From maddabbler@hotmail.net Sat Mar 22 00:31:47 1997
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From: maddabbler@hotmail.net (The Mad Dabbler)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: NEW STORY: "A Husband's Journal"
Date: Sat, 22 Mar 1997 05:31:47 GMT
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When a friend of my wife's told me about this newsgroup
and the "wife slut" genre of stories offered here, I thought he
had to be kidding. You can't imagine how much peace it gave
me to see that there are other like couples like my wife and I.
I'd imagined we were virtually alone in our kink. Instead, we
have a place to share our fun.
I guess, after a lot of lurking and reading, our story falls
more into the sub-group of tales dealing specifically with inter-
racial experiences. We're both caucasian, but my wife rarely
fucks a man - other than myself - who's not of african heritage.
Helen and I live and act like the highly educated
professionals we are about ninety percent of the time. I'm a
cosmetic surgeon in a large medical clinic, and she's a
physician's assistant for another doctor in the same complex.
We're raising two healthy, well-adjusted teenaged kids. We
attend all the right parties, support all the right causes. But the
way we spend that other ten percent of the time would have our
colleagues and neighbors shunning us, if they knew.
As I write this, Helen is getting ready for a date. Due to our
busy schedule, it's the first in three weeks. We're both so
excited we've been fucking like mink for the last four days.
Mike, her newest boyfriend, called her at the office Tuesday
and asked her to go dancing Saturday. Unlike most of her
dates, on this one I have to stay home. The parts of the city he
wants to take her to aren't very safe for me, invisibly trailing
along like the voyeur I am. Besides, every once in a while, the
sheer torture of having to wait for her to come back to me is the
most exquisite foreplay I can imagine.
She looks even more gorgeous than usual. The emerald
green cocktail gown hugs her every curve like a snug glove, but
the looser skirt allows her plenty of room to dance, one of her
more socially acceptable passions. Her sleek legs gleam under
nude hose, and her three inch heels make them seem even
more spectacular. Her rich brunette hair hangs freely, arcing
down toward her perfect little 32B breasts like arrows pointing
toward her awakened nipples. In her deep brown eyes is a raw
need I only fuel when pump the fresh sperm into her pussy
while we wait for Mike.
He's huge. I'd forgotten just how big a man Mike is. He was
a first string defensive tackle when he played college football,
and is still as solid now as he was four years ago in his playing
days. He dwarfs Helen - even at the five-eight she is in her
heels. I swear he had to turn sideways to get through the front
door. And he's equally big where Helen's interests lie, too.
To me, he's always coolly polite. When we talk, it's like two
businessmen at the country club, and he's taking my wife away
to a charity auction. And, all the while we both know that within
a few minutes or hours, he'll be pounding her pussy, stretching
her with a ten inch long cock so fat she can barely get two fists
around it. I'm sure he's not trying to make me uncomfortable.
My guess is that it's his "honkey" face, not the one he wears at
home. Helen has said much the same thing - that, even when
they're alone, even while she has her legs wrapped around his
waist and they're both screaming as they cum, that there's a
distance between them. I think that intrigues her, adds even
more excitement to her adultery.
When she called last night to tell me she wouldn't be home
til morning, twenty-twenty hindsight tells me I should have
known something out of the ordinary was happening. It was
unusual, but not unheard of for her to spend the night with the
man she was seeing. Maybe I should have heard the stress in
her voice, or something pregnant in her pauses. At least then
I'd have been more prepared for what happened, even though I
wouldn't have been able to prevent it - had I wanted to.
How to phrase it? She left looking like my beautiful, classy,
horny wife leaving on the arm of her lover. She came back
looking like a streetcorner whore after a long night of tricks.
Gone was the modestly alluring green gown. In its place was a
deep scarlet minidress, matching mesh hose, and skyscraper
heels. Her gently waved hairstyle had been transformed into a
curly brown cloud. She swayed seductively, but tiredly, into the
kitchen, where I was sipping coffee. I was stunned, but
instantly aroused, as well.
She told me the whole story while I fucked her like a
madman. Mike had told her, the moment they were in his car,
that what she'd worn was all wrong. Too white, he'd said.
When she asked him to explain, he said he'd show her instead.
