Becoming My Dream Wife

When I first met Adrienne, I thought she was beautiful in a way the world almost didn't know anymore. Soft. Shy. Innocent.

Honey-blonde hair framed her face, brushing her shoulders in lazy waves. Her eyes, a piercing ocean blue, darted shyly when I spoke to her. She had a delicate nose, a bottom lip just a touch fuller than her top, and the kind of smile that seemed almost embarrassed to exist. She wore simple jeans and a cozy white sweater, her posture slightly turned inward, modest, unknowingly seductive. She had no tattoos, no piercings beyond the small silver studs in her ears. She was thirty years old and so untouched by the world it made me ache.

Our first kiss was almost comical in how sweet it was--her face burning hot against my chest, her hands trembling slightly as she touched my jaw. When we finally made love, she clung to me, breathy and overwhelmed, crying out in small gasps as I taught her just how good it could feel to be desired. She had been with so few before me, and never like this. Never slowly. Never like she was worth worshipping.

In those early days, we kept it simple. Missionary was her comfort zone. Anything more felt too daring. But little by little, I coaxed her forward.

I praised her the first time she slid her lips over me, tentative and blushing. I held her hand when I guided her on top of me, watching her gasp at the feeling of control. I brought a small vibrator to bed once, setting it against her clit while she rode me, and her entire body went rigid with pleasure. She clung to me after, giggling, embarrassed and glowing.

It was during a lazy weekend trip that I introduced her to the idea of THC.

"Just a gummy," I said, smiling. "It'll help you relax."

She was hesitant. But she trusted me. Always.

What followed was something neither of us expected. Her body lit up. She climbed into my lap that night, grinding against me, whispering filth into my ear with a hunger I had never seen in her. I didn't even have to undress her--she ripped her own clothes off, desperate to feel me.

From then on, everything changed.

She loved the way being high made her feel--uninhibited, needy, wild. It unlocked something deep inside her that had always been there, sleeping. And now that it was awake, it wasn't going back to sleep.

The first time we booked a hotel room just for sex, she packed a tiny lace teddy I'd bought for her--something she would have blushed at even seeing six months prior. She surprised me by slipping into it without being asked, presenting herself to me with a shy but filthy smile. We filmed ourselves that night, the camera balanced on a chair, catching every angle as she bounced on my cock, her moans echoing against the sterile hotel walls. She was so high she barely remembered the details the next morning, but when I showed her a short clip, her cheeks flushed--and then she smiled.

"I want to do it again," she whispered.

We started having sex everywhere. Every house we stayed at, every guest room, every opportunity became a new place to claim. She loved it. The danger, the thrill of being somewhere she wasn't supposed to be fucking.

One night at a wedding downtown, we slipped into the bridal suite--a massive, elegant room with a folding wall and a huge window overlooking the city skyline. Just on the other side of that folding wall, the reception raged on--music, laughter, a few hundred guests.

We didn't care.

I pushed her up against that giant window, her white panties pushed to the side, her dress hiked up around her waist. I fucked her hard, her palms splayed against the glass, her breath fogging the window as she struggled to stay quiet. The foldable wall rattled faintly with the bass from the reception music. We were so close to getting caught, it made her orgasm even harder, trembling against me as she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

Another time, we went hiking in the woods. It was a sunny afternoon, the trail deserted--at first. She bent over to tie her shoe, and when she looked back at me, that mischievous glint was in her eye.

I pulled her off the trail, deep into the trees, and yanked her shorts down around her ankles. We fucked standing up, her back against a rough tree trunk, her moans muffled against my shoulder. Just as I was about to cum, we heard footsteps--a couple, talking loudly, getting closer.

Adrienne didn't stop.

She grinned at me, bit her lip, and kept riding me, slow and deliberate. We froze behind the trees as the couple walked by just a few yards away, my cock still buried deep inside her. When they passed, she picked up the pace, and I came harder than I ever had, spilling inside her as she bit down on my neck to keep from screaming.

She gave me road head on the highway, too, blowing me expertly while I drove, her hands playing with my balls as she teased me with her tongue. I had to pull over once, desperate to be inside her, and we fucked in the back seat like teenagers.

Over the years, Adrienne's body transformed.

She got serious about yoga, Pilates, running. Her body tightened, sculpted itself into something breathtaking. Her ass became a perfect, perky bubble--soft enough to sink your hands into, firm enough to bounce a coin off. Her C-cup tits, once sweetly natural, stayed high and proud, gravity-defying even as she approached forty-five. She pierced her nipples one year as a birthday surprise for me, silver barbells that drove me insane every time I saw them. She got her ears pierced up and down each side, adding little silver hoops and studs. She inked a delicate vine of roses along her spine, the thorns and blossoms peeking out from low-cut tops.

She became addicted to feeling sexy. She started wearing tighter clothes, higher heels, lingerie without being asked. She'd pose for me, tease me, send me dirty pictures while I was at work.

And then--she wanted more.

It started one night when we were high. She was straddling me, riding my cock lazily, whispering filthy things into my ear.

"Would you want to watch me fuck someone else?" she whispered, her breath hot against my cheek. "Would you want to see me get filled by another cock, knowing I'm still yours?"

The idea lit a fire inside both of us.

And then, almost as if the universe heard her, an opportunity fell into our laps. A black coworker she used to flirt with lightly--a gorgeous man--came back to town for a visit.

We invited him over under the pretense of catching up. Adrienne wore a short, clingy dress, no panties underneath. She sat too close to him on the couch, laughed too hard at his jokes, touched his knee while looking at me with wicked eyes.

That night, after a few drinks and a whispered agreement, she took him to bed.

I hid around the house, my cock rock-hard, watching through cracked doors and dim hallways as he fucked her--hard, deep, relentless. Adrienne took every inch of him, moaning shamelessly, begging for more, her pierced nipples bouncing, her tattoos gleaming with sweat. They didn't just fuck once. They fucked everywhere--on the bed, against the wall, bent over the dining room table.

She let him cum inside her again and again, and every time she did, she looked around, knowing I was there, knowing I was watching, and she smiled.

By Sunday night, she could barely walk.

But when he finally left, she crawled into my lap, naked, used, marked with another man's cum--and she kissed me like she was starving.

"I'm yours," she whispered, her voice raw. "I'm always yours."

Now, at forty-five, Adrienne is the sexiest woman I've ever seen. Her body is a temple to lust, her mind a dirty, aching, hungry thing. She begs for me, teases me, worships me.

We still fuck everywhere--hotel balconies, beach houses, friend's guest rooms. We still get high and film ourselves, still push boundaries, still find new things to explore.

She's my dream girl.

And I made her this way.

One kiss, one moan, one filthy night at a time.