tagLoving WivesWaywardness Revisited

Waywardness Revisited


After the birth of our child, when my body was in perfect shape again, my husband decreed that I would go and visit my parents, supposedly to show them the new addition to the family. That was the excuse for public consumption. The real reason for my visit to my old hometown was for me to resume my immorally indulgent sex-life. How we arrived at that stage, I will cover in other stories, but for now a brief resume will suffice.

We'd been married for about a year, when I first stepped over the line and had an affair with a biking acquaintance of my husband's. When I was found out, he subjected me to a lifestyle of enforced infidelity, insisting that I would, henceforth, fuck other men or I could leave. I had no intention of leaving my luxuriant and indulgent lifestyle, so I, very reluctantly, accepted his condition for my continued presence in his life. I didn't appreciate just how devoted he would be to completely corrupting me.

It was very intimidating for me to be sent out, of an evening, to a club or bar with the express intention of letting myself be picked up and screwed by a stranger, before returning home to my husband, to be fucked by him also, while being grilled about my sexperience of the evening. He delighted in demeaning me, while punishing himself at the same time, by wallowing where I had so recently defiled our marriage vows with another. It was a form of mutual emotional punishment, but proved very effective in inspiring us and resulted in extremely intense sexual encounters. It was an exercise in atonement; me, to atone for my undeniable appetite for infidelity and, him, for his perceived shortcomings as a lover that had caused me to stray in the first place.

In an attempt to appeal to his sympathetic side and to be granted a pardon, I decided to fall pregnant without discussing it with him. Surely, with a child in our life, he would relent and not insist that I go out fucking. The prospect of going out, not only at my husband's insistence, but with his encouragement and, then being confronted by him upon my return had diminished the enjoyment of a clandestine interlude. The excitement of the mischievousness of the sexcapade had given way to guilt or shame. I'm not sure which, maybe both? I was shamed by my inability to be resolute enough to refuse him and guilty because, in all honesty, I wanted to do it. Not just because he insisted that I do, but because I enjoyed it.

The baby-ploy proved to be totally in vain though. Seeking refuge and respite in our status as proud, new parents didn't help. Now I had been dispatched to go and revisit my wanton and lustful desires in my old hometown, Piemburg; the town that had given birth to and nurtured my sexually adventurous character. The idea that I should go away to do this was to give me space, so as not to inhibit me with the thought of having to confront my husband upon my return. That had been one of the excuses I'd used in my argument for the cessation of our perverted exercise.

Of course, I was under no illusion as to the fact that release from my enforced sexual enslavement would in any way result in my total abstention from infidelity. I was mature enough to accept the fact that I had tasted the forbidden fruits and had found them most pleasurable indeed. What I really wanted was to enjoy discreet affairs again without my husband being aware of it. By the time my tummy became too big, forcing us to cease my nefarious nocturnal activities, I was going out two nights a week; usually on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I realised this would mean decreased extra-marital sexcapades, but I was willing to forego quantity for quality. The pleasure of sneaking around and being a naughty girl counts for a lot in the pleasure of an encounter.

What he didn't know was that I had also had another lover, in the time I was having the affair that he found out about. It was a casual office affair, with a married colleague, that continued until I went on maternity leave and had to cease all sexual activity due to my advanced pregnancy.

It was a very relaxed and undemanding affair. Bill would find an excuse to work late and ask me to stay with the premise of doing some typing for him. I was the company receptionist/typist. I was very much the company's shop window. The first sight visitors to our offices saw was of me, the glamour girl. In my short, tight skirts, revealing tops, stockings and high heels, always immaculately groomed and ravishingly presented, I posed a pretty picture indeed.

The waiting area in reception was sumptuously furnished and tastefully decorated. Visitors, waiting on the low sofa and chairs in reception had an enticing view of my legs, under my desk. Bill and I would fuck there, on a sofa, amongst the pot plants and flowers while we enjoyed a few drinks. During the days, the view of the sofa would remind me of our mischievous romps and ensured that I was always aroused with my engorged nipples tenting my blouse and the moisture in my groin soaking my G-string.

