From a Loving Wife

In response to a request by BlackPlague88 in the forum.

*

Dear George

I needed to get away - for a few days, maybe weeks. I have done something, something terrible that even I cannot yet fully justify to myself. You will think it an act of madness, no doubt. Self-destructive and immoral, and somehow worse still. Just, I beg you, do not think I do not still love you. What I have done is despite loving you, and its apparent cruelty to you is my greatest regret now. If you choose to never see me again, I will understand completely - though I am sure my heart would break.

This letter is my confession, and my attempt to explain - not justify, just explain - how I came to surrender not merely my body but every shred of dignity in a quest for what might be perceived as some perverse sexual degradation but what I saw as an almost spiritual journey to nirvana through self-extinction. Do not rush to think this was some idle whimsy or crass infidelity. Rather, this was a worm of dark obsession that has grown to maturity, a guilty secret nurtured for years until it threatened to burst from my chest like an acid-blooded alien.

No. This act was planned, prepared for, and finally executed. I am entirely to blame. I did what I felt I had to do, though in consequence I no longer know who I am. But I am hopeful that in writing this confession to you I will come to a new understanding.

Do you remember our honeymoon, George? We had both believed in saving ourselves for marriage, and in consequence our love and joy in those blessed days was tempered as much by ignorance as innocence. My sister, Sarah, far more experienced in such matters than I dreamt I would ever be, took me aside before our wedding. Her well intentioned attempt at preparation and education in effect filled me with dread of what you might expect of me. "Men adore having their cocks sucked," she'd said, "and if he loves you true he'll return the favour..."

I could hardly conceive of such a thing! There was something almost bestial about the act of touching mouth to genitals - or profoundly unhygienic at least. Even now, over two decades later, there's a tiny voice in my head insisting that sex is unclean - both physically dirty and somehow immoral. That you did not, in the days and weeks after our wedding, suggest I take you orally, and further that you did not attempt the reverse, was a profound relief. We were, it seemed, compatible in the bedroom.

They say a man loves a whore in bed, and I was grateful that you did not. Our lovemaking was intimate and romantic, and though my orgasms were rare and mild, my focus was on conception. Never in my life have I been as happy as I was when pregnant, first with our boy Sam and quickly after our darling Tina. Life was good. I had a husband I adored, a house to run, two beautiful bouncing babies who quite exhausted me but whom I loved to bits...

It is the way of married couples that they have less and less sex, what with the stress of work life on the husband and the constant demands on the mother. We were tired in the evenings, often falling asleep in front of the television, and in truth our sex life, so enjoyable in the early years, lacked imagination and adventure. The magazines I read all said to spice things up. My sister said to spice things up. All those sex scenes in movies where women screamed with a pleasure I had never experienced said to spice things up.

But how? You were content with the way things were. Your eyes skipped over my new lace underwear, and you resisted my suggestions to try new positions. When women talked of blowjobs in movies, I asked you if all men wanted it, and you said no. When they talked of demanding cunnilingus in return and I teasingly asked you, your lips twisted with distaste. Yet I understood. The old, prudish part of me was relieved that you rejected these overtures.

Growing within me, however, was a rebellious spirit, both curious and hungry. Our occasional lovemaking no longer truly satisfied me, if indeed it ever had. When women asked each other if they 'spit or swallow', as disgusted as I was by the thought of a man finishing in my mouth, I wondered what it was like. One night, in the bathroom after sex, your cum leaking from my pussy, I yielded to the perverse impulse to taste it...

Well, the taste was neither good nor bad, though it seemed to linger in my senses for a long time after. But in yielding to that perversity, I took the first tentative step away from the self you believed me to be. I tried to deny it at first. I tried to pretend it was a momentary deviance, an experiment now complete. I wondered if it showed in my face somehow, when sitting in coffee circles with the other mothers. Could they tell I had slipped off the path? Or perhaps this was something they too did in secret? Or perhaps they were not too shy to be whores in bed for their demanding husbands... When we talked about sex, which of course we did, it was always about what other people got up to, never about ourselves.