He stopped at a mall, ushered her into a store staffed entirely
by beautiful, exotically dressed black women. He told them he
wanted his piece of white tail fixed up for a night on the town.
Instead of being offended by being treated like a cheap bauble,
Helen said she got excited. The black women treated her with
the same callous attitude, like she was just some worthless
white tramp the big black man had picked up somewhere.
She modelled three scanty outfits before Mike approved the
tiny, unlined red dress. She was sure the clerks could all smell
her pussy, and there was no way they could have missed the
way her rock hard nipples poked through the thin fabric. It was
when they were on their way out, with Helen clinging to Mike's
arm because of her uncertainty in the stiletto heels, that she
realized there was nothing extrordinary about her minidress.
She was clad just as the four women in the store were.
In the car, she teased her hair after he told her to do
something with it. All the way to the bar, he fondled her thigh,
tickled her cleft, toyed with her breasts, and told her how hot
she looked, how he couldn't wait for all his friends to see what a
hot bitch she was. He told her to keep her left hand on his cock
so she'd know how she was effecting him. He brought her to
the edge of orgasm several times, but didn't let her go over. He
liked to watch her pant, he said, liked the way her solid little tits
moved around under the dress, liked the way she kept her lips
wet and parted, like she was dreaming about sucking his cock.
She was, she admitted. Dreaming about that and more. His
words echoed, seemed amplified, resonated in her erogenous
zones like massive gongs. She felt like she was hypnotized -
and longed only to fall more deeply under Mike's spell. Sparks
ignited her nipples as they slid against the slinky fabric of her
sleazy little dress. Her red garters were welts across her bared
thighs. Her slick core pushed into his caressing fingers.
By the time they got to the bar, she was already begging him
to fuck her, or let her fuck herself with her hand - anything that'd
make her cum. He chuckled and jerked her to him, pinning her
arms against her sides. His kiss was a brutal tongue fuck of her
lips.
What she said next had the force of a quote: "You're acting
like a fucking slut. I like that. Think with your cunt tonight,
baby, and I'll show you the best time you've ever had."
With that, he'd taken her into the first of three stops they
made that night. The clientele was universally black, except for
herself and two other women. One was a redheaded singer in
the blues band, the blonde obviously just someone's date. Both
were drop-dead gorgeous and wore clothes even more risque
than Helen's. Most of the eyes - male and female - in the bar
seemed to track them. Men and a few women stared with lust.
The rest glared enviously. And Helen saw that she was the
brunt of many gazes, herself.
Mike treated her like a prized, inanimate possession. A life-
sized Barbie Doll with a wet cunt and hard nipples. And that
was exactly how she'd felt, and she loved it. Her ordered drinks
without consulting her. He chose a table, picked her chair. And
his hands never left her. He was always touching her
somewhere - flattening her tit to his upper arm and gripping her
ass cheek while they walked. Under the table, her legs fell
apart as he pushed her panties into her parted slit with two
fingers.
He told her to watch the other two white girls. The blonde
was dancing. The music was a low, slow wail. She clung to her
man, dry humping him, long red nails gripping the back of his
neck. When she pulled away from his kiss, her smeared
lipstick reminded Helen of blood. The couple vanished shortly
after the song ended. The blonde re-appeared, dancing with
someone else, an hour later.
The redhead was shorter and more voluptuous. She wore a
green sequined tank top which barely contained her mammoth
globes. The black leather slacks fit like skin. As she moved,
with the grace of a gazelle in the thigh high fetish boots, Helen
sometimes saw the shape of her pussy lips. Her makeup,
especially her eyes, was ornate.
Mike made Helen tell him what she was seeing, fondling her
all the while. As she told him, he brought her closer and closer
to orgasm, finally giving her the release she was nearly mad for.
She gripped the table edge and shuddered. Anyone watching
cetainly knew what was happening. Mike put it into whispered
words for them all. "The little white slut's cumming."
The second place was a strip club. The dancers were all
white, the patrons all black. The girls were all quite obviously
whores, dependent upon a different dance for the bulk of their
livelihood. Mike said nothing, and appeared to ignore her. He
whistled and shouted obscenities at the strippers - with his
hand back in my wife's throbbing pussy. She saw that he was
attracted to the raunchiest of the dancers, the ones who wore
more makeup and kinkier outfits. Pure and innocent didn't
interest him, nor did nurses or athletes. Sluts. That what he
liked. That's what he called her. That's what he wanted her to
be. And she was so totally lost in what she was feeling that she
knew that's what she was. She came again. This time, she
grabbed his wrist with both hands and humped his fingers. She
leaned forward and hissed at him. "Watch, honey. Your cunt's
cumming again. Cumming good."
