London Whore

Posted 31 January 2011

It's a cold Wednesday lunchtime in early 2011. A man and a woman walk into a busy restaurant in central London, and the girl on the desk by the entrance takes their coats and leads them to a booth at the edge of the large dining room. Plenty of heads turn as they make their way across the room, with the woman in particular drawing most of the attention. Her style of dress isn't entirely in keeping with an establishment of this sort, but maybe this is the latest London fashion – who could say for sure these days? Somehow though a shiny, short black leather skirt with a full length silver zip running up the front doesn't seem altogether appropriate, and the tightness of the garment leaves little doubt as to what lies underneath for those who know what to look for. The seamed black stockings and super high heels are clearly designed to be highly provocative too, and as for the black lace top – well, it certainly softens the brazenness of the leather skirt, but you can't miss the black bra beneath the sheer fabric, and when the light catches at a certain angle you would swear that there's a glossiness to the material underneath. Was that a silver buckle you saw as well? It certainly looked like it.

She does walk well though, you can't deny her that, and she holds herself with such confidence... yes, she is very sexy indeed, and she well knows it. Could she be a professional model of some sort?

The man accompanying her inevitably invites some discussion too, and the same question enters each onlooker's head: what is his relationship with this woman? Judging by his age he could easily be her father, but somehow it seems unlikely that a daughter would dress in such a way when out with daddy. In any case, those who saw the pair when they first arrived couldn't miss the moment when the man openly put his arm around the girl's waist after she had removed her coat, and the subsequent stroke of his hand over the rear of her glossy skirt wasn't exactly subtle.

Is she some sort of high class hooker? That would certainly make sense. The guy must be at least six inches shorter than his younger companion, and it's difficult to imagine a woman like that being attracted to such a physically unremarkable older man unless the carrot of financial reward has been dangled in front of her. Then again he seems very confident and there's an arrogance about him as he looks around the room, almost as though he is taunting other men with the fact that he has such a desirable looker on his arm. So is that what this is all about? Is he someone who has the means to buy anything he wants, including a leather-mini-skirted trophy doll? Yes, that would definitely explain both the woman's suggestive mode of dress and the man's attitude. He wants to show off his wealth and power.

Still, you never can tell, can you? There's more to people than looks alone, and there could be any number of explanations for the pairing of this couple at lunch today. At least that's how the more charitable of the diners attempt to rationalise things. Others are not quite so generous.

Fucking hell, look at that sexy bitch. That skirt's so tight I wouldn't be surprised to see it rip apart when she sits down. And that bloody zip all the way up the front... imagine slowly undoing that and playing with the goodies underneath. Is that what you're going to be doing later, pal? Hmm? Buy her a nice meal, a shiny bracelet and an expensive coat and then put your wrinkled dick in her cunt? Yeah, I bet you are, you slimy pervert. Oh sure, don't worry, you're making me jealous alright, but that still doesn't mean you're not a dirty old git who's paying for hot pussy. And even if you're not going to be handing her an envelope stuffed with twenties, don't kid yourself that she's not charging you. Still, it's likely peanuts to you, isn't it? You're probably a fucking banker who likes spunking bailout money on premium-rate sluts. Shit, that means it's me who's footing the bill when she kneels and sucks your cock later...

...

So where are they sitting?... ah, right, in one of the booths. Well, it could have been worse I guess. At least I can see her and watch her face while I'm here, but it's a pity she didn't sit at one of the centre tables close by - I might've been able to see more of that awesome outfit. Hmm, I must keep an eye out for when she goes to the restroom. Maybe I could even go myself when she does... I'd love to eye her up at close range. Okay John, stop staring at the hottie in the leather skirt and talk to Mary for a minute.

...

Hmm... that's interesting. When she was eating her starter she seemed quite animated, chatting away freely, but now she's not saying much and she keeps closing her eyes and pouting her mouth at the same time. Only for a moment, but she's definitely... yeah, she's just done it again. Oops! She just looked straight at me. I think she knows I'm watching her. Don't look... don't look... don't look...

...

Right, here she goes. Off to powder her nose after the main course, just as I expected. Women are so predictable. Wow, she looks even better now. She really is fucking lovely, and that outfit... oh, what's she doing now? She's turned round to talk to the old guy. Whoa, what a sexy sight - the skirt's so tight that it must have ridden up when she sat down, but she doesn't seem bothered by it. Yeah, she's got to be doing this on purpose... she's deliberately giving everyone an eyeful. Man, what you'd give to be in that guy's place sitting next to her. Hmm, that's a thought, you don't suppose... nah, surely not... but was that why he wanted a table where he could sit next to her rather than opposite? Is that what was distracting her? Jeeze, if he really was doing that... the randy old bastard!

...

Okay, I need to time this right. Another twenty seconds or so... and... then... we're... off! Up we get... excuse myself to the others... saunter across the room... through the door... turn right... up the stairs... and wait just here on the landing half way up... should get a great view of her here when she comes down... and wait... and wait... come on princess, someone might come and I'm going to look a right lemon loitering here... c'mon, c'mon, c'mon... bingo, here she is! Oh God, look at the light bouncing off that leather. Keep calm, keep calm, just appear polite and wait to let her walk by... whoa, she smiled at me and said thank you!... what a lovely mouth. Okay, quick glance down and... yes, yes, yes!! That's a fucking kinky bra she's wearing - leather or rubber! And she's got some sort of corset thingy on. Oh man, is she hot or what? It's no good, I'm going to have to stand here and watch her walk all the way down. Tough luck if she sees me staring... oh yeah, I'm certain now. I can see the suspender straps. You horny bitch, you must know that everyone can see them. Damn she's gone... what a sight though... what a beautiful sight! I almost feel like jerking off in the john.


"Oh, what's she doing now? She's turned round to talk to the old guy. Whoa, what a sexy sight - the skirt's so tight that it must have ridden up when she sat down, but she doesn't seem bothered by it. Yeah, she's got to be doing this on purpose... she's deliberately giving everyone an eyeful."




Well, here I am again. Did you miss me?

I'm not going to try to predict for how long these pages will be active again, but hopefully it will be sufficient time for this latest post to be viewed by those established readers of the diary who occasionally visit my site in the hope of finding some sort of update. I don't intend to discuss why I have restored the pages I'm afraid, but if you have read the 'Publish And Be Damned' post you will see where I was heading with the diary before I decided to take it offline.

One thing I should probably make clear at the outset is that for the time being I have no plans to add much in the way of new material. Although a great deal has happened over the past couple of years, I'm not convinced that much of it is noteworthy enough to grab your attention. The appeal of the diary when I started publishing it was that readers were able to follow me on a journey of discovery, and I think I did a fairly satisfactory job of describing my excitement as new doors opened for me and experiences that at one time had only existed in my imagination were transformed into reality. In almost every entry I was reaching out in some way and taking my love of fetish clothing and kinky sex to some new extreme. However, by the end of 2008 I think I had largely reached the limits of my ambitions, and although since then I have enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) many new adventures with a number of different individuals, these have largely been permutations on games I have already played. To me these moments are as novel and exciting as ever, but I suspect any account of my escapades will produce little more than a collective yawn as I inevitably tread the same worn ground of prick-teasing exhibitionism, symbolic cuckoldry and stylised domination.

I may well put up a post that will broadly bring you up to date with what has been happening, but for the moment you can rest assured that Martin is still my husband, my boyfriend Matt remains as close to me as ever, and my friend Alison wields her whips and paddles alongside me even more enthusiastically than before. This particular post however is going to concentrate on the most significant change to my lifestyle since I last wrote: the fact that I now spend two days a week in London. I want to give you a little insight into how I like to enjoy some of that time.

[Before you go any further, if you are a long-time reader you may not have noticed that I have inserted four special posts into the diary in March 2008. These additional entries give some further background to the events of 2007 when I was offline, and you may want to read them before you proceed any further. The first of them is here.]

In the Published And Be Damned post I said that either purchasing or renting some sort of London property had become a necessity and that ideally I would want to be there at least three days per week. At that time house prices in the UK were falling quite rapidly, but since then there has been somewhat of a recovery and prices in central London in particular have been remarkably robust. Certainly as far as Martin and I are concerned the correction hasn't been sufficient to tempt us to buy, but as it happens I'm currently in the very comfortable situation of having a London base and not having to pay a bean for the privilege. My dear friend Gerald invited me to use his home freely for my own purposes, and I now have my own bedroom there, together with a dressing room and a fully kitted out 'sessions room'.

