1 comments/ 13759 views/ 2 favorites Emergence By: miriam68 It was not until I reached my thirties that I, Miriam, began to toy with the idea of pain play in my sexual fantasies. I glimpsed something in myself the time I bit my Paul's neck and then his dick. It started out as a playful bite, gentle almost. He whispered a sigh, and well, his eyes, they seemed to be begging for more. My grip on him tightened and my bite deepened into his flesh. He whimpered a sound raw with an edge of pain. His back arched. His hips thrust up to offer more of himself to me, evoking in me a thrilling delight. My nipples sprouted and my clit ached with the need for something more. It left me with a chilling realization about myself. Gradually, as we connect on deeper levels, our lovemaking has taken on a darker tint. I have become more vocal and commanding. My orders, rooted in a fiery passion, are starting to come more naturally as I allow myself to feel and become the woman I know I am meant to be. And, though he is broad shouldered and sculptured in muscle, he is becoming more pliant as I maneuver him to positions more characteristic of a submissive. There are times he resists me in our daily life together and in our sex play. But, I seem to have an innate ability to provide solace as his fears surface. I sense the struggle in him, yet to my amazement, his willingness to obey me has become more evident and apparent. I am flexing my dominant muscles. The call comes as Paul and I are enjoying a debate over coffee. Our friends are leaving for the weekend and need someone to watch their home in the country. Anastasia, my friend and Mistress of the house, is my closest confidant. She is also a mentor to me in the world of domination. She ended the conversation with the phrase "... and of course, Miriam, you will have full use of the amenities." Zachary and Anastasia are players in the BDSM scene and have a dungeon in their guest quarters. Paul and I had been to play parties at their house on occasion, but always as observers. An odd feeling, a mixture of excitement and anxiety, strikes me as I hang up the phone. Paul and I chatter on a bit awkwardly. The prattle dwindles into a silence laden with anticipation. The day of reckoning is upon us and we both know it instinctively. The drive to their house is long and ends with our entry into the winding driveway through the fragrant and brilliantly colored gardens. We hold hands as we approach the front door of the house. With a quick glance full of portent, we enter. Paul finishes unpacking before I do. He goes downstairs and I hear muffled sounds as he prepares for our scene. After settling in, I take my time in dressing. The leather corset fits snugly around my firm, ample breasts. I snap the garter to my black-laced thigh high stockings. The deep, dark green of my velvet cape flows behind me as I descend the staircase with a regal air. My hand lifts to settle on his offered elbow, and we walk together to the entrance of the guest quarters. We find ourselves poised at the doorway to the dungeon. Being a gentleman, he opens the door and with a sweep of his arm ushers me in. I take tentative steps forward into the chamber, a bit daunted by the haunting feeling in the room. My heart is lodged firmly in my throat. Doubts cluster and linger in my mind threatening to drown my will and determination to finally assert my dominance over my lover. In his own way, he has been coaching me for this moment, by giving me subtle hints and clues as to how he wishes to be handled. It will be a test of wills and a test of my willingness to let my inner bitch come through into living flesh. The dungeon itself is designed to create an aura of mystique and power. The cool stone walls are pierced periodically with steel hooks, sometimes at odd angles. I lower my head and close my eyes to muster up my own courage. The room itself seems to summon my darker side. I note the strength and resolve evident in his stealthy and sure movements. He steps around me. I tilt my head back and fling the edge of the cape over my shoulder. Taking the hint, he unclasps the brooch at my throat and my cape slips over my shoulders. Goose bumps trail in the wake of his fingertips as they gently brush down my bare caramel arms. The air is energized as the sensual touches trickle down my skin. The smell of frankincense fills the room and the candles he has lit, as I was dressing, flicker. I breathe deeply, calming my racing mind and pounding heart. He stands behind me for a full minute. Finally, I lift my hand at an angle to my right and snap my fingers. "Strip." My voice is soft. He moves not at all. Despite our previous play, he seems conflicted about whether he will obey, or perhaps I am not clear enough in my command. "I said strip, slut. Strip slow and easy. NOW slut!" I repeat in a voice not so quiet and one full of determination and indignation. When I look up, he has moved to the center of the room and is standing at the foot of the bed. He begins the slow strip tease. His movements are sluggish at first, as he seems unsure of himself. With a quickening pace the buttons come undone. The soft powder blue of his shirt shimmers for a brief instant as he tosses it casually aside. My gaze, intense, is fixed on drinking in the sight of him gradually peeled naked before me. Urged by my obvious fascination, he sways his hips and turns to show off his scrumptious ass. As he rises to face me again, fully naked now, our eyes meet. My fingers curl invitingly. Heeding the beckoning call, he approaches me with his hands shyly covering the twitching bob of his cock. My head tilts back slightly as my spine straightens. Rising lust intensifies in me drawing me to my full height. My hands slip over the curves of his shoulders on either side of his neck. With a gentle pressure I command him to kneel, my hands guiding him to the floor before me. He looks up to me as I gaze into the azure of his eyes. Suddenly overwhelmed with surging emotion I pull him close and cradle his head in my belly. I am feeling a mixture of gratitude and love, yet at the back of my mind is the urge to overpower and overwhelm. I bend down to comb my fingers through his hair and kiss the top of his head. He breathes a sigh. "I am yours," his voice, sure and steady, rises up to me. Drawing strength from his words, "You are mine, my treasure and love," I reply. He cants his head and his cheek brushes against my wrist. The scent of jasmine wafts from my skin; his nostrils flare. My gaze grows steely as the dark passion wells from deep in my center. The tide of emotion sweeps over us. My finger curls under his chin, tilting his face to mine. Our mouths meld, deconstructing the elements of passion into a breathy inhalation of lust. Ravenous kisses send thrills of pleasure through me. A glimpse of his growing erection elicits the dew to form in my loins. My cunt lips fill with a surging, warming wetness. I feel the energy course through my veins as, breaking the kiss, I straighten and stand upright. My right foot steps to his left side and my left foot moves into position as I straddle his thighs. My cunt lips move to his face. My hips rotate and push my clit to his nose. A hand in his hair, fingers curled to his scalp I begin to grind to his mouth. "Suck it, slut. Eat my cunt, NOW." He stalls, knowing this will rile me. I shove my cunt harder to his mouth, mashing my cunt lips to his own. He mutters something inaudible. "Is that a protest?" "No, Miss." Finally, his mouth opens and his lips clamp over my clit. His succulent kiss draws my throbbing nub into his mouth as his tongue circles the tip of my clit. He groans as he tastes me. I can tell by his more dedicated sucking how much more he is enjoying this. My lush creamy juices coat his chin and upper lip. Growing lust inspires me to grab his head more forcefully, and with a shriek of pleasure I begin to circle my hips in a downward spiral to his mouth. "Tongue, NOW!" His tongue quickly darts from his mouth and begins to explore my entrance. My slit gives way to his probing pushes. As he begins to tongue fuck my slit, my hand slips to my right breast. The nipple prickles to its full length, pinched in my fingertips. Saliva pools under my tongue at the delicious sounds of his sucking and at the speed with which he is now obeying my orders. The pull grows magnetic as we begin to move as one. His head held in my hand as I guide him with nudges and pushes deeper into me. "Teeth! Bite me, NOW, slut!" Before I finish speaking, he reacts, biting at my clit. His sharp teeth cling to the base of my throbbing bundle of nerves. Exactly as we have practiced of late, his timing and pressure drive me to a frenzied fit. My hips respond with deeper motions. I begin to smother him with my luscious, engorged cunt lips smearing my cream over his mouth as my clit grinds into his nose. He gasps for breath. His eyes veiled with lust as he glances intermittently to mine. I watch him carefully and hearing his gasp, allow him to inhale a bit of air along with my dripping juices. I am marking him internally and externally as mine, my slut. He has mentioned how he can smell my cunt juices for hours following our face sitting play. My teeth gritted, I snarl unwittingly. I stop suddenly as the pleasure crests in me. Panting I step back and let go of his head before the orgasm can express fully. "No, please, Miriam, I need you," he hisses through juice covered lips. I play best when I am on edge, in a savage state of mind. He knows this about me. It is something we have