He chuckled again, with condescention, though not cruelty.
"So you think you're as hot as those other girls?" He broke her
grip on his wrist, forced one of her hands onto the swelling in
his slacks. "You think you deserve my big black cock?"
She squeezed his thick rod, slid her hand up and down his
length, and nodded as seductively as she could. "I'll fuck you
blind," she told him. "I'll suck you dry. I'll let you do anything
to
me you want to."
His test for her was taking her virgin ass. All she did was
ask her if he wanted to fuck it right there in the bar.
An hour later, it was a done deal in the back seat of his car.
It wasn't brutal. He made sure she wanted it with every fiber of
her being before gently entering her thoroughly lubed hole.
She felt ripped apart, but was so entranced by the utter
depravity of what was happening in that parking lot, with the
windows down, that she began cumming long before Mike did
and stopped only after he'd softened and pulled out of her sore
hole.
And then it'd been off to the third stop. She was only mildly
surprised when the bar was in the middle of a block devoted to
porn shops and adult theaters. The streets thronged with
hookers of every shape, color and age imaginable. They eyed
her with the look of a female panther sizing up competition.
With cum dripping from both her cunt and asshole, her teased
hair tangled by passion, she felt a sort of kinship to them. She
let her ass sway, felt the sleazy slickness on her thighs, and
cupped Mike's ass just like he was holding hers.
After a single quick drink, he said he was going next door for
some action. She scrambled behind him and asked him what
he meant. He stopped, turned, and told her there was usually a
white bitch in the booth section of the bookstore giving head to
anyone who wanted her.
She knew what he was saying, and nodded her head. "Let's
go."
There hadn't been any other girl, nor a line of guys. But
Helen sucked Mike in a tiny room with a porn movie flickering
on the tv until he spewed cum all over her face.
With the cum still wet on her skin and dress, he'd led her
back onto the street, back to the car. She'd called me from a
phone booth before going back to his apartment. There he'd
fucked her dry, through so many orgasms she couldn't tell when
one ended and the next began.
It's ten a.m. Saturday, two weeks later. Our daughter,
Laurali, is watching her favorite movie. The hero is singing, "It
isn't easy being green." That's what I am - with envy. Helen
has another date with Mike. He's picking her up at noon.
Again. I've been expressly un-invited. She doesn't expect to be
back until about this time tomorrow. The fib we've come up with
to explain things to the kids is that she had to attend a series of
nursing meetings in a nearby city. I wonder if this new
overnight date is going to become the norm.
Helen is behaving strangely. She been insanely horny since
Mike phoned her Wednesday, flatly ordering her to be
available. We've fucked until I'm sore, and she's repeatedly
masturbated herself into oblivion with her favorite long black
dildo. She's also terrified. The pungent mix of fear and
excitement has made it almost impossible for her to get
anything done. We've fantasized, over and over, about their
last foray, and speculated about what her lover might have in
store for this one.
It's just after midnight, early Monday morning. Helen's
asleep - passed out is really more accurate. She didn't get
home until after I'd put the kids to bed, which is fortunate. I'd
lied to them about her business trip being extended, and they'd
bought it, but there'd have been no way to explain her
appearance when she finally strutted through the front door.
She was obviously terrified that the rug rats would still be
awake, but Mike had kept the clothes she'd left the house in,
leaving her no options.
She was wearing a too-small black leather halter top and
matching micro skirt, thigh-high hose, and platform heels that
made her as tall as I am. What looked suspiciously like fresh
sperm gleamed on her upper thighs. Her hair had been tinted
as black as her leather, and curled. Her eyes bore false lashes
and heavy dark shadow. Her searing red lipstick and hooked
scarlet nails glared wetly. Long silver earrings dangled nearly
to her bared shoulders.
I was too flabbergasted to speak as she dropped an
oversized black purse, approached me, turned her back and
wordlessly bent forward from the waist. She wore no panties.