I should maybe point out that Gerald does receive several benefits from my two day residency. During the time that I am there and not otherwise preoccupied, there is an unspoken understanding between us that my mouth is totally at his disposal, and it's not unusual for me to fellate my friend four or five times in a single day, although he prefers me to not bring him to climax until late in the evening, when he will finally ejaculate in my mouth. He is also at liberty to intimately fondle and caress me whenever the whim takes him, and I never protest at this or show any reluctance. I am more than happy to have his hands roaming over me, and when I'm going out to meet another man I always allow an extra ten minutes for Gerald to have a play with me as he investigates what underwear and stimulators I have chosen to wear for my date. He will usually take several photographs of me in this slutted up state and I can always rely on him to forward a couple of choice shots to both my husband and my boyfriend.

My original plan if you recall was to entertain three or four men in London each day in separate two hour sessions, for two days a week. In case you considered that objective little more than idle fantasising, let me assure you that I was absolutely serious in this ambition and when I first started staying at Gerald's I began arranging visits from men on exactly this basis, although I didn't have anything like the numbers needed to fill my appointment book. However it soon became apparent to me that these sorts of closed-door sex sessions didn't always have the appeal that I had envisaged.

This had nothing to do with the sex itself; that was every bit as pleasurable as I could have wished for, and it was extraordinarily satisfying to employ my considerable skills on a man who more often than not had only ever thought he would be able to enjoy the most extreme of his desires in the deepest recesses of his mind. I was born to give such delights to men. I know what they want and I know how to give it to them in a way that removes all feelings of guilt or shame. When a man discovers that not only am I prepared to accommodate his predilections but that I want to play such games; when we act out his fantasies and he witnesses me repeatedly orgasm with an intensity that would be impossible to fake; when I thank him and ask if we can do the same again in a month's time, telling him that before our next session I will buy some accessories that will make it even more mind-blowing for him; that's when that man finally comes to appreciate that kinks and fetishes are there to be embraced and enjoyed provided they don't involve undue risk or hurt.

Domination sessions were fine; I was finding these highly rewarding and they usually left my sadistic desires fully sated. In other sessions however I was finding that once the sex was over and my partner had departed, I was left with the feeling that it was all somehow incomplete. Something was lacking, and it didn't take me long to deduce that the missing element was the foreplay. To get the full kick I was looking for, I needed to dress up in something provocative and go out in public with my companion, openly displaying myself in front of other men and ultimately conversing with my partner over lunch or dinner and letting the excitement build as the anticipation of having kinky sex with him became almost overwhelming.

As you well know, these exhibitionist games have always been a major part of my lifestyle, but on the other hand I hadn't always felt the need to go out in public when I was seeing men at home. To understand why this had become so important to me when I was in London I have to go back to the autumn of 2009 and give an account of a highly significant day that has influenced my outlook ever since.

That season the fashion gods had been very kind to me, and one of the fall/winter 'must-have' trends was over-the-knee boots, with many of the styles unashamedly borrowing from the dominatrix wardrobe. Furthermore the way designers were combining these boots with other clothing was very much in keeping with my own philosophy on how to wear thigh length boots in public to maximum effect (I sometimes wonder whether my 'Winter Boots' and other posts have been more influential than I had ever envisaged).

Earlier in the year when I first became aware of this development I wasn't exactly enamoured with the prospect of thigh length boots and killer stilettos becoming mainstream. I used to believe that a world where Maria is accepted and others emulate her is not a world that she would want to live in. In order to get her kicks and the recognition she craves, she needs to shock, and if the wearing of five-inch heeled thigh length leather boots in public became passé then she would be royally screwed. Nope, I thought back then, we need to return to some heavy Victorian values. Several layers of petticoats, high-necked blouses, and skirts so long that a teensy-weensy glimpse of bare ankle would be more than enough to have any red-blooded male leaking pre-cum into his shorts. That's the kind of world that is made for Maria.

I soon realised that I had very little to worry about and in fact I was going to be presented with some highly exciting opportunities. Although these designer boots looked magnificent in photo shoots and on many catwalk models (although not all – I don't think thigh boots suit overly slim legs), I knew full well that most women wouldn't be able to cope with them, especially the super-high-heeled variety. It's one thing for a starlet actress or pop diva to step out of a car and pose in front of cameras for ten minutes in boots such as these, but it's another story altogether to wear them at an event for several hours or even a whole day. And even if a woman could manage that, would she be able to walk gracefully and sexily in her boots, at all times maintaining the erotic aura that such footwear is deliberately designed to project? I know how hard that is, and I felt I had little to fear.

Naturally the high street fashion chains tried to accommodate this trend and this inevitably resulted in a deluge of poorly designed, unflattering, unsexy above-the-knee styles hitting the stores and online retailers. There were a few exceptions, but in general you get what you pay for, and I'd rather never wear thigh boots again than put on most of the dross that is sold through these outlets.

What was so marvellous for me however was that this fashion trend had legitimised my wearing of thigh boots in public, and not just for special prick-teasing excursions well away from where I lived. I could wear them to social events even close to home, and I did just that. Some of the narrative I gave in the 'Winter Boots' post and the 'Feedback & Requests 2' post (where I describe how I go out in my car with my boots on) suddenly seemed a little redundant, and although in certain ways I missed the somewhat illicit nature of those trips out of doors, this was more than compensated for by being able to flaunt myself openly in front of individuals who actually knew me.

The perfect occasion for this arrived one Saturday in late October 2009. Two weeks previously I had attended a daytime event with Martin and I was left talking to the managing director of a large regional company which is itself a subsidiary of a major UK listed company. I had met this man, Edward, quite a number of times before and on one of those occasions I was wearing one of my short leather skirts with the attendant sexy stockings and high heels. Edward hadn't disguised his interest in me that day, and he had been very complimentary about what he was seeing.

Edward had always reminded me of my former business client Charles (whom I no longer have any contact with, you won't be surprised to learn) but he never laid it on quite so thick with the gushing compliments and he had far more respect for my intelligence. The same flirtatious attitude was there though, and it had always been clear that he liked the fact that women were drawn to him by both his looks and his powerful position. He had always struck me as the sort of guy who quite likely played away from home, particularly with younger female employees at his firm who were keen to climb the corporate ladder as quickly as possible and who were attracted by his status. It didn't surprise me in the least when his wife left him in 2008 and filed for divorce, and all the grapevine chatter was that his philandering lay at the root of it.

Because I only knew Edward socially I didn't have to massage his ego as I did with Charles when I was working, and I think that made me all the more desirable in his eyes. He was also far more aware of my husband's background than Charles ever was, and consequently he knew that I wasn't likely to be overawed by either his wealth or his standing in the corporate hierarchy. The fact that I therefore responded to his attentions positively at this latest function quite likely led him to draw the conclusion that I was flirting with him purely and simply because I was attracted to him on a more primitive level. The truth of course is that I'll prick tease almost any man who takes an interest in me these days, and I'm more than prepared to take things further if the opportunity presents itself.

Towards the end of our conversation Edward said that he would be delighted if Martin and I would join him as his guests at the next home game of our local football club, where his company had a permanent corporate box. I told him (quite truthfully) that it was unlikely that we would be able to attend because Martin usually had other commitments on Saturdays, either watching another team that he supported, or actually playing sport with friends. It was a pity, I said, because although I wasn't a great football fan, I had never been in one of the corporate suites at the city football ground and would be interested to see what they were like. This was a complete lie, and I don't think I have to outline my real motives for making that remark. Whatever, it worked perfectly: "Well then, you're more than welcome to attend, Maria. In fact I insist..."

I agonised for days over what I was going to wear to that event, and this certainly wasn't due to any indecision on my part as to how upfront I could be. I was going to wear thigh boots, that much I knew, but I couldn't decide which pair and I also had several skirts to choose from, together with a couple of dresses. In the end I opted for my six-inch heeled platform boots, the ones that I'm wearing in the car shots for Feedback & Requests 2. These looked perfect with the short woollen dress that I had picked out, and I teamed this with a wide leather belt. The whole outfit looked quite stunning, and Martin was almost beside himself at the prospect of his wife going to a local event in such an audacious outfit. He took some video of me as I practised sitting and walking in this gear, and for several evenings afterwards he sat at his computer masturbating as he watched the footage, saying things like: "Oh God, look at you, look at you! I can't believe it; I can't believe you're going to be wearing that..."

