Transition and Transformation

I've been struggling to write this piece, about how I walked out of my boring marriage and moved in with my lover. This is about my transition from a responsible, suburban wife to a carefree concubine and my transformation from an uninspiring, drab woman to a svelte sex-symbol; the quintessential bimbo. My dress code and image was transformed from sensible and comfortable [dull & boring] to ravishing and provocative [exciting & arousing], literally, overnight.

I'd been indulging in my extra-marital affair, for about a year, when things came to a head and I implored my lover to let me move in with him. The situation, at home, had become unbearable. Rather reluctantly he agreed. The reason for his reluctance soon became apparent. I realised that I wasn't his kind of woman and that he had fucked me, more out of sympathy than from any real desire. I was just another cunt-notch on his cock. Before he agreed to me moving in with him he made it perfectly clear that I would have to undergo a drastic change in my comportment and presentation. Of course, I accepted without hesitation. I was suffocating in my marriage.

In my youth I had always been, what you might call, a rather adventurous girl, favouring sexy outfits and fairly generous with my sexual favours. At school, I suppose I was known as one of the girls 'who did it'. I didn't mind that. I saw no reason not to have sex with a boy if I fancied him. I had discovered the pleasures of orgasms at a fairly early age, never struggling to achieve them either. I was much the envy of my girlfriends when we discussed such things, as adolescent schoolgirls are wont to do. I think they suspected that I was lying to them when I regaled them with enticing tales of my latest pleasurable interludes.

Naturally, my marriage had put an end to all that and my dour, quasi-religious husband expected me to dress and present myself in a conservative fashion as, in his opinion, befitted a mother and wife. Now, you may ask why I married him. I fell pregnant and that was what was expected of one in our middle class family. He had a good job and promised a secure future, if nothing else. I suppose that begs the question; why did I fuck him in the first place. Well, he was there, and persistent. Please note the hypocrisy? Despite his conservative attitude, he wasn't too conservative not to fuck me out of wedlock.

Anyway, I digress. Within a week of moving in with my lover, my whole image had been revamped. Gone were the casual shirts, slacks and sensible shoes to be replaced by tight, figure-hugging, short and revealing dresses and suits accompanied by exquisitely high heels. My hair was stylishly coiffed, my fingernails, wickedly long, perfectly manicured and painted in bright, alluring colours with my makeup always just a little overstated. My pussy was shaven [which I had never done before] and, under my clothes, my body was adorned with fetching and enticing lingerie. It was the first time I had owned a suspender and worn stockings and not pantyhose.

Getting rid of my excess weight took a little longer, but after about a month I was a toned and shapely cougar. I had always been a little plump, which is why, in my youth, I favoured A-frame smocks with short hemlines and plunging necklines. I was blessed with nice breasts and shapely legs and always endeavoured to show them of to maximum effect. My two pregnancies and the lack of motivation had conspired that I had let my figure go to seed somewhat. Daily work-outs, in the gym, soon took care of that however.

I was the only woman in our office with the three, male, company directors as colleagues. You can imagine their astonishment, witnessing my amazing transformation. They, of course, knew that I had left my husband and my revamped image implied, partly, why. I had always had a good relationship with my bosses, but this now led to a slight problem. They were inclined towards propositioning me in amorous ways. I fobbed them off light-heartedly, treating it as a joke.

I was convinced that I was totally devoted to the new man in my life and would never look at another. I was getting sex twice a day, compared to in my marriage, when it happened once, maybe twice, a week with the lights off, always in the missionary position, in bed. Now I was being fucked in every which way, sometimes in the most intimidatingly risky places imaginable. So you can well imagine my infatuation with my new life-style. From being at home every night, making supper and doing all the other wifely chores, I was now being taken out, two or three nights a week, wined and dined, maybe with a bit of dancing and being seduced by my lover. The nights we stayed at home I would always welcome him home in some or other sexy lingerie set with high heels or a suspender and stockings, but always wearing high heels. Heels were his fetish, which I, very happily, pandered to. Keeping my shoes on while being fucked made the sex all the kinkier.

If I was, at first, beguiled by his looks and charm, when I first made the acquaintance of his naked body, I was totally besotted. Not only did he have the most magnificent cock I had ever encountered, but his stamina and technique were truly amazing.

My husband worked for a weapons manufacturer and used to go away for extended periods testing the systems. During one of his absences I invited Pete to come to dinner, expressly stating that he should arrive after eight, after I had put the kids to bed, implying that I intended him to fuck me. I welcomed him, wearing an ankle-length, Emerald Green, satin sheath; a nightgown, sans any makeup and barefoot. That was to reinforce my intention that he should take me to bed and fuck me. If seeing the kids off to bed hadn't already implied as much.

