Stepford Slut - Part I
Posted 11 November 2014
Note: Over the past two and a half years I have become very comfortable with my diary being offline and I didn't ever expect to restore the pages again. However I have felt much the same way in the past, and in the end some significant experience has prompted me to want to write again and let my long-time readers know what I've been up to. This is why I have always kept my website dormant rather than closing it down completely.
The past four months have been very exciting and eventful for me, although unfortunately I'm not at liberty to disclose exactly what has occurred. Quite possibly I will never be able to acquaint you with the full details, but just in case, this three-part post gives some highly pertinent background to recent events. I want to publicly air it so that context will be available should I ever decide to elaborate on the matter.
As always, readers should be prepared for the site to disappear without notice, but I'm assuming now that followers of my diary have become accustomed to my sporadic appearances and understand that my desire for privacy outweighs the pleasure I receive from exhibiting myself online (although I'll admit it's a close call).
Finally, I can only apologise to those who have emailed me in my absence and have received no reply. I lost all of my messages on the dedicated email account that many of you know about when the subscription expired, so I will not be able to respond to any of these. However I have reactivated the account and if you choose to contact me again I will do my best to reply, time permitting. You can of course also contact me via my mariasdiary.com mail address.
Thank you for your patience, and it's nice to be back, however briefly.
On a Wednesday evening in the summer of 2013 I received a phone call from Martin.
"We're just leaving the office now," he said. "Sorry we're a bit late, but there was a lot to discuss."
"No problem," I told him. "I'll see you soon... yes, okay, bye."
After a quick visit to the kitchen to alter the settings on the oven I went upstairs to my bedroom and I felt a delicious ripple of anticipation as I set eyes on the dildo harness lying on the bed. Even though I cock myself at some point virtually every day when I'm at home, it's always extra special when I do so in the presence of a visitor.
I removed my glossy white PVC miniskirt and then sat on the bed, carefully applying lube to the two rubber pricks that would be comforting me for the next three hours at least. I took my time, as this is an exercise that I find extremely erotic and it's always guaranteed to make me extra hot, particularly when I'm lubricating a prick the size of the one that would be pleasuring my pussy that evening. As the smooth black surface gradually took on a look of glistening wetness I felt myself having to resist the urge to put it in my mouth. Normally on a Wednesday evening I would be down in London and by this time of day I might already have fed on four or five pricks. And if Gerald or one of his friends had organised one of their special little get-togethers for me then you could probably double that number.
Once the dicks were fully oiled I stood up again and removed my blouse and panties. Then as I stood in front of the mirror I watched myself pull my pussy lips apart with my left hand while simultaneously positioning the head of the bigger of the two cocks between my legs, and all it took was a few back-and-forth movements of my right hand before the head fully penetrated me. Oh mercy, I gasped as the violator stretched me wide open, and yet despite the impressive girth on the phallus I was able to work it fully into myself remarkably easily. You've become a very greedy girl, Maria.
I couldn't resist wanking the cock in and out of me then, pressing my clitoris down with my fingers so that the veined black shaft raked cruelly against it. Ah fuck, that's incredible, I whispered to myself, and once again I directed a mental curse towards those stupid bitches in the women's magazines I read in my late teens who confidently assured me that size didn't matter. Even ignoring any physical response, there was no way I could have received anything like the same level of stimulation if the prick I was looking at in the mirror had been only half as big.
It would have been so easy to succumb to temptation then and lie on the bed rodding myself, but Martin and our guest would be arriving in roughly twenty minutes and I needed to play the sexy but elegant Mrs. D-----, not the cock-hungry slut wife of reality. So I composed myself and reached down to take hold of the considerably smaller phallus that would be massaging my rear during dinner. Nevertheless, when I felt the head of this finally force entry into my backside my knees involuntarily buckled as usual. That sensation of anal penetration is one of the greatest feelings ever, far surpassing initial vaginal penetration as far as I'm concerned. It's just beautiful, and it's for this reason that I value a slave with a well-trained tongue as highly as I do a lover with an eight-inch dick. Most women never get to experience this joy because for the majority of them analingus is an act that they view as being unsavoury, but with sensible preparation (and various forms of protection if so desired) it's perfectly clean in my view.
Properly tongue-fucking a Mistress rather than just giving her a light rimming takes tremendous stamina and control, and that can only come with hour upon hour of practice. Not only do a novice slave's jaw and tongue muscles tire very quickly, but without the proper breathing technique he will soon start flagging, and I find that hugely frustrating because once the experience starts I don't like it to stop until I'm fully sated. The road to proficiency is a long one that requires great patience on the part of the Mistress, who must use almost constant verbal encouragement coupled with periodic strikes from a long training crop (mostly corrective, but occasionally severe). The ultimate aim is for the slave to get as much penetration as possible on the forward thrust and then almost fully remove the tongue afterwards, repeating this with a steady, unrelenting rhythm so his Mistress can experience that sensational moment of forced entry again and again and again.
