Rendezvous with the Night

Rhonda was desperately trying on different items of her clothes for tonight's event. The time was almost up for her to leave. And different blouses and skirts were scattered about her adorned feet. She already had the basics done. Her brunette hair is done up fashionably with a few strands of hair naturally falling on her side and back. Black lingerie set she just purchased this afternoon at Victoria's Secret were on her, and she was adjusting it somewhat nervously as these sheer garments barely covered her private areas. Both brassieres and thong were tiny. In fact there was a little reason why to wear them given the fact that her nipples and the parting upper tip of her vaginal lips were shown through them anyway except for the difference of a darker shade over them. But again it was more fashionable to wear them than not to wear them. And her long slender legs were adorned with a pair of sheer black thigh highs with flowery decoration on the edge around her thighs. Her pale skin and a shady touch of black colour composed a very alluring sensation about her. And strangely and unacceptably, creating butterflies on her belly, Rhonda felt bad ... naughty bad. And again, strangely and unacceptably, it felt good to feel that.

It all began with stockings. Not just regular stockings. More specifically thigh-highs ... darker tones. Preferably, black. A delicate mixture of colours her mirror was reflecting, her pale white skin and that shadowy shade filming thinly above it created an intoxicatingly vivid accentuation for what she had in mind: she wanted to be seen. And a sensation this thin garment provided her ever so sensitive skin ... it surely was designed to arouse those who wore it. This was the beginning of her eroticism. This was an ultimate message of her eroticism to whoever destined to witness it that night. Everything else was donned in context with it.

She knew who her audiences would be that night. She knew for sure it would not be a delicate appreciation or a marvelled adoration of her beauty and physique. It would be a crude visual exploitation, unashamedly expressed and pursued with aggression. She would be considered as a very embodiment of sex: as a mean to a goal, as an instrument for a play.

Surely it would not be condoned by anyone she knew. Or anyone who thought he or she knew her. Her husband especially would not be accepting at all if he knew what thoughts actually were going through her mind as she was getting dressed. A man could also live in his own fantasy. And usually his ego blocks out all the warning signs that a woman could portray in many manners and fashions. And he definitely was not getting the message she was donning that night.

What brought her this awakening senses of unspeakable desire all of the sudden, she did not know. But surely as its burning mark chisels itself an engraved connection between every nerve of her body with her minds a moment's realization was more than enough to startle an antagonizing pursuit for pleasure she never knew existed.

There was something strangely alluring about the very thought of being undone inappropriately ... a ruthless exposure of something quite private and discreet before the naked eyes of those who were not warranted of such views... especially when it was initiated by something other than one's full participation of will ... an exertion of a show of light force ... and a helpless subjugation under that force ... with a show of inherent reluctance as well as expectant passivity. Inherent ... more of a traditional inhibition of guilt and shame. Expectant ... inadmissible admittance to the pleasure of what is to be done. A betrayal, it surely was. A betrayal that would undoubtedly add many shades of intricate colours of pleasure ... a betrayal, the purest and ultimate blossom of lust. And a single taste of that essence, there was no going back. And no, she was not about to go back.

It went back a couple of months to her husband's corporate Christmas party. Rhonda was a faithful churchgoer. A mix of crowds that she would place herself would always be fellow church members, soccer moms and neighbourly acquaintances in a more conservative tone of lifestyle. That was an acceptable measure of lifestyle that had been introduced to her since her young age, and Rhonda sustained it out of social obligation of necessity, association, convenience and habit. And it was safer. Not quite extraordinary or adventurous or, to be sure, fun. But safe. And that sense of safety assuaged her into a continuation of this sustained lifestyle of social balance and moral painting of her exterior, at least. What Rhonda did not realise was that with one night's experience could torpedo all that she had brought up around her into a mere state of shatter and uncertainty. And it all happened in that Christmas party.

The crowd she was invited into along with her husband that night was not at all like the crowd she used to. They looked at her. They really looked at her. They were not interested in her spiritual journey, mental stability, emotional burdens or ethical challenges and successes she scored throughout the week. These people were only interested in what she decided to expose and, more so, in what she decided not to expose. Their only and naked interest in her was what in the name of pleasure she—in fact, her body—could contribute to the overall mood of the whole party. And never before was she looked at so blatantly and thoroughly by a group of men with one obvious intention: lust.

