Author's note: This is fourth story in the series "The Corrupting of Nikki Kim." I recommend reading the three preceding stories first, but there's probably enough context in this one that it could be read as a standalone. I know my stories are on the longer side, but I try to invest in building tension and realism because I think it makes for a hotter payoff in the end. The girls in my stories don't just fuck at the drop of a hat because I don't just fuck at the drop of a hat. You need to earn it.
This story is purely fictional. As always, if you like these characters, then let me know in the comments and I'll consider writing a follow-up. I read all comments and emails. Happy reading.
...
Hours later, as the afternoon sun began to descend across the California sky, I staggered out of the in-law unit in my backyard, slowly making my way back up to the main house.
When I'd made my fateful walk down to the in-law unit earlier that day, I'd been conscious of the fact that the neighbors might see me, clothed from head-to-toe in the MILF slut regalia that Johan had chosen for me. At the time, I'd felt a flutter of anxiety, a tickle of shame at the thought of being seen. What would they think if they saw me--a 34-year-old Asian woman, a wife and mother to two young boys--dressed to fulfill the fantasies of a depraved, 19-year-old white boy?
If they saw me wearing what he had bought for me--silver hoop earrings and red lipstick, black suede pumps with a silky black cocktail dress, a black leather collar with a small metal ring--would they know what I was doing? Would they realize what I had become?
But now, as I made the reverse journey, carrying those same suede pumps as I shambled barefoot towards my house, these questions seemed laughably naive. Because if any of the neighbors saw me now, the truth would be self-evident.
It was written in my disheveled hair, the lipstick and eyeliner smudged across my pretty Korean face. It was smeared across my wrinkled black dress, chalky splotches of white and gray staining the silky fabric. It was etched along my slender neck, where the leather collar had pressed against my soft, tan flesh, imprinting a blush-colored redness that revealed the extent of my submission. It was obvious from my faltering, spunk-drunk gait, my aching legs barely able to keep my depleted body upright.
Anyone could tell that I'd been fucked, hard and deep and more than once. Anyone could see that I'd been turned out, opened up, and split in two by some insatiable force. Anyone could guess that I'd taken hours of punishment, that my supple Asian body had been used and abused with such cruel and reckless hedonism that it bordered on blasphemy.
And no one who saw me--no stranger, no neighbor, no man or woman--would believe that this was my husband's handiwork. Because that just isn't the way a husband has sex with his wife.
It's the way a white college stud fucks a stacked Asian MILF when she finally gives in to him.
In truth, I hadn't felt like this since the last time I gave birth. My body was completely spent and totally exhausted, but I felt a sense of tranquility, like the glassy calm that settles over the surface of the ocean after a typhoon has passed.
Johan had stretched me out in every conceivable way. Physically, of course, he had plumbed depths that I didn't know existed, stimulating nerve-endings that had never been fired. But he had also stretched me emotionally, forcing me to feel things that were totally foreign, coercing me into reconsidering what I actually wanted. And he had stretched me morally, distending my Christian values and contorting my conservative upbringing, twisting my sacred marital vows into a knotted tangle of ethical dilemmas. Should I be honest my husband? Was it kinder to lie? What about my children? What about myself?
As I crossed the threshold back into my home, I lost my balance, stumbling against the couch to catch myself. I hadn't tripped over anything, but I was gripped by sudden sense of vertigo, as if the room were tilting around me. Then, just as quickly, I realized it wasn't the room that was tilting. It was me, listing to the left like a ship taking on water from the port side, pulled down by an unseen weight anchored to my left hand.
It was my wedding ring. The same one that Johan had bullied me into removing as the final prelude to my submission. The same one he had so ruthlessly described as "a lie."
I'd tried to be subtle as I left the in-law unit, scooping the ring up gingerly from the table where I'd left it, slipping it back on with my back turned to him. But Johan had seen right through me.
"You know, I wanted to tell your husband about us so badly," he chuckled scornfully. "But now, I think it actually turns me on more to watch the way you keep lying to him."
"You can't tell him," I murmured, my voice raspy, my throat still raw from being face-fucked. "Not ever."
"I fucked you in his bed yesterday," Johan crowed exultantly, still barely able to believe his good fortune. "God, that was so fucking hot, Nikki..."
"I need to go shower," I muttered. "Before I pick up the boys..."
"You do that," he grinned, hopping out of bed. "I'm actually going to head out, too. A friend of mine from Uni has a camper van, and we're going to drive out to Joshua Tree tonight."
I opened the door and turned to leave.
"You wanna come?" he asked wryly. "I told my mate all about you. He's dying to fuck you, too."
"What?" I croaked, barely able to speak. "Johan, you can't tell anyone--you promised..."
"Relax, Nikki. I said I told him about you, but I didn't tell him who you are," he laughed, walking into the bathroom. "He wants to fuck you, but I'm not ready to share yet."
I'd left the in-law unit in a hurry after that. I didn't want to be there if Johan changed his mind.
...
Somehow, I hauled myself into the shower, where I tried desperately to scrub away the evidence of an afternoon spent entirely at Johan's mercy. I couldn't rub away the redness where the collar had pressed against my neck, so as soon as I was dry, I pulled a chunky, high-necked sweater over my head.
I took the crumpled, cum-stain cocktail dress and stuffed it back into the gift box it had come in, along with the pumps, the lingerie, and the collar. I pushed the box deep into the back of my closet, behind a stack of shoeboxes. Then, I slipped into a pair of jeans and rushed out the door.
As I climbed into the car and began to back out of the driveway, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windshield, and I realized that I had overlooked something. I'd forgotten to take off the oversized silver hoop earrings that Johan had given me, which glinted softly in the light, a subtle yet uncharacteristic accent to the dark waves of freshly-washed hair that framed my face.
I paused in the driveway, a tendril of shame licking at the nape of my neck. I was on my way to pick up my children like the wholesome school-mom that I was trying to be. Yet I was still adorned with the rings of my conqueror, my body pierced by his metal, marked by a fantasy that I had so amply fulfilled.
