts and shorts these days, the old baggy slacks relegated to the rear of her closet. New blouses, more form fitting. Some really tight and clinging. Some that showed off her flat belly. Some that displayed a little cleavage. A few, all three. Men were starting to notice her. Checking her out a little. Nothing obvious. Nothing extreme. But enough to give her butterflies, leaving her mouth feeling a little dry.

She was at the grocery store, her little kitten heels tapping along with to the swish of the denim skirt that revealed her knees. Her breasts were bouncing accompaniment within her lacy bra, hidden beneath the silky cobalt-blue blouse with two opened buttons. She turned into the frozen foods aisle. At the other end, Paul was pushing his cart toward her, his eyes focused on her like lasers. She could feel them touching her everywhere. He wasn't just checking her out. He was eye-fucking her. Her vagina flooded. She froze in place as he approached.

He stopped his cart in front of hers, stepped up beside her. Her head rose, eyes dilated, to stare into his. "Damn, Mrs. March, you look fantastic. A little washed out, maybe. Nothing a little sun and makeup wouldn't fix. Your husband is one lucky man, Baby. And, as hot as you look, I know you treat him right."

And she did, too. More right every time. She was a whore in the bedroom, and wherever else she fucked him. He got used to having to wipe her lipstick off his face and dick, accustomed to her mascara blurring around her eyes as she sweated under him, loved the way her sun-streaked brunette hair swirled over her tanned back, marred only by the stark paleness of her bikini line while she undulated into him as he took her from behind.

*

The doorbell chimed. Melissa glanced into the hall mirror and fluffed her hair before opening the door. "No," she whimpered, maybe not even saying it aloud, then sagged against the wall. He stepped in and closed the door.

"You're still not quite my type, Mrs. March. But much closer."

He took her mouth with his. It was so far beyond a kiss that the word didn't really apply. He fucked her mouth with his. Raped it without force, without violence, without resistance. She came, her core throbbing and thrusting frantically against his leg. She gasped for breath, clinging to him as their lips finally separated, leaving her staring vacantly at the deep pink lipstick she'd smeared around his mouth. There seemed to be a slight time delay between seeing his words being spoken and her hearing them.

"More like this. If you got it, flaunt it, lover."

He handed her a page cut from a men's magazine, turned, and left the house. Lover. Yes, she was. She remained leaning against the entry wall, vacantly staring at the photo for fifteen minutes before being able to stagger to the half-bath, critically revise her makeup, and make a series of phone calls.

*

Robert arrived home to find an insatiable, suddenly blonde wife, posed seductively in the living room doorway. She stalked toward him in four inch heels, breasts bouncing on a platform bra he'd never seen before, siren red lips gleaming, arousal already seeping from her newly waxed, parted vagina. Her eyes were hooded by lengthened lashes.

It wasn't until much later than he noticed that she'd reshaped her eyebrows into sharply tapering brackets and had her nails lengthened into deep red claws. Over the next week, he thought about protesting against some of her slightly too-short skirts, and shorts so tight that sometimes you could about see the shape of her plump pussy. The way her bedroom makeup had overflowed into the rest of life made him uneasy. But, Jesus, she was sex on wheels (stiletto heels, actually), and while other guys might stare, she came home with him, and his balls were always completely and utterly drained, in any way he wanted, and some he'd never thought of.

*

The sun felt amazing. She groaned and squirmed on her towel. She savored the lingering, faint taste of Robert's cum from the blowjob she given him in the entry way on his way to work. The tiny new thong bikini made her feel naked, exposed. She squirmed some more.

Faintly, she heard the door chime. She froze, remembering Paul's last visit, then slipped on her heels and went quickly through the house. It probably wasn't him anyway. She gave herself a habitual once-over in the mirror, heart pounding, wishing she had time to blot away her sweat and repaint her lips. Breathless with hope, she opened the door. No one was there, but a gift box was.

Inside, atop the tissue, was an envelope. It held the business card of a downtown club she'd heard mentioned regarding its meat-market reputation. Written neatly on the back were the words, "Own it. Friday 10pm til 2 am." Beneath the tissue were a scrap of a club dress, thigh high stockings, and a pair of six inch heels. The sequined emerald green gown was expensive. She tucked the box safely away, utterly out of sight. But not out of mind.

"Oh, baby," she moaned, grinding against her husband as he slowly thrust in and out of his breathtaking wife. She pinched her swollen nipples between her curved crimson nails, bit her swollen, lipstick-smeared lower lip. "Fuck me, honey. So good. Yeah, just like that. I'm going to miss you so much Friday night. Your long fat cock, so deep inside me." She hooked her high heels behind his back, thrust hard into him. "But I'm going to be out really late, honey. Now hammer me, lover. Fuck me hard. Pump me full of cum." And he did. Twice.