discovered together in our explorations. I look at him feeling the raging power of my lust; the lust he provokes in me. Barely able to contain a contemptuous laugh, in this moment I begin the transformation into a bitch. He seems to crumple into himself as if to cower beneath the suddenly cruel creature I have become. Lights seem amplified and glow in a haloed glimmer. I notice his pores open and a bead of sweat drips down his temple. My nostrils flare and a feral growl rumbles from my chest. Honestly, for a moment I am at a loss as to what to do. Part of me wants to coddle him and comfort him, assure him that he is loved. He looks forlorn and in despair. But the bitch in me is not ready for the soft tenderness. She is emergent and becoming fully alive. She is cold and needy, greedy to test his breaking point. "On all fours, slut." He stares at me for a moment and as the words register he sinks to the position. I am pleased with the rapidness of his response. I move around him, feline, prowling over him. My heels echo with sharp clicks through the chamber. The sudden stillness is punctuated by his breaths coming in shallow gasps. My toe rises to nudge at his groin, correcting his posture, so his ass is held high. It is a luscious ass, firm round and more than a handful. The sole of my foot presses down on the back of his neck, forcing his head down in the prone position with his forehead to the ground. He is now in a prime pose for me to spank that inviting rump. Placing my left hand to the small of his back I smooth my right palm over his ass flesh. His skin is soft. His breath becomes raspy. Raising my hand I begin by tapping his ass cheeks. He is silent, probably out of machismo. Slaps ensue. They start off gentle with the occasional stinger peppered in. He is not reacting vocally, so I smooth over the heating flesh in soothing strokes. Taking aim now, I begin to spank harder. Each blow targets the widening blush of red. Blood rises to the surface in thick welts. His body reverberates with each smack. His skin blossoms under my attack. For what seems like an eternity, but is in fact a minute or so, my pounding is relentless. Hitting him directly perpendicular to his tail bone, I finally elicit the beginnings of deep groans. My pace slows, and I smooth over his steaming rump, blowing cooling air over the heat emanating from his body. He whines, and I feel his ass wiggle. His hips move supple and lithe. His ass is hanging high in the air and the almost pathetic sounds indicate that he is ready for more. I take a moment to breathe and calm my own excitement. By now my hand is hot and red as well. His ass flesh is showing clear imprints from the sharp stinging blows I have inflicted. I continue, the thudding, glancing blows intermittently mixed with more violent slaps. His breathing is in tune with my rhythm. His groans and yelps come in time with the unforgiving contact of my hand to his ass. This is the most I have hit him, and I need to know if he can take more. As the temperature of his skin rises, I pause briefly to check in with him. "Had enough, slut?" He sputters, the spittle foaming in the corner of his mouth, and nods in the affirmative. He is at his limit. Peering between his thighs, I see that he is fully erect now. The sensual beating of his ass has obviously filled him with pleasure. We have reached a milestone. He has never responded to a spanking with this level of arousal. Admiringly, I grasp his cock and stroke it, pointing the head to the ground and massaging his balls as I manipulate his head and shaft. He moans deeply. I watch a droplet of clear precum dribble from his piss hole to the ground between his knees. My own arousal is barely under control. My mind twists into knots, trying to decide what to do next: jerk him, suck him, fuck him with a strap on, or satisfy my own ache to have his luscious, thick, hard cock fill me. I stroke his cock, feeling a crackle of intense energy between us, filling the room with a pungent, primal, sexual scent. I particularly enjoy his cock because it has a peculiar curve that seems to project directly to my g spot from a variety of positions. I grab his hips and hiss "On your back, slut!" His cock is rock hard. I can smell him, his lust and need. It is written clearly in the wild fluttering of his eyes. His mouth opens and closes with silent yowls as he lands on his back. My eyes blaze with fury. Moving as a demon possessed I straddle his groin. Grunting primitive and beastly sounds I reach back and position his cock so his head is pointing at my slit. Greed has bested me and all I can think of is his cock in me. Grabbing him by the base I shove his cock deep and hard into my slit. The cream is already seeping around his head as I rear back and slam down hard. I like it rough. His perfect do is mussed now with stray hairs plastered on his sweaty forehead. He is descending into a mental zone where pain is pleasure and pleasure is what he exists for. With a nasty scowl, I reach back and twist his balls in my palm. He squeals. Partly terrified, but mostly begging for more, his body writhes in unnatural contortions. I ride him as he bucks, driving his cock deep into my tunnel. My knees scrape the stone floors as I plow down over his erection. We are fucking savagely without mercy or remorse. My orgasms are welling up inside me. Sweat drips from my face, splashing on his belly. Bracing myself on all fours, I capture his gaze in mine, and order him "Fuck me. Fuck me hard!" Instantaneously his back arches, his motion embedding his cock in me. My ass cheeks clench and my muscles pull tight, as I hang suspended between heartbeats, lost in the depths of primordial lust. Before I can breathe again, my cum gushes as my body is wracked with spasms of pleasure from his cock touching me, just so. I barely manage to bark the order "Cum, slut!" because the thought of his orgasm in me is driving me over the brink. It always makes me cum harder when I feel his load spurt into me. We float in the aftermath. Sitting on top of him I'm covered in a mixture of sweat and cum. His skin glistens in the tawdry light. His orgasm sent him deeper into his zone. I can tell by his sounds, shudders and expression that this is the deepest he has gone with me. His head lolls from side to side. His chest heaves as he struggles to calm himself. We are panting. It is at this moment I realize we are breathing in unison. My inner bitch recedes on a rip tide pulled to sea. As consciousness returns, so do thoughts. My mind struggles to maintain control. My heart is elated at the conquest. Euphoria suddenly engulfs me. I feel boundless gratitude to him for letting me use him so. Moved deeply, I hover over him cradling him in my arms. I cover his face in soft kisses. Murmuring words of praise, pleasure and pride. I strain to catch his words as he mutters quietly. Leaning close with my ear to his mouth I hear the word I have been craving since I administered that first bite. "Mistress." Emergence (Notes - many, many thanks to Asylum Seeker for a fantastic job of editing. Any flaws in the following are my fault, most definitely not his... note also, edited following formatting problems) * "OK, any other business?" Rachael waited with mild trepidation; surely, just for once, there was a chance that they'd end the meeting on time? The knot of tension in her stomach tightened. "No? Good. We'll reconvene at nine tomorrow for the team building event. Have a good evening, all." For the first time ever, Rachael felt a rush of affection for Jeremy, the Chairman. Now, all she had to do was get out without getting dragged into anything else. She began to pack her papers into her briefcase, avoiding eye contact with any of those around the table. Now, the plan had to be straight out of the meeting room, through the office outside, walking briskly and facing straight ahead. Maybe, just maybe, it was going to work. Her mind began to dwell on the evening ahead of her... "Um, sorry?" She was suddenly aware that she was being spoken to. "Gah -- you were miles away," Jeremy spoke with amused tolerance. "Do you want a lift to the hotel, with the rest of us?" She flushed slightly. "No, I'm not staying over -- I need to get home. Babysitting problems." "Ah. Sorry to hear that -- it'd have been good to have got you along to dinner, with the team." He smiled. "Maybe we'd have seen a less formal Rachael after a drink or two?" She returned the smile, but held her silence. She was aware of her flushed cheeks, suddenly concerned that all present would know that she was lying. Turning away to snap shut the briefcase gave her a chance to break the moment. She turned for the door, but as she reached it, she had to pause, as the caterers removed the leftover lunch plates. Stepping through, she half heard the muttered comment from Frank, one of the "old hands". "You'll never melt the Ice Queen, mate" "Idiot," she thought. Frank and his cronies were part of the reason why she wouldn't be staying over, even if she didn't have better plans for the night. The drinking would start as soon as they arrived at the hotel, continue through dinner, and culminate with stupid games - not to say some vomiting - in the small hours. Inevitably, at some stage, she'd get loudly and publicly propositioned by one or another of the idiots, and perversely, her response would be taken as evidence of frigidity. There was laughter in the room behind her. "Pity. I reckon she's got a pretty good figure. Her arse looks good in that that skirt, at the very least." She walked