For a cuckold husband to witness this being done to his wife by another man can be just as painful for him as seeing her copulating with someone else, which is why I'll often time my enjoyment of this act of worship to coincide with Martin's arrival home from work. I will do this in our large open hallway so that as soon as my husband walks through the door he will find me standing there bent forward at the waist with my hands resting on the sideboard, my head arched back in rapture in response to the wonderful anal pleasure my slave is delivering, coupled with the remorseless stimulation I'm receiving from the buzzing clitoral stimulator that is tightly strapped to my pussy.
"Oh baby, that's beautiful... oh yes, yes, yes!... come on, give me more... yes, like that... oh God, yes, that's it, open me up... open me up... yes, come on, come on... now massage my cunt as well... that's it... press it hard against me... harder, darling, harder... yes, that's it... now move it about as well... OH GOD YES!! YES!!! Oh that's fantastic! Fantastic!... keep it going... keep it going... oh you lovely boy, that's it... that's it..."
With both cocks now inserted I fastened up the waist buckles of the harness, wincing for a moment as the thin leather strap cut into my hips. Then I put the PVC skirt back on and checked in front of the mirror, satisfying myself that there would be no possibility of Tom, our visitor, discerning the profile of what was underneath. Even so, this particular skirt has no waistband and there was always the chance that the black strap around my waist would become visible at some point. I knew that thought would help keep me excited throughout the evening.
Something else that was going to keep me aroused at dinner was the fact that I would be wearing a lacy white open cup bra. Exhibiting my breasts in this manner is something I have been doing for several summers now, and I use different degrees of exposure depending on the venue and the company I'll be keeping. For public wear I try to find a tightly-fitted stylish top in a fairly thin material that just minimally reveals the whiteness of the bra and the darkness of my areolae, and then I'll make my nipples highly prominent by tightening non-piercing rings on to them (this is a look that you saw me use in the 'Just Another Day' post when I visited a hotel bar at lunchtime for some prick-teasing fun). However on this occasion I had decided to be particularly audacious and I had chosen to wear a short-sleeved, partially see-through blouse.
Three weeks previously I had worn this exact same ensemble in London when I went to a private lunch with my friend Gerald and two of his friends, and my outfit proved to be enormously popular with the attendees. That day I was also double-cocked (although the vaginal dildo was smaller than the one I would have strapped inside me for Tom's visit) and by the time we left that venue I was as hot for prick as I've ever been, particularly as I knew that two more of Gerald's friends would be joining us at his home later that afternoon. I've got a great picture in my offline diary that Gerald took in his car that day, with his two associates pulling on silver chains that they have clamped to my nipples while I'm still wearing the top. I'm passionately French kissing one of the guys while the other is kissing my neck, and both of them have a hand up my skirt (they were taking turns to pump the rubber phallus in my pussy). I remember thinking when Gerald took the shot that this particular scene would be giving my husband's right arm plenty of exercise over the coming weeks, even though he'd already seen many more like it.
Things have changed dramatically on the fashion front since I first started publishing my diary online in 2005, with today's tabloid press and media websites full of pictures of female celebrities trying to outdo one another in the sexy dressing stakes. Leather/rubber/PVC skirts and dresses together with super high heels and thigh high boots are no longer the rarity they once were, but I can certainly have no complaint about this development because I have been one of the prime evangelists of it. I guess if I'm honest I'd have to admit that it sometimes bugs me that I might now be regarded by some onlookers as a follower rather than a leader of prick-tease dressing, but I can't really say that it's undermined my day-to-day activities too much. The clothing and footwear may have become sexier and more ubiquitous but you've still got to have that special something to make it all work, and in particular you've genuinely got to love making pricks hard. Men need to see that lust in your eyes or just somehow sense it from your body movements. I don't know exactly how guys do it, but trust me, they know a true cock slut when they see one rather than a mere poseur, and in my experience such recognition is virtually instantaneous.
I had little doubt that Tom would be mesmerised by my extremely provocative outfit, and the anticipation of how he was going to react when he first set eyes on me had been exciting me throughout the day. I had no idea what he was expecting me to be wearing on his arrival, but I was fairly certain that this mode of dress would take him completely by surprise. The top leaves little to the imagination and it would be completely obvious to him that I was bare-breasted beneath it, but common politeness would almost certainly dictate that he would do his best to avoid showing any obvious reaction, and I intended to act as though there was nothing unusual about my outfit. He was going to have a hard time keeping his eyes from lingering on my chest, and I was very much looking forward to watching him deal with that.
It only took me three minutes or so to secure the nipple rings and put on the white top, and I then spent a similar amount of time stimulating my already engorged teats with a small vibrator in order to make them super-erect. After a refresh of my lipstick and yet another quick brush through of my hair I made my way downstairs again, muttering 'oh yeah' several times as I felt the two dicks moving around inside me. Walking up and down stairs and getting in and out of a car are probably the only times that you might be given a clue that I'm cocked because I have to move a little slower than a person normally would, especially if the vaginal dildo is quite large. However I'm pretty sure most observers would simply conclude that it was my super high heels that were causing my tentative movements, and in any case I don't tend to go out in public with a prick that big inside me. All I had to do that evening was walk several times from the kitchen to the patio outside and back again; the rest of the time I would be sitting in a chair.
