Prelude to Wicedness

This 15000+ story tell the story of a neglected wife who undergoes comprehensive cosmetic surgery to give her the body of a woman 20 years younger, then still neglected by her husband, turns to her adopted son to fulfill her needs.

I wrote this my 6th submission as an experiment in switching viewpoints between both my characters. Please view it as such when you vote.

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Scene 1

The annoying jingle on her smartphone alarm jolted her into consciousness, her erotic dream shattered.

It was 12:30 am.

A second before, John had been between her legs, hot, thrusting, grunting and gasping, as she dug her nails deep into his back, aware of an orgasm slowly building deep inside her.

Then suddenly she was enveloped in the black cloak of night, alone in their double bed, while the wind whistled through the eves, rain hammered against the open windows, the air in her bedroom cold and still.

For once she'd had the sense to turn the tv off early and go to bed knowing she'd have to drive in the early hours. Three hours sleep wasn't much, but better than nodding off behind the wheel.

She lay for a few minutes in the dark, orientating herself and mustering thoughts before finally reaching out to silence that damn alarm.

One way or another she had to get out from under her cosy duvet and face a very unsociable start to her day. Bed would now be hours away, if at all?

With a clap of her hands the bedside light came on and she reluctantly swung her long legs out of the covers, planting them deftly into her cold slippers, and shivered.

After a yawn and stretch she eventually stood up and padded naked to the bathroom, pausing only to turn up the dial on the thermostat.

In the depths of the empty house she heard the heating boiler fire up and begin it's laborious task of warming rooms.

Examining herself in the bathroom mirror she broke into a broad smile and reached for the hairbrush.

Shame it's not my own colour, she thought, a couple more weeks then I'll need the roots doing again.

As she smoothed out her long platinum hair, washed her face and frothed up the toothpaste with her electric toothbrush, she was still smiling despite goose pimples on her arms an legs.

Then she remembered, Tom's coming home today!

It was 10 months since she'd seen her wonderful adopted son. But before she could hold him and smell his familiar body scent she had to drive the 25 miles to Manchester Airport where his flight should be landing just after 3 am.

Admittedly he wasn't expecting to be met so early in the morning - she hoped it would be a pleasant surprise for him.

Back in her bedroom, still naked, she pulled on a fresh pair of silk knickers, poured herself into skin-tight jeans and hurriedly slipped on her favourite pair of patent black pixie boots, the ones with 3 inch heels.

Age appropriate and very cute, she thought.

Standing back to critically examine herself in the wardrobe mirror, she paused to admire her new firmer, bigger, breasts. Twisting from side to side she never failed to delight in how they defied gravity, her nipples pointing upwards once again, just as they had done thirty years earlier. And they didn't wobble when she walked any more.

Then she ran her fingers down her newly flattened stomach, before sliding both hands down the soft skin between her legs, seeking out the shape of her new expensive Brazilian wax before finally tracing the trim firmness of her ass.

Isn't liposuction wonderful, she thought, £220,000 worth of the finest plastic surgery money can buy in the UK.

And yet despite this fabulous body, my husband of 30 years isn't interested in sex with me?

Why the hell not?

For an instant her eyes welled up with tears, but she took a deep breath and wiped them away with the heel of a hand.

I won't let him spoil today. So what if he's got another woman, I've got my son to treasure.

She continued admiring the surgeon's work, marvelling at the absence of visible scars.

Amazing how a simple scalpel could pretty much correct all those years of over-eating, lack of exercise and neglect. Goodbye wrinkles and crows feet, hello tight young skin.

Leaning closer to the mirror she traced her little finger slowly along her lips, Then the final touches, just enough collagen into my lips to make them slightly pouty and very kissable.

Finally she bared her teeth, running the tip of the same little finger across the gleaming white rows of TV presenter quality implants, £2000 each tooth, painful but stunning!

Then she took a step back to get a better view of her body.

Look at me, Wow, the walking talking dream results of human body sculpture. This must be how Barbie feels?

Then she scowled, feeling around her neck.

