After the birth of our child, when my body was in perfect shape again, my husband decreed that I would go and visit my parents, supposedly to show them the new addition to the family. That was the excuse for public consumption. The real reason for my visit to my old hometown was for me to resume my immorally indulgent sex-life. How we arrived at that stage, I will cover in other stories, but for now a brief resume will suffice.
We'd been married for about a year, when I first stepped over the line and had an affair with a biking acquaintance of my husband's. When I was found out, he subjected me to a lifestyle of enforced infidelity, insisting that I would, henceforth, fuck other men or I could leave. I had no intention of leaving my luxuriant and indulgent lifestyle, so I, very reluctantly, accepted his condition for my continued presence in his life. I didn't appreciate just how devoted he would be to completely corrupting me.
It was very intimidating for me to be sent out, of an evening, to a club or bar with the express intention of letting myself be picked up and screwed by a stranger, before returning home to my husband, to be fucked by him also, while being grilled about my sexperience of the evening. He delighted in demeaning me, while punishing himself at the same time, by wallowing where I had so recently defiled our marriage vows with another. It was a form of mutual emotional punishment, but proved very effective in inspiring us and resulted in extremely intense sexual encounters. It was an exercise in atonement; me, to atone for my undeniable appetite for infidelity and, him, for his perceived shortcomings as a lover that had caused me to stray in the first place.
In an attempt to appeal to his sympathetic side and to be granted a pardon, I decided to fall pregnant without discussing it with him. Surely, with a child in our life, he would relent and not insist that I go out fucking. The prospect of going out, not only at my husband's insistence, but with his encouragement and, then being confronted by him upon my return had diminished the enjoyment of a clandestine interlude. The excitement of the mischievousness of the sexcapade had given way to guilt or shame. I'm not sure which, maybe both? I was shamed by my inability to be resolute enough to refuse him and guilty because, in all honesty, I wanted to do it. Not just because he insisted that I do, but because I enjoyed it.
The baby-ploy proved to be totally in vain though. Seeking refuge and respite in our status as proud, new parents didn't help. Now I had been dispatched to go and revisit my wanton and lustful desires in my old hometown, Piemburg; the town that had given birth to and nurtured my sexually adventurous character. The idea that I should go away to do this was to give me space, so as not to inhibit me with the thought of having to confront my husband upon my return. That had been one of the excuses I'd used in my argument for the cessation of our perverted exercise.
Of course, I was under no illusion as to the fact that release from my enforced sexual enslavement would in any way result in my total abstention from infidelity. I was mature enough to accept the fact that I had tasted the forbidden fruits and had found them most pleasurable indeed. What I really wanted was to enjoy discreet affairs again without my husband being aware of it. By the time my tummy became too big, forcing us to cease my nefarious nocturnal activities, I was going out two nights a week; usually on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I realised this would mean decreased extra-marital sexcapades, but I was willing to forego quantity for quality. The pleasure of sneaking around and being a naughty girl counts for a lot in the pleasure of an encounter.
What he didn't know was that I had also had another lover, in the time I was having the affair that he found out about. It was a casual office affair, with a married colleague, that continued until I went on maternity leave and had to cease all sexual activity due to my advanced pregnancy.
It was a very relaxed and undemanding affair. Bill would find an excuse to work late and ask me to stay with the premise of doing some typing for him. I was the company receptionist/typist. I was very much the company's shop window. The first sight visitors to our offices saw was of me, the glamour girl. In my short, tight skirts, revealing tops, stockings and high heels, always immaculately groomed and ravishingly presented, I posed a pretty picture indeed.
The waiting area in reception was sumptuously furnished and tastefully decorated. Visitors, waiting on the low sofa and chairs in reception had an enticing view of my legs, under my desk. Bill and I would fuck there, on a sofa, amongst the pot plants and flowers while we enjoyed a few drinks. During the days, the view of the sofa would remind me of our mischievous romps and ensured that I was always aroused with my engorged nipples tenting my blouse and the moisture in my groin soaking my G-string.