The double doors from the kitchen into the garden were already open and I stepped into the warm sunlight to make one final check that everything was ready. The weather was ideal for Tom's visit, which I considered a huge stroke of luck considering the unsettled summer we had experienced the previous year. In 2012 if it wasn't raining it was just overcast and dull, and although I'm not one to get down about anything (well, maybe ageing gets me sometimes), even I was sick of the lack of sunshine that year. This year though the gods were smiling on us and I knew this would add enormously to the atmosphere. I love dinners outside in the summer and our rear garden is perfect for them. It's peaceful, very private, and it looks lovely both in the fading light and later with the patio lights on. I was very much hoping that in Tom's eyes I would look lovely in that lighting too.
Five minutes later I was back in the kitchen and it was only a few minutes more before I heard the sound of the two cars coming up the driveway. I quickly took my apron off, checked myself one last time in the hallway mirror, and then went to the door to greet our guest. Here we go girl... remember... sex on legs.
I opened the door to find both men walking towards the house and my focus went straight to Tom, who was carrying a small travel case. Yeah, I thought reflexively, you still do it for me in a big, big way.
"Hi Tom," I said with a bright smile. Despite the outrageous clothing I genuinely tried to make it one of those warm 'happy hostess' greetings, but in truth I think I failed miserably because my eyes couldn't hide what I was thinking. Oh God, I want your cock inside me.
Tom looked as though his eyes were about to pop out of his head, but after swallowing hard he quickly recovered and smiled in return.
"Hello Maria," he responded. "You look a picture as ever. I don't know how you do it... you just seem to get better and better."
"Always the charmer," I laughed, "or should that be 'always the soft-soaper'?"
"I'm not kidding," he insisted as he walked up and gently embraced me, giving me a light kiss on the cheek. "I really mean it... you look even more stunning than you did last year. Like I said, I don't know how you do it."
"I have someone who keeps motivating me, dont I?" I replied as I turned my attention to my husband. "So how was your day?"
"Yeah, good," Martin replied casually, giving no indication whatsoever that he thought my mode of dress was anything out of the ordinary. "I think you were impressed weren't you Tom?"
"Oh, very much so. You've got some great improvements in the pipeline. If it were anyone else I'd have my doubts about your ability to deliver, but going on your past record..."
"Good," I said as I turned to walk indoors. "So, that's the end of business today then. Come on in and put your feet up. By all means talk business but not your business."
"Yes boss," Tom quipped.
I ignored him and led the way into the hall. Before I turned towards the kitchen I pointed to the open French window that led into the garden.
"You can go out that way to the garden, Tom. Just drop your bag by the stairs here and we'll show you where your room is a bit later. I just need to go to the kitchen to check on something and then I'll get both of you a beer. Is it Becks you have? We've got some Bud as well if you'd prefer."
"No, Becks will be fine thanks. I'm surprised you remembered."
Five minutes later I walked out on to the patio with two glasses of beer. Tom was sitting at one end of the table and Martin at the other, but importantly my husband had seated our guest so that he was facing towards the kitchen. He would be able to watch me coming and going throughout the evening, and I intended to make sure that he had plenty to drool over. On the doorstep outside I had watched his eyes flicker from my feet to my legs, then to the skirt, and from there to my chest and my face. Up and down, up and down, but it wasn't long before the chest area was getting extra special attention.
At this particular moment though Tom was looking at my legs and that shiny white skirt. We always position the garden table some distance from the kitchen, and with each of the dozen or so steps I took to reach it there was an audible 'click' from the steel tips of my high heels on the paving stones. Martin adores that sound and I know most other men do too. And wearing six-inch stilettos on a relaxing evening at home in mid-summer? What sort of woman would do that? A hot wife does that, Tom. One that likes to show off in front of her husband's business customer and make his dick stiffen. Is yours getting hard already, sweetie? Yeah, I bet it is. So just imagine what it would do to you if I told you that I'm being double fucked as I walk...
To his credit Tom did an admirable job in keeping his eyes focused on Martin's face as I leaned over and placed the beer next to him, and when he briefly turned and said 'thanks Maria' he managed to resist the temptation to glance down. From where he was sitting he was facing slightly into the sun and I could see him squinting a little.
"Did you bring any sunglasses?" I asked him.
"Actually, yeah I did," he confirmed. "Good idea... they're in my bag. I'll go and get them."
The downside of this was that I wouldn't be able to study his eyes and read his thoughts, but at least he would be able to ogle me more easily and I was pretty sure he would remove the glasses when I sat with them to eat.
For the next couple of hours I played my sexy hostess role with aplomb, all the time wondering what was going through Tom's mind. He knew that the short skirt, high heels and open cup bra were for his benefit, and he in turn found it impossible to hide the fact that he was very much enjoying what he was looking at, but we didn't exchange knowing looks and I certainly didn't come on to him in any way.