out through reception fighting an urge to sway her hips to draw attention to that part of her body. That could wait. The skirt was tightly cut over her thighs, restricting her step. Involuntarily she glanced down, pleased with the way it outlined the long curves of her legs and hips. She noted the small bulges caused by her suspender clips. It amused her to think that Frank and the other middle aged adolescents at the meeting were too unobservant to have noticed them; God knew what effect the idea that she was wearing stockings would have had on their overheated imaginations. Not that she'd ever thought before that this should be an issue; she simply hated the constriction of tights. A lift was waiting, its door open. She slipped in and pressed the button for the ground floor. The doors closed, leaving her alone in the mirrored box. Leaning back against one wall she took a deep breath, hoping to quell the butterflies gathering in her stomach. A sense of apprehension fought with rising excitement. She sighed. For someone who normally prided herself on her equanimity, she was becoming used to what seemed to be huge swings of mood oscillating from excitement to apprehension to guilt to mild euphoria, sometimes in a matter of minutes. At this moment she was sure that she was growing moist between the legs. Part of her mind, however, remained preoccupied with iniquity, and with fears of the many things that could yet go wrong. She looked at herself in the mirror opposite. She supposed the "Ice Queen" remark might have some justification. Her business suit was cut as the picture of respectability. Slightly longer than knee length, grey wool, the jacket buttoned to her collar bone. She'd not removed it at any stage, despite the stuffiness of the room or the length of the meeting. Under it she wore a crisp shirt of masculine cut. Although no less restrained than the suit, it had a tendency to pull tight across her breasts. Past experience had taught her that anything that drew attention to her full breasts, contrasting them with a slender waist, caused unnecessary attention. Around her neck was a single strand short necklace, of large square black stones, matched with onyx pendant earrings. The only thing, she supposed, that might have suggested anything other than complete professionalism and modesty, were the seamed black stockings. She twisted her calf to see the seam in the mirror, pleased with the way it emphasized her slender muscularity. The low heeled pumps would have to go before the evening though. Not at all the effect she hoped to create... The lift halted, and she stepped through into the lobby. She acknowledged the security man with a brief smile, slid quickly through the revolving door, and out into the car park. The early evening air was fresh and crisp, fitting the season. Its coolness felt good on her heated cheeks. As she walked towards her car, she found that her gait changed spontaneously. Her usual purposeful stride - at least as much of a stride as the confines of her skirt permitted - changed to a sensual glide, her hips swaying. At the same time, she felt her nipples tighten. She ruminated that she was drifting into the mood for the evening. That, or the cold was getting to her! Once in the car and pulling out into the traffic, she came to the motorway slip road within minutes. The point of no return. Rachael could take the left, and return home, where her husband and child would be surprised, but pleased to see her. They'd doubtless question why she wasn't away at the social evening, ahead of her much anticipated team building day, but they'd eat together and settled down for another evening of quiet domesticity. Suddenly, taking that safe option seemed very attractive. Or did it? Idiots though they were, Rachael couldn't empty her mind entirely of the sorts of remarks made by Frank and the others. Not when there'd been so many similar ones over the years. Always shrinking into the background, always avoiding attention. Even when she'd married, despite Alistair's obvious delight in her body, she'd never found it possible to believe in her own desirability. There had been occasions when he'd persuaded her to wear something daring, that showed off her figure; when she had, she'd dismissed the reactions of men to it as just proof of their stupidity, not of any merit on her part. She'd felt tawdry, and after a while he'd given up. In bed, he lavished praise on her form. In that context, she found it arousing, but when he'd moved on to using it as the basis of fantasy concerning her in situations where she'd aroused men, she'd refused to participate. In truth, she thought she simply found sharing such thoughts uncomfortable even if they turned her on. Sex was purely an issue of love within marriage, wasn't it? And even if that could be simply put to one side, she found it impossible to envisage herself that way. The odd thing was, when he'd stopped, she'd found she quite missed it. She could take the right. Just ten miles or so, a safe distance from anywhere anyone was likely to know her, was the hotel she'd booked when this wild idea first occurred to her. As she sat waiting for the lights she knew this was where she had to make the choice. If she didn't take the opportunity this time, she'd never summon up the courage for a second attempt. Conversely, she was risking so much. The lights changed. She made up her mind. Left, and home. The first two cars in the queue moved away smoothly. She lifted her foot from the brake and, with a sense of relief, began to move forward... and stopped, as the ancient hatchback two cars in front of her stalled. As its driver churned the starter motor the light turned red. She was about to start cursing the incompetent. Instead, she was suddenly struck with a further wave of indecision. The mental images she'd formed of the evening came to the forefront of her mind, and she felt her body respond. Her breath quickened as she felt herself become slick, her nipples crinkling, and blood rushing to her labia. Rachael's mind returned to her previous train of thought. In reality, she'd never, in her heart of hearts, disliked the tales of her imaginary misbehaviour; she just couldn't feel comfortable with them while she disbelieved that anyone would have found her so tempting, or that she could allow herself to behave that way. But, as time had worn on, the frequency with which such tales were brought to the marital bed declined. Her fault, she supposed. She'd tacitly discouraged them. On birthdays and anniversaries he still sometimes bought exciting lingerie and she enjoyed wearing it, seeing the response in her husband's eyes. Even though some of the outfits were hugely more tawdry than she'd have ever bought for herself, there was still an inner stimulation in presenting herself. Rachael couldn't bring herself to admit that to him, though. And over time, those presents too had become more sporadic. It had been impossible not to start to think that life was passing her by, that she was being deprived of a gratification that others took for granted. That conjecture had become more concrete six months or so ago. On hearing the admission from a friend -- one of the other mothers who waited each day to collect their children outside her daughter's school -- of having had an affair, she'd been at first stunned, and then intrigued. The friend was a decidedly "yummy mummy" Rachael admitted, but it still had been a huge surprise when, both slightly drunk on a "girls night out", she'd confessed. It wasn't the fact of the affair that had discomfited her but the lack of regret, and the relish with which her friend had described its invigorating effect. The feeling of becoming desirable again, of being able to cast off the shackles of propriety had rekindled her love of life, it seemed. And even though the affair had been short lived, as she'd claimed, it had rejuvenated her sex life with her husband. He, it appeared, was puzzled but grateful at the change in her. Then, more recently, less positive events had conspired. Discovering Alistair's secret store of pornographic magazines was no great surprise -- most men had one, she surmised. It was that it was not all of lithe young bodies. Often it featured women of her own age, who apparently had no problem both displaying themselves in the most lewd way, as well as apparently taking pleasure in an active - and wide ranging - sex life. She'd been furious. Angry and frustrated at work that following day, she'd heard about the "Ice Queen" nickname for the first time. Rachael found in herself a small core of anger. How dare they presume to know about her inner drives? How dare her husband not recognise his good fortune. Also, though, was a nagging guilt; it was she herself who'd created this situation, through her inability, or unwillingness, to set aside her inhibitions. Beyond the anger, though, a new need was emerging. She had to know. She had somehow to prove to herself that she was capable of being alluring, of provoking lust in men. And that she could herself take pleasure in the sex act itself, unconstrained by circumstances. She found herself imagining situations where she did just that. Imaginings, though, didn't settle any of the questions. Worse, they just contributed to a longing to experience truly passionate sex. Then, opportunity had offered itself. As soon as the instructions for this event had appeared in her e-mail inbox -- a day of tedium setting budgets for next year's operations at an office miles from home, a night in a hotel, and