Now, on the long drive, I had a lot of time to think about what my husband was demanding of me, not expecting, but demanding, in the coming ten days of my visit with the family. The baby's nanny had been dispatched along with me to ensure that there was nothing to restrict my free time. He had also overseen my packing, ensuring that I had two outfits for every day. One for daytime wear and another for nights with a different pair of heels to go with each. The outfits were the skimpiest imaginable and, the shoes, all with the highest heels available. My protestations to the effect, that my mother would be horrified to see me dressed like that, were simply ignored.
I had to phone him every night, after a sexcapade and regale him with the story of my evening. That, in itself, was also hugely intimidating for me. I knew he would want to draw it out of me, blow by blow, revelling in my discomfort and his own misery. Not trusting me to do as I was bid, I had to present him with a collection used condoms, as proof of my indulgences, upon my return. "And there better not be less than a dozen! You're going there to fuck and not to ooh-and-ah, gushing all over the kid and holding hands with family." Had been is vindictive parting shot.
Of course, I realised that he was being purposefully mean, in an attempt to hurt me and inspire me to avenge myself by taking lovers and to bolster his fortitude, to force me to see it through.
Anyway, for the first couple of days I indeed hedged, using my extended family, enthralled with the baby, as an excuse, having to visit and show him off to all. Bullshit! He roared on my third day there. Tonight you will go out and get laid. I don't give a fuck or you can fucking well stay there! He informed me in no uncertain terms even telling me what he wanted me to wear, right down to the accessories, lipstick and nail colour.
To the night:
My footwear was minimalist, like everything else; turquoise, spike-heeled sandals with an ankle strap and one thin strap across my toes. A Cobalt Blue, lace ¼ cup bra [what I believe is today referred to as a balconette bra?] and thong set. The bra only serving to lift my tits, presenting them all the more invitingly than they already were while offering no protection, causing my nipples to be engorged from the gentle caresses of my blouse and leaving them exposed. The thong was more of an annoyance than anything else. It pulled up into my crack, scouring my clit with every movement, serving as a constant reminder of what my quest for the evening was. As if I wasn't already aroused enough by the wantonness of our intentions, the thong served to add physical inspiration to the psychological.
On top, a little, white, cotton top with turquoise polka-dots, with tiny puff-sleeves that left my shoulders bare and exposed my cleavage to the maximum. It only reached to my belly bottom, exposing a tantalising bit of my tanned midriff above the waist of my short white, linen miniskirt with a slit in the back. Anyone sitting down, when I walked past elevated on my high heels, could get a glimpse of my labia bulging out between the back of my thighs, on either side of the thin sliver of lacy, blue material embedded between them.
My wickedly long nails and heavily lined lips were painted a bright, Frosted Pink. My eyelashes, literally dripping with mascara, added emphasis to my brightly made up eyes. From my ears dangled huge, silver hoops that reached almost to my shoulders. The bigger the hoop, the bigger the whore, not so? Long, turquoise and pink bead necklaces served to focus attention on my prominently presented cleavage, highlighted by a brush of glitter-powder. My auburn locks cascaded from my crown, down onto my shoulders in a mass of luxuriant, soft curls, making a perfect frame for my face. A broad silver amulet around one bicep and a matching bracelet on the opposing wrist with a slave bracelet around my ankle compliment my risqué dress, further hinting at my promiscuous inclinations.
This was a few weeks short of my twenty-ninth birthday and, physically, I had attained my sexual prime. All the sex I enjoyed at home, and elsewhere, had dispensed with my youthful bit of puppy-fat I was a ripe and vibrant specimen, a sleek and voluptuous predator and my provocative presentation portrayed my probable availability. Tonight, my ostentatiously ornate wedding ring, obviously displayed on my ring finger, and the fact that I would be on my own, would in no uncertain terms proclaim that I was a married woman on the make. I resembled a bimbo on steroids.
My mother gasped in horror when I took my leave. "Good lord, child, you look like a real Jezebel!" she exclaimed. "Where on earth are you going dressed like that?"
"Aw, ma, c'mon." I defended myself. "Get with it, mom. This is the '80's, you know. Di and I are going out for a girl's night out." I lied, naming an old school friend who she liked as my chaperone for the evening. Just for a couple of drinks and a bit of innocent flirting."
"Pfff! Looks more like you're going to join the streetwalkers in Station Road." She grimaced, referring to the local Red Light District. You are a married woman, you know?" Oh, and how don't I know that! I thought to myself. If only she knew how our marriage worked!