As for Martin's position in all this, that must have caused some puzzlement for Tom because my husband was apparently quite relaxed about my extremely provocative attire. Surely if Martin was aware of the strong chemistry between his wife and his customer he'd be taking an interest in the interplay between them? Wouldn't he show disapproval? Anger? Jealousy? Excitement even? Yet Martin was giving no outward signs of any of these emotions and instead he just talked levelly as the table conversation moved from family to finance, then on to politics, cinema and sport. I might just as well have been wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
By the time we had finished the dessert we had almost gone through two bottles of wine, and the men had drunk a couple of beers each on top of that beforehand. However neither Tom nor Martin was showing any sign that the drink was affecting them other than the usual increased laughter and volume when speaking, and that's just how I wanted things. When Martin switched on the patio lights and began clearing the table I started to rise out of my seat to help him but he told me to stay put.
"You've done more than enough Maria I can sort this out. There's not much left anyway."
When he had loaded the tray he headed off to the kitchen.
"I'll get us a nightcap in a bit Tom," he said over his shoulder. "I'm just going to clear up a bit first. Scotch okay?"
"Yes, Scotch would be great," Tom called back.
It was the first time Tom and I had been alone all evening.
"Surprised?" I asked.
"Very," he responded.
"What exactly were you expecting?"
"I'm not sure actually," he said thoughtfully. "Not this though. I mean, there are no indications from him whatsoever. I was at least expecting a few knowing looks... maybe even some hostility with his body language. He just seems so... composed."
"I did tell you he'd be like that," I smiled. "You just didn't believe me. It's obvious to me that he likes you, so it will be what you're getting from me that will antagonise him and he'll hold no animosity against you personally."
"It's all so surreal," he laughed nervously. "I can't really believe I'm here and this is happening."
"You're going to love it," I assured him. "Trust me. Just don't be embarrassed or reticent okay? I know I keep saying it, but I can't stress that enough. And don't fall into the trap of thinking that you're somehow obligated to Martin or that you should avoid doing anything with me that you think he might disapprove of. He gets no say in the matter, none at all, and you must understand that. It's MY choice, I'm the one who's in control."
"Okay, I'll do my best," he said.
"Well, you're doing great so far," I commended. "This is exactly what I wanted to be honest I was worried that you'd be a bit tongue-tied and things might be strained, but you've been just as cool as Martin and it's been a lovely evening so far don't you think?"
"Oh yes, and thanks for a superb dinner, but I don't know about being cool, not when I'm around you. I tell you Maria, you look absolutely gorgeous. When I was driving down this morning I began to wonder whether my mental image of you had become distorted with time... you know, that maybe I'd be disappointed when I actually saw you in the flesh again... but boy, I needn't have worried. You are without doubt the sexiest woman I've ever set eyes upon. You're truly stunning, and there's no way I'd be here if that weren't the case."
Oh baby, I'm going to give you such a reward for saying that.
"You like the outfit, then?"
"Oh God, it's been painful to sit here, and you know what I mean by that. It was bad enough watching you when you kept walking to and from the kitchen... those longs legs and high heels, and that skirt... but when you sat down at the table... oh wow... seeing what's beneath that blouse..."
"You did a good job of maintaining eye contact with Martin though."
"Yeah, well, I had to. I'd have probably split my trousers otherwise."
This made me laugh.
"Now you know why I love this so much - I had both of you sitting there with hard-ons."
Tom smiled at this but I saw his gaze drift towards the kitchen doors.
"So what happens next?" he asked tentatively.
I poured the remains of the wine into my glass.
"Right now he's waiting until I give him permission to come back outside. I'm going to get him in a moment and he'll bring out a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses. I'll let you both enjoy your Scotch for a bit, but when I come back things are going to be a lot different. I'm going to put a bondage gag on Martin so that he can't speak and then I'm going to sit on your knee so we can kiss and talk."
"Wow," he murmured, and he swallowed hard.
"I want you to start fondling me as well. Start with my breasts, but don't be afraid to roam all over my body with your hands, and eventually work your way up my legs and put your hand up my skirt all the way. Above all, don't be hesitant - just act like you did in the car last year when you had no inhibitions."
"You make it sound so easy," he said, and I could see the doubt in his eyes.
"That's because it is easy," I assured him. "All you have to do is follow my lead and lose yourself to the experience."
He still looked uncertain and I bit my lip. It was completely understandable that he was suddenly experiencing some first night nerves as the moment approached where things became physical, but there was always the risk that he might become paralysed by stage fright.
"Look Tom," I said gently, "I have to be honest with you. At some point I'm going to order Martin to unzip himself and masturbate while he watches us. That's a terribly humiliating thing for a man to have to do in front of someone, particularly one of his customers. In all probability you'll feel embarrassed yourself until you get used to it, but you can't show that. You simply mustn't. I can't afford to have you looking guilty or squirming in your seat when I mock Martin or make him do degrading things. I've been totally open with you and told you that there are other men who come here and do this with me, and they enjoy every moment of it. It's men like this that I need, and I don't want them to do it just to please me. You've been thinking about this for months and you wouldn't be here if you hadn't been excited about it. Remember that you want this, I want this, and above all, Martin wants this. All three of us are going to get what we want, and if you approach it with enthusiasm and confidence then it'll be an unforgettable visit for you, I promise you that. Learn how to deal with it tonight, and tomorrow will blow your mind."