Great pity there wasn't much he could do about my neck, hands and poor feet, crushed and scarred by years of tight fitting shoes and high heels. What was it the surgeon had said, "Unavoidable giveaways to my true age," and he was right, at least for the sharp eyed. But if I dress artfully I can pull off the illusion, divert eyes to look at my tits and not my feet!

And apart from those few inevitable imperfection she felt a wave of satisfaction about herself.

She was fifty-five going on thirty, a fine example of modern 'plastic fantastic' techniques and worth every miserable day of pain, bruising and slow healing.

Mark you he can't take all the credit, all those months of careful eating, hours spent spinning, rowing and pumping weights in the gym has done a lot to help firm and tone my muscles. Hey, I ran that ten kilometre fun run for charity - without stopping!

Nevertheless she still couldn't shake the thought out of her head, Why did John invest so much cash into changing my appearance. Why make me look and feel so good? Why look young and attractive if he didn't want sex with me?

Guilt?

Another woman - in Iceland?

Was that why he was always going there on so called business trips?

Is he curled up with some athletic young thing right now in his upmarket hotel in Rekyavik? Is he screwing the whore right now?

Then feeling the chill of the room, she made her way into Tom's bedroom, opened the top drawer of his clothes cabinet and took out one of his old faded green army 'T' shirts and pulled it on over her head. She kept them there, all clean fresh and neatly ironed for the odd occasions he came home these days.

She smiled in satisfaction as the material stretched tight over her breasts, emphasising their pert shape and ever so prominent nipples.

A wonderful feeling and such a simple pleasure, she thought.

Seeing how good she looked she decided that she wouldn't need a bra for this trip, just the tight 'T' shirt to show off her beautiful tits to the world.

Yet she knew that wouldn't be enough to lift her mood, just looking thirty again couldn't heal the marital wounds of a neglected middle-aged housewife and mom. She needed a stiff cock inside her.

The house was warming as she went downstairs to make a welcome coffee, put on her black padded puffer jacket and soft pashmina scarf.

Another glance at the wall clock told her it was almost time to get on the road.

The house would be warm and welcoming for when they got home.

Scene 2

Six hundred miles away in Stuttgart airport Tom Cronin sat quietly in the airline hospitality lounge enjoying his second beer, relaxing while half watching a 24/7 German news channel .

He felt good about his trip, eager to get home and spend some quality time with family and friends.

He had planned the timing of his three week break carefully to coincide with the absence of his adopted father on yet another business trip.

It was better if they didn't meet - these days they were like oil and water.

They'd hadn't got on for the last decade, and an hour together in the same room was 59 minutes too long for both of them.

Of course Mum had tried to heal the rift, but inevitably that seemed only to make things worse.

Dad had never forgiven Tom for giving up his engineering degree at Edinburgh University.

Tom had been brought up with tales of his grandfather and grandfathers, both notable Scottish engineers. Dad once regaled Tom with a family story of one of them working for Brunel on the huge Great Eastern steamship. Tom had quipped that he probably made the sandwiches and cups of tea for the real workers. To which his Dad had exploded in anger and almost struck his son in blind rage.

That was just one more incident that drove the wedge even deeper between the two.

Ten years had passed since the day he had arrived home during his second year at university to tell his parents he had left and applied to become an army officer. Since then he and his stepfather had barely exchanged more than a dozen words, which was a shame because Dad had

given him a life he might never have had after his birth parents had both been tragically killed. He had doted on Tom, loved him as his own flesh and blood. In hindsight he couldn't have wished for a better Dad and deep down he felt a terrible remorse at the way he had replayed this man's wonderful generosity.

He knew that he should make the first move to heal the rift, yet somehow he couldn't.

Captain Tom Cronin had resigned his commission after serving only 7 years in the army, tempted by an offer from a friend to take on a lucrative directorship with a thriving international bodyguard agency.

Since then he had spent three years nurturing the Stuttgart office and building up a thriving business from humble beginnings. This was the first opportunity for almost a year to return to England for well earned rest and recuperation.

His only lingering regret was leaving the local brothels behind. Since a casual visit on a stag weekend three years previously he'd become a regular customer, gradually becoming addicted to skilled casual sex with professional hookers.