Her outfit that night also was quite different than what she used to wear to other public functions in her life. Rhonda was somewhat a shy girl type. She had a beautiful—almost pretty—face: small feminine shape, pointy nose, well-defined lips, pointy chin, long eyelashes, and luscious hazel eyes. And a very feminine, slender body supported her facial perfection. Her body was not that eye-catching—well, at least, immediately. But when you take time to examine, her breasts, waist and hips were impeccably balanced with 34B-25-34. But by her husband's strong insistence that she would resort to a more fleshy and scanty trend, she did a shopping to acquire more suitable fashion for the party she agreed to attend with her husband that night. She wore light black thigh highs, open toe heels with a black glossy touch, a thin, silver ankle band around her left ankle, loosely hung black silk one-piece barely on her shoulders, with her brunette hair done up with some strands naturally falling on the back of her neckline. It was apparent to others that she wore her brassieres insider her dress, yet it is quite thin and lacy that both the bra's lacy texture and semi-erected nipples are lightly resembling on the surface of her thin garment.

Something she never was used to. She felt exposed, she felt insecure, she felt embarrassed, and she felt guilty well, almost. What then followed closely in hand was a strange sensation of her body's response to the gazes on her. Her nipples were sparingly hardened up, the temperature of her skin was elevating dangerously at each sip of champagne wetting her lips, her breath was getting shallower with a continuum of increased heartbeats turning into heart pounds, her vaginal area was getting wet almost to the level of discomfort, and each embrace, kiss, handshake, 'accidental' brush ups ... all led her already sensitive skin to maddening frenzy of struggles between 'not losing control' and 'about to let go of all.'

As she was pretending to keep her cool, watching her husband growing more rowdy, heavily drunk, completely oblivious of her presence there, and finally falling asleep on the sofa by her, Rhonda was reaching her limit of bearing a physical torture her body was undergoing by pleasure, which was an entirely new idea to her. This growing antagonism was expressed by constantly switching crossing of her legs, pulling down though helplessly on the hem of her one-piece, consequently leading her back to fix the top, which placed the length of her slender leg exposure to the same.

The ultimate turning point came about when Rhonda decided to go up the upstairs to find the bathroom to refresh herself before aiding her unconscious husband out of this madness and back home. As she was moving up the stairs, weaving her way through undistinguishable shapes of many sets of shameless, lustful two bodies could mould in darkness along with unmistakable noises they create—oral and not-so-oral, she could tell one of her night's admirers decidedly were tracing her steps. One of her husband's rowdy co-workers who repeatedly flirted with her, made many suggestive remarks, yet failed to make her leave her husband's side. And he definitely made a huge contribution to Rhonda's current dilemma.

Rhonda could smell troubles at hand. Yet knowingly, she was letting herself making mistakes she was so unwilling to undo. Instead of going nearby guest restroom, giving herself an excuse that too many people were using it, Rhonda decided to walk up to a more private restroom in the master bedroom. She was unaccompanied and failed to inform a few she knew at the party of an intended-short-duration at her destination. She did not turn around to look at the guy as a show of her perception of his assumable intention and her willingness to retaliate if her perception came true. She forgot to lock the bedroom door. She even forgot to lock the bathroom door as she leaned on the counter to adjust her tiny wet thong in a desperate attempt to relieve her agony by somehow finding a way to cool herself down.

But that mere knowledge of someone approaching her with a so-obviously-apparent intention, taking full and unrelenting advantages over her almost intentional mistakes, by picking them up one by one as if picking her dirty underwear pieces scattered stairs up ... the thought that he felt, smelled, was in possession of things that she would never in right mind show up, and was about to return those fallen items to her in person, in her face, made Rhonda squirm and almost mesmerised with overwhelming anticipation. As Rhonda heard that unmistakable sound of bedroom door shut, muffling the noise of loud music and conversations, she knew that she was now completely separated and severed from the rest of the house in privacy with someone with a fixed agenda on her. And when she heard the click noise of locking button on the door, Rhonda felt this man's risky yet resolute fixation on her to fulfil what he came to desire that night in her. And she leaned over the counter further to the mirror and busied herself fixing make-ups ... though that was the last thing she was concerned of that very moment.