He sat up straighter in his chair at the end of this little pep talk and his expression showed a mixture of determination and excitement.
"Okay," he nodded positively, "I'm going to do that. And yes, I've been thinking about it a lot. I know what you want from me Maria... I'll be fine, honestly."
"Really?" I asked, looking at him searchingly.
"Really," he said firmly.
"Okay," I said as I rose out of the chair to return to the kitchen. "Remember, just treat me as your special play toy. I'm yours, not his. Seriously."
I walked into the house to find my husband wiping down the work surfaces.
"You can go out now," I said calmly. "I'll be with you in a while."
Outwardly I was trying to appear as cool as possible, but as I walked up the stairs to my bedroom I could hardly contain my excitement as I anticipated the events of the next forty-odd hours if all went well. Once again my patience and planning were about to reap awesome rewards and it was so satisfying to look back and think how each move I had made had enticed Tom to my home this night. There also seemed to be an element of destiny about it too I was only planning to be in Martin's office building for fifteen minutes or so back in the autumn of 2011 when I bumped into Tom in the reception area. Logic tells me that this was pure chance; the strange feeling that some unseen hand has been guiding me for most of my adult life tells me otherwise.
That day I was dressed sharply as usual, but certainly not as provocatively as I might be in London or when I'm out with one of my male friends farther away from home. It was mid-September and I had a tight grey pencil skirt on with a short-sleeved black sweater. My black seamed stockings and above-the-knee boots were the only real prick-teasing elements of my outfit that day, but Tom couldn't see those at first because I was standing behind the reception desk when he walked out of the lift doors with Martin. As soon as he set eyes on me he gave me the look you know, THE look and so I did what I would do with almost any attractive male who reacted to me like that: I gave him the look straight back.
When we were formally introduced his eyes couldn't hide his surprise when he learned that I was Martin's wife, but my husband didn't see that because he was still recovering from the jolt he had received from finding me standing there.
"Pleased to meet you Tom," I said with a bright smile. "Martin didn't mention that you were visiting today."
I'm sure Tom wouldn't have detected any hidden meaning in that remark but my spouse certainly did. Martin recovered well though and instinctively went into damage limitation mode. He asked me if I could perhaps take Tom through to the conference room and pour him a coffee while he briefly went back upstairs to make a couple of phone calls. Sure, I'd be delighted to, I said.
I led the way with Tom walking behind me and I knew he'd be ogling my backside and high-heeled boots, with those signature black seams conjuring up some rather ungentlemanly thoughts in his head. There was only a small gap between the bottom of my skirt and the top of the boots but it was enough to give the requisite signal and quite frankly I may as well have had an A3 poster pinned to my back with "I AM WEARING STOCKINGS" written on it. Of course they could have been hold-ups, but one thing I was certain of was that before I left the office building that day Tom would know that several taut straps were ensuring that my sexy black hosiery wasn't in any danger of sliding down my legs.
I got to work on this immediately once we were in the conference room. This wasn't because I was worried about Martin imminently appearing but simply because I had the ideal opportunity. I gestured for Tom to sit down, and once I had poured us both a coffee I perched myself on the edge of the desktop with my legs crossed at the ankles in front of me. I was wearing my latex front-buckled waspie corset that day which has eight suspenders, but because the straps are made from thin rubber they can be worn under a clingy skirt without it being too blatant. Having done this a thousand times before, I knew exactly how to move myself in order to advertise my suspender bumps. And if Tom figured out what I was up to then all the better.
We started chatting about his company and its history, and then we quickly moved on to Martin's business. When he asked me whether I worked for the firm I said no, I just happened to be going into town that day and I had popped into the office to do some photocopying because the printer at home was on the blink. I was a part-time financial consultant, I told him (which was essentially a lie, even though I still do some occasional contract work), and I usually worked in London but also from home. When he then probed for more about my background and it became apparent that I was in my late thirties he showed genuine surprise and that's when he gave me a succession of compliments, saying that I looked younger than my years and that with my height and looks he thought I might have been a professional model. He also dropped in the line that I have heard from numerous men ever since I met my husband that Martin is a very lucky man.
With such gushing praise combined with the way he was looking at me I was already wondering how to play this. Our exchange was only a few minutes old but as far as I was concerned I had a potential new partner sitting there right in front of me, and a physically attractive one as well. The problem was that despite his obvious preoccupation with me and the stream of flattering comments he was delivering, I wasn't getting the sort of signals from Tom that I receive from a man when he's making a play for me. It was as though he had chanced across a piece of art; something to admire but not to touch. And as the conversation progressed I thought I understood why - he was happily married (at least on the face of it) with two teenage children and he owned a sprawling country home in Cheshire, a property in an idyllic setting judging by his description of it.