He kept me waiting, only arriving after nine, a little drunk. I was frantic, thinking that he might not come and was going to stand me up. You can imagine my relief when I answered the door and saw him standing there, grinning mischievously, not bothering to apologise for being late. I grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, hugging him as soon as the door was closed, my head pressed against his chest. I lifted my face to look at him, with trembling lips and tears filling my eyes from the relief I felt. "Why did you take so long?" I whispered "I thought you weren't coming."

"Relax, Button, I'm here. You said, after eight." He smiled and, with a finger under my chin, tilted my face up to his and kissed me, lightly, on the lips.

Needless to say, supper was wasted. We went straight to bed and he fucked me all night long, in my marital bed, making me scream and cry with pleasure and only leaving around five in the morning. Despite my somewhat adventurous youth, I had never been fucked like that before or experienced so many never-ending orgasms. I had a panic-stricken moment when I made my first acquaintance with his cock. Oh lord, what's this? I thought, stroking it with my hand while he was kissing, sucking my tits and fingering me. He's going to kill me!

I think he sensed my trepidation because he didn't linger too long with foreplay before mounting me. He didn't need to, my juices were already flowing by the time he eased it into me. I was mesmerised by the sight of it slipping in between my pouting pussy-lips that seemed to be cloying their way up the shaft, as if urging it to impale me.

I drew up my knees in an attempt to absorb the stress of the awesome invasion and to give me a better view. He shoved a pillow under my bum and, very gently and slowly, letting me get accustomed me to his size, stroked halfway in and out of my weeping pussy, about half a dozen times. I was fixated, watching it sliding in and out of me. I had waited so long for this moment and, now that it had arrived, I was both so exhilarated and apprehensive that I was hardly daring to breathe. I could already feel the waves of an orgasm welling up deep inside me and my abdominal muscles were convulsing, my cunt cramping and gripping his cock. He was supporting his weight on his fully extended arms, his long cock sliding slowly in and out of me being the only bodily contact.

I tore my gaze away and looked up into his eyes with, I suppose, a look of both anticipation and uncertainty on my face. He ceased his stroking for a moment, smiling down at me, mysteriously, and whispered something I didn't quite catch. I was too tense and focused on and anticipating the physical debauchment that I so desperately wanted. Then he withdrew completely. I held my breath. Was that it? Did he not find me desirable enough and decided to leave? I relaxed when he popped, just the head, into me again.

He repeated that a few times, popping the head in and out between my labia a few times, while my legs went up, wrapping themselves around his waist, with my ankles locked in the small of his back, holding him to me. Then, suddenly, he lunged, hammering himself all the way into me. My legs shot straight up in the air. I screamed and squirted, instantaneously exploding into orgasm as his mouth found mine, smothering my cries.

Then the lights went off! Well, mine, anyway.

All I know is that for the rest of the night I was given no respite, despite my begging and pleading. Sobbing and beseeching him to let me rest only elicited "You wanted me to fuck you, you little slut. Now I am!" It only seemed to inspire him to even greater heights. The couple of times that he did cum also offered me no respite from the dauntless onslaught I was being subjected to. It simply resulted in being rudely commanded "Come, slut, give me your cunt to eat while you suck my cock and get me hard to fuck you some more!" He treated me like an absolute slut which I found inspiring rather than insulting or degrading. He made me feel like the slut I was, fucking another man in the bed I shared with my husband.

He was brutal in his execution, fucking me like I imagine one would fuck a whore who you despised for making you part with your money for something you didn't really want, but needed and feeling guilty because you were enjoying it. His brutal and clinical, psychological and physical, ravaging of me seemed as if he intended it to be a lesson for me, for so brazenly throwing myself at him. It was as if he was saying, there, I've fucked you now. Now, run along and be a good little wife in future.

Of course, I didn't think of that then. I only did, later that day, at work and it had the exact opposite effect. I was hooked. Hooked on his cock. My bruised and battered pussy served as a constant reminder of the holocaust I'd endured, and survived, the previous evening. I always had a plump pussy mound and fairly prominent camel-toe, but that was hidden by the relaxed slacks I wore. I imagined that now, in its swollen state, it was noticeable to others and, instead of feeling intimidated by the thought, I exalted in the wantonness of my immorality. I felt like shouting it out to all, telling them what I done.

After that, I felt that I was betraying him, every time my husband fucked me. Instead of feeling guilty about having betrayed my husband in such a despicable fashion, I exalted in it. Lying there and imagining it was my lover and not my husband who was fucking me added a dimension of wickedness to the proceedings. Of course, I enjoyed my husband fucking me and always experienced an orgasm when he did. After all, sex is sex. I don't think there's anything like bad sex. Some men are just more adept and enjoyable than others. One day, in a moment of ecstasy, I must have called out Pete's name because, afterwards, I was asked who Peter was. I decided that the time had come. I'd had enough. I confessed.

I knew I was taking a big chance. I had nowhere to go and would struggle to survive on my salary, on my own, if he decided to throw me out. I hadn't ever discussed moving in with him with Pete and he had never hinted at the possibility. I was just another fuck to him. I had left myself out on a limb. But, being the wimp he was, he didn't throw me out.