He did not make love to Rhonda as he pulled her into bed. All her helpless efforts of oral protests why he should not and she should not commit what they were about to, which did not merit to anything substantially consequent, were muffled by his bold and unashamed exploitation on and in her body. It was, if not mistaken, what they called, a pure fucking. She was nothing more than a sheer fuck toy he would claim, exploit, manipulate and dirty up at the pleasure of his lustful expectations. Never was she before forced to open her pretty mouth wide to accommodate someone's rigid and fattened manhood and instructed to perform various set of techniques so that he could maximise his pleasure in her mouth, and eventually explode an unbelievable amount of semen loaded in it. His manhood was so long and thick, Rhonda had no choice but to swallow most of his deposit with a loud gagging noise as he continued to pump himself down her throat, holding her head fast to his hairy groin, as his overloaded white cum drooled out helplessly at the corner of her stuffed mouth.

Never was she before talked down by any male she knew in her life and called slut, whore, pussy, bitch, cunt, etc. It was in fact a drastic change for Rhonda. All the words and concepts were replaced. It was no longer sex. It was fuck. It was not making love or having sex. It was fucking. His penis was cock. Her vagina was pussy. She was not a mother, wife, PTA member, church member, nice neighbourly lady or Ms. So-and-so. She was a slut. She was a whore. She was bitch. She was a cunt. She was nasty, dirty, skanky and horny. She was everything mixed and all things apart. She was called by each title and fucked until she acknowledged that she was what each of those titles propositioned of her existence to him. He was a master. He was mastering her, refining her, and reducing her to an almost perfect fall. And he claimed her completely—without any protection, completely—by filling her up so full with his semen, his 'cum', so that by the time he came second time in her, his white and clear semen was running down her thighs with its sticky feeling and warm temperature.

The most amazing thing about this whole thing was that Rhonda's body was just going through a state of euphoria. The nastier it got, the more exhilarant she became. The most unusual purring noise escaped from the deep down of her throat through her extended neckline titled abruptly back with her mouth wide open and eyes wide shut. Her fingers were clenching on the bed linen, her toes were curled and her back was arched rigid and tight. She didn't know how to adjust her thighs and legs as they were spread wide open. At each forceful and rough thrust into her tight pussy, Rhonda was pushed deeper and deeper into what lust had to offer to satiate the desire and need she never knew she had, and it was accompanied accordingly with the nastiest and raw noise she ever made in bed. Never did she know that another man's masterful cock was simply this good in her.

It was like an eternity as Rhonda's thought returned to her current affair from a thrilling memory of her transformation. But as that night's exhilarant sensation wrapped her body and mind with intoxicating pleasure, she could lay her mind to choose what she wanted to wear for the evening. She simply put on that floral layered sheer black blouse over her top and long black wrapping skirt with opening on her side. The only mechanism that held the skirt on her body was that fragile wrapping button on her waist, and whoever was lucky enough to sit on her left side would have a full view of her entire left leg no matter how hard she would attempt to cover up. And the finish touch was done when she adorned her tender, well-taken cared of feet with a set of high heels. Black velvet with a thin red tape ribbon accentuated at the toe opening, and only a thin strap going around her shapely ankles. A shift of her weight balance due to that higher than usual heels caused her calves, thighs and hips to be more accentuated in their already perfect shapes as her waist arched and her back straining back a little to push her breasts out more. And that was the dress she chose for the night.

It was a private dinner one of her husband's important clients would attend, and he and his co-worker asked her whether she would be ok to accompany this guest for the dinner to enhance the mood and spirit. His co-worker was the very guy who brought her down on the Christmas party night. And when he asked separate from her husband, he was very suggestive and demanding. Rhonda and he never got together again after that night. But she was sure it was an unforgettable experience for me as it were for her. And the whole thing behind asking her to come out to this important private business dinner ... Rhonda's instinct was again warning her just like that night that something was up. She should have said no. She should have made up some prior engagements. She should have called in sick.

But Rhonda said yes. For some strange reasons she did and was getting ready for the evening, fitfully submitting herself to the assumed demands of lust this evening hid in disguise, and her physical sensation remembered how thorough, complete and pleasurable their violations would be on her body. And her moral, ethical and more sensible standards of mind subjugated before a naked desire of her body.

Well, almost. There was no mistake for anyone to assume otherwise what her intention would be when she would show up before these gentlemen this evening based on her reflection on the mirror. But she wanted to let her mind's side somewhat retain the dignity it wanted to preserve for the time being. And that small portion of her mind continued to remind her that she is a mother of a beautiful child, a wife to a husband. And a pang of guilt, bittersweet taste of anxiety crept through her body. It was an interesting cocktail when mixed with her lustful imagination, creating inexplicable chemistry in Rhonda.

[to be continued in Part II ...]