That day when I went to the football match was made even more special due to the fact that I was the only female present. The suite had seating for ten, and Edward had only invited two guests other than me; the rest of the attendees were all executives of Edward's firm. I think it was extremely telling that he hadn't seen fit to provide me with some female companionship. On the face of it, it was blatantly inconsiderate and bordering on rude, but I have a suspicion that my host had more than an inkling that I would enjoy being the centre of attention and wouldn't be at all fazed by the situation. It also left me in little doubt as to why Edward had wanted me to attend.

I don't know what he was expecting me to be wearing that day, but I think I can be fairly certain that Edward was crossing his fingers and desperately hoping that I wouldn't disappoint him. As soon as I walked into the suite and saw all the men turn and eye me up, I knew I had been invited purely as eye candy. I was wearing a three-quarter length coat which was fully buttoned up and so there was little indication that I was wearing my long boots, but Edward's eyes lit up as he saw that I had made every effort with my hair and make-up to ensure I looked hot. This was exactly what he wanted; he was out to impress the other men there with the fact that a highly attractive married woman who was some twenty years his junior had agreed to join him as his personal guest without her husband by her side. What did that say about their relationship?

I didn't let Edward down and I played my part to the letter, even though it was totally unasked for and unscripted. From the very first look I gave him I made it appear to the other attendees that there was something between us, even though there was nothing of the sort, and I gave a very warm response to his kiss on the cheek. He seemed delighted, and he didn't appear in the least embarrassed by the fact that I was five inches taller than him and had to bend down to perform this exchange. Then again I was comfortably the tallest person in the room and he wasn't alone with his height inferiority.

Taking my coat off in that relatively enclosed space in front of those nine watching men was one of those experiences that will always hold a special place in my memory, and I don't think I have ever seen a group of individuals so comprehensively fail to hide either their surprise or their reflexive reaction. If there were such a crime as mind-rape then those guys would have been put away for a collective hundred years for what they did to me in those next thirty seconds, with the only possible mitigation being that their victim loved every moment of the abuse.

Edward's face was a picture as he introduced me to the men in turn, first to his two guests and then to his lieutenants. He had also become very tactile, putting his hand on my arm, back and shoulder as he guided me from one man to another. What I found slightly comical was that once I moved away from a man I could see that he was shifting several feet away from me rather than standing in place. Someone observing this would probably have thought nothing of it, figuring that they were just creating some space, but I knew full well why they were doing it – it was so they could eye up the full length of me from a distance, and in particular eye up those incredible boots.

Once the introductions had been made I stood there for a while with a glass of champagne and chatted to several of the men, and it didn't escape my notice how Edward was constantly hovering by my side. I consciously turned to him at regular intervals and gave him a warm smile, although I didn't lay it on too thick. I tried to convey the impression to him that he was the man there that interested me most, even though in reality there were two other guys that I had been instantly attracted to, with one in particular taking my eye. Several times that afternoon I made eye contact with this man, and I left him in no uncertain terms what I was thinking, even though there was no realistic prospect that day of me doing anything about it.

After a while Edward pulled out one of the chairs from the dining table and invited me to sit down, and I was only too happy to oblige. This was a new opportunity to pose in my boots and I milked it for all it was worth. I'm not going to show any captures of me in that outfit because I intend to wear it again locally this year, but the fashion pictures below give you a reasonable idea of the sort of styling I went for. At this point I also think it's worth you looking again at the car shots in the 'Feedback & Requests 2' post because that's exactly what my shiny boots looked like as I sat in the chair, first with my legs together and a little later with them crossed. The men found it impossible to keep their eyes away from them, and almost inevitably someone couldn't resist making a wisecrack about them. I just laughed along with the rest of them, but I didn't pursue it. I could so easily have made one of my throwaway comments about leather and boots at that moment, but there really wasn't much point. I already had them where I wanted them.

Christian Louboutin's rear-zipped platform thigh boots for the fall/winter 2010/11 season. I don't think anyone's going to deny that these boots are consciously designed to appeal to men at some base level, and I suspect many pairs sold will never see the light of day outside the bedroom. This is a great pity as such boots deserve to be displayed in public by women who have the height and poise to carry off such a look. This particular matching of boots and dress gives you a fair idea of what I looked like when I went to the football club as Edward's guest, although my boots don't come up quite as high on the thigh.

I'm not sure how long it would have taken each man to discover that I was wearing suspenders and stockings. The boots alone were more than provocative, but it was absolutely vital to me that any men present would become aware that I had sexy underwear on as well. It would leave little doubt that I was a hot wife, and the likely assumption would be that I was having some sort of liaison with Edward. The only person who would know that wasn't true would be Edward himself, but the way I had been smiling at him and making eye contact would surely lead him to conclude that I had dressed especially for him that day. Whether he decided to pursue that knowledge remained to be seen.

The problem was that I didn't know who was going to be there that day and therefore I couldn't be too blatant in showing my garter straps, which is why I had chosen the woollen dress. Even when I sat down the thickish material didn't allow the straps to show in profile, but the bumps from the rubber fasteners on the clasps were there. They weren't easy to spot, but if you were looking for them you were going to find them; it was just a case of making sure the men started hunting. I gave them the clue they needed when I crossed my legs, partially revealing my stocking top on the underside of my leg. I only gave the merest glimpse as anything more would have been too brazen, but the fact that he could see patterned lace rather than opaque hose would indicate to almost any guy that he was looking at stockings. His task would then be to determine whether they were merely hold-ups or whether they were secured with straps.

Things became duller for me when we sat down for the late lunch because my legs were out of sight under the table, but once the match started I got to pose again, and I've often wondered how many of the guys who were near me that day had their eyes on my legs rather than the football pitch. Edward had made sure I was sitting next to him and it's hard to believe he was able to keep his eyes from flicking down for just one more look.

Sexual temptation is insidious; a man can cope with it if it's presented only fleetingly but it gnaws away at him if it's there for a protracted period, and Edward had those boots and suspender bumps in his field of vision for nearly two hours during that match. I'll never really know whether that is what prompted him to make a move on me or whether he had decided well beforehand that he was going to make a play, but I really couldn't care. I'm just delighted that what started as a prick teasing outing for me morphed into something far more satisfying, and there was a special kicker that made it all the more memorable.

The match finished around five o'clock, and Edward had told me beforehand that he usually stayed on until just after six as this allowed the ground to clear and lessened any traffic problems when going home. I was due to go out with Matt that night in the very outfit I was wearing during the day. I knew I would be extremely hot after parading myself, and I wanted to go somewhere and get more of the same, with my boyfriend watching me being ogled or even chatted up, something that had become an established aspect of our weekend games. Matt lived only five miles from the football ground and he had therefore agreed to pick me up at six fifteen in the car park.

Edward's two guests left half an hour after the match ended, and two of the execs followed shortly afterwards. I ended up sitting in a chair with a glass of wine in my hand, talking to the others in a circular group, but when I returned from a visit to the ladies room Edward and I had a one-to-one chat for about fifteen minutes, with his four remaining colleagues talking animatedly on the other side of the room about football as they watched match reports on a television.

Out of earshot of the others Edward was finally able to articulate what he felt about my mode of dress, and he was as forthcoming with his compliments as he had been when he saw me in my leather skirt. I thanked him and openly said that I had got the impression that he had invited me because he found me attractive, and I had done my best to live up to his expectations. I don't think I left him in any doubt as to my meaning.

Out of the blue he suddenly changed the subject.

"You've never seen Lakeside, have you?" he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"My home, Lakeside. It's an old Grade II listed former rectory that's taken me fifteen years to fully restore. Everything's been done – the beams, the panelling, the fireplaces. It's cost me an absolute fortune, but it's been worth every penny. I'd like you to see it sometime; I think you'd be really interested."

You're probably tired of hearing me say how I start getting wet in certain situations, but I really do experience a physical reaction when I get very turned on, and that moment was no exception.

"Yes, I'd love to see it," I said with undisguised enthusiasm.

"Actually, you could see it tonight if you like, although you won't be able to fully appreciate the gardens," he went on. "You could leave with me and I could drop you home a little later. It won't take long."

"That would be lovely," I said, without any hesitation whatsoever. "Thank you, I'd really like to do that."