It's rare for me to capture a man who is in a stable, loving relationship. If I cast my mind back to how I was a dozen years ago and imagine that I had met my boyfriend Matt at that time, I know I would have been beguiled by him and would perhaps have obsessed over him, but I don't think I would have compromised my marriage by having sex with him. At the time I was experiencing the stirrings of wanting extramarital sex but I was dismissing such thoughts as fantasy, and the step of breaking my marital vows would have been too much for me. The same goes for so many men I have met over the past few years. I can see in their eyes how tempted they are, how desperately they want to play with me, but common sense stays their hand half an hour of forbidden pleasure; potentially a lifetime of regret.
It's for this reason that I find it so stimulating when I have a man like Tom in my company. I knew full well what he was thinking as he looked at me, and I was already imagining what he might end up doing behind closed doors later when he thought of me in my black stockings and high heels, probably without the skirt on. Equally though I knew from his body language and spoken comments that he had no intention of doing anything other than harmlessly flirting with me. Nevertheless, what a man intends to do and what he ends up eventually doing don't always coincide, and in my previous post I mentioned a brief exchange I had with a guy who had been faithfully married for over thirty years. Breaking the will of such men is thrilling for me because I see it as a reflection of my seduction skills and desirability. I also get a powerful buzz from stealing another woman's husband.
At the same time however I won't throw myself at a man - ultimately he has to come to me rather than the other way around. When I get invited to a function in London, a male attendee will often already be aware that Maria isn't exclusively attached to the man who is escorting her; that she is married but needs more than her husband can provide; and that she plays her games for kicks, not for payment (you might think that such a profile causes me to lose respect with men, but I have always been protected in this regard by my accent, my intellect and my qualifications). Consequently when I'm introduced to a guy it often becomes quickly apparent what his intentions are, and provided I like him (it may be more true to say 'provided I don't dislike him') it's very easy for me to steer the conversation in ways that will open the door to a more intimate exchange.
With men who aren't aware of my background I have to be far more cautious with my prick teasing. All I can really do is to drop revelatory 'bombs' into the conversation that will hopefully create an opening for me to exploit, and if I can get on to the subject of my marriage and its history then I can usually give strong hints that I'm available to other men without having to be overly explicit. It's then up to the guy to give a sign that he wants more than just a chat.
Unfortunately in this case Tom was looking like a lost cause because I just didn't have enough time to work on him, and when Martin walked into the room after about fifteen minutes I decided there wasn't much point in prolonging my stay.
"Well, I'd better get going," I said. "It was a pleasure to meet you Tom..."
"We're going out for lunch later," Tom said as he shook my hand. "Would you like to join us?"
"I'd love to, but I've got a prior engagement I'm afraid."
"Oh, what a shame. Well, next time I'm down here we'll have to give you plenty of notice."
Hmm, so there may be a next time?
"I'll look forward to that," I smiled. "Okay... see you both. Bye."
When Martin arrived home that evening I had just got out of the shower and I was about to start dressing in front of the bedroom mirror. By the time he came upstairs and sat down on the bed I already had a black PVC corset on and I was carefully attaching the garter straps to my stocking tops. It was Friday night and in an hour's time I would be off to see Matt.
"I know what you're going to say," he began.
I was studiously checking the alignment of the suspenders in the mirror and I didn't look at him when I replied.
"He said his company's been with you for five years."
"Yes, but he wasn't involved when we first started doing work for them. It was only small stuff initially and his management team handled it. It was only when the contract became sufficiently large that he took an interest personally. I only met him for the first time last year."
"But you never told me."
"No, I didn't."
"So, on a scale of one to ten for attractiveness, how do you think I would rate Tom R-------?"
Martin let out a weary sigh. He knew I liked to have my moment of drama.
"Oh, I don't know... eight?"
"Let's try nine shall we? And although I meet my fair share of tasty men down in London, how often do you think I come across a nine?"
"Let me guess... not very often."
The sarcastic tone didn't bother me in the least. When we're alone together Martin is often flippant with me and will even mock me, and I like him to be like that it's the man that I married. What he knows I won't tolerate though is disobedience, although in this case it was arguably guilt by omission rather than wilful defiance.
"Correct... not very often. So why on earth..."
"Because I thought you'd stopped playing that game. The guy's married, Maria, and it's an important account for us. It's not as though you're short of admirers either. I didn't think it would be that big a deal... not now you're increasingly down in London."
"Well, you were wrong. It is a big deal."
"Yeah, well, I realised that when I saw the way he was looking at you."
"It was striking, wasn't it? Talk about besotted at first sight... and yet he's not a player. I sussed that out after just five minutes with him."
"No question. It was all look-but-don't-touch, and of course that makes it all the more appealing."
By now I had put on a PVC quarter-cup bra and I was painting my nipples with lipstick. I still hadn't given my spouse so much as a single glance.
"Have you met his wife Laura?" I asked.
"No, I haven't."
