Revelations & Retribution.

The incident with the medical man was just beginning to fade, if not into insignificance, at least in relevance when, as such things are inclined to do, it came back to haunt me.

Revelation.

It was fairly late, one Friday evening. Pete and I were at home, busy with our own little private party of booze and sex, when I heard a female voice calling my name from the gate. The gate was locked because we definitely did want any visitors. I ignored it but the woman was persistent and eventually Pete told me to go and see what the bitch wanted and to tell her to fuck off, we’re busy fucking. He used those exact words, “Ask the bitch what she wants and tell her to fuck off, we’re busy fucking!”

I only had  high heels on and a gold chain around my waist. I quickly slipped on a bra and thong, trusting in the dark to provide the rest in the way of concealment. Being inebriated, with alcohol and lust I was, filled with bravado and not prepared for what awaited me. I strutted outside, cockily, only to be confronted by The Doc’s girlfriend, who I'd known as a little girl. I’d given her Sunday school lessons when she was a little girl, but I had no idea that she was his girlfriend and hadn't seen her for years. She was little then, but huge now; a fat, gross woman of about twenty-four. I didn't reconise her and she had to explain to me who she was. Her name is Jeanette and she works at the hotel and casino as a catering manager. I couldn’t imagine anybody would want to screw her, but, different strokes for different folks, I suppose. Maybe her obesity appealed to The Doc’s perverse side?

She wasn’t alone. There was another obese woman with her, who looked more like a man than a woman. I fleetingly wondered if they were fucking each other. Given her boyfriend’s reputation I wouldn’t put it past him to inspire them to put on shows for him. He certainly indulged me in some perverse ways, some of which were definitely not to my liking either, but you know how it is when you're trapped in the throes of ecstasy.

Anyway, she asks me to unlock the gate and let them in, saying she needs to have a serious talk to me. I let them in and we go and sit at the table under the tree. They’ve brought a bottle of booze with them and ask me for glasses, ice and water. While I’m getting them, Pete is lying in the bedroom and he asks me what they want. I tell him I don’t know yet, I’m about to find out. He tells me to hurry and get them to leave, his mammoth hard-on begging my attention.

Outside again, we get to the point of their visit. She wants to know what my intention was by sending the photo to her boyfriend. It all gets a bit sloppy, with her in tears, accusing me of wanting to fuck the man she intends marrying. If only the silly bitch knew! I try to placate her by saying I was thinking of moving into the garden-flat that is soon going to be vacated and I thought it might serve as a bit of inspiration for him to let it to me and that I had no idea he and she were involved. To add to the inconcruity of the situation she's calling me Auntie Miki as the kids in Sunday School used to. Anyway, Pete, hearing our snatches of the conversation comes out and asks what’s going on. She sorrowfully apprises him of the whole sordid story.

He listens, unmoved by the news and the fact that I am considering moving out. I can’t help it and sit there smiling smugly about what she doesn’t know. He calms the whole thing down and I convince her that it was merely a bit of mischief. He very chivalrously supports me in this and informs them that I’m a free agent and free to do as I please and what's wrong with harmless teasing. The Doc being as perverted as he is probably enjoyed it. I don’t know if she liked that very much, but it shuts her up.By now I'm beginning to believe that he also believes my concocted story.
He then, tactfully, suggests that it’s now time for them to leave so that we can carry on enjoying the sex we were, when they so rudely interrupted us with her trivialities. In his usual eloquent fashion he’s telling them to fuck off in a nice way.

The end of it is that Jeanette says there might be a job for me at the casino. She’ll give me a call on Monday and I can come for an interview with her boss. After they’ve left, Pete looks at me and, quietly, says, “You lied to me. He fucked you, didn’t he?”

He’s not in the least upset about the fucking, it’s merely a nonchalant observation. I'm to dim to realise that he's pissed off because I lied. I make the mistake of again lying and vigorously denying it. It still hasn’t sunk in that I’m allowed to indulge myself with other men, should I choose to, as long as I’m honest and open about it. I believe it’s a trap, he’s testing me and should I step into the trap and admit that I screwed the Doc, he’ll throw me out. He says nothing, just shaking his head. We resume where we left off, before we were so importunely interrupted, but now there is a vindictive intensity to the physicality of our copulation

Retribution.

What follows is not so much retribution, but natural progression.

Saturday, sitting under the tree with drinks in hand, Pete tells me I have now lied to him, twice. First, when I informed him of The Doc’s “innocent visit” and last night, when I again denied that he screwed me. I again deny screwing The Doc. He holds up three fingers and asks me to please stop it. I shut up, seeking refuge in silence.

He bluntly informs me that I have to start indulging myself with other men. There it is, on the table, out in the open, no more pretence about it, hinting at it and subtly affording me the opportunity by making me so available. He couches it so nicely, saying he’s not saying that I have to go out with the express purpose of fucking them, but I should start going out on dates and that it's up to me what happens thereafter.

Why do I get the idea that I’m being subtly evicted, if not out of his house, at least off my throne, as Queen of The Castle? This is undoubtedly his way of punishing me and, after all, by admitting that I was thinking of moving into the Doc's flat, I had made my intentions clear.

On the Monday, Jeanette phones me and tells me to come to the casino for an interview with the manager. She advises me to be a sexily dressed, saying that her boss thinks I might be a little too old for the job. Heavens, I think to myself, how young do you have to be to be the restaurant hostess, but I don’t say anything.