We chatted for a little longer and then rejoined the others for the last ten minutes or so. When we finally prepared to leave Edward brought me my coat and held it open so I could slip my arms into it. I hope I didn't make it too obvious, but there was no way I was getting into Edward's car with my outfit covered up once again. Absolutely no way.

"Actually I've been a little too warm all afternoon," I said. "I'll just carry it for the moment."

The car park area was brilliantly lit when we emerged from the entrance to the executive suites, and my boots must have looked amazing in that lighting. The walkway outside was some sort of marbled tiling, and with every step I took I could hear the loud 'click' of my metal-tipped heels as they made contact with the ground. If you don't find that sound erotic then there's something wrong with you, and I'm willing to bet any money that at least one of Edward's managers had a hard-on at that moment as they watched me walk in front of them.

"Just wait here Maria," Edward said as he walked past me towards the parked cars. "Can you see your lift waiting?"

I had told Edward that I'd arranged a lift home, and I had already spotted Matt's car some twenty yards away.

"Yes, he's here," I replied. "I'll just let him know that he's not needed."

Not one of Edward's subordinates budged as I walked sexily over to my boyfriend's waiting vehicle with my coat casually draped over my arm, but I think that was more to do with the fact that you don't leave until the boss has left. Nevertheless, I'm sure they enjoyed the view.

Matt must have been expecting me to open the passenger door, but instead I tapped on the window and he wound it down. I bent over from the waist to talk to him, and that may well have been the pièce de résistance for the guys watching me. I honestly don't know what I was showing at that moment.

"Hi baby, thanks for coming, but there's been a slight change of plan. Edward's invited me back to his place for a while to show me all the work he's had done on it. I can't imagine I'm going to be too long because he'll be thinking that Martin will be suspicious if I'm back late. If you pick me up from my place a little later then we can go straight out."

Matt looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and desire.

"I'm sure you've got your phone with you," he said testily. "You could've called me."

"I could have," I responded without a hint of contrition, "but I wanted you to see me get into Edward's car dressed like this. You know what I want; you know what I'm going to get. You think about that for the next couple of hours before we go out."

With that I simply turned around and returned to the foyer. I knew how painful that moment would be for Matt as he watched me calmly walk away in those glistening boots, but his jealousy fed my own lust and by then I was desperate for Edward's attentions. I was certain that my boyfriend wasn't going to drive away in disgust. He was going to watch, just as I wanted him to.

Edward swung his car round to the front of the building, and he got out of the vehicle and walked around to where I was standing, opening the passenger door and inviting me to step inside. No way was this a chivalrous act; he wanted to gloat over his catch. If you're in a position like me, this is what you get. Work hard gentlemen, and all this could be yours one day.

I didn't shake hands with any of Edward's associates. I simply said goodbye, giving them an enticing smile as I got into the car. There was no downside at that point in letting my dress briefly ride up as I lifted my booted leg inside, and the wonderful thing about that moment as I gave them a fleeting view of my black garter strap and silver clasp was that they all knew I was going to be fucked by their boss. And a short distance across the car park my boyfriend was sitting there watching this scene, knowing full well that I was going to be fucked by their boss too.

I was a trophy doll, a woman drawn to a man through status, wealth and power. And I loved playing the part; I knew I wanted to be a trophy doll again.




The enjoyment I experienced in effectively prostituting myself in front of Edward's colleagues in such a provocative outfit opened my eyes to a new world of exhibitionist opportunities in public. I said in Feedback & Requests 2 that the look I aimed for on most occasions when I was out of doors was one of sexy elegance, and unless I was in the company of a man who was tall and physically impressive, I would generally avoid wearing anything that was too upfront or 'hooker'. For years I had always felt uncomfortable with Martin by my side when I was wearing extremely high heels and short leather skirts, and when Matt arrived on the scene I suddenly felt liberated. I had a partner who more than matched me in looks and height, and I felt supremely confident when I was out with him, no matter how daringly I was dressed. He looked so right for me, and I felt he complemented rather than undermined the image I wanted to project.

That day at the football club made me realise that I could have the best of both worlds. In the 'Puss-In-Boots' post I told you how I had gone out with Matt to a bistro wearing my thigh boots, and I said that my boyfriend had brought a new dimension to my exhibitionist games: "When I was with my short, plain husband I could only be a domina with her slave, or a hooker with her John, but tonight I could be a sex toy with her Master." It suddenly hit me that with the right man and at the right venue, there was something else I could be: a trophy doll with her sugar daddy. London could give me all the venues I needed, and I was already in contact with the right sort of men through Gerald's introductions. The real kicker was that the more incongruous we were as a couple - the more mismatched in age, height and looks - then the more obvious my trophy doll status would be to onlookers. I had always dreamed of wearing my 'SLUT' collar in public, but if I dressed as I had for Edward and walked into an expensive restaurant on the arm of an overweight sixty-year-old who was eight inches shorter than me, then I was as good as doing the same thing. That prospect was awesome.

Indulging in this sort of exhibitionism and then having a session with my companion at Gerald's home afterwards gave me the feeling of completeness I was looking for. It satisfied both my need to display myself, and my need for kinky sex. I could only realistically manage one such excursion in a single day, but the enjoyment I got from playing such games far outweighed this disadvantage and I could still have a domination session either before or afterwards. And in case you're thinking I was suddenly restricting myself to liaisons with short, plain, elderly men, this wasn't the case at all. I could play precisely the same game with a tall, good-looking guy of my own age, with the only difference being that the more my companion fitted this description, the more the stereotyping of me shifted from trophy doll to hooker.

It's important that you appreciate that for me the man concerned has to be the real deal. He really does have to be someone of wealth and influence, and therefore I don't think I'm in a position to disparage any woman who is driven by such values. It's not so much the money though, and I don't seek material gain from these men (although I do require them to take me to expensive venues); it's simply that as a rule they are very interesting individuals to converse with and they have a self-assurance and directness that I find highly appealing. That's the real attraction, and it's such qualities that leave me very keen to pleasure such men with my mouth for lengthy periods and for them to aggressively take me anally while I'm in an extremely submissive position, just as Edward did that night when I went to his home.

From a cuckoldry perspective, these outings heap a new level of anguish on my husband and my boyfriend. While they are having to endure yet another stressful day at work, they must live with mental images of me walking into a restaurant wearing highly polished thigh length boots or a tight, shiny leather miniskirt, and they know full well that some three hours or so later that same clothing is likely to have another man's cock rubbing against it. Both Martin and Matt have always been very proud to have me on their arm when I'm dressed to kill and it hurts to know that someone else is showing me off to the world, just as it hurts to know that I will at some point be enthusiastically orally accommodating my suitor in an effort to say thank you to him. They are also well aware that I receive genuine sexual pleasure from being disciplined by the right sort of man, and those individuals who gain my trust get to do things to me that very few women would ever acquiesce to, let alone actually enjoy.

I've told you before how I found myself being increasingly drawn to this form of discipline, and it's now become a signature experience that I offer to men that I fully trust. I absolutely adore having this done to me, and with the right sort of vibrating stimulator inside my briefs providing both pleasure and protection, my tormentor is not only able to enjoy the thrill of striking vigorously but he actually witnesses me climax from the punishment. The noise is incredible, and I will very often call my husband to humiliate him as he is forced to listen to both the sound of the blows landing and my cries of delight.

None of this would have been possible however if current fashion trends, particularly with footwear, hadn't legitimised the clothing I have been wearing in the company of these men. That has been the real key, and it has allowed me to take such public theatrics to extremes. The scenario I described as an opening to this post really did take place earlier this month, and the outfit you see me wearing is identical in every way to the one I wore in the restaurant, even though I took the pictures at home at a later date. The man accompanying me was past his sixtieth birthday, and as we sat in a half-moon booth which looked out into the dining room, he unzipped my skirt a few inches, massaged my thighs, played with my suspenders, and pressed his fingers against my latex-covered pussy. And incidentally, there genuinely was a guy in the restaurant that day who kept looking over at me, and when I went to the ladies room I passed him on the stairs on the way back. Coincidence? Hmm...