a day running around a muddy field with fools she mostly despised - a plan had germinated. Provided she attended the day events, no-one from work would be surprised if she had to rush home in the evening; none would expect the Ice Queen to unwind socially anyhow. Equally, at home, she'd be able to show good cause for being away, and even largely unreachable. She'd been planning the night for weeks, surreptitiously buying the items she felt she'd need. This was her chance to know once and for all what she was capable of. As the light again changed it was near automatic that she swung the car to the right. Rachael forced herself to concentrate as she joined the stream of traffic, suppressing her imagination in order to concentrate on safety. By the time she was ensconced in the outside lane, there seemed to be no more space for indecision. In fact, she found herself driving with unaccustomed speed, eager to reach her destination. Turning into the hotel drive, she had to make herself slow. The car, her pride and joy, was low slung as befitted a sports car. It had to be taken slowly over the speed bumps, respecting its age. Pulling into the car park, she contemplated the hotel building. It seemed well chosen for her purpose. A large country house, converted to its current purpose in the last few years, it was large enough to be anonymous, but retained character. That wasn't why she'd chosen it, though. That was more to do with it's proximity to a number of military training establishments. She'd always had a weakness for the sorts of men who became officers and she felt few of them would turn down the offer of a night of uncomplicated sex. As she stepped from the car, bending over to extract her overnight bag, she felt herself being watched. A surreptitious glance showed her a group of men standing at the window of what she guessed to be the bar, observing her with frank interest. Rachael was pleased to think that her position would show the curves of her backside to advantage. Her only regret was that she was still wearing the flat pumps rather than footwear more suited to her plans for the evening. Her path to Reception took her out of their line of sight. Check in was quick, efficient, and nonetheless frustrating. Her original intent had been a long, slow, scented bath, followed by leisurely preparation, a light meal, and then to allow events to take their course. That didn't fit her mood. Arriving in her room, she decided a change of plan was in order. Yet more anticipation was that last thing she wanted; all doubts now seemed gone. For the first time in her life, she thought, she felt just plain lascivious. She wanted to make herself as provocative as possible, to go downstairs, and to see just how much attention she could attract. She quickly stripped and showered. From her overnight bag she took the short, tight dress that she'd selected with such care. Pulling it over her head, she smoothed it down over her naked body. She'd never ever before owned a piece of clothing under which it wasn't possible to wear a stitch of underwear. She reached into the bag to bring out the broad elasticised belt which she'd decided to wear. Did she need it, she wondered? Normally, she was convinced child bearing had left her with a waist a little larger, and stomach a little slacker than in her youth. Inspecting herself in the semi-sheer black dress, she admitted that that was really self deprecating. Her frequent gym sessions had, in reality, left her waist and stomach tight and toned. Still, the broad belt did add a raunchy quality. She clenched it tight. Her image in the mirror was starting to look very good indeed, she decided, especially for someone past forty. Her breasts were held firmly by the cups formed into the dress, although they could have been presented a little higher, she thought. Against that, her nipples were clearly delineated, giving a voluptuous effect. She succumbed to the urge to run her hands over them, then to tease them with her fingers. It felt good, sensual, and, of course, it made them even more prominent. Her hands were shaking, she realised. Perhaps a drink would help. She was prepared. In the bag was a bottle of champagne, but it wasn't chilled. She called Reception, and ordered an ice bucket. Investigating the mini-bar, she found a quarter bottle of white wine, which she opened and poured. Sitting at the dressing table and sipping at the wine, Rachael snapped the seal on the packet containing the stockings she'd selected to go with the dress. Unusually for her, they were "hold-ups"; although her thighs were firm enough that they didn't cause an unsightly line, she disliked the sensation of the gripping welts. However, this time, the clinging nature of the dress ruled out a suspender belt, so she'd chosen these -- dark, in fact near opaque, with a faint lattice design picked out in silver -- as the most erotic option available. Drawing first one, then the other, up her legs, she was relieved to see that they were long enough to reach almost to her pelvis. That meant that any flashes of thigh she offered would be intentional. Moreover, she contemplated, they'd make her already long, slim thighs look endless. That concept engrossed her. Rapt by the idea, she reached again into the bag, drawing out the shoes which she'd wished to be wearing earlier. Four inches high, with a thick ankle strap, they'd been bought with the intent of exhibiting her shapely legs, of giving her walk a libidinous sway, and -- most crucially -- sending a not very subliminal message. Rachael had never owned a pair of "fuck-me" heels before. She certainly did now. She bent to fasten the ankle straps. The buckles were stiff. Sufficiently so, she thought, they'd only be coming off in extremis; and in her mind, she formed another vision of herself, naked but for stockings and heels. She'd fantasised such a scene often enough recently, and even - at Alistair's request - dressed this way in the privacy of their bedroom, albeit lacking the heels. The night she'd found those magazines, he'd been away on business. Probably just as well, as her first instinct had been to confront him with them and demand that he not bring any such material into their home again. Instead, events took an unexpected turn. Having settled their child, while sitting quietly she found some of the images returning to her mind. Then, having gone to bed early, she found herself waking in the small hours, uncomfortable in churned covers, and perspiring. Her body showed all the signs of arousal, and she knew her dreams had consisted of vague, but undoubtedly sexual images. Settling back to try to recapture sleep, she found herself consumed by an urge to compare her own body to those in the magazines. And thus she found herself in what she thought was the bizarre position of standing in front of a mirror contemplating her strengths relative to the models in the magazines strewn around her feet. She'd felt, in the main, she compared well. Why did he feel the need to look at them when the real thing was available? The following night, when he returned, she'd attempted to initiate sex. Claiming tiredness, he'd declined. As he slept, she found her mind churning. Was it something wrong with her? Was she genuinely so undesirable? If so, why? She thought that objectively, her body stood well in comparison with those he wanted to look at. She wanted very much to be sure of it now. This was the first time she'd contemplated being seen like that, by some yet-unknown lover. She found the prospect exquisitely sensual, and at the same time daunting. Her reverie was broken by the knock at the door, and the call of "Room service". She grabbed at the bathrobe, not yet ready to be seen, and held it to herself. Collecting the ice bucket from the waiter, she closed the door and let the towel drop. Carrying it to one of the bedside tables, Rachael felt her inflamed nipples brush the cold metal. The sensation stimulated them yet further, and the condensation made the dress cling even tighter. Emergence Rachael couldn't resist another check in the mirror. The heels, adding to her normal 5'7" made her appear as tall as an Amazon, and the effect on her legs was everything she'd hoped. Slender ankles led to shapely calves, and the slender thighs naturally drew the eye to their junction. Her waist appeared implausibly slim, the broad belt having reduced it even beyond it's usual slenderness. Above it, she thought, her breasts appeared ripe, ready for handling. Twisting, she examined her rear; the slim globes of her buttocks were outlined by the thin fabric stretched tight over them. Better, the cut of the dress meant that it clung down over the majority of their lower curves, before flaring to the narrow hem of the skirt, and reaching to mid thigh. Sitting back at the dressing table, she worked to apply her makeup. For a few moments, she sat frozen. The image she wished to create was very far removed from her usual retrained visage; although she'd bought a kit of more overt cosmetics, she was for a moment at a loss. "I can't do this," she thought. "This isn't me." Hesitancy rapidly gave way to trepidation, verging on disbelief that she could succeed. She felt control slipping away; and she called on all her reserves of self control. She stood and again walked to the mirror. She was seized by an urge to see her groin, framed by the tops of the stockings. It was another of the images that had filled her head after seeing Alistair's magazines. She took the hem in both hands and drew it up slowly to her