He wanted to 'patch things up'. He wanted to know what was wrong and what he could do to make them right. How do you tell someone and explain, everything and nothing? As far as I was concerned it was over, but, for the sake of survival, I went through the motions. His amorous attentions to me escalated, but instead of exciting me, now that I'd come clean, I became nauseated at the thought of having sex with him. In time, my sense of revulsion became apparent to him and when he asked me if I was still fucking Pete, I admitted that I was. Thereafter our relationship deteriorated to unsalvageable proportions, which led to me confronting my lover with the intention of swapping beds on a permanent basis.

Well, the rest is history. Every time I fetched the kids for a weekend he would avoid me. I imagine he found the sight of the vivacious and provocative woman, who had once been his wife, too intimidating. I suspect he would be peeking through the curtains or something watching me and imagined him mouthing things like, whore, slut and such. That always brought a smile to my face. I loved the woman I had become. I was a free spirit again, much freer than I had ever imagined I could be.

My new man had a dual persona. There was his professional, business persona and the reverse of that, his biker persona. Not that his biker mates were riff-raff, but you know how bikers are, rough and ready, hypocritical hooligans.

In his professional persona we mixed with the business elite at society functions and such, with me decked out in elegant evening gowns or fetching cocktail dresses, the quintessential 'little black number.' The emphasis always being more on little rather than black and, of course, always with the most wickedly high heels. Sometimes the dress was red, which made me stand out in a crowd of formally black-clad ladies. Decked out in a red dress with red shoes and my nails and lips painted red he would quip that I was his 'Scarlet Woman', an epithet that I'm sure the other society wives attached to me.

He encouraged me to wear my nails so long that they were almost vulgarly intimidating, even threatening maybe, implying the promise of the havoc they could wreak on a lover's body. All in all, everything about me proclaimed, in no uncertain terms, exactly what I was, a concubine, a strumpet, a sex object.

I also did nothing to dispel the other women's suspicions regarding my possible dubious morals. I was always encouraging and receptive of their men flirting with me. I never discouraged nor remonstrated about a supposedly accidental, brief touch of a hand or brush of an arm in an inappropriate manner. Of course, nothing explicitly untoward ensued, but there was the occasional hand surreptitiously caressing a buttock or a bicep brushing a nipple. I found it all very titillating.

I was somewhat out of my depth, given my middle class background, but my brazenly exhibited sexuality detracted from whatever small social graces I might have lacked. Naturally, there were occasions that I was subject to indecent proposals, but I laughed those off as being totally ridiculous, treating them as a joke rather than anything serious.

I was much more relaxed amongst the biker fraternity. He didn't ever take me to the biker's pub, saying it was not my place and very seldom took me on the bike with him. He worshiped my body and said he was scared of scarring me if we should have an accident. He wanted me to be prefect, without any blemishes on my body. That's the kind of devotion I was subjected to. He worshiped me like a veritable Venus, paying homage to my body in the form of his insatiable appetite for sex with me. This also unavoidably influenced my psyche as well. I was focused on sex, my every waking moment was devoted to inspiring sex. My revamped image and the attraction that elicited from the opposite sex ensured that sex was constantly on my mind.

Things with the biker mates he brought home occasionally were much more informal . . . and explicit! I would, for example, be in a tight, figure-hugging leather miniskirt outfit with heels that exposed my body to the veritable bounds of propriety. The guys would make no secret of their appreciation for what I was showing off and I reveled in their unabashed exhibition thereof. I felt secure, with my man present, in reciprocating their ostentatiously flirting in a similar fashion. Things were inclined to become rather risqué at times!

There was one guy, especially, Charlie, who had no hesitation in showing his infatuation with me, even if his girlfriend happened to be present. He was very good looking and an absolute womaniser. In due course, he and his girlfriend became good friends and regular visitors to our home.

Looking back now, if I then believed I was going to step over the line he would have been the most likely candidate with whom I would have said I was likely to betray Pete with. It didn't happen that way though. It did, eventually, but it took quite a few years and happened in a most unexpected way too. That's another story, for another day.

For now, being much the centre of male attention, my ego knew no bounds. I, literally, preened, basking in the glory of the attention lavished on me, when in public. Everything about me invited attention from the opposite sex and they weren't backward in accepting the invitation. Even at work, in my figure-hugging suits with short skirts, revealing tops and heels, exquisitely groomed, colleagues and clients alike, came on to me. The question was; how long was I going to resist succumbing to temptation. Although I was playing the ultimate cock-teaser, I was, naturally, always contemplating what it would be like if I took the next logical step.

Dangerous thoughts!

For now, I was more than satisfied though. I was being fucked every morning and night. Sometimes, on weekends, we would fuck the whole day away. I didn't have time for, or need, another lover in my life.