The skirt I wore that day is very short, but I have actually worn one even shorter than this in the past few months. Back in October Gerald decided to buy a new car, and over lunch one day he suggested that I might like to accompany him the following week when he went to order it. He basically knew the make and model he wanted, but he said he was quite willing to add a couple of extra visits to alternative dealers just so I could role-play my trophy doll persona to the full. I unhesitatingly said yes, I would love to go, and I felt my heart skip a beat as I contemplated how exciting such an outing might turn out to be. The fall/winter footwear designs were even more exciting than the previous year, and not only were thigh boots still a must-have item, but super-high-heeled courts, sandals and ankle boots were also in. The likes of Christian Louboutin, Versace and Yves Saint Laurent had given me a green light to do something that I had never imagined possible - I was going to be able to wear my seven-inch heeled platform sandals in public. In the first 'Feedback & Requests' post I had discussed these shoes, saying that they were actually fairly easy to walk in on level surfaces, but they were dangerous on uneven ground due to the risk of the ankle suddenly turning over. This wouldn't be an issue for me at a car showroom.

As we ate lunch, thoughts of how daring I could be with my outfit began to spin around in my head, and when I started to dwell upon the skirt that I could wear I got the shivers. I knew I had to clear this with Gerald though, because he understandably might consider it as taking things too far.

"Gerald," I began tentatively, "there's a particular outfit I'd like to wear when we go looking at cars, but I need you to appreciate how blatant it would be. I'd be leaving very little to the imagination."

"Okay," he said without commitment, "what have you got in mind?"

"One of the upmarket dresses on sale this season is really nothing more than a short rear-zipped leather skirt with an attached black woollen top. It looks very sexy, and it basically mimics a style I've worn many times before, but mainly in private. I'd like to wear something similar, but with my shortest zipped leather skirt. I've never worn a skirt this short in public before – well, certainly not at what you might call a 'normal' venue – but this season I think I can get away with it."

"Okay, that sounds great," he responded with enthusiasm.

"I need to be clear Gerald; you've seen that skirt and you know how short it is. It should really be worn with opaque tights, but I want to wear it with opaque stockings so I can have my suspender straps showing through the leather. I also want to wear my highest shoes – my seven-inch sandals – and I'd like to be double-plugged as well. I can't wear a full harness with that skirt, but my PVC single strap set would be fine."

"Bloody hell, that sounds sensational," he said.

"Well, yes, I think it will be," I agreed, "but I'm not going to look classy and it will be almost impossible for me to avoid showing my stocking tops if I sit down or even bend over too much. In fact if I'm not careful about it, I may even give a glimpse of the leather briefs I'll be wearing and..."

"Maria, you don't have to worry," he interrupted. "I trust you to look the part, okay? I honestly don't care what you show, because there's no comeback on me and I'm not going to be embarrassed. You do what you want to do."

I had an intense two-hour dildo session when I arrived home that night, and the following day I dressed up in the outfit I intended to wear at the car showrooms, getting Martin to take video of me posing in numerous positions, both standing and sitting. When I watched the playback I realised just how audacious it would be to wear a skirt of that length in daytime, especially as it was so tight (as with my undersized bras, this is all by deliberate design). I wasn't under any illusions whatsoever that I somehow looked fashionable or stylish – in fact most would probably argue that for someone of my age to wear such a garment openly at a public venue with stockings, suspenders and seven-inch heels bordered on the absurd. However that sort of opprobrium was never a major consideration for me. All that mattered was whether men would be turned on by what they were seeing, even if they felt it was inappropriate. Since I gave up work my whole life has been devoted to making men want to fuck me, and I work very hard to maintain my desirability. As long as I can see that desire in guys' eyes, I am immune to social embarrassment. For sure I had butterflies just at the thought of what I was going to do, but at the same time the anticipation was intoxicating. I was convinced that I would be able to pull it off, because deep down I felt that on the actual day I would be supremely confident.

Supremely confident is exactly how I turned out to be, and I ended up castigating myself for never having contemplated this type of scenario before. It was simply perfect for the sort of flagrant prick teasing that I wanted to indulge in when away from home. The dealerships we went to were very upmarket, the floors were completely level and uncarpeted, the lighting was bright and angled to show off the cars to maximum effect (which just so happened to show off shiny black leather clothing to maximum effect), and the salesmen were well-dressed, generally youngish, and predominantly good-looking. Oh, and let's not forget the occasional testosterone-fuelled male customer whose underlying motive for parting with upwards of £70,000 for a high performance car was so he could attract hot mini-skirted pussy like me.

I played Gerald's wife rather than girlfriend, a woman who had fallen for the trappings of wealth and who was clearly in need of a lot more prick than her much older spouse could provide. This gave me a great excuse to openly eye up the salesmen and make it clear to them that I was parading myself in a leather mini and garter straps as much for their benefit as my husband's. And whatever they thought of me, they certainly couldn't disguise their interest. I can imagine for many of the guys the fantasy thought of giving my buttocks a rub and putting a hand up my skirt as I bent over to look inside the cars must have been utter torment for them, and I can assure you that it was utter torment for yours truly that they weren't collectively doing that. The two plugs I had inside me were driving me wild, not so much through the physical stimulation but because of the mental kick I was receiving from knowing they were there when I had such a tiny skirt on.

The most enjoyable moments were at the third and final dealership we went to, where Gerald made out that the car was being purchased for me and the salesman, Daniel, led me personally around the showroom to view the stock while my rich hubby sat with a coffee and read a magazine. Of course I can't say for sure what was going through Daniel's mind as he gave me the full spiel, but I'm pretty sure that at some point an image would have come into his head of me lying on my back with my miniskirt around my waist and my long stockinged legs wrapped around the body of a guy old enough to be my father.

I ended up sitting inside two of the cars with Daniel alongside me in the passenger seat, and I know for certain he became erect on the second occasion because I saw the unmistakable evidence. My skirt had ridden up ridiculously when I climbed inside the first vehicle, even though I genuinely had done my utmost to maintain full modesty. I couldn't help but apologise for the quite blatant garter display.

"I'm really sorry," I said as I made every effort to pull the skirt lower, "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"No, no, don't worry," he laughed nervously. "Every job has its perks."

I laughed out loud at that. "He likes me to wear them," I said, nodding over at Gerald. "Well," I continued after a short pause, "if I'm absolutely honest, I really like wearing them as well."

When we got into the second car and exactly the same thing happened to my skirt, I couldn't help exploiting the moment.

"Well, there's not much point in trying to hide these, is there?" I said levelly, "so if you don't mind I'm just going to take this opportunity to adjust things. Carry on though, and don't mind me..."

With that I undid each of the four frontward garter straps in turn, straightened it, then refastened it and finally fully tightened it. Daniel did a remarkable job of keeping his cool and his voice didn't falter as he described the car's capabilities and features. He hid his hard-on well, but when I momentarily caught sight of it I was so, so tempted to reach my hand across and massage him. However, I knew that could put him in a whole world of trouble, and it has never been my intent to cause problems of that kind for anyone. Just wait a few more minutes until we leave, I told myself, and I would be unzipping my panties in Gerald's car and giving my plugs a massage to release much of the frustration.

Getting out of that car without revealing anything was totally impossible, and at least one browsing customer that day got a view he was never likely to forget. God, I just love exposing myself to men and making them hard, and it's all the more satisfying when it's not premeditated. I've got seven inches of black rubber inside me as I'm typing this one-handed and reliving that visit to the car dealership, and in a minute I'm going to pull my impressively-girthed latex lover out of me and lick my excitement from him before he returns to abuse me some more.

Before we left, Daniel asked me for the second time if I would like to arrange a test drive in the sports car that I had shown particular interest in, and I said I would like to think about it first.

"I'll be in touch if I want a drive," I told him as I took his card, "but if I do have a run I presume it will be you who goes with me?"

"Yes, it will be," he confirmed.

"Good," I said as I put the card into my handbag and prepared to return to my husband. "I'm not interested in going with anyone else, Daniel. It has to be you."

I never did take a test drive, and I hope poor Daniel didn't make his prick too sore as he tried to wank the memory of what he saw as we sat in those cars out of his mind. However I did regret not being able to give him a contact number for me that day, and after that outing I purchased another mobile phone contract and had some cards made with both my name on them and this new separate number. It wasn't my real name though, but my 'Maria' nom de guerre. Ever since I started going to Gerald's parties, everyone in London has known me as Maria, and now even Gerald himself calls me by this name, never using my birth name.

This is the outfit I wore to the car showrooms. The plain top maintains some sort of balance and the outfit doesn't look too outrageous from the front, but even in this semi-sitting position my stocking tops become visible and from a head-on view it's not too difficult to see the silver zip of my leather briefs. Let's be clear that I wasn't out to win a fashion contest that day - the aim was to portray myself as a woman who had married an older man for wealth and comfort, but who is now always hot and eager for the attentions of other men.


