tagLoving WivesThe Silver Anklet Ch. 06

The Silver Anklet Ch. 06


After a long break, this resumes the story (told in her own words) of Lucy, a young, married primary school teacher from the south of England, and her life-changing summer six years ago. It all began when she became re-acquainted with an old family friend, who she had called her Uncle Ron since she was a little girl, despite not being related to him. Up to that point in her life, she had been blessed with what most people would regard as an idyllic lifestyle. She was happily married to a handsome, kind and loving husband. They had a lovely house in a nice area, and she was in a secure job that she loved. Her life was drifting along in an unremarkable and complacently normal - some might say humdrum - fashion. That is, until that fateful day when Uncle Ron re-entered her life and somehow managed to awaken something in her that had been deeply buried. Something that had subsumed her personality, and had transformed her into someone almost totally unrecognisable from her previous predictable, naive self.

The first five chapters, covering only a few but momentous days in Lucy's life, will tell her story up to this point....

Well, the day had finally arrived. It was Sunday and my husband, Michael, was returning home from his business trip to France. He had been away for two weeks but it seemed like an age since I last saw him as my life had been completely and utterly turned upside down in those few days. He had left behind a pretty, faithful and adoring young wife who held down a respectable job as a primary school teacher. But I could hardly be described in that way anymore. More like a submissive, exhibitionist slut. A slut with a taste for older, less attractive specimens of the opposite sex and, now, much to my further astonishment, even members of my own sex.

It was all the fault of a big, ugly old man who I had always called Uncle Ron, but was really just an old family friend and neighbour of my parents. I hadn't seen him since my wedding three years earlier, but he had recently reappeared in my life with cataclysmic results. He had aroused feelings in me that I never thought I possessed but which, I guess, had been suppressed while I had been cocooned in a life of suburban normality. I had been involved in some outrageous exploits that were totally out of step with my previous character. The whole experience had been completely surreal -- as if it was happening to someone else and I was looking on as a bemused spectator. Like most people, I had sexual fantasies but it seemed that these were suddenly all becoming reality in rapid succession. My mind was in a spin and I had trouble concentrating on anything other than my own lustful yearnings and what would transpire as my next act of wanton behaviour.

Paradoxically, however, I was deeply in love with my gentle, loving husband and had been longing for his return and our few days away together to try to get back to how things were just a few short days ago. I felt confused and ashamed that I had only felt a tinge of guilt about what had happened to me. The excitement I had felt about being taken and used, the powerful orgasms I had experienced, the contrast between my previous innocence and my new-found degeneracy had simply overwhelmed me and overrode all my other feelings. Even the shame I now felt when I reflected on what I had done somehow added to my excitement. I knew that I did not want this to stop and I selfishly hoped and prayed, perhaps naively, that I could continue with my double life without any consequences.

Michael was a sweet, loving man and he was very handsome. All my girlfriends thought he was a dish and I was acutely aware of the furtive glances he received from females when we were with friends or work colleagues. My sex life with Michael had been very good, or so I thought until recently. I now realised that it had tailed off over the last few months and was becoming rather predictable. Despite my best efforts, our lovemaking sessions had been reduced to about once or twice a week, usually at the weekend and at night with the lights off. They were nearly always instigated by me and I think he had come to expect me to take the lead. In addition, in view of my recent experiences, I now realised that he did not last very long when we were making love. At best, he could keep going for no longer than two or three minutes before coming which I innocently believed was normal. Luckily, I usually reach orgasm quite quickly myself so this had not been too much of a problem. When it was a problem, Michael always encouraged me to bring myself off while he held me close.

On one occasion recently, though, things took a turn for the better. We had been out to dinner with friends and were both quite inebriated when we got home. I was feeling very horny and impatiently urged Michael to take me there and then on the kitchen floor. Disappointingly, he had struggled to maintain an erection despite my best efforts and came seconds after he had entered me. He muttered his apologies and, as usual, grabbed my hands and pulled them down to my pussy to encourage me to bring myself off. However, a dirty thought suddenly sprung into my mind. I struggled free, quickly stripped completely naked, pushed my groin hard against the washing machine and spread my legs wide apart. "Turn it on," I said in a commanding voice.