The skirt was so short that her ass and pussy were completely
exposed. The cum was leaking from her slightly distended,
reddened asshole. Her cunt had been completely shaved. Her
labia were engorged and gaped wetly.
I accepted the unspoken invitation, sampling both of her
holes as she began the story of her weekend in a raw, hoarse
voice that was barely recognizable as her own. Her cunt felt as
different as it looked. It was loose around my cock. Her ass
was much tighter, and being fucked there obviously caused her
no pain.
They'd begun their time together by returning to the mall
where Mike had bought her the first outfit. But the boutique had
been the second stop. The salon where she'd had her hair,
nails, face, and cunt waxing done had come first. He'd
explained exactly what he was having done to her, then left to
take care of some business. The black beauticians who'd
tended to her treated her like white trash, mocking her for the
entire three hours she'd been there. They began something
which endured for her entire date; not once was she called by
her name. Cunt, bitch, whore and slut were the only terms ever
used to summon her.
Mike hadn't returned by the time they were finished with her
abusive transformation, but they ordered her to the boutique.
The women there continued to pile shame upon her, mocking
her sleaziness and amplifying it by their choice of clothing for
her to try on. They settled on two outfits - the one she was
wearing and a turquoise ensemble made of lycra which left as
little to the imagination as the leather.
Mike still hadn't returned. Wearing the blue lycra outfit, she
was pushed from the shop and told to sit her cheap ass down in
a sports bar at the far side of the mall.
Until that point, she'd been given no freedom, little
opportunity for clear thought. Her humiliation had been
relatively private, and there'd been at least the illusion of having
to follow someone's orders at all times. But the bar was an
entirely different environment. She was free. She could call a
halt to her exposure and mistreatment simply by calling a cab
and coming home. She didn't. Garishly made up and scantily
dressed, she knew she looked like a hooker trolling for an early
trick. And that's exactly the way she was treated. The
bartender registered intense disapproval and the clientele an
equally intense interest. Four times within the half hour she
waited, she was approached and asked how much it'd take to
get into her panties. By the time Mike came to claim her, she
was a nervous wreck, though her nipples were visibly rigid and
her shorn cunt itchily wet.
Her date made her stand and turn for his inspection. "Not
bad for a white slut," he announced loudly before leading the
way out to his car. There, in the waning daylight, he demanded
a blowjob. She didn't hesitate. She inhaled his long ebony rod
like she was starving for it, which was exactly the way she felt.
From that moment until he delivered her to our doorstep, the
woman who was my wife ceased to exist. In her place was the
wanton, lewd whore Mike wanted her to be. She acted exactly
the way she looked. As Mike again demanded her to do, she
thought only with her cunt.
They ate a leisurely meal in a swank dinner club. Her
appetite was nil. Mike joked about her being a more prime
piece of meat than anything on the menu. Afterwards, they
picked up where they'd left off the time before - in the adult
bookstore. This time, there *was* a white cunt in the booths
giving head to all comers - my wife. Mike guarded the door and
coached her between face fucks. She had to freshen her
makeup and wipe as much cum as possible off herself and her
dress between visitors. She admitted that she lost count of the
number of men he sent her after the first seven, but she thought
there'd been about a dozen. All had been black and varied in
size between average and immense. She'd been surprised to
find that each one's sperm varied, as well, in taste and texture.
Squatting on the sticky floor of the dark booth, with the
sounds of pornographic films penetrating the walls to either side
of her, faced by what seemed to be an endless line of black
men, had had a strange effect on her. She felt like she'd
become a mindless sex toy, a puppet dangling by her smeared
lips on the end of whatever cock was in her face. She'd
become crazed with lust. She'd begged Mike to let them fuck
her or at least use her hands to get herself off. He'd pushed
her back to her knees and vowed to handcuff her if she couldn't
control her fingers. She came twice, anyway, untouched.
When he told her it was over, it took her a few moments to
understand. She reflexively used her compact mirror and the
lipstick privided by the beauticians to repair herself, then Mike
led her from the gloomy darkness into the blindingly lit shop.
He stopped her in front of a large mirror and made her look at
herself.