"Seen a picture of her?"
"Hmm, pity. I couldn't find anything on the Web and I'd love to know what she looks like. I imagine a guy like that would have a very attractive wife, but if that's the case I just don't think he would have reacted like he did. So I'm now thinking mid-forties mum who's seen better days and who maybe doesn't make too much effort unless it's a special occasion. Doesn't wear the sexy underwear any more either, and it wouldn't fit if she tried."
"The leaps of logic you're able to make with the flimsiest of evidence continue to amaze me," Martin said dryly.
"Well, you can sneer, but I've got statistics on my side," I countered. "I wouldn't be so popular in London if it weren't the case for most middle-aged men. So imagine what it's like for him... no wonder he was looking at me in that way. If I had just been an office employee he probably would've assumed I was attached to some younger guy and that would have been it, but once he discovered I was your wife, that changed everything. You're several years older than him, you're not anything like as good-looking, you're probably not as wealthy, and yet you're the one with the hot looking wife in the black seamed stockings and fuck-me boots."
"God, talk about wishful thinking."
"I know what I saw, Martin. He's definitely susceptible."
My husband got up at this point to fasten and lock the silver collar at the back of my neck, and as usual I allowed him to attach the hanging chains to my nipples. His fingers were trembling slightly as he opened the clamps and carefully allowed them to close again on to my engorged teats.
"You still find it hard don't you?" I said with a smile. "Even after all this time."
"What the heck do you expect?"
"I'm really ready for him tonight, baby. I'm going to imagine it's Tom doing me, and I'm going to tell Matt that. He's always super-hard when I goad him about wanting another man and he knows I mean it."
Martin made no comment and I turned back to the mirror as he sat down again on the bed.
"I know you weren't outright defying me, but on the other hand I also know it crossed your mind that I'd be interested in him. That's neglectful Martin and you know it, so I'm going to have to punish you. There's no excuse."
"Funnily enough, as soon as I saw you when I came out the lift this morning I knew I was going to hear those words later."
"...which just goes to show you knew you were in the wrong. Anyway, I'll do it on Sunday. It's going to be severe, sweetie I'm going to use the crop. I need you to learn your lesson."
"Oh come on, surely it wasn't that bad?"
"As far as I'm concerned it was. Just be thankful I'm not going to lock you up for a week. I thought about it."
I flicked my eyes towards him and he looked distinctly unhappy. Martin likes to be dominated by me, and a dozen full strokes of the crop is a pleasure-pain experience that he will look forward to. On the coming Sunday however he knew he would be receiving a great deal more than this.
"Tom suggested he might be coming again," I said. "Do you know when that might be?"
"No, I don't. Not for some time I imagine."
"Well, do what you can to get him here and make damn sure I know about it well in advance next time. I want to wear my leather for him."
It wasn't until early October of the following year that Tom visited again, over twelve months since I had chanced across him that day. He was stopping off at Martin's office on the way into London where he would be staying overnight in preparation for a conference the following day. Logically it would have been easiest for him to arrive in the afternoon, see my husband for a while, and then head off into the capital. Instead he chose to have the meeting in the morning and stay for lunch and tellingly he had reminded Martin that I had been unable to attend on his last visit. He said he hoped that this time I'd be able to join them both.
I certainly hadn't forgotten about Tom, but Martin was right in one respect I wasn't short of male friends, and although seducing his business customer had tremendous appeal, it would interfere with my midweek trip into London and that was a heavy price to pay, especially as I couldn't in any way be certain that Tom would respond to any enticement. Given a choice between a one-on-one session with a very attractive guy and an afternoon gathering at Gerald's where four or five men might end up playing with me at the same time, there normally would be no contest. However I felt it was worth the attempt with Tom, not only because of the excitement of the chase but also because of where it might lead.
The biggest hurdle I faced was that I somehow needed to get Martin out of the way and have lunch with Tom alone if I wanted to have any success with him. I also wanted to get him in my car, which meant I would need to pick him up from Martin's office and drop him back again. All of this would necessitate a fair amount of deception, and combined with my upfront dressing I feared it would be completely obvious what I was up to. I had no problem with Tom knowing that I was attracted to him, but it would considerably lessen my allure and might well scare him off if it appeared that I was throwing myself at him.
I agonised over this for some time but in the end it all became irrelevant when Tom contacted Martin and asked if he could leave his car overnight at my husband's office. He planned to take a train into the capital to avoid all the problems of London traffic and he would also be able to enjoy a few drinks at lunch with us. As soon as I heard this I realised that I had the perfect opportunity to be alone with Tom. I got Martin to tell his customer that I was driving into London that afternoon anyway and would be staying overnight with a friend. It would be no problem for me to give Tom a lift and I could also collect him the following day after I had finished my scheduled business meetings.
The great thing about this was that it was totally plausible, even if Tom had a suspicion that I had made the offer because I was interested in him. It would allow him to spend time with me alone, yet completely innocently, and it was notable that although he expressed resistance to the idea at first (saying it was too much of an imposition on me) he didn't need much subsequent persuading. I found out later that he neglected to inform his wife Laura of this arrangement, which didn't surprise me in the least.