Michael looked at me with his eyes wide and a look of amazement on his face. Wordlessly, he got up off the floor and switched on the machine.

"Press the fast spin!" I shouted and Michael compliantly turned the dial to the correct setting as instructed and stood back watching me closely. I wriggled against the vibrating appliance while pushing first one finger, then two fingers into my anus. As the vibrations increased I pushed my groin harder into the cold white metal and adjusted myself so that it came into contact with my throbbing clit. I moaned loudly as the sensations hit me and I stretched my arms around the machine as if hugging a human being. After a few minutes of grinding and moaning I came with a loud scream and slid to the floor in a heap.

Looking up guiltily, I saw Michael standing above me with his trousers around his ankles staring at me intently with his mouth gaping open while he tugged furiously at his newly-erect cock. He quickly arrived at his own orgasm -- his second within the space of a few minutes -- and he shot his somewhat diminished load all over my naked body as I lay on the floor, rubbing the gooey deposits into my skin.

Looking back now, I guess this incident was a true indication of my underlying sluttiness which I had only too graphically demonstrated over the previous few days. At the time, however, I remember feeling acutely embarrassed at my display. I think it was also a secret plea from me for more excitement and variety in our sex life and I was hoping that it might encourage Michael to become more adventurous and forceful. However, our lovemaking quickly reverted back to its usual monotonous routine of quick, once-a-week sex in the missionary position, although he did ask me on a couple of further occasions -- usually after we had been out and he was fuelled with alcohol -- to repeat the washing-machine performance, but I felt too self-conscious to oblige him.

That morning, I reluctantly roused myself from the cosy warmth of my bed feeling lethargic and drained of energy after my recent sexual exertions. I had returned from Manchester utterly exhausted and hadn't even had the energy to bathe before stripping off my skirt and top and collapsing naked on my bed where I quickly fell into a deep sleep. I finally roused myself at 11 am, padded sleepily over to the bedroom mirror with the tiny bells tinkling sweetly on the sexy little silver anklet that Uncle Ron had given to me that I was still wearing. I looked at my nude figure critically and, to be honest, I was a mess. My hair was tangled, my make-up blotchy, and I noticed with disgust that there was still a patch of dried semen caked on my inner thigh where the old Asian man had shot his load over me in the train carriage which I had obviously overlooked in my hurried clean-up operation after he had left the train. My pussy lips were red and still a bit swollen and sore where I had been fingered and fucked in the previous 48 hours and I felt as if I had been kicked forcefully between the legs.

"My god, what a state you're in," I muttered to myself, frowning at the image in front of me. I had until six that evening to get myself into some reasonable sort of order before Michael returned. Before taking a shower, I decided that first and foremost I needed to clear my head and get some healthy exercise by going for a run. I tied my hair back into a ponytail, slung on my tight black Lycra running shorts and a white crop-top, leaving my midriff bare and exposing my taut stomach muscles which I am quite proud of. I removed my anklet, slipped my feet into a pair of trainers and went downstairs.

There was a pile of post on the hall table that I had left unopened from the night before. My eyes were drawn to a large brown envelope addressed to me in familiar handwriting. My heart skipped a beat when I realised what it probably was. I tore it open with shaking hands and, to my horror, saw immediately that my assumption was correct. It was another large photograph sent by creepy old George taken during my recent little escapade at the school where I teach. This one showed me in the deserted school playground, naked apart from a pair of black, hold-up fishnet stockings and my little silver anklet adorning one of my ankles. I was holding a skipping rope in both hands and was clearly in the process of skipping like a little schoolgirl, with my right knee raised, my mouth open and my hair flying in all directions. In the background, looking on with a broad grin on his face stood the bulky figure of Uncle Ron clearly enjoying the spectacle.

