Not His Type

She was frantically pacing a path around the living room on day eleven, still unopened cigarette package clutched tightly in hand, when Paul unlocked the door and entered. She flew at him, remarkably graceful in her five inch heels, and devoured his lips, grinding against him, orgasming almost instantly. He peeled her away after three glorious minutes and unzipped his satchel. She stared hungrily at him as he fetched out the device. She ran to a wing-back chair, dropped into it, and tightly gripped its tall back with red-taloned fingers, panting with anticipation.

He deployed the tool with maddening leisure. She tore the mask from his hands and jerked it painfully tight over her face, cursing him, begging him in a muffled voice. She choked and coughed through her first massive inhalation while he thrust three fingers into her weeping cunt. She thanked him with a mask-muffled voice when he fed her the second dose, and came again as he caressed her protruding clitoris.

He stayed with her, fucking pussy and ass, for three glorious hours and five long white cigarettes. The house reeked of stale smoke. It took nearly an hour for the attic fan to clear it.

*

Melissa completed her morning makeup, stared at herself in the mirror, vent fan roaring to clear the smoke. Robert didn't know about her cigarettes. She smiled wickedly. Yet another dirty, filthy secret. Something was changing, she realized, but couldn't name it.

She decided that she needed more, that Friday was the time to move things along. Wearing a slinky purple merry widow and heels as she fixed Robert breakfast, she told him that tonight was fantasy night -- his fantasy night. She'd do whatever he wanted. "Use that nasty imagination," she told him as she set his eggs and toast before him, then slinked onto his already tented lap. She ran long purple fingernails through his hair, pressed her soft burgandy lips to his. She thrust her tongue into his eager mouth, tasting the peppermint of his toothpaste. "Dress me up, baby. Send me a text and tell me what you want me to be, who you want to fuck tonight."

She was nude on the back deck at noon, masturbating, sucking alternately on a cigarette and a tequila sunrise, when her phone pinged. Robert's message was two words long; "street whore." She'd been keeping herself on the edge of orgasm. When she read the text, she let herself go. "Yes," she hissed smoke as her hips bounced on the lounger, three fingers buried deep inside. "Oh. Fuck. Yes."

She stared critically at her reflection in the mirrored closet door, turned this way and that. Not really street whore, she thought. Not many streetwalkers could afford her clothes, or the quality of her makeup. Her glittering silver seven inch tall platform heels and sequined thigh high hose, matching foil-like vinyl miniskirt and clinging tank top, would have cost a cheap whore a week's earnings. Her false-lashed, widely lined, and glitteringly shadowed eyes and dripping vermillion lips might have come from a high-end salon. But everything from her garb to her heart screamed "fuck me." Almost. Her brow wrinkled as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked hard on her smoke, right there in the bedroom.

Robert was, to say the least, not a critic. Even the stench of her cigarettes was just part of the insanely erotic scene. His wife was an absolutely unhinged, wanton slut, and he'd never loved her more. She had no boundaries, no limits. She came at least a half-dozen times, and he managed three -- a record.

They cuddled, finally finished for the night. She stared at the currency piled high on her dresser and giggled. "I didn't even count it. How much did you pay me?"

He gestured weakly. "Five hundred, but you were worth a lot more."

She kissed her way down his torso, licked his spent cock, savoring the blend of their juices. "How much more?" she breathed onto the slimy dick that'd just left her ass, kissing its head.

"God," he groaned, amazed as his spent penis twitched.

"Enough to buy your whore bigger tits?" she whispered before taking him deeply between her smeared lips. "Whores need big, fake tits."

His hips bucked, sending his suddenly lengthening shaft into her throat. "Fuck yes!" he shouted, grabbing her by her new platinum blonde locks. Four. A new new record.

*

She'd never been more bored in her life. Two weeks of recovery. Six weeks without "strenuous physical activity." Robert interpreted the latter as no fucking, no matter how much she begged. She did manage to at least get his cock down her throat once, but when she started writhing in orgasm, he was horrified, and forbade even that as being strenuous. She secretly made do with her new, larger dildos, and got as strenuous as she wanted.

The biggest the doc had been willing to go was a D cup. She'd argued for DD's, but had been overruled by her husband and the medico. After the bandages were removed and the swelling decreased, she'd grudgingly admitted that her new tits were superb.

The pain meds (and surreptitious chain smoking, when Robert was at work) helped with the boredom. She liked the warm, sensual slow-motion euphoria of opioids. A lot. If she couldn't fuck, she could at least dream filthy dreams. She convinced her surgeon that she needed more when the first prescription ran out. She knew she was flirting with a dangerous addiction, and teased herself with it. One hydrocodone, two fingers of one of Robert's small-batch whiskeys and she flew. Eyes mostly closed, she fucked herself with a giant silicone cock and pictured herself as a junkie, an unwashed, desperate, plastic-titted whore who fucked whoever her sleazy pimp (who looked a lot like Paul) told her to fuck in return for a needle pushing the good shit into a vein.

She brazenly flirted with her doc and got a third refill. Rather than using the caps, she went cold turkey, relishing her torturous mini-withdrawal from the drug, and taunting herself with with the prescription bottle perched amidst her vast array of cosmetics.

*

Before ringing the doorbell, she checked her makeup in her compact mirror, and lit a smoke. By the time the door opened, she'd struck her pose and was ready. She exhaled a thick gray plume upward toward the glowing porch light, and met his gaze.

"Am I your type now, Mr. Johnstone?" Every contour of the inch-long nipples on her fat tits was showcased by the cling-wrap tight green unlined bikini top. A matching ten inch long skirt barely covered her already oozing cunt. Her extended silver-blonde hair reached her waist. She licked thick scarlet lips. "I still need my nipples pierced and a couple of tattoos but I think I'm turning out pretty fucking hot, don't you?"

Paul's eyes raked her, raped her. "Not bad, Mrs. Marsh. Not bad at all. Please come in. Can I offer you a drink?"

She dropped her lipstick-stained cigarette to the porch, ground it out under a platform-heeled shoe. "That and several thorough fucks would be most appreciated."

Later that night, she told Robert exactly what he was eating as he devoured her stretched, gaping pussy while she casually smoked through two more massive orgasms. He ate it up. Every aspect of how it was going to be from then on. She was definitely his type, too.