*

She felt numb, like she was having an out of body experience as she exited the Uber in front of the hotel. It'd been much more difficult earlier, waiting. But by the time she passed through the portal of the Lancaster Hotel, she felt like she was watching herself from the outside, acting on automatic pilot -- checking in, tipping the bell boy, opening her little roller case and carefully hanging the dress in the closet.

Own it, he'd said. As she went through the process of dressing, she donned an attitude to reflect what she saw in the mirror. The skin tight, glistening green dress bared one shoulder, most of a breast, and one thigh to show the band atop her hose. The glittery sequined gown clung, revealed every secret of what it covered -- the shape of her full b-cup tits, their nipples already distended, the swell of her ass thrust up by the towering emerald heels, the rise of her pubic mound. Own it. Was he going to meet her here? Or was she on her own? Did it really matter? What kind of married woman goes to a place dressed like she was? Alone. Hungry. Wet.

She painted details on both her face and her persona. Elaborate porn star eyes. Fuck-my-mouth red long-wear lipstick. Own it, slut.

She was drunk on more than the flow of tequila and whiskey numerous men had bought her. She ground her ass against her current nameless dance partner. He was the first one with balls enough to grab her tits, which earned him a deep kiss as she bent her head back on his shoulder. She shuddered and broke their kiss, dragging him back to their booth. She pushed him in, then straddled him before attacking his mouth again. Her skirt rode up to her waist. She ground her naked pussy up and down the rock hard penis in his slacks.

"God," she whimpered into his ear, "you're so fucking big, so fucking hard. Can you feel how wet I am, baby, how my cunt lips are sliding up and down your cock. Pinch my nipples harder, hon. You're going to make me cum, right here, right now. It's going to be a big one. Cum with me, baby. Cum for me." And he did. And so did she.

And as she nibbled on his neck and his cum soaked his slacks, she saw Paul weaving effortlessly through the crowd, coming for her. She untangled herself from her partner and swiveled onto the seat. With a numb expression, the man watched her hurriedly blot her face with powder and refresh the gloss on her virtually unsmeared red lips.

Paul held out a hand. Delicately, she took it and rose, drifting into his arms and pressing her entire body into his.

"Now, you're almost my type, Mrs. March. Let's go fuck."

*

He made her leave the hotel in time to be delivered home by 2am. She didn't want to go, but didn't question him. She'd been skull fucked until her throat was raw and her jaw felt displaced. She'd been cunt fucked until she wondered if she'd been torn and was bleeding. And all she wanted was more of the same.

"Damn, you're one hot, nasty slut, Mrs. Marsh. Fix your face, Baby. Do a good job. He won't be expecting you. Wake him up. Make sure he gets a real good look. Fuck him without getting undressed. Don't even kiss him. Just climb on his cock. Fuck him as good as you did me. Make him the third guy you've made cum today."

*

Three days later, at 9:30 am, the door chimed. She was ready this time. She kept herself that way now. Always ready. Fully slutted up, morning til night. She swayed to the door and opened it wide. He stepped inside, carrying a leather satchel, and nodded his approval of her appearance. He pinned her to the wall and took her mouth. She wrapped one stiletto clad leg around him and ran red talons through his hair as he claimed her.

"Where's your bedroom?"

She had passed out as he blew a load of sperm in her, making her cum for the third time. When her eyes reopened, she was tied, spread wide, to the bed posts with soft cord. A ball gag stretched her jaws open. Her head was propped up by all the pillows so she could see her nude, obscenely displayed body. Naked, his still erect cock waving, he was unpacking something from his bag, unwinding hose and electrical cord.

"Good. You're awake. You need to watch how I do this. Remember it. Do it for an hour every day."

He slipped long, narrow suction cups over her nipples and clit. Hoses ran down to a small electrical device. When he switched it on, it purred softly, sucking air from the hoses, vacuuming her three nubs deeper into the cups. The purr of the machine lowered and throbbed as the suction grew. Her flesh was sucked deeper and deeper, stretched further and further. He gently inserted a vibrating dildo into her cunt and ass, fixing them in place with velcro straps, and turned them on.

He got dressed. "I'll be back later, Mrs. March."

