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.