waist. The welts of the stockings cut her thighs perhaps an inch below the junction of her legs. Above them, her neatly trimmed pubic bush formed a downy triangle, through the lowest part of which her swollen labia could be seen clearly. At its apex, her clitoral hood stood erect, ready for whatever the evening might bring. It was, Rachael felt, a luscious sight. She'd never considered herself to have even the slightest lesbian curiosity, but if she were shown this spectacle by another woman, she wouldn't be able to resist stroking it, or who knew what else. She visualised herself sitting with her legs parted while a hand fondled her, gently opening her outer lips, then her inner, before exploring her slick interior. Rachael shook her head, trying to shed the image. It was too powerful for that, though. In her mind's eye, she saw herself easing herself backwards, spreading her legs to facilitate access. She was entered by a finger, then another, then another, while a thumb pressed firmly on her clitoris. Her head was thrown back as she surrendered herself to the sensations, her eyes closed. The hand withdrew and she raised her head languidly, in time to see herself penetrated. She was, she realised, close to orgasm from the imaginary image alone. Was this possible? The lubricious image in the mirror; the hussy enjoying being explored by that imaginary hand, the exhibitionist aroused by the prospect of being seen naked but for stockings, they were all no less her than was the Ice Queen. The slut who was going downstairs to choose a man to come back and fuck her was just as real as the steady wife and mother. The concept threatened her whole world, her self-image shaken to its core. Could they all be at least a part of her? She had to know. She returned to the dressing table. Somehow, now, she had no doubts as to what to do. Heavy mascara, and dark eye shadow made her eyes look huge, their green extraordinarily prominent against the dark surroundings. Her cheekbones were outlined with blusher, and finally, her lips painted with dark, near purple lipstick. As she applied a second, and a third coat of lip-gloss, giving them a sheen, she was again visited by a vision -- she saw them stretched around the stem of a thick cock, leaving marks as she drew upward on it. That shook her almost as much as the earlier thought. Rachael had always hated performing oral sex on Alistair; she could barely bring herself to lick or kiss his penis. She'd never been able to bring herself to take the head in her mouth. And now here she was, envisaging performing just that act on a complete stranger, and being hugely aroused by the thought. She began to wonder what other "forbidden territory" she might enter tonight. Would whoever she selected want her to swallow his semen, perhaps? She turned her attention to her hair -- not too much of a problem, her bob had been recently coloured, and with a little tousling didn't look inappropriate. Completing that Rachael opened her case containing the jewellery she'd bought. The large hoop earrings were a bit of a cliché, but they fitted the image. She lowered the strings of black beads over her head. "Nice", she thought, especially the way they fell across her cleavage. She giggled as one momentarily snagged on a nipple -- if that didn't bring attention to them, nothing would. As she slipped the costume rings onto her fingers and the bangles onto her wrists, she again created an image of how she hoped to be seen later, with her nakedness emphasised by the jewellery. She pictured the beads between her naked, jiggling breasts, of her be-ringed fingers looking tiny, wrapped around a thick member. "Almost complete," she thought. "Another check in the big mirror, then off we go." The butterflies were back with a vengeance, but now accompanied with a near desperate lust. As she stood, she caught sight of something, on the dressing table was the jewellery she'd worn - and often wore - for work. Overcome by an impulse, she reached for the short necklace she'd removed earlier, fastening it around her neck. Alone, it always appeared tasteful, muted, even. Worn in combination with the other items, it merely added to the air of excess. That wasn't why Rachael had done it, though. She pictured herself sitting in future meetings, this around her neck and remembering being taken while wearing it... She quickly tidied the room, placing one or two essential items into the drawer of the bedside table. Another giggle -- surely a dozen condoms would be sufficient - another couple of items into the bathroom. The lights adjusted, and the temperature of the champagne tested. She drained the last of the white wine. The last look in the mirror was reassuring. This was the new Rachael -- the Rachael she hoped was there, buried not too deeply below the surface. The gloss of her lips made them look full and inviting; the slenderness of her neck and shoulders being emphasised by the short necklace and the beads. Similarly, the bangles and rings highlighted her delicate hands and forearms. Her hands slid down over her breasts, feeling their fullness, and then around to feel the weight and firmness of her buttocks. She imagined the sensation of being held this way by a lover. She was ready. She sprayed herself with a heavy, musky perfume, bought for the occasion, although imagined she could smell her own thick odour signalling availability. The perfume and her room key went into a small clutch bag, along with a phone, pen, lipstick and lip gloss. She hesitated, crossed to the bedside table, and added a single condom, just in case she didn't make it back here. Finally, she stepped out into a deserted corridor. Slightly disappointed not to have an audience immediately, she used the chance to practice her walk in the vertiginous shoes. It was easier than expected; in fact, it was impossible not to walk with an exaggerated swing of the hips. As Rachael walked, she watched herself in the windows, reflective in the darkness, smiling. The gait would draw all eyes to her pelvis or rear. She strutted to the end of the corridor, and turned. The staircase led down into the lobby. It was brightly lit, and although not crowded, there were a number of people about. Rachael was hit by a moment of concern that someone in the right place, glancing up, would have a clear view of her naked vulva under the short skirt. She decided she really oughtn't to care. Entering the bar, she glanced around. No sign of the watchers who'd spotted her on the way in. One or two likely prospects, but only one took note of her as she crossed to the bar proper. A choice, She could either perch on a bar stool or take a drink back to a table. The former, she chose; that latter implied she might be waiting for someone whereas the stool gave a chance to accidentally allow her skirt to ride up, when the chance offered itself. She ordered another white wine from the barmaid and settled on the stool. The voice was unexpected. It was, as she'd half expected, the man from the corner table who'd watched her walk in. "Can I buy you a drink?" She looked him over. Her first thought was, "Not the most promising material." He was of average height, a little on the slender side. His hair was thinning. Could she see herself in bed with this one? Probably not. But, there was as yet no one else around, and in her current state, there was an excitement in knowing that she'd accepted the first available candidate. She noted the time. To her surprise, it wasn't yet eight. He raised his hand -- and she noted the nicotine stains on his fingers. "I may be about to behave like a tart," she thought; "but not with a smoker." Smiling to herself, she apologised: "It's very nice of you to offer, but no thanks. I'm waiting for someone" It was his turn to look at her. She could sense his disbelief; it struck her that he thought she was a prostitute, a hooker, trawling the bar for business. The idea of being taken for a whore excited her. She felt that in her current state, she'd be quite capable of offering herself to someone for money. Indeed, she found herself imagining the prospect. Leaving one client after committing various lewdnesses and walking back into a bar like this, in search of the next; of being willing to do whatever was asked of her.. He left and she returned to her musings. This was not helping her predicament, she realised. She'd been aware of her vagina lubricating ever since arriving. Her state of heat was now such that she could feel her inner lips loosening. In her mind's eye they were gaping in anticipation of being penetrated. Whether or not that was the case, they were forming no barrier to her oozing fluids, and she could feel the wetness spreading underneath her. Rachael knew that when she moved her state of arousal would be visible, as her skirt plastered itself to her wet cheeks. Her reverie was interrupted by loud male voices from the doors to the dining room. Four men entered, obviously in boisterous spirits. She looked them over with interest. All tall, and healthy looking. Short haired, reasonably well dressed and, she guessed, in their early twenties. She recognised the watchers from earlier. One stood out. Leaner than the others, he seemed to be holding back slightly from the verbal horseplay. She made eye contact. Suddenly Rachael was determined; this was her lover for the night. The thought renewed her lust. She smiled in return, and raised her drink to her lips. He held her gaze and smiled back. Rachael leant back onto the bar on her elbows, presenting her breasts; God, she