Becoming a Good Girl

Though I admittedly have a strong-willed streak that makes me stubborn to change and hate being told I'm wrong, in general, for most of my 50 years of life, I worked hard to be a "good girl" and do what I'm "supposed" to do. As a child I tried my best to obey my parents, listen to my teachers, and get straight A's in school. As I grew older I strove to be respectful to those in authority and put others first.

Though those things may be good within a healthy context, I got burnt out and lonely, and last year my world turned on end when a switch flipped inside me drawing me towards things I would have fled from in the past as being bad, selfish, sinful. And now I desire to be a truly "good girl" in a much different way. I'll explain.

You see, less than a year ago I was a different person, living just one life. I knew essentially nothing about BDSM, and the phrase "good girl" to me defined a squeaky clean, well-behaved girl.

As I mentioned above, for most of my life I fulfilled the role of the quintessential "good girl." I avoided all the classic "no-no's," in addition to others -- including no smoking, no drugs, no drinking, no swearing, no dancing, no porn, no erotica, no flirting, and (mostly) no lusting after men I had no right to desire.

I took deadly seriously the marriage vow I made close to 30 years ago to be faithful to my husband "until death do us part" -- faithful in my mind as well as my body. That meant not only no physical sex with anyone besides my husband, but no dwelling on how much I might be attracted to anyone else. If I met a man who aroused feelings of sexual desire inside me, I'd push those feelings aside.

However, this past year my moral compass got hit by a strong magnet, and it spun wildly out of control and has not yet re-centered. And now it's like I've split in two, living two lives -- my regular well-behaved life and my new hidden, sensual life. I look like a normal good girl on the outside, but inside I burn and lust and desire to be my Sir's "good girl."

I in no way blame my choices on anyone but myself, but perhaps you will not judge me so harshly if I explain why I feel the seeds of this dramatic sense of being off kilter began over six years ago on a day I will never forget.

On that day, as the last long rays of the sun shone through the kitchen window on a late summer's evening, my husband told me something that shook my world. Amongst the usual sounds of clanging of pans and clacking dishes as my husband loaded the dishwasher and I prepared dinner, my husband shared that he had come to realize he is a transwoman -- meaning that though born biologically as a man, he feels like a woman inside. I expressed caring and acceptance the best I could. He assured me he wouldn't leave me.

I didn't know then that what he said could potentially mean no sex in the future. My husband still lives, at least outwardly, as a man, but clearly something had changed between us, and as months and then years went by without us having sex, I accepted that my husband wasn't attracted to me sexually any more. I felt I had become resigned to the idea I wouldn't be having sex, perhaps ever again.

However, by the time almost six years had passed, I realized not having sex, or any type of intimate touch, for such a long time, messes with a person's psyche, or at least specifically my psyche, and if the opportunity to have an affair were to occur, I knew I'd be vulnerable.

And I was (and still am), for my interest was piqued when, close to a year ago, a sweet, handsome man sent an encouraging note about a video I had posted on a social media site. Travel back with me, if you will, to that first day as I relive that time of my life in my mind. . .

As I read the note you sent me, it seems innocuous enough, and you've made me smile, but still I feel my guard go up. I wonder if you'll ever write again.

When you send me more notes now and then, I can't quite put my finger on why, but something about the way you write makes me wonder if you have ulterior motives. That in turn makes me laugh at myself for even thinking such a thing because why would anyone want me -- shy, mousy, old me?

Yet I cannot help how my heart lifts each time you write. I enjoy it, feeling certain it won't last as you get to know me more and find out how boring I am, especially as I realize I'm 12 years older than you and you have a longtime girlfriend.

Yet you keep writing. One day you ask me of a video I posted, "Are you trying to be sexy in your video?"

I blush, and feeling properly horrified, my mind races. Sexy? Me? No way. I know it's wrong to try and be sexy, for then a man might lust after me. A woman should never do something purposefully that might arouse a man.