I get myself all spruced up and choose to wear Jeans with a fetching top, naturally, with high heels. I’ve been inured with that philosophy. I’m dressed as if I’m going shopping or for a cup of coffee. I drive out to the hotel. I’m not really keen, believing that the job is in catering because of Jeanette’s connection therewith and sure that she'll make my life a misery. I haven’t worked, at a job, for more than twenty years and while I can cook, I really have no intention of doing that for a living. Why should I? I’m a seductress, doing what I have been, for the last twenty-odd years to survive, but I am bored during the days.

As it turns out, the job isn’t in the catering department, but that of a casino hostess and "function co-ordinator". Hello? I’m back to the role I fulfilled in the bank, all those years ago. I’m still not too keen, but then I reflect on Pete’s reaction to my obvious deceit. I tell the guy that I would, very much, like to fulfil that role and think that I’m perfectly suited to do that. Taking in my long nails, exquisite grooming, he describes what the job entails, explaining that I have to entertain the big punters, in whatever manner they may desire, Las Vegas-style, while also encouraging them to gamble.

I tell him I fully understand, saying it’s no problem and that it’s much the same as what I did when I worked for the bank.  He tells me to go off and think about it. He’ll consider my application. He’s concerned that I might be a little too old for the job, but he’ll speak to the owner and if he wants me to, I'll have to come for an interveiw with him, as he makes all the final decisions about the hiring of staff who perform public duties.

That evening when Pete asks about the job, I tell him it was to be the concierge in the restaurant, translate that as “head waitress”, not for me, thank you. He says that maybe I should consider it as a stepping stone and that it might afford me the opportunity to apply for a better position should something become available. Again, I get the feeling that I’m being shifted aside.

He changes the subject and asks me how I’m progressing with dating other men. I tell him I’m not and that I’m not going to. He says nonsense and asks me what men I know, not any scabs, but someone decent, who I can phone to elicit an invitation for drinks or dinner from. I come up with an old friend’s name, Tom. He really is just a friend and nothing more. We’ve never been sexually involved. I tell Pete this too and he says, good, then that’s all about to change, I must phone Tom and arrange a date with him and fuck him. He's being vindictive, in the extreme.

I can’t believe this! He’s just expressly instructed me that I will go out and fuck. At his insistence I phone Tom. He’s overjoyed to hear from me. We haven’t spoken for some time and we arrange to meet the following evening, for dinner at a fancy restaurant, Havana.

I’m very sexily but at least somewhat tastefully dressed in a black, glitter miniskirt and a short-sleeved, pink knit-top with my legs encased in shimmering grey pantyhose. The Perspex Pole-Dancers on my feet being the only vulgar concession to raw sexuality. While it might be a bit “young” for my age, at least I look semi-decent, except for the shoes that is. I’m not three-quarters naked as usual - only half.

As my dear lover so subtly put it, while I was getting ready; after all, I didn'’t want to scare the poor man off, just fuck him!

These pictures were taken to commemorate my wilful immersion into "The Pit Of Permissive Promiscuity". We always did, to commemorate the milestones in my “progression”. I can say that I was coerced to do it, but to be honest I wasn't really averse to the idea. My pretestations to the contrary were merely attempts at saving face and to erect a facade of morality.

I have a lovely time, but as far as the sex is concerned, it’s complete flop. Tom is riddled with diabetes and extremely overweight. Over dinner, I turn the conversation to matters sexual, deciding that I might as well do as desired. It might stop Pete’s from continuing to harbour ideas of evicting me, if he is thinking along those lines and this is really what he wants me to do. Tom openly admits to me, that because of the diabetes and the medication, he’s unable to even obtain an erection. Well, at least I tried.

When I get home and inform Pete of the calamitous result of the evening, as far as his permissive intentions for me are concerned, he just shrugs his shoulders and says, too bad. He asks me to give him a show with my huge Blue Bull vibrator, to alleviate my frustrations.
It is, of course, what could be referred to as retribution-masturbation for failing to get myself laid, but I'm as randy as hell, so I do, still fully clothed, And, later he fucks me, also still clothed although the jersey is gone by then and it also very much a punishment-fuck. In the days that follow it seems that he’s given up on this perverted business, as he says nothing more about me going out with other men. I hear nothing from the casino and forget all about the job. My boring daytime routine resumes, interspersed by sex with Pete, morning and night and, some days, at noon as well.

It still escapes me that he gets turned on by the idea of other men fucking me. I have behaved like a slut and he's now determined that I will continue to do so.That seems to be my lot, for the moment,but at least there’s no more talk about making myself available to other men and my idle, if boring, life of luxury resumes.

The job does eventually materialise, but not before I celebrate my fifty-third birthday and nothing could have prepared me for the interview with the owner.

Medical Malpractice?

The Doc and Me.

That is a deliberate play on words and the bad grammar is intentional. Maybe it should have been titled, “What’s up, Doc?”?

