After a long break, this resumes the story (told in her own words) of Lucy, a young, married primary school teacher from the south of England, and her life-changing summer six years ago. It all began when she became re-acquainted with an old family friend, who she had called her Uncle Ron since she was a little girl, despite not being related to him. Up to that point in her life, she had been blessed with what most people would regard as an idyllic lifestyle. She was happily married to a handsome, kind and loving husband. They had a lovely house in a nice area, and she was in a secure job that she loved. Her life was drifting along in an unremarkable and complacently normal - some might say humdrum - fashion. That is, until that fateful day when Uncle Ron re-entered her life and somehow managed to awaken something in her that had been deeply buried. Something that had subsumed her personality, and had transformed her into someone almost totally unrecognisable from her previous predictable, naive self.
The first five chapters, covering only a few but momentous days in Lucy's life, will tell her story up to this point....
Well, the day had finally arrived. It was Sunday and my husband, Michael, was returning home from his business trip to France. He had been away for two weeks but it seemed like an age since I last saw him as my life had been completely and utterly turned upside down in those few days. He had left behind a pretty, faithful and adoring young wife who held down a respectable job as a primary school teacher. But I could hardly be described in that way anymore. More like a submissive, exhibitionist slut. A slut with a taste for older, less attractive specimens of the opposite sex and, now, much to my further astonishment, even members of my own sex.
It was all the fault of a big, ugly old man who I had always called Uncle Ron, but was really just an old family friend and neighbour of my parents. I hadn't seen him since my wedding three years earlier, but he had recently reappeared in my life with cataclysmic results. He had aroused feelings in me that I never thought I possessed but which, I guess, had been suppressed while I had been cocooned in a life of suburban normality. I had been involved in some outrageous exploits that were totally out of step with my previous character. The whole experience had been completely surreal -- as if it was happening to someone else and I was looking on as a bemused spectator. Like most people, I had sexual fantasies but it seemed that these were suddenly all becoming reality in rapid succession. My mind was in a spin and I had trouble concentrating on anything other than my own lustful yearnings and what would transpire as my next act of wanton behaviour.
Paradoxically, however, I was deeply in love with my gentle, loving husband and had been longing for his return and our few days away together to try to get back to how things were just a few short days ago. I felt confused and ashamed that I had only felt a tinge of guilt about what had happened to me. The excitement I had felt about being taken and used, the powerful orgasms I had experienced, the contrast between my previous innocence and my new-found degeneracy had simply overwhelmed me and overrode all my other feelings. Even the shame I now felt when I reflected on what I had done somehow added to my excitement. I knew that I did not want this to stop and I selfishly hoped and prayed, perhaps naively, that I could continue with my double life without any consequences.
Michael was a sweet, loving man and he was very handsome. All my girlfriends thought he was a dish and I was acutely aware of the furtive glances he received from females when we were with friends or work colleagues. My sex life with Michael had been very good, or so I thought until recently. I now realised that it had tailed off over the last few months and was becoming rather predictable. Despite my best efforts, our lovemaking sessions had been reduced to about once or twice a week, usually at the weekend and at night with the lights off. They were nearly always instigated by me and I think he had come to expect me to take the lead. In addition, in view of my recent experiences, I now realised that he did not last very long when we were making love. At best, he could keep going for no longer than two or three minutes before coming which I innocently believed was normal. Luckily, I usually reach orgasm quite quickly myself so this had not been too much of a problem. When it was a problem, Michael always encouraged me to bring myself off while he held me close.
On one occasion recently, though, things took a turn for the better. We had been out to dinner with friends and were both quite inebriated when we got home. I was feeling very horny and impatiently urged Michael to take me there and then on the kitchen floor. Disappointingly, he had struggled to maintain an erection despite my best efforts and came seconds after he had entered me. He muttered his apologies and, as usual, grabbed my hands and pulled them down to my pussy to encourage me to bring myself off. However, a dirty thought suddenly sprung into my mind. I struggled free, quickly stripped completely naked, pushed my groin hard against the washing machine and spread my legs wide apart. "Turn it on," I said in a commanding voice.
Michael looked at me with his eyes wide and a look of amazement on his face. Wordlessly, he got up off the floor and switched on the machine.
"Press the fast spin!" I shouted and Michael compliantly turned the dial to the correct setting as instructed and stood back watching me closely. I wriggled against the vibrating appliance while pushing first one finger, then two fingers into my anus. As the vibrations increased I pushed my groin harder into the cold white metal and adjusted myself so that it came into contact with my throbbing clit. I moaned loudly as the sensations hit me and I stretched my arms around the machine as if hugging a human being. After a few minutes of grinding and moaning I came with a loud scream and slid to the floor in a heap.
Looking up guiltily, I saw Michael standing above me with his trousers around his ankles staring at me intently with his mouth gaping open while he tugged furiously at his newly-erect cock. He quickly arrived at his own orgasm -- his second within the space of a few minutes -- and he shot his somewhat diminished load all over my naked body as I lay on the floor, rubbing the gooey deposits into my skin.
Looking back now, I guess this incident was a true indication of my underlying sluttiness which I had only too graphically demonstrated over the previous few days. At the time, however, I remember feeling acutely embarrassed at my display. I think it was also a secret plea from me for more excitement and variety in our sex life and I was hoping that it might encourage Michael to become more adventurous and forceful. However, our lovemaking quickly reverted back to its usual monotonous routine of quick, once-a-week sex in the missionary position, although he did ask me on a couple of further occasions -- usually after we had been out and he was fuelled with alcohol -- to repeat the washing-machine performance, but I felt too self-conscious to oblige him.
That morning, I reluctantly roused myself from the cosy warmth of my bed feeling lethargic and drained of energy after my recent sexual exertions. I had returned from Manchester utterly exhausted and hadn't even had the energy to bathe before stripping off my skirt and top and collapsing naked on my bed where I quickly fell into a deep sleep. I finally roused myself at 11 am, padded sleepily over to the bedroom mirror with the tiny bells tinkling sweetly on the sexy little silver anklet that Uncle Ron had given to me that I was still wearing. I looked at my nude figure critically and, to be honest, I was a mess. My hair was tangled, my make-up blotchy, and I noticed with disgust that there was still a patch of dried semen caked on my inner thigh where the old Asian man had shot his load over me in the train carriage which I had obviously overlooked in my hurried clean-up operation after he had left the train. My pussy lips were red and still a bit swollen and sore where I had been fingered and fucked in the previous 48 hours and I felt as if I had been kicked forcefully between the legs.