wanted this. Her breath tightened in her chest. To her disappointment she realised that her pose gave him no line of sight up her skirt. His friends were leaving. One called to him to follow. He broke his gaze and turned. Rachael could not believe her eyes. The prospect of not fulfilling her fantasy loomed large and she found herself thinking of whatever else she could do. The room service waiter had not been unattractive. Perhaps her option was to return to the room, order something and present herself to him, or maybe there was a nightclub in a nearby town? The one thing she could not now contemplate was returning home without sex. Perhaps the girl serving at the bar could tell her of what was in the area? Rachael assessed her; blonde, pretty and very, very young. If she was more than nineteen, Rachael would have been amazed. "Magda", according to her name badge. She didn't look likely to be able to direct Rachael to a den of iniquity. Rachael turned back to the bar, and drained her drink. She steeled herself to leave her chair, thinking that if she moved quickly, her wetness would not be so obvious. As she began to lift herself he reappeared in the doorway to the lobby She felt her knees weaken. He walked straight towards her and stood casually at the bar. He addressed the barman, ordering a bottled lager, and as he was served said in a strong voice, "Perhaps the lady would like something, too?" She didn't trust herself to speak, knowing her voice would break. She declined the offer with a slight shake of the head, with the thought running through her head, "I'm no lady -- and I'm going to prove that to you..." He paid and turned to her. "Hi, I'm..." Still unable to speak, Rachael held up her finger to his lips. He stopped. Not only could she not find her voice, but suddenly, she wanted her first lover to be nameless. She reached into her clutch bag and fished out her pen. She could see him glance inside. Could he see the silver packet of the condom? She reached out for a napkin, and wrote on it: "Room 182 -- 15 minutes". Rachael could see her writing was shaky. She handed it to him; he glanced at it and raised his eyebrows. In response she smiled, and this time raised her finger to her own lips. He nodded before taking his beer to an empty table. Her feelings were a tumult. Raw lust clashed with a rising feeling of power. She felt powerful and sexy; she could do what she wanted, take pleasure from it, and no one could stop her. Now she wasn't concerned about her clinging dress. As far as she was concerned, she would have felt able to peel it off there and stride out of the bar naked, enjoying the male eyes lusting after her and the envy of the females. She slid from the stool. The strut that she'd developed earlier was back with a vengeance. As Rachael crossed to the lobby she knew he, and at least half a dozen others, were watching her. The sway of her hips must have told them that this was a woman in heat. When she entered her room, she hesitated. What to do first? She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The fifteen minutes she'd given him would most likely up at around eight-thirty. It was now eighteen minutes past. Open the champagne, she thought. She was flustered. She wanted to make the best possible impression when he arrived, to dispel any doubts he might have by her appearing so wanton and desirable. There'd be no second thoughts for either of them. As she wrestled with the cork she sat on the end of the bed to gather her thoughts, successfully extricating it and yet avoiding the cascade of overflowing foam -- that would be just too symbolic for comfort, she thought -- and she formed a plan of action. Filling one glass, taking a draught to steady her nerves, Rachael returned the bottle to the ice bucket. She unclipped the belt, removed her beads and bangles, and drew the dress over her head. She carried it into the bathroom, glancing at the clock as she did. Eight twenty-one. In the bathroom she moistened a facecloth and wiped the areas where she was most aroused. She looked around for her perfume. It was outside, in her clutch bag. Retrieving it, she anointed herself before misting it around the room. She sat at the dressing room to freshen her makeup. Excited, Rachael thought to do more. She reached in the wardrobe for her everyday handbag, recovering her normal lipstick - a pale coral-pink, just slightly stronger in colour than the natural tone of her inner lips. She sat at the dressing table, her legs spread, and applied it. This worked, she thought; it gave both a glossy sheen while making her arousal yet more blatant. Another glance at the clock: eight twenty-four. She drained the champagne. Rachael considered her options. She could present herself just as she was; as she'd imagined herself all evening, naked but for jewellery, stockings and heels, or she could put the dress back on, or perhaps just the belt - that had appeal. Or, in the bathroom, she'd earlier secreted a black silk slip. She rejected the dress option and somehow, the idea of more gradually ending up in just the stockings felt more seductive. Reaching for the belt, she again clasped it around her waist. The effect was good. To be wearing clothing that did nothing whatsoever to conceal her erogenous zones felt truly licentious; and the look as she glanced at herself was pure harlot. But it did nothing to support the process of a gradual revealing, and that had been part of Rachael's imaginings for many weeks. As she unfastened it - eight twenty-six - she moved to the bathroom... and stopped. Somewhere in the room her mobile phone was ringing insistently. Hurriedly she found it, in her handbag, raised it and was about to answer. Again, she stopped. It was their home number. Why was she being called? Ninety-nine percent probably, someone was just calling to chat. But, there was the tiniest chance it was an emergency. Rachael knew that she couldn't get caught up in a conversation. It'd take too long, and it'd bring her down to earth with a crash. She wasn't going to risk her evening - eight twenty-seven - for anything less than a major crisis with her child. For anything less, she found herself resenting her unknowing husband for endangering her pleasure. She marvelled at her own reaction. There was no guilt, just arousal now. For all she cared, he could be in the room watching as she was taken; it would make no difference to her behaviour. One option -- text, ask if there's a problem, and claim to be unable to talk. She did. And, as she awaited the reply, she stepped into the slip, sliding it up over her body. Lifting her breasts into its cups, straightening its seams, she attempted to steady her breathing. She donned the beads and bangles. At eight twenty-nine, the phone trilled; at the same moment she heard a tentative knock at the door; hadn't she left it ajar? She opened the phone to see the text message: A stab of guilt was swiftly banished by the sound of soft footfalls outside. She regarded the phone with a mixture of relief and irritation, and turned it off with a decisive prod of her finger. She smoothed the slip over her hips; it was short, barely covering her buttocks at the rear. Rachael took a deep breath and prepared herself to step through the bathroom door. A very last chance to halt this. Did she want to? No. She had never felt so certain of anything in her life. She felt alive, desirable, more in touch with her deeper, darker needs than ever in her life. Her life as the "Ice Queen" seemed a million miles away, the life of a completely different person. A life in which she felt none of this intoxicating energy that she was filled with now. Like a drowning person she felt her life flash past her. Time and time again she was conscious that she'd taken the safe option, shying away from the risk. That was no longer an option. She knew that there was a risk to her home life. Even if tonight remained secret, she might well finish tonight addicted. Rachael decided that the risk was worth running, and stepped through the door. He was standing at the foot of the bed, looking hesitant. This was the moment of truth. Rachael collected her wits and leaned back against the door frame. Intent on looking her best, she placed her hands on her hips and drew her shoulders back, feeling the lace trim of the slip pull taut against her breasts. She raised her left leg, bent it and placed the sole flat against the door frame at knee height. She knew that the pose would accentuate her shapely frame and present her breasts to his sight. His eyes roved over her body, seemingly wanting to miss nothing. Momentarily they rested at her nearly exposed groin. Inwardly Rachael groaned with lust; this was the first male to see that part of her, apart from Alistair, and he apparently approved. More than that, she realised. The very act of displaying herself was even more arousing than she'd imagined it to be. Despite the pleasure she broke the pose to move towards him. Emergence He opened his mouth, as if to speak. As before, she held her finger to his lips. She spoke: "No names, OK? Anything else, but no names." She gestured for him to sit on the end of the bed and stepped past him. The movement left her naked rear just inches from him. She lifted the champagne bottle with a questioning rising of her eyebrows. He nodded and she handed him a glass. As she bent to pour, she became aware that the gesture exposed her entire cleavage to his gaze. He smiled. She turned to pour her own glass, behind her on the table. His first touch on the exposed