Now, on the long drive, I had a lot of time to think about what my husband was demanding of me, not expecting, but demanding, in the coming ten days of my visit with the family. The baby's nanny had been dispatched along with me to ensure that there was nothing to restrict my free time. He had also overseen my packing, ensuring that I had two outfits for every day. One for daytime wear and another for nights with a different pair of heels to go with each. The outfits were the skimpiest imaginable and, the shoes, all with the highest heels available. My protestations to the effect, that my mother would be horrified to see me dressed like that, were simply ignored.

I had to phone him every night, after a sexcapade and regale him with the story of my evening. That, in itself, was also hugely intimidating for me. I knew he would want to draw it out of me, blow by blow, revelling in my discomfort and his own misery. Not trusting me to do as I was bid, I had to present him with a collection used condoms, as proof of my indulgences, upon my return. "And there better not be less than a dozen! You're going there to fuck and not to ooh-and-ah, gushing all over the kid and holding hands with family." Had been is vindictive parting shot.

Of course, I realised that he was being purposefully mean, in an attempt to hurt me and inspire me to avenge myself by taking lovers and to bolster his fortitude, to force me to see it through.

Anyway, for the first couple of days I indeed hedged, using my extended family, enthralled with the baby, as an excuse, having to visit and show him off to all. Bullshit! He roared on my third day there. Tonight you will go out and get laid. I don't give a fuck or you can fucking well stay there! He informed me in no uncertain terms even telling me what he wanted me to wear, right down to the accessories, lipstick and nail colour.

To the night:

My footwear was minimalist, like everything else; turquoise, spike-heeled sandals with an ankle strap and one thin strap across my toes. A Cobalt Blue, lace ¼ cup bra [what I believe is today referred to as a balconette bra?] and thong set. The bra only serving to lift my tits, presenting them all the more invitingly than they already were while offering no protection, causing my nipples to be engorged from the gentle caresses of my blouse and leaving them exposed. The thong was more of an annoyance than anything else. It pulled up into my crack, scouring my clit with every movement, serving as a constant reminder of what my quest for the evening was. As if I wasn't already aroused enough by the wantonness of our intentions, the thong served to add physical inspiration to the psychological.

On top, a little, white, cotton top with turquoise polka-dots, with tiny puff-sleeves that left my shoulders bare and exposed my cleavage to the maximum. It only reached to my belly bottom, exposing a tantalising bit of my tanned midriff above the waist of my short white, linen miniskirt with a slit in the back. Anyone sitting down, when I walked past elevated on my high heels, could get a glimpse of my labia bulging out between the back of my thighs, on either side of the thin sliver of lacy, blue material embedded between them.

My wickedly long nails and heavily lined lips were painted a bright, Frosted Pink. My eyelashes, literally dripping with mascara, added emphasis to my brightly made up eyes. From my ears dangled huge, silver hoops that reached almost to my shoulders. The bigger the hoop, the bigger the whore, not so? Long, turquoise and pink bead necklaces served to focus attention on my prominently presented cleavage, highlighted by a brush of glitter-powder. My auburn locks cascaded from my crown, down onto my shoulders in a mass of luxuriant, soft curls, making a perfect frame for my face. A broad silver amulet around one bicep and a matching bracelet on the opposing wrist with a slave bracelet around my ankle compliment my risqué dress, further hinting at my promiscuous inclinations.

This was a few weeks short of my twenty-ninth birthday and, physically, I had attained my sexual prime. All the sex I enjoyed at home, and elsewhere, had dispensed with my youthful bit of puppy-fat I was a ripe and vibrant specimen, a sleek and voluptuous predator and my provocative presentation portrayed my probable availability. Tonight, my ostentatiously ornate wedding ring, obviously displayed on my ring finger, and the fact that I would be on my own, would in no uncertain terms proclaim that I was a married woman on the make. I resembled a bimbo on steroids.

My mother gasped in horror when I took my leave. "Good lord, child, you look like a real Jezebel!" she exclaimed. "Where on earth are you going dressed like that?"

"Aw, ma, c'mon." I defended myself. "Get with it, mom. This is the '80's, you know. Di and I are going out for a girl's night out." I lied, naming an old school friend who she liked as my chaperone for the evening. Just for a couple of drinks and a bit of innocent flirting."

