Thinking back to the plans Bill and I laid out at the early stages of my wife's transformation, I was not only intrigued at the possibilities – Bill had opened the door to a universe of fantasies – but also anxious and confused. For me no less than my wife everything had occurred so quickly. In less than a day she had not only experienced what seemed an incredulous change, but the otherwise limited fantasy of sharing her had become an unfolding scheme to enter the world of dominance and submission. Even the word 'whore' had been used with implications that still were uncertain. Had I gone too far? Had Bill stepped over the line by doing more than simply fucking her? What were the dangers of pursing things further? What would my wife's relationship with Bill ultimately become? I'd envisioned sharing her only occasionally and chose not to be there the first time only because I feared she'd freeze in my presence. Yet I had agreed to loan her out a second time without me. Might she ultimately react by rejecting everything? Had a slut within her truly been released or was last night an aberration she already regretted?
These were questions that required answers. Yet seemingly overriding everything was the fact that, speaking bluntly, the idea of having my wife as a slut was an incredible turn on. Although it is difficult to recall all of my thoughts back then, we had often played BDSM games in the bedroom. Tying her, light spanking, making her beg for my cock, and fucking her ass hard were all things to which she responded. But at no point did she encourage me further. If she had any ideas about moving deeper into D/s, she kept them to herself. And while images of women tied, controlled, and made to surrender lay at the core of many of my fantasies, my boldest foray into dominating her out of the bedroom was the purchase of the butt plug and the occasional request (certainly not a command then) that she wear it when we went dining or dancing. She acceded to my requests and was genuinely turned on by her acquiescence, but I never rejected the possibility that she did so primarily to accommodate me. But now I was confronted with seemingly incontrovertible evidence that my earlier supposition was incorrect – that she wore the plug in her ass as a too-subtle way of telling me she wanted more. Still, my questions lingered, and the urgency of finding answers had only been compounded by Bill wanting another night alone with her. Was I giving away too much too quickly? Should I take him at face value or did he have a hidden agenda such as making my wife into his slut alone?
I knew when I first approached him to say I wanted my wife fucked that I was playing with fire. Sharing one's wife is a bold step and I took it only when I was certain she shared my fantasy. In retrospect it might seem strange that I took that step while hesitant to explore other things in the private. Yet that's how events unfolded, and now I was confronted with the necessity of making other equally critical choices.
Despite a meandering route home, none of my questions were answered by the time I arrived at my door. In fact, I had decided to not decide ... to procrastinate and first learn my wife's reactions to things. In a way I was letting her make the decision. If I sensed she was shamed or repulsed by what we had done then perhaps I'd call everything off. But if she was willing to explore further, then I'd let my cock do my thinking by sending her to Bill's Wednesday evening.
By the time I got home my not-so-innocent wife was in the kitchen preparing dinner in the dress she wore before taking her nap. I recall those first few minutes clearly, for they were perhaps the most important in terms of determining what was to come. Walking up behind her as she stood at the sink, I kissed her on the neck and gave her a pat on the butt to see if the plug was in place. "I see you still have the plug in," I commented nonchalantly.
"I was told to keep it in, remember?"
"Yes, but I wanted to see if you had changed your mind about anything."
Still focused on the salad she was preparing, she answered directly "no, I don't think so."
That reply alone peaked my interest and my cock. But determined to dig deeper into her thinking, I rested my hand firmly on her ass and pushed at the plug: "How does that feel?"
"It feels good ... you know I like that."
"Is it keeping you wet now?" I asked, pressing against the plug a tad harder.
"Yes ..." she responded, as she leaned gently back against me.
"Don't stop what you're doing," I said, reaching with my other hand to fondle a tit through her dress.
As her breathing grew heavy, my hard-on returned with a vengeance. I pressed it against her and felt her hand reach down to hold it. Knowing the answer to my question, I pressed her hand against my cock and whispered "you want it, don't you?"
"Yes ..." she moaned with a barely discernable tremble, "I want you to fuck me.".
My wife might not be a Victorias Secret model but she's sexy enough that few men wouldn't honor that request. Pulling her from the sink, I led her as Bill had described, to the kitchen table. Laying her on her back, her cunt at the edge and legs hanging over, I pushed her dress up, unzipped and lowered my pants and immediately plunged my cock into her by now dripping cunt.
It was then that many of my questions were answered. As I gripped her hips and methodically pumped in and out of a hole made ever so tight by the plug in her ass, she lay there, eyes close, hands gripping the table's edge, moaning to the rhythm of my thrusts "yessss, fuck me ... fuck me .... fuck your slut ... fuck me ...."
Thinking back to the alternative choices she had at the sink its easy to see the profound consequences of the choice she made. Doubtlessly she had been encouraged to say 'fuck your slut' when Bill had her, but she could have simply refused to wear her plug that evening and in that way put an end to everything. She could have worn the plug but told me to let her finish making the salad with a comment such as 'I'm too tired and sore now.' Or she could have let me fuck her but responded in ways to suggest she was allowing it only because she was my wife. She chose none of these. Instead she responded in a way to encourage whatever plans I made. If I was uncertain what choice to make, my wife seemed far less so.
Having spent much of the afternoon with a cock that begged for release it didn't take long to fill her with a healthy load of my seed. Equally delicious, the intensity of her orgasm matched mine. After I withdrew and stepped away, she made another choice that emphasized her apparent commitment to play the role of slut: Rather than clean up as she usually did, she simply returned to the sink to finish there even though my cum was certain to leak down her legs.