I wanted more. When we next made love, I was impatient for you to finish so that I could rush afterwards to the bathroom. There, with the door locked, the shower running to cover the noise, I tasted again the product of our love. I had never been so wet before. Understand, my love, it's not the taste of your cum that excited me, but the tasting. The erotic power in a forbidden act. The very wrongness of what I was doing had me more aroused than I could remember ever being.

It was not the first time I had touched myself, though previous attempts at pleasuring myself had always foundered on the rocks of guilt and unease. I had never been able to escape the feeling that it was something only sluts like my sister embraced. I was a married woman; I had a husband whose role it was to deliver that intimate pleasure. But secluded in that bathroom, licking my husband's cum from fingers increasingly wet from my pussy, the knowledge that I was acting like a cheap whore only served to intensify the experience.

Even knowing how horrified you would be to see me there, squatting naked on the floor with my legs spread wide, fingers alternately stroking my clit and scooping fluid from my cunt - yes, George: my cunt - could not prevent me from pushing myself to that precipice. I had never in my life needed so badly to come. Even with the roar of the shower behind me, I'm amazed you did not hear my frantic whimpers and the lewd squelching of my pussy. I'm amazed you did not come running when I cried out in ecstasy -

- but, then, I guess you were asleep, oblivious to the climax that wracked my flesh. It was a mind-shattering orgasm more powerful than any I had ever experienced with you, George, I'm sorry. In that moment, any hope that I might find my way back to the woman I once was was thrashed. From that moment on, no sweet, romantic sex could hope to compete with the exquisite release I had achieved through whorish abandon. From that moment on, the loyal wife you knew, the morally righteous mother of your children, was nothing more than a fiction, a role I played to disguise my true nature.

*

I wish you were here, George. I imagine you barging into my suite, the door slamming against the wall. In your rage, you don't think to close it properly, and your voice as you yell at me that I am a dirty whore carries out and along the corridor. Despite your disgust, your cock is harder than it has been in years, and you don't bother to close the curtains before exposing your proud length and thrusting it at my face.

It is late afternoon as I write this. An elderly couple is strolling past as I write this, the wind-tossed sea beyond them. They catch sight of me watching them between the words I write, and give a friendly wave. I smile back, imagining their shocked expressions if you were here now, driving your hard cock between my lips, my hair coiled tightly in your fist. "You want my cum, you depraved bitch? I'll make you choke on it!"

They watch as you fuck my throat, nodding their approval. I'm obviously a slut who can't get enough. A hotel maid peeks through the open door. She knows she should close it, but she's glad to see me getting what I deserve, and her hand drifts up under her skirt and inside her black lace underwear. She can't wait to tell her boyfriend all about it.

You don't last long. You're not trying to. You pull out abruptly and aim your spurting cock at my face. Cum splashes across my cheeks, and slowly drips down onto my dress. "Don't ever come home," you growl, and wipe your cock clean with my hair before zipping it back into your trousers and turning to go. My eyes meet the maid's briefly before she scurries away.

*

My dearest George, if you seek hard evidence that there is more to this rambling confession than mere words, take a look in the drawer in our room where I keep my makeup and you-know-what. The one place in the house you never look. At the back of the drawer is a box. Dare to open it and you will have your proof.

I have tried various toys over the years, and they have all been fun to experiment with in their own ways, but the pink vibrator was my first and has always been my favourite. Despite its lurid colour, its lifelike appearance and material make it feel almost like a real cock. The vibrations are nice of course, but I just love the weight of that veined shaft in my hand - so much longer and thicker than yours, George.

I love it, I think, because it makes me feel like I am cheating on you - which in a way I am, even if it isn't real flesh and blood. It makes me feel like an unfaithful wife who, unsatisfied with her husband's shortcoming, seeks the thrill of a real man. For years it has been a near daily ritual to fuck my own sweet pussy with that silicone cock, and afterwards lick it clean of my own essence while imagining the taste of my lover's cum mingled with my own.

That pink vibrator has been my sole confidant for years. I wish I had it with me now, though I am still too bruised inside to use it properly. I beg you, George. Do not throw it away. Take it to bed with you and let the smell of it remind you of me. Take pleasure in the knowledge that I am now denied the lover that made a cuckold of you.