What’s up, Doc, would have been, purely, a rhetorical question. I knew what was up, as a result of the photo I’d sent him. The only question was how long it would take before he tried to insert what was up, into me. I was sure it wouldn’t take very long. I had sent him a photo of my pussy cleft by the string of pearls, exactly as his lodger-cum-sometime-fuck had seen it when she’d visited me, not so innocuously. I’d signed the MMS:

“Monique

xxx”,

just so there’d be no confusion as to who the pert, red, plump and pouting little thing belonged to. My lovers have always told me I have a pretty pussy, and I know I do, it’s still firm and tight. There’s no flabbiness.

I had met The Doc, just briefly before, one evening when he’d popped in for a quick drink. Obviously, he’d been apprised of the new woman living with Pete, by our visitors of that very first Sunday morning, and was dying of curiosity. They have much the same mentality, him and Pete, or so my very surprising, unwelcome and devious visitor had informed me. I hadn’t had much opportunity to get to know him on his brief visit.

What I did remember was that he was nothing to look at. He was kind of weird, smallish with a big bushy beard, dressed all black with a long black coat, hanging open. The first impression I had was that of a “flasher” but that wasn’t the intention of this exercise.

I had merely intended to hedge my bets with a promise of possibilities, if I should, for whatever reason, be forced to seek alternate lodgings. I wanted to show him that I was far more suited to fulfilling the role his current lodger played in his life. I didn’t intend that things should progress any further than that. I was confident that I could control the situation as I had on the evenings I’d been out alone and gotten into sticky situations.  But, as they say, good intentions are a dime a dozen, keeping to them is a whole different story.

The Disaster.

Having committed myself, by way of the photo and having no intention of fulfilling that promise, until I absolutely needed to, I waited. I ensure that I am, early on in the day, already suitable “un-attired”. I want him to get a good look at the goods that are on offer should I ever deem to grant him the privilege, if and when I need to.

Two days after sending him the photo he arrives, at lunchtime. I’m dressed exactly as I am in this photo. The little jersey was my only a token gesture to modesty.

I’m sitting under the big tree in my virtually naked state. The tree shields me from view of those passing by on the pavement and the gate, less than five metres away, when he arrives. I ignore the sound of the car stopping outside, but out of the corner of my eye, I recognise his white Mercedes. When he rattles the gate, I look around, feigning surprise.

Then, pretending to be unaware of the fact that I am virtually naked, I get up and, nonchalantly, invite him in, as if I always receive visitors dressed in this fashion. I’m parading my wares provocatively for his benefit. He’s wearing his signature black clothes under a long coat and carrying a bottle of whisky in one hand. He suggests we go inside and have a drink. As we’re walking into the flat, our neighbour arrives home for lunch. As I turn to draw the curtains, I see him staring at us. I pretend to be completely ignorant of his presence. I can only imagine what he must be thinking. What would a woman, clad as I am, invite a man of The Doc’s rumoured reputation inside for, a reputation which our neighbour is also well aware of?

It too late now, there’s absolutely nothing I can do. I turn and walk inside. I get glasses from the cupboard and, when I bend, to get ice from the bottom-freezer, present my rear end to The Doc. I’m aware of the tempting picture I’m presenting him with, as my pussy, cleft by the G-string, bulges out between the back of my thighs. This elicits a very suggestive compliment from him.

When I straighten up and turn around he’s standing right up against me. Our eyes meet in unspoken understanding of what he’s come for, as we stare into each other’s eyes, an amused smile lurking in his and acknowledgement, in mine. There’s nothing flippant about the look I give him in return. It’s a look of understanding that the promise of the goods, that were so pertinently offered, has now come to be collected upon. At that moment, I knew, that he knew, he had me though I was still not admitting it to myself.

Of course, though I’m still denying it to myself, but in reality, I also knew that my good intentions had no hope of surviving. If I did, indeed, have any good intentions to begin with? I offer the ice-tray, to him and step back. The spell is broken, for the moment. He splashes enormous amounts of whisky into each glass, drops in a couple of ice blocks and tops them up with a dash of water. He hands one to me and we repair to the sofa.

I seek refuge in a cigarette and light one. It’s no refuge however, merely a temporary stay of execution. With a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, it leaves me defenceless. He trails a path down my chest, between my breasts, with a fingertip, loosening the clasp of my bra that nestles there. I take a huge gulp of my drink, which makes me gasp, as the fire, that’s been smouldering in my loins, ignites, simultaneously with the one burning in my throat.

He lowers his head and takes a nipple in his mouth. A soft groan of pure lust and surrender escapes from my lushly painted lips and my legs part to accommodate his searching fingers . . .

Panic & Damage Control.

Later, when he leaves, I insist that he takes the whisky with him. I’m panicking and I want no evidence of his visit left behind, to remind me of my reckless indiscretion. He refuses to, leaving it behind, when he departs, a very satisfied man.

The sofa bears the stains of the evidence of our lustful coupling. The condoms that I carry in my handbag, for just such an occasion, were completely forgotten.

I scrub the stains on the sofa, with water and soap, hoping they’ll dry by the time Pete gets home. Then I bath and make myself super-sexy in preparation for his arrival. Now I’m thankful for the bottle that was left behind. I pour myself another stiff drink and light a cigarette. I notice my hands are shaking. I’m all a-dither, unable to sit down on the sofa, the place of my betrayal.

I pace up and down, smoking and drinking. I castigate myself for being such a fool. What on Earth possessed me? Did I, for one moment, really believe I wasn’t going to be screwed? In my imagination I keep seeing his bearded face looming over me as he rides me, with much enthusiasm, and my upraised legs pointing heavenwards. I have to face the fact that I am just an irrevocable slut, but of course, I don’t.