Glad you can't see me, with my face hot and my cheeks flushing bright red with embarrassment, I assure you I'm not trying to be sexy. I know you must realize what you're doing to me, how you make me feel. I wonder if you have a smile on your face.

As the days pass and you open up more and begin sharing your desires -- about how you want to fuck me in cowgirl, how you want to eat my pussy and pound my ass, how you want to throat fuck me (I had had no idea that was even possible) -- I feel shocked at the things you say, but instead of telling you to stop, I drink it in.

I'm changing more and more, and now I love knowing you think I'm sexy. I love it when you tell me I make your dick hard. The attraction is mutual for by this time my body feels almost constantly aroused. My deep guilt at writing you slowly diminishes as my own latent desires, woken up as from deep a slumber, increase, and my lust for you grows. Throughout the day, wave after wave of tingly warmth radiates through my body, from my chest to deep inside my pussy.

My sex drive has gone wild, and I masturbate at least daily, thinking of you. Up until I met you online, thinking about a man while masturbating was taboo for me, because to think of anyone besides my husband would be wrong. In the past, if I pictured anything, it would be me lying on a secluded beach alone with waves crashing against the shore.

Most often, though, before we met online I'd close my eyes while masturbating and simply blank the pictures in my mind and dwell on the sensations I felt while rubbing my clit and nipples. I would tense my core muscles, squeezing the walls of my pussy tightly, and focus on the delicious feeling of climbing higher and higher until I reached the crest and crashed over the top, my body pulsing in orgasmic relief, but always alone -- physically and mentally alone.

But now while I masturbate, I think of you and imagine I'm with you. I feel you touching me, fingering me in my pussy and in my ass, rubbing my clit, eating my pussy. I sometimes make videos for you of myself masturbating, so you can see the effect you have on me. I want you to see my hard, erect nipples, see the longing on my face, hear me breathing heavily, whimpering and moaning, watch my body pulse and shake.

I have fun chatting with you in the early morning. I love it when you talk dirty to me, making my pussy ache and making me wet and slippery, making me want you so badly. When you reveal to me you are dominant, very dominant, I like the sound of that, not knowing for sure all it means. But I'm growing to trust you, and I desire to please you.

One time I call you "sir," not realizing it's used in BDSM. I apologize for being silly. You assure me you like to be called Sir. You ask me what I'd like to be called, and I choose "slut" -- I will be your slut.

I care for you deeply, and sometimes I can't help but tell you I love you, though I know you will never love me because you have a fiancee you love. And I'm but your slave, honored to serve you and bring you pleasure.

When you first mention you want to slap my face. . . and spit on me. . . and choke me, I feel taken aback and startled. I ask you if you can you spit on me with respect. You say yes. It's confusing to me. And you assure me any choking will just be light choking, nothing dangerous. I still feel skeptical.

But, slowly, I begin wanting it all. I crave having you make me feel things so intensely I'll never forget. I want you to pound my ass and fuck my pussy so hard I won't be able to walk for days. Please spit on me, please slap me, . . . spank my ass, cum on my face. . . I want it all, for I want you, and I want to feel you with all my being.

Though you had assured me when we first began chatting we wouldn't ever meet (which I imagined was true since we live three time zones apart), we've since talked about possibly meeting some day. So I practice things pleasing to you with that hope in mind.

I've learned to dance seductively, so some day when we meet I can dance for you during breaks between fucking. Now, after practicing for you, I've come to love taking a dildo in my ass, so when we meet you can pound my ass hard. I'm getting better at pushing a dildo down my throat so you can throatfuck me some day and thrust your dick in all the way up to your balls. I want to feel your hot cum pour down my throat.

I felt honored when the other day, after you watched a video I sent you of me practicing throatfucking, you called me a "proper slut." I think I'm just about ready to meet you in real life, Sir. Many months of training, close to a year, have helped prepare me for being with you, to be your cum slut, your whore, desiring with all my being to please you and serve you whenever you'll have me. Sir, I yearn for the day you look in my eyes and I hear you say those precious words, "Good girl." Then I'll know I've finally become the truly "good girl" my heart desires.