I'm not afraid to make risqué poses like this if the situation presents itself in front of the right target audience - it's not an unnatural way to stand when looking out of a window or over a balcony for example. The great thing is that holding oneself like this sends so many messages to men: Caress me... Grope me... Spank me... Unzip me... Finger me... Dildo me... Lick me... Fuck me. As you well know, I like to have all of the above and more.


In the car on the way back to Gerald's I was on fire.

"Oh God, that was wonderful," I moaned, "just wonderful. I want the works when we get home, a full session in the chair. Make sure you take your time."

"Excellent," said Gerald with relish. "I knew how excited you were, but you hid it very well and kept that amazing aura of calm, as though what you were wearing was nothing out of the ordinary. Sophisticated slut, that's what you wanted wasn't it? Because that's what you came across as."

"Yes, and it certainly didn't put them off did it? That salesman Richard, he was very fanciable, and he was definitely making a play for me when you were on the other side of the showroom. I could tell he was really into the skirt, and he even admitted it in the end. I was tempted to let him know I was wearing leather underwear as well, although he may well have seen my briefs anyway."

Gerald laughed. "I'm thinking this isn't going to be the last outing for that miniskirt this year," he said.

"Too right," I confirmed. "God, I never thought I'd actually ever be able wear stuff like this out of doors in the daytime. The turn on... I just can't tell you. I just wish I could have been touched up or gone into a back room and sucked someone."

"Seriously?"

"I'm not kidding, Gerald. Daniel definitely had a hard-on when we sat in the car together, and I could so easily have unzipped him and wanked him."

"What happened to the girl who isn't into grubby, impulsive, gratuitous sex?" he teased.

"I know, I know," I conceded, "but I can't describe to you the thrill of standing in front of men dressed like this. The way they look at me, the way they speak to me. A woman doesn't wear stockings and suspenders with a skirt this short unless she wants cock. They know I want it, and they know they're just a short pull of a zipper away from giving it to me. Having the plugs inside me was awesome, but I'm not wearing them next time. I want to be totally available to a guy at a moment's notice."

"Wow, you really are turned on, aren't you?" he said.

"Yes I am, but don't assume that I'm just fantasising," I warned. "I'm going to make sure I've got condoms with me in future, and if I get the opportunity I'm going to whore myself. I'll suck anyone, take anyone's cock inside me. I don't even need to know his name."

"Good grief," Gerald muttered incredulously.

By now my fingers were massaging the vaginal plug against my clit and I was well on the way to climaxing.

"I want you to use everything on me when we get back," I moaned. "Work your way through the whole collection... but slowly. I want three hours Gerald. Seriously, an absolute minimum of three hours."

"What, with your legs and arms strapped up the whole time?"

"Yes, the whole time."

Gerald shook his head as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Okay," he said, and the 'don't say I didn't warn you' intonation was unmistakable.

I simply swept aside his concerns. "Can't we get someone round to watch?" I asked.

"Like who?"

"I don't know... Douglas perhaps? I really want someone to watch you do it to me. Maybe join in as well."

"I'll give Douglas a call. And I'll try Oliver too."

"Oh yeah, if we could get both of them there... and we could use the fellatio gags too. Imagine the three of you taking turns..."




That day when I went car shopping with Gerald proved so pleasurable and gave me such an exceptional opportunity to exhibit myself that I started to consider other London venues where I could openly display myself in the daytime in a short leather miniskirt and seven-inch sandals, or an outfit based on my thigh boots. However it was at an evening function in November that I got my next opportunity to wear my super high heels, and I had become so emboldened by the reaction I had received at the car showrooms that I was determined to openly advertise my availability to other men once again.

The event was a private party being thrown by a friend of one of the men I was seeing in London, and I felt I couldn't wear my extremely short miniskirt because it would be overstepping the mark (and in any case, trying to maintain some sort of dignity in that garment for a whole evening would be too irksome). I therefore opted for the longer rear-zipped leather skirt you've seen a number of times before, and this meant I could be more upfront with the rest of the outfit. I consequently wore a strappy top with a latex uplift bra underneath, and I also wore the silver ankle chain with the dangling penis charm that you saw in Feedback & Requests 2.

To say that my fuck-me outfit proved popular at this gathering would be a huge understatement, and within an hour of my arrival I was enjoying a highly stimulating conversation with a close relation of our host after he had diplomatically made reference to the fact that I was wearing both an ankle chain and a wedding ring. I openly revealed to him that I enjoy humiliating my cuckold husband by having sex with other men, and he stood there utterly enthralled as I coolly told him that later that night I would be calling my husband and making him listen to me being serviced by the man I had arrived with at the party. Thirty minutes later I was in an upstairs bedroom masturbating this man, and I was talking on the phone to Martin as my breasts were being licked and sucked. As it turned out, my husband received three phone calls that night instead of the single one he was expecting, and I have my leather skirt, ankle chain, garter straps, and killer heels to thank for that unexpected change in schedule.

Memorable as these experiences are, they cannot begin to compare with the kick I received in early December when I took my exhibitionism to a level that I'm not sure I will ever surpass, and if you're looking for a single catalyst for my online return then this is surely it. Gerald had called me a couple of weeks previously and asked if I would be interested in attending an exhibition at a London art gallery. It wasn't one of the major public galleries, but the premises of a commercial dealer, and attendance would be by invitation only on the first day. It would be perfect for me Gerald said, just the sort of venue and guest list that would allow me to display myself in a way that I could never contemplate when I was closer to home.

Gerald was right - going to an art gallery presented a marvellous opportunity, and as with the car showrooms I started kicking myself for never having seriously considered this sort of location before as an outlet for my prick-teasing. I would be able to stand with Gerald by my side, both of us studying the exhibits on the walls, and I would be able to hold myself in all sorts of sexy, suggestive ways, with male attendees free to eye up my legs, killer shoes and rear without any fear of giving offence. Furthermore this was exactly the sort of function where women dressed to impress, either to please their male partner or to ensure they were noticed. I seriously doubted that I would be the only female there who would be wearing something out of the ordinary to make a statement.

The problem was deciding what to wear. It had to be something that I would feel classy in, that I could carry off with aloofness, despite it being blatantly designed to excite. A tight dress paired with thigh boots would certainly have fitted the bill, but I suspected that there would be at least one other woman wearing such an outfit at that particular event. I wanted to make an unforgettable impact and I didn't like the idea of bumping into a pair of those zipped-backed Christian Louboutin boots I showed earlier. I therefore switched my focus to something based on my super high heels.

Had it been an evening event I unquestionably would have worn a very daring latex dress, but rubber just didn't seem right for the daytime. I also instantly discarded the idea of the zipped leather mini because I didn't feel that it looked flattering enough on me for a venue of this nature, and I didn't particularly warm to the idea of wearing the longer zipped leather skirt because it lacked that element of drama I was looking for. However I did like the corset top/rubber bra combination I had worn at the party earlier in November (minus the scarf) as it displayed my breasts so prominently and would leave my shoulders relatively bare in the middle of winter, something that would quite likely allow me to stand out from the crowd. I just needed a suitable skirt to go with it.

I filmed myself at home wearing almost my entire leather skirt collection, including the front-zipped one you can see in the first two pictures of this post. That one looked pretty good and I had a couple of other candidates in mind, but I was still missing that special ingredient that would give me the supreme confidence I was looking for. If I can get myself into the state where I feel I am almost irresistibly fuckable then it becomes a sort of self-feeding reality. My pupils dilate, my mouth starts pouting for cock, and I walk and hold my body extremely provocatively; in short I begin to radiate sex appeal and the response I get from men makes me want to take risks.

The one skirt I didn't try initially was the one that over the years has proven to be by far the most alluring to men: my side-laced leather pencil skirt. You'll have to excuse me returning to this old faithful from my wardrobe, but it's uncanny how it draws guys to me like moths to a flame. However I couldn't seriously contemplate wearing this skirt in public at such a well-to-do social event. It would be totally outrageous, even for an unashamed exhibitionist such as me.

Or would it?