His technique was only average, but the decadence of being screwed by another, in my lover’s house, made it all the more wanton and I can’t deny that that made it very enjoyable. If I was expecting something out of the ordinary, due to his knowledge of anatomy, that he would know all the right buttons to push to send me into a hysterical world of screaming, orgasmic insanity, from which I would never escape, I was disappointed. In truth it was no different from all the other men who’d had their way with me, in my previous life.

He was energetic and young enough to come three times, but otherwise, not very imaginative and only very averagely endowed. Of course, I’d been spoilt of late, both in the physical and technical expertise aspects. And, don’t let any woman tell you size doesn’t matter, it does. I have only once accosted a cock that was too big. I called that a vroue-slagter [Afrikaans, roughly translated, meaning “lady-slayer”]. The average size of a Caucasian male’s penis is reputed to be 5.77 inches. I can assure you eight inches, which is about Pete’s size, is rare, but “that other thing” was awesomely terrifying. Sex with that guy was an arduously gruesome experience and, to make it worse, he had a penchant for anal sex. That was excruciating!

Thank heavens, no matter how kinky and perverse my relationship with Pete became, he had no inclination for anal sex. He said, what was the point, if that was what he wanted, then he might as well screw a man and he has no homosexual tendencies, whatsoever. He is reviled by the mere thought of homosexuality.

Now, taking stock of the situation, with the alcohol beginning to relax me, I realise that all is not lost. I’ll admit, to Pete, that he paid me a visit, in case the neighbour says something. Of course, I won’t admit what happened. No matter what the neighbour might think, he can’t be sure. I’ll say he had a drink or two and left, that’s all.

The wet marks on the sofa aren’t drying fast enough and I throw a duvet over them. That, I’ll explain away by saying I had an afternoon nap. After another whisky, I substitute that for white wine, it’s more suggestive of romance. I’m hoping for a romantic evening and that the wine and my presentation will inspire Pete in that direction. Not that he ever needs any inspiration to ravage me, but I’m taking no chances. I want him to fuck me, not to ravage, but to savage me, to atone for my immoral behaviour and cleansing me, physically and psychologically, in the process.

I think I delivered the performance of my life, later, when Pete did screw me. I was exhorting him to give me a thorough cock-whipping, a punishment-fuck if you like, to which he obliged with aplomb. Indeed, guilt is a heavy burden to bear.

Maybe this chapter should have been titled, “The Doc in Me”?  It was on my conscience for weeks and came back to haunt me, just when I thought I’d gotten away, unscathed.

Innocuous Interludes.

He had made it perfectly clear to me that I was there purely for purposes of sex. He didn’t expect me to do any housework. A maid came in once a week to do a thorough cleaning and iron his clothes. Naturally, I would make the bed and wash the dishes from the previous evening’s dinner, when I eventually got out of bed at around ten in the morning.

There was never any time to do the dishes at night. I was being subjected to heavier sexual traffic than I had ever been; every morning and evening and, sometimes, he’d pop home during the day, for a quickie. Largely, I was a lady of absolute leisure during the day, fulfilling my sexual duties in the evenings and on weekends.

It would go something like this; sex, from five to six in the morning. Then I would go back to sleep, while he made coffee for himself and bathed before leaving for work. At ten I’d get up and bath, then attend to my grooming, ensuring that I looked ravishing, in case he popped around. Then I would clean up quickly. I would do this just wearing a G-string and high heels. He wanted me to always wear high heels, even when I was alone at home. It’s a culture which I quickly adopted. It made me feel sexy and aroused me.

Then I‘d pull on something skimpy and go and sit outside, under the tree, reading a book, or writing my poetry [I have been published], or giving myself a manicure, while having a cup of tea. Sometimes, some of my ex-hopefuls would call on me, bearing gifts with which they still hoped to bribe me to screw them. I always accepted their gifts but never fulfilled their desires. I warned them not to call before three in the afternoon, when it was relatively certain that Pete wouldn’t be around before five again. I never dissuaded them from coming around, but I didn’t want him to find out that I was still entertaining them.

He doesn’t really work. He acts as a business consultant and accountant to his son’s business, but prefers to go in every day to ensure they don’t cause crap. He says his son’s father-in-law, whose business, it actually is, is inclined to go a little wild with money at times and they’re not very clued up about either sound business practices or accounting principles.

The arrival of a visitor would normally herald the time to have a drink. They liked bringing liquor with in the hopes of seducing me; as the adage goes: candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker. Anyway, nothing untoward happened as a result of these visits, but I was becoming bored, doing nothing all day.

On the Sunday morning of our initial meeting, two women had called on Pete. The one obviously had designs on him. I quickly put a stop to that, slipping on a T-shirt and plonking myself down on his lap, proprietorially, laying claim to “my man”. That earned me a rebuke. After they’d departed he told me never to appear in public, as I did, looking dishevelled and without being properly presented. We’d been enjoying the resumption our sexual activities when they interrupted us. In my panic, when I realised the gist of her intent, from the conversation I was overhearing, I grabbed a T-shirt and stumbled outside without giving a thought to my appearance.