On the rare occasions he found himself with a free weekend he spent it visiting new brothels within easy driving distance of his penthouse apartment.

Naturally he'd dated women from the office and the occasional pretty female customer. But non of these women he dated could give him the frisson he got from entering a brothel and choosing which of the beauties to bed.

He was especially well known at one local brothel where many of the girls, accustomed to his regular visits, liked and trusted the handsome young Englishman. He always respected them as women and never failed to tip generously.

Tom knew many of the girls well enough to know which would best perform the particular sex act he desired at the time.

His preferred brothel lay on the outskirts of Stuttgart in a quiet part of town. There worked his most treasured working girl, a tall leggy blonde, lithe and athletic with an amazing firm body and breasts. Her working name was Silki and Tom sometimes reserved whole weekends with her. He never asked her real name; she never told him, nevertheless she had reluctantly given him her cellphone number.

It transpired that Silki was not unlike Tom in attitude, business acumen and aspiration. From time to time he had hired her to accompany him to important business dinners, the sort of high powered function where beautiful women dinner partners were obligatory.

She always rose to the occasion, dressing as if for the Oscars, with every man around the table envying Tom, drooling over Silki and fantasising about getting into her knickers.

Silki never did freebies!

Even when he asked her to pose in sexy lingerie for him to take photos of her she charged the same hourly rate.

But to say their relationship was purely a business transaction would be to mislead.

From time to time they met up as friends for a chat and coffee, they liked each other and recognised kindred spirits. Both were striving for early retirement as millionaires, both prepared to work all hours to maintain their income streams, and both quite ruthless. Perhaps in another life they would have made formidable partners.

However Tom had long since decided that marriage or long-term commitment were not for him. He would live his life a dedicated career man and bachelor.

As a bonus he was well aware that his boyish good looks could get him laid almost anywhere there were attractive women.

So he was careful, avoided meaningful relationships like the plague, using prostitutes to slake his considerable sexual appetite.

All in all, life was too good to screw it all up with a wife, kids, Labrador dog, Volvo estate car, and mortgage to the grave.

Scene 3

The motorway was thankfully quiet so early in the day.

Rain hammered into the windscreen and she had to switch the wipers onto maximum to see the carriageway ahead.

In the warm cabin of the SUV she was becoming uncomfortably warm, so unzipped the puffer jacket, unfastened her seatbelt, before carefully slipping the jacket off each shoulder and throwing it casually onto the passenger seat.

Then she unwound the pashmina scarf and it joined the jacket beside her.

With the seatbelt secured she turned on the radio, tuned it to the BBC Radio 2 channel and tried to catchup on a heated conversation the presenter was enjoying with an irate phone-in listener.

She was wide awake now and her thoughts drifted to how she would meet Tom, the drive home together and the plans she had in mind for him.

Without being aware of what she was doing she released the steering wheel with one hand, sliding it up underneath the thin 'T' shirt and cupping one of her new breasts. As the radio argument continued she stretched out her long fingers with perfectly manicured nails and gently began circling an areole and erect nipple.

It felt good.

Eventually she moved her hand onto her other breast and massaged until both nipples were standing erect. Taking a quick glance down she felt so proud of her new tits but her thoughts were once again clouded by thoughts of John, her husband.

Why didn't he want to hump me?

She pictured him with some faceless young thing riding hard on his big prick in some unknown hotel hundreds of miles away, somewhere on that strange ice-bound island in the North Atlantic.

Then her thoughts turned to Tom's reaction to the massive cosmetic surgery she had undergone during the previous ten months. She hadn't told him about her gradual transformation during his regular calls to her.

What would he think of his cuddly mom now, oozing sex appeal and looking more his own age?

Would he react badly, reject her?

No of course not, they had always been very close and she had encouraged him to talk openly to her about anything and everything.

Had she made an error of judgment by coming out without a bra? Too late now!

On his last visit he had surprised her when he told her about his obsession with brothels and young hookers. It had been one of those lovely evenings, Tom had taken her out for dinner at a smart restaurant and they had arrived home well after midnight.