Half-heartedly I put this skirt on one morning with the corset top and high heels, and as soon as I stood in front of the mirror I got that familiar tingle that told me I was about to do something reckless but incredibly thrilling. I was wearing the opaque stockings that I have been using in public this season but they didn't look quite right and when I changed these for tulle seamed ones the inner excitement I was experiencing became even more compelling. "Don't be silly," whispered the little voice that tries to keep me on the straight and narrow. "Do it!" shouted the inner whore that controls my life.

The decider came when I adjusted the skirt to make it much shorter. I have never shown this look before in the diary, but it's something I've done with this skirt regularly over the years (although only in private). Because the two strips of leather are tapered, it's simple to fold each strip in on itself and lace the skirt down to whatever length is required. I can even make a micro skirt out of it if that's what I want. The leather is of such high quality and is so thin that there's very little extra bulk created – it effectively turns an unlined skirt into a partially lined one.

I stood in front of the mirror again with the skirt in this modified state and also put on my best leather opera gloves. Wow, I thought in amazement, even I want to fuck me.

I rang Gerald later that evening.

"I'm going to embarrass you at the gallery next week with what I intend to wear," I said.

"Not possible," he laughed.

"Oh yes it is," I countered. "This time I've got you."

Gerald never asked for a picture of me in that outfit so he could judge whether I was going to make fools of us both. He trusted me, he said, just as he had always done. Some day you're going to get it wrong Maria, but ever since I first met you, you've never let me down.

The fascinating thing about that day when I stepped out of a London taxi in freezing conditions and walked into the art gallery with only a short jacket covering the upper half of my body and nothing hiding my lower was that I didn't in any way feel that what I was wearing was over-the-top. A week earlier it had seemed preposterous to contemplate going out in this gear, but when I dressed at Gerald's and adjusted my suspenders so that they were perfectly aligned at the sides for maximum visibility, a curious calm came over me. Sexually I was enormously excited, but in terms of worries over social stigma I had an inner peace that never left me that day, and I think it's significant that Gerald didn't feel any apprehension about taking me out dressed in such a daring ensemble. "I'd feel stupid if it were anyone else," he told me as we were about to leave, "but not with you."

I think the reason for this is that deep down I felt I was genuinely making a fashion statement. This wasn't the sort of outfit I had worn at the car showrooms; it had a genuine eroticism to it that I felt had merit in an artistic sense – a sort of image of male sexual fantasy brought to life; a living, breathing, touchable sex toy. I realise that this all sounds terribly pseud and self-indulgent, but I think you had to be there to see me in the flesh that day. Maybe you would have been left totally unmoved by the sight of me, but I think it's fair to say that you would have been an exception, and in all the years I have been out in public teasing pricks I don't ever recall having the sort of response from men that I received that day.

After some initial introductions (I'm not going to discuss who we met or the purpose of the event) Gerald and I spent some time together viewing the exhibits, and although my focus was apparently on the displays, as usual I was completely aware of everything that was happening around me. What particularly turned me on was seeing small groups of guys talking together, and when we moved from one exhibit to another I could see that their faces were all directed at me. I would then turn to give them a full-on rear view and I would hold myself provocatively, allowing them to drink in the sight of the highly-polished leather skirt stretched across my arse.

I'm sure it must have been a matter of deep debate as to whether I was wearing any panties – there were no visible signs of any from the open view at the sides of the skirt, and if they were looking for any contours that might reveal that I was wearing a thong, they certainly weren't going to find any. My pussy was totally bare and it was glistening with lube, as was my rear which Gerald had dildoed before we left his house. I wasn't seriously expecting to accommodate anyone that day, but I had been deadly serious when I told my friend that I was going to make myself available to any man who wanted me at a function such as this. It was all part of the turn on for me, and I wanted both my husband and boyfriend to know that I was out in public without panties in this heavily prepared state, a symbolic reminder that I was now indiscriminately prostituting myself to other men.

Later Gerald deliberately left my side to talk to someone he knew, and I was left standing alone with a glass of champagne in my hand as I casually looked at some of the displays for a second time. Within moments I was approached by a man whose opening line was that the only work of art he fancied taking home from the gallery that day was me. He said it jokingly and we both laughed, but I could see in his eyes that there was more to it than that, and when he moved away from me some ten minutes later he had one of my cards in his jacket pocket. This was merely the first of several somewhat similar exchanges, with an initial compliment about my outfit quickly developing into a discussion about what I do for a living and my relationship with Gerald.

The general consensus seemed to be that I was a professional model, and it's probably for this reason that I received such little animosity from other women that day. I suspect that many of them assumed that I had been hired to deliberately add to the surreal nature of the exhibits and therefore my mode of dress could be excused as it wasn't really a serious outfit for public consumption. Mentally I was prepared for a highly adverse reaction from any women present, and in a way it was somewhat disappointing that we never got into a situation where one of the female guests found my prick teasing display so offensive that she felt the need to try to belittle me. If you scroll back up the page and look at the first picture I showed in this post, do you find it hard to believe that the woman you see in that shot is the author of these words? I'll wager that you do, and this bimbo stereotyping of me gives me a tremendous advantage in any social situation. I simply love humiliating a woman who makes the grave mistake of assuming that my mode of dress is some sort of reflection on my intellect.

I was only expecting to be there for an hour or so, and when Gerald came over to me when I was momentarily without an admirer, I assumed he was going to call for a taxi to take us home.

"Enjoying yourself?" he quipped.

"You don't need to ask," I responded with a smile.

He became unusually serious then as he spoke his next words:

"You've made an enormous impression today, Maria. I've been discreetly asked by three acquaintances for more details about you, but I've only noted the interest and not divulged anything personal. I can give you some background on these individuals, but it'll be up to you whether you want to take things further."

"Okay," I said, doing my best to be cool about it. "I've had a similar response from the guys who have been talking to me. We'll discuss it later."

A hint of a smile returned to Gerald's face then.

"I know you're expecting to be leaving soon, but Miles is wondering whether you could stay for a while – maybe another hour or so."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. He says you're a terrible distraction but you're good for business. Men aren't dragging their wives away as quickly as normal, and the longer people are here the more likely they are to start opening their wallets. He also has some well-heeled sponsors coming just after lunch and he thinks your presence will more than keep them happy."

"Okay, yes, I'm quite willing to stay."

"Will you be okay in those shoes?"

"Not a problem," I assured him. "Anyway, I might sit down in a while and give a little show."

"Okay," he laughed. "Look, I'm going to disappear for a while and I'll be back a bit later to take you home. Miles and Derek will keep an eye out for you, but I don't think there's much danger of you being left alone is there?"

"Er, no, I don't think so," I agreed with a knowing smile.

"Right, I'll see you later then. Have fun. Oh, and by the way, just in case you don't know it, you look beyond incredible. "




The following day I was back home and I had a phone call from Gerald in the evening.

"You wouldn't believe the feedback I'm getting from yesterday," he began. "I need to know how you want me to respond to some of the requests I'm getting."

I had a long chat with my friend then on how I could best take advantage of my newfound popularity. The problem was going to be how I could intimate to the men who had taken an interest in me that I had a lot more to offer than they had seen at the gallery, and it wasn't long before the subject of my dormant website came up. There isn't any better advert for my wardrobe and skill set than these diary pages, and in particular they make it quite clear that I do what I do for kicks, not for money, and that I enjoy dominating men, something that's not so easy to articulate in conversation.

Just as he was about to hang up Gerald remembered something else he wanted from me.

"Oh by the way, have you got a good picture of you in the outfit you wore yesterday? There are several people who weren't there who are very keen to see it."

"I've only got the crappy test shots I took in my bedroom," I replied. "What about the ones you took before we left yesterday?"

"Well, they're okay but the lighting isn't that good. I could really do with one that shows you just as you looked at the gallery – a wet leather shot."

[One of the unfortunate problems with the imagery on my diary pages is that my rubber and leather clothing is very rarely captured as it really looks in its highly polished state. In particular my leather skirts and boots are incredibly shiny, and in outside daylight or under strong lighting they look stunning. When the light is bright and hits at a certain angle it creates a sort of mirrored, liquid look to the fabric, an effect that I long ago christened 'wet leather'.]

"No I haven't got one like that," I said. "Leave it with me and I'll see what I can do tomorrow."

The next day I emailed Gerald and attached a new picture of me. "Perfect," he replied later, "that's just how you looked. Nice touch with the paintings too."