Some days later, I was sitting under the tree when, surprisingly, this same woman arrived for what she portrayed as a casual visit. As it turned out, it was not such an innocuous visit. She had indeed surprised me by arriving so early and she was the last person I ever expected to visit me. I was sitting there just in a thong and high heels, not expecting visitors so early. She’d taken the liberty of just walking in as the gate was not locked. I was engrossed in the book and hadn’t heard her. When I realised I had a visitor, she was already standing in front of me. It was too late to cover up and, seeing who it was, I didn’t care. Let the bitch see what the object of her desire was getting, which she, so desperately, wished she was supplying him with.

She informed me that she lived in a garden flat, around the corner from us that she rented from a doctor. She was moving out and wanted to know if I wanted to move in there. The Doc was also an acquaintance of Pete’s. She regaled me with stories of the wild parties they had there, fuelled by booze and drugs that The Doc purloined from the hospital where he worked and how little rent she paid. She implied that she compensated him, in kind, for the low rent.

That was, of course, already obvious to me, as was her motive for visiting me. She was trying to get me out of the way so she could have a clear run-in on Pete. I told her I wasn’t interested, but facetiously thanked her, for thinking of me.

She knew all about Pete’s preferences for high heels, long nails and cleanly shaved pussies. I told her they were also my preferences and I loved being such a sexy bitch and that it ensured Pete screwed me every morning and evening. I was really rubbing her face in it, the bitch. Now I was glad I hadn’t dressed. All the evidence was right there for her to see, in the raw and swollen genitals, cleft by my G-string. She insisted on giving me The Doc’s number, in case I changed my mind, before departing.

This made me as jealous as all hell and, that evening, I asked him if he’d screwed her. He admitted that he’d tried, but it hadn’t been a success because she was, so, not his kind of woman. One drunken evening he’d bent her over the kitchen counter and given her a few pumps from behind. He hadn’t been able to maintain an erection and, very unceremoniously, told her to pull up her pants and go home. He said, it had been more of a joke than anything else.

That is how he is. He doesn’t give a shit about anything. I was relieved but the seed had been planted. I wasn’t about to go back into a similar situation as the one I’d just escaped from, but there was no harm in keeping all avenues open, just in case. It also gave me an idea to have some harmless fun to relieve my boredom.

I still didn’t understand fully that I was in fact free to indulge myself with other men, if I chose to, as long as I did so with discretion and integrity. As I’ve mentioned before, I couldn’t conceive of a man who didn’t demand fidelity from his woman. And, I viewed myself very much as that, after he’d conceded to let me move in with him. And, it had been a concession on his part, after I’d begged him, pleading loneliness, the dangers of a woman living on her own and any other excuse I could think of.

I have to admit that it wasn’t solely inspired by the fantastic sex, I'd experienced. I also saw it as an opportunity to save on my living expenses. I wasn’t being completely altruistic in my motives for moving in with him. In my usual fashion, I was using him.

The bit of “harmless fun” I had in mind wouldn’t turn out to be so harmless after all. It was fun, but the honesty and integrity were missing, as I’d decided to keep it all to myself and it came back to bite me in the ass.

After she’d left, I went to lie down on the bed and took a very provocative and explicit photo and sent it to The Doc. Tasteless, I know, but then, I did grow up in a mining community, didn’t I? And, although my last husband had money, it never buys class, does it?

This was what I would later come to understand what Pete was trying to instill in me. At first, I saw the long nails and high heels as being whorish. He tried to convince me that a woman could wear those things and be a sexy, provocative bitch, but with style. The question was; was I sufficiently qualified to carry it off?

The Awakening.

Warning: This bit tends to be a little pornographic. It has to be, it was the very essence of the experience. He didn’t “make love” to me. I think, as far as he was concerned, I was a one night stand that might be repeated from time to time and nothing more. So, read no further if you’ll be offended by the crude language I use in my attempt to convey the ambience of the occasion. This period is in three episodes; The Meeting, Enlightenment & Transformation.

Omissions: In my “History” I omitted to mention that, at the time of the “Fatted Calf”, when the man who would be my second husband arrived on the scene, I was working for a bank as a “New Business Representative”. Read that as; be tastefully but provocatively attired in enticing blouses, tight, short skirts with seamed stockings and high heels and always perfectly groomed. Job description: woo and seduce potential clients to place their business with our bank, doing whatever it takes to close the deal, but we don’t want to know how you did it. Naturally, this wasn’t confined to just entertaining them for drinks and meals. Remember the “Trust Bank Bimbos”? Well I was this bank’s version of them, with an expense account and free reign to entertain in whatever manner I deemed necessary.

It was all I was qualified for, never having worked after leaving school. I was pregnant and breast feeding all the time. In my defence, I was fighting for survival and needed to do what was necessary to survive.

That is how I was aware of his financial and marital status. The bank got his business, he got me, I got twenty years of fairly luxurious misery and my children got a home and and education.

So, as you can see, I had been well-versed in the art of procuring by seduction.

OK, let me get back to the story . . .

The Meeting.

Meeting Pete was momentous, to say the least. The guy who’d been trying to screw me had insisted that I accompany him, saying he had this friend who I just had to meet. I really wasn’t interested in meeting any friend of his, judging them by his standards, which I was not very impressed with. I only agreed because he was so persistent and told him I wasn’t going to stay. I’d just have a drink and then come home again. Such is fate. My whole life was about to change within the next five minutes.