Despite her efforts with handiwipes from her gym-bag sized
purse, tendrils of sperm had spattered her hair and dress. Her
hose were ruined. And, seeing herself, her thin red lips shaped
a smile that begged for more of the same treatment. Mike
waved a sheaf of bills before her glazed eyes. Her earnings, he
informed her. A start on payback for the clothes and makeover.
That announcement staggered her. She'd fucked men she'd
never met before. Once, she'd even entertained two nameless
strangers at the same time. But never in her wildest dreams
had she imagined selling herself. Her smile faltered, until she
saw the heated way Mike was devouring her with his eyes. She
pressed herself tightly against him, rubbing her cunt against the
huge bulge in his slacks.
"I bet I owe you a lot more, honey," she panted toward his
lips. "We'd better get moving if I'm going make it all back for
you."
He leered down at her. ""It really makes you hot, doesn't it,
slut? The dirtier you are, the more you like it."
And more of the same is exactly what she got. In a pool hall,
he announced that his whore could be had. Twenty for a head
job. Fifty for a straight fuck. Seventy-five for her asshole.
They kept her busy in a back room until the wee hours of the
morning. The feeling of being a sex toy, a series of holes made
to be fucked, became her universe. Home, husband and
children were totally forgotten. She was nothing but Mike's
moneymaking whore - always had been, always would be.
When it was over, she couldn't walk. Mike had sat beside
her on the cot in the back room and tenderly sponge bathed her
while she rested. She thanked him so many times she felt
foolish, then begged him to fuck her himself. He declined.
"Later," was the only response she could elicit from her lover,
her pimp.
Later finally arrived. In his apartment after she'd thoroughly
cleaned up. She cooed and crooned as he tenderly fucked first
her distended pussy, then her stretched ass. After filling her
anus with its fourth dose of cum of the night, he fell asleep.
Before joining him, she put the turquoise dress to soak in the
bathtub.
She awoke at two Sunday afternoon to a face full of hard
black prick and nursed from it like a baby does a breakfast
bottle. Mike ordered her to paint herself appropriately and get
into the black clothes. He fed her a more standard breakfast in
a diner. She was already getting overheated, sitting there
amonst the rest of the diners in the full light of day looking
exactly like what she'd become - a cheap whore. After leisurely
redoing her face in the restroom, my dear wife rubbed herself to
a quick climax while staring raptly into the mirror.
The moment Mike turned into the underground garage of a
cut-rate downtown hotel, Helen threw her face onto her pimp's
cock without invitation. She writhed madly on his meat, trying
to force the entire length down her throat. Just the thought of
what was coming was enough to incite another rolling orgasm.
He established her in a hotel room and she began fucking
again. Mike made her responsible for collecting his money this
time. Her worth had apparently increased. Her fees now
started at seventy five and increased proportionately. There
were only three clients, with plenty of time in between for
reflection. She was alternately wracked with guilt and flushed
with lust. Being turned into a whore had never been one of her
fantasies, but she found it terrifyingly satisfying. She was
overwhelmed by the certainty that, if Mike asked her to, she'd
willingly forget her previous existence and responsibilities and
let him turn her out full time.
The request didn't come. He collected her at eight that
evening, fed her a light dinner, then ass-fucked her in an alley
before bringing her home. As she climbed from the car, he
informed her that he'd be in touch, and handed her a sealed
letter addressed to me.
Because my fucked-crazed whore-wife has access to this
file, I won't transcribe his words here. Suffice it to say that I
found Mike's note very interesting.
It's been a month since Helen's last foray. Before making
any decisions, I chose to wait and see how she adjusted - or
failed to adapt - to her experiences as Mike's whore.
She was moody for the first week, obviously feeling some
remorse. But she didn't cut off her long ceramic nails. Rather,
she kept their fiery red enamel fresh as wet blood. Nor did she
return her hair color to the familiar subdued brown hue she was
born with. Neither change drew an undue amount of notice
from co-workers or friends. Physically, there was little else to
note.
Sexually, however, there were differences. While her
denuded cunt resumed its former tightness, every time I probed
it, I found it wet. Even at the most inopportune moments, she
was primed and ready to fuck in whatever manner I asked for.
She was tremendously orgasmic, as well. I don't believe she
ever got off less than twice while I balled her, and I did that at
least twice each day.