flesh of her left buttock was like an electric shock. Hesitantly, gently, he traced its form. Rachael couldn't help but sigh audibly. It felt glorious -- but it wasn't going to be enough. Slowly, fully aware that as she bent forward to pour her own glass, the highlighted lips of her vulva would be exposed to his view. When the glass was full she made no attempt to resume her upright pose, but bent further, resting her elbows on the table. Thus he was allowed to explore her hindquarters without hindrance, his second hand joining his first after just a moment. As his hands slid over her flesh, she revelled in the sensation. The slight roughness of his hands suggested an outdoor life. They shifted to the lower curve of her buttocks, testing for softness. She relaxed, knowing they were firm to the touch. Now his hands were moving up, his palms and fingers tracing her outer curves, his thumbs gently separating the globes, running up close to her sensitive anus. Rachael pressed back against the pressure of his hands. "My God" she thought, "He's going to push a finger up me...and I'm going to let him". She shuddered with a mix of trepidation and anticipation. The movement of his hands paused, the outside of his thumbs just at the side of her most private place of all. With firm pressure she felt herself being spread, aware that she was completely exposed to his gaze. His hands started to move downward, maintaining the separation as they went. Rachael didn't know if the tremor that passed through her was relief or disappointment. As his fingers reached the point where her legs met the curve of her rear they stopped. His thumbs continued downward. As they moved they traced a path over the exquisitely sensitive flesh between her anus and the rearmost juncture of her labia. She bit her lip, suppressing a gasp of ecstasy; his thumbs had reached her vulva, and were inching along the slit. "Please, open them, spread me," she begged silently as she pictured the steady flow of her juices onto his digits. Her throat was too dry to speak the words out loud. Her knees were close to buckling. Rather than spreading her, or entering her, he reversed their travel. They stroked back along the length of her cleft. Rachael's entire universe seemed to centre on that few inches of oozing flesh. As his hands moved back up onto the ordinary skin of her buttocks, she wanted to beg him to return. She had to speak, and so sipped her drink to moisten her mouth. "That feels so, so good...don't stop." His hands reached the top of their travel, again spreading her to view. His kneading of her rump made her feel like a toy in his hands. "Pretty. You've got a gorgeous arse" The crudeness caused her a frisson of lust. The everyday Rachael, she thought, would have found this posture humiliating yet tonight she luxuriated in being scrutinised so intimately and found desirable. Her mind flashed back to Frank's comments. Maybe she shouldn't have been so irritated by them. She purred: "Glad you like it. I've been complimented on it before." He chuckled. "Oh yes. I like it a lot. I like all I've seen." His approval was yet further aphrodisiacal. She felt truly provocative. Craning her neck to look back at him, she purred, "Do you want to see the rest? I'd love to show you. But you'll have to be a very good boy." Everyday Rachael couldn't have said that, she'd have been too insecure in her own skin. The need to take control asserted itself in this new Rachael. Reaching back, she grasped his wrists. She turned to face him, dropping to her knees as she did so. What should she do to excite him, she pondered? The glossy sheen on his thumbs was her clue. She bent over them and extended her tongue, licking along their length. Somewhere in her head there remained the small voice of a rational observer. That voice expressed incredulity at her act; normally, she wouldn't even allow her husband to kiss her if he'd performed oral sex on her. Raising her head, she smiled at him. Releasing his hands, she started to unbutton his shirt, and when that was complete, she pushed it back from his shoulders. Next, his trouser buttons were undone, and the zip pulled down. Taking the hint, he lifted and pushed trousers and underpants down over his hips. He kicked of his shoes, and bent down to pull off his socks. Eager now to see him naked, she rose in front of him, and offered her hands. "Stand up" Her voice sounded earthy, a slightly lower register than its usual contralto. He took her hands in his and stood. She stepped back; now it was her turn to peruse his body. He was as lean as she'd expected, if not so heavy shouldered or muscular as her ideal. His stomach was flat, the muscles finely delineated. Her eyes were drawn to the semi-soft form of his penis. She reached for it, stroking its length with her fingertips. It stirred. Taking it gently into her hand Rachael led him to the side of the bed before pushing him gently backwards until he was sitting. Grasping her intent, swinging his legs onto the bed, he settled against the pillows. She sat alongside him, encircling his penis with her hands. Without breaking eye contact for a second she began to work them up and down the shaft. Within seconds it firmed and swelled. She was finding it all, so far, easier than she'd anticipated. In fact, pretty much instinctive. Casting her eyes down, Rachael was pleased. She'd chosen well. Although not freakishly big, she noted with gratitude that it was considerably larger than she was used to. The girth in particular promised satisfaction. It'd have been a pity, she mused, if her first extra-marital one had been unimpressive. She released her grip with her left hand, continuing to tickle the tip with her right. It rewarded her by producing a drop of clear fluid, and with a fingertip she spread it around the head. This produced a sharp hiss from him. Her free hand reached to the bedside table and opened the drawer, producing a condom. He took it from her, tore the packet open, and handed her the contents. Rolling it down over his erect penis took all her attention. Completing the job Rachael devoted her attention to kissing her way up his stomach, teasing his nipples with her tongue while she caressed his heavy testicles. It was time. Rachael sat up and placed one knee on the bed, by his hip. Leaning forward, with her silk clad breasts just above his face, she swung her other knee across him. She took his hands, placing them on the headboard, before straightening up. He was looking up at her with an expectant expression. For her part Rachael's lips were open and her cheeks flushed. Her hands were trembling as they reached for his cock, placing the bulbous head against her vulva. As Rachael manoeuvred it into place her mind was racing. Taking such care to place it just so, such that it could slide into her in a single smooth movement, was the most wanton thing she'd ever done. This was nothing to do with relationships, love, or family. She was doing it purely because she knew the sensations it would produce would be exquisite. In her imagination she could already feel it stretching her, probing her limits. She pictured herself as he would see her, sliding up and down on him, seeing her stretched to accept the penetration. Finding the place, she began lowering he body, feeling the smooth roundness of the head probing into her. She was stretched, but nowhere near the point that it caused discomfort. More startling, as she bore down was how far it seemed to push into her. She was wholly, unambiguously engorged; the head was pressing against her cervix, and still she wasn't squatting on the base. Rachael paused. The sensations were everything she'd craved. The insistent pressure against her womb was producing spasms throughout her whole vagina. Added to that, the sensation of being stretched, invaded, made her feel more female than at any time in her life. She wasn't only being fucked -- she was being impaled, and it put her on an adrenaline high. Her thighs tensed as she raised herself. As the cock slid out of her it felt as though it left a void, stirring yet more alien and acute sensations. She looked down, seeing the shiny shaft protruding from her distended lips. It looked obscene -- and, to her, glorious. She lowered herself again, this time revelling in the slippery friction as it slid past her lips and along the clasping walls. This time it penetrated deeper; she felt her rump lightly touching the heels of her shoes. There seemed to be no part of her that wasn't filled. Impulsively, she placed a hand on her stomach. Surely she'd be able to feel its intrusion? She rose again. This time the sensations of it sliding out of her were overwhelming, and she prolonged them by rising until just the tip was engaged in her. Then she bore down, this time forcefully. Rachael sank down now on the full length. She felt her lips pressing onto her lover's pelvis while his shaft penetrated more deeply than anything she'd ever felt before. There was pressure on her clitoris, there was a burning sensation as her entrance was distended, and above all there was the feeling of being possessed. It seemed as though her cervix was being physically displaced, as though his tip was trying to batter it's way directly into her womb. It was all too much. Her vaginal muscles spasmed, causing her to double forward with an incoherent cry. Her hands dropped onto his chest in order not to fall forward completely. Still doubled forward, and without conscious intent, she tried to squash down further. Rachael was responding to a visceral