A reader named Marty e-mailed me to request that I write him this story. He provided the basic guidelines of where he wanted this one to go, along with additional guidelines describing where he definitely did not want it to go.
If you're hoping this will be a tale of a faithless slut wife who loses control, well, this won't be your cup o' tea. Nor will the woman in this piece seem all that familiar to those of you who've read "Angelina" and "Sisters." This certainly won't be anything like any of my "Summer" stories.
That's simply not what Marty wanted. He requested a story about one monogamous couple and a wife's awakening within her marriage.
In a strange twist, the name he requested for the leading character happens to be my current wife's real name.
I've yet to include much about Susan in any of my stories. Most of my works have focused on my first wife, Angelina, even in those pieces where she isn't credited by name. This one seemed like a great opportunity to combine two different concepts: 1. Marty's request. 2. A description of my current wife and some of her antics along with more of Angelina's exploits, which comprise the three main 'sexy' scenes here. (Although Marty wanted a story about a monogamous couple, he still insisted that the wife be a "sexy flirt who dresses as hotly as Angelina.")
For the purposes of this one, however, I'm changing my wife's basic character. The woman behind this story was never shy and reserved; rather, she arrived in my life looking for a man who would be her co-conspirator, not her judge and keeper. She didn't need to loosen any conservative bonds; she merely sought a willing accomplice.
Even so, the real Susan does appear in this story, in the descriptions of her background and in some of her escapades.
Susan was the ultimate paradox: a shy, reserved ... exhibitionist?
Yes, that about nails it.
Susan grew up in Savannah, Georgia, the only child of well-to-do military parents. She was raised as an Air Force brat in a very conservative environment, her father being a strict disciplinarian with firm ideas concerning what did and did not constitute "proper conduct for a lady of the South." Her mother was the perfect southern belle of a wife: June Cleaver, with a pronounced subservience and a coquettish streak a mile long, her warm, mellifluous Dixie nobility accent completing the picture of the "proper" southern wife.
In fact, it was Susan's mother who inadvertently planted the seeds for Susan's exhibitionist bent.
Certainly her mother was always there with incessant patter about how a "proper lady" must comport herself, while at the same time also encouraging Susan to dress and behave so provocatively. Whether it was the constant parade of beauty pageants as a child, the fashion modeling as a teen or the never-ending push to be the prettiest cheerleader, Susan's mother preached that feminine beauty was a uniquely powerful and deservedly desirable commodity; one that should be proudly shared with a grateful world.
"A lady always stands straight and tall, and she crosses her legs when sitting," her mother would say.
It was always something like that.
Susan eventually began to ask herself, 'Okay, so she crosses her legs when sitting, but would a lady also kick her leg up nice and high, specifically to show her panties to hundreds of drooling boys at football games? Would a lady strut down a runway in a revealing dress, openly flaunting her body for an audience of leering men?'
She learned to never overtly question her parents' guidance. They were her parents, after all; they knew what was best for her, and she knew she couldn't win anyway.
Nonetheless, Susan wasn't without questions.
Conflicting messages seemed to be the overriding theme of her upbringing. She was apparently expected to perform the role of a beautiful painting in a museum, or of a fine porcelain statuette in a gleaming showcase: untouchable, yet always on display.
Journeying through her teen years, Susan managed well enough. Always a straight-A student, she was expressly forbidden from socializing with boys.
Dating? Oh, lord no! Her father would never allow such a thing!
Susan watched her friends flirt with boys, and she listened when they told lurid stories about their dating exploits. She couldn't help but burn with envy. The most interaction with boys in social settings her parents ever allowed for her was the occasional formal dance at the base, plus the annual prom date. Always, though, the boy was handpicked by her parents, and her dates were highly organized, closely chaperoned affairs.
Still, there she would be on Friday nights in fall, strutting her stuff on the sidelines.