He was totally relaxed in her company as he explained all about Silki and his other favourites. In her turn she had asked how much each visit cost, what it was like inside a brothel and how the girls dressed?

Tom had answered unabashed, relaxed and happy to regale his trusted mother with his most intimate secrets.

Enjoying their mutual revelations they had drunk two more bottles of wine before eventually falling comatose together, arm in arm on the sofa, kept warm by the heat of their bodies and covered only by his suit jacket.

At one point she had made a slip of the tongue by mentioning how alike she thought they were, both loving sex. He hadn't reacted so she thought him too drunk to remember it anyway.

Ahead through the driving rain she spotted the one mile warning sign for the airport turn, slid her hand away from her breasts, switched off the radio and took a proper hold of the steering wheel.

It was 2:30 am and she was going to be early for his flight.

She began to tingle with anticipation at their impending reunion.

Scene 4

Meanwhile 23,000 feet above France it was time for the cabin crew to begin the monotonous task of wheeling the drinks and perfumes trolleys between the rows of slumbering passengers, pausing beside each recumbent figure and speaking softly to see if they were awake.

Usually it would be a frantic time getting everything done on a short-haul flight that lasted for only one hour and fifty minutes.

But this was thee sleepy time express with only the hardest drinkers staying awake for a top-up of gin and tonic.

As ever the two female cabin crew looked sleek and ultra smart in their electric blue livery with matching silk neck scarves. Sometimes they questioned why they made so much effort with their hair and makeup, only for it to go unnoticed by tired, fat- bellied businessmen with stubble beards, stale breath and distinct body odour.

But that was their job, and besides it had it's rewards. Whenever they had a stay over at some exotic destination with a couple of young horny pilots, they were assured they looked desirable and that usually promised great all-night sex.

The taller of the two, a pert redhead with great legs and inviting wiggle of her butt, headed for the business class part of the cabin.

She had made eye contact with Tom as they did the usual meet and greet when the passengers boarded.

As she drew the dividing curtain aside her eyes immediately settled on the top of his head. He was a handsome thirty-something with a short neat beard and glossy black curly hair, wearing an expensive business suit with a white open-necked shirt.

She had to look twice to check if he was one of those tv male models that advertised expensive French perfumes, hair products or perfectly tailored suits.

He seemed not to have noticed her, but she would ensure that he did. He was reason enough to justify the effort she had put into her appearance.

In reality he was wide awake and busy typing something into an iPad.

But Tom was far from distracted. He became aware of the stewardess immediately she drew the curtain and scanned her body from head to toe. 'Very fuckable', he thought to himself.

But he continued typing on his iPad all the time aware of her approach.

Her name was Trudy, a product of mixed Dutch and English parentage, well educated, fluent in three languages and looking for a handsome fuck-buddy for the duration of the stay-over in Manchester.

Non of the passengers occupying the seats before Tom wanted anything from the trolley, so she eased it forward until she drew alongside him.

He kept up the pretence of concentration until he breathed in her expensive perfume as she leaned forward to speak.

"Can I get you anything to drink sir, or something from the duty free trolley, perfume perhaps, or anything else from our in-flight brochure?" she said in a soft lilting dutch accent.

As she spoke she leaned even further forward to reach the in-flight magazine from the net pocket in the rear of the chair in front. Her cheek almost brushed Tom's cheek and he felt the thrilling soft press of her breast against his shoulder.

As she straightened up and began opening the in-flight magazine to the perfumes page, he turned to look up at her very attractive face. Her hair and makeup were almost perfect apart from her mascara which he thought looked hurriedly applied. Nevertheless, he could imagine taking the clips from her russet hair and let it cascade down over naked shoulders then cup those breasts as she urgently unfastened his trousers and began feeling for his hard prick.

Although she wasn't blonde, he knew he could make an exception to his strict rules and fuck this one.

Turning to look up at her he gave a broad smile, emphasising his perfect white teeth while breathing out softly towards her face for her to take in the fresh mint toothpaste and the subtle aftershave he had applied in the washroom just before boarding.