When we arrived he veered off towards where the fire was already burning and told me to go inside and say hello. The sliding door was open and Pete was at the kitchen counter with his back turned, busy making sandwiches for the braai. I stood in the door and called a tentative hello to him.

Hearing my voice he turned around, looked at me [later he told me that I was silhouetted by the sun shining from behind me and I seemed to shimmer and glow, my hair resembling a halo surrounding my head and face]. “Holy shit, Baby! Where the hell have you been all my life?” he exclaimed, exuberantly.

In a few long strides he was standing towering over me. He stared down at me for a moment, while I looked up into his eyes, mesmerised.  I’d never been greeted so expressively, in my whole life, and that, by someone who had never laid eyes on me before. He was, of course, fairly drunk. They’d been drinking all day. Then he took me in his arms and kissed me. I had no thoughts of avoiding the kiss or resisting. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to do. It started off as a gentle peck on the lips, but soon turned passionate. He proved to be a marvellous kisser. And, as they say, the rest is history.

He’s six foot five and I’m just short of five-two and I was wearing Jeans and slip-slops. The first thing he did after we broke off our passionate embrace is look at the slip-slops. He asked me if I didn’t have any decent shoes. I told him, of course I had. He told me to get in his car so I could go and change my shoes!

He’d obviously already decided he was going to screw me. I might have realised that too, but I was too bewildered and confused to give it any thought. My place was only four blocks away. When I was properly shod, the next thing was cigarettes. He told me ladies, if they were going to smoke, should smoke lady-like cigarettes. We stopped at the supermarket on the way back and he bought me a couple of packets of Dunhill Fine Cuts with pearl-tip filters. The total time elapsed from meeting him; ten minutes, and my reincarnation had already begun.

Enlightenment.

Thereafter I lost all track of the sequence of events. The next I remember was being on my back, naked, on his bed with my legs pointing to the heavens, still with the high heels on my feet. If I thought I was sexually experienced, I was rudely awakened. I might have been experienced, but I wasn’t enlightened. I soon realised that quantity was no substitute for quality and that night I experienced both.

If I thought he kissed marvellously, his cock filled me to perfection; just a little too big for me to accommodate comfortably, which made it absolutely perfect. He didn’t just ride me continuously, in the missionary position, like a donkey. He’d screw me for a while, all the time tossing me around like a toy and then revert to foreplay again, kissing and biting my tits and feasting on my pussy while I slurped, lovingly, on his cock. Our first night together was a night of uninhibited sex that lasted all night. Can you blame me for losing my way? Not that it was much of a way to lose, but still.

Excuse me if I tend to ramble a bit here, but it’s difficult for me to get the sequence of events in order. As you may have surmised I was, quite literally, swept off my feet.

All the previous men in my life were inclined to screw me, roll off and fall asleep, once they’d come. Not so that night. I was subjected to a rigorous orgasmic marathon that left me totally drained and exhausted, but exhilarated, by the time we finally fell asleep. However, a couple of hours later, when I awoke, there was nothing else I could think of, or wanted, and it started all over again. He played me like a virtuoso plays a fine violin. My emotional and physical strings were screeching from the enduring and all-consuming ecstasy being visited on me. That was the first time I’d ever been fucked, naked, but still wearing high heels!

He also insisted that if he should experience an orgasm and take a moment to rest and regain his stamina, it wasn’t a sign that he was done with me, but an opportunity for me to coax him to an erection again. He didn’t often come, saying he preferred to share in the pleasure of my orgasms. He delighted in making me come, and come, and come, over and over again and continuously. I think, the whole of that first night, he only came twice.

I’m afraid we’d been very rude. The other guy had gone off to find a girlfriend of his own which is what gave us the opportunity to “hit the sack”. If he ever returned with someone, I have no idea. If he did, they would have been witness to my vociferous appreciation of what I was experiencing. I couldn’t help but give voice to my pleasure. That was also something I was not inclined to do in the past.

Much later that night, when we came up for breath and a drink, around eleven, the bowl of leftover meat and sandwiches was standing on the kitchen counter. It had still been light when we adjourned to the bedroom, so we’d been screwing for about five hours and, what I didn’t realise then, there was still more to come. A helluva lot more!

I realised that, in the past, the fact that my lovers had rolled off and gone to sleep was partly my fault. I hadn’t inspired them to carry on. But, then again, my motives for fucking them had never been purely for the pleasure of sex and I didn’t actually want them to carry on. There was always an ulterior motive involved, be that what it may have been, at the time.

Transformation.

It was a Saturday when we met and the first thing, on Monday, it was off to shops for a manicure and to rejuvenate and revitalise my wardrobe and to buy some ridiculously high-heeled shoes. Amongst the shoes were two pairs which I refer to as my “Pole-Dancers”. Two pairs of platform sandals with eight inch high spike heels; a red pair that fastens around my ankle and a pair with clear Perspex soles and black straps adorned with diamante with heel-straps. I have since removed the ankle straps from the red pair, a buckle broke. It makes it easier to slip them off and on again when I’m wearing Jeans and those need to be removed.

I normally wore Jeans or full length figure-hugging dresses because my legs are too skinny and white, nowadays, to wear short dresses and skirts

His preference for me to wear heels while we’re having sex has stayed me and I normally do, with other men too. They find it a bit strange at first, but I think they come to appreciate the kinkiness. Of course, now being converted into slip-on’s they don’t always stay on my feet.

