Tiffany
I married a man I adore. He had the two things I needed most in a man: old age and wealth.
My name is Tiffany Wantz. With that name, I was born to be a trophy wife. But what sealed my fate was my body: starting with my boobs, thirty-two double-d beauties. Couple that with long legs and naturally blonde shoulder-length hair, and yes, the carpet, nicely trimmed, matches the drapes.
My sweet, angelic face, with full pouty lips, masked what a dreadful gold-digger I am. I decided that if men wanted me, they would not get me for free. No one would use me without paying for it.
I married Roger when I was nineteen, and he was seventy-two. Much to the outrage of everyone I knew and others, I didn't. He was in good health, but I could always hope that would change. He couldn't last forever. He wanted me to sign a prenup, but I faked how hurt I was. He relented and never brought it up again.
Well, six months later, he's still alive and making plans for our wedding. I was hoping that when we got married, I would be a widow on the honeymoon. But he still plays tennis every morning and doesn't show any signs of imminent heart failure. The worst part is that even with Viagra, he can barely get it up.
To make matters worse, his twenty-five-year-old son hasn't left home yet. And before you think about me using the loser son for sex, forget it. His son is the perfect computer nerd, always in his room with his assortment of computers and all kinds of electronics. He would look decent if he got outdoors and got some color on his face. He's pasty with teenage acne, overweight, and he's in his twenties.
My life consisted of shopping and attending parties with my Roger. At least once a month, he would try to have sex with me. Even with Viagra, I had to work my ass off blowing him even to attempt penetration. He usually wanted me to dress in stockings, heels, and a push-up bra. Then, I posed for him in our bedroom while he played with himself.
Don't think for a minute; I was happy with that situation. I needed to be fucked hard and long and treated like a whore. But there weren't any men in the house capable of that, just an old man and his wimp son.
I thought back to school and my first fucking.
High school was a bore. The only thing I learned was that my looks could support my lifestyle. During January of my senior year, I turned eighteen and was in danger of failing. It didn't mean a thing to me. I would have quit in a minute. But my Uncle Dave had promised me ten thousand dollars for school. There was no way I was going to college, but that money was mine. I knew I could get it. He was old, a male, and could be easily fooled.
I found that male teachers spent more time watching me than other students. I was going to use that for my benefit.
There was a scandal earlier in the year. Three young teachers were fired. They had kept a girl my age captive for a weekend, fucking her silly. But she was eighteen and said she didn't want to press charges. They used her holes, and she got nothing for it. She was a dumb fuck!
My senior year was almost over, and I had to graduate.
The last day of exams. I wore a white mini-skirt, suntan pantyhose, and white running shoes during finals. I walked quickly into the exam room, with my braless tits bouncing under a tight yellow sleeveless top. I sat directly in front of Mr. Swenson, parting my legs just enough so he could glimpse my pink panties. Between him, looking up my skirt, and me going down on my oversized pen with my full red lips. He was a mess. After the test was over, I dawdled, stopping at his desk.
I put on my pouty look that worked on guys and asked him how I did while sitting on the edge of his desk.
"I won't know for at least a week, Tiffany."
"I will go crazy not knowing. I gasped.
Putting the tip of my fat pen in my mouth,
"I would do anything to find out sooner." I purred.
Beads of sweat were on his forehead.
He whispered. "Give me your number, and I will call you tomorrow."
"You're the best, Mr. Swenson."
I said while planting a wet kiss on his cheek. To seal the deal, I squealed,
"You're the greatest," while skipping out of the room.
I already knew my other results. While not great, they were passing. So, I needed Mr. Swenson to work some magic with my grades.
Dating during high school was tedious; the guys were so immature. My few dates consisted of a movie and a walk home, with me fending off groping hands. I knew what I wanted, and it didn't include a teenage pregnancy. Soon, I got a reputation for being cold and probably a lesbian, and the boys left me alone. I didn't care.
My parents divorced in my junior year, and I lived with my mother. She thought she deserved a life and was out almost every night.
After my eighteenth birthday in January of my senior year, I started thinking more about sex. My boobs were super sensitive, and I found that by pinching my nipples and squeezing my tits, I was able to send lightning bolts to my cunt. My first orgasm came late at night. After torturing my boobs, I slipped a finger on my wet pussy, finding my clit.
The feeling was so intense that I followed a nightly ritual with various objects, preferring slender cucumbers.
I watched porn online, and most of the girls seemed to enjoy getting pounded in all three holes. The one thing that intrigued me most was the guys cumming on their faces. It looked messy, and better yet, it was degrading. But they seemed turned on, and I wanted to try it. The other thing I didn't understand was that all the girls in the videos wore garter belts and regular stockings and kept their heels on even in bed. I liked the look, and I couldn't wait to try it.
I wanted a man to take me and do whatever he wanted. Forcing me, if necessary, I wondered if this scared teacher could handle me.
I didn't have to wait too long. He called at ten o'clock. He seemed nervous.
"I have all your grades, but I don't feel right giving them out over the phone. Would you be able to come over tonight?"
"Sure, is seven all right?"
My pussy was positively tingling; my hand stayed in my crotch stroking myself till he hung up. I don't know who was looking forward to this more, him or me.
I was going to get fucked tonight, and on my terms. I had the whole day to get ready. I headed to the local outlet mall.
I got lucky finding a tight, silky dress; I liked how it looked and ignored the fact that it came only to mid-thigh. I struck out finding a garter belt, but the clerk suggested thigh-high stockings that didn't require suspenders. I chose a few shades, including off-black, to go with my dark grey dress.
I was ready to go at six o'clock; I couldn't wait. I checked myself out in the full-length mirror. I looked hot. The dress was tight and short. I never had to worry about stocking tops showing before. But with this dress, it was a possibility. I had always worn pantyhose. The stockings made me feel like a whore, and I liked it. The top of the dress was thin and showed every detail of my bra. It didn't look right, so I went without it.
Shoes were another thing; I mostly wore running shoes or flats. I headed for my mother's room.
She had numerous pairs of heels. I picked out a shiny black pair that was about three inches high. I had never worn heels, and I was unsteady, to say the least.
I took my shoes off and drove to his house. I put my shoes on and gamely tried walking to his door. He opened the door, and his mouth gaped open.
"You look beautiful, Tiffany. Would you like a drink?"
"Thank you, do you have wine?"
We both drank two glasses of wine and were sitting on the couch. He excused himself, saying he was going to freshen up our drinks. Little did I know he was putting something in mine.
When he returned, he explained how he had changed my grades. I was so happy I kissed his cheek, saying.
"I need another drink. I want to celebrate."