If there was a downside to that visit to the art gallery it was that it resurrected thoughts in me of what might have been. This is something that continues to haunt me from time to time, and it's only going to get worse as I get older and my looks fade. It's completely irrational, as the person I am today is the product of years of nurtured experience and fantasy, yet no amount of logic can extinguish the sense of missed opportunity I feel when I think of what my life could have been like had I cuckolded my husband in my early twenties. And as usual it was poor Martin who bore the brunt of my frustration.

On the day that I shot some video to get a good picture for Gerald, I was still wearing the outfit that I had worn to the gallery when Martin arrived home from work, and I was sitting at the computer trying to choose which capture to send to my friend.

"Martin, come here a minute," I called over my shoulder into the hallway.

"I've been taking some shots of me for Gerald," I said calmly as my husband walked into the study. "These ones here very much show how I looked at the gallery."

"Wow, you look fabulous," he drooled. "I still can't believe you actually went out in public like that."

I stood up then and my spouse looked puny as I towered above him in my heels.

"Can you imagine what it's like for me these days when I go somewhere like that in London dressed as I am now? Classy, intelligent, good looking men surrounding me, coming on to me, inviting me out, offering me all sorts of opportunities? Hmm? Can you? And then I come home to a limp-pricked, unimpressive man in a worn business suit who sits at his computer every night jerking off as he looks at pictures of me and reads about the things I've done. Can you appreciate how depressing it is for me to think about what I might have been doing over the past fifteen years if I hadn't remained so stupidly loyal to you for so long? Well, can you?"

Martin had been through a scene like this a number of times before and he knew there was little he could do until I had worked it out of my system.

"I know, and I'm sorry," he said with genuine remorse, "but I've never pretended I'm anything other than unworthy of you. I always told you that I wasn't good enough and you should be seeing other men."

"No, that was your fucking fantasy," I said with barely suppressed anger. "It was me who turned it into reality if you recall. If you really thought I should be screwing other guys then you would have set me up with someone who could satisfy me within a couple of years of our wedding day. Why didn't you do that?"

"Oh come on," he said defiantly, "maybe you don't remember what you were like back then. You never had any complaints about me at the time, and in any case, there's no way you would have remotely contemplated doing anything like that."

"You could have said that about making me wear miniskirts and high heels, but it didn't stop you trying, did it?" I persisted. "You were relentless in getting what you wanted weren't you, and you knew that once I went out in that gear that I would love it. Well, quite likely I would have resisted being fucked by another guy, but once I'd taken eight inches of hard cock up me I'm pretty certain I'd have loved that as well and been desperate for more. So I'm asking you again, why didn't you arrange that?"

He lowered his eyes to floor. "I don't know," he said quietly.

"I don't know," I mimicked with derision as I put my hands on my hips and stared at him. "Martin, I could have been picking up men like I am now when I was twenty-five if you had thought more about what was right for me rather than what you wanted. Surely it must have been obvious to you back then that I needed and deserved lots of prick? You've cost me ten years of my life and I'll never be able to get them back."

Poor Martin. There was nothing he could say. He knew I was selectively distorting the history of our marriage, and I knew it too. It didn't stop me saying it though.

"Take your clothes off," I demanded as I brushed past him towards the door. "I'm going to get a whip and when I come back I'm going to get some payback for the years I've lost. In the meantime you look at those pictures of me there on the screen and think of how many cocks I'm going to be eating as a result of that outing."




I'd like to give you more detail about my weekly visits to London, but it's very important that the men I'm seeing there can be confident that my liaisons with them are not going to be publicised, and therefore I need to be circumspect when discussing the places we frequent and the games we get up to in private later. What I wanted you to appreciate is that this current lifestyle I enjoy when I'm in the capital very much fulfils my long-held ambition to be some sort of working prostitute. Even though I don't get paid for what I do, it all very much feels as though I'm leading a professional hooker/escort existence. Initial contact with me is usually made by introduction or word of mouth, and more recently I have really enjoyed receiving calls on my dedicated number from men wishing to arrange a meeting, particularly when either Martin or Matt is present to hear my end of the conversation. And with only two main encounters each week, I'm now booked up for weeks in advance.

These two days in London have considerably reduced my need to see other men at weekends, and in fact my Saturdays and Sundays are now very similar to how they were back in early 2006 after I had first cuckolded Martin, with the only exception being that Alison will often be staying with us. Playing the trophy doll/escort role with affluent, successful individuals at upmarket venues where the clientele is largely drawn from the upper levels of London society fits perfectly with the socialite whore lifestyle I have always wanted to lead.

The world's top fashion designers have given me the opportunity to exhibit myself in a way that I never dreamed possible. With fetish footwear now in the mainstream I seriously wonder where this will all end, but I dearly hope it will continue. I have already resigned myself to a move backwards though, with thigh boots regarded as yesterday's fashion, but I can't really complain considering the experiences I have enjoyed over the past couple of years. The rear-zipped Louboutin boots I showed earlier give some indication of just how far designers have gone in incorporating hints of domination and bondage into their creations, and I'd like to think that this is very much demand-driven – that independent, confident women are now seeking to assert their sexuality and dominance through footwear and clothing. Six inch heels leave many women towering above their male counterparts, and I don't think I need discuss again the subliminal association of the heel as a penis to submissive men.

From the very first post I made in this online diary I espoused the erotic power of short leather skirts, high-heeled shoes and thigh length leather boots, but it's amazing how many women still don't get it. Even if they appreciate the tremendous attraction of such clothing and footwear to men at a visual level, they fail to understand the natural consequence of such sexual desire - that a man wants physical interaction with these objects of lust. He wants to kiss and lick that skirt and those boots; he wants to rub his hands and his cock all over them; he wants to spray cum over them. He wants those seven inch heels in his mouth and he fantasises of having them cruelly reaming his backside. He wants to be masturbated by those beautiful high boots and he wants them wrapped around his back, the heels urging him on as he aggressively rods their excited owner. Thigh length spike heeled boots and short leather skirts aren't merely an invitation for sex; they are the sex.

I'm sure it's obvious by now that the reason for my website reappearing is very much associated with my recent encounters in London. The specifics of how these pages relate to the leap in popularity I have enjoyed over the past couple of months will have to remain a mystery I'm afraid, but I'm very excited about the prospects for 2011 and beyond. The reaction I have received from men to my extremely upfront mode of dress and the consequent spur-of-the-moment accommodations I have given (predominantly with my hands and mouth) have led me to considerably raise my ambitions for the coming year, and for once I'm looking forward to the warmer months with some enthusiasm. I intend to wear outfits such as the red one you saw in the 'Whip Sister' post openly at public venues this summer, and I'm also planning to display my breasts in highly provocative ways, with the express aim of initiating exchanges where they are both fondled and sucked by men I have only just met.

This picture was sent to both Martin and Matt in September last year when Gerald drove me to a private residence where I had lunch with his friends, followed by afternoon games. This year I intend to openly display my breasts in this way at a few selected public events, but mostly I will use elaborate strapping and metal zips to tempt men into wanting to play with them.

In February 2006 I described in 'A Slut Is Born' the encounter I had with Simon when I impulsively masturbated him after showing him my latex bra. That brief liaison had been enormously satisfying for me, and Simon's subsequent reaction was extremely unfortunate because it caused me to lose confidence in myself and to shy away from such impetuous behaviour. The past few months have fully restored that confidence, and I don't intend to ever lose it again. It's time to revisit the words I wrote in 2006, because they are as true today as they were when I first typed them:

"I loved having that power for those few minutes. Feeling him spurt down my leg was fabulous, and as I drove I could still feel the wetness of my skirt and my lace top stocking. I've always loved prick teasing, and I'd just discovered that taking that teasing to its logical conclusion was just as exciting as I had imagined it. 'Face it, girl, you love making men hard, and now you know you love milking them as well'.

"On top of this was the fact that I had a new weapon to use against Martin. This wasn't a further cuckolding for my spouse and I had no intention of playing it as such. Instead I was going to use it as an excuse to punish him for another reason - for being so sexually useless that he had driven his wife into becoming an unmitigated whore. She was deprived of adequate sexual satisfaction for so long that she is now prepared to accommodate any man, to prostitute herself indiscriminately. Martin is going to have to come to terms with the fact that he is married to a true slut, and for once I'm not saying it just for effect. I really mean it. I am a slut, and I love being a slut."


I do truly love being a slut, and as I found out on New Year's Eve at an all-night party that I most certainly will never forget, there's no shortage of men who love me being a slut too.



To contact me, email maria at this site