Chapter 2

Remorse. I had no idea what the word meant until Sunday. I’d had a few regrets until then, but nothing like the sickness that plagued the day after my debauch.

I tried to convince myself it was all Mark’s fault - but couldn’t sustain that lie. It was me. I’d done it. With him, to be sure, but not because of him. He’d started it, but I’d gone along more than willingly, and after I’d taken control, almost everything had happened because I’d initiated it.

The ultimate horror was that I’d enjoyed each and every second of it like I’d never enjoyed anything, ever. While it’s only a mild exaggeration to claim to have cried all day long, even as I sobbed, my body periodically re-experienced vivid replays of my decadence. My vagina wept in its own way when it remembered the width and length of the member it’d hosted. My breasts reacted as they recalled the pinch of the little turquoise brassiere.

I stuffed all the lovely blue things into a trash bag with the unworn black items. I sobbed as a sharp ebony spike penetrated the thin plastic, like it was trying to escape. I set the bag in the garage with the other garbage. Ten minutes later, I was back. I couldn’t throw it away. Mark had paid a lot of money to preserve the outfit for me. It was rightfully his.

I couldn’t force my fingers to tap out his phone number. I hid the sack in the laundry room until the day I could summon the courage to return it. His car was in his parent’s drive. He didn’t leave all day. I knew because I kept checking, not even knowing why I wanted to know.

I stripped the too-red polish from my nails. It was the only remaining physical reminder that I could do anything about. My back and feet remained sore from wearing the tall shoes. My head still throbbed with a hangover. My vagina was still extremely sensitive from being stretched and pounded.

I seriously considered suicide. Two things stopped me from swallowing every pill in the house. First, my death would probably reveal to Robbie what I’d done. Second, I was just too tired to follow through at the moments the impulse hit. Besides, I deserved to live, to suffer. Death was too easy.

I kept every drape in the house tightly closed. I turned on no lights, no TV, no radio. The silence was deafening. The shrill bleat of the phone at 1:30 frightened me. I had to answer it, despite my terror. It might be Mark. It might be some sneering witness to my twisted actions of the night before. But, it also might be Robbie.

It was. He sounded so normal, so stable and sane. I fought the overpowering urge to blurt a shameful confession. I couldn’t do that to him. He was good and innocent. The news that his wife was a harlot would kill him. I was disgusted by how convincing my own bright cheeriness sounded. Everything was fine. Just fine. I couldn’t wait for him to get home. I missed him so much. Friday couldn’t come soon enough. Yes, I loved him, too. I cradled the phone like it was a dangerous serpent.

Monday was slightly better. My body, at least, had healed. I was restless, couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes. I scoured the house, sterilized it from rafter to basement. I needed groceries, but was incapable of leaving the home. I thought as little as possible about either Saturday or Sunday. I needed to forget, put it behind me.

Tuesday dawned, and I was awake when it did. I felt grand. I was winning my inner war. I’d made a series of terrible mistakes. That didn’t make me a terrible person, just a weak one. I could deal with that. I could face it now that I understood, and not repeat the ghastly blunders that had gotten me involved with that nightmare.

I designed some tests to demonstrate the strength of my refound self. The day before, I’d avoided the laundry room because of the ghosts in the trash bag. I grimly determined that Mark would get the clothes back in good condition - laundered, on hangers.

Touching the silk and satin and lace was difficult. I made myself feel the sleekness as I rinsed each delicate item in the sink. I blotted them on towels, spread them across the kitchen counter to dry. I made myself see their beauty each time I passed, stripped them of all the connotations I projected into them. They weren’t wicked. They were just clothes. It felt extremely important to overcome my prejudice and aversion.

One thing led to another, as it always does. I created another test situation. Robbie had said how much he liked my fingernails shaped and painted, so I couldn’t give that up. I decided to re-color them. Since there was nothing wrong with tasteful makeup, I dallied in the bathroom over that for a while. The hairdresser had said I should learn to apply it right. The lipstick was carefully blotted, the mascara refined. I used no eyeshadow at all.

To prove just how okay I was, I made up a lengthy shopping list. I was on my way to the garage when the black teddy caught my eye. It seemed to whisper to me that, in order to demonstrate my wellness, I should wear it - safely under my clothes. I thought about it. Besides, was it proper to give it back to Mark without ever having worn it?

I peeled off my jeans, bra and shirt, dropped the midnight lace over my head. No big deal. I rolled the hose up my legs, clipped them to the dangling elastic straps. See? I had to leave my old bra off, of course. I tucked the lingerie into my jeans and realized I’d have to wear a dark blouse so it wouldn’t show through. Covered decently, I slipped into the towering heels and left.