"Pfff! Looks more like you're going to join the streetwalkers in Station Road." She grimaced, referring to the local Red Light District. You are a married woman, you know?" Oh, and how don't I know that! I thought to myself. If only she knew how our marriage worked!

"Bye, ma!" I called, slinging my big red handbag over my shoulder and making my escape. Oh lord, if she could see what was in my bag, she'd have a heart attack. The normal emergency makeup compact and lipsticks, about two dozen assorted condoms, three vibrators of varying design and size, a black leather cigarette case containing half a dozen expertly rolled marijuana cigarettes, complete with filters, a baggie of pep-pills for long nights, my packet of pearl-tipped cigarettes and gold Dunhill lighter, my purse and various other odds and ends. It more resembled a sexual travelling kit.

I am only a social smoker on occasions such as tonight. It adds a certain degree of decadence to my aura. The marijuana is strictly for enhancing the pleasure of my sexual experiences.

Anyway, I'm relieved to be out of the house. I hop in my car, light a joint and head for The Olde Camden Towne Hotel, a Tudor-style establishment that has an elegant and stylishly appointed ladies bar. It's a place much favoured by the upper echelons of the local society with a reputation as being somewhat of a pick-up spot for the elite. I know, I've been there many times before in my youth.

I stand in the doorway for a few moments, letting my eyes adjust to the gloomy interior, before surveying the room and selecting a spot. I take in the rich décor; heavy scarlet, velvet drapes and red velvet and black leather upholstered chairs surrounding black lacquered tables. I head for an empty chair at the bar, in the furthest corner of the room, weaving my way between the people sitting at the tables, giving everyone the opportunity to get a good look at me.

Propped on the chair in the corner, the whole room has an excellent view of me. I sit sideways, half facing the bar and cross my legs, exposing my tanned thigh to the room, my foot, dangling casually in mid-air.

"A large whisky, lots of ice and water, please?" I purr, addressing the bartender when he approaches me.

"Long glass? He asks.

"Please," I murmur, favouring him with a dazzling smile "but take it easy with the water."

I light a cigarette and sip my drink, nonchalantly surveying the available talent. I'm heartened to see there's no shortage of unattached males about. I fob off the first approach I get from a gentleman with obviously amorous intentions "Sorry, I'm expecting someone." I say, smiling deprecatingly and twiddling my wedding ring for his attention. I've learnt that it doesn't pay to be too easy and make it too obvious that I'm on the prowl. I want to be fêted and treated like a lady, not some disposable strumpet. Men with good manners and charm are inclined to be better lovers as well.

I turn down a couple more solicitations from amorous men to join me. I'm on my third drink when I eventually succumb to an enquiry from a rather distinguished looking gentleman, a new arrival. I watch him as he approaches, making a beeline for me. When he asks whether he may join me I look around the room before acceding to his request. There aren't many empty spaces left.

"I was actually expecting someone, but it doesn't look as if they're coming anymore, or they've been held up. Please, I could do with the company." I'm being purposefully ambiguous by referring to my fictitious date as they and not him.

"Thank you." He says, squeezing into the vacant spot next to me. There isn't a stool available. He turns to face me with one elbow resting on the bar and his back to the couple sitting next to us. My knee brushes against his thigh, he's that close. He orders a drink, looking at me, enquiring as to whether I need a refill. I shake my head and raise my still nearly full glass.

"I'm still fine, thanks. Later." The implication clear in my statement, that there might well be a later.

We make casual conversation while sipping our drinks and then he asks if I'm waiting for my husband.

"Oh no. My husband is at home, far away. I was waiting for an old friend, from before we were both married, but it seems that his marriage has proved to be a bit inhibiting tonight." I lie, confirming that I was waiting for male company and hinting at the fact that it was to be much more than just a casual reunion between old friends. My whole presentation proclaims that anyway.

"Well, that's his loss, I'm sure." He quips.

"And your gain!" I chirp, laying a hand on his forearm, extending my long, pink, Sabre-like talons along the length of it and stroke his arm, through his shirt, with the tips of my nails. "Aren't you lucky?" I purr seductively.

"Indeed!" he murmurs "Shall we?" he asks, taking my elbow.


"My place. Come, you can follow me?" He suggests, correctly surmising that have my own transport and helping me off the stool. We walk out with my arm linked in his. I smoke a joint, to enhance my mood while I follow my soon-to-be, new lover to his place. I'm excited. He'll be the first in quite a while.