*

As long as our children still lived at home, I kept my dark, rebellious self contained. They were my priority, and it would have been selfish to risk the stability of our home. But both have flown the nest now, and there has been little over the past few months to distract me from fantasies of sexual abandon.

Times are different now from ten years ago. With time on my hands and greater confidence in my ability to search the web and interact safely, I discovered porn sites, and erotic fiction sites, and forums for every conceivable fetish and fantasy. I found myself increasingly drawn to scenes and stories where a woman is used - even abused - by multiple men. "Surely no woman would consent to that," I'd tell myself, while wishing the experience could be mine.

Often in the past few months, George, you have asked me if I'm ill, and it's true that I have been fatigued, but my illness, as such, is of the spirit and I have suffered only from an excess of self-pleasure. Frustratingly, there is a limit to the pleasure one can derive through fantasy. What I craved, ultimately, was not fantasy but experience. I wanted to be treated like a whore, degraded, a helpless victim of pleasure.

I stumbled across a chat room for a local swingers group and made friends with a woman called Fiona. "What you need," she said, "is a gangbang - and I think I know someone..."

Her someone was Bill, a butcher at a nearby supermarket. We met for coffee in the supermarket café. I half recognised him, a large, muscular fellow with a cheerful grin. "First time?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Ever been with more than one guy?"

"No."

"Ever been with anyone other than your husband?"

"No."

With each answer, the shadow of doubt deepened in his eyes. "Ever done anal?" No. "Oral?" No.

Finally: "And you want it rough. Dirty." More statement than question.

"Yes."

He sighed heavily and studied me. I could feel my skin burning with shame. I was talking openly about sex with a man who wasn't my husband. A man who was practically a stranger, and yet I was inviting him to do things to me that no married woman should even consider. "Maybe," he said at last. "But I suggest four sessions. The first with me, the second with me and Ollie, the third with Ollie, Dave and Stu, and if you still want the works, the fourth will be all four of us, no holds barred."

"Okay," I said, my voice catching. It made sense. It also meant a lot of sex - sex that I'd watched and that I'd read about, but had never actually done. It made sense to have practice sessions. It meant I would be unfaithful to my husband not once but four times. With four different men. I could no longer lie to myself that it was a one-off meaningless encounter.

No. I was embarking on an adventure that would take me so far beyond my old self that I would be unrecognisable.

There's a tin in that drawer that contains a range of hair accessories. If you burrow beneath these, you'll find a sealed plastic sandwich bag containing a little steel buttplug with a purple jewel. I bought this years ago and often wear it in the house during the day. It might amuse you to know that I was wearing it when we visited your parents in April. It added an illicit thrill to an otherwise tedious journey.

However, it is not the only buttplug I own. In preparation for my first session, with Bill, I purchased another, bigger plug. I have it here with me now. It is similar in design, but black silicone rather than steel, and its size is easily twice as much. Despite my long familiarity with the little one, it was a struggle to insert this larger one for the first time. I felt for sure it would do real damage. Finally, though, with determination and plenty of lubricant, I succeeded in inserting the thick bulb past the protesting rim of my ass and it lodged so firmly within me - and, ohh, how gorgeously stuffed I was - that I feared I would never get it free again.

You should have seen me in the supermarket, tottering along and between the aisles in my short skirt and high stiletto heels, my cheeks flushed. My pussy wet. Every move I made reminded me there was an obscene toy shoved into my rear. I had never felt more like a slut in sheep's clothing. In the car, still in the car park, I hitched up my skirt, tugged my soaked underwear to the side, and brought myself swiftly to a climax with my fingers. I screamed with pleasure as my ass contracted blissfully about that huge invader that I imagined to be Bill's thick cock.

I bought another toy that day: the longest suction-cup dildo in the store. (Not the thickest, mind.) I had been clear with Bill that I wanted to be fucked mouth, ass and pussy, all at once, and Bill had told me that I had better practise taking a cock in my throat. Trust me, I did. For two hours every day - while you were at work, honey - I plugged my ass with my brutal new plug and filled my mouth with my new silicone cock. (I have that with me here now too.)