I never forgot I had it on. Not for an instant. By the time I got to the grocery store, my face was flushed. I told myself I was behaving like a school girl. Everything was fine. No one knew but me. The stiletto heels might look a little odd with my jeans, but no big deal.

Pushing the cart through the aisles, though, I was unreasonably afraid everyone was staring at me. I couldn’t walk primly and properly. My tightly clad derriere seemed to be crying for attention. My braless breasts slid against the black silk with every step, and I couldn’t prevent their nipples from growing hard. My loins loosened in sympathy.

I was still okay, I insisted. Arousal was a natural thing, a normal bodily function. That didn’t mean I was a brazen hussy. I was strong enough to resist such foolishness.

I made it home without event, toted the six bags of foodstuff in and stowed everything in its proper place. My cheeks were rosy, my eyes bright and happy. Not a single bad thing had happened. I could take the teddy and hose and heels off now, having proved my point. Or I could leave them on. It made no difference at all.

I kept them on. An hour later, I discarded the jeans and blouse, smoothed the wrinkles from the soft black nightie. The drapes were safely closed. I was safe. If I wanted, I could even play some more with the makeup. I needed to practice with it anyway, didn’t I?

By noon, I was strutting through my home as brazenly as I’d stalked the frat house stage. I was in control, though. I was more than a little turned on - had been for two hours or more - and still nothing horrible had happened. Nor did it, even when I touched myself and knotted around my hands as I masturbated for the first time in my life.

Wednesday morning, after my bath, I consciously chose to play my little private game again. I’d proven I could have my cake and eat it, too. This time, I went through my mundane closet looking for things that’d be fun to play in. There was a gold halter top that I could tie below my breasts and a pair of sea green shorts that I’d outgrown at 18 but kept for unknown reasons. I had to lay down on the bed and force them over my hips. My lower lips were plainly visible, but I was the only one who could see them.

The tight confinement felt great, made me bold. I decided I’d work in the securely fence back yard. It was private. I’d be absolutely invisible. Wearing gloves to protect my pretty nails and lip color instead of chapstick, I sweated in the flowerbeds for several hours.

I ate and cleaned up. I donned the delightful blue undies under a modest dress to run afternoon errands. I felt slinky and free and extremely pretty. But I noted the pubic hair Randy had mentioned. Using the razor I’d just shaved my legs with, I pushed the panties aside and trimmed it back.

Mark was mowing his parent’s lawn when I got home. I felt a quick stab of pain and shame, thrust them aside and waved gaily. He smiled and returned my greeting. As I grabbed Robbie’s dry cleaning, I saw Mark ambling toward me, moving with a fluid athletic grace, the sun shining on his sweaty bared torso.

A hollowness grew within me. It began where his tongue had licked me, where his penis had penetrated me, and spread throughout my body. It was a warm, delightful sensation. It was okay. I wasn’t going to say or do anything stupid because of it. He was a virile young man. It’d have been weird not to feel some sort of reaction.

“Sheila! How you doing?”

“Great. How about you?”

“Couldn’t be better. You look beautiful today.”

“Er, thanks. I guess maybe I feel that way, too. So. What’s new?”

“Not much I guess. Same old grind. Oh, we made almost five...” His face clouded and he faltered.

I refused to follow suit. “You made what?”

“Nothing.”

I fit a smile to my face. “Mark, say whatever you were going to say.”

He mumbled to my van’s tire. “We brought in almost five thousand dollars at the fundraiser the other night.”

The hollowness deepened. “Wonderful! I’m really glad I could help out a little.”

He laughed, raised glowing eyes. “You were incredible! The star of the show, Sheila. They’re still talking about you, wondering who my mystery woman is.” He rushed on. “I haven’t said a word!”

“Of course not. I trust you to die with our little secret, honey. Well. I better get this stuff inside. See you later.”

They were still talking about me. Remembering me. Dreaming of me at night, maybe, when they were with their wives and girlfriends. It dawned on me that they might do that forever; for as long as they lived, my audience might vividly recall what I’d looked like, what I’d done, and wonder.

Under my plain dress were the sexy hose and garters, the panties with the open middle, the tight bra that made my breasts look so large and full. Under my dress, I was still the slut who’d danced obscenely before hundreds of people as they sold her clothes to the highest bidder. And wildly made love with her neighbor’s son on the floor of a frat brother’s room.

I could never make that night go away. I would always be that woman.

I was quaking like an aspen in a stiff breeze. I would never be able to forget what I’d done. I’d carry every marvelous detail with me to my grave. I didn’t want to forget.

I allowed it, for the first time, to flood back. It wasn’t anything like Sunday, when I’d been outside it all, viewing it from somewhere above. It flowed, filled me. The unparalleled excitement. The awe-inspiring event of Mark’s head between my legs, gifting me with my first real orgasm. The immanent danger of discovery. The maddening thrill of forcing him to make crazed love to me.