It's two o'clock in the morning when I let myself into the house again. The house is deathly quiet. I tiptoe to my room, my heels clicking softly on the wooden parquet floor. Despite my long evening I am both exhilarated and intimidated, at the same time. The daunting telephone call awaits. I dally, undressing slowly, just having my top and skirt to remove, not having bothered with my bra and G-string before I left Hank. I take them out of my handbag and drop them in the washing basket, in my bathroom, before surveying my naked body in the mirror.

In my mind's eye I see Hank's hands and mouth roaming all over my body, probing, exploring, tickling, caressing and pleasing. I look at my now hugely swollen labia in the mirror and see his cock plunging in an out between them again. The thought elicits a stifled groan from my freshly painted lips and my hand slides down my belly and in between my thighs, my fingers finding my swollen clit. I massage it gently. My legs start quivering and I watch, in the mirror, as my eyes start glazing over from the pleasure of it as I tweak a nipple between the thumb and forefinger of my other hand. My tongue darts out, running over my lips, moistening and making the pink glisten invitingly. I can still feel his proud cock in my mouth and his tongue lapping my clit and exploring my soaking slit. How can I ever convey all this in a phone call to my husband?

A groan of animal-like lust escapes my lips. Enough! I admonish myself. Go and phone and get it over with. Your future lies yonder and not here with some one-night-stand lover!

I go and lie down on my bed, my body still adorned with my jewellery and with my sandals on. I pick up the phone and dial . . .

How do I put into words and describe the ecstasy and emotions of the intense, back-raking, howling orgasms I enjoyed? Impossible!

"Hi, babes," His voice, filled with emotion, comes softly over the phone "you enjoy the evening?" What he's really asking is, was I fucked.

"Ummm!' I murmur drowsily in confirmation of his unspoken question, my hand finding my love-button again, unwilling to break the spell inspired by my pleasurable reverie. My mind is back there in that wondrous world that Hank transported me to.

"What you wearing?" He asks.

"Nothing. Jewellery and shoes." I murmur, with the phone cradled between my head and shoulder.

"Are you playing with yourself?"

"Ummm." I confirm, lazily again. He's trying to drag a full confession, all the nitty-gritty bits, out of me, but I'm far too lackadaisical.

"Cum for me?"

"Mmmm, okay." I whisper. Anything to interrupt the inquisition and, I am inspired enough, by the memories of my most enjoyable evening, to want to cum again; a long, languid, gentle orgasm that'll keep my languishing there in that never-never land of bliss.

"Did you cum?" What a stupid question! He knows very well that I cum, literally, at the drop of a hat. I think that's one of the reasons why I tend to be so permissive. I just love cumming.

"Yesss!" I hiss as my emotions start peaking again.

"How many times?"

"Lots . . . I don't know how many, damn it! Who was counting?" I pant as my hips start bucking and writing in response to the coaxing of my hand. "And if you don't shut up now and let me cum in peace I'll put the phone down.

"Okay! Okay! Take it easy and cum for me. We'll talk afterwards."

"I'm cumming!" I growl into the phone, forcing myself to subdue my natural inclination to give vociferous vent to my tumultuous emotions, in the interests of not alerting my parents. I force myself to stop before I lose complete control and as my breathing begins to return to normal again he asks "Was he good?"

"Very!" I assure him, softly, but emphatically. I'm not lying, but the main reason I said that is to make him jealous. This was all his idea and now I want to punish him for making me do it. But, did he really make me do it, from 400 miles away? Didn't I want to do it?

I might have rebelled, but wasn't that a purely hypocritical gesture on my part, in an attempt to salvage some dignity by trying to disguise my own wanton desires? Deep down, didn't I want to? Why would I dress so provocatively, as suggested by him, if I didn't want it to happen? There was no way he could know if I wore something more modest.

"How many times did he cum?" he asks. I'm getting pissed off with his cross-examination now.

"A few times, for fuck's sake. He fucked me for hours. If you don't stop this interrogation now I'm going to hang up!" I threaten, getting upset now by confronting and accepting my own wanton agenda. "Next you'll want to know how big his cock was!" I spit out, vituperatively.

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