"Oh my god," I thought to myself, "not another one." George, the caretaker at the school where I worked, had already sent me two other photographic reminders of my risky little jaunt with the two old perverts around my deserted school. I knew I should have torn the photograph into pieces, but something stopped me doing so, as had been the case previously. I still had the other two photographs hidden away in a drawer in my dressing table. For some reason I couldn't tear my eyes away from the image of me cavorting virtually naked in front of the two old bastards. It was a disgusting yet strangely erotic sight and I started to daydream about my little adventure on school premises whilst rubbing my hand gently against my Lycra-covered pussy.

Bloody hell, what was I thinking? I could have been discovered at any time whilst I was there, perhaps by another teacher, or a delivery man, or -- God forbid -- Mrs Henderson the head teacher, all of whom could feasibly have paid a visit to the school even though it was closed for the summer break. And what the hell was I doing now, playing with myself whilst studying the evidence of my wanton behaviour. It dawned on me that the risk element was part of the reason I had enjoyed myself and would explain what I was doing now, as the photograph brought back vivid memories of my feelings of sheer exuberance and sexual freedom that I had experienced that day.

I drew a deep breath and tried to compose myself. I quickly stuffed the photograph back in the envelope, rushed back upstairs and concealed it with the others, saying to myself that I would have to dispose of them in case they were discovered by Michael, although knowing full well that I wouldn't. I suddenly had a panic attack as reality dawned on me. What if the photographs got in the wrong hands? Suppose George or Uncle Ron posted them on the internet and someone recognised me? Suppose the same thing had happened to me at the hen night and someone had taken a photo or, worse still, a video of my performance with the 'Black Bull'? After all, everyone these days has mobile phones with built-in cameras. By now I could be being watched and wanked over by thousands of men. Someone somewhere was bound to recognise me. I could then say goodbye to my career and my marriage. My life would be in ruins.

I was overcome with self-loathing and shame yet, strangely, despite all this, I was fighting a losing battle to control my other, baser, cravings and I knew deep down that I didn't want to stop being the horny little slut that I had become. I was hostage to my heightened sexuality and what it made me do and feel. It was as if deep within me, in a kind of masochistic way, I wanted to be discovered and humiliated. As if I wanted to be pointed to in the street and laughed at behind my back. As if I wanted my body to be taken and used for the gratification of others who lusted after me and drooled over me.

However, right then I needed to attempt to suppress these thoughts and feelings and revert to my 'normal' life as the pretty young wife of a handsome and loving man. An hour or so of strenuous exercise was just what I needed, I felt, to jolt me back to reality. I ran downstairs and out of the front door to begin my usual six mile run along the roads and in the fields around my small home town. The weather was cloudy and rather cool for the time of year, but was perfect weather for running. I maintained a steady pace and my thoughts turned to Michael's return home and our planned short trip away together. I was determined to make this a pleasurable experience for both of us, and I had bought a couple of new sexy dresses and some silky underwear to get Michael in the mood. I had even bought a pair of black strappy sandals with platforms and six inch heels totally unlike the more practical shoes I usually wear.

I hadn't bothered putting on a bra and, as my feet pounded the ground, I could feel my breasts moving gently up and down within my tight top and my nipples brushing rhythmically and rather pleasurably against the fabric. I could feel my nipples hardening with the constant friction and I looked down and saw that they were protruding noticeably from the material. Just then, I noticed ahead a small group of elderly men and women obviously out hiking in the local countryside. I suddenly felt very exposed as I realised how I must look -- with a pair of tight Lycra shorts, a bare midriff and my tits swaying gently above making it obvious that they were not restrained by a bra. As I passed the group I mumbled a greeting and could see the men's jaws gape open with their eyes firmly fixed on my chest. As I rapidly moved away I heard a few mutterings amongst the women hikers and admonishments of their male partners for gawping at me.

"Did you see her? That was a bit revealing." I heard one of the women say.

"She obviously wasn't wearing anything under her top." I heard another woman reply.