As high as the heels were, so long were my new nails. I’d always had a penchant for such things myself, but not quite so long or so high. Nevertheless, I was thrilled with all my new acquisitions including the scanty clothes. I never imagined appearing in public wearing them, believing they were only for our private entertainment at home.

It soon became clear to me that he was well educated, intelligent and eloquent, the antithesis of our mutual acquaintance who had introduced us. I was impressed. It had been a long time since I’d been in the company of a real gentleman. The last time was probably during my banking days. Although he tries his best to downplay it and acts the carefree hooligan, the intelligence and breeding shows. For instance, he will always insist on opening doors for me, walk on the outside of me when we’re walking down the street, light my cigarettes and all the other little things that make a gentleman.

He soon taught me to enjoy sex purely for the sake of sex and to flaunt my sexuality and to be proud of it. He also gave me back my sense of pride with his penchant for long nails, high heels, exquisite grooming. I was dressing more provocatively than I ever had and it became the order of the day for me.

If we went shopping I would still wear Jeans or long dresses but always with high heels now [not the Pole-Dancers] and with nothing underneath the dress. There were never any panty- or bra-lines visible underneath the flimsy, clinging dress. If I wore Jeans with a revealing top I’d wear a push-up bra purely for the purpose of enhancing my cleavage, the edges of the bra peeking enticingly out of the top.

When we went out, in the evenings, or late afternoons on weekends, it was normally Pole-Dancers with tights, a long knitted top or a T shirt that just reached low enough to barely cover the necessary, my big red leather handbag and if it was cold, my red leather jacket .

Here I am on the way out and, as you can see, the sun is still shining! Imagine a fifty-three year old woman walking into a pub dressed like that, in daylight, but he gave me the confidence to do that? Definitely mutton dressed as lamb, but then again, mutton is so much tastier?

Both the handbag and jacket were amongst the stuff he’d bought for me. The tights were always open at the crotch.  He’d also bought me numerous thongs of pearls and other beads. I only wore those for decoration and the pleasure of having them lie snugly in my slit to invigorate me with every movement I made and to experience the pleasure of having them, slowly and tantalisingly slipped down my legs by my man.

In the beginning he was always bringing me presents to augment my wardrobe, all very sexy and designed to show me off in the most inviting manner possible. Then he presented me with my first vibrator; a huge, blue, ribbed thing. Being a Blue Bulls fan he named it The Blue Bull.

 I was almost fifty-three before I had my first vibrator! Now, can you appreciate what I meant about being sexually experienced, but never enlightened or liberated?

I was embarrassed by the thing and giggled like a schoolgirl when he presented it to me. But, after warming me up with it for a few minutes, he immediately made me give him a show, to overcome my inhibitions. Thereafter he insisted that I always keep it in my handbag, along with a dozen condoms. When I objected to the condoms, saying, what on Earth did I need them for? He replied that one just never knew what could happen and he didn’t want to be contracting a disease from any unknown donors.

At first I was intimidated by this new and ostentatiously provocative image. I had been transformed into a fifty-three year old Bimbo. He impressed upon me that, the fact that I looked like something, didn’t mean I was, and that I shouldn’t let what other people thought of me bother me. All that mattered was who I was and that I did whatever pleased me . . . and him, naturally. I suppose he was right about the condoms. Appearing in public like I was now and attracting the attention that I was, as a result of that, one just never knew what might happen.

Nothing did, then, but there were some awfully tempting encounters. After appearing in public a couple of times, in his company, dressed so daringly, I began to enjoy it. The interest I attracted from other men was very flattering indeed, if not always so charming. In time, as my confidence grew, I began going out, on my own, dressed like that, on the evenings that he insisted I go out alone. I’d flirt, outrageously, with other men, even if he was with me. He encouraged me to, but that’s as far as it went.When I was alone, it was a little more than just outrageous, it became downright dangerous! Sometimes, only the thought of having to return to him forced me to keep them at bay.

It wasn’t so much an awakening as getting me to confront my wantonness and accept and admit and commit to it. Even when I’d screwed other men, for some kind of reward, in the past, I had sought refuge behind a screen of pretentiously false righteousness. I would deny, to anyone and everyone, that I had indeed been screwed, to the point of almost believing it myself.

 I didn’t realise that by putting me on show like that and encouraging me to be an outrageous flirt he was, not only placing temptation in my way, but subtly encouraging me to fool around. I was still extremely naive and hadn’t begun to appreciate the perverseness of his permissive mind. I’ve  said that he had no interest in forming relationships and I think this was also his way of keeping me at a distance. As far as he was concerned, we didn’t have a relationship, but an arrangement. He supplied the home comforts and security and, me, the entertainment.

I was a wanton “bit of fluff” on his arm, to show off and parade in public and screw, where and whenever the fancy took him.

An Introduction & Brief History

An Introduction & Brief History

Introduction.

Here we are, the quintessential wanton couple, just so you can see who you’re reading about. He, with glass in hand, as usual.

My name is Monique. This year I turned fifty-six. For the last three years I have been involved in an on-off relationship with a man who has either completely perverted or liberated me, sexually, depending on how you want to see it. I, myself, am not sure which it is.