I was able to make a grand entrance that day when we went to lunch together in late 2012. Martin and Tom had arrived five minutes earlier and were both sitting in the lounge bar with a drink when I walked into the room. I saw Tom do a double take as his eyes went immediately to my short leather skirt, but he wasnt alone. The guy behind the bar and two other patrons experienced much the same reaction.
"Hi Tom," I said warmly as he stood up and gave me a peck on the cheek. "Lovely to see you again."
"And you, Maria... I'm glad you could make it this time. Can I get you a drink?"
"I'll get it Tom," Martin interjected. "You sit down. Tonic water, Maria?"
"Yes please.""...oh and just give me your car keys for a minute. I'll transfer Tom's case before I forget."
I sat down in the chair opposite Tom and crossed my legs, causing the skirt to ride up a little. It comes to mid thigh when I'm standing but looks shorter when I'm seated. I had specifically chosen this venue so that I could have twenty minutes or so posing in front of Martin's customer before we sat down to eat.
"I'd really like to thank you for the offer to drive me into London," Tom said. "I hate driving there, so you've saved me an awful lot of hassle. I can always catch a train back tomorrow, by the way. It wouldn't be a problem."
"Oh it's no trouble at all, it only means a slight detour for me," I assured him. "I'm glad to be of help."
As had been the case when he saw me the previous year, I was wearing a high-necked black woollen top, although this time I had it on under a short tailored jacket. This is a style that I frequently use to counterbalance the upfront nature of a leather skirt and hopefully lessen any suggestion that I'm flaunting myself. My suspenders were more obvious than the previous time because the straps were thicker, but at least Tom already knew that I was a stockings wearer and I couldn't therefore be accused of vamping myself up especially for our meeting.
When Martin rejoined us I made sure that I regularly held eye contact with my husband or glanced around the room so that Tom would be able to study me more closely. We chatted for another fifteen minutes before going through to the dining room, and it was then that he would have seen the full length silver zipper on the rear of my skirt and the black seams of my stockings. I know from experience what that view of me does to men and I have spent many hours in front of a video camera perfecting the walk that I use to make it as enticing as possible.
As I walked ahead of him I could imagine what was going through Tom's mind. Was I just a hot dresser? And how did Martin feel about it? Did he object, or was he the one who pushed me into wearing such an outfit? Was it just a case of an older man showing off his younger trophy wife? Did my husband get a kick out of men looking at me and was that why I was driving Tom into London? But then again it's obvious that I enjoy the attention... so who knows? Cock teaser? Open marriage? Hot wife? Too many questions... why not just enjoy the view?
Martin only stayed for an hour or so, leaving after the main course - he needed to get back to the office he said. Tom and I didn't bother with a dessert but we both ordered a coffee and we must have sat there for another thirty minutes talking together. Even though we were now alone, my demeanour didn't change in the least. I didn't give him any come-on looks, flutter my eyelashes, pout my mouth or make any suggestive gestures with my hands. I didn't want to give any signals whatsoever that might lead him to think that the purpose of the drive into London was so I could make a play for him or even prick tease him. For the same reason I asked him about his wife, his children, his parents, his siblings... subjects which any seductress with half a brain knows full well to avoid.
What I was selling during this exchange and indeed during the car journey into London was the whole me. My allure to men doesn't only come from my looks, body and sexy clothing. Sure, they're the major part of any attraction but my personality is a vital component too. The fact that I don't have to work and can spend my days doing pretty much whatever I want means that I lead a virtually stress-free life, and my relaxed, carefree outlook is extremely appealing to men. I smile and laugh a lot, I'm cheerful, playful and mischievous, but I also tend to have moments when I'm quite reflective, especially about relationships and the attitudes of men and women. Guys find this more serious side to me highly engaging as well because I try to be honest and I express views which challenge social conventions. With luck Tom would become beguiled by the complete package my body, my face, my clothing and my charm.
When I dropped him off at his hotel late that afternoon I could easily have parked my car and accompanied him inside for a while. Wouldn't that have been the natural move for a woman who had designs on him? Instead though I simply drove up to the entrance and patiently waited while he took his case out of the car boot [trunk]. If he had any suspicions about my motives that day then that surely must have been the moment when he concluded that he had misjudged me. With ample opportunities to come on to him during that journey I had done nothing of the sort and I didn't attempt to manoeuvre the conversation towards my unusual lifestyle. I couldn't resist making his jaw drop a couple of times, but I didn't push things. Certainly I was prepared for some sort of physical exchange if he decided to make a move on me, but it never came to that and in no way was I expecting it.
"Maria, thanks for everything, I really appreciate it," he said through the open passenger window. "I've thoroughly enjoyed this afternoon it's been a real pleasure to talk to you."
"Thanks Tom, I've really enjoyed it too. Have a good conference, and remember, four o'clock right here, okay?"
"Okay, got it, bye."
"Bye Tom. See you tomorrow."
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