I felt a gush of embarrassment but at the same time I found the incident a huge turn-on. What with that and the continuing pleasurable feeling I was getting as my nipples rubbed against my top, it took all my dwindling powers of self-control not to find a secluded place in nearby woods, tug down my shorts, and bring myself off with my fingers.

I arrived back in my street without any further incidents apart from a couple of young lads who tooted their car horn and shouted a few lewd comments as they drove past me going in the opposite direction. As I had hoped, the fresh air and exercise was having a really beneficial effect on my system and I had begun to feel refreshed and excited about the next few days with my husband. I was looking forward to having a long, hot shower and making myself look good for him. However, little did I know that I was about to be brought back to earth with a thud. As I approached my house I was surprised to see a large figure of a man loitering on my front garden path. As I got closer my heart sank when I recognised the unmistakeable bulk that was Uncle Ron, wearing his usual scruffy summer garb of baggy shorts and tatty T-shirt, with a pair of sandals on his feet.

"Juicy! I was just about to leave when I saw that lovely little body of yours coming down the street. I'm glad to see you're keeping yourself in good condition for your old Uncle Ron!" He said, smiling broadly. I could see his eyes wandering up and down my body and I could feel myself turning crimson. I quickly moved my arms up against my chest in an involuntary attempt, I suppose, to cover my noticeably erect nipples, which only made him laugh uproariously.

"No need to be so coy, I've already seen those little bullets. Looks like you've been enjoying yourself. What a gorgeous little slut you are!"

"Err....hello Uncle Ron," I mumbled, feeling my confidence crumbling in his powerful presence. Uncle Ron looked at me disapprovingly and I remembered my mistake. "Err....I mean, sir. I'm sorry sir, I can't see you today because Michael is coming home soon and I've got to get myself ready for him. I think I told you that we're going away for a few days." I said pleadingly.

"Yes, I know all that. I just thought I'd come and see you before you went. How about we go inside for a drink? I'm sure you could do with one to cool you down."

I knew, of course, where this was leading and I pleaded with him. "No, please sir, not today. I need to be at my best for Michael. I'll do anything you want when I come back, I promise, but not today. Please!" I cried, looking at him imploringly and stamping my foot like a child having a tantrum.

Ignoring my pleas, Uncle Ron replied: "I'm going away myself for a couple of weeks on business so I thought we could have some fun before I go in case you forget about your old Uncle Ron while you're away."

To be honest, I was in two minds. As much as I was looking forward to seeing Michael, all I could think about at that precise moment was Uncle Ron's disgustingly large and ugly cock and the pleasure it could give to me. By hesitating, I think the old bastard could sense a degree of uncertainty in my mind as he suddenly grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the front door. A broad smile came across his face as I meekly followed without any resistance.

"That's it, Juicy; you know you don't mean it. I think we both know that you're not as innocent as you make out, don't we, and I think it's about time you were good to your old uncle again. I'm beginning to feel a bit neglected."

Obediently, I let him in and I could feel the familiar wetness between my legs betraying my true feelings as he led me into my front room. Still smiling knowingly, the arrogant sod let go of my hand and flopped into the nearest armchair, making his old, creased T-shirt rise up his body exposing the fat folds of his hairy belly.

"I'll have that drink now Juicy. Water will do," he instructed, and I went out to the kitchen to see to it. When I returned a few moments later with two ice cold bottles of water, he was looking intently at something he was holding in his hand and smiling to himself.

"I must say you looked particularly sexy that day," he said, holding up a framed photograph of myself and Michael on our wedding day three years previously, which he had picked up off a small table next to his armchair. "That dress was very virginal wasn't it. It just goes to show you can't necessarily judge by appearances. Although I realise I hadn't had the opportunity to bring you out of yourself at that time."

I looked at the picture wistfully and admired again the prettiness of my long, flowing white dress with its discreet lacy panel above the bodice covering my shoulders. A delicate white veil partially covered my face and cascaded down around my arms and mingled with the golden tresses of my hair, which had been caught in a ray of sunshine.

Uncle Ron interrupted my thoughts. "Have you still got it?" He said, looking at me quizzically.

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