Of course, a great many questions remained unanswered. What would our day to day relationship be like when sex was not on the agenda? A husband and wife, after all, have many more things that concern them other than sex. But as we ate, even those questions began to be answered. Much to my relief, with my cum still surely leaking from her cunt, we talked as if nothing unusual had happened ... about when I had to get to the office the next day, where she planned to go for lunch, if she could stop at the hardware store and pick up some stain for a cabinet I was refinishing, and if she should plan on cooking dinner tomorrow evening.
The remainder of the evening proceeded in much the same way, with the usual arguments over what to watch on TV and when we should visit her mother. But one fact stayed in my mind ... at no point did she attempt to clean the cum off her legs or change a dress that was now stained in back. It was only when we prepared for bed that she asked if she could shower ... an unusual request in and of itself since she always showered whenever she wished.
I made no attempt to fuck her again that night, but I told her she could remove the plug. Too much of a good thing, I thought, might deaden its impact. Morning was again unremarkable, with but one exception: As I left for work I told her "Don't forget to wear your plug when you go out today."
"Yes, I will" she dutifully replied.
There's no sense in recounting my licentious thoughts that day aside from noting the one that predominated was my promise to Bill that I'd do what I could to reminded her of her role as a slut between now and Wednesday.
Upon returning home I simply asked how her day had gone, and she answered with a wry smile "It was interesting."
I didn't ask for elaboration but instead suggested we eat dinner at a local restaurant. There was nothing unusual in that suggestion since we frequented it often. But as we were about to leave I said "I assume your ass is plugged?"
Of course, there was nothing we could do at the restaurant that would be the least bit outwardly sexual -- it was too close to home and the owners knew us. Hence, my command, though phrased as a question, caught my wife by surprise. "Oh ... no ... wait, I'm sorry ... I'll put it in."
Dinner itself was wholly ordinary aside from recalling my wife's attempts at adjusting in her seat to accommodate the plug up her ass. But she neither objected nor gave the appearance of being outwardly sexual, and it wasn't until we returned to the car that the plug's full effect was revealed. No sooner had we pulled out of the parking lot than my wife blurted out "I want to suck your cock"
She surely had sucked me before when I drove when in a naughty mood, but never before had she so boldly initiated it. Needless to say, I wasn't about to refuse such a slutty request, and my simple reply was "do it!"
In a sense it was a shame the ride home lasted no more than 15 minutes. It certainly was a pleasure feeling my wife's warm wet mouth sliding up and down on my cock as I drove. And I should note that once again she allowed it to slide fully into her throat. On the other hand, the compensation of a short drive was to arrive home before she had completed her task so that immediately upon entering the house she turned, dropped to her knees, and proceeded to finish what she had started.
To say that all of this was out of character is an understatement. And initially at least it left me somewhat puzzled: 'Surely one night with Bill hadn't so thoroughly changed her that she no longer had inhibitions'. It was only later that I understood the cool logic of her actions. Yes, she had made the momentous decision to let herself become a slut and to let Bill have her again. But she wanted me to know that she was not simply going to be Bill's slut ... she would be mine as well.
People might deem this a strange expression of love, but that is precisely what it was and what I took it to be. And it provided me with the confidence to proceed with the plan as Bill and I outlined it. Indeed, it was then that I made the final decision to send her to Bill's the next night.
Thereafter Wednesday couldn't arrive soon enough. Since Betty was volunteering at the local hospital gift shop that day I decided not to require anything of her as I left for work. Of course, to say that I worked would be silly since all I could think of was Bill's promise to install hooks in his bedroom ceiling. If I needed an excuse to let my imagination run wild, that certainly was it. Indeed, I arrived home earlier than usual to sure we finished dinner before 7:30. Interestingly, if one had been the proverbial fly on the wall then, it would have been impossible to guess what Bill and I had planned. But as my wife began putting the dishes into the dishwasher I disappeared upstairs to retrieve her plug. When I returned she was still at the sink, whereupon I walked up to her and issued the command "don't move."
Lifting her skirt I was surprised to find that she wasn't wearing panties in anticipation of any plans I might have had for the evening. But I'll note that when I retrieved her plug, I found it modestly lubricated. She had apparently oiled it before putting it in the bedside stand, perhaps hoping I'd use it on her that night. I can't say she was surprised, then, as I pressed the tip against the puckered entrance to her ass. A few turns, a push, a pause and then a push again and it was in, held tight as the muscles of her ass gripped its stem.
To this day I have no idea what she anticipated for that night, but it wasn't my next instruction: "Go upstairs and dress like a slut."
Not yet trained she instinctually asked "why?"
"Because I told you to."
That would hardly have been a sufficient answer a few days ago, but now without a word she disappeared, only to return 15 or 20 minutes later all perfumed and looking utterly like a whore. Sans bra, she wore her semi-sheer blouse that she'd never worn before without some frilly thing to cover her tits; her skirt was one she hadn't worn in years because of how tight it fit. Nearly a micro-mini, it revealed the tops of her nylons and the garter straps attached to them -- worn more for visual effect than to hold anything up. Finally, there were her 4" high pumps, the only shoes she owned then that verged on slutty.