It had been worth the ensuing agony. It made the dark days that followed worthwhile. It made life itself worth living.

With a strange calm sanity, I made my way into the bedroom and slid the closet door back. The azure dress hung there, way in the back behind my winter clothes, beside the teddy. I took it out, draped it on the bed, then fetched the heels from their hiding place in a cardboard box. I’d just had the perfect opportunity to give them back to Mark, and ignored it. Why? Because I’d never really had any intention to return them. Because I wanted to wear them.

I took my time. There was no hurry. I had all day, then Thursday. Until Friday evening at six I could do whatever I wanted. Two hours later, I was fully dressed and made up and felt swelteringly hot. Mark’s car was still in the drive. I punched out the numbers, feeling utterly relaxed, despite the raging fire in my loins.

“Hi, Mark. Want to come over for a while?”

“Are you okay Sheila?”

“Am I ever! Why?”

“I don’t know. You sound ... strange.”

“Umm. Why don’t you come over and see just how strange, honey?”

He was there before I had time to vaseline my lips.

After my first crescendo on the floor immediately inside the front door, I told him to go lie to his parents about where he was going to be and to move his car onto a side street several blocks away.

I stretched like a cat, felt his juice slide from my vagina. “While you’re out,” I murmured, tickling his leg as he slid his jeans back on, “buy me something nasty.”

He laughed. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Improvise. Some cigarettes and a surprise.”

“Cigarettes? Aren’t you worried about your husband smelling -”

“Lover, right now I’m not worried about anything except you getting back in time to fuck me again.” That delicious word. “If you’d rather, you can just go home and -”

“No. I’ll be right back.”

I was dressed and fresh, dancing sensuously through the living room when he returned. He tossed me cigarettes and a lighter but refused to let me see what else was in the paper bag. “Un uh. You’ve got to earn your presents, Sheila.”

“Oh goody,” I purred, rubbing my hands down my body. “Tell me how.”

I earned the porn magazine by trying my first blowjob. He coached me through it. At first, it felt awkward, almost ridiculous. But the effect my red lips had on him was so astounding that I quickly forgot my hesitancy. He was so lost in it that he didn’t warn me he was going to cum.

The first thick spurt took me by surprise. I gagged, swallowed reflexively and tried to direct the rest of the spray away from me. It spattered my face, my dress, and the couch. I made him clean it up while I experimented with inhaling cigarette smoke. I liked the flavor of cum better than smoke - but neither one a whole lot. They were both aquired tastes.

The magazine fascinated me. What a rush it must be to expose yourself to the camera so wantonly - to know that maybe a million eyes will be devouring your vagina and breasts, gushing their sperm onto your photos. The erotic stories were almost as intriguing. In fact, they inspired the words you’re reading right now.

I earned the right to view the porn video by performing a strip tease and letting him do me doggie-style. The dancing images changed forever my scorn of TV. I toyed with him throughout the film, watched it even as he drove into my ready vagina. I learned. I wanted to try every position I saw - even the ass-fucking. But there was still no sense of hurry. I knew I had the rest of my life.

I kept him pretty busy throughout the night. Dreams and wakefulness became blurred. I have no idea how many times I took him while we half-slept. All I know for sure is that the sheets were stiff and sticky and that the teddy was so stained I worried about it ever coming clean. I had him fuck me standing in the shower before he left for class, and, before he could escape, again in the same position - one leg wrapped around his waist -against the wall beside the front door.

I slept most of the day away. My conscience was clear. My dreams were sweatily erotic.

Mark phoned at eight that evening to check on my welfare. When I told him what I was wearing, what I was doing with my hands, he decided maybe I needed help. That time, I managed to swallow most of his sperm, like one of the women in the porn flick had, but I still couldn’t do what they called deep throat. Practice, I told myself. I just needed practice.

I made him tell me everything they were saying about me at the frat house, relate in the most graphic terms possible all the nasty things they asked him. I urged him to tell them a little of the truth - I was a hot and horny married woman who loved to dress and act like a slut when her husband was away. He was reluctant. I persuaded him, with my clinging vaginal walls, that he should do it anyway, even tell them the details what he did to me.

I refused to let him spend the night again. Not because I didn’t want him to. Not because I wouldn’t have enjoyed having him near me, inside me. I denied him simply because I could. He called me a bitch. I smiled sweetly, stroked him through his jeans and kissed him a deep-tongued goodbye. I told him the next time he came to visit would be after Robbie left on his next road trip - and that he had to bring me something nice to wear. He called me a whore - and that got him another kiss and my hand inside his pants. His anger was almost as rewarding as his passion.