Years of dance lessons, amazing genes and all the advantages of moneyed privilege had given her just an astoundingly lithe, sexy body to complement her beautifully idyllic Classic Brunette looks. Her heart-shaped face was flawless, highlighted by clear, blemish-free skin, deep blue eyes and dazzling white teeth. Along with her perfect button nose, she had dramatic cheek bones and an adorable little cleft in her sweetly angelic chin. Framing her gorgeous face was a luxurious cascade of rich chestnut brown hair. With her long, silky tresses pinned up, she was the very image of a glamorous evening gown model. If she loosened a few tendrils to let them dance around her face, she was the quintessential teen date-movie ingénue. When she allowed her glorious mane to roam wild and free, she was a porn star fantasy.
On its own, her beguilingly beautiful face had won her numerous modeling contracts; if her face was simply amazing in its chameleon-like perfection, her body was downright breathtaking.
Standing five feet, eight inches tall, she weighed one hundred and eighteen pounds, with thirty-four-D breasts, a twenty-two inch waist, and thirty-four inch hips. She knew those numbers like the back of her hand. They were her résumé, and with her mother's prodding she had always been hyper-vigilant in maintaining those exact figures. Her modeling agent had also been none too subtle in her insistence that Susan strictly maintain those precious numbers.
Actually, that wasn't quite true. There was one issue there, according to her agent, who frequently subjected Susan to talk of breast-reduction surgery.
"Runway models aren't built like pneumatic Barbie Doll strippers, babe!" her agent would say.
On that score, however, Susan was adamant. There was no way she would ever allow anyone to take a scalpel to her perfectly formed breasts. Even among the other cheerleaders there was acknowledged envy over Susan's amazing breasts. Every man - and many women - she encountered in her modeling career could scarcely tear their eyes away from them. She loved her breasts, and even if it meant an end to her runway modeling she wasn't about to give them up.
She also wasn't about to stop showing them off.
'Besides, ' she giggled to herself, 'my big tits are necessary to balance my ass!'
She knew of course that her ass wasn't big, at least not in the vulgar "ghetto booty" sense. According to the tape measure, her supple bottom was the perfect size for her trim, toned body.
It was just so ... prominent! The other girls always teased her about her "bubble butt," and she knew it was true; having watched herself in the mirror during all those years of dance classes, she knew her ass was beautifully curvy.
Yes, she was well aware that she had been blessed with a world-class ass, and there again was another example of her contradictory upbringing. Despite all the constant speeches she was subjected to regarding the importance of maintaining her modesty, her entire life was seemingly spent shaking her ass while wearing revealing clothing, and she knew from firsthand experience the effect her spectacular bottom had on men.
Her "big boobs," as her friends called them; her tiny waist; her long legs; her tempting ass; indeed, she'd spent her whole life perfecting various ways of displaying and even blatantly offering up her tight, curvy body!
'How many other seventeen-year-old girls can say that?' she asked herself, wondering even more at the strict upbringing she was otherwise shackled by compared to her less obviously showy friends.
'I'm built like a slut. I'm always dressed like a slut, too. I even act like a ritualized slut, entirely for the benefit of ... who? My school? That's a laugh. We cheerleaders, all we really do is offer up a fantasy of sex.'
Sex. That was a huge issue for her. It seemed that most of her friends were having sex. They all bragged about it. They loved to do it at parties, often right in front of each other. Her parents never let her go to parties, and she was still a virgin. She hadn't even touched a boy. The only remotely sexual contact she'd ever experienced was when she was felt up by her handlers, usually women, during her modeling-session wardrobe changes.
Susan sighed. She knew she wasn't normal. Pondering her high school landscape and the way her friends behaved, she wasn't sure whether she even wanted to be normal. Sometimes she enjoyed being different. Yes, there were times when she wished she could feel how it would be to give herself to all those people who stared so lustfully at her. She really didn't have a specific sexual desire; she just wanted to see how it would feel to not be so 'proper' every waking moment. She enjoyed the attention she received, and wondered what it would be like if she did more ... if she showed more.
.... There is more of this story ...