Do you think it strange that I am proud of my ability to fill my throat with a man's member? Of course, sucking on a silicone dildo is very different from sucking on a throbbing, leaking cock attached to an impatient man; but when the time came, I would be glad of my preparation.

Just think, George. When the day comes that you want to claim your once-sweet wife's mouth and ass, I will be ready for you.

*

We met in town, on a Thursday morning, in a pub behind the market, and already I felt overwhelmed, out of my element and out of my depth too. To be a woman alone, walking into a pub at all, let alone into a strange pub in town busy with hard core drinkers and loud-voiced traders, is a terrifying experience. The lighting was dull and the air stale, the carpeted floor faded and stained, and as I walked in I felt as if everyone was staring at me - as if they knew the white fishnets were hold-ups not tights, and that beneath my short dress I was without underwear.

Bill's instructions had been clear about what to wear, and what not to wear. I had parked the car a few minutes' walk away and had changed in the car from the respectable clothes I had worn from home into this much sluttier apparel. I had never before dared to wear a dress without bra and knickers. I felt sure everyone was looking at the points my nipples made in the green fabric, and the way the cool air tickled my pubes and licked at my exposed pussy kept making me worry that my shame was visible to all - or about to be revealed by a sudden gust of wind.

Just the high heels and the white fishnets were enough to make me feel almost like a prostitute, and I had to wonder if that's what they were all thinking as they looked at me. No doubt the red lipstick that Bill had insisted on just acted as a confirmation.

It's a good thing he was there waiting for me, a half-drunk pint of beer in one hand, or I might have fled. Profoundly relieved, I joined him at the bar where he ordered me a rum and coke. I still felt anxious and exposed, a forty-something housewife dressed like a cheap hooker, but my anxiety was focussed on this one man, this relative stranger that I was here to fuck, the first man other than my husband ever to do so.

His free hand cupped my ass possessively and squeezed. "You look gorgeous, doll," he said, his eyes echoing the sentiment. "I was sure you wouldn't come."

I laughed nervously. "I nearly turned back a dozen times." It was so strange to be standing so close to this man who wasn't my husband. His hand on my ass was a forbidden intimacy in full public view, stirring the heat that had been building within me all morning. In the mirror behind the bar, I could see myself in his embrace as if I belonged to him. I wondered what it would be like to kiss him - but couldn't imagine it. I wasn't sure either what I would do if he tried to kiss me.

"You'd better be wet," he growled softly in my ear. "I'm not interested in foreplay."

"I'm ready," I whispered, melting under the heat of his breath.

"Good. Leave your drink. Come with me."

He didn't give me much choice. His hand like a vise about my wrist, he tugged me after him as he led the way, down the corridor at the back and into the Gents'. I pulled back in alarm, or tried to, but suddenly I was in that cold, brightly lit space that stank of urine and disinfectant, urinals down one wall, a sink in the corner, two cubicles covered in graffiti. Thankfully no one else was there to see me being pushed into a cubicle, Bill following behind and locking us in together.

The space was tight, too cramped for either of us to move much, and I was abruptly conscious of the bulge in Bill's pants pressing against my bum. He bent me over the toilet, my hands on the cistern for balance, and tugged up my dress about my waist. "That's fucking hot," he said, caressing my bare cheeks, one questing finger dipping into my pussy. "A natural slut," he said approvingly.

I felt a thrill of excitement at being called a slut, which added to the thrill of being taken from behind in a dirty cubicle. If I still had one misgiving about this whole adventure, it was the lack of protection - Bill would not be wearing a condom. That had all been agreed up front, and Bill had assured me that he and his mates were all clean, but still. It was a risk, but one I needed to take. I shivered fearfully as he shoved his trousers and Y-fronts down about his knees, and the shaft of his erect cock pressed heavily between my cheeks.

"Last chance," he said.

Indeed. Last chance to quit and go home and pretend to be a loyal, obedient wife and not a slut embracing a self-destructive fantasy of whoredom. But it was too late for me. I was already too far gone down the rabbit hole. Pressing back against the hard cock that was dribbling precum onto me, I demanded, "Stick it in."