She was nearly comatose by the time he switched the vacuum off and removed the dildos. When he unstrapped the ball gag, it roused her. Her breaths were raw gasps. The small pump was silent. He turned a valve and air hissed back through the hoses. He gingerly removed the cups. Groggily, she looked down at herself. Her nipples were a bright purple, standing proud of her tits, well over an inch long. Her fingers went to them, gingerly explored. She hissed at the sensation. Her clit was the same color, distorted, and looked like a tiny erect cock. She woozily wondered if she could jack it off.

She rolled onto her side and curled up. Ever so gently, she touched her clit, and came yet again, violently.

*

Robert was enthralled when she showed him. He wanted to know how she did it. But first he wanted to play with her nipples, suck her clit. She screamed until she was hoarse. And it only got better when he slid his cock into her.

She didn't bother with the self bondage, but she did use the paired dildos daily while she pumped her nipples and clit. Within a week they seemed permanently engorged, making her aware of every movement. Jogging became a sexual act. Everything, in truth, became a sexual act. Her cunt was a perpetual swamp. Robert was finding it impossible to keep up with her sexual demands, so she showed him how to fuck her with her vibrating friends.

Her entire life was utterly changed.

Cosmetics wash off. Clothing can be changed. That could have been a game. Acting a role in a play.

Now she felt like she was actually becoming the part she'd been playing. It wasn't an act anymore, if it ever had been. Each breath was tinged with eroticism as her nipples scraped her blouses. She originally assumed the sensitivity would wane over time, that she'd develop the equivalent of callouses on her nipples and clit, or at least grow accustomed to her ongoing, ever-present arousal. It never happened.

The March's weren't invited to neighborhood parties any more.

*

She was beside the pool, nude, eyes closed, when she smelled him. Her nostrils flared. Her breath caught, and she whimpered very softly. She slowly opened her eyes, saw him standing over her like a predator over prey. His magnetic blue eyes ate her from freshly manicured red toes, past athletic legs, through her pouting pussy and giant clit, through tight tummy and swollen, eager tits with their distended nipples, settling on her parted scarlet lips and drooping false-lashed eyes. Her entire being throbbed. She spread her legs.

He lowered his satchel to the deck and bent over it. "I made a key last time."

"Fuck me. Please. Oh, God, I need to be fucked."

"First things first. I've brought another new toy. You won't like it for a while."

He raised the top of her lounger so she was sitting. He tied her eager wrists to the top, spread her legs even wider, bent her knees, and restrained her feet to the chair's legs. He produced a cigar box sized object equipped with two air hoses. From one dangled an empty balloon, a stopcock, and an oxygen mask. He covered her face with the mask, adjusted it tightly. He showed her a pack of cigarettes, inserted one into the end of the other tube. When he flipped a switch on the box, she felt air begin to move in her mask. He lit the cigarette. It's tip glowed red, and she watched the smoke flow through the tube. He turned the stopcock and the balloon began to fill with smoke. He eased the valve slightly open, and she watched it trickle toward her face.

She smelled it, coughed slightly, held her breath. The mask filled with smoke, overflowed through the vents and he stopped more inflow. She finally gasped her lungs full of it, deflating the balloon. She choked. Her cough was racking. She felt lightheaded.

When she recovered, he was naked, between her legs. When he saw her gazing down at him, he started eating her drooling pussy, slowly easing the valve open again when she began thrusting against his mouth. She was too turned on to hold her breath, and inhaled smoke, again violently choking it out. He withheld her third dose until she was at the point of climax, then opened the valve all the way, feeding her a large amount of smoke. He lifted the mask away as she came massively, screaming gray clouds. He dropped onto her, tongue invading her mouth, smashing her extended nipples and clit, and she came again. The cigarette was spent.

He repeated the process with a second cigarette and his cock inside her instead of his tongue. She didn't choke, re-breathed smoke trapped in her mask, and when she felt his explosion of sperm, came as violently as her half-sick body could.

She felt too weak to move. He dug back into his satchel, showed her a small plastic box, and retrieved a foil wrapped item from inside, used a small pair of scissors to slit it open, peeled a transparent square from its backing, and pressed it against the side of her mons. "Nicotine patch. Twenty-one milligrams. One every morning, somewhere your husband won't see. Take it off at night or you'll have bad dreams. Got it, slut?"

He re-packed his tools and the cigarettes and left.

*

There were eight more patches. Once, she forgot to remove it and was jolted awake by a bizarre, vivid dream. They left a faint red square that itched slightly until it faded. On day nine, patchless, she was jumpy, irritable. She attacked Robert, trying to use non-stop sex to distract herself from her jitters. On day ten, she felt like she was losing her mind. Her hands trembled so much that she had trouble applying her makeup. She bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, but didn't open them. She used the vacuum device for hours, went through a set of batteries for each dildo.