Sometime during the second week, she apparently came to
grips with what she'd done. The moodiness vanished. Still,
she wasn't quite the same Helen as the woman who'd walked
out the door and allowed her lover to sell her holes to
strangers. While it was most certainly too subtle for others to
see, I noted a perpetual hooded quality to her eyes. She
definitely looked at men in a different light. Additionally, her
taste in makeup and her daily attire altered a bit. Nothing too
obvious, nothing outright slutty, but she seemed to feel naked
without at least a lick more mascara and eyeshadow than had
been her norm, and her lips were almost never unglossed. Not
once did I see her wearing slacks, and her legs were seldom
without nylons.
That Saturday evening, with the kids at friends' for the night,
I teasingly suggested she model the turquoise outfit for me,
since I never seen it. Merely the suggestion made her eyes
glaze and breath catch. Her reply was to lean in and bestow
upon me a wet, open lipped kiss steamy enough to melt an
iceberg.
"You want the full treatment?" she breathed as she slowly
ended the embrace.
"Down to the last detail," I said, gently stroking a suddenly
hard-nippled tit.
As she swayed toward the bedroom with loosened hips, I
couldn't avoid recalling her the way she'd returned to me two
weeks before.
I spent the hour-plus that it took her to make herself ready
by allowing myself to begin to formulate a plan. Mike had some
worthwhile ideas, but I thought they could be improved upon.
His imagination seemed slightly more limited than mine.
I heard her before I saw her. The heels she wore were
tipped with metal, announcing her approach. She looked
breathtaking. The electric blue robin's egg hued lyrca
minidress was moulded to her flesh, causing her modest sized
tits to swell dramatically from the low cut neckline. Its hem was
barely long enough to cover the band topping the self-
supporting silver hose. The blue-green shoes had silver spikes
fully five inches tall.
She'd done something to her midnight mane that caused it to
surround her head like a shimmering cloud. Her lashes were so
long and thick she seemed unable to fully open her eyes. As
she came nearer, I could see the wide black liner encircling
them, the purple and blue and silver decoration of her lids. Her
lips bore a red paint so wet it might have been glass. Dangling
from the matching claws of her right hand was a long blue
cigarette. She stopped five feet away, her heels planted wide,
and took a skillful drag from the tobacco.
Her words were smoky. Even her voice was different. "So
what do you think, baby? Good enough to fuck?"
I did that with my eyes. "Mike's been undercharging for you,
whore. If you're half as good as you look, you're worth five
hundred, minimum."
Her laugh was throaty. "Well, he didn't exactly send me
doctors and lawyers, you know. I'm sure he charged what the
traffic would bear."
We screwed most of the night away. Even after the
homecoming performance of two weeks ago, I wasn't prepared
for her total whorishness. She definitely donned an attitude
along with her working clothes and makeup. She was
boundless in her sluttiness, begging in both word and deed to
be used as the fucktoy she truly was. I gleefully obliged. She
didn't need to be told to clean herself up between sessions,
although she did seem to take her sweet time about staring into
the mirror, absorbing her fresh-fucked look, before repairing the
damage.
Long before the end of the night, I'd made up my mind. If I'd
told her to drive to the red-light district and peddle her ass on
some streetcorner, she'd have complied without objection.
Sunday, I put the wheels in motion. By this time next week,
it'll be a done deal.
Everything went perfectly. Helen's in our bed, recovering.
She hasn't come out from under the anesthetic yet, and I'm not
entirely sure how she'll react. I *am* sure that she'll eventually
be overjoyed.
It wasn't exactly ethical to not tell her beforehand, or to drug
her into a dumb stupor before driving her to the clinic late last
night. I was inspired to perform what's no doubt the best work
of my career. The hours flew by, and I didn't get her home until
nearly dawn.
Even with all the swelling, I can clearly picture how she'll
look in the new working clothes Mike gave me a down payment
for. The perfectly firm and realistic 36-C breasts will overflow
her sleazy dresses. Her liposuctioned waistline will make her
seem corsetted at all times. Her thick red Kim Bassinger lips
will beckon wetly for the all cocks she'll suck. She'll feel much
more at ease in the tallest of high heels.
She'll be working for Mike and I two weekends a month - and
not for nickels and dimes in porn stores or fleabag hotels,
either. Nothing but high rollers for my whore. After all, now she
has her plastic surgery to pay for.