need to be penetrated to the maximum. Her hips twisted and turned as she sought the last few precious millimetres. It failed to produce more depth, but the squirming rubbed the head across her cervix again, resulting in another convulsion in her depths. Still grinding down on him she adopted a rocking motion, her pelvis moving forward and backward. That way the waves of pleasure came rhythmically. Looking down on him through the curtain of her forward-fallen hair, she needed to verbalise her joy. It was like a dam bursting. She had to express all the pent up emotion, her elation at discovering her new self. "Oh, God, that felt like nothing else I've ever known...you're touching me in places I've never ever been touched, and it's wonderful...I want it to go on forever. I just want to be fucked like this forever..." The unaccustomed obscenity felt good in her mouth. She slipped over the edge into full-fledged orgasm, and the world went black. When awareness returned she found herself slumped forward onto his chest Solicitously, he asked, "Are you OK?" Rachael could only nod. In reality she'd never felt more "OK" in her life. Penetration had never caused her to climax before. She'd come from being masturbated by Alistair, and from cunnilingus. Even the latter was rare as she felt uncomfortable with the act, believing that it must be distasteful to the one performing it. By contrast, coming as she had, felt sublime, natural, and profound. And, as she began to become aware, this was fundamentally different in another way. Her usual orgasms induced a sense of lassitude. There was none such now. She simply wanted more. He was still in her. With only slight difficulty, posed by her trembling limbs, she sat back upright again, and resumed rising and falling on him. At the bottom of each stroke she performed a slight twist, corkscrewing her hips on the way up and down. His hands reached around her to grasp her haunches. The movements were designed to maximise her own pleasure, but after a moment she realised were working for him, too. His eyes were shining as he looked at her, and she felt a craving to display herself. She raised her arms, placing her hands behind her head. As she rose, she slipped one of the straps of the slip down over her shoulder and down her arm. On her next up-stroke she did the same for the other. The flimsy garment was supported now only by its own friction against her breasts. She placed her right arm across them, in a parody of maidenly modesty, while with her left she tugged the soft material down behind the shield of her arm. She crossed her left arm over her right. He was transfixed. She continued in silence, bobbing up and down on him, her hips gyrating. He croaked, "Please." She moved her hands to cup her breasts, still hiding them from him, teasing. Finally, she dropped them, purring. "I hope they were worth waiting for." She crossed her arms below her bosom, and with her upper arms pressed them together, accentuating their fullness. The nipples were swollen and reddened, prominent way beyond their normal form. Rachael knew her breasts were impressive; a curvaceous 32C, not materially affected by motherhood. They were less firm than they had been, but had sagged little. He nodded. Her palms moved to support the undersides. With her thumbs she stroked the enlarged teats. She cast a brief glance downward. They looked full and ripe, their upper curves enhanced by a flush of arousal. She reached behind her, taking his hands from her rear, and pressing them to her bosom. "They feel good, too. Try them." He kneaded them vigorously. Normally she'd have found the treatment excessively rough, now it just fitted her mood. She focussed on the sensations building in her pelvis, increasing the pace of her gyrations. There was another climax building. He'd started responding to her down-strokes by forcing himself upward. His rising arousal showed on his face, delighting her, and her orgasm came another step closer. Rachael's mind was racing, infatuated with her new character and wanting to hear of its effect on him. "Tell me. Tell me how it feels." That wasn't it, she thought. It needed to be expressed in terms that fitted the persona she felt emerging. "Tell me how it feels being inside me. Tell me what you want to do to me." He took a moment to form words, his breath short. "You feel fantastic. You're tight, and hot and wet, and you..." She waited on his words. "...fuck like a whore." He could not have chosen the words better for her if she'd scripted them for him. She groaned: "Ohhhh. That's it -- that's how I want to be." He warmed to his subject "Your tits are superb...and I'm going to fuck you every way I can. You'll love it, beg for it, like a little tart..." Another orgasmic spasm exploded in her belly. Her head snapped backward as her spine arched, snatching her breasts away from his grasp. Slumping sideways, she moaned as he slipped from her. The spasms continued, dying away only slowly. Lying on her side Rachael waited for her breathing to steady enough to speak. She naturally curled into a semi-foetal position. She felt his weight shifting beside her. His hands were placed on her knees, and she felt herself being manhandled onto her back, her legs being spread. She was too stupefied to be other than entirely passive. He was kneeling over her, his inflamed cock standing proud. Unconsciously she reached between her thighs, her hands moving entirely through instinct . She spread herself, opening for him. He took no further encouraging, suddenly driving into her. His pelvis impacted hers with sufficient force that her hips were jarred upward from the bed. He withdrew, to plunge forward again. With that small part of her intelligence that still functioned, Rachael could feel that he wasn't filling her quite so deeply. But, by compensation, he was able to thrust into her energetically, making her feel as though he was trying to drive through the top of her skull. Reflexively she raised her heels, pressing them hard against his backside, egging on his assault. His passion was infectious. She started to thrust back against him. His mouth was close to hers and she latched onto it. Their first kiss, Rachael realised as his tongue stabbed into her mouth and she sucked on it hungrily. As the kiss broke she looked up at him. His eyes were glassy, defocused. He dropped heavily onto her, his mouth by her ear. The only sound that came from him was a guttural grunt. She found herself gasping encouragement, seeking to rouse him further. "Come on...fuck me harder, fuck me. Use me." His energy showed no sign of slackening and she found herself writhing under his weight, seeking to goad him. She expected him to climax quickly yet, to her elation, he was showing no signs of this. Instead he lifted from her and, grasping her hips while supporting her neck, raised them both to a sitting position. She was on his lap, speared by his member, and he was once more grasping her buttocks, this time in order to work her up and down on himself. For Rachael this could not have felt more different from the situation of a few moments ago. Then she'd been in control, dominant in their lovemaking. Now she was being handled like a rag doll, a piece of meat to be exploited for his pleasure. She found it be no less thrilling. She was, after all, the cause of his frenzy. It was her, and only her, who'd driven him to this animal fervour. Even in this state the effort of lifting and twisting her on his shaft was too much for him to bear for more than a few moments. Without warning he tipped her backwards so that again she lay supine, his weight above her. He continued grinding into her. More provocation was needed, intuition told her: "God, you're huge...I'm so close to coming, you're going to make me come. Please make me come, I need it so much...Do it, and I'll let you do anything you want with me." He reared up from her. This released her hands to grasp her own breasts as yet again she felt an incipient orgasm rising. Now, She could sense he was also close. Suddenly she regretted the condom, wanting the sensation of being filled with semen. "Come on...fuck me, fuck me. I want you to come in me, fill me" Her mind was filled with a picture of her own vagina dripping with her own fluids, mixed with his, and her hands were on the sheets, clawing convulsively. He was driving into her so hard her pelvis was angled up her backside from the bed. She was coming now, gazing up at him with her mouth slack when he roared, driving as deeply into her as he could. Rachael felt his cock convulse, even over the contractions of her own womb. He withdrew by perhaps an inch before driving in again, repeating the movement three or four times. She clenched her teeth to suppress a squeal of exaltation. He collapsed onto her, seeking her mouth with his, before rolling onto his side, grasping her to him. They kissed deeply before pecking and biting at each other until the aftershocks had subsided. Neither spoke for a minute or more. She reached to stroke his sweat-lank hair. Rachael broke the silence with a girlish giggle: "Well, you WERE a good boy, after all. Whatever was I thinking of, letting you do such rude things to me. It's just as well it turned out I liked them." The lightness of her tone broke his reverie. His softening penis slipped out of her. It lay on her thigh, wet and warm. "And you, Madame 'X', are a very dirty girl. Do you make a habit of picking up innocent young men in hotel bars and corrupting them?" Coquettishly, she cast her eyes down to his chest.