This is not meant to be a tale of pornography, but by the very nature of my story, at times, it is unavoidable. I refuse to substitute the f-word by calling it making love, when love has nothing to do with the interaction between two human beings. It would detract from the nuance of the situation and what I am attempting to convey. If vulgarity does not appeal to you, read no further. At times my life has been and, still is, particularly vulgar.

I’d grown up in a mining community and steeped in Calvinistic-Afrikanerdom. Sex was something that was never discussed and if you indulged in it, you never acknowledged it. Later in life, I carried the same hypocritical values along with me. As you will see later on, I was by no means sexually inhibited, physically that is, but mentally I always hid behind the Calvinistic-Afrikaner façade of hypocrisy, playing the prim and proper little lady, in public while being as promiscuous as the next, in private. How farcical!

This is the story of my psychological transformation under his skilful, permissive tutelage. I need to recount parts of both our histories to explain certain things and will touch on that from time to time during the various episodes, but to start with I’ll give a brief précis of our lives, before we met.

Stories of Two Lives.

Here we are, during one of the better times in our relationship. In those times, everything we do is designed to infuse us with lust.

There’s not much to say regarding his life because he has “dropped out” and doesn’t acknowledge his previous life much. He has written it, and any aspirations to grandeur, off after having been taken to the cleaners by his last wife. He is not bitter, just resigned and lackadaisical.

He says he’s been there, done that and got the T-shirt. I know he was Captain of prestigious golf club and that he has been married three times. All were very desirable women, from the few photos he has, that he’s shown me. He laughs off the golf club-thing, saying he did that just to prove that any arsehole can become Captain of a golf club.

He has no desire to have friends or to commit to anything. Of course, he has acquaintances that he’ll entertain, should they visit him, or socialise with in a pub, but he has no desire to commit to relationships or visit others. He is quintessentially a loner. He refers to himself as The Kalahari Kid; a long stretch of emptiness.

His only interests are drinking beer in peace and enjoying sex with desirable women and, in that order. The only prerequisites are; the beer has to be cold and plentiful; the women, exquisitely groomed, with long nails, always in high heels and very available. He has no interest in wooing and charming them He makes no secret of this and it was, in fact, the very first thing he informed me of. I think that is why we got on so well, from the very beginning. I had never been seduced so quickly or offered so little resistance. Figuratively speaking, I lay down on my back and opened my legs, inviting him to ravage me.

His rationale is; beer, he can buy and it doesn’t want anything from him; if a woman is not prepared to pander to his preferences and please him, she should preferably depart and, as soon as possible. He can do without the sex, if it comes with strings attached and in a form which doesn’t appeal to him, but he has no desire, or reason, to be without beer.

He made this abundantly clear to me, right from the very first. If I wanted to share in his life, I was there solely to cater for our mutual sexual pleasure. Notice, I said, “share in his life” not, “a part of his life”. I am very much an add-on. I understand that, although I do sometimes still have difficulty coming to terms with it. He wants nothing from me, other than sex, in whatever form he may desire, with him or others. He never demanded sexual fidelity from me, only integrity and discretion. I didn’t quite realise that at the time because I couldn’t perceive of a man who wouldn’t demand fidelity from his woman.

While I lived with him he made me pay half the rent. He paid for everything else; our entertainment included and would give me money, if I needed it, to go out on my own, which he insisted I do. That was his payment for my “services”. I met him when I was invited there by a mutual acquaintance who’d been trying the get into my pants for some time.

For my part; I whored myself to put my two kids through varsity, after my husband, their father, committed suicide when they were two and three years old. I prostituted myself, not literally, but figuratively. I married a rich farmer to ensure their well-being.

When my second husband appeared on the scene, I realised the time of my "Fatted Calf" had arrived. Being aware of his financial and marital status, I fucked him the very first day we met. That was it and, for the next twenty years, I paid the price, every day. The moment my kids were out the house, I left him, taking nothing from him. I’d paid my dues and he’d served his purpose. So if you want to call me a whore, I couldn’t really argue.

I did have some money of my own, when I left, but a string of disastrous affairs, with unscrupulous lovers, searching for “the right man”, left me nearly destitute. I am blond, remember. Then a fire destroyed my house which, being a thatch-roof and due to some administrative misunderstanding, wasn’t insured against fire. So, for me, it was back to “living off my wits”. i.e. my looks and desirability. I’m not at all ashamed to say, I entertained men for what they could give, or do for, me. Yes, if it was really necessary and I thought I’d gain more from them, I fucked them.

I only used that as a last resort, however. Men, being what they are, they tend to disappear once they’ve fucked you a few times. I’d string them along, for as long as possible, before granting them their ultimate desire, if I ever did and thought it would induce a farewell bonus. In time, I became somewhat of a recluse, sitting in my flat all day and turning to the bottle for company. I would only accept an invitation to go out with a man, if I thought there was something materialistic in it for me.

Then I met, my current lover, Pete. It was mutual lust at first sight. What I’d found was no "Fatted Calf", but The Prodigal Man, not son. There was no stringing him along or anything like that. Within an hour of meeting him for the first time he was fucking me and I was completely powerless to resist. Not that I wanted to, in the least. We also proved to be fantastically sexually physically compatible. I had never been fucked so comprehensively, expertly or so continuously, in my life before. I was climbing the bloody walls in ecstasy. I was lost!